Special thanks to my brother Jeff and to the real Esther. You're support and advice is invaluable.

I was originally going to post the next few chapters separately over the next couple of weeks. But I just can't. Once I get a chapter done I simply HAVE to post it. So because I have another project I'm working on, ya'll are gonna have to savor these until I can get back to it. It won't be too long though, I promise.

Keep the reviews coming. I love the love!

"Discontent is the first step in the progress of a man or a nation." ~ Oscar Wilde

4.

Jason Mitchel hop-stepped ahead of Tavington a few yards from where he was walking down the footpath that would lead them to the Mitchel farm.

The boy was eager to get home with Tavington as he had invited him over for dinner with the permission of his grandfather. And Jason's excitement was apparent every time the boy dashed back to him in his effort to hurry Tavington along.

Tavington was indeed interested in meeting his neighbors. Until now, their communication had always been through Jason. However, he couldn't help but wonder what their reaction would be once they discovered he was English. Maybe it would matter and maybe it wouldn't. But there wasn't anything Tavington could do about it other than ride it out and see what would happen. Although Tavington had never felt ashamed of his service to The Crown, he could only hope for acceptance and pray they had never heard of The Butcher of the Carolinas.

As Tavington and Jason continued down the path, Jason enthusiastically described all of the wonderful things his mother was making for dinner. To Tavington, who hadn't had much better than his own cooking since he left South Carolina, the prospect that someone else would be cooking his meal was very enticing. And from what the boy was telling him, it was going to be a good meal.

He told Jason that no matter what his mama made for dinner that he was grateful for the invitation.

"Why do you say mah-maah instead of just ma like I do?" Jason asked, again, imitating Tavington's accent.

Tavington chuckled. "I suppose because I'm English and that's what children in England call their mothers."

"I thought you said you came from South Carolina."

"I did, but I came from England first. That's where I was born and raised." Tavington explained.

Jason thought for a moment and then asked, "Why didn't ya just say so?"

"Because some people don't care for the English right now."

"On account of the war?" Jason asked.

"That's right," Tavington replied.

"But we won and you lost."

"Yes, but there are some who would rather see Englishmen like me tarred and feathered and run out of town," Tavington said mildly.

"Just because you're English?"

"Yes, Jason, just because I'm English."

"Oh, that's just small stuff and ya know what my gran'pa says?"

"I can only imagine. Pray tell, what does your grandfather say?"

"He says ya shouldn't sweat the small stuff. The thing is…. I never know what's small and what's not. But if there's nothing you can do about it, I figure it's all small stuff."

"How did you become so insightful?" Tavington asked.

Jason looked perplexed. "What's that mean?"

Tavington laughed and although he didn't know why, Jason did too.

When they reached the Mitchel property, Tavington wasn't at all surprised at how well established the place was. From what Jason had described, the Mitchel's had brought nearly all of their possessions, including some livestock with them from Massachusetts. Everything was neat as a pin, with a cabin that looked about three times the size of Tavington's, an immaculate barnyard complete with chicken coop and a nicely organized garden surrounded by a rabbit fence.

It made Tavington's place look like a disaster. But he knew that one day his property would look just as fine.

They were met on the front porch by the entire Mitchel family and Jason Mitchel beamed as he introduced Tavington to his grandfather as if the old man were King George himself.

Clifton Mitchel was a short, brawny looking man. His face was weathered from farm life and his hair was gray from age. But when he reached out to shake Tavington's hand his brown eyes held the unmistakable twinkle of mischief just as Jason's often did and he flashed the same warm smile.

Tavington had pictured Jason's mother to be a big woman, and a little harder looking from the harsh environment of frontier life. However, Esther Mitchel wasn't Tavington expected at all. As a matter of fact the first thing Tavington thought of when he first saw her was how much she reminded him of a kitten.

Her coloring was much like Jason's. Except for the fact that her eyes were more hazel in color- almost green, and tilted up at the corners, giving them a more exotic look. She was about five and a half feet tall. In a short gown and petticoats, she was a little rounder and fuller figured than the elegantly dressed, taller and lithe women Tavington was usually attracted to.

But the starched-white, old fashioned lappet cap she wore framed her small oval face giving her an almost wholesome appearance. And the way her eye-teeth kicked out ever so slightly made her look even more feline when she spoke in her husky but lyrical voice. Simply put, she was pretty and Tavington was charmed.

He also noticed how much she looked like Mr. Mitchel and when he introduced Esther as his daughter, Tavington knew it was a blood tie rather than a marriage tie as he originally assumed. The immediate assumption he made next, was that Jason must have been the result of an unfortunate youthful indiscretion. Years ago that might have mattered, but these days Tavington couldn't care less. He liked Jason a great deal no matter what he might think of his mother and would never dream of holding the circumstances of his birth against the boy.

