Chapter Text
The day was bright, sunny, and by the view from the window, one might deduce that it was also warm. However, it was not. The former Major of His Majesty's army sat close to the fireplace, attempting to thaw his chilled feet.
He'd spent most of the morning on horseback, an activity that he hoped would relax him. His thoughts and stresses seemed to always melt away with the thumping sound of the animal's hooves. And they had, if only for the duration. No amount of time in the saddle, though, could ease his burdened thoughts for long.
If someone, anyone, had told him that he would return to Scottish soil with a heavy heart at the beginning of the war, he would have laughed. Edmund Hewlett had entered the fray in hopes of defending King and Country, and ending this rebellion quickly. Only in his wildest dreams, or nightmares, did he imagine that these rebels might win (for it was looking as if the tides were turning). Or at the very least, outwit him. Yes, at the beginning of the war he would have laughed, because at the beginning of the war he had already made plans to return home within months. Back to the familiar fields of his boyhood, and the beautiful estate that had belonged to his family for generations. With its hedged garden and the crawling ivy that seemed to consume the north side of the house.
The eve of war always brought with it the loud anticipation of a speedy end, though this was rarely the outcome. War brought surprise and uncertainty. Never did he imagine that the backwater town of Sektauket, Long Island would be filled to the brim with spies. Never did he imagine that he would be charged with demons masquerading as loyalist soldiers. Never did he think that being captured was an option. Not for one moment did Edmund Hewlett dream that he would fall in love with a traitor. He'd thought himself unstoppable. Incorruptible.
He'd thought—
"Did you hear me, Edmund?"
The questioning tone in his mother's voice shook him from his trance.
He'd been staring at the same line of his book for more than 5 minutes now, the words never coming together to form any real meaning. His preoccupied mind would not permit it. And though the room was relatively silent otherwise, he hardly noticed his mother's chipper ramblings as she set the table for the afternoon tea. At some point in her goings-on, she'd asked him something that he did not hear over the clamor of thoughts buzzing through his skull.
His hum of a reply was vocalized with more irritation than he had intended.
"Is there any particular reason you've been so quiet this afternoon?" She repeated.
She knew the source of his silence. He knew that she knew, and vice versa. It had long been a ritual of his mother's to ask questions she'd already deduced the answers to. A trick that usually sparked a conversation. One that would inevitably bring light to the inward frustrations that his face always seemed to reveal.
He tried, if only half heartedly, to avoid it entirely.
"I don't know what you mean, mother."
He heard the screeching clank of a China cup to its saucer, and knew that he was not going to be the victor in this unspoken battle. He also knew the look that she was giving him, though he did not turn his head to prove himself correct.
"It's just that you've been reading the same page of that book for quite awhile now..."
Of course she had noticed. He was not surprised. What did surprise him, however, was her sudden, out-of-character, leap to the point.
"...Edmund Oliver Hewlett."
Oh dear god, he thought.
"I have half a mind to treat you in the same manner that I used to when you were a boy."
The Scottish woman did not raise her voice unless provoked. And it seemed that he'd succeeded in doing just that.
"You must stop this incessant brooding! Don't think me too old to take you over my knee!"
As always, she teased him into laughter. And he waved off her ridiculous exclamation with a dramatic scoff. Her next statement, however, silenced him completely."
"Listen to me," She said, waving the sugar spoon in his direction. "If you cannot forget that woman, you simply must write to her."
He looked at her directly, his smile gone and the room uncomfortably quiet. Well, uncomfortable for himself that is. The gentle ticking of the grandfather clock at his left suddenly became much more irritating. It's click, click, click, permeated corners of the room where the sound normally went unnoticed.
If his scowl made her regret the particular words she'd chosen, she did not show it. His mother's brow quirked in the way it always did when she was satisfied with herself. She'd pulled the truth out of him.
"Impossible." He finally stated, with a sharp bluntness that almost startled even himself.
Reaching for his book once more, he fumbled through the pages in search of where he'd left off, failing in his attempt to look nonchalant.
"Why?"
"You know why, mother."
His voice was low and tinged with a gruffness that was always brought on when he was hurt. Edmund tried to control the irritation in his voice, but it was becoming a struggle. It wasn't his mother's question that pained him, only the memories that the question forced him to relive. He'd told her why, and yet she acted as if his reasoning for leaving the colonies was unjustified. A familiar face molded into being behind his eyes, it's deep brown eyes releasing a single tear. A tear that was followed by a faint shake of the head in response to a question he'd wished he'd never asked, if only for his own sake.
