Lover's Eye: Chapter IV
When Sarah awoke, the first thing she perceived was the stale ghost of the perfume she had worn the night before, mingled with the hazy scent of the long-dead coals in the fireplace. A feeling of dread hovered over her, and she wondered if it were the product of fitful dreams beyond her recollection. However, after a moment, the images of the previous evening resurfaced in her mind. Rolling to her stomach, burying her face in the plushness of her downy pillow, she attempted to tamp down the thick, invasive heat of embarrassment that accompanied her memories of the night before.
In the clarity of morning, her fiance's conduct was only more outrageous-entirely unbecoming for a man of his station. His slight early in the evening would be enough to cause offense, but the impropriety of his gaze and the implications of his innuendo were nearly unbelievable. For a moment, she wondered if she had dreamt the entire thing up-of all the scenarios she had imagined for her first meeting with her fiance, she never could have conjured up one so distressing. But the sumptuous chemise a la reine draped over her bed frame and the lingering odor of tuberose and lilies were evidence that the nightmarish evening had, indeed, occurred.
She had heard of betrothals going sour, of girls meeting their intended only to find them foppish or boring or old. She had read of such things, heard them whispered about by young ladies at church or balls. Just last week, she had read a newspaper article about an ill-matched marriage ending in murder. She thought that by wedding the son of respectable, long-standing family friends, she might circumvent these fears. Yet, despite his connection to her family and his high breeding, Mr. Radcliffe-William-had behaved more like a scoundrel than a gentleman.
Surely, the Radcliffes must have had no knowledge of their son's indecorous conduct. She could hardly imagine the distinguished patriarch or the exacting matron to allow their son to bring dishonor on their family name. And yet, she reasoned darkly, he had spent most of his formative years with an ocean separating him from the guiding influence of his parents. A great deal of immorality and vulgarity could have been festering below his parents' awareness.
Sarah sat up and felt a heavy, foreign object fall against her collarbone with an uncomfortable thud. The lover's eye. Juxtaposed against the temperate, cool light of morning, the thing was only more gaudy and unattractive. She resented its heavy-lidded gaze, shuddering at its presence in her bedchamber and proximity to her lightly-clad body. It was like an awful portent, she realized, of the wedding night to come.
Sickened by the thought, she arose hurriedly from her bed, eager to seek out the wise counsel of her mother. Surely, Lady Phillips would know how to proceed. But as her bare feet hit the cool smoothness of the polished pine floorboards, she found herself daunted by the task of describing William's conduct to her mother. It conjured a similar feeling to the one she had felt as she sat inside the stuffy, shadowy confessional as a child in London, awaiting the arrival of the priest. Despite the fact that she had no sins to confess-William was the transgressor-hot shame welled up regardless. It was a curious sensation, entirely irrational, and yet, she was unable to dismiss it.
She rehearsed in her mind how she might describe William's comments in the most delicate manner possible, anticipating the inevitable feelings of disgust and disappointment it would incur in her mother. She had seemed so pleased when Sarah had consented to William's offer of marriage, expressing her immense relief that her daughter would be well-connected and well-cared for, in light of Major Phillips's passing. At the thought of her father, a lump formed in Sarah's throat. She recalled her mother's words from the night before, that her father had "known and respected the Radcliffe family," that he would have been pleased with the betrothal.
Could Sarah possibly have misinterpreted William's behavior the previous night? How was it possible that so many beloved and trusted figures in her life-Mrs. Radcliffe, her mother, even her late father-seemed to uphold William as an excellent match? She concluded that the error had to lie within her own perception. Perhaps her anxious mind and slightly bruised pride had caused her to read too much into William's comment. She had already felt slighted by her fiance's coolness, making her naturally inclined to lean into the most uncharitable interpretation of his comment. This had to be the only logical explanation.
And yet, the lecherous glance that William had raked over her muslin-swathed figure and the knowing, conspiratorial laughter of his friends stood out in her memory, solid and unwavering. The recollection conjured a fresh feeling of sinking dread to pool in the pit of her stomach. She was not naive enough to believe that these behaviors were not directed at her: though she had been raised to expect men to treat her with deference and gallantry, she had encountered enough scoundrels to recognize when she was being leered at. While covering the movements of troops from seedy taverns or reporting from military camps during the war, she had grown accustomed to a debaucherous glance or suggestive grin from the occasional ruffian. But during those instances, she had had the good fortune of having Moses by her side, or at the very least, James.
James. Her hand flew to her decolletage, finding his pendant where she had left it hanging on its black satin ribbon about her neck, and quickly tucked it beneath the ruffled hem of her shift. Just in time, too: a timid knock rang out from her bedroom door, and she scrambled to pull on her dressing gown. To her great relief, it was just her ladies' maid, arriving to help her dress-which, after five years on the Ohio frontier, seemed utterly ridiculous. But Mrs. Radcliffe had insisted, so Sarah had no choice but to be dressed and styled like a fashion doll.
