Chapter Text
Dear Peter,
As always, your letters always bring a smile
I enjoyed the time we spent together at Brighton, the long days spent at in the company of…
I will look back on those days fondly as...
While I am flattered by your proposal, I must decline on the grounds that...
The sound of hearty laughter amidst a warm greeting at the front door nearly jolted your pen out of your hand. It seemed your father’s guest had arrived early.
Several unsavory words fell from your lips as you frantically screwed the cap back on to your inkwell and tried to tuck your letters off to the side, pretending to dismiss them as a mere afterthought. As two pairs of footsteps drew closer to the parlor, you reached for the book that you had left forgotten on the end table and flipped it open to where you left off, but not before straightening the few wisps of hair that were falling in front of your face.
“Nonsense, Jacob. I’m sure she’ll be delighted to see you. It’s been months, after all. She just returned from Brighton, not too long ago,” you heard your father explain. “I’ll be with you shortly, just as soon as I finish...”
And that was all your ears were able to pick up before your father bounded upstairs, off to do god knows what. You learned not to ask too many questions when the infamous leader of the Rooks was a regular visitor at your place of residence. You wanted to play indifferent, barely sparing the doorway a glance when the butler announced his arrival. Of course, a man like Jacob Frye was not going to be deterred by your pouty slights, not when he wasn’t completely above pulling some roguish nonsense of his own.
“Still devouring those scandalous smut serials by the boatload?” he greeted with that infuriatingly teasing lilt in his voice.
“Hardly," you scoffed weakly, holding up your book to show off the cover.
Jacob didn’t have to know that you had already burned through your latest pile of romance serials on the train ride home from Brighton. Instead, he bent forward and tilted his head to scan the cover before taking a seat in the sofa across from yours.
“Frederick Douglass? Isn’t he the abolitionist?”
You nodded, blinking incredulously. “Yes...you’ve heard of him?”
He wasn’t sure what to say. After all, there was really no way to explain to you that Douglass was a very important ally of the American sect of the Assassin brotherhood. The man’s name had come up several times during philosophical dinner conversations between his father and Evie. At first, Jacob rolled his eyes, wondering why on earth he needed to bother with problems that were, quite frankly, an entire ocean away. But it turns out that the man’s memoir was one of the few books that managed to hold his attention.
“I prefer to be true to myself, even at the hazard of incurring the ridicule of others,” he recited accurately, basking in your stunned expression.
“Rather than to be false, and to incur my own abhorrence…” you finished with an impressed smile. “It’s eerie how well that suits you.”
“I’m more than just a pretty face, Miss. ____,” he winked, following up with exactly the type of response that you expected out of him. Even your family's name was said almost jokingly, like he only addressed you as such because you insisted on maintaining etiquette when really, he could care less.
You let out a noise that could have just as easily been mistaken for a dreamy swoon rather than a sigh of exasperation. “Jacob Frye, always full of surprises.”
You may have rolled your eyes, but he knew you were more amused than actually annoyed with him. He eyed the small stack of letters that were on your seat, ink and quill resting on top to prevent them from shifting. One bundle of parchment had the same uniform tri-fold and slight yellowing that told him it was a letter that had been sent, received, and judging from the dog eared corners, read several times. There was another bundle that was more pristine, the ink on its surface was still drying and the words had barely reached halfway down the page. A work in progress, maybe.
“Your father said you were in Brighton,” he mentioned casually. “Was it business or pleasure?”
“Pleasure,” you said dryly, your delivery contradictory to the word. “Thomas and Catherine wanted to introduce me to some of her schoolmates. I’m glad to call her my sister-in-law, but I don’t know how Tommy is going to survive these endless social calls of hers.”
“Ahh, the struggles of the upper class.” He laughed when you made a gagging sound. “I’m sure it wasn’t as horrible as you make it sound.”
“It wasn’t,” you relented. “I got to see the ocean. It was beautiful, Mr. Frye.”
In fact, that was really the only redeeming quality of the entire excursion. Night after night, you and your brother were dragged to and fro to various parties and gatherings where she tried to parade you about for her friends. No doubt your mother put her up to this, never failing to remind you that she was in desperate need of several grandchildren to smother and spoil.
