by Nan Ryan
Restless, lonely and homesick, Suzanna decided it was time to return to America.
Thirty-Seven
Suzanna was astonished. It was as if the war had never happened, as though she had never been convicted of treason and had barely escaped the executioner’s noose.
Having expected to receive a chilly reception upon arriving in Washington, she had prepared herself for snubs, insults and perhaps even death threats in this city where the majority of citizens had strongly sided with the Union.
She was apprehensive when she arrived in the nation’s capital on a crisp, cold winter afternoon under clear blue skies. She was pleased to see no footmen, no servants and no driver. Her telegram firmly requesting that there be no fanfare had been obeyed.
Suzanna stepped down from the train and cautiously made her way through the crowds, wondering how long it would be before someone recognized her and began calling her names. How long before she was warned to get back on the train and get out of D.C.
She released a sigh of relief when she and her maid, Buelah, reached the covered carriage unnoticed, and hastily climbed inside, successfully maintaining a low profile.
While Buelah, glad to be home, chattered excitedly beside her, Suzanna looked out at the city on the Potomac. On this cold winter afternoon in 1870, Washington was beautiful again, just as it had been before the war.
She thought back to Mattie and Dr. Ledet admitting that, when the war had finally ended in the spring of ’65, they had joined the throngs that rushed into the heart of the city. They had witnessed both elation and tears as the Union armies paraded down the avenue filled with sunshine, flags and roaring crowds.
“My beloved city will never be the same again,” Mattie had sadly predicted at that time. “It’s ruined! It will be an armed camp forever.”
But Mattie had been wrong.
Washington was beautiful. And peaceful. On this brisk February afternoon, Suzanna gazed out on the wide boulevards, the dogwood trees that would soon begin to bloom and the fine carriages rolling past, filled with laughing people. It was almost impossible to believe that the city had been badly war torn just five short years ago.
At the stately house she had inherited from Edgar Clements—and which she still referred to as “the general’s manse”—Suzanna was amazed to find that every loyal servant, save a couple of older ones who had passed on, was still on duty. And there was strong evidence that the house had been run as efficiently as if she had been in residence the entire time.
The respected law firm of Bonner and Barker, the entity overseeing the estate in her absence, had done an excellent job. Just as expected.
The staff were well-groomed, neatly uniformed and smiling as they welcomed her home. One of the parlor maids, a lively young woman who had been born, raised and spent all her life in this fine Washington house, offered to show the aging Buelah to her quarters. The two women went away laughing and talking as if old friends.
“A message came this morning, Mrs. Clements,” said Jules, holding out the silver bowl in which a small vellum envelope lay.
Suzanna thanked him, then took the envelope and opened it. A dinner initiation from Mattie Kirkendal. And it was for this very evening! How Mattie knew she was back in Washington was a mystery, but then Mattie always seemed to know everything. Shaking her head and smiling, Suzanna lowered the invitation.
Suddenly she felt very guilty. Although she had promised she’d stay in touch, Suzanna had not corresponded with Mattie—or anyone else in Washington—in the five years she was in Europe. Save for the dry annual reports she’d received from the law firm administering the estate, she’d had no contact with anyone back home.
There had been a reason for her neglect. She had not wanted to hear anything about Mitch Longley. She hadn’t wanted to know where he was or what he was doing or if he had married or anything else about him. She had hoped that not hearing from anyone would help her forget Mitch once and for all.
Dear understanding Mattie. Instead of being angry with her for not corresponding as she had promised, Mattie was inviting her to dinner the minute she was back in Washington.
Suzanna realized she was eager to see the kind woman, who had apparently forgiven her. She could hardly wait to see Mattie, and she hoped that Dr. Ledet would be joining them for the evening meal.
He was. But he wasn’t the only one.
* * *
At eight sharp Suzanna arrived at Mattie’s.
She was surprised to see lights blazing from every room of the imposing two-story mansion. Music and laughter floated out on the chill night air. Inside was a large gathering of people.
The minute a tense Suzanna stepped into the marble-floored foyer, Mattie spotted her and rushed to her side.
“Suzanna, my dear! Thank heavens you’re finally home! You naughty girl, you,” she declared, shaking her finger. “Not so much as a note in five long years!”
“Oh, Mattie, I’m so sorry. It was inexcusable of me, I know, but I do hope you’ll forgive me.”
“Of course I forgive you, Suzanna,” she said, knowing without being told the reason Suzanna had refrained from corresponding. “I’m just glad to know that you’re all right and that you’re home at last.” Tears filled the older woman’s eyes. “I’m so happy to see you. You’ll never know how happy.”
“Ah, don’t cry,” Suzanna said, allowing herself to be warmly hugged. “I’m happy to see you, too, but I must have gotten my dates mixed up. I was under the impression that you invited me to dinner this evening.”
“I did indeed!” Mattie assured her, pulling back and dabbing at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “I hope you won’t mind that I’ve also invited a few friends to help celebrate your return to Washington.”
