Tavington Rose

by R.M. Tepes

Colonel William Tavington meets Lady Gray. The lady who captures his heart, without giving him much knowledge of who she is and no dowry. Takes place during the ball in South Carolina in the film and ends some years after the war is over in the perceptive of son, Charles William Tavington who serves Harry Burwell.

The ship blew up and Amelia stared out in wonder, surprise, and shock. She knew what was on it thanks to her father's logbooks. If it wasn't for the patriots he would have had the ship completely unloaded before this happened. Even with the given requests in the logbook that ammunition get unloaded first. She remained standing straight and erect waiting for the party to end which it would sooner or later. There had been lots of drinking, and she herself had indulged herself in one glass of brandy. She lingered speaking to various British immigrants and loyalists loyal to the crown. Their tittering gossip talked about the rumor of the king's bachelor son, and the other royal staff bachelors. All irrelevant to Amelia since they were some three thousand miles away from London. She could care less about romance and more about occupation.

And living quarters.

Her father dead from a recent rebellion left her penniless and homeless. Dragged to this party by a rich friend who liked her only because she was a pretty loyalist, she was expected to mingle with the soldiers, find one that would support her and then in the end, marry. Amelia was borrowing one of Lady Harvey's used dresses which she had worn to one part long ago and never used since. It had a couple stains and a tear in it, but Amelia didn't care. She even was forced to borrow make up and though she was encouraged to wear a wig, denied it.

"It makes me sweat. If you want me to marry, it is sensible not to have one."

Lady Harvey laughed, "You're ridiculous, but at least smart. So be it, no wig for you," she answered as a servant powdered her wig.

Amelia's make up was simple, and though she was wearing a used dress from a rich woman, she looked plain compared to the others who lingered about the more powerful men and tried to make themselves the potential wife.

As one made a gesture now to touch a soldier, Amelia turned away disgusted, nearly slamming into another, and barely avoiding stepping on shattered glasses.

"Do forgive me," she muttered to the person she almost ran into and grabbing a large glass of wine, made her way to the garden for solitude to ignore the world and great expectations for a while. At least until the real dancing began.

The rose garden next to General Cornwallace's conquered mansion was lovely. She wondered who had owned it first, who had tended to the roses. She lingered smelling the lovely scent of a yellow rose wishing her father was here. He would have made her feel more normal here. She was more of an outcast here with no connections. Her only family was a distant cousin who now ran the trade shop for the patriots and not the loyalists.

Amelia was not happy, but she managed to hold her tongue and drop her head in obedience.

The wine was bitter against her tongue but it seemed to her that wine and roses went well together, at least aesthetically.

She wandered about the cobbled walk way listening to the sound of talk fade away, and soon found herself at peace at a cast iron bench. Setting the wine beside her, she leaned back inhaling deeply the rose's sweet smell. She could do without parties if she ever had a rose garden.

She wasn't certain how long she had been out there, but soon she heard someone coming and opened her eyes to the night sky. The party was still going on, but she was certain she probably missed most of the dancing.

"Are you alright, madam?"

She looked about and saw a soldier make his way towards her. She flinched, realizing she must have fallen asleep from her own inner stresses.

"What time is it?"

"Passing ten,"

Then the Harveys were gone.

She rose, knocking over the wine glass, as it poured its contents onto her dress and the cobblestone walkway, the glass shattering about her feet.

"Oh! Goodness! I am sorry, sir. Do forgive me!"

"It's not my home. You have nothing to ask forgiveness for. At least as far as I am concerned," he paused. Amelia couldn't see his face, offering her a hand as she stepped around the broken glass. "Fell asleep out here, did you?"

"Accidently. I got tired of the gossiping," A half truth when it came to the excuse she knew, but it still was truth.

"Understandable," he released her hand, "Is there someone to take you home?"

"If Lord and Lady Harvey are gone then no,"

The man blinked, "You're their young charter, Lady Gray,"

"Yes sir,"

"They thought you may have found yourself a husband, ma'am,"

"If only," she muttered aloud, and covered her hand instantly embarrassed.

She heard the man chuckle, and she knew that she was in for criticism now.

"A woman of such strong words should take care. Most men would turn away from such an answer."

Lady Amelia was glad it was dark. She could at least hide the heat rising in her cheeks.

"What were you doing out here? That is if it hadn't been running into me, sir?"

"Seeking solitude," came the answer, a hint of a cold irritability crossed the empty space between them.

"I am sorry, sir, I didn't mean to interrupt your quest."

The man stepped close to Amelia. She could smell the brandy, the military regalia and his body odor. Pleasant, as it was, it seemed weakened by the alcohol.

"You have nothing to forgive," he answered, his voice almost in her ear, sending a small chill down her back. He stepped back again and offered his hand, "The name's Colonel Tavington,"

She curtsied, flinching when it became clear to her, she had stepped on glass that did penetrade her foot through her well worn shoes. She bit her lip however, offering her hand, "It's nice to meet you,"

"The honor must be mine," his voice softened, and she started to move to find a new bench, her movements were a bit off kilter with the glass in her foot.

"Are you alright,"

"Yes," she answered, not wanting to admit that the glass was a pain to her.

"Let me help you madame," he moved beside her and taking her hand escorted her back down the path to a wooden bench, empty of occupants.

As she sat, he knelt before her, "If you would, I will take it out for you,"

Amelia nodded, and barely moved as he pulled the glass away quickly. It wasn't very big but it did draw blood.

"Guess I won't be dancing tonight now," she muttered to herself with a small chuckle.

"I suppose so," he answered.

The sound of the party within was beginning to die down slowly. And Amelia flexed her foot when Tavington released it. She would be able to walk to the Harveys easily enough, she figured, as thunder boomed somewhere off the bay. This would be her last night with the Harveys. Tomorrow her life would be on the streets. She had become a burden to her friends, and it was time to go.

"It's going to rain," he observed, sitting down beside her.

"I believe so,"

"Shall I call you a carriage?"

"That won't be necessary," she answered just as it started to rain.

"You sure about that?" his question almost residing with some humor.

"I am sure," they rose together and he escorted her to the front of the mansion.

"Permission to call upon you tomorrow at the Harvey residence?"

She blinked.

"Whatever for?"

There was a pause followed with, "Just to make certain you made it home safe enough,"

"I'll be fine," she insisted, though her clothes were becoming a bit wet now. Her voice however betrayed her in answering with a twinge of regret.

"Lady Gray?"

"I'll be fine."

"Will you actually be there?"

She shook her head. Telling the truth would at least save the colonel from getting too muddy.

"Then where shall I call upon you?"

She looked away from Tavington, whom she could barely see even with the lights inside still lit, her hair heavy with the rain, began to fall about her face.

"Milady?"

"I am not worth such addressing," she said softly, and Tavington stepped out into the rain taking her hands in his. Though she couldn't see much, the lights conveyed his concern. "I am being turned out of the Harvey home tomorrow, for my ability to be such a burden to my family.

"A burden?" The rain was getting colder now, and she shivered. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-three, sir."

"Barely a burden, then my dear," he glanced back at the manor then back to Lady Gray not removing his hands from hers. "Allow me to escort you back to the Harveys. I will discuss your admittance with them."

"Whatever for?" she asked, but it was immediately answered by a touch she could hardly believed happened.

He kissed her.

Not a small peck on the cheek, but a deep passionate kiss that would have been appropriate on the night following a marriage. It felt like forever, but then he released her, and somehow she could see him clearly. Her body felt alive in the very moment his lips had taken hers, and it frightened her.

"It's a bit early for that don't you think?" she murmured his face inches from hers.

"Not really," he answered, "Such beauty should not be turned to the streets, where it will whither and die from the cold and abuse."

"I am not that pretty,"

"So you think,"

"It's dark out."

"I would know you anywhere," he answered, with one hand running along her jaw. His rough fingers were gentle, and she shivered under the very touch.

"Sir," she was getting cold now, and if she didn't walk back now, she would surely catch cold.

"Yes, let's get you back to the Harveys. I won't let you end up in the streets." As they started to move, a voice broke the emotional heat.

"Colonel?"

Tavington turned to face the speaker.

"What is it captain?"

"General Cornwallace has called a meeting,"

"Now?"

"Yes, sir,"

"Very well," he frowned, "I will come and call upon you early then, before the Harveys would dare to throw you out." He bowed and kissed her hand before leaving her alone.

She watched him enter the manner, hearing the captain ask, "You want a towel first?"

"No, Wilkinson," the door shut behind them, as she made her way home.

"Why Amelia what happened to you?"

"Nothing," she answered Lady Harvey who stared at what must have looked like a wet mess.

"Well come inside and out of this rain," she snapped at her, "Your absence had me worried."

"I am fine," in truth, she wasn't; soaked to the bone and cold, despite the inner fire that had been lit in her body from that passionate gesture.

Lady Harvey babbled, as Amelia changed, and dried herself off, remembering to wrap her foot.

"Your foot!"

"I stepped on some glass,"

"Well, prepare for bed, you have a big day tomorrow."

Amelia nodded and went to bed, wondering if Colonel Tavington would really arrive before she was turned out.

