I'm back, and I bring chapter 10!
Sorry it's been a week, but with final exams coming up, such gaps will most likely become the norm, because no matter how much I would love it to, my English grade doesn't improve because I'm writing fanfiction.
Thank you very much to Amelia Mills, turnGadgets, WeAllFlyHigh, and (especially) Oniongrass for your reviews!
Thanks as well to skyspottedshadow, petaltailify197, and Night's Flower for your favorites and alerts!
I disclaim, and own nothing.
The crowd cheered, pushing up close to the sides of the boat, waving to the returning heroes on board, all of whom had survived a journey to the west and the mythic Pacific. Its appreciation of those on board knew no bounds, hailing them across the States and great Americans.
The soaring feeling of elation at being called a hero bubbled up, making itself known at the surface of his thoughts. Though the cheers were mainly for the pair of men at the prow, he basked in their reflected glory.
A shift in the crowd, and he caught sight of a ebony-haired woman in a deerskin dress, standing with her hand on the shoulder of a smiling blond boy with chocolate brown eyes. An excited little girl stood in front of them, waving as her blue eyes, reflections of his own, sparkled in the morning sun…
"Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones, please wake up, President Jefferson wants to see you!"
Alfred felt the last threads of his dream slipping away. No matter how he tried to grasp them, to preserve the warm feeling they brought, they disappeared. He opened his eyes, knowing that he wouldn't remember any of it.
Pulling his head off his desk, he met the anxious blue eyes of Peter Wetherby. His mind flickered briefly to another pair of eyes identical to those, reminiscent of a dream, but they too dissolved.
Growling under his breath, Alfred asked, "What now, Peter?"
"I said," Peter repeated, hopping from foot to foot, "President Jefferson wants to see you! And when he sends me to find you, all I see is you sleeping on your paperwork!"
Alfred glanced down at the wrinkled papers where, evidently, his face had been until mere moments ago. He knew they were important in some way, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
Grumbling, he rose from his chair, shooting a final venomous glare at the papers that fluttered about as he disturbed them. "Fine, fine, I'm going…"
"Not like that, you can't!" Peter exclaimed. A comb appeared out of nowhere and found its way into Alfred's hand, a handkerchief was thrust into his face, and his suit jacket was placed about his shoulders. "Honestly," the younger man said, "you can't go looking like you've just woken up, or President Jefferson will have your hide for sleeping on the job again! Please, have a bit more common sense, Mr. Jones!"
As Alfred wormed his way out of Peter's clutches, he wondered at how Peter managed to be such a blend of Zach's cheerful clumsiness and his father's collected lawyerly sense. He decided to blame it on the two years he'd spent away from Washington, which had doubtlessly given him time to mature. So much, that he had stayed on the staff even after Alfred returned to his job.
Making his way out of his office, he ignored Peter's final protests and headed for Jefferson's office at his customary leisurely pace. Frowning, he noticed that the shoulders on his coat were looser than they should be, and made a mental note to have the jacket re-tailored. He might as well, since he could write it off as a business expense and bug the money off Jefferson.
The double doors of the President's office were soon before him, and Alfred knocked without hesitation.
"Enter," came the muffled voice from inside, and Alfred obliged, pulling on the carved handle as he had so many times before, and listening to the soft thumps of his feet on thick carpet as he made his way over toward the chair before Jefferson's desk. He sat (though it was more like his knees gave out at a convenient time, not that he would ever admit it) and raised his gaze to meet the eyes of his leader.
Check that, the concerned eyes of his leader. Alfred sat stiffly, trying not to quail under the scrutiny of the President.
"You just woke up," Jefferson said, not a question, but a statement of fact. Alfred nodded warily, wondering if that was all the man had summoned him for, but slightly curious as to how he knew. As if reading his mind, Jefferson continued, "You have an ink smudge on your cheek."
Hastily, Alfred rubbed at his face, willing the offending blot to disappear, and mentally yelling at Peter for not getting it off. Peter's voice replied in his head, It's not my responsibility to make sure you're presentable! You shouldn't have fallen asleep in the first place!
