Touch the Sun

by Wright, Cynthia

  "Because...?" she prompted.

  "A day or two ago, Priscilla was having tea at Mary Morris's house, and whom do you suppose she saw from an upstairs window?"

  "Not—?"

  "Precisely. Priscilla's all-business fiancé and her erstwhile lady's maid, walking together on High Street and laughing quite gaily. The girl was disguised as a stableboy!"

  "Is she truly angry? I mean, angry enough to actually break the engagement?"

  Marcus puffed on his cigar. "Probably not—if she had no alternate course of action. However, I mean to show her that she does. Skillfully, of course... I must tread with caution. There is one more hopeful sign. Priscilla sent Lion a message today saying that she would be busy 'indefinitely' and that he should not call on her. I imagine that she hoped he would dash right over, the picture of repentance, but instead there was no word at all. I think that—and this wonderful storm—drove her to telling me all." He laughed noiselessly. "It is a priceless situation, though. Poor, poor Lion... he'll be so busy enjoying his last days with that kitchen wench that he won't see the trap until it is sprung. And, after Priscilla is safely mine and the inauguration is at hand, there will be only one thing he can do to regain some of his lost ground and save face in New York..."

  Clarissa giggled, chewing on one long, lacquered nail. "You are a genius! This time it will work—and before the month is out, I will be Mrs. Lion Hampshire!"

  Chapter 34

  By some miracle, the long, black, storm-swept night became a most glorious morning. Meagan awoke, wrapped in Lion's embrace under layers of cozy quilts, to find the bedchamber awash with lemony sunshine.

  Tentatively, she worked herself out of Lion's arms and was surprised when he groaned and dropped over on his back, still asleep. Meagan crept out of bed, naked, to find the air cool, but refreshingly so. The drenching light took the edge off the chill, as did the persistent fire across the room. There, before it, her ruined muslin gown had been spread over two comb-back chairs.

  When had Lion lit the fire and taken care of her dress? she wondered. If he had been up puttering around during the night, that surely accounted for the depth of his slumber now.

  Meagan donned her underclothes and dress, refastening the wilted heather sash as best she could. She slipped into Priscilla's future bedchamber through the connecting door and appraised her appearance in the dressing-table mirror. Hopelessly disheveled... but radiant, somehow. Her hair was soft and full with unruly curls; many of which had formed as she squirmed beneath Lion in bed. Her lips were so rosy as to appear bruised, and they very nearly were. Muscles in her thighs ached wonderfully. And her cheeks and eyes... Meagan couldn't repress a grin as she noted the way they glowed.

  Slowly she made her way barefoot down the white trellised stairway. Heaven was no longer in the entry hall, obviously having been moved when the storm subsided. Had Lion been up all night?

  How much of what had passed between them had been real and how much a dream?

  Sunlight flooded the parlor, illuminating all the new pieces of furniture in a room that had been bare and musty only a fortnight before. A lump rose in Meagan's throat as she remembered the many happy hours spent planning and working to achieve this effect—warmth mingling with tastefulness. The wide-planked floor was glossy; a stunning Kuba rug in shades of blue, gray, cranberry, and tan replaced the worn Turkey carpet. The paneled walls were painted gray and white and the fireplace was newly faced with snowy white marble. Flanking a long window were two wing chairs upholstered in blood-red moreen, while the draperies around the room had been fashioned of the same material. Several brass candlesticks added fire and warmth on the mantelpiece and each table.

  Meagan was proud of the room. It was part of her, part of Lion, part of their time together. It hurt her to think of Priscilla as mistress of Markwood Villa, knowing that she could never feel the proper love and affinity for the house.

  Turning around, she crossed to the dining room, but paused only briefly. This was their best achievement, Lion's enthusiastic creation. It was his piece of the past, reflecting the best of the Orient. A rich Chinese Ch'ien Lung rug in jade tones covered the floor, while the walls were papered with an enchanting pattern of bamboo, tree peonies, and butterflies on a muted green surface. All the furniture was simply beautiful, each piece the finest Chinese Chippendale, skillfully decorated with exquisite latticework and fretwork. Already, Lion had begun to fill the velvet-lined break-front shelves with porcelains and other treasures from his voyages.

