We were meant to grow together, even in our time apart. As riding and combat strengthened me, it turned me into someone new. The stealth of Sylvia's fingers on the strings, the nearly mechanical precision of her bow and the otherworldly translation of her inner turmoil to music showed me how much she had grown as an artist in my months of being away. I was well on my way to becoming a fine soldier, but my personal triumphs were never surpassed by the Sylph. She was better than I, stronger and her devotion to our love put my own to shame. We were both experiencing growing pains, Sylvia and I, we were both becoming stronger as we struggled in the absence of one another. We took our heartaches and turned them into productivity and what was left over, we gave to one another through intimacy. At first, I feared that she was still recovering but she assured me that there was no embrace too tight, no depth that I could reach that would be too far from the surface of our skin. I touched her soul with my love and somehow, kept my own concealed.
"I dreamt of you every night," with a steady hand she held me near as I caught my breath, "but there is no dream real enough or sweet enough to replace what I have now. What did I ever do to deserve you?"
"Well, you were very beautiful and very persistent," I joked, giving the edge of her bare shoulder a gentle nip. She didn't seem interested in my playfulness, but I knew where to touch, where to stroke to make her sing. "I do not have an answer for you. You see, I often wonder what God was thinking when He made you." I moved, only enough to watch the moonlight kiss her naked form. "'Perfection' is far too simple a term for what he sculpted that day. I wonder what components he used, what colors from nature's palette he borrowed to paint the lush valleys in your eyes. How did he orchestrate the golden shadows in your hair and know how to make each tiny strand exquisite in every light? And this, oh, this-" my hands glided from her throat to her thighs and I savored the smoothness and warmth against my palms, "how many painstaking generations of trial and error, how many centuries of late nights at the drawing board and how many women, Sylvia, how many cities and regions and countries and globes did He have to fill before making you? I wonder every moment that I am with you- how? How is it possible that I hold the key to this secret world? How could I, of all men, be worthy of entry to this sanctuary to die at night and be born again each morning with the rising of the sun? I give you all of my hours and all of my heart and somehow, come up tragically short. I am the one who is unworthy. And you love me still, how?"
"I always knew that you were a poet. Perhaps you should lay down your arms and take up the quill," as my face reddened with embarrassment, Sylvia beamed. "Or perhaps not. I would hate the idea of having to share you with the world." She shut her eyes and blushed with pleasure. I was barely touching the innermost region of her thigh and yet, it was enough for her to pull me close. As we became one, the faintest gasp ascended from her lips, brushing across my own like the white, proportionally perfect wings of a moth. I saw the highest clouds, the lowest and blackest sands of the ocean floor, galaxies, and all of creation combined as we swept each other far away. In these hours that we shared, I could have sworn that she had saved me from myself. Sometimes, I would feel subtle reminders of the world that we left behind, the bones of her shoulders and back unfurled across my fingers. "Angel wings," I thought as I felt the framework that she was made of. I was grinning, stupidly, I am sure, as I reveled in all that she was. Through her ecstasy, she saw me and read my thoughts: that I was no poet and was simply in the presence of the personification of beauty. "Beautiful," she had called me this before and was intent on saying it until I believed that it was true, "it is a shame that you cannot see yourself as I do, but a rose can never behold itself in full, nor can a star see the beauty of its own light. I suppose that is why they are so far away, they would grow vain if they saw their own reflections in the mirror that is the sea."
"Now you are the poet, my love." I kissed the dusting of sweat between her breasts, but not without wordless acknowledgement of the distant stars whose images could be found there. The time that we had together was growing short and it would not be long before these memories would be all that I had of Sylvia as I rode southeast with the dragoons. It was not a guiltless enterprise, to be lulled to sleep by the echo of her heart and the sensation of her fingertips against my neck and scalp. I was still deep inside of her, perfectly sheltered and surrounded by her while I slept. She comforted me and refused to leave go, even as she left this world to dream, her embrace did not budge. I believe that underneath it all, she knew that I was hurting. Heaven knows, there was no one who could translate my thoughts so well. She came close to uncovering my secret that night, merely by gazing inside of my soul. I awoke before her in the morning light and quietly wondered if she already knew. What if she did? What if my betrayal had unfolded before her and her only reaction was to hold onto me until it went away? It was a pretty notion, a lie that my mind had forged while it was still half-awake. I whispered words of gratitude and love into her ear and promised that in that moment, I was completely hers. If I could forget about my feelings for John for this one night, I could make them disappear for other nights, too and eventually, for the rest of our lives.
