Author's Note: First and foremost, if you have not read "The Colonel's Lady," the following will make little sense to you. And if you have—thank you for bearing with me despite my (longer than anticipated) absence.
Owing to the particular situations in which the characters were left at the end of the first part of this tale, this portion will be somewhat segmented, and I apologize if this is frustrating to anyone. Being the fabulous readers you are, I hope you won't abandon me just yet.
On that note—thank you so much for your ongoing words of encouragement. You have spurred me on, and one message in particular actually incited me to post this portion, even though I'm not as far along in the development in the story as I'd hoped to be. I appreciate your unflagging support!
Disclaimer: I do not own William Tavington, in this chapter or any subsequent ones. His character and any others that appear in "The Patriot" are extrapolations, and I apologize if I have slighted any historical figures in the creative process—it was benignly meant.
June 2009
"TAVINGTON, Sir William. Born 1752, Liverpool. Died 1833, Shropshire."
I dropped the book I was holding onto the wooden shelf it had come from and backed away until I ran into the stacks behind me. Breathing hard, I tried to figure out why the page would possibly say that. I was seeing things—that was the only explanation. The stress and sleep deprivation that went along with exams, combined with the expected shock of seeing William's name, was causing me to hallucinate.
Gradually, my heart rate slowed, and I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to clear my head. Taking a deep breath, I stepped back toward the shelf and looked back down at the book.
There it was again. "Died 1833, Shropshire." How was that possible? My memories from that day at Cowpens were so vivid it could have happened yesterday: the Scotsman running into the hospital tent, panic written all over his face as he delivered the news that the field was lost, that "Colonel Tavington has fallen"; Bligh's sober expression, grief in his eyes, as he told me that there was nothing I could do. Had they both been wrong, then? Or was this some kind of awful mistake the Who's Who fact-checkers were unaware of?
Steeling myself, I read the next couple of lines. "English General and 1st Baronet Tavington. Member of Parliament for Liverpool." I couldn't read anymore; it felt wrong, somehow. I slammed the book shut and stared down at the seemingly innocuous leather cover, my thoughts racing impossibly fast. Either the publishers had William Tavington mixed up with someone else entirely, or—or I had abandoned my husband, leaving him injured and alone on a battlefield.
"Shit," I muttered, eliciting a loud sigh from a study carrel to my left. I jumped at the reminder that there were people other than myself in the library, but then a thought struck me: maybe I should have someone read the page and make sure I was seeing it right? No, I was just being paranoid, and I'd already checked twice. Besides, I didn't want to know anymore about William's life without me, at least until I gathered my thoughts. Sliding the volume of Who's Who back into its slot on the shelf, I marched back out of the library, steadfastly avoiding catching anyone's eye.
Once outside, I collapsed onto the first bench I came across. The metal slats, hot from the summer sun, were sweltering against my bare legs, but I hardly noticed. My attention was focused on the wedding band I now wore on my right hand, its diamond sparkling in the sun. A wave of emotions was rushing over me, feelings that I had pushed away ever since I'd left Cowpens.
At first, it had been hard. In the weeks after I'd returned, I had thought of a million questions I should have asked Bligh. Could everyone travel if they found a portal? Could you just go back and forth as you pleased? Did new portals open up, or was there a finite number? But after a while, I had realized I was never going to get answers to all of my questions, and even thinking about it was distancing me from my life here. So I'd made a promise to myself that I wouldn't dwell on my life in the past, that I would live life as it happened to me. And that had generally translated into refusing to think about the experience, or the people I'd met.
It had helped that I'd had to make up a story about where I had been during what turned out to be a three-month disappearance. I had appeared back in my own time in the backyard of an elderly couple who had been nice enough to let me use their phone to call my parents, all the while gawking at me. It didn't take me long to realize that it wasn't just my old-fashioned riding pants and boots they were intrigued by—apparently my face had been plastered all over the news during my absence. I knew that no explanation would be adequate, so all I could do was say I'd gotten lost in the woods that night and pretend that I didn't remember where I had been. My parents, thrilled to have me back, didn't push me, and after several visits to doctors of all kinds, they were convinced that the best thing for me would be to settle into a routine.
