No Rest for the Dove Read online

  Praise for Margaret Miles’s

  TOO SOON FOR FLOWERS

  “Miles weaves a wonderful spell … the glowing descriptions of colonial life and the mystery itself are bound to dazzle readers.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Miles’s clever dialogue satisfyingly contrasts superstition and religious fanaticism with a steadfast enlightenment belief in reason and science.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A superb colonial who-done-it. The wealth of detail that makes the decade before the revolution seem so vivid to the reader … makes the novel shine.”

  —Amazon.com

  Praise for Margaret Miles’s brilliant debut

  A WICKED WAY TO BURN

  “An entertaining read.”

  —Tales from a Red Herring

  “A bewitching adventure … this New England mystery of 1763 should certainly round out the historical mystery scene nicely.”

  —Mystery Lovers Bookshop News

  “The first-time author brilliantly paints the prosperous New England lifestyle … an intriguing case of habeas corpus in the capable hands of eccentric protagonists. Even the victim shines as a crafty codger and helps turn a strong story idea.”

  —Booknews from The Poisoned Pen

  “A colonial Scully and Mulder … keeps the reader sailing through the pages.”

  —The Drood Review of Mystery

  “Ought to appeal to fans of Margaret Lawrence’s post-revolutionary war series.”

  —The Purloined Letter

  Bantam Books

  by Margaret Miles

  NO REST FOR THE DOVE

  TOO SOON FOR FLOWERS

  A WICKED WAY TO BURN

  For Rocket,

  who, like Jeoffry, is

  “a mixture of gravity and waggery.”

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  About the Author

  He that hath found some fledg’d bird’s nest may know

  At first sight, if the bird be flown;

  But what fair well or grove he sings in now,

  That is to him unknown.

  —HENRY VAUGHAN

  (1622–1695)

  Chapter 1

  Milan, Italy

  Late spring

  ONCE AGAIN, A glowing sun gave new life to the fertile Lombard plain, while the streets that ran like veins through Milan’s medieval heart darkened with rustling shadows.

  Still, the surrounded city maintained a musty aroma born of its thick stone walls. More noxious odors permeated its narrowest passages, but lessened as these merged with broader avenues … avenues that led, ultimately, to the pleasant relief of open squares.

  In such spaces lined with plane trees, the city’s residents strolled to exhibit trappings of a more prosperous age. On their fingers gleamed gold, as well as old gems proclaiming wealth—though rarely the love of current fashion. Clad largely in black, with linens the color of antique ivory, they went proudly about their business or pleasure, watched by statues with smooth, protruding eyes.

  In an avenue adjoining one particular square stood a house just taller than the rest, whose upper windows reflected the spires of the city’s vast cathedral. Suddenly, the walls and roof tiles of this dwelling and those around it began to throb with a clamor of bells—a reminder to both the religious and the worldly. However, this was ignored by a collection of urchins who ran through the square below, laughing and tossing a leather ball.

  Now, a boy begged another to lob the object forward, while enemies attempted to alter its course with jabs of sharp elbows, and kicks at their companions’ shins. Sedate strollers looked on with disapproval, occasionally raising an umbrella, or a cane, in protest.

  The ball was caught; its new possessor, a ragged, grinning child of eight, looked for a likely accomplice. Instead of risking a throw through jostling arms and feet, he kicked the ball high into the air; it streaked in a surprising arc. Some who watched imagined it would go through an open window and be lost, perhaps forever! Others feared that when it did come down it would splash through the filth in the gutter, endangering them all.

  Yet when the leather sphere landed, it went nearly unnoticed. By then, most in the square had seen something else descending, too … more slowly, it seemed, and with far greater import. Young and old pointed toward the tall house half a block away, and to something there in the street—something white, lying on the paving stones.

  It may have been that others cried out, but what was later recalled was a scream propelled from the throat of the falling body. This still seemed to echo as the boys raced to investigate, pursued by shouting men and staggering, moaning women. Few were uncertain of what they would find. Such an event was far from unheard of in a city that lived with summer heat—where men, and more often women, sat or leaned by open windows.

  The boys came to a halt, staring at what they found. One looked away—and then, with wonder, up. In a high frame, he saw a man with fair skin and reddish hair. He, too, wore white, for he leaned out in his shirtsleeves, most likely from a room in his own home. He stood absolutely still, staring at the body below, while the curtains on either side of him fluttered in the breeze. A moment later he turned, and was gone.

  Soon many in the street moved away as well, some with looks of pity, others with revulsion written on their slack faces. The boys, shifting from foot to foot and still curious, watched while a handful of knowledgeable gentlemen knelt to be sure. But nothing would ever return life to the young woman who lay there, her dark hair in disarray, her body clad only in a shift. She was still very beautiful, though her head was turned back at an absurd angle. Clearly, the fall had killed her. That much, even the boys could tell.