My final night visiting New Jersey was not so pleasant. Robert had his own quarters in the estate and despite his close proximity, we did not see much of him. Sylvia and I were on our own schedule, hermits, who rarely left one another's company, much to her father's dismay. He arranged for the five of us to all sit down for dinner on the eve of our departure. If preparing for such an event was akin to facing a firing squad for me, I can hardly imagine what poor Robert was going through. He was the one that General Ballard would be "interviewing", if you will. I could have relaxed, at least a fraction, but Sylvia thrust new concerns upon me with her behavior. She was openly distraught and did not touch a single one of the many divine courses that were placed on our table. Instead, she demanded a bottle of wine, of a lighter variety than the General's cabernet.
Both men watched me, waiting for me to intervene as Sylvia drained nearly an entire bottle of sweet mead. A light choice, certainly! A child's drink, if you ask me! I did not believe that a person of any build could become drunk by consuming mead, but it did make my little swan rather tipsy. I expected her mood to lighten, but it had an opposite effect. She sulked in her seat and reached for my hand under the table. Once I accepted, she did not leave go and donned the most melancholy expression as she watched our entertainment. A young violinist in the quartet was challenged by one of the General's hand-picked pieces. I knew that expression well. She was about to put him out of his misery. I wolfed down my dessert, making sure to leave not a single crumb behind on the plate.
"A dance?" I asked my wife. The General showed neither distaste nor approval, he was preoccupied by making Robert uncomfortable with questions about Banastre. Sylvia accepted my offer. She was eager for closeness and motion and so was I. We left the table for the furthest corner of the room and engaged in a slow, lackluster waltz.
She placed her head against my chest, content with merely swaying to the rhythm of my beating heart. "How long must we wait for you? I do not know if I can endure another eight months. Neither can Sebastian. He is growing, and you are missing so much."
I wanted to remind her that I had chosen this path by her request, but she was in no condition to face honesty or even harshness. There was flare in the conversation at the table, a straightforward comparison between Robert's accomplishments and Tarleton's. I wondered if he knew that Banastre was Viola's father, I wondered if such a thing mattered at all. I could have spoken up or done something to alter the direction of their exchange. After all- I, too, had to inadvertently fight against Banastre Tarleton to gain Sylvia's hand. "One day at a time, my darling." I murmured, brushing my lips across the fine, golden curls on her hairline. "We have overcome far more fearsome storms." My reply was weak, but Sylvia accepted it and nuzzled closer. I think perhaps, she knew that there was no fulfilling her request for me to stay. All that she wanted was acknowledgement and a kind word or two to ease her suffering. She wanted to feel loved that night and I prepared my heart to be more giving than ever.
There was a window beside us. The candlelight was low enough and the moon was high enough in the sky to illuminate the waves of hills beyond the front gate. Dark trees collected on their peaks, swelling and frothing like seafoam as the breeze ruffled their verdant leaves. I touched the white ribbon of lace that Sylvia wore around her neck and slipped my thumb beneath it as I loosened the knot. From the table, it appeared that I was taking it and pocketing it as a memento to carry to the field. For Sylvia and I, it was a prologue for what would come once the formalities were over. I grinned at her, tracing that innocent line of concealed flesh beneath the white, ornamental fabric. Her skin was softer than satin, lovelier than lace and proved that dreadful noose of fashion superfluous. I looked over to see what her father was doing. Sylvia and I were the least of his worries, for once.
Her expression, which matched my own, was overcome by a tiny spark of wickedness. The curtain by the window was within her reach. She pulled it forward and pushed me into its dark confines. Now, she was leaning with her back against the glass and we were surrounded, more or less, by waves of crimson fabric. I kissed her with urgency, softness and a faintly playful laugh. We looked ridiculous, I am sure, but for that moment, we were young lovers again, seeking solitude and realness in the superficial rigidity of the world that she came from. I cradled her head so that it was no longer touching the window, only my palm and initiated a tender voyage across her tongue. The berries that the mead was made from were only newly tart, they sparkled and combusted like the bubbles in the champagne that we consumed on the night of our first dance.
Renewal. Something was born again. John was no longer at the forefront of my mind, he was a tiny dot on the horizon line of my heart. But even a simple meditation of how little he meant to me then, pulled me away from Sylvia. As our kiss deepened, I glanced out across the quiet night. Two riders were approaching fast, soldiers in regalia, prepared for an evening of rich conversation and expensive wine. Had I listened more intently to what was being said at the table, I would have known that two more guests would be arriving before the night was through. The women would be dismissed upstairs while the four of us remained below- Robert and I, along with Banastre and John.