On a quiet Monday afternoon, James braces himself and pulls back on the printing pressâs lever.Â
Sarah is not watching him. She does not notice at all that his sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, because she is not in the slightest bit fascinated by the sight of his forearms. She definitely doesnât feel a flicker of something in her stomach at the way his shoulders flex each time he prints a page.
She is not watching him because if she were to watch him, she might think back to the feeling of his chest pressed flush against hers, the printing press solid against her back, with nowhere for her to move except closer towards him.
These thoughts are decidedly unladylike. Theyâre becoming something of a problem.
âAh!â James cries out. He must have spilled a bottle of ink or caught his shirt in the press again.
Except when she looks up, heâs grasping his shoulder, his face contorted in pain.
The sharp comment she had planned fades from her mind. Her needlework clatters to the floor. Sheâs halfway across the room before she has time to think better of it.
âWhat happened?â
âIâm fine,â he says, but the strain in his voice suggests otherwise.
âIs it your shoulder?â
âIâm fine.â
Thereâs a blotch of red forming at the seam of his shirt, just under his waistcoat, and it takes Sarah a moment to understand that heâs cut himself on one of the metal parts that holds the contraption together.
âLet me see.â
âIâm fine,â he insists again. He isnât.
She musters up her most authoritative voice and tells him, sternly, âSit. Youâre injured.â
It beggars belief that he actually lets her guide him toward a chair.
âTake your waistcoat off.âÂ
That makes his face do something complicated that she doesnât have time to work out. After a moment he moves to fumble with the buttons, wincing as he moves his arm.
There is a lot of blood.
She collects herself enough to peel his shirt away from the wound to assess the damage. She has to lean over him, which means that sheâs close enough to feel his knees through her skirts.Â
She canât think about that right now.
âHere,â she says, tearing off a piece of the clean part of his shirt and pushing it against the gash. Itâs stained red almost immediately.
âHey!â James protests, probably because sheâs destroyed his shirt without asking, but itâs not like he could wear it again anyway.
âWould you prefer to bleed to death?â
âItâs not that bad.â
It is, though, and she doesnât think sheâs imagining that his face is more pallid than usual. âYou need a doctor.â
âIâm fine.â
She lifts the piece of fabric, just to check, and grimaces at the sight. âI think you need stitches.â
âAnd what, pray tell, qualifies you to make that assessment?â
âI have eyes,â she mutters, pushing the cloth into his shoulder, trying to staunch the bleeding, and trying not to think about the way his pulse picks up in response.
He dislikes her. She knows he dislikes her. He may have softened a bit, ever since her falling out with Peggy and that night when he caught her at the press, but they both know itâs only because he canât completely demonize her now that he knows her political views are more complex than some sort of sense of filial obligation for the crown.
But she doesnât think sheâs imagining the way his gaze slips to her mouth and then her breasts.
âHold this,â she says, taking his hand and guiding it to replace hers on the cloth. She doesnât think about the way his fingers feel in hers. âIâll fetch Dr. Rush.â
He jolts forward before she can pull away, clasping her wrist with his free hand. âWait!â
She needs to leave. He needs a doctor.
Sheâs transfixed by the feeling of his hand on her wrist. Heavens, what is wrong with her?
âI donât have funds for a physician,â James says.
âIâll pay for it.â She doesnât hesitate.
He meets her gaze. âCanât â canât you do it?â
âWhat?â She supposes the blood loss has rendered him completely insane.
âYou can sew.â
âFabric,â she grits out. âEmbroidery. Not human skin.â
He glances down at his shoulder. Sarah tracks the motion. The strip of cloth is soaked through.
She squeezes her eyes shut. She canât leave him like this; it will take at least twenty minutes to leave and return with the doctor, and thatâs if Dr. Rush isnât occupied with another patient.
âIâve no medical training,â she whispers.
âYouâll do fine.â
âItâs going to hurt,â she warns. âAnd it might get inflamed anyway.â
His hand is still on her wrist. âI trust you.â
Her heart thrums a little crescendo at that, or maybe at the insanity of what sheâs about to do.
She reaches for his shirt and rips off another strip of cloth, except she misjudges her strength and finds herself with a length of linen in her hand and the two sides of his shirt hanging open, his chest bare from collarbone to navel.
