A/N: 09/26/2020 Daaaaaaang I suck at updating regularly. Like geez.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Patriot.
I know what you're doing here
Made your intentions clear
Oh, you, you terrible thing
You terrible thing
You terrible thing
You beautiful thing
Terrible Thing - AG (The Rescues)~
Chapter six: Quiet Minds & Quiet Tongues~
The following day proved to be just as hot as the last, and Tavington wondered when this Carolina heat would end.
He dressed himself, ate breakfast with Margaret, and began the day's work. After hours in the heat, he once again found himself in the kitchen for a drink of cider, and as he swallowed it down, he wondered if Margaret would let him use her library a second time. To test this theory, he finished his drink and set his glass aside, deliberately taking his time as he passed by the reading room. Margaret was once again in her rocking chair, Kitch attentively at her side, only this time she sat completely still as she read through the same book she'd had before. She slowly began raising her head from the page she was on until finally she locked eyes with him. Whatever scene she was engrossed in must have been captivating.
"William, hello. Care to join me a second time?"
Pleased and a bit surprised that he did not have to so much as open his mouth, he bowed his head and acquiesced. He picked up his copy of Phischer from the day before and traced his finger down the edge of the pages until he found the ribbon place marker. He pulled until chapter five came into view, and he sat next to Margaret and adopted his same pose from yesterday. He tastefully ignored Kitch's eyes glaring holes into his skull as he read, instead focusing on the words in front of him. Phischer was not out to sea yet, it seemed, as he remembered when he had been reading back during the war. He wondered how much further he had to go before he was caught up.
Margaret quietly sighed beside him, and it could not be helped as he quirked his head just the slightest bit and shot a quick glance in her direction. She made no indication that she was aware he was looking at her, her forehead and cheek cradled in her hand as she stared forlornly at the pages of her book.
Probably some romantic drivel, he surmised.
He turned his attentions back to his own book and continued reading. Some few minutes passed and he was able to get ahead by a few more pages when Margaret sighed again, this time louder.
Tavington glanced at Margaret, unintentionally locking eyes with Kitch before turning away again. It was a simple thing. No louder than a pen drop. Most likely, she was not even aware she was doing it. But the noise...the noise in this otherwise ungodly silent house. And when he was trying to read, no less. To immerse himself in the story war had deprived him of enjoying and finishing. Damn this woman.
Biting his tongue, Tavington once again attempted to ignore Margaret's distracting behavior, nestling Phischer a bit higher in his lap. He had originally wanted an excuse to stay inside a bit longer, where it was cool, but now he was considering throwing himself out into the heat, all be damned. Minutes passed, and eventually, he was able to forget Margaret and engross himself in the story, for he had finally caught up to where he had left off.
Phischer did not know where his journey would take him, only that the winds were favorable, and The Universal was at last seaworthy. He glanced at his compass, noting the northwest in his sights. Finally, he would find it. Providence would lead the way, and after twenty-eight years on God's Earth, he was to be the first man known to have found-
A long, drawn out sigh beside him, and Tavington had had enough.
He turned fully to look at her, an unkind smile on his face as he let his facade finally crack. "Might I inquire as to what you are reading, Miss O'Neil?"
The flash in her eyes told him that his clipped tone did not go unnoticed, and Margaret was readily armed with a reply.
"Simply the best book in my entire library."
He saw that she angled it further from his view, and he realized she had no intention of showing him. Why, that little-
"Why do you ask?" she inquired, cutting off his uncivil thought. "Mister Tarleton?"
He ignored her mocking tone completely. "Well, I simply recall your mistress stating that she preferred silence when she read. So I must inquire as to the quality of the novel you are so engrossed in that it causes you to forget yourself."
"It appears that only one of us has forgotten themselves. Or have you forgotten your wages and state of living?"
His eyes involuntarily widened at her statement; she was right. Absolutely correct in every sense of the word. And he could not find a single way to combat it. Damn the little colonial.
Sneering, Tavington bit back a retort and responded as courteously as his current mood allowed. "Of course not, Miss. I must beg your pardon."
"Miss...?"
He ground his teeth. "Miss Margaret."
"It is given," she sighed easily, waving a hand in dismissal. "This Carolina heat gets to us all at times. I do apologize for interrupting your reading. Please, do continue for however long you see fit."
