THE CAVERN OF DEEP HARMONY

PART SEVENTY-SIX:

"What about the old 'publish or perish' thing for college professors?" Eden asked, buttoning her long coat just inside the front door.

"You mean because we got so little written today?"  Marshall was sliding on his gloves.

"Right.  We didn't even get them out of the garden."

"You're in a hurry to do that?"

"Not really. I kinda like them out there. When they come in, it won't be the same. But I thought maybe you had some sort of deadline you needed to meet."

"I've already met my deadline. This is extra."

"You've met...what did you write? It was published?"

"It was. A thematic guide to American poetry."

"An anthology?"

"Not an anthology, more of a topical exploration."

They, along with a loose Wadsworth, were now going down the front steps, planning to walk out to the dock.

"What's that? What sort of topics?""

"Oh, things like life and death, suffering and joy, memory, time and change. I begin each chapter with a favorite quote of mine and then discuss the concepts that unify certain poems."

"What about the 'memory' chapter?"

"How often have I lain beneath rain on a strange roof, thinking of home."

"Ooo, I like that. I understand that. What's it from?"

"It's Faulkner. Is in As I Lay Dying." Then he squeezed her hand. "I think I've learned somewhat more about that since I've come to the inn, though."

They reached the end of the dock, having passed where he'd collapsed after making his way out of the forest. "Suffering and joy," she whispered. "The inn has taught me more about both of those."

"While I was downstairs before, on my way here, listening to that woman sing, it struck me all

of a sudden how much suffering she must have had to go through--to sing like that."

"What?"

"Sonny's Blues, by James Baldwin."

"Oh, a quote."

"Mmm hmm. And I'm so sorry, darling."

"Sorry? About what?"

"That your suffering in this place has been centered around me."

Taking both his hands, she turned to face him. "So has my joy, Marshall, so has my joy."

"You're truly happy?"

"I don't think it's possible to be any more truly happy than I am now."

He leaned his face close to hers, his breath warm on her cold cheeks. She never took such things for granted. Not any more. She touched each moment that he was present to her, explored every nook, every crevice of its seconds then slid it deep inside her memory where it would be safe. "I love your breath," she murmured. He smiled and pressed his mouth to hers.

They stood there a long while, arms about each other's waists, listening to the now-familiar sounds of the winter lake. "Will you be sorry to go?" she asked.

"Only in that this is where I found you. If I were leaving you, then yes, I would be sorrier than I can imagine, but since we're going home together, no. I want very much to know the reality of your presence in that house."  He was silent a moment, remembering how full of sound and life the house had been for so many years. The last time he'd stood there in the big living room, there had been only quiet.  He thought about that from time to time, the starkness of the contrast.It was there he'd composed much of his chapter on loss. Almost unaware he was was doing it, he began to hum Old Black Joe very, very softly. Gone are the days....

Eden pulled back to look at him. "Martha asked you to sing that. You sang it like you were the old man who'd experienced such loss."

"There is a certain universality in the personal pain of existence," he answered. "The whole essence of black music was based on transcending suffering by transforming it into song.  Poets struggle to translate grief into poetry."

"Do you think it helps?"

"I have to believe it does."

"Can we go home soon?"

"Just a couple more days, darling."

"Then can we keep Morgan and Susannah in the garden a while longer?"

"Even after Micah has come?"

"I'd like for them to stay."

"All right. Let's give them more time."

"Mr. Kent will be along presently, Micah," Susannah said, startling both Morgan and the black servant.

"But Miss Susannah.  Myra done gwine flay me alive if'n I leaves you out here wif...."

"Then don't tell her."

"Miss Susannah!" Micah's eyes widened even more. "You ain' nebber...."

"That's right, Micah. But I am right now. So you just go back to the kitchen and tell Myra that you found Mr. Kent and informed him his jacket was ready and he said he'd be there shortly. Right now he's examining the...the herb garden."

Morgan had his lips pressed together, trying to suppress a wide grin. He kept silent, letting her work it out.

Micah turned grudgingly, muttering something about how the debbil done cotch the chil'.  But he went, nonetheless, casting a few distrustful looks over his shoulder once or twice.

"I don't think he likes me," Morgan offered.

"He doesn't know you."

Morgan thought about that for a moment. Was she saying that she felt she knew him well enough to remain alone with him in the garden? "But what if your father comes looking for you?"

"He saw me go upstairs during dinner. He won't come looking. Besides, Mr. Henry would be terribly insulted if father left the room during one of his speeches."

She continually surprised him. Just minutes earlier she'd seemed confused and a bit lost. Now she was standing there having arranged to spend more time in the garden. In the garden...with him.

"Have you ever considered a career in espionage?" he asked rather boldly.

She laughed, a lovely soft sound that made him ache with the pleasure of her nearness. "I fear I have been quite forward," she continued. "What must you think of me?"

He had too many answers for that, so many they stumbled over one another and only a small, "That you are lovely, indeed," made it into sound.

"You see, Mr. Kent...."

"Morgan," he interrupted. "Please? If it's at all all right, please?"