âOh,â she breathes. He tenses at the sound. She can see the motion in the muscles of his abdomen. The hair on his chest is a shade darker than his head, more light brown than gold. She stares.
His breathing is labored. Right. The blood. She needs to â needs to â
Needs to stop being a simpering ninny.
She thrusts the clean strip at him, hurriedly telling him to hold it in place, while she retreats to the kitchen. It takes her two tries to remember which cabinet Moses uses to store the liquor they only bring out for special occasions, and then she draws up a bucketful of wellwater.
She pours what she thinks is a respectable amount of gin into a glass for James, but he takes the bottle from her and doubles it. Sheâs not sure any amount of strong drink will really dull the pain, but she gets distracted by the movement of his Adamâs apple as he swallows.
I trust you.
She isnât sure she trusts herself.
Still, she dips a clean piece of fabric in the water and pushes what remains of his shirt aside to survey the situation. He hisses when she dabs at the edge of the wound.
âSorry.â
âItâs fine,â he says.Â
She is nowhere even remotely approaching âfine.â This feels too intimate, too close, and sheâs not sure either of them miss the fact that leaning over him like this places her breasts precisely at his eye level.
âRight,â she says, steeling her nerves for the terrifying bit. âIâll â er â fetch a needle.â
She has clearly completely lost her mind.
She settles on black thread â she supposes theyâll need to cut the stitches loose once his skin has started to heal, so the contrast will help â and returns to James.
He removes the cloth for her. She doesnât know how so much blood could come from a single wound. It must hurt. A lot.
She leans forward and hesitates.
âItâs alright,â James encourages, which is an insane thing to say in this circumstance.
âI need a better angle,â she mutters, because leaning over him like this blocks the light, and sheâll have to hold her arm at an uncomfortable angle to reach him.
She crouches in front of him, but this position doesnât work either; sheâll have to reach up too high â
âFor Christâs sake,â he says, using his free hand to take her by the upper arm and guide her back up to standing. âJust sit.â
Except thereâs nowhere to sit, unless â no. Thereâs no possible way.
âYou canât meanââ
âI think we are past the point of propriety,â he says, and she wonders how much of this is the gin versus the lack of bloodflow to his brain.
But heâs right, and a droplet of blood has started working its way down his chest, so she settles herself down on his thighs, turning herself to face his shoulder.
His chest pressed against hers. Her back against the printing press.
Focus.
Sheâs not sure if heâs aware that his free hand has landed on her waist, but every nerve in her body is on high alert. Sheâs going to have wicked dreams about this later.
âEr. Right. R-ready?â God, she hopes her hand holds steadier than whateverâs happening with her voice right now.
He nods and clenches his jaw and she tries her best not to think about the fact that they really should have had a physician do this.
It takes twelve stitches. James does a remarkably adept job at remaining still, even though he must be in agony, and Sarah wonders what other kinds of pain heâs been forced to endure.
She ties a knot at the end of the thread. Snips the rest off with a pair of scissors. Task completed.
Which means that now she is sitting in a shirtless manâs lap for no reason at all.
She needs to extricate herself.
âThank you,â James says, running a finger over the sutures.
âRight. Yes. Of course.â She sounds like a lunatic. She wants to place her hands against his bare chest.
He catches her staring. Itâs only fair, really, given the way he was trying to see down the front of her top earlier.Â
Slowly, almost experimentally, he reaches forward and brushes a strand of hair out of her face.
âFuck,â he breathes, and sheâs pretty sure thatâs the gin talking, because heâs usually careful not to swear in front of her. âI need to get you out of my system.â
He might as well have set her on fire. She feels it in all the places heâs touching her. Some of the ones he isnât.
He must realize what heâs just said, because he jerks away from her and says, in a rush, âSorry â I didnât mean ââ
But Sarah has clearly lost her mind, because instead of telling him off, she says, âWell. We could give it a try.â
âWhat?â
She levels one of her looks at him, the kind she gives him when heâs being particularly dense about something. âYou have a very serviceable appearance.â Understatement. âAnd from the way youâve been looking at me you must find me tolerable enough.â
âTolerable?â
She shifts her position so sheâs astride him, a foot on either side of his legs, her skirts billowing out around them both. She rests her hands on his shoulders, careful to avoid his injury. The motion presses her up against him, only the layers of her clothing separating her skin from his.
