A/N: Apologizing in advance for some potentially-confusing perspective switches about halfway though the chapter.
This one is sandwiched somewhere in between the events of Allies at Last, and we're ignoring the Valley Forge episode because it makes absolutely no sense in the given timeline. But I digress.
Late January, 1778
The streets of Philadelphia were slick with the mid-winter gray of half-melted snow. Skirts clenched in her fist, she maneuvered on tiptoe through ice-crusted puddles and the insistent squelch of mud, mud everywhere. Ordinarily it would bother her - she had never much liked the sensation of her feet sinking so into the ground beneath her - but as it was, she scarcely noticed, intent as she was on reaching her destination.
New Market, Second Street - then onto Head House Square.
The Millinery Shop. She'd been there before, albeit only once, but the directions thither felt branded into her memory for how often she'd repeated them into memory in the days leading up to this visit. It had been over a month since she'd received any dispatches from Moses; surely today there would be something. Anything.
Even if it was only a few lines to keep her tethered to the comforts of a life that now seemed gone forever.
Stop it. She paused in her walk to allow a carriage to rumble past, nervously adjusting the hood of her cloak to gain better view of her periphery. It wouldn't do to sulk, she thought. Not when she'd agreed to this. Not when the fates of so many lives hung in the balance. As if on cue, a small cohort of British soldiers ambled past her, only one of which tipped his hat in her direction; and despite the fact that she wasn't doing anything wrong, she still felt the familiar clench of her belly, soon followed by the rapid thump of a heart on edge. She was not by any means a traitor, she had to remind herself. Her crime was a close acquaintance with the proprietors of Dr. Franklin's Pennsylvania Gazette, those she knew as friends but wartime deemed the enemy. She had done nothing wrong; she was merely the victim of circumstances beyond her control. Just as so many were.
Most especially those who remained in a British-occupied Philadelphia.
Her feet carried her across Second Street, head turning in some paranoid inclination that she might be being followed. Stop. It. For all that anyone knew, she was a proper English lady who had the most esteemed pleasure of living alongside the renowned Captain John Andre for the past three months. And really - that was what she was, wasn't it? It wasn't as if she was spying on the good Captain, or in any way aiding the Patriots in their misguided quest. She was simply...living. And trying to stay in touch with the people she cared about, who just so happened to be staunch, and unrepentant, rebels.
I would rather lose my life, a now-distant voice rumbled, than allow this publication to fall into British hands.
No. She couldn't think of him now. Couldn't bear it, actually, for how her heart lurched whenever her mind drifted to the last time she had seen James, his eyes haunted and dark in the glow of a moonlit street. I pray you are well, she thought as she slipped quietly inside the Millinery Shop. I pray you are safe.
Not that it mattered what she thought. He probably hoped she was dead.
"Good afternoon, miss." A young woman spoke to her from behind the counter, flashing a smile warmed by the plumpness of her cheeks. "How may I be of service to you today?"
Anne Newsberry. Not much older than herself, and a Patriot to boot, but an incredibly helpful contact who she was quickly starting to consider a friend. "Good afternoon," Sarah replied, eyes darting quickly around what appeared to be an empty shop. Still - one could never be too careful. She relaxed her throat, hoping her words didn't sound too stilted, too forced. "I wonder if my shipment has arrived." Code, of course. Moses had made sure of that.
But her heart sank as Anne slowly shook her head no. " 'fraid not, ma'am. Perhaps by next week." Such had been her own coded reply since the start of the winter. Sarah understood well the perils of mail in and out of a British-occupied city; most or all of it was confiscated and searched by British officers before it finally made its way to its intended recipient.
Still. She missed her friends terribly and even a line of contact would make all the difference in the world for her.
"Well perhaps I might give you a...payment. In advance." She sounded so stupid in her own ears, so terribly obvious if anyone else were around to hear. Fidgeting, her hand moved downward inside of her pocket where a coded message sat; and all at once, for reasons she couldn't quite explain, she was fearful to let it leave her.
But Anne, ever gracious, leaned toward her with a soft smile. "It's alright, Sarah," she said quietly. "No one is about, so we may speak freely a moment."
"Thank you." All day, and that single utterance was the sincerest thing she'd spoken aloud since waking that morning. Carefully, she palmed her message over to Anne, who tucked it in her own pocket to be couriered out later, or perhaps tomorrow. Whenever it was safest. She felt compelled to say something, if for no other reason than her sincerity seemed flat. "I worry, for how long it has been since I've heard from him."
"Do not fret," she replied gently. Light danced over her features, casting her already-kind face into a welcoming glow. "I've contacts in York who tell me your associates are safe as can be, printing materials for the Continental Congress."
"That is a relief to hear." Still, something pinched in her gut as she pictured it. They should be here, she thought. They never should have had to leave their home. She forced a smile as Anne watched her, seeming to read her thoughts. "I thank you for your kindness, Anne. The value of it is...immeasurable."
"Of course. Moses is an old friend of my parents. We'd do most anything for him. And for the cause, if you don't mind my saying." She leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I know your loyalties, Sarah dear, but I also see plain as day how unhappy you are. Take heart...this occupation cannot last forever."
"Right you are," she found herself saying, though it felt as rehearsed as her coded greeting had been. She'd begun to wonder how it was that being back in the company of British authorities had turned to a thing so foreign. How being away from her friends felt a worse punishment than anything else.
How badly these days she was missing her mother.
"I will...return next week. If it suits you." Anne offered her another kind smile.
