Note on historical accuracy, dates, formatting, and upload schedule:
I am no historian, and although I have done some research, there will inevitably be a host of historical inaccuracies in this story. Additionally, I have made the conscious decision to write the dialogue in particular in a more "modern" way, because A. I want readers of various levels of proficiency to understand, B. that's how it was in the original show, and C. let's be real, I don't know enough about early American to write dialogue that is perfectly period-accurate.
Along the same vein, I have decided to use the "Victorian literature" method of formatting dates-that is, to omit the final number. This story takes place in 179-. You take your pick of what year. The Liberty's Kids timeline is so royally screwed up that there's no way I could remedy it anyway. So please suspend any judgment you may have towards me on that account…
Also, please excuse any formatting errors. I can't stand how this website won't allow me to indent.
Finally, I don't have a set upload schedule. I have several more chapters written and the plot mapped out, but I am a high school English teacher (good lord, now you all will be extra hard on my writing) so I am busy, to say the least. Anyway, without further ado, please enjoy…
Lover's Eye: Chapter I
As soon as the heavy double doors were closed by the last straggling pupil, muffling the sound of girlish, lively chatter, Sarah sank down into her desk and let out a sigh. She pressed both thumbs lightly against her temples and closed her eyes, reveling in the quiet that soon fell
over her schoolroom. Though her current young ladies were undoubtedly better-mannered than her students back in the one-room schoolhouse in Ohio, they could still certainly be loud. But she tried not to begrudge them that-how often had she been told to suppress her own voice in the interest of manners during her girlhood? Besides, it was harmless enough, if a bit grating on her nerves.
After completing the unconscious rituals of closing the schoolhouse for the evening, Sarah tied her blue velvet cloak about her shoulders and closed the grate on the stove, which let out a soft, metallic groan. The red-orange light of the dying afternoon sun glanced off the many-paned windows of the building as she stepped into the brisk evening air and pulled the heavy door close. Her presence disturbed several black birds, which gathered in the barren branches that framed the little path leading to the street before her schoolhouse. She turned the large brass key in the lock and returned it to her pocket, beside a copy of her marriage banns.
Running her fingers over the thin slip of paper, she proceeded resolutely in the direction of the print shop. At church the previous Sunday, the parson had read the following banns:
William Alexander Radcliffe, formerly of Halifax, to be joined in holy matrimony to Sarah Celestine Phillips, formerly of the Ohio territory, in this great city of New York on December 25 179-.
Sarah felt that this announcement was sufficient, but her mother wanted notices of the impending union published in a local paper as well. Having only arrived in New York City merely a month prior, Sarah needed to ask Mrs. Radcliffe to recommend a print shop. She had suggested the New York Weekly Post on the corner of Vine and Barrow, so Sarah carried her reluctant message in that direction.
Not reluctant-not exactly. William was a fine match: wealthy and respectable, with good breeding and a strong family name. The son of Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe, dear friends of the Phillips family, Sarah had been aware of William since childhood. She had, however, never made his acquaintance. Despite his parents' eventual move to Manhattan, he had remained in England in order to study at the prestigious Eton College. After completing his studies and his parents' subsequent flight to Nova Scotia following the close of the war, William had joined them in Halifax to spend his days as a man of leisure-that is, to do nothing, as far as she could discern.
After half a decade toiling on the Ohio frontier herself, William's occupation (or lack thereof) was far less palatable to Sarah than it had seemed during her youth. As a female child growing up in English society, she had been raised to expect to one day marry a man with a large fortune and a good name-her mother was a lady, after all. But after the pivotal events of recent years, she found an entirely different set of characteristics to be attractive in a future mate.
Sarah had initially feared that the son of the Radcliffes would be a foppish dandy, but from his mother's accounts, he was a quiet, thoughtful young man. If she must wed, she would certainly rather it be to a man of few words than one of too many. He was, too, close to her age and pleasant enough to look at: the updated portrait of William in the Radcliffe house revealed dark curls, a fine, straight nose, and thoughtfully heavy brow framed by gilded scrollwork.
