A/N: 12/25/2020 Over a month since I've updated. How freaking sad is that?
Thank you, Guest, for your review for chapter 7! Your suspicions are well placed ;)
Merry Christmas if you guys celebrate it!
Disclaimer: I do not own The Patriot.
And the wreck of you is the death of you all
And the wreck of you is the break and the fall
Limo Wreck - Soundgarden~
Chapter eight: Afflicted~
The days proceeding after that night's events became very somber, so much so that even the servants began to worry.
William and Margaret no longer dined together, William instead opting to eat in his room. Though he did not mind solitary, he did mourn the loss of his privileges to the library, for though Margaret had never officially banned him from the room and its contents, she still resided there for much of the day, and he had neither the energy nor the time for the confrontation.
A week had passed in this manner, with both parties equally avoiding each other. The tension that built as a result of this was no small thing, and the servants began to whisper amongst themselves as to when Margaret would finally cut William's wages and send him on his way. None seemed too keen on either mending the rift, however, that was certain; Tavington was favored by none but Margaret, and he had successfully angered the one person on the entire plantation who would stand by him when not a soul would.
Though William initially feared his termination, she gave no such order, and after the first week had passed, he was able to somewhat settle. It was Tuesday, the tenth day after their argument in his bedroom, and he once again found himself alone for dinner. An empty tray that once held chicken and vegetables sat beside him on the bed; Kitch or one of the other servants would be coming to retrieve it at any moment. He thirsted for a drink, a drink that was not the cider he had been served tonight. But alas, he was out of luck.
It had been a good three months since his last true drink, and he ached increasingly every day for a simple glass of ale or beer. The cravings had become worse since his conversation with Margaret, for it forced him to think of his situation and caused his mind to be elsewhere when attending to his work duties. Since she had not acted by now on her chance to terminate him from the plantation, he assumed his foothold was secure in this place should he simply apologize, but his pride had forbade him from doing so thus far. He was unsure as to why it came so difficult to him, but a part of him had hoped that Margaret would be the one to extend her hand and offer reconciliation so that he may be spared from the action himself. Clearly, however, this was not the case, and now, after more than a week of watching and waiting, he realized that she most likely would not break.
A knock on his door came, and Kitch entered to retrieve his tray and dishes.
"Is everything in order, sir?" He asked all too politely, and William's nostrils flared in anger.
He merely glared at the taller man in response, though it was clear that Kitch was not expecting a response in the first place; since the Saturday before last, Margaret's right hand had been mockingly gentlemanly toward the ex-colonel. He'd no doubt that he expected his expulsion from the premises at any time.
Kitch bowed and left the room, swinging the door closed but not latching it, and William glared holes into his skull as he walked away, gaze softening only when Margaret came into view as she met him at the top of the stairs.
"Kitch, would you please fetch me a drink from the cellar?"
He watched intently as he saw her hand Kitch a ring of keys.
"Of course, ma'am. It would be my pleasure."
She smiled weakly and placed a hand to her forehead.
"Is miss alright?"
"Oh, yes." she responded quietly. "I am merely tired. I am going to prepare for bed. Please place the keys back in my drawer when you are done."
"Of course."
He bowed and descended the stairs with the keys and tray, and Tavington found this information to be most interesting. A strong sense of tiredness coming over him, he rose from his bed and shut the door, walking over to the basin to begin washing and undressing for bed.
Yes, most interesting indeed, but he was not a thief; he may not have been in possession of much, but he still prided himself on his morals and principles.
He finished preparing for bed and shut off the lamp, much in need of a good night's rest.
Tavington rolled over in his bed, becoming increasingly frustrated.
Why was he unable to find a comfortable position? Achieve rest? Had he even slept a wink? He could not tell. He only knew that it was still nightfall, and he was unable to fall asleep for any longer than what felt like a few minutes.
It was his stomach. It had unsettled him all night, feeling too empty and too full all at once. The thirst from earlier had returned, but more potent this time. Far more. Dare he say unbearable.
He again rolled over. Why, why, why did it have to be tonight? Why did he crave something with such vigor when he had been so overworked the day before? What hour of the night was it? He lay there, loose hair pooled around his head and shoulders as he curled into himself. He should close his eyes. Go back to sleep. Ready himself for the day ahead. But his throat was so dry...
His hands clenched, a nervous sweat coming over him. What was the matter with him? Had he fallen sick? Had last night's dinner not agreed with him? But then why was he so thirsty all of the sudden? And for ale, nonetheless? He'd done well, he'd been doing so well to keep away from the bars and taverns up to this point, why now did he feel an urge so strong it awoke him? He couldn't spend his money. Not yet. Not on booze. Not after how long and hard he'd worked to acquire what little he had. He would not allow himself to throw his earnings away on drinks.
He thought of Margaret's wine cellar, and the particulars of where the keys were hidden. He could so easily take them and sate his thirst...
He perished the thought.
No. He would not resort to stealing. He was a better man than that.
He shifted on his side and swallowed, his throat feeling as though it were filled with sand. God, he was thirsty. Perhaps water...?
But he did not ache for water. He ached for wine.
Is it truly theft when the person you are stealing from has already stolen from you? His mind taunted. She is a colonial. They have already taken from Great Britain simply by existing. They steal from His Majesty and England every day they continue to breathe and seduce more and more away from king and country.
