A/N: Hope you're all enjoying so far :)
Chapter Four | There is Freedom
When next he sees her, it is after dark, and Rivington's Corner is full to bursting with a rowdy crowd of British officers. Robert is not pleased to see her. The reason for this has little to do with her presence in itself, and everything to do with the attention that many a drunken officer promptly bestows upon her. While she is not the only woman here, she has a certain way about her that is impossible to ignore. He looks up from his station at the counter when the door opens, and pauses in the process of unstopping a bottle of madeira. As she slips inside, every eye turns to her, and so does his. It would be difficult not to notice the arrival of a very feminine presence in a room full of men, especially one as pretty as Margot Risdon.
Margot has eyes for only one, though. She glances at him from the doorway, not appearing to be overly bothered with the singular attention that her presence has brought. She looks at no one else as she maneuvers her way around the tables, keeping just out of reach should anything untoward occur. At least she's keeping some wits about her, though Robert is suddenly unsure whether she has very many.
"Miss Risdon," he greets when she steps up to the counter. He studies her silently for a moment, his hawkish stare even more severe than usual. "You are aware, I'm sure, that your presence here is…distracting."
Her eyes flash subtly at him, and he suddenly wishes he had chosen a different word.
"For the clientele," he adds, for clarity's sake. He certainly doesn't wish for her to think that he is distracted by her presence. Robert Townsend is many things, but easily preoccupied by women is not one of them.
She smiles placidly at him, and he is left with the impression that his clarification had not had the impact he wished for it to convey.
"This is a boarding house, is it not?" she wonders, resting her elbow against the counter as she stares at him. "Am I not allowed to purchase a room?"
He doesn't break his hawkish stare. Her inquiry is bathed in the same sort of impertinence that he has grown accustomed to, but this time he isn't quite as amused by it.
"You shouldn't come here after dark. It's no place for a woman of repute," he says, and continues pouring the madeira. Her eyes flash again, this time in subtle indignation, but he pretends not to notice.
He can't, however, pretend not to notice the way she leans forward over the counter, resting her chin upon her palm and giving him a rather forward view of her bosom. Having now been acquainted with her many months now, Robert knows better than to presume that this is an accident. She, like his business partner, seems to find some amusement in discovering all the ways a Quaker like himself might react to certain situations, and this seems to be one of her more recent tests.
Infuriating creature.
"All the exciting things happen after dark, though," she murmurs. "And besides, I am not the only woman here, Robert."
He lifts his eyes to hers and, keeping them trained there, corrects, "Mr. Townsend." He ignores the rest of her words entirely. She may not be the only woman here, but she is the only woman of dignity. As for what 'exciting' things she's referring to, well, some questions are better left unanswered.
Margot smiles and amends, "Mr. Townsend."
He purses his mouth at her. This is yet another game that they play, it seems. Her adamance in referring to him by his Christian name is equally as infuriating as the amusement she obviously feels whenever he corrects her. As for Robert himself, said corrections have begun to become less of a frustrated reminder and more of an exasperated insistence, though he is loath to admit it. Still, he can't deny that he feels a quiet thrill whenever she calls him by his first name, and yet another whenever she concedes and calls him by his second. There is something about the way she drawls his name, whichever of the two, that does something to him, though he is also loath to admit that.
"You have coin, I suppose?" he wonders, abandoning the madeira in favor of pulling the guestbook towards him, which details which rooms are free above the tavern. As he flips it open, he glances back up at her and lifts an eyebrow, looking just as sharp as ever. He still refuses to look anywhere but at her face, which seems to amuse her all the more.
Margot's mouth twitches. She reaches into the pocket within her petticoat and pulls out a small drawstring bag, placing it onto the counter. It is her only response.
He glances at it and sighs. "How many nights?"
"Just one," she murmurs. Then, after a short pause spent watching Robert decide which room to put her in, she adds, "…One night is usually enough, don't you agree?"
