Author's Note: This installment is sort of a slow resolution of all the action at Long Island that dominated the last three vignettes. There is a lot of background information here, so I'm afraid it might not be a terribly exciting read, but several key events do take place, including the introduction of two new, important characters. The next chapter might be a little late due to the hectic holiday, so I do apologize for any delay. As always, I would like to thank everyone who read the last installment along with bubblymuggle4 and MonaLisa23 for reviewing. I hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of the Patriot, but I do own all OCs mentioned herein including Major General Julia Percy, Doctor Harriet Benton and Major Beatrice Covenly.

New York

December, 1776 New York City

Tavington stepped out onto the stairs of Percy's current residence, a well-appointed house that stood on the west side of Broadway above Fort George. Her Madamship had cast him out rather hastily that afternoon citing his tendency to "vex" her. "Vexed" was now her very favorite word and she used it often to refer to the state of the army, the escape of the Rebels after the action at Long Island and her own severely mutilated hand. Major Covenly likewise was "vexed" and just that morning she had pulled Tavington aside in the corridor, whispering that their General was descending into one of her fretful depressions and it would be best to keep her quiet.

"If she is upset," Covenly mumbled knowingly, "she might disturb her mind and then it's naught but a month of hell for the two of us. Julia is always worse in the winters. She misses the summer campaigns."

Tavington had to agree with Her Madamship there. He too missed the swift, relentless pursuit, the cornering and capturing of the enemy, the sight of the Rebels fleeing, ratty coattails swinging, in front of the British guns. But things had settled now with both armies in winter camp. Howe had taken Manhattan for himself, leaving Washington to freeze in Pennsylvania.

Tavington frowned. A pang of disappointment stuck in his breast like a dart. After their initial success at Long Island, Howe had let the Rebels slip through his hands, engaging them haphazardly at Harlem Heights in September and White Plains in late October. Of course, both Fort Washington and Fort Lee had been captured, but the colonial army lived on.

It was a shame, a bitter shame and Percy lamented the loss like a bereft lover, moping about their commandeered house gloomier than a ghost. She did not seize the pleasures found in New York City and while her fellows gallivanted about the town, she sulked.

Tavington clapped his bare hands together. The December air felt sharp, unfriendly and his nose was numb. Their house, a cozy place to quarter in, crowned a small hill, laying most of Manhattan at his feet, though he did not admire the view.

Shrunken buildings hugged the coastline and charred outlines of burned hovels added to the city's eerie atmosphere. In September, a fire had ravaged most of the west side. The Rebels of course had pinned the blame on the British. Tavington, however, was certain that the Yankees had something to do with the blaze, being hell-sent demons themselves.

Still some officers swore that New York was a little London, though Tavington tended to disagree. They had coffee houses and concerts and even an amateur theater in the works, but the place was too damned provincial.

Tavington slipped his chilled hands into his pockets and watched the sky. It was grey, moody with thick clouds that threatened snow. And he felt more dead than alive.

A sudden grimace shaped his lips. Best not think about death now, no. Ahearn was dead, though neither Percy nor himself had made much of it. In fact, Tavington was rather pleased in a morbid sort of way. Ahearn had passed on, leaving Covenly and him alone on Percy's staff.

The opportunity for advancement was priceless.

Tavington rolled his shoulders. Yes, Her Madamship was warming up to him now, slowly and perhaps she would make him a brevet Major before the end of the next campaign. After all, he had already been rewarded a captaincy.

A stagecoach rattled down the street, stopping at the corner with horses snorting, shaking manes and tails and spraying bits of wet snow about the frozen ground. Tavington glanced once at the vehicle and the driver who hopped down from his seat to help a passenger with luggage. Several greatcoat-wearing gentlemen emerged, bundled their bags into their burly arms and went on their way, walking stiff-legged down the lane. The last to appear was a British officer, a lieutenant who had a proud bearing and an undeniably sprightly way of strolling.