And yet, after several months of exchanging letters, Sarah had slowly allowed her mind to concede to what her heart had recognized near instantaneously. The heir of the Radcliffes did not inspire her pulse to quicken, nor her breath to catch, nor heat to rise to her cheeks. When letters arrived from him, bound in pink satin ribbon and scented with rose, she felt nothing. Reading his words were as dull and uninspired as a grocery order. She recalled her youthful infatuation with the traitorous Benedict Arnold, as embarrassing as it was, feeling like a dazzling, devastating bonfire. William felt like a waning candle.
Still, Sarah had known since childhood that a love match was unlikely for her, given her family's status and connections. Her parents' marriage had been arranged, and by the end, the uninitiated would have mistaken it for a love match. "You'll grow fond of one another," Sarah's mother had insisted, tenderly stroking her daughter's vermillion hair, "As your father and I did." This was one of the few occasions when Lady Phillips had referenced her husband since his passing a year prior. Sarah clung to this reassurance, allowing it to inspire a small flicker of hope in her breast, as she consented to William's offer of marriage.
Besides, perhaps most importantly, her marriage to William would secure her continued residence in the United States. After the death of her father, her mother had insisted on returning to London. "America was your father's dream, not mine," Lady Phillips had admitted tearfully, "I was born in England, and I wish to die there." Sarah was vehemently opposed to the idea of doing the same, and despite her attachment to her mother, she knew she had to find a way to stay in the country she had come to see as her own. Betrothal was a serendipitous avenue to achieve that goal.
Equally as enticing as the idea of remaining in America, William had also agreed to allow Sarah to continue in her vocation as school mistress while remaining in the country she loved. She was under no illusions that the average suitor would allow her to continue her work, which she had grown to love during her time as mistress of the one-room, country school house back in Ohio. Instructing young pupils-particularly female pupils-had been deeply fulfilling to her in a set of circumstances that grew ever more bleak in recent months. If it meant that she was to secure her home and her vocation, she would happily consent to becoming Mrs. Radcliffe, even if her feelings were as tepid as a jug of water left on a washstand overnight.
As she reached Vine Street, the heels of her shoes making pleasing, staccato sounds against the cobblestone road, she steered her mind in a more pleasant direction. It would be nice-nostalgic even-to return to a print shop after so many years. The bright, airy atmosphere, the heady scent of paper and ink and wood, the buzzing, infectious excitement in the air. She did not realize how much she would miss this environment until she found herself several hundred miles away in the Ohio River Valley, where no such shops existed. Dr. Franklin's print shop, she had come to realize, had a far more formative effect on her mind than any of the formal schooling she had received in England. It was where she had been exposed to the perspectives of others, been forced to defend her own ideas, and ultimately, honed her worldview. She hoped, in some small way, to replicate this experience in her own schoolroom.
Her anticipation for returning to such a nostalgic environment spurred her forward. Advancing at a swift pace, a small brick building, nestled in a long row of other shops, came into view. On the hanging sign that swayed slightly in the evening breeze, she recognized the outline of a printing press and slowly made out the words "New York Weekly Post" in elegant script beneath it. In the ochre light of the setting sun, she could not make out the additional line of text on the sign until she was nearly upon it:
"James Hiller, Editor."
Sarah froze, sharply inhaling the crisp November air. In a rush of excitement, she hastened towards the threshold of the print shop, unable to keep a broad smile from forming on her lips, but slowed her steps before reaching the door. A strange anxiety suddenly descended upon her chest and trickled into her stomach at the thought of regarding her childhood friend again. Despite spending nearly every moment of their adolescence together, Sarah had not seen James since she left for the Ohio territory half a decade ago. The idea of suddenly reappearing in his life, without any forewarning, inspired a feeling of sheepishness that caught her by surprise.
Assuring herself that her trepidation was ridiculous and her old friend would be pleased to see her, she smoothed her printed Indian cotton skirts, lifted her chin, and stepped into James's print shop.
