Free Too Soon for Flowers by Margaret Miles Page B

until, cornered by Longfellow and Cicero, the sleek animal leaped effortlessly to land behind both pursuers, then streaked toward the door.
    The roundly cursed cat might have been following his ears as well as his instincts, for in another moment the door opened, and Tabby shot out.
    “Have I come at a good time, or bad?” David Pelham inquired, once he had recovered from his surprise.
    “One is much like another here. Come in, Pelham. I suppose you’re interested in horticulture,” said Longfellow.
    “I enjoy exotic collections as much as the next man,but I always leave the business of helping them survive to others. I hardly think I have the talent for it, myself.”
    Longfellow, who had heard this kind of nonsense before, had only scorn for those who refused to pay attention to the workings on which all life depended. However, considering his position as host to an invited guest, he manfully held back his feelings.
    “Cicero, this is Mr. David Pelham. Cicero and I, too, were Bostonians, Pelham, before we were drawn here.”
    “A freedman … ?” Mr. Pelham asked, looking from one to the other. Meanwhile, Cicero made his own appraisal of the cinnamon-colored costume before him, completed by an aroma of orange flower pomade at the head, and large buckles of gold on the feet below.
    “Free in the legal sense, if not the metaphysical,” said Longfellow. “Cicero may leave whenever he chooses. But he stays—largely, I believe, because he must torment me. Yet he pays for the privilege! At the moment, he is about to mount an expedition to the roof, for which I do not recommend an audience.” He then led Mr. Pelham out of the glass house, across the backyard, and around to the front of the house, where they entered. The visitor was thus allowed to avoid the kitchen, admire the broad entry hall, and catch a glimpse into the great formal room to its right, before approaching the west-facing study. There they greeted Charlotte and Benjamin Tucker, who were sipping mid-morning cups of tea. Longfellow pulled two straight-backed chairs away from the wall, and lowered himself next to the physician.
    “I’ll be back in a moment with a new pot and a cake,” said Charlotte as she rose, causing Mr. Pelham to bob up again. “Have you no house servants?” he asked his host when he finally sat down.
    “Two or three women, daughters of a neighbor, who come weekly to remove the dust and replace the linen. Beyond that, I’m well able to take care of myself.”
    “But—your kitchen! With no servants, what do you do for your dinner?”
    “Sustenance can always be found at the inn; occasionally, Mrs. Willett takes pity on us and extends an invitation. But we often make do with what we can concoct. You might see for yourself, if you would care to join us one day. This Sunday, perhaps? When I’m in the mood, I enjoy culinary experiments: goat in a curry, served with fermented milk curds, for an example. I wonder goat’s not eaten more. The idea came to me from a correspondent who is in the India trade—at least he was, though I hear he has recently succumbed to a stomach complaint.”
    Dr. Tucker cleared his throat, but made no comment.
    Attracted by Longfellow’s pianoforte, David Pelham rose with a smile and made his way to the instrument, where he ran his fingers over the ivory keys, picking out a simple tune until Charlotte returned with a tray. He then took a seat beside her, accepting cup and saucer and a slice of cake, though he immediately set both down on a small table nearby.
    “I had hoped,” he began, “to have the pleasure of seeing Miss Longfellow today.”
    “Diana won’t be allowed to leave Mrs. Willett’s house for another two weeks, at least,” her brother informed him.
    “Then—might I be allowed to visit her there? I may be of some use, if Miss Longfellow wants cheerful conversation, or perhaps someone to read to her. It would be my great pleasure, I assure you.”
    Longfellow chewed his cake