Sooooo…
I’m definitely still planning on publishing “Not So Human” in February. I’ll
talk about that more next week. Or maybe the week after.
This
Tuesday and Thursday, however, I’m sharing excerpts of another novel of mine, “Maiden
America,” which is due out this month.
Hardly
fantastical like my Faerietales series, “Maiden America” is a historical
fiction spy story set during the very real events of December 1776 in
Princeton, New Jersey. That larger year is supposed to be such a triumphant
time, with the United States officially throwing off tyranny and declaring
itself a nation once and for all.
Throw
some more hamburgers and hotdogs on the grill, and enjoy the fireworks! Right?
Wrong.
And not just because they didn’t have those American delicacies quite yet.
The
truth is that the majority of the brand new country had given up on itself by
that point. Which, when you know all the details, it’s hard not to understand
why.
George
Washington’s men had already been kicked out of New York after suffering a
series of brutal, morale-destroying defeats. For months on end.
As
if that wasn’t bad enough, the British then proceeded to drive them clear
through New Jersey as well. Most people in Princeton proper, home of the
subversive John Witherspoon and his freedom-minded college students, knew very
well what kind of reception they would face when their aggressors marched into
their town. Hence the reason why they cleared off well before any such thing
could happen.
But
what if you couldn’t leave? What if you were a devoted American patriot living
back then, stuck in your pretty Princeton home with no other option than to
watch your hated occupiers claim your town – and your home – as their own?
Those
are the questions Abigail Carpenter has to ask herself the night of December 7,
1776. And her ultimate conclusions aren’t what she ever expected…
Maiden America
Chapter 1
Bloody Lobsters
Dec. 7, 1776
“S
|
tay back, Abigail. I swear those bloody
lobsters are everywhere,” Garrett snarls, looking out the sitting room window
through the heavy, floral draperies.
It isn’t the most polite
language to use in front of a lady, but I don’t correct him for a whole host of
reasons.
Numbers one and two are that
I’m not really a lady in his eyes. I’m his younger sister and therefore a
completely different category of femininity altogether. Moreover, I’m a sister
who has kept him from serving under General Washington for the last several
months.
Never mind that our soldiers
under that command are ill-equipped and downtrodden after being run out of New
York and pushed through much of New Jersey. They should be in Trenton by now,
about thirteen miles away. But everyone knows they’ll likely have to leave even
that town soon enough if William Howe – general and commander in chief of
Britain’s army here in America – keeps pressing his troops forward. Which he
probably will, thereby lending even more pain and misery to what our
Continental Army has already endured.
It’s no wonder that so many
of our men refused to re-sign their military contracts at the beginning of the
month. I don’t condone their decision, but I do understand the reasons behind
it. I can’t even completely condemn those soldiers who don’t have the luxury of
leaving legally, so simply desert every day. They’re disheartened after losing
so many times over so many months. Anyone would be.
Anyone but Garrett, that is.
Still burning with patriotic fervor, he desperately wants to be down there with
our father and three older brothers, taking a stand to free New Jersey and our
newly minted country, the United States of America.
A large part of me
sympathizes with him here, since I wish I could be with them too.
All of that factors into my
final decision not to chastise him for his word choice. The fact that it won’t
do a lick of good, I’ll admit, crosses my mind as well. But mainly, I hold my
tongue because he’s right: There are redcoats everywhere. They’ve been
encroaching on the Jersey countryside practically since they first arrived in
this state on November nineteenth, when they captured Fort Lee. And they’re
still going strong today, certainly much stronger than our ever-retreating
forces can claim.
After taking over Hackensack,
Newark and Brunswick, they’re now here in Princeton. Like the Biblical plague
of locusts, they’re marching through our streets, devouring everything they can
and then surging forward to claim the next location, wherever that might be.
Worse yet, they’re probably with scores of those horrible Hessians, who
reportedly dye their mustaches pitch black with the same concoction they use on
their shoes.
Just thinking about the
German mercenaries makes me shudder. I’ve heard the stories. Everyone in New
Jersey has after so much of our lands have been plundered by their scouting
parties and the troop deployments dispatched to collect supplies, starting with
the very first day they stepped foot onto this state’s soil.
As if the British soldiers by
themselves aren’t bad enough. They were too often insufferable before minutemen
fired on them at Concord and Lexington in Massachusetts last year, thereby declaring
war on the sovereign crown of England. But since then, it’s gotten so much
worse. Those “bloody lobsters” as my brother so disrespectfully deems them,
have been wrapping their claws around everything they take a fancy to, from
food to horses to ammunition to women.
