THE CAVERN OF DEEP HARMONY

PART SEVENTY-SEVEN:

'Stay,' she had said and suddenly everything back in England, his father, his older sister, the shipping company, all of it, seemed worlds away, was, in fact, worlds away.  He ran his fingertip down her cheek in the moonlight. He had come to the New World and found her. Everything was new here; he was new here.  In the night, with the breeze tossing the tree canopies, he was aware

of the vastness of the land beyond where he sat. It went on endlessly, so far as anyone knew, mysterious, mostly unexplored...new. He felt himself becoming one with it in its sudden likeness

to himself, to all that he was feeling. What would he do if he should stay? How would he earn a living? And war was coming. This new land would be taking up arms against the old. If he stayed, he would inevitably find himself a part of that.  His father would never understand, never forgive. He would be cut off from all he'd known, all that was familiar to him.  Yet Susannah had lain her hand atop his now and by the simple act of that, had branded his soul. He knew this woman. All

his life he'd known her. He just had not found her yet, not until this day, and having found her, could never part from her again.

"Morgan?"

"Forgive me, my thoughts are like wild birds blown in the wind."  He tipped his head down, the imagery of that clear in his mind. "I'm casting my nets, seeing what I can gather."

"Thoughts of England?"

"Yes, of England...of many things."

She turned her head away and up. "I had no right to ask such a thing of you."

With his fingertips he gently turned her face back toward his.  "You have more rights than you

can imagine, my Susannah."

She was not sure why or how he could say such a thing. She only knew that in this night, in this garden, she was no longer the same person she had been a few hours ago.  He sat beside her,

one of his hands still lying beneath hers, and his presence radiated across the small space between
them more vividly than any presence she had ever known.  She simply 'felt' him as though every cell of her body were in contact with his.

"I know that feeling," Eden smiled, turning from the computer to touch Marshall's face.

"It's how my body responds to yours," he said softly, "even when we are not touching."  He kissed her hair. "And there are times when your soul passes through mine and my soul bends with the movement of it like a willow in the breeze."

Eden blinked back sudden tears. "I think," she whispered, "that I know the fullness of what

it is to love you and then you come and pour more of yourself into me and I understand that

my concept of fullness is so inadequate...."

He smiled. "It's what life is about, you know, awareness, becoming steadily more aware."

A sudden sound of carriages, of horses being mounted, of men's voices saying their farewells beyond the front pickets, interrupted the moment.

"Oh, my!" Susannah cried softly. "Is it that late? Father will...."

"Come," Morgan said, standing, holding her hand. "I shall walk with you near to the turning of the path. When you have gone inside, I shall wait a few moments, then go to the kitchen for my coat."

Together, they went quickly down the brick walk. Morgan peered around a large boxwood toward the back of the house and when he was satisfied no one was there, turned back to Susannah. "It seems all right. I think no one will see you should you go up the back stairs."

She took one step to go, then stopped. Despite the awkwardness that would ensue should they be discovered, she found it simply terribly hard to walk away from him. 

When she'd taken her hand from his, he'd felt a nearly physical pain. Then she stopped and he

took her in his arms, pressing her close against him, his lips warm, almost desperate, on hers. 

He had not kissed her like this, standing, the length of her against the length of him, and he was
completely staggered by it.  Only because he must, did he finally release her.

"Go...quickly," he whispered hoarsely, his lips brushing one last time over hers.  Then, his hand gripping a crape myrtle branch for support, he watched her slip down the central walk and then

to the side where a small door led to the back stairway. She paused once on the single outside step, turning back toward the garden, then opened the door and was gone.

He stood there by the crape myrtle, his hand still tight around a twisty branch. He did not yet trust his legs alone to support him. Trying to keep some awareness of how many minutes were passing eluded him. His mind was not at the moment capable of such prosaic thoughts. So he simply stood there, leaning slightly forward, breathing through his mouth. After a while he lifted his head, looking at the moon through the branches of the tree. It did seem to have sailed somewhat further on its course through the night, so he released his grip on the branch, suddenly aware that his palm and fingers were stinging from the tightness of his hold on the bark. Rubbing his hands together to ease it, he went to the turning and made his way to the kitchen.

