CHAPTER 8
She'd caught him looking at her several times that first afternoon, but when she'd returned his look to complete the connection, a blank shadow fell over his eyes, as though he were drawing a shield between them.
For the most part he did as she requested of him, as long as it was within his very limited sphere of understanding. Even though she feared he didn't comprehend her words, she made a point of talking to him. She took him with her when she explored the cottage garden, and harvested a small basket of vegetables for their evening supper. She sat him down on the sun porch and showed him how to snap beans. His once nimble hands were clumsy, and seemed not entirely linked to his mind but he performed the task after some fashion and she praised his efforts.
Back in the house she handed him the dinner plates and asked him to set the table. He'd held them uncertainly until she took hold of his hands and guided them to the table. "See," she told him with a lighthearted voice, "There are two plates at the table, one for Matt and one for Kitty, and just as soon as I have this meat fried up we'll sit down to eat." Eating was the challenge, there was no way he could successfully maneuver his eating utensils and if truth be told she was too tired to put up a fight for propriety. With a sigh she set down her own fork and knife and picked up the meat with her fingers. "Ummm good." She told him. After a moment's hesitation he took the food in his hands and brought it to his mouth. It was a messy proposition on both their parts and Kitty could only imagine the comments of their friends back in Dodge should they be witness to such a spectacle. The idea brought a smile to her face, one that the man beside her noticed and tried unsuccessfully to emulate.
GS GS GS GS GS
The path down to the river was well worn; the soil ground to a fine loam, which she knew, would be soft to his shoeless feet. When they had finished their supper she took him back outside. They walked hand in hand to the water's edge and sat down under a clump of golden leaved birch trees. There were several rowboats out on the river, enjoying the last warm days before the chill of winter set in. One boat came near enough for its passenger to call `hello.'
The occupant was wearing casual though expensive clothing, what one would expect from an aristocrat. Tailored fawn colored britches, a fitted shirt, Scottish tweed jacket and over the calf riding boots completed his look. His age she supposed was close to Matt's, somewhere in his early thirties. He bore extraordinary good looks, the kind, which made most women swoon. He waved at them, "Nice weather." He commented in greeting.
"Any luck tonight?" She asked in reply.
"I've caught a few- most too small to keep." He answered, "You just move in?"
"Yes, today."
The man took a long study of Matt's unusual attire, "Not from around here?" he asked.
Very nearly she replied Kansas, but she remembered Mr. Wilcox's dossier regarding their background. "We're from Wethersfield, Georgia; we'll be going home as soon as my brother has rested some. He's been quite ill."
He rowed a little closer, before standing up precariously in the wobbly rowboat, with a bow he said, "Permit me to introduce myself madam, I'm Beaumont T. Davis. I live in the white framed cottage across the river from you, if I or my family can be of any service to you during your stay; please feel free to call upon us."
She shaded her eyes to study the `cottage' he'd referred to; it was no more a cottage than the house she was staying in a castle. It was possibly the largest home Kitty had ever seen. It was three full stories, with a veranda, which seemed to wrap the house like the ribbon on a Christmas present. It sat back from the water some sixty feet, with manicured lawns and carefully plotted flowerbeds. Off to either side of the property were a pair of boathouses, each trimmed with gingerbread and topped by matching copulas.
"We thank you for your kindness, my brother is Matthew and I am Kathleen Kent."
"Miss Kathleen, might I be so bold as to declare, Georgia's loss is Davis Port's gain?"
For what ever reason Wilcox had deemed it necessary, she realized she must play her part to the fullest extent of her abilities, "I thank you sir. It appears a most pleasant community. Now, if you will excuse us, I must get Matthew inside, in his delicate health it would not be advisable for him to take a chill."
Beaumont T. Davis bowed again, and his rowboat tipped unsteadily in the water. It looked to Kitty like the visitor was in danger of landing in the river. But the young man of breeding never lost his poise, and said with gallantry, even as he fought for his balance, "I'll look forward to meeting you again before you depart from our lovely community."
GS GS GS GS
Kitty helped Matt wash up for the night, and saw to his healing wounds. The small cottage was moonlight and shadows when she finally saw him to his room. "It's time for sleep." She said keeping her voice even and as soothing as possible. Placing a candle on the bedside table, she pulled down the covers, and watched as he climbed in, "There" she said, "Now close your eyes and sleep. Tomorrow is a new day."
