MY THEODOSIA (24 page)

So Theo happily established herself in three pleasant rooms on the second floor and prepared to surprise her father. She well knew what delight the unexpected reunion would give him, and arranged the details in a happy bustle of anticipation. She bought an armful of early roses from a flower vendor at the market and scattered them through their rooms. She laid in a stock of Aaron's favorite Cuban cigars and
ordered a cask of the Trent wine he preferred to all others.

She regretted that she could not buy herself a new gown ft› the occasion. All her dresses were sadly out of date, and Aaron dearly loved to see her dressed modishly. He took an eager interest in feminine apparel. During her short stay in New York she had noted that tunics had come in, necks were not so low, and bow trimmings had replaced embroidery. Yet she had not had time to have a gown made, and there were no dressmakers in Washington, nor any shops in which to buy fine goods.

In fact, the Federal City had improved little since her visit there for the inauguration. Her lodging windows overlooked the Capitol, and she thought it quite impressive. The President's unfinished 'Palace,' too, gave promise of eventual grandeur, but between these two lay a welter of unpaved, barely discernible streets. They gloried in fine names, Pennsylvania, Maryland, Constitution, but led nowhere except into mud flats or stubbly fields. There were a few partially finished residences, a handful of lodgings and Stelle's Hotel, these latter scandalously expensive. And that was all. All except a city plan so ambitious and ridiculously far-flung as to provoke bitter mirth from the foreign ministers who dwelt irritably and uncomfortably in the inadequate quarters provided by this uncouth village.

Theodosia, however, was indifferent to the town's appearance. Inasmuch as it would soon contain her father, it justified its existence.

She felt well and young for the first time in months.

O
N THE
morning after her arrival in Washington, Theo awoke at five o'clock. There was freshness in the June air, and sparkle. She jumped from bed, ran to the cradle in the next room, and kissed the sleeping baby.

Eleanore poked up a frowzy head from the near-by bed. 'Madame rises herself so early?' she cried, astonished.

'Yes, Eleanore. It's such a glorious day. Come get me dressed. I'm going out for a walk.'

The maid, grumbling a little, obeyed. This was a new thing for Madame, getting up with the sun. Down in Carolina she often remained in bed all morning. Still, down there it would be hot already—but hot! Thick odorous heat that choked one like fog. Heat like that of l'cnfer itself, no doubt—only damper, and rendered quite unbearable by the high, maddening hum of mosquitoes. Ce maudit pays!

Eleanore had a sharp nostalgic pang for her native Touraine, but it passed. She could no longer conceive of an existence apart from Madame and the baby. For them she would drag around the country on vessels and coaches and flat boats; for them she would endure, when she had to, the discomforts and fevers of the Waccamaw.

'Ça y est, Madame,' she said, as she finished tying the ribbons on Theo's kid slippers. Theo thanked her and waved good-bye. Arrayed in a 'Conversation' bonnet of yellow chip straw, a willow-green walking-dress, and a small India shawl, she let herself out of the sleeping house and walked rapidly down Maryland Avenue to the river.

As she walked, she hummed, joying in the sense of physical well-being, in the glowing June dawn, in the clear note of a meadowlark which mingled with her own voice. 'Cherry Ripe! Cherry Ripe!' she sang, laughing as the bird seemed to imitate the notes. Cherries were ripe now too, and Aaron liked them. She must send Eleanore to see if there were not some for sale in the market.

She crossed a bridge, and the road narrowed as she approached the river. Soon she glimpsed blue water between the trunks of hickory and oak trees. Not the sprawling, moss-dripping live-oaks of the South, but great sturdy trees that flung their leaves proudly to the sky. As trees should.

She came upon a field of daisies and Queen Anne's lace. Half-amused at her childishness she plucked a handful of these flowers and wove their stems together into a wreath. The white petals were studded with dew. She rubbed some of it upon her cheeks. Early morning dew is supposed to make one beautiful, she thought. I trust it improves my color or Father will scold.

She raised her head quickly as she heard galloping hoofs thump toward her down the road, and saw an enormous bay
with a tall rider in a white shirt. Some other early riser, she thought indifferently, averting her head until he should pass and leave her again to the quiet beauty of the morning.