"You see, Morgan, if I were not blind, I would never consider doing this, doing what I've just done. But I cannot see your face, cannot know in the ways that everyone about me seems to know, the manner of man you are by your outward appearance." She lay her hand on his arm. He jumped slightly, surprised again. "All I have is what I know from touch, from the sound of your voice, the scent of the pomade in your hair."

She stopped, somewhat appalled at herself. Usually she sat quietly, waiting for such information

as she could gather to come to her. Now she found herself reaching out, almost taking it. It was entirely new, rather heady. But Micah had come and Morgan was about to follow him to the kitchen. She was not ready that this moment with him should end. If Myra knew....  She hoped, though, that Micah would not tell. Even if he did, even if she had to face Myra's scolding, it would be worth it. She'd arranged this moment. For the first time, ever, she'd arranged a moment. Did

he find her exceedingly forward? Was there time these days for all the required reticence? War

was coming. The distant voices of her father's dinner guests confirmed that. Perhaps Morgan would have to sail for England before such things became impossible? Perhaps he would never

be alone in her garden again? No, she was not ready that this moment should end.

"Susannah," he said, this time to her, for her. He was still somewhat in a state of shock, so unexpected was what she had done, but the name, her name, had to be spoken. What was he to do now? They were standing just around the corner from the central path that led directly to the
open back doorway. That he was here with her was such an entire breach of acceptable behavior on his part that...damn it! Did he care?

"Come," he urged, "sit with me on the bench in the herb garden."  Then, at least, what she'd told Micah about examining the herbs would be true.  This time he knew to extend his bent arm, to let her rest her hand atop it, as they walked back down the brick walk. He was very aware of her skirts moving against his leg and had to control his breath, making it regular and even with great effort.

She sat well to one side, leaving room for him, pressing her skirts to herself. When he settled beside her, she let go of them and they billowed out again, nearly covering his right leg. He gasped as though her hand had touched his thigh. Hearing the sound he made, she turned her face toward him in the moonlight. "Have I done something amiss?"

"You could not. Ever." He whispered the words, finding it hard to believe he was actually sitting here with her.

"I would not ask Myra that," she smiled, "nor even Micah."

"You have asked me," he replied, "and you could not...."  Damn, words were so hard to come by. His lips were dry, his tongue thick in his mouth. He was dreaming. He'd gone back to his room

in the boarding house and he was dreaming. None of this was real. Nothing like this could be real. That must be it.

"Tell me, Morgan," she said, "about your home in Kent. Where were you born?"  She knew nothing like that about him yet she knew already everything.

"Reculver," he replied, "a small and very old town on the eastern coast. There is a castle there

that the sea will take some day."

"Have you family?"

"A sister, older, married and the mother of four. And my father, of course."

"You have always lived there?"

"Not always, no. My father has many business ventures because of his shipping company. He has always liked to check on things in person, so I grew up going wherever he happened to be."

"And schooling?"

"A tutor who traveled with us. Father wished for me to learn all the modern European languages.  When I was older, I went to Harrow." He shrugged. "I am expected some day to take over the shipping company."

"And is this what you wish to do?"

It had never been entirely what he wished to do, more what he was expected to do. Right now he had no reply. All his wishes seemed centered on the slim form so near beside him.

"Morgan?"

"Pardon," he whispered.

"Is this what you wish to do?"

"No one has ever really asked me, Susannah, what it is I wish to do.  I find myself bumbling for some answer."

"I understand," she said softly, her hand finding his forearm again. "Though I have known only kindness and love, I am expected to agree with all that anyone considers best for me. I am cared

for like a pot of heliotrope, watered, tended, and have nothing asked of me but to sit there, look pretty, and smell nice."

His smile widened and, without thinking, he lay his left hand atop hers.  "I think I am beginning

to understand that there is ever so much more to you than a pot of heliotrope."

She had not flinched when his hand came unexpectedly atop hers. It was large and warm and felt wonderful there. "My father built this garden for me." She tipped her head. "He wanted to make

a place for me to be free in, not just inside the house. And here, yes, it is for me the heart of the world, of my world. But...still...because of my eyes, because there is simply nothing to be done about them, I am more often than not a flowerpot. I have so often wished...."

"What, Susannah, what have you wished?"

"That there were some way for me to read. All by myself, to read what I want to read."

"No braille?" Eden asked.

"Not yet."

"I hadn't really thought of that. No wonder she feels like a flowerpot."

"And no Wadsworths, either."

"Everything I know from books," Susannah continued, "has been read to me. Not everybody reads aloud all that well, you know. It can be hard to get the feeling of something when it's being read by a flat voice, or a stumbling one."  It occurred to her then that he probably read aloud quite wonderfully.

He was thinking about how many lines of type his own eyes had scanned, how it might feel if he could not do that, had never been able to do that. Into his silence she said, "But you must know, Morgan, that I require no pity."

"Susannah, I do not wish to pity you. I want only to understand."

"I am not sure it can be done."

"It can be...tried."

"Why would you do that?"

