him. Magdalene had backed away, her eyes grave. She must have known what firearms could do, Charlotte imagined, from the time she'd lived with hunters. But according to Hannah, the attorney beside her was no stranger to the ways of the forest—and, presumably, of wild boars.
“No need, I think,” said Longfellow. “He's no threat to us now.”
Reed assented, uncocked the pistol, and put it back into his clothing. “Better safe…” he remarked.
“Do you often use that thing?” Longfellow asked.
“No. But I might, sir. Some would rob a man who travels regularly, as a lawyer must. In fact a circuit judge suggested to me the idea of carrying one, as he does.”
“Yes, of course,” Longfellow replied. But Charlotte wondered if his look implied a greater concern. Had Reed feared for his safety when he came to Bracebridge? Or onto the island? Did he perhaps think someone else might join them there, uninvited?
After their return to the village, the rest of the afternoon had given Charlotte a chance to stay home alone, while Lem visited Hannah and Martha, telling them the news. With Orpheus at her side, she'd gone into the blue study and built a fire.
What, she'd wondered, had their visit proved, after all? That there were still some things that could hardly be considered natural, even by Science? She had not told Longfellow of her initial sensation that something was in the house with them, something other than the comforting spirit she'd encountered. But what did it matter? She'd seen the tunnel, and its newly brushed floor. Had someone used it on the day of Catherine's death? And if so, had that same person killed Alex Godwin?
There was yet another possibility to consider. Yesterday, she'd felt that Aaron had given her a friendly warning at the top of the cellar stairs. But had she been given another, far less friendly, below? Again she touched her head, glad that her pinned hair had cushioned what could have been intended as a deadly blow. Had Moses Reed been right, after all? Was there cause to worry, still?
Charlotte continued to watch the icicle beyond the window, realizing that today many other questions, at least, might be answered. For it was Saturday, and Christian Rowe had invited the village to the meeting house, to discuss what was known of the events that took place on the day of the ice harvest.
Since she herself had earlier made certain suggestions to Hannah, and because wives had ways of finding things out, she expected that some progress had already been made. All in all, she decided as she rose to wash and dress, it promised to be a most interesting day.
THE MINISTER'S MEETING had been set to begin at eleven. But by ten-thirty, the space between the long, whitewashed walls of the meeting house, lit by several plain and tall windows, had begun to fill. Certain of the boxes in the front waited for tenants who paid extra for them each year. Behind these, villagers with smaller savings, or a lesser sense of responsibility, sat in knots on pews, and on chairs added to the side aisles. Men and women together were strangely quiet, while groups of a single sex talked quickly, if softly, raising their eyes to see who else might join them. In a rear loft, youths and maidens mingled with more animation, occasionally admonishing younger children for complaining.
Thus far, thought Charlotte, it was what she'd expected. With Lem at her side, she'd come in before those of Longfellow's household. She was glad they'd arrived early, for as she'd guessed, the village saw no reason to wait for the appointed hour to discuss what had happened to Godwin, where the base shillings had come from, and who might be to blame for either, or both.
As she and Lem sat down one voice rose above all others, catching the attention of the room.
“Where is John Dudley?” Sarah Proctor asked loudly, causing a good many who nodded and grumbled to look about.
“He's not here,” called one of her neighbors. “He's not been seen in the village since yesterday morning! His family's not here, either. Maybe they felt it best to stay away—”
“Dudley's whereabouts are known to some of us,” a farmer retorted. Today, like several others, he wore his grandfather's long white wig for warmth, and perhaps in honor of the special occasion. “Even if he didn't see fit to inform the women!” he finished from under his fall of curls.
“Where is he, then?” Mrs. Proctor demanded.
“Well,