A/N: 08/26/2020 Thank you Guest and TheGhostOf1817 for your reviews! Believe it or not there actually is more! XD
Disclaimer: I do not own The Patriot.
If you lie down with dogs, then you'll get fleas
Be careful of the company you keep
24 (Hours In A Day) - Lana Del Rey~
Chapter two: Just A Woman~
William awoke to brightness, his head aching terribly.
He brought a hand up to shield his eyes from the blinding light, but the movement only proved to distress his stomach, and within seconds he was lurching over the side of the bed he laid on.
He vomited until his stomach had nothing left, and even then, he dry-heaved. When he was finally confident his body would not betray him, he laid back down on the bed, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve. It wasn't until he looked up at the ceiling that he began to question where he was. He did not recognize the crown moldings, nor did the sheets or rugs look familiar. He tried to remember what had happened before he last closed his eyes, but he was only able to recall flashes; an empty glass, a man, mud.
He couldn't recall anything past that, and his strange surroundings began to put him on edge.
A slave entered the room with a tray of food, and Tavington immediately went on guard. He leapt to the far end of the bed and stared at him with wide eyes, and the slave in turn nearly dropped the tray he was holding.
"Wait, sir, wait!" The stranger pleaded, cradling the tray in one hand and beseeching him with the other. His eyes drifted down to the foul-smelling puddle at the foot of the bed, and Tavington narrowed his eyes at him.
"Where the bloody hell am I?" He ground out, not for one moment willing to take orders from a slave.
He tossed the sheets and swept his legs over the side of the bed, attempting to stand. He swayed a bit, the blood having rushed to his head, but forced himself upright. He marched toward the door and the servant held out a hand to stop him.
"We- we found you! Please, lie back down and we will explain-"
He pushed the servant away, heading down the hall and down the stairs in search of an exit. He eyed the paintings on the walls as he passed, searching for some semblance of familiarity. He reached the end of the staircase and hastily turned, slamming right into another slave.
"Why, you insolent-"
"Oh! I'm so sorry!"
Tavington blinked, his eyes deceiving him. This was not a slave, but a young woman, pale and slim. She stared at him wide-eyed, lips falling open in surprise.
"I'm so sorry, sir! Forgive me, I did not mean to cause you fright."
She was beautiful, and very fair. Long blonde hair, pleasing figure...and her eyes; they were so blue. So familiar...
"Kitch and I found you," she went on to say, gesturing behind him. He turned, finding the slave he had pushed aside just moments before. "You were lying drunk in the mud. We took you in before the rain began to set in."
He stood there, thinking. Processing what she was telling him. His gaze settled on the carvings in the trim by his feet, for he did not wish to look into her eyes.
"You have been unconscious for nearly a day now. You can be on your way as soon as you wish. I will not hold you. But please...dine with me. Have supper. I would enjoy the company."
Tavington considered her offer. Under normal circumstances, he would have gathered his things and been on his way as soon as possible, perhaps even thrown out a curse or two. Anything but dine with a colonial. But being of his current predicament, starving with no steady income and no current housing of his own, he thought it best to humor the girl. After all, this may work to his advantage; perhaps she was a rich heiress in want of a husband.
Swallowing, he looked to the woman, forcing himself to be civil. "...Thank you. I don't know what came over me. I appreciate your hospitality, missus...?"
She smiled gently, holding out her hand for him to take. "Miss. My name is Margaret. Margaret O'Neil. And might I ask your name, sir?"
Margaret. Her name suited her.
He took her hand and kissed it politely, silently hoping it was not filth-ridden as most Colonials' seemed to be. "William Ta-" he caught himself, unsure as to why he suddenly wished to use the name he had forsaken nearly a decade ago. "Tarleton. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."
She curtsied. "The pleasure is mine, mister Tarleton."
He nodded and released her hand, a strand of black hair breaking from its place and flopping unceremoniously into his eyes. She reached up and tucked the strand behind his ear, her finger never touching his skin but somehow still causing him to go rigid. He could not recall the last time a woman had touched him.
She couldn't have been an heiress, he surmised; her clothes were far too simple and her mannerisms far too casual (dare he say improper), the house far too plain. But there still might be hope.
He coughed, clearing his throat. "Ahem, yes, well...I think I shall go lie down. I feel a slight fever coming over me."
"Very well." She said, nodding. "Kitch, please show this gentleman back to his room."
Kitch nodded, eyeing Tavington warily before turning to lead the way back to his room. He did not immediately follow, however, still occupied by the sight of miss Margaret's retreating figure.
Supper time came within a few hours, and Tavington found himself in want of more appropriate clothing.
Still clad in his trousers and cotton shirt from the day prior, he wished he had been within means to provide himself with a more colorful arraignment of wardrobes. 'Kitch', as he was called, arrived with a fresh change of clothes just before supper, but they were of much the same grade as his current outfit. Still, they were clean, and it was only after he had changed that he realized how badly he stank of ale and numerous other odors. He shivered to think what Margaret must have thought when she came upon him.
Once dressed, he was led into the dining room. It was decently sized, with lovely but not ornate furnishings and long, draping curtains. No, certainly not an heiress, he decided, but surely well off enough that she would not want for necessities. The table was candlelit with a various array of food set, the aroma of which caused his mouth to water. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten a decent meal.
"How kind of you to join us, mister Tarleton," Margaret greeted once he had entered the room. She sat at the head of the table. "I was beginning to fall under the impression that you would find sleep more desirable to my company."
