A/N: 11/16/2024 My goodness. I am sooooooo sorry I haven't updated this D: I write across multiple platforms, and lately I've been favoring my AO3 account over Wattpad and this one. I really did think that I'd kept them level across the board, but apparently not! So sorry about that.

Endless thanks to Dark Empress V, Guest,Guest,Six of Twelve,Guest, and NAMSTA for your reviews! Hopefully you're still interested, but if not, I really appreciate you taking the time all the same :)

*I will be posting consecutive chapters today so that we're all caught up. I have written all the way up to chapter 12 on AO3, so be prepared for a lot of new content!*

The song referenced in this chapter's title is Klara Stjarnor by Jan Johansson. It's not of the time period in this fic, but I still thought it was pretty, and it's what I imagined Margaret to be playing on her piano.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Patriot.

Chapter ten: Klara Stjarnor~

The days carried on much lighter and of a much faster pace once things were mended between Margaret and William, and though he hardly dared to admit it, even he felt the change of which she had spoke.

He couldn't be sure what exactly had changed - he still held the same basic beliefs and principles he'd had since he were a boy, still went about his days in the same general manner as he had the past few months - but the results were clear; something had. Margaret seemed more open and at ease with him, the servants less nervous.

His first grant of kindness was two days after he and Margaret had spoken in the barn, when Femi and Hakim - brothers as he later found - had dropped a rather thick log being used to make a new trough for the horses. It had clearly been an accident, but it struck a nerve with Tavington nonetheless, and he made to yell at them. But something stopped him; whether it was the logical part of his mind or Margaret's echoing words playing back at him, he didn't know, but William paused, thought about what he was about to do, and, instead, bent down to help them pick it up, carrying it the rest of the way to the stables. Perhaps it was the simple fact that yelling would not yield results any better than a whip would and he was finally recognizing that. Or perhaps, just perhaps, it truly was the small victories that gained the most glory.

It was getting to be winter, and the past few weeks especially had been gradually colder. Everyone could feel it, even the animals. And of course, just as the South Carolina summers could be sweltering hot, so could the winters be as biting cold. It was a land of extremes, it seemed, no gentleness to it and no stalling about it. Of course, in comparison to Ohio, Tavington wouldn't have it any other way.

Dusk was approaching, signaling the day's end. William and the servants began putting their tools away in the shed, making sure everything was accounted for the next day. They would have to begin food storage soon, probably tomorrow. But he would deal with that as it came.

N'Wela scampered in front of him as he exited the shed, on his way to rejoin with his mother, and the remaining slaves retreated to their quarters for dinner and sleep.

William made towards the house, his hot skin thankful for the chilled air. Today had been quite arduous, more so than he'd anticipated. And with the preparation for winter beginning, he knew that it would not get much easier for some time. Heavy boots stamped inside the house, echoing a bit too loudly for his taste. No matter. Up the stairs he went, passing by Margaret in the reading room. They had resumed reading together when his schedule permitted it, and then on Sundays after she returned from church. Phischer was nearly done with, and Margaret was readying to begin her second novel herself. Though they did not interact much during these sessions of one, perhaps two hours, it was time spent in company that was amicable to them both, and he found it to be the highlight of his day.

Of course, however, he would admit this to no one.

Winter moved in with a vengeance, as though meaning to give an extra lashing for the bountiful harvest the weather previous had so freely given them.

The days grew gradually colder, and the storage of wheat and grains were long underway.

He looked away from the task of herding all of the animals into the barn for the night in order to steal a glance at the farmhouse, allowing Hakim and Femi to lead the last two cows into their safe haven for the night.

A candle lit inside the house caused him to shiver; Tavington could scarcely remember the last winter he'd spent outside the cold.

The following weeks proved to be rather nasty, and it was indeed a nasty day - dreary and fog-ridden, with plummeting temperatures abound - when he first heard the use of the home's pianoforte.

The sun had just gone down, and Tavington was in the most sour of moods.

He stamped his boots down at the door, crests of snow toppling down around his ankles, and angrily entered. Tavington was so preoccupied by his mood that he nearly missed it, but upon recognizing the foreign sound, he stopped immediately at the stairs.

Yes, it was most definitely music. Beautiful, too. Except he had never heard it before. Did his ears deceive him? Or was there a guest over that he hadn't previously been aware of?

Anger forgotten, his hand slipped from the base of the staircase as he moved towards the sound, curiosity gripping him now. It seemed to be coming from the drawing room. But who could possibly…? Anticipation built in his chest as he neared the corner just enough to see who was playing the pianoforte, fully expecting to see a stranger.