  However, as several others continued to stare up to the fatal window whose curtains still waved almost gaily, some asked themselves the usual question, which came from a greater experience of life.

  The fall, certainly. And yet, might there also have been … something more?

  BUFFETED BY A fierce night’s wind and rain, the brig Swallow lay over on her side as she churned along through the white-crested Atlantic. Most on board had seen worse weather, but still they clung to their loved ones—at least, those who had them near. Others made do with sacred books or brandy bottles. Yet another group of passengers down in the very bowels of the craft shook in solitary misery, with nothing to cheer them at all.

  Above these timid souls, seamen did a good night’s work in the rigging, adjusting canvas sail or replacing tatters as they blew out, keeping their vessel alive. Nor was their work in vain, for by the light of a new day it was seen that the ship had run through the storm, and would have little trouble maneuvering the channel into which it now sailed. The wind, yet fresh, in fact gave the captain a chance to steer sharply as he made his way past black rocks and grassy islands, at last gaining a clear view of his destination.

  There, finally, was Boston. At last count it was home to seventeen thousand, all owing the several oceans much for their livelihood, and indeed for their oft-envied wealth. At any rate, that was the way
it looked to the Swallow’s captain who made do with very little, while out upon the sea.

  He smiled, noticing some of his liveliest passengers clinging to the side of his vessel, gulping salt air that caused their neck cloths and shirt ruffles to whip as they gazed upon the shore. No doubt after this passage they’d pray never again to leave it! The sight these gentlemen devoured was pretty, the captain had to admit—almost like a toy town, quite nicely made. Before them fresh white houses seemed to sit on smooth mounds of green baize, bathed in sparkling sunlight, sung to by circling gulls. Indeed, the province of Massachusetts had much in it to admire … if its inhabitants did strike a man from Spithead as overly zealous. Boston, surely, had more than enough church spires pointing up at the Creator, proclaiming the godliness of her citizens!

  This citizen of a greater world was glad to be bound for a long, unholy wharf that stretched out to welcome seagoing men and their cargoes. His own load was a mixed one this time, for part of it had come to him unbidden. But he would likely make out well, after all. In a few hours he would get on with his own affairs, while those whose lives he’d preserved went ashore and scattered, giving him precious little thanks for a job fairly done. Some, at least, he would be glad to be rid of! Yet he supposed there was little likelihood of great improvement in the next lot to come aboard, when he began the tedious voyage home to Portsmouth.

  This thought caused the captain to shake his head ruefully as he continued to watch the pointing passengers below—until Long Wharf claimed his full attention.

  Chapter 2

  Bracebridge, Massachusetts

  Thursday, August 15

  ABOVE THE MUSKETAQUID River and the dozing village of Bracebridge, two friends strolled beside an orchard, while a dog with dappled fur wandered ahead through blue-green blades of rye. None of them had any clear direction, but walked to enjoy the quiet afternoon and the ripeness which suffused the hot, humming countryside.

  “I believe,” Richard Longfellow was advising the young woman at his side, “that you would do well to set out a few others, to take the place of those in decline. I’ll be more than happy to supply you with budded stock already in my nursery, Carlotta, for the promise of a warm pie or two. But you seem to be thinking of something other than apples.”

  “I do have an odd feeling,” Charlotte Willett admitted.

  “Involving the thumbs, perhaps? A sort of pricking?”

  “Oh! Can you feel it too? Are we to have a visitor, do you suppose?”

  Longfellow brushed an impertinent grasshopper from his snowy sleeve, then replied with an amused smile. “I’m afraid I can’t claim an intuition to match your own—something for which I thank Heaven! I did, however, receive a letter yesterday.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket as he went on. “This tells me that a visitor will indeed be coming out from Boston tomorrow—yet he’s traveled a great deal farther. I must warn you, too, that he’s something special. I find myself eager to see just what you make of him! Earlier today, I made it a point to alert the taproom at the inn, telling them they’ll soon entertain a wealthy gentleman who comes to us from Italy. This caused something of a stir.” Longfellow chuckled at the memory.

  Charlotte resettled one of her cider-colored locks with a penchant for freedom under her bonnet’s straw brim. “And this mysterious gentleman’s name …?”

  “Gian Carlo Lahte. We met in Milan two years ago, and we’ve since exchanged letters on quite a few scientific subjects. Though I hardly know him well, I believe him to be a quick-witted and superior fellow, not many years above my own age, who has traveled extensively. Already, my sister is pleased with him; you see she’s added a postscript of her own.”

  “But how did Diana meet this paragon?”

  “As you know I direct my foreign correspondence to Boston, rather than Bracebridge, and it seems Signor Lahte saw Diana and my stepmother drinking tea when he looked for me in town. On the strength of our acquaintance, they asked him to join in.” Longfellow refolded his letter and stuffed it back into his loose linen trousers. “I must remember to ask him what he thought of our Madonna.”

