A Mischief in the Snow Read online

  Charlotte looked up suddenly to find Longfellow's hazel eyes appraising her.

  “I'm sorry to hear it,” she replied, setting the book onto a nearby table.

  “What else could be expected of a woman who chooses to ignore convention, and lives alone in a foreign country? Though she may have had one good reason to leave England.”

  “Oh?”

  “She was outshone at last by her own daughter, the woman who married Bute, before he became prime minister.”

  “Lord Bute,” asked Charlotte, “who was seen with the Devil in Boston last summer?” She followed his gaze to the windows. “Hanging in a tree?”

  “Our Liberty Boys do such admirable work in papier mâché,” he returned, “that all of Boston may soon demand to be copied in the stuff, and painted up for posterity. The ladies, at least. What do you think, Mrs. Willett?”

  Despite the bantering tone of Richard's remark, Charlotte saw that Diana was unmoved. Perhaps she still admired the moonlit snow beyond the frosted panes. But it was more likely that her thoughts had drifted back to her lost child. At least there was a marked contrast to her usual impatience with her brother's teasing pronouncements. Until very recently, Diana had been a rising force among the unyielding ladies of Boston, known for her clever tongue and courageous spirit, if her words were sometimes said to have a little too much bite. But now, she seemed a statue of quiet grief.

  Charlotte rose and went forward, looking down on loosely curled auburn locks. When these moved, she met a pair of brimming emerald eyes. She pulled a lavender-scented handkerchief from her sleeve. It was taken gladly, and did help to stem a flow of tears that glistened, for a few moments, in the candlelight. Yet Diana's smile of thanks was more pitiful than what had come before.

  Charlotte sighed and returned to the fire, where she was surprised to find a bold admiration in her neighbor's steady expression. In a manner she hoped was careless, she settled herself onto the arm of one of his stuffed chairs. Had he finally begun to soften toward her? She felt emboldened by the idea. Then again, she remembered her recent glimpse of Eternity. In recalling the black water that had nearly claimed her, she felt her knees begin to quiver. Should she tell them both what had nearly happened? She decided not.

  “Has Edmund described to you, Diana, the visit he made to Walpole's castellino?” Longfellow asked a short time later. His sister nodded, and went to pour herself a small glass of sherry from a tea table near the hearth.

  “Then I will tell the story to Mrs. Willett. It seems Horace Walpole has been nurturing a monstrosity at Twickenham, near London. Pope is buried there, but may regret it; people regularly come out, not to pay their respects to him, but to see the progress of the ‘little castle.’ The captain was asked to join one such party arranged by his friend Mr. Goldsmith. Edmund says Walpole adds a tower here, a cloister there—he's caused stained glass windows to be put up, depicting the lives of tormented saints. He's inserted numerous niches into the walls to display ancient weapons, and suits of mail and armor, removed from someone's attic or cellar. If he craves something fanciful that can't be supported by the underlying structure of his old farmhouse—a battlement, for instance—he simply orders it to be created out of cardboard! Wallpaper, too, is used to imitate groined vaults, and stone stairways…”

  As the description went on, Charlotte grew astonished at the remarkable coincidence. Hadn't she seen something similar that very afternoon, not ten miles away?

  “All of this falls, of course, under a term that is well known,” Longfellow said at last.

  “Gothic?” she suggested, recalling the title page of the book she'd recently put down. She received a smile of approval.

  “An architectural style,” he went on to explain, “involving pointed arches, spires, buttresses, gargoyles—things found in the cathedrals of Europe. Lately, people of elevated taste have begun to use the term for a sensibility they link to the romantic temperament; their aim, it seems, is to be thrilled by the fantastic and the grotesque. In fact, a growing number of ladies and gentlemen use ‘gothic’ as a word of praise, shivering at the supernatural worlds they imagine. Yet these fantasies prove they are no better than untutored children, easily frightened, unable to accept or enjoy the world around them.”

  Diana sent a query from across the room.

