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NOT WITHOUT YOU: AN AMERICAN STORY
*1780: A Winter's Ball, and the Schuyler sisters are the envy of all*
But the Schuyler sisters weren't the only ones holding a ball in the middle of a war.
Stephanie blinked, standing miserably in front of her mirror. She was decked out in a dress of the latest fashion, all ruffles and ugly pastels, wearing shoes that were entirely too tight, and a corset, which ensured that she was utterly unable to breathe. Her mother flitted around her, checking the last details of her outfit before stepping back. "You look so beautiful, sweetheart," Sarah reassured her. "This is just for one night, I promise."
"You say that now," Stephanie grumbled. "Aren't I supposed to find a man and get married?"
Sarah bit her lip. "That's what we're saying, yes."
Stephanie froze, realized the impact of the action on her already constricted lungs, and took a breath. "That's... what you've been telling me for the past couple of weeks."
"Well... you know I would love for you to find a decent man and get married as soon as possible, dear, especially with the war going on. You'll need support, especially after this is all over. No matter how the war turns out, I would prefer for you to have someone who keeps you safe... and financially stable." Sarah huffed. "Besides, you know how people talk. Unfortunately, we can't all be Angelica Schuyler."
Stephanie nodded slowly, her brow furrowing. "...But... that's not all, is it?"
"Darling, in the political climate of today, nothing is ever 'all.'"
"But-"
"That's enough, honey. We've got to go downstairs in a minute." Sarah watched her small, delicate daughter with a tender look on her face. "I want more for you than war and blood and death, sweetheart."
"Well, I can't have children, so..."
"You don't know that."
"And neither do any of the men downstairs who will woo me." She quirked an eyebrow. "So what happens if I magically do find someone down there that I want to spend the rest of my life with and he finds out that I can't have children? He'll consider me useless."
"Stephanie-"
"You know I would much rather be like you, Mama. You're on the front lines, healing the men who are fighting for our freedom! You're important! You're needed! And you want me to stay here and play at being some man's property!"
"You are no man's property," Sarah shot back, her eyes narrowing. "You should know me better than that. Stephanie, the fact is, you just can't be around that much illness. You'll get horribly sick. And you've already been so sick already... and I will not put you in danger on the front lines. You deserve a better life than the one we both got stuck with, and I'll be damned if I don't do everything I can to ensure that you get it!" She inhaled, then exhaled, deeply and deliberately. "I have invited some of the smartest, most interesting men I could possibly find. And if men can still willingly woo Angelica Schuyler-"
"Only for her money-"
"Then they can certainly woo you."
"I'd rather spend three weeks on the battlefield, making a difference in the world, and die for it than spend the rest of my life playing wife in someone's household and die of childbirth!"
"Stephanie." Sarah took her daughter's shoulders. "The battlefield is not a place of glory. It's not a place where you make a difference. It's a place where men do nothing but rip each other apart because someone far across the sea had the audacity to say that he controlled what /both/ sides do with their lives." She stopped Stephanie from interrupting. "I know you don't like bullies, sweetheart. And you /will/ make a difference in the world someday. That's the kind of person you are. That's the kind of person I raised you to be. ...It just... may not be in the way you expect."
"...It's not fair," Stephanie mumbled. She was well aware that her reply was desperate and juvenile, but couldn't bring herself to care. If not for her worthless, sick body, she would be out there on the battlefield, caring for the sick and injured, right beside her mother, doing something that /mattered/.
Not selling herself at her mother's Winter Ball.
Sarah kissed her daughter on the forehead, and Stephanie just managed to muster up a smile. Her mother meant well, and Sarah had dealt with many of the same problems in life that Stephanie was now dealing with, life-threatening sicknesses aside. They were both women in a man's world, and there was no one person in the world who could change it.
Yet.
"Don't forget your mask, dear." Sarah offered her daughter the jeweled piece of cloth that had been specially made to bring out the bright blue of Stephanie's eyes.
Sarah descended the stairs into the entry hall of her home, wondering if her father had gotten word from her mother about what was going on. He was away at the front right now, and hadn't been able to make it home, even though it was nearly Christmas.
