A/N: Thank you all so much for all your wonderful thoughts, and for staying in touch throughout the looong hiatus for this story, lol. The revolutionary war muse wasn't speaking to me all too much. Plus, she's a difficult muse, because she requires plenty of research. Recently, however, she started whispering in my ear again. And between that and a recent docu-drama on George Washington that aired on the history channel, her voice became loud enough for a new chapter to be written. ;)
Some characters belong to S. Meyer, some belong to history, and some belong to me. All mistakes, however, are definitely mine. ;)
Hope you enjoy. :)
Uprising - Chapter 31
The Incident in the East Parlor
A few yards from the house, I pull sharply on Hope's reins, causing her to rear back and bray in protest. Her front hooves twitch in midair and in confusion at being thus handled, for I know my wife treats her horse as if she were her child. Dismounting the bewildered beast in one quick lunge, I leave her to locate the stables and fend for herself as I advance. My musket is loaded and ready; however, both fear and fury tunnel my vision. That is until I note the emblem sewn onto the scarlet cloak atop the horse currently tied to my post, and my upper lip curls in a snarl. For although I no longer fear for my wife and son, all the vexation I felt a moment earlier is now fiercely redirected.
"Of all the disrespectful...he was told he would be allowed to meet and hold his grandson as Grandfather Swan," I seethe, "not as Major Swan of His Damnable Majesty's army!"
As I rush into the house, Mrs. Clearwater meets me at the door. As our housekeeper, Mrs. Clearwater does not express her indignation by carrying a loaded musket; that privilege is reserved for me. However, the dark frown upon her forehead is an indicator of her own displeasure. Though a nurturing woman and a competent housekeeper, Mrs. Clearwater be a fervent patriot as well, and I almost pity one and all lobsterbacks who would have crossed her path had she been born a man. Still, noting my fierce grip around the weapon, the lady wrings her hands.
"Young master, you are returned, and much more promptly than expected - unfortunately," adds she in a whisper as I bolt past her. Nonetheless, her steps follow me with anxious rapidity.
"Aye, there was no need for me to linger once Emmett's sister arrived and commenced smiling at me as if she were not a snake of the lowest order. I left her brother to deal with her and her fate, for I hoped to arrive home early and spend time alone with my wife and son. Yet, it appears this day is hell-bent on leading me from one wretched encounter to another. Where is the Major?"
"He, the mistress, and the babe are in the east parlor, where the sun shines brightest, to keep the babe warm. Sir, please, may I have a moment?"
"Nay, not now, Mrs. Clearwater." My stride does not break. Instead, heavy and incensed footfalls perhaps provide warning of my approaching wrath, though I care not, for the image that shall most likely greet me taunts my mind. It is an image of my son, my firstborn, my Edward George Cullen cradled in the arms of a godforsaken redcoat!
"Sir, perhaps you should loosen your grip on the musket?"
My grip does not loosen.
"Sir, were you to unintentionally fire your weapon on your father-in-law," she hisses behind me, "aye, there would be one less Tory in the world. However, the mistress might not appreciate which one you have chosen-"
"Is he in his regimentals, Mrs. Clearwater?"
"Nay, he is not."
Now, my steps falter. Mrs. Clearwater bumps into me for she was following close on my heels indeed. After a few moments, with a sigh, I force my grip around the musket to loosen.
"Well. That is...something, at least." I resume my steps toward the east parlor.
"Young master," continues the lady in a pleading whisper, "I beseech you to hold your tongue and control your temper for they are occasionally as dangerous as is your musket. Sir. Edward...the Major, as despicable as his loyalties may be, is now more than your father-in-law and your wife's father; he is your son's grandfather."
Begrudgingly, I reply for I cannot completely ignore her when she speaks in her motherly tone. "And?"
"And 'tis a bond and a role that must be respected and tread in a completely different manner from that which other roles are tread. Young Edward, hear me, for there is a child involved now, and the mistress understands she must play a role as well."