  “And what of your own view of the world, Richard? We know you are the opposite, for you would root out all emotion from life, if you could. I wonder what in this novel you most object to. Do the characters speak honestly of their fears and sorrows? Do they explore hopes and desires, rather than morality, and your precious Science? Do they even dare, I wonder, to speak passionately of love?”

  Gladdened by this flash of Diana's old irascibility, Longfellow smiled once more, and fell into an easy chair. Taking up the book from the table, he turned to an early page.

  “Since you ask, Mrs. Montagu, one thing to which I object is a hotchpotch of foolish characters, weaker and even more absurd than some of the gentlemen I've seen you bring home to tea. And the so-called miraculous happenings of Walpole's plot are unlikely to inspire or improve the reader—which is the whole point of literature. In the beginning, for instance, we're told of a giant statue of black marble, sporting a helmet topped with black plumes—like those one sees on heroes at the opera, I suppose. We hear of this head only because it has fallen into the castle's courtyard and crushed the life out of the young heir, whose existence was first mentioned only a moment earlier. An explanation of how this dreadful thing was accomplished is never attempted. What, I wonder, are we to make of that?”

  “It could be a dream,” Charlotte said softly, recalling her own waking illusions that day. She also asked herself if the mention of a lost heir might send Diana's mind back to her own pain. Could Richard be completely unaware of his sister's feelings? Or did he only try to provoke Diana's mettle?

  “A dream resulting, possibly, from too much goose and cherry sauce,” Longfellow returned, remembering an unpleasant evening of his own. “Unfortunately, Mr. Walpole neglects to mention how he came to have his visions, or hallucinations, or whatever they were. The book's first printing even pretended the manuscript had been composed by someone who lived centuries ago! Now that the thing has gained a certain amount of success, he admits he is the author—even puffs that he's unleashed a new Gothic School for our novelists. ‘A new species of romance’ he says in the preface. He imagines he has only to wish for something to have it so—though we all should know that nothing can exist beyond the laws of Nature.”

  Charlotte leaned forward to stir the fire. “How does he describe Otranto's castle?” she asked cautiously.

  “Where to start, Mrs. Willett! Perhaps at the bottom. It seems Walpole's castle has deep vaults and subterranean passages—one leads conveniently to a convent. Above ground there are massive halls and a long picture gallery. There, from time to time, a man in a portrait climbs down to stroll about. Another ghostly appearance is made by a disembodied leg, clad in armor. When this inexplicably grows huge, it is said to fill one of the private chambers—yet that is less terrifying, apparently, than a giant armored hand which grimly clutches the rail of a staircase.”

  “Who lives in this castle?” asked Diana, intrigued despite her brother's scoffing.

  “An evil usurper, with a wife cruelly ignored; a pair of pathetic princesses, one or two young men. There is also a poor priest nearby with an unspeakable secret. I recall a hermit in a cave, and a few distant Algerian pirates. And there is a prophecy. All that goes on, Mr. Walpole assures us, demands what he calls ‘a dreadful obedience’ from his characters. His world, I believe, has little room for rational choice. Instead, he presumes some fearful influence guides Fate's hand, as it moves steadfastly against us. Walpole seems to consider this story heroic. I do not. But I think many will find guilty pleasure in riding their passions through his pointless hell… those who do not rise to their feet after a quarter of an hour, and wisely throw the thing into the fire.”


  Longfellow got up and crossed to his own hearth to pour out three more glasses of his best sherry. “Now what,” he then asked, “do you say to that, Carlotta?”

  “It may be easier to take a novel apart than to put one together,” she decided.

  “A laudable answer. However—?”

  “However—perhaps I should read it for myself.”

  “Could any of us rest, imagining you dreadfully obedient to Mr. Walpole? But I imagine you are far too sensible to be impressed by such fare. No—I would like to test this new work on a mind of lesser capacity. For that, I plan to give Otranto to our friend Jack Pennywort.”

  Charlotte's eyes widened. “Jack Pennywort!”

