*A man who appears to be a British officer is walking by. Curiously, he isn't wearing a wig, even though nearly all the British army men in Setauket wear them. How odd. Either way, though, this is a good opportunity to suck up to British officers see if there's anything he can do to help the army.*
-( @capt-samuel-wheeler )
Cypress perked up when he took note of this, fiddling about with his appearance for a moment, though he had no reference to gauge how he looked, he believed he looked decent enough to interact with a British officer, and approached the man. This ought to be good.
Ah, good day sir. I don't suppose we've met yet, have we? Cypress Sonnet, at your service, and at the King's command. I'm available to any sort of service you may require.
*There was a knock at the door of Cam's temporary room, before the door was hesitantly opened. In the small crack (since he'd been courteous enough not to open it fully), Cam could see a certain officer peeking through.
Pardon me, but I heard you weren't.. well. I thought I might see how you were.
- Capt. Simcoe
Cam blinked, half-heartedly wiping at their eyes as if it would help them hide the fact they were crying, sniffling as they tried to push their hair out of their face. If the nightmare hadn't stuck to their brain as well as it did, they might've felt more guilty.
You didn't need to bother, I'm— I'm fine. I'll be fine.
The claim of being alright was starting to feel a bit overdone at this point, a choked back sob turning into a hiccup that shook their body as they tried to hide their face from the man behind the door.
It's nowhere near done yet, but I decided I'm still going to be posting what I'm working on on here. I've changed some stuff from what I'd first posted and I like looking at the changes and my progress. Also, I just finished a scene that was particularly challenging for me and that I really struggled with, and I think I'll feel better by unleashing it somewhere, even if only 2 people end up reading it, lol. It'll help me get it out of my system even more.
So, here's what I've got so far. I would really appreciate some constructive criticism. Like I said on my previous posts, English isn't my first language (even the dialogue formatting is different!), I haven't written anything in years (thank you, PTSD!) and this is my very first fanfic.
Also, while I'm basing it around that scene in S01E02 where Simcoe is tied up and about to be executed by Ben and Caleb, there are a LOT of changes to the canon (I mean besides inserting an OC that's horny for Simcoe lol), mostly the timeline around events and stuff, so please, just ignore those lol I needed to fuck with that because of... plot reasons. (And if you don't want to deal with my ramblings, I will be tagging all of these as "#void writes" so you can just mute that 👍)
edit: the scene in the cellar with abe is going to be heavily rewritten, i think. i'm really not happy with it.
Here it goes! (it's around 6k words so far)
The cellar door slammed shut behind her startled her like a gunshot. She took a deep breath, trying to brave what was waiting for her down the stairs. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, the first thing she took in was the smell of wet soil and rust. Trying to momentarily shift her attention to the phantom steps down, she carried on with unsure feet, mindful about not tripping. She couldn’t stomach the thought of falling on her knees before him like that. Not there, not then. When she reached the bottom, there he was, the man she was afraid of.
At the same time, there was the man that she was afraid for. And it pained her to admit it.
At first glance one might think her fear was not misdirected. What terror could possibly impart a bound man? Restrained like he was? One could only fear for him, pity him. Even if he’d been an actual chained beast, rattling the bars of its cage, she didn’t have it in her heart to feel anything but sorry for the thing. In the end, the only concern is if the cage and chains will resist the beast’s brute force. But this was only a man, even if great in size, arms raised, hands tied tightly above his head. A man that as soon as she set foot in the cellar, smiled gently at her, and uttered her name in delight. Her lips quivered at the relief she could taste in his soft spoken greeting.
But she knew better. Might as well try her odds with a different beast. People who pitied restrained individuals by default had never met a man like John Graves Simcoe.
And she’d been locked alone in a cellar with him.
“I hope you can forgive me,” the captive said. “I never thought we would meet under such circumstances, and most certainly never hoped for you to have to see me in such a dismal state. I must admit I’m quite embarrassed.” He whispered a weak chuckle, “Are you well?”. She nodded, trying to avert his inquiring gaze. “Good. They promised me they wouldn’t harm you. But you know, one cannot really trust these contemptible rebels, considering how badly they treat a fellow officer. Excuse me”.
