Major and Mrs. Christy lived across from us along the river. They were wonderful neighbors and also the owners of Christy’s Tavern.
Martha Christy was a quiet, private sort, but she made me a lovely satin pillow for the baby’s cradle. Even more thoughtful was her assumption that her visiting niece would suit me as a friend. Once we were acquainted, Polly came over daily by midmorning, full of sunny smiles and long, thick golden blond hair cascading over her shoulders. Dimples punctuated a nearly permanent smile that made her hazel-gray eyes twinkle. She was a few years younger than me, but I was dumbfounded that this tender-aged girl knew more about what was to happen in childbirth than I did since her mother had allowed her to assist at family births.
A week before Christmas, she came for her midmorning visit. I was so weary and sore that she soaked and massaged my feet, helped me into my nightgown and robe, then settled me on the settee downstairs, adding a log to the fire before covering me with a quilt and slipping out the door.
I must have slept a good two hours when I heard someone lightly knock.
“Will?” I murmured.
“No, it’s Meriwether,” he responded, apologetically peering in at me from the half-opened door.
“What time is it?” Blinking, I pulled myself up to a sitting position.
“Half-past the noon hour. I’m sorry to have awakened you.”
“No apology needed. Please come in.”
He chose a wingback chair across from me that I’d fallen in love with in Louisville on the day we’d gone furniture shopping. “Not long ago, William mentioned that after leaving Jonathan’s family last June, you missed a play you’d wished to see.”
“Mmm. The Taming of the Shrew. It was advertised while we were visiting. If only it had played while we were there. You of all people know how much I love Shakespeare.”
“A disappointment indeed—one I’d like to remedy.”
“How’s that?” Intrigued, I sat up straighter.
“I’ve prepared a little Shakespearean monologue for you. Consider it an early Christmas gift for a young lady who has everything—except tickets to a drama in Louisville, that is.”
I grinned broadly at his thoughtful surprise. Two words would never be associated with Meriwether Lewis: those being inconsiderate and uncreative. “Tragedy or comedy?” I queried.
“I won’t spoil the fun. You have to figure out which play it’s from and what character I am. Ready?”
“Yes, please!”
Meriwether showed me his back briefly, assuming character. When he turned about, he stood straighter and was no longer looking at me, but out toward an imaginary audience.
“I shall have glory by this losing day
More than Octavius and Mark Antony
By this vile conquest shall attain unto.”
I couldn’t help but interrupt. “One of the Roman plays, then—Antony and Cleopatra?”
Meriwether shook his head, diving back into character.
“So fare you well at once; for Brutus’s tongue
Hath almost ended his life’s history—”
“Julius Caesar! I remember this part. You’re Brutus.”
Meriwether grinned, nodding and slipping back into the soliloquy.
“Night hangs upon mine eyes; my bones would rest,
That have but labored to attain this hour.”
Since I knew it, I jumped in to help, playing the minor roles. “Fly, my lord, fly!”
“Hence!” He gestured as if sending the man ahead. “I will follow.”
I shook my head in rapt amazement.
“I prithee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord:
Thou art a fellow of a good respect;
Thy life hath had some smatch of honour in it:
Hold, then, my sword, and turn away thy face,
While I do run upon it. Wilt thou, Strato?”
Without hesitation, I took on Strato so he could finish. “Give me your hand first. Fare you well, my lord.”
Meriwether grasped my hand with his left. “Farewell, good Strato,” he breathed.
He made a jerking movement, as though a real blade was piercing him. Slowly, like a tree falling after being cut, he collapsed sideways, not moving a muscle.
I sat breathless, deeply moved that he’d memorized and performed it especially for me. Once the pause of respectful silence had passed, I applauded. “Get up now. I don’t wish you dead any more than Strato wished it upon Brutus.”
He grinned from ear to ear as he rose in one fluid motion, brushing off his trousers and sweeping my hand into his before giving it a light kiss. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Clark. I pray this gift was adequate.”
I smiled at him. What a kindhearted person was Meriwether Lewis. I had to admit that we had such similarities it was a wonder that he and I hadn’t wound up together. But Meriwether held no attraction to me the way Will did. William Clark was all muscle, brawn, and rugged strength. Meriwether was more refined. Perhaps it was true that opposites did attract.
“It was a most appropriate gift,” I praised. “And what talent you possess, Governor.”
This Christmas wouldn’t be like any other I’d ever had. Because of my advanced pregnancy, we’d remain here at the house. But the New Year was knocking and would be so full of blessings—a new home of our own, a child to raise in love, and returning home to Santillane.