Shaking his head to get rid of Peter's voice probably wasn't a good idea. Jefferson's strange look increased in intensity, and Alfred was sure he felt it boring into his skull.
"So, what did you want to see me about?" Alfred asked, praying that the question would temporarily divert Jefferson's attention. "Did the English send us another faulty treaty? Going to put up another embargo? What's it going to be, Canada this time?"
"I would appreciate it if you would stop using such an attitude with me," Jefferson said, a hint of steel in his voice.
"Sorry," Alfred muttered. Sighing, he leaned back in his chair. "I guess I'm just tired."
He could swear he saw a flash of sympathy in the President's eyes. "Hm. Well, I've been given another act to sign."
Alfred leaned forward again. "What now?"
"They call it the Non-Intercourse Act," Jefferson replied, holding out a packet of papers for Alfred to study. "We're lifting the Foreign Commerce embargo."
"Are we now?" Alfred took the pages, flipping idly through them. The word England caught his eye, and he read closer. "But not with all countries…"
"No, we're excepting England and France, unless they revise their maritime policies. We have a right to neutral shipping, no matter what they believe."
"The Foreign Commerce embargo didn't make them see that…"
"Yes, but that was hurting our merchants. They promise that this will be better-suited for our purposes."
Alfred raised an eyebrow, looking up from the papers. "And those purposes are supposed to stop a war?" Jefferson pinched the bridge of his nose, and nodded. "If you don't mind my saying, sir, no matter what you do, you won't be able to stop a war before Madison's inauguration. He'll be inheriting your world problems, and unless he's brighter than I thought, he won't be solving them."
"Well, I can at least make it easier on the fellow," Jefferson replied. "And since when has it mattered to you if I mind what you say?"
"Not often."
"More importantly…" Jefferson said, leaning forward, "are you absolutely sure you are all right? You know I don't like to see you ill."
"Stop worrying," Alfred responded. "You'll give yourself more gray hairs than you already have." Jefferson nodded, clearly unconvinced. It wasn't that hard to be, after all. Alfred was far skinnier than the President had ever seen him, with dark smudges under his eyes that certainly weren't ink.
For some reason, it made him more nervous about the welfare of his country than that of the perpetually young man before him.
"Well, do come in if you're bothered. My door is always open to you, Alfred."
Nodding absently, Alfred rose and left, leaving Jefferson watching his retreating back with the same worried look on his face.
_V~-~-~V_
Three days passed after the signing of the Non-Intercourse Act, and Thomas Jefferson was out of office. James Madison, a man Alfred was torn between respecting and wanting to shout at, was inaugurated on March 4th, 1809.
Since Jefferson was done, Alfred had no further obligation to stay at the White House. The now-former President offered to get him a post in the new administration, but Alfred declined, saying that he wanted to work in something other than politics for a few years.
…Which was how he found himself standing outside a small corner bookstore in Washington, DC, wondering if they had a job available, Peter standing beside him because he had nothing else better to do.
Alfred pushed open the door, a small jingling noise announcing his entrance. "I'll be out in a minute!" came a shout from the back of the store. Alfred waited, Peter beside him hopping from one foot to the other again, looking around at the many dusty shelves filling the small wood-paneled room. Oddly enough, its smell reminded Alfred of Ben's office back in Philadelphia. He barely had time to wonder vaguely if that was a good omen before a stack of books emerged from a door in the back of the store.
"How may I help you?" the stack inquired. Walking closer, Alfred lifted the top two thirds of the stack out of the arms of a rather short man, who looked at him gratefully through a pair of round glasses. "Much obliged, young man. Why don't you put those over here, yes, right by this shelf… oh, but take off the top few, those belong in that section over there…" he gestured to another shelf across the room, and Alfred dutifully toted the books in that direction.
The man wiped his brow. He was definitely short, despite the fact that his boots had heels. He wore a pair of long brown pants with suspenders strapped over the shoulders of his long-sleeved white shirt. Alfred noted the thin comb-over he'd organized his brown hair into, and a shaving nick on his right cheek. The man smiled.