But it was not a stranger.

It was Margaret.

Seated perfectly poised on her playing stool, arms swaying like one would imagine a swan to move, were they truly such graceful creatures, and fingers delicately but precisely plucking away at the keys in a way that produced a most pleasing tune, was Margaret O'Neil. Tavington liked to consider himself very educated in the arts, but he had never heard this particular song before.

He watched, transfixed as his ears willingly accepted the tune, melodic yet somehow also somber, being played. He waited by the doorway, perfectly patient until she finished, her movements gracefully slowing to a halt. Margaret sat a moment, tilting her head as though in thought; he wondered what passed through her mind. Unconsciously, he shifted his stance, the weight of his boots eliciting a rather loud moan from the wooden floors.

Immediately, Margaret turned, blinking multiple times at the sight of his visage. It was almost as though she didn't quite believe he was there.

"William?"

Caught, William opened his mouth to respond, though his face slackened embarrassingly.

"Forgive me, Margaret, I was just…making to retire for the night. I…" struggling to find his words, he settled lamely on, "…I was not aware you could play."

Margaret laughed lightly, the sound reminding him of the gentle tinkling of bells.

"Well, I cannot say that I keep a piano simply for looks. Just as you would not allow dust to collect on your tools, so would I not allow this beautiful instrument to go unused."

His face flushed at her continued laughing, feeling quite stupid. Of course it was folly to think that anyone would purchase a musical instrument to merely have sit there, being of no use other than for decoration. Yes, silly indeed. Absolutely ridiculous.

"Yes, of course. Forgive me."

Flustered, he turned to leave, but Margaret stopped him.

"No, wait. I apologize. I did not mean to imply that you were uncultured. I was only making jest. I know that is not the case with you, William."

Subconsciously, perhaps due to the fact that his status was in question, Tavington straightened to make himself appear taller. He was unsure why, but for some odd reason or other Margaret's acknowledgment of him in regards to his education and culture soothed the wound to his ego better than other avenues would. Like, say, a glass of brandy. Of course, he would brush this feeling off as simple silliness. Because after all, what could a simple colonial woman half his age possibly have any such powers over him as could affect his mood so?

Momentarily trapped in a state of bewilderment - a feeling most unnatural to him - his gaze bounced from her blue eyes to the floor and back, swallowing thickly as he made to reply.

"Thank you, ma'am."

Silence followed, but the lack of words was filled with the unspoken that passed between their gazes, an invisible current flowing easily from her ocean blues to his glacier orbs. Moments ticked by, and the spell was only broken when Margaret blinked, and suddenly he could be aware of his surroundings again, could hear the prominent ticking of the clock in the other room. Tavington blinked himself, as though to test the bounds of his reality. Make sure it was really there. A most foreign feeling indeed.

"How are you faring in the cold?" She asked suddenly, folding her hands neatly in her lap. They looked soft. And rather warm. He wondered how they would feel in his rough palms.

William cleared his throat. "Ahem. As fine as I have ever managed, ma'am. Thank you."

"I am going into town tomorrow morning. Would you care to accompany me?"

Into town? Tomorrow morning? To shop? Mere months ago, he would most definitely pass on such an invitation - after all, he had seen the bags and various items piled onto Kitch as though he were a human wagon. He would much rather avoid such a fate for himself - but now, after his befuddling metamorphosis that she had sagely predicted had begun, he found himself wanting just the opposite. It had been so long since he had been into town. Perhaps the trip would be good for him.

"I would gladly assist you in the expansion of your wardrobe," Margaret smiled, cocking an eyebrow at him. "Perhaps something more suitable for the winter?"

Damn. She had him there.

Mind made up, he bowed his head graciously in acceptance. "A most generous offer, ma'am. But I assure you that I will be using my own wages to purchase my things."

Her gentle smile nearly disarmed him. He wanted to hate her for it, but found he could not.

"Very well, then. I will see you at dinner."

"See you then."

The two nodded at each other and then Tavington bowed out of the room, turning to head back upstairs to his room.

As he washed up for the night and changed into his bed clothes, he grew angry with himself. Frustrated more than anything, he supposed. What was wrong with him? Allowing himself to be influenced by a woman? He would never have allowed himself to be so pliable in hands no less delicate than an infant's, but he supposed that it did improve his chances of marrying into her fortune. Certainly bolstered his odds of returning home. And so, he decided to let it pass, not worrying over it any longer. Yet still, the anger remained, aimed not at Margaret but towards himself.

He was changing. Of that he was certain. He could feel it down to his very marrow.

He was simply unsure that he liked it.