BrownEyedGirl87: Thanks! I was so excited to see your review. Robert's stares are definitely an aesthetic all to their own. I can't wait to read how you might highlight them more in your story, which by the way I am still loving and devouring every chapter when you post them :) It is such a tragedy that there aren't many Robert stories out there, so it's always a pleasure to add to the cause!
Chapter Seven | A Memorable Thanksgiving
This particular dinner will go down in history as the worst Thanksgiving to ever be had among the current occupants of the table. Rogers forces them all into chairs, taking a dark enjoyment in having them all sit down as if to begin their meal. The turkey and other dishes have long grown cold as they wait for Robert to arrive. He seems to be taking his time; they've been waiting a good thirty minutes already, and Margot actually finds herself hoping that he had gotten waylaid along the road. He stands a better chance against common thieves than Robert Rogers, after all.
What Rogers wants to know is a continued mystery, at least for her. She's got a feeling that Abe knows what's going on in that regard, but he remains close-lipped as he sits at the table with his fists clenched over the surface of it. Rogers keeps his pistol trained on Anna from several paces away. He is the only one standing, as if he is the conductor of a macabre symphony.
Margot remains silent and close-lipped too, but she is inwardly boiling with a quiet anger that is directed entirely at Abe. He's obviously the reason that they're in this situation to begin with. Whatever deal he had struck with Rogers is what brought this hell upon them, and Robert is about to walk right into it. Who knows what his reaction will be when he enters his father's home and sees this scene? She grows more anxious the longer she sits, stewing in the thought of him finding a way to pin the blame on her. Robert is far from unreasonable, but she is certainly a part of this, however small. She should have kept better tabs on Abe and figured out what was going on before leaving Setauket. She might have been able to do something to stop this. As it is, though, she's helpless to do anything at all, and the poor excuse of a bandage that Caleb had wrapped around her arm to stop her wound from bleeding is already soaked through. Pain lances her, but she knows it could have been much worse. Rogers had only grazed her, but she suspects she'll still need stitches.
When the sound of footsteps enters the house, her heart plummets. When she hears his voice from the front hall, her heart nearly bursts in anxiety…especially when Robert appears in the doorway of the dining room.
He freezes there, his eyes going first to where his father sits at the head of the table, then to Roger's, whose gun is still trained on Anna, and then, finally, to Margot. His gaze lingers on hers the longest, studying the straight and stiff way she is sitting before noticing the bloody bandages wrapped around her upper arm. Something dark glows in his eyes as he stares at the bandages.
"Mr. Townsend," Rogers murmurs, "…welcome." He gestures to the empty chair at the head of the table and invites, "Sit down."
Robert lifts his chin, frowning deeply. He does nothing but stand in the doorway, staring at the scene…until his father gravely murmurs, "Do it, son."
With a look of extreme reluctance, Robert slowly approaches the table. His gaze drifts back to Margot's, and his frown deepens a notch when their eyes meet. He sits down even as he stares at her, trying to find the answers to the questions that are spinning through his head. But she doesn't have them, and she turns her eyes back to Anna, pursing her mouth.
Once Robert settles into the chair, keeping his arms on the table, Rogers growls, "Now then, Culper Jr…you recently penned a letter to our plucky farmer here concerning a Major John Andre and a young woman who recently turned his head. What's her name?"
Margot lifts her eyebrows. Before Robert can formulate a response, she scoffs, "That's what you want to know? You came all this way to ask – "
"Quiet, girl," Rogers growls, turning angry eyes to her. "Or I'll aim for yer head this time."
Robert's hand, which is resting on the table, clenches.
"…Who is this woman?" Robert suddenly asks, nodding towards Anna. He doesn't look at Margot, keeping his eyes trained now to the member of Culper that he hasn't yet become acquainted with.
Rogers smiles. "Oh, you haven't met her before, have you? She's one of your merry band."
Robert's expression doesn't change when he slowly demands, "Let her go." He looks quietly furious, irate even, though whether this is because this scene is unraveling in his family home or because Rogers is holding a woman at gunpoint, it's difficult to say. Both occasions surely revolt against his upright sense of morality, which is a thing of impressive depth.
"Maybe I haven't introduced myself," Rogers says, eyeing Robert darkly. He doesn't seem to care for Robert's quietly seething order. Adjusting the pistol more firmly against Anna's head, he growls, "My name is Robert Rogers, and I don't aim to be here all night."
