THE CAVERN OF DEEP HARMONY

PART SIXTY-FIVE:

She did not turn her head toward him again, feeling somewhat embarrassed she'd been so brazen about her peas with a complete stranger. Her smoked pheasant had been cut before being placed on her plate as meat always was when guests were invited for dinner and her father wanted to spare her the difficulty of knife and fork. The knife lay, unused, just to the right of her plate and she took the end of it in her fingers, rolling it back and forth an inch in both directions, her lips pressed together.  She had not been hungry and the one bite of peas was not sitting well.  Mr. Kent's eyes were on her. She felt them. What must he be thinking of her request about her plate? She drew in

a long breath, hoping the peas would settle in her stomach. Breathing. That's what she needed to do. She needed to breathe. But not here. She needed to be in the garden. Her other hand, in her lap, folded and refolded a section of the tablecloth. Had dinner really only just begun?

Morgan's eyes were, indeed, on her. She had seemed all right for a moment but now had that almost ill expression again. He wanted to say something but felt suddenly completely inept. "You...you are not hungry, Miss Wellington?" 

"No," she murmured, thirsty but not wanting to reach for her glass with him engaged in such

close observation of her movement.

He had no idea how the thought came to him, but he was suddenly entirely aware that she

wanted to reach for her glass but would not do it.  She was uncomfortable.  She wished to leave

but would not do that, either. Before he could think twice about it, his own hand reached out,

quite deliberately fumbling his goblet and knocking it over.  Every eye at the table turned in his direction.  Just a drop or two of white wine had spattered to the puffed sleeve of her dress, but

his own linen coat had a large wet area.

"Miss Wellington," he said contritely, "I am so sorry. I fear I've gotten wine on your gown."

Micah came quickly up behind her as she began to push her chair back. "Susannah?" It was

her father's voice.

"If you do not mind, Father, I think it best if I leave the table."  Micah guided her out of the room.

Harmer gazed at Morgan, who stopped mopping with his napkin long enough to smile rather shyly back at him.  Wellington had been observing Morgan's response to Susannah for some time, as he always did when anyone was meeting his daughter for the first time. He had seen her missed reach for her goblet earlier, seen her lift her chin and speak with Mr. Kent.  Kent did not impress him as

a clumsy man. Indeed, one of the things Harmer had noticed about him as he'd entered his house was the quiet grace with which he moved. The corner of Harmer's mouth twitched in a slight smile.  "Perhaps your coat will not be ruined if you applied some water right away?" he suggested.

The coat was new, expensive, and this was the first time Morgan had worn it. It was, he thought,

a small price to pay, however, to relieve Susannah of her discomfit.  "That may be true," he agreed, however.

Micah had come back to the dining room after seeing Susannah to her quarters. "Micah," Harmer said,  "would you please show  Mr. Kent to kitchen where his jacket might receive proper attention?"

Morgan stood, leaving his napkin on his chair. There was something odd about Wellington's response. It was almost if the man wanted him out of the dining room. But he tipped his head toward the seated men and said, "Excuse me while I attend to this small matter."

Harmer kept his eyes on Morgan. He did not know this young Mr. Kent. George Wythe, however, had spoken glowingly about the man's integrity of character and George was a master at sizing

up men. He watched Kent move toward the door, remarking to himself again at the carriage of his body and the graciousness with which he took his leave as Washington said something quietly to him as he passed.

"What did Washington say?" Marshall asked.

"I don't know. I wasn't close enough to hear."

Marshall smiled. "And where were you?"

"I was already in the kitchen, getting the water ready."

"Very kind of you."

"I'm a very kind sort of woman."

"What kind of kind woman?"

"I thought you knew."

"I think I do, but it's always nice to experience it again."

"You want to experience me?"

"Almost constantly."

"I know just how you feel," she giggled.

"And how do I feel?"

"Great. You feel absolutely great. Especially certain parts of you."

He began chuckling, too. "I think I'd better marry you very soon."