"It matters.  You have  taken my  breath away this day , Miss Susannah Wellington, and

understanding you suddenly matters a great deal."

"You do not mind?"

"Mind?"

"That I cannot see you?"

"I think, perhaps, you have seen me, indeed."

She turned toward him more and he removed his left hand from atop hers. "May I?" she asked, lifting her hand toward his face. "It is, of course, not the same at all, but it gives me some little idea."

He didn't know, at first, what she meant, but her hand sought out his cheek and her fingertips moved up and around his face. He closed his eyes, letting her hand go where she willed, scarcely breathing because of the intimacy of it all. No one had ever touched his face like that and he nearly trembled under her seeking fingers.  They did not speak. There was only the rustle of the mulberry leaves, the always-present night peepers, the distant murmur of male voices, a carriage passing down Nicholson Street.  He floated in the moment, scarcely feeling as though he were touching the bench. 

Again she had surprised herself, asking a man she'd only just met if she could touch his face.

She'd actually felt very few faces, her father's, Layla, Myra, her Aunt Clara, who lived in Richmond. It was not something one did casually. But here she was, running a fingertip down

his fine, strong nose, discovering that he had straight brows and a cleft in his chin. It was a very different face than her father's. She'd been thinking for some minutes that she wanted to touch

it, wanted to know more of what he was like.  He was tall. At 5'2" herself she knew that from standing next to him. Her father was only 5' 6".  She liked the sense of height she got from being near him.

He did jerk slightly when her fingertips found his lips. Her touch there was nearly more than he could bear, was more than he could bear in absolute stillness.  His entire body was awake, almost vibrating.  She had no idea what her touch was doing to him. His lips parted under her fingers,

his breaths coming in short little puffs.

She pulled her hand away. "Are you all right?"

"No," he whispered, opening his eyes, "I am not."

"What...?"

"Oh, God, Susannah. Have you any idea how much I want to kiss you?"  There, he'd said it. As unconscionable of him as it was to have said it, he had. Now she would want to leave. He'd ruined it. It wasn't done. It simply was not done like that.

She pulled back a little, licking her lips. Parker Harrelson had kissed her once, lightly, briefly on her cheek. Parker's father owned one of the big plantations up the Neck from Williamsburg, but kept a house in town as well. Parker was 23, rather spoiled, but had paid a great deal of attention

to her in the last couple of years. She had never once even thought of touching his face, however. Layla said it was evident from the way Parker looked at Susannah, that he'd probably be asking her to marry him one of these days. The prospect had never been all that exciting to her. Though her father and Parker's were friends, Harmer was not terribly pleased about the match, either.

He didn't trust Parker. The man was too fond of himself.  He'd expressed that opinion to his daughter more than once.

Morgan waited a moment, then gathered his muscles to stand. "I...."  He started to apologize, but she put her hand back on his arm.

"Morgan Kent," she said, "I think I might like that."

"You...?" Morgan sucked in a long breath. This was not real. This could not be real. But she leaned toward him somewhat and lifted her chin. Nearly dazed at first, he moved his right hand up, touching her hair, then ever so gently sliding it behind her head, guiding her face to his. His lips found hers, just grazing lightly across them, then moving back, cupping over her upper lip a moment, then down to her lower. He wanted desperately to surround her mouth with his, to plunge inside it, but he had just enough reason left in his brain to control himself. He pressed both his lips to hers, only slightly touching the tip of his tongue to hers, almost moaning with his wanting of her.

It was the most purely male encounter she'd ever had and something deep in her belly seemed to flip right over. It was the most natural thing in the world for her to return the pressure of his lips. As she did, his kiss became even more ardent until he suddenly pulled completely away. 

"I can't...I must...," he stammered, wiping a hand roughly across his face.  He stood, walked about five paces away, came back and sat quickly again. Wordlessly, he gripped her shoulders, pulled her to him, and kissed her absolutely thoroughly.  Her mind swam, fell off whatever platform it usually sat serenely upon, spinning on some unknown ground that had suddenly come into existence inside her soul. Her belly flipped again and something strange and new flowed up and down the nerve paths of her lower torso. She...wanted. She had not known what wanting was, but her body, her being, wanted his. 

He felt it, felt her yielding in his arms, felt his control entirely slipping away. "No," he gasped, hating the word even as he said it.  He straightened his arms, hands still on her shoulders, holding her away from himself.  "You...I....it's not...I...."

She managed a little smile, though she was panting slightly through parted lips.  Nothing, she

knew it, nothing would ever be quite the same again.  His hands dropped and he started to stand.  "I should go," he whispered hoarsely. "I...."

She was reaching a hand out toward him and he took it, letting her pull it to her face where she buried her cheek in his palm. She showed no indications of letting it go, so he stood quietly, watching the moonlight on her bowed head, his mind racing. Finally he squatted in front
of her, his hand still pressed to her cheek.  "I love you," he said, his voice catching. "I love you, Susannah Wellington, and I don't know what to do about it."

"Stay," she whispered, turning her cheek so that she could kiss his palm. "Don't go back to England."

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