A/N: 08/29/2020 Thank you Guest and...well, Guest for your reviews. They're much appreciated and I'm glad to know people still enjoy the Patriot fandom (though let's be honest, it's the Tavington fandom) XD

Disclaimer: I do not own The Patriot.

I'm afraid of Americans
I'm afraid of the world
I'm afraid I can't help it
I'm afraid I can't, I'm afraid I can't

I'm afraid of Americans - Bones UK (David Bowie cover)~

Chapter three: Divine Situation~

Tavington awoke the next morning, but not to sunshine.

It was dark and gloomy outside his window; cold. He stared for a few moments, unhappy. Had he known it would rain, he would have left the night before.

"Ah. I see you are awake."

He turned his head sharply to the left, finding Margaret smiling down at him as she came into the room. She was practically beaming, and he almost dared say he did not need the sun. Instinctively, he shrank away - after all, it was hardly proper for a woman to see a strange man in a state of undress - but relaxed upon remembering that she was a nurse, and therefore must have seen plenty of men in their undergarments.

"Kitch tells me a storm is coming. You are more than welcome to stay should you decide not to brave it."

She moved to the window to gaze outside, and all he could bring himself to do was stare. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a coronet, a pretty halo of yellow, and he again wondered how such a woman could have no suitors, widowed or not. And suddenly, he was very angry with himself; what was the matter with him? Accepting aid from a...colonial. And a widow, no less. Permitted, she was quite handsome, but that was hardly enough cause for his standards to dwindle and his senses to betray him.

Fool, his mind chastised. What standards have you left? You were drunken and destitute before this woman found you.

He considered this, and knew his conscience to be correct; for if he were truly above her and her situation, they never would have met. He would be back in Great Britain, dining with His Majesty and celebrating his victories, his riches. He should thank her properly, offer to repay her with work or some other means.

He should.

However, pride was a funny thing; it could make one ignore common sense and reason for the mere purpose of outward appearance, and more often than not, it did more harm than good. But he did not belong here, he never had, and therefore told himself that this reason alone set him apart from not only miss Margaret, but all the rest as well.

Breaking free from his train of thought, Tavington opened his mouth to reply.

"Thank you, miss O'Neil. I truly appreciate your hospitality. But I am afraid I must be on my way. I can not burden you any longer."

She turned at this, a quizzical look adorning her features. "Burden? What leads you to believe you burden me?"

He could not give a reply, for he had none. He had lost his persuasiveness, it seemed, along with his tactfulness, over the years since he had been stripped of his title.

"Mister Tarleton, you are more than welcome to stay." She came to sit at the edge of his bed, a respectable distance between them. "I may not be the richest woman in South Carolina, but I promise I am very capable of keeping a guest."

She laughed a little bit, and once more, he again became angry with himself for enjoying her company even the slightest. He attempted to reason with himself. She would not be so ready to offer him shelter had she known of his true identity, of that he was certain. No. He could not stay.

"I am afraid not, Miss. I could not bring it upon myself to trouble you any further. I must be on my way."

His firm tone communicated what he wished it to, and her smiled slowly faded. She looked at him with sad eyes, still so blue even in the dreary gray of their surroundings, and odd as it was, it nearly caused him to falter. So inviting, was she. So hospitable and kind. Why must God taunt him with such a seemingly perfect creature in the most wrong of forms?

"Very well." She relinquished. "At least have breakfast. Wait until the storm is passed. I do not wish to be parted from your company just yet."

He considered her offer for the slightest of moments, and even he could not deny the appeal of a good meal. "Very well."

"I will allow you to get dressed. Breakfast is nearly ready."

She patted his leg above the sheets and exited, leaving him alone with his thoughts. His frustration mounted as he readied himself for the day; had it truly been so long since he'd had a woman that he was willing to fall over himself at the first one to give him time of day?

"Ridiculous," he muttered, pulling one sleeve of his shirt through and then the other.

This was a decent home operated by a decent enough woman (even if she was a colonial), and he had no business here. He would eat, thank her again for her hospitality, and leave, never to return again.

He made his way downstairs to the dining room and again sat himself opposite Margaret, who had been chatting with one of the slaves before he had entered.

Was she truly so good-natured that she felt the need to converse with them? He wondered as he sat down.

"I do hope you enjoy eggs and biscuits," Margaret smiled as their food was set.

"As a matter of fact, I do."

"Tell me, mister Tarleton; are you a laborer?" she asked as she bit into her bagel, savoring its taste before swallowing.

Puzzled at her question, Tavington furrowed his brow as he sliced his eggs. "I'm afraid that depends on your definition of labor, miss O'Neil."

"Well, judging by your hands, I would assume you have known more work than keeping books or counting shillings." she remarked.

She was so...intuitive. So gentle. Far too easy to converse with. And for a man like him, who had done all he could to erase his past from the knowledge of those around him, she was dangerous, and posed a threat most high.

"Well, in that sense, then yes, I was a laborer."

"Was?" She echoed quizzically.

"Time caught up with me," he replied carefully. "Time. And war."

"I see." She nodded, concealing her thoughts from him.

They continued on with their morning meal, pleasant enough, though Tavington couldn't help but feel that he had already revealed too much. He could only hope that she was not truly as intelligent as she seemed and that she was not able to piece the small bits he had given her together into anything substantial.

Once their dining was finished, their dishes were taken away and they rose from their seats. He nodded and she curtsied, as was custom.

"If it is well with you, miss O'Neil, I shall be departing."

The look of disappointment in her eyes was there, but well hidden. "Very well. Thank you for dining with me a final time."

He nodded once more, keeping his gaze downward. "You're most welcome."

He retreated to his room and she, to an unknown part of the house. He readied himself for the journey ahead. Or rather, the trial ahead - after all, he had no certain place to go - but couldn't help feeling as though he were making a grievous mistake, missing some uncertain opportunity. He exited the room and made his way to the entryway, Margaret and Kitch there to meet him.

"Thank you, again, for your kindness."

The words felt so foreign to him, so alien; he nearly stuttered while trying to get them out.

"It is no trouble," she waved a hand dismissively. "After all, one must help their neighbour if they are to help themselves, yes?"

He nodded his agreeance. "I suppose so...well, I best be on my way."

He bowed and turned toward the door, his worn boots thumping loudly against the wood floors. He had just begun to cross the threshold when Margaret's voice stopped him.

"Mister Tarleton, wait." He froze, half turning to look at her. "Do you require work? I need additional help on my plantation. I would pay you."

His eyes widened, shocked at her offer. It was no lie that he was in need of income, and this young lady was willing to give that to him. And for no reason at all. What had he done to deserve such kindness? Such opportunity? Though the very thought of being under the command of a woman made him writhe, she was well off. Perhaps it would better serve him to swallow his pride just this once.

"I promise I will make it worth your while." She vowed, looking at him pointedly. "I know you are of your own faculty, but I would greatly appreciate it."

The honesty was clear in her voice, and Tavington found himself at an impasse. Thunder rolled outside, and within seconds, it began to pour. He nearly scoffed; it seemed even God willed for him to stay. A symphony of rain drowned out his thoughts of disobedience to his seemingly Divine situation.

His nostrils flared as he sighed deeply through his nose, irritated. "...What would you have of me?"

She quietly sighed, pleased. "A helping hand. Farm work, mostly."

"And how much are my wages?"

"I can pay you eighteen dollars a week."

He smiled, though it was not kind. "We'll see."