He started to move his massive frame, as if he was trying to stand upright. She was unsure of whether she should try to help him, and approach him, or to take a step back. That was usually the case with Simcoe.
He had been dangling from his restrained hands in defeat, not using his feet to support him fully. The torture was apparent on his broken body, yet he still smiled at her through a bloody lip and heavy eyelids. Poor thing must’ve been exhausted and immensely uncomfortable. Who knows how many hours it had been? Ben and Caleb had refused to tell her. And yet, the leftover fragments were making an effort to stand, for her. After all, not even attempting to do so would have been discourteous. Not only that, but having her meet him under such abysmal conditions was already audacious enough, he needn’t make her put up with more rudeness.
“There. Much better”. Towering over her even more now, he smiled at her again, pleased with himself. “Anyway, I could not express the solace I find in your mere presence. It’s the only kindness I’ve been granted during my captivity” he sighed. Against her own convictions, she reveled in the earnestness she could hear in his faint confession. Or something that felt like earnestness, at least.
When he wasn’t broken, like this, when he was in good health, strong and fierce, he was still always fragmented. A puzzle with marbles for pieces. And after having spent such a long time with him, after having looked into his piercing eyes for longer than anyone had ever dared to, shared so many bottles of his favorite sherry, laughs, gifts, a bed, nights, mornings, she wanted to believe that she had finally learned to read him, and like no one else ever had. She had to. Still, she knew she could never be sure, his true intentions always a mystery of their own.
And while she still couldn’t bear to look him in the eye, she had never stopped feeling his gaze engulfing her ever since she’d set foot in the cellar. She was the only sustenance he could ever need down there and he needn’t use his hands to feast. She decided that not looking back at him was not only ill-mannered, but added to his torture.
Braving both the man and herself, her eyes finally traveled from the wet, soiled floor to meet his. Only when she finally confronted the beautiful and ruptured face before her was she challenged by the painful reality of who she was dealing with.
Ultimately, not only was Simcoe an expert liar, he lied often.
The only thing she had learned for sure is that you couldn’t be sure about him. In that same manner, she could also attest to his impulsiveness, his manipulation, his taste for violence, his chaos. In such a short time, she had witnessed it all. To her consternation there was even more to that bitter truth: getting to know that side of Simcoe had not been awarded to her because of the risk of her closeness to him. There was no privilege, no reward to find in it. The spectators to his cruelty were many. In that regard, she often wondered what was the purpose of his performance. Getting even a hint of acrid vanity would have made it easier to hate him.
He was proud, yes. Simcoe was a proud soldier and leader, assertive about his abilities and how to use them for war. A skilled assassin and conspirator, the gravity of his threat also resided in his boldness, him being dangerously confident in his aptness to kill.
So he was proud, indeed, but she didn’t know if he had done it all for a matter or reputation, if there was some sort of vain enjoyment to his infamy. What puzzled her further was that just as he was ruthless, he was incredibly gentle outside of the atrocious acts of war. Clearly, he must have been aware of how much his brutality would tarnish his attempts at engaging in any other type of relationship outside of that of a commander and his subordinates, or that of soldiers on opposite sides. The nerve with which he had begun courting her had led her to believe that he wasn’t simply oblivious, but that life in the war and life outside of it were two halves he could separate comfortably. She convinced herself that he viewed his own viciousness as the means to an end.
At the same time, anything other than that very same viciousness was contemptuously dismissed as weakness. His strength was his truth. She also worried he enjoyed performing his sick spectacle, that she could see sadism through the transparency of his violence, that he also reveled in proving he was stronger, the strongest, not vulnerable like the rest.
A liability. Having him around was a liability. Aside from not being able to fully comprehend him, what also made her heart thump in her throat was knowing that while you may not be able to read him, he could always read you. And he was always watching, most attentively. She was worried about what he could read on her at that moment. Suddenly, she realized she had been looking into his hungry eyes and examining his fresh wounds for longer than she had intended, and that he was expectant; both searching each other's faces for answers.
Her feelings for him had never been so complicated.
