John Rolfe had had his heart broken before.
When he was a lad, he'd been smitten with the daughter of one of his father's business partners, Isabel. Isabel was bright, well educated, and beautiful with a sweet face, lovely chestnut brown hair and vivid blue eyes. She was just a year his junior, and they got along splendidly, and Rolfe had planned to propose. Before he could, however, Isabel decided to enter the nunnery, having found her calling in the Lord, which Rolfe could hardly blame her for, but it still stung, nevertheless.
Years later, Rolfe had met and married a woman named Sarah, who was as warm as a fire's hearth and sweet as cream. She filled his days with love and light beyond his wildest dreams. Sarah died in childbirth, right alongside their daughter, Bermuda, leaving Rolfe asunder with grief twice over. It had been one of the hardest things he'd ever had to live through, and there were still times he wondered what could have been had such a tragedy not befallen them. He still wondered what it felt like to hold little hands, to feel cold feet against your back in the mornings. Sometimes, out in streets and markets of London, he would see little girls with auburn hair about the age Bermuda would be had she survived, and he would be faced with the agony of grief all over again.
And now, his thoughts were consumed by the image of one of the most incredible women he'd ever met, her brown eyes haunting his dreams and the whisper of her skin against his arm a phantom.
But her heart belonged to another, to a man with enough adventure in his heart to keep up with hers. John Rolfe was not an idiot; he knew that there was never going to come a day when she would love him even half as much as she did Smith. The two of them may share a name, but they would never share her love.
Rolfe watched from the window, looking out into the back garden. There, Pocahontas and John Smith walked together, with Smith somewhat leaning against Pocahontas whenever a step pulled at the lashes on his back a bit too much. She didn't seem to mind; she happily looped her arms around one of his to help him. They were smiling as they chatted back and forth, Meeko and Percy running about the lawn, with Flit flying excitedly about their heads.
Rolfe heard Mrs. Jenkins come up beside him, her shoes clicking on the floors. She followed his gaze out the window and sighed wishfully.
"They look so happy." She said softly.
Rolfe hummed in reply. They did look happy, there was no denying that. There was a light in Pocahontas's eyes that had not been there before.
"You did the right thing, bringing that young man back to her." Mrs. Jenkins said. She laid a hand on his arm. "I'm so proud of you."
And that was just it: it was the right thing; Rolfe knew that deep in his heart of hearts. Bringing him back to her, and promising to help them both fight for her people, and thus their ability to be together, is the most right thing Rolfe has ever felt he's done.
She didn't belong here, with Rolfe; she belonged with her people, with Smith at her side. She could never belong in England.
Rolfe knew what English society would do, what it would demand of her. It would demand that she sit still and remain silent, that she fit herself into clothes that, while beautiful, did not befit her, did nothing but keep her prisoner. It would deem her unworthy of her own voice, would seek to strip her of her very essence. And he knew, deep in his heart, that it would kill her.
But this man, sat at her side, demanded nothing of her. Smith simply allowed her to be, to exist just as she was. He never spoke over her, never tried to make her something she wasn't. He looked at her as an equal, as a partner, as the extraordinary person she was, for all that she was, not all that she could be. Watching the two of them sit side by side beneath the shade of the tree in the garden, laughing at Meeko and Percy as they romped around in the grass, it was plain to see how easy being together was for the two of them, how the other's company was as if it were an extension of themselves.
Rolfe knew she could never love him that way, and yes, that understanding hurt. But the way he could see how much they cared for each other made that fact much easier of a burden to bear.
"Thank you," he said to Mrs. Jenkins. "I only want her to be happy."
The old housekeeper smiled at him gently and reached up to pat his cheek.
"There is happiness for you, too, out there somewhere." She promised.
Rolfe smiled. "Thank you." He said. "Perhaps one day."
They turned their gazes back to the couple outside. They continued to talk, never minding a care in the world. It was as if no one else existed but the two of them, in that moment in the grass.
Perhaps one day Rolfe would find a love like that. For now, it was enough to know he had helped the two of them find that happiness again.
It was enough.
The reverie was broken with the sound of horses - several of them, at a guess - from outside the manor. Seconds later, Thomas ran into the room, a wild, frightened look in his eyes.