  “If Signor Lahte raised her spirits, I would imagine he found her charming. But I believe her mornings are easier to bear, now.”

  “I pray they are, for poor Montagu’s sake! A man suffers greatly, it seems, to become a father.”

  Charlotte smiled gently as she plucked a burr from her dog’s ear. Yet while Orpheus sneezed and shook himself she straightened with a frown, reflecting on the months ahead. Inhaling deeply, she looked off toward gray hills that rose beyond the glittering river. Both were nearly obscured by the fragrant haze of the August afternoon.

  Longfellow allowed his own attention to wander, until he found himself gazing at a low rock wall atop the knoll on which they stood. There Eleanor Howard rested, near the grave of Aaron Willett. Sickness and sudden death had left Charlotte nearly alone in the old farmhouse below, where she had been born … which she and Orpheus still shared. For a while Lem Wainwright had been a help and a consolation—but now the boy had ridden off to Boston, where he prepared with a cousin to enter Harvard College in September. At least her brother Jeremy had been back in June—though after six weeks he’d embarked on a new life, as well, this time as secretary to a banker in Geneva. Before recrossing the ocean, he had again entrusted the farm he’d inherited to his sister’s good care.

  Following Jeremy’s departure, Longfellow had been glad to see that his frequent companion retained her cheerful outlook. But this hardly surprised him, for he had long known her temper to be an even one. She seemed to perceive a natural harmony beneath the world’s turmoil, and to embrace it—something he observed with a degree of skepticism. Yet this happy bent kept her trim vessel (as he sometimes imagined) riding an even keel, its straight mast and plain sails rarely leaning too far, one way or the other. Though just where she set her course was anyone’s guess!

  Five years had passed since Aaron’s death, and still Mrs. Willett showed no inclination to wed again. Nor had she been asked, as far as he knew. Of course, her reputation was hardly a help to her there. Beyond the fact that her first husband had been a Friend from Philadelphia—and how that had shown a lack of sympathy for local prejudice!—she had also developed a well-known curiosity which could not add to her appeal as a woman. At least this seemed the view held by most eligible men about the countryside, if it was not his own. But Diana had managed to marry a respectable man, so was there not hope for Charlotte, as well? And if such a thing did occur, would it not make her a less frequent topic of village gossip? That, surely, would eliminate a great many of his own worries!

  Richard Longfellow continued to muse while he accompanied his companion to a wild rose that climbed the arms of one of the orchard’s elders, a gnarled tree with only a few small fruits to show for the summer’s warmth and rain. As he watched her reach for a cluster of flowers, something else came into his mind.

  “‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,’” he quoted. She stopped where she was, and her azure eyes sparkled with amusement. She then recited the poem’s end: “‘… And while ye may, go marry; for, having lost but once your prime, you may forever tarry.’

  “Richard …?” she asked a moment later, snapping off a fragrant white blossom. “Did Mr. Herrick ever wed?”

  He realized his error at once, but it was already too late to retreat.

  “I believe not.”

  “Then doesn’t it seem odd …?”

  “What, Carlotta?”

  “For a man who refuses to take the step himself … to recommend it to others.”

  “To virgins, actually, if you’ll recall the title. And women, of course, are quite different from men.”

  “Do go on!”

  Gathering his thoughts, Longfellow turned his face to the sky. A number of sunlit clouds now floated above the haze. Though none was yet the kind of towering presence that might bring a storm, he asked himself if each was as innocent as it appeared.
/>   “For a woman,” he finally said, “the strength of a man is commonly held to be a desirable support—and very often, I think, it is a necessary one. As this tree is. We know most women are easily swayed … and for this reason they are likely to need some form of guidance, as well. At least, their happiness cannot be complete—it is said—if they lack the care of a husband, or a father. Yet in the case of a male, a good cook in the kitchen may be quite enough to ensure a serene and enjoyable life. Though I suppose I would be happier myself,” he concluded darkly, “if I had such a servant in my own.”

  “We needn’t abandon all hope, for Cicero may yet marry. Even if you, like Mr. Herrick, do not.”

  “You know, there are some who find it difficult to forget—”

  His tone was so changed that Charlotte knew he thought again of Eleanor. Impetuous and beautiful, her sister might well have thrived under the guidance of this man, she reflected. Yet had their marriage taken place, she was sure both would have felt its benefits.

  Longfellow knelt down and seemed to examine a length of lichen-covered branch in the grass, until a cloud of thrips tickled his face back to its usual composure.

  “But I think that a man who waits overlong,” said Charlotte, “may become too old to wed.” His vanity responded as she had supposed it would. His hazel eyes snapped as he rose to stand over her once more.

  “Too old? I hardly see how, Mrs. Willett! A wise man will wait for maturity, before he chooses a mate for the rest of his days. However, a cursory study of the species will tell you that for a woman, the opposite must be true.”

  “Do you say, then, that a woman should marry before she becomes too wise?” she asked with a smile.