By Margaret Miles
The useless inform no tales....
It is the summer season of 1765, and Charlotte Willett is having fun with the balmy languor of Bracebridge together with her cultured neighbor, Richard Longfellow. yet their peaceable regimen shatters with the coming of Richard's dependent buddy from abroad.
Known as Il Colombo--the Dove--Gian Carlo Lahte is an Italian singer who quickly holds the neighborhood women spellbound. no longer even Charlotte is proof against his charms. although he turns out to hold greater than a touch of scandal with him, at the day he arrives tavern speak in Bracebridge turns to a extra homegrown secret: a corpse stumbled on at the Boston road--his physique reeking of liquor, his id unknown.
Charlotte can not help yet ask yourself why Signore Lahte is so shaken via the sight of the victim--and why the useless man's boots and buttons are fast stolen! As she and Longfellow reflect on those issues, additional arrivals remodel their rustic oasis right into a degree for turbulent drama--where any player's functionality can be a lethal swan song....
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Extra info for No Rest for the Dove
Others made do with sacred books or brandy bottles. Yet another group of passengers down in the very bowels of the craft shook in solitary misery, with nothing to cheer them at all. Above these timid souls, seamen did a good night’s work in the rigging, adjusting canvas sail or replacing tatters as they blew out, keeping their vessel alive. Nor was their work in vain, for by the light of a new day it was seen that the ship had run through the storm, and would have little trouble maneuvering the channel into which it now sailed.
This still seemed to echo as the boys raced to investigate, pursued by shouting men and staggering, moaning women. Few were uncertain of what they would find. Such an event was far from unheard of in a city that lived with summer heat—where men, and more often women, sat or leaned by open windows. The boys came to a halt, staring at what they found. One looked away—and then, with wonder, up. In a high frame, he saw a man with fair skin and reddish hair. He, too, wore white, for he leaned out in his shirtsleeves, most likely from a room in his own home.
For some time he had noticed Charlotte’s unusual stillness, though her frequent smiles suggested that she was, as he’d predicted, fascinated. He next observed with interest that she reddened at the compliment, though the crafter had been careful to direct his eyes away during his skillful delivery. The rogue possessed an urbane and honeyed tongue, at least. Learning what else he might be capable of promised to make the week ahead a stimulating one. “Signora,” said Lahte, as he stood and set aside his napkin.