"I think you had."

"How about New Year's Eve? Are you free?"

"I'm afraid I'm not free, Dr. Sinclair. I am hopelessly enslaved by my devotion to you."

"Washington, Jefferson, and Wythe all freed their slaves."

"But I do not wish to be free."

"And what is it you do wish?"

"I wish to be Mrs. Dr. Sinclair."

"I think that can be arranged."

"Speaking of which, is there anything left we do need to arrange?"

"You could arrange to come over to the bed."

"What about Morgan?"

"I don't think I want Morgan in the bed."

She laughed aloud. "But Susannah went upstairs. I thought you were going to send her out to the garden so she could breathe."

"The chapter is not yet over."

She got up from the computer chair, crossing to the bed where he sat on its edge, coming right up to stand between his legs. "Morgan and Susannah can take care of themselves. Why don't

you take care of me and I take care of you?"

He lay backwards on the bed, his feet still on the floor.

Morgan followed Micah out the rear door and down a brick path to the right. "Kitchen, suh," Micah announced, holding the door wide.

Morgan stepped inside. It was quite hot in the small outbuilding and he was grateful to shrug off his jacket. Micah went up to Myra, who was drizzling honey over the evening's dessert. After he'd explained about the wine, Myra looked from Micah to the young man standing in the doorway. 

Mr. Wellington had never done anything like this before with a guest. She knew him well enough after all these years, though, to know that he also never did anything without some purpose.

"Miss Susannah's gown, too?" she asked, actually of Micah.

But Morgan answered. "Just a drop or two. I'm sure the dress will be fine."

Myra narrowed her eyes.  This must be the extra guest Joshua had said would be coming for dinner. She'd never seen the man before. He did cut a fine figure, though, even with his jacket wet and hanging from his hand like that.

Some time had passed and Eden was back at the keyboard. Marshall asked, "What does Morgan look like to you?"

"He looks like you, darling, exactly like you at 24 except that he's clean-shaven and his hair is longer."

"But you wrote that he cuts a fine figure."

"Do you not know what a fine figure you cut?"

"I have never actually thought about what sort of figure I cut."

"Well, you can believe me. It's fine indeed. Especially with suede elbow patches. Or...."

"Or?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Yeah, nothing is good. Very fine."

Myra took the jacket, examining the wine stain. "Linen don't clean all that well," she said, "but I'll sho' try. You gimme a little time here if that be all right?"

"I'd appreciate anything you can do," he smiled. "Might I wait out in the garden? I'm afraid I'm finding Virginia a bit warmer than I'm accustomed to." 

"Is that a set-up?" Marshall asked, trying not to grin.

"If you want it to be."

Layla helped Susannah out of the tightly-laced blue gown. "Just something cool," Susannah said as Layla scanned through the selection of dresses. "I'm not going back into dinner."

When she was changed and Layla had gone downstairs to help bring in the desserts, Susannah

sat by the open window of her bedroom, fanning herself. She let the thin ribbon at her waist slide again and again through her fingers.  She knew her father's friends would have already forgotten her hasty departure, but what must Mr. Kent think? Not that that mattered. He was merely visiting Williamsburg and would be going back to England soon.  She leaned her elbows on the windowsill. He did have a nice voice, though. Deep, somehow extraordinary to listen to.  Why had he almost used her given name? 

A moth, in the gathering dusk, brushed past her cheek.  The air had cooled in the last few minutes. Perhaps she would walk in the garden a bit while the men finished their dinner? The sound of their voices, rising up the staircase, would keep her from sleeping anyway. The garden would be quiet and she could sit on a bench and just breathe. Yes, she would do that.

Slipping down the back stairs, she paused, listening for a moment to Patrick Henry. She was not fond of his accent and even less of the brusque manner in which he spoke.  Closing the back door behind her, she walked silently out into the garden.

"Oooo," Eden cooed happily, "you sent her out."

"You knew I would."

"One had hopes."