I am sure her advice is well-meant. However, I am not sure how much of it I shall retain when I round the corner and stand at the threshold to the parlor. Though the image with which I am brought face to face is not that which toyed with my head, 'tis disturbing enough.
"Be calm, my dear boy," Mrs. Clearwater whispers before carefully removing the musket from my hand and removing herself to another part of the house.
As the lady confirmed, Major Swan is not in his regimentals. Instead, he wears the pale-toned breeches and coat of a gentleman, boots perfectly polished, wig flawlessly styled and tied with a scarlet silk ribbon. His back is to me, therefore I cannot see his cravat, but I would bet Cullen Hill itself that it is tied in some ridiculously flowery fashion. He stands on the other side of the room by the large windows facing the crop fields, which are dry and barren this time of year, but aye, the sun shines best from that perspective. I note by the shape of the man's shoulders and by the manner in which his head bends forward that he cradles something...someone in his arms.
Next to him, I locate my beautiful wife, also with her back to me as she proudly gazes at the object in her father's hold. From this view, no one would ever guess that Isabella is but a fortnight birthed. She must wear a corset, though I know firsthand that she has forsaken them since Edward's birth. She dons one of her finer gowns, those with which she first arrived at Cullen Hill. 'Tis a pale yellow silk, and one I have not seen since our first days as husband and wife. Her hair, which for the past fortnight has been left to cascade loosely or worn in a simple style, is fastened at her nape in a complicated twist of spiraling curls. She is a glorious sight indeed, so much so that I am compelled to draw in a lung full of air to remind those organs of their job for it seems...it would seem that for her father's visit, Isabella has elected to appear more his daughter than my wife.
And though I cannot see my son, I have no doubt that his mother has groomed and primped young Edward George as much as a two-week-old babe may be groomed and primped. The outcome is that situated together, the three paint a perfect image of generation after generation...after generation of English aristocracy.
And aye, I am sufficiently master of myself to acknowledge through my pain the unjust nature of those latter thoughts, most especially as they apply to my wife. Nor do I fail to experience a modicum of shame as I open my mouth to make my presence known. Yet before I may, my wife speaks, and aye, I halt and listen.
"I am happy to hear that Aunt Charlotte is doing well in England, and please pass on my gratitude for her good wishes for my son, Father."
"You should write back to her yourself, daughter."
"I never truly had a close correspondence with her in the past."
"Perhaps now is a good time as any to start. It cannot hurt to renew a friendship with her."
Isabella is silent for a moment. "Shall you like more tea, Father?" She looks up at him, yet his gaze remains on the object in his arms, which he rocks with surprising tenderness for such a stoic man.
"I thank you, no, Isabella. You are aware of how little I enjoy what passes for tea in these colonies."
Arrogant scur! I scowl at his back and prepare to let him know with exacting words if not my musket what I think of both him and all that godforsaken tea which my brothers in liberty and I once happily spilled into the harbor. Again, before I may, Isabella replies.
"Aye, I am aware, Father. You have always had the most admirably exacting tastes. What about some more tea cakes? As the flour used to make them is shipped by the shipful from the colonial farms to the mother country, I cannot imagine fault to be found with them. However, I shall bow to your knowledge in these things."
Her tone is pleasant and charming, her manners those of a perfectly bred hostess, a woman who was raised to entertain and offer tea and cakes. Anyone not as intimately acquainted with her as I am...or as her Father likely still is, would not note the hint of irony in her words. Nonetheless, when his eyes flash to hers, and Isabella smiles beatifically, he holds her gaze as if he is attempting to decipher whether or not there was mockery in her words. Perhaps...perhaps the Major does not know his daughter as well as I do; not any longer. The possibility of such floods me with a massive degree of relief, for aye, I am having a difficult time witnessing the scene before me. 'Tis a ridiculous yet hugely satisfying reminder; Isabella Swan Cullen is now more my wife than she is the Major's daughter.