He pauses in the midst of writing down her name.
"…I'm not sure what you mean," he says. The pause is momentary; he soon resumes his work, eyes trained on the book in front of him, refusing to show his own hand in this latest game of strategy he finds himself in.
Margot smiles from the corner of his eye.
"Don't you?" she wonders, the edge of laughter in her voice.
This time, he glances up at her again, and there is something suggestive in the way she's regarding him that makes his neck feel warm. He resists the urge to loosen his cravat and merely sends her a sharp look. A moment later, Robert is turning to collect a key, and then looking back to catch her eye with the same sharpness.
"I take it you wish to speak later?" he murmurs quietly as he hands it over, studying her carefully.
She hums and reaches out for it, fingers brushing his just so. The jolt of warmth that shoots through him upon the feeling is tampered down as quickly as possible, but the jarring presence of it remains pressed there in his veins like a ghost even after she withdraws.
"Yes," she responds, a second or two too late. He wonders if she had felt the same warmth, and was similarly affected by it. Before he can attempt to find the answer within her eyes, though, she says, "Perhaps I'll linger here a while before retiring. What would your prescription be, Mr. Townsend?"
He sends her a quizzical look. "For what, exactly?"
"Why, for boredom, of course," she returns, a tiny smile capturing her mouth.
This time, the look he sends her is slightly exasperated, and the corner of his mouth quirks up too. He entwines his fingers atop the counter and leans forward slightly to suggest, "…French Raspberry Brandy does wonders at curing such an affliction."
They share a secretive smile, and he pours her a glass.
"Something stronger, I think. And feel free to join me," Major John Andre murmurs as he approaches the counter Robert is manning. Across the way, Rivington is entertaining Margot, and the sound of her laughter seems to draw the attention of much of the room – and many a frustrated glance from the other women who are attempting to catch the eye of an officer. Margot, however, doesn't outwardly appear to be aware of the distraction she is causing, which is something of a quiet amusement to Robert, who keeps one eye on her and the other on the rest of the room. He still thinks she ought to retire upstairs before things get rowdier, but he doesn't wish to incur Rivington's glee by suggesting it.
He glances up at the Major. The man has been living in New York for some months now, and has graced Rivington's Corner several times. Robert himself has spoken with him before. The man is the British Head of Intelligence and could provide plenty of interesting information that might prove useful to the Continentals.
Robert studies him for a moment before reaching over to uncap the madeira. As he pours it, he says, "I think I shall stick to my coffee." From the corner of his eye, he sees Margot glance towards them, but makes no show of having noticed.
Andre sends him a small smile and sighs, "I wish I had your forbearance," in a self-derisive tone.
He smiles quietly back and admits, "I have a weakness or two," as he takes a sip of his coffee.
Andre reaches for the madeira and drawls, "I hope none of them are women."
Then, tipping back his glass, Andre sends him one last look before turning back to his table. Robert watches him go, tipping his own glass back – and then his eyes land upon Margot's from across the room, as though compelled by some silent force. She sends him an inquisitive look, but he only raises an eyebrow back at her and returns to wiping down several glasses. No indeed, he wouldn't claim that any of his weaknesses of the female variety…but then again, weaknesses have a way of cropping up when you least expect them.
"A woman, you say?" Margot muses later that evening.
Robert had been somewhat wary about meeting her in her room, for two reasons. The first is because it is incredibly improper and both of their reputations would be put into question should anyone see them. The second is because Rivington, damnable man that he is, is most certainly aware that Miss Risdon has taken a room for the night and he is surely hoping that something clandestine will happen, if only to get some measure of Robert's character and prove to himself that his business partner's Quaker roots are not quite as devout as they appear. Still, they can't very well have this discussion out in the open. Of the two evils – that is, being seen as a scoundrel or being hung as a spy – Robert has chosen the lesser.
