Ben remembered the first time he put on his Continental uniform, and then again when the uniform was outfitted to match all of the men in the newly formed regiment of dragoons. He was only a Captain then and still a boy that believed someday life could return exactly as it was before the war. Things seemed to move fast then and yet it was only a few weeks into his service that he began to feel it all change, where the newness of the uniform and the excitement of battle sometimes dwindled to pure fear. He'd find himself waking to a cold, dark tent, sweating off nightmares that told of a dead family and lost friends and all he was incapable of doing to save them. But just like that the sun would rise and he'd find himself slipping into the same pair of boots, all of the chaos around him feeling far more familiar than the life he'd left behind in Setauket.

In a way it was no longer a uniform; Ben swore he'd now spent more days in his current pair of breeches than he had in any of his farm trousers from home. He'd returned on several occasions but he felt out of place in a town that now expected so much and he was disappointed in himself to find every arrival marked another day on which the war would not end, as if he was solely responsible for that being the case.

Like his work clothes or the waistcoat he'd wear to supper or even church, Ben felt just as out of place in his current outfit, a somewhat fancier version of his everyday coat with an added burgundy sash tied around his waist. Every other man in the room wore something similar, with the female guests wearing bright frocks with jewels that caught the light from the chandelier above, contrasting them greatly with their male counterparts.

"Benjamin?"

He looked up but failed to find the source of the voice. Rather clumsily he turned around and nearly collided with a passing servant. The rest of the men here had wives to hide behind, but Ben was attending alone, and yet his awkward movements did little to deter the group of ladies playing cards in the corner. Their eyes darted back and forth from the hands they were dealt to the way his breeches cut him perfectly at the knee. Ben felt somewhat naked under their glance, especially as the group's whispering was followed by several rounds of laughter.

"Benjamin!" he heard it again. This time when he turned he found he was not alone and he relieved for the first time that night. He needed a distraction from the women in the corner and he hoped if he persevered through several more rounds of small talk, he'd eventually be able to leave.

It was odd to him that he didn't recognize the voice because it was one he knew well. "Sir…" he began, as if to apologize.

When George could only smile in concession, Martha stepped in. "Benjamin, I wanted to make your acquaintance..." Martha ushered the girl forward. "This is Miss Charlotte Gray. Charlotte, this is—"

He extended his hand and she gracefully gave her own. "Benjamin Tallmadge, ma'am."

"Major Benjamin Tallmadge," Martha corrected. "Benjamin, we were just telling Charlotte about you. I needed to prove to her that there were in fact unmarried men here of her own age. Only a few, but they do exist," she nearly sang.

"Yes ma'am, we do exist."

Charlotte did not laugh. In fact, her brow furrowed, as if to ask him to stop embarrassing himself. Already she had such bold features and now the smirk she wore dimpled her cheeks, while her brown eyes bounced back and forth between the young officer and his much older friends.

"Sir," Ben spoke up, now directing his attention solely to the General. "I have been meaning to tell you that—"

"It can surely wait until the morning, can't it George?" Martha asked, turning back to her husband. "The entire point of this night was to thank you boys for all of your hard work and dedication to the cause. Try to relax, Benjamin. Here," she began in a much cheerier tone, "why don't you and Charlotte have a dance?"

"Martha..." George admonished.

Mrs. Washington only smiled at the pair, neither of them giving any reaction to her suggestion.

Ben sighed. "Charlotte, would you like to—"

"Dance? Yes, that would be fine."

Though ceremoniously, Ben held onto Charlotte's fingertips all the way to the center of the room where the pair somehow fell in line with the rest of the couples. It had been quite some time since he'd last danced and if he remembered correctly, his hand somehow felt more comfortable resting on his friend Anna's hip, than here in a room full of strangers, one of whom he was dancing with.

"You are quiet," Charlotte observed. Their feet had only just began to move.

Ben's eyes had blurred over her shoulder. He was continuing the conversation he wished to have with Washington, going over code in his head as if to plan for an always unpredictable tomorrow. "Pardon?"

"You," Charlotte smirked, almost nodding in his direction. "You are quiet."

Ben released a nervous chuckle. "You haven't said much either."

"What does one say when offered up as a dance partner?"

"I don't think—"

"It's quite alright, Benjamin. Mrs. Washington and my mother used to be friends. I think she feels a certain obligation to watch after me—"

"By pawning you off on someone else?"

"I was not aware I was being pawned off. She means well." Then: "They all mean well."