I had arrived at Harvard a week after classes started, meaning I'd missed all of the freshmen orientation events, but that was hardly the only thing that set me apart from my classmates. Whether or not I was actively thinking about it, my experience had shaped me more than I'd realized, and I felt a huge disconnect between me and the rest of the student body. Most of the time, it didn't bother me at all. I'd established a wide circle of casual friends, and I filled in the gap by focusing on my schoolwork, throwing myself into my American History classes. I made sure, though, that my research on the Revolution always focused on the colonial side; it gave me an unpleasant chill every time I read about General Cornwallis or Lord Rawdon, and I had wanted to avoid any chance of seeing William's name. Maybe some part of me had been afraid that I had made the wrong choice to leave. After all, I hadn't actually seen the battle that day—but Bligh had, and I had chosen to trust him.
But now—what the hell was I supposed to do? Should I stay here and pretend my carefully built life hadn't just been turned upside down? A shudder ran through me at the thought: if there was any hope at all that I could return to William, life here without him would be unbearable. I had to go back. But that would mean leaving my parents all over again, and I couldn't hurt them like that without some explanation. Besides, how would I ever find another portal? The odds of just stumbling on one again weren't exactly in my favor. If Bligh were in this century, and if I could find him…but, I realized abruptly, I didn't even know his first name. Even if I came up with a course of action, I couldn't do anything about it immediately; I was flying home to South Carolina the next morning, and I still had to pack.
I stood up from the bench, swaying slightly. Between the heat and the emotional rush, I was feeling more than a little light-headed. Maybe I'd find some answers after a good night's sleep, and if not, then maybe things would be clearer once I got home. Pushing all thoughts of William firmly out of my head for the moment, I headed back across Harvard Square toward my dorm.
But I couldn't get him out of my head, not completely. I couldn't sleep at all that night, and though I'd finally fallen asleep on the flight home, I felt like I'd been awake for weeks by the time I met my dad in the Charleston airport.
He hugged me tightly, then stepped back, holding me at arm's length. "You all right, honey?" he said, a look of concern creasing his brow. "You don't look so good."
"I'm fine," I said, forcing a smile. "Just tired." The last thing I needed was for my parents to start worrying; though never the type to restrain me, they'd been very touchy ever since my disappearance, and it had been difficult even to convince them that it was a good idea for me to study in London next year.
He smiled at me and gave me another quick hug. "Well, I'm glad you're home. Here, let me get your suitcase."
I talked only as much as I needed to on the long drive out to our house, answering my dad's questions in monosyllables. All the while, my mind was racing. I needed to talk to someone, to pour out the whole story and get an opinion. But who would believe me? Obviously, my parents weren't an option, and I wasn't really close with any of my high school friends anymore, except…
"How's Paris these days?" said my dad, cutting into my frazzled thoughts.
"Oh! Um, good, I think," I stuttered, momentarily shocked by the way my father seemed to have read my mind. "I haven't talked to him in a while."
He gave me a sidelong glance. "I think you should call him when you get home, Jess. You two used to be so close."
"Yeah," I replied automatically, an idea brewing in the back of my mind. Could I confide in Paris? Would he let me? Things had never been the same between us since I'd gotten back, but our breakup had been a mutual decision; he had learned to let me go, and I—well, I'd found William. Paris and I were still friends, but my being away in Boston and always immersed in my studies had taken its toll on our relationship. This summer, though, we would both be home…
By the time my dad pulled the truck into our driveway, my mind was made up. I still trusted Paris more than almost anyone, and I needed to talk about this—this huge question mark that was suddenly punctuating my future. It was clear to me now that if I was going to make a decision about what to do, I would need a second opinion, and there was no one else I could confide in. If anyone was going to believe my crazy story, it would be Paris.
My mother pounced on me when I walked into our house. "Sweetie!" she cried, wrapping me in a tight embrace. "It's so good to have you home!"