Tavington raised a brow and then turned away.

The harbor was crowded with ice and he watched the frosty shards bob along the waves, smashing against the moldy hulls of the ships. Tavington wondered how Clinton fared on his expedition to Rhode Island. Howe had sent his second north to Newport with six thousand men to occupy the city. Percy had raised the usual fuss when she learned of her own exclusion from the tour, though her protests were soon silenced by a cough that had kept her bed-ridden for a week. And her wounded hand pained her, so she lamented. The doctors suspected the onset of rheumatism and all her thoughts of glory by Clinton's side were hitherto suspended, leaving her wretched in New York.

Tavington fancied that General Howe was almost happy for her unexpected illness, as he had a hard enough time prying Clinton and Percy apart these days. It was strange, really, the way the two went about, joined at the hip, but sullen, snappish and eternally surly. Clinton himself had a reputation for quarreling with his comrades and Percy was near impossible to work with. But they complimented each other, promoting their positions and snarling at any opposition. And conspiring, yes, they were always conspiring.

Rumor said that Howe disliked their pairing, but he feigned indifference. To combat Clinton and Percy's ungainly alliance, he had promoted Lieutenant Colonel Margaret Havens to full Colonel and kept the Irish attack dog close by. There was the makings of a good rivalry between Havens and Percy, both being women of similar disposition and talent. Tavington expected them to have a good row any day now. But Percy fell ill first and she languished away with a bottle of laudanum for comfort.

A wind stirred along the streets. The stagecoach pulled away, jolting and rumbling and jumping along the cobblestones. The lithe, graceful officer hurried up the road, a small leather traveling bag in one hand, while his bent arm supported a stack of books and a thin sketch pad.

Whistling, the man was whistling and Tavington cringed, the sound shrill in his ears. He sneered, stared at the officer and gave him a haughty look as he passed by the house. And to his surprise, the lieutenant stared back.

"Hullo," he chirped, halting by the front steps, a polite smile lifting his lips. "Is this Her Madamship's residence?"

Tavington did not respond for a long moment and he instead took the man's measure. An fine-featured lad he was, possessing two brown eyes, an olive complexion and an air of keen charm. His dark hair had been tied back in a neat queue, one stray lock falling over his boyish, clear forehead.

Tavington frowned. What a fop.

He nodded.

"Wonderful!" The lieutenant adjusted his books, fumbled for a minute and then moved closer to the stairs. "Thought I'd have to go trudging through this stinking city to find her. Is she about?"

Tavington rolled his tongue along his teeth. Percy was about all right, resting inside with Doctor Benton in attendance. She certainly could not conduct business and Tavington himself would have to deal with the dandy. Well, perhaps not.

"No." His breath fogged the air.

The lieutenant emitted a little mew of disappointment. "Oh. Where is she?"

Tavington shifted, his hand perched on his hip. A lie would suffice. "Mr. Robert Murray's mansion in Inclenberg. He's hosting a party of some sort, I believe. Percy took a ride up there this afternoon."

"Hmm." The lieutenant chewed on his little lips, pouting, his round chin jutting out. "Do you know when she'll be back?"

Tavington shrugged.

The lieutenant shifted his books once more. "Ah well. I do hope she enjoys herself, dear Julia. She deserves a bit of merry-making."

Tavington snorted. He felt decidedly uncomfortable around the young man. After all, it was not every gent who dared to address Her Madamship so informally. Clinton alone retained that privilege.

The lieutenant turned to go, but stopped a yard away, his shoulders rising with a sigh. "Am I right in assuming, sir, that you are a member of her military family?"

Tavington hesitated, wondering how he might answer safely and avoid getting caught in his lie. Ah, what the hell.

He nodded.

The lieutenant's annoying smile widened. "Thought so. Things haven't changed at all." A gloved finger touched the brim of his hat. "Good day then."

