by Nan Ryan
When finally they’d calmed a bit, Suzanna pulled back, looked at Cynthia Ann and said, “I can’t believe it. You’ve actually come to see me? You’re still my friend after all that I’ve done? After all that has happened?”
“Of course I’m still your friend,” Cynthia Ann assured her. She knew, as did everyone in Washington, that Suzanna had been a spy for the Confederacy and had sent soldiers and sailors to their deaths. But Cynthia Ann had never held it against her, despite the fact that Davy Williams—the man she was to marry—had been killed at Gettysburg wearing Northern blue.
“I’m so sorry, Cyn,” Suzanna had exclaimed when Cynthia Ann told her of Davy’s death.
“He died a hero in battle,” her friend stated calmly, “and I shall always be proud of him.”
She went on to confide that at that time she had vowed she would never, ever marry. But she had changed her mind recently when she’d met Cliff Dansforth, a shy, handsome attorney who was ten years her senior and well established in a thriving Washington legal practice. “You think Davy would forgive me if he knew?” she’d asked Suzanna.
“I’m certain of it, Cyn,” Suzanna had assured her.
“You’ll be my matron of honor?”
“You know I will, but are you sure you want me? Everyone knows that I…”
“Doesn’t matter. Mark my words, Suz, the fact that you were a daring female spy will only make you more appealing.”
* * *
Cynthia Ann had been right.
Just as in Europe, Suzanna quickly set hearts aflutter in the nation’s capital, and hopeful swains swarmed around her. In the two months since her return from Europe, Suzanna had attended—and even hosted—many glamorous parties. The fact that she had been a spy only added to her allure.
Everyone was eager to hear about her thrilling escapades, but Suzanna demurred with a playful smile and a shake of her head, refusing to discuss her past adventures. And in so doing, she added to her own mystique.
She never apologized for what she had done in the war, never attempted to hide the fact that she was and always would be totally loyal to the fallen South. Her nature as fiery as ever, she didn’t hesitate to speak her mind when, at a crowded gala, a gentleman who’d had too much champagne swaggered over to her and said, “Haven’t you heard the news, missy? The Union was victorious, no thanks to you. We whipped the arrogant Johnny Rebs and—”
Interrupting, Suzanna said, “You’re mistaken, sir. The South was not beaten, only worn down by superior numbers and supplies!”
On another occasion a bitter Yankee veteran who had lost an arm at Vicksburg walked up to her, showed her the stump in his empty sleeve and said, “Just so you’ll know what loss is like.”
“Sir, I know a great deal about loss.” Suzanna quickly set him straight. “I lost everything during the war. Everything. I lost my brother, my sweetheart, my mother, my mansion and my livelihood to the crushing Union, so don’t lecture me about loss!”
While a number of guests had looked on, stunned, many had smiled and applauded her spirit. It was evident that Suzanna’s admirers greatly outnumbered her detractors. So she went to the parties, and she laughed and danced and drank champagne and easily charmed her many acquaintances. At the frequent social functions she attended, she was consistently charming, cheerful and carefree.
But it was all a facade.
Suzanna was as unhappy here as she had been in Europe. Even more so. Here the memories were too vivid, too painful. More than one night she had lain awake reliving the times she had spent with Mitch at the secluded cottage in the woods.
She remembered making love for the first time in his bedroom while rain pelted the windows, lightning flashed and thunder boomed. And shamelessly undressing in broad daylight out in the hammock on the back porch. And on the soft fur rug before a blazing fire.
As she dressed for the Graysons’ reception on this early April evening, she began to seriously consider getting away again. She didn’t know where she could go, but she knew that she would never be content here in this city where so many memories haunted her.
She wished she could leave right now, this very minute, but knew that she couldn’t. She would attend the Graysons’ reception tonight and would wait at least until after Cynthia Ann was married before fleeing Washington. Suzanna had promised to be matron of honor and she would keep that promise.
“What you mulling over in your mind?” asked Buelah as she lifted the chiffon ball gown over Suzanna’s head.
