The following day, a cold and drizzly rain came down on the roof of the plantation, creating an unrelenting hiss against the slate roof and coating everything in a silvery sheen. Millicent went to check on Margaret and found that her room was empty. Puzzled, Millicent checked the parlor, library and dining room without finding Margaret. Eventually Millicent found Margaret out in the kitchens, kneading bread.
"Margaret?" Millicent approached the flour covered table where Margaret stood kneading bread shoulder to shoulder with one of the slaves. "What are you doing?"
"Something." Margaret sighed, pushing at a stray lock of hair drifting across her forehead. "I can't sit in the house anymore waiting for him to come down the road." Millicent watched as Margaret turned her head away, attempting to stifle tears. "I can't do it Millicent. I need to find some way to channel this energy, to keep myself distracted."
"Oh, my dearest Margaret…" Millicent tried to come around the tabl-to draw Margaret into an embrace-but Margaret held up her hand.
"Don't. This is what I need to do. I need my life back…I can't hang everything on something that may never happen."
Millicent nodded solemnly, swallowing the lump of emotion that suddenly seemed to well into her throat. She couldn't imagine James never returning home, it had never occurred to her before, not with the glamor of life near the officers and command staff, not with being so far removed from war. Margaret obviously knew better—knew the risks that James had walked into when he'd ridden away from them. Millicent backed away as Margaret flipped the dough and continued to knead it violently. She would leave Margaret to it as long as was necessary.
Millicent watched as Margaret threw herself into whatever work she could. Rarely did she find Margaret staring at the drive, waiting to see a rider come up it, and she never saw the girl at a writing desk any more. The few times Millicent saw Margaret gazing up the drive, Margaret was quick to divert her eyes and swift to throw herself into a tiring flurry of activity. Most days Margaret was too tired to even eat an evening meal and went directly to her room to fall into a deep and dreamless sleep before starting the cycle over again the next day.
There were nights though that Millicent passed by Margaret's room and she could hear the girl weeping. One evening she dared to open the door to ensure that Margaret was merely distraught and not unwell and found her lying atop the quilt of the bed sobbing into her pillow. Millicent was quick to back out, lest Margaret feel that she'd had her privacy intruded upon. One afternoon, while Margaret was napping after having returned from a days long birth in the nearby village, Millicent heard her cry out. Millicent raced up the hall to see what was wrong only to see Margaret thrashing beneath the covers, her face distorted by fear.
"No! Let me…not that….No!" Margaret sat up gasping for breath looking frantically around the room. She breathed as if she had run a great race and Millicent was quick to cross the room and pour Margaret a cup of water.
"Gracious Margaret…." Millicent said handing her the water cup and sitting on the bedside. "Are you alright?" She watched as Margaret's hands violently shook as she brought the water to her lips.
"No…I had the worst nightmare." Margaret finally managed. Her hands continued to shake as she pulled herself back against the pillows and pushed at the wild strands of red gold hair that had fallen in her face.
"Tell me of it." Millicent took the cup from Margaret and grasped her hands. "Unburden yourself. Sometimes I think you keep far too much welled up inside you."
Margaret shivered as she remembered the swamp. It had been so long since she'd had a nightmare about the swamps, or the dead.
"Speaking of it reminds me of the horrors." Margaret whispered staring down at where Millicent held her hands. There was something safe and reassuring about Millicent's touch and Margaret felt the story of her nightmares bubbling up within her, racing to escape. "I usually find myself out in the swamps, surrounded by tall trees but unable to see through them. I'm lost."
"They say your dreams are a metaphor for life…that it is your mind showing you what you need to see but can't in the waking moments." Millicent said quietly.
"Then my mind is showing me how lost I truly am in this world. How alone." Margaret said bitterly. "Except for the dead…the dead are always there."
"Oh Margaret..." Millicent reached up to sweep her fingers across Margaret's brow, tucking hair behind her ear, the better to see her face, to draw her eyes to her own.
"Sometimes I see James though…those are the best dreams." Margaret tossed a distracted smile Millicent's way. "Not today though." She said as the smile faded from her face. "Today I had the worst dream I've had in some time. I was out in the swamp and I saw Tavington, but someone…something else was pulling me down into the swamp and then there were the snakes." Margaret's hand went to her throat, the remnants of the dream slipping through her mind and across her skin. "I felt it sliding across my neck….and a face-a face so grotesque and twisted in death it was unrecognizable as a man's." She tried to rub away the cold feeling that thinking of the dream brought to her. She shuddered and then rose, putting some distance between her and Millicent and the conversation about her nightmare, which she did not want to discuss any longer.
"I fear to ask, for I know it is always the same, but has there been any word? A letter?" Millicent bit her lip and shook her head, keeping her own emotions in check as it seemed Margaret had fully mastered.
"No." She whispered. "Not today…perhaps tomorrow. There's always tomorrow."