Tavington's eyebrows darted upwards. Wretch, damned wretch. He was glad when the lieutenant turned the corner, pausing only once to kick the slush from his boots before he trudged on.

The wind rose, sounding like a insistent hiss as it fingered the bare branches of the tree on the other side of the house. Tavington spat onto the ground.

The lieutenant was right after all, by God, the city stunk. When the Rebels had fled they left dozens of scattered trenches, now filled with stagnant water and filth. And of course, the lingering smell of smoke from the fire did little to alleviate the olfactory assault. Tavington shook his head and ducked back inside the house.

There was a flurry of feminine voices in the parlor, now converted into an office where Percy regularly met with her staff and conspired with Clinton.

"Little fool," a woman rasped. "You're lungs are festering, they are. I'll have to come again tomorrow. More bleeding, bah."

Tavington stopped and unconsciously shivered. That would be Doctor Harriet Benton, the regimental surgeon Percy so depended on. Why, he hadn't the faintest notion. Benton was more of butcher than Her Madamship and she wasn't even a soldier.

He glanced around the open door, the light from the bright fire flickering on the polished floor.

Doctor Benton sat on a footstool, one hand resting on her knees, the other latched over Percy's wrist.

"The pulse is fast," she mumbled.

"I am utterly vexed," Percy moaned, reclining on the vermillion chaise.

Major Covenly hovered about, her shadow blocking the narrow hearth. "If it's not one thing, it's another," she babbled. "Always a disaster of some sorts, always. And oh, it's never a moment's peace I'll have."

"Can you not quiet her?" Benton had her hands thrown up in the air now and she jumped off her stool, floundering about like a flapping goose.

Tavington announced his presence with a tiny cough.

Sharp eyes watched him, worried glances finding his face and freezing there.

Benton patted back her blond hair. "Oh, it's a visitor we have."

Tavington felt revolted. Of all the women he had encountered in the army, he hated Benton the most. It was rare for women to worm their way into the medical profession and the more sordid London journals were filled with stories of girls fighting to be admitted to the universities. Benton claimed she had been to school, though Tavington expected she was little more than a musty, miserable midwife, a woman who gave herself unwanted airs.

Quite like Percy.

It was one thing to have a few lassies in the regiments, one thing to have them on the battlefield but Tavington disliked the idea of women surgeons or female lawyers or ladies in Parliament for that matter.

His disgust must have shown on his face, for Benton bristled. She splayed her hands across the hips of her nankeen breeches, fingernails crusted with blood.

Percy lifted her pale head. "It's only my aide, Doctor, only Captain Tavington. Am I to continue with the laudanum now? Ah, it has made me so very, so very…" she broke off, yawning.

Benton, however, seemed distracted. "Your aide, hmm?" She shifted her square jaw. "Well, madam, things never change. No, they don't. Can't break an old horse, I say, although I'm sure you've tried. He's a handsome one, he is, this Tavington. Very nice."

And she returned to her work. The ratty cloth bag by her feet was thrust open and she fished about inside.

Tavington folded his hands behind his back as he entered the room. A dish of dried fruit had been set aside on cherry table and he popped a piece of stale apple into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Percy batted Benton away.

"Any word from Clinton?" she asked him hopefully.

Tavington shook his head. "None, madam."

Percy sighed, the sound like a death rattle, moist and thin. "I am vexed."

Benton cackled. "Little fool, little whore."

There was a moment of uneasy silence and Covenly extracted herself from the room. Tavington glanced over his red-coated shoulder, watching her slip away. The Major had the morals of a nun. And it was a shame, he thought, for she was bonny enough and many a soldier would gladly warm her bed.

Percy wasn't quite so particular, however. Often she ogled the spry, young junior officers during inspection and on one occasion, Tavington had stumbled across her abed with a lean lieutenant of the 23rd Royal Welch Fusiliers.

