The Good Morrow Page 5

  Chapter 5

  I

  Foster sat at his table, gazing at the moon in a trance, and “writing”. A gust of wind blew out the candle, and Foster was shaken out of his trance. It took him a moment to reorient himself.

  As he began looking over what he had written, he caught sight of something in the garden below him.

  At the far end of the garden, the figure of a woman dressed in white moved through the shadows and disappeared behind some shrubbery. She was barely discernable, but she seemed to be young and wearing a full, long white dress.

  Foster stood up and leaned over the desk to get a better look out the window. He saw no sign of her anymore, and he was a bit puzzled.

  He sat back down, relit the candle, and resumed gazing at the moon. He was making a determined effort to lift off into his trance again when something distracted him.

  The woman walked through another part of the garden in clear view. She was a beautiful girl in her twenties, wearing what appeared to be an antebellum evening gown. She carried a fan, and she was strolling in the garden as though she had just left a ball inside for a breath of fresh air.

  As Foster watched with rapturous awe, the lady paused and looked up at Foster. She smiled raising her fan to cover her face a little coquettishly and then turned to continue walking. She disappeared into the shadows.

  Foster attempted to focus his attention on the moon again, but he could not refrain from leaning forward out the window to see if he could spot the lady in the garden. Finally he dropped his pen, and knocked the chair over as he headed for the door.

  Foster slid down the banister on the main stairs and bounded out the door like a five-year-old fireman responding to an alarm.

  As he rounded the corner of the house heading into the garden Foster collected himself and switched from fireman to genteel planter overseeing his domain. The garden had once been a formal garden with geometrical patterns of shrubbery. The fact that it was now completely overgrown only made it a perfect labyrinth for playing hide and seek.

  Foster snuck around the garden, peering in and around the shrubs. He saw no sign of the girl. He stopped for a moment to listen, and heard nothing.

  Finally he gave up and started back towards the house, only to hear the sound of footsteps in another part of the garden. He froze for a moment to listen, and then ran around to a path between two rows of shrubbery. As he rounded the corner, he caught a glimpse of the white skirt disappearing behind another row of shrubs. He ran after her, only to discover that she had disappeared again and there was no apparent place for her to be hiding.

  Foster stood for a moment thinking. Then he smiled and walked back to the house.

  II

  Bubba and the Colonel were enjoying mint juleps on the porch when Ruthie had ambushed them in an attempt to initiate a rational conversation.

  “Do you have any idea of what this property is worth?”

  Needless to say Bubba’s idea of rational discourse differed somewhat from Ruthie’s.

  “Everybody has his own idea about what something is worth.”

  “I’m talking about the real value of this property.”

  It was still early enough in the day for The Colonel to participate in parlor games.

  “You’re talking about how much money you want to make off it.”

  “We’d all benefit.”

  Bubba’s good nature got the better of him, and he let himself believe that Ruthie might be susceptible to persuasion.

  “Would we? How would Sarah and Lydia benefit?”

  “Everybody would get their share.”

  “But we don’t need the money.”

  Ruthie was too committed to her own grasp on reality to acknowledge any truth that failed to conform to it.

  “You’re just being obstinate. You know Foster is not competent to manage this estate.”

  “I know this place is his, and he’s free to do with it as he pleases so long as he lets the rest of us live here.”

  “My lawyer seems to think there is more to it than that.”

  “Your lawyer knows as well as I do that Foster is entitled to let the place be a wildlife sanctuary if he wants to.”

  “Lunatic asylum is more like it.”

  The Colonel had had enough of evasive maneuvering and pussyfooting around.

  “Listen, woman, stop sniveling. If you want this territory, take it by force. Vicksburg, San Juan Hill, The Battle of the Bulge.”

  He raised his glass in a toast to the glory of war.

  Ruthie retreated back inside to regroup.

  “I’d like to see you take something by force, you old coot. It’s about all you can do to open a jug.”

  Ruthie parting shot was completely wasted on a fortress as impenetrable as The Colonel. She stormed through the hallway on her way upstairs.

  Sarah sat at the piano in the living room, accompanying herself haltingly as she sang.

  “Yes He walks with me

  And He talks with me

  And He tells me I am his own…”

  III

  Foster crouched behind a shrub in the middle of the night. He spotted the lady in her long white evening gown coming towards him at the far end of a path. He gazed at her without moving from his hiding place as she approached. She was indeed a beautiful creature. She had long dark hair, a pale complexion, and a sensitive, melancholy air.

  When she reached the shrub where Foster was hiding, he sprang out into the pathway to confront her.

  She walked on past him as though she did not see him at all.

  Foster was stunned, but he quickly gathered his wits about him and hurried after her. He stepped in front of her and did a deep, chivalrous bow as he introduced himself.

  “Good evening, m’am. May I join you?”

  She seemed startled by his voice, and amazed that he would speak to her.

  “I’m sorry if I startled you. I’m Foster Abernathy. I saw you the other night from the window of my room. I hope you don’t think I’m too forward.”

  She has relaxed and seems quite flattered.

  “Why no.”

  “May I walk with you?”

  “Yes, please do.”

  Foster offered her his arm as they start to walk, but she shied away from the physical contact. Foster tried to pretend he was doing something else with his arm.

  “Have you been here long?”

  “It seems like forever.”

  “I didn’t know you were here until the other night. I don’t really keep track of what is going on in the house.”

  She seemed to be listening, but not inclined to respond.

  “It’s not that I don’t like the other people here. It’s just that my calling demands that I keep to myself and work nights.”