"I look forward to it. And please, if you feel so inclined, feel free to come see me for an ordinary visit. The shop gets lonesome." Anne's father had fled the city, but her mother and three siblings remained with her. Sarah knew the offer was not borne out of loneliness; it was kindness, and kindness alone, for how devastatingly alone she was.
"I shall do." She smoothed her hands down the front of her bodice. "Thank you, Anne." The girl inclined her head in a polite bow and Sarah left, quickly, before she collapsed into tears.
Heading back to the empty shop that once had felt so much like home.
"Might I suggest a toast?"
Sarah's gaze slid to the grinning visage at the head of the table. His eyes were dancing; with mirth, no doubt, but the endless flow of the madeira was likely the main contributor to the Captain's more elated state. She plastered a smile to her face, absently pinching the stem of her wine glass between her fingers.
"What are we toasting, Captain Andre?"
"Good fortune," he said, though the edges of his words were already beginning to slur. "Good company. And of course, the assurance of our impending victory against the rebel militia." His hand raised upward. "God save the King!"
"God save the King," Sarah murmured, lifting her own glass in a depressed pantomime; but her quiet misery was quickly overshadowed by the piercing shrill of a laugh she had grown to resent over the course of the last few months.
"Oh John," Peggy chortled. "I do believe you have indulged beyond your fair share of the wine."
"Ms. Shippen," he grinned. "I do believe that it takes one to know one." Another fit of laughter resounded around the table and Sarah resisted the strong urge to roll her eyes. Keen as she was to witness their shameless flirting, it awakened within her a pain not yet subsided; a pain borne out of memory, of James sitting across the table, this very table, laughing or teasing or regaling them all with his latest venture. Henri at her side, shoving potatoes into his mouth; she quietly admonishing him for it, while avoiding looking at Moses lest she burst out laughing at the look on his face. Her gut pinched, so she took a long sip of her wine. She had already feigned illness twice this week to justify a prompt departure from the dinner table, but perhaps once more wouldn't arouse too much in the way of suspicion.
Not that it really mattered, of course, seeing as the Captain and Ms. Shippen were so thoroughly enthralled with each other.
He is not a bad man, she tried reminding herself for what must have been the thousandth time since John Andre had taken up residence in Dr. Franklin's - in her - home. It was only that he was a stranger, and had remained so despite their shared living arrangement over the course of the last three months. He'd initially been delighted to know of her loyalist tendencies and then hadn't taken much interest in her after the fact. Which was fine by her, honestly. It allowed her freedom of movement and to sneak into the kitchen to check on Henri, who had taken an instant disliking to the man.
Then again, she might have done the same if the Captain had decided to put her to work as his personal kitchen boy.
"My, but you have been quiet this evening, Ms. Phillips." Peggy smiled thinly at her over the edge of her glass and the tone in her voice indicated that she had most certainly been faking the depth to which she'd been intoxicated. "Penny for your thoughts?"
I miss my friends. I miss my life. I do not like living with all these strangers.
"I am not feeling very well," she said evenly. Peggy stared at her a moment, looking quizzical.
"Gracious, what ails you?" Sarah opened her mouth to respond but the half-formed words plunged back down to her belly as she continued. "Was it your walk into town earlier? This weather has been ghastly. Perhaps you've caught a cold."
"Perhaps so," she replied, offering her the best smile she could muster. How did she know she had gone out this afternoon? Was she spying on her? Don't panic. Do not panic. "Although, I pray you refresh my memory: I do not recall mentioning any sort of walk to you, Ms. Shippen."
"You did not need to, love. I saw the mud on your skirts before you changed for dinner." The girl's eyebrow cocked upward, befitting of a haughty aunt. "Simple deduction, really."
"And an erroneous one, unfortunately." The words flew out of her mouth before she thought better of them, as if compelled by - well, by the spirit of her dearest friend who she had chastised on more than one occasion for lying. "I was out in the barns with Caesar. It gets quite muddy out there."
"Hm." A single utterance, yet laden with so much derision. She wished she could tell her, I haven't an ounce of interest in your Captain, Peggy. He is yours for the taking. Because really, outside of jealousy, there was no reason for this young loyalist to hate her so. "I couldn't be bothered with that sort of thing."
"One of God's greatest gifts to man," Sarah grinned. "The vast multiplicity of His creation. Wine and ball gowns suit you, just as horses and mud suit I."
"Ladies," Captain Andre slurred, apparently aware of the growing heat between his dinner partners. "The night is yet young! Let us partake in one more round. We shall eat and drink and be merry! Down with the rebels! God save the King!"
"God save the King," Sarah mumbled again but Peggy wasn't one to allow another to have the last word.
"Perhaps it is not an affliction of the body that troubles you," she fake-pouted as she held out her glass for a refill. "But rather, affliction of the mind. I am sure you are missing your prior housemates terribly."
Damn you. It was clear as day she was trying to get her goat, but the gibe annoyed her just the same; compounded only further by the fact that she was right. Sarah offered a polite smile. "I do think of them, Ms. Shippen. It would be near impossible not to."
"Really?" The girl's voice had taken on a slightly more challenging edge and it took a moment for Sarah to realize why; Henri had entered the room, bearing the desired wine, and was staring at her from the doorway with a cocked eyebrow. Peggy once more shook her hand toward him in a dismissive gesture. "One would think you relieved to be rid of them."
"Why do you say that?" Henri moved 'round the table and refilled her glass; she offered his hand a quick squeeze of thanks before he moved to Peggy.
