To have him nearby was a peculiar sensation. I was startled by his casualness, the aloof albeit elegant nod that he gave to Sylvia and I as he approached us. The many months that I had spent dreaming of him, assured and ashamed of what my fondness had blossomed into had rendered him mighty and immortal. Now that I was beholding him at such an intimate proximity, I was nearly startled by his commonness. The wrinkles in his uniform, the limp of fatigue in his stride and every imperfection that the evening breeze had blown into his hair were all so beautiful and new. I had forgotten his mortality, his smallness against the vast backdrop of the earth. Speaking to him was not unlike meeting a hero or a celebrity that I had admired from afar since boyhood. I do not believe that Sylvia saw me falter or witnessed the faint tremble in my bones as she and John conversed, leaving me to bask in their light. So, I stood for a while, a metaphor brought to life, a man torn between his wife and his dearest friend.
"I am not asking that you halt the production of your music. I am artist, too. I understand that you need that platform while your husband is away, but it is possible- nay, extremely easy- to tie your work back to this estate." John muttered to Sylvia from over the top of his wine glass. "That is why Banastre was so adamant to bring me here tonight. To warn you. To request that your family relocate, at least until this threat has been cleared."
Silent and fixated upon how John's hand had molded to Sylvia's shoulder and how alarmingly content she seemed to leave it there, I felt my heartrate swell. "Threat?" I said at last, ever a man of few words.
"A threat of vengeance," he shook his head, with sympathy, perhaps, but I could not say for certain, "it took Silas long enough. Massachusetts is the best that I can do. The location is rural and on the water should the occasion call for you to escape by sea. I will also see to it that the safehouse be well-guarded. I take no risks with our Sylph."
Sylvia looked to me, eagerly awaiting my thoughts on this strange new development. I had no answers to give. Only that if John thought it best to take my family out of New Jersey until Silas and his threat were ended, I would not object. She was called away from us and from across the room, Robert was asked to bid goodnight to Celeste. It seemed unfair to me that the women should leave while the men decided their destinies. If I were to endure eight more months of battle, far away from my Sylvia, I needed to know what conditions she was living under at all times. Yet again, I was torn. I trusted John's offer and his intentions, but I also honored Sylvia's apprehension.
"Will you be long?" She asked before kissing me goodnight. "Since you are leaving in the morning, every hour that you are here is incredibly precious to me and I-" her soft plea was rudely interrupted by the angry shattering of a glass in the dining room.
"Don't you dare challenge me, Combs! And in the presence of General Ballard and these lovely ladies, no less! Have you no decency? Have you no class?" Banastre halted his rant just long enough to release what sounded like a cross between a hiccup and a belch. "I say we settle this like the gentlemen we are once and for all!" The clanking spurs on his boots grew louder. John saw what was coming long before I did and heaved an exasperated sigh. "Boys!?" He stumbled between us, shot up to our height on the tips of his toes and placed one elbow on my right shoulder and one elbow on John's left. If Sylvia's hands were still on me, Banastre must have swept them off while I wasn't looking. "I need your assistance! Surely, there has never been a man on God's green earth to say 'no' to a little moonlit game of polo! Saddle up! It shall be Andre and I versus Bordon and Combs!"
Sylvia cleared her throat and stepped fearlessly in front of Banastre, who was now making for his next glass of brandy. No surprise there. "The game requires two teams of four, Colonel. Since poor Boris hardly knows the difference between equestrian polo and pedestrian croquet, I say he will be useless on the field." She gave me a gently apologetic wink. Though it embarrasses me slightly to say this, she had a fair point! "Why don't we ask Papa and the butler to play alongside Major Andre and yourself? Then, Celeste and I might join the opposition?"
Banastre snorted. Had he been taller than Sylvia, he might have been staring down his nose at her. As it were, he was trying to accomplish that gesture from below and appeared positively precious in this pursuit! "How would that improve the game for Combs and Bordon, exactly?" He gave my wife several seconds to respond but received only a catty smirk. "Very well. I shall see you on the field, Mrs. Bordon. But please know, this will not be your average Ballard Girl's pillow fight of a match on a sunny Sunday afternoon- no, no! We are men! And soldiers! And… and… MEN!" He stuck one finger in the air and spun on his heel, most effeminately, I might add, making for the nearest door with a crooked saunter.