Robert's frown only further deepens at this. He doesn't take his eyes off of Rogers, but he keeps the rest of the table in his line of sight – most notably Margot, who is sitting closest to him and yet seems so far away. "What will you do with the information?" he asks, sounding calm but looking anything but.
Roger's response is an immediate and point-blank, "I'm gonna use it to get close to Andre."
Margot quietly seethes. Is this merely some sort of attempt at personal justice? A rivalry gone sour? She glares at Rogers fitfully but holds her tongue. Next to her, Robert casts a quick glance her way and purses his mouth as if he knows she'd like to speak and is silently warning her against it.
Abe is the one who speaks up, not her. "You won't get close enough," he says, much to Roger's ire.
"I'm not talking to you!" he exclaims, seemingly at the end of his patience where it concerns Abraham Woodhull.
"He's too well-guarded!" Abe adamantly responds, despite this. "And after they capture you and torture you, you'll give away this ring and I cannot let that happen."
Rogers snarls, "I was leading the Queen's Rangers against the Iroquois before you even had hairs on your chin, boy! What can you do to me?"
With the two men distractedly going back and forth, Margot chances a glance at Robert. He is sitting rigidly in his chair, fists still clenched upon the table, but when he notices her glance he turns his eyes to her. Their gazes clash together and something silent is conveyed therein; a certain plea for calmness, for pacificism, for logic – to not do anything to compromise the situation any more than it has already been compromised – and a small comfort.
His eyes flash down to her arm before returning to hers, as if he's silently asking whether she's alright. She's seen plenty of those deliberate glances at Rivington's Corner when he had wanted to convey something to her without saying it aloud and risk being overheard. The motion feels strangely familiar in all of this bewilderment; a vague comfort that makes her smile slightly at him, and though the smile hardly feels genuine, it answers his question. She is alright, and from the way he slowly exhales, she thinks he understands.
The moment between them is broken though, when his father suddenly blurts, "You're him," interrupting Abe as he attempts to reason with Rogers.
Abe and Caleb both look over at Samuel in confusion. So do the rest of them.
"…It's you. You're the Queen's Ranger," Samuel nods, staring at Caleb with singular focus. Across the table, Anna closes her eyes and sighs.
As for Caleb, he curses beneath his breath.
"…What?" Robert asks, looking between his father and Caleb, even as Caleb denies this. A realization grows in Robert's eyes, though Margot is still completely confused. Truth be told, she's getting tired of that.
"You attacked me and you burnt down my farm," Samuel accuses, keeping his eyes trained on Caleb. He is sitting quite straight in his chair, as if he wants nothing more than to reach across the table and throttle Caleb.
Margot's eyebrows crease. She looks over at her friend and frowns. Beside her, so does Robert, whose face is becoming pale with unjust fury.
"What is this?" Robert demands, though it looks as if he already knows. Rogers leans back and watches the scene play out without attempting to stop it. As for Robert, he turns back to Abe and says, "Woodhull…is this true?"
Abe shifts in his chair, clearly not wanting to answer, but the growing silence at the table necessitates one. He swallows thickly and clears his throat. "…Yes it's true," he says, looking over at Robert and watching his reaction.
But Robert's reaction isn't the one he should be concerned about.
"You – you – sent Caleb here to – burn down Samuel's barn?" Margot exclaims, swiveling in her chair to stare at Abe in shock.
Abe purses his mouth at her outburst and mutters, "…Yes. I told him to."
Samuel shakes his head. "Why?"
A brief silence falls, before Robert leans back in his chair and murmurs in an accusatory voice, "To manipulate me. To trick me into undertaking this business."
Margot turns to look at him, but he doesn't meet her eye. He's too busy staring Abe down, frowning even deeper than before. She thought she had seen Robert angry, but she was wrong. Now, she can practically feel the fury radiating from his outwardly composed figure. It is a frightening sight, and as his fury builds, it begins to pour out into the rest of his expression until his eyes are shimmering with it.
"You lied," Robert hisses.
Abe meets his eye. "Yes I lied, I had no other choice," he tries to reason, but Robert is clearly beyond accepting such things.
"You always have a choice," he cuts in, raising his voice for the first time that Margot can recall.
"How would you know? You never chose, I chose for you," Abe exclaims, "'cause you couldn't do it yourself."
At this, Robert falls silent and lowers his eyes. Margot clenches her jaw at Abe and, so angry that her voice is shaking, says, "I can't believe you would stoop this low, Abraham Woodhull."