They certainly hadn’t been as complicated at first, when she’d first become acquainted with him, not even some time later when Abe asked her to gather intel from him.
She had first met him while she was waiting tables at Selah Strong’s tavern. She’d been hired to help out after the large wave of rowdy redcoats had become too much to handle on top of the locals. While she hated cleaning after the British, Selah and Anna had been kind enough to offer her a room in Strong manor as part of the deal. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to catch up with her studies while she wasn’t working and to get back on her feet after her husband had left her to join a rebel group unaffiliated with the Continental army.
Selah had felt somewhat responsible for her since her husband was a dear childhood friend of his. He refrained from reminiscing about him with his new barmaid present so as not to upset her, but in reality she couldn’t care less about his absence because of how she felt about him as a person. The marriage had been arranged anyway and all of their property had been seized after he’d been scorned for his treason to the Crown.
Since she believed in the patriotic cause, she did not resent him for leaving, but she did not love him either. The only thing she missed about him and her loveless but peaceful marriage was the comfort of her own home, and what life was like before becoming the disgraced wife of a traitor poor mrs. Holloway, her husband is a traitor”. “Poor, poor mrs. Holloway”.
She felt the shameful marks of abandonment followed her wherever she went, in prying eyes and ghostly whispers. It was inevitable for gossip to spread around its odious stench in small towns, and Setauket was no exception. It was something to do, after all, but she hated when people didn’t even put in some effort to be discreet. Indeed, she did not resent her husband for leaving but she did resent that his absence was all she had become. For the Crown, her husband was only a traitor and for the town and its incessant murmurs she was only a traitor’s wife, her married name adding another rock to her heavy shackles poor mrs. Holloway, her husband is a traitor”. “Poor, poor mrs. Holloway”.
“Mrs. Holloway” they hissed, and she could smell the reek of tobacco and cheap rum on the blabbering drunks and hear the slithering rattle of the gossiping ladies’ ruffled dresses. “Poor mrs. Holloway” she’d make out in the intoxicating mist of the tavern. “Poor mrs. Holloway, she’s all alone” she’d hear sneaking up on her under the clear morning sky. “Poor Mrs. Holloway, she’s still fairly young, you know? And such a pretty girl, what a shame”. “Oh, there she goes, poor mrs. Holloway, her husband is a traitor”. “Poor, poor mrs. Holloway”.
“Mrs. Holloway, would you be so kind as to bring me some more sherry, please?”
The polite request froze her in place, stunned amidst the drunken chanting and laughter of the busy tavern. It’d been a while since she’d heard someone call her that directly, clearly. She turned around so suddenly when she realized someone was actually addressing her, quite accustomed to not responding to that name and to disregard it as more hearsay, that she almost dropped the full tray she was holding, glasses and steins clinking loudly in protest. She was barely able to contain the potential disaster and quickly apologized to the man, her eyes fixated on the wooden floor where the mess would have dispersed.
“No need to worry, ma’am. I can see you are overwhelmed as it is and there was no harm done”.
His voice. His voice was so gentle. Its softness and higher pitch clashed against the rowdy and gravelly blabber. And prevailed.
“Mrs. Holloway, isn’t it? I thought I’d heard the other patrons refer to you by that name. It was not my intention to startle you,” he assured her, probing at the barmaid’s dumbfounded expression.
“Yes, that’s right, sir. You are kind, sir,” she couldn’t help but blurt out most earnestly. “I’ll go get you your sherry right away, sir, mister…?” she was stopped again, as she could feel the man's piercing gaze on her, and knew it would only be polite to return it. She was met with two big blue eyes watching her most attentively, pupils so dilated and black she felt she could take a dive in their bottomless pools.
His eyes. His eyes were also outstanding, challenging the ugly chaos of the tumultuous tavern. How had she been looking at anything else? The stained floor, the tables she had to clean, the spilled drinks, anything, anyone else. That’s when she realized she’d seen him before. It’s hard to forget such a remarkable man.
