A/N: Thank you all for your continued support! Special thanks to tricornonthecob, who drew this absolutely stunning piece inspired by my story, linked here: https/tricornonthecob/776699568870031360/been-reading-lovers-eye-by-professor97-on-ao3-and?source=share. Not only is she a gifted artist, but she is also a talented writer whose ability to conduct historical research and incorporate it into her work never fails to amaze me. Check her out over on AO3!
This chapter was particularly fun to write. Hopefully you all enjoy!
Lover's Eye: Chapter V
Peering into the dining room, Sarah's heart skipped a beat in her chest when she recognized the willowy form of her mother-alone-bent gracefully over a letter at the breakfast table. This morning marked the first time in the days since her disastrous introduction to William that she had found an opportunity to confide in her mother, away from the carefully-attuned ear of Mrs. Radcliffe. She furtively glanced down the hall behind her and strained her ear for the sound of approaching footsteps on plush carpet, but perceiving no one, slipped into the dining room.
"Good morning, darling," Lady Phillips said warmly, looking up from her writing, "I am answering a letter from your grandmother in London. She says she is well and is very pleased to hear of your engagement to Mr. Radcliffe. A fine match, she says. Her wedding gift will arrive by post shortly."
Sarah bit her lip, daunted by the task that lay before her. "I'm glad to hear that Baroness Chamberlain is well," she remarked, sitting in the chair opposite her mother as a servant poured black tea into an ornate chinoiserie teacup. A curtain of steam rose between parent and child for a moment, giving Sarah a second to work up the nerve to voice her concerns about William. "Mother, I was hoping I might be permitted to speak to you alone," she began. Her stomach lurched, but the words were already spoken out, like tendrils of smoke into the ether, impossible to recall now.
Her mother's thin brows knit delicately. "What is it, my love?" she asked, perceiving her daughter's anxiety. With an airy wave of the hand, she dismissed the serving girl, who exited the room with a bobbing curtsy.
"Well," Sarah began, her eyes following the serpentine vines of cobalt blue on her teacup in a half-hearted attempt to avoid her mother's concerned gaze. She wasn't entirely sure what to say, only that she must say it and rid herself of the crushing pressure of anxiety and shame that gripped at her insides. "I-"
The mahogany door to the dining room swung open, causing the snowy tablecloth to flutter softly and the candle flames to waver. Mrs. Radcliffe, outfitted in a wine-colored morning gown, appeared in the doorway. Sarah rose near automatically, dipping in a practiced, graceful curtsy at the sight of her betrothed's mother.
"Good morning," the lady of the house said, her mere greeting sounding as though she was issuing some sort of edict. Her manner of speaking and comportment made her seem exacting and haughty, though Sarah knew a kind and generous heart hid beneath, even if it was not apparent to everyone around her. She recalled, a decade prior, how James had delivered a widely disrespectful, but admittedly accurate, impression of her. At the thought of her friend, she subtly glanced down at her decolletage to check that his necklace was hidden safely below the square neckline of her navy blue frock. It was, to her great relief.
After exchanging pleasantries, Lady Phillips asked brightly, "Will young Mr. Radcliffe be joining us this morning?"
"He's still abed," Mrs. Radcliffe answered, a hint of disapproval seeping into her already haughty tone, "You know how lads are."
He's hardly a lad, Sarah thought, though this framing by his mother would explain many of the defects in his character, she realized. Just then, the grandfather clock in the hall chimed, alerting Sarah of the approaching hour.
"I must be off to the schoolhouse," she said, rising and smiling graciously, hoping her expression would hide the feeling of relief that swept over her at the thought of escaping the presence of her future mother in law.
"We'll speak when you arrive home this evening," Lady Phillips said warmly, catching her daughter's hand and squeezing it before Sarah quitted the room.
When James awoke, the gray clouds gathering overhead looked heavy and bloated with precipitation, and by the close of the workday, large pieces of snow began to descend upon the city of New York. Normally, he dreaded snowfall, despising the way it turned the streets to slippery mud and added an extra half hour to his morning chores. But today, as the flakes floated unhurriedly down into the street, he found himself humming a spasmodic tune, his heart feeling very much like the buoyant bits of snow on the afternoon breeze.
Foolish.