At the sound of her name being announced, Stephanie Rogers plastered a polite smile on her face and checked each step before she took it, making it down the final four steps without (thank God) tripping and sending herself down in a flurry of frills and silk. A few of the men present were eyeing her speculatively, but most of them were buried in conversations with much more suitable women, or taking back drinks like their lives depended on that instead of the outcome of the war.
As she moved through the crowd, exchanging polite greetings and curtsying woodenly to the men who she knew did not give a whit about her, her eye was drawn to a tall, dark haired man, leaning casually against the wall in the back. He was laughing at something the woman standing next to him was saying; Stephanie could see his white, but adorably crooked teeth peeled back in a smile, and the deep laughter lines around his eyes.
Her stomach swooped, but she ignored it, turned on her heel, and made a beeline for him. He noticed her coming, and his giggly smile turned into one of polite intrigue. Stephanie found herself hoping there was something more than politeness hidden under the small curve of his generous mouth, but quickly brushed that thought aside.
"Miss Rogers."
"I don't think we have met," she said to him.
"We have not. I'm James Buchanan Barnes, sergeant in the rebel army." His eyes, a gorgeous, steely gray, twinkled. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."
“The pleasure is mine,” Stephanie answered, giving James Buchanan Barnes a slightly wary grin. “What brings you here?”
“The food,” he joked, smirking.
She giggled, then caught herself, straightening her back. “I don’t blame you a bit.”
“Stephanie!” Her mother was angling carefully toward her, with a man following a little too eagerly behind. “I have someone I want you to meet.”
James hissed, barely audible; Stephanie barely had time to process it before her mother brought the man in front of her. “This is Brock Rumlow,” she said, and the only indication of her excitement was her flushed cheeks. “He’s a general in the rebel—Revolutionary—army.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Rogers.”
Stephanie found that she didn’t like the way those words sounded coming out of Rumlow’s mouth, and apparently, James didn’t, either, because he quickly walked away.
“Are you enjoying the party?”
I was, Stephanie thought irritably, but forced out a smile and nodded to Rumlow. “I am. I see you don’t have any refreshments. Would you like some? A glass of wine, perhaps?”
Was it possible to utterly despise the sound of your own voice?
“I would love a glass of wine,” Rumlow told her, and smiled; Stephanie noticed it didn’t reach his eyes and fought back a shudder. His face was all thin planes and harsh angles, nothing like the sweet, soft, and yet assertively handsome face of one James Buchanan Barnes, who was officially nowhere to be found. Stephanie sighed a little and handed Rumlow the glass, effectively dodging his fingers as he tried to brush her wrist as she passed it to him. “So… Stephanie… tell me about yourself.”
Well, if that isn’t the most vague, painful way to begin a conversation possible… “I enjoy reading,” she responded, more carefully than she meant to. “Ah… I enjoy sport. Watching more than participating, however. If I could, I would.”
“A woman? Participating in sporting events?”
I knew I didn’t like you. “Well, yes. We also need physical activity. And embroidery is boring.”
“You are a very… different… woman.”
Yes, and I rather prefer it that way. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
Rumlow gave her another insincere smile. “Of course, Miss Rogers.”
___
The party lasted another two and a half hellish hours before everyone began slowly making their way out; reality was sneaking in once more, and the guests were remembering that there was a war on, that things needed done, that there was a country to be won. Stephanie was exhausted, having attempted conversations with six more men, all of whom were completely insufferable, and hadn’t seen Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes again. Her mother, however, looked as though her time had been both more productive and more enjoyable; Sarah Rogers had talked to all of her friends, and looked a great deal more entertained than Stephanie felt. However, as they both trudged up to bed and shooed the maids out after getting undressed, Sarah let out a breath, her brow knitting.
“Did you have a good time?”
“Yes, Mother,” Stephanie answered, watching her a little suspiciously. “But something is on your mind, and it isn’t how good of a time I had. What is it?”
