Chapter Text
Abigail slipped out of the doors of the dining room. The hubbub of André’s party followed her out into the hall, along with the overpowering smell of spilled wine and other less savory things. She stood in the hall for a moment, letting the faint wafts of fresh air coming in through the crack under the front doorway clear her head.
Midnight had come and went, and the party was slipping into the small hours of the morning. She sighed softly. She was unlikely to get much sleep that night; she would have to be up early, cleaning up the mess her master and his guests always created. It was better than scrubbing blood from the carpets, but only just.
It was nights like this made her miss Setauket, and the Strong household. She always missed Cicero; that was a permanent ache that had lodged itself in her chest as soon as Anna spoke the words that had sent her off to York City. Losing him had always been her greatest fear. She had been torn from her own mother at a young age; the memory of her mother’s expression as they had led Anna away was still burned into her mind. She could call it to her memory as if it were yesterday. It was the last time she had seen her mother.
Missing Setauket was something different.
Abigail had been sold to Anna’s family, as a companion and a personal servant for their young daughter. At first she had been inconsolable; but quietly, because her mother had made her promise that she would keep herself safe, that she would survive, and the only way to survive was to shut away her grief for the few hours she had to herself. But she had been only a child, and children put behind the worst more quickly than adults; she had adjusted to her new life in time.
Her life had become intertwined with Anna’s. She had been Anna’s childhood playmate, and had been the one to mend the tears in Anna’s dresses, had scrubbed them clean of grass stains and dirt in secret so Anna wouldn’t be punished for running wild with Abe and Ben and Caleb. She had helped Anna sneak away to meet Abe, and it had been her arms that Anna had sought when he broke Anna’s heart, several times over. By then, Abigail had a son.
When Anna’s engagement to Selah had come, Abigail understood her mother’s fear viscerally. It was without question that she would be part of Anna’s dowry; but her son was almost as old as she had been when she had been sold. Anna had quelled those fears, and Abigail had let herself think that perhaps, perhaps her little family would be safe. Anna was fond of her, in a conceited way; she could no more picture her life without her than Abigail could fathom a life without her son.
Until Hewlett’s order.
How cruel that was, offering Abigail a glimpse of freedom, a glimpse of something she had only dared to dream about in the darkest hours of the night. To have that offered, and in the next breath, snatched away; and even crueler, telling her she was going to York City without Cicero. All at once she had been forced to realize how fragile the order of her life had been.
Serving André’s household was not so bad as she had feared it would be. He was a generous master, and in some ways she was more of a servant than a slave, though of course she had not been freed.
Most importantly, he trusted her. As much as André trusted anyone. For all his cleverness, he did not seem to put a thought towards doubting the loyalty of a slave.
That gave her the opportunity to secret away little bit of information, anything that might be useful to Anna, anything that might keep Anna safe. So Anna could keep Cicero safe. So Abigail could provide for her son.
Most of the wages André paid her went to Anna, for Cicero’s care; the rest she saved, secreted away to a growing cache she kept under her mattress. Little by little, she was gathering enough to buy her freedom. For now, she was content to be where she was, serving as the eyes of Anna, and by extension, Ben Tallmadge. The Continental Army.
But things seemed likely to change quickly. Violently, perhaps. André played the role of a fool, at times, but there was always a sharp look in his eyes, a hunger that was a constant reminder of how dangerous he really was. He threw parties that flew in the face of the war, and was ever the gracious host, but he was always watching.
Whatever happened, Abigail would have a way out.
“Hey!” A harsh shout pulled Abigail from her thoughts. She straightened, and stared at an inebriated British officer who had just emerged from the dining room. He looked worse for the wear; his wig was comically askew, and he was swaying on his feet. His rough face rang no bells in Abigail’s mind; she had not seen him in André’s household before.
“Good evening sir,” she said, bobbing in a quick curtsy before trying to slip past him.
His hand flashed out, surprisingly quick for one so drunk, and caught her arm in a crushing grip. “Damn… suppose you’ll do, girl. André likes his slaves pretty, eh?” He pulled her closer, and leaned in. The feeling of his hot, rancid breath against her face provoked an involuntary shudder, and she tried to wrench away from him.
His other hand closed on her waist, his fingers digging into the skin underneath her dress. Abigail was strong, but this man had a grip like iron, and even as she struggled she knew she could not lash out. Defending oneself meant death for a slave.
