Chapter Text
Nathaniel Wheeler couldn’t resist fidgeting with the cloth of his stockings — a bad habit of his that tingled his fingertips in a coercive duet with the biting cold. As he did, his father’s eyes fell on the familiar sight of his son leaning to touch his calf.
Never the one for words, Daniel Wheeler merely cleared his throat, attempting to recall in Nat’s mind his mother’s constant fretting and let her words speak for him; an action he did quite frequently in the background of those lectures as well. “Nathaniel.”
The boy sat up straight. Crossing his legs, letting the soulmate-marked calf tuck the other, he managed a “Sorry, Father.”
An awkward silence permeated the air as Nathaniel sat with the embarrassment of getting caught. Almost immediately, his hands flew to his turquoise scarf to replace his previous action. He had no intention of absolving his thoughts, for what else was there for a young man to do when his only other company was his father and a horse? As his gaze returned to the snowy landscape before them, he quietly returned to the daydreams ignited by those words on his leg.
“It is hard work; but, I have time enough to play tricks on those foul redcoats!”
Staring at the white mounds as they passed, Nat imagined that his soulmate’s countenance would match — a pale, angelic white, with a smile as soft as the fallen ice. Although he’s not completely sure what sort of lady amuses herself with pranks on the King’s soldiers (over the years, he’s assured himself it’s not assault), the passing worry would always subside with the subsequent overwhelming feeling of excitement. With the tensions growing in Boston currently, he knew his chances of hearing this exact sentence would only increase exponentially day by day.
Oh, how he dreamed of the one behind those words.
“Father?”
Without turning to his son, Nat’s father answered, “Yes, son?”
“Did mother look like how you thought she would?”
“Nathaniel!” His father sputtered. “That’s… really, by now, you should know better than to ask such questions.”
“But, I was just…”
“People in the city aren’t going to be as forgiving with your tendency to ask such intrusive questions. I’m your father, so I understand your intentions, but you won’t always be given that luxury.” Nat’s head bowed, his excitement dissipating with his father’s reprimands.
“I know,” Nat said, “I’m trying, I really am. I just don’t get this stuff.” He paused, sitting in his own confusion. “What’s wrong with what I asked?”
His father looked up briefly and sucked in a breath of chilly air. “To say your mother’s appearance did or did not meet my expectations would be rude and should not be a topic of discussion.”
Nat’s shoulders hitched — it would be pretty awkward if his father said that his mother didn’t look pretty enough. Shoulders slumping back down, he murmured, “I see. I didn’t realize that earlier. I was just really excited to —”
“I know.”
Another bout of silence struck the air, the only reprieve being the sounds of hooves and wood creaking, reminding the two of their eventual departure from each other. Nathaniel didn’t want his last conversations with his father to be scoldings, but sometimes he felt like everything that came out of his mouth ended up wrong. Like they bubble up pure and innocent on his tongue only to oxidize into impudence.
Before Nat could think of something else more innocuous to say, his father spoke for him. “Your mother—” he stopped. “We know you're excited about your soulmate. But with a mark like that, you're already destined for trouble. Don't cause any more for yourself.”
And before Nat could tune out the familiar speech, or object to the implied deliberateness of a term like ‘cause trouble,’ when really he was more so blindly falling into it, his father said, “I care about you, Nathaniel. I wish you could've stayed with us, maybe spared you from all this talk but…” he trailed off. “There wasn't a choice. Just don't forget to write me letters, too; alright, son?”
Nat's eyebrows raised. It was unusual for his father to talk about his emotions like this. But it wasn't unwelcome. Nat smiled, and could tell his father knew that he was doing so; even if his eyes were still on the road ahead. “Yes, Father.”
***
Nathaniel yawned as he tugged his coat on. Most of his excitement lay dormant, waiting to be awoken after his body did.
An unusual silence accompanied him as he dressed — one that his brother Samuel would normally fill with prodding and poking and teasing. Right before Nat left, he remembered telling Sam that nothing in Boston could hurt him, for he’d already endured fourteen years beside his dear older brother.
The narrow escape he made after that quip rivaled the narrow streets of Boston.
Although the attic was certainly much quieter than his house back in Uxbridge, he supposed that the bustle of life outside would make up for it. In any case, no dignified sibling would admit that they were missing their lifelong companionship; and thus, Nat quickly found his eyes wandering the room.