"I just cannot imagine living with guardians who lived in such open rebellion against our King. Particularly that...journalist." Peggy's eerie grin widened. "I recall seeing him often in the square, selling copies of the newspaper. A nasty sort, he was." Sarah moved her gaze downward, to her half-eaten plate.
"Odd that you gleaned as much only from seeing him sell a newspaper," she said stiffly. Peggy's eyes glittered.
"We spoke on several occasions, actually. He took quite a fancy to me, but..." Her shoulders raised in a hapless shrug. "The feeling was, ah...not mutual."
It was a lie. It was a lie and she knew it was a lie because James would never go for the likes of Peggy bleedin' Shippen, the daughter of the most noted loyalist in all of Philadelphia. Still; it felt as if her blood had been cast aflame, only to be worsened as Peggy continued. "He's rather a scruffy thing, isn't he? Like a little street dog."
Rage consumed her. Peggy didn't know what those words meant to her - she couldn't know - but their eerie echo sent pangs of longing through her heart so intense, it suddenly felt as if she would expel her dinner all over the table. She stood before she thought better of it, lips twitching into a forced smile. "You will forgive me," her mouth spoke for her as she moved behind her chair. "I am going to bed."
"So soon?" Peggy chirped as she slid by, but she ignored her. Ignored even the searching gaze of young Henri as she passed through the doorway, throat tight, heart ramming, fingers cramping into uncomfortable fists in the fabric of her skirt. Bitch, she thought to herself as she sped up the stairwell. Evil, nasty, bitch.
But who was she angry at, she wondered, as she finally made it back inside the sanctuary of her room. Peggy? Or herself? Palms splayed flat against the woodgrain, she took a moment to breathe in deep through her nostrils as her temper demanded she do something, anything, to abate it. It was all at once too much to bear. She had tried in vain to ignore the heavy plunge of guilt that had settled in her bosom upon their return from Bemis Heights all those months ago, but now the wound was torn asunder and demanding to be felt.
And so she let it. Eyes slipping shut, her thoughts drifted to memory; to the previous fall, to Philadelphia before the Occupation.
To the last time she had seen her friend.
Three Months Earlier
The cobblestone was firmer than she remembered.
Or perhaps it only seemed so as she landed heavily atop it, the soles of her feet still fresh with the memory of a grassy battlefield. Henri cast her a furtive glance as he too jumped from their wagon, uncharacteristically quiet; indeed the last stretch of their journey had been spent in silence, what with James' empty stare fixed solely on the road ahead of them. He had insisted on driving the entire way and though both she and Henri had tried to coerce him into resting, his response had been a muted - albeit resolute - refusal. Some part of her was grateful to see the return of his stubborn streak. The other was still weighed down with grief, uncertainty, and concern for his welfare.
Something had changed in him following his time in Burgoyne's camp, but neither time nor circumstance had yet revealed what.
"I can manage." James waved both her and Henri off as they extended a hand toward him to help him down. His eyes were blank, impassive; something uncomfortable lurched in her chest as she watched him stumble, heard the mumbled hiss that tore from his lips as his feet met the ground.
"Are you certain?" she asked him quietly. He hauled his pack from the seat without so much as a glance in her direction, hobbling toward the shop.
"Quite," he tossed over his shoulder, then motioned with his hand. "Henri, take care of Caesar." And with that he entered the shop, shutting the door swiftly behind him. Henri grumbled a profanity under his breath as he moved to clap Caesar down his broad neck.
"What is wrong with him?" he hissed. Sarah's shoulders raised in a hapless shrug as she stared at the print shop door, suddenly wary of following him inside.
"I'm not sure." She would not say as much to Henri, but she was beginning to suspect that James' behavior had something to do with her. She could not think of what she could have possibly done to anger him, but he was making pointed efforts to avoid her. That much was obvious. Still she knew that James was still in pain; she could see it in the way he moved, in the haunted shadow that had not left his features since he'd stumbled into Bemis Heights. Gone was the wit she had known, the friendly camaraderie, the quiet kindness and care once so present in his gaze. In its place was a bitter caution, an emptiness that both alarmed and frightened her. She had tried in vain to speak with him about it, to extend the helping hand she knew him to be in need of - but James refused it, adamant that he was well, quite well, any time she asked. But even though young Henri had also noted the distinct change in his person, they were each of them completely clueless as to how to make amends. For all that she knew of her dear friend, somehow it felt they had landed right back where they had started - at odds.
And God, did that hurt.
Henri's fingers slipped gently around her own, giving them a squeeze, bringing her back into the moment. "Are you alright?" he asked softly. She paused a moment, searching the boy's warm brown eyes, struck suddenly with just how...young he still was. How much he had seen in the course of his twelve short years. How wild he was, but how perceptive, how caring, how smart. She offered him a smile and pulled him in for a hug, resting her chin atop his head.
"I am alright, sweet one," she murmured. Her gaze moved once more the front entry of the print shop, heart lurching. "And James will be too. We are home now, and need only give him time."
Just a little bit of time.
...
James' head was pounding.
Pressing a shaking hand to his forehead, he tried for the third time in the last few minutes to focus on the lines of script in front of him. Notes, they were. Written by his own hand, recorded in haste and entirely from memory this afternoon seeing as how Burgoyne had seen fit to destroy his original accounts of Schuyler's halting tactics. Still he knew this exercise to be a fruitless endeavor; the accounts were nothing but months-old news now, near to useless despite Moses' encouragement to recall what he could to include in the main report.