"It's good to be home," I said, pulling back and smiling at her. "Uh—Mom, would you mind if I went and called Paris? I want to see if he's around."
"Thinking of getting back together, are you?" She winked. "Well, I won't stand in the way of two lovebirds like you!"
It wasn't worth the trouble of correcting her—it would only lead to more questions. Giving her a strained smile, I grabbed my suitcase and lugged it up the stairs to my wonderfully familiar bedroom, collapsing onto the bed.
I lay there for a moment, eyes closed, thinking about nothing in particular, before I picked up the phone on my nightstand. My fingers dialed Paris's number automatically, forcibly reminding me how big a part of my life he had once been…
"Hello?" said a voice on the other end of the line, jerking me back to the present.
"Oh—hi, Mrs. Gruenblatt, it's Jess. Is Paris there?"
"Jessica! Your mom said you'd be in today—hold on just one moment, I'll call him…"
I drummed my fingers idly on the nightstand, but I didn't have long to wait. "Jess?" said Paris's voice, slightly breathless.
"Hey," I said. "I'm home. I—I wondered if I could come over later. Like sometime this afternoon?"
"Sure!" he said enthusiastically. "Can't wait to see you!"
"See you soon," I said. As I set the phone back into its cradle, I felt an odd sense of—not foreboding, exactly, but something akin to it. What would this conversation be like? Sure, Paris had been okay about our breakup, but I'd always felt that he still harbored feelings for me, and I didn't want to put him through any more pain. But I needed his support; I would go crazy if I didn't tell someone about this whole thing.
At the moment, though, all I wanted to do was sleep. I rolled over onto my stomach, buried my face in the pillow, and was asleep almost before my eyes were closed completely.
I awoke abruptly to a knock at the door. "Honey?" said my mom's voice. "Sorry to wake you, but weren't you supposed to go over to the Gruenblatt's? Paris just called."
Rubbing my eyes, I peered at my bedside clock, whose red numbers read 6:37. "Damn!" I said under my breath, shooting out of my bed and sliding into my flip-flops. I skidded over the door and flung it open, coming face-to-face with my clearly concerned mother. I smiled at her, brushing my bangs out of my face. "Sorry, Mom—I guess I was just really tired. I'm going to go over there now, but I'll be back for dinner."
"All right, sweetie," she said, her gaze following me as I brushed past her. I marched downstairs, through the kitchen and outside, pulling my hair into a messy ponytail as I went. It was sweltering out—that was one thing that never changed about South Carolina summers, whether it was the 18th century or the 21st. Even the two-minute walk up the road to Paris's was almost unbearable. By the time I reached the long, willow-lined driveway that lead up to their house, gravel crunching under my feet, I could think of nothing but how wonderful air conditioning would feel.
Paris's mom intercepted me at the front door and ushered me inside, enveloping me in a hug as she did so. "Jess, honey, it is such a treat to see you. How's life as an academic up there at Harvard?"
"It's been—okay," I said truthfully. "I'm glad to be home."
"I'll bet," she said, eyeing me closely. "You look worn out, sweetie. This summer will give you some time to relax. You and Paris can have all sorts of adventures, just like you used to."
"Hey," said Paris, emerging from the hallway and flashing me a wide grin, "You're late."
"I fell asleep," I replied lamely. He held out his arms to me, still smiling, and I rushed into them. A sudden compulsion to cry seized me, but I resisted it, clinging to Paris as though he were the only thing that could support me.
After a moment, he stepped back, taking in my bedraggled appearance. "You look terrible."
"Paris!" chided his mother. "I think you look lovely, Jessica. Maybe a little tired. Can I get you anything? Some sweet tea?"
"I'm all right, Mrs. Gruenblatt. But thanks," I said, smiling at her.
"We'll be downstairs," Paris said, taking my hand and leading down the hall to the stairs.
When we stepped into the basement den, my breath caught in my throat. I had spent so much of my free time here in high school…including that fateful graduation night—almost exactly two years ago—that we'd fought, and I'd run out into the woods….
