A/N: 11/14/2023 for future reference (because I KNOW I'm gonna forget again) I recommend checking my ArchiveofOurOwn profile for future updates, because I most definitely post there first. My username over there is MissJewelry373. Here is the link even though it probably won't /works/26056729/chapters/63369634
but you can also find it by going to archiveofourown and searching 'Tavington Margaret'. It pops right up (at least for me, haha).
Disclaimer: I do not own The Patriot.
Serpents in my mind
Looking for your crimes
Everything changes
I don't want mine to this time
Serpents - Sharon Van Etten~
Chapter twelve: Twists of The Knife~
"William, this is James Wilkins. James, this is William. William Tarleton."
Margaret's saccharine voice drifted away on deafening ears as Tavington continued to stare at Wilkins, and he at him. There was only a few moment's silence, yet they stretched a small eternity, for the two men silently debated to themselves on whether to out the other to their hospitable hostess. Upon the initial passing of shock, the two slowly relaxed in front of Margaret, both remaining unsure of how the impending conversation was going to end.
"Tarleton?" James's voice held echoes of suspicion combined with shock, and in the few seconds it took him to complete his thought, William's fate was that much closer to being sealed. "What a strange name. I've never heard it before."
"It is an odd name, to be sure," Margaret smiled easily, unknowingly defending William from their guest's impending onslaught. She turned to look up at Tavington, bright blue eyes sparkling. "James will be staying with us until he is fully recovered from his injuries."
"I…I see," William managed to say, unable to tear his gaze from the bandaged man. "And how long might that be?"
He was surprised to find James himself speak before Margaret could answer for him, and the former captain finally broke eye contact to meet the eyes of their mutual caretaker. "Just a few weeks, at most. I truly appreciate your hospitality."
William did not have to look to know that Margaret smiled, her body language telling him so. "I thank you, kindly. I dare say that William was in near as rough shape as yourself when I found him. I will see to it that you heal nicely."
Instinctually, Tavington's head turned to hers like a whip, fury boiling inside him at not only the comparison, but admitting to a complete stranger the state he'd been in when she'd come across him all those months ago. How dare she.
Wilkins chuckled lightly in the background. "Is that so, ma'am?"
"Please; call me Margaret."
Another twist of the knife! What in God's name was going on here?
"Very well. I thank you again, Margaret, for your kindness. Your servants are truly remarkable as well."
Her blonde hair suddenly became an insufferable halo above her head, and Tavington could hardly be bothered to reign in his mounting anger in spite of it.
"I must thank you again. Please; you must join us for breakfast tomorrow, should you feel up to it."
Wilkins nodded. "I will keep that in mind. Thank you."
Margaret gripped the door handle to close it shut, and William was just coherent enough to step out of her way as she moved back. Their connection severed, she turned to look up at him, her initial expression of joviality fading to that of steel as she met his glare with one of her own.
"I must ask," she whispered, slow and careful. "That you respect his privacy while he remains here with us. Do you understand?"
Unable to keep himself contained, William's eyes bulged in pure wrath as he opened his mouth to tell her exactly what he thought of the notion-
"Good."
-she moved past him before he could even properly begin his tirade, and he was left standing by the door, dumbstruck.
He did not like this situation.
Not.
One.
Bit.
Breakfast proved to be a sordid affair, with Wilkins not attending but Margaret and William engaging in conversation of a forced kind of civility; for their vastly differing feelings toward their 'guest' were still fresh in both their minds.
"Did you sleep well?" She had asked curtly.
"Quite well." Came his equally clipped reply. "Yourself?"
Her eyebrow twitched in a most vexed way. "Well. Thank you. We best be getting into town for the cobbler."
His fork entered his mouth, seasoned eggs hot on his tongue. "Indeed."
Following breakfast, they traveled into town to take possession of the boots he had commissioned; they did not go into the bookstore, but Margaret did make a quick stop into the general store to purchase a pack of playing cards and some candles, as well as coffee. They returned home in silence so uncomfortable, William debated on throwing himself from the wagon and trying his luck elsewhere, yet something inside him had entreated him to stay.