  Tears brimmed in Meagan's eyes as she ran slim fingers along the carved back of a chair, remembering the day they had arranged the furniture. Lion had stepped back to appraise the final picture, then abruptly let out a shout of happiness more eloquent than any words. His eyes, seeking hers, had spoken volumes, and when he caressed the sweep of hair down her back, Meagan knew that he felt as she did about their joint transformation of Markwood Villa.

  Now, she withdrew her hand from the chair's lattice-back and walked quickly through the house to the garden door. The weather was as celestial this morning as it had been satanic the day before. Spring gave its full embrace to the garden, and after the intensity of the storm, the plants seemed lush beyond belief.

  The air was poignantly fresh and cool; rain droplets glittered on every leaf and blade of grass.

  She strolled over the brick footpaths which divided the huge flowerbeds. They had hired men to weed the garden, but did most of the planting themselves. The boxwood, neatly trimmed into square borders, lent its dry, pungent scent to the air, mixing with the richly fragrant wisteria which was just beginning to open its white and violet blossoms. Soon the bees will be swarming over it, Meagan thought.

  She made her way toward the place where the ground bent into a gentle hill, in the opposite direction from the woods and the tiny schoolroom. The garden had been tiered to follow the incline downward and the footpath gave way to flagstone steps. Meagan's bare feet descended into the wildness of this hidden paradise where leafy arbors went unpruned and there was no boxwood to mask the sweet aromas of the spring flowers.

  Proud, blazing yellow daffodils danced above the trailing borders of grape hyacinths and newly-planted bright pansies. Southernwood shrubs grew along the end of the steps, trimmed by cheerfully striped ribbon grass. Weeping willow and honey-locust trees hovered over the masses of greenery yet to bloom: hollyhocks, larkspur, jessamine, sweet cinnamon roses, and curling grapevines.

  Meagan spread her skirts and sat down on the damp flagstone, grieving anew for the colors, the shapes, and the fragrances she would miss in months to come.

  Threading her fingers through the tangled black hair which haloed her face, Meagan leaned down to rest against her drawn-up knees. Slowly, she attempted to fit together the pieces from yesterday's puzzle. Hours went unaccounted for; could they have spent so much time entwined in the warmth of Lion's quilted bed? She could remember little else besides endless soft caresses, luxurious kisses, dozing fused to Lion's body, and his eyes, smile, magic touch. Fire...

  It was like a day outside of time, outside of the world they knew. What had it meant?

  Meagan was too bewildered, disoriented, and pained to think of any strategy. Her relationship with Lion was no longer so simple; she doubted that a solution existed or that either of them would ultimately claim a victory.

  * * *

  It was unseasonably hot for the eighteenth of April; in fact, each day of the week following the storm had grown warmer.

  At noon, Lion and Meagan shared a light luncheon of fish souffle, baked carrots, and wilted spinach salad. Both of them turned down Bramble's almond cheesecake in favor of yesterday's butter thins, drawing from the cook the first scowl that Lion had noticed in days.

  As he and Meagan walked out to the garden, slowly eating their dessert, he remarked, "Is it my imagination, or has Bramble's attitude actually softened toward me?"

  "She hasn't said a cross word for days. In fact, I can't recall seeing her frow
n in our direction." Meagan's smile faded slightly. "I have an idea that she feels sorry for me... for us."

  Lion looked up sharply, but Meagan had turned to cut a cluster of white wisteria from the trellis next to the back door. Dreamily, she smiled and buried her nose in the fragrant blossoms.

  It was their custom these days to stroll in the small, neat garden at midday. Meagan kept ribboned shears to fasten at her waist so that she might assemble a bouquet for the dinner table. The narrow brick walkways passed miniature box-edged flowerbeds lined with bright tulips and daffodils. Meagan liked to relax on the tree-shaded bench; sometimes she and Lion would sit there for over an hour, totally unaware of the passage of time.

  "My dear," he began with a wry smile, "I would take exception to your premonitions of impending doom—"

  "But you are already due at Dr. Franklin's," she finished.

