THE CAVERN OF DEEP HARMONY

PART SIXTY-FOUR:

"You know a lot about gardens," Eden commented after she'd eaten nearly half a bowl of barley-beef soup.

"My mother," he replied, wiping his lips with a paper napkin. "She planted flowers everywhere in our yard. It's one of my favorite ways to remember her...coming up behind her as she knelt at the edge of the lawn, holding the root ball of some perennial. Thanks to her I've learned to identify quite a number of plants by smell or touch."

"What's your favorite?"

He thought a moment. "Probably McKenna columbines. They have a fantastic shape with those spurs out their backsides, you know. I remember the first time I really explored one. It seemed like some alien flower left by moonpeople to me."

"You were into rocket ships?"

"Entirely. Then I discovered dinosaurs."

"So Williamsburg must have been a treat for you," Martha added from near the stove, taking the conversation back to gardens. She'd heard them talking about  the town as they'd entered the kitchen. "I haven't been there for at least 30 years."

"They keep improving it, Martha," he explained, "making it more and more authentic all the time. They've even redone the gardens, getting them back more true to Colonial times."

"I like that even though the war is about to start, the gardens are still an important part of the story," Eden mused.

"You can't really write about Williamsburg and not have gardens be a part of it," Marshall smiled. "Even many of the most famous patriots were gardeners."

"Like who?" Martha asked.

"Take Jefferson himself. He wrote, 'No occupation is so delightful to me as the culture of the earth, and no culture comparable to that of the garden...though I am an old man, I am but a young gardener.'"

"Have you ever planted anything yourself?" Eden was suddenly curious.

"When I was about six, my mother had me dig a fairly large hole in a far corner of the back yard. I still remember how great the shovel felt in my hands and the heaviness of lifting it full

of dirt. There was some sort of pleasure in making that mound of dirt. I knelt beside it and ran my hands over it, quite proud of myself. Then Dad brought up a small willow tree with its roots in burlap but I got the thing into the hole all by myself. They said that was important. Then I shoveled the dirt back and watered it. It's still there. Gotten quite huge now. Willows grow fast, you know. They wanted me to plant something that would last, something that I could put my hands on and feel the changes in. I can't even get my arms around it now." He smiled to himself. "But when I'm home and go out there where it is, I always remember that day."

A slow smile spread across Morgan's face as he approached the front walkway of the Wellington home. It had been quite simple. He had been sitting across Wythe's writing table from him, listening to the man recount in some detail the Colonial problems with taxes when Wythe had suddenly mentioned that if he wanted to hear passion on the subject, he should listen to Patrick Henry.

"He will, in fact, be at Harmer Wellington's dinner table tonight," Wythe commented.

Morgan, carefully maintaining a composed face, had replied, "I should very much like to meet

Mr. Henry."

Wythe had smiled. "I'm quite sure there would be no problem with Wellington should you accompany me. I'll send Joshua over with word to expect one more for dinner."

And so it had come about. Now here he was, changed into a light linen coat the better to withstand the evening's heat, Mechlin lace foaming nicely at his throat and wrists. Patrick Henry was not on his mind. Would she...Susannah...would she be in attendance?

"Ah, Mister Kent," a warm, friendly voice boomed not far behind him. George Wythe was stepping out of a small carriage.

"Good evening, Sir," Morgan greeted, tipping his head. "You are certain this is no imposition on the Wellingtons?"

"None at all. Joshua brought back word that Harmer would be delighted to meet the young Englishman so recently arrived. Just expect that you will be fairly inundated with talk from a

more Virginian perspective." He smiled again, patting Morgan's arm. "Come, let us go inside
together."

"Sneaky fellow, your Morgan," Marshall commented as she read aloud what she was writing.

"Hey, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do."

"And you know this how?"

"Because it's the same for women. That's how. And just what is your feminine side up to at the moment?"

"My feminine side?"

"Well, we've gender-switched, have we not? So what do you know about female primping?"

"I doubt Susannah is much of a primper," he smiled. "Let me see...."

