No Rest for the Dove Read Free

had attempted, and failed, to produce either sons or daughters. Yet could this be
all
one hoped for, in marriage?
    “You give a useful warning, I’m sure,” she replied at length. “Though at twenty-five, I believe I still have a year or two left, to decide. But let’s return to rosebuds, Richard. A man who waits overlong to gather his own might find himself in more
danger
, I think, than a woman who tarries.”
    “How so, Carlotta?” her neighbor asked with new interest.
    “You see how this rose clings to a much older tree for support, as you recommend. Yet while the rose thrives, her prop appears to falter. I suspect that’s why wild roses very often choose mature subjects. The softening crotch of an old limb offers security and a foothold; and with time, the rose will find even greater encouragement to wander—though this may do damage to the tree. Not what one hopes for in an orchard, I think. Nor in a marriage.”
    “A strange metaphor, Mrs. Willett,” Longfellow answered, startled anew by his neighbor’s knowledge of life beyond her own simple hearth. “Shall we, then, eliminate this deadly climber?”
    “Perhaps not—for it is pretty,” she returned, again taking in the blossom’s sweet aroma. “But we might agree to put off further talk of marriage … until we’re both a little wiser.”
    Longfellow accepted the truce with a nod.
    “But Richard, do tell me more about this attractive stranger who has been recommended by Mrs. Montagu—the friend you would have me see tomorrow.”
    “
There
is a man who has broken a heart or two, I would imagine. I would not be surprised if he even pleases a woman as particular and obstinate as you! Though in Lahte’s case—”
    Longfellow stopped short. “I only promise, Carlotta,” he continued, “that you’ll be entertained. As long as you refuse to accompany me to the center of the world’s culture—though I’ve assured you I would care for you as a brother—I’m glad to house a part of it here, to give you a small taste of Italy’s many marvels.”
    “Will this marvel arrive in time for dinner?”
    “He proposes to come at two.”
    “Next I suppose you’ll ask me to help with the preparations.”
    They exchanged smiles of perfect accord. And soon, after both had taken a last, silent look toward the hilltop, Charlotte led them down the grassy slope, bobbing like a pinnace through parting green waves—leaving dog and man to follow, contented, in her wake.

Chapter 3

    Friday, August 16
    G IAN CARLO LAHTE did, indeed, arrive as promised the next day.
    At two o’clock, a statuesque stranger, exquisitely dressed, was observed by visitors and servants to climb down from a chaise and stand in the rising heat of the Bracebridge Inn’s gravel drive. The gentleman even seemed to strike a pose for them—until the lad who had led his horse and conveyance away came back from the stables pushing a hand-cart, and started to move a brass-studded trunk across the road.
    Signor Lahte sent the boy off as soon as they reached the maples near Richard Longfellow’s front door. Once alone, he removed his calfskin gloves. He opened a handkerchief, and flicked a layer of dust from a coat of scarlet silk minutely embroidered in thread of gold, and from amatching waistcoat. While cocking his head to the song of cicadas performing in the whispering leaves above, he dusted lemon-colored breeches and white silk hose, then adjusted a pressed beaver hat over black tresses that fell beautifully about his shoulders. At last, Signor Lahte found time to admire the tall windows and white façade of the house before him. In another moment, its largest door flew open and Richard Longfellow came striding out, his arms held wide with genuine pleasure.
    Some time later, as the sun continued to blaze, the two gentlemen sat coatless beneath an arbor of vines above a small flagstone piazza, enjoying an unobstructed view of the village, fields, river, and marshes below. During a pause