âThis is a bad idea,â he says, but it comes out breathy.
âProbably,â she agrees.
âYouâre a Tory.â
âMmhm.â
âYour father will murder me.â
âThat is the very last person I want to talk about right now.â She canât stand not touching him, so she drags her fingers down his chest. The sound he makes is almost like a growl. She wants to hear it again.
âYou might murder me.â
âJames Hiller. If you donât move your hands this instant Iâllââ
His mouth crashes against hers and she smiles, despite herself. Theyâve been dancing around this for months, ever since that night at the press, and oh, yes, itâs absolutely worth it.
Heâs done this before; she can tell. She feels a surge of jealousy for those other women, which is ridiculous, because itâs not like this means anything. Theyâre just â how did he put it? â getting each other out of their systems.
Still, heâs being far too gentlemanly. His hands havenât moved from her waist, even as his tongue makes the briefest of contacts against hers.
She needs more. The next time he captures her lower lip between his, she rocks her hips forward, seeking out friction against his breeches.
He stills beneath her. Pulls back and rests his forehead against hers. âWait.â
She huffs, frustrated. âIâm not a complete innocent,â she whines, because she has kissed a few boys. Mostly Peggyâs friends, when theyâd sneak away from the Shippensâ dinner parties. One time Frederick Haversham slipped a hand up under her jacket.
James lets out a quiet laugh. âYouâll have to tell me those stories another time.â
She should probably be offended, but instead thereâs a surge of heat at the idea of it, of letting him know all the things she was supposed to keep private for her reputationâs sake.
âThen why are we stopping?â
âBecause I donât think either of us want a customer walking in on this?â
âOh. Right.â
He pushes her to a stand. She misses the contact with him immediately.
And then he says, far too nonchalantly for the occasion, âThe storeroom door locks.â
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Private Fitzhugh watched him idly, feet propped up on Dr. Franklinâs desk like it was his own. James tightened his grip on the counter.
âBit odd to have a print shop without a press, innit?â
His Majestyâs army was the greatest in the world. It was also steadily creating an enemy out of the populace. And all that anger would have to go somewhere, eventually.
To absolutely nobody's surprise, epilogue part 2 has now breached 16k words and has become way too big for a single chapter. So, with very little convincing, I've split it up again.
This is the penultimate chapter of ATNH. One more, and FINALLY we will be finished!
Oops it's been like 4 months since I've updated but I am in fact alive and slowly chipping away at this so here have a sneak peek:
âYou must miss home.â
Sarah swallowed. âI miss my mother, of course. But Philadelphia has its charms.â
âI look forward to returning to civilization,â the officer said. âSoon as these colonists get over their silly ideas of independence.â
âIâm not so sure they will.âÂ
Peggy examined her fingernails. âIâm a colonist and Iâm tired of this war.â
The officer nodded in acknowledgment. âTheyâll accept our terms. Weâve captured their capital city, after all.â
âWith respect, I fear that things have changed too much.â
âCareful, Miss Phillips,â Peggy said. Her tone was playful, but there was a thin line of ice beneath it. âOne might think you have grown sympathetic to the traitors.â
âOf course Iâm not,â she said, feeling her face turn hot. âItâs only⊠you may occupy their homes, but you wonât win over their hearts and minds.â
Ooooh ya girl got a bit carried away with this one. And then she realized she got some of her timelines wonky lol. Imagine they are staying at some encampment in Virginia along the James River before rolling up to Richmond in November 1780.
Early fall, 1780
The River James runs low, a consequence of so many days without rain. Sheâs long been acclimated to it; to the sun, and the blue skies, and the sweetgrasses turned to hay (or tinder) in mere weeks. Besides, she neednât an almanac to know it should rain soon. It always does.
Light pools on the dark horizon like a band of molten metal. The waterâs surface is smooth as glass, disturbed only by the occasional eddy, fallen leaf, or branch. Along the muddy bank, sheltered under the spreading canopy of sycamore, sweetgum, and poplar, Sarah can finally snuff her lantern and revel in her secrecy. The picket guard is accustomed to these dark morning wanderings of hers; they no longer tense at her leaving, though she always makes sure to return after daybreak, when the locusts have awoken and the sun reveals her as nothing more than a fastidious young woman gone for a bathe.
