Too Soon for Flowers Read online

  “You could be right,” Miss Longfellow replied guardedly. “For while it was considerate of you to throw young Wainwright into the bargain, Charlotte, I don’t imagine your cowherd will make much of a confidant. This girl Phoebe—is she clever? Is she presentable?”

  “She sketches well …”

  “An artist? How fortunate! I have several admirers who are always after me for a portrait, or a lock of hair, or goodness knows what. All right, then, there shall be three of us—Lem, Phoebe, and myself—not counting your old kitchen cat, of course. Only imagine having a mother-in-law with such a face! I doubt if I could survive it, but I also doubt any of the Sloan boys will ever ask me to …”

  Her brother’s laugh echoed among the trees, and a marked scurrying among the leaves caused his sister to look upward in alarm.

  “I’m sure you’ll find Phoebe pleasant company,” Charlotte said soothingly, “for the two or three weeks you’re together.”

  “But what if I should change my mind?”

  “I’ve already explained,” Longfellow warned, leaning farther toward the carriage, “that with the risk of contagion, all of you must stay in the house until the quarantine is over.”

  “But what if they become tiresome?” Diana asked peevishly, realizing that three weeks might well seem a lifetime.

  “Then you may spend your time by yourself, reading or writing, studying your French, or looking through the window. I only hope nothing has delayed Dr. Tucker. I asked him to come ahead this morning. Carlotta, you’ll meet him when you and I dine this afternoon at the inn. My sister, I fear, must sup tragically on gruel this evening.”

  “I think not,” the patient-to-be replied flatly. “The idea of fasting, Richard, let alone purging, is not only repulsive but ridiculous! One needs a strong constitution to fight a fever. So I’ve heard, and so I shall instruct Dr. Tucker when I meet him. I will continue to eat heartily for as long as I can. And tomorrow is quite soon enough to dine with Hannah Sloan.”

  “Then we shall be four, after all, for a Last Supper,” her brother relented. He stretched in the saddle to remove the kinks from his long frame. “By the way, did I mention I’ve planned an experiment?”

  “Thank Heaven this time I won’t be in your house to be discomfited.”

  “No … you’ll be in Mrs. Willett’s. But Tucker and I have discussed an inoculation for you, Diana, that is somewhat unusual. As a scientific study, the results promise to be quite interesting. I may even write them up myself.”

  “What!” cried Diana, causing the animal ahead of her to lurch as it missed a step.

  “Nothing too unpleasant, I assure you,” her brother returned, sensing that the time was not, perhaps, quite ripe for this particular discussion. “But we’ll talk it over later. Plenty of time before tomorrow.”

  At that he urged his horse into a trot, anticipating his dinner, while behind him the chaise carrying the two women—one of whom was now openly seething—rattled on toward the village of Bracebridge.

  AN HOUR LATER Mrs. Willett stood holding back the muslin curtain at her bedroom window, looking over the vegetables and herbs laid out below.

  It had been a relief to find things running smoothly at home. Convinced that Lem Wainwright, at fifteen, could handle both dairy and barn, she’d left Hannah to look after only the house. Will Sloan, too, had helped—good practice, for during the quarantine he would take over several of Lem’s duties. Charlotte knew Will could be awfully foolish, and still had a tendency to frolic like a colt. Just two days before, she had heard, he’d raced the cart down the road and over a rock, breaking a wheel Lem had then arranged for Nathan to fix it in the inn’s forge across the road. So, everything was again in good order.

  Though Lem and Hannah were obviously pleased to have her home, the sweetest salute had come from her old dog, whose joyous dance around her feet ended with an ecstatic roll in the grass, after which he herded her from the road to her door with a gale of howls. Once, when the farm held sheep, Orpheus had learned cunning, patience, and a disdain for that woolly species’ limited intelligence—all of which Charlotte suspected he also applied to most humans. But it was clear that he was glad to have his mistress back by his side.

  She turned, letting the curtain drop. For the next few weeks, this familiar, low-beamed bedchamber would be Diana’s. Here the young woman would suffer the aches, the fever, the pocks everyone prayed would be mercifully mild. Charlotte suddenly felt a prickling of tears.