Susannah sat quietly on the padded bench as Layla finished tying the slender blue ribbon about

her neck. "There, Miss Susannah, you is all done now."

Susannah's hand went to her throat where a single pearl was centered on the ribbon. She sighed. "More politics. Always more politics." Not that they were not important. She realized fully that they were. It was just the very constantness of them these days. No one seemed to talk of anything else and especially not the men her father was friends with. Dinner would be like that. Earnest

men earnestly talking politics.  And now the word 'war' was being more openly bandied about.

She was glad she had no brothers to send off to battle, glad her father was too old.  He was too old, wasn't he? Surely he'd not have to fight?  Why couldn't things just stay the way they were?

Slowly she descended the staircase, knowing her father would be waiting at the bottom step, ready, as always to take her arm and lead her into dinner. The buzz of male voices came to her from the dining room. She would be the only woman present.  The familiar distance was covered with sure steps, her hand resting lightly on her father's arm as male forms moved quietly out of their way. Her chair was pulled out and she settled into it with a slight swish of silken skirting. As soon as she was seated, a dozen more chairs were scraped out and then back in, her father taking his seat at

the opposite end from her.

"I can hear the sound of that," Eden said.

"Where is Morgan?" Marshall asked.

Both because he was new to Virginia and new to Wellington's table, Morgan had been honored by being seated on the side of the long table just to Susannah's right.

"You would have him there," Marshall smiled.

"I would, indeed," she grinned, beginning to type again.

Morgan had been standing, his back to the fireplace, when Susannah had entered the room.  He smiled an entirely inward, satisfied smile, hoping she would look his way as she passed, but she kept her lashes somewhat lowered, her head slightly tipped.  She was, though, even lovelier if possible than when he'd first seen her in the garden.  Her gown was a pale blue watered silk with

a fichu made from extremely thin and delicate ivory lace. That both Washington and Jefferson sat on either side of his host did not attract his eye so much as the way the pearl at her throat rose and fell with the gentle motion of her breathing. 

Too late he became aware someone was addressing him and looked embarrassedly down the table, finding it was Washington himself. "And so, Mr. Kent, I am given to understand you come to us from...Kent? An interesting bit of naming, if I might say so." Washington's blue eyes were kind, interested, in his square, grave face.

"I have always found it so myself," Morgan nodded back.  "It has been the family name for at least 500 years, so it's origin is lost in some distant fog, though it is probably not amiss to presume it was taken up by early settlers in the region."

"And what brings you, Mr. Kent, to Virginia at such a time as this?"  The speaker sat to Jefferson's left, his voice completely unlike Washington's cultured tones. The man was almost gaunt in his rather shabby clothes, his face long, eyes piercing.  He sounded backwoodsy in his brogue and his
question was presented more as an inquisition than an inquiry.

"I have come on behalf of certain shipping interests of my father's, Mr. Henry," he replied, knowing this had to be who the man was.

"And will you be staying long?" Henry pursued.

"I am finding the business to be more complicated than expected, Sir," Morgan explained mildly, "and as yet have no knowledge of the length of my stay."

"Then you do intend to return to England? Before war breaks out?"

"You think it will actually come to that, Mr. Henry? The thought of this undeveloped land rebelling against the massive power of England is hard for me to comprehend."

"I think you will find...."

"Now, now, Patrick," Wellington said pleasantly, "let us enjoy our meal before we get into talk

of war. Such matters are best discussed with a fine brandy in one's hand, are they not?"

Morgan looked gratefully at his host, a sturdy sort of man, broadened somewhat with age, silver hair in a neat queue. "Susannah," Harmer said, "that is Mr. Kent to your right, darling. Mr. Kent, my daughter, Susannah. Forgive me for my late introductions."

Marshall chucked softly, then took his turn.

She had been listening to him talk, judging from the sound of his voice that he must be several years younger than the rest of the men in the room. Turning her head toward him at her father's introduction, she still kept her eyes cast slightly downward, though a small smile curved her lips.
"Mr. Kent," she acknowledged.

"This calls for a more rapid back and forth," Eden observed, her fingers beginning to fly over the keys.

