Disclaimer: I do not own The Patriot.

She moved with shameless wonder,

The perfect creature rarely seen

Since some liar brought the thunder

When the land was godless and free

Her eyes look sharp and steady

Into the empty parts of me

But still, my heart is heavy

With the hate of some other man's beliefs

Always a well-dressed fraud

Who wouldn't spare the rod

Never for me

Foreigner's God - Hozier~

Chapter eleven: Slowly Turn~

The next day's trip into town came much faster than anticipated, and before even he was aware, William found himself dressed and ready for departure. They ate a quick breakfast, for Margaret wanted to arrive before the common folk were out and about.

"There is nothing quite like an uninhibited trip into town." She'd said. Though Tavington was not one to 'shop', he silently agreed that he would much rather be there when the masses were not present. He saw little appeal for crowded stores and bustling streets, despite having withstood them for the past forty-four years of his life. This was sure to be no different.

They met at the wagon just outside the house, and he was most displeased to find Kitch sitting atop the driver's seat.

"Kitch will be driving us." Margaret smiled, as though reading his mind.

Upon hearing his name, Kitch twisted round and gave a smile of his own, but Tavington knew better than to perceive it as kind; it was a smug look if he'd ever seen one.

Damned slave…

"I assume this is no issue?"

He turned his attention back to her, shaking his head and making his best attempt to hide his distaste. "Of course."

Surprisingly straight teeth beamed at him in response, and a mild contented feeling bloomed in his chest at having pleased her. "Very well, then. Let us depart!"

Margaret moved to hoist herself up into the wagon, and more on instinct than anything else, he swiftly moved to help her. Years of etiquette training rushed forth as he took hold of her hand, and her head shot down to look at him as she reached the step. Her face seemed alarmed, and he immediately felt as though he'd done wrong. He made to let go, but she held fast, squeezing his worn palm with her gentle fingers. There was a strange moment as their eyes locked, but, reassured, he completed the act of chivalry and proceeded to hoist himself up, and found himself suddenly unable to meet her gaze after doing so. Margaret called to Kitch that they were ready, and the driver encouraged the horses to start their journey. His face was now hot, unbearably so. Why?

The wagon began to move, and he subtly wiped his hand - the one he'd used to help Margaret - on his shirt, unsure as to why he felt the need to do so.

Charlestown had certainly changed since the British had first invaded; buildings were repaired, while others erected to fill the spaces that once were empty. The town was not asleep, but not quite awake either; people milled about, yes, but they were slow-moving and scattered, and William knew that they had arrived at a very special time of day in which the ever-growing town was still in its own kind of twilight. Groggy would have been the word he had used to describe it, had he been asked.

He had secretly hoped that Kitch would be instructed to stay with the wagon and horses until their return, but this proved to be mere wishful thinking. However, he supposed that if Margaret found a plethora of things that caught her eye for purchase, he would rather the servant be left to 'carry the bags' as it were, and so he made no comment.

Their first stop consisted of looking at the local shoemaker's wares, for Tavington needed a new pair of boots. He took his time, as Margaret insisted he do, and once the style and fit he was searching for had been found, he commissioned the cobbler and was told to come back in a day's time. Satisfied with this, they exited and moved onto the next shop, this one being a barber.

It was an inexplicable feeling as William was seated, draped with that white cloth with ends tied round his neck as he finally received the trim he'd desperately been in need of for well over a month. Margaret and Kitch stood and watched as the barber worked, and once finished, he removed the cloth and Tavington stood to stare at himself in the provided mirror. He looked just as he had all those years ago; respectable, important. A true man of principle. Just how he'd pictured himself. Yet for some unknown reason churning in his belly, he was met with mixed feelings upon finally getting what he wanted.

"You look very handsome, William," Margaret said, but her voice sounded far away.

Kitch said nothing, but he did not seem to disagree with his mistress that Tavington looked esteemed. William parted his lips to speak, but no words came out, and so he settled for simply turning from the mirror and nodding his appreciation, giving a half smile as he did so.