Lady Amelia Gray who owned little, gave Lady Harvey what little silver she had to buy one of her pairs of shoes she no longer used; having used the shoes only once she had blisters because the shoes were too small.

"Do they even fit you?"

They fit Amelia like a glove.

"Good, well, do you have your things packed?"

Amelia did. A small handbag of trinkets that meant more to her than clothes. She had no other changes of clothes to speak of, and almost felt ashamed. Even if Tavington liked her enough, she would even be burden to him.

"Well then," as they made their way to the front door, Amelia hoped that her little fantasy came true, but the door opened and no one was there. At half past ten, she was turned out without another word, beyond good-bye and good luck.

With no other friends to hope on intruding upon, she began to walk. To where she didn't know, but she couldn't wait and hope on a false answer to come. Especially from a man she didn't know.

Amelia went into town, choosing to see if anyone would hire or let her volunteer work for a place to sleep. Food she would deal with as it came. She managed to become a maid at a tavern that was improper for a lady such as herself to be, but with no status, she was almost as good as the whores who lingered in the bar. She cleaned up after the men, remade beds, and even washed dishes. She slept in the basement on a small makeshift cot, and picked at table scraps that weren't served in the kitchen.

For nearly an entire month, Amelia served well, her lack of outward service to men made her a prize to one day conquer, as she heard, and she feared it. They already touched her improperly, but some were not doing so as the first month passed. It took seeing herself in the mirror to see why.

Her beauty was fading in this place, her skin was thinning out over her small frame, and her clothes were tattering. She felt herself crying despite the self loathing that came with it, truly hoping that someone so high in the military would try to save her now.

Colonel William Tavington walked along the city with his captain. Over the last six weeks they had been fighting to capture a ghost, yet none came. He would have to take drastic measures soon to actually catch the bastard, but for now he needed a drink.

Over the last six weeks, his passions had been hardened by the bitterness of not having the chance to find Lady Gray. She had vanished without a trace, and his superiors knew nothing about it. No one at the docks had seen her and the Harveys had no real care why he called upon her until he expressed interest in making a marriage.

"Still thinking on your ghost woman, Colonel?"

He threw Captain Wilkinson a dark glance.

"You ought to think about just lowering your standards. Come on, the tavern we're going to has lots of lovely ladies."

"Prostitutes you mean,"

Wilkinson shrugged, "They still give a good tumble, and make a man wail if they work you hard enough."

Tavington flinched. Though he was the 'Butcher', he still had some morals. Especially when it came to women in favor of the crown, or held his heart; he had been drunk that night, and yet even now, longed to see Lady Gray, and see if she was as beautiful as she was that night in his haziness.

They entered Wilkinson's tavern, and immediately he felt out of place, but continued to the bar with the captain, hoping to find answers in the bottom of the glass.

Women came gathering around Wilkinson, an obvious patron here, and immediately vanished with several. Tavington wouldn't say anything in the report about this, since they were supposed to be patrolling for followers of this so called ghost.

"Tend the bar, Amy! We have customers!" shouted the owner and cook through the wall.

Tavington didn't look up, as the woman walked towards him, and behind the bar a bucket of empty cups and bottles within.

"What'll it be for you, sir?"

"Brandy," he answered and then looked up.

Before him was Lady Gray, wearing nothing more than tattered rags that clung to her body loosely, her hair under cap, and her skin tight against her bones. But her eyes gave her away.

"Amelia,"

"Colonel," she answered nodding her head, and setting her dish bucket aside.

"What are you doing here?"

"Surviving," she threw a dark glare at one of the women who made eyes with her. Tavington noticed it was one of the whores that Wilkinson had vanished with earlier.

"As a bar maid?" he questioned her.

"Bar maid, dish washer, and waitress. What's it to you?" her voice was flat and emotionless.

"I did come for you,"

"Not before 'reasonable' hours."

"Eleven," Tavington answered, "I came at eleven,"

She looked away.

"I went to the Harveys several times hoping they had had word from you."

She poured him a glass, and set the bottle back on the shelf.

"Well I am not welcome there now."

"Amelia,"

"I have to return to my duties."

"When are you done?"

"After closing,"

"Then give me a time to come see you,"

She looked about, frowning in disbelief which he knew to expect, but still found it hard to bear.

"Midnight, out on the wharf,"

Tavington was early, deciding to leave Wilkinson to his orgasmic party. He was already making vows he intended to keep, cursing Cornwallace for his battle plans and the ghost that no one could identify. He had been out for several minutes alone thinking when he heard footsteps behind him.

"You're early,"

He turned, seeing that Amelia hadn't changed her attire, but had at least removed her apron and hat. He swallowed seeing her hair so unattended to, and unclean.

"I didn't want to be late,"

He saw her try to put a hardened expression on her face, but it didn't come.

"I thought that you had forgotten. Found some more proper lady to court."

"No," he answered leaning against a wooden rail, wanting to say more but not finding the right words.

"You promised so much that I began to think it all a dream,"

"Never, for now that I have finally found you, I will not let you out of my sight like this ever again." He stepped near, but she stepped back.

"I don't even really know you despite the rumors,"

"A 'Butcher' who cannot catch some 'ghost'?"

Amelia nodded, "Your 'butchery' is frightening to hear about."

He looked away. She would have found out about this eventually but had hoped to shield her from his darker side.

"But I do not blame you," she continued, "You are doing your duty in what way you think will get you the answers you need to win the war."

Tavington looked back at her, as she placed her hand in his.

"All I wanted was to win the war, gain status, and earn back when my family lost." He said, admitting his motives, "I was hoping to court you properly, and maybe one day marry you," his untouched hand went to a pocket where he had bought a ring and tucked it away. "Cornwallace hinders everything, and spoils the chances I have of hope and success."

"It's never too late," she said slowly.

He looked away feeling as if she was wrong, and felt her flinch at his gesture.

"What about your virtue?" he muttered aloud, not realizing he had said it.

"I still hold it," she squeezed his hand, "I would wait my entire life if it meant it could be yours in death at the very least."

Tavington looked back at her seeing a glitter in her eyes he had thought was his drunken stupor talking months ago, and yet here it was. Hope welled in his heart as he turned facing Amelia fully. "I would still take you, even if your virtue had been lost," he answered, kneeling before her, "Will you marry me Amelia Gray? I can offer no dowry, but I do have a flat that is clean and will protect you." He pulled out the silver ring he had purchased in town, a small sapphire in the shape of a heart in its center.

"Would you take me away from the life I lead now?"

"I would take you away this very night."

She dropped to her knees before him.

"I lost everything I had. Even my father's family portrait,"

"I cannot replace such things," he confessed, feeling sick that he couldn't, "I would if I could," He was still holding the ring to her which he was beginning to doubt she would take, and it hurt him that she had no answer yet.

"Colonel,"

"William," he corrected her.

"You don't want someone like me," she looked at her boney hands, and he could see what she was thinking.

"I would want you, no matter how you looked, no matter how others saw you, no matter what you had to do to get by, because I love you, Amelia Gray. And if I could, I would win this war single handedly if I knew it would give you a better life."

She was trembling, but slowly gave him her hand, which he placed the ring on. It was loose, but it wouldn't come off without being forced to. He helped her to her feet, and held her close as she began to cry, her tense body collapsed against him, and Tavington would have given anything in that moment to make the last two months vanish. He held her tightly against his chest; despite how dirty her clothes were, feeling her ribs underneath her dress. He kissed her dirty hair, vowing that he would see to her well being. He swallowed his own tears, for he had had barely any hope left of finding her when he finally did, and had been afraid of her rejection.

"Let me take you home now," he whispered in her ear, and found that she followed him with little resistance.

He never dishonored her before the wedding by taking her into his bed. He wanted to badly at times, but forced himself to wait, though he did at least permit himself the luxury of her gentle touches, and tender kisses. He had her cleaned up, and brought a tailor in to make her several pretty dresses that she would approve of.

"Take it out an extra inch or two; she hasn't been fed in some months," he said to the tailor who made a note of it in his book. Her bar clothes were replaced immediately however with a small black dress, that was more of a shift than anything.

They spoke to a priest and the local authority about making a wedding happen. A small wedding, since they had no real connections and had no real people to bear witness beyond Cormwallace, and the elite military men would do well.

Cornwallace barely cared about it, and no witnesses in turn beyond Captain Wilkinson came.

"The barmaid?" Wilkinson hissed in his ear.

"What of it?" the captain hissed back.

"Nothing sir—just if I had known it was her, then I would have brought you in earlier."

Tavington didn't know whether or not to backhand Wilkinson for the remark, but remained calm as his bride to be joined them at the altar, in her full glory, her skin no longer tight against her bones, her hair cleaned and well pinned, and her face radiant with a beauty that he hadn't been able to see in the darkness of the ball so long ago.

Words were spoken and vows were exchanged, as Tavington placed the ring on her finger a second time, and kissed her lips.

"I now pronounce you man and wife. Sir and Madame Tavington,"

Wilkinson, the only witness applauded, and then the ceremony was over, as their dreams came true.