And yet, despite his self-awareness, he couldn't-nay, didn't want to-shake the feeling of lightheartedness that had followed him in the days since Sarah's last visit. It was such a welcome contrast to the monotonous, apathetic drudge of his usual workday. Today, he was the decided victor in his constant struggle with writer's block, his pen gliding across paper with the ease of blades on ice, and he even felt more patience for Isaac's smart remarks and playful shenanigans. Mucking Miles and Caesar's stalls and chopping firewood had never felt more enjoyable.
He had, sincerely, attempted to resist the fever that had taken hold of him. But visions of Sarah in his print shop- coming into the kitchen, cheeks flushed from tending the horses, laughing at him as he unjammed the printing press, sleeping beside him, copper hair spilling over his pillow in the gray light of dawn-lit up his mind like illuminations on the Fourth of July. In these imagined tableaus, the spiteful lover's eye around her neck was gone and his golden pendant was restored, and the sumptuous engagement ring on her hand was replaced with a modest gold band, purchased with a journalist's meager earnings.
Again, foolish.
In his hand, he clutched a brown paper envelope, tied with a length of red string and a bit of holly. Glancing down at it, he felt utterly ridiculous: he was merely inviting Sarah to attend his print shop's Christmas party, not some lavish, yuletide cotillion. He hadn't made physical invitations for Daniel, Ichabod, or Isaac at all-he merely told them. But he knew that Sarah appreciated the little delicacies of polite society, so he printed up a formal invitation on the finest paper he could manage. He slipped it into an envelope, finding some solace in the fact that he could still write "Miss Phillips" on its face instead of "Mrs. Radcliffe," and made his way in the direction of her schoolhouse as the working day came to a close. He wasn't sure if she would even attend or not, and as a fine brick schoolhouse came into view, he began to lean towards the latter. Hence, the feeling of foolishness was renewed.
James hesitated in the shadow of the schoolhouse. It was set back a ways from the road by a small yard, which was ringed by a wrought iron fence and undoubtedly hosted flowers in the warmer months. A stately, old oak tree, coupled with the building's immaculately clean brick facade, gave the place an elegant air. Having rented his print shop in the fair city of New York for the past few years, he wondered how Sarah could afford such a place for her schoolhouse.
Radcliffe money, no doubt, he thought darkly.
Just then, the double doors of the schoolhouse burst open, and a bevy of young ladies spilled out into the chill, early-December air. He recognized several of the young ladies from their trip to the print shop, including the apple girl, who grinned her gap-toothed smile and gave him a little wave. The students were a flurry of bouncing curls and satin ribbons and swishing pastel satins, reminding him very much of a school of quickly-moving, brightly-colored fish. After Sarah's pupils had passed, he gently turned the polished brass doorknob on one of the double doors with his free hand, before realizing that he should have knocked.
Though only one room, the schoolhouse was spacious and well-equipped. A large, matte blackboard hung at the front of the room, alongside a portrait of President Washington and a map of the fifteen states. School desks were arranged in long rows, their dark, finely-wrought iron legs contrasting with shiny, honey-colored wooden floors. The weak rays of late afternoon sun, streaming in from a large window, led his eyes directly to a lone figure who was industriously wiping chalk from a pile of slates.
"Hello, Sarah," James called, his voice filling the space. The acoustics must be useful in addressing students-though Sarah needed to help with that.
She looked up from her pile of slates. "James? What brings you here?"
She was smiling, though her eyes revealed a familiar exhaustion that he himself felt at the end of the work day. She was not outfitted in the fine, floral gowns he had previously seen her wearing. Today, she wore a simple, sensible frock of navy blue, endearingly smudged with chalk, with a bit of cream-colored ruffles peeking out of its square neckline. Unlike the Sarah in his flights of imagination, this one still wore the lover's eye, its diamond border winking tauntingly at him in the afternoon light.
He bit his lip, suddenly feeling very daunted by the idea of giving her his invitation. Perhaps he has been overeager, forward even, to invite her to his party. The girl in his visions was clearly very different from the lady who stood before him. Surely the rules of her world would not allow a betrothed woman to fraternize with common printers and mechanics and apprentices. He subtly hid the invitation behind his back.
"I, uh," he stammered, "I was in the neighborhood and wanted to say hello."
She nodded, then gestured to the schoolroom around her. "I've seen your domain; it's only right that you see mine."