Under the slanted roof, a cramped desk sat, displaying his primer, papers, and pencil. Remembering his mother’s reminders, he glanced at the small opening on the floor leading to the stairs and glanced back at the desk. He reasoned that he could recite a verse or two from the book before Madam Edes’ viewed his absence as stalling.
Picking up the aged copy of the New England Primer, Nat flipped to his favorite page. Stained with the oil of many fingers, dust, and dirt, the ink appeared spotty, but determined, nonetheless. Traveling from the pictures to the text, Nat recited,
Thy Life to mend,
God’s Book attend.
Nat smiled. He always liked how rhymes fell on his tongue: how the syllables lined up so perfectly, ebbing and flowing and punctuated with the most natural, melodic sound, whether in tunes or poetry. On the farm, he'd sometimes take the guilty pleasure of sneaking off and drafting a couplet or two when he was supposed to be feeding the chickens or milking the cows.
But something else about this verse comforted Nat. What soothed him like no other remedy could was the notion that all his worries were safe in the study of this book. This rhyme — and to a lesser degree, the others in the primer — painted life so simply. Its problems and solutions.
Nat loved it.
“Nathaniel!”
Jolting out of his trance, Nat shut the book and rushed down the stairs, nearly stumbling over his own feet. Again, Nat had lost himself in his own mind. He grimaced thinking of how mildly disappointed his father would be.
Arriving at the kitchen, he welcomed the sight of Madam Edes, her face still warm and friendly despite Nat’s minor slight. It almost would have balanced out the surprise of seeing an unexpected young man standing next to her.
Pale skin contrasted sleek, jet-black hair. Everything about him seemed angular, from his eyes to his cheeks to his hands, holding his tri-cornered hat. A smile played on his lips, but it didn’t feel as natural as Madam Edes’. And consequently, his eyes, sizing Nat up and down, felt less observational and more calculating.
They held contact for a brief second.
Almost instinctively, Nat broke it and turned to Madam Edes, blurting, “Who’s the boy next to you?”
Madam Edes’ eyebrows raised slightly before quickly resuming their friendly pose. “Good morning to you, too, Nathaniel.”
“Oh.” Nathaniel reddened under his second mistake of the day. “Good morning, Madam Edes.”
She smiled, quick to continue. “Royce Dillingham here is also an apprentice — such a reliable boy.” She clasped her hands, turning to share her grin with Royce. The young man flashed one back, considerably wider than the one he used to acknowledge Nat’s presence. Turning back to Nat, the woman said, “Do heed his advice. Master Edes will call for you shortly.”
They all stood for a few seconds. Madam Edes clearly seemed enthusiastic at the idea of the two becoming friends, eagerly awaiting for a conversation to spark. Under that pressure, Nat asked, “So … how do you like being an apprentice, Royce?”
Royce smiled; not necessarily at Nat, but more so in amusement at his own answer. “It is hard work; but, I have time enough to play tricks on those foul redcoats!”
Nat froze.
All of a sudden he didn't know what to do with his hands, and then he quickly found out that he didn't know what to do with the rest of his body either. Was the tingling of his calf his imagination or his nerves? Both?
Were those really the words? Well, he knew that they were those words, but were his words those words?
As his mouth flapped open and shut, he shifted back on his right leg, as if triggering a combination of bodily motions would eject the correct response; like a kid un-artistically maneuvering a toy puzzle. Likewise, Nat didn't even know what solution he was striving towards — he had expected to meet his soulmate soon, but not this soon!
“Nathaniel? Are you alright?” Madam Edes asked lightly.
Right. His soulmate. The person he was meant to be with for the rest of his life. The person standing in front of him right now, whose eyebrows were twisted with concern, and betrayed by his mouth's slight quirk upwards.
And something in Royce’s eyes sparkled — no, caught light. Something almost mean. And complicated in a way that Nat doesn’t think he’s ever seen before.
No, something didn’t feel right. That wasn’t the reaction of somebody who just heard the words of their soulmate. His stomach looped in a knot, the tense cord on the precipice of tightening, butterflies nowhere to be found. Of course, then, he just had to ask —
“Are you my soulmate?”
It was Royce’s turn to drop his jaw. He glanced at Madam Edes, who was similarly agape. However, she had the courtesy to close hers before Royce, swiftly intervening.