When the dazzling garment encased her slender body, Suzanna said simply, “Leaving.”
“Too early to leave yet, child,” said Buelah. “Jules said he’ll have the carriage brought around at eight.”
Suzanna didn’t clarify her statement. “Eight will be fine.”
* * *
Suzanna laughed merrily and tossed rice at the beaming newlyweds as they hurried away from the lavish, late-afternoon reception to the waiting carriage. Mr. and Mrs. Cliff Dansforth were to spend their wedding night in the bridal suite of the Willard Hotel, then leave in the morning for a yearlong honeymoon in Europe.
Suzanna’s bright smile slipped a little as she watched the carriage—with the happily embracing couple inside—roll down the avenue and turn the corner. Before the gleaming black brougham disappeared around the bend, a glowing Cynthia Ann stuck her veiled head out and waved madly to Suzanna.
Suzanna laughed and blew her kisses.
But when all the other guests went back inside to drink more champagne and continue with the lively celebration, she stayed there on the street alone.
She felt a lock of hair tickle her cheek, and when she lifted a hand to push it back in place she touched a dogwood blossom that had fallen from a tree overhead and caught in her hair. Sweeping the blossom away, she watched as it fluttered slowly to the ground.
Now in late spring, the weather in Washington was near perfect. But all too soon the humid, miserable summertime would descend on the city, with its stifling heat. Suzanna dreaded the prospect of spending long, hot nights lying awake in the darkness, yearning for a man she could not have.
Instead of going back to the party, Suzanna impulsively summoned a carriage-for-hire and had the driver take her to the law offices of her attorney, J. Franklin Barker, the young associate who’d taken over the practice when the aging Will Bonner had retired from the firm.
On this sunny Saturday afternoon she caught the tall, thin lawyer just as he was getting ready to leave for the day.
“Mrs. Clements,” he greeted her, quizzically studying her apparel. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“I’ve just come from the wedding of my best friend,” she explained, indicating her attire. “I couldn’t wait a minute longer to find out. Has the deal been finalized?”
“I’m happy to report that it has.” He indicated the straight-backed chair across the desk. “Do sit down and we’ll discuss it.”
The attorney explained that, as instructed, he had found a suitable purchaser for the big Washington residence. By “suitable,” he meant not only was the purchaser agreeable to the asking price, but was also perfectly willing to keep any and all servants who wished to stay on.
“Mrs. Clements, you may want to take some time and think this over,” the attorney said. “If you sell the general’s mansion, you will be without a home here and—”
Interrupting, Suzanna said, “If the papers have been drawn up, I will sign immediately.”
“As you wish,” he said, and began searching for the stack of documents he knew were somewhere atop his cluttered desk. As he shuffled papers and frowned, he asked, almost as an afterthought if she wished to dispose of the South Carolina estate.
“South Carolina?” she repeated. “I still own property there?”
“Why, yes, I…” J. Franklin Barker looked up and smiled. “So neither your deceased husband nor Mr. Bonner ever mentioned that the property survived the war?”
She shook her head.
; “Please forgive me. I guess I took it for granted that you knew about the South Carolina place. So, shall I sell it as well?”
“You say property. Is it raw land or…”
“Yes, there’s a small bit of land and a comfortable house on the—”
“Really?” Thinking aloud, she mused, “And it’s somewhat cooler there in the summer than it is here.”
J. Franklin Barker said, “Oh my, yes. It’s beach property. The house sits right on the ocean and is cooled by all those nice sea breezes.”
Suzanna quickly straightened with interest as he continued. “General Clements, in ill health the last decades of his life, often visited the spas of South Carolina. He fell in love with the gentle climate, so he bought the beach property and had a house constructed on it. The structure is well-built and has been properly maintained all this time by a couple from the little inland village nearby. The pair looked after the general when he spent time there.” The attorney paused, studied her face and asked, “So? Shall I sell it?”
