Lover's Eye: Chapter VII
The print shop was alive with festivity, and a spirit of merriment had descended upon the throng of friends and neighbors. The crisp scent of the holly boughs that hung on the walls mingled with the fragrance of clove and rum emanating from the punch bowl, creating an odor that was distinctly yuletide. Excited voices of various timbres filled the space, punctuated by the occasional, resonant reverberations of Daniel tuning his fiddler. His children darted in and out of the crowd, laughing and chasing one another in their own joyful, little game.
James was pleased with the thought that the Christmas bonuses he had managed to scrape up for his employees-two dollars and fifty cents per man-would go towards filling the children's bellies and warming their little house on Madeira street. Daniel had said as much, clapping his friend on the back, while his pretty, fair-haired wife, Eleanor, expressed her thanks as well. Ichabod's reaction had been far more amusing: he grasped James's hand tightly, pumping it up and down for an inordinate amount of time, as a stream of enthusiastic and demonstrative gratitude flowed from his mouth. Even Isaac, ruddy-cheeked and jolly from several trips to the punch bowl, cast aside his puckishness for a moment to thank his teacher for his generosity. By all accounts, it was shaping up to be a very successful affair.
And yet, James could not allow himself to fully enjoy the fruits of his efforts. He lingered by the entrance, never out of earshot of the doorbell. He snuck glances at the windows, his eyes straining into the darkness of the street beyond, mottled with a few soft flakes of snow in the glimmering streetlights. He was, of course, waiting for Sarah, waiting to see if she would accept his challenge.
He had agonized over how to respond to her apology letter, spending several evening meals staring at the page with his pen posed to write, but found it very nearly impossible to compose his message. He had burned through at least one tallow-dipped candle as he waited for inspiration to strike, but was left with nothing to show for it except a table speckled with candle drippings and several sheets of crumpled paper, destined for the fire.
In his initial draft, he had tried to offer an explanation for his conduct, before less-than-gracefully transitioning into an apology of his own. As his eyes scanned the page he had written, though, he decided that he came off as rather defensive and pedantic, so into the wood stove it went. His second draft (completed after a rather inebriating night at the tavern with Daniel and Ichabod) came dangerously close to revealing the true nature of his feelings, sounding very nearly like a letter to a lover. This, too, was resigned to the flames. Finally, at a loss for what to write, he reverted back to his natural inclination: cleverness. Recalling that she had asked how she might make it up to him, he answered her question in one vexingly brief line:
Dear Sarah,
Come to my party.
Yours,
James
Now, to see if she would.
"Waiting for someone?" came a warm, amused voice. James whirled around to find the round, smiling face of Mrs. Gardner, the cobbler's wife. She and her husband were both nearing seventy, endearingly plump, and very warm-hearted, having been some of the first to make his acquaintance when he moved to the neighborhood. "Perhaps… A lady?"
"Mrs. Gardner. Uh, no," he sputtered, before attempting to change the subject, "Thank you again for lending me your tin cups for the party. When would you like them returned?"
The matron waved him away. "Just wash them and have Isaac bring them over whenever you can spare him. I doubt Mr. Gardner and I will have need of them until Epiphany."
James agreed, and she turned to rejoin the crowd, but suddenly doubled back. Wordlessly, she untied his neckcloth, and then retied it with precise, practiced fingers. "Young ladies take notice of things like an untidy cravat," she said with a knowing smile, "I thought I would fix it for you before she arrives."
Before James could again deny what the older woman clearly observed, she returned to the arm of her husband on the other side of the shop with a jaunty laugh. Just then, the doorbell jingled and a wave of chill air slipped in as the door opened. James turned around, already knowing who it was.
She was rapturously beautiful, divinely beautiful-like the graceful forms of celestial creatures he had seen depicted in the stained glass at the cathedral back in Philadelphia. Bits of snow clung to her copper hair, which glistened like honey in a jar as it fell over her shoulders in undulating curls. Her clear, pearl-like complexion was tinged pink from the cold, which seemed to make her green eyes shine. She wore her familiar, powder blue cloak over a gown of pure, creamy white, which was tied at the waist with a wide, pink satin ribbon. He was reminded again, for the briefest of moments, of the garters he had seen her wearing in a similar shade. Twin crystalline earrings dangled from her ears, and they bobbed as she moved, catching the light and tossing it back at him. Not even the wretched lover's eye necklace, which still hung about her neck, could dampen the sight of her. She was so devastatingly, painfully beautiful-even more beautiful than when he pictured her in his mind's eye.
