A Mischief in the Snow (24 page)

“Shillings, actually,” said Charlotte.

“Shillings!” Hannah's new exclamation caused Lem and Mattie to pause and look over, though their own conversation had become ardent.

“Mattie! Go upstairs and get the purse that's under my pillow.”

Amazed by her mother's request, the young woman quickly left her corner.

“My Samuel,” Hannah assured not only the kitchen, but the world at large, “will pay for this—and not with shillings, either!”

Charlotte glanced at Lem, and saw that he seemed resigned to what was happening. When Mattie returned, Hannah opened a leather purse and spilled several shillings into her lap.

“Like this?” she asked. Charlotte took one up. She looked at its edges carefully.

“I'm afraid so,” she said as she returned it.

“And this?” asked Hannah, thrusting out another.

“That, too.”

“Samuel ‘confessed’ to me that he'd won these playing cards at the Blue Boar. My father's silver snuff box! Ohhhh!” While Hannah's brows knitted themselves together, her eyes seemed to sink further into her weathered face.

“Samuel is not the only one,” Charlotte assured her.

Lem had turned the color of a boiled crustacean. The young woman beside him also seemed affected by the news.

“Who?” Mattie asked.

Lem shrugged, then saw that this was not the right response.

“Who else knew?” she demanded. “You?”

This time he nodded, watching her face darken. He was reminded of a woman he'd read about in Tacitus, while he studied in Boston—one Boadicea, who'd led British warriors against the might of Rome. That had not turned out well, either. And this fight, he supposed, would unite all of the women of Bracebridge against the entire male population. It wouldn't take a sibyl to see who would lose. At least he would have plenty of company, while he lived out his life hungry and dirty.

“John Dudley, among others,” said Charlotte to Hannah. Her friend realized at once the implication of this, and finally understood how such a man had been elected to uphold the law. “A travesty—nothing more!” she cried.

“Perhaps something more,” Charlotte replied softly. “It's likely the coins were made on Boar Island. So they may have been connected with the death of Alex Godwin… and perhaps that of old Mrs. Knowles.”

“You don't mean to say
she
was murdered? There on the island?”

“It could easily have been an accident, so I really shouldn't have said—and Hannah, please say nothing of what I've told you to Samuel, or to any other man in the village. Not yet. I think we might surprise them after we learn a little more—for one thing, I would like to know who else has lost something of silver or pewter. For another, we should find out who has lately been to the island, and knew about this scheme. Shall we form a conspiracy of our own, for a time? Lem, I think, may be counted on to keep our plan to himself—at least for a few days more.”

“But
not
Mr. Longfellow? He wasn't—?”

“No. He knows now, and so does Captain Montagu.

They're conducting their own investigations. I only thought we might assist them.”

“So we will! Every woman here will want to get her own back, even if she has to hold her tongue at home. For a few days, you say?”

“That should be enough.”

“All right, then. You may as well leave this to me! I'll go and enlist Emily Bowers; Rachel Dudley will be more than glad to alert those north of the village.”

“Ask them to try to account for the whereabouts of all the village men, as far as they can, on the afternoon of the ice harvest. And, on the day of the storm, between ten and two.”

“That's far more serious business,” Hannah objected.

“It is. But that part of what's happened here
must
be considered, in case they're connected. I'm still not sure, as I told you, about the second death, though it's what Mrs. Knowles believed. It's likely she was wrong. Yet Alex Godwin
was
murdered.”

“Of course,” said Hannah. Neither spoke for several moments.

“Lem Wainwright,” Mattie then said quietly, as she began to back him further into the corner, where he'd found it natural to stand.

“I—” he began to protest. The words he wanted wouldn't come.

“Lem Wainwright,
what
have you done?” asked Mattie, voicing for every woman in the village a question nearly as old as mankind.

S
HORTLY BEFORE NOON
, Charlotte and Lem were met by Cicero outside Richard Longfellow's door, where they shook snow crystals from their clothing, and clumps of heavier stuff from their boots. Taking up cups of tea, they went to sit by a welcome fire. There, Orpheus chewed at the pads of his feet, before enjoying what was left of a beef knee brought to him from the pantry.

“A profitable morning?” Cicero asked, his face wreathed with pleasure at seeing a woman who appeared to have nothing
seriously
wrong with her.

“We'll see,” Charlotte answered mysteriously. “I don't know yet, myself, but I think so. What have you to report?” “Mrs. Montagu and Miss Knowles have been together most of the time, lately in the study. Diana took Magdalene on a tour of the house before they settled on amusing one another at the pianoforte.”