“Friends?” Suzanna looked warily around. “Mattie, have you forgotten that I was convicted of spying on the Union and that—”
“Water under the bridge, child.” Mattie waved her hand in the air. “Besides, tales of your exploits and derring-do have only added to your mystique. Why, old acquaintances are eager to welcome you back, and those who don’t know you are dying to meet you. Especially the gentlemen.” Mattie turned to the approaching white-haired physician. “Tell her, Doctor.”
Beaming, Dr. Ledet said, “Little Suzanna! My dear, how wonderful to see you again and how beautiful you are.” He embraced her and said, “Mattie’s absolutely right. As soon as everyone knows you’re back in the city, you’ll be inundated with invitations to social events.”
Suzanna was skeptical. “I’m not so sure about that, Doctor.”
“We are,” Mattie assured her, then, glancing at the doctor, added, “There’s one little thing we should get out of the way before we go inside to join the others.”
“Oh?” Suzanna held her breath, half expecting Mattie to announce that she had invited Mitch to dinner.
“Simply this, if you’re worried about bumping into Mitch Longley now that you’re back in Washington, don’t be. It is not going to happen.”
At the mere mention of his name Suzanna felt her pulse quicken. “How can you be certain?” she asked, in what she hoped was a casual tone.
Mattie explained. “At the end of the terrible conflict, while you were on death’s row in the Old Capital prison, the admiral spent months in Bethesda Hospital recovering from his wounds.”
When Suzanna nodded, Dr. Ledet picked up the story. “Longley was cashiered out of the navy, and left Washington sometime around August or September of 1865.”
Suzanna felt as if she were suffocating. August or September of 1865? That’s when she’d left Washington. Mitch had still been right here in the city when she married the old general. Had he known about the marriage? Had he cared? Had he, too, gone to Europe? Had he been there when she was there? Had they passed each other on a street somewhere and never known?
Unable to stop herself, Suzanna asked, “When Mitch left Washington, where did he go?”
“We’re not sure. Some say he went ab
road, but no one really knows,” said Dr. Ledet with a shrug. Anticipating her next question, he said, “You can rest assured, though, that he will not be returning to Washington. His great-aunt and only relative, Miss Edna Earl Longley, passed away a couple of winters ago. It’s said he slipped into the city for her burial, but was gone by sunset. And he had his attorney sell the old lady’s mansion, which she left to him.”
“But he still owns a home here,” Suzanna said.
“No, my dear,” said the doctor. “It, too, has been sold.”
Mattie interjected hopefully, “So you see, you can stay right here in Washington because Mitch Longley will not be coming back.”
“No. No, of course not,” Suzanna said. “I mean, yes, I can stay in the city.”
“Now, enough about that,” Mattie said brightly. “It’s time for new beginnings. Come, let’s go inside and mingle with the guests.”
Thirty-Eight
Mitch Longley slowly straightened, grimaced and mopped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. He automatically laid a hand on his badly scarred left side and gritted his teeth against the nagging pain in his hip and leg, which never fully left him.
He turned and squinted at the western horizon, where the sun was finally setting on this warm spring day. He glanced around at the vast field of sugar cane that stretched out in every direction as far as the eye could see. The laborers had begun gathering their belongings and were making their way to the edge of the field, many calling out a friendly “good night” to Mitch.
He was their employer, but they never thought of him as the boss. He was one of them. He didn’t ride out to survey his property on a big snorting steed, shout orders to the workers and crack a whip over their heads. Instead, he worked alongside them at least three or four days a week under a broiling sun, and went home each night as weary as they.
It was not necessary for Mitch to work. He was a very wealthy man. If he never turned his hand again, Mitch had enough money to last for ten lifetimes. But money alone was not enough for him. He needed a purpose in life, a hands-on project that forced him get out of bed in the morning. And allowed him—due to sheer physical exhaustion—to fall asleep at night.
For years he had slept fitfully at best, and there were many nights he had never even closed his eyes. After he was cashiered out of the navy and finally released from the hospital, Mitch had struggled to regain his mobility. Determined he would not spend the rest of his life in a chair or flat on his back in bed, he had spent long, torturous hours working to regain his strength. The simplest tasks had seemed insurmountable, and more than once he had considered giving up and accepting the fact that he was an invalid, as helpless as a newborn baby.
But the will to survive and to regain his self-reliance had won out. He kept trying, kept fighting the odds. And despite the agonizing pain, he had learned to pull himself up and to stand alone. Finally, after many months of torture, he could walk with the aid of a cane. He had single-mindedly focused on being totally independent. Toward that one and only goal, he had expended every ounce of his will and energy.
But once the goal had been attained, once he’d endured strenuous exercises and his broken body had mended and he was completely fit again, he had become increasingly restless and miserable. Without the ever constant physical pain to battle, another more debilitating kind of pain engulfed him.
The idle hours had given him too much time to dwell on the beautiful red-haired temptress who had callously seduced and betrayed him. That heartless Jezebel who had successfully brought him down and cost him his naval career.
In an effort to forget Suzanna LeGrande, Mitch had traveled extensively. He had gone to England, Scotland, France and Spain. But she—witch that she was—had followed him wherever he went, not in the flesh but in his aching heart.