In their eyes, we’re
apparently just as much a commodity as everything else.
That’s a despicable attitude
to take toward any person, but it somehow seems worse when both sides
considered the other to be countrymen barely five months ago. Today is December
seventh, 1776, and it was only July fourth that the Second Continental Congress
announced our secession from Great Britain. Before that, we were proud to be
British citizens. We only wanted our due rights as such: proper representation
in Parliament, a fair tax system, and some acknowledgement of how very good we
are at governing ourselves overall thanks to the great distance between us.
Give us that, and we would settle down as nice as you please, singing “God Save
the King” and “Rule Britannia” all the way home.
At least I know I would have.
There are a few people, Garrett included, who were itching to sever ties well
before our colonial leaders banded together to declare independence. I guess
that’s what happens when you live in a town filled with idealistic students
filled with revolutionary ideas.
The College of New Jersey is
only three blocks away from us, which is very well for my father’s groceries
and goods shop, but maybe not so much for my brother’s temperament. He’s always
been the hotheaded member of our family of six.
At twenty-five, Richard is
the strong, silent one. Jacob is the mathematics-savvy businessman who can
manage the books like nobody else I know. Andrew is the wit; he can talk
himself out of any scrape, and he very rarely fails to make me laugh no matter
how bad of a mood I might be in. (I’m ashamed to say that I do have my bad
moods more often than I’d like.)
And then there’s Garrett,
who’s only fifteen months older than my seventeen years. He has the mind of a
scholar and the temper of a rabid wolf. I love him, but it’s true. And right
now, that disposition is scaring me almost as much as the thought of Hessians showing
up on our doorstep.
Which is saying a lot.
Because I am absolutely terrified of Hessians. They’re offensive on every
single level.
I don’t know why it alarms me
so badly to know that King George III thinks it necessary to hire such
despicable outsiders. He’s already made it very clear how little he thinks of
us otherwise, so I suppose it makes sense for him to utilize such wicked
measures. But I do find the decision particularly offensive nonetheless.
They’re utter beasts by all accounts, running their bayonets through unarmed
men who have already surrendered, chopping off heads and sticking them on
pikes, and yes, treating women with the utmost contempt as well.
Complete savages, every one
of them.
I nervously smooth down my
brown, woolen skirt. It’s not very cold out at all as of late. In fact, it’s
unseasonably warm, and so we only have a small fire going in the sitting-room
hearth. The physical temperature inside our home is quite comfortable, yet I
feel I’m liable to start sweating underneath my petticoats and simple, brown
bodice. My corset feels far too tight as well; and the hair along my exposed
arms, from just below my elbows to my wrists, is standing on end.
Hot or cold, however, I hike
up my neckline a little further. I’d rather be hot than showing too much skin
when the enemy soldiers come storming through our door.
We know they will. There’s no
question about it when they’re here to stay for as long as they like, and we
have such a spacious house. My family has always been proud of our home, and
what it says about us and our work ethic. But right now, I think I would much
prefer far less roomy accommodations, if only because they would make for a far
less attractive boarding option for presumptuous enemy soldiers.
I wish so badly that we could
have just left with my dearest friend, Ailish O’Doole, who took off yesterday
when we first got word that the British were on the move yet again. She and her
family were some of the last patriotic citizens to leave since The College of
New Jersey was shut down in sad anticipation of the inevitable. Most of the
other two hundred families in town cleared off days or even weeks ago, heading
wherever they could.
Ailish’s mother’s family lives
outside Philadelphia, about a day and a half’s travel away. They should be
arriving there right about now, even as their home here is probably being
looted four blocks down on the Post Road.
There is the very distinct
sound of boots tromping directly outside our home, and then Garrett needlessly
announces, “They’re here.” His fists are clenched at his side, and his usually
lanky self is rigid from head to toe.
Someone pounds on the front
door.
I expect it, yet I still jump
badly.
Beside me, Richard’s wife
Elizabeth lets out a small squeak of alarm, then clamps both hands against her
mouth like we can still somehow escape notice.
I brush my arm against hers
in what is supposed to be a comforting gesture, though it does not a single bit
of good. At least, I don’t feel comforted. And I’m fairly sure neither is she.
Letting the curtain fall from
his fingers, Garrett strides out of the sitting room. We women trail him
nervously, stopping just shy of the hallway while he crosses to the door,
throwing it open in challenge, not in greeting. As a result, a white-wigged
officer in full, flashy kit practically stumbles inside, his arm still raised
imperiously to knock a second time.