“Hold still,” the officer slurred. “Do’ya want to make a ruckus? You know… André won’t tolerate you assaulting one of his officers, no matter how pretty you are.”
Years of instinct overcame her, and Abigail stilled. She closed her eyes as he pulled her close again, and mashed his wet lips against her mouth.
“Colonel!” A high voice broke the horror of the moment. The officer glanced back, and Abigail opened her eyes.
A woman was standing in the hall. Abigail recognized her as one of the courtesans who was a regular at André’s parties. She was a slim, pretty woman with a head of golden-brown hair and large eyes. Abigail had seen her disappearing up the stairs with an older officer earlier. She bore the marks of her exertions; one of her sleeves was slipping off her shoulder and her hair was tangled in a wild halo around her head.
None of that, apparently, detracted from her obvious charms in the eyes of the officer who had a hold on Abigail. He turned, and his grip on her arm loosened.
“I’m afraid the girl’s not on the menu tonight,” the courtesan said, her voice soft and rich. She batted her eyes at the soldier. “But Major André wouldn’t want you to go without entertainment.”
The soldier practically started salivating. With his attention consumed by the courtesan, Abigail slipped from his now-slack grasp, and put a few feet of distance between them. He didn’t seem to notice.
The courtesan beckoned the soldier, and then, when he lurched forward slowly, stepped down from the stair and came to take his arm.
As they mounted the stairs, the courtesan threw a glance back, and winked at Abigail.
Abigail wanted to shout a thanks after her, but that would have given the game up.
She let herself breathe a sigh of relief when the footsteps stopped, and hurried back to the kitchens. No matter what her orders were, she was not going to venture into the dining room again until the officers were abed or gone.
A few hours later, Abigail was in the kitchen scrubbing the last of the dishes from the party. It was the smallest of her worries from the party, but it was easiest when done first.
She wondered how the household had managed before she came. Maybe André had had another slave, one he had sold. The thought made her insides twist a little.
Abigail heard light footsteps ad down the hall, and pause at the door of the kitchen, but she didn’t turn around.
“Hello?” A lilting voice said.
When she finally set down the plate she was scrubbing to look behind her, the whore who had come to her rescue was sitting at small table in the kitchen that served as the servant’s table, as bold as could be.
She did not look quite as lovely as she had before; one of her eyes was blackened, and dark blood trickled from a gash on her lower lip.
She met Abigail’s stare with a nonchalant shrug. “That colonel was a brute.”
Abigail felt a sickening sense of relief, followed quickly by guilt. Relief that the officer had not succeeded in forcing her; guilt that this woman had taken her place.
The courtesan smiled. It looked slightly morbid with her bloody lip. “Don’t look so worried. Entertaining the brutes is what I’m here for.”
Abigail shook her head. “The Major should not be permitting men like that into his home.” He was a compassionate master to Abigail, or at least it up a good show of being. She found a clean rag, and dipped it in one of the buckets of clean water waiting to be used in the washing, and held out to the courtesan. “For your face.”
The courtesan smiled again, and accepted it. “The Major must accept the likes of men like that. At least once…” She shook her head. “Thank you.” She pressed the cloth against her eyes and winced.
“Thank you,” Abigail replied, looking at the courtesan for a moment longer, before turning back to her scrubbing.
“My name is Philomena,” the courtesan said.
Abigail glanced back at her. “I’m Abigail, miss.”
Philomena laughed. “I’m no miss,” she said lightly. “I’m just another working girl. Like you.”
Abigail didn’t answer. Philomena might have been a whore, but she was clearly a well paid one; she had freedom far beyond what Abigail could ever hope for.
For a while, the kitchen was silent, aside from the rhythmic sound of Abigail scrubbing and the clang off dishes bumping each other.
“Why did you do that?” Abigail said at last. She had been turning the thought over in her head. Abigail was the one who helped; no one offered her assistance, and she didn’t need any. She had survived being separated from her mother, had taught herself to read from the books Anna discarded in favor of adventures in the woods, had born a son and raised him to survive too, by herself. She had been sent off to York City, the household of a man who was the enemy of all she had known, and survived.
She had survived worse than the drunken advances of a soldier, and yet, she was immeasurably grateful to have been spared that. Grateful in a way she couldn’t fully voice, because it was twisted up with confusion, and shame, and anger that the soldier could have hurt her and she had not been able to strike back. As it always had been.