They exited the barber and continued to walk around; more people were in the streets than before.

"Oh, this is one of my favorite shops!" Margaret smiled excitedly, her eyes going wide as she looked to him and then to a window display just down the street.

He was not surprised to find that it was a feminine store, holding ribbons and dresses and the like. He had absolutely no desire to enter, but just as he made to announce his refusal at accompanying her inside, she walked straight past the entrance and into the shop adjacent.

Puzzled, he followed after her, finding the true source of her excitement to be…a bookstore?

"Oh, William, come inside, you will adore this place."

Hesitant but no longer unwilling, Tavington followed her inside, his eyes needing to adjust to the sudden shift from daylight to dark. The bookkeeper - more than likely, the bookkeeper's son, given his youth - greeted them, asked if they were looking for anything in particular, and when Margaret insisted she was merely browsing, he left her to herself and shifted his attentions to William.

"And you, sir? Is there anything in particular that I may help you locate?"

Absently, he shook his head, attempting to find Margaret, but she had disappeared into one of the aisles. "No. Thank you."

"Very well, sir."

Kitch quietly sighed beside him, and he turned to see the resignation with which the man prepared to carry the weight of Margaret's soon-to-be purchases. It must have been a more common practice than he thought for them to visit the bookshop whenever they went into town. He could not recall ever having noticed books being unloaded from the cart upon their multiple returns home previous, though in reality, he had never paid much attention. Kitch slowly moved to follow after his mistress, towering over the ex-colonel as he did so, and William felt a spark of irritation as he had little choice but to follow.

Margaret was quickly found with her head bent towards an open book, hardly a care in the world. Tavington approached, unsure how to handle this particular side of Margaret which he had never seen. She was always fairly quiet and reserved, albeit a tad fierce at times, though only when required of her. He was unused to seeing an excited, giddy, energetic Margaret O'Neil.

"Oh, Kitch, they have it!" She whispered. "It's finally come in!"

Knitting his brows, William tilted his head to see what all the fuss was about, attempting to spy the title. She lifted the book's face for viewing, and he could not say he was familiar with the author.

Amelia, by Henry Fielding.

Romantic, from the looks of it. Just as he'd suspect from a member of her sex. However, there was admittedly something about its font and cover that piqued his interest. Perhaps he would ask her about it once she's finished.

"Here. You'll like this one." Margaret handed her find off to Kitch and reached upwards on the shelf before her, plucking out a significantly more 'male' book and offering it to him.

Hesitant, William took it, staring at its title.

Gulliver's Travels, by Jonathan Swift.

He did recall this one, it had been a popular read amongst the British soldiers during the war. William had never allowed himself to be bothered with it, for he had thought indulging in such silly fantasies involving tiny men and giants to be preposterous. In fact, he still needed to finish Phischer. Perhaps now, though…perhaps it was time to try something new.

"Perhaps…I shall attempt it."

Though not the most promising of responses, Margaret's mouth curled into a humorous smile which she tried to hide, but was unsuccessful. He did not know if she were laughing at him or merely the situation - perhaps she were proud of herself for dragging him just that much further from his armored shell - but he chose in that moment to receive it lightly, for if he knew nothing else, he knew that the woman before him meant no harm. Hers was a place of warmth, and genuineness in her intentions. Colonial though she may be, he was ready to admit these things to himself as fact.

They peruse the selections until both are satisfied, and Margaret comes away with three books, while William only one. Kitch takes them and puts them into their cart outside, seemingly happy with such a small load. William had a sneaking suspicion that the majority of Margaret's library had been her own doing, and not entirely made up of heirlooms and hand-me-downs from relatives.

Next came the haberdasher, which did not consist of the making and selling of sewing items, as William had assumed when they entered. Apparently, the Americans had expanded the meaning to include clothing and other such things as well, which both irritated and pleased him, a most foreign feeling to be sure.

