Story Summary: Tabitha Wentworth always thought her mission in life would be to keep house for her sterling father. Fortunately her family had other ideas and inadvertently gave the young woman a chance at real happiness. They'd take it back if they could.
A/N: Yes, the last chapter may have seemed like a lot of filler—sometimes it did to me too—but it was needed. There were things mentioned, people brought up—work with me, ok! It was needed! . . .In my opinion. Also, I'm going to be posting an entire cast list when this is all finished, but it may make a clearer picture if you know that Will is played by Denis Leary, Eddie is Steve Buscemi, and Heath is David Thewlis. Just in my head of course. Yes. Just in my head. The Times article I mention was published January 31, 1900. William Goebel was a Democrat who had a reputation for supporting African Americans, women, and trade unions. He was shot after a controversial election where the Republican candidate was accused of ballot rigging.
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"It'll be nice to see ho—the hotel again." Tabitha's gaze bobbed from the news pages rustling in her hands to the sleepy gaze of the woman seated across. Rebecca had been in a constant state of bemusement since their delayed meeting with Mister Edward "Eddie" Collins, ("He's a twin? Oh my goodness, isn't that a rarity?") and was only now breathing a sigh of relief as they both returned to Washington, more than a week passed schedule. Tabitha was unaware of Agent Thatcher's rolling emotional spectrum—only that the accomplished woman was in finer spirits, most likely due to their comfortable accommodations in the private car—or that she herself was the cause of Rebecca's bewilderment.
"You seemed to be enjoying New York well enough."
"Well yes, of course," she was quick to explain, warming to the subject. "It's so beautiful and full of light! And the people—my goodness, I never would have dreamed there could be so many people!" Rebecca chuckled.
"I'll have to see you sent to London next. It takes barely any time at all in the Fogg's balloon." Tabitha couldn't repress her shudder but her smile widened a notch or two. It had been terrifying travelling from Washington to New York in the middle of a snowy Christmas Eve; she couldn't imagine the horror of travelling such a way over the expanse of the Atlantic Ocean.
"There could be nothing better than New Year's Eve in New York. A new century Ma'am!"
"Let us hope it's better than the last."
Rebecca hadn't detailed her European excursion, but, as her superior, Tabitha supposed it was the Agent's prerogative what information was relevant and what was on a need to know basis. It was clear even to the clerk that some of the ipolish/i had been wiped away from the woman's professional exterior. There was a certain sadness Tabitha had happened to glimpse, especially in the presence of the larger city's vagrant children. Perhaps Rebecca was finally feeling that entirely proper need to begin a family of her own? That would have been a rather personal question, but Tabitha wanted to ask if Rebecca had met the British League, and what was thought of their colourful array of agents (though none of them referred to themselves as such). She wanted to know what direction the Service was headed in, now that President McKinley was no longer under any apparent threat. She would have liked to wonder at her own purpose. . .
"Has your work been stimulating Tabitha? Have you been able to tolerate the boredom?"
"Ma'am?" A cold, wintry world rushed by through the glass of their window. There would have been a tremendous evergreen tree in Aunt Julia's great room over the holiday season, decorated with spun glass ornaments and delicate crocheted bells and angels, hardened with a sugar mixture to keep shape. One of the younger boys would invariably try to eat one and be banished to the kitchen—or the stables, as Tabitha herself had once been.
"I was told you came from a large family—a proud Naval tradition if I remember correctly. I would have thought you'd prefer Maryland this time of year. It's not far away." Tabitha blinked.
"It never occurred to me. The Admiral hasn't written so I believe he's still at sea. It wouldn't have been very much of a holiday without my father."
"Being alone doesn't bother you?"
"Oh I hate it, Ma'am," the clerk nodded earnestly. "It's one of the worst feelings in the world. . .if I may say so." There was no objection from Rebecca so Tabitha continued in a rare moment of vocal reflection. "There are times when you can be surrounded by people and feel like the only one in the world. And the only thing worse than that is being useless, of your life benefiting no one. I enjoy my work at the Suremount and I'm happy to help my country in whatever it asks of me." Her courage was beginning to fade and Tabitha once again opened her copy of The Times. "Being alone and-and loneliness are two different things though. . .don't you think?"
There was a pause and then Tabitha met Agent Thatcher's small, tired smile with one of her own.
"I wonder if that's a concept Mister Collins could offer an opinion on."
"I'm sure of it Ma'am."
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"This is ridiculous—what do you mean he won't see us? It's been six days!"
"Am I blind?" He cocked his chin down and shot a glace at Mr. Heath. "She thinks I'm fuckin' blind. Do I look blind to ya? Or stupid. I bet that's it; ya think I'm stupid. Yeah, yeah, think I've never seen a woman before just cause I'm stuck draggin' this quiet son of a bitch from state to state-"
"Will."
A general pall settled over the cigar puffing, cigarette rolling audience as Mister Eddie Collins finally made an appearance, throwing open the door, a calm steely gaze falling on each and every person within his sightline which landed heavily on Tabitha as she took a sharp breath. Startled at his identical form to the late Mr. Collins, the brunette veritably jumped when Mr. Heath's large, battered hand came down on her shoulder, though she laughed softly at her own silliness and apologized.