Abe scoffs out a laugh and rubs his forehead. After a brief silence, he growls, "Yeah, well, I can't believe you would stoop this low, Marge." He lifts his head to catch her eye and lets out a humorless laugh. "The 'pearl of the Sound' my father used to call you, and what are you now? Making eyes at that coward – accepting his invitation to dinner while the rest of us fight for our lives against Simcoe, that dirty bastard – "
"Don't presume to think that I hate Simcoe any less than you do," Margot explodes, gripping the edge of the table as she turns on her childhood friend. "You're the coward, Abe – "
A hand suddenly covers hers, and Margot falls silent at the touch. She inhales sharply and turns to Robert, who is staring at her carefully. He slips his hand into hers and clenches it tightly atop the table, unconcerned at who sees the action. It certainly stops her from continuing with her tirade. In fact, in the face of his forcible calm, she feels quite exhausted.
Rogers stares at the two of them with dawning understanding. He eyes their hands upon the table and murmurs, "Well, it appears that I have made a miscalculation. I've picked the wrong woman, haven't I? This one," he nods at Margot, "is obviously of more importance than I thought, to our fine friend Culper Jr. here. It'd be a shame to waste a second bullet on her…but if the cause is right…"
Margot swallows, and Robert draws his hand from hers as if hoping that the action will reverse Rogers' realization. It doesn't. Rogers turns his pistol to her, slowly moving around the table until he arrives at Margot's chair. He reaches out to push her hair away from her neck and press the barrel of the pistol beneath her jaw. Robert watches this with a clenched jaw, staring at Margot with eyes that are a shade more desperate than they were a moment before.
"Tell me what I want to know," Rogers lightly murmurs, "or I'm afraid this affair will become a bit bloodier." He pats the bandage on Margot's arm, just hard enough to make her grimace.
For a long moment, the room is utterly silent. Then…
"…Mr. Rogers," Robert murmurs, still staring at Margot. "The woman's name is Philomena Cheer." He glances up at Rogers and then stands up. "She's an actress. You'll often find her at Rivington's on Wallstreet."
Rogers murmurs, "Ah yes…the actress. I remember her." He stares at Margot's hand, which Robert had just held, and smiles down at Margot, "I can use her."
She clenches her jaw and doesn't respond.
"Well…it's been a great pleasure watching the amateur dramatics tonight," Rogers says in his gravelly voice, "but if you don't mind, it's gettin' to be that hour o' twilight, so you – unprime yer firearm." He nods at Caleb, who is still pointing his gun at Rogers from across the table, and has been all this time.
Caleb scoffs, "No chance."
Rogers smiles humorlessly at him. "I've already got what I want, so I can kill anyone I like," he murmurs, digging his pistol beneath Margot's jaw. He turns to look at her and chuckles, "It's a shame, really, that two lovely women such as yourselves have been dragged into this mess, but if ye don't drop the gun, boy, I will not hesitate to fire mine. Now unprime yer firearm."
Caleb meets Margot's eyes from across the table and clenches his jaw. He pauses only a moment longer before impatiently doing as Rogers says, and throwing his pistol onto the table. Beside Caleb, Abe exhales defeatedly.
Rogers scoffs in the back of his throat at Abe and murmurs, "I used to like you, boy. I did. But I warned ye not to cross me." And then with that, Rogers lifts the pistol from Margot's head and turns it purposefully onto Abe, finger squeezing the trigger.
What happens then shocks them all. Quakers are not moved to violence. Their beliefs are such that to even possess a weapon goes against their morality, for it breeds temptation and sin. This is precisely why, when Robert pulls a small handgun on Rogers, the entire table turns to stare at the unexpected move with visible surprise.
"Like you said, it'd be a shame to waste a bullet," Robert murmurs lowly, glaring at Rogers with dark, furious eyes.
Everyone, Rogers included, freezes in surprise. The Scotsman releases a breath and mutters, "…An armed Quaker. Who'd 'a guessed it?"
He laughs, takes his pistol, and removes the powder from it before tossing it onto the table in surrender. Robert does not lower his gun, though. He keeps it trained on Rogers for several lengthy seconds which seem to last a lifetime all to themselves, before Rogers chuckles again and turns to glance at him.
"You gonna kill me, Friend?" Rogers lightly wonders, as if he's inquiring after something as mundane as the weather.