After dressing, she alighted from the stairs and made her way towards the dining room, passing servants carrying trays of food and pots of tea. She was hoping to catch her mother breakfasting alone, so that she might seek her advice on William. Yet, as she neared the dining room, she recognized the haughty tones of Mrs. Radcliffe, as well as her mother's decidedly softer replies.
I'll have to catch my mother another time, she thought, and crept quietly back up the staircase.
"Miss Phillips, will you tell us again of when you worked at Dr. Franklin's print shop?"
Sarah glanced over the top of the copy of Paradise Lost that she was reading aloud to her pupils. "How come you only want to hear my stories when there is work to be done?" she asked the interrupter archly.
"It's not that," another student, Maria, piped up, "It's just that your stories are far more exciting than anything we've read."
"I'm flattered," Sarah said dryly, "Although flattery is not enough to deter me from the task at hand. Continuing on-"
"It's not fair," a spirited girl by the name of Lucy exclaimed, bordering on brattishness, "I would give anything to have the adventures you've had. I wish I could see a real, working print shop!"
That gave Sarah an idea.
It was a cool, crisp afternoon, not unpleasant when the frail sun emerged from behind the slate-colored clouds overhead. A stiff breeze, laden with brittle, dun-colored leaves, whipped up the hasty fire James had made in the yard back of the print shop. Around its wavering warmth gathered Sarah's students, who sat in ladylike repose on blankets spread over the dead grass. Midday meals, consisting of rather fine looking cheeses, meats, and breads, occupied the young ladies' laps. Their skirts and cloaks, in various hues of richly-colored silks and muslins, reminded James of an illustration he had once seen of a Persian bazaar. Amidst this sea of fine fabric, shiny curls, and bashful smiles sat Isaac, wearing an absurdly wide grin.
"I daresay this might be the greatest day of that lad's life," James muttered, scarcely audible over the tinkling sound of the young ladies' laughter at some clever quip made by his apprentice.
Indeed, Isaac had been quite the popular figure that morning. When Sarah had asked if she might bring her students to his print shop to learn about the field of journalism and the printing process a few days prior, James had readily agreed. He concurred with the sentiment that Sarah had expressed-her young ladies ought to understand the world beyond the four walls of the schoolroom. But moreso, he longed to feel her luminous presence in his increasingly dreary print shop once more… and perhaps to learn how her introduction to her fiance had gone. So, that chill Thursday morning, Sarah and twenty-five of the daughters of New York's upper society convened upon his print shop, filling the space with more sound, excitement, and expensive garments than the modest storefront had ever experienced. It gave him the rather amusing sense of being invaded by a small army of porcelain dolls.
After a demonstration of the printing process, with which Isaac was uncharacteristically eager to assist, it was time for the girls to take their midday meal. The dimensions of the shop were insufficient to accommodate them all, so James had recommended that they sup in the backyard. It was a chill, early-December day, but tolerable around the impromptu fire he had constructed. If nothing more, it had to have been an interesting change of pace from the stuffy dining rooms he imagined the children usually occupied.
Beside him, Sarah sat on one of the kitchen chairs he had positioned for them outside, observing her students. The breeze stirred the tendrils of copper hair that escaped her bonnet, occasionally causing her heavy skirts to brush against his calf. Her expression was unmoving and unreadable. She was uncharacteristically quiet, causing James to wonder darkly if her thoughts dwelt on her fiance. These suspicions were only encouraged by a dismaying observation he had made earlier in the day: his golden necklace no longer hung from her neck. In its place was an absurd, nearly grotesque piece of painted porcelain. Ringed by clear-colored stones that he was certain were diamonds was a portrait of a dark brown, heavy-lidded eye. Though no judge of lady's fashion, James was absolutely certain that his bit of irregular gold, hastily hammered by Moses, was far more attractive than whatever monstrosity was currently around Sarah's neck. The hurt he felt at his necklace's sudden absence was made infinitely worse by the dark realization that the jewelry must have been a gift from William, and the eye depicted was certainly the likeness of the same. The identification put him in a sour mood, threatening to spoil what little time he had with her.
After a particularly witty comment from Issac, which elicited a giggling reaction from several of the older girls, Sarah finally broke her silence. "I don't believe they have ever met a boy so… free, in his manners," she commented, before glancing at him and adding, "I never had either, until I met you."
Her gaze caused his heart to trip in his chest. "Do you think that's what we must have seemed like?" he asked, motioning to the group of adolescents, "I can hardly recall. It seems a lifetime ago, now."
Sarah let out a soft snort of amusement, the most emotion she had shown all morning. "You speak as though you're a hundred years old," she remarked, before answering his question. "Yes, I suppose so. Though I don't recall ever finding you half as charming as my girls apparently find your apprentice."