Upon their return, purchases were brought into the house and William retreated upstairs to his room to put on his new pair of boots and ready himself for the day's work. As he slid the leather over his calves, he took note of the fit; firm, yet not too firm. Sturdy, yet flexible. They were perfect, dare he say better than his British issued boots from the war. The man knew what he was doing, he'd allow that. He stood up and took a few exploratory steps about the room, immensely pleased. The satisfaction of having a quality pair of brand new shoes - which he had purchased with his own money - alleviated the sting he felt from Margaret's betrayal in favoring a vagabond such as Wilkins over himself.
Tavington had never much cared for the man, even after he defected back to his original country; as far as he'd been concerned, any man who found himself able to throw his fellow neighbors under the wagon at the first sign of trouble with as much ease as James had done, was hardly a man at all. Tavington had been plenty willing to use him, of course, in aiding the efforts of the crown, but above all, he favored loyalty in a person. If one cannot even make as simple a choice as to which side they are on, then what worth had you? It was this fact alone that made him weary of Wilkins; he had witnessed firsthand the man's true nature, and therefore knew all too well that he would try to sabotage him at the first opportunity. He could not allow that to happen.
Satisfied, William set out to catch up on the day's chores. He made it to the bottom of the stairs when he noticed the door to Wilkins' room was ajar, and, unable to control himself, he walked over to peer inside, a spike of nervousness hitting his veins. Margaret sat at James's bedside, Aaliyah aiding her in changing his bandages. He sported a rather nasty bruise round his rib cage, blood seeping from the cuts round the edges, and William's brow cocked to one side as he pondered just what - or who - had done this to him…and whether he'd deserved it. Margaret's eyes barely flashed to his as she acknowledged his existence. Did he seriously want to marry into this woman's fortune? These days, he found himself not so sure.
"William. Do you need something?"
Snapping out of his gawk, he straightened himself and responded with a sneer, "I was simply wondering if your mistress had want of anything before I went out to tend the livestock."
He had hoped to surprise her with his response, yet it was she who surprised him as she responded with a smile, "Yes, truthfully. You can fetch me some clean rags. Are you capable?"
William was unable to keep himself from scoffing at her backhanded question. Was he capable? Good gracious, this woman…
"Very."
Twisting on his heel, he retrieved the items she asked for and returned with them, presenting them to her as only a gentleman would. She didn't even so much as flutter a single eyelash at him as she took them.
"Thank you. Now please take these and put them in the boiling pot."
She replaced the clean rags with a handful of blood-soaked ones, to which Tavington could not help showing his disgust, not only for the infected cloth but for her attitude as well. How could she act so strongly over his distaste for a man she barely knew? When he himself she had known for months on end? Biting his tongue, he bowed his acquiescence and left the room, leaving her to her occupations.
Unable to find 'the boiling pot', he gave the rags off to the first servant he was able to find and watched as they took them straight to the object Margaret had mentioned, taking note of its location for later.
He continued about his day in the normal fashion, counting down the seconds until it was time to lay down and simply sleep.
Supper time came, and William could smell the aroma of vegetables and meat as he stamped the snow from his boots. The little flurries had begun about an hour and a half ago, and had quickly turned into rather fat flakes. It was packing on quite quickly; mentally, he went over each and every thing he had done before retiring inside, making absolute certain that nothing had been forgotten in preparation for the night. Satisfied, he entered the dining room, eager to eat.
Upon seeing Wilkins - sitting in his seat - he gave immediate pause, only his eyes moving to meet Margaret's. "What's this?"
It was a simple enough question, and yet he found himself struggling immensely to keep his anger from seeping through. Of course, Margaret was no fool, and she caught the implication instantly; he should have known better.
"James is feeling well enough to join us for dinner this evening." Her own tone merited danger, and she tilted her head in challenge. "Isn't that wonderful?"
James regarded him with a challenging stare of his own, a newfound confidence in him. William wondered what had changed in the precious few hours he'd left the two of them alone to boost his ego as it were. Unsatisfied with the situation, his eyes darted to the others in the room; Fife was indifferent, Kitch smug as bloody ever, and the others appeared unaffected by James's presence totally. William could not for the life of him comprehend the scene before him; a man from his past, whom he'd hoped to never see again (in all honesty, he'd thought dead) waltzing in with a broken wing singing like a damned thorn bird for a little nurse to come save him and getting just that…it was absolutely atrocious. Ridiculous, truly!