A pompous looking thing
already, perhaps about twenty-two, he doesn’t take kindly to Garrett’s
deliberate provocation. My eyes, already huge with apprehension, somehow manage
to widen further. I want to say something calming to my brother, but I’ve
already done so about forty times since we heard the news that the British were
coming. It didn’t do any good then, and I have no doubt it will do any more good
now.
The officer brushes past
Garrett imperiously, purposely knocking shoulders with him so that Garrett has
to take a step back. I trap a moan in the back of my throat, knowing that this
isn’t going to end well when it’s already beginning so dreadfully.
Sure enough, another seven
soldiers come tramping in, all in wigs and blood-red coats with their flared
lapels in the back and rows of shiny buttons in the front. Their pants and
undershirts are lily white, as I really hope their intentions are.
Judging by one of the
officers barging in before me, I’m not going to place any bets on that wish.
Not that I ever bet in the first place, but even I can see that the odds are
not in my favor.
The redcoat in question isn’t
very large. I’m just over five foot three, and I think he’s no more than six
inches taller than me. Hardly the most physically intimidating individual ever
to wear the uniform. Nor is it like he features any disgusting scars or
disfigurements that clearly mark him as a bounder and a cad. His powdered wig
is perfectly set, his tricorne hat tucked smartly under one arm, and his black
boots largely shined from toe to knee.
But that’s all to be expected
from an officer of His Majesty’s Royal Army. It’s his large blue eyes with
their long fringe of lashes that make him stand out, alarming me above and
beyond my initial forebodings. Truthfully, they’re fairly upsetting by
themselves, and they become even more so when they latch onto me, raking over
my topmost brown curl down to the bottom of my perfectly modest hemline. I
actually don’t get the impression that he’s going to drag me up the stairs and
ravish me right then and there, or even at all, but that doesn’t mean I
appreciate the attention one bit.
Neither does my brother.
“Abigail. Elizabeth,” Garrett
barks, backing up several steps closer to us in a purely territorial move.
We obediently edge toward him
as well. I usually take issue when he uses that tone with me. However, he isn’t
going to hear a peep of protest in this situation.
Another officer, this one
much taller with seemingly simple brown eyes and a giant nose that curves out
beaklike from his face, nods formally at the three of us.
“I apologize about our rude
entrance, but there’s no cause for alarm, I assure you.”
None of us Americans say a
word in reply, though for varying reasons. Garrett is seething, I can tell.
Elizabeth and I, meanwhile, are battling completely different emotions.
“My name is Captain Andrew
Sneeder,” he goes on. “And we’re in need of a place to stay for our time here
in Prince Town. I’m sure you don’t have a problem with us utilizing your
charming home?”
As nicely stated as it is,
with no rifles pointed at us and no threats explicitly stated, we Carpenters
know very well it isn’t a request. The men in front of us will take over the
place with or without our permission. It’s not like they and their countrymen
haven’t tried to force colonists to house them during peacetime – another issue
we’ve taken with the crown – so why would they hesitate to do so when we’re at
war?
Her voice quavering,
Elizabeth speaks up from behind Garrett. Knowing her youngest brother-in-law
for the last six years, she is well acquainted with his habits and mannerisms.
So she knows just as well as I that he was about to say something less than cordial.
Or intelligent, for that matter.
“No, of course not.” She
manages to speak with only a little tremor to her voice. “I only ask that you
gentlemen be mindful that my two young children live here as well.”
Those two precious darlings
are the reason why we’re still in town in the first place. Little James had
another bad bout of the croup yesterday into this afternoon, and none of us
wanted to risk moving him in that condition.
“Of course we’ll keep the
little ones in mind, ma’am,” Captain Sneeder assures smoothly. “How many rooms
do you have available?”
“We have six all told, two of
which we ask to keep for ourselves. My sister-in-law can stay with my children
and me to make more space for you and your officers.”
I cast a quick, grateful
glance at her. It isn’t like I want to give up my bedroom. Especially to some
slimy redcoat like the blue-eyed one still staring at me from along the
staircase, where he and his fellows have fanned out. Yet I know exactly what
she’s doing all the same. Grouped together with little Rebekah and James, we’ll
make a less attractive target for undesirable attention.