She realized he must’ve come in when she went to help Selah get more rum from the cellar, since she was certain she would have definitely noticed him walk in. The new focus of her attention was also extraordinary in height, looking down at everyone wherever he went. All the times she had been able to spot him had been brief moments and at an unfair distance. Whether it was outside, at the docks in the early morning while she was running errands, and he was on duty with the rest of the redcoats, towering over them all, or the few glimpses she’d caught of him at the tavern just before she retired to her room, his tall frame still noticeable when seated, quietly sipping his sherry with visible poise. She had never been able to quite catch him. However, she still remembered him.
He’d got her now.
“Lieutenant John Graves Simcoe,” he smiled and nodded, pulling her out of her trance.
It’s hard to forget such a remarkable man.
After that introduction, she started seeing him more often, and from then on he was very much real, overcoming the myth of the tall pale ghost she had caught some glimpses of far away or in the corner of her eye. While she wished she could have simply blamed their increasingly frequent encounters on the then lieutenant’s apparent growing interest in her, she struggled to tame a curiosity of her own. She still kept her distance, of course: in the first place, she would hate to draw even more attention to her, the sibilant whispers on her tail whenever she was seen with a man for too long. Secondly, as pleasant as she found him to be, he was still an officer in the Royal army. To her own disbelief, she caught herself cursing at this fact, with her own internal battle aggravating when she learned more about her lieutenant, and how his tenderness was just as remarkable as his violence and ruthlessness.
Despite how everyone in Setauket soon learned to be intimidated by this titan, Abe had figured out a way to use him. Of course he had. While what would become the Culper ring was still in its infancy, the farmer had already shown a natural talent for spotting opportunities that would have otherwise remained hidden. Unfortunately, his plan involved her.
Actually, it was all her. She had outright refused at first, not to Abe’s surprise. But just as he had a talent for always finding a way out of or into things, he was rapidly getting better at persuading whoever was misguided to tell him no, which happened quite often. That was something that the barmaid learned reluctantly, after he cornered her one night at the tavern’s cellar when she had gone to fetch more rum at Anna’s request. She would give Mrs. Strong a piece of her mind after she was done with whatever it was the magistrate’s son wanted from her. Until then, that was who she knew him as, and precisely why she’d only kept him as a distant acquaintance. Abraham Woodhull, cabbage farmer, married to his late brother’s intended, failed law student, Tory.
At first she was appalled by the gall of the strange nervous man, speaking to her in riddles she did not want to solve. The spy quickly understood that neither charm or subtlety would work on the wary barmaid. Mrs. Holloway would prove to be a challenge.
After noticing her eyes kept darting to the cellar door, he hurriedly tried to find new words to convince her without giving too much away, or to at least plant the idea in her head before she tried something drastic to escape his arguments.
He then said something about Mrs. Strong suspecting that, despite her husband’s abandonment, she was also a patriot, just like them. Her astonishment at the revelation gave the spy room to present his case, managing to snatch the answer he was looking for from her silence.
Unbeknownst to her, Mr. Woodull had already dragged her into his own vexing game of chess. Just as he was constantly planning, looking for his own way out, he knew he also had to look for his opponent’s, anticipating their next move an essential skill for a spy to have. Therefore, he was aware she still had the potential to take control of the situation. For example, she could still quickly shove him out of her way, and scream. He still wasn’t confident in the physicality involved in his new role, so he didn’t know if he would be able to catch her and cover her mouth in time, or to successfully overpower her in some way. At the same time, anything like that happening would probably make her turn away from the idea of the ring for good, or even worse, turn him in.
He was running out of time. She could still scream. Scream that he had locked her in there against her will, or that he was assaulting her, just simply scream for help in general. Anything would suffice to free a defenseless barmaid from the claws of the devious married man that had locked her in a tavern’s cellar for his own twisted purposes. So, why hadn’t she screamed yet?
Mr. Woodhull chose to believe that it was because, in some way, Mrs. Holloway wanted to give him a chance, that they had been right. Turns out she was on their side after all. Her hesitance was his way in. That’s why she hadn’t screamed.
However, there was a possibility the farmer could have never planned for: Simcoe.
John Graves Simcoe was upstairs.
