A/N: So I've recently become rather obsessed with Turn. It's not historically accurate, but damn, is it entertaining. It's probably best to think of it as historical fiction. If you try to reconcile it with actual history, you'll probably get a headache, or an attack of Hulk Rage. I've decided that my favorite character is Major Hewlett. I've been a fan of Burn Gorman for a long time, and as usual, he gives a smashing performance. Hewlett may be awkward, priggish, and a huge dork, but he's also probably the most decent person in the series. And I love his weird little face. Anyway, after reading HyacinthClare's excellent story "All My Stars", I was inspired to write my own.
Disclaimer: I do not own AMC's Turn. I'm just borrowing the characters. Also, lots of spoilers for the Season 2 finale.
With Hoops of Steel
-.-.-.-.-
It is a bitter, blustery night in Setauket, Long Island. The frozen ground is covered in a thin layer of hoarfrost which shines in the cold winter moonlight. The trees, long stripped of their leaves, shiver and rattle their naked limbs in the howling gusts. In the grand house of the town magistrate, the wind sobs in the hearth like a lost child, and the fine ice crystals that float along the air tinkle like glass against the windowpanes.
In her room at Whitehall, Anna Strong paces the floor aimlessly, her mood a fitting counterpart to the weather outside. Each and every uncertain step seems to betray her conflicted state of mind. Suddenly, impulsively, she crosses the room and opens a chest of drawers. And then she hesitates again, her hands hovering like restless birds. Finally, she reaches inside and takes out a pair of knitted gloves. They are made of dark grey wool, their fingertips open to allow the wearer to perform delicate work. She looks at them, inspects them carefully for any imperfections. She wonders if she has gone mad.
What does she think she is doing, exactly? She would like to say that she is only keeping up appearances, maintaining the guise of friendship. But it is more than a guise, and she would be a fool if she tried to convince herself otherwise.
Shaking her head, she tucks the gloves into a pocket in her dress and steps out into the hall. On her way, she passes Mary Woodhull, bouncing her little son Thomas on her hip. She nods coolly as she goes by. Anna cannot blame her for her unfriendly demeanor. She is not exactly welcome at Whitehall; indeed, if it were not for the protection of one man, she would not be allowed to set foot inside it. Which would leave her at the mercy of a monster.
Perhaps that is the reason for the gloves. Simple obligation.
Stopping outside the door at the top of the landing, Anna steels herself and knocks. There is a brief pause, and a gruff voice is heard from within, laced with irritation: "Yes? Who is it?"
She takes a deep breath and forces a smile. "It is Anna."
"Oh. Mrs. Strong." Just like that, the irritation is gone. "I... Give me one moment."
There is a shuffling, and the sound of uneven footsteps dragging themselves across the floor. And then the door opens, and the figure of Major Edmund Hewlett of His Majesty's Royal Army stands before her. He is dressed, most uncharacteristically, in shirt and breeches, and his white powdered wig is missing from his head, revealing his dark, close-cropped hair.
"Mrs. Strong, please forgive my improper attire," he says in his usual formal way. "I should have announced my intention to retire early tonight."
Abruptly, embarrassment colors Anna's cheeks. "I apologize for disturbing you, Major. This can wait until the morning—"
"Not at all," the major replies with a dismissive wave of his hand. "How may I be of service?"
"I only came to give you — Why, Major!" She suddenly notices that he is only wearing one boot, and blood is seeping through the bandages on his foot. "You're bleeding."
Hewlett winces. "Ah. Yes, I was just attempting to change the dressing; a task which, I fear, has proved more challenging than I had anticipated."
"You must let me help you," says Anna without thinking.
He instantly balks at the unseemly suggestion. "No, no, I shouldn't like to be any trouble. I shall manage on my own."
"It's no trouble, truly." The admonishing look he gives her is clearly meant to dissuade her from her ill-conceived errand of mercy, but it is wasted on her. "Please, Edmund," she insists. "You have done so much for me. I would be only too glad to repay your kindness, even in this small way."