“I didn’t just hold that party so you could find someone to take care of you after the war ends,” Sarah murmured after a minute. Stephanie decided not to dignify that with an answer, and Sarah, catching sight of her daughter’s face, hurried on. “I was hoping you would find someone, yes, but… there’s been news. Someone has been feeding important information to the British. Battle plans. Travel routes. Information about what kinds of weapons the rebels have. There’s no way to tell how long this has been going on, but we’ve lost several skirmishes because of it. It’s gotten dozens of men killed. One of our generals died on the way to his army headquarters because someone told the British what his travel route would be.” She ignored Stephanie’s shocked face. “He deliberately went with a small contingent of men… at least, that’s what I was told. He didn’t tell anyone but the men closest to him what he was doing, and he only took six men with him, to keep from drawing attention.”
“Dear God…” Stephanie bit her lip. “So there’s a traitor in the ranks. Or several of them. And you wanted to gather news? That’s… not all there is. And I would very much appreciate you telling me the truth.”
“I only keep it from you for your safety.”
Stephanie let out a sound somewhere between a hiss and a sigh.
“That’s all I can tell you.” Sarah kissed her daughter’s forehead and eased her into bed. “There is quite a bit going on… and the less you know, the safer you are. But tell me, quick, before you sleep… what did you think about Brock Rumlow?”
“I hated him.”
Sarah’s shoulders slumped. “…Really, dear? He seemed perfectly eligible… capable of making decent conversation… handsome… interested in you…”
“He was… disconcerting,” Sarah said after a moment of thinking, in which her mother had plenty of time to roll her eyes. “I didn’t find him to be pleasing in any way at all. He seemed… arrogant. He acted as though he was hiding something.” Sarah’s eyes widened. “Perhaps he’s the traitor!”
“The traitor could be anyone,” Sarah conceded, but Stephanie knew by the kind, tired look in her mother’s eye that she was being humored. “But those who mentioned the situation to me told me that it likely wasn’t someone that high up. It is more likely to be someone who works with those in the higher ranks, who is overhearing information they discuss among themselves and simply passing it along.”
“Who said it had to be one person?”
“It may not be. In fact, it likely is not. But that’s quite enough of that. It’s back to regularity tomorrow,” Sarah soothed. “Traitors and war aren’t something you have to worry about. I simply want for you to be aware of the situation. Be careful who you speak to, Stephanie.”
“You won’t be holding any more parties, will you?”
Sarah smiled playfully at the dread in her daughter’s voice. “No. If you find a suitor, you’ll find him at a party someone else is hosting.” She kissed her daughter’s forehead. “…I know you want to do something worthwhile, Stephanie. And you will. You deserve to. But not now. Not with such suspicion running rampant among everyone. Not with the rumors flying everywhere. My first priority is your safety. And so it should also be yours. No more questions now. You sleep.” She smoothed back Stephanie’s hair and adjusted the pillows under her, checking her breathing. “I love you, darling.”
“…Mother?”
“Yes?”
“I liked that James Barnes.”
“Who?”
“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. He was kind. And engaging. And much more interesting than that Brock Rumlow.”
“James Barnes…” Sarah muttered thoughtfully, almost to herself. “I didn’t meet him. That’s too bad. He must be a miracle worker.”
Stephanie rolled her eyes.
Two days later, Stephanie went to the village to get herbs for her medicines. Sarah had intended to go for them herself, as Stephanie was feeling ill, but a few men in ragged uniform had come to the house, bringing a few of their wounded comrades and more information from the front, perhaps about the traitor… or perhaps regarding Stephanie’s father. So, Stephanie had ventured out by herself, with a list in one hand and a large basket in the other, money in her pocket. Maybe, if she got lucky, there would be money left over for her to buy something sweet.
As she shopped, thunder clouds began to build on the horizon, and she huffed, annoyed, before speeding up. The items were getting crossed off the list, but not fast enough for her to beat the rain, and the idea of what her mother would do if she showed up on her doorstep soaked through made Stephanie groan aloud.
If she wanted to get home in time to avoid the storm, she’d take the shortcut.
The alleyway was dirty, muddy from the last storm, and smelled of… well, Stephanie didn’t want to dwell on that. She stepped gingerly through it, hopping over a large rectangular board that someone had discarded, probably a bad piece of wood from the construction of someone’s house. Gagging slightly, she picked up a particularly fragrant herb and put it to her nose.