  “As a fellow prone to superstition, he should be a proper audience for Walpole's litany of horrors. I will offer a reward, of course—after all, he will be plowing rather stony ground. Jack's wife could no doubt use something extra for her pocket, with the price of food and fuel steadily increasing.”

  “I'm sure she could,” said Charlotte, appreciating his kinder motive. For many, life had lately become more difficult. “Still, do you think it's sensible to plant such seeds, in such a place?”

  “It was you who showed us that while Jack may be gullible, he is no simpleton. Let us see if he trusts his reason this time, or falls prey to the fantastic. In any event, he'll earn a good supply of punch at the Blue Boar as he reveals the astounding contents of each new chapter. At least it will be entertainment for a winter's eve.”

  “Well—”

  “I shouldn't be surprised if the village clamors for more—showing itself no different from London's best society. But there is a chance our neighbors will show more discretion, which would be amusing. I only wish Edmund were here to wager on the outcome.”

  Charlotte was struck anew by Longfellow's apparent callousness to his sister's discomfort. Yet winter's short days and long nights did cause many to seek diversions. She'd seen enough of superstition in the village where she'd been born (and Longfellow had not) to doubt the wisdom of fostering more. But what he'd described seemed something even the least reasonable among them would hardly swallow whole. And there could be little harm in chewing over literature, great or not, she supposed.

  “Would you enjoy more energetic entertainment, Mrs. Willett?” Longfellow asked, as if he read her thoughts. “I've come up with still another good idea today. You might even guess what it is before I tell you. No? I have heard that you were off skating, after dinner. Even the memory of your exercise gives your cheeks a healthy glow! It should also have given you some idea of the state of the ice.”

  “I believe most of the river to be well frozen,” she answered evasively.

  “Which is why I sent word flying while you were at play, to organize a day of ice-cutting. I've found my pond solid to a depth of fourteen inches. Tomorrow, anyone who cares to take ice home, or who is willing to move the stuff for others for a few shillings, is invited to come up to Pigeon Creek. Diana shall see that working together is a far better thing than setting neighbor against neighbor, which seems the new style in Boston.”

  “Richard…” Diana replied with a sigh, as if she believed such a social event still beyond her. Again, her face seemed drawn.

  “But it will mean early work, so we should prepare for bed,” he finished easily.

  On this, they all agreed. Charlotte bid them both goodnight, kissing Diana's forehead before she retired.

  When she had entered Richard's house earlier, she'd seen its eldest inhabitant reading in the kitchen, next to a pair of curled and sleeping cats. Now, as she left, Cicero still sat quietly at his own fire, his head covered by a tas-seled red toque.

  “How is Mrs. Montagu this evening?” he asked. His dark face held the strain of long concentration, for he'd been amusing himself by poring over Milton's conversations with Satan.

  “Tearful, I'm afraid. Did she seem to you any better today?”

  Cicero thought this over, then cleared his throat. “She still neglects to order me to straighten a room, improve her tea, or feed the fire. That, you will agree, is unusual. No complaints, either, about the news her brother brings us from the village. And, no word from Boston.” Laying his book aside, the old man shook his head with a frown.

  Charlotte shared Cicero's sense of helplessness. Both of them knew that mourning for a young child should not be encouraged; such deaths happened far too often. For the sake of the living, one was expected to return to normal patterns of life as soon as possible. But the former major-domo and guardian of what was once the Longfellow establishment in Boston—who knew well that its junior member would often surprise them—had found something else to worry him.

  “What are we to do,” he asked, “if she decides to stay?”

  “Stay? Here? You don't really think—?”

  “Today,” he returned, “if she were asked, I believe she would refuse to go to London. Yet it seems the governor may be off before long, and so I wonder about the captain…”

  “Oh!” The new thought saddened Charlotte further— and she could imagine why Cicero found it alarming. Diana was willful and did tend to be inconsiderate, though the happiness she'd found with Edmund seemed to improve the common faults of a child raised by doting women. The captain had been able to moderate his wife's quick opinions by exposing her to his own, which were generally more charitable. But if he were to go—?