He perceived that there was something anxious in her voice, as though something were not entirely right. Despite their long absence from one another, he easily recalled Sarah's many moods from their youth. He had been able to accurately identify them, as a mystic can select a card without looking at its face, though he was often entirely ignorant of their cause. Still, even now, he seemed to retain this ability to perceive when something was amiss with her.
Gesturing around him and smiling broadly, he attempted to lighten the mood, saying, "You should be very proud, Sarah. This place is wonderful."
"Thank you. It's very different from the dirt floors and grease paper windows of my schoolhouse back in Ohio," she admitted.
He continued. "And your pupils are a fine bunch."
At the mention of her students, her shoulders relaxed, and she gave a soft, genuine smile. "They are, aren't they?" she said. "And bright as any male pupil in this city. Equally as vexatious, I may add, though in a different way."
"As vexatious as Henri and I?" he asked, taking a seat on one of the desks in the front row and aimlessly swinging his legs. Curiously, he realized that this was the first time he had ever sat in a classroom.
"Of course not. You two were in a class of your own," she answered sternly, although the effect was entirely ruined by the grin that formed on her lips. "Speaking of Henri, have you heard from him since he left for France with Lafayette?"
James nodded. "Yes, but not for a long while. He sent me two letters some years back." Which is two more letters than you ever sent me, he wanted to add, but bit his tongue.
"What did he say?" Sarah inquired, oblivious to the thoughts running through his head.
"A great deal," James replied, "He was apparently studying at university. To think-Henri willingly attending school! I believe it was called Louis-le-Grand, or something along those lines." Sarah snorted softly with amusement at his rough pronunciation of the French university, and he scowled before continuing. "He said he was living in his own modest apartment near the university, alongside another young man, a monsieur Durand. Henri is evidently very fond of him."
Sarah blinked at him for a moment, then slowly took his meaning. "Oh," she said, seemingly at a loss for words, before sputtering, "How very… French."
Her comment, coupled with her incredulous expression, elicited a laugh from James. It felt good to laugh, to cast aside his nervousness. "I confess I was shocked at first, too," he admitted, "But I can't say I see what's so very wrong with it. Besides, you know as well as I how nothing can deter Henri once he has made up his mind."
Sarah nodded, smiling at the memory of their young friend's stubbornness. "It only makes sense," she concurred, "Remember his great fondness for John Quincey? I grew quite tired of hearing about that lad after a while. I suppose we might have guessed it then."
"I figure," James remarked, "Why should Henri deny himself a lifetime of happiness simply to conform to the wishes of others?"
"I wish it were that simple," she said cryptically, her gaze slipping to the floor, before she seemed to catch herself. She then commented brightly, "I hope to someday meet this Monsieur Durand."
Finding a natural gap in the conversation, James realized that he would not find a more opportune moment to give Sarah his invitation. "I, uh, have something for you," he said, hoping his voice did not sound as uncertain as it did in his head. She looked confused, but not displeased, as he placed the envelope in her hands. Gracefully untying the red cord and slipping the invitation out of its envelope, he watched anxiously as her green eyes traveled back and forth across the paper. Then, she looked back up at him.
"James, I would be honored," she said warmly, with a smile to match. He noticed that her fingers instinctively rose to her neck, as though to grasp his necklace, but let her hand fall when her fingers groped the unfamiliar hunk of porcelain. "Are you sure you want me there, though? Would you prefer it to be only your employees?"
"Not at all," he insisted, "Daniel is bringing his wife and children, and beside Isaac and Ichabod, several friends and neighbors will be there. But-" he added, "It will be a pretty humble affair. Nothing like the parties you must be used to, I'm afraid."
"I'm sure it will be better," she said generously, "Do you need help planning it? I probably have more experience with such occasions than you do."
James knew she didn't mean this comment as a slight, but it stung all the same. She had the means to throw tea parties and dinners and balls; he never had, until now. "No, don't trouble yourself," he insisted, "It's only a small affair, just punch and fiddle playing and-"
Sarah interrupted him, overtaken by an enthusiastic flight of fancy, as she often was as a girl. "You really should let me help-it will be fun! I'm sure we have china that you could borrow, and I can bring a fruitcake soaked in brandy and-"
"I don't want your fiance's money," James cut in, although it came out much gruffer and sharper than he had intended. The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them.
