The Homestead
AN: I'm so excited to have so many wonderful reviews. They all seem very positive as well which has been a huge motivation for me. I can't thank you guys enough! I've had a few requests for Ellen so I've decided to devote this chapter to her. Hopefully you all enjoy it!
~~~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ellen stares at the forgotten Tomahawk next to the mansion.
Well, at least she hopes it's forgotten.
It's not the kind of thing she really wants to see, especially after hearing news from the Frontier of Indian resistance. She's pretty good at defending herself but she'd be nothing compared to a solid hack by a skilled arm with that weapon.
She can see a notch in the post in front of it, although it's less like a notch and more like someone was in a quick need for firewood. It's an odd sight, that's for sure, but in front of this house, it doesn't seem quite so odd as she thinks it should be. She does concede that perhaps there is a significance to its presence, even if it does look like an inconsiderate act of vandalism.
But she can't stop to admire it or to laze about in the sun; her arms are sore from carrying clothes and she's sweating like a packhorse up a mountain. It's all good and well to admire the daisies or skip through the corn fields but she's a single woman with a bundle of clothes to sell.
Manoeuvring one hand free from the heavy bundle she manages to struggle out a few loud knocks on the door.
Just her luck, no one's home.
She's standing near enough to the door that she's able to rest her head on its wooden panelling and transfer some of the sweat that's on her skin to its cold touch. She's close enough (and lazy enough) that she gives it a few taps with her forehead for good measure. Yep, it's as silent as a whorehouse on a Sunday.
She sighs. Just her luck.
Never would it be known that she isn't resourceful and it isn't as if she's malicious or cruel. If anything, Connor would surely appreciate her going to the effort to laying out the clothes. And he's always honoured an agreement so she's not particularly concerned about the payment. It'll come and it'll be worth the hard work and stress that she went through.
Ellen looks around for a moment, before shrugging and heading around the back. It isn't that she's trying to be sneaky but the last thing she needs is a snooping neighbour to relay news of her entry before she's had a chance to explain. He's a reasonable man or she wouldn't have even entered the Homestead. And she could talk herself out a noose if she needed to.
Locks are hardly a thought in such a peaceful area as hers so she only has to awkwardly manoeuvre her semi-free hand to the doorknob before it swings open gratefully. She heads to the side, her strength nearly giving out as she dumps the piles of clothes on the large, mahogany table. She stands back, looking at it with satisfaction.
A job well done.
Laying out the items, she smooths the material down tenderly. Why Connor needs so many hooded jackets is beyond her but she assumes it for a good reason. Even stranger is his request to sew the strange pattern into each hood, as if a mark for a secret club. She nearly laughs at the thought. What a horrible place to establish a secret club! A completely isolated house, with a bunch of peasants surrounding it? She'd find a more interesting setting at the bottom of a tea-cup.
She shrugs. She's had odder clients. There was that single man who ordered dresses that exactly fit his measurements. Or that well known thief who bought a nobles wardrobe and was later arrested for trying to impersonate a French aristocrat. Such stories are all part of the profession, really.
Well, she thinks to herself, she's already inside so heading out the front door probably isn't an issue. Besides, most of the villagers would assume that Connor arrived home to greet her, having slunk through their crops without being seen to clamber into the mansion by the second story balcony. He's a strange one, she thinks. A very strange one.
She walks to the front door, and stops at the sight of something strange.
A door that she's never seen before. A stairway to something below the house.
She glances at the front door, hesitating. Thinking.
Ellen's been to Connor's house plenty of times before and she's never seen that door. It's artfully concealed and she wonders, with a thrill, what might be in it?
She can't help herself. And what has she got to lose? His respect and his business, she considers for a moment… but then, it is a mysteriously concealed door that leads to an underground portion of the house. It's not her fault that he forgot to lock the manor and didn't bother concealing its entrance.
She heads towards its dark depths. She imagines that in romance stories, this is the part where a great gust of wind, tinged with heat and a distant scream, would blow the hair off her face and make her reconsider her actions. But it doesn't, of course.
Her shoe touches the first plank of wood. It creaks, as if berating her, and she lifts it for a moment, before steadily lowering it again.
Ellen's descent is slow and she makes sure to brush her hands over the old, dusty brick of the opposing wall (what if she finds a deranged, addled wife in a locked room or the remains of a hundred red coat soldiers?). She goes slowly and listens intently to the house above her. It creaks, with the old age of a manor, but there is nothing alarming that it reports.
She enters a room and it's lit by candles. It must be regularly visited because the dust of the ground is in all but a single streamed pathway that shows the frantic movements of a man. There is wooden chair in the corner and a single cane leaning against it. It makes her sad and she wonders whether it is set up for Achilles. A chair, forever empty of its owner.
At the centre of the room is a practice dummy and she circles it, noting the hacks and cuts it has. It's looks like it's been repaired a million times before and she touches one of the poorly knit seams. But more than anything, her focus turns to the outfits that line the wall.
They're colourful and beautiful. She's only seen one of the outfits before, the simple white that Connor wears and she's stunned at the rich reds and blues that sit on their designated mannequins. There's quite a few that she can see and each one has a different lining or colour theme. Yet still, she notices, the strange symbol persists. It's sewn onto every costume, if not obviously, then in the cuffs or underneath the hood.
Another red catches her eye and she stares at the last mannequin. It's not the red of dye though and her fascination quickly turns to horror at the sight. Dried blood covers most of it, spanning from a great gaping hole in the side. She moves to stand in front, touching it hesitantly as she wonders just when Connor has such a horrific wound. And more than anything she wonders why it sits like a trophy or a memorial, the last mannequin and the most obvious. The front of the jacket is torn, as if cut apart by someone.
"What are you doing here?"