"What can I get for you? Newspapers, British periodicals, or records? What about science and math texts? Religious pamphlets? Fiction?"
"I was actually wondering if you had a job opening," Alfred said, setting his stack down. The man's eyebrows shot up.
"Really now? You and your friend?"
"No, just me. Peter's here for… what did you call it?"
"Moral support," the other supplied helpfully.
"Ah. How nice. Do you have any previous jobs? Why do you want to work here?"
"I was a farmer first, a soldier, and an aide at the White House under President Jefferson most recently, sir."
The man's eyebrows shot up further. "Quite qualified. Why did you pick a book shop?"
Alfred shrugged. He didn't really know himself, only that he wanted to stay in Washington, if at all possible. "It's as good a place as any. And I like books, so why not?"
"Hm," the man said. "You're hired."
"Really?"
"Do you not want the job?" the man asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No, of course I do, I just wasn't expecting—"
"You get started now. Sort the fiction books into alphabetical order by title, please." Alfred glanced at Peter, who shrugged helplessly, but from the grin on his face, he looked like he was hiding laughter. Alfred shot him a glare, and sighed, then made his way over to the designated shelf and began working.
_V~-~-~V_
While Alfred settled in at his job at the bookshelf, he learned a several things. The first few were about his employer.
He spoke in short, clipped sentences not because he was unintelligent. In fact, he was one of the smartest people Alfred had encountered. But he was a Hungarian immigrant, fairly new to speaking the English language, though he could read it fluently. He'd changed his name upon coming to America, becoming Kris Rudolph, and refused to tell Alfred what his name had been before.
The next few were about governments during transition periods. Initially, Madison was reluctant to do anything, but that time was short-lived, and followed by many rapid legislations being passed, the first major one known as Macon's Bill, which basically rewrote Jefferson's Non-Intercourse Act, authorizing the president to reopen trade with France and England.
The last were possibly the most important to Alfred, and they all concerned Peter. He visited the bookshop daily, getting along swimmingly with Mr. Rudolph right off. Apparently, he had nowhere else to go at the moment, so he even began living with Alfred in his small bedroom above the store that he earned in addition to a small salary.
One day, Peter announced that he was going home, and Alfred realized he had no idea where the younger man was from.
"Boston," he replied cheerfully. "My father's law practice is there."
"Really?" Alfred asked. "How do you like it there?"
"It's quite nice. A bit smoky and crowded, but nice."
Alfred considered continuing for a moment, but finally gave in to his curiosity. "Do you know a coffee shop called St. George's?"
Peter thought for a moment. "No, I can't say I do. Why?"
"The proprietress is an old acquaintance of mine," Alfred said. Quite possibly was, not is, his brain supplied before he had time to squash the morbid thoughts, however true they might be.
Peter made a noncommittal noise in reply. "My mother will be arriving in a few days for me. She doesn't get out of Boston much, but she's always wanted to visit the capital. Father figured this was the best opportunity." Suddenly, he flushed. "And don't you dare say things about me needing my mother to come take me home, because I don't! I could get to Boston perfectly fine myself!"
Alfred laughed. "No, you couldn't. You told me yourself that you got lost nearly every day during the first week you started visiting!"
"That's because Washington's streets are confusing!"
"They're in a grid pattern, what's confusing about it?"
"There are too many corners and alleys!"
"What do you expect? You can't build buildings without corners!"
"They could at least have street signs, or something! How am I supposed to find King St. if it's not even labeled?"
"You've lived here for nearly seven years, figure it out!"
"Can you both please be quiet? I'm trying to read."
The pair glanced up, catching sight of a faintly annoyed Mr. Rudolph standing in the doorway, a book in his hand.
Turning to Peter, he inquired, "When is your mother coming?"
"Four days, sir," the younger man replied.
Mr. Rudolph nodded sharply. "Welcome her. Then you can go home, and there will be no more arguments… or freeloaders."
"I am not freeloading! I do help out!"