But the damage was already done. Sarah fixed him with a hard look, all traces of geniality gone. "Are you suggesting, James Hiller," she began slowly, a quiet frostiness creeping into her voice, "that a woman is incapable of earning her own money?"
"I never said that," he answered indignantly, marveling at how she could extrapolate such a sentiment from his comment, "What I meant-"
"I think it's perfectly obvious what you meant," she interrupted, crossing her arms over her chest.
How like Sarah! Caught up in his foolish infatuation with her, he had forgotten how pugnacious and arrogant she could be. Indeed, for every lighthearted, golden memory he had of the two of them in Philadelphia, he had another of them bickering and trading insults. Sarah, he recalled, was always an expert in baiting him into an argument. It seemed that much had not changes. He felt himself becoming breathless, and he rose to his feet in a rush of hot irritation. "Do you think so little of me that I must be incapable of providing a simple evening for my employees?" he asked, "I have been able to make a decent living for myself, without the benefit of an advantageous engagement."
"So have I!" she cried, approaching him confrontationally, eyes flashing and voice animated, "You think that all of my success must be owed to my fiance-a man I only met last week, for Christ's sake! Everything I have is paid entirely from the money that my instruction generates and my father's estate. William has no part in it-though I hardly see how it's any business of yours."
William. That was the first he had heard her call Mr. Radcliffe by his first name, and he bristled at the sound. His gaze fell to the pendant around her neck again, and William's lone, dusky eye stared back, unsettling him. Tearing his gaze from the jewelry, he insisted, "If you'd only thought for a moment about what your question implied-"
"That's rich, coming from a man who once told me that I 'think too much for a girl.'"
"That was years ago, Sarah! I can hardly believe you even remember that," He argued, "I was fourteen years old. I hadn't spoken more than ten words to a girl before I met you. I had no idea what I was talking about. You can't hold me responsible for something I did more than a dozen years ago!"
"And yet you've hardly changed at all!" she exclaimed.
"Well, you've changed a great deal," he muttered. They locked eyes for a moment, neither party backing down, and the ever-narrowing space between them was charged with hot ire. Sarah, unexpectedly, broke the tense stalemate.
"I'm sure you must be returning to your shop, Mr. Hiller," she said coldly, turning up her nose and returning to her pile of slates.
He bowed mockingly. "I was just leaving, Mrs. Radcliffe," he said acridly, the title leaving a bad taste in his mouth but his anger burning too bright to care.
At the mention of her future surname, Sarah went from merely angry to utterly incensed. "Go to hell, James Hiller!" she exclaimed, although he detected a crack in her voice, as though she were about to cry. Without waiting to indulge her histrionics, he turned sharply on his heel and left the schoolhouse.
Sarah closed her bedroom door softly, giving careful attention to avoid slamming it and thus alerting the entire household to her state of mind. Once she was alone, though, she flung herself onto her bed, resisting the childlike urge to let out a shriek of wild frustration into her pillow.
Arrogant, insufferable man! Her mind replayed the way James had sneered the words "Mrs. Radcliffe," as though he were calling her some course epithet rather than her future title. She had forgotten how cruel he could be, how often their rows at the Gazette had left her wounded and crying. It was an extraordinarily repugnant character flaw, she decided, to seek out one's sensitive points and exploit them. Yet that was what James had always done. At least she could find solace in the fact that she had damned him to hell, though she wished she had bid him to do worse.
She sat up, roughly untying the black ribbon from around her neck and seizing his golden pendant from the folds of her chemise. She rolled it around in her hand for a moment, studying its pitted surface.
How did James know that her impending marriage was a sensitive point?
Rather than exploring the answer, she threw the necklace across the room, listening to the staccato tap, tap, tap as it bounced against the polished pine floorboards, before coming to rest in the shadows beneath her dressing table. Just then, a much louder tapping rang out from her door.
"Sarah?" Lady Phillips said gently, stepping into her daughter's chamber, "You wanted to speak with me?"
If it was Mrs. Radcliffe James wanted, it was Mrs. Radcliffe he would get.
"Oh, I can't even recall now, mother," Sarah lied, forcing a carefree laugh and charming smile, "Here, help me dress for dinner."