“What?” Philomena was resting the side of her head on her flattened hands on the table. She lifted her head gingerly. “Stop that colonel from forcing himself on you? Because I could.” She laughed. “There are too many cruel men and too much cruelty altogether in the world. And I know how that feels, to be the one powerless.” Her smile was bright, but there was a touch of bitterness. “And because entertaining those brutes isn’t your job, anyway. And I have a bit more power than they might think.” She propped her chin up with her hands. “Besides, we’re both in the situation of working with the Major; we’re on the same side. We might as well look out for each other. No one else is going to.”
Abigail considered this for a moment, and then smiled back at her. “That sounds sensible.”
“Good,” Philomena said, grinning. With agility that was surprising given her recent exertions, she jumped to her feet and came to examine the pile of dirty dishes. Her nose wrinkled, but she picked up a plate and one of the clothes and started scrubbing. “It will be done faster this way.”
Abigail opened her mouth to protest, and then shrugged and resumed washing the dishes, with Philomena at her side. At first they worked in cautious silence, but Philomena sparked a conversation with a story of the worst theatrical endeavor she had ever had a role in- apparently she had been an actress, not too long before- and coaxed Abigail into reciprocating with stories of the outlandish things that had been demanded of her. She did not let down her guard completely; she was not sure she would ever do that around anyone but the one person she knew she could trust- her son.
Abigail left Philomena doing the last few dishes and went to see to the mess in the dining room. When she returned, the dishes were done, and Philomena was fast asleep at the wooden table, her head pillowed in her arms. Or maybe not so fast asleep- she lifted her head blearily as Abigail began to put together some food for herself.
“Is that breakfast?” the courtesan murmured.
Abigail laughed. “Of course,” she said, and cut enough bread off the loaf for the both of them. She didn’t think André would object to her feeding one of his entertainments; a bit of bread, cheese, and eggs would be the least of the night’s expenditures. She finished preparing the food, and sat down at the table.
Again, Philomena managed to coax conversation out of her. She was very good at that, Abigail was quickly learning. She had a way of looking at her conversation partner like her whole world hung on their words, and had more than enough stories to fill any silences.
In all her charm, she managed to make Abigail forget all the reason she shouldn’t be drawn into familiarity with this woman. It was as if a dam inside of her broke.
She had always been someone of few words. It was surprising how much of a relief it was to be able to speak again, candidly. But she had spent so long with most of her words bottled up. Who could she talk to, in York City? Not Major André, and he was the only person she saw with any regularity. He didn’t keep much of a household, despite how much he enjoyed his luxuries. A smaller household was easier to keep track of, he had told her at one point. Easier to trust.
“... and so he ran all the way back through the woods, half-naked,” Abigail finished the anecdote. “Thank the Lord he never found out who was responsible… but he deserved it. That way Anna laughed herself sick instead of crying over him.”
Bright spots blossomed on Philomena’s cheeks as she laughed. Her laughter was infectious; and Abigail couldn’t help chuckling at the recollection of Abraham’s humiliation.
The sound of their laughter masked that of footsteps in the hall; Abigail didn’t realize André was standing in the doorway of the kitchen until Philomena glanced up. “Major,” she giggled. “Good morning to you.”
Abigail was out of her seat in a moment, retreating back to the other side of the kitchen. She should never have allowed herself to lose track of time like that, to let herself be distracted; but to be fair, André was up much earlier than he normally was after such a night. And he rarely ventured into the kitchen; that was a servant and slave’s domain.
“Good morning Philomena,” André said, rubbing his temples. He looked rather less orderly than usual; his hair was hanging at his shoulders, and his face had pale cast. “Did my ears deceive me, or did you coax a laugh from our quiet Abigail?” He glanced over at Abigail, appearing to notice her change of position for the first time. “Oh, don’t rise on my account. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” He yawned, and waved for her to sit back down. “This is hardly the hour to stand at attention.”
“I think the hour is always right for that,” Philomena said, and batted her eyelashes at him. Abigail glanced between them, and then sat down at the other side of the table.
He grinned back, but his smile fell a moment later. “What happened?” he said, crossing the room to her. “Who did this?” He took her face in his hands gently, and tipped her face up to get a better look at her bruised eye and split lip.
Philomena grimaced. “That colonel, the new one,” she said, with a roll of her eyes. “If I had not intervened, he would have forced himself on Abigail.”