The seamstress greeted them and they began exploring the various patterns, cloths, blocks, and laces available for purchase. Tavington came across a most exquisite coat, richly decorated and made of a finer cloth than he'd expected a shop such as this one to stock, but as he eyed the embroidered collar and thumbed one of the beads sewn into the cuffs, he remembered his wages, his occupation, and the simple fact that he could no longer afford to be as he once was due to the constant strain of manual labor. Coupled with the fact that he longer had connections, or parties or balls to attend, there would be no use in owning such an addition to his wardrobe regardless. He dropped the sleeve, unaware that Margaret had been paying keen attention as he moved onto a more practical section of the store.

Resolute, he analyzed each and every bit of fabric available, settled on some fairly decent wool articles, and purchased them at the counter.

"What is your opinion?" Margaret's voice came from behind, and William turned to find her trying on a ladie's hat so feathered she could hardly see. Posing in such a way that was absolutely silly, she adopted an expression of humor. "Does it suit me?"

Kitch laughed openly, and William found a low chuckle rumbling its way through his chest and up from his mouth, unbidden.

He paused, catching himself. When was the last time he'd laughed with mirth? When had he last laughed at all? He scoffed to cover it up, feigning disgust at her antics.

"Preposterous…"

Margaret smiled broadly as she took off the hat and placed it back on its respective display, unmoved by his false expression.

Their last stop for the day was to be a bakery, where Margaret purchased lovely pastries for the three of them, and a box of boiled sugar plums for the rest of the servants back home. Tavington had to admit that he had completely forgotten about their existence while they had been out, save for Kitch, and an unknown feeling waded near his heart at seeing this beautiful, kind young woman being mindful of others besides herself even now, while out on an excursion of indulgence. He resisted the sudden feeling of ugliness that washed over him at the realization.

"Does it please you to depart now?"

It took him a moment to realize she was speaking to him, as he had become so lost in his own thoughts. Clearing throat, he nodded. "I think this shall suffice. Yes."

"Very well, then. It is perfectly well with me."

Kitch secured the cart of the day's purchases to the wagon and mounted the driver's seat, but not before making a point to help Margaret into the back as William had done upon their initial departure. Slightly angered but choosing to appear nonplussed, the British native had eyed the tall slave carefully as he disappeared around the corner of the wagon, and finally helped himself inside for the journey home.

The hour's ride back proved to be far less strenuous on his nerves, and Tavington was satisfied with the course of the day. Dinner time was approaching, and he pondered what the evening meal would be.

The ride had been just as bumpy on the way back as it had been on the way up, and occasionally, Margaret would sneak a glance at him and smile. Whenever he would meet her gaze, however, she would look away, pretending to purse her lips as though she knew some secret which she could hardly contain. Strange girl, he thought, for he knew of no such reason to be so giddy.

They arrived home in a timely manner, and when the wagon finally came to a halt, he could not possibly be more pleased to be home and no longer surrounded by countless strangers. He had no preexisting condition of claustrophobia, but by trip's end he had felt the need to internally decompress during the way back due to exceedingly close quarters social interactions throughout. Perhaps he had been spoiled by his isolated time on Margaret's property, for he found he enjoyed the existence of large groups of people less and less.

The relief he felt was to be short lived, however, for - as with all things in his life - peace and contentment could never thrive for long.

"Miss O'Neil, miss O'Neil!"

Fefe huffed and puffed as she hurriedly waddled over to them, her burgeoning weight causing her to move so. N'Wela was not far behind.

As she came closer, the distressed expression on her face became more clear, and all three present became more alert.

"Fefe, what is the matter?"

The servant woman took a moment to still her breath, but it did little for her nerves. "I apologize, ma'am…we found a man little while after you left…he was starvin' and cold, so we brought him in…"

"A man?" Margaret echoed. Tavington already disliked the situation. He looked down at N'Wela, who was eyeing the cart, trying to see if there were anything in there for him; he probably expected sweets or something of the sort upon every one of their mistress' returns from town.