But he did not pass. The horse gave a quivering, resentful snort as he was pulled up short beside her.

Astonished, she turned. As she recognized the rider, she gasped, her fingers fell open, and the wreath dropped to pieces on the grass.

The man flung himself off the horse and stood staring down at her. His mouth smiled a little, but his gravely questioning eyes transcended convention with their same message of intimate understanding as when they had met in Vauxhall Gardens. The three years that had passed collapsed like the twig houses that children build. Theo felt again the trembling joy and the fear of that September night in New York.

Have I always known that this would happen? she thought. Was it for this that I awoke so gay, so happy today? And at once an inner voice chimed in: I will not make a fool of myself again. I was a silly child then.

She recovered herself, struggling frantically for composure.

'So we meet once more, Captain Lewis. I had no idea that you were stationed in Washington'. She spoke in precisely the cool voice she would have used to greet one of her father's less important political satellites.

Lewis bowed slightly, the
light
behind his eyes vanishing. He replied in a tone equally impersonal, though it was sharpened with the faintest edge of amusement. 'Indeed, Mrs. Alston, this is an unexpected pleasure. I am not stationed here. I am Mr. Jefferson's private secretary. I lead a life of pampered ease and uselessness. Not, however, for long, I believe.'

'Oh, indeed,' she murmured inanely, annoyed to find that his coolness had destroyed hers. No longer an insignificant
frontier officer then, but secretary to the President. She could think of nothing to say. She stood there tongue-tied as a country girl, and her knees felt weak. How stupid I am! she thought angrily.

There was nothing about him so to discompose her. He was not handsome in the least: his features were too rough and gaunt for that. And he was immoderately tall. She liked neither tall nor fair-haired men, and he was both. His hair was sun-bleached to a hueless, ashy tint that nearly matched his chill gray eyes. And his dress was most careless. No gentleman should be so careless. No coat, no vest: nothing but buckskin trousers like a backwoodsman, and a cambric shirt thrown open to disclose a heavily muscled brown neck that shocked her with its naked maleness.

The stallion nickered impatiently. She grasped with relief this subject of talk. 'A fine animal, Captain Lewis. Do you fide much here?'

'Every morning. This is Mr. Jefferson's Wildair. In addition to my more sedentary duties I have to exercise the stallion. And you—do you often walk abroad so early?'

'No, in the South I never do. But this morning was different. I longed to be out to see the sun rise. I wanted to see the river. I love rivers——' She broke off. What nonsense!

Lewis smiled suddenly. 'So do I. Let us walk and see the river, then.'

In the midst of trying to say that it was getting late, that she must return, that no doubt she would have the pleasure of meeting him again sometime at the President's mansion, Theo found herself strolling down the road at his side, while Wildair stamped resentfully at their heels.

When they reached the riverbank, Lewis tethered the stallion, and turning quickly peered into the brush. She heard a tiny rustic.

My Theodosia
'What is it?' she asked.

'Fox. A little red vixen. Look!' She followed his pointing finger, but her untrained eyes could see nothing except a tangle of underbrush.

'Tis a pity you have no gun,' she remarked politely. Lewis frowned. 'Why so? I do not shoot animals, unless I need them for food. I don't think killing a sport.'

Her surprise at this unfamiliar viewpoint held her quiet a moment, then she said, 'But you must have killed many men. You're a soldier.'

'That's different. Men can take care of themselves. And a good part of mankind,' he added calmly, 'should be shot'. 'La, mercy on us! How fierce you sound!' cried Theo. 'I trust you do not include me in that number'. She fluttered her eyelashes. Perhaps, after all, a tone of airy flirtatiousness was the easiest to maintain.

He gave her a long, cool look. 'Don't coquet with me, Mrs. Alston. It does not become you.'

She reddened, her eyes flashed. 'You're insolent, Captain Lewis.'

He laughed grimly. 'Then-I apologize. But there is that between us that forbids coquetting or gallantry.'