The major is the first to break the connection between him and Isabella, and I see his shoulders rise and fall as he returns his eyes to the package in his arms.
"No tea cakes, thank you, Isabella. I would rather spend the time I have here before your husband's return enjoying your and my grandson's company unencumbered."
"My husband shall not encumber our visit, Father. He is aware that I extended you an invitation. We are family, regardless of all else."
"Mm," the Major says. "We shall see. The fact is there is animosity between your husband and me which goes beyond our differing loyalties."
"Perhaps 'tis time that animosity, if not the differing loyalties, is buried, Father. No longer for our sakes, but for that of the boy you hold in your arms."
Her words are similar to those which Mrs. Clearwater spoke just minutes earlier.
"As I said, we shall see. There is something...particular and rather urgent I would speak with you about before your husband arrives."
"Oh?" my wife replies, lifting her eyes to her father's eyes. Meanwhile, my nostrils flare. "What may that be, Father?"
"We shall get to that in a moment, for I imagine you shall not like hearing what I have to say at first. But, my goodness, my grandson is truly a handsome young lad, as handsome as they come. Well behaved as well for he has not wailed once since my arrival, praise be. My heart overflows with pride, and I congratulate you, my daughter, most vehemently, on bringing such a perfect child into the world."
Isabella continues to eye him placidly, and though I know her well enough to know she is anything but placid at the moment, she apparently decides to let it go - for now - and feign easy distraction by the compliment to our son.
"I thank you, Father, and I shall proudly agree that my son is perfect. However, though I shall proclaim that as a woman, I surely bore most of the burden of carrying and birthing him, I did not, in fact, create him on my own. Therefore, I cannot take all of the credit for his handsomeness nor for his tendency toward good behavior."
In spite of the perturbing sight before me as well as the sudden fury caused by Swan's enigmatic statement, my lips twitch and threaten to form a grin at my hellion wife's reply. And I shall not speak, nay, regardless of the lowliness of spying in such a manner. First, I shall hear what the Major would say to my wife out of my presence.
"Perhaps not all, yet you are the vehicle through which Swan blood flows in his veins. He is the continuity of our family's proud lineage and heritage and...and 'tis important that you remember that today, daughter. Why just look; he has my jaw."
My jaw locks in further unimaginable outrage before Isabella clarifies. "He has his father's jaw."
"Well...perhaps," Swan acknowledges after a few moments. "But he has my bone structure."
"He has his father's bone structure."
"He has my mouth."
"He has my mouth, and his father's nose, and he begins to grow hair just like his father's hair, and though his demanding nature is perhaps equally his father's and mine, his tendency toward self-control when he is before his elders is certainly neither his father's nor mine - perhaps one of our mothers. Either way, you shall have to acknowledge, Father, that your grandson is as much Cullen as he is Swan."
Swan is silent for a few moments.
"He has your mother's forehead."
My wife does not immediately reply. "He does."
She whispers the words shakily, and this is a moment I shall not disturb between her father and her, regardless of how much I abhor the Major. They are both clearly lost in memories of a beloved wife and mother. The mutual recollections are broken when my son does indeed expel a gurgling whimper, a warning that hunger approaches. His grandfather coos him, his hand moving to stroke him, gently rocking him.
"There, there, young Edward George. Grandpapa is here."
"I believe he desires nourishment more than anyone's particular company at the moment. I shall have to feed him soon," Isabella murmurs, hovering close. "Perhaps 'tis a good time to disclose the urgent business you claim you need to share with me."
"Is the wet nurse nearby to take him?" the Major inquires.
"Edward George does not have need for a wet nurse. He has his mother," my wife stresses.
Even from my distance, I hear the struggle to measure his words as the Major replies.
"I shall never comprehend these provincial customs."
"Father," Isabella warns.
"Very well. I shall say no more on it."