“Sounds like a marvelous time. You probably had to beat your suitors off with a stick,” he quipped, waggling his eyebrows in mock suggestion.
The slammed shutting of your book told him that he might have touched a nerve. He reached across the end table for the pressed flower bookmark that you had forgotten, fingers brushing against yours when he slipped it in between your index and middle. Jacob didn’t miss the way your expression immediately softened when you realized what you had done. And yet he couldn’t blame you. He could be an absolute bastard at the worst times.
“Mr. Frye, can I confide in you for a moment?”
“Of course,” he said softly.
“And you won’t tell anyone, especially not my father,” you narrowed your eyes at him, yet your tone was hopeful, as if you were itching to tell him anyway.
Jacob drew an X over his chest and then held up two fingers. “I promise.”
You set your book down on the coffee table and lifted the inkwell from on top of the stack of letters, holding out the pages that were addressed to you. He took them with an apprehensive stare before his hazel eyes flicked downwards to scan the carefully penned words.
First of all, who exactly was this Abernathy fellow and what business did he have proposing marriage? Jacob tried to remain impartial as he read over the man’s clumsy declaration of his affections and long-winded explanation of your charm points.
“Does he think he’s being clever?” Jacob mocked, before raising his voice several octaves. “‘I only wish I had more opportunities to admire your stunning profile up close, as I have found you often hide it behind your fan or a book. What a pleasure it must be to live as one of the delicate objects that have so deeply captured your attention.’”
The man was an absolute fool if he thought he was going to land a wife this way, never mind a woman like you. But from your troubled expression, he sensed there was more to it than that.
“Please don’t tell me you plan on marrying this bloke,” he groaned, all too happy to slip the offending letter back into its envelope and toss it back onto the surface of the table.
“I don’t know what to do!” you exclaimed, throwing your hands into the air. “He certainly doesn’t have a way with words, but he was kind enough to me, in person.”
“Do you love him?” asked Jacob simply. “Because he seems awfully taken with you.”
“I hardly know the fellow!” you said, lowering your voice when you heard the sound of a few staff members shuffling in and out of the dining room. “Mr. Frye, have you ever met someone who you got along with so well it's as though you’ve known them for ages?”
His expression softened. “All too well, love."
You tried not to react to the term of endearment, loathing the way it sounded so warm coming from his lips yet was spoken so casually.
“Well, with Peter it’s as though....for god’s sake,” you huffed, waving your arm animatedly in frustration. “I’ve known the man since we were fourteen, and every time we speak, it’s as if we’ve just been introduced that afternoon. And now he claims he loves me and wants to marry me, through a letter, no less!”
“You always struck me as the progressive type. Why not refuse and be done with it?” he suggested, as if it was as simple as that.
He expected an equally sharp retort, but the lack thereof made him all the more concerned. You just looked so distraught, so vulnerable, and possibly, on the verge of tears. You could never call Jacob Frye a gentleman, but he’d be damned if things ever got to the point of you bursting into sobs.
“You said I could confide in you.”
“And I meant it.”
You took a deep breath, hands fidgeting in your lap as you tried to muster up the words. It took every bit of self control in his body not to reach over and take your hands into his in an effort to comfort you.
“I’m...afraid. Terrified, really,” you confessed with a bitter laugh. “What if this is it? What if I reject Peter’s proposal and it’s the last one I’ll ever receive?”
And then you waited, for him to laugh at you or ridicule you, or worst of all, maybe he would agree with you, confirming everything you believed to be true about yourself. But you should have known better than to try to predict anything Jacob would or wouldn’t do. Where most men would have apologized for their candidness, Jacob spoke freely, as if he were simply stating facts.
“You are far too wonderful and capable to be thinking things like that, Miss. ____.”
The air seemed to be wiped clean from your lungs, breath hitching in your throat. For once, you seemed to be at a total loss for words, something he revelled in as you struggled to come up with a retort. You wanted to slap that smug smirk right off his face, and the cocky tilt of his head that followed with only fueled this fire in you. You opened your mouth to tell him just that, but you were both interrupted by the return of both your father and one of the staff announcing that dinner was ready.
