To Be Remembered as Time of Love Allow...

"Master of my own Secret..." --Part 2

Sospel

“Sospel was situated on a torrent abounding with speckled trout and surrounded by olive trees in blossom. Jefferson passed the night here. We do not know where he stayed, whether at the posthouse or a tavern, and what if anything he did to celebrate his birthday. If he drank wine with his dinner, he would have brought it from Nice since there were no vineyards in this mountain region.”

~James M. Gabler, Passions: the Wines and Travels of Thomas Jefferson

~~

Thomas awoke in a shepherd’s grotto the next morning, gazing in the cool, gray light of a mountain dawn, upon the sleeping figure of the little Scotch doctress.

His mind recovering from the amnesic fog, blessing of imbibing fermented honey, the Virginian’s memories from the night came in scattered fragments.

Leading, in one disbelieving moment, to a sudden, exhilarated revelation—

Her bewitching form in his arms…

—and the rush of graphic images summoning the details of their transgression, performed during the night, in a shepherd’s grotto, before a crude hearth.

It was horror, initially, that compelled Thomas to leave Caroline’s slumbering form, shuffling across the packed earthen floor.

He pressed himself against the wall of that small dwelling, as though hiding from a pursuer, crumbling stone and plaster pushing into his back.

Dread only grew into a deeper pit, watching when Caroline began to rouse, moments after him.

She rolled, coming to sitting, arranging skirts, blinking to chase sleep from drowsy eyes.

Thomas could almost imagine how the images resurrected in her mind, evident in the changing expression of her fine boned features.

Consternation was a frown, Caroline glancing about the humble herder’s abode, squinting in the rosy dawn hour, eyes roving over the crevassed walls, the fire-pit, then, stilling upon Thomas’s seated form, across the floor from where they had slept—

Slept, wrapped in each other’s arms…

She started, jaw dropping, her eyes popped wide, a fluttering of lashes.

“Oh! Oh my!” she exclaimed, hand flying to cover her mouth.

Thomas’ face flamed. He couldn’t look away from her, but his power of speech seemed to have fled, staring on with dumb shock.

Caroline flushed as well, her hand falling back to her lap, shifting her feet to a more comfortable pose.

Her eyes skirted from his, before leaping back to his face, the crease between sleek black brows, speaking more to contemplation, than dismay or lover’s-regret.

With a soft sigh, a sudden leveling frankness, “You look flummoxed,” she said in a voice she might have used to discuss a patient’s disease-condition. The tone offered a prompting.

“Did-um-did we -,” stumbling on the words. “You and I—did we—“, awkward, clearing his throat, unable to finish the thought.

“Oh,” she exclaimed with a short laugh, peering at him curiously. “Poets never warn that might be the first line greeting one’s ears after a night of-of um…coupling.” She kept her gaze steady, but her cheeks warmed pink, despite her attempt at pragmatic candor.

Thomas felt a sense of relief, he wasn’t the only one unsettled by what transpired between them, in the night.

Examining him with keen black irises, Caroline couldn’t miss how strung he was, long legs flung out, crossed at the ankles, but his arms were folded tight over his chest, back rigid against the wall.