Tavington gracefully seated himself on the opposite end of the table, quick to correct her. "On the contrary, Miss O'Neil. I rather enjoy a good meal with a lovely lady such as yourself." He smiled but it came across as awkward rather than charming, and he desperately hoped she would not think him a charlatan.
"You flatter me," she said, though something in her eyes told him she did not quite believe it.
"So, mister Tarleton," she began, changing the subject. "What brings you to America?" At his shocked expression, she added, "An accent as British as yours can only mean you have migrated from king and country."
He settled down, confused as to why he thought her to see through his facade so readily. He cleared his throat. "I...arrived here some odd years ago. Though it was hardly willing."
Her eyes sparked, an air of familiarity about her. "Oh. During the war, then?"
"Yes. Had I known just how much trouble it would have caused me, I would not have come."
He smiled bitterly, and Margaret scoffed, the action surprising him. "Few of us ever volunteer for such hardships. Please; eat."
She gestured to the hot food and Tavington readily grabbed utensils as the slaves served them helpings of meat, bread and greens. The fork and knife felt awkward in his hands, and in that moment he felt as lowly as a savage. Had it truly been so long since he'd had a proper meal that he'd lost all etiquette? Trying his best to act accordingly, he used his fork to hold his steak in place while he began cutting it with the knife, hating how foreign it felt to do so.
"You will have to tell me what you think of the food," Margaret went on to say, cutting her own slice of steak. "I have a new cook and this is her first meal."
Already discouraged, Tavington took the first bite, finding this bit of information interesting regardless. Only one cook, yet not so destitute that she had to prepare the meal herself. He was beginning to figure her level of societal class.
"Quite delicious," He allowed, though he was sure that almost anything would have tasted just as well to him in his current state. Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, he probed with his first question. "Forgive me if I am...too straightforward, but if you are not married, should I assume you to be an heiress?"
He knew very well she couldn't be, but it was still more tactful that asking how she could afford her current lifestyle. The pleasant laugh that emitted from her as a result informed him he had asked in just the right way.
"Oh, no no...I am not an heiress. I don't think I could be if I tried. I am actually a nurse. Or at least I was. Though I do receive compensation from my late husband and his fortune."
He had not been expecting such an answer. It would, however, easily account for her comfortable living.
Tavington tilted his head. "My condolences. I am sorry for your loss."
She nodded. "Thank you."
He narrowed his eyes at her unsuspecting features; was there sorrow in her eyes? Regret? Pain? He could not tell. He wondered at just how long they had been wed to one another before his apparent death, but that would be a question for another time. It may have been years since he'd engaged in proper conversation with a lady, but he still knew how to tell when he was pushing his limits with the breaching of certain subjects. He knew this, and yet his mouth still wished to move in ways he did not.
"Still...how fortunate of a man he must have been to have a beauty such as you by his side."
She gave him a sad smile in response, and he wished he had said nothing.
"So, tell me, miss O'Neil...do you still practice?"
She did not hesitate to answer, knowing automatically that he spoke of her nursing skills.
"No, I am sorry to say I don't. With the exception of unfortunate gentlemen such as yourself, of course."
His fingers circled the rim of his glass, a habit he had developed during his time in the taverns and bars over the years, and he took it upon himself to ask the question that had been floating in his mind since first laying eyes upon the fair woman in front of him. "...Pray tell, what is your age?"
She took another bite of her food, swallowed, and looked down. "I will be on my twenty-fifth year in June."
He couldn't help but raise his brows in surprise; she looked younger than that, but certainly more mature. Under normal circumstances, he would have found it odd that she be twenty-five years of age with no suitors, but taking into account the explanation of her riches, he did not pry. He knew better than to think that a good, soft-hearted colonial would be out galavanting for husbands after the loss of one already. Yet still, he could not gauge as to the strengths of her affections toward her late spouse.
"Well...might I say your maturity far outweighs your age."
"Thank you."
They continued to eat in amicable silence, conversing only when Margaret initiated it. They spoke of the weather and life in America, namely South Carolina. She had admitted her desire to travel, possibly to Virginia or Ohio or beyond, out of curiosity for what lay past the safe borders she had grown accustomed to. He informed her that Ohio was nothing to write home about, but refused to give many details when she questioned him about it, simply saying the weather was too unpredictable and the land was rather flat.
Dinner ended sooner than he'd expected, and the servants came to take their plates away.
"Thank you for dining with me, mister Tarleton," Margaret smiled, standing up from her seat. "It was a pleasure."
"It is I who should thank you, miss O'Neil," he replied easily. "If you had not found me and took me in, I'm sure I would have still been lying in the mud outside the nearest tavern."
"I wouldn't be so certain. God smiles on those at their lowest points. Or so I like to believe."
He nodded, unable to respond. God. God spit in the face of every one of his dragoons, most of all him. Each and every time he had assumed himself to be at his lowest point, it only went lower. Further and further down...always down.
"Well, I think I shall retire. Do you need Kitch to show you back to your room?" She asked.
He shook his head. "No. No, I don't think that will be necessary. Thank you."
"Good night, mister Tarleton."
"Good night, miss O'Neil."
They parted ways at the top of the stairs as she disappeared through one door and he, the other. He returned to his room and prepared himself for bed, pleased to find his clothes washed and his nose free of the stench of his own vomit. He lied down and attempted to sleep, but not without much difficulty, for an unknown feeling drifted to the forefront of his mind.
Yes, he admitted. She was beautiful.
But she was just a woman.