Truth & Consequence Chapter 9: Simple As A Choice, a patriot fanfic

A/N: 08/17/2021 So I have had this chapter about halfway written since December 25th of last year. Since Christmas. My gosh! I just...I don't even know. But anyway, here is an official update.

Thank you so much to NAMSTA and Guest for your reviews! I don't know if you're still reading this or not but thank you so much for sticking around as long as you have. Same goes for everyone else that has read/reviewed :)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Patriot.

Well, I didn't tell anyone, but a bird flew by

Saw what I'd done, he set up a nest outside

And he sang about what I'd become

He sang so loud, sang so clear

I was afraid all the neighbours would hear,

So I invited him in, just to reason with him

I promised I wouldn't do it again

But he sang louder and louder inside the house,

And no I couldn't get him out

So I trapped him under a cardboard box

Stood on him to make him stop

I picked up the bird and above the din, I said,

"That's the last song you'll ever sing."

Held him down, broke his neck,

Taught him a lesson he wouldn't forget

But in my dreams began to creep

That old familiar tweet tweet tweet...

Bird Song - Florence & The Machine~

Chapter nine: Simple As A Choice~

Morning came, and Tavington awoke. He cleared the bleariness from his eyes, his mind a clean slate until he looked to see an untouched breakfast tray at the foot of his bed. Quickly, he felt for Margaret's keys, finding the clinky metal ring tangled in his sheets.

They were still there.

Good.

His plan could still be executed.

He sat up and rubbed his face, looking out the window. It was much later than he had first thought, and as he observed the shadows cast by the overhead sun, he wondered just how long he had slept in. He reached for the tray and ate his food, annoyed to find it cold. God, his head ached. Had his midnight trip truly been worth it?

He ate what he could stomach and left the tray, freshening up at the basin and pulling on his shirt and trousers.

It was nearly ten o'clock by the time he began his daily duties, nearly four hours past what he was used to. His eyes throbbed with the beating overhead sun, and the slaves had wasted no time in beginning their day's work without him. Everything was so bright. Too bright. He was astonished that Margaret had not sent for one of them to wake him. Perhaps she was still no less cross with him.

He rounded the house in a quick survey to make sure that everything was as it should be, and satisfied that it was, felt for the keys in his pocket. Though he knew very well what he planned to do with them, he was unsure of when. After all, if war had taught him anything, it was that timing had to be perfect.

Tavington stopped at the entrance to the slave quarters and looked around; everyone was occupied, either planting, plowing, or tending to the animals. Taking the opportunity, he slid the keys from his pocket and dropped them to the ground, pressing them into the mud with his boot. Once satisfied, he leisurely walked out to the fields, 'politely' urging Hoake to mind his swing as he sliced at wheat stalks with his scythe.

Now all he had to do was wait.

It was nearly two hours further into the day before anyone had come to him with the keys to the cellar, and Tavington had begun to grow so impatient that he nearly took it upon himself to 'find' them, but finally, just after lunch, a slave - Hoake of all people) came to him with the object he desired.

"I found 'em outside, sir," he said urgently, wringing his hands nervously.

Tavington looked them over; they had certainly acquired far more dirt and mud than they had when he'd first planted them there. He wondered how many different pairs of feet had trampled over them before someone finally took notice.

"Where did you find these?" He asked in his most cut-to-the-chase tone. "Where, exactly?"

Margaret was not in her usual place at the library, but at her desk in the drawing room. Or at least what Tavington would have called the drawing room. God knew what colonials called it these days.

Approaching her with purpose but also caution, he came to stand at the doorway, waiting to be noticed. He had assumed her to be writing letters, but upon closer inspection he realized that she was drawing. A large piece of seemingly good quality paper laid on her desk, her wrist gently guiding the strokes of her pencil. He was shocked at the detail she had put into the portrait of her home; the perspective and the likeness were all perfectly to scale. She was more accomplished than he thought.

"Is there something you need, Mr. Tarleton?" Margaret asked, finishing up the leaves of the tree beside the barn before finally looking up at him.

Though her tone was kind, her expression was very professional, dare he say cold.

Recovering from his surprise at her artistic skills, William ignored the sting at the blatant use of his given last name and proceeded with his plan.

"I beg your pardon, mistress, but a slave recovered these earlier this afternoon."

He held up the key ring, slightly damp and caked with mud.

Margaret knitted her brow at his use of the term 'slave' but took them in her hand regardless, fingertips brushing against his in such a manner that it caused the slightest tingling sensation to shoot up his arm. He lowered his hand and brushed it against his pants.

