THE CAVERN OF DEEP HARMONY

PART SIXTY-THREE:

Susannah paused, the late morning sunlight warm on her uplifted face as she stood alone on the bottom step of the back entrance to her father's house on Nicholson Street. Stepping onto the walkway, she smiled as the sole of her shoe settled on the second brick which had a slight tip to

its right. She was as familiar, as comfortable as it is possible for anyone to be. That brick had greeted her foot nearly every day of her life since she'd learned to walk. Once, her father had thought to have the gardener relay it, but she had convinced him to let it be. It was one of her countless touchstones that guided her way, that let her know precisely where she was.

The backyard gardens of Williamsburg were all laid out in a very orderly fashion, brick pathways marching straight through neatly-trimmed low hedges of boxwood. They were framed in pickets, with picket gates counterweighted with small cannonballs so that they closed easily and firmly.

Her father had taken great pains with the ordering of his own garden so that his only child might have the greatest possible freedom to walk there.  There had been much concern offered, much

pity even, when Susannah had been born completely without sight eighteen years ago. That her mother had died three days later from childbed fever only added to the general feeling that life would be a nearly impossible thing for the baby. Her father, though, had been determined from

the start that she be given every opportunity for happiness and fulfillment. 

Myra, his black housekeeper, had a six-year old daughter, Layla, who became Susannah's constant companion, watching over her, going with her as she toddled around the neatly-kept house and ventured into the back garden.  Harmer Wellington was a busy man, his law practice thriving, and these days, with such Colonial discontent beginning to fill the very air, spent less time with his
daughter than he would have preferred. But Layla, now at 24, was utterly devoted to Susannah and he knew that, in her company, she would always be all right.

This morning, though, Layla was inside, helping Myra with preparations for the dinner Harmer was having that evening. Both Washington and Jefferson would be there, as would several of the more vocal members of the town. But Susannah knew the garden, knew it perfectly, and had no need of being guided along its paths.  Harmer had seen that specific markers were made a part of

it so that she would be at ease there. Fifteen steps straight down the central brick path brought her to the garden seat just off the right-hand side.  She didn't even really need to count her steps any more. Her 'sense' of the distance, of the time it took to get there, was all that was required and now she walked there, settling the skirt of her lawn morning dress around her, the fingers of both hands
curved over the smooth, front edge of the large wooden seat as she leaned forward, taking in the glorious scents of late May.

Her father had taken her on trips to Boston, to Philadelphia, New York and even down to Charleston. But Williamsburg was always and ever home and she knew their carriage had arrived back in her beloved town as soon as it passed the first hedges of boxwood. There were those who did not like the smell of box, but she had never understood the why of that. Yes, it had a strong, distinctive scent, but it was so entirely connected to her love of place that, for her, it was simply wonderful. As the days grew warmer with the ascending sun, so did the scent of box ascend.  It

was what made Williamsburg Williamsburg. 

The windows of the house were open and the sounds of clinking dishes as the large dining room table was being set, the swish of a broom, a rug being beaten in the side yard, floated to her ears, familiar and dear. Myra called out some order to one of the male house servants and Layla was singing as she moved about the kitchen.

Standing again, Susannah adjusted the ribbon of her hat and turned down the walkway to the left. Just a few steps brought her to where the foxglove border was and she stopped, her hand reaching out expectantly to touch a tall, strong spire of bloom. Her fingers moved slowly, lovingly down its length, curving around and sometimes into the series of individual trumpets that formed the
spire.  The foxgloves grew up through clumps of daisies mixed with poppies and her hands continued down, brushing over the hard button centers of the the daisies, fluttering light as butterflies on the more delicate petals of a poppy.

Just past the foxgloves was a statue of an angel her father had had shipped from England some years ago. She could never pass it without letting her hands flow down the length of one extended wing and up the other.  The right wing had a small chip missing, but she liked even that as it was such a familiar tactile thing for her hand.  Only Layla in all the world knew that Susannah talked to the angel, had even named it Marietta, had told it her secrets, had, as a small child, asked it to take messages to her mother.