That night, Amelia gave herself to William Tavington, who took her in his bed, on several occasions during the night. Neither slept, anyone awake would have known what was happening.

William Tavington took her, his manhood throbbing with anticipation for this one moment, as he lowered himself down to her, and made her his. At first she winced, but he was gentle taking his time, and letting her body warm under his very thrusts.

"I love you, Amelia Tavington,"

"And I love you, William Tavington,"

**8 Months later…..***

Amelia Tavington walked across a mutilated field. Women and soldiers alike searched for their men. She was hoping for a better outcome than what had been rumored; the word had spread that the Butcher was dead. She hoped that they were wrong. She was heavy with child, and stumbled slowly. Her condition had made her an outcast, but she didn't care.

As she walked, she passed patriots and redcoats alike, but found herself far from the British encampment when the face of her beloved was visible.

A choked cry escaped her lips; her hands clasped her waist as she drew closer to the paled body of her dead lover and husband. She pulled the musket from his body, dropping to her knees carrying both his weight and hers, and cradled his head to her chest, not caring about the blood smears and smell of death that seemed to wrap about her like a blanket.

"William," she spoke his name with pain, wishing he was still alive to see his unborn child and cried uncontrollably. "Oh my love," she bent down kissing his cold forehead, closing his unseeing eyes, and stroking his cheek as he had done to her when he had a moment to see her.

She was not certain how long she sat there, cradling Colonel Tavington, but she barely heard the footsteps of someone approaching her.

She looked up as a twig snapped, and saw a blue coated man, clearly of some rank step over bodies.

"Ma'am," the man knelt down staring at her colonel. He clearly knew who she held, and looked at her with a troubled gaze.

"Yours?"

She nodded.

"May I offer you a sled to move your husband from the field?"

"I would appreciate it," she answered, not daring to say yes directly.

"I am Colonel Harry Burwell," he offered his hand.

"Amelia Tavington," she shook his hand. She was not a lady anymore and did not expect to be treated with any respect.

"Colonel Tavington was a brave soldier."

She offered him a weak smile, but didn't speak, tears threatening to flood her cheeks again.

"Let me get you a sled,"

The colonel vanished, and Amelia stared down at William's white face. Burwell returned, and helped her load Tavington onto the sled.

"Is there a place to bury the red coats?"

She shook her head, "They are just gathering the wounded."

"Then permit me to bury him with our men?"

"But he's of your enemy,"

"But you cannot be expected to carry him to a near enough grave site."

She was ready to break down again, helpless in her present condition.

"Come, Lady Tavington," taking the lines of her sled, she walked alongside him as they made their way to the makeshift graves.

"Dig us one more,"

One of the digging men stared at the body in horror.

"You cannot expect us to dig a hole for that scum," one protested.

"Then loan me a shovel," Amelia spoke to Colonel Burwell.

He frowned, and moved the body to the outer edge of the graves, and took a shovel and handed it to her. "You may start digging, but I will return shortly to help you."

She barely said a word, beyond nodding in understanding. She was numb to the idea of what she was doing, and felt as if she was being watched as a future target by everyone.

Burwell returned about a half hour later with another shovel and two men to help dig.

"If we are Americans, then we must treat everyone equally. Friend and foe alike,"

She swallowed glancing at her dead husband.

"I didn't know that such a man was married," Burwell said, "It wasn't listed in the papers,"

"It was not made public." She answered. In fact their wedding had been tiny. His only witness was his captain . . . Mister Wilkins. She had no one to stand with her. Her cousins didn't care.

Nothing was said for a while as they all dug, and when Amelia could no longer bend over to dig, she was instructed to sit. The men laid his body in the well dug grave, having not enough boxes for everyone but significant officers of the patriots. They buried Colonel William Tavington, and one of the soldiers made a makeshift cross out of sticks and wire.

"You may say a few words, madam," the colonel told her as his volunteers walked away.

Lady Amelia Tavington, having been given respect in the gesture of helping bury a man that clearly no one liked, "Heavenly father, we ask that you are merciful, and grace all those whom have fallen today with your mercy. My husband, Colonel William Tavington included. He gave his life in a cause he believed was for the better. It is not the same cause as everyone has but it was a dream with no lesser value." She paused knowing she was babbling, and felt her knees go weak, "Watch over William as you would your son, lord. I will be there one day soon and take him off your hands. Amen,"

"Amen," Burwell answered and after a moment of silence, observed, "A better prayer that perhaps he deserved, but for your sake, I hope He's listening."

She offered a weak smile, as she undid a pale ribbon from her neck bearing a silver cross, and looped it over the cross.

"Good bye, my love," she muttered softly, trying not to cry again, as her left hand clutched her swollen waist.

Colonel Harry Burwell was still standing near by, but now he was not alone, an elder gentleman of elite status came to speak to the colonel but found himself staring at the madam.

"She's a guest for today," Burwell explained.

"And the grave?" he was French, and Amelia tensed.

"Her husband," Colonel Burwell answered, "Major Jean Villeneuve, meet Lady Amelia Tavington,"

Amelia stood, offering a clumsy curtsy, but found that the man offered her no such courtesy.

"Does Martin know?"

Colonel Burwell shook his head, "As it should stay, for now major."

Major Villeneuve shook his head, "I am not sorry to know that he is dead,"

"Major," Burwell warned.

"You've seen what he's done . . . to Gabriel and the militia," he paused, "He deserves no such respects as what you are giving him, Colonel,"

"What did you want, Major?"

"Colonel Martin has recovered from his concussion. He has asked to speak with you,"

"Very well, I will be there shortly." Burwell answered shortly.

When the major had left the colonel turned back to Amelia.

"Do forgive the major. This battle has been hard on all of us,"

"I know,"

"Are you any good in medicine?"

"Not really,"

"Well, I would send you to help the doctors, if you would. I would offer you shelter tonight, and send you home in the morning. Night is almost upon us. It would not be safe for you to travel in your condition."

Amelia made no answer but turned from her husband's grave and followed Burwell to the medical tents.

Amelia earned her share, helping the medics handing them supplies and bandages. Her child barely complained, though it did turn with her as she grew tired. Colonel Burwell came and relieved her after some hours.

"My tent has been set so that there is a guest room waiting for you. One of the cooks will bring you food shortly."

"Thank you,"

As she started to leave, he spoke up again.

"Where will you go?"

"Back to William's apartment,"

"If the Americans win, then the apartment will be forfeit to you."

She paused, "I'll manage." Then vanished.

The following morning, which came with breakfast, she was drafted to help the wounded once again, and she spoke with Colonel Burwell further.

"I have a proposal for you,"

She raised her brow, listening but didn't speak up.

"My wife, Mary is soon due with child as well. Our first," he paused, tying off a bandage, "If you were willing, I would offer you free room and board for both you and your child if you were to work as an assistant for my wife."

So, this is what her American dream would be; servitude. It sounded wrong, being once a lady of good standing.

"It would come with a good education for your child, be it a boy or girl."

That sealed the deal as far as she was concerned, but she did well not to look eager, "That's a hard offer not to overlook."

"Think on it, and let me know,"

The day was already coming to a close, and when she took a break she went and sat at her husband's grave, and spoke to him as if he was there with her.

"What do you think, my dear? Should I take this offer? I am alone here without you." When had she become so dependant? Before William she had been alone for a long while caring for her father, and the company. "I love you William,"

The wind danced lightly about her, brushing against her neck as nightfall came. Looking up at the sky her eyes locked on the North Star, and for a moment it felt as if it was speaking to her. Her gaze dropped and landed on Burwell.

Was this a sign?

The wind caressed her face as Burwell came up to her.

"Am I intruding?"

"No, sir,"

"Harry," he corrected her, "I am off duty,"

"Oh," she nodded quietly.

"Despite the fact that Tavington did such cruel things, I am pleased he had something so good in his life,"

"I was seeking answers," she spoke finally, "I have never been in such a position, and I didn't know what to do,"

"Stay the course," he said shortly.

She glanced at him, as he sat down with her.

"As I have been made aware,"

He looked at her in question, and looked up at the sky, his gaze fixed on the North Star.

"I would like to accept your offer to help your wife,"

He didn't move, but she knew he heard and understood.

"I am pleased. I will write a letter that will go with you when you pack what you need from the flat, and give you directions."

"Thank you,"

Mary Burwell stared at the letter her husband sent with a woman too far along to send away. She didn't mind, but the letter bore information that made her uncomfortable. Tavington was a frightening name, even in Alexandria.

"Lady Tavington, welcome," Mary's ankles were tired, and she had to rest. She would be giving birth soon herself, but seeing another woman with an unborn child so close to her own due date was almost a comfort. Her child would have a playmate, at least until she and Harry had another child.

"Thank you," she hadn't packed much, as Mary could see. It was nice, for there was little room in their manor for everyone, but perhaps there was something in the slave outhouses.

"If you do not mind, I would be most pleased to put you to work immediately, seeing that is that my husband trusts you." She looked about, "Let's find you a room first. You will stay in the main house tonight. I will find a room for you more . . . appropriate elsewhere tomorrow."