He faltered, still wrestling with the logic of the notion.
They have already stolen your life from you, his conscience echoed. You would be back home right this moment if not for them, for this war. A drink is a small price to pay for such a costly demise.
His gaze hardened as he glared into the darkness, his mind made up.
Slowly pulling himself out of bed, William loosely dressed himself and dislodged the oil lamp from its place on the wall, lighting it and carefully making his way down the hall to Margaret's room. He crept inside, keeping as quiet as he could as he made his way over to her nightstand and slid open the drawer. Ever so slowly taking the key ring out of its hiding place, he tried to justify what he was doing - or about to do - in his mind.
It was only one drink. That was all he needed. She herself would probably never know it was gone. And being a colonial, she owed him that much.
He crept downstairs, taking time with each step lest the creaking wake the mistress.
He made it to the bottom, the pads of his feet sliding silently against the wood floors as he crossed the open space of the foyer. He was halfway across when he noticed something, a small light off to his left and beyond the back porch door.
A figure sat rocking in their chair, a half spent oil lamp on the floor next to them. They were wrapped in a blanket, their back to him, and it wasn't until he came closer and caught sight of blonde hair that he realized it was Margaret. What was she doing out here so late at night?
He began to make his way toward her, but froze upon the floorboards creaking under his weight. His breath seized, and he waited to see if she would incline her head towards him, but she did not, just kept rocking, rocking...
Tavington stood a moment, deciding on what he should do. He wondered what she was doing out this late by herself. It was certainly odd to say the least for a young lady to be up and about at this time of night. Or was it night at all?
The ache in his stomach returned with a vengeance, and though he wanted to approach Margaret, his muscles instinctively retreated from her figure, and he shrank away back towards the kitchen.
He walked until he reached the cellar door, and began fumbling with the key, trying each one until the lock finally turned, and the cool underground air gently blew past him. Slowly, he crept down, senses on high alert knowing Margaret was so close by. He reached the end of the stairs and began searching the various bottles along the wall, looking for what he needed.
What was this?
Whiskey, whiskey, whiskey...nothing but damned American whiskey!
Desperate, William made a choice, and grabbed the first bottle he could see. He opened it with some difficulty, but did not encounter any hardship in tilting the bottle back. The harsh, disgusting liquid seared down his throat, the flavor wild and unfamiliar to him as he drank like a starving sailor surrounded by nothing but seawater. He drank and he hated himself for being so weak, but his current need was being fulfilled. Before he knew it, a third of the bottle was gone, and he had to stop himself from downing the entire thing. Margaret flashed in his mind, and he decided to re-cork the bottle and place it back where he'd found it; best keep his deed a secret.
Finally sated, he turned and made his way out of the cellar and locked it, retreating back to his room to settle for however many hours of the night he had left. He emerged in the foyer again to see Margaret no longer rocking in her chair, instead standing at the edge of the porch with the blanket still wrapped around her. Such a strange woman. She made absolutely no sense to him at all, and yet...
He was torn from his thoughts by the sight of Kitch coming from the slave quarters, and he quickly blew out the oil lamp and ducked behind the nearest wall.
"What you doin' out here so early in the mornin'?" he asked gently as he came to stand before her. Margaret stood on the top step and still he was taller.
"You need not worry. I simply cannot seem to sleep tonight."
"Is it Master Tarleton?"
This piqued his interest, and William strained his ears to listen.
"Sometimes I wonder if I am truly doing right...or if it is all in vain."
Her tone was sad yet pondering, as though Kitch were not even there, and she was merely echoing an insistent thought.
"You're doin' the right thing, ma'am. It takes a certain kinda woman to do what you're doin' right now."
Crickets filled the silence around them. Margaret spoke again.
"Thank you, Kitch. It is much appreciated."
"Anytime, ma'am."
William silently exhaled, slightly frustrated. The conversation was vague, extremely vague. He wondered if perhaps they knew he was in hiding, or if Margaret simply did not wish to share her thoughts. Perhaps her relationship with Kitch was not as tightly bound as he had assumed.
He continued to wait behind the wall, until finally Kitch left and Margaret retired back to her room. The warm glow of her oil lamp cast a safe halo around her form as she drifted unknowingly past him and up the stairs, her steps almost ghostly in their silence. Tavington waited until he heard her bedroom door click, and then waited a few minutes more until he was sure she would not re-emerge.
He clenched the key ring in his hand; how was he going to return them now without her knowing? Deciding to simply hold onto them for the time being, William carefully crept across the open space of the foyer to the staircase. He had never moved as slow in his entire life as he had climbing up the stairs, too afraid of being caught red-handed. Already, he could see the downward spiral; Margaret would have caught him, he would have lost his wages and been destitute once again, hopping from bar to bar and wondering if things could have been different if he had simply had more self control.
Finally, he made it to the top of the stairs, feeling his way through the dark until he found his door. He opened it quickly lest it creak, and placed the lamp back in its post as he settled into bed. As he lay on his side with Margaret's keys fisted in his hand, an idea came to him most genius, and it could not be helped as he smiled cruelly into the darkness.
Perhaps he could use his situation to his advantage after all.