Fact is, she hadn’t thought of screaming at all, at least not at first. Something else had held her back before considering possible escape routes. Something else in her mind had prevented her from plotting her next move like the spy had. Something else that was probably looking for her among the crowd with avid eyes, insistently tapping his glass. It was only after the initial shock that it occurred to her to alert the rest of the tavern; that she realized that screaming absolutely anything at all would work as long as she was loud enough. She didn’t imagine the puny magistrate’s son being much of an obstacle either, even for a man.
Her heartbeat had started ringing clamorously in her ears when she remembered the lieutenant was upstairs, an unbearable alarm that went off as soon as she heard the cellar door being locked behind her, and turned around to see Woodhull standing in front of it. The Tory didn’t waste any time, and anxiously (though carefully) started presenting his case. However, the image of John sitting upstairs, calmly sipping his sherry, waiting for her, was louder than the farmer’s jittery words.
That’s why she hadn’t screamed: John. The image of John.
It’s not that she hadn’t thought about him in the face of potential danger, because she had and always would from that point forward; she already knew he would always come to her. Nevertheless, she would call for help only as her last resort if she couldn’t get rid of her captor.
Her thoughts still frozen, she could not imagine what Mr. Woodhull could have possibly wanted from her at first, but was certain she wanted no part in it. Even if her pleas would end up drowning amidst the drunken bedlam above them, she would still try if it came down to it, for her integrity, and her honor. It would only take someone opening the cellar door for her forceful meeting with the farmer to be over. Simcoe especially would have been the most helpful, strong enough to tear through both the door and Woodhull, if needed be. But she couldn’t possibly ask for his help.
She did not want John to go down there, to find her there, precisely for the sake of her integrity and honor.
The embarrassment was eating through her and feasted on her many sheepish doubts: what would he think, if he saw her there, chatting in the cellar, after she had told him she would be back right away when Mrs. Strong called her? What if he became impatient and went looking for her? He was so gentlemanly; what if after a while it occurred to him that she had not been able to carry the rum by herself and went to help her? What if he saw her in the cellar with another man? What would he think of her? The more Woodhull talked, the more her eyes darted to the door. She was running out of time.
It was only then that she had considered screaming.
If she alerted him, the whole tavern, or whoever happened to hear her, the scandal wouldn’t fall on her. She was but a defenseless barmaid, all alone, without a husband to take care of her. She was running out of time; and the spy just kept talking.
“Mr. Woodhull” she finally said, gaze still split between the man and the cellar door “Stop, for a moment” she urged, holding both her hands in front of her, gesturing at him to let her speak. “If what I’m assuming is correct, and you do have the nerve to ask what I think you are asking of me, I must tell you right now that I want no part in it”. He started opening his mouth again, already weaving a response, but she was determined.
Not forgetting for an instant that John was upstairs, she still craved his presence, and his protection. Since that was not a possibility for her at that moment, she wanted to at least take in some of his boldness and resolve. He was dauntless, never letting anyone walk over him, and, despite herself, she couldn’t help but admire his striking strength. He inspired her, in that way.
“No! No more. If you do not stop, I will scream and say you were trying to take advantage of me”. Woodhull stood still and shut his mouth; that seemed to have worked. “Who do you think they’ll believe, Mr. Woodhull? So I suggest you let me go right now, unless you want to become the target of the entire town, which I think will not be ideal for your covert schemes”.
However, the spy had already plotted his next move.
“Alright. You go ahead and do that, but you will be drawing attention to yourself as well,” Woodhull replied, his demeanor suddenly shifting from jittery to somber. “And who do you think they’ll believe, if I were to tell the entire town about your covert schemes?”.
She finally stopped looking at the door for a moment, focusing only on him, puzzled by the audacity of his proposition.
“What if I were to tell them you were trying to get close to Simcoe to feed information to your husband? That you lured me here, to your workplace, to try to turn me? I would make the most valuable asset, don’t you think? With Major Hewlett staying at my father’s home. And I mean, it’s curious, isn’t it? How you were barely seen speaking to another man ever since your husband left, until now?” he stared at her defiantly, eyes dark. “So, who do you think they’ll believe? The Tory magistrate’s son, or the woman married to a rebel? One might wonder, is that the reason you keep to yourself so much, Mrs. Holloway?”.
