Chapter Five | As Quiet as a Quaker
When French Raspberry Brandy appears in The Royal Gazette, Margot once again returns to the city using her sickly cousin as an excuse to collect Robert's intelligence. She really does have a cousin in York City, and this cousin really does suffer from occasional sicknesses. She is a delicate creature who is frequently beset upon by vague afflictions that are, at least in part, more so fancies of the mind rather than actual physical ailments. Margot does indeed visit with her in order to keep up with her original purpose, but in truth, she's never had the same upfront relationship with her cousin as compared to those of her childhood friends, in part due to Beatrice's loyalist leanings. Despite this, though, she must admit that the woman, as silly as she can sometimes be, has grown on her since the beginning of her regular visits into the city. Collecting Robert's intelligence is, after all, only a portion of what she does upon her arrival here.
"You have been too good to me these last few months," Beatrice says as Margot sits upon the edge of her bed and counts down the minutes before she can take her leave. Not that she doesn't necessarily enjoy Beatrice's company, but there's another who has rather captivated her interest of late that she would much prefer being with.
Margot sends her a smile. This time, she brought a basket of fruits purchased at the market. She is cutting an apple into slices for her cousin, who is sitting back in bed as she watches. Another flight of fancy has captured her since last Margot was here. This time, Beatrice is suffering from headaches.
"Well, it gives me an excuse to get out of that small town, and I'm always happy to see you, Beatrice," she replies, handing her an apple slice.
Her cousin takes it happily, but doesn't immediately bite into it. Instead, she peers over at Margot with a discerning sort of look on her face, and murmurs, "Your visits are most welcome, Margot…though the frequency of them does make me wonder…"
Margot pauses mid-slice, and carefully looks up into her cousin's face. "…Yes?" she prompts when Beatrice doesn't immediately continue. For a harrowing moment, she wonders if Beatrice is more astute than Margot had given her credit for. But surely, she couldn't possibly guess the true nature of Margot's trips? They have never spoken in length about the political agendas of the country, and in the few conversations they have had on the subject, Margot is always careful not to allow her wording to lean too heavily into rebellious conjecture. Beatrice's husband is a man who is far from quiet regarding his own stance – that is, firmly loyalist in all his dealings. He has quite a few connections among their British brethren here in York City, both soldierly and civilian. Since Beatrice is more the sort of woman to defer to her husband in such matters and prefers to think of such tedious things as little as she can, the war comes up very rarely in conversation. The last thing Margot wants to do is make her cousin uncomfortable enough to bar her from any future visits she might have. Beatrice is her tie to the city and, furthermore, to Rivington's Corner.
But Beatrice just smiles secretively and takes a bite of the apple slice. "I wonder if you have a sweetheart in the city…?" Her eyes twinkle with mischief, the same sort that often colors Margot's own eyes.
With a bright laugh, Margot allows her shoulders to droop with relief. This, she can handle.
"Beatrice, darling," she chuckles, "I'm afraid you shall have to keep wondering, for I shall give you no answer!"
Beatrice erupts into giggles and Margot quickly joins in. Her cousin may be feeble in mind and body, but she is still family, and the pair know each other well enough for there to be much familiarity between them.
"Who is he, Margot? You must tell me something, or I shall die of curiosity!"
Margot huffs at her and, with a taciturn smile, lifts an apple slice to her mouth and takes a slow, contemplative bite. In truth, there is no sweetheart in the city, but it is a good cover for Beatrice, who is obviously pondering her constant visits. Besides, it does match quite well with James Rivington's assumptions. If Beatrice and Rivington were to cross paths, though it is very doubtful that they ever should, at least the stories would align. And furthermore…well.
Robert's thin, dry smile presses through her mind's eye. Ah, no, not Robert; Mr. Townsend. She quirks a smile at the thought of him. He is rather obstinate, but in a most pleasing way.
"You look like a woman in love," Beatrice exclaims, scrambling up in earnest. The words make Margot pause in surprise, until her cousin insistently says, "I never thought I'd see the day!"
Margot playfully rolls her eyes at her and laughs, "Cease and desist, Beatrice!" She hands her another apple slice and, as her cousin takes it, sighs, "What do you wish to know?"
Her cousin is quick to respond to this. "What does he look like?"