Sarah smiled at James, and a flicker of hope arose in his breast, despite the eye of her fiance that glared at him from around her neck. He was very nearly gathering the courage to mention the thing when the moment was interrupted by a small, flaxen-headed child, who was among the youngest of Sarah's scholars.
"Pardon me, Miss Phillips," the girl said, presenting a glossy apple and small knife to her teacher, "I don't like the peel, but mother has forbidden me to use a knife. She said I must ask someone to help me."
James wondered what it must be like to have a mother to forbid him from using common kitchen implements. "I can do it," he said, and taking the fruit out of her small hands, deftly separated the peel of the apple from its pale flesh. The little girl received the apple into her tiny palms, smiling broadly at him, exposing a small gap where her two front teeth ought to be. The effect was rather endearing, eliciting a similar feeling as a mewling kitten or knobby-kneed foal. He wondered if Daniel always felt this way when looking upon his brood of children.
"Miss Phillips, is he your fiance?" the apple girl asked abruptly, and it took James a moment to realize that "he" meant himself. Though nothing more than the product of a small child's confusion, the thought glowed warmly, begging to be entertained. He glanced at Sarah, eager to see her reaction to the child's question, just in time to see a pretty, flushed color appear in her cheeks.
"No, Abigail," Sarah said quickly, her denial somehow striking him as a blow, though he was not expecting her to give an affirmative answer, "My fiance is named Mr. Radcliffe. Mr. Hiller is my friend."
"Oh," answered Abigail, seemingly disappointed, before sinking her incomplete set of teeth into her apple and dashing off towards the other children.
James turned to look at Sarah again, only to catch her already glancing at him. Her eyes darted quickly away and fixed squarely on the children, as though he had discovered her doing something she ought not to have done. If he thought she was flushed before, she was crimson now. In their youth, he might have made some goading comment about her cheeks matching her hair, but now, he marveled at the lovely effect the color had on her already charming features. He did not know whether to be flattered or offended by the fact that the blush was conjured by the misconception that she was his fiance.
The peel of the child's apple still hung like limp ribbons in his grasp. "I'm going to give this to Miles and Caesar," he announced, rising from his chair, "Do you want to come with?"
Sarah smiled broadly, a sight that stirred his heart within his breast. "Yes," she answered excitedly, "I'd like to see if Caesar will remember me."
"I'm certain he will," James affirmed, and Sarah followed him down the worn dirt path to the small barn and adjacent paddock. The setup was nothing elaborate, the product of a small loan from the bank and the effort of a few friends and neighbors over the course of several days, but he could not help but feel pride as he looked upon it.
The sweet-sour perfume of overripe apples, a few of which laid at the foot of his bare, scraggly apple tree, mingled with the warm, heady scent of horses and hay. At the sound of approaching footsteps, a cheerful whinny rang out across the yard, and Miles trotted into the paddock, the sunlight glancing off his glossy bay coat. He whinnied again, coming right up to the edge of the enclosure and swinging his large head over the fence.
"He always thinks I'm coming to feed him," James explained, "Gluttony is Miles's cardinal sin."
"I can see that," Sarah laughed, running her hand along the creature's flank. Miles followed the two into the barn, where the elder animal stood beside a mound of hay, chewing lazily. When Sarah and James entered the space, Caesar slowly raised his head, bits of hay protruding like spikes from his soft mouth.
"Caesar?" Sarah called, and James handed her the apple peel to offer him. The animal blinked, the likeness of the two humans reflecting back in his dark, globulous eyes, before eagerly approaching Sarah and lifting the peel from her outstretched hand. A moment later, she was scratching behind his ears as he chewed the scraps enthusiastically.
"He's a distinguished old gentleman now," James remarked, picking a bit of hay out of the animal's graying mane.
"Indeed," Sarah said, a bit of mischief glittering in her eye, "But he was once a co-conspirator in our treasonous acts."
"In my treasonous acts," James corrected with a grin, "I seem to recall a certain young Tory objecting to damn near everything I did."
"You'll notice that I may have objected, but I often went along with you," she countered, her hand migrating down to Caesar's velvety nose.
"You just couldn't bear to let me out of your sight," he quipped, and his hand accidentally brushed hers as he rubbed the horse's cheek.
She turned up her nose in feigned haughtiness, reminiscent of the very real arrogance she had shown in her youth. "I'm sure that's what you told yourself," she said. After a moment of this posturing, she quickly turned her attention back to the sweet old gelding. "You said you don't ride him anymore?"
"No," James answered, "He's nearing twenty. I think I'm too heavy. You, though, would probably be fine."
"Can I?" Sarah asked excitedly, "I remember he had a splendidly smooth gait."
"Sure," James answered, amused at her request, "But as you may imagine, I don't have a sidesaddle."