Did you ever love me?
"Yes, you've explained. Mostly plainly, in fact."
"Then what more do I need to say?"
She sat herself on the settee across from him, holding a fresh cup of tea and a morsel of the shortbread that they both adored.
"Because I fail to understand how this woman's actions have harmed you." Her brow worked again, as she took a sip from her cup.
Astonished and bewildered, his grip on the book faltered and it slipped into his lap.
"She was, and is, a rebel spy, mother! She lied to me. She led me on. How could I possibly write to a woman who feels nothing for me?"
A moment of quiet passed between them, though they never broke eye contact. Edmund's thumb absently tapped against the arm of his chair. When she spoke again, it was a tone of genuine inquisition.
"Who informed you of her disloyalties?"
His thumb ceased its drumming. Hadn't he told her this part of the story?
"Well— well mother, she—" he cleared his throat and squinted as he always did when he was lost for words.
"Well then?"
"Well, she did."
Porcelain met porcelain with an unpleasant squeak, only barely missing that half eaten biscuit of shortbread.
"Edmund, I believe you left out that tid-bit when you first arrived home."
Why did he suddenly feel like a child again, waiting for a lecture that he was almost certainly doomed to sit through?
"It seems to me," She said, a look of thoughtfulness in her face. "That she would not have revealed herself unless she cared for you..."
Her thoughtful gaze quickly melted into something different, an almost offended tone in her voice. "But then of course, what do I know?"
He rolled his eyes as she stood and returned to the table. Did all mothers insult there own intelligence to inflict their offspring with guilt? Maybe, he thought. The guilt was there, true enough, but it was quickly replaced with a nagging feeling of uncertainty that he tried to dismiss.
"Oh mother, really..."
She turned to him again, her small, wiry fingers perched on her hips.
"Mark my words, Edmund. The lady you described in your letters, a lady who would throw away a chance to plant her feet happily in Scotland to 'keep you safe,' as you put it so sarcastically, is a lady to be admired." She huffed loudly, sending a stray wisp of hair flying above her forehead. "A spy she may be—"
He stood quickly, intent on leaving the room. He couldn't listen to these words. Words that would be laced with treasonous undertones.
"I can't listen to this. Have you lost your senses?"
She continued as if she didn't hear him.
"But politics and love do not mix. I never would have married your father had I taken matters of such triviality into consideration. You said yourself that you had become weary of the war, a war that is almost over, mind you."
Edmund could only stare at her as she began clearing the table. It was a habit of hers to busy her hands when aggravated. He watched as she hurriedly place all of the China on the silver tray.
"Mother. Listen, and listen well."
His voice was shaky.
"Anna Strong lied to me. She accepted my proposal of marriage only to spew gross falsehoods at the alter. And above all of this she, someway—somehow—guilted me into taking the fall for her." His fists were clenched. "And when she confronted me after, explaining her reasons, she denied ever loving me through her silence."
He paused, holding her eyes as tears formed, but were never released, from his red eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, clear, and filled with pain.
"Answer me this, mother. After all of the things that have past between us, how could I possibly place pen to paper now?"
The woman watched him as his eyes dropped to stare at his feet. He rubbed a hand wearily across his mouth, a slight tremor running though his fingers. She crossed the room to still them with her own, small hands.
"I cannot claim to know better than you on this matter, Edmund. But do you wish to carry the burden of a grudge for the rest of your days? It is like drinking poison and expected the other person to fall ill."
He didn't meet her eyes, only listened.
"Write to her, if only to forgive and forget her. Do it for yourself, if nothing else."
---
Edmund stood in the center of his room that evening, staring at nothing, but thinking of everything. His mind spinning in every direction but the right one. Or, in this case, the direction that felt right. He wished that he could sleep. Even sitting would be enough. But his mind was clearest while standing upright, no matter how ridiculous that fact sounded even to himself.
He'd contemplated his mother's words throughout dinner, and all the time he'd been here in his room, hours after he'd retired for the evening. There was something he had not told her. A fact that made his chest ache.
In spite of all that she'd done, he loved Anna still.
