Chapter Thirteen | Trust Between Spies
Rivington's is bustling when Margot enters it, but rather than the usual sight that meets her upon her entrance, she is somewhat disappointed to see that Robert is not manning the bar nor milling around any of the table to distribute drinks. In fact, as she quickly discovers, he does not seem to be in the main room at all. While this is rather odd to her considering the late hour and the general bustle of the establishment, it isn't necessarily cause for concern. Perhaps he has merely stepped away to attend to other business, or has gone to fetch a fresh barrel of ale from the storage room. After a moment's pause to collect her bearings and decide whether she ought to be watchful of several higher-ranking officers in attendance, Margot catches sight of Mr. Rivington and strides towards him, composing her face into a calm and tired expression in hopes that it will secure a more sober reaction from the man who is clearly well into his cups with his officer friends.
It isn't very difficult to draw forth such an expression, for she has had a tiring day. Beatrice had hosted a luncheon that afternoon for the purpose of gathering potential names for her unborn child – a rather frivolous gathering, in Margot's opinion, but not altogether unpleasant. Her cousin's lady friends had been eager to supply her with as many names as possible for her to choose from, most of which had gotten increasingly silly as the sherry had been distributed amongst them. It had been a merry gathering, if unproductive. Beatrice had vetoed nearly every name that had been suggested, declaring them to either be too boring or too fanciful for her liking.
It's been some time since her last visit to Rivington's, and not much has changed since. Abraham is still masquerading as a British regular, but as for the other news, Margot does not know yet and will not know until she finds Robert. Her ingenious plan to move into her cousin's house haven't been half as lucrative as she had expected. Rather than gathering important intelligence to pass along to the Continental army, she's spent most of her time around Beatrice's silly friends or attending dinner parties where the conversation very rarely descends into anything of significance.
"Mr. Rivington, you look to be in good company," Margot greets, sidling her way into a rather boisterous conversation being had around the table in which Rivington has joined. He has several other employees under his command who are at this moment tending to the clientele, allowing him to sit back and join said clientele without worry, which is precisely what he appears to be doing.
When he turns at the sound of her voice and sees her, however, Rivington jumps up to sketch a theatric bow, no doubt fueled by the drink and good cheer he is currently imbibing in, and declares, "And here is a face that a certain someone has been silently yearning to see for many a day! Miss Risdon, a pleasure as always."
The first sentence has Margot smiling pleasantly at the mental image it produces; the latter has her inclining her head into a short nod and allowing Rivington to take her shoulder and draw her into the circle of his friends, all of which bear the decorated uniforms of Colonels and other higher-ranking officers.
Knowing that he means to introduce her and no doubt entice her to linger for a drink or two, Margot is quick to say, "I wished to speak with Robert. Do you know where he is?"
Rivington is far enough into his cups that any sentence that includes 'Robert' is enough to draw forth a truly mischievous gleam to his eye, which he is quick to send her way even as he claims, "Last I saw, he was checking in a shipment, but that was hours ago…he may still be in the basement putting the barrels away. I'll have one of my workers escort you there – " Then, breaking off to shout over a riotous rendition of a song being drummed up several tables down, Rivington flags down one of his employees and presses him into service.
Margot has seen the boy a few times during her visits, but has never spoken to him before. To call him a boy is, perhaps, doing him a disservice, as they seem to be similar in age. He appears to lack a certain sort of world-given experience, though – the kind that gives a man a quiet, mature confidence; an air of inward composure. He looks somewhat hesitant to approach her, whether because he is being called away from his busy work or simply because he knows the occasionally bizarre requests of his employer, but doesn't argue when Rivington suggests that he leads her down to the basement where Robert likely is. Her reputation precedes her to some degree it seems, for the boy doesn't look very surprised to hear of her desire to see Mr. Townsend, nor confused at who she is. In fact, he calls her by name despite Rivington having left this addition from his brief monologue.
"Of course, Miss Risdon," he politely nods, "right this way." His voice bears a certain colloquial charm to it, making it clear that he is not city-bred. More likely, he is from one of the towns just outside York City – north of the state, perhaps, or maybe northeast into Connecticut, in Fairfield county. He certainly isn't the only young man to come to the city in hopes of making his way in the world.