“Really? I hadn't realized—and where is Mr. Reed?” “Retired to his room. He mentioned correspondence.” “We've been busy, ourselves.” Was Cicero aware of
what had been discussed earlier that morning? It turned out that Edmund Montagu had already spoken of the shillings with his wife, while the old man was dusting behind a door. He'd heard, too, of Jonathan Pratt's pain at his discovery of the counterfeit coins. It was news to him, however, that Hannah bore up reasonably well under her sciatica; Cicero shook his head, and described the state of his own rheumatism.

Lem next took a turn, telling of their first stop after leaving the house. They'd paid a visit to Christian Rowe, and Mrs. Willett had asked the minister to arrange for the removal of Mrs. Knowles's body later that day. He'd said he would see what he could do—but what would be done with it? It didn't seem right to place a respectable dame from a wealthy family in a cellar, especially with a young man who'd been murdered. Rowe finally decided that until the ground could be prepared, Mrs. Knowles would be placed much as the Montagus’ child had been, her coffin left to wait for spring, in a quiet corner by the respectable stones of village ancestors.

The minister went on to say he'd called for a general meeting of the village on Saturday, in two days’ time. By then he supposed all who'd attended the ice harvest, and any others who had something to tell, would be able to make their way to the meeting house. Lem and Charlotte had promised to attend.

Now Longfellow came home, leaving a sleigh whose muffled bells jingled as it continued up the hill. He reported that nearly half the roads for which Bracebridge was responsible were passable, after fresh teams had come out to relieve the first oxen and their drivers. There had been a blaze in the home of one of the elders who lived by the common; it was quickly smothered by neighbors who'd flung carpets full of snow onto a padded settle.

He would say little about his visit to the Blue Boar. Yet he did propose to Charlotte that they talk alone, some time before dinner. He excused himself, and went up to speak with Moses Reed.

Knowing he might not be long, Charlotte felt a rising sense of pleasurable excitement. Would he tell her what he'd learned? Or had he something else to say to her? Would he ask of her own quest for information? At least in discussing the shillings, Richard had again taken her into his confidence. Aglow at the thought, she went to the study to find Diana and Magdalene looking over a stack of magazines.

Mrs. Montagu pondered what she might wish to buy for her new home in Boston. But Magdalene seemed stunned by a world she'd nearly forgotten. Not for the first time, Charlotte wondered what the effect of a rebirth might do to such a simple woman, and whether she would be likely, at last, to find happiness.

“Miss Knowles,” she asked, “would you like a fresh cup of tea? Perhaps in your room, while you rest before dinner?” Magdalene rose with apparent stiffness, but seemed relieved to go.

Indicating to Diana that she would return, Charlotte accompanied the older woman to the kitchen, and then up the stairs. After that she returned to the study, to find out what else might have been learned that morning.

“I've been prying, of course,” Diana told her with no sign of regret. “I should think Edmund would be proud of me; but for now, I've decided not to tell him anything about it. Though there isn't much, really.”

Charlotte replied by telling her of the conversation she'd had with Hannah. Diana approved, but added that she could see little wrong with the making of coins on Boar Island. After all, if Parliament in London could do
it, what was wrong with a similar plan being undertaken in Massachusetts? The secrecy of the thing in the village, though, the part of keeping the scheme from wives especially, did seem to her quite wrong indeed.

“Has Lem learned his lesson?” she finally inquired.

“I haven't asked him about that—or a few other things,” said Charlotte. “I took pity on him after Mattie's scolding. But we all supposed he deserved it.”

“I should think so!” said Diana, as she flipped an auburn curl from her face. “It's a good thing he seems to have found someone else to take care of him one day. You can't be expected to do it forever! Did you know Magdalene can do most things to run a house, by the way?”

“I thought she must have done what was needed on the island, beyond the heaviest work.”

“She can sew and cook. Cicero was surprised at the extent of her help this morning. They prepared a stew, and put a pudding into a bag to boil, while I supervised. And then I played Richard's pianoforte for her, thinking she would be astonished—but it was I who was surprised! She plays well. No doubt that's because she's had time to practice on the island, where there is a harpsichord—and she's not had the trouble of living in society, as one does in Boston.”

“Probably,” Charlotte said kindly, well aware of the limitations of Diana's own musical skills.

“We also built this fire together, after all of you left us with no help but Cicero this morning! On the other hand, she shows little knowledge of fashion. It seems she's never even seen an umbrella—”

“Diana, do you still think Magdalene may be dangerous, in some way?”