  “In that event,” she asked, “do you really think Diana would choose to live here with Richard, rather than return to her mother's house in Boston? Since she dislikes the country, such a course would hardly seem prudent.”

  “No,” Cicero agreed with a sharp look, until she saw his point. Prudence was not always Diana's guide, especially when her feelings offered to lead the way.

  But were any of them different, when something threatened the flame at the core of one's heart? Then, did wisdom or reason offer the best protection? When she'd lost Aaron, she'd wished it wasn't so—wished so hard it seemed he'd returned to comfort her. If his imagined presence was not exactly real, it was certainly something. To this day, she might find herself surprised by an unexpected touch, a familiar scent, the sound of steps, or rustling… things that had been born of great need, she suddenly saw, as much as by desire.

  Knowing she would think more on each of these matters as the night wore on, Charlotte bid Cicero a fond good evening, and set off for her own fireside.

  Chapter 5

  IT WAS REFRESHING to walk out into the dark, past the bare, pruned stubs of Longfellow's mulched roses, and on to her own kitchen garden. Again, Charlotte found the cold air useful for clearing her thoughts. She stopped a moment to appreciate the hour, pleased with the warmth her wool cloak gave her, and the smoothness of the silk scarf she'd wrapped about her throat.

  Something new attracted her attention—something not right. The sky had flickered, as if it were lit by lightning high above the clouds. But there were no clouds this evening, except for a single mare's tail that glowed faintly in the starlight. But there it was again—an illumination that might have come from a giant lamp, held high above the northern pole. With this thought, she knew that what she saw was a pale form of the aurora. Fascinated by this rare display, she watched vague patches of light scurry back and forth across the heavens.

  Though the aurora borealis did seem magical, it was a natural occurrence. She'd heard it said these northern lights, particularly when beautifully colored, were an omen of evil. She did not believe it. Why they came and went, none knew exactly, but she thought them lovely. Yet they did nothing to combat the cold, and so at last she lifted her door's latch and went inside.

  In the kitchen, her nose twitched at the scent of hanging herbs and a pine fire, while her eyes enjoyed a scene she'd expected. Lem was engrossed in a book. Orpheus, who'd been asleep, got slowly to his feet. Shaking his speckled fur, he approached and put his soft muzzle against her hand, while his feathery tail and hind quarters wagged a further welcome.
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br />   At the sound of her voice, Lem got up, took her cloak, and hung it on a peg behind the door.

  Charlotte removed her shoes and sat with her skirts drawn in, until Lem had tossed another log into the fire.

  “How was the ice this afternoon?” he asked, taking a seat beside her.

  When she'd arrived earlier he'd been in the barn, busy with the evening milking. He'd not seen her run swiftly up the stairs to change her clothing, and re-pin her hair.

  “Exhilarating,” she said at last, glad to have found a truthful answer. She had been cheered to find the outcome no worse.

  There seemed to be a further query in his eyes. If, she thought once more, she planned to return to the island, Lem would be a logical companion. Or, she might ask him to give the spoon and cloak to Alexander Godwin. She decided she would tell him something more of her day after all.

  “I paid a visit to Boar Island.”

  “What! I'd no idea you were acquainted with those women. Were you invited?” he asked, suddenly suspicious.

  “Well… I'd met Mrs. Knowles before. And I've been asked to return.”

  “Huh!”

  “They're lonely, Lem, as you might suppose. An occasional visit could make their lives easier. Would you like to go back with me?” The new look on his face caused her to suspect he kept something interesting from her. “What?” she asked.

  “You already know, I guess, that it's dangerous to go up there.”

  “Is it?”

  “There are the boars, for one thing. And then…”

  “Then you believe the other stories, too?”

  “About supernatural beings? I'm open to the possibility,” he replied.

  “You might bring that up in conversation with Mr. Longfellow one day. I'm sure we'd all find such a discussion extremely stimulating,” she said, in a way that made Lem wonder if she was serious.