"I should hope not, lest, in your inability to say what you came to say, we descend into a conversation about my milking habits."
"Ugh, Isabella," he chides in disgust.
"Enough, Father," Isabella snaps. "You know I am not a patient person. Spit it out, sir."
Yet, the man does not speak, which inflames me all the more for if the cowardly Major is having so much trouble saying what he must say, it must be something indeed!
In this state of mind, I cannot help but recall that with no rights whatsoever other than with those whimsically inherent to a monarch thousands of miles away, Major Swan and his regiment hand no qualms in taking over our town and imprisoning my fellow brothers in liberty. My incensed disposition allows me to recall that 'tis this craven Major's fault and that of the crown he serves that we in Freehold Township are turned brother against brother; that, as if the crown he serves had not already stolen enough from us, they have stolen my tavern - a tavern passed down from generation to generation and which I would have passed down to my son.
Even worse...worse than all of these treasonous war crimes in a war which is only a few months in practice, the suddenly timorous recreant who stands next to my wife like a doting father and currently holds my son like a loving grandfather would have preferred to see my wife married to another man, to James. Even after Isabella and I wed, her underhanded father offered to secretly whisk my wife off to England, to separate us, to pretend I never existed and thereby marry her off to another. Had he succeeded with either of these two misdeeds, the boy he currently holds so proudly in his arms, the boy whom he coos so lovingly, would not exist.
Aye, there is animosity indeed between us besides that caused by our differing loyalties, and despite my wife's expressed wishes from a moment earlier, I fear they are insurmountable.
Yet, there he stands, the honored and noble Major Charles Swan of His Majesty's Service, father, and grandfather. He is an enemy to not only me but to my wife and son. For how is he any better than Katrina, who had it been in her power would have seen my son dead before he took his first breath?
"Blasted hypocrite."
At my spat pronouncement, both the Major and my wife pivot toward me, he with a steady glare, and my wife with a furrowed brow.
"Edward," says she.
"Mr. Cullen," says her father through clenched teeth as he rocks my son. In my periphery, I spot Edward George's short, plump legs kicking fiercely, his minuscule frame hungrier by the second.
I step forward, my boots hitting the floor hard. "It is Captain Cullen, Major, and now I believe you have held my son for long enough. He is hungry, and I would ask you to return him to his mother or to me."
"Edward, what is going on?" Isabella demands. "You knew I had extended my father an invitation to meet our son."
"Mr. Cullen, I was not informed by my daughter that there would be a time limit to my visit."
"A time limit to your visit there is not, but neither shall I allow you to stand there, holding my son, and pretend that he is heir to your beliefs and to your system, especially since had your beliefs triumphed, our son would not exist. And 'tis Captain Cullen, Major Swan. What is more, I heard my wife ask you a question, which you have not answered."
Isabella's eyes flash to me. "You were listening and watching?"
"Aye," say I unapologetically. "The three of you painted a lovely picture."
She presses her lips together. "Then you know that he was preparing to answer, Edward. I can handle my father," she snaps.
"Handle?" Swan says.
"When did I become the enemy?" say I.
Isabella huffs. "There is no enemy currently in this house, Edward. And aye, handle you, Father," she says, turning back to her father, "for that is the only manner in which I have ever been able to receive straightforward information from you. And you, Edward, I do not need to be watched as if I am your enemy."
"Wife, I have never nor would I ever-"
"Have you never?" smirks she.
"Again, when did I become the enemy here?"
She rolls her eyes at me! "Father is visiting his grandson and out of uniform as we stipulated. Moreover, he is aware that Edward George is his father's son in every way and that he shall be raised as his father's son in every way. Are you not, Father?"
"I had planned to speak with you privately, daughter, but...aye, he is his father's son, Isabella," Major Swan confirms, his eyes steady on me, his words further causing my blood to boil yet making no attempt to release my son to either of us. "Yet I have made my wishes plain in the past, and 'tis more imperative than ever that you display your continued loyalty to the crown, which I assumed was why you named my grandson after our King, George the Third."