"Ratcliffe's carriage just pulled in." He said, breathlessly.
Rolfe felt his heart stop, and icy chill running down his spine.
Had Ratcliffe figured out that he and Thomas had been the ones to help Smith escape? He doubted it; Ratcliffe was smart, but he doubted he would have figured it out with absolutely nothing to go on. Further, he doubted he would have the gall to accuse Rolfe of treason, not when Rolfe was so very closely tied to the aristocracy Ratcliffe wanted to be part of.
But, then, why was he here?
"Go get Pocahontas and Smith, tell them to return to the house at once." He said to Thomas, who nodded, and raced off into the garden.
Rolfe turned to his housekeeper. "Ratcliffe mustn't know Smith or Brown are here, Mrs. Jenkins. Please have them hide in the kitchens. Use the earth cellar if you must. Pocahontas should use the servants' stairs to return to her room where Uttamatomakkin can protect her.."
Mrs. Jenkins fled, quick as a bee, in the direction of the door to the garden. He could hear her whispering, "Come, quickly now!" as he turned and walked towards the front room. A loud series of knocks echoed through the room from the door, and Rolfe prayed Smith and Brown had been successfully ushered into their hiding places, and Pocahontas safe in her room.
Rolfe took a deep breath before he reached out and opened the door.
Ratcliffe stood on the front path, a smug smile on his face.
"Governor Ratcliffe," Rolfe said cordially. He stepped aside and swept his hand inward, allowing Ratcliffe to enter. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Ratcliffe didn't beat around the bush.
"I've come to speak to the savage princess, if you please." He said. "I have information I feel she would like to hear."
Rolfe swallowed against the anger burning in his throat at the way he spoke of Pocahontas.
"I'm afraid she's taken ill." He said. "The events of the Hunt Ball distressed her greatly and she is resting."
Ratcliffe hummed. "Yes, and the information I possess directly pertains to that." He said. "Would you have her brought down, please?" His tone implied that it was not a request, but a thinly veiled order.
Rolfe eyed Ratcliffe for a moment, before he called for Mrs. Jenkins.
The housekeeper came trundling into the room a few moments later, her eyes wide and mouth pressed into a thin line of worry.
"Please get Pocahontas and have her come down." He instructed.
Mrs. Jenkins nodded, and turned to make her way up the stairs.
Rolfe looked back at Ratcliffe. "It will only be a moment." He said. "In the meantime, I warn you: if you've come here to harass her, I will have you removed from my home."
Ratcliffe raised an eyebrow. "I merely wish to pass along information, nothing more." He assured him, not that Rolfe bought a word of it.
A moment later, Pocahontas appeared at the top of the stairs, Utte and Mrs. Jenkins close behind. She descended the stairs, composed and fiercely stone faced. She fixed a glare at Ratcliffe as she came to stand beside Rolfe.
"I can't imagine I have anything to say to you." She said coolly. "Why have you sent for me?"
Ratcliffe chuckled darkly. "The King has granted me his final permissions to sail back to Virginia with the armada he promised me in a conquest to retrieve what is rightfully mine. I was supposed to leave at week's end, but I have just received word that everything will be ready for departure tomorrow afternoon. I thought you should know."
Rolfe felt Pocahontas freeze beside him, and he felt his own heart growing still with horror.
We need more time! He thought.
"No!" Pocahontas said. "I have not yet spoken to the King. I know that if I were to speak with him—"
"You had your chance at the Hunt Ball," Ratcliffe interjected. "And look how splendidly that ended for you."
"I would have had my chance, had you not—"
"Don't you mean, had Smith not shown up?" Ratcliffe interrupted again. "Pity, that. It is quite vexatious that he always has a tendency to show up where he isn't wanted." Ratcliffe smirked at her, malice dancing in his eyes. "He told me everything, you know. How your filthy brethren are hiding the gold, how he'd convinced you he cared about you to get more information from you. A pity it cost him everything."
The lies rolling from Ratcliffe's tongue poisoned the air to a degree that Rolfe had to stop himself from gagging. Pocahontas took a step closer to Ratcliffe, with a clear anger festering in every inch of her body.