God, this woman was infuriating. Just as aggressive as she was kind. How on God's green earth did he ever agree to stay here under her petite thumb?
"As you wish, my lady."
They continued reading and Margaret ceased her sighing, and after over an hour, Tavington set his book down on the table between them and stood up, stretching his aching limbs; at forty-four years of age, it was a wonder he was not in poorer health.
"I thank you for your time, Miss."
"See you at supper?"
"Of course." He bowed, giving Kitch a murderous stare which was returned with equal vigor as he exited the library, boots thumping all the way to the porch.
Margaret laughed as she looked at Kitch. "It appears that only one of us has a quiet mind while the other a quiet tongue."
Kitch smiled, unable to help himself as he laughed with her. "Yes, ma'am."
Outside, Tavington flared hot with anger.
How dare she. How dare a colonial disrespect him and his position. His predicament. Unfortunate predicament, at that. Why, if she had even the slightest inkling of who he was and what he'd done to peasants like her, he'd no doubt she would have held her tongue. Bit it off if she'd had to. And even though this thought comforted him, it still did not fix his situation, nor did it change the fact that he owed his earnings, his food, his shelter, his very way of living, to her. A woman. A colonial. An enemy.
Oh, if she only knew the sense of superiority he held over her, would hold over her if things had been different. If the British had won the war. If men like Cornwallis had been more adaptive and America had been claimed for King and Country. Then he would see to it that he were the one with the currency, the slaves, the power over people like her. He briefly imagined her crouched at the knee while she shined his fine leather boots in place of one of his many servants while sitting in a plush, ornate chair in his own personal reading room, and the thought satisfied him.
Stepping off the porch, Tavington surveyed Margaret's slaves with a hateful eye, looking for even the slightest thing to be amiss in their work with the horses, in the fields, amongst the gardens. They took notice of his current mood almost immediately, and all avoided eye contact as they focused more diligently on their tasks. He still had yet to uncover the culprit who had outed him to Margaret, but he was a patient man. At least he had struck fear into their hearts within the confinements set upon him.
Little N'Wela came trotting past with a pale of water for the animals, his week of alienation far behind him.
And it was then that an idea came to him. An idea most novel.
Perhaps - and this was merely conjecture - there was something to be gained from all of this. After all, Margaret seemed to be a very trusting woman to let a complete stranger into her household and boost his status to overseer so quickly. And though she clearly did not find his true character traits to be enjoyable, she responded very easily to submissiveness and polite conversation. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could gain her trust so far as to will him into her fortune. Or better yet, brush elbows with other wealthy, amiable ladies in search of a husband, should she have any such connections. Or even marry her outright, though the idea of matrimony with a colonial sickened him. And then he could take her plantation right out from under her. Take her money. And return home.
Yes. A novel idea indeed.
Tavington smiled deviously to himself as he overlooked the field, unknowingly causing the slaves in that direction to become overrun with paranoia as they began weeding at their very highest speeds.
The only dilemma he faced was which scheme to attempt first, whether it be to court Miss O'Neil or to play the waiting game for a better opportunity. He'd heard tell that British heiresses - widows - resided in America, stranded with the rest of them. Though he knew it could very well all be simple rumor, he was willing to wager that some truth lay in its foundations. Though the chances of actually finding one such a lady were very, very slim. Still...
He was interrupted from his musings as the back door creaked open and he turned to see Margaret coming to sit outside, Kitch holding the door for her. She sat in one of the rocking chairs on the porch, smiling as N'Wela came to present her with a basket of peaches. She accepted them and took the boy into her arms, sitting him on her lap and saying something in his ear that made him laugh. She had a lovely smile. And it was so easy to evoke. He was certain that, should he play his cards right, he could earn his way to her hand, and ultimately her fortune. He could afford to make the voyage to England and return home, perhaps learn what became of his mother. And Margaret Tavington - even Margaret Tarleton - was not unpleasant to the ears. He dared say there was a chance she would make the journey with him, should she prove to be capable of upholding high societal behaviors.
He continued to observe Margaret from his place some yards off, his mind made up.
Perhaps she had been right after all; perhaps God did smile on those at their lowest points.