Hewlett's expression softens. "There is no debt to be repaid, Anna," he says, gracious as always. "But... if it would make you happy..."
She smiles again, and this time it isn't forced. "It would."
He returns her smile. "Come in, then."
As he steps back to allow her inside, Anna observes that his gait is labored and unsteady. She takes his arm and helps him to sit down on the edge of his bed, watching his face closely. If he is in as much pain as she thinks he is, he hides it very well. A thought occurs to her, and she moves to the little side table and pours him a small measure of brandy to dull the pain. He accepts the glass gratefully.
As she busies herself with gathering the wash basin and the ewer and the extra bandages, Anna finds herself watching the major again out of the corner of her eye. It is odd, seeing him without his regulation white hairpiece. He looks younger, less stern and forbidding. She recalls the first time she ever saw him without his wig. It was the night he showed her his telescope. She remembers the enthusiasm that ignited in his eyes as he pointed out the constellations to her, the regret in his voice as he confessed that he never wanted to join the King's Army, that his true passion was astronomy. That was the night that she first began to see him as a person, and not as a soldier.
That was the night that he asked her to call him Edmund.
She draws a chair up close to the bed, seating herself across from him. As gently as she can, she places his injured foot on her knee and prepares to unwrap it. Suddenly she is stopped by his hand on hers.
"I feel I should warn you," he says in his quiet, raspy voice. "It is rather a grisly sight."
Anna acknowledges his warning with a nod. Evidently satisfied by whatever he sees in her manner or her gaze, he sits back again, relaxing ever so slightly. Trying her best not to think about where she is, or what she is doing, or who she is doing it for, she focuses on the task of removing the blood-soaked strips of linen. And then she cannot keep from gasping as she sees the state of his foot. Where his last three toes should be is instead a ragged black stump, encrusted in blood.
"I..." Anna is momentarily at a loss for words. "I saw you limping, but I had no idea. How did this happen?"
Hewlett's dark eyebrows draw together in disapproval. "That, my dear Mrs. Strong, is not a story for a lady's ears," he says firmly.
Despite herself, she finds his stuffy preoccupation with propriety rather endearing. "Oh, come, Major," she replies lightly, her own eyebrow raised in challenge. "I think you'll find I am made of sterner stuff than that."
Though he obviously tries to curb it, a small smile briefly touches his lips. "Yes, I suppose you are," he says, half to himself.
She dips a cloth in the wash basin and begins gingerly swabbing the blood from his maimed foot. While she continues to clean the wound, he tells her of his treatment at the hands of the rebel soldiers, who pronounced him guilty of the murder of their captain, stripped him, and threw him into an outdoor cell. He tells her of the weeks he spent in the biting cold, with nothing but a blanket for covering, watching helplessly as he lost his toes to frostbite. He tells her of the soldier who gave him a knife, offering him the opportunity to take his own life, or to be shot while attempting to escape, thus avoiding execution.
As he speaks, Anna finds herself growing more and more enraged and indignant by the actions of these soldiers. These men, who are supposedly fighting for justice and freedom from the tyranny of the English, apparently had no qualms about executing a man without a trial, without a shred of evidence. Nor did they seem to have any compunctions about robbing a man of his dignity and allowing him to freeze to death. If a lack of a conscience really is the price to pay for freedom, is it still worth fighting for?
"I believe I must have gone a bit mad, for a time," Hewlett is saying, recalling her out of her dark thoughts. "I found myself seriously wondering if I had indeed committed that... inhuman act. But even as the thought crossed my mind, I knew the truth. There was only one person I knew who was capable of slaughtering a man in that barbaric fashion, and then contriving to have me blamed for the murder."
"Simcoe," Anna whispers.
"Yes." He swallows. "I am reluctant to admit this to you, but there was a moment when, so great was my despair, that I nearly gave in to the temptation to... use the knife to facilitate my own end."
