Anna didn't cry in front of Ben, and her hands didn't shake in Caleb's presence; her lips didn't tremble when Washington gave her orders, and her cheeks didn't flush when the soldiers curiously glanced her way. None of it ever happened in public, at least; Anna had mastered the art of illusion a long time ago.
It was simply her nature.
But in private quarters, staring off into the lamplight glow, the tent did little to quiet her sobs.
She'd been so close, so achingly close. Close to saving Hewlett, close to freeing herself from the chains of the past, and close to grasping at the new happiness that had hesitantly called out to her. She'd brushed it with her fingertips, but only just. She'd felt its warmth, the beginnings of its tender, caring embrace-yet Abraham had snatched it from her. What a wicked thing to do. What a selfish thing to do.
Anna knew that she should—could—forget, but the vision of Edmund's pained gaze haunted the darkness behind her eyelids and she wasn't entirely certain that time was strong enough to wipe it away; she'd destroyed him in a way that she could hardly forgive herself for. It was a necessity, she told herself. It was a lesser evil.
It was the only way.
Edmund might feel the sting of heartbreak for years to come, might wake from a dream of her to realize that it was only a nightmare, but Anna's consolation was the knowledge that he would live to do so.
It was the only thing that dried her tears, and even such a conviction was only so reliable; the next week found her in the same temporary, hellish state.
She tried to convince her reeling thoughts that it was merely the guilt; she thought that she hadn't loved him so greatly.
In the end, Anna knew how to lie, but not to herself.
…
Edmund was growing impatient; he'd sent the letter off three weeks ago and had yet to receive a reply. Setauket's gaze upon him was growing heavy and laden with some sickening mixture of accusation and revulsion, and he was tired of carrying the weight.
He was so tired of this town that held those memories he wished to forget; he was sick of Richard's hovering, nearly condescending presence. He was only surprised that Richard hadn't pointed out to him how right he'd been about Anna Strong. Yet Hewlett wasn't so sure that he could listen to Richard degrade the woman he'd given his heart to, even now. He'd held her in such high regard for so long that it was instinctual to defend both her strength and character; what a habit he had to abandon.
What a heart he had to forget. What a woman he had to erase from his mind.
He couldn't bring the image of her smile back to Scotland; he couldn't carry the softness of her touch on board the ship.
He couldn't keep any remnant of her, or else he might never forget.
And, oh, how he needed to forget.
Desperately, beseechingly, he prayed that he'd wake up without a trace of Anna upon him, but his prayers went unanswered. How could he lose the tether that had bound him to his last hope of life, in Connecticut? How could he dim the shine of her smile? How could he not recall the color of her eyes, or the taste of her lips?
How was it possible?
Hewlett cursed Setauket, and this bloody war, and all the moments in his life that had lead him to set foot in the colonies; he wished forlornly that he had stayed in Scotland, studying stars that never had and never would resemble her.
Sorry it's so short...I have this idea for a fix-it fic but I'm not sure I can muster up enough to actually write it all so I'm settling for this, for now.