Having never been anywhere else in Rivington's Tavern besides the upper rooms, Margot is rather hesitant when she discovers that the boy is leading her outside. The entrance to the basement is set into the side of the building, no doubt used as a storage facility because of its direct access to the street. Truthfully, she had never taken notice of it until she is led straight towards the cellar doors, which the boy heaves open before lifting his lantern and beginning the descent into the basement. Margot hesitates before following. This picture doesn't look entirely proper, to be frank, but her desire to see Robert ultimately outweighs the transient sense of impropriety that slivers through her thoughts. This feeling doesn't linger for very long, thankfully, for Robert is indeed at work heaving barrels into place, the evidence of which can be heard before she even alights upon the final step.
"Mr. Townsend, sir, Miss Risdon has arrived to speak with you," the boy calls, holding the lantern high above his head to light the short path into the cellar room below the tavern. The verbal warning is enough to capture Robert's attention completely, for he straightens up and turns to them in surprise, having clearly not expected their entrance.
"Miss Risdon," he greets, voice wavering with the suddenness of it all. A brief moment passes in which they stare at each other with the boy looking on, until Robert realizes that he is rather out of sorts and begins to right his clothing, which he had altered so as to make his task easier. He unrolls his sleeves then quickly reaches for the vest he had previously removed and draped over a nearby barrel. As he pulls it over his tunic, he clears his throat and says, "Thank you, Samuel. You can tell Rivington that I'll be finished with the shipment soon, should he ask."
The boy, Samuel, seems to have been waiting for this dismissal, for he is quick to nod and turn back to the door. He seems eager to return to his duties and remove himself from the strangely loaded atmosphere that Margot's presence seems to have introduced, for the nod he sends her is quick, and his retreating footsteps quicker. Margot turns her head to listen for his exit, but keeps her eyes upon Robert even as she hears the sound of the cellar doors being lowered back into place. She's never seen him quite so unkempt before and it fascinates and excites her in equal measure. She turns her eyes away, though, when he begins to button his vest. She finds this action to be oddly intimate in a way she isn't quite expecting, especially since it certainly causes the memory of their last meeting in the narrow corridor of the Kennedy House to unfurl within her mind.
"You didn't send word that you meant to stop by," Robert says, mainly to break the silence. Though they are both unaware of it, their thoughts run in the same direction, following the memory of that narrow corridor and recalling the affections that had been bandied back and forth with an ease that seems to have disappeared, now. Her final words, regarding his 'rebellious tendencies' and how such inclinations might be explored ring though his mind as they have done many times since.
Margot steps forward, turning her eyes back to him just in time to watch him button the final button just below his kerchief, and responds, "I would have, only I've been preoccupied all day attending Beatrice's name-begetting luncheon." This is accompanied with a shrug and a small smile that hints at her thoughts regarding such a luncheon – mainly that it is rather unnecessary, especially as Beatrice has only just begun to show.
Robert apparently agrees, for he snorts, "That sounds rather superfluous."
Margot hums, "Yes, and exasperating. All the names I suggested were instantly vetoed. They were too plain for Beatrice's liking."
She steps closer to him, overly cognizant of the fact that they are completely alone, which is incredibly rare and ought to be taken advantage of. The sounds from the tavern above them are distant but audible through the floorboards. Someone seems to have started singing another song, but the voices are too faint to readily identify it.
Robert raises an eyebrow curiously and wonders, "What did you suggest?"
She shrugs and, measuring the distance between them (five feet, give or take), lightly says, "Elijah or Jonathon, for a boy, or for a girl, Rebecca. Beatrice prefers more flowery names, however, as she was quick to inform me."
Robert watches her closely as she continues to slowly step forward. He seems to know, or at least suspect, what her motive is – probably because he shares it. This time, their game of strategy isn't so much a game as a mutual concession had between two parties with the same purpose.
"I believe plainer names are far more respectable," he responds, eyeing her progress with a straight face. Something about his expression, though, makes it subtly apparent that he is fighting back a smile, and it is only due to her extended knowledge of his character that she recognizes this.