She feels a pang at his words. "Edmund..."
"It was you who stayed my hand." Anna's eyes widen at this. "That is," he goes on hastily to explain, "it was the thought of you, alone and defenseless, while that fiend Simcoe prowled the land unchecked... I knew I had to escape, somehow. I had to live... for your sake."
Simultaneously moved and ashamed by his frank confession, Anna finds herself blinking back tears. No one has ever held her in such high regard. And never has that regard been so completely misplaced.
"So," he resumes briskly, eager to change the subject. "Thus resolved, I forced myself to remove the toes which had succumbed to gangrene, and when Simcoe and his... Queen's Rangers came to finish me off, I stabbed him and made my escape." His voice takes on a rough, dangerous edge she has seldom heard before. "My only regret is that the blade did not find his heart."
"You are mistaken in assuming he has one," she says bitterly. He inclines his head in agreement. "I... am so sorry, Edmund."
Hewlett pats her hand kindly, his equanimity returned. "'We glory in tribulations, knowing that tribulation worketh patience; and patience, experience; and experience, hope.'" She smiles faintly, recognizing the scripture from Romans. "I am merely glad to be alive." He gives a humorless chuckle. "If slightly less than intact."
"As am I." She finishes redressing his foot. "There we are."
"I am much obliged, Anna. You are an excellent nurse." He returns his foot to the floor and stands up, swaying just a little. As she turns to clear away the bloodied bandages and wash her hands with fresh water from the ewer, she hears him speak again. "I do beg your pardon, I've been terribly rude. What was it you wanted to tell me?"
"Oh, I'd forgotten." She dries her hands and retrieves the gloves from the pocket of her dress. "I made these, while you were gone. I was going out of my mind waiting for news of you, and I had to do something to distract myself." She clears her throat and holds them out to him. "They're for use with your telescope. The fingers are free to allow you to adjust the, err... dials and things."
Hewlett takes the gloves from her, clearly delighted. "My word," he remarks, inspecting the stitching. "These are very fine indeed. And — why, look at that, they fit perfectly." He demonstrates by wiggling his fingers rather amusingly. "They are wonderful. I shall treasure them always."
His smile causes something to clench uncomfortably in Anna's chest. His is not exactly a handsome face; it is too unusual to be handsome. His cheekbones are too delicate, his mouth too wide. But he has a fine nose, and warm brown eyes. It is a kind face, and she is startled to realize she likes it very much. And she came very close to never seeing it again.
Suddenly she is struggling not to cry.
Hewlett observes her distress and quickly sets the gloves aside. "Anna? Whatever's the matter?"
She tries to offer a reassuring smile, but fails in the attempt. "I feared..." She feels a tear roll down her cheek, and she dashes it fiercely away. "I feared I would never have the chance to give them to you," she finally confesses.
"Anna," Hewlett says simply, his voice a hoarse whisper.
Stepping forward, he hesitates a moment, before wrapping his arms around her, pulling her close. Anna rests her chin on his shoulder, feeling his warmth through his shirt and frightened at how much she enjoys it. She should end this. Whatever this is between them, she should end it. Nothing good can come of it. He is a major in the King's Army, and she is a member of General Washington's spy ring. And a married one, at that.
But she does not want to end it. She is not strong enough. And he has become too dear to her.
Pulling away slightly, Hewlett lifts a hand and wipes the tears from her cheeks. She cannot keep from closing her eyes at the feel of his slender fingers on her skin. And then she nearly gasps at the sensation of his lips brushing softly, tentatively across hers. Slowly, she kisses him back, winding her arms behind his neck, running her fingers through his short dark hair. While he holds her by the waist with one arm, his other hand cups her face gently, tenderly. Like she is a holy relic. Something precious.
And then he quickly steps back, nearly stumbling over himself. "No, no, no, what am I doing? Forgive me, Anna — Mrs. Strong. Good God, Edmund, you great fool..."