Margot sends her an exasperated look. "Physical qualities do not make a good man, dear cousin," she haughtily sniffs, only for Beatrice to nudge her playfully and demandingly. With a chuckle, Margot concedes, "Well, he is tall…and broad shouldered, and wears quite plain clothes. He has a very impressive glare."
Her cousin doesn't look very impressed with this description. "…Does he glare at you often?" she wonders, looking confused.
Margot grins, "Very often, yes."
Beatrice raises an eyebrow. "I fear to ask why."
"I believe I frustrate him," Margot smirks, "but I also believe that he doesn't mind it so very much, and that his glares are exaggerated for my benefit – though I am sure he would never admit it!"
Her cousin giggles again as she takes another apple slice. "He sounds like quite an intimidating fellow."
Margot hums with a shrug and admits, "No, he is not intimidating. He is…a good man. A Quaker, in fact."
This particular tidbit of information makes Beatrice's eyes shine with curiosity, and humor. The former, Margot can understand. The latter, however…
"What, pray tell, is so amusing about him being a Quaker?" she wonders with a raised brow. The tone of her voice becomes slightly indignant without her realizing.
Beatrice laughs, "Not amusing, dear cousin, only…only I recently heard a joke that – but it is quite inappropriate, I'm sure you wouldn't wish to hear it – "
Margot needs only send her an insistent look for Beatrice to hurry to tell it.
"It is not so much as a joke as an adage," she rushes to say. "I overheard father speaking with several of his officer friends the other day, and one of them said – he said he had walked in on one of his solders with an unchaste woman, only he hadn't realized they were in the middle of…you know…because they were so quiet – "
"Beatrice, what exactly are you trying to say?" Margot asks with her brows raised in amusement.
Beatrice giggles out, "He used the phrase 'they were as silent as Quakers'!"
Margot stares at her for all of two seconds before she rolls her eyes and huffs, "Have you never heard that saying before, Beatrice? You are acting like a child."
Beatrice quiets down at this – until, of course, she notices the way Margot's eyes are twinkling with laughter, and then she starts all over again.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Margot, I know I'm being silly. But perhaps – perhaps you can tell me one day if the saying holds merit?" she grins.
Margot's cheeks promptly flood with color and she clears her throat when her mind conjures the image. "Beatrice!" she complains, and tries to drive it from her mind before it can latch on.
Beatrice laughs, "I'm sorry, I shall not speak of it again. I am surprised though, that you are in love with a Quaker."
Margot sighs at her. "I never said I was in love with him. I only said that he was a good man."
Then, suddenly, and most like because they are speaking of the man in question, Robert's voice floats through her head:
…I have never outright lied. I have merely never been asked the right question.
Her mouth quirks up again. Well, Beatrice never directly asked her if she was in love with him, so she needn't feel guilty about denying it.
Her cousin waves this away though, and says, "Yes, yes. Quakers practice such a…a heathen version of Christianity, do they not?"
Margot pauses and murmurs, "Well…I suppose they have different beliefs…"
"They do not even marry the same way. I've heard that they need only declare themselves to each other to be married!" Beatrice exclaims. "They need no priest or witnesses at all! And they don't have regular services like we do. They gather together in silence each week and contemplate their faith without the assistance of an ordained minister. It is such a strange thought!"
Margot sighs again, this time in exasperation, and helps herself to another apple slice. As she bites into it, she responds, "They are God-fearing. Does that not make them good? In any case, Beatrice, I ought to be leaving soon. It is getting late and I should make my way to the boarding house before nightfall."
Beatrice looks sad to see her go and, as always, rushes to offer her room and board here where it is more appropriate, but Margot is eager to escape. She does on occasion stay with Beatrice rather than spending coin elsewhere, but of late she has been all the happier to let out a room at Rivington's instead. It gives her further excuse to enjoy more of Robert's dry commentary before taking her leave of the city. Besides, Beatrice's husband is a rather overbearing fellow at times, always telling her of the various unmarried men in which he is acquainted with in hopes that she will settle down before she 'grows to be a maid'. Avoiding such discussions is best.