The lady nodded, and Mary wondered just what had caused this woman to marry such a monster.

"Thank you, Lady Burwell,"

"Of course," At least she would be a polite servant. She would be a bit of a burden when her child came, but that would be dealt with later. Especially after her husband returned home and they discussed what it was that he offered Lady Tavington to make her accept this low of a duty.

"To dinner, Lady Tavington? You must be tired and famished from such a journey,"

"I am a little hungry," she answered, biting her lip clearly nervous, jumping a little when her child kicked her.

"Come, you may join me for dinner,"

Lady Tavington proved most useful dusting and out in the fields with the slaves that they owned. The slaves didn't pay much attention to her thinking she was temporary, but when it was clear that she was staying, and working alongside them, they opened up to her a bit, helping when she couldn't move anymore, or helping with her heavier tasks.

But Lady Tavington's worth came with Mary's water broke. She assisted the midwife for some twenty hours and helped birth her first child.

Gabriel Burwell.

Harry would be so proud, Mary knew.

Lady Tavington's water broke some weeks later on the day Harry returned home. The slaves attended to Lady Tavington. Lady Burwell kept Harry in the main house with his son, which he was pleased about. He inquired how the new staff member faired, which Lady Burwell answered honestly, saying that she took no pay beyond her meal and the bed that she used.

"We should move her and the child here. It get's drafty in those outhouses,"

"We barely have enough room here,"

"Our manse will grow my dear,"

A cry came from the out buildings and they both jumped. Their child shifted, but didn't complain.

"How long has she been like this?"

"A few hours," Lady Burwell answered. It had been ten hours. Harry had only been home for the second five hours, and would be well aware when her child came.

"What did you offer to make her come here?"

"A place to stay and a decent education for her child,"

"That's it?"

He nodded, "Has she been good to you and Gabriel?"

"Overly kind; our slaves like her too,"

"She's been out in the fields?"

Mary nodded.

Harry didn't say much for a minute staring at his son.

"She's Colonel Tavington's wife?" she asked after a bit, still in a way unbelieving.

Harry nodded, "She was fortunate to only see the good in such a monster,"

Lady Tavington cried out again.

"Is there a midwife out there with her?"

"I sent for one, but I haven't heard if she has arrived or not." She paused, thinking about their new servant, "What did she do? Was she a patriot?"

"A loyalist," Harry answered, "A daughter of a British trade master. Father's dead. Tavington was really the only family she had." He paused and looked at his son, "What do you think, Gabriel; excited to have someone to play with when you're older?"

The adoration in his eyes for his son was touching, but somehow Mary wasn't thrilled about her son playing with the housekeeper's child; especially if it was a girl. She would betroth her son to someone of greatness.

Some hours passed, and the cries of pain from the out buildings were severe and getting close together. Harry grew tense.

"Was it this bad when you had a child?"

"Twenty hours," she answered.

"Twenty?" his eyes widened with shock.

She nodded as a knock came at the door.

Harry rose as a servant brought in one of their other servants.

"The midwife is away and could not come,"

Harry pulled on a coat that had seen some time in the fields here at home.
"Where are you going?" Mary asked.

"To see if I can help. Get your coat dearest,"

"But I know nothing about helping. And Gabriel needs me,"

Harry didn't argue but left anyway, as clueless as she was about how to help.

Lady Tavington cried out, her hands holding the bunk posts, her legs pressed firmly on the other bunk posts. She was alone for this, the other servants taking refuge in other outbuildings by Lady Burwell's wishes. Apparently it would be safer for the child, but having no one here, and no sign of a midwife, she was worried, and now incapacitated from being able to move. She had no idea how to tell if she was making any progress, and felt a cold shiver run down her spine, a warm liquid had formed between her legs, and she feared the worst.

She cried out, gulping in air though her throat tightened on an inward scream. Her body shifted, as the door opened. Wet with sweat, she blinked away tears, feeling horrible for her disposition, as she realized that it was her employer, Colonel Burwell.

He barely stepped in and shut the door, when she squeezed her eyes shut. She was now utterly embarrassed, and wished her husband was alive to help her with this.

"Why, Amelia . . . how long have you been here by yourself?"

Her eyes almost crossed trying to think. She couldn't tell, and hadn't been thinking about the time once her body refused to work.

"Has anyone been in to help?"

She blinked.

"Where's the midwife?"

"Absent,"

She tipped her head back trying not to let herself get too frustrated.

"How are you doing?"

"I don't know," she answered almost ready to cry. She didn't want to ask her employer for help, but she didn't have to. He moved to the foot of the bed, and moved the blanket that covered her lower body.

"Goodness," he muttered just as she twisted again, and yelped an inward cry, air filling her lungs and translating into what felt like she could be pushing the child.

"Do that again," she heard her employer speak, and near the end of her power cried out her body bending again as an unmistakable sound came.

A child's cry.

Her body collapsed into the ruined straw mattress, her breath shaky, and her body awash with sweat.

Colonel Burwell cut the cord, and wrapped the child in a spare blanket on the bunk above her, before handing her William Tavington's child.

"Your son, Lady Tavington,"

Amelia leaned herself upright, Burwell propping a pillow behind her.

Her eyes stared down at a bright eyed and pink thing in her hands. She barely noticed that Harry had moved back to the foot of the bed to clean up the birthing remnants between her legs that she would have taken care of.

"I am sorry, colonel that you found me in such a disposition,"

"Don't be sorry, Lady Tavington," he said, throwing the soiled rags into an empty crate near the door. He seemed pleased with her son, and she wondered what he might have looked like at seeing his own son.

Or how William might have looked at seeing his son.

"What are you going to call him?" Harry asked, seeking out some sort of makeshift cradle, amongst the crates in the storage out building she was in.

"I do not know," she answered honestly, "I hadn't fully thought on names for some time,"

"What had you considered?"

"Charles William Tavington,"

"Doesn't exactly sound like must to question." He pulled an empty crate from the far back stuffing it with straw, and a square of wool.

"No, it doesn't," she agreed after a minute, "Charles," she muttered, and fainted.

Harry stared noticing she had fainted, and he saw why.

She was still bleeding.

Uncomfortable leaving her alone completely, he stepped out and picked up a stone, throwing it accurately at the door to one of the other out buildings where a light was still on.

A middle aged woman poked her head out.

"Mister Burwell?"

"I need some help he said in a loud voice, though not loud enough to startle his wife if she was settling down with Gabriel to sleep.

"What'cha doing in there, sir?" the woman came in, and saw the child smiled.

"Miss Tavington had her child then?"

"Yes, but she has fainted, and I do not know what to do,"

The woman pushed passed Harry and grabbing some cotton fabric he hadn't seen, pressed it between her legs.

"Why wasn't she attended to?" he asked.

"The missus thought it would be best for the lady and her child."

He would have words with Mary later, but noting that the color had slowed in leaving her skin white, relaxed slightly.

"Where is the father?" the servant asked.

"In heaven," he answered, "Colonel Tavington would have been proud," he used watching as the servant picked up the child.

"A pity," she answered, and continued, "The boy needs fed, and until the lady comes to, it's not a good idea to have her feed him."

"Then how?"

"I would say ask the missus, but I don't think she'd help. I will ask one of the men to go fetch some from the livestock."

"Thank you, Queenie," he finally remembered her name.

Queenie smiled warmly, and started to carry the child out with her, "Of course,"

"Does Lady Tavington do well?"

"The lady is good. Once she's better, I guess she'll be back to work with us,"

Harry raised his brow, knowing that she had been in the field working, but with a newborn? Would she really do that?

"Watch the lady, sir. If she bleeds again, she may yet die."

Harry sat down, watching and waiting. The bleeding had slowed, but it hadn't exactly stopped.

"Don't die, Lady Amelia Tavington; you have a glorious son to see into manhood."

Lady Amelia Tavington did die, and for Harry Burwell, he knew the one wish she would want if she had truly foreseen this happening.

She would want to be buried next to her husband.

He had the servants prepare a litter in the wagon, and taking two of his servants they went back to the old battlefield where Colonel William Tavington was buried. The silver cross had been looted by someone, and it bothered him. The servants and Burwell dug the grave and placed Amelia beside William.

"Amelia was a treasure," said the servant Duncan, "She was graceful despite being heavy with child."

They buried her, and it only seemed fair that Colonel Harry Burwell spoke;

"Heavenly father, watch over Lady Amelia and see that she finds Colonel William Tavington. We know the colonel wasn't a great man, but he had a fine woman, and it was a pleasure to know her. Lady Tavington was well liked, and it is clear that she had the power to see beyond a monster, and see a man. Let her be at peace in Heaven, knowing that her child will be safe with us," he paused, "Amen,"

"Amen," agreed the servants.

***17 years later…****

Charles William Tavington pulled cotton in the fields with Duncan his pale blue eyes saw everything and his fingers were already tough against the cotton puffs. "Duncan?"

"Yes, Charlie?"

"Why don't the others help with this?" they knew when he meant others that he meant those with pale skins.