"I am so sorry for arriving so late-" she began hurriedly, but voice trailed off as she seemed to notice the expression on his face. A shy smile played about the corners of her mouth as he took her hand and pressed it to his lips, an intoxicating, floral smell rising to greet him-probably her perfume.
She already knew what he was thinking, so he might as well tell her. "Sarah, you look beautiful," he breathed. It seemed a paltry, insufficient word to encapsulate how she truly looked. He glanced up at her over the delicate ridges of her knuckles to find her blushing a deep shade of rose and smiling broadly.
"I, uh, I brought something," she said, her words tinged with a shy, sweet awkwardness, and produced a basket from her elbow, "Not to imply that you couldn't provide it yourself, I just-"
James was instantly reminded of their previous quarrel and felt quite embarrassed that she even felt the need to offer such a disclaimer at all. He shook his head vigorously. "Not at all, Sarah," he began, "And I truly am sorry for my-"
To his surprise, she reached up and pressed a lone finger against his lips to silence him-a rather forward gesture that he thoroughly enjoyed. "It's forgotten," she insisted, "Speak of it no more. Here, take a look in my basket."
He folded back the pristine cotton fabric to reveal the contents of the box: a large, single fruit, with scale-like flesh and flumes of green leaves sprouting from its top. A sweet, unfamiliar scent met his nose.
"It's a pineapple," Sarah said with a laugh, "Have you ever eaten one before?"
He shook his head no; he had not. Sarah slipped her arm in his and began to lead him into the party. "Come," she said, "I'll need a large knife to cut it. Then we can distribute it to the other guests."
"Daniel's children will be ecstatic," James said, "I will introduce you to the Morton family-you'll love them. You've met Isaac, of course, but I will have to introduce you to Mr. Crane. But, uh, Sarah? Make sure you emphasize to Mr. Crane that you're engaged. He's rather… fond …of ladies."
"What about Udney?" James asked.
"The poor young man you referred to as 'Ugly'?" Sarah quipped, wrapping both hands around her half-drained cup of punch. While the beverage had seemed harsh, acrid, almost undrinkable earlier in the evening, it had mellowed into a smooth, pleasant concoction after a few glasses. She had occasionally sipped on mild, crystalline flutes of claret or port in the past, particularly at society events, but she had never partaken in such a strong beverage-and in such large quantities. She believed that she was-for perhaps the first time in her life-drunk.
"You're dodging the question," James replied, grinning devilishly, rubbing his hands together over the stove. He had just returned from fetching a bucket of water, frozen solid in the wintry night, so that they could wash the tin cups used at the party and return them to Mrs. Gardner the following morning. Perhaps it was the effect of the frigid, outdoor air or the alcohol, but a charming, ruddy flush had crept into his cheeks. Against them, his eyes were marvelously blue and shining, in a way that caused her breath to hitch each time he turned them upon her. But that may have been the alcohol.
"Yes, I suppose I did fancy him," she replied, coquettishly raising her glass of punch to her lips and taking a dainty sip. The burning taste of rum soon gave way to the milder, sweeter flavors of apple and clove, and despite the fact that the liquid had long grown cold, she drained the contents of the cup.
Revelers had lingered late into the evening, listening to Daniel's fiddle playing and indulging in mugs of punch. Sarah had thoroughly enjoyed herself: she had played with the Morton children, carrying the smallest on her hip for a good part of the evening, and became fast friends with their mother. Mr. Crane, though falling over himself to flatter her, did engage her in a rather enjoyable conversation about pedagogy. She chatted amiably with friends and neighbors of the Post , finding them to be a good-humored, unpretentious lot. All the while, she continued to sneak glances at James, feeling a swell of pride at the thought that he was responsible for all of the evening's merriment.
Slowly, as the hour neared midnight, guests began to trickle out, laughing and carrying on, and eventually, James and Sarah were left alone. He had taken to asking which of the figures from their shared youth she had fancied, only taking a brief hiatus to venture out into the chill night air for a bucket of water for the washing.