"Jacob," your father greeted. "I hope you can forgive me for leaving you right when you walked through the door. There were some urgent business matters I had to attend to."
"Think nothing of it, Wesley. You're here now, aren't you?" Jacob grinned knowingly at you as he moved towards the door. "Besides, 'urgent business matters' is exactly the reason why I'm here."
You shoved the rest of your letters into your book and left them on the coffee table before joining your father and his guest. The two were already deep in conversation about the mutually beneficial relationship between the Rooks and your father's steadily growing business. It was simple enough to piece together from overhearing plenty of conversation, especially when they made no effort to shield you from it. Your father supplied Jacob with information he had overheard from his fellow business and factory owners at the club, and Jacob eliminated those who were dependent on exploitative labor practices.
Your mother was waiting in the entryway, smiling cordially at Jacob before turning her attention to you. "Have you responded yet?"
"No, mother," you sighed. "I'm having trouble...finding the words."
You could tell she would have throttled you had it not been for the fact that there was a guest in the house. No, you and your brother knew you were treading on thin ice whenever her nostrils flared and she sucked in a breath. With how tight she liked her corsets laced, it was a wonder how she managed to stay conscious.
She gave you a look like you had suddenly reverted back into a toddler who didn't know how to tie her own shoes."What kind of words could you possibly be you searching for, ____? It's simple. ‘Yes, Peter, I gladly accept your proposal. In fact, I’ve always dreamed of a winter wedding. I have no doubt you'll make me the happiest bride in all of London. God save the queen.’”
“I don't know if 'happiest' is the word I'd choose,” you admitted, wondering if you should have just bitten your tongue to shut her up.
“You and Peter Abernathy have known each other for years. You two have always been such a charming-looking couple,” she appealed. “Does he not treat you well?”
"He doesn't treat me any differently than his friends. I don't see how that suddenly makes him entitled to my hand, simply because he is the first to propose,” was your retort.
She let out a huff, turning her nose up in the air in dismissal. Sometimes, you wondered exactly what your father saw in her. As if reading your mind, the way mothers always seemed to, she narrowed her eyes at you.
“Sometimes I wonder what he sees in you. You have a way of making things more complicated than they need to be with your...indecision,” she paused, giving you a once over before reaching up to fix your hair. “Amongst other things.”
You were smacking her hand away from your face when a velvety smooth laugh from Jacob pulled you out of your little mother-daughter quarrel. His back straightened when you aimed a glare at his broad backside. The eavesdropping little weasel.
Seated at the table, he looked adorably out of his element, despite the dapper looking suit he had on, a stark contrast from the dusty coat and flat cap you were used to spotting at the servant's entrance at all odd hours of the night. You supposed you should be impressed; he cleaned up well for a scoundrel. Since it was a private dinner between the four of you, your parents sat across from each other as usual while Jacob was on the other side of you. No matter where you turned or looked, he was always going to be in your line of sight.
"So tell us about yourself, Jacob. Wesley says you have a sister?" your mother began as the first course was served.
Jacob nodded, quietly thanking the footman that poured his wine before responding. "Yes, I have a twin sister named Evie. She just moved to India with her husband."
“India! That's so far away. You must miss her,” commented your mother, thoroughly entertained by the lives and exploits of others.
He was silent for a moment, and that was when you realized he was waiting for you to meet his gaze. "I miss her terribly, but we still write occasionally.”
According to Jacob, her skillset was better suited for other pursuits but both of them were equally committed to taking down Crawford Starrick and his corrupt monopoly over the city. You wondered if Jacob would have introduced you to her if she had stayed in London for longer. He spoke fondly of her, despite the vexed tone that usually came with describing a sibling.
“If you’re twins, then which of you is older?” you asked curiously.
Jacob perked up in his seat, delighted that you were joining in on the conversation. “Evie’s older by four minutes. She used to love bringing that up when we were younger. You have an older brother; you know how it goes."
Your father nodded in agreement. "This one wouldn't stop clinging to her brother's side until she turned ten and then suddenly wanted nothing to do with him."