Stalemate.
She fought hard to resist the insidious urge to slap the wit out of him, suddenly enraged out of her mind. She thought about asking him how he would prove that, to argue about the credibility of both false claims, but she did not want to spend a second more down there. Whatever the outcome and whatever story both of them could fabricate, it was not in their hands who would be believed, and the potential implications were far too dangerous. After all, the consequences an alleged spy would have to face were far more worrisome than anything else. The risk was too great. And then again… what would John think? She glanced at the cellar door once more.
Even if Woodhull’s audacity still infuriated her, she figured now there was but one way she would get out of there.
“Speak. Quickly,” she hissed between her teeth.
The spy did as ordered: there was a specific set of information the patriots needed desperately. There had been a recent deserter at the camp Washington was in and they had reason to suspect he had made copies of highly confidential documents. It turns out that one night, when Caleb was leaving Setauket for camp, he’d spotted the deserter talking to Simcoe in the grove. He hadn’t been able to listen in on them for long or make out most of the conversation out of fear of being discovered, but, among other things, he’d heard them use the terms “Wild roses”, “color” and “love letter”. Then, Simcoe handed him the reins from the horse next to him, the deserter got on it, and said he’d report back once he had reached New York.
“And that’s where their head of intelligence is,” explained Woodhull. “Simcoe might be receiving a letter in the next few da—”
“Wait,” the barmaid interrupted. “Is Mr. Brewster sure about this? Why would the deserter talk to Joh—” she quickly corrected herself “Lieu-lieutenant Simcoe? He’s simply a lieutenant, if anyone’s involved it must be someone who outranks him”.
“Mrs. Holloway, who else in this town could Caleb have possibly mistaken him for? Look at the man, be serious,” the spy chuckled tauntingly. She knew he was right. “It was definitely him. Someone higher up must have given him the task or maybe he is working alone to climb ranks, we don’t know. Actually, those are things we hope to find out”. His eyes turned dark again, “With your help.”
She sighed in defeat, her mind still occupied, still troubled, by the image of John. While she had been spending time with the lieutenant more frequently, she still always made sure to keep a cautious distance. However, it was this distance that bothered her. She had put herself in a most uncomfortable position: she found herself way too close to the brutal, dreaded Royal officer, who condecorated his uniform with blood and bared his teeth, and way too far from the gentle, sweet man who sought her friendship and conversation, a calming presence when she needed some comfort in her mundane life.
Woodhull was asking her to get even closer.
“Why me?” she asked, desperately trying to find a way out the cellar and her thoughts, and instantly regretted it.
The spy, as she reluctantly realized, was always a step ahead; her devotion to the study of linguistics made her a rare and most useful candidate, giving her a special insight into the creation and reception of code, not to mention her apparent proximity to Simcoe, the convenience of her job’s location, her low profile, how the town characterized her… She only kept listening out of shock. What a stubborn little man he was.
But what about Mr. Holloway, the traitor? That would only aggravate the outcome if anyone were to find out she also had ties to the rebels. She would hang by a sawtoothed noose.
But Mr. Woodhull looked straight through the eye of the noose, and found his way out of it.
“Your husband is exactly what will give you credibility!” the spy exclaimed, eyes wide, stunned by the answer he himself had concocted. He took a few swift steps around the tavern’s cellar, touching his face, readjusting his beanie, his anxious body mirroring the way his brain was quickly scheming.
“That’s your cover. Everyone in town knows you hate your husband for leaving, and that could also translate into you hating all rebels, and—”
“I don’t hate my husband,” she interrupted him, stern. He could only look at her with his mouth agape, choking on the answer he couldn’t finish regurgitating. Mrs. Holloway certainly hadn’t forgotten that she still wanted to slap the gall out of him, nor that the lieutenant was still upstairs and could barge in at any moment. The exasperation only fueled her anger further.
“Is that what everyone ‘knows’ about me, Mr. Woodhull?”. He froze for the first time, stunned by the sudden trembling in her voice. “What else do they ‘know’ about me?” she hissed.
Growing more and more indignant by every second of silence, she insisted.