"How about Nathan Hale? Did you like him?" James continued, setting the bucket of water over the stove to thaw, before coming to sit across from her at the kitchen table.
"Poor Nathan," she said dreamily, "Yes, I suppose I did. The tragedy of his circumstances made him a romantic figure in my mind."
"The Marquis de Lafayette," James posed, as though moving down an imaginary list, "Now that was a gallant man. Just the sort you liked."
"Heavens no," she said vehemently, "No, indeed. I'm English-I could never fancy a Frenchman."
"Fine, how about Benedict Arnold?" James asked, though clearly he already knew the answer, judging by the vexatious expression he wore.
"I don't want to talk about that," she said, but to her surprise, she laughed. In the presence of her dear friend and under the influence of the punch, her youthful infatuation elicited feelings of amusement rather than the usual embarrassment. It felt good to laugh, to allow the tension that had taken a hold of her in recent days to dissipate and a feeling of mirth-however short-lived-to replace it.
"You're right, too far, too far," James laughed, pouring himself another tin cup of liquor. He had long abandoned the punch earlier in the evening, instead joining Daniel in drinking from a flask of amber-colored liquid. Judging by the volume that the two men consumed, Sarah surmised that this was far from the first time the two had drank together. After Daniel had been escorted out of the party, supported by his bemused wife, James had been left to finish off the bottle. He was making an ardent effort to do just that.
"In the interests of fairness," James added, pausing to take a large gulp from his cup, "you can ask me one question in kind."
She smiled slyly, pausing. It was not as though she hadn't kept tabs on the young ladies who seemed to take interest in him back in Philadelphia, a number which seemed to grow as the war dragged on. She had, in fact, been highly aware of the admiring glances or flirtatious remarks young ladies had made towards her friend.
"What was the name of that strumpet from north of here?" she finally asked.
James sputtered, his blue eyes wide with shock and amusement. "Strumpet?! Now I must know who you are speaking of."
"Of whom I'm speaking," she corrected, "You know, the one you wrote that story about all those years ago? Who you labelled 'the female Paul Revere'?"
"Oh, Sybil," he said, "Sybil Luddington." He shook his head, a cheeky expression creeping onto his face, "I'm not sure you want me to answer that."
"Oh, now you must answer it," she insisted sternly, grabbing the edge of the table with both hands and fixing him with a steely look.
James sighed, rubbing his eyes with his palms for a long moment. When he lowered his hands, he wore an impudent grin. "Yes, I fancied her," he admitted, "In fact, I kissed her behind her father's barn the morning I left. That was my first kiss."
"James Hiller!" she exclaimed, outrage part feigned and part sincere, "Why on earth did you never tell me?"
"It only would have made you jealous," he shrugged, before adding craftily, "As it is right now."
"Now why would I be jealous?" she countered haughtily.
"You tell me," he said, a knowing, triumphant smile spreading across his handsome features. They both knew, and had indeed known, precisely why. The mask of propriety slipping with the dwindling evening hours and the spirits consumed, she found it a great deal harder to dismiss what both old friends clearly realized.
But still, she tried. "What is it you're drinking?" she demanded, abruptly changing the subject to one less intimate, "It's quite rude of you not to offer any to your guest."
"It's whiskey," James answered, pouring himself a bit more of the drink, as if to demonstrate, "You wouldn't like it."
She narrowed her eyes. "Hmm, the gentleman presumes what the lady will and will not like?"
"It's not a drink for ladies," he insisted, "But try some, if you like. On one condition."
"What?" she asked, catching the vessel as he slid it across the table to her, its contents sloshing against the tin sides of the cup.
"I get to ask you one question, and you must answer it."
"Fine," she said, then lifted the cup and quaffed it in one go, as she had seen James do. Or at least, she attempted to: the moment the liquid passed her lips, a miserable burning sensation filled her mouth, quickly migrating up into her sinuses. She clenched her jaw and knitted her brows, desperate to maintain her dignity as the offending beverage coursed down her throat. As it passed, a not unpleasant smokey taste remained, but nowhere near good enough to warrant ever taking a sip of the dreadful stuff again. Sputtering, she replaced the cup on the table, over half its contents remaining, and her hand unconsciously flew to cover her mouth.