"… Yes you are. Kindly be quiet and stop distracting my employee, or he will get no pay either." A pointed glance was sent in Alfred's direction before the balding man disappeared once again into the back room.
Grumbling, Alfred went back to work, and Peter excused himself to, "go wandering through the streets, where I can look like I have something to do instead of getting accused of freeloading."
_V~-~-~V_
Four days later, Alfred was alone in the bookshop. It was early afternoon on a Sunday, meaning that Peter would be returning to the bookshop sometime soon. A glance at the grandfather clock in the front room told Alfred he was late.
Mr. Rudolph was also out, taking his weekly half-day off. Sunday was the one day he felt comfortable leaving Alfred in charge, because the bookshop wasn't actually open.
Alfred sat in the back room on his favorite cushioned chair, a book in his lap and coffee on the table beside him. He'd acquired a taste for it while working in the White House, and Mr. Rudolph always kept some handy, being an avid drinker of the stuff himself.
Just as he was preparing to settle down for at least an hour (or until whenever Mr. Rudolph returned and asked him to do his job), he heard the distinct tinkle of the bell in the store, announcing the arrival of a customer that wasn't supposed to be there.
He sighed and stood, reluctantly leaving his book and coffee behind so he could shoo the person away. Mentally preparing his polite speech as he went, he paused in the doorway when he caught sight of who exactly had intruded.
It was a woman, probably two or three inches shorter than he was without the giant pastel-green plumed hat she wore on her head, like a lady of high society. Her floor-length dress was a similar color with darker green pinstripes, and as she stepped nearer to the first bookshelf, he could hear the click of heeled boots on the wooden floor.
Alfred cleared his throat. "Excuse me, ma'am? We're closed today, so I'm going to have to ask you to leave…"
At the sound of his voice, the woman turned, a production involving a great swishing of her skirts, a white-gloved hand clapped on her hat. She looked older than he had guessed from her back, somewhere in her early forties. "I'm terribly sorry," she began, in a voice of an educated woman befitting of her dress, tinged with a Boston accent. "I was told to come here, you see…"
Her eyes met Alfred's, and she froze, her mouth still open, but with no words escaping. Alfred looked back, meeting her gaze as evenly as he could, and he suddenly realized that her eyes were blue, a shade incredibly similar to his own—
"Alfie?"
His heart leapt to his throat, whatever coherent thoughts would have formed swept away by a flood of memories, but most importantly by the image of a little girl with the same blonde curls he saw peeking out from beneath the green hat of the woman before him, a little girl with sparkling blue eyes that had cried for him when he removed himself from her life for what he hoped was forever but secretly wished wasn't, the only person he'd ever let call him Alfie—
"E… Emeline?"
The woman's eyes widened even further, and the book beside the warm coffee in the back room sat forgotten as she threw her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder, her hat having flown off and landed on the floor a few feet away in her rush.
Strangely, the only thing Alfred could think of was that Emeline still smelled the same, after all these years, and the feeling of nostalgia threatened to overwhelm him as he rested his chin on her shoulder, Emeline in her pinstripe dress crying in his arms.
_V~-~-~V_
Alfred stared at Emeline, not trusting himself to speak. How could he not have realized before? The evidence had been there all along, written clearly in Peter's face. Had he really been so consumed with seeing Zach in the young man that he'd neglected the obvious similarities?
"So Peter is… your son?"
Emeline nodded. Alfred sat across from her at the small dining table in the back room that doubled as his desk. He'd made more coffee after throwing out his previous cup that had long turned cold. Emeline had recovered her hat, but the streaks on her face ruined her highborn image, but you couldn't deny that she was absolutely ecstatic.
Another thing Alfred couldn't deny, no matter how hard he tried, were the lines on her face. Tiny creases around her mouth, dents at the corners of her eyes, and slight folds on her forehead were the minute imperfections he sought, sending pangs of regret coursing through him with each now blemish. They were constant reminders of the vast gap between himself and the once-girl before him, a crack that had grown into a canyon in what to him seemed like a mere few years, but represented a majority of her life.
