No Rest for the Dove Read Free Page A

Longfellow rose and unbuttoned his waistcoat. He casually encouraged Signor Lahte to do the same.
    “But what the devil would make you consider settling here?” he finally asked outright, before sitting down again.
    “What man could resist such natural beauty?” Gian Carlo Lahte countered. His voice was light and playful, his English quite tolerable. He made a move with his hand, extending his praise from the piazza to the vista before them. “What could be more delightful? Your arbor, full of fruit—the quiet river and dwellings below—the warm sun, and air full of enchanting smells of field and forest pine. How the country soothes one’s senses!”
    “The months on either side of our summers are somewhat different. Many feet of snow may then fall onto our enchanting fields and forests, not to mention the roads between. I warn you, Gian Carlo—our little world is not always as kind as you find it today.”
    “I have walked on ice many times,” came the guest’s proud reply, delivered as if he remembered these occasions as feats of daring—which caused the others at the table to smile.
    While the two continued their banter, Charlotte Willett observed them in silence. Though perhaps forty years of age, Signor Lahte still had a figure whose youthful litheness matched his frequent bursts of enthusiasm. And what wonderful eyes! Light gray and quick, their pupils expanded with little warning, giving one the idea of peering through a window into a dark night. He was clearly intelligent. He also sighed easily, as did many an idle gentleman. But she imagined him capable of a great deal. In short, Gian Carlo Lahte seemed a paradox of easy smiles, carriage, and attitudes, yet also a man whose body had been molded by healthy discipline, and perhaps even rigorous training. But to what end?
    “I promise you,” Longfellow insisted, “that come January, our landscape will resemble Stockholm, rather than Milan.”
    “Is your blood too thin for this place, my friend?” the Italian then inquired of the venerable figure leaning against the doorway, nearly lost in its shadow.
    “As I was born in Boston, sir, I find it just bearable,” Cicero answered quietly.
    “Ah—then you are not a traveler? I had supposed …”
    “Cicero once accompanied me to England and the Continent,” Longfellow informed his guest. “That was on the occasion of my first tour, but for some unfathomable reason he has since refused to go along. In this, and other things.”
    “Years ago I had little choice,” the older man returned dryly. “At the time I was owned by the father of this man—my current employer.”
    “
Current
employer?” Longfellow retorted. “Have you decided to pack your bags again, after all? Should you need assistance, be sure to tell me!”
    Signor Lahte hurried on. “I believe that I understand,signor. You serve the aristocracy, much as I have done. At least, we have been asked to use the same doors.”
    Cicero’s glance to Longfellow signaled his approval of this diplomatic guest, for manners pretty enough to match his face. The old man then went inside for a plate of cheese and pears.
    “I have also seen more to admire here than the landscape,” Lahte added, moving back to his original topic. “Before us, there is a rare calm … a gentleness … an innocence that is a true delight. I suppose any man must find what I see before me a joy in all seasons!”
    “Innocence?” Longfellow responded with a chuckle. For some time he had noticed Charlotte’s unusual stillness, though her frequent smiles suggested that she was, as he’d predicted, fascinated. He next observed with interest that she reddened at the compliment, though the crafter had been careful to direct his eyes away during his skillful delivery. The rogue possessed an urbane and honeyed tongue, at least. Learning what else he might be capable of promised to make the week ahead a stimulating one.
    “Signora,” said Lahte, as he stood and set aside