"Yeah boss?"
"Shut up. Thatcher is it?"
"Yes, we've been in New York for—"
"You too. Heath, what the fuck is this?"
Her bearded protector wearily shook his head but said nothing. "Get yer ugly arses in here."
"Mister Collins," Rebecca visibly bristled. "I'm here to offer the most sincere condolences—"
"Not you." From out of nowhere Eddie suddenly had a stub of a cigar between his thin lips and Tabitha found herself being prodded towards the protected room. "Just her."
Fifteen minutes later Tabitha and Rebecca were sent on a whirlwind tour of New York, secure in promises of no hard feelings from Mister Collins or his business partners which Tabitha felt was a lovely thought coming from a grieving brother.
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Agent Thatcher spent the majority of January in her office catching up on correspondence and reading through several of the files that had been meticulously organized—the 'G's' as far as Tabitha could figure by the way the brown and yellowed folders had been slightly tossed around. They would sit for breakfast in the morning and dinner in the evening, (silently mostly, but warmly) and at noon Tabitha would lock up to bring Rebecca's letters to the office. This quickly became the secretary's favourite time of day as her schedule had no sooner been set than Mr McKee appeared, beginning what Tabitha liked to see as a tradition of the sailor accompanying her on the walk.
He was very verbose and Tabitha was delighted with his quantity of questions about her work in the Suremount, how interested he was with the comings and goings of it's usual residences and the effort that she herself put in to the running of things. Tabitha felt sympathetic for Valentine's plight, being kept on shore by a government that wouldn't allow him to mingle with other agents, however she knew it was impossible—traitorous even—to explain everything. Her particular position in the hotel was a sacred trust; she made her vows signing privacy agreements in Agent Thatcher's presence last year, and she didn't always feel that Mr McKee understood this. But he dressed so nicely and would often bring her flowers, that Tabitha felt perfectly fine forgiving his frequent irritated moods. He was not a hostile individual, no, and the brunette would never have suffered such ill-manners; he was simply an intense character with a varying personality.
Though he never spoke of it, Tabitha felt for certain Mr McKee was attempting to court her. She had never been courted, but surely this was how gentlemen conducted themselves, being available to their prospective lady and bringing her little presents, like flowers. Tabitha couldn't bring the subject up of course, and it was all rather thrilling principally given Miss Owens' prediction that Tabitha's future husband wouldn't speak romantically. At the time it had been quite a blow indeed, but now her feelings were all up in the air. . .especially since Tabitha knew she did not care deeply for Mr McKee. Did that make her a bad person? Aunt Julia would have had much to say on the matter, but it wasn't as if Tabitha was allowing any liberties; Mr McKee held her arm, her wrist, but she had never embraced him, and he had most definitely never kissed her!
During the first week of February the hotel received word via a telegram sent on the ten thirty train that Agents Finn and Sawyer et al were to be expected closer to March. "It must have been one of those Englishmen who wrote this, Ma'am. Look at the fine hand writing! I'll make sure their rooms are spotless!" And Mister Collins sent her a copy of The Times like he had promised he would, though Tabitha would have liked to have heard better news beyond a proposed subway tunnel linking Manhattan and Brooklyn—not that that wasn't exciting in and of itself, but the main story was of a progressive politician who had been shot in Kentucky on his way to the Capitol. A few questions at the post and she was informed that Mr Goebel had previously succumbed to his injury, which made her sad to hear, and she wrote Mister Collins to express her thanks and thoughts on the situation. Aunt Julia would not have been pleased.
Agent Thatcher would be gone before any of the Alaskan Mission arrived, much to Tabitha's dismay—let alone Tom and Huckleberry, who had to be pacified by cold comfort letters—but a lovely Spring joined them in Washington and brought Tabitha more adventure than she ever would have imagined.
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"Tabby. . .where in the blue blazes did you get this?"
Tabitha looked up from where she was kneeling on the floor of the filing room—the business was never completely finished considering the copious notes the clerk had finagled out of Annie and the gentlemen on their return—and smiled at Agent Finn's intent perusal of the newspaper sent from New York that she had kept on her desk in remembrance of her extended holiday. She put the stack of newly typed papers aside, dusted her hands on her cream apron and stood, glad to enjoy a little conversation.
"Mister Collins was kind enough to send that to me. Didn't Agent Thatcher tell you—"
"Yeah Tabby."
"And I bought a brand new hat—"
"I heard."
"But I could never wear it around here, I'd be accused of putting on airs."
"Who'd do that?"
"Why. . ." She had become flustered rather quickly and really didn't want to bring her cousins into this, it had just been a slip of the tongue after all. "—Have you ever been to New York City, Agent Finn?"
"Once or twice, I reckon. Tabby, why would Eddie Collins be sendin' you newspapers 'bout dead wannabe governors?" They were only standing a few respectable inches apart but Huckleberry didn't look at her when he spoke. His eyes were glued to the paper and ink as if searching for an answer to a puzzle in his head, and his tone said he didn't like the answer he got. "Just a bunch o' slave lovers ain't they?"