Sarah rolled her eyes. "We didn't on the Ohio frontier, either," she said pointedly, "You act as though I hide a mermaid's tail beneath these skirts."
Her pert comment, coupled with the brief glimpse of ivory stocking and pale pink garter as she mounted Caesar, caused a decidedly wicked thought to enter his mind. He tried to tamp it down, a task made infinitely more difficult by the sight of her sitting astride his horse like an Indian. It was an odd contradiction, her expensive, floral-printed skirts divided over the bare back of a bridleless horse. He marveled at how effortlessly she had mounted the creature, recalling her adolescent taunts of being "twice the rider" he was. She was, of course, right-though he had been loath to admit it.
Caesar shifted beneath his weight, and she grasped a handful of her mane to steady herself. He tossed his head as he had done as a young horse, giving the distinct impression that had missed the feeling of a rider on his back, which elicited a soft laugh from Sarah. James caught hold of his halter, and began to lead the animal in slow circles around the interior of the barn.
From beyond the sturdy, wooden walls, the wind carried the sound of boisterous speech and feminine laughter. This seemed to have a sobering effect on Sarah, causing her to jump to attention.
"Oh," she said, "I ought to return to my pupils."
"Why?" he asked, "They seem perfectly fine."
She bit her lip. "I can't leave them unchaperoned with a young man."
"I seem to recall that you often spent time with Henri and I unchaperoned," he pointed out.
"I was a motherless child in a foreign land," Sarah insisted, and he perceived a defensiveness behind her words, "I didn't know any better."
"And if you had 'known better,' would it have made a difference?" he challenged, offended by the implication, "Was our mere presence alone enough to taint your virtue?"
"In the eyes of some among my social circle, yes," she fired back, "No matter how ridiculous it seems to you."
"And in your eyes?" he asked, not backing down.
"Of course not," she said hotly, as though the mere question were an insult, but before he could challenge her further, she exclaimed, "I don't want to argue with you, James. It's been a very miserable few days for me indeed, and you're not helping."
A selfish flicker of hope arose in his chest. Surely, had her introduction to Mr. Radcliffe been favorable, she wouldn't have characterized the past few days as difficult. Unable to stop himself, he began, "You mean in terms of your introduction to Mr.-"
She held up a gloved hand, halting him in his question, her face betraying a look of distress that instantly caused him to regret both his question and the self-serving satisfaction he had hoped to receive from her reply. "I've said too much already," she stammered, "I'm sorry. I ought not to have said anything."
"It's alright," he whispered, "I'm sorry that I asked-it was not my place. Here, allow me to help you down." He extended his hand up towards her, and she took it, looking grateful for his sensitive gesture.
Just as she swung her right leg back over Caesar's back, in preparation to dismount, the animal shifted his weight unexpectedly. She pitched forward, seizing his shoulders in a rather undignified manner. Unconsciously, he swiftly took hold of her as she slipped down Caesar's side, her voluminous skirts following behind with an undignified flapping sound as her feet hit the barn floor. He steadied her, perceiving strange, hard strips of something where his hands held her waist. Wood? Metal? He had never come into close enough contact with a woman's stays to know. If he had struggled to banish his wicked thoughts before, it seemed impossible now. He released her quickly, stepping back, equal parts embarrassed and enthralled by the experience.
Sarah laughed, a clear, tinkling sound that dispelled his awkwardness. "Thank you," she said warmly, catching hold of one of his hands and squeezing it, "Come, let's return to my students."
Long after Sarah and her pupils had gone and the Post's staff had left for the evening, James sat alone at his kitchen table, watching the bead-like drops of wax race down the sides of the lone dipped candle. A drained mug of ale sat beside a near-empty plate. Outside, the milky glow of the moon was split into a million fragments of light as it rose behind the spindly, old apple tree, and beyond that, Caesar and Miles were safely tucked inside the barn for the night.
Of course, his mind dwelt on the scene that had taken place there earlier in the day. He flexed his hand, recalling the feeling of smooth cotton and hard stays beneath, warmed by the heat of Sarah's body below them. He thought of the way her arms draped around his neck, how easy it would have been for him to simply lean forward and close the miniscule distance between their lips…
Bloody hell.
He smacked his hand down on the table, banishing the sensation of her body beneath his hands. He chastised himself for his foolishness and for his wicked thoughts about an engaged woman. He reached for his mug of ale, but finding it empty, instead groped for his pipe and lit it. The warm, burning sensation that filled mouth steadied him, chasing away any imprudent fantasias of clandestine kisses. As he exhaled, though, another tableau from that afternoon arose in his mind: "Is he your fiance?"
Damn that little apple girl for putting such a cruel thought into his head! He stood, vowing not to entertain such futile thoughts, and marched off in the direction of his shop, determined to find some task to distract himself from the thought of copper hair and pale-pink garters and warm stays.