“No, Mr. Barker. Post a letter to the caretaking couple and advise them to make the beach house ready for immediate occupancy.” Suzanna stood up and smiled at the puzzled attorney.
“Occupied by whom?” He came to his feet. “Surely you’re not considering going there? Why, that just wouldn’t do, Mrs. Clements. It wouldn’t do at all! The place is too remote, too far from a city. You’d be alone there, totally on your own. No friends, no social activities, no fine restaurants or hotels.”
“You’ve just sold me on it, Mr. Barker,” Suzanna said decisively. “Do not sell the property. I will spend the summer at the beach.”
Forty
In May, Suzanna left Washington. Alone. Even Buelah chose to stay behind with the big, gregarious family who had purchased the general’s mansion. Suzanna understood perfectly and praised it as a wise decision. In fact, she was secretly relieved that Buelah would not be accompanying her to South Carolina.
Buelah was quite old and frail, and Suzanna worried that uprooting her again might damage her failing health. And, truth to tell, it was mostly she who now looked after Buelah, not the other way around. It was best for them both that Buelah stay on where she was comfortable and content. Dr. Ledet promised he would keep an eye on her.
“But how will you get along without me?” the old servant had asked, tears swimming in her eyes.
“It will not be easy,” Suzanna had told her, “but perhaps it’s time I learned how to take care of myself.”
Left unsaid was that Suzanna actually looked forward to being on her own. She was weary of people and parties and pretense. She longed for solitude and silence and serenity. She knew she would never find happiness, and was accepting of that fact, believing that she did not deserve to be happy. But she did hope for a least a small degree of peace and tranquility.
Suzanna arrived in Savannah, Georgia, on a balmy May afternoon. She was met at the dock by a coach and six, and accompanied on the last leg of her journey up the coast by a dignified gentleman who introduced himself as Timothy Youngblood, Savannah attorney and South Carolina contact of her Washington law firm. He had, he informed her, made the necessary arrangements, and the beach house was ready and waiting for her arrival.
When they reached the little village, the attorney worried aloud that she might find the beach house too lonely and remote. But when Suzanna got her first glimpse of the white, two-story house on an elevated rise above the sugary white sands of the beach, she knew she had made the right decision in coming here.
Suzanna was out of the carriage before it came to a complete stop, eager to go inside and explore. The house was a handsome, well-built structure, and the minute she crossed the broad veranda and walked through the heavy, carved front door, she felt she’d found a home.
A wide center hallway and large floor-to-ceiling windows gave the place a bright, open feel. A gentle breeze off the ocean stirred the sheer white curtains and kept the air pleasantly fresh. At the back of the house, the kitchen larder was filled with food in anticipation of her arrival.
Upstairs, a big four-poster with snowy-white bed hangings and fragile mosquito netting dominated the master bedroom. Tall, glass-paned doors opened onto a broad balcony, affording a bird’s-eye view of the endless ocean to the bed’s occupant.
“I engaged the caretaking couple to make the place ready,” said the solicitous lawyer as he carried her many valises inside. “I trust they have done a satisfactory job.”
“The place is spotless,” Suzanna replied, eagerly inspecting the residence. “And beautiful.”
“Indeed,” he said, then added, “but isolated. As you know, the village is a good two miles inland, and a very small community with few year-round citizens. Most of those are laborers who work a wealthy planter’s vast sugar, cotton and rice fields.” Suzanna nodded, and he continued. “A line of credit has been established with the merchants and the livery, and the bills are being sent to my office.”
“You’ve thought of everything,” she said.
“But have you, Mrs. Clements? This stretch of beach is particularly desolate and uninhabited. You’re likely to go for days, perhaps weeks, without meeting anyone.”
“I see,” Suzanna commented, unworried by the prospect.