She would not let him go. Each time he caught sight of a well-dressed, slender young woman with blazing red hair, his heart skipped a beat. Finally he realized that he was searching for her. A thousand or a million miles apart, it made no difference. He could not get away from Suzanna LeGrande.
Bored, weary of traveling, Mitch had returned to America and sold his house, as well as the mansion his aunt had left him. That done, he promptly left Washington for good. Having no desire to live where memories mocked him, he went in search of a new home, a new life.
He had found that home and with it a degree of peace and contentment. He had bought up thousands of acres of rich marshy lowlands on the southern coast of South Carolina. In the little village bordering his property, he had enlisted strong-backed men and women to help him work the land. Freed slaves and whites alike had all been eager for work.
Together they had brought the fallow fields back to life. Tobacco, rice, cotton, sugar and hemp now flourished in this warm subtropical climate, where the growing season was six to nine months long.
The temperate weather and the slow pace of life agreed with Mitch. He spent long, sun-filled days working the fields, and warm, balmy nights at the comfortable house he’d had built on an isolated stretch of beach.
The jalousied villa, with its latticed arches and tied-back curtains, afforded a breathtaking view of the azure sea rippling in the distance beneath an indigo sky filled with puffy white clouds. It was as if he were the only person on earth. In the two years he’d lived in the comfortable villa, he had never seen anyone on the beach.
He had it all to himself.
Mitch had walked ten miles in either direction, on more than one occasion, and had spotted only one residence other than his own. About two miles south of his place, set back off the beach on a small cove, was a whitewashed, two-story house with a wraparound veranda.
He had never seen any lights on inside nor anyone around the grounds. No signs of life whatsoever. Obviously, no one lived there. Good. He hoped the place stayed vacant forever. He liked his world just as it was.
The pristine beach was virtually his. His, with no intruders. The isolation suited him. After a long, tiring day in the fields, he was lulled to sleep by the sound of the waves crashing rhythmically on the shore.
And on those rare occasions when he couldn’t fall asleep, he needed only to walk out the door, cross the sugary white sands, and swim far out into the ocean.
* * *
Midnight. Not a breeze stirred the tied-back curtains. The still air was heavy and humid.
Mitch got out of bed, his bare, overheated body glistening with a sheen of perspiration from head to toe.
He pulled on a pair of white duck trousers, ran a hand through his disheveled hair and walked out onto the villa’s veranda. He clasped the railing and gazed out over the endless ocean. A full harvest moon silvered the waves beyond the one-story beach house.
On a whim, Mitch agilely vaulted over the waist-high railing and walked barefoot across the warm sands toward the cool, inviting sea. At the water’s edge he unbuttoned his pants and shed them where he stood. Naked, he waded into the foamy water until it was lapping at his hair-dusted thighs.
He dived headlong into an approaching wave and began to swim, his powerful arms moving with precision as he sliced through the salty water, feet kicking to propel him forward. Exhilarated, he swam until his arms grew weak with exertion and his lungs felt as if they might burst.
Mitch turned over onto his back and floated in to shore. At the water’s edge he picked up his discarded trousers, but did not put them on. There was no need. The beach was his and his alone.
Pants draped over his shoulder, he returned to the villa, tired, yawning, feeling blessedly relaxed. Inside, he tossed the trousers over the back of a chair, then grabbed a towel and began drying the moisture from his flesh. From habit he slowly, carefully, blotted water from the network of slashing white scars that marred the smooth brown skin. Scars that started just under his left arm and went down past his hip bone.
His body still half-damp, Mitch tossed the towel aside and crawled back into bed. He raised his arms above his head, folded them on the
pillow, exhaled heavily and felt his muscles slacken.
The only light was that of the moon, the only sound that of the tranquil ocean.
His eyes closing sleepily, Mitch said aloud, “Solitude. Sweet soothing solitude. May it last forever.”
Thirty-Nine
Suzanna sighed wearily when Buelah came into the bedroom with a frothy pastel ball gown tossed over her arm.
“I don’t want to go out this evening,” Suzanna told her maid. “I’m just not up to it. Have Jules send the Graysons my regrets.”
“No such thing!” Buelah scolded, shaking her head. “You promised Miss Cynthia Ann you’d attend her engagement party tonight and you are going to keep that promise.”
Suzanna sighed again, but turned away from the tall French doors that stood open onto the balcony. Buelah was right, as usual. She couldn’t possibly decline such an important invitation at the last minute. It would be unforgivably rude, and Cynthia Ann would be terribly hurt and disappointed if she didn’t attend.
Cynthia Ann Grayson had returned with her family to Washington in the autumn of 1865, after the war had ended. And despite all that had happened, she and Suzanna were still close. On Suzanna’s very first week back from Europe, Cynthia Ann had hurried over to visit. For a long moment Suzanna had stared at the young, dark-haired woman she had not seen in almost a decade.
“Cyn? Cyn Grayson? Is that really you?” she had asked, eyes wide with surprise and pleasure.
“Oh, Suz, how I have missed you!” her old friend quickly replied.
Then the pair threw their arms around each other and laughed and cried and behaved much as they had when they were spirited sixteen-year-olds.