"I suppose it isn't important enough to bother passing on," Robert mutters, leaning against the mantlepiece above the fireplace. He frowns into the flames and grumbles, "Major John Andre, the British Head of Intelligence himself, frequenting my establishment…and all I can discover is that he is in love, as if that will do us any good." Then, glancing over at her, he says, "Though I suppose I can make up for it with this: Reverend Worthington is a British spy."
Margot's eyebrows lift in shock. She stares at him from where she sits on the edge of her bed, and whispers, "Are you quite certain?"
He pushes off from the fireplace with a solemn nod. "I overheard Mayor Matthews discussing it with Andre several days ago. He takes the soldiers' confessions and plies them for information in the process. His status as reverend allows him to pass through the camp lines whenever he chooses…or whenever he has enough intelligence to send to the British."
Margot leans forward and runs her fingers through her hair. She musses up the carefully placed curls in the process, and he silently studies the flyaway strands from where he is standing across the room.
"I must get this to Culper," she breathes.
Robert sighs. "You will leave tomorrow, when it is safe to travel." The firm words make her look over at him, but he continues before she can argue. "Besides, if you leave tonight, Rivington will think we had a…"
"Lover's quarrel?" Margot inputs, smirking at him.
He rolls his eyes. "Yes," comes his dry response.
She laughs. "It's not so bad, pretending to be childhood friends," she shrugs, her eyes gleaming just so when she says that last bit.
Robert grumbles, "It's a lie."
Margot hums. "Ah yes. And Quakers believe in being completely truthful at all times, correct?"
The look she sends him then has him battling down a sigh of exasperation. He knows that she's referring to his spywork, and the fact that the deception of it goes directly against his faith. It was one of the reasons why he was so tentative to join the Culper ring in the first place. His choice was made for him, though, when the Queen's Rangers rode through Long Island and burned his father's home on the way. He couldn't very well sit back after experiencing such injustice firsthand. The choice had come down to his soul or his country, and though the decision had been difficult, he had ultimately decided that not taking any action at all would reap the same results on his final judgment.
"…I have never outright lied," Robert slowly informs her, studying her closely. "I have merely never been asked the right question."
Her mouth quirks up, and his is quick to follow. She chuckles, "Spoken like a true strategist."
He finds himself chuckling before he can stop it. It seems to have a strange effect on Margot, because she pauses and stares at him in subtle surprise. It's enough to capture his attention, for he quirks an eyebrow at her and asks, "What?"
She tilts her head at him. "…I've never heard you laugh before, Mr. Townsend." As usual, she says his name with a certain amount of impudence that he can never decide if he appreciates or not.
With a quiet scoff, he returns, "I am a Quaker, Miss Risdon, not a stodge."
This time, it's her turn to laugh. She gazes at him quietly from the edge of the bed and murmurs, "I believe I have uncovered yet another layer of your person, Robert."
He eyes her. "Mr. – " he begins.
"Townsend," she finishes.
He purses his mouth at her, but there's a subtle humor in his eyes that gives his amusement away.
"Anyway," Margot says, standing up and smoothing out her gown, "back to Major Andre's love affair. It is these small details that might hold gravity in the future. Who do you suspect holds his heart?"
The question makes him pause. He turns to her, suddenly hesitant about telling her of his theory. There is a part of him, whether bred from his faith or from common human morality, that is uncertain if he should become part of such a deplorable scheme. After all, love ought not be tampered with; it is one of God's graces. Still, there is an openness in her eyes that assuages him. It is a collection of calm impartiality and simple conjecture, a curiosity that possesses no ill-will. And besides, he has already sinned one too many times since agreeing to spy for the Continentals. The list of his moral grievances has grown steadily larger the longer he is in this business.
"You may have seen her tonight," he finally gives in, turning back to the fire. "Her name is Philomena Cheer. I saw a likeness of her in Andre's sketchbook."