"I just meant—"

"She was kind enough to invite us both into her home so if she's suggested we dance, I don't really see a problem with that. It's the least we can do. Truly."

"Well I—"

"Was standing alone, looking rather pathetic. Yes, I witnessed that. Really, you should thank Martha for doing you the service—"

"Of introducing you to me? So you could continuously cut me off?"

Charlotte smirked knowingly. "Of pulling you out of whatever stupor you've found yourself in tonight. You are the only one in this room who has yet to smile. She's right. You do need to relax."

"Relax? There's a—"

"A war? Yes, Benjamin, and tomorrow it will still be there, just as it has been for the past few years. None of this is going away anytime soon."

"Well of course not," Ben huffed. "Not much can be accomplished in this ballroom. There are men on the other side of the East River that are—"

"Hopefully more pleasant than you're being."

"Doubtful. It's...nevermind."

Charlotte nearly dropped her head back to laugh. "What is it with you boys?"

"You boys?"

"Well, you, mostly," she corrected. "They may not allow us to fight but a lot of us can read. We know what goes on out there and we know the stress of watching someone we love enlist and the pain that happens thereafter when they don't come back. It's as if you don't talk about it, it doesn't happen. Life doesn't work like that and war certainly doesn't work like that."

"Do you speak from experience?"

"Perhaps." When Ben said nothing, Charlotte smirked once more. "You know, I have met many peculiar boys, Benjamin, but never have I had a boy protest this much over a simple dance."

Ben looked down to where their feet continued to move. "Am I protesting?"

"You're being a spoilsport. It's nearly the same thing. Your mouth is protesting even if your feet are not."

"Well you asked me to talk and now I'm talking," he gave, as if truly offended by her own offense.

"And now I'm asking you to stop. I've changed my mind."

Even Ben had to stifle a laugh, one he tossed over his shoulder. His palm shifted on her waist, but he complied, deciding it might be best to follow her instruction. But he was silent now and though it was exactly what she had asked for, Charlotte immediately felt herself missing the sound of his voice. She gave a heavy exhale before speaking once more.

"Listen, Benjamin, I apologize if you felt pressured but you did not have to ask me to dance. And now that we are dancing, it does not need to continue if that is what—"

"If I may," Ben tried, "it seems like you are the one protesting now."

"I have nothing to protest. We are dancing and I quite like to dance and though you're far too serious and therefore somewhat intolerable, I would say you are not a complete prat."

"A prat? Excuse me?"

"Are you not familiar with the word?"

"I'm plenty familiar with…" His voice trailed off as he attempted to compose himself. "Do you insult every person you meet?"

"I'd prefer not to answer that," Charlotte commented. "I don't want you to ever think I'm giving you special treatment."

Ben was speechless, and though he had now pressed his tongue to his cheek in search of words to say, he found himself laughing off an insult of his own. She was rather insufferable but during their row they both managed to move brilliantly with one another, so much so that the other guests were none the wiser. In fact, Martha even gave a sly smile to her husband as she donated a small nod in the pair's direction.

Finally, he exhaled, but Charlotte only looked to him when the soft grip he had on her waist tightened. "Why are you here anyway?"

Charlotte nearly cackled. "Why am I here?"

"Yes, that's what I've asked and I'd prefer not to repeat myself."

"I was invited. Didn't we discuss this?"

"Alone?"

"There are plenty of other women here, also alone, and—"

"And they have brothers or fathers or even uncles who fight for the cause."

"Who's to say I don't have a brother or a father or an uncle who fights for the cause?"

"Well do you?"

"I do."

"Which one?" He looked around.

"Well both really."

Ben's gaze narrowed in curiosity. "You said your last name was Gray?"

"'Tis," she nodded.

Ben swallowed. "Is that your husband's name?"

Charlotte snickered again. "If I was married do you honestly believe I'd be dancing with you?"

"Perhaps he's dead."

"Likely story," Charlotte agreed, "but not my story."

"Then what is your story, Charlotte?"

"You're the head of intelligence, Major Tallmadge. I thought you'd surely have me figured out by now."

The music swelled and then all at once, faded to nothing. Charlotte took a step back and with the hem of her dress she leaned forward to curtsy. She nodded at him, even giving a small smile, before turning on her heel to walk away. Around them everyone shuffled, causing him to lose her in the crowd. Then, just as simply, the music began again and Ben was left in the center of the room, now without Charlotte but with motionless feet and a thousand questions now dancing in his head.

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x. Elle