Margot hums again and (now three feet away) murmurs, "I would have suggested 'Robert', but I feared she would see through me."
The Robert before her raises an eyebrow. "See through you?" he wonders, keeping his hands firmly at his side despite his desire to take her waist, which is now within reaching distance.
But never mind that, for Margot is keen enough to cross this final boundary, and hesitates no more as she sends him a faint smile and confesses in a whisper, "I suppose I was a bit unsuccessful in hiding my eagerness to leave…"
Finally, her hands alight upon his arms, where she shifts them to his shoulders. Judging from the look that blazes quietly through her eyes, it's clear enough why she was so eager, but Robert wishes to hear her say it regardless, and murmurs, "And why were you so eager, Miss Risdon?"
Her surname is said with a sort of subtle amusement; a mischief that is rarely pressed into his voice. Margot finds herself grinning as she shuffles into his body and tilts her head up for a kiss. Before she succeeds in this particular endeavor, though, she whispers, "Why, because I missed you desperately, of course, Mr. Townsend."
Robert chuckles, lifting a hand to smooth his fingertips over her hair, and lowers his mouth to hers at long last, similarly eager to do the one thing that has plagued his thoughts day in and day out since their last meeting. To kiss her without fear of being seen by Rivington or anyone else is a bliss that cannot be described. Propriety be damned – he can think of little else but allowing his actions to show her how desperately he has missed her, too, and does precisely that.
Margot finds herself a bit surprised at the way he wraps his arms around her and draws her forward, surpassing both social and physical boundary as his mouth sears against hers. She had been correct, it seems, when she had suggested that rebellious tendencies do indeed exist within the outwardly proper and, in Mr. Rivington's words, 'stiff-necked' exterior of his character. That he feels comfortable enough to give into such things and to prove the truth in that suggestion makes her heart tremble in a way it never has before. She tilts her head in hopes of capturing his mouth in a deeper kiss and feels a thrill go through her when this effort is met with an enthusiastic reception. A warmth thunders through her, made all the more feverish when he allows her the freedom of running her fingers over his jaw.
This isn't the first time they have had the opportunity to be alone together, nor is it the first time they have made use of such an opportunity to do what they are doing now, but this moment is very different from the last. That kiss had possessed a sort of tentative novelty to it; this one speaks with more intimate familiarity that comes from a deeper understanding gained through time and troubles shared.
Upon delighting in the feel of the stubble growing along his jaw, Margot's fingers drift down his chest, never crossing a boundary they are not yet prepared for but not being able to keep herself from touching him as much as said boundary allows. There is something so indominable about the feel of his body against hers. He is a warm and solid presence breathing life into her lungs and stealing her breath at the very same time; this human form, this man, the power behind his gentle touch and the quiet desire that he is so easily cultivating within her, though he knows not just how easily he manages it. She finds herself clinging to his solid form, wrapping her arms firmly around his waist, curling her fingers into the back of his vest and holding him there as if she is afraid of releasing him. Fear, though, is not what drives her. Rather, she feels a growing sense of desperation that is entirely linked to the desire he is, perhaps unknowingly, wielding, and the boundaries that she had only moments ago been so wary to cross now seem rather feeble. She wants him, but this cellar backdrop is certainly not ideal for such a display of affection.
This is the thought that has her breaking the kiss in favor of resting her forehead to his neck, breathing deeply and still holding him as firmly as she may, but far too conscious of the fact that their kiss has begun to travel in a direction that does not have a definitive end for the time being. Robert doesn't argue, and merely gathers her closer and turns his cheek to her hair, his hands drifting up towards her shoulders and tracing mindless patterns against the cloth.
"I suppose you must have missed me, too," she murmurs against his cravat, voice muffled just so. A subdued amusement can be detected in her words, but it is further muffled with a pleasant sort of satisfaction that Robert feels himself.
He finds himself smiling before he can stop it and playfully scoffs, "Miss your bold overtures and shameless brazenness? Is such a thing possible?"