“Dangerous? Oh, no, I think not. Whatever gave you that idea?”

“I wonder. You suppose, then, she's no more than a little backward, in social things?”

“She doesn't talk much, that is sure. But then, perhaps she hasn't been allowed to,” Diana decided shrewdly. “What little she said of Mrs. Knowles makes the woman sound like a tyrant, with no interest in anyone but herself!”

Before she could go on, her brother entered, clearly in high spirits.

“I've spoken with Reed. He tells me he'll explain all that he's withheld from us as soon as we've had our dinner. He's gone in to have his talk with Magdalene, supposing she's calm enough to understand what has happened. Dinner, by the way, is nearly ready.”

“Then I'll go in and help Cicero,” said Charlotte, sorry to have found that Longfellow had nothing more to offer her.

Soon she stood before a polished table in the small papered room not far from the clattering kitchen. Outside the west windows, ice crystals still flew by, but the sky over the village seemed blue and peaceful. She wondered, as she set out a cloth, then silver, china, and linen napkins, whether the death of Catherine Knowles had been an accident after all. She suddenly wished to think so. For a moment, she concluded that it was, to see if something within her would object strongly.

There would be plenty of time after dinner, she told herself, to reconsider the other, more dreadful alternative.

T
HE MEAL WAS
a hurried one, as everyone seemed impatient to hear more of the disposition of Mrs. Knowles's fortune. All, at least, but Magdalene, who ate quietly, her eyes cast down.

What, Charlotte asked herself, had Reed said to her during the previous hour? Whatever it had been, it had caused a return of her previous melancholy. Diana, too, noticed. She sent Charlotte significant glances over the stew and corn bread.

When Cicero brought in the boiled pudding, it was admired, then hurriedly dispatched. The study's clock struck two. Magdalene, at the advice of her attorney, went back to her room, to be spared hearing what he would tell the others, some of it of a delicate nature. At Longfellow's request, Cicero took Lem off to help him stoke the glasshouse stove. The rest retired to the front parlor still brightened by the sun, though its light had lost the exuberance of the morning.

“The wills, then,” Moses Reed began. He stood before a
window stroking his beard; Longfellow, Charlotte, Edmund, and Diana sat in chairs arranged before him.

“As I have already said, it appears that Catherine Knowles wrote two wills in the space of the past year, each of them brief. Magdalene assures me she witnessed the first, though not the second, of which she knew nothing. The first document was witnessed as well by Alaric Jones, who delivered it to me in Boston shortly before his own death. The only witness to the final will was Alexander Godwin. It was he who came to me with the document several weeks ago. Godwin, in fact, was the sole and final heir, at the time of Catherine's unfortunate death.”

“As we've already deduced,” Longfellow informed the lawyer.

“Yes, I thought as much. Now for the rest. I assume, since Magdalene informed Mrs. Willett of the fact, and I have since discussed it with several of you, that it's no longer a secret she bore a son some seventeen years ago. After a short time, the boy was taken from his mother. Upon this, Catherine Knowles insisted.”

“I would like to know exactly
why
that was the case,” Diana interjected. Her face, Charlotte thought unhappily, had the intensity of an avenging angel, bound on righting injustice in the world.

“I'm sorry to tell you of this, Mrs. Montagu,” Reed said with a grimace of concern. “I'm aware that you, too, recently lost a child. Nor do I wish to open Magdalene's wound, though it came to her long ago. However, she assured me this morning that it has greatly lessened, since—” He stopped, as if to reconsider.

“But perhaps I should not go ahead of my story,” he continued. “First: Magdalene is unmarried, though her lover did hope to return one day and claim her. For whatever reason, that never occurred.”

“But how did the
child
come to leave the island?” Diana asked once more.

“I must admit I took the boy away, as Mrs. Knowles instructed me to do. You ask why, Mrs. Montagu. I will try to explain. Catherine Knowles held strong views on hereditary rights and duties. As I recall, she felt she owed her husband's family something better than—well, than a bastard, and one who quite possibly would not have developed a full mental capacity, or a full moral sense. She felt it would be better for the boy, as well, if he had no chance to inherit wealth and power, if in fact his blood carried his mother's affliction, and his uncle's. She believed it would have been a sort of pollution. In this, she refused to take part.”

“She believed, then, in
primogeniture
,” said Longfellow, looking to see Edmund Montagu's reaction. The captain's face was an unchanging mask.