"Jess," said Paris, bringing me back to the present. His brown eyes were filled with concern.
"Sorry," I said. "I really need to talk to you."
"Me too." There was an odd note in his voice. I hoped fervently that he wasn't planning to propose again; I really needed him to be a friend right now.
"You first," I said, not without a sense of foreboding, but he shook his head.
"I can wait. Spit it out, Jess."
I took a deep breath. Now that I was about to explain what had happened for the first time, I wasn't sure how best to go about it. "Okay. You know when I was— the summer after graduation, when I was…gone?" His look of anxiety intensified and he nodded tersely. "Well, when I got back, I—lied," I continued, looking away from him. "I lied about not remembering where I had been. It's just I knew no one would believe me if I told the truth."
I looked back at Paris. His eyes were wide, his expression somewhere between concern and shock; we had never talked about my disappearance, I assumed because my parents had told him not to ask me about it. Well, if he was already shocked that I was talking about it at all, and that I had lied, he'd be permanently traumatized when he found out what I'd lied about. Taking another deep breath, I said, "I did get lost in the woods that night. I tripped over something, and I knocked myself out—and when I woke up, it was 1780. Like, the year 1780."
Once I started talking, the words poured out of me. I hadn't realized that I had been holding back so much by not telling anyone about it, but as I described my life at Peartree and Applebottom, I felt a profound sense of relief. I talked about my first weeks there, when Lawrence and Bligh were my only friends and General Cornwallis married me off to a man I couldn't imagine ever liking, let alone loving; about Edward Rutledge and the Declaration of Independence I had found at Peartree; about my kidnapping and the relationship I had developed with the dispatch rider, Gabriel; about Colonel Thoreau and his desire to ruin my marriage. But I found myself reluctant to speak too much about my relationship with William, both because I didn't want to hurt Paris any more than I had to, and because it seemed somehow too private to talk about just yet.
Paris himself listened to my entire narrative without interrupting, but the expressiveness of his face made it easy to gauge his continual reaction to what I was saying. Once the initial shock at the fact of my time travel wore off, he followed my story with varying degrees of distress. When I got to Cowpens, Bligh's revelation, and my return, he focused his gaze on the floor rather than on me, so that I could no longer tell what he was thinking. I finished by telling him about my trip to the library at Harvard yesterday—was it really only yesterday?—and what I had found in the Who's Who.
"And now—I have no idea what I should do." I swallowed hard and turned to look at him directly. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. I didn't want to hurt you."
"So am I to believe that what you did was an act of compassion? Lying to me?" He looked injured, more so than I could have imagined when I decided to tell him.
"I couldn't! I had to put it behind me and make this my life instead of dwelling in the past! I didn't have a choice!" Paris was my only hope; if he wouldn't support me, then I had no one else to turn to.
"You chose not to tell me," he said, his eyes boring into mine. "If you make your choices alone, how can I trust you?"
"I didn't choose to go there in the first place, and I definitely didn't choose to get married!" That much, at least, was true—though if I was being honest with myself, I had known on some level that it was never going to work out between Paris and me. A silence fell, heavy with unspoken words; I avoided looking at him.
"Where's the ring I gave you?" he asked suddenly. "The promise ring? You were wearing it, weren't you? When you—went back?"
The ring. I had given it to William as a Christmas present. "Yes, I was. I gave it to—to my husband." He didn't say anything, turning his gaze back to the ground. "I'm so sorry, Paris. And I understand if you don't want to talk to me right now, but—I really need your help." Impulsively, I reached over and took his hand in mine. "You're the only person I can trust with this." He looked at me, but he didn't say anything. I kept talking. "When I read that line in the book yesterday, I almost had a heart attack. And now—that day at Cowpens just keeps running through my mind, over and over. I feel like I abandoned him. What am I supposed to do?"
I said it rhetorically, but to my surprise, Paris responded. "Do you love him?"