"Do you ever stop lying?!" She demanded. "My people have no gold, and you know it! John Smith knows it! He would never say any of those things!" She took another step forward, and Rolfe reached out to put a hand on her arm, stopping her. "You know nothing of me or my people, and you know nothing of the kind of man John Smith is if you think he would speak those words."
Ratcliffe laughed.
"Then why is it," he said, casually. "That whilst undergoing the interrogation process, he finally admitted to everything? That he blames you for leading him to ruin?"
Rolfe glanced at Pocahontas and saw that she had blanched, looking for all the world as though she'd been slapped. Rolfe knew how guilty she felt for what had happened to Smith; having it rubbed in her face by a man like Ratcliffe had to be like salt upon a fresh wound, nevermind that it was all a lie.
"He's dead, I'm afraid. Succumbed to the lash in the early morning yesterday." Ratcliffe informed her without preamble. He smirked at her. "It was all rather pathetic, really. He begged for his life, and when it became clear it would not be granted, he died cursing your name, wishing he'd never met you."
"That–that isn't true." Pocahontas pressed, but anyone could hear the quiver in her voice. "He wouldn't...he isn't…"
"I'm afraid, my dear, that it is." Ratcliffe told her. "Smith is dead. And if it weren't for you, perhaps it would not be so. Perhaps he would still be in hiding, watching as your disloyal heart continues to turn its back on everything you claim to stand for." He tsked. "All's well that ends well, I suppose. One obstacle down, and now all that remains are your heathenous people."
"You will pay for this." Pocahontas assured him. "My people will fight back against you."
Ratcliffe laughed. "Bows and arrow tips against armor and gunpowder? My dear, your people don't stand a chance. I'll be sure to send them your regards when I arrive in the New World."
He turned on his heel and made his way back to the door.
"Smith's head is atop London Bridge, if you're so inclined to pay him a visit." He said as he opened the door to see himself out. He sneered at her over his shoulder. "Tell him I said hello."
With that, he closed the door, and was gone, just as quickly as he'd come.
No one dared move a muscle until the sound of his carriage pulling away could be heard. Rolfe allowed himself to let out the breath he'd been holding since Ratcliffe had walked through the door.
He dared a look at Pocahontas, who was staring at the door Ratcliffe had left from, rage written over every corner of her face, her body drawn tight as a string, her small hands clenched into fists. Rolfe had not known her long, but he knew Pocahontas was not a violent woman, yet he didn't dare blame her for a second for wanting to be, even if for a moment, against a man as vile as John Ratcliffe.
"His lies will be the death of my people." She seethed. "And for what? For gold that doesn't exist?"
Rolfe shook his head. "For power, Pocahontas. For the sheer enjoyment that laying your people to waste will bring him." He gently put a hand on her shoulder. "You mustn't let him get to you. We'll put a stop to him, I promise you. But I fear we have far less time to devise a plan to do so than we had originally planned."
He looked at Mrs. Jenkins, who was wringing her hands beside the ever steadfast form of Uttamatomakkin.
"Fetch Smith and Brown, Mrs. Jenkins." He said gently. "There isn't any time to waste. If we want to speak with the King and convince him to call off the armada, we must act quickly."
Roughly an hour later, the six of them were all seated in the parlor, the air crackling with anxious energy like a lightning laden cloud.
"I must speak with the King!" Pocahontas pressed.
Rolfe pressed a hand to his forehead and sighed tiredly.
"It isn't that simple. You can't just demand an audience with the King; surely you realize that doing so would only hinder your efforts?" Rolfe said plainly.
"And you think you're better suited to speak on the behalf of her people than she is?" John demanded, raising an eyebrow.
"I'm not saying that." Rolfe defended. "I'm saying that I know the ways of the court, how to speak with the King on matters such as this."
"Then help me understand what it is I must do in order to get the King to listen." Pocahontas said. "I am willing to do whatever it takes."
"Begging an audience with the King takes time, Pocahontas." Rolfe said. "Time that we don't have."
"There must be something we can do!" She insisted. "I won't just sit by, safe here, while Ratcliffe charts the way to complete destruction for my people!"