"Perhaps." The flatness of Margaret's voice unnerved Millicent and she made a hasty retreat from the room. It seemed to Millicent though that no matter what she did, Margaret's heart had broken and she would never be happy unless James came walking through the door.
As the winter months eased up, Millicent had a riding habit made for Margaret of fine navy blue wool. Margaret was adamant about going out to the surrounding farms and visiting with families to offer her services as mid-wife and herbs woman. Margaret took time on her daily rides to dig up the new shoots and bring them back for a garden. She worked with Millicent's slaves to see that the garden was properly tended and watered and showed them where she wanted the different plantings to go. As the days grew longer and warmer, Margaret spent longer and longer portions of it away from the house and Millicent's ever watchful eye.
Margaret waved to the four children standing in the doorway. They were eager to go and observe the wriggling bundle that Margaret had left lying on their mother's breast. The woman had had a devil of a time delivering the child, but it was strong, as was the mother, and both were doing well. The father stood behind them, one hand clasped on the shoulder of his eldest son, the other grasping the crutch that would forever be tucked beneath his arm.
"Thank you again Miss Margaret. You are a wonder. A blessing from God."
"No, I'm merely a woman with a need to pour her energies into something worthwhile. You'll send word if there's need of it?"
"Of course miss." The man watched as Margaret swung up into the saddle and turned the horse towards home.
"Home." She thought despondently. "Where is that exactly? And if it is Millicent's Plantation, when did I start thinking of it as home? And is that appropriate?" As the horse trotted up the road and her thoughts drifted down dark paths a lingering ache made its presence known beneath her stays. Any time she thought of what she'd lost—her home, her family and James—the same pain reared its ugly head and threatened to double her over. The mare shied beneath her, balking at the ever tightening grip she had on the reins.
"Sorry girl." Margaret leaned forward to stroke the mare's neck. The horse tossed its head appreciatively and Margaret smiled, the dark thoughts skittering away. "Would you like to run? It's been a long while since we've had a run." Margaret loosened her grip and touched her heel to the animal's side. The horse lunged forward eagerly and Margaret let the creature have its head. Margaret needed it as much as the mare did. It felt good to have the wind whipping across her face and to feel her heart racing for a reason other than her nightmares. Though Margaret slowed the horse several times over the course of the ride home, she gave the horse another chance to run just as they entered the drive. Margaret maneuvered the horse into the yard and slid to the ground without assistance, tossing the reins over the horses head and leading it towards the barn.
"Good Afternoon Miss." One of the slaves said as she was just about to enter the barn. "You look sore tuckered out. You go on inside ma'am, let me take care of your horse."
"I ran the horse on the way home, Michael. She needs to be brushed down." Margaret heard the weariness in her own voice and attempted to stifle a yawn.
"I'll see to that ma'am." The man took the reins from Margaret and led the horse into the darkened barn. Margaret walked up to the house slowly, detouring to see how the flowers were growing in the pleasure garden she'd planted and then took a trip through the herb garden and vegetable garden looking at the shoots of lavender and admiring the way the tendrils of vines heralded the slow climb of the beans that had been planted. They would have a good harvest if all went well. She continued up the path, pulling her gloves off and unpinning her hat as she came through the door. She carelessly tossed her riding gloves into her hat and lay hat and pin on a table inside the door. The house was eerily quiet and dark. Millicent must have been out calling. Margaret sighed heavily and trudged up the steep staircase. She tripped on the rug before her bed as she struggled to unbutton the jacket of her riding habit. She stumbled to the edge of her bed, sat down heavily and wearily tried to tug her boots off. She was so tired she barely remembered leaning back against the pillows at the top of the bed and drifting off to sleep.
Margaret walked through woods shrouded in darkness. Her fingertips brushed over tree trunks blindly, trying not to stumble into one of the great cypresses. She was knee deep in swamp water, struggling to walk through the mire. Sticky mud grasped at her feet and ankles and she felt as if she were being pulled down. She wrapped her arms around the nearest cypress and pulled with all her might, trying to pull herself up the trunk and free her feet—even for a moment. As she tried to pull her legs from the water she felt someone grasp her ankle. She turned to see gray white hands coming out of the black water. It was a mere flicker, a fluttering of something lighter than the surroundings. Soon though a body began to emerge from the waters and Margaret tried to scream. The dead man placed his arms around Margaret's waist and tried to pull her down. She grasped the trunk of the big tree harder, scrambling to dig her fingers into the smooth wood. She pressed her cheek into the side of the tree, struggling to stay away from the dead man's clutches. When she opened her eyes there was another face before her, gray with death, eyes pale and colorless in the darkness. Somehow, even in full darkness she knew it was Colonel Tavington's face she was seeing. She could make out his features in the ghoul before her, especially the gaping wound in his throat. Tavington's mouth opened and she heard a high shriek pierce the night air. She reeled away, letting go of the tree and stumbling back into the swamp waters, into the arms of the dead man behind her. She felt cold arms wrap around her waist and pull her slowly backwards—arching slowly into the black cold waters of the swamp. She felt the chill of the water slip up around her shoulders. Something hissed softly in her ear and Margaret held her breath as the cold body of a water snake slipped silently over her throat.