"Because they have important things to attend to," this was true. Mary Burwell had had twins last year, both girls; Carolyn and Laylah. Their fifth set of children. First had been Gabriel, followed by George, Wendy, and Hamish. Harry had been away in political debates. Charles spent his time with the servants doing what they did; clean, pick, and serve the 'others'. Harry cared for Charles and left Queenie books to teach Charles when he couldn't. Gabriel didn't pay much attention to Charles Tavington. His eyes were on being like his father; a great leader.

Mary barely looked at Charles. He didn't know why, but Duncan said it had to do with his parents. He didn't care much at the age of seven though he desired to be liked by everyone. He had no inheritance from his parents that he knew of, but then again, Harry at least knew who they were and would say little things about them on occasion to him.

But Charles Tavington was nearly a man. Some would even consider him as such.

He hoped that when Colonel Harry Burwell returned from his latest feat he would actually talk to him about his family. He wanted to know what he could about them.

Chance came when Harry Burwell had visitors.

The Martins.

A large family of eight arrived; a man, a woman, three boys and three girls. A large family. Clearly someone had been busy, Charles observed.

"You had best go wash up and attend to Mister Burwell as his personal servant," Queenie observed. This was true. Whenever Harry had guests, he would have Charles serve him and his family. Because most of his guests had issues with race.

Charles nodded, putting away his knife which he used to pick a new sliver out of his hand, and retreated to the wash house to at least clean his hands and tidy up his hair, now long and dark, it bared some lighter highlights from the sun, but if anyone knew his father there would have been no doubt about who he was.

Luckily for Charles, none of the Martins saw him as he passed behind the wagon and changed into slightly finer clothing that served when he was working indoors. He moved about and to the back of the mansion, taking care to switch from his field boots to the indoor shoes with funny heels that typically gave him blisters.

"Right on time," Duncan said from the kitchen as he finished preparing tea. Because there were so many guests plus a large residential family, the tea was arranged on a cart.

"Wonderful," Charles observed noticing sixteen cups.

"That's a lot of cups,"

"Indeed." Charles answered, "I will help you wash them when they are through tittering about,"

Duncan chuckled, "Be kind and listen to Mister Burwell, Charles. The Martins are a bit picky,"

"I always do," in fact, Charles was an excellent servant and more obedient than Gabriel Burwell.

"Off you go then,"

"Which room?" he checked considering which room.

"The sun room. There's space enough for everyone. At least since we've built the extensions."

"Of course," Charles double checked his shirt to make certain it was tucked, and then pushed the cart out through the swinging doors.

"Be certain to be here this evening to serve dinner,"

"I will," Charles answered knowing he would probably be in the kitchen cooking.

The small wooden wheels barely made a sound. The well crafted cart was well carved and sealed with a shine that made a mind blind if it was in the sun. It was one of Mary's pride and joys with such a large household.

The Burwell children raced past him as they entered the sun room. None of them paid him any heed except Gabriel.

"Back to being the housekeeper? Is it better or worse than working in the field?"

Such cold remarks hardened him, but he never answered. Nor did he complain. His guardians, who served the Burwells never complained, therefore he wouldn't either.

Gabriel chuckled and continued into the sunroom. He passed the double doors and stopped the cart beside Harry's seat.

"Tea, Mister Burwell?"

Harry looked up at him with a pleasant grin, "Of course, but do serve our guests first."

Charles nodded, and moved the cart stopping with Missus Martin.

She took the cup gracefully, and Charles made his way about the family, most of the children passing on the tea, most younger than ten anyway. The elder children which were three of them plus the elder Burwell children accepted tea. Charles counted, serving Mary Burwell, who barely said thank you, and then his cart stopped on Benjamin Martin.

"Tea, sir?"

An odd silence went about the room, as Mister Martin looked up and then stared at him, at first as if seeing a ghost, then a hate rose through Martin that everyone could see. Charles looked away, not knowing what to say or do. If he left he would be in trouble, but serving tea to Martin may be a worse fate.

"Step down, Benjamin." Harry snapped in a low sort of growl.

"What is that Colonel doing still alive?" the elder Martin children looked at him inquisitively, and Lady Martin trembled in her seat."

"This is my footman, and loyal household servant, Charles."

"But," Benjamin Martin spoke to Mister Burwell, but his eyes didn't leave.

"This is Colonel William Tavington's widowed son. Begotten in a lawful marriage to Lord Fitzgerald Gray's daughter, Amelia, who is no longer amongst the living."

That was a lot of names that Harry just used in one sentence, and Charles made a note to ask him about them later since he clearly knew who they all were.

Mister Martin didn't say a word, but prejudiced hate was in his eyes, and Charles was frightened.

"Tea?" he finally asked, his voice a bit weak upon feeling such hate.

Harry rose from his seat and served Benjamin himself, "Off you go, Charles. Make certain Duncan knows that there will be sixteen people at the table."

"Yes sir," He nodded his head in a bow, "Shall I return the cart with more tea?"

"Do so," he answered a weary eye cast on his friend, "And let the staff know that we have more guests arriving soon. Best bring the unused tea cups back with you."

Charles vanished with the cart pale from what had just happened.

Duncan barely noticed him enter, but was appaled with Charles's complexion.

"You alright Charlie?"

"I dunno,"

"Sit down,"

He did so, his face falling into his hands. What had happened out there? What had happened back then? Who were his parents really?

"They hate me," Charles said in a cracked voice.

"Nah, Charles, you're just different. You're one of us and that's why they act as they do."

"It wasn't about my skin," he protested, "My face was what set them off,"

Duncan stared at him quietly, "You know what to do, kid."

"Stay the course," he repeated the words that he had been taught to use when distraught.

"Stay the course," Duncan agreed, "More tea for our guests?"

Charles nodded, "Yes. We have many guests still arriving apparently."

"Twenty," Duncan corrected him, "Counting the Burwells,"

"Twenty? But the table does not extend so far out,"

"It is a party. For Mister Martin," he paused as if the answer covered everything then added, "It'll be more of a banquet."

"Wonderful," Charles muttered coyly. One thing he despised but always did were the dishes. His fingers were nimble enough to move the dishes and flatware about without breaking anything or cutting himself.

"Hold your tongue, Charles."

Charles held his tongue knowing he had spoken out of turn, as Duncan reset the tea set and added more cups.

"When you return, you can help me with the soup."

Charles nodded, and returned to the sunroom where clearly the last of the guests had arrived by his count. An old French man and his family; a wife and two children; a son and a daughter with green eyes.

"Tea,"

"Serve the new arrivals," Mary Burwell answered passing him to use the powder room.

He did so receiving little in manners, especially from the elder Frenchman.

"Colonel? I believed you were dead sir,"

Charles glanced at Harry who nodded his head to Charles to answer politely.

"I am not Colonel Tavington," he answered calmly.

"Oh," he looked harder at the boy for a moment, "Forgive me. You are a spitting image of the man himself."

Charles moved the tea cart to one side, and bowing once in general to the crowd, but mostly to Mister Burwell, vanished back to the kitchen where he began cutting vegetables for the soup.

In the sun room, Colonel Harry Burwell spoke with his longtime war friends Major Jean Villeneuve, and Colonel Benjamin Martin.

"So you have a pale skinned servant?" Jean asked curiously not broaching the topic of the boy's heritage.

"That is true."

"It's an abomination," Martin snapped.

"Charles serves me well, and I promised Lady Tavington that I would see to his well being and education."

"So he is an educated man then?"

"Somewhat," Burwell answered glancing at his wife. She had never approved of him teaching the child anything, especially when she caught him teaching Gabriel and Charles to read at the same time. "He's smart, and is good to the family,"

"A bit of a blockhead though," his son Gabriel added slowly.

"You mind yourself, Gabriel. Charles has never said a bad word about you, even when you say the things you do,"

Gabriel shrugged and went to speak with the elder sons of Martin, Samuel and William.

It was Villeneuve who broke the silence that followed.

"Have you considered sending him out into an apprenticeship?"

Burwell shrugged. In truth he did not know much about the son beyond his heritage, and his work ethic.

"He may do well for you if he was sent out to serve."

"In what? The military? Jean, that is absurd!" Martin snapped.

"All boys deserve potential tasks. You cannot expect him to stay a servant your entire life."

This was true. Harry had thought about this. One day he would be approached with questions. It wouldn't be intentional, but it would happen.

"I remember his wife," Villeneuve observed after a bit, "Lovely, swollen with her child. Where is she now?"

"She died giving birth to Charles," Somehow Harry felt responsible for Charles since he couldn't save his mother. The upbringing the boy had been given was not what he had planned for.

"A shame,"

Martin said nothing, clearly lost in memories.

"How old is the boy?"

"Seventeen," Harry knew that the boy had turned that age some week ago, and the servants had given him a small party in the out buildings. Harry's family did not attend. They had never celebrated his birth, in fact. Colonel Burwell had tried to make some amends with books and lessons, but somehow he felt that it was not enough to make up for the losses.

"He's old enough, I would take him on," Villeneuve countered.

"What business are you in now, Jean?"

"I still reside as a French Ambassador."

"You'd have to talk to him about it. I wouldn't send him off without his consent."

"Of course,"

Martin was red however at the thought.