Moses. Dear God. It would be a long while before he recovered from the abject horror that had overtaken the man's features upon first laying eyes on him today. The subdued what happened to you? that he knew was coming but hated just the same; the biting overview of his capture, his escape. Moses had taken it all in stride with quiet nods and few questions, but his eyes had betrayed his truer feelings. That, for some reason, had inspired a freshened wave of misplaced guilt and despite his friend's gentle insistence that he rest, he had near to begged to be put to work instead. He needed a distraction. He needed some sense of normalcy.
Still. This throbbing ache in the back of his skull wasn't helping.
His eyes moved of their own accord to where Sarah was working on the other side of the shop. They would need to set the type in a few minutes if there was any hope of issuing this week's paper, but he kept finding himself distracted by the pinch of her focused gaze, how her lips absently chewed on the tip of her pencil. Longing lodged itself in his throat before he tore his gaze away, back to the scrawl of half-formed reports he could scarcely make sense of. There'd be time enough for him to nurse his aching heart in the coming weeks, but for now, they had to get this story printed. It was irrefutable fact that the victory at Saratoga would boost the morale of every Patriot in the city; and morale, amongst so many other provisions, was in much needed supply as the war dragged on. He knew this. Knew it well.
It was only this focus on General Arnold that had such a stronghold on his jealous heart.
He hated himself for it. Hated the twist in his gut each time the man's name was mentioned, hated that inward crumble each time Sarah would go to visit him in their final days at Bemis Heights. But perhaps most of all he hated the disappointment, just shy of regret, that had run him through once they'd found out that Arnold would not succumb to his wounds, no - that he would live. The shame of even feeling such a thing had frayed the edges of his healing mind, setting itself rigidly against reason and all notions of good will towards his fellow man. For what ill had Arnold committed against him, truly? None save the capture of Sarah Phillips' heart, which hadn't belonged to him in the first place. But still - Arnold? raged the envy he could not quell. Bloody Arnold? A man of poor temper, violent spirit, and courage, yes, but also an unnerving volatility that even his own men found disturbing. In his quiet moments, in the privacy of dark with only sordid memory to keep him company, James told himself he cared only for her welfare. He wanted her protected - loved.
By you, clanged that traitorous voice within. Jealous bastard.
Renewed shame sprang anew, just as it always did. These days felt more a struggle in combating his coarser nature than ever before and though he longed, begged for respite, his body seemed intent on sustaining the memory of his torments in that camp. Everything hurt - down to his bones he hurt and though he was no stranger to pain, it had been a long while since he had felt so...pathetic. Helpless. He'd sworn once to himself that no creature, be it man or woman, would ever bring him so low again and yet here he was, nursing a broken body along with a broken heart, unable to sleep or think of anything beyond the irritating sequences of what if?
What if he'd never been separated from his company? What if he'd taken a different path through the woods that day? What if he'd run sooner? What if he'd tried to fight them off? What if he had done something, anything, besides bear the brutality of his captors? If he held even an ounce of the courage the great General Arnold had displayed in service to his country, then perhaps none of this would have happened. Why hadn't he done something? Damn it all to hell - why hadn't he? Because, that quiet part of his mind reasoned. If you had, you would be dead. And it was true.
The one time he'd actually tried to defend himself, they had hung him from a tree.
Slamming his notebook shut, he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, silently cringing at the recollection. Moses had been right, he realized now; he did need to rest. But sleep had all but eluded him this past week, plagued as he was by night terrors, so that too seemed a useless means of respite. Dear God, he was going to go mad. Perhaps he already had. What difference did it make now anyway? He'd already lost his dignity, the strength of his body, and the woman he loved. Of what import was his mind in the ever-increasing tally?
Stop. Focus. He should be grateful to be alive. Grateful to be back in the shop with Moses, Henri, Sarah. But try as he might, he couldn't seem to shake these demons away, the ones still clinging to every dark corner of his mind. He was in so much pain. Dear God, he was still in so, so much pain and not only of the body -
"Do you have a moment?"
Sarah's voice cut softly into his darkening thoughts, scattering them to bits. Raising his head, he found she was carefully watching him, her eyes still holding that same damnable pity that had first appeared the day he'd stumbled into camp. He hated this too. Hated being looked at like that, like he was some wounded, pitiful thing.
Hated that that was exactly what he was.
"Yes." He swallowed a wince as he turned toward her, forcing a smile to his lips instead. "What do you need?" She inhaled slowly, her gaze wandering down his face.
"Are you alright?" He wasn't. He might never be again.
The memory of how soft her skin had felt beneath his fingers flashed tauntingly through his mind.
"Yes," he lied. "Quite." A shadow passed over her features and it was clear as day she knew he was lying. He made himself stand to face her, hoping it would bolster the sincerity of his falsehood. "What have you got there?" He motioned toward her hands in which she held a few scraps of paper.
"My story. I was hoping you could read it through and offer some additions, but..." Her eyes moved to the table behind him and his closed notebook, no doubt, before meeting his gaze again. "Are you not going to include a few notes as well?"
"No." He cleared his throat and held out his hand, beckoning with his fingers. "I have nothing worthwhile to add." A slight frown creased her brows. He held her gaze.
"James." Her voice softened as she stepped nearer. "You were in the...in the camp for weeks. As an eyewitness to the conditions -"
"I was a prisoner." His tone was curt and he knew it for how her face fell. He inhaled carefully through his nose before speaking again. "I witnessed nothing of import."