“Oh, I see, so you’re willing to risk yours and other people’s lives for your country but you will not risk hurting someone’s feelings? Then I do not wish to play spy with you, Mr. Woodhull, I am not amused by your finicky rules,” she jabbed.
Seriously, how dare he? How dare he corner her like this? How dare he make assumptions like this, how dare he ask her for so great a favor, how dare he remind her about the town’s gossip, how dare he make her worry about the lieutenant, about what he was doing for the sake of his uniform, about what he would say, about what he would think, about how she felt?
How dare he throw her own feelings in her face?
But what she didn’t know is that he’d been fabricating his response while she was too preoccupied worrying about the man upstairs, her eyes returning to the agitated dance between him and the cellar door.
“They ‘know’ that you hate your traitor husband, that you’ve barely approached any other man since he left, that you’re lonely, that like any young woman you’re in a desperate position without a husband, and that you’re seeking the friendship of a Royal officer out of spite,” he quickly replied. Maybe he was the noose.
“And they can also ‘know’ whatever you want them to,” the spy continued. “Today they know you’re the wife of a traitor, tomorrow they may ‘find out’ that you hate all rebels, that you hate your husband for leaving you and for betraying your King. Simcoe may find out that you are interested in him but can only accept his friendship, since getting any closer would have you committing adultery, or worse, even bigamy, if he wished to take it a step further. You will practically be untouchable”. He took a deep breath, stood with a stillness that did not suit him, and looked straight into her eyes.
“Mrs. Holloway, this man seems to be more dangerous to Setauket than what he seems,” he urged, and she felt somewhat moved by the dread in his voice. “His random outbursts, his complete disregard for honor or any other set of rules other than his own and his skills as a soldier bring a factor of extreme unpredictability to our operation. We even have reason to suspect he’s been manipulating Major Hewlett for his own twisted gain. Mrs. Holloway, this man lusts after chaos,” he emphasized. How dare he remind her of that?
“I know you must feel cornered, but then what am I? What am I doing here, talking to you? The Tory magistrate’s son, who barely even knows you, approaching you out of the slightest suspicion that we are on the same side. Imagine how cornered and desperate I am, that we are, and how much we need you to do this,” he pleaded. She had begun to accept that she would be leaving her fate in this strange trepidatious man’s hands, and that he was the one who had decided that she needed to get closer to John Graves Simcoe.
“This is not how this was supposed to go,” he continued. “I do apologize about that. I know we started off on the wrong foot. This “meeting” we are having has not been subtle or careful at all, and it could have gone wrong in so many different ways, and I wanted to let you know that this isn’t how we usually operate. However, we did have to rush everything due to… external forces beyond our control. You understand”. Simcoe.
“Simcoe” she added.
“Well, yes, that and Anna and I going to New York,” Woodhull replied.
“Ah, yes, she did tell me about her leaving, because of the tavern”.
“Exactly. Although I guess at that time, you figured that wouldn’t have any major implications other than reworking your schedule and having to serve more drinks,” the spy shyly chuckled. However, she was not amused, so he quickly continued. “But she was supposed to talk to you and try to persuade you gradually, so as not to startle you, and then she would work on getting his correspondence and other documents while you kept him occupied in some way.”
Ah, so that was exactly what they wanted from her, at least for the time being. Nevertheless, she had already given in to the idea of getting closer to John, so she figured snooping around his desk and letters was simply another way of doing that. Then, just as she had struggled to restrain the urge to slap Woodhull, she was now trying to quell the excitement she felt at the idea. No, not excitement; fear. She would be putting herself in a dangerous situation, breaching a Royal officer’s privacy, stealing his documents, spying on him, entering his bedroom uninvited. It was fear.
She was supposed to feel fear.
“Fine. I will at least try to get to his correspondence. But you will have to tell me about the plan at a different time, Mr. Woodhull. I will not turn you in or tell anyone of what we’ve talked about here, you have my word. But we should leave,” she urged.
Before the spy could ask her anything at all, she said “The lieutenant is upstairs. We were in the middle of conversation when Anna brought me here… I’d told him I’d be right back”.