Robert does look like he's contemplating it. He glances over at his father, who is watching the scene with wide eyes, panicked and sweaty. Whatever Robert sees in his father's eyes seems to help along his decision, but it is only when he turns to glance at Margot that he ultimately puts it into action. His gaze lingers on hers for a long moment before slowly reciting, "The Spirit of Christ will never move us to war against any man with outward weapons." Then, looking back at Rogers, he lowers the handgun and gestures to the door. "Leave this house," he lowly demands.
Rogers does. He casts one last look around the macabre table and briefly nods before striding out of the room and into the night. The moment he is gone, the entire room seems to relax, just barely. But the tension returns the moment Robert puts the handgun onto the table, and Caleb makes a grab for it. Margot sits up in exasperated shock as Caleb and Abe both run after Rogers, hoping to put him down before he can make a further mess of their lives – or, indeed, give the Culper ring away. As they disappear through the door, Anna stands to join them. Margot, with gritted teeth, rushes to follow, darting out of her chair to stalk towards the door. She has had enough of this.
Rogers is already gone, though, and even if he had stuck around for long enough to get a good shot in, Caleb soon discovers that the handgun Robert had drawn on the man is in fact unloaded, and would have done no damage at all. It had only been a ploy; an act of defense, without any intention of using it.
"Bollocks!" Caleb shouts when he tries to fire the gun and realizes this. As Rogers laughs and rides off with Margot's horse, Caleb curses, "Bloody Quakers."
Margot sighs and leans against the threshold, putting a hand to her forehead. Before she can speak, though, Robert arrives in the doorway and pushes past her, stepping onto the porch and glaring at Abe.
"I want you gone," he says, in a voice that leaves no room for argument.
Abe purses his mouth. "We need you and you know it," he tries to reason.
"Look, it wasn't personal," Caleb adds, referring to his destruction of Samuel's barn.
Anna inputs, "Robert, listen to me, you won't have to deal with Abe anymore, only me – "
With a scoff, Robert turns to face them. "You think that I would trust any of you?" he asks, a touch incredulous. He doesn't look at Margot, but she has a feeling that he is including her in the words nonetheless. He shakes his head and mutters, "You can't even trust each other."
Upon these words, silence falls. Abe puts his hands on his hips and looks towards the ground. Margot bits the inside of her cheek. No one disputes this claim, because there is truth to it. Robert, outsider though he may be among their band of childhood friendships, can see this more clearly than any of them.
Before any further words can be exchanged, the sound of horses can be heard close by, and they all look towards the woods. Abe pales. Robert springs into action and rushes towards the house to be with his father. When Abe tries to pull him back, Robert shoulders him off and ignores him. But he can't ignore Margot when she reaches for his arm and whispers, "Robert – "
That small plea is the only thing that makes him pause. He looks over his shoulder again, this time at the sight of Abe, Caleb, and Anna rushing off and away from the Queen's Rangers. It is too late for her to join them without being seen, so he grabs her uninjured arm and pulls her into the house. The action is a bit more forceful than she expects; she trips over the rug by the front door and Robert quickly steadies her with a low, "Hide upstairs. Go."
She purses her mouth and begins to argue, but he puts a swift end to it when he prods her towards the stairs and sternly insists, "Go." And so, with one last worried look at him, she obeys, lifting her skirts and taking the stairs two at a time. She pushes open the door at the top of the stairs and darts into it, but leaves it open a crack so as to hear what's going on downstairs, pressing her forehead against the frame of it as Simcoe's telltale voice fills the house.
"Relax, men. They're Quakers," she hears him say, and grits her teeth. She wouldn't put it past the man to wreak havoc upon this home, neutral Quakers or not. It's what Captain Simcoe does best.
As Simcoe walks further into the house, his voice grows muffled, but it would be impossible not to hear the question that he asks when he steps into the dining room.
"We're looking for a man who goes by the name Culper," Simcoe inquires.
Margot closes her eyes, fingers clenching around the door frame. Of course Simcoe is hunting Culper…and if Abe knew that Simcoe was coming, could this be some sort of scheme concocted by Culper himself? Abe is far from stupid, and his time in the ring has taught him a great many things regarding manipulation and lying, for such things are necessary weapons in the arsenal of a spy.
"Yes, there was a man…he broke in and demanded supplies," Robert's voice answers, calm and unhurried. For someone more recently acquainted with spycraft, he has quite a few weapons in his arsenal as well. That he can be so unshakable after everything that's just happened is amazing.
"And left his weapon?" Simcoe wonders, sounding doubtful.