And, from the way sheâs seen both James and Henri glare at the more bucksome soldiers about camp, she has little cause to fear unwelcome interlopers; her privacy is well-assured. There are some benefits to keeping the boys around.
A quick survey of the scene, as well as an attentive silence as she listens to the woods behind her, confirms that she is by her lonesome. Nothing more ado, she slips out from underneath every garment until the morning air blooms along the length of her bare body. The sensation never fails at stirring her lips to smile. If only high London society could see her now! A daughter of Brittania, stripped to the skin with all the cheerful abandon of an American. Good sense might dictate she at least keep her shift on, but how could it be sensible to forever deny herself the rising sunâs touch, or the caress of flowing water?
The river is cool when she splashes through the shallows, but only just. An entire summerâs worth of sunshine has rendered the whole a most pleasant bath. As she carefully picks her way further, water streaming all around her abdomen, it takes no time for shock to melt away. The riverbed is mostly sand beneath her heel, but boulders buckle through the earth every which way, their surface prime bedding for prickly water grass; the texture on her feet is but a trifling bother.
When she roams beyond the shade, the dazzled reflection of sunlight on the waterâs surface casts itself unto the riverbed like ribbons of gold filigree. Submerged to her chest, her motions have grown sluggish and contented. The indolent gush of the current around her flesh slowly massages her joints, and the weightlessness of water relieves them of every earthly strain.
She finds herself nearly halfway across before the riverbed dips deep and she can no longer see the bottom for the murk. Water up to her neck, she closes her eyes and loosens her limbs; she half-stands, half-treads water with just enough vigor to keep suspended in place.
The air she tastes and the landscape she hears is all water, fresh water, gushing its heedless flow from the mountains to the sea. The more she quiets her body, the more she feels herself dissolve into the current; the more the world turns from burning saltpeter, sour brimstone, and coppery blood to flowing water.
All around, the shapes of sunfish dart to-and-fro between rocks in their modest schools, scattered by the slightest disturbance but always forming back together. The shadow of a hulking catfish passes by with sublime disinterest. Distant splashes herald a feeding frenzy, bass pouncing at hapless insects come to rest on the waterâs surface. Somewhere in the murky, shadowy deep, an ancient snapping turtle sleeps in his cave of waterlogged tree trunks and stones. Far across the river, a flock of ducks paddle about, sometimes dunking themselves head-first into the water for morning victuals. The elegant shape of a heron stands stoic atop a boulder jutting out of the water; from somewhere high above, an osprey whistles to her mate.
Sarah stills in the river for a length of time she does not care to measure. The world about her, made so real and so pitched by the purity of sensation, is yet dreamlike. Ageless seasons, ageless water; mud older than mankind, older than war, older than life and older than time.
When she stirs her consciousness to attention, a curious bluegill has taken to softly nipping at her leg hairs. Dawn is risen to a full-bodied gold and a choir of insects shimmers the treetops behind her. The heron takes to wing, croaking its morning song.
Suddenly, the unmistakable sour notes of tobacco smoke touch her senses. Her blood freezes in her veins. She whips round, disturbing the water with a great splash, and glares across the river, ready to cry havoc at whoever dares violate a womanâs peace.
Deep in the riverbank shadows, behind the glowing cherry of the offending pipe, a familiar smile parts the lips of a familiar face. Sarah lets out her held breath in a great, exasperated heave; she nearly dips below the surface for the force of her relief. Carried across the water, she hears the sound of his chuckle, and she casts him another glare. The temptation to upbraid him is great, but she doesnât dare reveal herself to the world any more than she already has.
And so, she retraces her watery path through the stones and mud. Jamesâ face comes into full relief under a sweetgumâs dappled shade. Heâs lounged upon a boulder, cloaked in insouciance, bare feet and calves dipped into the shallows. His stockings, shirt, waistcoat, and summer coat lie mixed in with Sarahâs clothing. Despite her exasperation, she canât help but stare appreciatively at his bare chest.
âMornânâ tâye, Sarah,â he croons softly on her approach, smoke trickling from his lips, his gaze wandering up and down her body as she emerges. She feels beads of river water stream down the curves of her skin like a hundred caressing fingertips; involuntarily, her nipples harden. A wave of effervescent lust warms her belly at the welcome sight of his breeches tenting.