Tabitha felt as if she'd swallowed her tongue. There had been a few times where she'd cried because of Huckleberry Finn, been jealous, even fewer where she'd been happy because of the Agent. Now. . .Oh, Tabitha could have spit she was so mad! Her face flushed and she did something she would never have even contemplated before. She shooed Huckleberry out of the room, just as a rightly confused Mrs Oakley came downstairs. The beautiful older blond leaned against the front desk, her raised eyebrow getting no response from Huck as to what really was going on here.
"There aren't any slaves any more Agent Finn. Our dear Mister Lincoln made sure of that, God rest his soul to the Heaven in which he deserves."
"And ain't that an epitaph."
"Pardon?"
"Nuthin' Tabby, nuthin'."
"—Can I help you with anything Mrs Oakley? Tea won't be served for another hour I'm afraid. Will Doctor Scurlock be joining you?" There was a snort from Finn, who continued (infuriatingly so) to covet Tabitha's newspaper, and what Tabitha was sure was a blush from Annie, but the sharpshooter didn't rise to Huck's bait.
"Doc's up with Hank and Fred in the big room and I doubt tea is what they're interested in right now." Since returning from the north, the clerk had noticed Doctor Henry Jekyll had found himself dubbed 'Hank' by the other Service members. There must have been quite the bonding experience in Alaska to explain such camaraderie. "But where'd you get such pretty posies?" Tabitha looked at the clear vase resting on top of the desk—not fancy crystal like she'd find at home in Annapolis, just a rough glass that she'd been able to purchase at the store on the second street over—and the various blooms she had been able to fit in it. Most were posies like Annie said, but there was a lovely sprig of lilac in the center and one large pink carnation that Valentine had given her just the other day.
"They're from a. . .a gentleman caller."
"A what?"
Tabitha didn't know why Agent Finn would find ithat/i so interesting (nor why Annie suddenly looked so smug—or was it proud?—as if she had won a bet or heard a fantastic piece of news), but the brunette straightened her shoulders and addressed them both with a smile that, in truth, had no basis to be so wide. "He's a gentleman—a friend of mine. And he brings me flowers."
"Who is he?"
Annie's hand flew out to whack Finn solidly on the arm.
"Well ain't that sweet," the woman smiled. "How long have ya known him?"
"I—I met him at the social Agent Finn and I attended last autumn."
Mrs Oakley left for a walk on a hoot of laughter, leaving a somewhat scowling Huck and a confused Tabitha to deal with each other. ". . .As I told Mrs Oakley, tea won't be served for another hour."
"I ain't no tea drinker Tabby."
"I know. Your coffee, then. I—Sir?"
Tabitha's eyes widened as Agent Finn boldly stepped forward, raising an ink-smudged hand to her hair, his ocean blue eyes regarding her muddy ones with an incomprehensible look. What was this? The only time Tabitha could recall Huckleberry actually touching her was when he escorted her to the dance. And there was no need to now!. . .was there? She was still mad at him, wasn't she? It's not like she hadn't thought about touching Agent Finn, of running her fingers through his soft head of hair. Not that she had done it before, but she was certain such a lovely face could only be topped with the softest of hair—
"Cobweb."
"Cobweb. . .? Oh! Cobweb! I mean—" Tabitha startled as Huck pulled back, a greyish ball of sticky fluff between his fingers. "Yes! Cobweb. Of course. Thank you Hu—Agent Finn. Thank you."
"It were only a test, Tabby." Huck didn't move away, but a small furrow appeared between his eyebrows. Agent Finn did a lot of terribly difficult thinking.
". . .The cobweb?"
"What I said, callin' free men slaves. It were a test. Had to see what you'd say 'fore I asked you to come with me." Now it was Tabitha's turn to furrow her brows. Huckleberry chuckled softly. "You still mighty mad at me? I'm goin' on a mission Tabby, one not e'en Tomboy knows 'bout." Tabitha had assumed that Tom and Huckleberry shared everything with each other. Everything except. . .
"Does this have to do with Miss Fitzgerald?" Tabitha didn't know if she wanted to hear the answer. She didn't want to make him angry either, given how she had badly handled information concerning the dark eyed, thin woman before, but no one it seemed had reported anything pertaining to Brigitte Fitzgerald. Huckleberry Finn had been her last point of contact with the American Secret Service. The softly whispered question was clearly unexpected and Tabitha prepared herself for Agent Finn to be upset. But the man simply swallowed and shook his head.
"Classified. But what d'ya know 'bout Cathlicks? They got some pretty strange traditions, don't you think?"
"I-." What an odd question. "I've read my Bible, Sir. Is it much different from theirs?"
"Why don't I pick you up one on the way to Missouri and you can let me know."
"Missouri?"
"Yessum." And then Huck winked. "Think you can come home with me?"
The clerk's eyes became as wide as saucers.
"But I—You said this was a mission!"
"I'm lookin' for a relic Tabby. Don't see why I can't have me some homemade peach cobbler while I'm searchin'. Do you?"