"Perhaps if she gives the impression she is throwing herself upon his mercy, the King would be more willing to listen?" Thomas said.
Rolfe shook his head. "There is no doubt he is still angry with her behavior at the Hunt Ball, no matter how justified it was." He said. "I don't think we have any other choice but to go to the King, and hope that he will hear us out. The best we can do is try."
"I'm going too." John spoke up. "If there's any way to convince the King that Ratcliffe is lying, it's to prove that I'm still alive."
Pocahontas felt her heart stop in her chest. While John helping to expose Ratcliffe had always been on the table of plans they'd only just begun to discuss, now that it appeared that it was much more of a finality, the very idea terrified her.
"John, no." She said. "You're still recovering!"
"I have to." He insisted. "I can't just sit by and do nothing. If I can sway the King at all, I will do whatever it takes to do so."
"What if he doesn't believe you? What if he tries to hurt you, tries to take you away from me again? What if he kills you?" She felt the panic building in her heart as she said this, tears springing to her eyes. "I can't protect you against your own king, John."
John smiled sadly at her, and took her face in his hands.
"No, you can't." He agreed. "But if I can do this one thing to help protect you, I'll do it. I'll do it a thousand times over if it means you and your people will be safe." He pressed a kiss to her forehead and she felt the tears finally begin to fall. "You saved me once, Pocahontas. Let me help save you this time."
She let out a single sob and covered one of his hands on her face with her own, leaning into his touch like it was the very thing she needed to live.
"I can't lose you again." She said softly.
"If all goes according to plan, you won't have to." He said.
Pocahontas curled her hands into his shirt and buried her face against his chest, knowing that he had made up his mind.
John gently wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as she cried, rubbing a hand soothingly along her spine. She felt him rest his chin on her hair.
"She is right, you know." Rolfe said, reminding them that they were not alone. "Your wounds are still quite fresh, and the King may very well respond badly to your being there. Are you sure you wish to help us?"
John nodded, holding her a bit tighter. She did the same. "Yes."
"Then I think you are indeed our best bet to convince the King of Ratcliffe's lies and manipulations." Rolfe said. "I will send a message to the King immediately, asking for an audience. Even if we do not hear back from him — and I think that is a possibility — we will move forward with our plan to beg an audience in person at court."
John nodded.
"Whatever happens," he said. "Make sure she is protected."
"I will." Rolfe promised solemnly.
Pocahontas heard his footsteps as he left the room to send for a page to send word to the King. She heard Thomas mutter something to John before he, too, took his leave, and she felt Mrs. Jenkin's gentle hand brush against her hair before she and John were left alone, standing in the middle of the parlor.
She let herself cry, let herself grieve, as the man she loved simply held her. So much of their time together had been exactly like this, with stolen moments together before time and circumstance once again forced them apart. It didn't seem fair, that she had come all this way, had been willing to sacrifice so much, only to potentially still lose everything: her people, her culture, her land, and John.
"I wish you wouldn't do this." She said thickly. "I wish you would be safe. I wish there were another way."
"I know." He said. "I wish things could be different. But as they stand, this is the only way. I'm sorry."
She sniffed and pulled away to look at him. His blue eyes were sad, but as strong and steadfast as they'd always been. He was, in every way, still the man she had fallen in love with two summers ago.
She let her eyes fall to the bandages peeking out from where his shirt fell open at the collar.
"I don't want to lose you." She repeated.
"Look at me," he said softly. He waited until she raised her eyes once again to his. "Do you remember what I said to you the night before I was to be killed by your father, when you came to visit me in that hut?"
She felt the memory of that night stab her heart. She nodded. Those words had played themselves over and over again in her mind every day since that moment, when she thought it was the last she would ever see him alive.
"I meant it then and I mean it now: no matter what happens, I will always be with you." He leant his forehead against hers. "Forever."
Another sob caught in her throat, and she buried her face against his collarbone again, wishing to stay there forever, where he was safe and whole, and she could once again be his.
"And I'm so grateful to you…" He whispered in her ear.
Unable to finish the refrain, she gripped him tighter, and wept.