A/N: Brief descriptions of violence.
The bright, aromatic scent of tuberose and lilies filled Sarah's nose as she uncorked the crystalline vial of eau de toilette on her dressing table and dabbed it behind her naked ears. This action quickly reminded her of their bareness, and she donned her milky, teardrop-shaped pearl earrings. Earlier, she had been able to hear a great many sounds from below-servants hurriedly preparing for the evening, musicians warming up their instruments, and ringing greetings from the earliest guests to arrive. Now, the sound of rain, thrumming against the roof of the Radcliffe's great estate house, drowned out all other noises. That was just as well. Every reminder of the evening's impending events increased the sour sensation in her stomach and the restless tingling in her fingertips.
She had been anxious for the majority of the day. That morning, she had arisen early, unable to sleep. The imminent acquaintance with her future husband-the man beside whom she would live out the rest of her life, who would take her to his bed and sire her children-had arrived sooner than she anticipated. The gravity of the event pulled all her thoughts towards it, and she was entirely unable to resist its sheer force. Lying beneath her downy coverlet, bed curtains still drawn against the cold, gray morning light, she had come to realize that perhaps she hadn't allowed herself sufficient time to truly comprehend her impending vows. Perhaps she hadn't wanted to. And yet, despite her lack of mental preparation, the day had arrived all the same.
The daily, near-unconscious routine of the schoolhouse had begun to soothe her, like peppermint to an aching stomach. The bright, excited voices of her pupils left no room for her anxious thoughts, and their sweet, open faces were an island of light amidst a dark and turbulent sea. As she read to them from the front page of the morning newspaper-not James's, regrettably-she felt her mind numbing, and as they began a lively discussion of Milton's Paradise Lost, she had nearly forgotten her trepidation.
As she arrived home after the school day, she attempted to persuade herself that she was mistaking anxiety for excitement. This was easy to believe as her maid arranged her hair in the glow of the candlelight: despite accusations of prissiness and even vanity, she always enjoyed looking her best. Of all the luxuries she had missed most while living on the Ohio frontier, beauty was the most keenly felt.
She studied herself in the looking glass, trying to imagine how she might appear to Mr. Radcliffe in a few, short hours. Her ladies' maid had pinned nearly all of her hair at the crown of her head, threading a length of pink satin ribbon through the mass of locks in the greek style. Sarah refused to have her hair powdered: while she despised her red hair for most of her adolescence, she had come to appreciate its rarity in recent years, seeing it as a distinct beauty mark. A single, columnar curl fell past her collarbone, its bright copper hue juxtaposed against her porcelain décolletage. As she slipped into her diaphanous chemise a la reine-in the style of Marie Antoinette, sent all the way from France-she judged that Mr. Radcliffe had to be pleased with how she looked, however else he may feel about her.
Her musings were interrupted by a soft rap against the door. "Come in," she called, and she was soon greeted by the familiar, gentle face of her mother.
"Sarah, you look lovely," Lady Phillips exclaimed, lovingly tucking an errant pin into her daughter's hair.
"You think so?" she answered, catching her mother's eye through the looking glass, "I was worried that my gown may be too… too French."
Her mother laughed, a sound which instantly eased some of the tension gathering in her stomach. "It is French, my dear," Lady Phillips answered, "But I daresay that will impress many of this evening's guests. Your dress is the latest fashion in Paris, I'm told."
"It's been so long since I've worn something so lovely," Sarah whispered, smoothing the sumptuous, ivory muslin beneath her hands. Scarcely a month prior, she had been outfitted in plain, practical dresses of cotton, more suited to harvesting potatoes than attending an elegant dinner. And yet, Sarah realized, she envied the girl toiling on the Ohio frontier, because it meant she still had her father, and he was not buried alone beneath a crude wooden cross deep in the Ohio wilderness. The memory conjured a wave of nauseating grief to sweep over her, and she blinked away the hot tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill forth.
"It's alright, my love," her mother said gently, wrapping her arms around her daughter. Of course, she could guess Sarah's thoughts. "He would be so very proud of you."
Sarah turned to her mother. "Do you think-do you think he would approve of my betrothal?"