As I take two more steps forward, I offer the major a tauntingly bitter chuckle. "To hell with King George, Major."
The major's eyes grow wide before they narrow with indignation.
"His name is neither mentioned nor revered in this household and the only time we say 'George' is in relation to another George or in relation to the boy who was named after that illustrious gentleman and patriot, who shall lead this country's army to victory and the rest of us to freedom from your crown's tyranny."
"To hell with...? You treasonous, blasphemous rebel."
"Father!"
"Mr. Cullen, you have turned my daughter against the values and conventions with which she was raised, and I shall never forgive you for that. Yet, as she is my daughter, she will always be a daughter of the crown, and when this rebellion is soon quelled, she shall be accepted back into the fold of those beliefs, and so will her son as long as you acknowledge-"
"Hand over my son, Major," I say, "and 'tis Captain Cullen, of our nation's First Continental Army.
"There is no nation, and therefore no Continental Army, and so for my daughter and my grandson's sake, Mr. Cullen, I shall never recognize you as an officer in this uprising for if I did, it would be my sworn duty to arrest you."
"What know you of your daughter's or your grandson's well-being?" retort I, "you whose loyalty to the crown usurps all else?"
"Were that true," he snarls, "I would not have stepped foot into this insubordinate household, Mister Cullen, for little do you realize how much I am risking by being here!"
"Father, 'tis why I asked you to come to us as a grandfather and not as an officer."
"Out of uniform or in it, Isabella, I am always an officer."
"You need risk yourself no longer, Major," I grin icily. "You have met our son, and you have made the fact that you cannot be around him without also being an officer of the crown clear. Now, I shall ask you once more to hand over my son, for I think it is best-"
"I am here to warn you, you seditious insurgent!" When he cries out, Edward George gives a responding cry of his own.
"Father, please hand me back my son," Isabella pleads now, holding her arms out for him while the Major hugs Edward George to his chest and glowers at me.
"For my daughter's and my grandson's sake I am here to warn you that this pointless revolt will soon grow in gravity and peril, and you and your fellow Sons of Liberty, Mr. Cullen, have set those you love the most directly in the cross-hairs of it."
For a moment, we are all struck mute as Major Swan carefully hands over our crying son to his mother.
When Edward George is back in her arms, Isabella swiftly turns her back on her father and steps toward me. Striding toward her as well, I close the space between us, helping her support our son's weight as she pushes down the neckline of her dress, pulls out her breast, and situates our crying boy's mouth around her nipple. He instantly quiets as he suckles. Isabella expels a sigh of relief, and with the same sort of relief - or at the very least, a similar sort for I am not physically built to feel the same, I brush my lips against her forehead, then against our son's forehead cheek.
"There, my loves," I murmur. "All is well. We are together. All is well."
And, for a handful of seconds, all is well as I almost forget her father's presence, almost forget his accusations. My wife and son are back in my hold, and 'tis all that matters to me, especially when Isabella offers me a soft smile.
All which serve to shock me all the more when Major Swan does speak again.
"You do love your wife and son," he begins benignly enough. "I see it now. You are... a family, and though I planned to speak to my daughter alone first, I see I was wrong."
"The great Major Swan admits to being wrong about something?" I mock.
"Edward, please," Isabella pleads.
Sighing, I keep the rest of my taunting thoughts to myself.
"I can admit I am wrong, Captain Cullen," Swan says. "The question is, can you? For the decision you shall both have to make will be a difficult one, and you, Captain, will have to choose as I have chosen today - whether to be more loyal to your country...or to your family."
"In the name of God, of what do you speak, man?" I hiss.
He hesitates and then lets all finally be known. "Lord Germain, Secretary of State for the American Colonies has commanded General Howe, our Commander-in-Chief, to direct the King's Army for New York Harbor."