“What have we here?”
Stephanie bit her lip. Two young men, with barely a hint of stubble on their faces, were approaching her from opposite sides of the alleyway. They were skinny, with hunger-pang frames, scruffy and unkempt, but unfortunately, both of them could still overpower her sick, useless self.
“What’s your name, darling?” one of them taunted her.
“None of your business,” Stephanie snapped. “I must be on my way; there’s a storm coming.”
“That storm is yet to arrive, Miss—there’s plenty of time!” the other one mocked, cajoling. “Surely you can spare a bit of time for us?”
“No, I really am unable to,” Stephanie snipped, her heart racing. Be careful, or you’re not going to be able to breathe, she chided herself, but that wasn’t enough to quell the panic; it only worsened when the boys stepped closer to her and began edging her toward the center, her back to the wall. “Please-”
“Just a moment of your time, Miss-” He reached for her, and Stephanie saw red—she dove forward, completely startling them both, and her basket went flying as she threw out both hands—to her surprise, she managed to grab onto the wooden board, which, amazingly, hadn’t begun to rot yet, and bring it up in front of her like a shield. She smacked one of the boys in the shin in the process, and his yelp startled all three of them. Stephanie jabbed the board toward them, and they jerked back like startled deer.
“Leave her alone!”
Stephanie stopped. None other than Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes was standing at the entrance to the alleyway, a dagger in his hand, facing down the boys, who now both looked as though they might lose control of their bladders. Stephanie breathed a sigh, of relief and… something she couldn’t quite name… as James Barnes strode up to the boys and raised his knife. “Back away from her,” he murmured, and they skittered away, nearly tripping over their own feet. James smirked and lifted his foot, giving one a swift kick in the buttocks, and then turned his dashing smile on her. “Are you quite all right, Miss Rogers?”
“…Yes,” she answered, her breath exploding from her lungs. He took the board gently from her and offered his arm as she sucked in more air. “My—my basket… everything-”
“Let me help you,” James soothed, pulling her close to him and letting her rest her head on his shoulder. “You’ve had a scare, haven’t you? What were you thinking, going down this alleyway by yourself?”
“It’s about to storm,” Stephanie panted, having to work to keep up despite the fact that James had a secure hold on her. “I was trying to get home before it did and that’s… that’s the shortcut. And now all my herbs… my medicines-”
“I’ll help you get it all back.”
“You don’t have to do that.” James opened his mouth to say something, but she spoke over him. “No, please, Sergeant. You’ve been nothing but kind to me. You saved me back in there; who knows what they would have done. I will not ask anything more of you.”
“You didn’t ask, I offered,” he told her teasingly. “Now, come, Miss Rogers. I’ll take you home, and tomorrow, we can go herb shopping. And I’ll pay for it—no, no protests, Miss Stephanie. Come now, we have to get you home, or your mother will worry. I’m sure you don’t want that.”
“How did you know I was here?” Stephanie questioned once she had gotten her bearings.
“Oh—I called on your mother and she said you had gone shopping,” he replied, biting his lip a little. Stephanie glanced at him, took in his pale face and his blank eyes, and, deciding that it wasn’t too forward, put her hand on top of his. “She told me where you were and… I’m glad I decided to come down.”
Stephanie smiled, pushing away the small voice in her head that said his reply had been much too quick.
James Buchanan Barnes turned out to be an absolute delight.
He had kept his word to her; she’d been delivered safely home, and the next morning, at exactly nine o’clock, he’d showed up at Stephanie’s home to take her shopping, and, despite her continued protests throughout the whole day, had paid for all the purchases she’d lost, and then some. When she’d asked him why he was in the village helping a sick girl shop for medicine instead of fighting important battles in the Revolution, James had simply laughed and told her that he’d been given a week of leave by his captain, and that he couldn’t think of anything better to do than help a beautiful young woman.
It was that moment, Stephanie mused, when she realized she had begun to fall for him. He was obviously charming, chivalrous, and handsome, and reminded her very much of Lancelot in the old King Arthur stories. He also never spoke to her as though she were dying—something even her mother had a tendency to do sometimes—and in truth, acted as though her sicknesses didn’t exist. He’d been happy to take her riding in the country the day after their shopping excursion, and they were gone for nearly six hours before Stephanie saw the sun beginning to set and realized it was time to get home.
