A/N: I've outlined almost the whole story, and right now I'm thinking it will be about 12-13 chapters + a short epilogue. In this chapter we meet some new characters, and start learning about Crane's past. Again, sorry about the long wait for this chapter, but I made it extra long this time!
-Howl
CHAPTER 6: NEW ALLIES
Abbie sighed at the note and placed it on the floor beside her. She would fret over it later. Now, however, she'd been given instructions by Crane to "resume her work". Abbie realized she was not a guest in this house. She wasn't surprised.
As a black woman in the 18th century (even though she was apparently a Free Woman) there was very little chance for her to have been successful enough to be considered a guest in the Crane's home. Ichabod had come from English bureaucrats. And even though he'd been estranged from his conservative father in the New World, he was a functionary to the Continentals. This title gave him respect and status, and not - Abbie suspected - that Crane would care what others thought of him, but to be seen offering a place under his roof for a Negro seemed somehow out of place in Abbie's mind. She remembered how much Crane respected Cicero, but would he have kept Arthur Bernard beneath his roof?
Sadly, Abbie suspected not; the pressure from other non-abolitionist (racist) revolutionaries probably overshadowing Ichabod's own predilection towards kindness.
So. She was to be a maid. Great, it's not like she hasn't been cleaning up after Crane for the past three years anyway. Okay, that was mean, she thought to herself. But to be honest, for the first couple of months Crane had really made a mess of Abbie's apartment whenever he came over. Abbie suspected it was mostly because he was so busy exploring everything in front of him, that he didn't even notice the mess he'd left behind.
The Lieutenant sighed again. She missed Crane so much. Even though he'd been right in front of her less than ten minutes ago, that wasn't her Crane. Her Crane was curious about everything, and would light up even at the smallest of new discoveries. Lately the revelations had been few and far between, but he still continued to learn; and when he did, he would flash Abbie that famous Crane smile as his eyes lit up and Abbie could never help but smile back as her heart warmed and her stomach turned to jello.
But, Crane was not here. So Abbie did all that was left to do. She dressed.
The petticoats she'd struggled to put on weren't as bad as she'd expected, but when she walked there as a certain breeze she hadn't been anticipating. The worst however, was the stay she had to wear beneath her dress, and was forced to tighten by herself. Luckily, when she'd dated Luke there was one week where he wouldn't stop talking about how sexy she'd look in a corset. So she'd bought one, and it was the epitome of hell trying to get that thing on. It had been blood red with silver fastenings (and she could privately admit to herself that she did look pretty hot). For the first time in her life Abbie silently thanked Luke and his strange kinks, because if she hadn't had Google to help her out the first time, there was no way she'd been able to get the stay on now. But it was tight and uncomfortable, and Abbie didn't know how she'd get any housework done with this bitch of a busk cutting into her sides.
She'd never missed a bra so much in her life.
The frock Abbie donned was simple and perfunctory; she didn't want to deal with the dress she'd seen with twenty fasteners down the back. In the looking glass Abbie was modest, and as she pulled her hair into a demure bun high on her head, the sienna cotton of her shift was lit by the sun streaming through her small window.
The rays exposed small specks of dust floating blithely about her face. Abbie let her vision blur, the white particles mixing with her reflection as she disappeared into shapes of anthropomorphic color. She stepped away from the mirror and closed her eyes, sighing as she turned back to the trunk and looked inside.
The richest piece of clothing in it was a cloak of scarlet wool broadcloth: well crafted, sturdy material that held heavy in Abbie's hands. The brilliant red fabric seemed too flashy for church wear (if she'd attended in it, Abbie might as well have just worn an emblazoned A as well, and go the full Hester Prynne), but the quality was even better than the Sunday Bests that she'd found. The hood billowed fully around Abbie's face, tying off at the neck where it connected with a metal clasp, the handsome closures made from silver and surrounded by filigree. There was something familiar about the piece, but she couldn't put a finger on it.
The queer thing however, was that as Abbie held the cape over her shoulders and adjusted it to sit comfortably, she noticed in the looking glass a clipping of mistletoe no bigger than two fingers pinned to the cloth at her left breast. Shrugging the thing off, Abbie took the cloak in her hands and ripped away the mistletoe. Fuck you, she thought, which was ridiculous because she was cursing out an inanimate object. But it wasn't just the mistletoe she was angry with. The Lieutenant (though she wasn't really a lieutenant anymore. That angered her too.) was mad at Elizabeth for cursing her here. And she was mad at Moloch for being a melodramatic bully. And she was even mad with Ichabod for not being with her, which wasn't fair of her to think. She knew if Crane had a choice, he'd be here too. Together always, he'd said. And she believed it.
