A/N: Thank you to all who have read, followed, favorited, and reviewed this story. You are much appreciated! There's an allusion to my favorite American short story in this chapter. See if you can find it. :)
Lover's Eye: Chapter II
James swung his axe, enjoying the pleasing crack as the blade cleaved the log in two. Above him, the light from a weak, rose-hued sun was just beginning to spread across the early morning sky. He pulled his scarf up to cover the lower half of his face, though the boiled wool did little to stave off the cold. As the last days of November dwindled to a close, a cold front had set in, covering everything around him in a thin, velvety layer of frost.
He sighed, a familiar feeling of restless discontentment tugging at the edges of his thoughts, as a child pulls on its mother's skirts. For longer than he cared to admit, his life had followed a predictable pattern-a melancholic, monotonous blur of early rising, instructing an unruly pupil, coaxing himself to write, taking his evening meal in silence, and retiring alone to an empty bedchamber at night, in preparation to repeat the cycle anew the next day. How sharply this lonely existence contrasted with his apprenticeship years: a constant stream of new people, new places, and new ideas with which to grapple. Yet, after the end of the Revolution and the diaspora of the Gazette staff, the stream had become sluggish and stagnant. And beneath the murky waters, a growing sense of loneliness and resentment had begun to drag him downwards, like an undertow.
The feeling was only exacerbated by the loss of Dr. Franklin. Daily, James wished for his mentor's presence: to help him in teaching Isaac, to guide him in directing his newspaper, to offer a wise adage or empathetic word. Only after he was gone did James fully comprehend the debt of gratitude he owed to the man-and indeed, the irreplaceable, almost parental, role he played in his life. This, he reasoned, must have been how he would have felt had he known his parents, if they had died when he was a child rather than a mere babe.
The sensation of loss had been painfully acute and raw at Dr. Franklin's funeral, less than a year prior. Letters to Sarah and Henri left unanswered, he stood alone amidst the churchyard that April afternoon, the cool, clear sunshine juxtaposed against the solemn scene. Well, not entirely alone-later reports indicated some 20,000 mourners had been in attendance, saying their final farewells to the venerable thinker and kind friend. Yet, surrounded by masses packed into Christ Church burial ground and spilling out into the surrounding streets, James had never felt so utterly alone. The feeling followed him like an unrelenting specter on the journey back to New York and across the days and months since. He did not know how to exorcise the spirit.
He swung his axe again in a powerful arc, hoping the physical activity would warm through his chilled bones and chase off his restless thoughts. Inside the print shop, a soft light appeared in the windows of the back room. Daniel, and perhaps Isaac and Mr. Crane, must have arrived for the day. The arrival of his employees jogged his memory, and he made a mental note to order a liter of rum from the tavern up the road for his upcoming Christmas party. The affair would no doubt pale in comparison to the festivities held by Dr. Franklin at the Gazette, but he wanted to try, nonetheless.
One of the few balms for his loneliness was the camaraderie he shared with Daniel Morton. Rugged and honest, his Vermont-born friend had served in the Revolution and lost his right leg at the knee for his efforts. Despite this disfigurement, his natural strength and level-headedness made him an excellent mechanic for the New York Weekly Post, and James deeply appreciated his friendship. Still, though, the gap between their life experiences was ever-widening: not only was Daniel ten years his senior and a veteran, he also had a wife and four lively, golden-haired children at home. Simply put, the two men could not relate to one another's situations.
As if on cue, the subject of his reflections appeared in the doorway and began walking down the crude dirt path towards the shed. "Morning, James," Daniel called, small clouds appearing from his russet beard as he spoke, "I spoke with Mr. Crane this morning. He's ill and regrets that he won't be able to come in today. He asked me to extend his deepest apologies. Isaac and I, though, are here."
Though he did not voice his thoughts, the ghost of a grin on Daniel's face alluded to previous jokes shared between the two men. Indeed, Mr. Crane was a strange fellow to say the least. Gangly and pompous, he had arrived on the Post's doorstep a year ago seeking employment, revealing little about his past beyond the fact that he had been a schoolmaster in a small, Dutch settlement north of New York City. Still, his finesse with grammar and mechanics made up with one of James's major inadequacies.