She did not lift her eyes to him. Was she so shy she could not do such a thing? Somehow he had

not thought that of her. "My pleasure, Miss Wellington," he replied softly. If he hoped for more,

he did not then receive it for she turned back to her plate, waiting quietly as she was served, then reached for her glass. Her hand went past it and the grey-haired serving man leaned just enough forward to whisper in her ear, "Marcy done put it mo' to yo' right, Miss Susannah."

"Thank you, Micah," she also whispered, her hand following his directions, fingers curving around the stem of a tall goblet.

Morgan paused in his own reach for his glass, observing her. How strange.

She wasn't sure why, but not finding the glass easily had flustered her. After she took a sip, she dropped her hands to her lap, completely unable to recall the arrangement Myra had told her that the food would be on her plate.  She wasn't hungry anyway. Would anyone really notice should

she not eat anything?

The other guests at the table had been there often, were well aware she could not see and so used

to it that it had long since ceased for them to be a matter unusual in any way.  Most of them had known her since her girlhood. Perhaps it was the presence, so close to her side, of the visitor from England that had her off balance?  With some innate sense, she knew he was studying her.

It looked to him as though she might be somewhat ill and his brow knit in concern. "Are you all right, Miss Wellington?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

She sighed. Might as well get on with it. Lifting her chin, she turned her face fully towards him,

no longer keeping her eyes shaded by lashes. She waited a moment, long enough for him to see

that she was not looking back at him, and said somewhat resolutely, 'I am fine, Mr. Kent, thank you. But I would appreciate it if you would be so kind as to inform me if my spring peas are at 10 o'clock or at 3."

He was entirely taken aback.  Her eyes were a lovely, bright sky blue. He had known somehow

they would be blue. But he felt nearly slapped across the face by the fact that there was no answering light of sight in them.  His mouth dropped slightly open, his breath not coming for a long minute as he gazed at her.  She was presenting herself to him quite openly. He had no doubt

of that. What he doubted was his own perception so he shook his head as though to clear some obstruction from his brain. But her eyes remained the same and then she asked him something about...peas? Ten or three? What did she mean?

"I...I'm sorry," he stuttered. "Peas?"

"Yes," she said, "on my plate. I've quite forgotten where they might be."

"Plate?" he repeated blankly.

"Like a clock face. If you do not mind."

Realization came to him.  "Three, Susa...Miss Wellington. They are most definitely at three o'clock."

His almost use of her given name had not passed unnoticed. Again she did not know the why of

it, but his slip settled her back into her composure. "I thank you, Mr. Kent, for your kindness." Picking up her fork, she confidently moved it toward the peas, smiling just a bit as she did so because she knew that if she ever encountered this Mr. Kent again, she would, inevitably, think

of spring peas.

She was blind. Great God in heaven, this lovely creature was...blind. He'd had no idea. She'd moved so assuredly down the garden path then she'd come into the dining room on her father's arm. There had been nothing, not a thing, to let him know.  He looked at her again, more freely since he knew she would not really know how intently he did so.

As she wrote that, Eden clearly remembered doing exactly the same thing with Marshall the evening of the apple pie. She stopped writing, looking fondly across the room at him where he sat, stroking Wadsworth's fur. If you were a pussycat, Waddy, she thought,  you'd be purring loudly right now.

"You're not writing?" he asked.

"I'm busy loving you."

He smiled, holding out both arms in her direction, and she left the computer, crossing the room to sit in his lap. Putting his arms around her, he helped her settle into him, her head on his shoulder, her legs curling up. She closed her eyes and they just rocked together for a while.

She hadn't meant to at all, but she felt so warm and safe, so entirely sheltered there with him, that the gentle motion of the chair lulled her into sleep.

He rested his cheek atop her head as he liked to do, listening to the even rhythm of her breaths. "How I love you, Mrs. Sinclair," he whispered into her hair, then added, "Sincerely."

ON TO PART 65

BACK TO LIBRISCROWE

BACK TO PART 63

BACK TO INDEX