"But you bore witness to the battle," she insisted. Don't, he nearly said. Don't do this. Half-starved and nearly mad with pain and exhaustion, his memory of the battle was paltry at best. Still he was aware that she was trying to be kind; that she was truly, genuinely making an effort to ease him back into the currents of routine after the horrific events of the last few months. But it had been in the course of the ride back to Philadelphia that he had realized this display of careful consideration, this hesitant, soft-spoken version of Sarah wasn't...Sarah. It wasn't the Sarah who teased him, the Sarah who laughed with him and corrected his grammar, the Sarah who inspired a rapport that came with such ease, he did not feel he ever needed to be any other besides himself in her company. She had been treating him as little more than a stranger and that wounded him - deeply. "Surely," she said slowly as the silence stretched between them. "That would be of import."
A fine man you are, hissed the voice again. She treats with you with kindness and you despise it. 'Tis no wonder she doesn't want you.
His guilt returned with vigor, crushing against bruised ribs, making it hard to breathe. "Well perhaps I should read your story and then we will know," he managed to say, softening the edges of his voice. He extended his hand a little further, offering another wan smile as she reluctantly placed the pages in his hand.
"I would like to include your work, James," she gently maintained. Inclusion borne of pity, no doubt. Oh God, stop stop stop -
"My reports are useless, Sarah." He cast his gaze downward, grateful for the distraction of her neat script. "They're months old and have nothing to do with Saratoga."
"But surely there is something that -"
"Stop, Sarah. Please." He met her gaze again, hating the hurt that briefly flashed across her features. "Trust my judgment. That is all I ask." She stared back at him a moment, jaw working. She swallowed. Then jerked out a nod.
"Very well." Something unpleasant tugged in his heart as he sat back down, but he ignored it as his eyes began quickly scanning the page.
…only for that echo of longing to come surging back, carving a path through his already-aching heart. Though a faithful retelling of the battle's events, Sarah had exalted Arnold to a near-godly status with phrases like to behold him is to behold greatness and it is the opinion of this writer that had General Arnold stayed in his tent as he was ordered to, the battle surely would have been lost. For God's sake. It was as if she had forgotten that Arnold was fighting against her beloved king. Why was it that in all the times he had dared to voice his patriotic position that she deemed him a traitor, but if Arnold openly served as an officer who killed British soldiers, she celebrated him as a hero? The words before him blurred again, twisting their way into still-healing wounds and the envy he'd tried so hard to smother. The pounding in his head resumed its horrid tempo as he held the pages back to her. "Good work," he bit out.
"Did you even finish reading it?" The disappointment in her tone was as evident as the bile threatening to climb up his throat as he stood again to face her, arm still extended.
"Didn't need to. You could have simply written General Arnold is my favorite traitor over and over again and the meaning would have been the same." She reared back as if he had slapped her.
"...I beg your pardon?"
"Sorry, was that harsh? Allow me to rephrase." Stop, that inner voice beckoned again. Stop - "Though I hold the viewpoint that all you filthy rebels should be hung, drawn, and quartered, I do not extend such sentiments towards the man who viciously, and ruthlessly, slaughters my compatriots in the fight for liberty." His eyes slid back to her, throat tightening. "How's that for an opening?"
"What is wrong with you?" She snatched the papers from his hand, and some perverse thrill shot through him at the familiarity of the anger in her eyes. "Why would you - how can you say such things, James? How dare you accuse me of fostering such violent beliefs?"
"Better violent convictions than none at all." Her eyes widened as he gestured toward the papers. "Tell me, Sarah. What part of what I just said was false? You have spoken out against the cause repeatedly since you first stepped foot on our shore, yet you laud Benedict Arnold as the embodiment of heroism. How does that make any sense?"
Her voice was definitively more chilled when she spoke again. "What exactly are you saying?"
"Only that your work ought to align with the boundaries of your touted moral code. That is all." The last thing he expected was the derisive snort that sounded and the utter cynicism that passed over her features.
"As if you are one to criticize."
He eyed her carefully, voice dropping. "What does that mean?"
"All you have ever done is mock, undermine, or disregard the contributions Benedict has made to your valued cause," she snapped, her ire clearly rising - yet all he could focus on was the usage of the man's first name, his first bloody name. "Despite the fact that he has now won the Continental Army not one, not two, but three victories by virtue of his dedication to the fight. And you, the firebrand Patriot who is all but defined by these convictions, would dare to come after me for reporting on these accomplishments? For celebrating the man for who he is, and not only what he has done?" She leaned in closer, near to spitting the words out. "If anything, I should be lauded for my journalistic veracity, in which I can set aside my own preconceptions to report the truth of a matter and not be so blinded by unfounded jealousy."
"Jealousy?" He couldn't help himself - he bit out a scornful laugh, gesturing wildly around him. "Of what? The man's fits of temper when he does not get his way? His threats to resign which ultimately amount to nothing?"
"Of his honor," she shot back. "Of his manner. Of his ability to rise above his station to fight for his country, even when the odds are insurmountably stacked against him. And you know what I think?" She moved closer still, eyes dimmed with hurt. "I think that when you lay eyes on men like Benedict Arnold, it makes you feel ashamed."
"Ashamed." Something pricked uncomfortably inside his lungs as he inhaled. "You think that I am...ashamed that I am not more like Benedict Arnold?"
She did not even spare him a pause before delivering her answer. "Yes."
"Allow me to set you straight, then." He lowered his voice, despite the blaze of fury now threatening to rear its ugly head. "You may have allowed yourself to be swayed by the charms of a so-called gentleman, but I and many others see him for what he is - and that is an obstinate, self-serving, arrogant fuck who fights not for liberty, no, but to line his own pockets."
"Careful, James." The cool measure of her tone dipped in silent challenge. "Your envy is showing."