  For some reason Foster wanted to pour his heart out to her.

  “I’m a poet. Or at least I think I am. Ever since I was little, I felt I was supposed to be a poet, but for the longest time, I never had anything to say. I did all the things a poet is supposed to do, but the words just didn’t come to me. I even tried to write about the fact that I had nothing to say.”

  They sat on a bench. Foster wanted so badly for her to be interested in what he was saying that he dared not stop talking long enough to find out if she was.

  “It was only after I came here that I actually started writing. I woke up one morning and discovered I had written fifteen pages the night before. I didn’t understand it, so I knew it was inspired. I think I’m writing an epic.”

  Foster turned discovered that his companion had disappeared.

  He jumped up and looked around the end of a row of shrubbery to see where she had gone. There was no sign of her.

  He gave up looking and started back towards the house with a puzzled look on his face.

  IV

  Foster was “writing” again – gazing at the moon in a trance while the feather pen scratches across the paper – when the lady emerged from the shadows in the garden directly below
his window. She stood twirling a parasol over her shoulder and looking up at him coquettishly.

  Foster continued writing, oblivious to her presence below him.

  The coquettishness faded from her expression.

  She looked at Foster skeptically for a moment and then turned to continue walking.

  Foster came to just in time to see her disappear amidst the shrubbery.

  He jumped up, scooped up his papers, grabbed a bouquet of flowers sitting on his bed, and darted out of the room.

  Foster ran around the garden, dodging in and out of the shrubs, looking for her. There was no sign of her anywhere.

  Eventually Foster sat down on the bench, out of breath and a bit despondent.

  The lady appeared behind him and was almost seated beside him before he saw her.

  He jumped up and then bowed to her, offering her the flowers.

  “I was afraid I would never see you again.”

  She accepted the flowers with a modest smile, and he sat beside her.

  “I’m sorry about last night. Sometimes I guess I just get all wrapped up in myself.”

  “Yes.”

  “Please don’t be hurt. Tell me your name. I want to know all about you.”

  “My name is Annabelle.”

  She did not seem to want to volunteer anything else about herself.

  “Annabelle. How nice. Are you an Abernathy?”

  “My fiancé was an Abernathy. He died though.”

  “How tragic. You are certainly welcome to stay here as long as you like.”

  “That’s very gracious of you. I love it here. So much of the world these days seems so sterile, but this place is like an island of beauty and wonder.”

  “Yes, I know what you mean.”

  “I love to walk in the moonlight. Don’t you think it’s romantic?”

  “I think you’re the most beautiful lady I’ve ever met.”

  “Why thank you, sir.”

  “I mean it. And I can think of nothing I should like more than to escort you on your moonlight walks.”

  “Nothing?”

  She looked at him a little sadly. He was puzzled and wanted to assure her of his devotion.

  “I shall wait for you here every night.”

  “What is that you have?”

  She gestured towards the sheaf of papers Foster was holding.

  “Oh, it’s my poetry.”

  She inclined her head expectantly, but he did not offer to show it to her.

  “Will you read some of it to me?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  She spoke gently and a little seductively as though she knew he just needed a little encouragement.

  Foster handed her the pages a little sheepishly.

  Annabelle smiled sweetly as she took it and began reading the top sheet. Foster was surprised that she seemed to be reading and understanding the writing. He was amazed as he watched her face and tears welled up in her eyes.

  She looked away for a moment to collect herself and then turned to Foster, smiling through her tears.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  Foster was speechless. He could see that she was not joking with him, but he could not really believe she had understood it.

  “Is it?”

  Annabelle just nodded and handed the pages back to him.

  “Can you read it to me?”

  Annabelle nodded and took the pages back.

  She concentrated as though she was aware of the difficulty of doing justice to the poetry. She read in a strange, almost melodic, chanting voice.

  “Erehw yreve na, emoor elttil eno sekam dna,

  Seluortnoc sthgis rehto fo evol lla, evol for;

  Ereaf fo tuo rehtona eno ton hctaw hcihw,

  Seluos gnikaw ruo ot worrom doog won dna.

  Eeht fo emaerd a tub sawt, tog dna,

  d’rised i hcihw,

  Ees did i ytuaeb yna reve fi.

  Eeb seicnaf serusaelp lla, siht tub; os sawt’.

  Ned srepeels nevaes eht ni ew detrons ro?

  Ylhsidlihc, serusaelp yertnuoc no d’kcus tub?

  Neht llit d’naew ton ew erew? D’vol ew llit, did

  I dna, uoht tahw, htort ym yb rednow i?”

  Foster concentrated intensely as she reads, but in the end, he could pretend to have understood any of it. He was impressed, however, with the way she read it and convinced that it was indeed profound and beautiful. He let it all soak in for a moment, and then in an eruption of passion, he fell onto one knee, grabbed her hand and kissed it passionately.

  She looked at him in stunned amazement at first and then her face melted into a smile.

  Foster’s consciousness caught up with him, and he rose from the ground to resume his place beside her on the bench. He let go of her hand in the process and seemed embarrassed.

  Annabelle faltered for an instant and then spoke.

  “Would you hold my hand for a while?”

  Foster was more than happy to oblige. Annabelle closed her eyes as if to savor the moment. Foster was touched that it seemed to means so much to her and was still reeling from the fact that she understood his writing.

  “I’m going to dedicate my work to you. Will you meet me here every night so that I can show you what I’ve written?”

  She opened her eyes and smiled at him.

  “I’d be honored.”