My eyes grow wide, and Isabella's sighs of relief cease. She goes still, quits breathing altogether, while I cannot seem to think clearly enough to ask all that must be asked. New York Harbor is the gateway into our colonies. Should an army large enough truly siege it, the result would be disastrous; ten times worse than what occurs in Boston for even were Massachusetts to fall, our struggle would continue. However, if New York fell...
"How much of the King's Army?" I ask.
"All of it."
"All of...?"
Standing before me and feeding our son, Isabella's breath hitches wildly, while my innocent son continues suckling.
"That is not possible," I retort dubiously. "There is the siege-" Pressing my lips together, I cut myself off. He may give me all the enemy's information he desires; it does not follow I shall do the same.
Nonetheless, he nods decisively for I said enough. "The siege in Boston will end soon," says he, though he is unaware that even as we speak, armaments captured from our failed Quebec campaign are being redirected toward Boston. "Once it does, all troops there, as well as those in bases around Europe and Britain will sail for New York under General Howe's command."
As he speaks I perform mental calculations. Troops in bases all over Europe and Britain descending on New York - tens of thousands of troops descending on New York...
"New York will fall," the Major confirms as if he is reading my mind.
"It will not," I contradict shakily, unsurely.
"And once New York falls, it is only a matter of time until all the colonies surrounding it fall as well."
New Jersey colony, New York colony's closest neighbor.
"New Jersey colony," he continues reading my mind, "much smaller and right across the river, cannot stand against the entire British forces. Even upon its creation by King James, it has always been meant to share New York's fate. Once it falls, Philadelphia, the cornerstone of your patriot struggle, and where your representatives meet in congress, will follow. Then, all other colonies will fall in line. Moreover, every officer and member of the so-called Continental Army, including your George Washington, whom you had the gall to name my grandson after," he scoffs, "will be branded a traitor to the crown and hung."
"Edward," Isabella breathes, laying a hand on my cheek.
"What's more, all traitors' families will be punished and banished," the Major continues. "Your land and property will be seized and redistributed to those who remained loyal to the crown. There is no going back for you or for any of you patriots." When he spits the last word as if it were a curse, my defiance grows.
"What makes you think I would ever wish to go back?" I seethe.
"Father, this struggle is about more than land and property," Isabella says without turning to face her father.
"Do you both still not see? Must I spell it out?" says the Major, shaking his head in condescension, while in the back of my mind I find myself wishing I had brought in my musket and shot the Major after all. "'Tis not just about your land or your property or even the both of you any longer. Not only have you doomed yourselves with this lost cause, but you have also doomed your newborn son for what will become of him when you are branded a traitor and lose it all?"
My mouth opens to retort, to tell him that after today, he shall never see my son again. Yet the bile which suddenly rises to my throat as his words truly take hold makes it impossible for aye, I have always known that this struggle to free our nation might result in the loss of my life just as I have known it might result in the loss of all our land and possessions. In the past, I always saw the risk as worth the struggle. But now...now...my wife...dear Lord, my newborn son.
"It is true?" I murmur, my gaze falling to my son. "Have I doomed you?"
"No, Edward," Isabella replies decisively. "No. Listen to me. I-"
"My daughter is partly correct, Captain Cullen," the Major confirms. "For as I said before, Isabella will always be welcome back into the fold of her mother country, for she is in the fortuitous position of being my family."
"She is my wife more than she is your daughter, and they are both my family!" I shout, bewildered beyond reason.
"And if you truly love them," he replies with maddening calm, "if you truly love them, if you truly set them above your precious thirteen colonies, then you will cease calling them your family!"
"Father, enough!"
"My daughter will never willingly leave you, nay; I see that now. But if you both allow me to send my grandson back to England before this rampage which you never stood a chance of winning reaches your doorstep in earnest, perhaps we can save him!"
A/N: Thoughts?
*Spoiler Alert*
New York Colony does fall to the British. (But is that really a spoiler when it's part of history? ;) )
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