"Certainly," Lady Phillips answered, "Your father knew and respected the Radcliffe family as much as I. And he knew that one day, he would have to give you away to some lucky young man."
Sarah bristled at her mother's characterization of marriage as a property exchange, that she were somehow being given to Mr. Radcliffe, like a family heirloom or a particularly fine cow. But, no matter how unpalatable, she could not erase the reality that for women of her station, marriage was just that. She needed to make peace with this fact of life as soon as possible. Preferably, before she met the young man waiting below.
"Oh," Lady Phillips exclaimed, rousing her daughter out of her gloomy reflections, "I have something for you. A gift from Mr. Radcliffe. He had hoped you might wear it tonight."
Perhaps he ought to have had the courtesy to give it to me himself, Sarah very nearly said, but bit her tongue. Her mother produced a fine, green velvet box, a little larger than Sarah's palm. Daintily lifting the lid from the container, she perceived a very large, very ugly pendant, ringed with an alternating halo of diamonds and pearls. The stones encircled an oval of painted porcelain, depicting a dark, heavy-lidded eye and a thick brow. After a moment, she recognized the features as belonging to Mr. Radcliffe-at least, based on what she knew of his portraits. She glanced up at her mother, hoping her face did not reveal her displeasure with the object.
'It's called a lover's eye," Lady Phillips explained, "They're very popular in England right now. I thought it was a very kind gesture on Mr. Radcliffe's part. And besides, now you will have a reason to stop wearing that thing that I despise so."
Sarah's hand instantly flew to her throat, and her fingers closed around James's necklace, as though to protect it from her mother's disapproving gaze. Indeed, Lady Phillips had often made her feelings towards the jewelry known, objecting to its small size and obvious hammer marks. But Sarah didn't care. It was her most-cherished belonging, a tangible symbol of the warmth and camaraderie of Dr. Franklin's print shop. Its value was not found in its size or craftsmanship, but in its sentiment-sentiment that was only made more poignant by the fact that James had parted with his mother's wedding ring to make the necklace for her. The profound kindness of his gesture caused her chest to tighten, even after so many years, and as the pendant sat glittering against her collarbone, her mind recalled for the briefest of moments the feeling of James's lips pressed lightly against her knuckles.
But before Sarah could object, her mother unclasped James's necklace and replaced it with the lover's eye. It hung heavy and gaudy around her throat, and as it settled against her skin, cold and unfamiliar, she tried not to grimace. Her mother, clearly, did not find the object so unappealing.
"It's very charming," she told her daughter, "Now, hurry up. Nearly all the guests have arrived." Sarah grasped James's necklace from the place where her mother had unceremoniously dropped it on the dressing table and carefully placed it in a drawer by her bedside. Outfitted in finery, but feeling more naked than she ever had before, Sarah followed her mother down the stairs to meet her fiance.
Heavy droplets of rain, verging very nearly on the edge of sleet, coursed down the thin window panes in juxtaposition to the warm, bright atmosphere of Irving's Inn. The tavern was alight with activity, each mismatched chair hosting the buttocks of a merry patron, the sound of idle chatter, carefree laughter, and the clink of pewter mugs filling the atmosphere with mirth. James took a long gulp from the flagon of ale before him, trying to allow the lighthearted feeling to take hold of him as well, despite the story he had covered that afternoon.
He had seen countless men die. Hangings, as unpleasant as they were, paled in comparison to some of the cruel, gruesome deaths he had seen during the war. On the battlefield, men with musket balls lodged in their chests or necks or heads, streams of red flowing from their agape mouths in a final expression of shock. In camps, soldiers with fingers and toes blackened, empty faces turned ashen and waxy when they were discovered the next morning. The charred remains of Mohawk women and children, scattered among the remnants of their former homes, as though they were mere refuse. He could still feel the soft give of a singed ragdoll doll beneath his boot, and he vividly recalled wondering which of the tiny, blackened skeletons it had belonged to in life. Indeed, the standard hanging of a convicted murderer should not have disturbed him as much as it did.
"I heard it took the man nearly thirty minutes to die," Mr. Crane announced, sliding his spectacles up the bridge of his long nose with a spindly index finger, "Surely, that is divine retribution from our Lord. A mere foretaste of the suffering that awaits him beyond the grave!"