She gasps, turning around, her mouth covered in shock.
Connor is standing closer than she could have guessed and is staring at her. It isn't a nice stare and certainly not the kind she is used to. It's deep and intelligent and intimidating.
She takes a step back, instinctively, and jolts forward once more when she realises that she's touched the stained jacket.
"I-I was…"
He stares at her still and she quakes in fear. Never has a man made her feel so afraid, not even her good for nothing husband. Ex-husband, she corrects herself.
"What did you see?" He asks patiently.
"N-Nothinng… I was just…," she collects herself, visible and mentally as she stands taller and clears her throat, "delivering those items you ordered."
"What are you doing here?"
"I thought I … heard a noise."
"So you forced your way down here?"
"The door was open."
Connor's eyes widen and his single, focused attention on her changes within an instant. She steps back as he nearly sprints for the tables and shuffles around the papers on top. She watches as he frantically dumps piles after piles of old pages onto the floor, his gloved hands sweeping across the table top in their endless search for something that is not there.
"Where is it?" He demands, angrily, turning around to her. His face is shadowed by the candle on the table top and he looks like the villain of a novel. His mohawk, his expression and the weapons that dangle from his belt makes her nearly quiver in fear.
"What?"
"What did you do with it?"
"Do with what?"
"Did you take it?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't you?" He demands, his eyes narrowed, his full stature revealed as he advances on her. She's afraid, so very afraid. Ellen searches the room for something close to her, something to use as a weapon.
"Are you a Templar?" He asks, softly but with conviction.
"A-A what? What are you talking about?" She says and she can feel tears well up in her eyes. She knew it was only a matter of time before she was killed. At least it wasn't by that rotten, good for nothing bastard of an ex-husband she had.
He's staring at her, in confusion and within a second, his intimidation stature deflates until he is a normal man, standing in front of her. She is blinking back tears and her heart is beating but somehow, she knows that the danger is past. Connor at least looks ashamed of himself, which she feels as well as she thinks of how rude her curious behaviour was. She would defend her property with her life and she's already been put in that situation by her husband. She can understand why the enigmatic man in front of her reacted with such aggression.
"I'm sorry," she says, truthfully, "I shouldn't be down here."
She makes for the door, avoiding eye contact as she holds her skirts and sprints up the stairs. She hears Connors footsteps behind her, this time not concealed and instead, heavy on the wooden planks.
"Wait," he says, as he grabs her upper arm. She stops and turns back to him. Connor's eyes are so deep as she stares into them, she almost loses herself completely. "I am sorry as well; for being so rude."
She doesn't answer for a moment, simply staring at his well carved face and handsome appearance. He seems otherworldly in the moment and the candles flicker once more, creating great hollows in his cheek.
"I left your products on the table."
He lets go of her arm, stepping back a bit, "I know. Thank you. They are perfect."
"My money?" She asks, trying to salvage what little of her dignity she still has.
"Here," he says, as he draws out his purse and shuffles in it for coins. He places a few in her palm and she closes her hand around it in satisfaction. The cold touch of it seems to warm her very being. Her daughter will eat this month.
"I'll walk you out," he says.
She goes up the remaining steps slowly, until, in silence they pass through the front door. He hesitates and asks, "You are welcome to stay for a drink, if you wish?"
He's trying to salvage the situation and to make her feel better. But she's already forgiven him. How can she do otherwise when he looks at her with such confusion and kindness? He's a wild man by nature, she can see that and she doesn't blame him for reacting so aggressively to an intruder.
"No thank you," she says, "But thank you for offering. Truly." She's walking away and he's watching her. She can feel his eyes on her back. It reminds her of something, "Oh, Connor?"
"Yes?"
"I know that I apologised before but… I am sorry for intruding."
"It is fine."
"Do you mind if I ask… what was it that was stolen?"
He shifts from foot-to-foot as he looks at the Tomahawk that lies by the steps, "I can not tell you, Ellen. But I can tell you that you're lucky you didn't interrupt them when they came for it. I do not believe you would have survived if that had happened."
She frowns and nods. She kind of thought it might be something as important as that. Turning again, she heads towards the path, looking at the sun and the sky in front of her.
The manor looms behind her and she's glad when she finally emerges from its shadow and walks into the sun.
She can feel his eyes on her still. Suspicious and inquisitive.
As she walks home, she can still feel his gaze on her. She is used to being watched, a gift from her oaf ex-husband. By the time she's on the bridge and crossing the river, Ellen is absolutely certain that Connor is following her.
She's made a fatal error by barging into his home, she knows that now. Her previous neutral position in his eyes, perhaps even trusting position, is shadowed by suspicion. Whatever this Templar organisation is, she's sure that he hasn't given up thoughts of her affiliation with them. It makes her sad, in a way, that such a simple show of stupidity on her part could plant such a seed of mistrust in his mind. To think so quickly of betrayal suggests to her a man who is used to such actions.
When she arrives home at her house, she has a compulsion to bring her daughter inside, even though the girl screams and kicks and yells to be returned to her playing spot.
But she doesn't let her out and within moments, she's drawn the curtains and lit most of her candles.
Just in case, she decides.
She drums her fingers on the table as she sits in silence, in the dark.
Just in case.
~~~~~~~~~~~~ AC3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
AN: I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I think I've shown a different side to Connor. As much as I think he's a noble guy, if I was in his position, I'd watch the people around me with very sharp eyes. Everyone has their price, after all. Ellen always seemed to me to be quite a quirky woman. She married a deadbeat, left him without a word of warning and then set up shop in the middle of the wilderness all from the request of some random guy. Quirky. But I like her. AC3 has some really great female characters so she was fun to write. Remember though, if you enjoyed, let me know by a simple review :D It really does help with updating times!