“Nat, I’m sorry to say, but surely it’s a coincidence. Royce doesn’t have a soulmate,” she explained, and looked at Royce, expecting some affirmation. He just stood there.
“Are you — is he sure?” Nat inquired.
This question only seemed to make things worse, as Royce’s shock turned to indignation, and the subtle reprimand in Madam Edes’ voice adjusted to Nat’s insistence.
“Nathaniel, you haven’t been in the city for long, so I'll forgive your naivety. But you simply cannot jump to such conclusions so quickly because of a common error,” Madam Edes said. “These mishaps occur all the time.”
“But my mark isn’t common,” Nat protested. He turned to Royce. “Have you checked —”
Royce stepped forward, closing in on the other boy. His eyes squinted at Nat with a condescension that forced the other to quiet. “Yes. I have.”
Royce was barely taller than Nat, but his unflinching stance and glare presided over Nat in a way that made him doubt himself.
In his new world of Boston, Royce’s hardened eyes told Nat to stay in his place. He couldn't help but avert his gaze.
Slowly, Royce stepped back. Adorning his hat, he tilted it towards Madam Edes before turning on his heel and walking out of the print shop.
As he left, Madam Edes’ strained expression of apology withered with a heavy sigh.
“I’m sorry,” Nat said in a low voice. “I didn’t think that he’d…”
“That he’d take offense to your ill manners?” Nat flinched and shrunk under her words. Wringing her hands in thought and self preservation, Madam Edes recomposed herself. “Well. You’d better apologize to him yourself at the rope wharf — preferably today. Royce has lived in Boston his whole life, and has two years of apprenticeship under his belt; he’ll be an invaluable asset to guiding you.”
Nat looked back up at her. She wore a slightly pitiful smile. He wasn't sure who it was for. “You may have started off the wrong foot, but you’ll have plenty more time to adjust to the life and people here.”
“Nathaniel!” A hearty yell rang from the nearby room. Nat smiled weakly at Madam Edes before rushing to Master Edes, eager to redeem himself.
***
A low, muted chuckle masked itself under the caw of seagulls, chatter of officers, and grunts of physical labor on the wharf. Solomon Fortune was amused at Nat’s valiant efforts to lift the crate in front of him.
Nat’s fingers burned slightly with the struggle to lift the wooden crate, which matched the embarrassed warmth of his cheeks under Solomon’s eyes and stifled laughter. The humiliating resistance of the crate against Nat’s efforts left him slightly out of breath, the tempo matching the thrum of his heart.
He had skipped to this task after some unsuccessful attempts to sell advertisements, expecting that the retrieval of the shipment would be easier. After all, carrying shipment requires no skill other than strength, while sales rely on persuasion and resourcefulness, each technique depending on the needs of the customer. However, it became clear that both his interpersonal and physical attributes required attention.
Nat sighed. If years of physical labor couldn’t surmount the chores of a printmaker’s apprentice, how strong would he have to be to be a real printmaker? He supposed that was why his apprenticeship lasted for seven years.
“I admire your spirit Nathaniel, but it will take a bigger man than either of us to lift that crate,” Solomon said.
“A bigger man than you?” Nat complained. Solomon laughed in return, pleased by his indirect compliment.
“There are many men bigger than me in Boston, Nathaniel. I can rely on wheelbarrows at times to transport crates, but the only choice ropemakers have when beating rope is in which arm they use.” Solomon nodded towards the direction of the rope wharf. “You could try your luck at the ropewalk; it’s not too far from here.”
“But I don’t know any —” Nat paused. One ropemaker came to mind, yet this solution to his dilemma only brought forth a previous problem he had left unattended.
Nathaniel’s silence intrigued Solomon. “You’ve already met a ropemaker, then?”
The boy bit the inside of his cheek in contemplation. “Yes, this morning. Royce Dillingham. But we’re not really on good terms right now.”
Solomon raised an eyebrow. His lips parted, but closed again in reconsideration. “It is fairly easy to make an enemy out of that young man,” he contemplated instead of remarking on Nat’s ability to make enemies fairly easy.
“Is it? But I don’t think we are,” Nat said. “Yet. Maybe I should go talk to him to make sure. And I’ll apologize, too.” Unfortunately, Madam Edes’ task had to be completed much sooner than he anticipated, for the two Edes’ requests coincided at Griffin's Wharf.