Daniel shot James a sidelong glance, before lifting his mug to his lips and taking a conspicuous gulp. "Having witnessed it myself," James responded wryly, "I think it's more attributable to an overly short drop than a vengeful god. Though, I'm sure the late Reverend Edwards would be on your side."
"You deist!" Crane sniffed, a sound that was marvelously pronounced due to the impressive length of his nasal cavities, "I have seen evidence of the spiritual realm that would cause you to tremble in your boots, Mr. Hiller!"
James stifled the laugh that rose in his throat, drowning it in his own swig of ale. Perhaps allowing Crane to accompany him and Daniel for supper was not the worst-the man was a constant source of unintentional amusement. He clapped the former schoolmaster on the back and said, "I'm sure you have, my good man."
"Did he have any final words?" Daniel asked, as steaming bowls of beef stew were placed in front of them by a plump, pretty tavern matron. Crane thanked her profusely before shoveling several hearty spoonfuls into his mouth, steam escaping his thin lips as he winced at the scalding liquid.
James nodded. "He merely said that he loved the girl, and given the opportunity, he would do it all again. That elicited some sympathy from the crowd, I think."
Daniel shook his head. "After all I've seen, I can hardly imagine viewing a man's death as a pleasant afternoon pastime, regardless of his crimes."
"There was quite the crowd," James commented, spearing a tender lump of potato with his fork, "I'd estimate in the hundreds. It was a rather sensational end to an already scandalous tale."
Indeed, earlier in the year, a wealthy merchant named John Weatherly on the opposite side of town had taken a comely young lady as his wife. However, the match seemed ill-suited: the groom was nearing sixty, afflicted with gout, and had the reputation of having a severe and irritable temperament. The bride was scarcely sixteen and had a soft and gentle nature. Somehow, following the nuptials, the girl and one of the manservants in Weatherly's household took up with one another in secrecy. After finding the girl in tears one day, bearing a hand-shaped mark about her throat, the manservant promptly climbed the stairs of the great estate and buried an axe in Weatherly's forehead as he dozed in his bed. Or at least, these were the details James could verify for the Post.
"The absolute scoundrel has gotten his just deserts," Crane proclaimed with finality, "'Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife,' as the scriptures say. Doubly so when it is your master rather than your neighbor!"
"But don't the scriptures also say 'greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends'? Wouldn't it be 'doubly so,' as you say, if a man were to lay down his life for the woman he loves?" Daniel posed. Generally, when his two employees debated religion, James allowed his thoughts to wander. But this particular exchange might prove to be quite interesting. He thoughtfully chewed a hunk of savory beef, curious to hear how Crane would respond to such a counterpoint.
"No, indeed," the former schoolmaster huffed, "Not when one breaks the laws of God and man to do it."
"I would break the laws of God and man for my Eleanor a thousand times over," Daniel said resolutely, "Asking a man to do otherwise is asking him to act in opposition to his nature."
"Man's nature is inherently sinful," Crane countered, steepling his fingers.
"Not to me," Daniel insisted, "My four sweet babes did not enter this world sinful. I don't care whatever doctrine may say otherwise."
Rather than stoop to calling Daniel's children wicked little malefactors, Crane instead turned his protuberant green eyes towards James. "What is your perspective, Mr. Hiller?"
James sighed, reaching under his untidy knot of flaxen hair and scratching vigorously. The conversation was doing little to ease his somber mood, and he had hoped to move onto more frivolous topics. "Well," he said thoughtfully, "You seem to be equating what is legal with what is moral, which is a mistake."
Mr. Crane asked him to elaborate, and he obliged: "Take, for example, our struggle for independence. In breaking free from England, America had to violate 'the laws of God and man,' as you say. Yet, wouldn't you agree that it was still the right thing to do?"
"Of course. I concur that we broke the laws of man in separating from England," Crane conceded, "But I do not see how we broke the laws of God."
"The British believe in the divine right of kings," James explained. Indeed, he had spent many hours listening to Sarah wax on about the topic during her early days in the colonies. "If the king is ordained by God Almighty, we were indeed going against Him by defying the king in creating our own country."