Beyond the tall angel, a very low hedge of box marked the outer edge of the herb garden that backed up to the picket fence. Harmer had arranged seats for her all through the garden and she sat again in the midst of the herbs.  This was possibly her favorite spot in the yard. She leaned a bit, her fingers touching the nearby lemon balm. Deliberately she squeezed a leaf then lifted her hand to her face, the scent of lemon strong on her skin.  Rosemary, thyme, dill, fennel, basil, chamomile grew in neat partitions close by. Off to her right were the chives, whose soft spiky tops were among her favorites.  Lavender grew next to the pickets and just down from them was the taller tansy. Getting up, she went straight to where she knew the tansy was, breaking off some to bring back to the house. Myra had been complaining of ants in the pantry this week and could probably use more tansy.

"I like it, Marshall," Eden said. "You're making the Williamsburg as you know it, and I can tell I'm going to be fonder of this Susannah than I was of the more spoiled one you had before. What next?"

"Yes," Marshall smiled, "what next?"

"Me?"

"It would seem so."

"Oh, gosh," she sighed, looking at the keyboard. She'd just entered what he'd dictated about Susannah. Morgan. Morgan wouldn't be so into the scents. He'd be visual. If he saw Susannah,

it would be how she looked, how the place where she was...looked.

Morgan walked out the back entrance of the Raleigh Tavern, following the straight path through the series of small yards, and turned left down Nicholson Street.  He was warm and removed his

hat to wipe his coat sleeve across his brow.  He'd come to prefer walking down Nicholson toward the Palace Green rather than the busier Duke of Gloucester, which paralleled it one block over. Nearly all the businesses of the small town were clustered on Duke of Gloucester and he liked to think as he walked, undistracted by the bustle of the more occupied street. It was amazing how much more rural Nicholson seemed despite its proximity to the main thoroughfare.  There were even some open fields and sections of woods still present. He was not yet used to the Virginia tidewater heat, having spent his life in Kent, and when he saw a small dirt path leading off into

the shade of a weeping willow, turned aside.

The path led him by a neat white house with second-story dormers. Well, that could be said, now couldn't it, for most of the houses in Williamsburg. He was thinking deeply of what George Wythe had just told him in the Raleigh, and wasn't paying attention to what lay beyond the picket fence

to his right. Pickets were everywhere in Williamsburg and one soon stopped noticing them, really,
only focusing on their presence when presented with a gate one must open to proceed.  He had intended to go straight down Nicholson, cross the Palace Green, and continue his conversation with Mr. Wythe in the back office of his large brick home that faced the far side of the Green. 

Wythe was a wise, experienced man who had even taught Jefferson and was possibly the main
luminary of the town.  Morgan did not agree, not yet, with all the man's opinions of matters of current import, but he found himself wanting to hear more and more of what he had to say. 

Wythe had still been speaking with several men in the tavern when Morgan left, so he knew he

had time to dawdle a bit here in the shade.

Shrugging out of his light brown jacket, he folded it over his left arm, feeling much more comfortable in just his white shirt. His dark brown hair was clubbed neatly back, tied with a black ribbon, and the Virginia sun had already tanned his face more deeply than it had ever been.  Straight brows over deep green eyes....

Marshall laughed. "It seems to be a green-eyed world we live in."

"Shhh!" she said. "I'm...creating."

"Eventually," he said, kissing the top of her head, "I do hope so."

...that were looking inward as Mr. Wythe's last words replayed in his head, failed to see the small stone protruding through the ground. He tripped and only by flailing his arms managed to keep to his feet.  His coat had fallen, though, onto the path and he stooped to pick it up, frowning as he shook off the clinging dust. Sighing, he stood there, undecided if he should continue on the shady path or venture back out into the sun of Nicholson.

"At least he didn't fall into a gully," Marshall commented wryly.

"Not every story begins with mud," she replied.

"Ours does."

"Well, this one's got dust. It hasn't rained for two days at least."

"And how do you know that."

"I just do. So there. Now shush!"

Something white moved, catching his eye, and he turned, trying to discern what it was.

"It will, of course, be Susannah?" Marshall interrupted.

"Shush!"

"So brutal," he sighed, "so very, very brutal."

"You got it, Mister. And you ain't seen violence yet like you will if you don't let me think."

"Would that be a promise?"