Her heart gave a frightened thump. She stiffened, twisting her fingers together. 'You talk folly. There is nothing between us. I have never seen you but once in my life, nor— nor thought of you since——' She faltered, remembering the strange stab of blind pain dealt her by the sailor's flute on the
Enterprise.

He shrugged. 'I believe you. For you would never admit a thought which was not approved by your father, would you?'

He spoke with a quiet matter-of-factness which robbed his words of offense But they hurt her sharply.

'You seem to forget that I have a husband and son as well as a father,' she answered coldly. 'Or perhaps you did not know that I had a son?'

He nodded. 'I had heard it.'

He was silent, staring out over the bright Potomac in front of them. He was disagreeably surprised at the emotion which the sight of her had again aroused. Women as romantic creatures had no place in his life. He had nothing but contemptuous amusement for the philandering of his brother officers, and complete boredom with the nebulous state called 'love.'

And yet this girl—for she was still a girl—affected him profoundly. She plucked at some chord in him that was deeper and richer than desire, though it contained desire. When he had suddenly come upon her again, he felt, as he had in those brief September hours, that they belonged to each other.

He had not thought about her often in the years since their single meeting. He had had no time, nor was he a man to sentimentalize over a girl who had dismissed him. Still, he had heard her mentioned now and then over the teacups and wine bowls to which his present situation as Jefferson's secretary often condemned him, and of late the mention of her name no longer brought a pang. He had been indifferent to it.

And yet the sight of her small graceful figure in the daisy field had aroused in him a troubling emotion. It was not her beauty or fragile femininity. The few women who had attracted him during his rigorous career had been tall, resplendent goddesses, forthright and frankly primitive—women of the unsettled country accustomed to hard work, quickly responsive and unshocked by man's need for mating.

Theodosia had none of these qualities, and yet he wanted
her. The realization angered him. This was no time to allow himself to be upset by a woman, when at last his confined and uncongenial life in the President's mansion was nearing its end, and when he was about to embark on the dangerous enterprise for the accomplishment of which he would need the full exercise of his mental and physical qualities.

Even now, there was a pressure of work awaiting him. The President would have had breakfast and be getting impatient, yet he lounged here beside her like a gawking schoolboy, unable to leave her.

'Tell me of your life,' he said abruptly. 'Are you happily married?'

She flushed. 'Of course.'

He watched the slow color flood her neck. She averted her candid eyes from his gaze, but not before he had seen the flicker of uncertainty in their dark depths.

'I don't think you are,' he remarked calmly. 'I don't believe you know anything about true mating.'

'Your speech is offensive, Captain Lewis, and ridiculous. You forget that I have a child.'

He gave a short, hard laugh. 'Any fifty-cent doxy can have a child. Do you give yourself to your husband with rapture? Do you belong to him body and heart and mind?—Have you ever felt about him as we felt about each other that evening in New York?'

He snapped his lips closed, turned impatiently from her. What insensate impulse was driving him to these foolhardy probings? She was right, there had been and there could be nothing between them. Why, then, this desire to cut and thrust into the shimmering smooth bubble that imprisoned her. He must leave her alone. But he could not.

'You have not answered me, Theodosia?'

She swallowed, her wide, startled eyes sliding over his face.
She got up. 'I don't understand you, sir. I must be going back now. The sun is high.'

He sprang to her, put a rough hand on her white arm. 'Wait!'

She stood still, trembling, staring down at his hand.

Wait for what? They neither of them knew. The myriad sounds of the awakening forest swelled around them, sounds that for Lewis each held meaning, had he heard them, but he was deaf to everything except the thick beat of blood through his temples and the voice of bitter desire for this woman who was neither of his kind nor his ken.

'"Thou alone canst give release,"' he quoted harshly, scarcely knowing that he spoke. 'Do you remember?'

She shut her eyes. 'I remember, but let me go—please—please——'

He shook his head. His grip on her arm tightened; he pulled her toward him. She felt that her whole being was dissolving into the rushing of resistless waters. They looked into each other's eyes and saw deep shadows and the call of their longing. Tears scalded her lids as she lifted her mouth to his.

In that moment of physical communion, they escaped from themselves to become another, which was both of them and yet neither in a unity beyond time or place or thought, compact with bliss.