Disclaimer: The makers of the film The Patriot own Colonel Tavington. Mary Sue is the common property of us all.
Genre: comedy/parody
Let us move on to less serious tales. In this installment, an aspiring actress (and fanfic author) finds herself the heroine of her very own Tavington fic. But things are not always what they seem...
Episode 6: Mary Sue Hams it Up
by Zubenschamali aka Beta Librae
Tiffany regarded her reflection in the dressing room mirror with smug satisfaction. Her golden hair was heaped high atop her head, with a ringlet escaping on either side to fall to her bare white shoulders–white as the stars spangling the satin of her indigo overdress, which in turn perfectly matched her star-sapphire eyes, while her lips were the same scarlet as the red stripes of her red-and-white striped petticoat. All in all, she looked every inch the part of the beautiful, feisty, all-American Mary Slocumb, heroine of her history professor's brilliant new play about the War of Independence, which was being staged by her college drama department and had its premiere tonight.
Tiffany loved to portray Mary standing up to cruel, lustful British officers like Major Patrick Ferguson and especially, Colonel Banastre Tarleton, and their barbaric troops. It just made her feel so inspirational and patriotic! At the same time, moreover, she could pretend to herself that she was heroine Virginia Martin in her very own Patriot fanfic "Unvanquished Patriot Heart". Virginia was Ben Martin's 18-year-old OFC eldest daughter, and soon found herself fighting her own private War of Independence when she caught the eye of the undeniably attractive but indisputably evil Colonel William Tavington.
Tiffany's lip curled as she thought of all those pathetic fics where the American heroines were victimized by Tavington, only to eventually fall in love with him. Her story was a really sophisticated and realistic piece of fiction. She'd refused to even contemplate having Virginia betray her glorious cause (or her heroic suitor, Lieutenant Henry Cleveland) by falling in love with an evil English butcher who was oppressing her fellow countrymen, or even be attracted to him in spite of herself when he tried to force his attentions on her.
She patted her hair, tugged her plunging neckline even lower, and gave her reflection one last self-satisfied smirk. Then she emerged from the dressing room to join her fellow cast members in the wings. A number of her fellow actresses eyed her sourly. They had all auditioned for the part of Mary Slocumb as well. But Tina and Jennifer–begowned in gaudy satin trimmed in cheap black lace, their faces plastered with makeup–were instead cast as Major Ferguson's sleazy mistresses, while Carla, Amber, Monica and Trish–tricked out fussy ruffled dresses and towering powdered wigs–had to play some stuffy stuck-up British and Tory ladies. Tiffany returned their resentful stares with a superior look. Well, pardon me for being better-looking and more talented! she thought complacently.
She smiled warmly at Josh, the hunky college football star who played her husband, and condescendingly at Phil, the British exchange student who played Colonel Tarleton. It pleased her no end that most English people nowadays seemed to realize that their side had been completely in the wrong, and, like Phil–and Jason Isaacs in The Patriot, for that matter–were more than willing to make amends by lending their talents to truthful and accurate dramatic productions about the American Revolution.
Beyond them, the curtain began to rise on the set representing the moonlit front lawn of the Slocumbs' plantation. Tiffany gathered up her skirts and swept onstage; her skin tingled strangely as she passed into the eerie glow of the blue-white floodlight. She opened her mouth to utter the first line of her opening monologue–and gasped instead: before her lay not a dimly-seen audience, but a pastoral landscape bathed in genuine moonlight! She whirled around to see, not a set and painted backdrop, but the front facade of a real plantation house! Looking down, she saw that she herself was now clad in a modest muslin gown with a kerchief tucked into the bodice.
"Miss Virginia!" came an urgent voice from close by. "Your father says for you to come in at once! 'T'ain't safe for you to be out here all alone with all these soldiers about."
Abigale! And she had called her "Virginia"! So often during rehearsals she had completely lost herself in the role and felt that she actually was Mary or even, at times, Virginia, really living back during the American Revolution. But this time, it had to be for real. She pinched herself inobtrusively. Yes, there could be no doubt: reality didn't come flooding back for her to find herself standing on the stage in the auditorium; the scene around her remained the same, and now she became aware of campfires burning beyond the far side of the house and the hubbub of many voices.