James sat alone at a roughly-hewn table, staring down at a blank pad of paper in the warm glow of the wood stove. Steam rose impatiently from the meager plate of cornbread and salt pork beside him, as though it were urging him to eat before it grew cold. He scratched his head, his fingers loosening his blond hair from its untidy ribbon at the nape of his neck. He would not eat until he began his article-that was the deal he had made with himself. He often employed this unorthodox technique to shake himself out of his writer's block, the scent of whatever food he could manage to buy that week spurring him to put pen to paper. His allowances for the week were especially dismal this time around, as he was trying to piece together Christmas bonuses for his employees. But still, food was food, and he knew better than most what it was like to go without. He had just lowered his pencil to the surface of the writing pad when a knock rang out against the door.
"I'm eating," James called, irritated, not looking up from his work. How often he had longed to share these lonely evening meals with another, and yet, the appearance of someone always vexed him. The door opened a crack, spilling light into the room, and he recognized the broad, ruddy face of his apprentice, Isaac.
"Someone's here to see you, Mr. Hiller," he said, eyeing the plate of cornbread and salt pork keenly. James scowled.
"Tell them I'm unavailable," he said, gesturing to his plate and half-drained tankard of ale, "Can't you see I'm eating?"
"She asked specifically for you," his apprentice persisted, "She won't take no for an answer."
James sighed, sliding his chair back and reluctantly rising to his feet. "If it's Mrs. Reed," he said, "tell her that I will run the advertisement for her husband's millinery as soon as he pays the last-" James was cut off mid-sentence by a flash of copper-colored hair just over Isaac's shoulder.
"Sir?" Isaac asked, but James had already slipped past him, his mind racing. Stepping out of the dim hallway that connected his private residence to his shop, he was like a man stumbling out of a dark chasm into the light of day. He blinked at the figure standing before him, one who he had long accepted that he would never see again.
"James?" Sarah said, her voice scarcely above a whisper, regarding him with some strange mixture of hope and uncharacteristic timidity.
The sound of her voice recalled all of the camaraderie of their youth to him in a rush of instantaneous elation, and his first instinct was to embrace her. But this urge was immediately stifled by the image of the fine lady who stood in the foyer, ringed by the luminescent gold of the sunset beyond the multi-paned windows. Outfitted in a gown printed with an elegant meandering pattern of pale yellow roses and green vines that was partially obscured by a powder blue cloak, Sarah wore her copper hair in the loosely voluminous curls he had seen other upper class women wearing on High Street. Though she retained the smattering of freckles she had despised in her youth, her features appeared more refined, more dignified than those of the spirited girl he had grown up beside at the Pennsylvania Gazette. She was every bit the picture of what a high society lady ought to be, and to his own bewilderment, he was intimidated by his childhood companion.
Her green eyes studied him, as though she were searching for traces of the boy she had known back in Philadelphia. He cleared his throat. "Hello, Sarah," he said, though he felt a strong urge to refer to her as "Miss Phillips," in this unfamiliar, elegant form.
The sound of her name from his lips seemed to satisfy her, and she smiled, an expression that lit her eyes and caused small, familiar divots to appear in her flushed cheeks. She crossed the threshold of his shop, hands extended towards him, and he caught them deftly in his own.
"It's so good to see you again," she breathed, squeezing his hands earnestly.
"Likewise," he replied, still unable to fully comprehend her presence in his print shop.
"And here I thought you would have had something smart to say."
"You've caught me at a disadvantage, I'm afraid," he laughed. Beneath his fingertips, he perceived a cool band of scrolling metal encircling one of the fingers on her left hand, inlaid with several small stones. A ring. He loosened his grasp on her hands, and she let them slip away.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, "I thought you were living on the Ohio frontier." Indeed, that was where he had postmarked his letters to her-letters to which she had never responded.
She shook her head, a look of sadness clouding her pretty features. "No longer. I'm moving back east-I've only just arrived in New York City within the last month," she replied, before her melancholy expression passed like an errant cloud over the bright, midday sun, and she smiled again. "Had I known you were in town, I would have come to see you much sooner."
This admission caused James's stomach to twist inside of him, though he reasoned it was merely the result of his delayed supper. "What brings you to my shop?" he asked evenly, trying to prevent his voice from betraying the delight that he felt.