So, after bidding Beatrice farewell and telling her that she will come the next morning to say a final goodbye before returning to Setauket, Margot gathers her things and heads out into the city, eager to reach the very destination that she has been wishing to visit all the long day. When at last she arrives at Rivington's Corner, darkness is quickly falling. Once again, she steps into a bustle of rowdy British officers and other high-ranking city officials who are already deep into their cups. When Robert sees her, he is in the process of refilling several of said cups, and is standing beside one of the many tables carrying a pitcher of ale. She casts him a glance as she makes her way to the counter. He meets her there.
"A room, Margot?" he wonders, setting the pitcher down and reaching for the guestbook. When she doesn't immediately answer, he glances up at her inquiringly.
The reason for her momentary lapse is of course because he has never before called her by her first name. Perhaps it is because of her recent conversation with Beatrice, but the sound of it feels jarring somehow. It delivers a certain indelible sensation within her, a warmth of some kind that makes her feel oddly breathless.
"Oh," she says when she realizes that he is waiting for her to respond. "…Yes."
He sends her a quizzical look, then glances off to the side. The action is too deliberate to be random. As he turns back to pen her name into the book, she turns her head to casually glance at what he had been silently referring to. The answer is not surprising when she discovers it, but the sharp crease of disappointment is.
Of course he would only use her Christian name if Mr. Rivington was nearby. She smiles in a way that seems forceful. Her own disappointment is a source of confusion. Surely, she doesn't care that much. Beatrice's conjecture and pleas for gossip has gone to her head.
Robert is finalizing the notations in the guestbook when Rivington appears, grinning giddily at her. Upon seeing the coin purse in her hand, which she had only just pulled from her pocket, he says, "On the house, my dear Miss Risdon. I'm sure Robert wouldn't wish you to pay in a tavern that he partially owns!"
Robert pauses, but his expression is impossible to read. He looks slightly exasperated with Rivington, but Margot isn't sure whether he agrees with him or not. Either way, though, he closes the guestbook without a word and hands her a key to her room just as silently, pushing the coin purse that she had set upon the counter back towards her. Rivington watches the exchange with a musing sort of delight. As for Margot, she makes sure that her fingers don't brush against his this time around. Her head is already jumbled from Beatrice's words and she doesn't wish to add to the mess of her thoughts.
"…Thank you, Robert," she murmurs. For a split second, she thinks she sees his eyes flash just so at her with an emotion that has never been there before, but the moment passes too quickly for her to tell with any certainty.
"Perhaps we can speak later," he says, and this time his eyes flash with something else. Something secret.
She nods, wishing they had more liberties to speak now, for her curiosity is a terrible thing. The latest advertisement for French Raspberry Brandy had been placed in the Gazette only days before. She had made the trip as quickly as she could without arousing suspicion, but it had still taken her time to travel past the many check points into the city and then to visit her cousin as she claimed was her purpose. Now that she is finally here, Rivington disallows them from speaking openly, and it may take hours before the bustle of the night crowd wears down and Robert is able to retire.
"Later, then," Margot murmurs, and then turns to Mr. Rivington with a smile. "Thank you very much, sir. Your hospitality is most welcome. My journey was tiring."
Mr. Rivington makes a show of offering her a courtly bow and she chuckles fondly at him. Robert doesn't appear to like him overmuch, but she thinks he is a good man, and always quick to make her laugh.
"Goodnight, my dear. Robert, why don't you take up a glass of wine for Miss Risdon once she settles in, hmm?" Rivington suggests, and turns to eye his business partner with a gleaming, insinuating look.
Robert returns it with a glower, but before he can refuse, Margot rushes to say, "That would be lovely. Thank you."
He turns to send her a sharp look, no doubt annoyed at the way she is fulfilling Rivington's sordid assumptions, but says nothing. She smiles pleasantly at him before making her way to the stairs. Robert might not be happy with her for indulging Rivington, but at least she'll be able to speak with him sooner. With this in mind, she doesn't bother removing her gown or preparing for bed, though she does loosen her stays a bit while she waits. The room Robert had given her is the same room that she has stayed in several times in the past, and there is a certain familiarity to it that makes her feel at ease. She takes a seat at the desk and listens to the sound of the crackling fire and the faint crowd in the tavern below, wondering how long she will have to wait.