So, she must have arrived not long after the point in her story where Tavington took over Fresh Water following the nearby battle. For Fresh Water hadn't been burned–or Gabriel marched off as a prisoner or Thomas shot for trying to save him–in her fic, though of course this wasn't to make Tavington look merciful. Since her OFC was the focus of "Unvanquished Patriot Heart", she'd needed to make some adjustments to the original storyline to accommodate Virginia's starring role: in her version, after slaughtering all the Rebel wounded, Tavington decided to make an example of Gabriel by interrogating and then executing him at his own home, in front of his own family, waiting until the next day to carry out the cruel deed in order to prolong their anguish; this new development allowed Virginia to take centre stage. She bravely kept Tavington's attention diverted while Thomas helped Gabriel escape from the cellar where he was imprisoned, and then, when Gabriel's absence was discovered, selflessly drew Tavington's wrath away from her family and down onto herself by convincing him that she, not Thomas, had helped Gabriel escape and that she, not Gabriel, was really the spy. The vengeful (and lustful) Colonel took this lovely young "spy" prisoner in her brother's stead and dragged her back to his quarters at camp for "questioning", which sparked Ben's crusade.
Tiffany realized with a sudden sense of urgency that it must be time for her to spring into action: Virginia and Thomas had decided (well, it was all her decision, really, since she was the brains of the operation and her adoring younger brother totally looked up to her) to set their plan in motion after dark.
"Yes, of course, I shall go in at once," she said to Abigale, barely looking at her as she brushed past her and ran up the porch steps and into the house. In there was Tavington, and it was time for her to serve the Patriot cause by turning this lecherous monster's obvious preoccupation with Virginia to her advantage, not letting herself out of his sight all evening and courageously enduring his repugnant company...even complying–though anything but meekly–with his demands that she entertain him with her singing and piano-playing, and more disgusting still, that she give him a bath. Her heart raced and her nerves tingled–with fear and distaste for the ordeal ahead, of course.
She paused in the hallway; then, hearing the unmistakable sound of Tavington's voice from within the dining room, she drew a deep breath, smoothed her skirts, and swept into the room. At least, she'd meant to sweep. Instead, in her nervousness, she pushed at the partially-open door with too much force, causing it to fly back against the dining room wall with a resounding crash, while she herself went skidding across the threshold like a total klutz.
"I came back inside, just as you bade me, father," she burst out in a breathless, high-pitched voice, cursing inwardly as the words left her lips–Goddammit! A fine debut she was making, acting and sounding like she was only around Margaret's age!
The men had all stood as she entered, and she met Tavington's eyes–those amazing ice-blue eyes, set in such an incredibly handsome face–defiantly, only to be overcome with renewed consternation: he was regarding her with rather disdainful amusement, nothing more.
"Very good, Virginia," said Benjamin quietly. "Now you had best help Abigale ready the children for bed."
Tiffany opened her mouth to protest, but was quelled by the stern look her "father" directed at her.
"Come along, Miss Virginia," murmured Abigale, who had slipped inobtrusively into the room behind her. "Leave the gentlemen to their after-dinner port."
Tiffany tossed her head and flounced out, angered at being ordered about like a mere child. She was mistress of Fresh Water, after all! And Abigale was only a servant–who was she to boss her around? More importantly, what could Tavington be up to, acting like he wasn't even interested in her? Oh, he'd been practically salivating all right–but over Ben's sensuous, full-bodied wine, not her: she'd received the distinct impression that he could hardly wait to sit down again and get back to his drink! Presumably Thomas was carrying out his part of the plan right now, but it was unthinkable that she miss out on being heroine of the hour, upstaged by a bloody bottle of wine!
She stomped up the stairs ahead of Abigale, and was snappish and impatient with her frightened little "brothers" and "sisters" as she helped Abigale put them to bed. After that, she went sulkily into Virginia's bedroom.