Sarah glanced downward, causing the twin, pearlescent drops that hung from her ears to pitch forward. The jewelry likely cost more than he made in a week. "I have a notice that needs posting," she said, not meeting his gaze, "for my upcoming wedding."
Wedding. His mind immediately returned to the ring he had perceived on her hand moments prior. She shifted uncomfortably as she handed him a slip of paper, on which the notice was printed in her familiar, pristine script. His eyes scanned the message, falling immediately on one word: Radcliffe. The cognomen immediately conjured memories of an austere drawing room, a haughty hostess, and a collar tied entirely too tight for healthy respiration. Unable to disguise a hint of disappointment, he exclaimed, "Radcliffe? As in…?"
She bit her lip, graciously disregarding any perceived insult from his incredulity, displaying a restraint that the Sarah of his youth could never have mustered. "Uh, yes," she said, "Mrs. Radcliffe hosted you and I a decade ago, before she eventually left for Canada after the war, alongside Moses's brother, Cato. Cato has since married and had several children and remains in Nova Scotia, but the Radcliffes have decided to return to America."
James already knew the details about Cato and his family. He had kept up a frequent correspondence with Moses in Philadelphia, as he had done for the past several years. Regrettably, of the Pennsylvania Gazette staff, Moses was the only person who wrote to him following Ben Franklin's passing. In the years since the end of the war, he had received only two letters from Henri in France and none from Sarah in Ohio. But he pushed that thought aside.
"The Radcliffes have a son, I take it?" he asked, "I don't recall meeting him."
"William," she answered, before admitting, "I haven't met him myself." He noticed that she began to twist the ring on her finger nervously. The notion was almost laughably absurd: agreeing to marry a man one had never met. James knew it was one of the preposterous customs of the upper classes, practiced by many, and yet it seemed almost startlingly primitive. He could not imagine consenting to share his life, his home, his bed with a total stranger. His parents, poor as they may have been, had married for love, without any family titles or financial incentives to entice them. It seemed rather mercenary of Sarah to agree to young Mr. Radcliffe's offer.
As though she guessed his thoughts, she abruptly turned the question onto him. "Is there a Mrs. Hiller?" she asked, glancing around his shop, her expression unreadable.
James was startled by the question. "Oh, no," he blurted out immediately, "Certainly not. Just me."
This answer seemed to satisfy her. The chiming of the clock abruptly interposed, spurring them to return to the business of her call. After working out the details of her announcement and agreeing to a publication date, the two old friends found themselves near the entryway, the chill evening air seeping in from gaps around the door.
"I suppose I must take my leave," Sarah said regretfully, "My mother will be wondering where I am. I'll come to see you again, James. Or you can come to me: you are welcome any time at my schoolhouse."
Schoolhouse. He should have predicted that Sarah might become a teacher, given her relentless habit of correcting him in their youth. Before he could comment, though, she continued in the hurried, enthusiastic manner that he had long associated with her. "Perhaps you should stop by the Radcliffe House. Oh, please do! My mother has heard much about you and Moses and Henri, and I know she would be delighted to make your acquaintance."
"I think one visit to the Radcliffe House was enough to last me a lifetime," he said dryly, and her brows creased in a irritated expression he had elicited from her a thousand times before. Without giving her a chance to rebut his remark, however, he took her hand in his own and reverently pressed a kiss against her delicate knuckles, repeating a gesture he had seen more gallant men perform in their youth. When he lifted his gaze, her look of vexation was gone, replaced by a gentle expression that softly creased her bright eyes. He released her hand, but she allowed her fingertips to linger over his for the briefest of moments.
"Good night, James," she said. After she had left, he quitted his shop, still attempting to comprehend the encounter that had just taken place. In the backroom, his dinner had long gone cold, but it did not stop Isaac from eyeing it greedily.
"Isaac, my boy," he added, clapping the young man on the back "Help yourself to whatever food and drink you want before you go home."
"What a splendid effect a charming lady's company has on you, sir," his apprentice remarked with a mischievous grin, before lifting James's tankard of ale and draining it.