She had to pull herself together, she was a fucking Witness of the Apocalypse, for God's sake. Abbie stood up straighter, taking the mistletoe in hand, and using the pin attached to fasten the talisman to her breast. She looked tired but capable. It would have to do.
There were three people in the kitchen when Abbie finally found it.
The hallways were a maze, and Abbie cursed the architect, because if it would take her more than twenty minutes to find anything else in this house she would blow a gasket. So when she stumbled upon the kitchen (it was just off the dining room, why couldn't she figure out the layout of this house?), three pairs of eyes shot up from where they'd been downcast, deep in conversation.
There were two women. A girl - younger than Abbie, possibly in her twenties, the one who'd been walking across the lawn this morning - looked up first, the hair pinned to her head bobbing wholesomely when she moved. Her skin was a dark brown, but the girl was so green it was palpable from where Abbie stood in the doorway. "Abbie!" she said, curls bouncing. She was lithe and muscular, as expected from endless days and nights of labor, but there was still a cherublike quality to her that couldn't be shaken off, no matter the physical toil. "Feeling better, then?" There was a lilt to her voice, melodic and distinctly old New England.
The elder of the women stood by a large black stove, her skin dark too, however it sagged and puffed with age in places that the formers did not. She'd flinched when the girl had yelled for Abbie, probably from the shriek that had caught everyone off guard. Her aged hands held a wooden spoon high, ready to chastise the child. The girl saw the raised utensil in her periphery and just rolled her eyes.
"Sybil, please. My only friend was on the verge of death," she raised a demure hand towards Abbie, melodramatic in tone. "I was worried for her. You can hardly blame me for yelling when I find she is once more in good health."
"It's fever season," the elderly - Sybil - said. She lowered the spoon back down to a copper pot simmering on the stove, "Nothing to get worked up over." She placed a hand on her hip, and it made Abbie think of how a teapot stood, short and stout. Not lacking in curves.
"Abigail has a history of working herself too hard," the third said - a man - his old mouth curving up into a smile. "I, myself, was worried for her well being."
The girl grinned, glad that someone was on her side. She looked to Sybil, smug, "See. Papa agrees with me."
The girl's father shook his head jovially, the receding hair that grew upon it white and grey. His physique was unlike Sybil's plumpness and his daughter's lithe, but somewhere in between; strong, muscular, able shoulders, but a stomach that had seen better days and was now large and portly. Possibly too much of Sybil's cooking; even from where Abbie stood in the doorway the aroma of fattening, heavy soul food wafted through the air.
"Yes, well," Sybil harrumphed, her wide shoulders straightening as she looked to Abbie, "Good you're better. All hands on deck, as it were. Variety can't do it all by herself. Cyrus, neither." She nodded to the young woman and the man in turn; Abbie noted their names.
Sybil had the early twang of a Southern drawl, unsurprising considering that even original settlers of the Colonies sounded as if they were modern Bostonians (Abbie wrote her 12th grade thesis on the originating and diverging of accents during this time period, go figure). Abbie wondered where she was born. Beneath the three-quarter length sleeves of her dress, she could see the flecks of scars upon Sybil's arms that looked to be more than just cooking gone awry. Abbie didn't want to think about this strong woman having been a slave. Cyrus, neither. Upon entering the room Abbie had noticed a long white scar tarring the man's brown skin from his neck, peeking beneath the collar of his white shirt, and down to the shoulder. A shiver ran up her spine.
There was an uncomfortable silence. They looked to Abbie as if they expected her to say something, perhaps of gratitude for their well-wishes of her returning to health, but she couldn't think of a thing to say. She felt a bit queasy again, perhaps it would show in her face and she could pass off her silence as a relapse of poor constitution.
Variety's pupils grew large, her sad puppy-dog eyes rivaling even those of Crane. "Well!" she cried, springing into immediate action by taking Abbie's arm in hers, leaping with the older woman in toe as their hands were clasped together and Variety skipped out of the kitchen. She aimed for positivity, hoping the cheer Abbie up in the face of returning to work (it didn't work). "We've so much to do! I believe Gideon requires our help at the Shed."