Why weren't things working out as planned? It was absolutely crucial that Tavington start coming on to her–all so she could teach him a lesson about the Patriots' cause being true and just and that they could never be defeated, of course. She stared sullenly at her reflection in the cheval glass. Then inspiration struck. This outfit made her look so young and prissy–maybe if she looked older everyone would start taking her more seriously.
She leapt to her feet and ran down the hall to the room Elizabeth Martin had shared with her husband. Good, all the late Mrs. Martin's gowns were still stored in the clothespress. Tiffany supposed that they might be a bit out of fashion, but the fanciest ones were still an improvement on what she was wearing. She selected an especially pretty rose silk one, and struggled out of the frumpy muslin and into it. A bit large on her, but she already looked much more sexy and sophisticated. Now to do something about her hair. Once she had torn off her stupid cap and swept her hair up onto her head, she rummaged around and found some exquisite pieces of jewellry to complete her ensemble.
She then descended to the first floor. The men had moved to the drawing room by now, and she knew that it was acceptable for ladies to be present in the drawing room when the gentlemen went there after dinner. In fact, as their hostess it was her duty to be there, she told herself.
She opened the door and went in–gracefully this time, thank God. The men rose and bowed and she curtsied. Ben, however, was looking at her with unmistakable disapproval and annoyance, while Thomas appeared to think she was out of her mind. Well, she had just as much right to be there as he did! More, since it was up to her to defend the precious ideals for which their brave countrymen were fighting!
Captain Bordon was graciously thanking "the charming Miss Martin" for gracing them with her presence. She responded perfunctorily, and then directed another defiant look at Tavington. He raised his eyebrows quizzically, and again, gave her that disdainful smile.
Tiffany was stung. "I am pleased to see you looking so happy and comfortable, Colonel Tavington," she said acidly, "unlike my poor brother locked away in his own cellar and all those wounded Patriot prisoners you had massacred this morning!"
Tavington raised his brows again. "I knew your Rebel fear mongers worked quickly," he drawled, "but up until now I had not realized how quickly. I see that there are already fresh rumours about my brutality in circulation, in connection to a battle I fought only this morning."
Tiffany was thrown into confusion. What could he mean?
"My daughter is indeed misled," said Ben, giving her an icy, quelling look. "My eldest son is serving in the Continental army, but as we are uncertain of his present whereabouts I cannot imagine how she came to believe that he is locked up in the cellar–or for that matter, that the Patriot soldiers who were taken prisoner this morning have been slaughtered."
Tiffany all but sputtered. It was impossible that Tavington hadn't captured Gabriel or killed all the prisoners!
Bordon, with a pitying look at Tiffany, ended the strained silence that ensued by tactfully changing the topic of conversation, asking Ben for his opinions on Herodotus, a volume of whose History lay on a nearby side table.
Tiffany, mind still reeling, sank into the only empty chair–which was beside Thomas instead of Tavington, unfortunately.
"You ninny! What do you think you're doing?" Thomas hissed furiously at her under cover of the ongoing discussion of Herodotus.
"I am defending the principles Gabriel is fighting for, not betraying them as you and Father are by fraternizing with the enemy!" she shot back in a lofty whisper.
"You're one to talk–parading in here tricked out like Aunt Charlotte in all her finery, and all but flaunting yourself at Colonel Tavington! What do you want him to think of you? You know his reputation! Although," he added grudgingly, "I'm beginning to think he and the other redcoats may not be as terrible as we've always heard. We can be thankful that all he's done is impose himself and his troops on us until they're fit to ride out again–I'd expected much worse from him. But we may yet feel his wrath if he finds out that Gabriel is among the wounded Patriot prisoners here, and that father knew this all along, and that Gabriel was carrying secret dispatches. Did you never stop to think that you nearly gave everything away with your hen-witted accusations?"
Once again was Tiffany flummoxed. Nothing was going according to script in this stupid AU Patriot universe!