Margot pauses, holding her breath.
"He…called that a gift. To protect ourselves from any…unfriendly elements, he said," Robert dryly responds, and the corner of her mouth quirks up for a split second upon the familiar sound of it.
Samuel's voice adds, "Yes…seems to think himself quite the jester."
A brief silence falls, before Robert adds, "He had another weapon, which he took with him…along with a bite of our turkey. His name wasn't Culper though, it was Rogers."
Another silence, and then Margot hears the sound of Simcoe ordering his men outside. He says, "Thank you, gentlemen. I won't take any more of your time."
She doesn't breathe easy until she can hear the sound of the horses being readied once more, and only then does she crack open the door and look down into the hall. Simcoe had shut the front door behind him upon taking his leave, but she still doesn't move until the sound of horses can be heard riding off, their hoofbeats thudding against the earth and growing fainter with each passing second. Only then does she slip out of the room and back into the open.
When she appears in the dining room, Samuel is leaning against the mantlepiece and Robert is staring at the Thanksgiving table with an indiscernible look upon his face. It grows even more so when he lifts his eyes to hers. She can't read what is within them for the life of her, which she knows from experience is a bad sign. For him to bother masking his thoughts and emotions, they mustn't be good.
When Samuel sees her, he frowns deeply. His voice is tight as he says, "You should leave, Margot."
The difference in how the elder Townsend regards her is palpable. Just hours before, they were drinking tea and laughing together in the drawing room. Now, Samuel is looking at her as if she is a complete stranger, capable of being an accomplice in the destruction that Caleb had wreaked upon this home months before. Indeed, she feels very much like a stranger despite having known both men for some time now. The sensation of not belonging here rattles through her, cold and sharp.
Robert sighs and casts a glance at his father. "Go up to bed, father. I'll show Miss Risdon out."
If anything, these words only make her feel even more a stranger. She lingers by the doorway and turns her eyes to the dining table, which is still laden with untouched food. This evening has surely not gone as planned, and her heart sinks at the thought of what pleasantries she might have experienced had things gone as originally intended.
Samuel scoffs, "Bed? As if I could sleep at a time like this – "
"Come, Margot," Robert interrupts, a flash of impatience burning through his eyes. He turns away from his father and strides to where she stands, but rather than lead her to the front door to collect her cloak, Robert takes her shoulder and gently guides her deeper into the house, down a wide corridor that takes them to the kitchen. As they enter the room, Robert closes the door behind them and immediately bustles into action, pulling out a chair for her and then walking to the other side of the room to collect a washbasin. She sinks into the chair slowly, watching him with a cautious expression. She isn't sure what he's doing, to be truthful.
"…Robert?" she wonders, hoping he might explain.
But he only sends her a glance and doesn't respond, at least not until he's gathered several cloths and is setting everything on the table in front of her.
"Roll up your sleeve," he says shortly, and pulls up a chair beside hers.
The words remind her that she is injured; a fact that had slipped her mind in wake of the arrival of Simcoe. Now that her thoughts recenter upon it and the adrenaline has left her system for the most part, her arm thuds with a reminder of that pain. She glances down at the bloodied bandage that Caleb had hastily wrapped around it before.
Feeling as though she has caused nothing but trouble since arriving here, she mumbles, "It's fine, I'll have it looked at later – "
"Roll up your sleeve," Robert says again, and catches her eye. His gaze flickers with insistence and leaves no room to broke argument. She obeys after only a moment's hesitation and unbuttons the fabric by her wrist, fumbling with the small fastenings until Robert takes pity on her and pushes her hand away to do it himself. He leans over her wrist with a singular focus, ensuring that his fingers don't brush against her skin. Still, even as he makes quick work of the small buttons, each movement of his fingers against the fabric of her sleeve is felt very poignantly, especially when he begins to roll it up her arm.
"…You needn't bother," she whispers to him, inexplicably chagrined. She ought to have followed Caleb, Abe, and Anna the moment they had left, for now she is stuck here in the Townsends' home, clearly unwanted after the fiasco of the night. She's sure that Robert would like nothing more than to retire and to contemplate all that has happened, and yet instead he is forced to care for her injury.
Some degree of her chagrin must show in her words, for Robert pauses in his task and lifts his eyes to study her face. His own expression is as silent and unreadable as ever, but there is something in his eyes that makes her wonder if perhaps she is misreading the situation yet again. He makes it so difficult for her, sometimes, to know what he is thinking.
