July 1776, Maryland
Aaron ran a trembling hand through his already-disheveled hair. The black ribbon he'd used to restrain the unruly curls lay discarded in a crumpled heap on the floor, where it had been for some time. Night turned to day and back to night again, and Tabitha's pained screams had lessened only in volume, not in frequency.
She was exhausted, and she wasn't the only one. "Have you slept?" the doctor-Aaron thought his name was Donovan-asked, wiping his hands on a towel.
Aaron fixed the doctor with a level stare, the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes saying infinitely more than he could articulate in his current state. "How is she?" he asked instead.
The doctor shook his head as Tabitha's noticeably weaker screams started again. "I need to speak with you," he said, indicating the door. Aaron remained rooted to the floorboards.
"You're doing so now," he replied, eyes narrowing a fraction. "What is it you wish to discuss?"
Donovan gave a pointed look in Tabitha's direction, then turned back to the man leaning wearily against the wall. "Over thirty hours have passed," he said.
"Has it been that long?" Aaron said with a minor note of surprise. "I admit, I stopped counting early this morning."
A brief flash of irritation crossed Donovan's face as he continued, "She has made no progress. The child is turned wrong, and her body is too weak." Aaron's expression was a controlled calm, but Donovan did not miss the tears gathering in the corners of the man's startlingly green eyes. "It may be prudent to call for Father Ahearn."
"But he only studied medicine under his father," Aaron replied, voice trembling as he fought to maintain his calm façade. "He's no doctor. What could Father Michael possibly do that you-"
Donovan had already begun gathering his supplies as he interrupted, "Your sister needs a priest, Mr. McKenna." Tears slowly trickled down Aaron's face as Donovan continued, "I believe the same fate befell your mother? There is nothing more I can do for her."
Aaron shook his head, one hand scrubbing furiously across his eyes as he straightened from his slump against the wall. "There must be something," he insisted, pleading. "You can't leave her to die!"
Donovan shut his bag with an audible snap, and Aaron jumped slightly. "Your sister has made her choices," he said, voice clipped as he moved past Aaron to the door. "She must face the consequences of her actions."
"Consequences?!" Aaron exclaimed, hurrying after the doctor as the man descended the stairs. "She's done no wrong!"
Donovan spun to face the younger man as he reached the bottom of the stairs, and Aaron skidded to a halt before colliding with the doctor. "You would imply she is without sin," he spat, and Aaron visibly recoiled.
"I implied nothing!"
"Do you think her indiscretions have gone unnoticed?" he continued, pointing one finger to the heavens. "The Lord is punishing her for her harlotry, and I will not defy the will of God to save your whore sister!"
Something had changed in Aaron's demeanor, and his expression slowly shifted from distraught to predatory. "And what do you know of God?" Aaron growled, lips pulled back in an animalistic snarl. A primal feeling of satisfaction gripped him as the doctor took an unconscious step back, and he advanced down the stairs after him. "You stand here and judge my sister, and would condemn her to death through your inaction!"
"There is nothing to be done for her," Donovan replied tersely, retreating into the kitchen. "She has condemned herself. 'A child born of whoredom or incest shall not enter into the church of the Lord, unto the tenth generation.' You know the Bible, Mr. McKenna."
"Incest." The word was spoken softly in reverent disbelief, as though he were tasting it in his mouth.
Donovan seemed to take his tone as an admission of guilt, and his expression bordered between triumph and disgust. "The whole city has known for years," he said. "Your relationship with her has never been appropr—"
Aaron's fist collided with the table with a crash, sending a candlestick clattering to the floor. "Conas a leomh tú?!" he roared, advancing once more on the retreating doctor. His face, what many would normally describe as charming and handsome, was twisted and demonic as he spoke. The green of his irises stood out sharply from the bloodshot whites. His skin, normally a warm gold, was sickeningly pale. "I have been silent on this matter for too long, it seems," he continued, voice lowering menacingly. "No longer. I will not tolerate any more of this town's poison to be directed at my sister, and you would do very well not to comment on things you know nothing about."
"Whether or not the bastard is yours changes nothing," Donovan replied, voice much smaller as he circled the kitchen table in an effort to put some physical presence between himself and the irate soldier. "The Lord has cursed this child and its mother for her—"
Donovan broke off with a yelp as Aaron's fist closed around the doctor's shirtfront, pulling him close until their faces were mere inches apart. "You said I know the Bible," he hissed, and Donovan's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously. "Would you like to hear one of my favourite verses?" Before he could form a reply, Aaron's fist collided with his nose in a sickening crunch of bone and blood. With a shout, he tried to wrench himself free of Aaron's iron grip, but was only rewarded with another blow, this time directed at his mouth. He crumpled to the floor with a shriek, feeling the sickeningly hot flow of blood pouring from his shattered nose and what he could only assume was a dislodged tooth resting on his tongue.