The Shed, it turned out, was a relatively new looking shack - metal roof and all - attached to a much larger looking stable at the edge of the property. The walk there took no more than ten minutes at a slow pace, beginning where the Manor stood at the centre of Crane's modest lot of land. There was a sharp chill in the air but no wind blew, and Variety found herself quite content idly chatting with Abbie about nonsensical things like preparing supper and doing laundry, for which Abbie could provide monosyllabic and vague responses when she had no real answers to give.
Abbie thought she could like Variety. She was a bit like Jenny, even their physicality showed resemblances. They were both sharp tongued and fierce, laughed easily and heartily. But where Jenny had lost her whimsy at a young age due to reasons beyond her control, Variety had kept it and was able to walk confidently with a blithe skip in her step. Variety Freeman had not felt heartbreak, of this Abbie was sure.
It hurt her own heart a bit more, seeing a woman so close to her own sister's age, but with all of the life that Jenny never had a chance to live. Variety smiled at Abbie, looking down at her short companion as they approached the stable - that smile hurt, too.
The earthy smell of horse manure and hay immediately filled their noses when they were within a ten yard range of the stable. At the farthest corner from where the women stood, at the west most point of the structure was the small shack. It was perfunctory and strong, as if assembled in a hurry but by a master carpenter.
Variety approached and knocked at the door. "Gideon?" she said, rapping slightly, her cheek pressed against the sanded wood. After a quiet beat there was still no answer. Variety smiled lightly, "Never know where that boy is," and pushed through the unlocked entryway, walking into the shadow of Gideon's Shed.
It was dark inside, and still as frigid as the outdoors. Abbie waded at the threshold, staring at Variety as she openly walked through the man's home.
"S' alright," she said, looking back at Abbie, "come in. Papa says we have to dress the horses for winter today, I just need to get their blankets."
Abbie stepped inside. The interior held an eclectic collection of belongings: wood carvings and ceramics and furniture that didn't match: assorted paraphernalia collected through travel, seemingly unrelated to one another but obviously all chosen by the same meticulous eye. A small bed sat in one corner, hardly big enough for a grown man, and beside it an equally small side table. Three chairs sat before a dining table and window in the opposite corner. Only one of the chairs looked recently disturbed and none of the designs were the same, like they'd each been taken from a different dining set.
But it was the sketches on sitting on the table that really caught Abbie's eye. She moved closer, fanning the small stack of portraits across the wood. There was one of Cyrus and one of Sybil, and one Abbie suspected to be a self portrait, for she'd never seen the subject before. Surprisingly there was even one of Crane: done in a hurry with fast, deft penciled lines, as if the model was anxious to move.
Beneath this was a drawing of Variety, her angular face depicted in light and quick strokes that curved and arched into her likeness. Special care had been taken with this one: the tug of her lips flirted with the artist, and fire was lit in her eyes. It wasn't just a flawless render of Variety's beauty but a tribute, and the physical aesthetic wasn't all that pulled Abbie in: it was the palpable mischief.
Variety had found the horse blankets and placed them on the floor beside Abbie, walking up to the table and looking down at the pages sitting there. She reached for the bottom of the stack and pulled out the self-portrait.
Gideon's eyes were too big, like he'd been leaning forward into the looking glass as he painted himself; but there was an urgency within him, a desperation. Those were the eyes of an artist, handsome and devilishly playful. And as Abbie observed her, Variety looked into them as if they were the only eyes she ever wished to see again.
Crane was much easier to speak with than she had originally anticipated.
Abbie had feared that seeing him again would throw her off this mortal coil. That morning, when Crane had sat with her in bed, a physical pain so strong had engulfed her heart, a sickness of the soul. Because to look into those all-observing, wise green eyes and to see nothing but indifference reflected back in them would have been too much for her to bear.
That night she had been told by Sybil to deliver Ichabod's evening tea to the library. She might have refused, due to her already bad experiences with the twists and turns of this house, but the library was not fifty feet from the kitchen and Abbie had no better excuse other than not wanting to lay eyes on her employer.
Taking up the serving tray Sybil that had laid out, Abbie began slowly making her way to the library. Through the hall windows Abbie could see the moon's reflection in the glass pane, almost full in the night sky.
The door to Crane's study was cracked slightly when she reached it, as if to invite her inside. Pushing it open with her hip, Abbie slipped into the room and found Ichabod pouring himself over paperwork. Maps and charters and forms were strewn about, clippings from an abolitionist paper tacked on a bookshelf beside him. His long hair had escaped its ribbon, flying free at his cheeks and haphazardly pushed back behind one ear. He looked flushed despite a chill in the air.
Abbie hazarded a step further, floorboards croaking beneath her feet. He looked up.
