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