"Have you ever wanted to soar among the clouds, Sarah?"
James Hiller's question from out of the blue makes the ever proper English young lady pause from her work to revise the young patriot's new story. Unsure how to answer such a fanciful notion, her eyes drift upwards to inspect the reason for her disruption. Sarah finds it difficult not to bask in the glory of the deliciously blue sky that is dotted with majestically sculpted clouds. They could easily rival any paintings by the masters she saw as a child in the British museum. To avoid raising James' already astounding American pride at the thought of this land surpassing anything across the pond, she hesitates. Choosing to cast a sidelong glance at Benjamin Franklin's apprentice reporter, Sarah finds him taking in the sky above them with his hands clasped behind his head. The action neglects their purpose in trading each other's notebooks to fulfill their assignment in editing stories for next week's printing.
"Have you ever wanted to finish your work on time?" She primly replied to his fanciful imaginings.
James Hiller knew that girl would drive him to madness someday. If they drag him away for disorderly conduct they need only to ask Ben Franklin's ward. The reason for locking up the roguishly handsome Mr. Hiller's? Ms. Phillips' uncanny ability to drive Mr. Hiller crazy. From her constant maturity, occasional haughtiness and strict adherence to propriety it was enough to try even Moses' patience. Not the one in the Bible, but their friend and "The Pennsylvania Gazette's" manager for proprietor, Mr. Franklin. One might find it a surprise, referring to a young woman in 1775 as the proponent of logic and objectivity on a newspaper staff, and whether he admitted it or not, James Hiller admired her firmness of mind. Consequently, the two rival reporters have had the most exciting of debates. They could rival those held in the Constitutional conventions. Usually involving the adamantly astute attorney, Mr. John Adams.
With an eye roll at Sarah's unladylike reminder of his lacking time management abilities, James replies, "At least when my stories are printed on the front page, they grab your attention!"
He proceeds to demonstrate by grabbing Sarah's shoulders and giving them a good shake. After being startled from her process of editing James' latest story, again, she instinctively gave a strangled cry of surprise while thrashing her notebook in defense. Unfortunately, James' face happened to be in the trajectory of Sarah's fist holding her leather bound notebook.
"Yoww!" He cries out in pain, mingled with surprise at the amount of force she can inflict when required.
An appropriately shocked gasp emanates from Sarah as she swoops from her spot underneath the large elm tree. The two reporters have now drastically switched positions from sitting side by side leaning against the trunk, to James stretched flat on his back and clutching his nose. For Sarah's part, she was leaning over him with the matriarchal look of concern she usually reserved for Ben Franklin's young French ward, Henri Lefebvre.
"James! Oh, I am dreadfully sorry! I had no intention of causing harm. Are you quite alright? Please, do tell me if you are hurt!" She said with a slightly shaking voice.
"Oh, and let you get the satisfaction? No thanks. Ah, it's just a nose, my um-arm got the brunt of your uh-fierce weapon anyways." He chuckles trying to catch his breath while rubbing the offended member of his face as he continues.
"Thankfully, this injury can't stop my natural talent for sniffing out a story. I'm certain you can defend yourself just fine though," he said in the hopes of easing the furrow in Sarah's brow that indicates the extent of her worry. For some reason, it irks the fifteen year old patriot to find himself the object of his rival reporter's motherly concern. It makes their one year age difference feel more like a chasm. James was a man, or young man, as Moses was always quick to interject. Still, he was old enough to be an apprentice for the most well-known man in the colonies. Old enough to work in the Continental army if he chose to. Granted, not old enough to become a soldier, but there were plenty of boys-young men-his age pretending to meet the age requirement to join the fight for liberty. In some way, James felt duty bound to give them their rightful place in history by recording their stories. The only person who would challenge his mission was the loyalist English girl. Her constant reminders at his lack of manners on the long wagon trips to deliver the newspaper have quickly become grating to James' headstrong nature. If only she knew how childish he felt compared to her mature mannerisms.
"Gee, relax Sarah! No need to get all worked up over nothing. No harm, no foul. Except, maybe a little harm. Haven't I suffered enough at the hands of the British?"
At James' assurance and backhanded insult, Sarah straightens from her inspection. Looking distinctly less worried with her narrowed green eyes and a flare of her nostrils.
"Pardon me, Mr. Phillips, for the unwanted concern. Apparently your ability to communicate your terse feelings hasn't been impeded. Forgive me, for being another British subject to have caused you harm!" She hastily said while standing to dust off her everyday blue and white calico dress that was perfect for keeping her cool in the humid spring weather.
"Your precious clouds are descending towards us at an alarming pace. Probably to bring us another April shower. I'm going to find shelter with or without you. Presumably, you're not too injured or offended to walk?"
In response, James rolls his eyes at her futile attempt at sarcasm, but follows her lead after his own cursory glance confirms the tell-tale signs of an impending storm heading towards the meadows around Philadelphia. At the young pair's retreat in the direction of farms residing to the west of the township center, the storm clouds respond with a hasty charge. Sarah gives up her vain attempts to pin her dress down in defiance of the wind clipping not only the surroundings, but the pair's once neat and tidy clothes. Back home in England, she never found herself in unladylike situations. Mrs. Potts would see to that. Sarah's upbringing may have been idyllic, but undoubtedly sheltered. One thing she is very certain of, Mrs. Potts would be greatly disappointed to see her former charge with windswept clothes, hair askew and breathing hard from outrunning a storm. To catch Sarah taking shelter with a young man, even if he was a year her junior, was positively scandalous. "You could be risking your reputation Miss Phillips!" She chuckles at the delicious thought of remaining mischievous, at least in the sharp eyes of her strict governess.
"Now what could you possibly find funny about the situation we find ourselves in Ms. Phillips?" James asks while resembling a drenched golden retriever.
Holding her head up ever so slightly, Sarah replies, "I don't see why you fail to see the comedy in the midst of this tragedy? Was it not you, who insisted it was too beautiful a spring day to stay cooped up in the print shop. I also recall it was your idea to continue traipsing outside of town toward Miller's farm,"
"Well, I wasn't wrong, a couple of hours ago it was a great day for a walk!"
"Pity, you can't admit when you're wrong. Even when Providence confirms you of the facts," she said.
At that moment, thunder punctures the air with an authority that makes James involuntarily shiver. Consoling himself that he couldn't help it because of the wet clothes.
"Moving on! What do you propose we do until the storm passes?" He asks in a vain attempt at distraction from his glaring mistake. Sarah sighs in that long-suffering way James imagines his own mother might have done if she hadn't passed before raising her son.
Author's Note: How should this story of Sarah and James caught in the rain end?
Cast your vote
Option A: Storm clouds pass and their back home soon.
Option B: Fluffy declarations of love.
Option C: Share their deepest secrets.
Option D: Lightning strikes in more ways than one :)