André looked up at Abigail. His gaze was remarkably sharp, for one who had displayed such bleariness minutes before. “Is this true?”
Abigail stared at him for a moment, and then nodded. “Yes, sir.”
André cursed. “I’ll see that he isn’t invited back.” He thought about it for a moment, and shook his head. There was a genuine look of remorse in his eyes that Abigail wasn’t sure what to think of. “I’m sorry, Abigail. I should have anticipated something like this. I’ll make it clear to any further rowdy guests that you are off limits.” He pulled one of the kitchen chairs up next to where Philomena was sitting, and sat down next to her. “You’ve entrusted me with your lives; it is my responsibility to keep you safe.” He brushed back a curl from Philomena’s face, and ran his thumb gently over her cut lip, to wipe away a bit of blood. “I was remiss in my duties, and I will not make that mistake again.”
Philomena laughed delicately, but there was real relief in the way she relaxed into his touch, as if the strings holding her up had been cut. Abigail felt uncomfortably like she was intruding on something.
“Abigail? Would you mind going down to the cellar and chipping off a bit of the ice, for Philomena’s eye?” André asked. Abigail knew an order when she heard one. She retreated from the room quickly, feeling oddly voyeuristic.
When she came back down the hall with a few chips of ice in a cloth, she heard Philomena murmuring quietly to André. She paused, and listening.
“said… thinks that… inept commander…” She could only pick up a few of the phrases, but enough to get the gist of the conversation. No wonder Philomena was so comfortable setting into André’s house; she was clearly more than a prostitute. She was one of his spies. In what capacity? Just spying from the beds of his fellow officers, or could she be sent elsewhere?
She couldn’t risk lingering in the hallway any longer. With these new thoughts dancing around her head, she stepped loudly the rest of the way down the hall. By the time she slipped into the kitchen, Philomena and André were quiet, though they were closer together than they had been when she left.
André took the rag-wrapped ice with a slight smile, and leaned over to press it gently against Philomena’s eye. She reached up to hold it there. “I fear it will be some time before I can entertain again, Major,” she said.
“I believe I gave them quite enough amusement to sate their appetites, for a little while at least,” André said. “In any event, I don’t believe I will waste you on an event like that the next time. I have better ideas.”
Philomena laughed, and leaned closer to the Major, resting her head on his shoulder.
Abigail stepped over to the stove and clanged the dishes about for a moment, before setting to work at cooking in earnest. A glance over her shoulder gave her the slight, petty satisfaction that André had put his hand to his temples again, trying to calm his headache.
She had no qualms with his or Philomena’s dalliances, but they had looked about to engage in affairs best kept out of her kitchen.
Her kitchen. She was beginning to think of André’s house that way; she was beginning to think of York City at home. The thought was discomfiting. No place was home without her family. Without Cicero.
“You look sad again, Abigail,” Philomena called, twisting André’s blond braid between her fingers.
Abigail forced herself to smile. “It’s nothing, miss,” she said. “I only have work to get to.”
“Nonsense,” André said, turning towards her. “I have no stomach for breakfast, and I’m of a mind to go back to bed and let any of my guests stumble out on their own.” He tugged gently on one of Philomena’s curls. “No doubt you’ve been up late cleaning; why don’t you take the morning off? Or better yet, the day. I’m sure we can muddle on without you.” He caught her gaze in those perceptive eyes of his, and held it. “You can go out to the market, and buy something for your son.”
She smiled. Whatever motivations drove the Major to figure out what made a slave woman tick, Abigail wouldn’t question them then. She was just glad that she had that one link to Cicero. And Setauket, and Anna, and the Continentals.
It was a measure of kindness André didn’t have to afford her. Perhaps it would be one that brought his world tumbling down around him, one day.
But for now, Abigail was content to smile and think not of secret messages and Setauket, but only of her son, and the strange, quiet domesticity of the Major and his actress agent curled together at the table. It was a little bit endearing.
And a whole day to herself, to explore the city. She would need to cautious, but she always was. It was her nature.
She didn’t question the gift.
“Thank you, Major,” she said, curtseying. “It was good to meet you, Philomena.”
“The pleasure was mine,” Philomena said, flashing her a bright smile.
Whatever came to be, Abigail decided, she would not turn over Philomena to the Continentals, unless it was absolutely necessary. Woman like them had to look out for each other.