"You cannot be serious; he will betray us!"

"He's just a boy, and had no idea who his father is unless someone makes mention of it," Burwell answered. This was not the sort of parlor discussion he had really wanted, but it was best to finish it and move on to the more pleasant topics

"Why not?" Villeneuve asked.

Harry Burwell looked away. Somehow telling the boy all of this never seemed right. He had meant to one day, going so far as to collect Tavington's military chest from the remnants of the British encampment, and sending letters to Lady Tavington's family.

"I do not know myself,"

"Afraid his father's ghost may possess him?"

"I would hope for his mother, rather,"

"I will deal with it," Villeneuve countered, "That is, if he agrees to it,"

Harry nodded.

They would find out over the next few days and see what Charles wanted.

Dinner was calm, the plans had been changed to serve them all at a dinner table. Mary's idea Mister Burwell knew, but said nothing. Duncan and Charles had seen to the proper spacing. The children wailed, the adults made noise. Charles came and went taking empty platters without a sound.

Almost like a ghost.

Colonel Burwell shrugged off the idea, but the way his fellow soldier Benjamin Martin glared at him if he drew too near set the poor colonel on edge.

"Forgive me," Charles pardoned himself once removing an empty tray set between Benjamin and Charlotte Martin.

Charlotte nodded solemnly, but Benjamin glowered.

At least visitors came here every so often. Most given, were typically in better temperaments, but it couldn't be any worse than this.

The major watched him curiously seeing the cordial mannerisms and gentleman like behavior he used around everyone including children. The elder Martin children glared at him like their father, clearly remembering what had happened all those years ago.

Remembering Charles's father.

Charles Tavington vanished with the last of the platters and returned with dessert plates and the appropriate flatware. He didn't meet anyone's eyes, as he set the plates about, and then went to the kitchen returning with an overly large cake.

Setting it before Mister Martin, he backed away slowly, as if frightened that Mister Martin would take the cake knife and run it through him in the dining hall.

"Thank you, Charles," Harry said as he passed back with the cart, "You can come back in a half hour to collect the dishes."

Charles vanished and Harry shut the boy out of his mind for now, focusing on his friend who took a large slice for himself and served everyone else smaller slices.

Charles William Tavington collapsed in his bunk exhausted, rightfully so. It was midnight, and he barely remembered to leave his serving coat and indoor shoes in the manor before retreating to bed. Tavington had every right to be tired and shut his eyes barely long enough to reach sleep when a knock came at his bunk building's door. He rose, everyone else well deep into sleep and peeked out to see his employer, Mister Harry Burwell.

"Sir,"

"You weren't asleep yet were you?"

"No, sir," he slipped on his boots, and stepped out, not having bothered to change for bed.

"Is there something I could help you with sir?"

"No," the man paused, his age worn face tired and grim, "No, I wanted to thank you for not making a scene today. You did your job and went. Fine aspects of being a good person,"

"You're welcome, sir." Harry began to walk, gesturing for him to follow.

"I did not have the pleasure to have met your father on a mutual occasion," Colonel Burwell spoke as if Charles was his son, and not a servant, "He was a good husband clearly, and would have made a fine father."

"But Mister Martin and Mister Villeneuve?"

"They saw a darker side of Mister Tavington that I was not a witness to until the end. Your father was a brave and bold soldier. He sought victory where tactics were the foundation for history and not the outcome. He by the records was good at what he did, though it was not well looked upon by any person. His reputation left him as the 'Butcher'."

Charles had not heard this name associated to his father.

"I did not know much about his personal life, let alone whether or not that existed until I met your mother."

"Amelia?" Charles questioned. Burwell never spoke about her.

Colonel Burwell nodded, "I helped her bury her husband, in our patriotic graveyard, though he should not have been welcome,"

"Why did he get buried with the patriots if he was a loyal British officer?"

"Because I took sympathy on Lady Tavington," Harry answered.

"Why are you telling me all of this now? I am sure it means little to anyone,"

"Because when you have decided on what you want to become, people will look at you differently because of your parentage. Not everyone is generous like myself, or Queenie, and willing to look beyond bad things to see the good."

"Have I been bad?" Charles asked looking at his roughened hands.

"No, but not everyone will see you for how good you are until it may be too late,"

"Then what am I to do? I wouldn't care to continue to serve you here in the fields."

"Mister Villeneuve has offered to take you as an apprentice in the French office."

"What for?"

"Potential," Harry answered, "He met your mother once. Just after we had buried the colonel,"

"Why not take Gabriel? He's older and more capable."

"You're being kind," Harry countered quickly. He knew how poorly Gabriel Burwell treated Charles.

"As I should be," he countered. He didn't want to get into trouble.

"As you should," Mister Burwell repeated, "Go on now and get some rest. I have plans for you tomorrow,"

"Tomorrow, sir?"

"I am taking the guests hunting . . . men and boys. The girls will be staying here gossiping and drinking tea. Queenie can take care of them, but I would like you to accompany us tomorrow."

"Very well sir,"

"Go and get some sleep. You'll have to be up in a few hours,"

"Yes sir,"

"I don't see what we need a slave for," Gabriel protested.

Colonel Burwell was willing to teach his son humility but not before his guests, so he forced himself to speak against Charles, "Because someone has to carry any game that the little ones cannot carry."

"Oh,"

There was silence until one of the Martin boys asked, "Do you whip your slaves, colonel?"

"I do not,"

"But the Williams do . . . to make the slaves obey."

"What are you doing spying on other lands?" Gabriel asked the boy . . . Samuel.

They had been out for some hours, and there had been no sign of any game here. In fact it seemed too empty, and it had Colonel Burwell on edge.

"Trying to see Miranda Williams,"

There was a sound in the distance, and Harry paused seeing nothing.

Then a sound erupted from behind the party.

Wolves.

An entire pack to be exact.

"To the trees children!" The smallest were thrown into a large live oak by Samuel and Gabriel as the bears drew close. Harry stepped back, and fell, his ankle catching a root. Something snapped, and he struggled to get up. Benjamin fired upon the first one as the Frenchman hoisted Harry to his feet and hauled him up a tree.

Another wolf pounced on Benjamin from behind.

Harry wasn't watching, doing a head count of all the children.

There was a child's yelp below, and Harry looked down to see that Jean's son hadn't made it up the tree yet, and now his boot was in the teeth of a wolf.

There was gunfire below, and he saw Charles shoot the boy's attacking wolf dead through the side, and hoisted the twelve year old up the closest tree.

Several of the wolves went after their wounded kin, and others turned their attention to Charles.

"Climb!" Harry shouted at Charles, but he wasn't listening. With the butt of his rifle, he swung about clubbing any wolf too near as he tried to make his way to Martin who was wounded and surrounded.

"Gimme a gun!" Harry shouted, to one of his children, and began to shoot wolves too close to Benjamin.

The pack spread, some now circling the tree waiting for a child to fall out, some got good strikes against Benjamin whose hatchet bore through several, but he was slowing down.

Charles made his way through, jaws broken now on several of the wolves, and others with broken limbs were now useless to their pack, scurrying away before their leader found out. Harry was reloading but he failed to see what had exactly had happened, when Charles fell. He had dropped his rifle and had pulled a boot knife on the leader who had chosen to take down the youth instead of the old man. Two wolves were still upon Benjamin, and Jean was shot them down with Gabriel. But when Harry looked up to fire upon the pack leader, both it and Charles were down.

The wolves now gone, Harry dropped from the tree and looked to Gabriel.

"Take the boys and go back to the mansion. Have Mary call for a doctor!"

The gaggle of boys ran still numb and some soiled due to what happened. Jean's son Pierre limped along as fast as he could, and Harry was having a difficult time standing.

"Benjamin!" Harry shouted. It turned out he was fine, though good chew marks were visible on his arms and ankles.

"I'm fine," he staggered to his feet uneasily, and made his way to Harry, "You're not hurt?"

"Not bad enough," he moved to Charles whom was unconscious. A hatchet lodged in the boy's left shoulder, several chew marks, and a bump on the side of the head that bled.

"Help me," Harry demanded, trying to lift his young servant off the ground, but found it difficult to with a bad ankle.

Benjamin took his hatchet back, dazed in a way looking at the young man's unconscious face twitch as he pulled his hatchet free. Finally Jean helped hoist the Tavington boy up, and they moved quickly back.

The doctor saw to Harry's broken ankle, Pierre's chewed foot, and Benjamin Martin, before tending to the servant boy.

"He'll be fine, a slight concussion and a nasty scratch. He'll be fine in no time."

But Charles didn't awake for some time, even after the doctor dressed the wounds. The boys were cleaned up and yet still looked like a mess as they watched the wounded get tended to. Mary sat beside Harry watching the servant.

"He did well, Harry."

"He put others before himself,"

Mary remained silent, as if she disbelieved that anything related to the Butcher could be so good and pure.

"What now?" she asked the doctor as he stepped away.

"Now everyone must rest. Send the children away and let these men heal."

"Have Duncan come and take Charles back to his bunk,"

"That is not recommended," the doctor observed, with a quizzical brow.

