Chapter 7
A surge of pain crawled down Mr. Edward Rutledge's spine as he attempted to lift his head, his neck having grown stiff from his sleeping in a chair all night. He reached deep down into his corset to pull out his pocket watch.
"Good Lord! It's only six-thirty in the morning! Well, I suppose that's what comes from sleeping in front of a window." After returning the pocket watch to its previous location, Rutledge strained to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck and moaning pathetically. "I can't breathe… My joints are all out of place… Mr. Adams had better be a man of his word!" But there was no time for him to be irritable. This was his chance to escape and he was not going to miss it.
He yanked Jefferson by the queue and scrutinized his lifeless facial expression. No, he was not dead. But fortunately he was suffering from such a strong blow to the head it was rather unlikely that he would recover for quite a while. Though perhaps to an average (slightly more empathetic) person, this would be cause for alarm, it was just what Rutledge needed to rejoice. He pranced towards the window perhaps a tad bit too effeminately and opened it, a sudden urge to flood his face in sunlight randomly possessing him.
"It has been accomplished!" he thought to himself, smiling towards the sky. "And now to more important issues… I cannot simply wait here all day to make sure Jefferson is well. He'll come around eventually." But just as Rutledge was preparing to close the windows and turn towards the room, a loud piercing voice caught his attention.
"GOOD MORROW!"
Rutledge nearly squealed with contempt when he glanced down to see John Adams still there, once again accompanied by Dr. Franklin. It took Mr. Rutledge a brief moment to collect himself before he was able to mask his sour grimace with an enchanting smile. Ignorant New England cretin! Did he really know absolutely nothing of how to speak to a lady?
"Is it the habit in Philadelphia for strangers to shout at young ladies from the street?" Rutledge tried not to smile too widely when he saw Mr. Adams begin to squirm.
"Uh," Franklin began, not too phased. "Not really but-"
"And for men of your age it is not only unseemly… it is unsightly!" Oh, Mr. Rutledge was definitely having far too much fun with this. Though it was rather difficult for him to alter his deep Southern drawl into the syrupy sweet melodic voice of Martha Jefferson. And as vain as he was, he would reluctantly admit to himself that this poor crackling imitation had much to be desired.
"Excuse me madam," Adams said, attempting to not seem flustered. "But we met last evening."
"I spoke to no one last evening…" Rutledge was not entirely certain why he had decided to lie about this. After all, it was not as if it really would have made a difference whether or not she remembered seeing them. But he had blinded them with so many lies in the past few days, he doubted that this trifling little falsehood would matter.
"Indeed you did not," Franklin clarified, approaching the steps. "Nevertheless, we did present ourselves. This is Mr. John Adams." He gestured towards Adams as he ascended the stairs. Adams made a brief, pathetic attempt at a formal bow. "I'm Dr. Benjamin Franklin… The inventor of the stove."
"Oh!" Rutledge covered his mouth in the most feminine way he could force himself to, trying to appear as though he cared who they were. "Oh, please! I know your names very well, but- Well, you said you presented yourselves last night?" As Rutledge recalled, only Adams had introduced them the previous evening, and as soon as 'Martha' said this, a pained look of rejection swept across Adams' face, disappearing within a matter of moments.
"It's of no matter. Your thoughts were well-taken elsewhere."
Yes, of course! If Mr. Rutledge could somehow manage to wake Jefferson and convince him to go down and speak to them for a while, it would give him the perfect opportunity to disappear. Rutledge discretely turned towards the useless Virginian dolt and gave him a swift kick to the stomach. Unfortunately, this new injury did not even cause him to budge. He turned back to the two gentlemen outside, hoping that they had not seen enough to become suspicious.
"As my husband is not yet up…" He explained, oh so sweetly.
"Well, then shall we start over again? Won't you join us?" Franklin prompted.
Oh…good… God… What was Mr. Rutledge to do? He could hardly say no! Yet as soon as he was down there with them, they would be sure to see his face in the sunlight. Not only would his plan have failed, but he most likely would never hear the end of it. But he had no choice.
"Why, yes! Of course!" And at this, Rutledge turned from the window, gave Jefferson one last violent shake of desperation, and prepared for the door. But as soon as he was about to exit, something rather alarming came to his attention. "Good Lord! Man or woman, I should at least have the common decency to dress!" It appeared that Rutledge was still wearing the same frock he had forced McNair to help him put on the day before. He ripped the dress off and kneeled down next to his trunk, which McNair must have slipped inside when he and Adams had been asleep. He rapidly pulled out the fluffy gown with puffy sleeves that McNair had been eying and pulled it over his head. Thankfully, with this gown, his biceps were not a source of evil. He briefly glanced into the mirror, just to be sure that his wig had not teetered off his head. But all was well and he was now ready to go downstairs and enter the world as Martha Jefferson.