James was highly amused. He laughed heartily, taking a dreg straight from the bottle of whiskey as if to flaunt his ability to enjoy the foul drink. She scowled.
"Now, my question," he said, once his laughter subsided.
"Fine," she said, turning up her nose at him, "But I won't speak another word until you get me some water to rid my mouth of that wretched drink."
James complied obediently to her command, then resumed his place opposite of her at the little table. "What I want to know-which you must answer, per the terms of our agreement-is which fortunate lad gave you your first kiss?"
She gaped at him. He had always had a knack for impropriety in their youth, and it seemed whiskey undid whatever meager social graces he had managed to acquire in the last decade. "What kind of impertinent question is that ?" she demanded. There was absolutely no way she could endure the humiliation of giving an honest answer.
He was not daunted. "I believe it is a night for impertinent questions," he remarked evenly. "I've made my confession, now you must make yours."
"Fine," she answered, forcing herself to look him square in the eye and give the appearance of perfect ease, "I've never had the, uh, good fortune of being kissed."
It was now his turn to look surprised. "I don't believe that," he said, "Surely there were ample young men who would have-"
"I believe you had the opportunity once," she said, surprised by her own boldness, "but you told me that you 'had suffered enough at the hands of the British.' Don't you recall?"
James grinned, having the decency to look halfway embarrassed at the antics of his younger self. Sarah, too, felt mildly self-conscious-if it had not been for the punch, she would never have reminded him of the awkward interaction from their adolescents. At the time, his comment had deeply wounded her pride, causing her to decide that she "hated" him for the following fortnight. Now, with the sweet-acrid taste of rum on her tongue and the warm gaze of her friend across from her, it seemed rather harmless and amusing. In spite of herself, she laughed.
After the cups were washed, dried, and returned to their box, the pair swept the print shop floor, and with some effort, pushed the printing press back into its original position in the center of the room. Procuring capes, gloves, and a lantern, they prepared for the frosty walk back to the Radcliffe house. Laughing, clinging to one another, Sarah and James began unsteadily down the icy street.
A light dusting of snow had fallen since the party began, and it lay like confectioner's sugar over the street, glistening in the light of James's lantern. The snow muffled the sounds of the city at night, leaving a serene, nearly hallowed silence in its wake. Above, a vast network of stars glimmered, icy and sharp, in a way that reminded her very much of the Ohio frontier. Nearly all of the houses on the street were dark, save for the soft luminescence of the occasional candle. Inside, the occupants were bundled safely in their beds, cozy quilts and balmy warming pans staving off the outside chill. The scene was undeniably charming.
But as they drew closer to the Radcliffe's neighborhood, the buildings slowly shifting from modest terraced houses to fine estates, her thoughts began to grow dark. In less than a fortnight, she was to become William's bride, to plunge herself into a world of public artifice and private misery. She was, in all likelihood, never to enjoy an evening like this again. The contentment and good cheer of the Post 's staff and their friends and families, despite their modest means, was far merrier than anyone in the Radcliffe's sphere. For those few hours in James's world, she had felt more at ease, more joyous, more safe than she had since she pledged herself to William.
As the two traipsed along the slick, icy road, laughing at each stumble and near fall, Sarah finally surrendered to the thought that had been begging for acknowledgement these past few weeks. Inhibition loosened by the rum and the warmth of her friend against her side, she allowed herself to consider: what might life be like if she were preparing to become Mrs. Hiller, rather than Mrs. Radcliffe? She wondered how differently she might feel if the ring around her finger pledged her to James rather than William, if the decadent food being ordered was to feed the Post 's staff rather than the extended Radcliffe family, if the terrible trepidation she felt at the idea of the wedding night was replaced by feverish anticipation. The beauty of the fantasia was rivaled only by the painfulness of its futility.
Perhaps she should have declined James's invitation altogether. Perhaps it would have been easier to not know the life of which she was depriving herself. It was like tasting the fruit in Eden before being cast out. How could she spend the rest of her days in a dour estate beside a husband who ignored her at best and antagonized her at worst, when such a place of warmth and life and love existed beyond? When such a man existed beyond?