“What?!” Abraham shrieked “He isn’t supposed to be here! Anna and I chose this hour specifically to avoid him,” he lamented, suddenly whispering.
“I know, I was not expecting him either but apparently the Royal Army’s got defectors of their own and they had to deal with him… he did not tell me much but his uniform was stained with blood all over when he arrived. He went upstairs to change and then told me he needed to unwind,” she replied, the image of the blood-spattered officer still lingering in her mind.
“Shit… you go up first, I’ll manage,” Abraham said with a sigh, getting a key out of his pocket.
As he was turning to open the cellar door, they heard someone unlocking it from the other side. The spy turned and looked at her in horror. She quickly pointed to a spot behind some rum barrels.
“Hide!” she whispered urgently.
He was still crouching and trying to get behind the barrels when the door opened.
“Abe, what are you doing?” Mrs. Strong asked, amused, as she closed the door behind her.
Woodhull let out a sigh of utmost relief.
“We thought you were Simcoe,” he gulped.
“Actually, he is asking for you upstairs,” Anna said to her barmaid. “I told him I’d go get you. Is everything ok?” she asked, scanning both of them with her eyes.
Abraham still looked as if his soul had only just returned to his body, and had let himself drop to the floor.
“Yes, she’s ok” he replied, looking up at Mrs. Holloway. “But we couldn’t go over the plan. I think it would be best if you explained it to her, setting up another meeting like this could be risky”.
Anna nodded and turned to her. “Come on. Let’s go back. He is waiting for you”.
“Wait, what will we tell him?” she asked, and she prayed to God that they could not spot the flush in her cheeks, and that they would mistake it for agitation, and the remnants of the fright she was supposed to have had, just like Woodhull, for she was actually relishing the way the lieutenant had asked for her, and how he was waiting for her.
“Well…” Anna pondered “We’ll tell him you had some trouble with the lock. I mean, no one could have heard you asking for help upstairs in any case, they’re being particularly rowdy today”. Holloway gave Abraham a stern death stare. “Haven’t you heard?” Anna continued. “They had a defector,” she turned to the spy when she uttered that last word. “They’ve been singing songs and disparaging him. And it looks like Simcoe was the one who got him. They’re talking about it and celebrating that too, it seems he was… especially brutal”. God, how dare she remind her?
“I know,” Holloway replied. “His uniform was bloodstained all over when he arrived,” she added, almost whispering, face an even deeper shade of red. Please, God, don’t let them notice.
“Come, let’s go” Anna insisted, and she followed, trying to forget the unpleasant encounter. If only she could. It would have made it easier to face the man waiting for her upstairs.
I know it’s been all about Eternals and Druig here for the last few days but don’t worry, Ben Tallmadge will always be my first love 😌❤ So here’s a few more memes for If Love Was Enough.
Plus a special meme made for the beginning of chapter 17 (which will be coming soon!!)
The little details can enrich a character’s experience to that next level. We all come from different backgrounds & roots. With these prompts explore the roots of your own character or a character you love. Explore their moral background and family associations as writing prompts and asks. These can be used as asks, prompts or starting points. Feel free to reblog them and have your followers ask you questions or simply answer them yourself! and as many times as you want!
How did their family celebrate their birth? Any customs? Or nothing? Why?
Any piece of literature, bible passage or other spiritual text where they are associated with?
Describe how they saw their religious environment growing up or if they lacked one if it affected them?
Their favourite holiday
What song did their mother used to sing as a lullaby if any?
Favourite hymn/religious song
Were they musical? In what way? Are they still musical
What did they view success as? Marriage? Income? Family’s respect? Obedience? All of the above? Or something else?
As a child did they associate with the sea or the land more? Has this changed
Childhood nickname and/or animal association?
How close of a bond do they have with their family? Does it matter to them? Has it always mattered?
What has affected their family to the point that it is a fear of the character
Any childhood superstitions?
Did they travel in their childhood?
Childhood food associations
Their moral roots, how did they form? Who helped form them?
What has always fascinated them?
Specific childhood memories that stand as a test to their character and/or relationship with their family?
What ancestors of their’s broke away from convention? or how did they bend convention to fit what they wanted?