It was the closest thing to normalcy that Stephanie had experienced since the war had begun. Sarah, at first just as wary of James Barnes as Stephanie herself had been, had quickly warmed up to him, and was often expressing her desire for the sergeant to stay for at least another week and continue to entertain her daughter. Stephanie had overheard her mother telling James that she had never seen her daughter as healthy as she was now. And Stephanie knew her mother was right; she had never been this healthy, and likely never would be again. Sarah no longer worried about what might happen to her daughter while she was away from the house, because she had a protector and a friend in James Barnes.
As for James, he confessed to Stephanie during their shopping trip that he very much enjoyed spending time with her, and though, in the beginning, Stephanie had thought he might just be humoring her, she knew now that it wasn’t the case. He was enthusiastic about talking to her and being with her, and they’d spent no small amount of time discussing the studies of Ben Franklin and his circle—there were even rumors that Franklin kept bodies in his basement, and like Stephanie, James thought that being able to look at a human body could only benefit, and that if a person would simply give consent to have his or her body opened after death, leaps and bounds would be made in medical care, and Stephanie herself might find a cure for some of her illnesses.
As James’s week of leave neared its end, Stephanie went to her mother, asking if they might hold a small dinner for him. “He deserves another good meal before he has to go back out there again,” Stephanie reasoned, and kept her real hope to herself—that James might use a formal dinner to ask her mother, in lieu of her father, who was out fighting, if he might court her daughter.
Sarah, however, knew exactly what Stephanie was on about. “I think that is a wonderful idea,” she told Stephanie with a smirk. “Do you have a nice dress to wear? Perhaps something like the one you were wearing when you met him? Maybe the same color?”
Stephanie huffed. “I just want to know about the food.”
“Of course you do,” Sarah teased. “I’ll plan it, and I promise, I’ll let you in on every detail. The cook will be happy to let you help, too, I’m sure.”
Stephanie’s lip twitched. The cook was very particular and still did not understand why the young lady of the house would want to participate in meal preparation. It was a discussion, held many times, that had never come to a resolution.
“…I’m glad you found James, darling,” Sarah told her daughter, after a small, slightly charged pause. “He’s been good for you, in many ways. And I hope he will continue to be.”
“I do, too,” Stephanie answered, but her thoughts were already far away.
“Stephanie? STEPHANIE ROGERS.”
She nearly dropped the book she was holding. “Yes, Mother?”
“Come downstairs! Hurry!”
“What is it?” Stephanie hiked up her dress and went tearing through the hall and down the staircase, nearly knocking over a maid on the way. When she got to the parlor, she saw her mother, frazzled and worried, her hair coming out of its bonnet, wringing her hands together. A man in a formal blue coat was standing in front of her, vainly offering her a handkerchief. “What is it? What happened? Is it Father?”
Sarah shook her head.
The man in the uniform turned to Stephanie. “What do you know of Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes?”
Stephanie blinked. “What do you mean?”
“The man is a traitor to the Revolution, and according to your mother, he has been spending much of his time with you.”
“Trai-” Stephanie paled. Her mother moved toward her, worried that her daughter might lose her breath, but Stephanie held up a hand. “You think he’s the traitor?”
“We know he is the traitor. We caught him passing information to a general of ours, Brock Rumlow, who, unfortunately is also working with the British. This goes far deeper than we thought it did. So many men have died… it’s like a bloody hydra.”
Stephanie shuddered at the thought of the ugly, many-headed creature. “Surely-”
“Surely nothing, Miss Rogers,” the man interrupted. “What has James Buchanan Barnes been doing for the last week?”
“He’s… he informed me that he was on leave,” Stephanie stammered, sinking into a chair. The man immediately offered her a clean handkerchief, unsure of whether to sit or stand. When Sarah went to her knees beside her daughter, he sat gratefully, and gave them both what he thought was a concerned, empathetic look. “We’ve just been… spending time together. He’s taken me riding… and shopping… we don’t talk about the Revolution. He won’t talk about it.”