Pushing his intrigue to the side, Solomon said, “Good luck to you, Nathaniel. Royce can be fair when he wants to be. You just have to give him a good reason to do so.”
Nat smiled. “Thank you for your help, Solomon.”
Although certainly not unfriendly, the people Nat encountered while trying to sell advertisements for the Boston Gazette were not entirely receptive to his inquiries. From apologizing profusely to a farmer at Faneuil Hall, to falling short of convincing a merchant to depart from his politically neutral, business-centered actions, Nat discovered that Boston provoked more debate than conversation; especially in this politically charged atmosphere.
Yet, in Solomon, he found reprieve: a gentle wave of dialogue. Where other’s ebbed in offense, Solomon flowed, chuckling at Nat’s curiosities and naivety.
Maybe Solomon never really has a choice but to be patient with people like Nat. His heart clenched at that idea. He hoped that he didn’t cause Solomon too much extra trouble — he is paid to work on the wharf, after all. And Nat was doing a great job at preventing both of them from continuing with their duties.
Solomon smiled back before following the sound of a crewmate’s voice back to work.
Nat headed in the direction of the ropewalk. Although refreshed by Solomon’s presence and reassurance, he couldn’t deny the anxiety building within him at the idea of confronting Royce. As he walked closer to Royce’s place of work, he couldn’t help but think of Madam Edes’ rejection of the notion that Royce was his soulmate. Were his soulmate mark ‘Good evening,’ or ‘Hello,’ Nat would’ve understood her denial; but Royce spoke the exact words on his calf — what were the chances that somebody else would say that exact phrase to him? Especially if the redcoats are removed from Boston soon, like his father said they would be.
The more Nat thought about it, the more firmly he believed Royce and Madam Edes to be in the wrong. He’s heard of stories where people grow up believing themselves to be markless, when really their marking was written on their back, hidden in plain sight. Not to discredit Royce’s knowledge of his own body, but wouldn’t that be more plausible?
As he pondered this, the loud thoughts of his brain harmonized with the ruckus of the approaching ropewalk. Apprentices chattered and laughed, the sound of their bats against the rope a brutish rhythm.
Thus, with his busy thoughts, Nat did not notice the snowball flying towards him.
And even if Nat did notice the snowball, his reflexes would not have been fast enough to properly dodge it. That is to say with no disrespect to Nat’s reflexes, for the utmost respect can only go to Royce’s strong arm.
The boy laughed as Nat’s shoulder couldn’t withstand the force of the snowball by itself, and took Nat down with it. Yet, Nat hurried and gathered snow for his own snowball, to the surprise of Royce.
Nat quickly compressed the snow together, watching Royce quickly make one of his own, a respectful agreement to Nat’s challenge. However, on his back, the feeble throw from between his knees failed to meaningfully collide with Royce’s chest. Laughing, Royce dropped his own snowball, for Nat’s weak attempt had already spelled defeat, and Royce did not feel the need to continue the ordeal.
As Nat stood up and brushed the snow and ice off of his clothes, Royce walked over to the boy. His confident smile was back, but with a taunting twist.
“I’m impressed, farm boy. What is it that you came here for?”
Nat bristled at the unexpected nickname. How interesting that Royce had abstained from calling him that in the presence of Madam Edes. But before he could ask Royce for any trivial favors, he had to ask for the prevalent one first.
“I need your help moving a crate from the wharf back to the print shop,” he said. “It’s heavy,” he added, as if it needed clarification. Under Royce’s eyes, he couldn’t help but jump — in both body and mind. “And I wanted to apologize for what happened earlier.”
Royce studied Nat for a few seconds. Crossing his arms, he said, “I’ll accept your apology and help you under one condition.”
Now that Nat was really looking at him, with his initial shock removed from his judgments, the other did not appear so bad. Despite the cold of the snowball on his shoulder, a warmth spread as his body understood the other’s sheer strength. While not delicate or blonde, Nat couldn’t deny that Royce’s intimidation worked partly due to his handsome features. And beneath the casual atmosphere of the day, with the sound of Royce laughing still ringing in his ears, Nat’s heart softened to the idea of Royce being his soulmate.
He truly was fair to accept Nat’s favor and apology in the first place, so Nat had to accept the conditions as well. Really, Royce was simply steadfast in his principles — a trait Nat never had, which only placed Royce further in his favors.
“Of course.”
“Don’t ever call me your soulmate again.”