Tiffany sulked in her corner as the evening wore on. It wasn't fair! Although she could detect a certain underlying tension, the atmosphere was nowhere near as strained and angsty as in her fic, with Virginia's family and servants burning with helpless resentment against the brutal occupiers. Of course she was burning with resentment, but no one seemed to even notice or care–or if they did notice her, seemed to think her a presumptuous little fool. What a contrast with "Unvanquished Patriot Heart", where Virginia was front and centre and everyone took her completely seriously...all too seriously, in Colonel Tavington's case. Yet there he sat, conversing on civil enough terms with her "father", giving no indication that he was even aware she existed. What was wrong with him!
"What is wrong with you!" came Thomas' angry whisper. "Why do you keep staring at the Colonel like a...a scorned lover? Are you trying to give him the wrong impression of you?"
"Instead of constantly criticizing me, child," Tiffany hissed back, "you should be thankful to still be alive! Do you know how close you came to getting killed this morning?"
"Do you know how close you're coming to getting killed this minute?" he growled in reply.
Tiffany sniffed and turned away. He really was a stupid boy! Then she brightened: the conversation had turned from ancient history to current events. This could be her chance to finally capture Tavington's attention!
Bordon was mentioning how the Lord General had planned a round of festivities for the gentry of South Carolina, and that he, Bordon, hoped they would have the pleasure of seeing Captain Martin in attendance.
Tiffany decided that was as good an opening as any. "Why cannot you English realize that we colonists can neither be bribed like naughty children or brought to heel by force?" she earnestly declaimed. "We are pursuing a precious dream of freedom and are fighting to defend our homes, families, and country. You can never, ever hope to defeat us!"
One of Tavington's officers cocked an eyebrow. "With all respect, Miss Martin," he said with an unmistakable American accent, "myself and most of the other men in the British Legion are also fighting to defend our homes, families, and country. America is our homeland, too."
("I also feel certain that Pat Ferguson, Charley O'Hara, and their compatriots would rejoice at being described as 'English'," Tavington muttered in an aside to Bordon)
"–And if you are never, ever defeated, I daresay your victory will owe a great deal to the assistance of your French allies."
Tiffany did not deign to acknowledge him, the Tory traitor. She opened her mouth to continue with her speech, but at that moment Abigale appeared with a tea tray. Tiffany leapt to her feet, determined not to relinquish her place in the spotlight.
"Thank you, Abigale," she said grandly. "You may return to the kitchen now. I shall pour." She hastened across to the tea table, seized the pot, and bent forward to fill the first cup.
There was an assortment of gasps and snorts from the others in the room, while at the same instant Tiffany felt a cool draught on her bosom. She glanced down...and saw to her mortification that her somewhat ill-fitting bodice–Mrs. Martin had obviously been more generously endowed than she–had gaped as she leaned over, completely exposing her breasts. She straightened immediately, clutching her bodice to her chest.
"Virginia, go to your room at once!" commanded Ben in furious tones.
Tiffany fled, face aflame, only too happy to obey this time. But when she reached the top of the stairs, she crouched in the darkness there, unwilling to miss what transpired below.
"My daughter has not been herself since her brother went to war, nor has she ever fully recovered from the loss of her mother," she heard Ben grind out.
There were sympathetic murmurings, and then Tavington announced his attention of retiring, and stated that his troops would likely be ready to move out sometime the next day. The other officers could be heard to rise and move toward the door, bidding their host goodnight. Tiffany scrambled to her feet and retreated down the hall to Virginia's room, where the candle had nearly burned out. A minute or two later there was a rap at her door; she opened it warily to find Abigale standing on the other side.
"Your father wishes to speak with you before you retire, Miss Virginia," she said, her eyes downcast and her face unreadable.
Tiffany groaned inwardly. She had a feeling that this wasn't going to be one of the heartwarming father-to-daughter talks of "Unvanquished Patriot Heart". And sure enough, when Ben arrived shortly after, he was positively seething. He set his candle on the dresser, then stood and regarded her as if she were some monstrous changeling.
"What has come over you, girl?" he said harshly. "Your conduct this evening was beyond disgraceful! Are you at all aware that your foolish exhibition put your brother's life in danger, to say nothing of your own reputation? You do your poor mother no credit–she would have been shamed by your outspokenness, incivility, and impropriety, as am I."