"...Where did you find these?" She asked, analyzing them a moment more before locking her sky blue eyes with his once again.

He did not hesitate in his answer. "In front of the slave quarters, Miss. Hoake discovered them half buried in mud. It's a wonder he didn't miss them."

He watched with hidden satisfaction as the gears turned in Margaret's brain, the seconds ticking by on the grandfather clock in the corner of the room.

"...Get me Kitch, please. I need to speak with him."

William feigned shock. "Why, your mistress...surely you aren't suggesting-"

She closed her eyes and angrily exhaled, holding up a hand to silence him. "Just...get him for me. Please."

He bowed courteously. "Of course, Miss."

He turned to go and fetch Kitch, Margaret's voice stopping him just shy of the door.

"William?"

Already back on the first name basis. He had to stop himself from smiling. "Yes, Miss?"

She pursed her lips, sighing. "Thank you."

Her sincerely apologetic gaze pierced him, and he was momentarily rendered speechless. "I...you are welcome."

He forced the corners of his mouth to twitch upward and exited the house, feeling strangely uneasy as he went to find her manservant.

Margaret sighed as she stared after him, then shifted the sketches around on her desk until she found an unfinished portrait of mister Tarleton. She lifted her pencil and resumed sketching.

Supper time came before long, and Tavington wondered if it were safe to try his luck at attending dinner. He itched to know what became of Kitch, whether he had been successfully blamed and punished for the misplacement of Margaret's keys. He could not ask though, for such inquiries would only aim suspicion in his direction, and that was the last thing he wanted. However, assuming all was well now that her anger was directed towards another was too bold, and he knew this. So went his tactics of gentle approach.

Supper time came before long, and Tavington thought it safe to try his luck at attending dinner. He itched to know what became of Kitch, if he had been successfully blamed and punished for the misplacement of Margaret's keys. He could not ask though, for such inquiries would only aim suspicion in his direction, and that was the last thing he wanted.

He was torn from his thoughts by the sound of crying, and he turned to see little N'Wela running to his mother, whose face immediately morphed into concern.

"Child, what's wrong?"

He cried, rubbing frantically at his face and eyes. "The peppers...the peppers got on me..."

She pursed her lips, sympathetic eyes turning stern. "Boy, I told you to stay away from them ghost peppers! They not good for you! Get your hands away from your eyes!"

He merely continued to cry, and his mother forced his arms down by his sides. "Come on, we'll get miss O'Neil, she'll know what to do."

Wiping her hands on her apron and grabbing N'Wela by the wrist, she began storming toward the house.

"She ain't there!" her son blubbered. "She went with mister Kitch to get supplies..."

Kitch? Tavington thought. Perhaps he had not been punished as he'd hoped.

She halted, unsure of what to do. "...Come on, then! We'll take ya to the basin and get you washed up."

Tavington rolled his eyes as he stared after them, knowing that he would most likely be blamed were he not there to defend himself.

Foolish boy. Did not every South Carolina resident know that water would only make the condition worse? Milk, milk was what he needed. Ugh.

Grumbling low in his throat, he reluctantly went after them. Margaret's outdoor basin was located at the side of the house, tactfully placed beneath the shade of peach trees. However, the coolest water in the world would do N'Wela little - if any - good. He needed cow's milk to truly stave off the burn.

"What is the meaning of this?" Tavington spoke, tone authoritative.

He held his back straight and his chin high, as though he were still under Cornwallis' command. As though he still meant something. Perhaps he were merely trying to save face and conceal the fact that he had no experience with children.

N'wela continued to blubber and cry and his mother looked both irritated and guarded at her son's antics and William's presence. He couldn't say he blamed her given their past run-ins. Smart woman...for a slave.

"...He got into them peppers. Child keeps rubbin' at his eyes like it's gonna do somethin'."

N'wela wailed as his mother forced his hands to his sides.

William bit his tongue to keep any unsavory words from coming out, and squeezed his hands into fists behind his back.

"Very well. Come along, then. We can't have you weeping rivers when miss Margaret returns home." He pointed to the leftmost barn where the cows were kept, his irritation ebbing away for usefulness. "Come, come. Milk is just the thing you need."

Margaret rounded her house with a bag of rice cradled on her hip, Kitch alongside her with the wagon of goods they had purchased in town.

She had used the excursion as an excuse to speak with Kitch alone - truly alone - and was now contemplating what to do about William.

Her good friend and confidant of four years had been one of the many unfortunate souls to fall victim to alcoholism, and though he had been sober for over two years now, she had to admit that William had effectively tricked her into believing Kitch had relapsed. This made her feel guilty for doubting his constitution, but as was always the case with Kitch, she was quickly forgiven. He was such a gentle soul. It was truly a shame that the world was the way it was.