"Abigail," Crane sighed, relieved. Abbie brushed it off as his desperation for the provisions she'd brought him. He abandoned the files and was at her side by the time she placed the tray on the corner of his desk.
"I've brought you tea," she said, stating the obvious, and began to pour it for him as Sybil so heavily reminded (as if she'd forget after the third time she'd said it).
"Yes- Yes, thank you," he said, smiling knowingly as if just her presence had brought it on. He leaned closer, his form towering as he reached for the drink and took it black, despite the cream and sugar she'd brought for him. "Delicious as always," he said after a sip.
She smiled wryly, "Thank Sybil, not me."
"On the contrary Miss Mills, I must show my appreciation for the lovely spread you've so meticulously prepared," he gestured to the plate of biscuits that she'd arranged into a small circular pattern while trying to keep her hands active as he stood beside her. She blushed. "I don't know how you do it," he continued, "running all over the place, keeping this house in order."
"It's my job."
Ichabod set the tea cup down with the soft clink of china against wood, staring at his hands. "Miss Mills- Abbie," he corrected, suddenly quiet, "You know how much it means to me that you have remained here, even after… Well, after." He spoke of things unknown, an occurrence that just the mention of spread a bashful and guilty flush in his cheeks.
She knew he hoped for retribution; if he thought she was being callous, all he longed for was an absolution. She looked at her own hands folded on the table, close to his.
"It's alright." she said. She didn't know what she was forgiving him for but she felt weightless, as if a burden had been lifted from her soul. A small smile curved on his lips, as if something terribly troubling had finally been done away with. Abbie felt lighter, and thought this might be the man she knew after all.
Abbie stayed silent most days. She worked and she slept and she did not speak, and the others began to notice.
The only time she seemed to open her mouth was when she was with Ichabod. He was her only tether anymore. The only thing left to tell her, Yes. This is real. You have to be here. For him.
It gnawed at her. Her chest hurt all the time, like the chronic heartburns Corbin used to complain about having after eating his greasy diner food too quickly. Abbie would just give him an antacid to make the pain go away. But this was worse, nothing material could cure her. She was homesick in the worst way. Because long ago she had realized Crane was her home, and she was his. But as he was here, and she was still his, he was not hers.
He was Katrina's.
Katrina was beautiful and regal and lovely, and Abbie could understand why Crane loved her so completely. But that didn't mean Abbie trusted her.
Abbie knew a lot about Mrs. Crane: she knew her favorite color (lavender), and how she liked her tea (two sugars, dash of cream), and that she and Ichabod had been trying for a baby but one would not be conceived (due less to infertility and more to Ichabod's absence in recent months). But she didn't know Katrina personally. They were civil as a mistress and maid ought to be, but this formality in their acquaintance only highlighted the peculiarities in Abbie's inappropriate relationship with the man of the house.
And the others noticed.
They didn't have to look hard to see it. Abbie and Ichabod didn't speak intimately in public or in the presence of Mrs. Crane, but they shared knowing looks and sly glances; private smiles as if they knew something the others didn't.
In the privacy of the library cum Crane's study, their heads could be seen tipped together in private conference as they looked over a large book together, not bothering to take turns reading the text, but Abbie standing with Ichabod flush at her back as his languid breaths tickled the nape of her neck. She would flush each time he put his hand to the passage and ask if she was ready for him to turn the page; not willing to admit that she'd read the same sentence three times over in attempt to distract herself from his almost-touch.
Abbie would break away then, stepping back from the desk on which the book was splayed and return to the tray she'd brought in to carry his tea. There, she would finish laying out his drink in silence, not acknowledging Ichabod's gaze as she turned to curtsy and flee the study.
Back in the hall, where in the dark lamp light stood Variety - witness to the whole affair - Abbie would in a curt and serious tone, tell the younger maid that it meant nothing. If this was meant to convince Abbie more than Variety, neither woman said anything of the kind.
Two weeks after Abbie woke up at Crane Manor, she began to find her niche. She was the studious type, that much was clear. It seemed others always expected her to be seen with a large volume in her hands, absorbing the words as best she could until they were ingrained there (whether her proclivities towards reading came anywhere from her innocent daily trysts in the library with Crane, she was still undecided).
Her days began early: rising before sunrise to milk cows with Variety. She gave in on the third morning and donned her scarlet hood against the cold. Sybil might have called her the harlot, but as long as she didn't get sick again, the cook could say anything she wanted and Abbie wouldn't care. She once entered the house later than usual and bumped into the Cranes, the lady looking at Abbie as if she'd seen a ghost. Katrina's eyes bulged in surprise, masked a second later by serene indifference. Ichabod simply seemed to appreciate the pop of red on a bleak and colorless morning.