"God dammit, Sarah -"
"You will watch your tongue."
"And what of you? Will you watch yours?" He couldn't help himself; his voice rose to drown out the sordid clang of his own misgivings, his own jealousy, the fact that in some twisted, backwards way she was exactly right. "After everything I - after all that's happened, you would stand there and entice me to shame over circumstances I have no control over -"
"I am enticing you to nothing," she shot back, finger jutting out to emphasize the point. "This is you, James. Just. You."
"Ho, Philadelphia! This just in!" He cupped a palm to his mouth in mock announcement. "Sarah Phillips is blameless in the eyes of God and man! She can do no wrong!"
"This from the man who has so brazenly mistreated his companions over the course of the last week?" she returned, eyes ablaze. "Friends who have done little else but try to show you care in the aftermath of your capture?"
"I have never asked for, nor do I need your bloody care," he spat. "Nor your pity."
Her gaze darkened. "And yet you wonder why I admire General Arnold so. A man who accepts the pity you so despise, who nearly died from his wounds -"
"A man," he countered, "who has killed hundreds, if not thousands of men -"
"A man," she shot back, voice rising, "of dignity, and respect, who despite his rougher upbringing has sought to better himself -"
"Right, because I myself hold none of these characteristics?" He slammed a hand to his chest, knowing damn well what she was actually saying. "Aye? Is that it?"
"A man," she pressed, though the sound of her voice was broken, "you ought to look up to for how kindly he has treated me. You could stand to learn a thing or two."
"Oh, I see." His voice was shaking as he bit out an embittered laugh. "You wish I was more like Arnold, then. Is that it?"
"Yes I do," she spat, leaning in toward hm. "And not the dirty little gutter rat you actually are."
Silence fell.
Her hands clamped over her mouth, eyes widening, but he scarcely noticed around the sudden roar in his ears. Doused in the flood of her insult, his anger died instantly, leaving him empty and cold and he could do nothing but stare at her a moment. Just - stare at her, at the woman who had staunchly defended him against the vices of his past only to make it known here, right now, what she truly thought of him.
What she likely had thought of him all along.
"James." Her voice, though a whisper, sounded as a windstorm.
"Don't." He shook his head, mind abuzz, stumbling a few steps back. "Don't. Just...just stay away from me."
"Please. James. I didn't mean..." But he couldn't hear that. Couldn't withstand the falsities of her denial once the truth had made itself known so candidly, so decisively. The pain of it was at once unbearable and he couldn't think anymore. Couldn't speak. He knew what he was, of course he did; he just never thought that that's what she thought of him too, that after - after everything -
He left. Heart thudding, hands shaking, he turned and left and allowed the slam of the print shop door to quiet her pleas, dull and senseless in the back of his mind. Tears burned the corners of his eyes, throat aflame, though he was somehow numb all over, deadened weight in a moving transport. Gutter rat. Gutter rat.
All he was, truly.
And all he would ever be.
...
"The British are seizing Philadelphia."
Sarah turned swiftly, heart stuttering at the sound of James' voice. He had been gone for hours - his absence noted by Moses and Henri, she had hastily explained that he had gone to run some errands - but after night had fallen, her concern had been steadily mounting upward until she thought she might burst. I'm sorry, she wanted to say. Oh God, James, please. I didn't mean it. But he wasn't looking at her. Indeed, his entire countenance was shadowed with concern, his gaze fixed on Moses as he slowly stood from his place by the kitchen's hearth.
"Yes. Patriots are leaving the city in droves, as they suspect they will arrive by tomorrow." A silent understanding seemed to pass between them as Henri stepped forward, a dirty washrag clutched tight in his hand.
"What will happen to us?" he asked softly. "To the paper?" James looked at him, his eyes wild and gleaming in the low light of the kitchen.
"That depends entirely on what we decide to do now. We still have tonight." Moses exhaled slowly, his eyes moving from James to Henri to her, then back to James. A pause. Sarah moved over to Henri and wrapped an arm around his shoulders as the two men engaged in a rapid back-and-forth.
"We will not be able to print the paper in a British-occupied city."
"And they will destroy the press if they find it."
"Which means we either have to hide it...or move it."
"Tonight."
"I have a contact in York." Moses' eyes took on a pensive look. "Easily a few days' journey, and that's only if we find no trouble on the road. There will not be time to send word."
"Is he a patriot?"
Moses nodded. "He is."
"Has he a place we can operate out of?"
"He does."
"Then he will suffice." James' face hardened and he suddenly looked much, much older than his eighteen years. "Newspapers are shutting down throughout the colonies, and we are one of few still in operation. The work we do is vital in preventing the British from spreading their own narrative, from reaping more discord with the help of the press. And though some may be persuaded otherwise..." His eyes briefly slid toward her, burning with conviction. "...I would rather lose my life than allow this publication to fall into British hands."
"As would I." Moses ran a thoughtful hand across his jaw before his gaze moved to her. "But we will have to make the choice together. This affects all of us."
"She can stay." James' voice grew cold and the sound of it was like a dagger through the heart. Chest tightening, she cast her eyes to the floor. "Her loyalties are with the crown. There is no reason for her to go."
"James..." Moses' voice turned stern. "I will not leave Sarah behind to fend for herself. She is under my care -"
"But she is not an apprentice," he returned quickly. "Nor is she in contracted employment for the Gazette."
"That is of no matter right now."
"We do not need four people to issue the paper."
"James." Sensing the warning in Moses' voice, Sarah squeezed Henri's shoulder before quickly stepping forward.