But he didn't close his eyes; in fact more than any time that day his gaze was locked on her. She moved a chair closer to his bedside and sat down. The urge to talk about their history was strong and she had to fight it. He wanted her there, needed her there and knowing that added strength to her reserve. She saw a small stack of books on the table and she picked up the first one on the pile.
It was old, a musty smell emanated from its yellowed pages and leather bindings. In fancy print, it identified the volume as the "Collective Works of Richard Lovelace." She leaned into the candle for light, to read the passages by. The poems were written in Old English verse. The cadence of the rhythmic beat and the unfamiliar variations to the common words made it awkward to read the stanzas at first, but slowly she became comfortable with the lyrics. She read several selections before she came to the one entitled, "TO LUCASTA, Going to the Wars."
Tell me not sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast, and quiet mind.
To war and Armies I fly.
True, a new Mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field,
And with a stronger Faith embrace,
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such,
As you too shall adore,
I could not love thee dear so much,
Loved I not honor more.
She repeated the last line, slowly letting the meaning hit home, "I could not love thee dear so much, loved I not honor more." Her hand worked its way to her pocket in which rested his badge. Her fingers rubbed across the smooth surface of the tin star, "Loved I not honor more." She closed her eyes to stop the tears and breathed slowly and deeply willing her emotions to remain in check.
When she opened her eyes she saw his were closed and the rise and fall of his chest indicated he had fallen into sleep and was at peace. She stood; placing the book back on the pile she took the candle. She gave him one last look before leaving the room. "I could not love thee dear so much, loved I not honor more." The words were trapped in her thoughts, bringing a sudden clarity to her relationship with Matt Dillon. It was no discredit to her she realized that duty and the badge were his first love. It was simply the price of honor.
GS GS GS GS
Sitting at the kitchen table, she turned her attention to the dossier, which contained the history Wilcox wanted her to regard as her own. She studied the details one last time, memorizing it much the way she had seen Matt memorize the letters she'd watched him burn back in Dodge. As he had done, so did she, lifting the grate on the cook stove, she placed the papers inside and watched as they caught fire, blazed and dissolved to ashes.
GS GS GS GS
The only reality Matt Dillon had been aware of was St. Vincent's. The smells and the noises, as horrid as they were to Kitty's senses had a comfort in them, because they represented normalcy. He remembered nothing of the clean earthy smell of the prairie after the spring's first rain, or the sound of the meadow birds at daybreak. The touch of a friend's hand, a smile, a kind word, were all as foreign to him, as if he'd been born on the moon. For, in fact as far as he was concerned, his life had begun in a deserted field, forty miles from St Vincent's and the pain of his birth, had been marked by the two bullet holes he carried. Having been taken from what he knew, and placed in this alien environment, brought feelings of fear and only served to add to his bewilderment.
After Kitty had left the room he'd awakened with a start, in the strange comfort of a clean soft bed, he lay awake and tried to bring order to his confused existence. In random burst of clarity the image of the woman would come to him and a feeling of connection would pull him closer to that vision. However, the harder he tried the more difficult the exercise became. His mind was still too ill, to attempt such a task and finally he did what he'd learned as a form of self-defense. He let sleep and dreams take him away.
Dreams - not for the first time, the woman came to him there, and his hand reached for her, to touch the softness of her cheek and brush back her silky ginger colored hair. "pretty, pretty."
GS GS GS GS GS
She had changed into nightgown and robe, and now walked the silent halls of the little cottage. She checked the doors front and back and secured the locks and then set about pacing the floors again. She examined each room, by the light of the candle she carried. In the parlor she stopped to look at the mantle. On it, rested a ship in a bottle. She picked it up to examine the workmanship. It brought to mind the image of a castaway on a deserted island, sending out a message in a bottle, hoping someone would find it and save him. "Matt. Oh Matt", he was the castaway. "I'm here to rescue you", she thought, if only you'd send me a message to tell me where to find you.
She put the bottle down and stared into the dancing candle flame. He had sent a message, she realized suddenly. His word, as Lilly had revealed, was surely a message to her, just as certainly, as the word "Cowboy" would be to him. For in their most intimate of moments he'd call her his pretty lady, in that impassioned drawl, "What you do to me Pretty Lady, dear God, what you do to me."
Of this she was suddenly certain, trapped deep inside his lost soul was the man she loved, the man who loved her.