"I think she would have proud of me!" said Tiffany hotly. "She was a famous actress and an artist's model before she got married, and always was an independent woman!"
Ben looked frankly incredulous, then his eyes narrowed. "I am beginning to think that there may be some truth to the excuse I put forward to the officers to account for your behaviour–the shock of recent events must have caused your wits to wander. I can assure you that your mother never had any obligation or inclination to take up employment–most especially not in such unseemly professions–and was a model of propriety her whole life long!"
"If you receive an offer from young Henry Cleveland when next he calls," he continued grimly, "you had better accept. We can only hope he doesn't hear of the spectacle you made of yourself tonight. The sooner you are safely married, the better. It is to be regretted that Cleveland's military obligations will keep him away from home so often for as long as this war lasts–you clearly need a husband who will be on hand constantly to keep you in line."
Tiffany could scarcely believe her ears–could this be the enlightened Ben Martin of "Unvanquished Patriot Heart", an egalitarian like all Patriots, who, as everyone knew, rejected the backward patriarchal attitudes of their British oppressors and were way ahead of their times in their thinking?
Ben was still talking: "I suppose a respectable older woman could be found to act as your companion until Cleveland leaves the Continental Army whenever this war ends. It is a pity that your Aunt Charlotte would not be suitable–the fact that she is a Loyalist would doubtless set Cleveland against the idea. And then"–he hesitated a little–"while I mean no disrespect to your mother's sister, she is perhaps not...sober enough for the task."
Tiffany found her tongue again. "Aunt Charlotte a Tory!" she burst out indignantly. "And how can you call her unsuitable when you have such strong feelings for her? I've seen the way you two look at each other!"
It was Ben's turn to be indignant. "Are you suggesting that I harbour an improper attachment to my sister-by-marriage!" he demanded in outraged tones. He shook his head disbelievingly. "I think it best that you retire now, before you become any more overwrought. And keep to your room until the British pull out tomorrow. I shall instruct Abigale to carry a tray up to you." With one last perturbed look, and another shake of his head, he left the room.
Tiffany felt like she was going to explode with frustration. She rushed across to the window, and drew in deep breaths of the cool night air. Then she caught sight of Tavington walking across the lawn toward another officer, hand raised in greeting. He would be leaving tomorrow! She was almost out of time! If she could somehow expose him as the depraved monster that she knew him to be, that would show that stodgy old stick-in-the-mud Ben Martin what a mistake he'd made in all-but collaborating with the enemy!
She quickly undressed and slipped into the nightgown she found folded neatly under the pillow of "her" bed, and then–damned if she was going to obey Ben's orders!–crept cautiously out of the room, along the hall, and downstairs. She slipped outside and tiptoed through the shadows until she was stationed behind a large shrub a few yards away from Tavington and his companion.
"I received a letter from Father just before we rode out on this latest foray against the Rebels," the other officer, who seemed to belong to a different regiment, was saying, "but only had occasion to read it this past half hour. Forgive me if I have kept you from your well-earned rest, but I was certain you would wish to hear my news without further delay: Father has finally given his consent to the match!"
Tavington's face was transfigured, all trace of cynicism fled. "Thank God!" he said exultantly. "Your news has made me the happiest man alive!"
The other officer beamed. "I daresay Frances must be the happiest of women! Since an official engagement now exists, she thought it not improper to write you herself." He withdrew a sealed, folded letter from his pocket and smilingly handed it to Tavington. He then shook Tavington's hand, offered him hearty congratulations, and strode off toward the dying campfires. Tavington lingered, taking what appeared to be a portrait miniature from an inner pocket, and gazing on it raptly.
Tiffany was frozen in shock. It was impossible that Tavington could be in love with–engaged to–some spoiled socialite back in England! The girl must be really rich, and he was only marrying her for her money–that had to be it, she told herself fiercely. But meanwhile, that stuck-up English chick was a whole ocean away from Tavington, and she, the beautiful, bewitchingly unaffected and unspoiled American girl Virginia Martin, was here. She was humiliated at all those men–especially that little nerd Thomas and the Tory dude, to say nothing of Ben–having seen her hooters like that, but the one good thing about it was that Tavington must surely have been really turned on by the sight, though she'd been too embarrassed at the time to look over and see his reaction.