Bloody hell…
"Yes," he said finally, for agreeing with Margaret was what he'd been reduced to. "Truly, it is. In fact, what a…miraculous recovery he seems to have made." Reclaiming his mobility, he turned to smile with deep sarcasm at Wilkins, whose carefully neutral expression melted into one of discomfort.
Moving to sit in the offered side chair, one of the servants seated him between guest and mistress. Food was deliciously presented to all three, but Tavington found himself unable to let the topic of Wilkins's wounds go, especially considering how uncomfortable the breaching thereof seemed to make him. "Pray tell, how did you attain such ghastly wounds, mister Wilkins?"
James's fork paused on its way to his mouth, eyes meeting his as he considered the implications of his question.
"You do not have to answer that, James," Margaret's voice carried a steely tone to it, which William interpreted as being directed towards himself. "We do not need to know of the circumstances that brought you to us. Much in the same as I do not expect that of anyone who comes seeking help."
Her pointed stare gave William pause; now that she mentioned it, she never had inquired as to how or why he had ended up in the predicament he was in when she'd happened upon him, nor had she judged him for it. While he appreciated this now, he still did not see the harm, let alone the breach of manners or etiquette, he posed in asking this very question to Wilkins. After all, had he not perfectly good reason to inquire about a man's habits, if only to gain better insight into his character? He had merely been drunk and penniless when Margaret had found him, while Wilkins was bashed, bruised, and starved, not to mention trespassing; far greater of cause to assume ill intent. As far as he was concerned, he was totally justified.
"No, no, it's fine," James insisted, putting his fork back down on his plate and looking William in the eye. "If you must know, then I will tell you; I had been approached by a group of men intent on harming me upon recognizing my face from the war - they succeeded - and I stumbled upon your farm."
The bluntness with which he said the words rendered Tavington speechless, for he could find no angle to spin on the truth. At least, not unless he was comfortable with the notion of his own lie being exposed, which he most certainly was not. He'd best play his cards right on this one.
"I am sorry, James." Margaret said sincerely.
It irked him greatly that she said his first name so easily, rather than using his last in basic formality.
"Thank you, Margaret."
It irked him even more, however, that he used her first name so easily, rather than her last.
"You are welcome. If there is one thing the good Lord can teach us, is to never judge, lest we be judged ourselves."
James nodded, his eyes lingering on Margaret's form in a way that he did not like. "Indeed."
The rest of dinner was spent in trivialities and harmless small talk, of which Tavington answered automatically rather than interestedly. They bid each other good night, and he and Margaret went up to their respective rooms while Wilkins was led by a servant to his downstairs room. As they simultaneously opened their bedroom doors, he could not help but ask, "I beg your pardon, mistress, but just how long do you intend for mister Wilkins to stay?"
She paused to regard him, her right arm already lost to the darkness of her room as she was halfway inside. "Well, as long as it takes for him to get back on his feet, I suppose. With the extent of his wounds, I would wager three, perhaps six weeks in total."
A definitively realistic answer. He could deal with that. "Understood. Goodnight, miss."
He moved to head inside his own room, but he paused at Margaret's call. "William?"
He stepped back outside, awaiting whatever it was that occupied her mind. Hope glimmered beneath his chest, though he did not know why. Her tone was so soft, such a contrast from how it had been since yesterday, that it disarmed him. "Yes, milady?"
Delicate hands drifted from the doorknob, her lashes bowing towards the wooden floors as the light from the oil lamps bathed her face in warmth. He waited patiently, silently wishing for…something. But he didn't know what for certain. Only that he wished to obtain it from her, and her alone. And he found that genuinely scared him.
Margaret's brows knitted together, a troubling notion surfacing to the forefront of her mind, and after a moment's deliberation, she lifted her face up towards his, a gentle smile on her lips as she relaxed and shook her head.
"Never mind. I wish you pleasant dreams."
He knew that was not what she'd originally intended on sharing with him, as her tone was far too careful, her expression far too trained, but he was not given the chance to query, for she was already inside her room and shutting the door. William retired into his own room, undressing and redressing for bed.
As he lay there and waited for sleep to claim him, he could not help but wonder at what exactly had been on her mind.