He hears the rustling sound of Margot's skirts as she takes a seat at the desk behind him. A moment later, she is tapping a quill nub against the inkwell, and the room fills with the sound of scratching as she writes this down. Coupled with the sound of the crackling fire and the current topic, it lends a strange intimacy to the air. He is unprepared for it, and reaches up to loosen his cravat just slightly as he keeps his eyes trained to the flame in front of him.
"Philomena Cheer," Margot muses softly. "Yes, I did see her. I heard her name from one of the officers. She is an actress?"
Robert hums. "I believe so. I can't imagine why this would be of import to Washington, though." He turns to glance at her, and their eyes clash.
Margot shrugs, "All men have weaknesses, Mr. Townsend, and they can all be exploited."
He stares at her for a long moment. It seems that he is unraveling another layer of her character tonight, too. In a low voice, he responds, "…You mean to use this woman against him?"
She studies his expression as if suddenly unsure how to respond. There is a gravity in the air that requires certain care, and when she speaks, her voice is gentle with it. "I mean to send this information on so that we have a larger understanding of how Major John Andre, the British Head of Intelligence, operates."
When Robert doesn't immediately answer, she sighs and steps over to him. "Robert – "
"Mr. Townsend."
"Robert," she says firmly, catching his eye with a solemnity that makes him pause. "This is war. Sacrifices must be made."
He frowns at her and mutters, "I have sacrificed more than you know, and for what? To ruin a woman's life? To exploit something pure?"
She puts a hand on his arm, and though he feels an instinctual urge to shake it off, he doesn't. There is something comforting about having it there, though he could not say why he feels that way.
"Liberty comes at a cost. It isn't free," she whispers, searching his eyes.
He scoffs at her and whispers back, "Liberty is God-given. It is always free."
"And there shall always be ungodly men who seek to take it," she responds.
They stare at each other for a long moment. The sound of the crackling fire fills the room, but it seems to fade in wake of the connection that is suddenly forged between them. The openness of her eyes seems violently truthful now, and he isn't sure what to make of it. Yes, indeed, another layer has been peeled away this night. He is seeing her in a new light, and she him.
"…Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. 2 Corinthians 3:17," he says, staring at her carefully.
Margot smiles that tiny smile and returns, "And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free. John 8:32." She studies his raised brow and murmurs, "The truth, Robert, is that every little detail – however insignificant – could help the cause. Your heart is simply too good to wish to exploit this particular one."
He glances down at the hand on his arm and slowly mutters, "You know nothing of my heart, Miss Risdon."
But, when he looks back into her eyes, he wonders if perhaps he is wrong about that.
"I know enough," she whispers searchingly, and looks as though she would like to say more, but she doesn't. Instead she falls silent and steps away, as if she is only now realizing how close they had just been. She sends a smile at him, but it looks flat and careful in the light of the fire, and she turns back to the desk before he can study it properly.
"Perhaps Major John Andre is her weakness," Robert suddenly says, turning to watch her withdraw. She pauses in the center of the room, halfway to the desk, and glances back at him.
"…Pardon?" she wonders, quirking a brow.
He sends her a dry look, mainly to regain a sense of normality between them, to steer them back to familiar waters. He feels as though they verge from the proper path each time they meet, for reasons that he is unwilling to admit.
"Men are not the only ones who experience…vulnerabilities with the opposite sex," he says.
This time, the smile she sends him is less flat and more mischievous, alluring in a quiet way, enticing in another. Being on the receiving end of it, he finds himself regretting his words, if only because her reaction to them makes him feel uncomfortably warm.
"That is true enough, Mr. Townsend," she murmurs, staring at him with more of that truthfulness. This time, it is violent in the way it rushes through him, as if it is imparting upon him a sort of forceful justice, a vigorous persuasion. He feels it in every corner of himself, along every edge and every margin, hammering out the beat of some unknown song.
It is another layer peeled away, but this time it is one that he had not known himself to possess…
Until he sees it there reflected in Margot Risdon's eyes.