  In the next room, four years before, Richard Longfellow had watched his fiancée die. And with Eleanor Howard’s passing, Charlotte suffered the loss of her only sister. Then, in the same week, in this very room—in this bed—her own strong and healthy husband lay down, succumbing within hours to the same high fever and terrible choking. It was hardly Charlotte’s first encounter with death, for her mother had borne and lost two infants while she herself was a child. Her parents, too, had been taken a year before Eleanor and Aaron, during a summer that saw cholera in Bracebridge. Now, they all rested in a small family plot at the top of the orchard hill behind the farmhouse.

  Young Mrs. Willett ran a hand over her quilted wedding coverlet as her thoughts shifted again to the bed’s next inhabitant. For Diana, the prospect of dying was hardly real. Deprived of her father when she had been too young to understand, Diana still enjoyed the rest of her family, including Richard, her mother, and her aunts. She’d lately spoken of inoculation as if it would be a test of wits, and wills—something to add to her list of social conquests. In short, Diana Longfellow had been introduced to Death, but she had not, as yet, lived with him on intimate terms. Despite her Boston airs, Richard’s worldly sister continued to exhibit an innocent bravado. For the moment, it was part of her charm.

  Mrs. Willett now remembered that her neighbor was not a patient man, and most especially he was not patient when he was hungry. She quickly disrobed and put away the salt-and-pepper petticoat she’d worn. Standing in shift and stays, she decided to leave the pliant whalebone on for the afternoon. Bending over a painted china basin, she swiftly washed the road dust from her face and arms, then stepped into a skirt of light green linen, whose flax fibers had once grown nearby. She pulled on a low, elbow-frilled bodice of yellow cambric, recalling the day she’d dipped it into a kettle of boiled chamomile. Finally, after crossing and tucking a gossamer scarf thrown over her shoulders, she buckled on shoes of red morocco leather (one of many gifts brought back from Longfellow’s travels) and hurried down the stairs.

  A glance at the long, thin glass by the front door made her laugh aloud, for her colorful appearance suggested the squash patch that would soon begin to bloom and bear in her garden. Had she not begun to feel a renewed flowering herself? Or had her trip to Boston caused her to yearn, like Diana, for a fashionable effect?

  It was something, Charlotte decided, to think about later, when she had more time.

  Chapter 2

  A QUARTER OF an hour later, a party was escorted into the taproom of the Bracebridge Inn by proprietor Jonathan Pratt, who led them to a table already occupied.

  Setting down his glass of rum punch, Dr. Benjamin Tucker rose with a beaming face. He was introduced to Mrs. Willett; then, he bent to kiss the hand of Miss Longfellow, clearly admiring the supple flesh at the upper edge of a tight silk gown of a brilliant blue.

  The physician was a distinguished looking man, Charlotte soon concluded. His girth was greater than average, but his height and broad shoulders gave him an appearance of strength, rather than corpulence. He was a little stooped with age, yet perhaps this also came from lowering a bewigged head to listen to his patients. The wig itself—well, it must have seen better days. And of course his cheeks were somewhat sunken from the loss of several teeth, but that was to be expected in a man of his years, which she estimated to be a little more than fifty.

  The ladies sat lightly on the embroidered seats of two cushioned chairs. Once they were settled, Jonathan gave the gentlemen handwritten cards. Thes
e bore a list soon to be translated into succulent dishes, which would then be served in the smaller of two upstairs dining rooms overlooking the road.

  “I’ve called for wine,” Longfellow told Dr. Tucker, “but perhaps you would prefer another punch?”

  “Thank you, no. I must keep a clear head for tomorrow,” the physician replied seriously. Meanwhile, Charlotte made a note of his blue-veined, red-tipped nose, and wondered a little. The taproom was quite warm. Leaf-tinted rays of sunlight came through tall windows that framed maples coming into full green. Charlotte began to wield her fan while she waited for Longfellow to hand her the bill of fare. Then she, too, looked it over, and smiled her approval to their rotund host.