“I appreciate it greatly,
ma’am,” the captain states politely, like he has no idea that we have more than
just his comfort in mind. “In that case, I, Lieutenant Robert Caverish, Ensign
Christopher Matthews and Sergeant James Slasen will be staying here.”
My heart sinks further when
the blue-eyed man nods at us, but mostly at me. I have the distinct urge to
pull up my bodice once again. Beside him, Ensign Matthews and Sergeant Slasen
incline their heads as well.
I have to say that the ensign
looks entirely insipid, like he was meant to be a dandy and not a military man
at all. He’s probably the second son of some moderate-level nobleman over in
England who purchased him a commission because that’s the thing to do with
second sons of lords and earls and whatnot. His face is shaped like an inverted
egg, and his brown eyes are small in his face, radiating little but ignorance.
It isn’t a particularly attractive look on him, though at least it isn’t
invasive.
The much younger Sergeant
Slasen, on the other hand, is probably a decent gentleman when he isn’t shooting
at freedom-minded men or commandeering solid citizens’ households. His hazel
eyes are warm and friendly. And even if his nose is a little like one of those
lions from Africa I saw drawings of just last week, I don’t think he will cause
any more trouble than his very presence dictates.
I don’t care for him on
principle alone, but I would much rather have him sleep in my room than his
lieutenant.
“How soon can everything be
ready?” Captain Sneeder asks somewhat haughtily.
My gaze wanders over his
group once more, from the disconcerting blue-eyed man to the next redcoat and
the next. We’ve already hidden all the valuables we could under loose boards in
the kitchen pantry, and I usually do my best to keep a tidy house besides.
Considering that Elizabeth has been staying with us ever since Richard
enlisted, it’s been a much easier task, despite the fact that my typical house-help,
Janey Lynn, took off to Williamsburg, Virginia, two weeks ago.
“We’ll need just half an hour
to ready your rooms,” my sister-in-law states, her voice a little less unsteady
now.
“And a warm meal?”
Garrett’s shoulders somehow
manage to stiffen further. I can’t blame him. Housing the enemy is bad enough,
but feeding them too? I can’t say I’d rather die than suffer the injury, but
there are plenty of other activities I would much prefer. Even washing laundry
sounds more desirable.
It hits me in the next
instant that they will doubtlessly require us to handle that chore for them
too. Unlike my brother’s, my posture slumps significantly. I don’t mean to make
the movement so obvious, but I can feel Sergeant Slasen regard me with what
seems like genuine concern for delicate female sensibilities.
Somehow, I doubt that concern
would go so far as to wave the duty for me and take it on himself. If I weren’t
so despondent right now, that thought alone would have me in quite the snit.
Elizabeth is speaking over my
unhappy thoughts. “We can handle that as well, of course.”
“Good. Good.” Another nod
from Sneeder. “Much obliged. Missus?”
“Carpenter, Captain.”
“Missus Carpenter, then. We
won’t keep you any longer.”
In other words, we’re
dismissed and should see to our assigned duties immediately. The three of us
understand that, no matter how little we like it.
I suppose I should be
grateful, at least, that Garrett has somehow managed to restrain himself
overall. It isn’t like he’s been cordial by any means, but he hasn’t punched
anyone in the nose or mouthed off badly enough to land himself in the pillory,
as I honestly feared. He actually goes so far as to obey Captain Sneeder’s
politely-couched command to help out with the horses.
Thanks to my family’s usually
burgeoning business, we do have stables, even if those stables are now empty.
My father and older brothers took our horses when they left, of course. For the
cause.
At the time, I had been
rather sad to say goodbye to my white-legged mare, Hightail. But I’d much
rather have her out there with true patriots than being commandeered by the
likes of Sneeder. Or Caverish.
I try to put both men out of
my mind while I move my basic belongings from my room into Elizabeth’s, which
used to be Richard’s. Though it’s little surprise when I fail spectacularly in
that first goal.
Half an hour later, the
horses are watered and fed, the beds are all made and the children are checked
on. The twins are usually compliant little dears, and they aren’t making a
sound now that the house is occupied. Garrett is helping us women in the
kitchen, largely because the sitting room is completely occupied with officers,
who are lounging around with glasses of brandy they’ve hauled in from
somewhere. Despite the mere four men we are formally housing, all eight of them
are staying for supper.
Presumptuous lobsters with
their pretentious airs and obnoxious conversation.
When it comes to actually
serving them, Elizabeth and Garrett both tell me in no uncertain terms to tend
the remaining food while they bring the dishes out. Normally, we could just set
platters out on the table and let any guests – welcome or otherwise – serve
themselves, but I’m afraid we’ve lost some of our serving set to looters.