Robert doesn't respond to her. Instead, he continues rolling up her sleeve until he exposes the wound that rests just above her elbow. Then, silently, he turns to the washbasin that he had filled with water, and dips the cloth into it. As he wrings it out, he looks as if he is contemplating something. It's only when he presses the cloth to her wound and begins cleaning the blood from it that he makes his contemplation known, though.
"Tell me the truth," he says, his voice edging with sternness. "Did you truly not know that Woodhull was behind my father's injuries?"
She can understand why he would need to ask, but she still feels the sting of indignation bolt through her upon him voicing the question. With pursed lips, she responds, "No. I didn't."
She sees him glance at her, but makes no move to meet his eyes.
"I only find it strange that you were left in the dark, considering that you and Abraham are childhood friends," Robert murmurs, enunciating 'childhood friends' with a dry, almost bitter tone.
Margot feels rather bitter herself. "My friendship with Abraham was always secondary to my friendship with Anna," she informs him stiffly. "And besides, it's been some time since I've spoken with him face to face. Setauket is overrun with redcoats and Abe's become more secretive of late ever since Simcoe returned to town."
A brief silence falls. Robert focuses on wiping the blood away, and after several lengthy moments, Margot wonders if that is that; if he intends to write her off now that he has his answer. She feels a burst of desperate impatience at the thought, which is what prompts her to ask, "Do you believe me, then?"
He pauses with the cloth pressed to her arm, staring at the injury that lances across it. Now that most of the blood has been wiped free, the wound looks less macabre, though it is just as painful.
Robert slowly responds, "Yes, I believe you." He leans back and regards her, dropping the cloth back into the washbasin and drying his hands on a clean rag. "It changes nothing, though. I won't be purchasing any more advertisements."
He sounds very sure of this, and Margot tries to press her disappointment down and out of sight. This means, after all, that she may never see him again. There won't be any reason for her to travel to York City. She won't be needed as a courier. Still, can she blame him for this decision? She is still reeling with the discovery that Caleb had acted under Abe's orders to burn down the Townsends' barn and inflict havoc upon Samuel himself. She had seen Samuel's injuries first hand after Robert had initially decided to join Culper, and it had not been a pleasant sight.
"…I understand," she hoarsely tells him, feeling partially at fault. She should have kept a closer watch on Abe and Anna these last few months.
Robert stares at her for a long moment before silently unscrewing a jar of what looks like ointment. He says nothing as he leans forward to gently disperse it over the wound, his touch so gentle that she barely feels it at all. Upon its application, he sets it aside and reaches for a strip of clean cloth, which he wraps firmly around her arm. The wound is still bleeding slightly, but Caleb's initial treatment of it had allowed it to clot fairly well.
"You may need stitches," Robert tells her as he ties it off. "I'm afraid I haven't the tools nor the knowledge of applying them."
All she can muster is a nod. Her throat is tight and the desperation still lingers within her. A large part of her wants to cry for having brought trouble to his doorstep, even though she hadn't been directly involved in its arrival. Another part of her wants to cry simply for the fact that she may well never see him again after tonight. Suddenly she wishes she had spent the last few months knowing him better, perhaps focusing on gaining more of his trust…perhaps even gaining more of his love. The brief expressions of such things, which she had thought were exchanged upon their last parting, now seem harrowing and insignificant; much too shallow to mean anything, surely. Certainly not important enough to make him wish to remain within the ring, and with her.
Once the bandage is tied off, Robert unrolls her sleeve and carefully buttons it back into place. If he takes his time, she doesn't notice. Her thoughts have gone to the wind, reading and misreading his every action from the moment they met to now, as they sit in this kitchen and the silence feeds upon their unspoken words. Time slips from her fingers. She will have to say goodbye very soon, and she loathes the thought.
Once he has finished fastening the buttons back into place, he stands up and extends a hand to her. Far from a gesture of civility, Margot assumes he means it as a silent order to leave, finally, once and for all. She takes it shakily, and inwardly berates herself at presuming so much. But as he pulls her up, Robert does not let go of her hand. Instead, he clasps his fingers around hers tighter as he says, "My anger is directed at Abraham, not at you, Margot. You could never…my opinion of you has not fallen, not in the slightest."