Margot draws back to laughingly respond, "Why yes, it surely is!" in a voice that is just as playfully indignant.
He chuckles, though becomes somewhat more serious when he admits, "I did miss you."
The admission is worthwhile, for it draws forth a smile that, quite frankly, makes it rather difficult for him to breathe for several moments. So easily his breath becomes hitched in his throat upon seeing its revelation that it takes several moments more for him to find said breath again, and for him to remember where they are. This recollection also brings forward other thoughts, namely the recent memories of why Robert had bothered coming down to the cellar at all, when this work could have very well waited for morning.
Margot, who is watching him, must see something amiss in his eyes as he recalls these things, for she tilts her head and asks, "Robert? What's wrong?" in a quiet, almost hesitant manner.
Their affection, so easily expressed moments before, is now replaced with concern as Robert turns to catch her eye and frowns, "Woodhull was here not long before you arrived, with another of his sort."
Now, Abraham Woodhull has many sorts these days, and so Margot's confusion upon hearing this is understandable. She returns Robert's frown and repeats, "He was here, as in here in this cellar?"
Robert's arms drop away from her. She feels abruptly cold without his embrace, but doesn't voice complaint as she turns to watch Robert pace across the basement to where several stacks of crates sit, one atop the other, with the telltale labels of French Raspberry Wine written across the wooden slates. Robert touches one of the labels thoughtfully, his back turned towards her. "Yes, him and a fellow soldier who has joined the American Legion in disguise, same as Abraham. They came to inform me that they will capture Arnold in three nights. I am to place the number three in an advertisement to signal the others to be ready."
After a lengthy moment spent considering this, Margot sits down upon one of the barrels and murmurs, "Will you be able to signal this without being caught?"
Robert pauses, turning to glance at her over his shoulder. He catches her eye, and upon seeing his surprise, Margot raises a brow and wonders, "What is it?"
He huffs out a laugh and responds, "You shouldn't worry for my sake. Turn your concern to Abraham and his accomplice. They need it more than I do."
Her answering sigh is slightly exasperated. "Robert, I shall worry for your safety no matter how often you tell me not to," she says, and stands up to go to him, wanting to be closer.
His face betrays his own desire for her proximity, as does the way he reaches out to take her arms and murmurs, "I will be fine, Margot. Why do you think I've been down here at this hour? After taking stock of our products, I've developed a plan of my own. Mr. Rivington won't think twice about it."
She doesn't look entirely convinced, but knows that no amount of arguing will alter the course of this plan of his. Robert seems to have retaken the reins of the cause fully and completely, with just as much determination as he once employed in the months before the Thanksgiving incident. She is glad that he has regained his desire to assist from his position in York City, but things seem to be getting more dangerous as each day passes, and she feels that it only makes sense to worry after him. She does not like to wonder what her life would be like without his presence in it. She has grown accustomed to his dry commentary and quiet, warm glances.
"Then I suppose I have little information to pass along that Abe hasn't already discovered," she sighs, her brows furrowed in lingering worry. This plan seems a bit haphazard, especially with regards to the arrival of Abraham's latest assistant. While she is not informed of what goes on in the Continental camp or even with Abraham himself as of late, it still seems rather odd to her. Abe isn't the type to request help. He much prefers to take matters into his own hands.
"Margot," Robert murmurs once more, nudging her chin up to catch her eye. The action is strangely familiar, even though they have not had much time to explore the nature of their affections with the war forming the backdrop to their burgeoning relationship. He does it without thinking, and also thinks little of the way his hand slips around her jaw, brushing his thumb against her cheek with care. His voice is quiet and calm when he tells her, "Trust in me."
She is not expecting him to say these words, and stares in lingering surprise that is soon colored with gentle reverence. She raises her hand to his, fingers slotting between his own to hold him against her. Her eyes lift, seeking his warm gaze. She is breathless with emotion, which crashes through her with a force she is not expecting and is therefore made all the more potent. In a whisper, she replies, "I do trust you," and watches his eyes grow even warmer as she tilts her head to press a soft kiss to his mouth.
He sighs against her lips and wonders, not for the first time, how she had so thoroughly managed to set his world afire.