As she sits there, Beatrice's words sliver through her mind, drawing forth a quiet smile that spreads coyly over her face. As silent as Quakers. Honestly…
She wonders if Robert would be very quiet. He is a rather reticent sort of man, but then again, they do say that it's the quiet ones you must watch out for, and he is certainly unlike any other Quaker she has met.
It is while she is in the midst of musing such torrid thoughts that a knock sounds at her door, and Margot startles when it pushes open. The man in question appears in the doorway holding a tray with a glass of madeira sitting atop it. He glances at her before turning to look over his shoulder, then sighs and steps into the room.
"Rivington surely thinks that we're being entirely faithless," he grumbles as he reluctantly shuts the door. All the other times that he has entered her room to speak with her, his business partner had either retired for the night or had not been aware of the meeting. This time, though, Rivington had watched with another of his frustratingly gleeful smiles as Robert had prepared Margot's wine and ascended the stairs to bring it to her. Considering everything that he must tell her, Rivington will most likely assume that his lengthy absence will be attributed to…other matters.
He steps over to where Margot is sitting to hand her the madeira, only to see that she is refusing to look at him. A strange expression has overcome her. It seems to linger in some lighthearted shade of embarrassment, and he raises an eyebrow at the sight.
"…What is it?" he wonders, setting the glass on the desk beside her.
Margot clears her throat and reaches for it. "Nothing…" she mumbles, still quite embarrassed to have been thinking such thoughts just before his arrival. Now, it is rather difficult to think about anything else, which is quite terrible. She wishes he wouldn't stand so close to the desk.
Robert sends her another quizzical look but doesn't pursue the topic. They have more important things to discuss, after all.
In a hushed undertone, he tells her, "The Royal army is undertaking a plan to flood rebel states with counterfeit money. Rivington has agreed to let them use his printing presses to carry out the arrangement. Here," he pauses, setting the tray down and pulling out a bill from within his waistcoat. Margot takes it with a frown and he continues, "They hope to devalue the Continental dollar and bankrupt Congress, thus putting a swift end to the war."
Margot looks up at him sharply. The next moment, she's rising from the chair and pacing across the floor, staring down at the counterfeit bill. It looks much the same as a regular Continental dollar, though she doesn't have any on her person to compare. Bringing rebel currency into a city occupied by the British would raise questions. At a glance, though, the counterfeit bill looks and feels the same; it is an immaculate copy.
She looks up at Robert, only to find that he's watching her every move from beside the desk. Brushing aside the heat that tries to crowd through her at this realization, she asks, "Do you know what their plan is? How do they intend to flood the market?"
Robert purses his lips, casting a quick glance at the door before responding, "They intend to sail to Conn Hook. Once there, they will disperse the bills, but I wasn't able to discover how they mean to do this. It was…risky to get even this much information."
Margot begins pacing again, and Robert watches her.
"I do know their numbers, though," he murmurs. "Tell Culper that he can expect no less than twelve men, and that one of them is a Lieutenant – "
It is here, though, that Robert's words are cut off. The reason for this is because of the noise on the other side of her door. They both freeze into silence. When a knock sounds at the door and Mr. Rivington's voice can be heard outside, though, Margot rushes into action.
Now, Margot will later admit that what she does next is incredibly inappropriate and perhaps even unnecessary, but all she can think about is how Mr. Rivington is expecting them to be acting out some form of sinful carnality, and would probably be quite confused as to why they are standing on opposite ends of the room doing no such thing. The man has expectations, and if they do not deliver upon them, he will wonder why they are here to begin with. So, as the door begins to open, Margot does the one thing that has been on her mind for some time now, and most especially all of today, though she would much prefer not to enact it in this particular manner and with this particular brand of deceit. Robert is certainly not expecting it, which in truth makes it all the easier, though she does admittedly feel even worse for orchestrating it as a result. Still, when she crosses the room and reaches out to grab two fistfuls of his waistcoat, she also must admit that there is a certain amount of pleasant relief that accompanies the motion. She had not realized how often she has contemplated what it would feel like to kiss him until she presses her mouth to his and drags him against her.
Robert's reaction is less than amorous. He splutters in shock until she threads her fingers into his hair and seals their lips together. Still, his discomfort is palpable in the rigid way he leans over her, and it can clearly be seen in the widened manner in which he regards her. His gaze burns with indignation and surprise, both of which are made all the more apparent with him lingering so close to her.