But her antics were no secret and with the army at winter quarters, amorous dalliances abounded. General Howe blatantly paraded about the city with his mistress, Mrs. Loring. And around the camp, common soldiers took their pleasure. Tavington himself knew of several pretty lassies of the regiments, poor girls who were more than happy to oblige him.

Yet surprisingly, Percy had been nothing more than polite to him and that was a rarity in itself, as he had often heard from his friends. She did not shy from sampling her aides and on former campaigns, she had caused numerous scandals.

However, she had almost no interest in him.

Benton gawked at him and Tavington turned around with a sour look.

"You've had this one on your staff for a while, haven't you?" she asked Percy who nodded asleep, her head on the cushioned arm of the chaise.

Tavington answered for her. "Since August, madam."

Benton smacked her dry lips together and cackled all the more. "This one tickle your fancy, General?"

Percy rubbed her blue eyes. "I mean to make a protégé out of him," she said in a soft voice, sounding more like a child than a woman past her prime. "He acquitted himself nicely at Long Island and afterwards, when we skirmished with Mr. Washington at Harlem Heights. Even Harry Clinton said so and he's a shy bitch, stingy with his praise."

"Oh aye." Benton winked knowingly. "I'm certain he's acquitted himself nicely, handsome young man such as he. And it's a shame, it is, that you speak of General Clinton in the same breath. Poor man never had a-"

The slap resounded in the small room and Tavington, for all his stoicism, jumped. Percy sat up, hand raised. Benton touched her cheek.

"Dammy," she muttered.

"It's a still tongue you'll keep in your head," Percy snapped, "or I'll have you in the gutter."

Benton didn't reply, but went groping around in her bag again, red-faced.

Tavington scratched his chin and dropped another piece of apple into his mouth. He'd seen Percy batter the servants about before and on Staten Island, when her mood turned black, she had even gone so far as to kick poor Ahearn in the shins. Her temper didn't shock Tavington though, not after he'd seen her order the grenadiers to cut through a patch of Rebels during the action at Brooklyn Heights.

Silence descended once more, ruptured only by the opening of the front door. There were quick footsteps in the hall and Tavington raised his eyes. Covenly breezed into the room and she was smiling, smiling like a smitten girl.

"Madam, there is someone here to see you," she breathed.

Tavington stared at her, utterly curious. Covenly was usually a stuffy woman. Who could possible have her all aflutter?

Into the room stepped an officer, the same sprightly lieutenant who had come by stagecoach. With a grand sweep of his arm, he removed his hat and bowed to a slack-jawed Percy.

"My dear General."

Percy's face flushed and with surprising energy, she leapt off the chaise. "Andre!"

Author's Note: A long installment means a long author's note at the end, but I will try to be as brief as I can. All the "back-story" Tavington reflects on in this chapter, the fall of Manhattan to the British, the burning of the city, the following action at Harlem Heights and White Plains, the capturing of Fort Washington and Fort Lee, Clinton's expedition to Rhode Island, is true along with the supposed stench of New York City when the British occupied it. Robert Murray and Mrs. Loring were also real people, the former being a prominent purveyor or luxury goods during the winter 1776-1777 season, the latter being General Howe's mistress (and noted distraction from campaigning). The house Percy is quartered in is likewise taken from history, as the British generals took the finest homes on the west side of Broadway above Fort George for their own.

Doctor Harriet Benton and Colonel Margaret Havens are, however, entirely fictional. Just as there were no female soldiers/officers in the 18th century British army, there were certainly no doctors. Benton's role, therefore, is entirely of my own making.

And finally, the "Andre" in this chapter is in fact the historical Lieutenant John Andre. Having been a prisoner of the Americans, he was exchanged in December 1776 and returned to New York where he met up with the army and was made a captain. He was then assigned to the staff of General Charles Grey whom he served with for several years. But as usual, I get ahead of myself. Andre will not be joining Grey's staff in this fic, but will remain with Percy as Tavington is in sore need of a rival.

Thanks so much for reading. Please take the time to review, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Have a wonderful, happy holiday!