Margaret sat up gasping for breath and looking wildly around her room. Her nightmare had felt so real. It took her long moments to realize where she was and come to grips with the fact that dead men do not rise up and try to pull people down into swamps. She ran her hands frantically along her throat, pulling at the scarf around her throat and loosening it's knot and the buttons beneath it, searching for the snake that was only in her dreams. She fell back against the pillows and blinked up at the ceiling of her bed room several times trying to focus on the dream, terrified of the darkness that had enveloped her. Suddenly a shriek penetrated her hearing and Margaret sat up. She could hear muffled voices coming from down stairs and then she heard another shriek. Fear clenched at Margaret's heart as she heard Millicent's shouts. Quickly, she untangled her legs from the blanket that someone had laid across her as she'd slept and raced around the bed to the door. Worrying that Millicent had hurt herself, or that someone else had been injured she raced down the stairs towards the library.
"She's been under so much stress of late…" Millicent's voice was quiet but clear in the evening gloom that pervaded the house. Another voice responded, this one lower, more resonant. Margaret could not make out the words, nor could she make out who the voice belonged to. She made an ungraceful slide before the door and burst into the room to see Millicent being held by a tall gentleman.
"Millicent…!" The man turned and Margaret thought her heart would burst from her chest. Time seemed to stop as the man turned from Millicent's embrace to face the door. Margaret's vision narrowed on the man in the middle of the library, her breath stopping and she feared she would faint as her knees felt weak beneath her. She took a staggering stumble forward as the man approached her, arms open wide to embrace her as she clattered ungracefully through the door, her eyes clouded by a sudden deluge of tears.
"Oh James!" The whispered words eased out through the well of emotions that seemed to be stopping up her throat. She gulped at air as his arms came crushing about her waist lifting her into the air to hold her close to him.
She felt, rather than heard him say her name as he buried his face against her neck. She clutched him to her, burying her own face against his collar, taking in the scent of him—clean wool, horse and sweat. Tears streaked down her face as she sobbed against his shoulder, grasping tightly at him, afraid to let him go.
"A dream….is this a dream?" She gulped. She opened her eyes and glanced to where Millicent sat upon the floor, covering her mouth with her fingertips, tears staining her own cheeks. Margaret leaned back, placing her hands on either side of James' face to stare at his features.
"No dream." He said, tears reflected in his own eyes. She studied his features. Thinner, more gaunt than she remembered, he looked as he had in every one of her dreams, as he did in her memory. She brushed her fingertips through the hair at his temple, down the side of his face to cup his cheek and stare into his eyes. She was ashamed to see that her hands shook as she ran them across his broad shoulders, running her hands over him as if checking to see if he were merely smoke and mirrors beneath the wool.
And suddenly his lips were upon hers, taking away whatever words or questions might have been poised to spill forth. She drank it in, relished in the feeling of him kissing her, holding her. She breathed deeply, feeling as if she were coming back to life now that he was here. He slowly eased away from her, loathe to separate from the woman that he loved.
"Am I dreaming still?" Margaret whispered the question again.
"No dream Margaret…." Millicent said from behind her, her voice catching.
Margaret focused her racing thoughts for a moment and relished the tight hold about her rib cage, not caring that her stays pinched. Pinching stays meant the moment was real. She pushed her fingers through his hair, across his neck, holding him as close as he held her, fearing that if she let go or stepped away he might fade into the ether. So caught up was she in the moment that it took her a moment to realize she was still weeping.
"I was so worried….so worried!" Margaret sobbed as James cradled her against him, her feet not having touched the floor for a moment since she'd come through the door. For once, her tears were happy ones and she let them slide freely down her face. "We'd had no word….it's been so long!"
"I wrote you. I did." James pressed the side of his face against hers, holding her close before he slowly set her down on the floor and gazed lovingly at her tear stained face. He smiled as he dried her cheeks with his thumbs. "How I have dreamed of this…"
"Oh James…." Margaret could think of nothing else to say and was grateful when James crushed her to him again, stopping all thoughts and words with a searing kiss that spoke of the last months they had been apart. Neither of them noticed when Millicent finally pulled herself to her feet and slipped from the room to leave them to privacy.
"What happened? Where were you?" Margaret finally asked, her thoughts marshaling, her mind clearer than it had been in months. James clasped her hand in his and ran his fingers through her sleep tousled hair. "Were you injured? I was so worried, we've had no word for ages…"
"One question at a time." James tucked a loose strand of hair behind Margaret's ear, unable to keep from touching her.