She lifts her eyes to his in quiet surprise, but Robert is already releasing her hand and turning to dispose of the washbasin, whose water has now turned a shade of pink from the blood he had wiped from her arm. Margot stares after him as he crosses the room to set it on the wooden countertop. She has never heard his voice lower in such a gentle manner, nor his words form such sincere sentiments. He doesn't look at her as he returns to the table to collect the rags and ointment, and she wonders if perhaps he is embarrassed at having expressed such things at all. She has little time to read into his actions though, for at that moment, the kitchen door opens and Samuel appears in the threshold of it, looking wary and chastened.
Robert pauses to glance over at his father, but Samuel looks only at Margot, his expression faltering into regret. "I'm sorry for my harsh words, Margot. I hope this…dreadful evening will not put an end to any future visits. You are welcome here."
Her heart gives a lurch in her chest, and she smiles quietly. Behind her, Robert releases a breath and sends his father a silent but grateful look.
"Please do not be sorry," Margot responds, her lungs filling for the first time since Abraham had made his sudden arrival. "I can only apologize on behalf of Abe and beg your forgiveness for what's happened to you – "
"Please, Margot," Samuel says gently, "the blame doesn't rest on you. Knowing Abraham, nothing you could have done or said would have made any difference. And besides," he adds with a smile, "all is well and no lasting harm has been done. But I fear to think what may happen if you ride through Setauket in the morning, alone and in yesterday's dress. I don't mean to rush you, but I do think it best for your own safety that you head home before the hour grows too late."
Margot pauses. She sees the sense of this, of course, and so she sends Samuel a somewhat strained smile and nods. She opens her mouth to reply, but Robert cuts in with a firm, "I will escort you. That man – Rogers – stole your horse, did he not? We'll take mine."
She turns to face him in surprise, and blurts, "You needn't trouble yourself, Robert, it's only an hour ride – "
"It is no trouble," he says calmly, and then before she can attempt to argue again, he is striding from the room to collect their cloaks.
After he disappears, Samuel turns to smile at Margot and shrugs, "As I told you, my dear, he has grown rather fond of you."
She flushes slightly, and doesn't respond.
It takes Robert fifteen minutes or so to prepare a fresh horse for the journey. He hadn't had time to untack the horse he had rode from York City to Oyster Bay, so he leads the weary animal into the open shed at the back of the house that has been converted into a makeshift stable until the barn can be rebuilt. It will take roughly an hour to make the trip to Setauket, and an hour to return, so he spends some time brushing the horse down and ensuring its comfort before he saddles his father's and leads him to the porch where Margot is waiting.
By the time Robert brings the horse around, Samuel is keeping her company. They are sipping what looks like the leftover wine that was supposed to be had during dinner. When his father sees him, he bustles forward to hand him the rest of his glass, which is only half empty. Robert takes it with a nod and indulges a few sips, though he wishes it was something stronger.
"You should be on your way," Samuel says to Margot, ushering her forward. She has donned her cloak and carries no other belongings. What other things she had brought are still in the saddlebags that Rogers has now confiscated, but it is of no loss to her. She only regrets having lost the horse himself, who has been with her family for many years now and who will probably be made lame by Rogers' harsh treatment.
Pushing the thought from her mind with a sigh, Margot turns to Samuel and says, "Thank you for the hospitality…and I'm sorry for how it was repaid."
The elder Townsend merely sends her a nod and pats her shoulder as he gestures to the horse Robert is standing beside. "Well perhaps next Thanksgiving will be better, hmm?" he says, somewhat jokingly.
Robert scoffs under his breath and dryly says, "I should think that tonight's experience would have made you give up on holidays and become a proper Quaker."
He steps into the stirrup and lifts himself into the saddle, then reaches down to help Margot up, bending his elbow and removing his foot from the stirrup to allow her to step into it. She grasps his forearm and pulls herself onto the horse behind him, arranging her skirts in a more comfortable manner.
Samuel chuckles, "Yes, well, let's face it Robert, we're hardly proper Quakers, now are we?"
Robert's mouth curves into an amused smile. He gathers the reins and, upon realizing that Margot is tentatively clenching her fingers around his waistcoat in a manner that will only ensure imbalance, reaches over to take her hands and pull them across his chest for better purchase. "Hold on," he murmurs to her, glad that the night is dark and that she cannot see his face as he does. Then, nodding to his father, he presses the horse into a walk and then a trot, and they begin the journey.
It isn't a particularly comfortable one. Riding behind him makes it so that Margot's experience is quite uncomfortable, in fact. Without the comfort of the saddle, it is a choppy and jarring struggle to remain on the horse, and much to her embarrassment, she finds herself practically clinging to Robert as they reach the main road and he presses the horse to a faster pace. That said, she can't outright complain; clinging to him is, in a word, enjoyable. She only wishes the reasons for it might have been more pleasant.