As Rivington begins to open the door of her room, she hisses, "Kiss me back, Robert!"
At first he does the complete opposite, still staring at her as if he thinks she's gone insane. But then, as Rivington throws the door open, he fumbles forward to wrap his arms around her waist and pull her closer, closing his eyes and sinking into her mouth, feigning all the illustrious mannerisms of a man possessed by love's ardent kiss. He is quite a bit better at the pretense than Margot expects; for a split second, she nearly believes it herself.
It isn't exactly the sort of kiss that erases all thoughts but for the one before you. On the contrary, Margot is so distracted with the way Rivington stops and stares that she hardly pays Robert any attention at all. Within seconds, Robert has become yet another accomplice in their latest scheme. She only wishes she could enjoy this particular strategy more thoroughly.
"Mr. Rivington!" Margot gasps, pretending to only now notice his presence. She pulls back from Robert with a shaky inhalation that is overtly feminine in its construction, made more potent by the submissive way her eyes flutter to the floor in apparent embarrassment. It isn't very difficult to muster a blush upon her cheeks, which are already flushed from the particular circumstances of having accosted Robert in the first place. Still, she puts a hand to her cheek as if she is agitated with nerves, and hazards a glance at Robert.
What she sees there in his face is difficult to describe, in part due to the fact that upon her breaking the kiss, his expression has shuttered into silence. Still, though his expression is blanketed, his eyes are not. Her heart beats ever faster at the emotion therein: a curious mixture of that indignant surprise and something else that she cannot readily identify, which lingers in the crease of his eyes. Whatever emotion it is, it is quickly replaced with an ire too precarious to study for more than a handful of seconds. He is clearly unhappy with her.
Mr. Rivington, however, is not.
"I do humbly apologize for…interrupting," he says, though he doesn't sound as if he means it. He is making a sterling effort to tamper his grin down but is not completely successful. He studies the flush on Margot's cheeks and the rigid posture of his business partner, and clears his throat. "I only thought that you might be hungry, my dear," he continues, seemingly ignorant of the rising tension in the room. He gestures at the plate he's carrying, containing a medley of leftovers that had been served earlier that evening, and adds, "I'll just leave it on your desk, shall I?"
And then, after dispensing of it with a pleasant smile, he turns back to the door…though he doesn't leave until he says, "Ah, and Robert – "
"I'll be down momentarily," Robert cuts in, his voice so sharp that it is like a blade slicing through the atmosphere.
Margot winces slightly. Rivington glances at her, then at Robert, and kindly says, "Take your time," in a manner that isn't half as insinuating as it might normally be. He seems to have realized that he's interrupted more than just a kiss, however unwilling it was.
"…Thank you, Mr. Rivington," Margot murmurs. She suddenly wishes that Rivington would stay a little longer, if only to save her from Robert's imminent wrath.
But to her surprise, Robert is neither vengeful nor irritable when Rivington closes the door. Neither of them moves for several moments until they hear the telltale sound of Rivington's footsteps down the hall. Then Robert turns to the desk without a word and takes a seat in the chair, apparently having decided to ignore the kiss entirely.
Margot is half relieved and half disappointed. She lingers in the center of the room uncertainly, eyeing him with a wariness that he doesn't see because he's busying himself with uncapping the bottle of invisible ink and jotting down the intelligence for her to pass along. She watches him for several long moments before tentatively approaching the desk.
"…Lieutenant Gamble," Robert says suddenly, before she can speak. He glances up at her. This time, his entire expression is blanketed of all emotion, even his ire. "I believe Washington knows about him already. He'll be heading the mission. They mean to sail up the Hudson to Conn Hook. From there, they will split into groups and meet with their contacts to distribute the counterfeits. Get this to Culper as soon as you can, Miss Risdon. I wasn't able to discover when they mean to set their plans into action, so the sooner Washington can dispatch soldiers, the better."