That happened when the
Continental Army was stationed in Princeton, which was up through this morning,
actually. Because of that, we had the good fortune to see my father and
brothers again, who welcomed a number of other soldiers to sleep in the sitting
room and such. Most of those individuals were
perfectly respectful, including one Lieutenant Benjamin Tallmadge, whom I took a particular liking to. A native of Setauket, New York, and a graduate of
Yale, he has the intellect of a scholar and the religious conviction of a
clergyman, which makes sense considering that his father is a pastor. I found
him to be quite entertaining, as he told me all about his time at college, where
he participated in a number of theatrical productions. That much was
delightfully scandalous, considering many people’s opinions that playacting is
downright sinful. He did, however, take the time to ask me my opinion on the
subject before he revealed any such details, and I told him truthfully that I
thought it mere frivolity and not wicked at all.
But that friendship aside,
there were some of his companions throughout the town who were quite rude and
made off with property not of their owning. What
in heaven’s name they should want with serving dishes, I don’t know. But we’re
without such niceties nonetheless, meaning that we’re left to more closely
serve Captain Sneeder and his men.
Or at least Garrett and
Elizabeth do. I’m left in the kitchen.
This leaves me walking a
straight line of about five yards between the six-foot hearth, where we have a
large cauldron of stew bubbling, and the kitchen table that I usually use for
meal preparations. I am genuinely not sure if I’ve been relegated to this space
because I’m a single woman, or because they’re taking more specific issue with
Caverish’s stares. Either way, coward that I am in this situation, I don’t
protest too much.
Here’s the thing about
cowards though: They usually run into some nastiness because of their weakness,
either in this life or the next. It’s fairly inevitable. So I don’t know why
I’m so surprised when it doesn’t go well for me.
I’m ladling out a scoop of
beef and barley stew into the next bowl for Elizabeth or Garrett to take out as
soon as they get back from their current trip. That’s when the kitchen door
slams open with a force that has me screaming and dropping the dish in my
hands. Steaming liquid splashes all over the bottom of my dress, though I don’t
feel any of it thanks to my layers of petticoats underneath. But while I don’t
get scalded, I’m not in the right frame of mind to be grateful for that bit of
providence, too busy staring open-mouthed at the latest uninvited guest.
It’s a Hessian if I have ever
seen one.
He looks nothing like I
expected him to, starting with how he’s not tall, only perhaps three inches
above my own height. The reports I’ve heard make the Hessians out to be brute
beasts with all but flashing eyes and horns on their heads. And this one is
actually slightly on the slender side, on top of being short.
He’s wearing a blue woolen
coat with a red collar, cuffs and lapels; a tannish vest and similarly colored
breeches; and a bewilderingly high hat that slopes into a brass point at the
top. For some reason, that last detail is exceptionally alarming to my
terrified brain, though not as much as his utterly black mustache, which
practically shines in the firelight from the hearth.
Standing there in my kitchen
doorway, he doesn’t approach me. Saying nothing to quiet my nerves, he only
regards me with utter disdain. Long after the moment passes, I am quite sure I
can explain the thoughts running through his head based on his expression in
that moment. If he could speak English, I’m sure he’d be saying something along
the lines of, “Here’s another one of those ridiculous colonists shrieking for
no good reason. No wonder they’re losing so miserably.”
In my defense, civilized
people don’t go barging into other people’s homes. And so my responding shriek
is loud enough, I’m sure, to hear from the next house down. I’m certain of it.
My brother is at my side in short order, with Elizabeth on his heels.
Sadly though, they’re not
nearly quick enough.
Sergeant Slasen beats them
both into the kitchen. What he’s doing outside, I don’t know. Perhaps using the
outhouse. But he’s nevertheless the closest to me and the fastest. Which proves
to be my household’s undoing.
He pushes past the Hessian
with a commanding “Move aside!” before addressing me, one hand going so far as
to press against my back. “Are you alright, Miss Carpenter?”
I suppose I must look like
I’m about to faint, because his face is looming close to mine, his expression
set in genuine concern. Of course, that has to be the moment Garrett barges in,
looking particularly panicked. I don’t know how he manages to not notice the
Hessian with his absurd and horrible hat, but he doesn’t nonetheless, seeing
only me practically in the arms of one of our uninvited guests.
“Get away from my sister!” He
shouts, grabbing onto the sergeant with one arm and cocking his other hand back
in a clearly menacing fist.