Bart Mitchel, as he insisted on being called rather than Bartholomew, was merely a taller, younger version of his father. Broader shouldered and darker haired, Bart had more of a brooding countenance about him and although he tried not to be so judgmental, Tavington took and instant dislike to this man.

It didn't help that he was Timothy Mitchel's father. Tavington knew from personal experience that children learned what they lived. And if Timothy was a bully, more than likely he had learned that trait from his father. The fact that he caught Bart and Timothy both scowling at the rest of the Mitchel's as they tried to make him feel welcome only confirmed his theory.

Once everyone tucked in to dinner an almost peaceful chaos ensued. Everyone chatted about what they had done that day as they passed dishes around the table. It was hard for Tavington to concentrate on the conversation as well as what was being piled onto his plate. The food looked and smelled wonderful. He tried to savor it as he ate, but was interrupted with a barrage of questions from this family that was so different that his own.

As a child Tavington rarely ate dinner with his family. And as he grew old enough to be allowed at the dinner table, everything had been much more formal. There was no friendly banter over the clatter of dinnerware, only quiet polite conversation. No one ever asked him how his schoolwork was going or what he had done that day and Tavington wondered if all families behaved this way and if it was his family that had been the exception.

Then the question came that he dreaded answering. Mr. Mitchel asked him if he had served in the British army and as much as he feared the old man's reaction, he confessed that he had.

"I figured ya had. You being English and all," Mitchel told him, pushing his empty plate aside. "I served myself for a stint or two against the God damned French and the Indians back in the day."

"Is that so?" Tavington inquired. Smirking at the old man's reference to the French. He didn't care for the French much himself and he wondered if the old man knew the French has assisted the Americans in their rebellion.

"Yup," the old man answered. "Bart there was just a baby. Hardest thing I ever did was leave him behind with his ma. Esther came along after I came home."

Tavington turned to Bart and asked, "Did you ever serve?"

Somehow Tavington already knew the answer and was not surprised at all when Bart confirmed it. "Nah," he said. Then he added a bit defensively, "We were already livin here and I couldn't leave my boy like Pa did."

Tavington could read it in his eyes, this man was a coward.

Esther rose to clear the table and let the men talk a bit more and asked for Jason's help. The boy looked at his grandfather with pleading eyes but frowned when the old man gestured for Jason to do as his mother asked.

Tavington watched Jason with his mother as he sat talking with Bart, Mr. Mitchel and even Timothy. Every once in a while he would catch Esther looking at him as well, cautiously and curiously until their eyes would meet and she would turn away, blushing. He smiled to himself wondering if she was indeed just curious, or if she was actually attracted to him as he was to her.

Mr. Mitchel asked Tavington if he cared for fishing and Tavington admitted that he did. Mitchel explained to him that he had a fine set of fly rods and told Tavington that any time he cared to go he would be happy to show him some nice spots along the creek where trout were known to be run.

It surprised Tavington that a man like Mitchel would have the means and resources for such a hobby. He even told the old man so, saying that in England it would have taken connections to get him to a good fishing spot. Even then, only the wealthiest men could get permission or the equipment.

It was then that Bart piped up, scoffing, "We go whenever we want. That creek out there? It may border your property but if a man wants to fish it, he can. So long as he doesn't trespass on your banks. He could float a canoe straight down the middle if he wanted. That's just the way it is here and that's why we like it."

As much as Tavington disliked Bart Mitchel he could only agree with him. A man might be able to own property and everything on it. But who could own the water, the air or the wildlife? No one.

And then it occurred to Tavington why these American's had fought so hard for their land and liberty. From the British standpoint, England had nothing to lose and therefore could not possibly lose. But from the American standpoint, these Colonist- farmers with pitchforks- had everything to lose and fought with everything they had to win.

The Crown had certainly underestimated the Americans, as had Cornwallis and Tavington himself. And now it hit Tavington like a ton of bricks. He had fought against Americans that were simply trying to defend everything they had worked so hard for and it left him feeling conflicted about his once held belief that any civilians who helped the American troops were just as much the enemy as the troops themselves. Of course they would help them, for it was their liberty the American troops were fighting for.

Just for the record...The game laws are a good representation of the class divisions in 18th Century England. Written in 1670, the objective of the game laws was to ensure that the right to hunt was reserved exclusively for land-owning aristocracy. In order to hunt legally, one had to be qualified by owning a large estate-or roughly one half of one percent of the population. The game laws were strictly enforced and punished harshly.