Aaron knelt down beside him, and he instinctively drew his arms to shield his face as the other man leaned to whisper in his ear, "Leigheas thú féin, a lia." Donovan whimpered as Aaron rose to his feet, glaring at the man bleeding on his floor as though he was a sickening pile of refuse. "Leave now, before I break something else."
December 1776, New Jersey
Tabitha pulled her coat tighter around her body, one hand resting on the gelding's throat as he drank greedily from the stream. The sun was high in the sky, but the air had only warmed slightly since that morning, and she relished in the heat radiating from the horse's neck into her fingers.
"That's enough, you," she said eventually, easing Cinnamon away from the water. She was surprised it hadn't frozen over, and the last thing she needed was her horse falling ill after slurping up the whole stream. "C'mere." With a firm pull of the lead line, she guided him towards the clearing. In the hours since she'd been acquainted with the gelding, he'd proven to be an extremely friendly creature, and more than a little bit of a glutton.
She heard a short snuffle in her ear, and quickly ducked to the side as Cinnamon's nose moved towards the side of her face. "Stop that," she said with a short laugh, pressing her face against his neck. Cinnamon's breathing was still heavy, and his pulse thundered in her ear.
Not that she was surprised. She'd set a hard pace as soon as she'd cleared the forest, slowing only when the terrain became too treacherous for a full gallop. As she walked around the clearing, Cinnamon a few paces behind, her thoughts began to wander as they had for the first few hours of her journey.
Plotting, planning, scheming. If Catharine Woodhull was as much the socialite as Caleb had claimed, someone would surely be able to point her in the right direction. The question was, who? It was unlikely anyone residing in any of the inns she might stay at would know about a wealthy woman visiting from Setauket. Not that there wouldn't be talk in the town, but this sort of talk simply wasn't something many people outside that particular social circle would care about.
Which presented another problem entirely. Tabitha was no stranger to social graces and, should the occasion arise, was more than capable of presenting herself as a respectable lady, but if Catharine was anything like her elegant niece, their social circle would be rather difficult to penetrate without arousing suspicion.
"Should've listened to that garbage about needlepoint, I suppose," she muttered, and Cinnamon gave a snort. "I couldn't agree more," she replied with a short laugh.
But needlepoint was the least of her concerns. Her best chance, she thought with a grimace, would be to scout the city as a woman, which would be tolerable if not for the stories she'd heard of men's behaviour towards women in the larger cities. Presenting herself as a man would inarguably be safer, but a woman of any social standing had a greater chance of locating a wealthy lady than a man. There would be less questions asked, less suspicion, and less of a chance for her to be noticed by the wrong people.
The point, she reminded herself, was to blend in as best she could. Playing the part of a servant girl seemed like the best bet; a role she could easily assume. No matter how fine a gown she wore, her body itself would easily betray her as someone of much less fortunate circumstances than the ladies she would undoubtedly encounter in her search for Charlotte. She had been slender all her life, narrow hips and small breasts giving her a rather boyish look, but her months of physical exertion and small rations with the Dragoons only intensified the look. The skin of her face was drawn taut across her cheekbones, and her body had none of the softness one might expect to see in a woman. Sun-darkened skin, underlying muscle, and the sharp definition of her collarbone were not features one would associate with a woman of privilege or wealth.
The lead line jerked in her hand, and she looked over her shoulder to see Cinnamon devouring a tuft of grass where her boots had disturbed the snow. "You'll be fat enough for the both of us at this rate," she muttered, easing him away and back towards the small copse of trees where she had deposited his saddle.
A nagging worry had worked its way into her mind as she re-fastened the bridle onto Cinnamon's head, and she found herself turning to look over her shoulder with every rustle of the leaves. Thirty minutes rest. She'd stayed too long. And while the prospect of encountering Regulars didn't frighten her (quite the opposite, in fact), the idea of capture before she could satiate her suspicions concerning Trenton did.
The cold air stung her wind-burned cheeks as she swung back up into the saddle, urging Cinnamon into a brisk walk toward the treeline. She hadn't encountered a single soul since leaving Caleb and Ben, and while she would on most occasions relish the silence, she found herself longing for some human company, if only to distract her from the biting chill of the wind.
She gave another squeeze of her legs, and Cinnamon's gait quickened into a rapid canter. "Deifriú, a Chainéil," she breathed.
By the time she reached the livery stable, the sun was sinking low on the horizon, painting the sky with varying hues of pink and gold. New York was close now, maybe two hours away at the most, but she knew forcing Cinnamon ahead would be fruitless.