  "True." He led her behind the great shade tree. "Also, I have no heart for quarreling with you."

  His hands were on her back, warm through the pale lavender of her dress. They stood close together, quietly burning with unquenchable love. Meagan laid her cheek against the linen of his shirt until he tipped her chin up for a slow, stirring kiss.

  "You should go," she whispered softly.

  "I know."

  But instead, Lion kissed her again and seemed far from eager to depart.

  * * *

  Except for the high voices of Franklin's playing grandchildren, all was peaceful in the rear yard. Lion leaned against a familiar mulberry tree, listening to the birds sing and the children shout. From time to time, a door would slam as the trio, who ranged within a birthday or two on either side of ten years of age, dashed out. Lion could almost time the appearance, moments later, of five-year-old Richard, squealing in outrage at having been left behind.

  When, acquaintances, even friends, spoke in hushed tones of the Doctor's decline, they frequently mentioned Sally Bache's "undisciplined, irritating" children. Lion smiled as he thought of this, for he knew well enough that the youngsters' exuberance was Franklin's favorite tonic.

  Sally Bache threw open a window and called to Lion to come in. Her father was awake. After much coaxing, she allowed Lion to take the tray of scones and tea that she had assembled, saving her at least one of her numerous daily treks up the stairs.

  "I suppose you are going to be married any day now, hmm?" she inquired with a motherly smile. "You must know that we were all most charmed by your intended."

  Lion winced inwardly at her innocent reminder of the mire of quicksand in which he had immersed himself.

  "Ah—I agree that she is a lovely girl." A neutral statement; no more lies.

  On the stairway, Lion was astonished to feel his hands go clammy at the thought of the long confession he was about to make to his mentor. When he paused on the landing, an encouraging voice called out:

  "My boy, are you ill or merely slow? I have better things to do than listen to your halting approach."

  Lion was caught off guard by the sight of him, as he had been on the occasion of their first meeting. This time, Dr. Franklin was reclining complacently in his custom-made sitz bath. The tub was shaped like a great copper shoe; Franklin sat in the heel, while his pale legs nearly reached the toe. A convenient rack had been fitted in the instep to hold his books.

  Apparently spring had proven to be an effective medicine, for not since the warm autumn of 1787, when Lion had left on his year-long journey to the Orient, had he seen Franklin looking this well. Of course, he appeared thin and weak, but there was reassuring color in his face.

  "Doctor, I am pleased to see you looking so fit! That is, if you haven't been rouging your cheeks on the sly."

  Franklin chuckled, extending a hand for Lion to clasp. "Sit down, my boy, and pour me a bit of that tea." He closed the book on his rack and slid it to one side. "No, I haven't been rouging my cheeks... I may love the French, but I can't say I agree with all their fashions!" After sipping gratefully from his cup, he continued, "I am feeling rather better. It's been a while since I had any attacks of the stones. My only complaint is this damned weather; it's giving me a chill I cannot be rid of."

  Lion raised both eyebrows in perplexity. He thought the room stiflingly hot and had been on the verge of opening the windows.

  "Well, I'm happy you've had relief from the pain. Have you given any thought to venturing out when General Washington arrives? If not to Gray's Ferry, perhaps you might attend the dinner at City Tavern—"

  "Don't tempt me, Lion. Sally would horsewhip you if she heard such words from your mouth!" His eyes were twinkling, yet sad. "As they say, the spirit is willing...."

  "I'm sorry I mentioned it. It is difficult for me to know what you are capable of, since you seem to be so able verbally," Lion smiled gently.

  "Quite true. My tongue is the equal of any man! But, since you ask, physically I am capable of traveling downstairs on a good day, after a large dose of laudanum. If I am feeling exceptionally adventurous, I might sit in the garden and share tea with a guest or two." Franklin paused, staring at his bony knees, and let out a ragged sigh. "To be honest... for my personal comfort, I should have died two years ago."

  Those words, void of his usual humor, wrenched Lion so that he could not speak or move. Finally, he bent beside the copper tub and took the old man's hand. It was cold; the skin was white and flabby against Lion's lean, dark fingers.