“The only wise decision on his part,” the officer quipped. “So? Is that all?”
“Yes…” Stephanie sat up abruptly, startling them both. “Where is he?”
“We have him. And Rumlow. They’re being interrogated as we speak.”
“I want to see him,” Stephanie demanded.
“That is not allowed,” the man retorted before she could get another word in. “That is against-”
“I want to know that he’s all right!” Stephanie shouted, ignoring the pleading noise that escaped her mother’s mouth, and the scandalized expression on the officer’s face. “I want to know if he’s hurt! He can’t have been doing this willingly!”
“We don’t know that. He hasn’t said a word.” The officer ran a hand through his hair and down his neck, grimacing. “We think that Rumlow is keeping him from divulging any information.”
“Then let me talk to him.”
“What makes you think-”
“He trusts me,” Stephanie interrupted again, her voice ringing with certainty. “And he is a good man. There must be a reason that he’s doing this. He can’t be a traitor just to be a traitor.”
“Now look, Miss, just because he’s been kind to you-”
“Do not talk to me as though I am a child!” Stephanie shouted, and out of the corner of her eye, saw the satisfied smirk on her mother’s lips. “You don’t just get to make assumptions about why James Buchanan Barnes is supposedly betraying the Revolution! He has a side of the story, and if we don’t listen to it, we are no better than the British, who wouldn’t listen to us! That’s why the whole war was started in the first place, and if we don’t do better, then why are we even fighting at all?”
The officer was rendered speechless.
Stephanie marched into the officer’s tent with no preamble. Despite the constant nagging of the officer and his men, and the worrying looks from her mother, she’d followed the officers back to the headquarters in silence, face alight with purpose. James was her friend, and he was in trouble. There was no other explanation for this.
When she walked inside the small, badly erected tent, she saw James sitting in the middle of it, wrists and ankles shackled, being ignored by the officer set to watch over him. His head hung and he had the beginnings of a beard and bruises on his face. His hair was tangled and lank, his uniform torn and smudged.
Perhaps the worst of it was the look in his eyes that Stephanie had noticed when he raised his head.
There was nothing there.
“What are they doing to you?” she demanded quietly, going toward him reaching out to brush his hair from his face. “What have they done?”
He shook his head. “Not them,” he croaked, attempting to give her a reassuring smile. “I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not,” she contradicted him, and he snorted lightly. “If it wasn’t them, who was it? Who beat you?”
“…General Rumlow,” he whispered, and that got the attention of those watching the two of them; the man who had brought the news to Stephanie and her mother had very nearly choked himself. “…They have my family. My mother, my sisters… they’re threatening my family. If I don’t do what they want, my family will be killed. I can’t talk.” He raised his eyes, desperate and pleading, to his interrogators. “If I do, they’ll kill my family.”
“These people can keep your family safe,” Stephanie reassured James, beating the officers to it. “If you want, your family can come stay with me and my mother. They’ll be comfortable and safe with us.”
James’s head dropped back, perhaps in exhaustion, pain, relief, or all three.
“I knew you weren’t doing this willingly,” Stephanie snapped, unable to keep the pettiness from her voice. “You’ve been so good to me—there’s no way someone as kind as you would betray us for no reason other than to betray us.”
James looked down at her, giving her a sadly ironic smile. “I still did it,” he told her. “I may not have had a real choice… but I did it.”
“They were threatening innocents either way,” Sarah told him. He turned his head toward her, slightly alarmed; he and Stephanie had forgotten that others were present. “Sometimes life only offers you terrible choices, and both paths are terrible. You are not to be blamed. No man could live with the deaths of his family on his conscience.”
“…Thank you,” James murmured.
Stephanie smiled and kissed his sweaty forehead. “You’re my friend,” she said softly, wincing slightly. The words were inadequate.
“You’ve had enough time with him, Miss Rogers.” The officers were beginning to shift restlessly.
“I’m not leaving. Not until you get to the bottom of this.”
“Stephanie-” That was James.
“Not without you,” Stephanie promised, and at that, James leaned forward and gently touched his forehead to hers.
“Okay. Not without you.”
The rest, as they say, was history.