âHow the bloody hell did you find me?â Sarah mutters back, torn between the desire to chastise his audacity, or to settle herself fully in his lap. Jamesâs eyes flick up from where theyâd tracked a jewel of water slipping in between the curves of her thighs. He gives her a petulant look.
âAre you not pleasâd tâsee me, Miss Phillips?â
âNot half as pleasâd as you, it seems.â
James lets out a devious giggle and ashes his pipe, just in time for Sarah â all pantherine grace â to slink in for the kill, leaning over him, running a finger down his chest and along the hard, throbbing curve trapped in its fabric prison; she smiles like a huntress at his intake of breath.
Then, her lips softly brushing his in a heated whisper: âOff with your britches, Mister Hiller, or I shall be obliged to tear them off.â
They make a lazy morning of it. Mounted astride him, she luxuriates in the motion of their bodies slowly rocking against each other, the delectable ache of his eager, swollen member spreading her from deep within, his breathless groans tickling her into exponentially heated displays of ardor. By the time theyâve finished each other off, all paroxysm and unvoiced cries, a fine film of sweat coats their skin. When a breeze whispers through the sycamores, its chill sobers them to the present.
Loathe to give up the riverâs charms quite yet, Sarah returns to the water, only to find James joining her, his expression soft as butter as he follows her lead. Approaching the depths at the riverâs heart, he then gathers her up in his arms and ventures further, her body close to weightless. He finds a large, half-submerged rock formation to lean against. At last, boneless and content, Sarah relaxes into him, the sound of his heartbeat joining the river as it swirls all around them. Her eyes close when his fingertips rake down her shoulder and arm.
âI know âtis some time away, but⊠I donât want to leave.â
His confession comes out a sigh. Sarah leans back a little bit in his arms, tilting her head up at him. The look he gives her is arresting; her heart flutters with the weight of it.
âCan you not stay, James?â she whispers back. âWhy not write Moses. Have you truly no freedom in this matter?â
âOne of us must report on the Carolinas,â he hums, though the words give him no pleasure. His shoulders disturb the water when he shrugs.
They both quiet, for a moment taken with the ever-present song of the river. Absently, Sarah traces the hairs on his chest with a finger.
âWhy not follow me thither?â he asks at length, voice a bare murmur.
Sarahâs heart plummets, and when he gazes her with that merciless yearning, she wants to let her tears flow free.
âIt would be remiss to neglect Virginia,â she answers timidly. âOr to foul the Gazetteâs opportunity at Tuckahoe. Have we not been separated before?â
âIâll be gone fer the Army up north after this assignment. âTwill be nigh on a year before I see you again!â
James lets out a snort. She glances up from his chest, but heâs looked away, the corner of his eyes flashing. She cannot ignore the ugly sensation twined deep in her body.
âI know.â She sighs, and watches Jamesâ shoulders sag. When he looks back at her, his expression has turned despondent.
âThis whole affair is a misârable sack of horseshite.â
âI know.â
They breathe out almost in unison. He gathers her close in his arms once more, rests his forehead on hers.
âMore than once, I thought Iâd lost you foreâer,â he renews, voice quivering with emotion as they nuzzle. âThat neâer would I look on yer face again. âTis an agony I can hardly bear.â
âYou wonât lose me again, James.â
âSarahâŠâ
âYou wonât lose me.â
âAnd should you die, what then?â James runs a hand through her hair to hold her neck, his voice grown bold. âWill you not run onto battlefields like always? To leave you here, in the very pitch of campaign, for God-only-knows how long! I should be with you, or you should be with me. None of this is right.â
Her heart almost breaks when she hears his words crack. Still, she gathers all the resolve in her body to level him with a hearty look.
âI will not die, James Hiller,â she declares.
âYou cannot make that promise.â
âI can, and I shall.â
Despite his skepticism, something wild burns in his eyes at the pledge. She watches his gaze bore into hers, searching, pleading, overpowering. It almost unnerves her.
And then â
âMarry me, Sarah.â
The only hint that the world has not careened to a halt is the river flowing all around them. Her stomach backflips as it flutters; her heart pounds and her blood runs like fire. So suddenly weak, she can only find language enough for a stammer.