The sound of crying ceased her train of thought, and Margaret quickened her pace. It was coming from the barn, where the cows were kept. Was something wrong?

"Kitch, take this, please," she said distractedly, handing off the bag of rice without looking at him.

"What's wrong?" He asked, but still she would not look at him.

She shook her head. "I'm not sure." With no further explanation, she started off toward the barn.

Her quick pace soon turned to a trot and then a run, fearing the worst; it could be as simple as a dead calf or as terrible as a dead person, a farm accident or distraught animal. Perhaps even a trespasser. She did not know.

She reached the opening of the barn and halted, raising a hand over her eyes to shield from the sun. It was dark inside the barn, a near blackness compared to the bright green and yellow outside, and her eyes had to adjust for some time before she could make out the scene before her. N'wela stood crying and sniffling beside his mother, while William sat atop the milking stool beside one of the cows and dabbed a rag onto his eyes and face.

William? She thought, not quite believing what her eyes presented to her. William was helping a slave? That made absolutely no sense.

"N'wela, what is the matter?" Margaret asked softly, brow knitting with concern as she stepped closer to the boy.

"He got in them peppers," Bolanle, his mother, replied, rubbing her son's shoulders in a soothing manner. She nodded in mister Tarleton's direction, a reluctant scowl on her lips. "Mister Tarleton helped soothe the burns."

Margaret's gaze snapped to the aforementioned man, who in turn met her with a steady calm. "You did this? You helped N'wela?"

It wasn't that she was unbelieving. She wanted to believe; it was merely that she had already been fooled once. She would not have the same done to her again.

"No sense in having the boy suffer." He said simply, handing the milk rag off to Bolonle and straightening his posture from where he sat on the stool.

An awkward silence ensued, and, as if on cue, the cow beside them mooed.

"I...well, I..." Margaret was at a loss. What should she say?

"I believe 'thank you' are the words your mistress is looking for."

His tone was not belligerent or mocking, though it did hold a slight bite to it, and this threw Margaret even further off.

"I- yes! Yes, thank you...William. I appreciate you. Very, very much."

Turning her attention back to N'wela, she knelt down to meet him at eye level, and Bolonle moved her hand to let her cradle his tear-stained cheeks.

"Are you alright?" She asked softly, stroking a tear away with her thumb. The little boy nodded. "Now you know not to mess in the pepper patch, don't you?"

He nodded again, but averted his eyes in embarrassment. His mother stepped in. "Ma'am, I tried to tell him but he-"

She waved a hand dismissively. "No matter. Whatever he did, I doubt it's enough to harm our crop the coming year. It is fine."

Bolonle nodded her thanks and took N'wela by the hand and led him out of the barn, leaving Margaret and Tarleton with no other company save for the cows. Tarleton stood and Margaret laced her fingers together, standing somewhat awkwardly. He must have sensed this, for his own posture changed as well, shifting from a deliberate confidence to uncertain stiffness. Perhaps he wondered why she lingered. Perhaps he was nervous. Afraid. Perhaps she should use this to her advantage.

"William, I'm...afraid I need to speak with you."

Immediately, his countenance slipped, and she could not tell if he were alarmed or decidedly saccharine in his sentence.

"Why, my mistress...what ever about?"

God, she was nervous. How to put it delicately? Should she even be confronting him like this alone? She swallowed, and she swore the anxious reaction was audible.

"Well...I...I'm unsure how to say this, but...I know, that it was you who took the keys to the cellar."

His face froze, and she could not tell if he was going to admit to his wrongdoing, or if he was calculating his odds of convincing her of another lie. Though she sincerely hoped for the former, she prepared herself to receive the latter.

"...Do you, now?" He asked, the corner of his mouth tugging up involuntarily. "And what proof, may I ask, do you have?"

She blinked, taken aback at his boldness of attitude. She had not expected him to be so straightforward.

"I spoke with Kitch. As well as the other servants. They all swear that he was not in the cellar last night."

Tarleton's eyes squinted ever so slightly, and her sharp eyes caught his nervous swallow. "I see. And this...'Kitch'. You trust him? A slave? Over one of your own kind?"

Margaret's nostrils flared indignantly. "Do not speak of them as though they are...animals, or something below you. They are human beings, just as you and I. And as a matter of fact, yes; I do."

"Come now, Margaret. Do you really believe they would not band together to help one of their own?"

"Do you believe that I would take a near-stranger's words over that of my servant's?" She calmly shot back. "Whom I have known for years?"

