To Be Remembered as Time of Love Allow...

"One whom the hand of heaven hath smitten..."

“…that the lady had moreover qualities & accomplishments, belonging to her sex, which might form a chapter apart for her: such as music, modesty, beauty, & that softness of disposition which is the ornament of her sex & charm of ours…,” ~Thomas Jefferson to Maria Cosway, 12 October 1786

"Where Lagan stream sings lullaby
There blows a lily fair;
The twilight gleam is in her eye,
The night is on her hair.
And, like a love-sick lenanshee,
She has my heart in thrall;
Nor life I owe, nor liberty,
For Love is lord of all …”

~My Lagan Love

~~~

“One whom the hand of heaven hath smitten…”

~~~

Thomas…

Faintest salt tinged the air with sweat, honey, and pungent earth, the musk of their loving.

“I know.”  Her words hung, suspended in the web of silence between them. 

Settled into his arms, Caroline’s head rested atop his moving chest, regular motion timed to the swish of his heart beneath the warm skin.  She was as meek as a kitten in those moments after coupling, letting his hand wander through the silken black strands scattered across his torso, spilling down her shoulders, tracing their ends, draped over the svelte dip of her waist.  Thomas’ palm paused, shaping the outline of her rib-cage, the crux falling away where the gentle valley of her belly contracted in mirrored synchronicity with his own breathing.

Always, this ephemeral divide, a chasm of isolation leaving the Virginian bereft, doubting whether he should have kept the little Scottish woman wrapped in strong arms, twined against his body.  Her compliance, a slender arm slung out, fingers lightly combing the fine hairs of his chest, mimicked a semblance of languorous contentment, revived an illusion they still existed in that rapture of a golden Spring.

Until he felt the tears burn his skin, puddle of her anger collecting into the shallow depression formed by powerful muscles of his chest.  Beneath bunched sinew, his heart beat on, living vitality, but his mind was the feeling center of soul.

Why then, was it his heart which ached, melancholic sorrow, bitterness stewing with tender need in the night?   

Since that vibrant, fleeting Spring, Thomas Jefferson failed to sever his yearning for the exquisite little Scotch doctress.  Serendipitous discovery of Mediterranean enchantment, azure seas, golden sunlight, wine and ancient ruins awakened the music of longing.  In her company, Thomas Jefferson found ecstasy, filling a void of loneliness submerging his heart in the five years since his wife’s death. 

She was not Martha.  That was evident the way Caroline guarded the purity of her independence, carrying out the daily toils of her medical practice.  Evident too, when the little Scotch doctress rose from bed, completely uncaring to clothe her naked curves, the glory of her lithe form, slight and quick, unthinking grace to white-skinned limbs as she strode across the room, midnight locks swaying down her back, her only veil against his eager sight.  Desire stirred, his vision full of that arousing image, until she disappeared behind Oriental panels, partitioning off a small enclave meant for attending less savory aspects of a person’s toilette, including use of a covered chamber-pot.

Amid relieving herself, she was also emptying her body of his seed, ever vigilant to prevent a conceptus. 

He chose to ignore that, the way he never mentioned the tea he knew she drank with religious adherence, most faithfully on mornings following their coupling.  Thomas ought to have been grateful for her cognizance toward contraception.   An illegitimate child would have been the most blatant transgression betraying to the public, this deceptive indulgence of their lust.