It was clear to me that John did not approve of this little game that Banastre had initiated. He drilled the three of us, not only on precision, but our efficiency of time. In other words, he wanted to leave the field as quickly as possible so that he, Banastre, Combs and myself might be able to sit down with the General and discuss more pressing matters before daybreak. It did not help that the cocky Colonel continually rode into the line of the ball and General Ballard, ever the stickler for rules and regulations, called his teammate out. I, on the other hand, struggled with visibility. It was difficult to see where the ball was in the shadows, let alone the other mallets that were whacking blindly at the darkness. I struck Celeste's ankle once on accident and Robert gave me a vengeful push, if only to seem chivalrous. The only players who appeared to be engaged with the game were Sylvia and her father. I shadowed her.
At one point, she rolled the ball to me. I swung, missed and John took over the play. Banastre rode after him but pulled back when the flash and sound of gunfire transpired from a neighboring hilltop. A lone assassin. I don't believe that John was his sole target, but he was the only rider within range. Stupidly, the love that I had for him rose like a massive tidal wave in my chest, it washed my inhibitions clean away and I shot off into the blackness to shield John and protect him from harm. I did not mean to make a statement. To the others, I looked like a soldier protecting his comrade, but this was the moment that I knew it was all true. I was willing to die for him. There, in front of my family and friends, I nearly did.
There was no saying where the bullet hit. All that mattered was that John had been spared- and he had. I saw him flee to safety as my horse and I collapsed with a brutally rough stumble into the grass. The butler had escaped to the stables and returned with firearms. I could hear Banastre shouting as he returned fire. I could hear it all as my vision failed me. But that thunderous, murderous hailstorm of noise was no match for Sylvia's voice as she cried for me and fought against her father's restraint. The pain that I felt was numb, a buzz, a second wave coursing over me only this time, it was disorientation rather than my foolish devotion to John. I clutched weakly to my own consciousness, listening to the other soldiers as their pursuit began. Then, Sylvia. Her palms were cool and damp. I could not hear her words and could only decode panic from her presence.
She was searching me, tearing away my coat and hunting for an entry wound to bind. No such wound could be found, thank God. I felt her fingers across my brow next and remembered that I hadn't worn a helmet, none of us had. But I was in capable hands, motherly hands and there was no one on earth who I trusted more- save for one. Is it wicked to say that I dreamt of him until morning? Is it cruel that I looked past watchful Sylvia when I awoke and tried to find him in our room? She kept me still and held a cold compress against my temple. I went to remove her hand but found that I wanted only to hold it in my own and never let her go. I blame the tears that were flowing from her eyes for this sudden change of priorities.
"Is this what you do, Sweetheart? Throw yourself in front of gunfire for other men?"
I rubbed my lips together. They were dry and chapped. "The King's Army is a different world than the one that we are living in now," my voice was lower and scratchier than usual, "Major Andre is a greater asset than I."
"Oh, hush! There is no world in which you are worth less than a hundred-thousand Major Andres!" She moved back and forced a smile. "You saved his life. I should be proud of you. Oh, Boris. I have been in denial all this time. That was the nearest I have ever been to combat and now I know that I must come this close to losing you every day! Seeing you fall, I… it was my worst nightmare come true. It will haunt me forever."
"Sylvia", I aimed to wipe every tear from her cheek, but missed each one miserably. I longed to comfort her and had only my words to use towards this purpose. "We are meant to overcome these trials. There are titans at our door, tempests rising all around us, the earth below our feet has rumbled and split itself in two every day since our first falling and yet… we continue to hold fast. I will always return to you. Some day soon, I will arrive at your gate with news of England's victory and you and I shall return to who we were the night that I enlisted." I guided her hand into the lamplight and caressed the tip of each perfectly formed finger. "I have this fantasy, dear Sylvia. You reach for me as I dismount, you are wearing those same doeskin gloves as you always do and I- before all of the world, I undress the hands that have labored and dared and created with more courage than any man I have ever met. The hands that have known, pleased and cared for me in ways that I never knew possible before that evening in the cellar. I will marvel at all that they have done, the baby boy that they have guided on the path to manhood with little help of my own… I will marvel, Sylvia, at the hands that wrote the letters that kept me alive in the face of death and that never, not for an instant, let go of my own despite the many miles that stretched between us. Until that day, I have but one request. Hold fast."