His supposed happiness over the news of his engagement was undoubtedly just an act he was putting on so his fiancee's brother wouldn't realize he was just a heartless fortune-hunter–the real reason for his excitement had to be his having seen a poor innocent colonial girl accidentally expose herself to him. By now he must be thoroughly bored with all the slutty camp followers he no doubt bedded on a daily basis (hell, he probably even had a couple of full-time mistresses like Major Ferguson). So if she were to "accidentally" encounter him as he made his way back to the house, he would certainly be in the mood to attempt to act out the disgusting fantasies about his host's pure young daughter that were undoubtedly racing through his mind at that very instant. Likely that picture he was staring at with such intensity was some piece of filthy pornographic artwork.
When he returned the miniature to his pocket and started off in the direction of the house, she slipped swiftly and silently back the way she had come, but halfway there she detoured over to a bench between two large lilacs, before which Tavington would have to pass.
She seated herself on the bench, and then, as his footsteps drew nigh, she began to weep softly and wring her hands. "Oh, Gabriel, my dear brother, wherever can you be?" she soliloquized tragically. "Are you even still alive? And oh, mother dear, why did you have to die?" She cast herself across the bench, shaking with sobs, and murmuring brokenly to herself.
After several minutes of this, she began to feel a distinct irritation beneath her feigned grief. Why didn't he make his move? She slowly sat back up, intending to react with a show of alarm upon opening her teary eyes and beholding him standing before her. But there was nothing artful about the gasp that escaped her lips and the start she gave when her eyes fluttered back open: there stood a steely-eyed Benjamin Martin!
"Father! What are you doing here?" she faltered.
"I might ask you the same question!" he said icily. "Imagine my surprise, after having instructed you not to quit your room, to be informed by Colonel Tavington that you were out on the grounds, behaving in a distraught manner!"
"How dare he sneak right by and ignore me like that!" she burst out furiously, and then, realizing that she had spoken her thoughts out loud, clapped her hand over her mouth.
Ben stared. "Are you saying," he demanded fiercely, "that you came out here in the hopes of having a tryst with Colonel Tavington?"
"Of course not," snivelled Tiffany, beginning to cry in earnest now, though her tears were of anger and frustration. "I–I must have sleepwalked out here. I have no recollection of leaving the house. And," she added venomously, "I would not be at all surprised if Colonel Tavington took advantage of me while I was unconscious!"
"I see," said Ben in a flinty voice. "You actually have hopes of compromising the Colonel into marrying you!"
"Why would I want to marry the Butcher of the Carolinas? And why can't you see what a depraved monster he is?"
"You are in no position to accuse others of depravity, my girl!" he snarled. He seized her arm in a painful grip, pulled her roughly to her feet, and marched her back to the house. Tiffany began to fear that he intended to beat her. But after he had dragged her upstairs and flung her through her bedroom door, he restricted himself to informing her, in a low, wrathful voice, that since she could not be trusted to obey his instructions, he would have to keep her under lock and key. Before closing the door and turning the key in the lock, he told her that she would remain there until Henry called, most likely on the evening of the next day, whereupon he would expect her to receive Henry with all due propriety, and accept his probable offer of marriage.
Tiffany, enraged and rebellious, walked the floor most of the night. What if she was stuck here for good, and wound up having to marry Henry, who was without a doubt as domineering and chauvinistic and uptight as Ben and Thomas, rather than the perfect young man she had created in "Unvanquished Patriot Heart"?
As the eastern sky began to lighten, she decided that she wasn't going to stick around to be forced into marrying Henry. After dressing hastily, she stealthily climbed out her window and on to the balcony–how stupid of Ben not to think to lock the window, she thought scornfully–and with considerable difficulty, shinnied down one of the pillars. She then fled across the lawn and took to the road, heading down it for some distance before turning aside into the woods: she was going to hide out until she could figure out how to get back to her own time. She threw herself down on the bare ground beneath a hemlock, and, overcome with exhaustion, was soon fast asleep.