That silenced him, and upon seeing the shame in his downcast eyes, Margaret took the opportunity to speak.

"You are a fine worker, William. I am glad I found and employed you. Why throw it all away for a single night's drink?"

William's eyes shot up to meet hers, then darted back down toward the dirt. For the longest time, there was silence. He truly was at a loss for words.

"There is no excuse, for my behavior, ma'am." He said finally, speaking to the ground before meeting her gaze. "I was...a drunk. When you found me. And though I have been sufficiently occupied thanks to your employment, I cannot say that it has been enough to completely rid me of my tendencies."

Margaret began to speak, then pursed her lips.

What should she say? She could not conjure a proper response at the moment. On the one hand, she should probably terminate him - his behavior toward the farmhands coupled with his drunkenness and constant lying were plenty reason enough for it - but on the other, she had not taken him in because she thought rehabilitation would be easy or simple. He was a broken man, but that much had been obvious from the beginning. She had known what she was getting into by bringing him into her home. And thus, she could not give up just yet.

"William," she addressed, and he stood up just the slightest bit taller at the sound of his name. "I did not bring you into my home and give you a job because I perceived you to be perfect. I did so because I saw potential. As I have already told you, I see potential for your redemption. You need only choose to do so."

He smiled, its bitterness reaching all the way to his eyes. "You are not a fool, Margaret. You and I both know it is not so simple."

"No. I suppose not," she said at last. "But it can be, over time. It all starts with a choice. Do you wish to continue on the way that you are, in your current state? Or do you wish to better yourself, as I suspect you do?"

He did not respond, but instead looked to the ground as he silently contemplated her words. Margaret smiled gently.

"Take each day - each moment - as an opportunity, William. With each and every situation you encounter that vexes or troubles you, recognize it, and make the choice to be the better man."

William screwed his eyes shut, memories unbeknownst to Margaret flashing back at him.

It appears that you are not the better man...

"William?"

No...my sons were much better.

It was not until she reached up and placed a hand on his shoulder that he returned to the present, his icy blue eyes shocking her in their intensity.

"Are you alright?" She asked, delicate brows knit with concern.

Swallowing thickly, he nodded, but said nothing. He did not push her away like she assumed he would. Instead, he raised his arm to cover her hand with his, and squeezed slightly. In appreciation or desperation, she did not know. Either way, she chose to be optimistic; this could be considered the first small change he had made to his behavior that would alter his life in the coming years for the better.

"I...yes, your mistress. I am fine. Thank you."

His thanks was quite clearly forced, but Margaret had the feeling it was most likely from the foreignness of it. She highly doubted he had thanked many people throughout his lifetime, and was probably more used to being the one to thank.

Well. We will just have to change that, she thought. With time.

"Thank you. Again. For helping N'Wela." she smiled.

Their eyes locked, and for a few long, precious seconds, ice met ocean. Like a trance, both were caught up in the other's gaze, like one might become staring at a portrait. But her mouth opened, and his eyes darted down to the movement, and the spell was broken.

William slid his hand from hers, and Margaret sagged away from his touch. His fingers gently dragged across the top of her hand while hers caught on the white cotton of his shirt, and for some reason she felt acutely their roughness; he truly was a man of labor. Of what type of labor specifically, she may never hear from his own lips, but she was currently content with that. Best not to make an animal even more nervous after you've already cornered it.

Both mistress and worker fixed themselves (though there was nothing to truly fix) and stepped away, creating a respectable distance between themselves. Margaret chanced a glance at her employee of several months, taking note of his profile and the way he stood as he stared out into the yard outside of the barn. He seemed taller than before. Not quite as hunched over. Perhaps his new position had given him a sense of purpose that even he did not realize.

Surprisingly, William was the first to speak. "Well. I believe I shall retire to my quarters and prepare for dinner. If your mistress will allow it."

Her eyes lit up at the mention of dinner; she had completely forgotten about it, and it was nearly seven o'clock. Perhaps this was the perfect opening to allow him further opportunities for self-betterment.

"You will be joining me for dinner, then?" She asked, letting her invitation hang in the air between them.

His expression shifted several times, and she knew that he recognized it. It was merely deciding what to do about it that appeared to be holding him up.

Finally, he settled with a nod. "I...believe so. Yes. Yes, I most certainly will."

It couldn't be helped; Margaret's smile spread far across her cheeks, reaching up into her eyes. William would never voice it, but she was truly beautiful when she smiled.

"Excellent. See you soon, then-" she looked mischievously up at him as she passed. "William."

Tavington watched, dumbstruck as she made her way out of the barn, and it wasn't until she disappeared inside the house that his legs began to work again.