"This is the Villeneuve's guest room's sir; this is too much of a burden to leave to them."

"He saved my son," Jean countered, "It would be no trouble to us,"

There was an awkward silence, followed with, "The servants will want to come and see him,"

"That won't be a problem," Lady Villeneuve answered taking her husband's hand.

Charles awoke, his eyes blinking wearily. The room was a bit fuzzy to him, and he was stiff with a back breaking headache. It was daylight out, and he rolled his head to one side seeing that he was in one of the guest rooms.

The Villeneuve's to be exact.

The daughter was asleep on her father's lap, and barely moved when Jean spoke to him.

"How do you feel?"

"What happened?" he croaked out, uncertain what to say.

"You helped save Benjamin Martin's life is what happened."

"How is he?"

"Fine," Jean rose from his seat, setting the child back in the chair and moved closer to Charles Tavington.

"You saved my son as well, which I will never be able to repay you for."

Tavington swallowed his throat dry, "How long ago was that?" He knew he had been asleep but he didn't know how long.

"Yesterday,"

He blinked knowing that he had failed to do his regular duties.

"I'm sorry I didn't serve you dinner last night then,"

"Queenie said that it you dared to apologize for missing your duties I was to thump you over the head," he chuckled, and Charles managed a small grin.

"Don't you worry about your chores; they've been well taken care of." He looked at the boy with question, "Can you stand?"

Charles didn't answer; twitching his toes in their socks first then pulled his knees, to bend. "I think so," he sat up, and noticed that his house shoes were not in the room. Mary would not be happy; especially with him having actually slept in the house.

"Try standing," Jean urged him. Charles did so, and clung to the leg of the nearest bed post when the world spun around him, his shoulder burning.

"Come, it would do you some good to move about and get some circulation going."

Charles did as told having to on occasion cling to a doorframe or to the major's shoulder.

"There are some people who would be happy to see you awake,"

Charles looked at him questioningly, until they were headed to the kitchen.

Duncan and Queenie smiled broadly upon seeing their charge awake, and stumbling about.

"Charlie, dearest, how are you?"

"I have been better, Queenie,"

"Sit down for a minute, and I'll fix you up something to eat."

Yes he was ravenous, and in need of using a chamber pot, or one of the outdoor bathroom facilities.

"To the outer bathroom first," he protested his body ravenous to use the facility and eat all at the same time.

Duncan took Charles out back, Jean remained in the kitchen when Charles returned, and watched him eat.

"Thank you for watching over him," Queenie stated when he had gotten through part of a bowl of soup and slice of bread, "We would have taken care of him out in the outer buildings.

"It was no problem at all to us," Jean assured her.

Harry burst into the kitchen when he saw that no one was in the guest room when Jean's daughter, Luna entered the sun room looking for her father. Jean and Queenie were discussing methods to cook various breads and Charles was finishing a cup of tea.

"You're awake,"

Charles looked at him curiously, and for a moment, Harry forgot he was on crutches.

"It's nothing, Charles."

The boy looked away, and for an instant, Harry saw the colonel in his expression. The face he might have used if he ever hurt his wife; full of apologetic compassion and regret.

"You saved Colonel Martin," Harry countered. Ben had been quiet about the entire topic of Charles now that he had dared to save his life despite the hate he threw at the boy. "He would like to speak to you, when you are ready."

Charles nodded slowly, sipping his tea slowly watching Harry curiously.

"Why me? He cannot stand looking upon me?"

"Because he knows now that you are not your father."

"Yes sir," he answered sighing softly.

"Still a bit wry of him are you?"

"Yes sir,"

"There's nothing to fear. He's old and loud. That's all,"

"What does that make us?" Jean asked Harry.

"Tired old codgers,"

The men laughed, Charles held his lips tightly shut, and Harry knew he didn't laugh so as not to offend anyone.

"Think you're up for another stroll?" Harry asked as Queenie took his empty tea cup.

Charles nodded and pushed himself up slowly to his feet. Jean gave him an approving nod. Clearly he didn't do so well getting here.

Harry Burwell led him to the sun room parlor where the older men above the age of twelve hung about. The younger boys were outside with the girls playing at the river below the mansion.

Benjamin Martin turned to face Charles, his face hardened by thought, and for a moment, Charles feared that he had misheard his employer or had been lied to.

Then he smiled.

Charles watched as the man walked over to him with a slight limp.

"Welcome back to the world,"

"Thanks," Charles nodded an answer still weary.

Then Martin offered him a hand to shake.

Charles accepted it slowly, uncertain he was thinking straight yet or if he was drugged.

"How are you feeling Mister Martin?" he managed to finally squeak.

"Good. My children are safe, and I have been proven wrong on a good thing."

Charles looked at Harry looking for an explanation but when none came looked back at Mister Martin.

"You saved my life," he said, "It's the complete opposite of what I thought of you,"

Charles nodded, "I was doing my duty, sir."

Jean placed his hand on Charles, "Harry did give you an order,"

Charles blinked and looked to his employer once again.

"I told you to climb; not to fight back."

"Oh, sorry, sir"

"Don't be sorry," Harry answered with an edge of fierceness in his voice. "We may be burying ol' Ben if it hadn't been for you."

Charles nodded again, so used to being a servant; he didn't have a clue how to act properly when being applauded, except when he was around people who worked as his equals.

"Come and join us," Benjamin gestured for him to join them in the sunroom.

"I will have duties . . . chores to attend to."

"Not for another day or two." Harry countered.

"Very well, sir."

He walked with them to the glass window looking out at the women and children at play at the river.

"How old are you, Charles?" Ben asked.

"Seventeen last week sir,"

"Last week?" Charles caught Mister Martin glance at Mister Burwell.

"Yes sir,"

"What did you do?"

"Work, sir."

Suddenly feeling a bit woozy, sat down on a near by chair.

Martin looked at Burwell, who gave no revealing expression.

"Well, I will give you this; you are certainly not your father,"

Charles flinched. This was not the first time he had heard this, nor would it be the last. Sighing, he tried to rise, his head clearing only a little, but failed to achieve a standing position.

"Don't push yourself," Mister Burwell said.

He nodded, and remained silent answering in small words when spoken to, as the elder men began to speak to one another again. The three elder sons and Pierre Villeneuve who was only recently twelve sat in a corner of the room playing cribbage. It looked odd to Charles who had never attempted to play games, but then again he had done lots of things that they couldn't fathom.

Pierre was the first to fully take in that Charles was a bit of and oddity in the room, and walked over to him first.

"You want to play with us?"

Before Charles could answer, Benjamin Burwell answered, "He doesn't know how,"

"We could teach you,"

One of the other boys turned in question, a mix of confusion, fear and admiration in their eyes.

"What good would it do? He'll be back to work with no time for games anyway," The boys looked at Benjamin as he added; "Besides only an even number of players are required."

Pierre looked a bit distraught, but Charles diffused it quickly with, "It's okay. I fear I would make your entertaining game quite distasteful."

Pierre nodded, but hesitated as if to say more, glancing at the adults as they spoke of the way the children outside played. Finally after a minute he returned to the game, as Benjamin drew the winning card for his team.

Charles hadn't cared for games and these non serving tasks until this large group of people came to visit. Harry had been both a master and a father to him in some ways which put Charles mentally on edge. He wanted to be a regular person but whatever else Harry held from his about his family was clearly the reasons which governed him to simply leave him as a servant.

As people continued to talk amongst themselves, he hoisted himself to his feet, and quietly made his way out the door, and went back to his bunk in the out buildings, and slept deeply until he was awoken near sundown by someone knocking.

"Charles? Are you in here?"

Charles stood, and limped to the door, and found Duncan.

"Is everything okay?" he asked his friend and guardian.

"The Mister Burwell has requested that you join the table for dinner."

"I do not eat at that table," he paled knowing that Burwell was putting him in.

"He's made it . . . more of a demand," Duncan paused.

"What is it?"

"I think he's going to make some announcement,"

"About me?" Charles tried to find a joke, but it wasn't coming to him.

Duncan didn't answer.

"Well, who's serving tonight?"

"Queenie,"

Charles nodded. At least there'd be one truly friendly face there if he was attend the table like a guest.

"You need a hand dressing for dinner?"

Charles looked down at himself. He hadn't paid all that much attention, but now saw that with one arm on a sling to avoid making a wound open, he would indeed have to ask, which he didn't really like doing.

"Please?" he asked quietly. Duncan knowing Charles's self reliance was tearing at him nodded, and stepped inside, helping dress him like a common gentleman with what good clothes he had.

"Your indoor shoes and coat will have to do," Duncan observed when they finished. The wound at his shoulder burned, and his muscles ached from the damage he took. He couldn't recall what had happened, but could remembering Martin having it once and then the next the hatchet sending him flying just as he cut the wolf's throat.

Charles nodded, and followed Duncan to the back of the kitchen where he was again assisted in lacing his shoes and setting his coat in place.

"Why, you're quite a gentleman tonight," Queenie smiled warmly as she appraised him to make certain he was presentable.

Charles was only able to flash a small smile as Mister Burwell entered, "You ready?" Charles's only reply was to nod his head shortly.