After milkings she cleaned for most of the morning until noon, to assist Cyrus with setting lunch.
Rarely did she see either Gideon or Ichabod during the morning, both of their companies usually reserved for the evening when she might visit the Shed with Variety or deliver Crane his evening tea as he worked.
Ending her daily ablutions was preparing the lady of the house for bed. Katrina usually didn't require assistance readying for sleep, but on occasion her dresses were as complicated to take off as they were to don, and she required the help of her maid. Thankfully for Abbie, the removal of stately 18th century gowns is relatively simple and requires no previous knowledge on the subject (which is good, because despite some quick searches in Crane's extensive library, there seemed to be no books covering Servitude 101).
This night however, Katrina had felt poorly and retired early - before supper and requesting no assistance in her dressing for bed. She kissed Ichabod's cheek upon leaving the room, and nodded to Abbie and Variety, the latter of whom dutifully curtsied, the former scrapping to mirror the grace of Variety's genuflection. Ichabod's lip twitched upward, trying to hide a smile at Abbie's clumsiness; she couldn't blame him though, she probably did look ridiculous. Crane had eaten alone, sitting only with his paperwork from General Washington for company. He had mentioned to Abbie earlier in the evening that he was preparing to go south for the Hudson Valley soon, to meet with his regiment within the fortnight.
This saddened Abbie. And then it frightened her - twofold, because she now realized that not only was Ichabod to be in mortal peril upon returning to the battlefield, but that she'd been spending more time flirting with Crane then working on the mission she'd been sent here to fulfill. It still felt like a stupid-ass mission, but its completion seemed to be the only way she could return home. And she really needed to go home.
It had barely been four o'clock when Katrina retired however, and was now going on seven. Walking down the corridor on her way to the Cranes' bedroom, serving tray in hand, Abbie thought of ways to possibly speed things along as she brought Katrina her supper. Was summoning a demon to do her dirty work out of the question? Of course it is Abbie, what the fuck? She didn't even know where the Stone was, or the dagger! How was she supposed to protect one and destroy the other when she didn't even know where they were?
The utensils on her silver tray clinked together as Abbie started up the service stairs at the back of the house. She hated to use them because they were dank and steep, and reminded her that she was a servant; but it was the closest staircase to both the kitchen and Katrina's bedroom. So Abbie sucked it up and began ascending them, one at a time as not to spill Katrina's stew. (Even practicing with this thing everyday, Abbie couldn't walk any faster then a slow stride without liquid slopping over the sides of the tray. At this rate it would take her all night to serve the food, and it would have gone cold by then.)
Finally reaching the peak of the staircase, Abbie let out a relieved breath and tried to loosen up her shoulders. As she started in the direction of the master bedroom the grandfather clock rang - chiming seven times. There wasn't much light in the corridor now, the sun having set two hours go, but the dim flicker of candle light shining against the patterned wall paper was enough to lead the way.
The wick in the lamps crackled and snapped quietly in Abbie's ears as she passed by each of them; a small symphony of the night singing to her. She reached the door to Katrina's bedroom and the sound of the candles only grew louder in her ears. A bout of deja vu hit her. She felt a rush of energy then, like the sweet sound of soprano voices entering her ears and mingling with the melody of the candle light.
Setting down the tray beside the door, Abbie abandoned the meal and pressed herself against the painted wood.
Only silence came from inside the bedroom, everything still and quiet; the queer surge through her body going dead and dormant when she tried to find its source.
Backing off of the doorway, the voices rose again, this time coming from down the hall. This was all too familiar. Like a dream she couldn't recall the beginning of, never able to remember how she'd gotten there. But here she was, now standing outside of the storage closet at the end of the hallway.
The swell of voices erupted in Abbie's ears again, but unlike in her dream, the parables spoke not of vague images of religion and sacrifice, but the words rang true and clear in her mind: the story of a heroine and her lover, sacrificing their bond for the greater good.
Body and soul, O love of thine,
Will forfeit th' remembrances long'd past
Once unknown to she
Will be gone but for in eternity's sleep,
Convalesced only til you be borne
And in such fruitless time, she who does not know
Will be th' one to hold your truth.
The words were too beautiful, too much, too true. This room held secrets, her secrets. The hidden truth not yet revealed. But Abbie would revel in it. She must. And so she opened the door.