  "It's selfish of me to say, but I must tell you how thankful I am you did not die two years ago. If you had, we would never have met—our association has changed my life."

  "Time will tell if your outcome will be favorable or not!" The weary eyes were dancing again. "My boy, would you help me up? I should like to dry myself and return to bed. We can chat until you work up the courage to challenge me at cribbage."

  They were silent for a few minutes as Lion assisted him back to bed, then sat tensely in a plush wing chair nearby. There seemed to be no easy way to confess his problems, so the conversation focused on the older man for nearly half an hour. Relaxed after the interlude in his sitz bath, Franklin spoke at length, candidly, about his current activities and feelings.

  Lion learned that he had finally heeded the urgings of his friends and begun work again on the autobiography. Benny, the oldest of the Bache children and his grandfather's adoring protégé, had been taking down the newest installments when Franklin was in too much pain, or too tired, to write.

  "The account has passed my fiftieth year now," he confided, "but I worry about the quality. Somehow, I fear that I am not saying the right things in the right way..."

  "Ridiculous! I have never heard you voice an insecurity before today."

  "My boy, after eighty-three years of perfection, there is the possibility that certain of my abilities might erode."

  "You spend too much time imagining the worst."

  "On the contrary." His eyes moved to gaze out the window, as if seeing beyond time and space. "I would rather think of anything but my own decline. I dwell on the past, the decades of challenge, other cities and countries..." He smiled. "Even during my catnaps, I dream of wonderful women. Daily I yearn for my dear Madame Helvetius and her thousand sofas..."

  "Doctor Franklin, if your attachment to her was so great, why did you leave France?"

  "I felt an instinctive wish to draw my last breath in America; to see my Philadelphia again." He drained his second cup of tea. "So! Since we speak of women, tell me how your lovely Priscilla fares. What great good fortune for you to have found such an enchanting minx on pure chance!"

  Lion smiled miserably, searching for the right words. "Ah—actually, I do want to talk to you about this. You see—" he loosened his cravat "—the fact is, the girl you met was not Priscilla. I mean, there is a Priscilla and we are betrothed, but I don't love her. Worse, I can barely endure her company."

  Franklin's pale brows were raised in his high forehead; his expression combined gentle, amused tolerance with sharp concern. "I gather that you can
endure the company of the mysterious young lady I met?"

  Lion began to pace. "I did not set out to deceive you in this matter. I meant to introduce her to you correctly, but you assumed... and she seemed to cheer you up..."

  "She was delightful." There was a meaningful pause. "Who was she?"

  Lion clenched his fist. "Her name is Meagan South. She was Priscilla's lady's maid. She traveled with us from West Hills."

  Slowly, then, Lion divulged the truth, one painful fact at a time, until the whole story was made known to Dr. Franklin. He finished by relating the events of the past week.

  "Somehow, it has changed. The bargain we struck, I mean. The anger and determination are gone... I'm certain that she loves me, and it's as if she's resigned to it, but I am uneasy about the way she behaves."

  "Are you worried that she still won't agree to be your mistress?"

  "I don't know!" The hard muscular outline of Lion's back showed through his coat as he pressed his hands against the door frame. "She fought like a tiger the day of the storm. We had an argument. Christ, I was furious at some of the things she said to me! She was unfair, but I was worse, I suppose—I forced her, I wanted to teach her a lesson, but she wouldn't give in.

  "Anyway, in the end, we spent hours together in that bed, waiting out the storm. After she quit fighting me, it was as if she were on fire. We both were. We still are—it's like being consumed by hell and heaven all at once." He looked back to the bed, turning tortured eyes on Franklin. "Do you know what I mean?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, for God's sake, what am I going to do?" Lion began to pace again, but the older man remained calm.

  "Obviously, you are aware of your choices."

  "I'm telling you that I am in no condition to analyze this situation objectively!"

  "All right, then, let me assist you. First, we both know that in view of your own beginnings, it would be fatal politically speaking for you to marry a serving-girl. Could you give up your career dreams for Meagan? And I don't mean just for this month or year. Could you forfeit your plans for the rest of your life and not regret the decision or resent her?"