Margot nods. She can't bring herself to give him a verbal reply. Her heart is beating with far too much anxiety and it is making her breathless with it. She is inwardly berating herself for having kissed him. Surely, an embrace would have been enough – or perhaps Rivington wouldn't have thought it strange after all, if they were only talking. Robert's opinion of her has clearly lessened. At best, he must think her an idiot; at worst, a loose woman who uses physical touch to her benefit. The thought has her recalling the last conversation they'd had in this very room some weeks prior, when he had reluctantly given her the name of the woman John Andre supposedly loves. The look on his face when she had mentioned exploiting that information…oh, but he must think even worse of her now, having experienced her exploitation first-hand!
"…Miss Risdon?" Robert asks, his brow furrowing just so. The sound of her name has her snapping back to focus and she realizes that he is handing her the correspondence, which he had written on the back of a piece of sheet music. She makes the mistake of looking into his eyes, and her breath catches just so at the way he is looking at her. It's that unidentifiable expression again, and this time he isn't masking as much of it as he had before. But she mistakes the warmth for irritation, the softness for exhaustion, and misreads it entirely.
"Yes, I – I'll bring this to Culper as soon as I can," she exhales, and takes the sheet music from him. She turns her eyes to it and tilts her head. Then, feeling a subtle burst of amusement, she recites, "Concerto #20 in D Minor, 2nd movement…by Mozart." That tiny smile captures her mouth. She glances up at him and murmurs, "I had no idea you were musical. Have I uncovered another layer of your character, I wonder?"
He stares at her for a long moment before haltingly responding, "I have an appreciation for music just as much as the next man. I doubt any of the soldiers will look twice at it." The slight stiffness of his tone makes her smile falter. She doesn't respond.
"…I should return to my duties before Rivington gets any other ideas about snooping into my personal affairs," Robert mutters, and stands up.
She nods quickly and steps to the side to allow him passage to the door, keeping her eyes trained to the sheet music in her hands. It is only when his back is turned that she hazards another glance at him – hasty, quick – and watches him open the door to let himself out. Before he can, though, she clears her throat and says, "I shall see you before I depart then, Mr. Townsend."
The words are only delivered because she feels it would be wrong to let him leave without saying anything. She is hoping that they might break the remaining tension between them, which she still feels with a singularity that she is unable to ignore. But instead of breaking the tension, her words make Robert pause with his hand on the doorknob, and she wonders if she should not have said anything at all. For one tremulous moment, the tension builds into an ocean, too deep and wide to cross.
But then he turns, hand still upon the knob to look at her over his shoulder, and with only one word he somehow manages to shatter that tension so completely that she almost wonders if she had been imagining it entirely.
"…Robert," he gently corrects, catching her eye and holding it. The corner of his mouth subtly twitches up.
Margot stares at him in surprise, and his smile quirks up a shade higher at the sight of it. Playing the final trump is always his favorite part when employing himself to a game of strategy, after all, and he seems to have turned their latest match in his favor despite her own imaginative, if not brazen, tactics.
"Goodnight, Miss Risdon," he says, lingering for a moment longer before he turns and steps out of the room.
Only when the door closes does Margot manage to whisper, "…Goodnight, Robert," beneath her breath, her mind full of the memory of his mouth against hers and the warm way he had just looked at her. And then, fighting back a smile, she turns to the sheet music and begins to carefully roll it up.
"I believe Mr. Rivington told you that you needn't pay for the room," Robert says when Margot prepares to take her leave of Rivington's Corner the next morning. She'd hardly slept last night, her mind too full to rest. The latest conspiracy regarding the British plans to flood the Continental market had only been one of the reasons for her restive night; the other happens to be standing in front of her now as he pulls out the guestbook to finalize their latest transaction.
Margot sends him a look and murmurs, "It doesn't feel right not to pay my share. Just take it, Robert."
Her usage of his Christian name is not a complete accident, and he seems to know it. He lifts his eyes from the guestbook to peer at her from across the counter. The emotion therein makes her breath silently catch in her throat. There is a perception there that tells her he is remembering the way he had corrected her last evening.
After a moment, he accepts the coins she offers. His voice is slightly exasperated when he says, "Very well, then. However," he hands several shillings back to her, "the wine was…complimentary."
