Paxton's War Read Free Page B

with the same friendly but distant tone. Had he fallen in love? Would he return with a wife? Surely he would have mentioned a marriage. But, just as surely, the women in the courts of London, Salzburg, and Paris were devastatingly beautiful and irresistibly enchanting. What would he say when he saw her? Certainly he’d consider her provincial, and yet he’d taken the time to write, which meant he cared—at least a little. He must have been impressed with the European writers she told him she’d read, in French as well as English. She’d mentioned her favorite poets, and surely he realized that she was no fool. In her long letters, hadn’t she displayed an understanding of the political turmoil that South Carolina faced? Yet, strangely enough, when it came to politics, he had been mysteriously silent, except to indicate his sympathy to the plight of his own people.
    But how could he not be sympathetic? He was an artist, and artists were sensitive people, and together they would be artists dedicated to the cause of the revolution. If only she had sent him the poems that expressed her true feelings for him instead of those celebrating the Carolinian countryside in rhyming couplets! Yet, how could she—yet a child, no doubt, in his memories—have told him the truth? How she wished she could send him a portrait of the woman she’d become!
    Colleen’s eyes went from the letter to the open window. The breeze was blowing stronger, the ship was in full view and nearing port. She found herself trembling ever so slightly. Even in a letter so brief, his words had intoxicated her. She could feel the sincerity of his emotions, the depths of his very being. How lonely he must have been! How lonely she had been without him!
    â€œYou’ll not insult your Mr. Somerset by making him wait. Do you hear me, lass, or shall I say it again?” her father’s voice rang through the house.
    â€œI’m going to my bath, Papa. I won’t be long.”
    â€œDon’t do no good fo’ me to heat water, girl, ya lollygag aroun’ an’ let it git col’.” As thin, tall, and gnarled as a split-rail stuck upright in the ground, Portia stood with arms on hips and glowered as her mistress ran up the steps of the bathhouse.
    â€œDon’t be such an ogre, Portia.” Colleen laughed, hurrying inside and testing the water with her foot. “Mmm. Just right. The day’s warm enough. Slightly cool is fine, thank you.”
    â€œYo’ backside be slightly warm, was ya my chile,” Portia grumbled. “Make a soul stan’ aroun’ when they’s work to be done. Give me that robe now, and git yo’self in an’ washed.”
    The light inside the bathhouse was dim and soft, the great sweetgum tub filled with inviting water. Colleen handed Portia her robe and stepped in, sank into the water with a sigh. Slowly, neck, back, knees, calves, and thighs relaxed in the soothing liquid. Outside, a cardinal sang its repetitious song, and some wrens that made their home in the tree that shaded the bathhouse chirped softly. Inside, the stillness was a balm that, with the water, calmed Colleen’s anxious thoughts. The fragrance of the rich wood, like some exotic perfume, transported her to a magic forest where, with closed eyes, she envisioned lovely maples, pines, and long-leaf poplars, and thought of Jason’s slender face, the softness of his chestnut-brown eyes, which had always appeared half closed to her, far away, lost in a misty dream. It had been that very expression—she still saw it so clearly—that had rendered her helpless on the day of his departure. The day had been warm and blustery, tinged with an air of excitement, as there always was when a ship sailed. His father standing gruffly by, and flanked by his twin sisters, Jason had been bright-eyed and animated as the hour for his departure approached. The dock was crowded and chaotic as the