They spend the hour's journey in a state of relative silence but for the sound of the horse trotting beneath them. What few words are exchanged are short, brief things, and they are both more focused on their immediate surroundings. Traveling after nightfall isn't always safe, especially on this particular road. So instead of talking, Margot presses her forehead against his shoulder blade and closes her eyes, fingers grasping onto his vest, palms resting along his chest, counting the beat of his heart as it sounds against her fingertips; and Robert grips the reins and keeps his eyes straight ahead, trying not to be too moved by the feeling of her pressed against him but failing utterly, for the warmth that her body supplies is too great not to take urgent and acute notice of. Arriving in Setauket is almost a relief, and yet a tragedy of the greatest kind.
"Take this road here," Margot tells him, raising a hand to gesture at a fork in the path that extends into the trees. As he guides the horse onto it, she informs him, "I live just outside of town. I'm sure your coming will not be noticed."
Robert slows the horse to a walk. He turns his face toward her to quietly ask, "And your father?"
Margot smiles, though he can't see it, and responds, "I…look after myself, these days. He passed just before I agreed to help Abraham with Culper business."
A brief silence falls before Robert murmurs, "You've never spoken of this before."
She loosens her arms around him, seeing as there isn't as great a need to cling to him what with their current pace, and shrugs, "…You've never asked." Then, after another pause, she attempts to summon some semblance of her usual self when she coyly says, "If you wish to know more about me, Robert, you ought to be more forward with your questions."
Robert doesn't respond though, and she quietly berates herself for her own forwardness.
As the house comes into view, he finally exhales, "Perhaps…if you wish it…if you are – inclined…"
Margot raises an eyebrow when he trails off abruptly, and murmurs, "…Yes?"
But Robert doesn't finish his words, because they're drawing up to the house and he is swinging his leg over the horse to dismount. The look on his face is shuttered from the darkness, but she thinks she sees a hint of trepidation, perhaps even nerves. It's gone by the time he helps her dismount, though, shuttered off even further by his own effort.
Confused by his unfinished sentence, Margot doesn't argue when he assists her, reaching up to take her waist and help her to the ground. An hour's riding has succeeded in weakening her legs, and she stumbles slightly. Her hands land upon his arms even as his remain at her waist with a steadying force. Only then does she look up at him, and even though it's dark, she can see him quite clearly.
They linger for a long moment. Her heart is a jarring presence in her chest, beating riotously against it. Her corset makes it difficult to feel his hands upon her, but the weight of them is enough. More than enough.
"…Tell me truthfully, Margot," Robert whispers. "Do you think less of me for removing myself from the ring?"
She is not expecting this question. Robert seems so sure of himself, always. That he is occasionally plagued with doubts is only natural, of course, but to hear them voiced, to hear him pose them to her, is surprising. She stares at him through the darkness and raises a hand to touch his face. The touch seems to uncover yet another layer of his character, but one that she hadn't even realized was there; a certain duty to preserve himself, to keep his strength is all circumstances and hold himself in such a way so as to prove it to others. But the moment her fingers alight upon his cheek, his head bows over hers and he closes his eyes, and some of his silent strength falters.
She watches the subtle transformation without a word, at first, for she isn't sure what words might relieve him of his doubts. But then, with a tiny smile, she chuckles, "On the contrary, Mr. Townsend. My opinion of you has not fallen in the slightest."
The words, mirrored from his own lips an hour prior, makes his mouth twitch up just so. The sight of it is ultimately what prompts her to do what she does next, for better or worse. It fills her with a strange desperation to tell him what she feels for him before the chance slips away from her. He is clearly not expecting the manner in which she does, just as she had not been expecting him to voice his doubts to her, but as she's said, it's often the unexpected things that are the very best.
She lifts her other hand to cup his face and leans in to kiss him, and Robert stiffens in surprise but doesn't try to stop her. His acquiescence only spurs her on, though in truth, the kiss is very short and brief, chaste in a way that speaks of boundaries still in place and time being of the essence. It is really more of a brush of her lips against his, and a pulling away before he can truly respond to it.
Robert stares at her searchingly, but Margot, slightly flustered but no less pleased with herself for her forwardness, this time, only sends him that tiny smile which sends mischief jolting through her eyes, and leaves him standing there in the darkness.