As the wrought iron gates and well-manicured hedgerow of the Radcliffe estate came into view, the more imminent concern of her arrival back home replaced her previous anxieties. She prayed that the house's occupants had long retired to bed, though she knew her mother of all people was certain to wait up. Did she smell of alcohol? James certainly did, though she was sure he had consumed far more than her and in a harsher form. Was it obvious that she was drunk?
A few paces from the large, ornately wrought gate to the Radcliffe house, James slowed his steps. He turned to face her, his broad shoulders partially obscuring the lone candle that she spotted, glimmering from a second-story window.
"Thank you for coming to my party," he said softly, taking her hands in his own, "It felt just like old times again."
"It was better than old times," she insisted, "I had a splendid evening. Thank you for inviting me." She could not shake the feeling that her innocuous comment was weighted with the gravity of a goodbye, that her looming nuptials may perhaps render this conversation their last. In spite of herself, she took a ragged breath, her lungs filling with the frigid night air.
James, undoubtedly, had the same intuition. She was barely able to make out the wistful expression on his handsome features in the darkness. He stood in the snow, rubbing her cold hands between his own, opening his mouth before closing it again, as if he had something to say but was unable to conjure the words. The idea of James-whose endless chatter used to drive her to madness-being unable to speak tugged at her heart to the point of breaking. In an instant, she threw her arms around his neck, drawing his body against her own. He seemed surprised by the familiarity of her gesture, stiffening for a moment, before encircling her with his strong arms and pulling her somehow closer to him. Her cheek against the rough wool of his overcoat, she blinked away the tears that had begun to form under her lashes as his hand stroked the soft, blue velvet of her cloak.
But as she pulled back, her arms still about his neck, James again closed the distance between them. It took her a split second to register the sensation of his lips pressed against her own, warm and soft and tasting of whiskey. For a moment, she found herself marveling at how different the sensation of being kissed was from the way she had imagined it, but these thoughts were soon drowned out by the frantic quickening of her pulse and a rapturous feeling of lightheadedness. A chill of elation swept over her, causing her flesh to prickle deliciously beneath the heavy layers of her winter clothing.
"There," he murmured, pulling away, his lips still mere inches from her own, "Now no matter what's to come, I can always claim the honor of having given you your first kiss. Goodnight, Sarah." And he slipped off into the darkness.
" Sarah, what have you done ?"
The foyer was dark, save for a small pool of light emanating from a candlestick clutched in Lady Phillips's hand. In this weak light, Sarah perceived an intensity in her mother's eyes that she had not seen in a long time. The look was enough to fell the rapturous feeling that had consumed her moments earlier, like a dove whose breast is pierced by a hunter's bullet.
"What are you talking about, mother?" She asked weakly, trying to feign both ignorance and sobriety as she pulled the door shut softly behind her and slipped her cape from around her shoulders.
"Don't pretend you don't know," Lady Phillips hissed, heels clicking on the polished wood floor as she furiously approached her daughter, "I saw you and-and that boy just now."
Sarah's stomach sank. What could she say to possibly offer any explanation? The alcohol made her thoughts sluggish, and she groped to find the words with which to absolve herself. Luckily, her mother spoke again before Sarah had the chance to open her mouth.
"Are you daft?" Lady Phillips asked emphatically, seizing her daughter by the shoulders. Her nostrils flared, either in anger or as she detected the scent of alcohol, or perhaps both. "You have secured a good, advantageous marriage, far better than I thought you would find in this godforsaken land. You would throw away your prospects, your reputation, your virtue on a silly dalliance with some baseborn colonial?"
Sarah was wounded by this characterization of James. "You're wrong, mother," she insisted, struggling to keep her tone in check, tempering it only as to not awaken the rest of the household, "James is a much finer man than any of the 'gentlemen' residing here, even without a fortune or title or-"
"Have you forgotten that you are to marry Mr. Radcliffe in less than a fortnight?" Lady Phillips cut in. She took hold of Sarah's arm, glancing furtively around for anyone who may have overheard their conversation. Finding no one, she led Sarah into the adjoining drawing room, dark of course, to continue their conversation from atop a horsehair settee.