Since I can’t seem to speak
past that first scream, I don’t get the chance to explain that Slasen was only
trying to help. That he hadn’t been attacking me like Garrett is doubtlessly
assuming.
My brother’s knuckles are
already slamming into the officer’s face.
Elizabeth is pulling me away,
and other people are streaming in, and it is one enormous mess of a scene. Men
are shouting and two of them drag Garrett off of their friend, who is trying to
explain what really happened, completely ignoring his slightly split lip and
angrily reddened cheek.
Through my stupor, I somehow
manage to recognize that Slasen will have quite the bruise in the morning. My
brother evidently didn’t hold back. Which isn’t surprising. He usually doesn’t.
It also isn’t surprising how
poorly the situation progresses from there. It is exactly as I predicted. I can
only be surprised that something else didn’t spark a fight sooner.
“Is this how you repay our
hospitality?” Held fast by two redcoats, my brother is spitting, he’s so mad. “After
forcing your presence on this house, you try to –”
“No!” Slasen interrupts
desperately. “Captain Sneeder, I would never! I heard Miss Carpenter scream;
and when I ran into the kitchen, I thought she was going to faint. That’s all!”
I finally manage to pull
myself together enough to try to say something intelligent. But Sneeder starts
speaking before I get anything out.
“Take him to the College of
New Jersey’s Nassau Hall. Parts of it, I’m told, are being used as a prison for
dissenters and the like.”
“No!” This is all going
wrong, and it’s all my fault. If I had only screamed a little more quietly at
that dreadful Hessian’s ill-mannered entrance. “It was a misunderstanding.
Please, Captain, I’m sure it won’t happen again!”
“Captain,” Elizabeth implores
beside me. “I’m begging you to show some compassion. Surely you can understand
why a brother would want to come to his younger sister’s aid?”
“Ma’am,” Sneeder says,
regarding her over his beak of a nose with unflinching resolve. “With all due
respect, I cannot understand nor tolerate the striking of an officer in His
Majesty’s service. This action cannot go unpunished, if for nothing else than
setting a poor standard.”
I start crying. I don’t want
to cry, but I do nonetheless. I can’t help myself. It’s already been such a
trying day, right from the very beginning when we heard the official news that
Lord Cornwallis was indeed marching thousands of troops into town.
Elizabeth presses me into her
shoulder like I’m one of the babies upstairs. “But, Captain.”
“Missus Carpenter, I will
thank you to tend to your business and leave me to tend to mine.” And just like
that, he whirls on his heel and walks out the door back whence he came.
The Hessian follows him, just
as silent as he came in. I can see his long, long hair drawn into a tightly
bound ponytail that drops all the way down to his waist. That detail, like his
tall brass hat and mustache, is so foreign to me that I cry even harder.
With clear orders set out in
front of them, the two redcoats restraining my brother drag him away. It is
Ensign Matthews with his beady little eyes, and one of the other ones who won’t
be staying with us. I don’t know his name, nor do I care.
Garrett struggles. He’s held
his temper long enough today, and has no real reason to tone it down now when
he’s already headed for prison. My only consolation in the whole mess is that
at least it isn’t a regular prison. It’s a college building. And while some of
our own troops didn’t take care of it the way they should have while they were
there, it still shouldn’t be infested with rats and other vermin the way that
Princeton’s regular lockup probably is.
This one reassurance isn’t
enough to keep me from sobbing aplenty, completely useless as I huddle on my
father’s carefully wrought wooden floors while Elizabeth is forced to finish
serving the remaining officers their stew. Her face is very tight the whole
time, and she very nearly loses her temper when Slasen stays behind a moment to
offer his apologies yet again.
In his defense, he looks
utterly miserable for playing any part in the debacle.
In my defense, I’m not in any
state of mind to care about his guilty conscience. And apparently, my normally
mild-mannered sister-in-law isn’t either. She doesn’t yell at him the way she
clearly wants to. I can see it on her face even through my tears. Instead, she
tells him coolly that he has done enough, and informs him she’ll have his
supper out in a minute.
It’s as direct a dismissal as
she dares in that moment, and he follows it like the order she means it to be.
She might not have spoken the words “If you’re any kind of gentleman, you’ll
leave us be;” but there is more than one way to express a sentiment, and she
utilizes practically every other means possible.
I doubt King George himself
could have couched a command so exquisitely.
Clearly,
I can’t claim any such skills.
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