Morgan had gone down the path leading by the angel statue, drawn there because it obviously meant something to Susannah. He paused directly in front of it, studying it.  Her wings were

spread wide and because he was the son of a shipping family, he considered what it must have taken to pack it for safe shipping.  Reaching out, he touched one of the wings, noticing it had a chip missing.

"So," he said, "you are an angel with a slightly broken wing?"

Susannah stopped at the intersection of the main path with the one that led past the foxgloves. Distinctly she heard a voice, a male voice. Someone was in the garden. She listened. It was the voice of Mr. Kent. Whatever was he doing out in the garden when dinner was not yet over? And who could he possibly be conversing with? She listened more, but only heard the one speaker.

Then it dawned on her that he was addressing her angel.  Her lips parted in surprise and she took several soft steps down the side path, knowing from the feel of the air on her face that night had fallen, hoping that he would not notice her presence. She was not, by nature, an eavesdropper,

but no one had ever talked to her angel before but her and she found she needed desperately to know why this stranger to town would do such a thing. What could he possibly find to say?

"Did it break in shipping," Morgan continued, "or did you collide with a star on your way to Earth?"  He smiled to himself. "I think I like the star better.  Does your Susannah know you 

are chipped? Yes, she would. I expect she knows you completely."

The statue was about three and a half feet tall and stood atop a low block of square marble. Leaning a bit, he looked at her up-tipped face. "Your lips are carved well," he said, "though not

so perfectly as hers.  I doubt I have ever seen a more perfect mouth than she possesses." He traced a fingertip along the angel's lower lip.  "I wished, you know, at dinner that I might be able to do that. You are lucky that you get to be in her company so freely, so openly, while I, well, it would

be entirely unseemly for me to be alone with her."  He paused, then sighed. "Yet."

Susannah had rested her palm on the twisty trunk of a small crape myrtle.  Unconsciously, her fingers tightened as she listened.

Morgan could now only see the dimmest outline of the angel. "I don't know why I'm telling you

all this. Perhaps it's because there isn't a soul on this side of the Atlantic that I would feel free

to tell. And something about you says to me that you know how to keep a secret. So I'm counting

on you to keep mine.  This is all very strange for me.  Not just that I find myself in a garden at night speaking to a statue, pardon me, an angel, but that some part of me has, in a single day, been put so completely in the hands of another. I think it was the sunlight on her hair earlier today that began to crack some defense in me. She is, you know, far more angelic than you, my stone-carved one. As nice, I am sure, as your hair must be, the sunlight never will turn its strands to spun gold.  And never once have your fingers traced the outline of a fig leaf and ended their movement in the inner boundaries of my soul."

Susannah had to put a hand over her mouth for fear her intake of breath would give away her presence. Fig leaf? Mr. Kent had seen her today with the leaf? Oh, my! He must have been on

the path while she was in the herb garden. She'd had no idea anyone was that near.

"Does that happen a lot?" Eden asked.

"Probably a great deal more than I can ever know. Unless someone chooses to speak, to make some sound, to wear some distinct scent, it is most often entirely up to them whether I know they are there or not.  And I have been told that when Wadsworth and I are together, with him in harness doing his job, then every eye turns and follows us as we pass."

She knew that was true. She'd seen that for herself in Bellefonte and in restaurants. "I don't think I'd like that."

"There is nothing I can do about it, Eden. It is the way of things."

He paused a moment, then asked, "Do you want Morgan to love her so quickly?"

"I do," she replied firmly. "The only reason I did not love you in the first minutes after I came upon you was that you were too coated with mud for me to discern who you were."

"And when did you do that?"

"In my lap, when the raindrops began to wash the dried layers away. It was the first spattering of rain on your face that began to open the way to the boundaries of my soul." Saying those words made her think of what she might say to him day after tomorrow when she made her

vows to him. She was not certain she wanted to prepare something ahead of time. It would be best to stand there, her hands in his, and say what came to her heart in that moment. It would,
she realized completely, have to be that way.

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