"William?" Sarah scoffed, ire blossoming in her breast, "Mother, William is one of the most coarse, ungentlemanly, contemptible men I've ever had the displeasure of knowing. If you knew him as I do, you would oppose this marriage with every fiber of your being!"
"If that were true," Lady Phillips countered, "Why are you only telling me this now, after you've been caught with that journalist friend of yours? If that were true, why didn't you say something sooner, before the invitations were sent out and the menu ordered and your wedding gown very nearly finished?"
Sarah bit her lip, recalling the opportunity she had had a few evenings ago to confide in her mother-an opportunity that she had foolishly wasted in her petty anger towards James. Her mother was right; her accusations against William seemed far less credible under these circumstances. She began to feel her confidence wavering, her grasp on the situation slipping. Indeed, it was easy to see how one might believe that she was raising concerns about William to avoid responsibility. She ought to have told her mother of her concerns the very night she and William were introduced. The gravity of her error descended on her at full force, and she grasped the arm of the settee to steady herself.
"I have never known you to be selfish, Sarah," her mother continued, "Did you not think of the humiliation that I would endure if you were to be found out? How great of an insult you would pay to Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe, who have doted on you since infancy? Do you think the fine families of New York City would continue to send their daughters to your school house?"
Indeed, she had not. She had thought only of kind blue eyes and strong, gentle hands and the bit of smelted gold concealed beneath the neckline of her gown. But now, as the faces of her young pupils flashed before her mind's eye, the thought of being parted from them-due to her own indiscretions-was nothing short of unbearable. Of course, if her engagement to William were to end because of her association with James, the parents of her pupils would withdraw them immediately from her tutelage. No respectable family would ever allow their daughters to study under a woman whose reputation had been tainted.
Her despairing thoughts were interrupted by another comment from her mother, this one more stinging than the rest: "Did you not think of the black mark you would put on our family's name… on your father's name?"
At the invocation of Major Phillips, Sarah felt as though she had been slapped, and her despair turned at once to anger. Hot tears began to well in her eyes. "Father would despise William!" she insisted, rising to her feet from the settee and struggling to keep her voice from cracking, "He hated spoiled, cruel little men. He would have liked James. Besides, father wasn't titled, and you still married him!"
"Your father," Lady Phillips began, with pointed, cold deliberateness, "was a highly decorated military officer from one of the wealthiest merchant families in Greenwich when we became engaged. He was far from some unconnected, colonial trash."
"James is not trash!" Sarah cried, forgetting to keep her voice low, "If you weren't so bloody concerned about money and titles, you would see-"
"Enough," Lady Phillips interjected fiercely, "You are forbidden from fraternizing with Mr. Hiller again, and that is the last I will hear of it. You are to cease any contact with him at once.
I won't have any child of mine behaving like a common whore."
Sarah blinked at her mother. If her mention of her father felt like a blow, Lady Phillips might as well have just struck her other cheek. She had never heard her mother use the coarse words before, let alone in relation to her. She swallowed the painful lump that was quickly rising in her throat and responded acridly, "If a mere kiss is all it takes to render a virtuous girl a whore, then-"
"I will hear no more of it," Lady Phillips repeated sternly. Sarah was about to retort, but to her great distress, her mother buried her face in her hands, before looking up with watery eyes. "Please, Sarah. I've already endured the loss of your father. I don't want to see my only child disgraced and left without a secure future after I'm gone. Please don't ask me to endure that."
Her mother's pitiful plea had doused her anger, leaving nothing but empty misery and resignation. "I'm sorry, mother," she said softly, quickly brushing the tears from her own cheeks. After a long, tense silence, she rose and began to make her way out of the drawing room. Before she exited, though, she heard her mother's voice, frail and despondent.
"Drink some water before bed, or you will be quite miserable when you wake."
As Sarah crested the top of the stairs, she was unable to prevent the torrent of tears from rushing down her face. As she reached the top step, she froze, hand still clutching the banister. She restrained her ragged breaths to strain her ears, her eyes scanning the darkened hallway. She heard a soft exhale of breath, sort of like a laugh, and her blood ran cold as she perceived a quiet, high-pitched creak and recognized William's chamber door closing. Hurrying to her own chamber, she closed the door swiftly behind her and locked it, before she sunk to the floor, James's necklace clutched against her heart, and gave into despair.