No Rest for the Dove Read Free Page B

his napkin.
    “Yes?” Charlotte replied, her breath quickening.
    “I believe I may thank you for engineering our
repas
?”
    “We each collected what we could—and, took courage at the thought that the meals during your recent crossing might have left you a little hungry.”
    “If only you knew! A journey full of such horrors! Yet I can almost forget its savagery, having now tasted your delicate
gambero di fiume fresco
, spiced with
cannella
… the
poulet en mayonnaise
… the refreshing
insalata
, with fresh
fungo
and
dragoncello
… stuffed eggs with bold mustard … this peasant bread …
magnifico
! How could a man not be overwhelmed, by such pleasures of the
campagna
?”
    “While you were in the kitchen with Cicero,” said Longfellow, “I explained to Lahte how the local boys trap crayfish in Pigeon Creek. Of course, Gian Carlo,” he went on, “we thank India and the Company for our cinnamon, and Madeira for this wine. But our bread flour came from the fields before you, and was ground in the village mill you see there—you can make out the roof over the trees. The wood across the way supplied our mushrooms—and as for the chicken, eggs, and cream, the salad and the tarragon, all came from Mrs. Willett’s barnyard, dairy, or kitchen garden.”
    “You live like a king, Richard, yet you do not have the trouble of a court,” Lahte sighed, sitting down again at Cicero’s entrance.
    “In winter, our tables tell quite another story. If you stay, I promise you’ll make the acquaintance of salt cod and beans. Though I do appreciate your good opinion. I’m sure your appetite has long been satisfied by delicacies only the aristocracy commands.”
    “My talent has allowed me to try … many dishes,” Lahte replied, as he deftly sliced into a ripe pear that had been put before him.
    Longfellow cleared his throat, then leaned forward to divulge to Mrs. Willett something he had kept from her.
    “Signor Lahte,” he said in a confidential tone, “sings. In fact, for many years he has been a wonder of the operatic world. Did I mention this to you before, Carlotta?”
    “No,” she whispered back.
    “Gian Carlo, will you describe for Mrs. Willett some of your professional ports of call?”
    The Italian replied with a flourish of the silver knife he held, before he finished the slice of fruit in his mouth.
    “First, madama, Italy; then, the chapel of a duke, in Stuttgart. I moved on to Dresden, while that city drewall of Europe to its bosom, to be nourished by the world’s best music. But then, the Emperor Frederick and his Prussians—and your British, Richard—chased the armies of the rest of the world up and down that land, causing many singers and musicians to flee. Those who were born there could not, of course, leave as easily as the rest, and I have since heard that many fell beside the soldiers of Austria, Sweden, France, Russia….”
    Lahte paused to savor another bite of fruit, then shrugged his shoulders with a sad smile before continuing.
    “At that time, I was given letters of introduction by Maestro Annibali, a very kind man indeed! Since I had learned some English, I went to London. There it was pointed out to me, as it was to all the rest, that I was not
the great god Farinelli
! Still, I did well; not only my voice, but my dramatic powers, too, were called remarkable. I was often asked to sing, for the opera, and the oratorios. I also performed for gentlemen in their clubs, where I met a number of lords. Soon, I was invited into their homes … so that I might entertain their ladies, as well. Yet after a time, one wearies of the affections of the great … who are rarely constant. One begins to crave a simpler life. However, I did not wish to bury myself, like Farinelli, in a Bolognese villa, waiting for the final curtain to fall.”
    “Too quiet a life?” asked Longfellow.
    “As you say. I, myself, settled in Milano for a time, where there is music far better than the usual fare of the