"Where were you?" Margaret finally settled on. James tugged her through the door that joined the library to the sitting room where Millicent was bringing in a tea tray. James tugged Margaret to sit beside him in a wide chair, never once losing the grasp he had on her hand. Millicent remained silent as she sat across from them, still dabbing at her own weeping face. James took a deep breath and then began his story.
"I spent some time in South Carolina before moving with the newly trained Dragoons to Virginia. We were at Yorktown, but saw little action." James took a deep breath as he glanced around the comfortably appointed room. "We were boxed in with the…Americans' siege lines all around us. Their earth works were formidable." Margaret noted the way James stumbled over using the term 'American.' To him, the revolutionaries had always been rebels; men rising up against king and country. Now they were the victorious party; a new nation with a country of their own.
"So you were out of the fighting?" Millicent asked innocently. James kept his gaze on Margaret, knowing that hiding things from her would do little good.
"As dragoons yes, but we were put to use as infantry." Margaret's heart clenched, thinking of the dead infantrymen she had seen walking with James across the battlefield at Cowpens. How long ago had that been? He squeezed her hand reassuringly, "I was not moved to infantry for long, but into the officers closest to Cornwallis. When he…surrendered…we were held hostage."
"We heard rumors that he had someone else turn over his sword." Millicent said.
"He did. He was ashamed at being beaten by rabble." James said quietly.
"Hostage?" Margaret's throat tightened at the word. She remembered being held captive by the rebels.
"Ransom, hostage, the word matters not." James saw the old memories dancing in her eyes. "They treated us well enough, but held us until we began releasing their officers from our prison ships. One by one we were released under oath to return to our homes."
"And that is why we had no word from you…" Margaret heaved a sigh and felt a great weight lifted from her. "No news could pass through the siege lines and after you were captive."
"Yes." His whispered reply screamed of the pain that admission cost him. "I tried. I bribed the guards to send letters out. I wrote as often as I could. I sent verbal messages with the officers being released, but it seems they did not relay them to you."
"No." Margaret bit her lip, keeping it from trembling. James gently placed his thumb beneath her lip, pulling it from between her teeth to gently place a kiss there. Margaret sighed as she felt him run his tongue across her lip, a soft, sweet caress. "How I dreamed of this though…how I wished to hear your voice or just word of you." He whispered against her lips. "I kept your letters with me, read them so often they fell apart." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled a letter from the folds, the creases separating, the paper a mess of dirt and streaked ink. He tenderly pulled the letter open, laying it flat against his knee; his actions so careful and precise that Margaret was certain this was an action he had repeated often while being held prisoner. He ran a fingertip over one of the creases, the ink so faded that she barely recognized the hand writing as her own. "I had little else to do in prison. This got me through." He said tapping the page and staring into her eyes. "You spoke of winter bleakness in your last letter, of the New Year and of moving north. That was months ago, though it seems like years."
"No more." Margaret touched her fingers to his lips, still afraid of losing contact with him, needing to feel more of him than just where he clasped her hand. "No more…"
Millicent cleared her throat, reminding Margaret and James that she was still present. "Our fare is meager at the moment James, but we shall have a welcome home feast on the morrow. We haven't the time to prepare one today."
"Millicent, if you were to serve me nothing but bread and water I would be a man well fed." James never took his gaze from Margaret's face, a new radiance cast across her features. "I am well content just to be in my love's company."
Neither of them noticed Millicent rise to exit the room and inform the slaves to set a third place at the table.
"The war…?" Maragaret whispered, fearful of saying the word aloud.
"Over for all intents and purposes." James' finger drifted across her hairline, beneath her jaw and down the column of her throat, the backs of his fingers slipped carefully beneath the collar of her still unbuttoned riding habit and over the ridge of her collar bone. "And I am honor bound to remain away from the conflict."
"That is good." Margaret's words came out on a breathy whisper, relishing the feel of his fingers so close to her thundering heart.
"Mmm, very good." His lips were just a breath away from hers and yet he would not close the distance between them. "Tell me you have not changed your mind…"
"Changed my mind about what?" Margaret leaned closer, damning James in her mind as he kept the distance between them, his fingers retracing their slow path back up the side of her throat, pausing at the pulse in her neck.
"Being my wife."
"Never." Finally he cradled the back of her neck and pulled her into a demanding kiss, sealing her vow and attempting to pour all of his own emotions into the act. Margaret felt him slide his arm beneath her knees and deftly maneuver her across his lap, holding her close in the firelight. "I will never change my mind."
"That is good…for I mean to be wed with all haste." He nipped at the flesh beneath her ear, pulling a gasp from her lips. He stood with her still in his arms and carried her over the threshold deeper into the house to join Millicent for supper, radiant smiles upon both of their faces.