“But again I jump ahead,” said the lawyer. “Mrs. Knowles insisted it would be far better if the Philadelphia family did not
know
what had happened—that Magdalene had been secretly with child when John Fisher died, and had been delivered of that child some time after the return of Peter Knowles to Philadelphia. Catherine then asked me to repay her father's earlier kindness to me. I was glad to be able to do so. And, because of the trust she placed in me, I was able to establish myself in Boston, where I have since acted as her attorney and advisor.”

“But Reed,
what did you do with the boy
?” asked Longfellow.

“I took the child to a place where I was sure he would be well looked after. Again, at the request of Mrs. Knowles, I did not tell her with whom the boy would live. Nor was Magdalene ever to know. I've often wondered if I made the right choice, in following this plan…”

“His name, man—his name!” Longfellow insisted, sensing that the lawyer still did not wish to give it. “Was it Alexander Godwin?”

“Godwin? No. The boy's name, the new name he was given, is Edward Bigelow”

“Ned?” cried Longfellow. “It can't be!”

“I think Mrs. Willett suspected as much,” said Reed, as Charlotte felt his eyes examine her own.

“You gave him to old Jonah?” Longfellow asked, his voice still full of disbelief.

“To Jonah and his wife, who had long been my neighbors. I knew they'd lost their own children to illness, some time before. They were very glad to take Ned, as they called him, and to raise the boy as a child said to be related to Mrs. Bigelow. Then, when Abigail died, only Jonah knew the secret.”

“And Ned?” asked Charlotte. “Do you suppose he knows?”

“I think—I hope—that he does not. Nor that he was for a brief time Catherine's heir. The first of two.”

“Was he!” Longfellow exclaimed, enlightened on that point, at last. “I'm not certain I'm glad to hear it—but tell me this, Reed. If Catherine Knowles didn't wish Ned to inherit from the Philadelphia family, why did she leave him her own estate?”

“I believe that with her end in sight, she wished to make amends for his earlier rejection, which she came to see as unfair. She asked for his name, and I gave it to her— though she had no wish to see the boy. And at last, she wrote out a will. Perhaps, too, she had Magdalene in mind. She never told her what would happen after her death, but it seems she never quite trusted the Philadelphia family to see to Magdalene's happiness.”

“Did they know, in Philadelphia, that Ned would be
revealed as Magdalene's son? Or that Catherine changed her mind a final time?” asked Longfellow.

“She never told me. In either case, the head of that family was still her secondary heir, should something happen to the first. She had no one else. Now that Godwin is gone, I suppose they will be glad to learn they'll lose nothing to the widow of Peter Knowles, after all.”

“The old woman did Ned a great disservice, it seems to me,” Longfellow said soberly. “That boy is anything but simple. He's learned much on his own, and has an admirable spirit. Though lately—”

“But she had good reason to question his abilities, Richard, given the circumstances.” This came from Edmund Montagu, and he continued forcefully. “I've seen some who were not up to the task destroyed by the assumption of wealth—worse, they've often caused innocents to fall with them. When a first-born lacks physical strength, or mental ability, how can he do justice to his family, who depend on him?…”

Montagu let the thought drift away. Had he gone too far? Would his wife see his true meaning—the one that had been seared into his memory, into his heart? Their own son had been too weak to survive. Had he lived, could he have faced life squarely? Would he have been able to handle the family wealth, or the title if it had come to him, one day? And should his father have hated himself for having such a thought, when young Charlie, small and sick, lay dying?

“At any rate,” said Reed, “the final document did not favor Ned Bigelow”

“Why,” asked Longfellow, “do you suppose that was?”

“I don't know. Perhaps Mrs. Knowles learned of something that made her feel Magdalene's son was unworthy, after all.”

“A charge of counterfeiting?”

The lawyer's reaction told Longfellow that Reed, too, had realized what had been going on in the village. Damn him!

“That is possible,” the attorney replied quietly. “As I agreed to defend Lem Wainwright, I will now offer my services to Magdalene Knowles to protect her son, if anyone sees fit to charge him. With anything at all.”

It was no more than Longfellow had expected from a member of the legal profession. “A charge will wait,” he returned, “until other things are sorted out. In all probability, it won't take long.”

“I'm not sure I understand,” Reed said uncertainly.

“But you will, sir. Soon. Very soon.”

Giving the attorney a meaningful smile, Longfellow rose and turned to Charlotte. “Mrs. Willett, I believe Lem will need to attend to your cows. I think it might be advisable for you to go along.”

Realizing that he wished her to ask Lem what
he
knew of the coins, and the island, and anything else he may have kept hidden—knowing, too, that it was time— Charlotte rose and went out before the others.