She was startled awake hours later by footsteps shuffling through the fallen needles. She sat up quickly, and turned to see none other than Ezekiel Rollins approaching. She shuddered, and reflected to herself that one of the few good things about this warped version of The Patriot was that while Ben Martin would never form a militia, at least this meant the Martins wouldn't have to have anything to do with Rollins. Then she grew downright uneasy: why was he looking at her like that?
"Good day to you," she said coldly, and, rising to her feet, attempted to walk past him.
"Not so fast, my pretty," he leered. "Have you no other greeting for a brave Patriot?"
"I am Captain Martin's daughter," she replied sharply. "And I must be going–Father will be wondering where I am." Even as she spoke, she kicked herself mentally for letting him know that no one knew where she was.
"Oh, I know who you are, my fine Missy Martin," he responded with another leer. "A crony of mine happened to be amongst the prisoners taken in the battle yesterday. He made up his mind to escape, but decided to do a little spying first. He lurked around your daddy's house to see if he could learn anything of importance from the British officers quartered there. Says one thing he did learn was that Captain Martin's pretty little golden-haired daughter was panting after that Butcher Tavington like a bitch in heat. Seems to me," he cackled, "you could bestow your favours on a Patriot."
"If you touch me, my father will kill you!" she said in rising panic.
"You'll have to be alive to tell him who it was insulted you! When he finds your pretty little ravished corpse–'course, it may not be so pretty when I'm through with it–I just may take that golden scalp of yours for a trophy–most likely he'll think it was one of those British bastards!"
Tiffany turned and fled in terror. But her long skirts hindered her progress; Rollins soon overtook her, and seizing her, cast her roughly to the ground. She shook with hysterical screams and began to scramble away frantically, when a shot rang out and Rollins fell dead.
She became aware of approaching hoofbeats, and looked up to see Colonel Tavington.
"You saved my life," she whimpered.
He dismounted and assisted her to her feet. "Are you much hurt?"
She ignored his query. "H-how did you happen to be in the right place at the right time?"
"When your poor father discovered your absence earlier this morning, he was fairly distracted. However, not wishing your shocking disappearance to become general knowledge, he quietly approached me and requested my assistance. He, myself, and a number of my most trusted men have been combing the countryside for you."
Tavington, generously lending his assistance to a search-and-rescue mission? Chivalrously coming to the aid of a damsel in distress? That was impossible! He had to have some sinister ulterior motive–and she was sure she could guess what it was, too.
"I am in your debt," she said in a sad but resigned voice, casting him a sidelong look up from under her lashes. "I suppose you will expect me to repay you in some way."
He ignored her words. "I am sure you will wish to return home with all speed, to recover from your ordeal and set your father's mind at ease. If I lift you on to my horse, will you be fit to ride?"
That could only be a double entendre!
"I will endure it if I must," she said, still more sadly and resignedly. "I am alone and helpless and completely at your mercy."
"I mean you no harm, Miss Martin," he told her stiffly and with a note of impatience. "Now let us get you on to that horse."
When he reached for her, she allowed herself to sag against him (taking special care to bring her breasts into contact with him, and to rub against his groin), as if in a swoon, trembling all the while.
"Forgive me, dear mother, for what I am about to be forced to do!" she murmured in as piteous a voice as she could manage.
Tavington immediately stepped back, until she was held at arm's length, then, when she automatically straightened up in her surprise, he let go of her.
"Suppose we call a halt to this charade once and for all, Miss Martin," he said coldly. "Out of consideration for your unfortunate father, I was prepared to play along with his face-saving pretense that you were deranged by grief, even after it became apparent that you were in reality a posturing hussy. But I no longer have the time or patience to spare for your foolish games. I may state plainly that I have no designs on your virtue, assuming it exists–artful, hypocritical females of questionable morals hold no attraction for me. I have encountered your sort before: self-righteous Rebel women who make veiled advances to me beneath a show of defiance or timorousness, and would doubtless cry rape were I to succumb to their wiles. Now, I shall return you forthwith to your father, whom I sincerely pity for having the charge of such a wayward and reckless daughter; you have kept me from my duties quite long enough."