A single candle guttered on a long table, casting feeble shadows around the room. Myra had gone, but his jacket hung on the back of a wooden chair.  He lifted it off, but did not put it on. The night was still too warm. He went outside, standing there a while, contemplating the back door of the house. It was closed now for the night. He had not taken his leave of his host. What must Mr. Wellington think of his manners? Well, nothing to be done about it now. He would have to think

of some explanation for his continued absence from the dinner. Noting that a portion of the walkway led to a side gate, he moved in that direction. When he was about halfway to the gate,

a male voice said quietly, "Good night, Mr. Kent."

His forward motion halted as suddenly as though he'd been shot and his head snapped to the side. The moon had disappeared beyond a cloud, leaving the garden quite dark, and all he could make out was the end of a lit pipe.

"Sir?" he said hesitatingly.

"It's me, Wellington," came the voice. "I often sit here in the late evening, having a quiet smoke, enjoying the air."

"I did not see you, Sir."

"I know," the voice replied with just a hint of a chuckle.

Morgan turned to face the still unseen form, able to locate Wellington only by the presence of his pipe. "I wanted to...." he began.

"I trust Myra improved the condition of your coat?"

Morgan lifted the arm his coat hung across. He'd not actually taken the time in the dim room to examine it and now he could not see it at all. "Quite fine," he said nevertheless. "Please extend

my gratitude to her."

The glowing end of the pipe tipped briefly down as Harmer nodded. "And the garden. I trust you found it an adequate place to wait?"

"I...yes...um...yes, Sir.  It is a most excellent garden."

"Did you enjoy the smell of the herbs?"

"Herbs. Yes. Great smell. Very fine. Yes."

"You missed some excellent conversation, I fear."

"Yes. I know. I'm sorry about that, Sir. In future I shall try to be more careful with my wineglass."

"George Wythe asked that I bid you good night for him."

"Oh? Yes. He is a fine man, Mr. Wythe is. I've gotten very fond of him."

"And he of you, so it seems."

"Really? Well, I've been honored to spend time in his company. He is very wise on matters of...of...current import."

"And how do you feel, Mr. Kent, if I might ask, on matters of current import?"

"Um. Well, Sir, I find my feelings to be in rather much of a flux right now. Much that is new to

me is rapidly becoming very, um, important."

"It sounds, Mr. Kent, as though you have a great deal of thinking to do."

"Yes," he agreed simply.

"Well, then, best be getting on home so you may do so." Harmer was smiling broadly at the young man, though Morgan could not see.

"Yes, Sir. You're probably right, Sir. Well, good night, Sir. I thank you with all my heart for allowing me to come for dinner. I am...most grateful and obliged."

"Good night, Mr. Kent. Watch that high brick just before the gate."

"Good night, Sir. Thank you again."  Morgan hurried through the darkness toward the gate, tripping over the brick.

Harmer stood, walked out on the path as the moon sailed free, watching Morgan fumbling with

the gate latch. "Parker Harrelson," he murmured to himself, "you may just have met your match."

Eden had been writing both Harmer and Morgan and sat back with a satisfied grin. "So," Marshall said, as she read aloud what she'd written, "you intend for there to be a rivalry?"

"Someone needs to be a Patriot and someone a Tory, you know.  I find it interesting that the native-born Virginian will fight for England and the newly-arrived Englishman will fight for Virginia."

All along Marshall had had Morgan becoming a Patriot, eventually under Lafayette's command.

Now that he was rewriting the book with Eden taking an active role, he had let her rather take the lead on where the romantic side of the story might go. His thematic guide was done, and he'd decided the novel and its coming changes would be a good bonding time for him and Eden, a chance to work together to a mutual end, to feel out how one another approached story-building. It was new to him, this give-and-take in writing, a release of his usual full control over

the actions of his characters, but with Eden he found he enjoyed it.

 "And what unit will Parker fight with, do you think?" he asked.

"Simcoe. That seems most logical as most of his Rangers were Virginians anyway."

"Well, then, I guess we'd better bring young Mr. Harrelson more into the storyline, eh?"

"Tomorrow," Eden replied. "Right now I'm a bride in desperate need of...attention."

"Hmmmm?" he said, thoughtfully tapping his chin. "I just might have some attention to spare."

"You better, mister," she laughed, rising and backing him toward the bed.

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