Emeline was also studying him, with that gaze he had always known would grow to be intelligent. There was sadness there too, mixed with no small amount of wonder.
"You've grown," she said softly.
"Not as much as I should have," Alfred replied, choosing to focus on his coffee cup instead.
"You've always been special; even Ma and Pa knew that." Alfred felt a gloved hand reach out, gracing the top of his own with a feather-light touch. "Witchcraft," she snorted in a very un-ladylike manner, "I've not heard such drivel since."
"What other explanation is there?" Alfred asked.
Emeline shrugged, looking rather unconcerned. "You're just special. Did you never notice the way you drew people to you?" She sighed. "I think it would be lovely to feel twenty forever."
Despite his best efforts, Alfred couldn't keep his voice from cracking. "It's not."
Before Emeline had time to say anything in reply, the tinkling of the door opening echoed through the empty bookshop. "Alfred? I'm back!"
At the sound of her son's voice, Emeline leapt up. "Peter!"
Running feet pounded toward the back room, and Peter practically threw himself at Emeline. "Mother!"
"I missed you Peter, so much, oh just look at how you've grown…"
When the young man finally detached himself from his mother's arms, he glanced toward Alfred, who was clearing away the coffee cups. "Have you been waiting long?"
"Oh, not so very long, and Al—"
"I kept her company. Your mother is a wonderful woman, Peter," Alfred said, effectively interrupting Emeline. It wouldn't do for her to call him Alfie, of all things, in front of Peter, who knew full well nobody was allowed to call him that. Plunging on despite Emeline's glare, Alfred said, "We had time to get acquainted over coffee. She told me some interesting stories about you I'm sure you'll love to hear."
The effect was instantaneous. Peter whirled on Emeline, flushing brightly. "Mother! What did you tell him?"
"Nothing too bad," Alfred said flippantly, waving a hand and again cutting Emeline off before she could begin. He was, after all, the more practiced liar. "Why don't you two go out to eat or something? I'm sure you could use some family time after all these months apart."
Peter was instantly on board with the idea, attempting to drag Emeline out the door, chattering brightly about all the places they could go and things he just had to show her in Washington. Alfred turned his back on the scene, going back to the dishes, pointedly ignoring the glare he knew Emeline would be sending him, but the sound of her skirts swishing out the door convinced him that she'd given in for now.
But Emeline had always been persistent. Alfred knew she'd return demanding answers he would rather not give, but she would demand them anyway as his little sister.
Alfred paused in his washing. Little sister. And Peter was her son. But that would mean…
"I'm an uncle!"
V/~-~-~\V
Another chapter complete!
Because the last three have been so history-heavy, I decided to take more of an Alfred-oriented-emotional-plot-development route, plus a bit more history, for this chapter. My apologies to all you history fanatics, you'll have to get your history next chapter.
Some historical background: the Lewis and Clark expedition returned in 1806, and they were hailed as national heroes.
The Foreign Commerce embargo mentioned briefly restricted American ships to only sailing to American ports, and foreign ships could deliver but not pick up cargoes. It was Jefferson's attempt to prevent war with Britain, as well as put them under economic pressure so they would have to revise their maritime policies that allowed them to freely board any American ship in search of British deserters, as well as seize any ship engaging in trade with Britain.
The Non-Intercourse Act, signed March first, 1809, legalized American trade with all countried except Britain and France (because Britain hadn't changed its policies, and France was going all Napoleon on Europe) since the embargo was hurting American merchants too much.
James Madison was inaugurated on March 4th, 1809.
Macon's Bill was passed May first, 1809, and authorized the president to reopen trade with Britain and France. It also authorized the president to impose trade restrictions on either country if the other modified its trade policies before March 3rd, 1811. For example, if one country agreed to allow American commerce to operate without interference, the other had to match these concessions within three months or the president would be authorized to suspend trade with the offending country.
Canada is also scheduled to appear... sometime soon. I'm still working that out (thank you, Oniongrass, for your helpful tips!).
Per the usual, if you have the time, any comments or reviews are always greatly appreciated!