"He is right," she said softly. Overcome and simultaneously wedged somewhere between guilt and duty, she made herself speak around a swelling throat. "My loyalties are with the Crown. No harm will befall me at the hands of British soldiers should I stay behind."
"Sarah..." Moses placed a hand on her arm. James' jaw worked but he cast his gaze to the side, staying silent. "I cannot abide by this."
"Someone needs to stay behind and tend to the house." She smiled gently at Moses, even though the prospect of being here alone was like a punch to the gut. "If we leave it empty, God only knows what will happen to it. What will happen to our possessions, to Dr. Franklin's lab." Moses searched her face intently as she gestured around her. "I am the best choice to remain here. I am English-born, and this is my home here in the colonies. Just as they spared the loyalists in Danbury, they will spare this home if I remain. Our home." He inhaled deeply, his features awash with conflict.
"To leave you here alone seems a most vicious charge."
"She will not be alone." Henri stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her waist. Sarah fought the urge to cry, running a gentle hand over his head. He looked up at Moses, his voice fraught with determination. "I will stay here with 'er."
"Perhaps I should stay," Moses said, tone wavering. "To leave behind a woman and a child seems...villainous. Even in a time of war -"
"You are the only one who can help me move the press." James stepped forward, his mouth pulled into an unhappy line. "And if you were to remain here, they would conscript you into the British army. You would not be given a choice."
"He's right." Sarah spoke softly in the effort to convince him. "I am not willing to sacrifice your safety for mine, Moses." His eyes shone with guilt, with uncertainty.
"Nor am I," Henri chimed in.
"It will be alright," Sarah gently insisted. She swallowed against a rapidly-tightening throat, offering a measured smile. "My father's name will be known to the officers. No harm will come to me. Of that you can be sure." Moses said nothing for a moment as he stood there, brows creased. Then, with a quiet absolution moving through his gaze, he stepped forward and pulled her into an embrace.
"God forgive me," he muttered against the top of her head, "for what we must do." Tears pricked her eyes but she held firm as he pulled away from her touch. He held onto her shoulders for a moment, staring into her eyes as if he would speak again; but then he looked over at James, his expression grim, voice determined. "I will go ready the wagon. Meet me in the shop."
"Yes, sir." Moses moved past him, heading towards the stable. Henri moved from her touch and followed James, departing quickly in his stead.
It was all at once so quiet.
She remained as she was, carefully smoothing a few stray hairs back beneath her cap as if it mattered, as if daily life and all of its varied pursuits could ever amount to any good. How naïve to think that any of them could well and truly escape the atrocities of war - that they could just return home. The war would not be left on a bloodstained battlefield, no; it would weave itself into the tapestries of life, into the nooks and crannies of the home. None would remain untouched. The bill would always come due. And it was here now, the angel of death from the Exodus, come to reap its unjust recompense.
What now? rang the echo in her heart as she turned to face an empty room. What now? Would it ever stop? In the wake of all that had transpired - all she had dared to hope for only days ago - what now remained lie in tatters at her feet. James was leaving. The British were coming. She should feel relieved.
But here, alone and staring into the waning dance of the candlelight, all she knew was the creeping fear that this evening would prove to be the last time they were ever all together again.
"That's it. Load her up."
The street was unnervingly quiet, as if it was somehow poised in breathless expectation of what was to come. Some part of her wondered if there were spies in the darkness, watching and waiting to strike at just the right moment. Deep breaths, she reminded herself for what must have been the thousandth time in the last hour. Composed minds will rule the day. Still. It felt a useless platitude as she watched the boys finally wrangle the press into the bed of the wagon, their exertions muffled by fear and a rising dark.
And just like that, everything about the life she had had here in Philadelphia was gone, packed alongside the press for a fate yet unknown.
And James, cried the more tender parts of her heart. James. Oh, to part this way was such a wicked fate. And it's my fault, she thought darkly, pinching the inside of her cheek between her teeth. My fault, my fault, my fault. Moses beckoned her toward him and she moved as if on coils, or springs perhaps; something entirely mechanical, postured and empty and duty-bound and not so swayed by the passions of the heart. Just as she remained strong in the camp at Bemis Heights, so she would do now. As needed. As required.
"There is a chance," Moses was saying, "that there are already informants in the city. Patrols could be out on the streets to take stock of those leaving." His eyes moved quickly between them until he settled on Henri. "I need you to circle the block and signal us. James and I will be waiting in the barn; knock twice on the door once the coast is clear. James will be stationed there awaiting you." Henri saluted, his face serious.
"Yes sir."
"I am going to move all of this into the barn." Moses pointed at James. "Go and gather anything you think we'll need for the journey. Leave the ink and paper behind; we will be able to obtain some in York." Then his eyes moved to her. "Sarah."
"Moses." His eyes took on the same worry she had beheld in them before as he grabbed ahold of her hands.
"You do not have to stay here." His tone was somber, but unwavering. "You can come with us. All of us can leave the city together."
"I will send you dispatches of what is happening in the city." She squeezed his hands, eyes watering. "That way, Philadelphia will not be cut off from the rest of the colonies. Consider me your inside man." He let out a small laugh, then quickly released her to pull her into another embrace. She held her breath as she wrapped her arms around him tightly, fearful she would fall to pieces if she allowed herself to cry.
"You are the bravest out of all of us," he said into her ear. "Please, please be safe. And if there is any trouble, any at all, you leave. Do you hear me?" He pulled away but caught her firmly by the shoulders, dark eyes boring into her own and leaving no room for argument. "You leave. And you come to us in York."