Anna tries to catch her breath, still struggling to process what has just happened. "You mustn't be too harsh with yourself," she finds herself saying.
"But I must." He limps away, attempting to distance himself from her. "You... are a married woman. I know that all too well. And yet I have entertained thoughts toward you which are entirely improper. Even worse, I have allowed myself to act on them. That makes me no better than Simcoe." His voice is tight with self-recrimination. "Lord, what must you think of me?"
"Edmund." She comes forward and places her hand on his arm, forcing him to look at her. "You are not John Simcoe. You are a good, honorable man. I could never think badly of you." She takes a deep, shaky breath. "The truth is, I... have grown fond of you, as well. But... it can never be."
Stunned at this revelation, Hewlett stares at her with a mixture of joy and adoration and despair. Slowly, as if rousing himself from a dream, he passes a tired hand over his face.
"No," he says at last. "No, of course not." He heaves a sigh. "Oh, Anna. Please say that my foolishness has not cost me your friendship. I do not think I could bear that."
Anna nearly sobs at his simple, honest words. If he knew the truth about her, he would not say such things. He would never want to see her again. She wants to say, I am not the good, virtuous woman you think I am. I am a traitor, a spy, an adulteress. I am undeserving of your kindness, unworthy to be counted as your friend.
He is the bravest, kindest man she has ever known. He is also her enemy. And if he knew the truth, it would destroy him.
Somehow, she manages to keep her voice steady. "We cannot know what the future holds for us. But this I swear to you. Whatever may happen, I shall always be your friend."
She is not sure what terrifies her more: the promise she has made, or the fact that she means it.
With a somewhat wistful smile, Hewlett covers her hand with his own. "And I shall always be yours," he says sincerely.
She forces a smile in return. Don't make promises you can't keep.
Awkwardly, she clears her throat. "Well... it's very late. I shouldn't keep you any longer. You need your rest."
"Yes, I fear my strength has not yet fully returned to me." He releases her hand, and she steps back. "Thank you for your assistance. And for the gloves."
"You are most welcome."
Hewlett walks her to the door and offers a bow, ever the gentleman. "Sleep well, Anna," he says softly.
"And you, dear Edmund."
He holds her with his gaze for a long moment, and then lets her go.
In a daze, Anna returns to her room and shuts the door, leaning back against it. She places her hand on her cheek, where Hewlett's rested just a few moments ago. Silently, she begins to weep.
Less than a day later, she again finds herself at a loss for words.
"I... I don't understand."
"Which part?" asks Abraham bluntly.
"...'Silence Hewlett'... Do you mean, kill Hewlett?"
She can hardly believe what she is hearing. Abraham Woodhull — her childhood friend, her erstwhile fiancé, her not-so-secret lover — has summoned her to his hidden base of operations in his former root cellar to inform her that he plans to ambush Hewlett and kill him, to prevent his report from reaching Major André. And he wants her to help him do it.
He speaks of it so casually. As though Hewlett were an obstacle, not a human being. She asks herself if Hewlett could ever be capable of laying a trap for a man and murdering him in cold blood. She already knows the answer. He would not even consider it.
And she knows she cannot let it happen. Edmund Hewlett is a soldier in the King's Army, a loyal supporter of the Crown, the embodiment of everything she is against. He is the enemy. And she will protect him, by whatever means necessary.
Because he is her friend.
-.-.-.-.-
"Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel."
— William Shakespeare
A/N: There. I had to get that out of my system. I've been annoyed with Anna for a long time, but I was very proud of her when she refused to help Abe kill Hewlett. Abe has been such a little bastard lately, it was about time someone stood up to him. Anyway, I wasn't sure if Turn would be renewed for a third season, so I wanted to give Anna and Hewlett a bit of closure, as well as provide some insight into why she decided to stop Abe. Hope you liked it. Oh, and FYI, Turn will be coming back for another season. Yay!
-Octopus