How dare he accuse her of being a wily slut when he was based on Banastre Tarleton, who had boasted that he had raped more women than any man in the British army!
"You lying bastard," Tiffany hissed, narrowing her eyes to slits. "You have a lot of nerve to call me a hypocrite, when you can say that all those Patriot women who I'm sure you really did rape were asking for it! The duties you're just dying to get back to are raping a bunch more innocent colonial women and murdering their husbands and children! You're just as bad as that monster lying there, and the only reason you didn't rape and murder me was because you knew you couldn't get away with it, since my father knows you were searching for me."
"You know damned well that you want me," she shrieked, working herself into a frenzy, "but you can't have me!"
She ripped her bodice and chemise open, then hoisted her skirts to her waist. "Remember this when you're fucking that rich English bitch of yours!" she cried tauntingly. "I bet she's cross-eyed and buck-toothed, and has a flat chest, a hunchback, and bow legs!"
She began to sing "The Star-Spangled Banner" at the top of her lungs, shaking her chest and gyrating her hips in time. She kicked her legs cancan-style, then pirouetted rapidly.
Dizzied, she slowed to a stop. As she'd spun, her surroundings had been reduced to a blur–which now resolved itself into the college auditorium! Before her stood not Tavington, but a gaping Phil! Beyond them, the audience resounded with hoots, jeers, boos and catcalls. She was back in her Mary Slocumb costume–but the spangled bodice was torn asunder like Virginia Martin's muslin, while the striped skirts were still hiked to her waist. She relinquished her grip on the fabric of her skirts, and crossed her arms protectively over her chest.
And then she caught sight of him–a short, stocky young man in a green uniform jacket, tight white breeches, and a black helmet, standing beyond Phil. His dark eyes sparkled with gleeful amusement, and he gave her a mischievous wink.
"Goddamn you, Banastre Tarleton!" she screeched, the sound system carrying her voice even above the cacophony of the audience. You did this!"
"He did it!" she repeated, turning to the audience, and pointing one hand in the direction of the red-haired apparition, but hastily clamping her arm back over her chest after a renewed uproar from the crowd. "This is all his fault! He made me warp into the universe of The Patriot, only a warped version, and I've just come back!"
"I don't care if you're a ghost," Tiffany howled, "I'm still going to kill you!" She whirled back toward Tarleton–but he was gone! "You can't hide from me!" she shrieked, rushing off the stage.
She came to an abrupt standstill in the wings, swinging her head about wildly as she fought to adjust her vision to the dim light. Spying a greenish shape off to one side, she lunged toward it with a cry of mingled rage and triumph. She clawed and pummelled the figure; it, momentarily thrown off balance by her assault, quickly straightened up, shook her off, and in an unexpectedly familiar voice, thundered: "What in the name of God has gotten into you! You've ruined the whole performance!"
It was the director who she faced, his green pullover awry, the expression of enraged, frustrated consternation on his scratched and bleeding face a reflection of her own.
"You," he stormed, "are out of this play!"
The next night, Monica waited eagerly in the wings, dressed in the hastily-repaired Mary Slocumb costume. Of course it was just awful the way the opening night performance had had to be called off like that, after that egotistical bitch Tiffany had totally screwed up. Some people thought she must have been stoned out of her mind, but Monica was sure that being up on stage in front of all those people had just gone completely to her head and made her decide to improvise on the script with some kind of experimental theatre stunt; she always was a total showoff. Anyway, though, things had worked out for the best in the long run: she should have been cast as Mary in the first place, and now was her chance to prove to the director how wrong he'd been to hand his little pet Tiffany the role. She was going to take the audience by storm!
Right on cue, she gathered up her skirts and swept onstage.
And in his lurking-place in the shadows offstage, the red-haired, green-jacketed phantom waited gleefully, ready to put in motion his own special unscripted stage directions...