  “The venison loin is fresh, rather than hung,” Jonathan Pratt explained, “and will be well cooked, at Mr. Longfellow’s request. Though I’m sure you’re already aware of your host’s peculiar tastes,” he went on, his brows raised, his eyes settling on the linen trousers Longfellow wore—a garb that allowed him to trade tradition for comfort, while suggesting something of the air of a sailor, or an admirer of peasants (which in truth he was). The fact that, like other farmers, he wore no wig only added to the impression, though it could also have been argued he favored the current style of London’s poets, and her new romantics. In any case, his was a fine head of dark hair only beginning to hint at hidden veins of silver.

  “What about the pudding?” he asked, stretching and crossing his long legs beneath the table. “Jonathan, did you try the fresh figs I brought from town? They just came up the coast with a load of Carolina rice.”

  “I did,” replied Pratt, “and I thank you. The several I sampled were delicious! I promise you an exceptionally figgy pudding, as well as some delectable spring spinach and river cress.”

  “Oh, by the way, allow me to present Dr. Benjamin Tucker. He’ll be performing the inoculations in the morning. You’ve probably already guessed as much. You might also have concluded from his courtly bearing that he is a Virginian.”

  “I am deeply honored, sir,” said the doctor, rising. Both men bowed, and Dr. Tucker sat down again.

  “You’re very welcome, Doctor, I’m sure.” Jonathan Pratt eyed the other’s well-constructed russet coat, lime-colored small clothes, snowy neck cloth, and deeply ruffled sleeves. In his experience, not all physicians were as clean, or as well mannered. “Now, sirs and ladies, if you will pardon me, I will just see to your dinner.”

  As soon as the landlord departed, Diana Longfellow began to look about to see who might be admiring her, and who might be worthy of her own attention. Meanwhile, her brother stared blankly at a dark oil painting on the wall, listening to his stomach. It was left to Mrs. Willett to lead the conversation.

  “Do you find the practice of medicine different in Massachusetts from what you have seen in Virginia, Dr. Tucker?”

  “It is somewhat different, madam, but not from geography, I think—for most of us have our training directly or indirectly from across the sea—at least, those who rely on something beyond superstitions, nostrums, and spells! No, I believe the larger difference involves a variance of time. When I first practiced, in Williamsburg—so many years ago that it surprises me to think of it—few there had real medical training. Planters and clergymen took care of most folk, while surgeons might pull a tooth, or occasionally lop something off. There was a general reliance on old wives’ tales, and herbal recipes learned at home. You yourself, madam, must often have heard and rejected the sort of thing I refer to.”

  Charlotte’s own opinion of the value of plants and the worth of observation was higher than Dr. Tucker’s. But for the moment she kept this to herself.

  “Today,” the doctor continued, “there are far more physicians who have gone abroad to learn useful theory. I myself was apprenticed to a physician in London for two years. Such learning now gives us a greater range of remedies …”

  “And a greater price you usually charge, too,” Longfellow interjected, drumming his fingers on the table.

  “True,” replied Dr. Tucker with a sad smile. “In New England, particularly, that often seems to be the sore point in treatment.”

  “But what brought you here to Massachusetts, Dr. Tucker?” Diana asked. She had finished surveying the room and found it dull, as usual. “I believe,” she went on wistfully, “that society in Williamsburg is very refined, and lacks little.”

  “That is quite true, Miss Longfellow. Quite true! But, the material comforts its inhabitants enjoy, and their love of informing others of what is ancient and correct, tend to keep them from liking change. They judge news ideas harshly, cruelly even, given any provocation at all. Boston, I believe, is the best place for curious men in the colonies. Having lived there for three years, I still find it fascinating—really almost cosmopolitan—almost like London herself! Do you not find this so, Miss Longfellow?”

  “Certainly. I suppose that’s why I long to be back in Sudbury Street the minute I arrive here … but while we are in the country, Doctor, we must make the best of it—at least, that is what my brother tells me. I can be thankful, at any rate, that few of my acquaintance will have the pain of watching me suffer….”