Following Mister Burwell was easy. The strange look Missus Burwell sent him made him feel odd.

Her expression was approving. Had making an attempt to help Mister Martin been that significant?

Yet as he sat, served by Queenie, and sitting between the youngest Burwell permitted at the table and the youngest Martin child, he felt awkward. He felt like excusing himself to just hide in the kitchen, but it would be rude. So he sat silent, and ate what was given to him clumsily, sine he couldn't use his left arm without messing the sling and his muscles.

They let him have a shot of brandy as well. It didn't well with his body, and shook his head when they offered him another drink.

They finished eating, and they moved to the drawing room. Charles stayed in the dining room sitting alone for a while. He didn't really get these chances to do so, and enjoyed them somewhat.

"What are you thinking about Charles?" Queenie asked as she and Duncan moved the used dishes from the table.

"Lots of things,"

"They say something to upset you?"

"No," he answered, "It's . . . ," in fact it was what they said and didn't say that bothered him. Everything about his parents was hushed. He looked at Queenie as she put the last of the dishes on the cart and moved the silver décor to their appropriate spots in the cupboard.

"Queenie, what do you know about my parents?"

She stopped for a moment. The last time he had asked this, she disregarded it and told him some bedtime tale of how glorious she was. Would she tell him the truth?

"Can we discuss this later tonight?" she cast an awkward sideways glance at the exit to where the others had gone.

Slightly disappointed, Charles nodded.

"Lady Amelia Tavington arrived here at the Burwell estate sometime after your father died. I never met the man myself, though there were enough stories afloat that we all knew what sort of man he was . . . mostly. We all feared Lady Tavington for that reason when she arrived. We wondered what sort of woman she would be if she dared to open herself up to us." Queenie sat on the front steps of the bunk house with Charles, "She was put to work with us under the Missus. She was relentless with the lady. We thinks she thought that the mister was dishonest in their marriage. Perhaps that's why she wouldn't let us attend to Amelia."

"What do you mean?" Charles asked curious.

"Well, Amelia worked with us, and kept a good pace for herself which was a little slower than us, but she was putting a lot of effort into protecting you as well. We began to help her out after a couple of weeks, seeing as she was going to be one of us despite her skin color. Amelia who was a quiet person really spoke to us as if we were all of the same skin color. It was pleasant because . . . well you know how they speak sometimes."

Charles nodded, his eyes gazing up at the stars.

"Well the day you were ready to come out into the world, the missus sent us away from the storage house," she pointed to the exact building, "And forbade us from entering saying something would go wrong if we were there. After some hours we convinced her to send for a midwife. No one in the area was available."

Charles paled knowing that Queenie was going to tell him how his mother died.

"The Mister was the one that held you first. Cleaned you up well he did, and gave you to your mother. But what he didn't know was how to treat the after bleeding that can happen. I was called for, and we tried to stop it, but it didn't happen. Your mother was beautiful, even after she passed on."

"Where is she now?"

"The Mister had Duncan and Boris accompany him as he buried her beside her dead husband." She paused, "It was on the edge of a battlefield, in a place that your father ought not to have been buried, but was granted such rights because of your mother. It was fair to place her where she could be with her beloved."

Charles swallowed down the knot that came with hearing all of this.

"Will Mister Burwell consider letting me meet them?"

Queenie shrugged, "He ought to,"

Jean Villeneuve poured Charles Tavington a cup of tea as they sat in the parlor of the Burwell mansion. The great mass of guests would soon be leaving and this was the first time he really spent any solid time with any of the guests. He had been approached by Pierre who wanted to thank him for saving his life, and Missus Charlotte Martin made her peace with him by speaking to him before breakfast that morning.

But now he was with the only one who had made the first attempt to see beyond it all.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better sir," It had been three days since the incident and he would return to the fields tomorrow despite the shoulder wound. He had been forced to indulge the family with eating at the same table and lingering in the social rooms.

"That's good to hear," Villeneuve looked out into the room that they sat in. The little ones were playing some sort of game that was simple and not as complicated as cribbage looked. "Charles, what sort of life do you intend to lead?"

"I guess continue serving the Burwells until I die or am discharged," he paused wondering why he was being asked this.

"Well, it's come to my knowledge that you are as smart as you are strong, and it is a shame to see potential talent wasted on the fields that people of all skins should attend."

Charles blinked. Had he heard Villeneuve say something insulting about the Burwells?

"I would like to invite you to come with my family to Boston."

"What would I do in Boston?"

Mister Villeneuve smiled slightly, clearly seeing the fear of being passed about like a toy.

"I was thinking of letting you learn about economics and politics with my son Pierre. The country could use some faces that don't come from wealthy families."

"More outcasts, you mean?"

Villeneuve glanced at him oddly, "Outcasts . . . sure, but those are the one's with the brighter ideas that help the people and don't alienate them."

Charles found himself smiling at the prospect of doing more than work in the fields, but perhaps working to help those who had cared about him most like Queenie and Duncan who were essentially slaves to the Burwells.

"I have already talked to Harry about this,"

"And?" Charles asked almost cringing at the idea that he may have said no.

"And, he's agreed, so long as you were willing. I think he's afraid of how his wife will take to it."

"Of course," Charles answered knowing how much of an asset he had been, being a pale skinned servant. "But I have some things I would like to do, Mister Villeneuve. I would like to do them before I accept your terms."

Villeneuve tipped his head in curiosity.

"I would like to meet my parents—I know that they are dead, but it would mean a lot to me to visit their resting places." He paused, "I wanted to ask Mister Burwell further about them, as well. If there's any family or," he paused. Mentioning he wanted to know if there was anything of his parents like a journal or trinket that could possibly connect him to them even existed.

"You should ask Harry about that," Mister Villeneuve answered, "If you want, I can take you to the very place if you would permit us to stop at my home to see my family off."

Hope swelled in Charles Tavington's heart, his expression similar to an eager puppy waiting to be given approval of.

"I would be fine with that, sir,"

"So you would accept my offer?"

"Yes sir," he answered quickly then biting his tongue he added, "What would you have me do in repayment of this?"

"Nothing,"

Harry didn't expect a knock at his office door, but one came and he was surprised to find Charles Tavington.

"Sorry to interrupt you sir, but I wanted to speak to you."

"It's fine, Charles, come in." he sat in his chair behind his antique wooden desk and looked at Charles curiously.

"Well," Charles remained standing until permitted to sit, "I wanted to talk to you about a couple things,"

"Well, go ahead,"

"Mister Villeneuve has asked me to accompany his family to Boston."

"Which I said was fine by me so long as you were fine with it,"

"But Missus Burwell,"

"Will be dealt with," he paused, "So you've accepted his offer?"

Charles nodded slowly, and Harry let a small smile appear on his face to show approval.

"And I wanted to talk to you about my parents,"

Harry frowned. He didn't want to, but if Charles left tomorrow this conversation had to happen.

"What about them?"

"Well, I know so little about them, though I know what happened the night of my birth, I know little about what their lives were like before me. I was wondering if there was anything that could help me know who they were."

Harry nodded, "Yes. There's a war chest that belonged to your father that I will give you before you leave. It has some old documents and personal items that I doubt will mean anything to you, but there should be something. As for your mother, well, she has some distant cousins in South Carolina."

"Really?"

"You probably won't get a warm reception from them. From what I have heard they didn't even attend Lady Tavington's marriage. They probably wouldn't care. Tavington has no family; his mother died in some serial murder in London, and his father was locked in Scotland Yard for his over excessive gambling and squandering."

"Oh,"

"Your father had no ties here, and kept no company beyond his captain, who was killed by Benjamin's eldest son Gabriel. Amelia didn't either by what I have heard. Her closest friend was probably Queenie."

Charles swallowed, looking down, and pressing his lips together.

"Your wife was the only good thing your father had."

"What was his name?"

Harry hesitated as if it would bring on the very ghost, "William,"

The morning came for Charles to depart with his new life ahead of him, but it did not come without some sadness and some despair. Missus Burwell's kinder attitude over the last few days had vanished without a trace back to its hateful look.

Queenie and Duncan embraced him tightly giving him a freshly woven wool blanket, and one of Duncan's fresh loaves of bread that Charles had a favoring for.

"You take care of yourself, Charlie. You make sure that you write us, or visit."

"I will do all of them," Charles smiled to Queenie.

Harry handed him a large box with the words Col. W. Tavington inscribed on the lid. It had a special brand from the king on the side, and Charles was almost eager to open it, and look inside, but didn't.

"Take care, Charles,"

"Thank you sir,"

The Burwell children said nothing to him, the Martins shook his hand, and Charlotte managed to embrace him, "Feel free to visit us. We are forever in your debt,"

"Thank you ma'am,"

He turned and placed his box and parting gifts in a small spot that had been made for him. He required little room, for most of the books he had learned from were already returned to the main household when no one was looking. He had few clothes, and left the indoor coat and shoes behind. Whoever was made next to serve would need them.

And so Charles went in peace to a new life, with a new sort of family, with the key to his history now in his possession and a promise to meet his family.