"Do you really believe that?" Crane asked, already large eyes appearing downright cyclopean.
"No," James answered simply, "I don't believe in God. At least not in any traditional sense." Why would he want to? Henri's Catholic deity had demanded endless pomp and ritual, while Sarah's Anglican god required stringent adherence to a standard of morality that was near unattainable. They had just fought a war to free themselves of earthly masters; why would he willingly place himself under the thumb of a heavenly one? A heavenly one, he noted, who saw fit to allow his parents to be turned to ash before he could even form a mental impression of their faces.
"Nonetheless," Daniel interjected, steering the conversation back towards its original topic, "Though I understand why the manservant had to hang under the law, I can't say I fault the fellow for what he did. Who among us wouldn't do the same?"
James grinned. "Aye, but you're the only one among us who has a lady." He jabbed Crane with a playful elbow, causing ale to slosh dangerously near the rim of the pewter mug he was holding. "Ichabod and I are nothing but a pair of old bachelors."
Though it had to have been nearing midnight, Sarah's bed linens remained turned up, and the coals in the brass bed warmer had undoubtedly gone cold. She sat instead upon the cushion in the window seat, wearing only her chemise, her knees pulled to her chest. Leaning her head against the window, panes glazed in a layer of sleet, she allowed the cool glass to soothe her sweltry brow. On the street beyond the well-manicured hedgerow, occasional figures scurried in the darkness to avoid the precipitation, collars turned up over their necks and tricorn hats pulled low over their brows. She longed to be among them, to quit the claustrophobic atmosphere of her bedchamber. In that moment, she felt a certain kinship with the lonely green finch in the drawing room below, except the bars of her cage were the thick window muntins and her leg band hung around her neck instead. She looked down at it and cringed, the eye of her fiance seeming to wink in the flickering candlelight, adding irony to injury.
Mr. Radcliffe had scarcely looked at her all evening. She had reached the foot of the staircase, nearly trembling with anxiety, as her eyes fell upon the face of her future husband. She recognized him instantly-his portraits had indeed been an accurate likeness-and she coaxed a gracious, agreeable smile onto her lips. His dark eyes swept over her form for the briefest of moments, his visage blank, before he turned again to the two young men flanking him. Instantly, a feeling of humiliation caused hot blood to trickle into cheeks, and Sarah felt as though she had been slapped. She glanced at her mother to see if she had perceived Mr. Radcliffe's slight, but Lady Phillips appeared not to have noticed.
She had forced herself to rally as her fiance's parents approached, greeting her warmly and lavishing praise upon her elegant appearance. The younger Mr. Radcliffe eventually joined their circle, but only after his mother called sharply to him. Following an awkward, insipid introduction, presided over by his beaming parents, her fiance escorted her to dinner without so much as a word.
Though admittedly handsome when depicted in still, painted forms, Mr. Radcliffe's mannerisms rendered him rather strange and unappealing. His eyes roved around the room, like a cougar tracking its prey, never resting on one spot for too long. He had an odd habit, which Sarah perceived almost immediately, of ducking his head. This was particularly noticeable at dinner, especially when his parents spoke from the head of the banquet table. He spent the majority of the meal alternating between this strange posture and glancing furtively around the dining room. Sarah's humiliation only grew as the decadent courses grew long and the tall, creamy candles began to dwindle. She had wondered anxiously if other guests at the event were beginning to notice her fiance's disinterest towards her.
Presently, she shifted on the window seat, rubbing her eyes with her palms, dreading to recall the latter half of the evening. How she wished the extent of her interactions with her betrothed had remained awkward and disinterested!
After the meal was finished, during which time her fiance had scarcely said a word, Sarah had resolved to initiate conversation with Mr. Radcliffe herself. Finding her fiance and his two companions gathered around the pianoforte, she approached, again smiling pleasantly but finding the expression more and more difficult to muster as the evening dragged on. The three stood in a knot, their heads low, whispering and grinning at one another. She felt as though she were intruding on some sort of cabal.