  “I’m sure your own pain will be minimal, Miss Longfellow! And when you relate this experience to your friends at home, when we have returned to our fair metropolis, I hope you’ll be able to commend your physician for providing you with a relatively pleasant fortnight of rest and relaxation.”

  Suddenly, Diana recalled the morning’s conversation, and began to formulate a strategy to make the best of her enforced withdrawal from the world. “You do, of course, play whist, Dr. Tucker?” she inquired. As the two went on to praise the great game, Longfellow and Mrs. Willett began their own quiet conversation.

  “He seems resigned to a life far from his former home, where I imagine he must still have relations,” Charlotte said softly.

  “Proving, as I often say, that men of Science can make themselves comfortable anywhere, as long as they have leisure to observe the world.”

  “And yet, he didn’t exactly answer—”

  Her objection was interrupted by the arrival of a servant bearing glasses and decanters of wine. Before long, there was a toast to the party, followed by another to the success of the next day’s endeavor—which allowed Diana, thought her brother, to assume the pose of a suffering but beauteous Saint Sebastian, happily without the arrows.

  It was at this point, when Charlotte glanced back to Benjamin Tucker, that she saw the doctor’s face stiffen suddenly, while he stared over her shoulder. In another moment he had abruptly drained his wineglass, apparently in an attempt to steady nerves offended by something, or someone. Seconds later, a bright voice was heard above the taproom’s buzz.

  “Why, Dr. Tucker, of all people!”

  Charlotte turned in her chair to observe a dashing gentleman of fair complexion and blushing cheeks, though these were marked by a few pocks, one or two not quite faded. His powdered hair was held back by a crimson ribbon, while he wore a shining, silver-threaded waistcoat under a close-cut coat of light blue. “Mr. Pelham!” she heard the doctor rasp.

  “Forgive me if I intrude.” The beautifully attired young man apologized, yet at the same time, his engaging smile (and perhaps his opulent air) willed Benjamin Tucker to rise.

  “No, I believe, er … Mr. Richard Longfellow, do you know David Pelham? Mr. Pelham is from Boston, where his family was once—”

  The doctor stopped, uncertain.

  “I am the tail end … of a noble lion,” said Mr. Pelham. Then he gave a chuckle of guilty pleasure, before assuming a more solemn air. “Many of my family do, indeed, keep company at the Common’s edge with our most revered elders—though few of them go out walking socially, of an evening. Or so we hope, for a churchyard is the place where they all sleep! How do you do, sir?” he concluded as Longfellow at last made his way to his feet with an amused smile of his own.

  “Sir, my neighbor, Mrs. Willett—my sister, Miss
Longfellow.”

  David Pelham bowed deeply to both ladies, but he seemed especially drawn to Diana, Charlotte noted. And was there a hint of life’s sorrows, as well as its joys, in the depths of his dark eyes?

  “Happily, I have had the great pleasure of meeting Miss Longfellow. In the proper company of most sensible friends,” he added, in answer to her brother’s quick reappraisal.

  Charlotte saw that Diana studied Mr. Pelham with sudden intensity, once he had turned his face away. She herself imagined this clever, even cocky, soul displayed a cheerful façade only to cover some deeper emotion. She reconsidered his pun … the tail end of a long line. Had Mr. Pelham recently been in mourning? Pain, she knew, was often the underpinning of wit—in the same way that self-effacement, in surprising turnabout, might indicate strong character.

  “Sensible friends?” Longfellow replied. “As one might expect, I find sense to be somewhat unusual in my sister’s acquaintances, but I will give yours, Mr. Pelham, the benefit of doubt, and hope for the best. Do you stay here at the inn?”

  The younger man tilted his head, as if deciding. “I came yesterday, and plan to remain until something draws me away again. It is a pleasant place to rest, and far more healthy than the town at the moment.”

  “Quite. That is why my sister has come to take the inoculation.”

  “Please accept my good wishes, Miss Longfellow,” said her admirer, “and you must not worry. I was ‘done’ in March, and found it no more than amusing. If I might be of any assistance—”

  “Ah—we are about to have our dinner,” Longfellow informed them, for he had seen Jonathan Pratt reenter the room and gesture toward the stairs.