"I can assure you the feeling was mutual. You know he hated when you brought me along on those hunting trips," you deadpanned, glad that your brother wasn’t here to defend himself.
Your father let out a healthy laugh before turning to Jacob. “That’s because she was the better shot by far.”
“Wesley,” your mother warned from the top of her wine glass, her eyes flicking towards Jacob as a subtle cue to her husband to remember who exactly they were having over for dinner.
“Evie would deny it if she were here, but I’m the better shot between the two of us,” he boasted with a cocky smirk.
"It's hard to imagine you as a twin but you are most definitely a younger sibling,” you laughed.
"Oh? Care to explain?" The edge of his lips quirked up in challenge and you knew that if there was even a hint of hesitation in your voice, you were already gone.
“You strike me as the type that always gets his way,” you pointed out.
“I don’t always get my way,” he shook his head, amused. “After all, worthwhile pursuits need time, a lesson I had to learn the hard way.”
You wondered how he could say half of the things he did while keeping a straight face.
In keeping with his busy schedule, Jacob had to depart shortly after the last course, despite your father’s invitation to stay for a night cap. You supposed the work of an assassin was never quite done. The family’s coach was ready to give him a lift home, but Jacob declined that as well, stating that it was a lovely night for a walk.
You took his coat from the waiting butler, and Jacob said nothing as you helped him into it, fixing his collar. You eyed the polished silver pin on his lapel, tracing the rigid lines of the ominous symbol with your fingers. So much of him was cloaked in secrecy and bloodshed and you were caught, between wanting to know everything about who this man was and staying in a safe bubble of mutual acquaintance.
“Thank your parents for a lovely evening,” he said, snapping you out of your thoughts. Your hands jerked away from his chest and became clasped together behind your back.
“Of course,” you nodded, your palms sweating when you opened the door for him. “Good night, Mr. Frye.”
He returned your nod with one of his own before slipping on his red-banded top hat and descending down your doorstep with an almost graceful efficiency. You should have closed the door and ended the night then and there, but then what would you have to look forward to? Endless drafts of a letter that you never wanted to send?
“Wait,” you called out to his retreating back.
Jacob’s footsteps slowed before coming to a halt at the bottom of your doorstep. He turned to face you, one hand on the railing. You were always sizing him up, feathers perpetually ruffled as you gazed down at him from your perch. Oh little robin, he thought to himself, it seems you’ve taken the high ground yet again.
“Did we forget something?” he teased. “I believe we’ve already said our goodnights.”
There was no other way to respond to that, other than to ignore it.
“Did you mean what you said earlier, about me being capable?” you asked, voice shaking from mustered nerves and the chilly night air.
“Every word, Miss. ____,” he smiled. “Now, let me ask you something.”
You stood your ground, squaring your shoulders as he climbed up a few steps, until he was level with your steely gaze. “I’ll allow it.”
He chuckled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Do you really believe that man’s proposal is that last you’ll ever receive, that he’s the only one interested in you?”
“What are you playing at?” you turned your head in a tilt, eyes narrowing into a glare and then widening in surprise when he reached behind him to undo the knot on the worn leather cord that kept a single shilling around his neck.
“This isn’t a proposal,” Jacob clarified as he leaned in, his arms meeting behind your neck as he worked to re-tie the knot of his necklace. “Think of it more as...collateral.”
You supposed that put you at ease, but all you could think about was how close he was standing, how he smelled faintly of gunpowder, aged leather, and white jasmine, how your lips were a hair’s breadth away to the scar that traced his left jaw. The coin was jarringly cold against your skin, yet Jacob himself radiated a magnetic heat that you wanted to sink yourself into against your better judgement.
“Hold on to it for me, will you? Until I earn the privilege of replacing it with something more… extravagant.”
“And when will that be?”
“I suppose that’s up to you,” he shrugged nonchalantly.
“And if you never earn my hand?” you challenged, fists clenching.
“I’d settle for your affections, but marriage…” He let out a deep exhale, hands on his hips as he shifted in mock unease. “That’d be something, wouldn’t it?”
Jacob loved the way your nose scrunched when you were mad at him, followed by your eyes narrowing as you scrutinized him gently. You must have really hated it when he was able to render you speechless.