He closed his eyes as he stood there, on the red braided rug that cushioned his feet above the hard wood, and pictured Whitehall. It had been barely more than a month that she had lived there with them. With him. Her room directly opposite of his own across the hallway. In that short time he had learned her habits. A few of her likes and dislikes. He knew that she expressed herself differently with everyone in the house. With Abraham, she was short and to the point. With Mary, cautious. She almost tiptoed around her. And with Richard, she was nothing. Cold, distant, almost loathing in her tone and face.
But with him—with him she had been sweet. She'd been caring and tender, always linking them together with a brushing of fingertips on his cheek or collar. Anna had always accepted his hand with a gentle squeeze and a twinkle in her eye, whether she was smiling or not.
Edmund Hewlett had grown accustomed to these things.
He'd grown accustomed to her eyes, deep and dark. To her hair and the way it was always in a neat disarray. He could remember her smell, and cursed himself for it. He'd grown accustomed to the way her eyes traced his lips when he spoke.
God help him, in such a short time, he'd grown accustomed to the way her lips melded with his.
Surely, though, the brevity of their relationship should be a joke. He should be laughing!
Surely, he thought, surely I can forget her.
He'd been forced to forget before. This was no different in the grand scheme of things. Another woman had shattered his heart, what was the difference? She'd regret betraying him. He knew that for certain. He'd seen her face before he'd walked away. There had been tears in her eyes, as if the whole time she'd thought that she could make it right with her bold confession.
Edmund tried to fool himself into thinking that he was glad of it. Glad of the hurt he'd brought to her that night in the tavern. It was only a payment in kind, to be sure.
But—
The weight of such a grudge would kill him. His mother was right. He might as well drink arsenic than go on in this way.
His own nature was encompassed in goodness and honor, whether he fully realized it or not. Others saw it. She had seen it, and told him as much. Perhaps that would truly be his downfall. He could not be callous, though he had a right to be. He would stoop to any level to keep his honor in tact, even if it meant being trampled.
Edmund finally crumpled into his desk chair, wiping a hand across his brow. For hours he'd been tiptoeing around the single blank page placed in front of him now, never daring to take hold of the quill at his right. He was plagued with uncertainty. Should he reopen a door he had locked himself? He told her that he must quit her, but—
He'd spoken in quiet anger then, hoping that he'd feel a wave of satisfaction wash over him. But it wasn't satisfaction that he felt now, it was guilt. Edmund Hewlett had been wronged by Anna Strong, but it was up to him to remain true to himself. He was above petty actions. He was above a grudge that she would never understand the extent of. He was above senseless lies.
Edmund placed pen to paper, and in reaching the end of the first line, he felt his chest grow lighter.
---
Dear Mrs. Strong,
I am not sure how to begin this letter, for I am uncertain whether or not you will open it, or that it will ever reach you. I write you because I am burdened. In light of our last meeting, I should be angry. I should feel betrayed, and I do. You have deceived me in more ways than one, though I will not go into detail on a subject we both understand all too well. You must understand the depth of the pain you inflicted on me at the alter, because I saw it in your eyes. You must be careful, dear Anna, that your eyes do not betray you in more precarious situations than a wedding ceremony.
I feel you must know that, in spite of myself, and all the ways you have hurt me, I cannot resent you. I will not resent you.
My mother once told me that holding a grudge is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to fall ill. I've taken her sentiment to heart, though I do not think she realizes that I could never wish illness to befall you. I would've liked for you to meet my mother, had our circumstances turned out differently. Did I ever speak of her to you? It is strange to me if I did not, for I spoke of you to her on several occasions. Even now, after all that I've said and recounted to her since returning home, she continues to admire you for your deeply held convictions and 'cause.' In truth, it is her who urged me to write to you.
I cannot in good conscience say that your silent denial of romantic feelings—of love— did not crush me body and soul. I also cannot deny that I love you still. More than ever, in fact, though this confession makes me feel like a senseless, adolescent boy. I feel that my arms are outstretched for something I can never have, and yet, I cannot be consoled or contented with what I know I must live with. With what I know I am already blessed with. Family. Old friends. A quiet home. But know this, Anna. Time will mend what your secrets have broken, and I will not be bitter. Truly, I am a better man for knowing you, even if you cannot fathom the reasons why.
I wish you happiness, though I doubt you need it from me. It looks as though your country will be the victor after all.
Sincerely,
E. Hewlett
---
To Be Continued