"Isaac tells me you had a visitor last evening, after I left for the day," Daniel commented, "He said it was a rather fine lady, though we both know the lad has a knack for exaggeration."
"He's telling the truth," James admitted, "An old friend from the Pennsylvania Gazette. She wanted to post a notice for her engagement." Daniel nodded, apparently satisfied, grabbing an armload of firewood and carrying it back into the shop. James balanced another log on the frozen ground, lifted his axe above his shoulder, and brought it down upon the wood, sending halves flying in either direction. As he walked to gather the pieces, he grimaced: Daniel's comment forced James to confront the one topic he had hoped to put out of his mind-the reappearance of Sarah.
He wanted to be angry with her, to loose the resentment that had been brewing for half a decade and relieve himself of its enormous pressure. But as his childhood companion stood at the threshold of his print shop, all thoughts of unanswered letters and years of silence faded away, like frost on the window pane beside his wood stove. In its place, he was left with visions of soft green eyes and copper hair and her promise to visit him again that followed him in the days since their reunion. Every time the bell above his shop jingled, alerting him to an arrival, his heart tripped in his chest. It took every ounce of his willpower not to immediately whip his head in the direction of the door.
But as the days began to multiply without another reappearance of Sarah, he began to slowly accept that she may not return. Perhaps she was to be like a lone comet, making one dazzling, celestial display before dipping down below the horizon, returning the night sky to its empty, flat dullness. He chided himself for expecting anything else. She was no longer the spirited young girl he had grown up beside in Philadelphia; she was a fine, genteel lady like she had always dreamt of being-and she was someone's fiancee.
But he couldn't think about that.
With one final blow from the axe-this one swifter and more forceful than the one before-he divided the final log for the stove. He gathered the firewood strewn about the dead grass with stiff, frozen fingers. Kindling in arm, he made his way back towards the shop, readying himself for another day of being a slave to the whims of the doorbell.
"No, Isaac," James said sternly, crossing the print shop, his brows pulled crossly downward, "This is why I told you to proofread before you make any copies. It's a remarkably-" he pried the tampan from the frisket with force, as if to emphasize the following word "-simple task that saves us a great deal of trouble."
"Certainly a task that you've never neglected," Sarah said, a cheery ringing from the bell above the door announcing her arrival. The scent of wood, ink, and paper again filled her with a marvelous sense of nostalgia, and she slipped the hood of her powder blue cloak down.
James turned, as though startled by her sudden arrival-surely that alone was the reason he inhaled sharply-and for a moment, his features softened with a look that she could hardly describe. In a moment, though, his stern expression returned.
"Sarah. Hello. One moment please," he said, holding out a hand as if to keep her precisely where she were. When he turned his attention back to his apprentice, though, it was clear that he had lost all authority: Isaac wore a mischievous grin that, Sarah realized with a pang, reminded her distinctly of Henri.
"I think I'll take my fifty lashes later, sir, if it's all the same to you," Isaac said glibly, before casting a glance at Sarah, "Seeing as you have far more important things to attend to. Begging your pardon, ma'am." The young boy bowed in her direction, before exiting the room with a barely-concealed laugh. Once he departed, James turned his attention again to Sarah.
"Quite the taskmaster you've become, Mr. Hiller," she commented, hardly able to disguise her own amusement.
James let out a sigh and flung his hands out in exasperation, a gesture that felt very reminiscent of the brash adolescent he once was. "Did you hear all of that?" he asked her, incensed, "Had we spoken to Moses that way, he would have-"
"He would have done nothing at all," she responded with a laugh, "He was far more patient with us than we often deserved."
Never one to back down, James insisted, "But surely you wouldn't allow your pupils to speak to you that way in your schoolhouse?"
"My young ladies have never given me the occasion," she responded, unable to stop herself from tilting her nose up at him. How easily we fall back into old patterns, she thought to herself.