"Yes, he's sick, and I- we didn't know what else to do, but you wasn't here, and-"

"Fefe, calm down. I would have done no different and you know that. Where is he?"

"In the guest room." She pointed back towards the house, everyone's heads following in that direction.

"Very well." Margaret said. "I shall go attend to him. Kitch, please bring in our things." She moved to pick up her skirts and walk towards the house, but William stopped her, grabbing hold of her arm.

"I beg your pardon, miss, but I do not think it wise to attend to a stranger alone."

She looked up at him, her eyes gaining an icy quality which he had never seen before. It damned near rivaled his own. "Were you not a stranger when I came upon you?"

At his shocked silence, she tore her arm away and went into the house, Fefe and N'Wela following after her. William did not like the idea of Margaret tending to a strange man alone, whose intentions remained yet unclear. The very image in his mind ignited what could only be identified as anger, though he knew at its core that it was something else entirely. However, her argument against his advice had been sound, for he could find no just way to combat it; in all likeliness, he had been the most dastardly man she had ever come across, and ever would come across. This man was probably a fine gentlemen caught in a rough way, and he had neither the right nor the gall to question his existence, nor his motives. And it angered the hell out of him.

Silently, he helped Kitch unload the wagon, the dark-skinned man noting his seething as he did so.

Supper time arrived shortly after, and Tavington could not help but eat with quiet resentment. Margaret noticed, but said nothing on the matter, for she knew what made him so cross.

"Is our guest not dining with us tonight?" He quipped, nostrils flaring in menace.

"He is being given milk." Came her clipped response, for that was the drink commonly given to victims of starvation, should it be available.

Those had been the only words spoken between them, and the tense silence stretched all through dinner, the clanging of their forks as loud as any gunshot; a couple of the servants actually flinched at the piercing sounds.

Once finished with the evening meal, their plates were taken away, they bowed their farewells, and he made his way towards the staircase, intent on retiring to his room for the night. He had just taken the first two steps when shed called to him.

"William?"

Hating himself for being so malleable, he refrained from continuing on and turned. "Yes, my lady?"

Margaret's expression flickered for a moment, shocked at his tone. "Would you not like to meet our guest?"

He took pause, considering the weight of her question. Did he truly wish to meet with this stranger? Not at all. But did he wish to put his mind at ease for his own personal worry over Margaret's wellbeing? Yes, he decided. He would meet with this vagabond that had wandered into his territory, if only begrudgingly.

Mind made up, he gave a sardonic smile and removed his hand from the railing. "Very well, then. Let us meet this…stranger."

Pursing her lips in distaste towards his attitude, Margaret delivered a soft glare before leading the way to the guest room. When the door was opened to reveal a man lying on his side, his back facing them, Tavington did not expect him to have been in need of any immediate medical attention; yet there were fresh bandages wrapped all round his torso. Perhaps that was why Margaret had been so hostile towards him when he had advised caution; asking her not to act as a nurse was much the same as asking him not to be a soldier. Her caring nature flowed through her veins just as bloodlust and self-preservation flowed through his.

Upon seeing him unresponsive to their entry, Margaret gave a courtesy knock on the door. Immediately, the man tossed his head back, carefully rolling over to greet them. As his face came into view, Tavington's own face grew pale, drained most completely of color. And once their eyes met, the man mirrored the expression. A cold feeling shot downwards all throughout his body, his arms taking on a numbness as he came face to face with a figure from his past. A man that, had he any inkling of his arrival, would have driven him far from the place he'd been trying so long and so hard to secure.

One of his own, under his command at Cowpens, whom he had presumed dead.

A defector of his own country and neighbor folk.

A traitor to his own kind, but also to the crown.

There, not five feet from him, laid former Captain, James Wilkins.