The liveryman was a short man, plump, balding, but seemingly kind enough. His eyes lingered for only a second on the bright blue of Tabitha's coat before flashing a gap-toothed smile. "That's a fine horse you got there, sir," he said, and Tabitha inclined her head slightly.
"Thank you," she replied. "Poor creature's exhausted."
"Been riding long, then?" he asked with a second glance at her coat.
Tabitha's eyes narrowed slightly. "I have been tasked with delivering an urgent message," she said simply. "Are there any stalls available?"
The man's brow scrunched in thought. "Think we got three or four open. Were you thinkin' of making a switch?"
Tabitha nodded as she passed him the reins. "That is my plan, yes," she said. "If you have a horse available?"
"Several," the man confirmed as he waved down a boy approaching them "I'll have Willie here bring you the fastest one I got."
"Thank you, sir." Tabitha reached into the pouch at her waist, fumbling around a moment before her fingers closed around a familiar weight. "Will this cover it?" She passed the man a coin, and he nodded.
"More than enough," he said, smiling. "Come, I'll bring you some ale while you wait."
The horse-she hadn't learned its name, but had taken to calling it Arsehole-was fast, just as the liveryman had promised. The 16-hand Arabian stallion, coal-black with a wild look in his eyes, galloped as though someone had set fire to his tail, but clearly had not taken a liking to his new rider the way Cinnamon had. Where the gelding had been affectionate and a bit stubborn when he saw something edible, Arsehole was the opposite.
Riding was no problem, but as soon as she dismounted for water or rest, the stallion would take a nip at anything left too close to his face. "I swear ta Christ, if ya bite my hair one more time…" she growled as she dismounted. Arsehole let out an irritated snort as Tabitha tied his reins to a sturdy tree. "Wait here," she muttered, "an' fer chrissakes, keep quiet."
Night had fallen, and Tabitha was grateful for the dark colouring of her horse as she slipped away through the trees. While she had put off obtaining a disguise for most of the journey, finding herself this deep in British territory made different clothes a pressing necessity. Every snap of a twig set her on edge, and the leather-bound pommel of her dagger hadn't left her hand since the livery passed out of sight an hour before.
Slowly, she crept closer to her goal. A small farmhouse stood not far from the treeline, and in the faint moonlight, she could see her prize. Several gowns, petticoats, and other items of clothing flapped listlessly on the line, several of which looked to be about Tabitha's size.
Glancing about to ensure she could proceed unobserved, she quickly made her way over the fence and across the field. She snatched the closest gown off the line-a simple cotton garment of indeterminable colour in the darkness-followed by a pair of thick petticoats, a shift, a cloak, and a pair of stockings. There were no stays on the line, unsurprisingly, but all things considered, she felt quite fortunate in her find.
The same could not be said for the poor woman whose clothes she was making off with, however, and after a moment's hesitation, she fastened a heavy coin to the line with one of the clothespins. The woman would be able to purchase at least three sets of garments, and needed them desperately if the state of the fabric Tabitha held was anything to go by.
When she returned to where she'd left Arsehole tethered, she wasted no time in removing her uniform and donning the slightly frosted and slightlytoo-large items from the clothesline. Arsehole pawed uncertainly at the ground, and Tabitha quickly rolled her uniform around her bow and quiver, wrapped the bundle into the spare blanket and, after ensuring the scrimshaw knife was tucked safely in the pocket beneath her petticoat, climbed back into the saddle.
They traveled at a much slower pace after leaving the woods, despite the fact they were finally on a somewhat even and well-maintained road. While she didn't expect to be identified as a Continental soldier while swimming in the fabric of her petticoats, the last thing she needed was to be noticed by the wrong man—one considerably less gallant and courteous than the ones she'd grown accustomed to. And though she was more than certain she could deter any unwanted advances from one man, she wasn't sure she would be able to fight off any companions that might come running should he opt to scream for help.
As luck would have it, she encountered no one until she reached the town-she couldn't put a name to it, unfamiliar as it was-with most people having chosen to remain inside, out of the winter's chill. Tabitha was eager to join them, and as soon as she found an open stable for Arsehole, she hurried for the closest inn. She could no longer feel her fingers, and her cheeks and nose stung from the fine dusting of snowflakes swept up by the wind.
But inside, the fire was roaring in the hearth, and men and women alike were gathered around tables with food and drink, aromas of meat and fresh bread wafting through the air. Tabitha's stomach gave an audible growl, and that coupled with the weight of her eyelids settled any debate she might have entertained about remaining for the night.
She would continue her journey in the morning.
Irish translations:
Conas a leomh tú - How dare you
Leigheas thú féin, a lia - Physician, heal thyself
Deifriú, a Chainéil - Hurry, Cinnamon