To her great surprise, James was not goaded. Rather than being provoked by her air of haughtiness, he smiled in a manner that seemed almost nostalgic. "What brings you to my shop this afternoon?" he asked, abruptly changing the course of the conversation.
She was so caught up in their repartee that she had nearly forgotten. "Oh," she replied, suddenly embarrassed by her mission, "My mother wanted to add a few things to the engagement announcement. It hasn't gone out yet, has it?"
James shook his head, his expression going instantly from unguarded and familiar to closed off and business-like. She continued, "Good. I need to add the names of my parents and the names of Mr. Radcliffe's parents, as well."
"And have you made Mr. Radcliffe's acquaintance yet?" James asked, lifting a challenging eyebrow. A decade prior, she would have demanded to know how he dared to ask such an impertinent question, but she merely shook her head awkwardly.
"He's supposed to arrive within the week," she answered, glancing down at the ruffled hem of her pearl gray frock, suddenly unable to meet his gaze. A strange admixture of anxiety and embarrassment pooled in the pit of her stomach.
James must have perceived her distress."Yes, I can still change it," he reassured her, all traces of pointedness gone, then added, "That's all?"
She detected a hint of disappointment beneath his question, and the realization made her bold. "And I wanted to see you," she answered honestly, before realizing the implications of her admission and pretending to be suddenly very interested in the printing press. She advanced to the contraption, hoping her friend wouldn't notice the heat gathering behind her cheeks. Her feigned intrigue, however, turned to genuine interest as she studied the page still lying on the tympan.
"My goodness," she exclaimed, her eyes darting from one misspelled word to another, "I can see why you were so frustrated."
"Perhaps you ought to examine the student's work before criticizing the teacher's methods, schoolmistress," he remarked with a smug grin. The sound of advancing footsteps and the feeling of warmth at her side alerted her that he was now standing beside her, peering over her shoulder at his apprentice's shoddy work. Glancing back at him, she was instantly struck by how handsome he had become: tall and broad shouldered, he retained little of the impish quality he had possessed in adolescence. Though he still gathered his golden hair in a careless knot and was clean shaven, he had a more worldly air about him. Faint, thoughtful creases around his eyes indicated to her that life had been hard on him since their parting, but the clear, gentle blue of his gaze remained entirely unchanged. He was, in all respects, a very fine man. At this realization, a wave of heat swept over her face anew.
"It reminds me of the work of someone else I know," she quipped, ignoring the strange quickening of her pulse as she turned to face him.
"Indeed," James replied sarcastically, "Without you around to constantly correct me, I fear I've reverted back to an illiterate simpleton. I usually have a Mr. Crane to proofread each issue and offer suggestions, but he is ill today."
"Crane?" Sarah asked, trying to place the name.
"I don't think you would know him. He only recently came to New York City-he used to be a schoolmaster upstate. You would like him," James said, before chuckling as if at a private joke and adding, "Perhaps not. Nonetheless, he usually looks over the grammar and mechanics for me."
"I could do it for you-for today, anyway," Sarah offered, again surveying the apprentice's work, before turning again to regard him with a smile, "It would be just like old times."
"I'd welcome the help, if you would be willing," James admitted, then hastily added, "I can't pay you, though."
Sarah laughed. "I wouldn't dream of it," she said warmly, "Consider it a favor from an old friend."
"An old friend," he echoed softly, "Thank you, Sarah." He reached out his hand, as though absent-mindedly brushing his fingertips against her elbow, but his hand stopped just short of the snowy lace sleeves of her dress. Disappointment rose in her chest as his hand fell loosely to his side again, though Sarah could not entirely explain why. She twisted her engagement ring nervously.
"I will require a cup of tea, though," she said brightly, eager to distract herself from her thoughts.
"I can certainly do that," he answered, grinning, "Follow me."
He led her towards the back of the print shop, where a simple, rough pine door was slightly ajar amidst a wall of sturdy brick. James pushed the door aside, eliciting a low groan from the hinges, and Sarah followed him into a narrow, unlit hallway. To her right was a blank wall, entirely unadorned save for a plain brass sconce, and opposite was a steep staircase, which she surmised led to James's bedchamber. Ahead, he pushed aside another door, this time revealing a small-yet cozy-kitchen.