Someone was standing on the other side of the pickets, a young woman who seemed absorbed in tracing the outline of a fig leaf. He stepped back more deeply into the shadows cast by several young maples so that he could study her without being observed.  Possibly it was the way the dappled sunlight glinted on her almost golden hair....

"Golden is good."

She ignored him.

...that caught his eye the most.  She had taken off her hat as he had, and it hung by its ribbon from her left forearm, some sort of ferny green plants placed into its crown. She was in profile to him, her nose small, delicately-formed, her lips curved in a smile above a firm little chin. Even though he'd been in Williamsburg for three months now, he knew immediately he'd never seen her before. He would have remembered. There was no doubt he would have remembered.  Fascinated, he watched the movement of her fingers around the lobed edges of the leaf.  She seemed to be exploring it as though it were somehow important. A slight breeze blew out her skirt, showing the sprigs of violets on the soft, white lawn of the dress.  A wide lavender ribbon was tied as a sash about her waist and to his eyes she was quite possibly the loveliest thing he'd ever seen. No, that wasn't right. She was, with no doubt, the loveliest thing.  How was it he had not seen her before?

His eyes moved for a moment to the house fronting the garden. Harmer Wellington's. He'd never been inside, but he'd met Mr. Wellington more than once in the Raleigh. He and Wythe, both attorneys, were good friends. Was she Wellington's daughter? If he were to step out on the path again, were to continue on his way, would she notice him and could he then speak to her? As he was pondering the propriety of this, a slender black woman came out the back door of the house, calling, "Susannah! You gots to come back inside now, Miss Susannah. Mama needs to know which dress you wants her to iron up for dinner tonight."

Susannah. He rolled the syllables of her name silently over his tongue, tasting them sweetly like sugared cream.

"I like that. That's good." He tried it himself, saying 'Susannah' long and slow. It came out beautifully, somehow sensuous.

"Can't do that with 'Eden', I'm afraid," she sighed, dropping her hands from the keys to her lap.

He lifted her hair, kissing the back of her neck. "There are many...many...things I can do with Eden," he whispered into her ear.

"Would that be a promise?" she echoed his earlier words.

"It would."

Susannah released the fig leaf with some reluctance. Her father's dinner parties were entirely political any more and she didn't particularly enjoy being in attendance. At least she was expected to excuse herself as soon as the meal was over while the men went into the parlor to talk for hours over drinks. Bending, she snapped off a few stalks of lavender, tucking them in her sash. 

"I'll be right there, Layla," she called back, though still she lingered where she was.

He watched her, aware from her actions, that she did not want to leave. He, too, wished most fervently that she would stay.  But, eventually, she turned away from the white fence and he stepped forward to see her for as long as he could, smiling to himself as she passed the angel

statue, trailing her fingers along its wings.  When the back door closed behind her, he came up

to the fence, staring over at the angel.  "You pale," he said, addressing it, "in comparison."
He cocked his head. "It's not your fault. But not even you are so lovely as she." 

The angel, guardian of secrets, did not reveal that he was the only other person who had ever spoken directly to her.

"Do you think that last is too, too?" Eden asked, swiveling to face Marshall.

"I don't think I'd have thought of it myself," he replied, "but I like what it sets up. Keep it."

She hit the 'save' button, then printed it out in braille for him. "I'm hungry," she announced as the printer completed its afterwhir.  "Is that Martha's barley soup I smell?"

"What about...promises?"

"I do much better in collecting on promises when my tummy's not growling."

"I can live with that," he chuckled.

She stood, looking at him, and wondered when she'd ever get past that little jolt in her belly whenever something brought to mind the fact that he almost didn't live. It lurked there in the shadows of her happiness, ready to stab its barb all too often. She knew it was because of
Miles dying in the snow, because she felt so 'left' by that, so 'left', too, by her parents. That Marshall might leave, however unwillingly on his part, was woven into the matrix of her being. She knew it was possible. She knew that all too well and a shudder went through her just as he lay his hand on her arm.

His brow knit. "Are you all right?"

She turned, sliding her arms around his waist, pressing into him. "I love you," she murmured into his chest.

He rested his cheek atop her hair. "You are so infinitely precious to me," he whispered back.

She squeezed her arms tighter. If only she never had to let go.

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