"I will. I promise, Moses." He nodded at her and let her go, opening his arms for Henri, who obliged him with a small whimper.
"You take care of her," he murmured. "And be good."
"Be safe, Moses." Henri's eyes shone with tears as he rubbed a hand across his nose, sniffing hard. "And please return to us when you can."
"I will. I swear to you, I will." Moses then looked at James, motioning his head towards Sarah. "Write down the address in York for her, just in case. Then come find me." With a final appraisal of his wards, Moses nodded, as if to himself, then turned and jumped into the wagon without another word. All three of them stood and watched as he guided Caesar down the street, turning the corner to enter the barn around back. She could see James move behind her in her periphery, feel the rush of air as he rushed back into the shop. Henri looked up at her, a question in his eyes; he always knew when there was trouble between them. But she only smiled.
"Time for you to patrol the streets, mister." He blinked away his tears and laughed quietly, pulling his shoulders back to stand straight.
"Aye aye, Captain." He saluted again and took off down the street, leaving her standing there alone again. Might as well get used to it, came the bitter taunt. Except she wasn't alone. Not yet. This here would be her last chance to speak with James - and only if he was willing.
Stepping back inside, she could hear him moving about in the back of the house, likely gathering what staples he could from the kitchen. She elected to wait in the shop so that he could not sneak out; his notebook still sat on the desk at the back, and she was certain he would not leave the house without it. She did not need to wait long. He appeared only minutes later, his satchel around his shoulder, pressing his hat firmly down upon his head. His stride broke only briefly once he saw her, but he breezed past without a second glance. She waited until he was at the door before calling out softly,
"Wait." He paused, his back to her, one hand on the door's handle. She moved quickly to grab his notebook, then approached him with a rising apprehension; he still had not turned to look at her. She moved to stand beside him, heart beating a mad tempo as she held it out to him. I am sorry. I did not mean it. Forgive me, James. "Don't forget this," is what left her mouth instead. He did not move for a moment - merely stayed frozen where he was, his gaze fixed on the door in front of him. But when he finally turned to look at her, she did not find the warmth and joy she had grown so accustomed to in his vibrant eyes - instead she saw only guarded pain, hesitation, grief. The sight made her want to scream or cry or both. There was no way, she didn't think, to speak around the clamor of emotions bottlenecked inside of her. This wasn't supposed to happen. After the horrors of their previous separation, he wasn't meant to leave her again, not like this -
"Thank you." His voice was a broken whisper in the quiet of an empty shop, revealing more in its tenor than his anger ever could. And as he carefully took the notebook from her hands, she couldn't help but wonder: were the two of them cursed? Were they forever fated to be at odds this way, winning or losing by virtue of who could deliver the harsher insult? What was wrong with them? What was wrong with her?
Caught in the frenzy of thought, the quiet click of the lock disengaging brought her back to the moment. She watched him turn the door's handle; watched as he stepped into the cool of the evening, half shrouded in shadow and the light of the gaslamps above. The last few years had taught her that this could very well be the last she ever saw of him and though some quiet turn of thought bade her to banish such notions, she knew better. How could she not, after all that had happened?
"James," she called out, overriding the prideful whisper in her mind to just let him go. He turned to look at her, eyes still guarded, his features pained.
"I have to go."
"I know you do." She moved to stand in front of him, a sob lodging halfway up her throat. "But if this is the last that we will see of each other, you must know that I will spend the rest of my days in agony over what I said to you." She inhaled sharply, eyes filling, voice faltering. "I am sorry."
James studied her for a few, fleeting seconds. Cast in this eerie light, she was overcome with sudden recollection; of seeing that same, fearful gaze below the deck of a ship, set in younger features, holding within it both the weight of all that had been and the uncertainty of what would be. Back then they had been strangers. Back then they had not been at war, with England or with themselves, and if love covered a multitude of sins, she wondered if this time - just this one time - it could prove to be enough.
And I do love you, she nearly said. I do. I do. I do.
But the words were too heavy, the moment too delicate, and it passed her by in the wake of remembered hurt. James' mouth opened, shut. "I have to go," was all he said. Resolve moved through his features, crept into his voice, as he hoisted his satchel back onto his shoulder. "Goodbye, Sarah."
Untold sorrow ran her through like a dagger as she watched him turn and run - run - into the night. Lip trembling, she turned and went back into the house. Alone, jeered her heart. You are alone.
It was not until later, long after they had gone, that she realized he had never given her the address.
Drama! Tension! Unresolved conflict!
...yes, I'm basically writing the 18th century version of a soap opera and believe me, there's lots more drama to come.
I took several liberties here. The British Occupation of Philadelphia began on September 26, 1777 - not mid-October. Citizens were aware that the British army was advancing, which is why the Continental Congress dipped in order to evade capture. So - finding out the "day before" was unlikely but hey, we know the finer details in the show tend to be a bit *fuzzy* and so I've followed suit for maximum feels. Many of the women and children did actually stay behind, as it was considered safer than evacuating.
And yes, British officers did take up residence in what they considered the best homes during the Occupation. John Andre did stay in Benny F's house, which in this universe is also the print shop.
Also, a huge shoutout to my dearest darling readers. I've been afflicted by the fan fiction writer's curse, i.e., life has been throwing some weird curveballs as of late that have prevented me from regular updates. But rest assured this story is NOT abandoned and even if updates are slower than I'd like, I push ever onward to ensure this slow burn comes to a somewhat satisfactory conclusion.
Love to you all, as always. Your reviews give me life.