It consisted of a blazing wood stove, a roughly-hewn table and two chairs, and a few rustic cabinets and shelves, housing various foodstuffs and dishes. The floor was merely packed dirt, not unlike what Sarah had become accustomed to on the Ohio frontier. Natural light streamed in from a set of windows flanking the back door, and through them, Sarah admired a small shed and adjacent paddock. Within the enclosure, a familiar creature swished his hoary tail.
"That can't be Caesar!" Sarah exclaimed, rushing to the window and taking hold of the sill.
"It is," James said with a laugh, joining her beside the glass, "Dr. Franklin willed him to me. He's too old to be ridden now, but I keep him around all the same. Miles, the smaller bay behind him, is the one that I ride."
"I'm impressed, James," she said earnestly, turning from the view of the backyard, "You've done remarkably well for yourself, without anyone's help. You should be very proud."
Rather than looking pleased, her old friend bit his lip, as though she had somehow hit a nerve with her lighthearted praise. In half a moment, the look passed, and he fixed her with a polite smile, "May I take your cape?"
Perhaps he had learned some modicum of gentility since their parting. She loosed the broad satin ribbon from around her neck, and the garment slid from around her shoulders. She handed it to James, who hung it from a brass hook on the wall beside the door. When he turned to regard her again, he let out a small gasp.
"What?" she asked self-consciously, racking her mind for what about her could have garnered such a response.
"Your necklace," he answered, blinking, "You still have it?"
"Of course," she answered, fingers absently closing around the irregular, gold sphere where it hung beneath her collarbone, "I've never taken it off since you gave it to me. All the way to the Ohio frontier and back. It's my most-precious belonging"
Gone was the cordial expression he wore moments prior; in its place, he smiled in an unrestrained, almost incredulous manner. Sarah, moved by her friend's unexpected reaction, unclasped the jewelry from around her neck and placed it into his hand. As he admired the golden object, she was struck anew by the kindness of the gift: the necklace, a replacement for the locket she had lost aboard the Dartmouth so many Novembers ago, was smelted from his deceased mother's ring. That bit of gold, the final material remnant of Rachel Hiller, had hung around her neck for the past dozen years. The metaphorical weight of the object was not always at the forefront of her mind, she realized guiltily, although it ought to be.
"It has served me well," she whispered, "But I think it may be time for you to have it again. I know it's all you had of your parents-"
"No," James said firmly, gazing at her solemnly, "I gave it to you. I've never regretted that, Sarah. I want no one else to have it." He stepped behind her, and much to her surprise, slipped the golden chain around neck. Sweeping the mass of amber-colored hair over her shoulder gently, his fingers fumbled to reconnect the tiny clasp, and warm, calloused fingertips brush the exposed skin between the nape of her neck and the edge of her fichu. The sensation caused her to inhale sharply from softly-parted lips-not from discomfort, but the strange feeling the motion elicited. She prayed that James had not noticed.
"Have I hurt you?" James asked anxiously, as he finished clasping the chain. Apparently, her prayers had gone unheeded.
"Uh, no-just cold fingers, that's all," she lied.
"Sorry," he answered with a rueful grin, before adding, "Oh! I should get a kettle on to boil."
As he set to this task, Sarah sank down into one of the sturdy pine chains. A manuscript riddled with errors lay before her, as well as a pen with which to smite them. But her fingers strayed from the writing utensil, instead unconsciously stroking the necklace where it rested above her decolletage, her heart still racing from the familiarity of her friend's touch.
Quit being absurd, she mentally chastised herself. She was assigning deeper meaning to a simple courtesy performed by a man who lacked the social graces to know not to touch her. Furthermore, it was surely not James himself that inspired these strange sensations-certainly, it was merely the verboten feeling of a man's fingertips on her flesh. And yet, despite all of her own sensible conclusions, her heart continued to race as she snuck a glance at him from across the room.