âI â you â we â â
âOnly think!â he pleads, his grip on her grown stronger, his eyes inflamed. âWhat if I die? What if you die?â
âJames â thatâs â â
âI cannot stomach a life where I missâd the chance to be a husband to you. A lawful one, not just in words.â
His voice is a heated rush of breath against her skin. Sarahâs throat has gone dry; her entire being is caught up, trapped, suspended between a cold shriek of terror and what might very well be the greatest swell of excitement she ever has felt in twenty-two years of life.
âWe can ask the chaplain,â he stammers anew. âIf he will not marry us, surely there is a chapel nearby that will â â
âJames,â she croaks, pain getting the better of her voice. Itâs enough to stay his pleading for the moment; she can hardly look him in the eye. âI would â this very moment I would have you! OnlyâŠâ
âOnlyâŠ?â
Her heart breaks at the pain creeping into his hope.
Please donât misunderstand, I love you, I love you, I â
âThe war â and my father â my family ââ she manages to stutter. She draws a breath. âI donât want to make a rash decision,â
âThis is no âprentice boyâs whim, Sarah Phillips. You cannot begin to know how I have thought over the matter. I have loved you for so long, I scarce can image a time I did not.â
She cannot interpret the feeling on his face nor the low burn of his voice. Giddy with nerves, her stomach burning bright with a dawning courage, she looks him in the eye. She runs a hand along his jaw. She tries not to cry, and she speaks.
âI will have you, James Hiller, as you will have me. Only grant me this: when this conflict is over, and we know where our nation stands â then will you ask me to marry you.â
For a moment, the river alone answers her, a hundred gushing currents carried over a hundred miles. The sky dances forever in his eyes. The sun rises.
âAye, Sarah. We will be married then.â
Then his lips, warm and soft and tasting of smoke and sweetness and the future, press into hers, and they sink into each otherâs arms.
Oh and I want to fight all the Gen Z kids who are like âteehee, weâll just do lavender marriages instead!â Some of us are adults who want equal rights and protections under the law of our land.
Yeah, we wanted legal marriages because your spouse's horrid family could show up, get you kicked out of the hospital, steal all of their stuff, and there was nothing you could do about it.
When my wife went in for surgery before we got married, it was me and her horrifically homophobic mother in the surgery center waiting room and I knew without a doubt that if anything went wrong, I would be expected to leave without any access to her belongings, the pictures of us on her phone, or the funeral itself, and the obituary would not mention me or our relationship at all.
And that was after almost a decade of marriage equality! The fear and anxiety leading up to that surgery and the recovery process after reinforced for me just how important marriage can be. Itâs a form of self-determination.
Also uh not to be unromantic on main but... gay divorce
If you co-own a house with your spouse and get divorced, that counts as marital property that gets divided. The state can make one of you buy the other out or force a sale of the house and divide the proceeds.
If you co-own a house with someone to whom you are not married, tough luck. The state can't force someone to sell a house against their will. If your ex ditches, you and your credit score are still on the hook for the mortgage.
If you get divorced and then die, your beneficiaries (kids, siblings, whoever) inherit your half of that house. If you aren't married and the house has a survivorship deed, your ex gets to keep the whole house. Yes, there's legal paperwork you can file to get around this, but who is thinking about breaking up when they're buying a house with their significant other?
There's no alimony if you were never married. No right to things like ex-spousal social security benefits. Do you want a state that re-banned gay marriage to be deciding child custody issues for gay couples?
Marriage isn't about you and your partner it's about both of you and the state.
I'm two years late to this but if you follow me for LK content you need to watch this show.
Come for the romance and banter, stay for the bonkers medical/heist drama and hoop skirts. Episode 1 gets a little "not-like-other-girls"-y but they manage to course correct and the rest of the series is delightful and also I want nothing but the best for Fanny.
âShh.â Sarah reached for his hands, running her thumbs over his palms. âIf itâs not the right family, weâll only take up a few minutes of their time.â
But what if it is the right one and they donât want to see me?
One of these days I will stop coming up with fic details that involve knowing when and where various food sources were available pre-refrigeration but today is apparently not that day
amandla
theartofmadeline
titsay
2087
ellievsbear