He says the word in a strangely loaded fashion, and catches her eye in such a way as to make her breath catch once more. Complimentary, indeed. Her mouth edges up into a quiet smile, which he just as quietly returns. For a moment, they merely stare at each other, until Margot busies herself with slipping the shillings back into her coin purse and tucking it into her pocket. Then, because Robert is still silently watching her, she turns her attention to her cloak and pulls it over her shoulders, fumbling with the brooch that clasps it together. She has already pulled her gloves on for the journey and the additional fabric against her fingers makes the action unexpectedly difficult, especially when she is hyperaware of his eyes upon her.
Robert clears his throat and steps out from around the counter to assist. "Allow me," he murmurs, reaching for the clasp.
She is quite sure that he doesn't mean for his fingers to drift just so against the hollow of her throat, but when they do, she can't quite hide the way her breath catches yet again. Robert is too close for her to disguise it, and after last night, a wall seems to have come down from between them; more layers uncovered and more elements of their characters revealed to the other. He hears it, and sees it, and pauses with his fingers lingering below her chin to stare at her. She flushes slightly, embarrassed and wondering where all of her coy confidence has retreated to. As for Robert, he peers at her for a moment more before continuing with the clasp, though it does seem as if he is taking his time with it. His movements are slow and careful. She can feel the heat of his fingers radiate against her collar.
"…I pray you have a safe journey," he murmurs to her as he finishes, but doesn't step away. The tavern is quite empty this early in the morning, and Mr. Rivington seems to be having a lie-in upstairs. They are, in a word, alone. She suddenly feels as if she's never had more appreciation for that word than she does now.
She tucks her fingers into her cloak and sends him that tiny smile before responding, "I'm sure I'll be very safe. I'll be traveling with several British soldiers for at least part of the way, and then I will continue to Setauket on my own." Then, after a pause, she mirthfully adds, "The one good thing about being a woman, Mr. Townsend, is that we are rather overlooked."
Something in his eyes flashes when she says this. With a quirked smile, he lowers his chin and returns, "I fear you are quite wrong on that account, Miss Risdon."
The words are delivered with a certain softness that Margot is not quite prepared for. Once again, she finds herself surprised. The layer she had begun to uncover last evening seems to be fully revealing itself now, full of quiet genteelness coupled with a certain dry sarcasm that can only be had by the man before her. It is incredibly captivating.
With another smile, Margot steps back and says, "I ought to be going. I shall return within the month, regardless of…well, regardless." She raises an eyebrow at him, her meaning quite clear: regardless of whether he has any intelligence to pass along or not.
Robert nods. His expression turns slightly hesitant. Margot pauses as she looks at him. She can feel unsaid words rising between them, and waits.
"I…wonder if you would be able to make it out to Oyster Bay next week," he carefully says, watching her closely.
Margot raises an eyebrow in confusion and says, "Oyster Bay? Is your father unwell?"
Robert is already shaking his head before she finishes posing the question, though. "No," he murmurs, "he is quite well. He is hosting a small Thanksgiving dinner and wondered if you would like to dine with us. Apparently, he has already invited our mutual friend."
Margot's heart, which had begun to flutter with a frustrating lightness, drops slightly when she hears that last bit. If the Townsends had already invited Abraham, then Robert's invitation is most likely only an act of civility. She hesitates.
Perhaps the layer that had been revealed between them is what gives him awareness into the reasons for her hesitation, because Robert steps closer and, catching her eye, slowly says, "I would be…very pleased if you would come."
Yet again, Margot stares at him in subtle surprise. "Would you?" she wonders, studying him quietly. His eyes seem to shine with a certain candor; an unruffled sincerity. She feels herself smiling. "Then I shall," she says. "I would very much like to."
He smiles, and the sight makes her chuckle, all of the tension of last night seeping away in the wake of it.
"Well, then," he says, clearing his throat and straightening up. He gestures to the door and dryly says, "I believe you have a carriage to catch, Miss Risdon."
Still smiling, she turns to the door, but pauses after taking only a step. She isn't sure what makes her do it, exactly – it is unplanned, but then again, all the best things are – but before she knows what she's doing, she turns back to him and quietly corrects, "Margot."
The sight of his surprise is nearly enough of a reward, but it isn't half as satisfying compared to the way he turns to face her fully, fights back an amused smile, and concedes, "Margot," in a voice rife with warmth.
She stares at him for a moment longer, her mouth pulling into a wide smile, and then finally takes her leave.