"I—I—" I stuttered, taken aback by the bluntness of the question. But Paris was looking at me intently; obviously, he expected an answer. I closed my eyes briefly, exhaling, then opened them again to meet his gaze. "Yes, I do."
He sighed. "Then you owe him your allegiance," he said, giving me a sad smile. He squeezed my hand gently and released it. "You have to go back."
My jaw dropped. "I have to—what?" Whatever I'd been imagining Paris's response would be, it wasn't that.
"You have to go back, Jess." His voice was sincere, but I couldn't believe what he was saying.
"But—I—" I stammered.
"You do want to, right?"
"Well, yes, but—how will I—I mean, I don't even really know how I got back here!"
"We'll figure it out," he said earnestly. His eyes met mine, and in their depths, I found honesty and forgiveness.
I was still panicking on the surface, but somewhere in my subconscious, I could feel that this was the right decision. I reached over to hug Paris. He patted me on the back, and a tear leaked out of the corner of my eye. Abruptly, and to my complete surprise, I found myself crying as though I'd never stop. I clung to him for a minute, pulling away when I had some control over myself again. "S—s—sorry," I sniffled.
"It's okay." He smiled at me and handed me a tissue from the box behind him.
"Thanks," I said thickly, dabbing at my eyes. "So—now what?"
"Hmm," said Paris, rubbing his chin in thought. "Could you go back the way you came?"
"No, Bligh told me the portals only work once." My sudden rush of emotion behind me, I felt more clear-headed than I had in months. Suddenly, I had a purpose.
"The way is shut," mused Paris. "Well, that might be for the best. It's been two years."
"What do you—oh! You're right!" I hadn't even considered that time would have passed in the past, too—who knew if William would even still be in the States by the time I managed to find a portal? "Well, now it would be June 1782…I don't think there's any way British troops would still be here by then. He must have gone back to England."
"England!" said Paris, his eyes lighting up. "And in September, you're going—"
"—to study in England!" I finished. "But I still don't know how I'd possibly find a portal without Bligh's help…"
"Research," he replied. "We have all summer."
I thought for a moment. "Do you think—Peartree couldn't still be standing, could it?"
"It's possible," he said. "I know Edward Rutledge had a house in Charleston. We could at least go there."
I nodded, then leaned over to give him a kiss on the cheek. "Paris, really. Thank you. For believing me, and for being so nice."
He shook his head. "That's what friends are for, Jess. You mean a lot to me. I want you to be happy."
I smiled at him, then stood up from the couch. "Well—I'd better get home. My parents haven't seen me much, and you know how they get."
He grinned at me, following me back upstairs. "Yeah. I'll call you tomorrow." He held the front door open for me and gave me a small wave as I left the house.
It wasn't until I was home that I remembered that Paris had said he needed to talk to me about something. Oh, well, he'd said it could wait.
After dinner, I went up to my room and opened my laptop, settling onto the bed in front of it. I was going to figure out exactly where I had been between June 1780 and January 1781—and then Paris and I were going to track my journey. But first, there was some business to be taken care of.
I made my way to my Facebook profile and stared at it for a moment. Jessica Katerinalila Fitzpatrick. Relationship Status: It's Complicated. That's what it had said ever since I'd created it just after I'd started at Harvard. It was complicated; the whole thing was complicated, and bizarre, and I'd had no clue how to deal with it. I had had my fair share of admirers at school, but I definitely wasn't ready for another relationship, and so I had pushed them all away. And the situation remained complicated, despite my lack of a boyfriend, because of my love for William and my uncertainty about Paris.
Now, though, I needed to change it, more as a tangible symbol of the decision I had made than any other reason. Purposefully, I clicked on "Edit" and then on "Relationships." When I returned to my profile, it read, Relationship Status: Married. I felt better already. Let everyone else think it was a joke; I knew the truth, and I had made my choice.
AN: Once again, I apologize for the segmentation. It won't be long before everything becomes clear. Vielen Dank to TTT & Publius for inspirational titles. Thank you to everyone who has continued reading; reviews make updates come faster ;-)