“The truth is I’m afraid you’ll be terribly lonely here, Mrs. Clements. You’re much too young and beautiful to be buried way out here away from civilization. Should you decide the property is too remote, I’ll be happy to find you a lovely home in the heart of Savannah or up in Charleston.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“There’s a small cottage on your property—about a mile back from the beach—where the caretaking couple are now living. The Tillmans—John and his wife, Martha—are quiet, unobtrusive servants and are available to stay on and tend to your needs—doing the marketing, the cooking and cleaning, making any necessary repairs to the property. Or they will move if you want to replace them with your own servants.”
“Ask them to stay,” Suzanna said. “But tell them I will not be needing their services for at least a couple of days.”
“I sure will. You may have noticed the flagpole at the back of the house. Anytime you need something done, send the flag up, and one or both of the Tillmans will be here within minutes.”
Suzanna smiled. “A perfect arrangement.”
The attorney said, “Now, if there’s nothing further…”
“Thank you so much for everything, Mr. Youngblood.”
“You have my card. Feel free to contact me anytime.”
* * *
The silence and solitude of the beach house perfectly suited Suzanna’s melancholy mood. She felt as if she had been drawn to this secluded place, and hoped that it would be a soothing balm to her restless spirit.
As soon as the attorney left her, she hurried back upstairs to the master suite. She removed her hat, gloves, suit jacket, shoes and stockings. She took the pins from her hair and let it spill down around her shoulders. Barefoot, she walked out onto the balcony and stood at the railing, staring at the deserted beach, endless ocean and cloudless sky.
The loneliness of the place suited her even more than she had hoped. She stayed on the balcony until sunset, allowing the wind to toss her unbound hair about her head, and inhaling deeply of the clean, moist air. When she turned to go inside, it struck her that she would be spending the night all alone. Not a single servant would be under the same roof.
The thought did not disturb her. It pleased her. She was not afraid of the dark, nor was she afraid of being alone. And there was something quite liberating in being able to go about half-dressed or not dressed at all. Better still, if she felt like screaming or crying or cursing the Fates, she could jolly well do so without upsetting anyone. Here in this secret seaside getaway, she could finally withdraw from the tiresome bustle of life, become a total recluse and embrace her precious privacy.
At ten that night Suzanna blew out the bedroom lamp, stripped off he
r clothes and crawled, comfortably naked, into bed. Expecting to lie awake far into the night as she always did, she began to feel pleasantly drowsy the minute her head touched the pillow.
She fell fast asleep before she could draw the covering sheet up over herself. And she slept the night through without waking. For the first time in years she slept well and awakened feeling rested and relaxed.
Suzanna yawned, stretched and sat up. She hugged her knees to her chest and sat there in bed, planning her day. First on the agenda was a good long look at the ocean. She scooted to the edge of the mattress, swung her legs to the floor and stood up. She picked up her white satin robe from the foot of the bed and slipped her arms inside.
Loosely tying the sash, she crossed to the open French doors. She cautiously stuck her head out, then remembered that the attorney had told her the nearest house was at least two miles up the beach. No danger of being seen.
Suzanna stepped out onto the balcony and crossed to the waist-high railing. She stood there in the warming May sunlight, listening to the seagulls calling to each other, and watching the waves splash onto the shore. This was the way to start a new day. Or perhaps she should toss caution to the wind and take an invigorating swim in the ocean.
Giggling like a naughty child, Suzanna turned, went inside, crossed the big bedroom and skipped down the stairs. She glided through the foyer and yanked the heavy front door open. She rushed outside and raced across the sugary sands of the beach with her uncombed hair and white satin robe streaming out behind her.
At the water’s edge she again looked around—and saw no one. She untied her sash and dropped the robe to the sand. Then she squealed with delight as she splashed into the chilly waters and fell over onto her belly. She swam with the ease and majesty of a sleek mermaid, her slender arms pulling her effortlessly through the salty tide.
She swam far out before turning and swimming back to shore, physically exhausted but wonderfully rejuvenated. When she stood up, out of the water, her teeth began to chatter. She swept her sopping hair back off her face, yanked up her robe and put it on, her wet body quickly saturating the satin. She hugged her arms to her chest as she headed back to the house, marveling at how well she felt.