"Mr. Radcliffe," she said, her voice exuding more confidence than she inwardly felt. The three young men turned and indeed looked at her as though she were intruding upon their coterie. She had suspected this outcome was entirely possible, and undaunted, she cleared her throat. "Mr. Radcliffe, I wanted to thank you for your generous gift. It is most beautiful." A lie, but a harmless one, given the circumstances.
Her fiance stepped forward from between his friends. His gait was odd, shambling, as though he were trying to walk with a swagger but needed considerably more practice. He wore a smile, as though they were all in on some sort of joke, but it left her feeling anything but merry. "Gift?" He queried.
Sarah bit her lip and glanced momentarily down at the necklace about her throat. "Yes, sir," she answered, "The one you sent up for me just…" Her voice trailed off as realization set in-her fiance's mother had had the item commissioned for her. Her mind instantly recalled the rose-scented, ribbon-bound letters Mr. Radcliffe had sent in the previous months, cordial but dispassionate, and suddenly they made more sense.
Her racing thoughts were cut short by her fiance, who unexpectedly posed a question. "You're a school mistress, I understand?"
This question inspired a bit of hope, like a golden rod of light piercing through a heavy cloud. Perhaps Mr. Radcliffe was just a poor conversationalist-perhaps he had not meant to ignore her for the duration of the evening. Social ineptitude was a far more palatable explanation than a sullen temperament, and she welcomed it. "I am indeed," she replied, feeling the first real smile of the evening blossoming across her cheeks, "I instruct five and twenty young ladies in reading, writing, arithmetic, and-"
Her enthusiastic reply was cut off by a rather strange remark from her fiance. "Perhaps you will have something to teach me," he commented. His dark eyes raked over her, catching the light from the nearby fireplace, for the first time appearing something other than dull and cold.
"I doubt it, at this stage in your education," said the shorter of his two companions, a laugh bubbling beneath his comment as he glanced knowingly at his friend.
Ire rose in Sarah's breast, threatening to overtake years of practiced social grace. "Are you suggesting, sir," she said coolly, turning to the man, "That a woman is unable to be an educator?"
"No, indeed," replied the man, this time not attempting to conceal his laughter, "Mr. Radcliffe owes a great deal of his education to women."
This comment and the ensuing laughter from the three men had mystified Sarah, but before she could remind him that Eton College employed no female instructors and inquire as to his meaning, Mrs. Radcliffe interposed and suggested Sarah play something on the pianoforte.
In the darkness of her chamber, her thoughts replayed to the interaction, turning it over and over for some semblance of logic. She was not naive enough to believe that the men were not laughing at her-that much was apparent. What had her fiance meant by 'something to teach him'? And why had his friend implied that women were ill-suited to teach, only to so quickly double back?
A wicked, improper interpretation intruded upon her reflections, almost too shameful to consider: what if they had been referring not to the schoolroom, but the bedroom? Her mind's eye recalled the way Mr. Radcliffe's gaze had roved over her form and the mocking laughter of his companions. Cold nausea crept into the pit of her stomach, juxtaposed against the hot humiliation that burned her cheeks. Her fingers rose to her chest to stroke James's necklace in an unconscious gesture of self-soothing, but she was again met with the jarring feeling of bulbous pearls and brittle porcelain.
Feverishly, Sarah rose from her place beside the window and approached her dressing table. Watching herself in the dimly-lit mirror, she placed the candle down and pulled open a drawer, attempting to avoid the high pitched screeching sound of wood on wood. She fished around for a bit, before her fingers closed around a length of thin, black satin ribbon. She lifted James's necklace from the drawer beside her bed, the low light casting deep shadows over the pits in the dear, imperfect object, and she removed it from its original chain. She threaded the pendant onto a length of ribbon that was long enough to allow it to hang below the neckline of her chemise, obscuring it from the view of her mother, Mrs. Radcliffe, or her fiance.
She took a shaky breath as she tied the ribbon around her neck. As the pendant fell between her breasts, far below the hideous lover's eye, a sense of calm began to settle over her. It was as though it were some sort of enchanted talisman or pomander filled with soothing herbs. She turned down the linens on her bed and slid between them, resolving to seek her mother's counsel about the incident in the morning. With her fingers closed around James's necklace, her breathing slowed and sleep soon found her.