Chapter Text
August, 1777
“A foine e’enin’, Mister Sellers.”
“Very fine e’enin’, Mister Hall. What say you, Mister Hiller? A fine e’enin’ in yer estimation?”
Against stacked odds, the query manages to reach James, to cut through the symphonic flavor of a prime beefsteak – the thickest one he’d ever laid eyes upon – roasted perfectly, drowned in some kind of brown sauce seasoned, he is sure, with miracles. He jolts to attention; in alarm for the dribble of jus that spurts down his chin, he scrambles for his handkerchief before it can spoil his clothes. Heat surges through his face in a way that’s certain to turn his ears crimson.
Across the table, behind a silver tureen of white soup and onion pies by the platterfull, David Hall, Junior lets fly an uproarious guffaw. James chews vigorously in a bid to finish his bite.
“Chroist, Bill, it couldn’ wait ‘till the lad’s polish’d his chop?” Mr. Hall chuckles. “He’s oenly gone n’ swallow’d the greater half of it in one goe!”
Mr. William Sellers spares their ‘prentice boy an apologetic smile.
“Ne’er you mind the old bastard,” he instructs. “Chew at yer leisure, Mister Hiller.”
The banter doesn’t lend much comfort to James, whose cheeks have begun to regret their industry. The co-editors and owners of The Pennsylvania Gazette had never, truly interacted with their apprentice, not to any meaningful degree. They’d left all labor of the sort – and the greater burden of his education – in the very capable hands of foreman Moses.
But tonight, for reasons unclear, the men had decided to bring their protégé along with them on a business outing. The trio aren’t alone; most of Philadelphia’s journals – their rivals, co-authors, and colleagues – and even a portion of Delaware’s press are represented in City Tavern’s largest dining room for a supper of beefsteak, ale, and camaraderie.
Camaraderie that, notably, was not extended to Moses or Sarah. He’d felt their absence all evening, from meeting, to mingling, to industry toasts, right up until his introduction to the main course.
(Seriously, what in God’s name is this sauce!?)
Try as he might – to be certain he’s tried with all of his might – he’s been cowed from most of the event’s society by an obnoxious, unexpected timidity. Why should he be so mute with awe, surrounded by peers, encouraged by his guardians-in-law? In spite of his junior role – nevermind his youth – when in Washington’s field office surrounded by Generals, or even round private soldiers dying for their country, he doesn’t feel so uniquely preposterous as he does now.
But then, none of those men really, truly have a say in how his daily life unfolds. That James Hiller sleeps in a bed, wears clean clothes, eats a hot meal every night – has a future – all of it depends upon two gentlemen’s estimation of his labor.
And Dr. Franklin’s benevolence, of course.
So it is that he feels the presence of his superiors like a test, that at any moment they might find him unworthy; that his awkward mastery of a steak might render him an utter moron in their discernment.
When he finally manages a clean swallow, however, Sellers lends him a good-humored nod, and Hall thumps him square on the back; he coughs.
“Attaboye, Hiller,” Hall cheers. “Do it agayn!”
“You aim to kill our apprentice, David.”
“Hogwash.”
Relief floods his senses. Disarmed by so much approval, James allows a smirk to cross his features before taking a generous quaff of his ale, to which Sellers hoots. Then the ‘prentice boy sets his teeth anew upon the chop with its miraculous sauce, and feasts.
By the time every edible morsel is dispatched and tablecloths all round have been swept clear of supper, bowls of nuts replacing silver plates, the two elders ease back in their chairs to let their overstuffed guts percolate. To that end Hall draws a long, elegant clay pipe from his coat and lights it from a candle. Sellers at first demurs the offer of a puff, but after some goading takes his fair share off a lengthy drag, shutting his eyes, making peace with his stomach.
James gathers a handful of pecans to distract himself from requesting a turn. The meat tastes buttery, sweet, with an almost maple quality, little like the walnuts he’s accustomed to. Not one to waste an opportunity, and in spite of a full belly, he divests the nearest bowl of them with naked enthusiasm. Hall watches him intently.
“Quit gawping at the lad and ask yer question,” Sellers grunts behind a plume of pungent smoke; his business partner shoots him a barbed look, then resets on the ‘prentice boy stuffing his face.
“’Tis oenly that Oi saw him makin’ oeyes at a barmaid!”
James chokes on pecan dust while Sellers looks alive with astonishment. Their reactions give Hall no small ounce of pleasure. A toothy grin parts his lips from ear to ear as he takes back his pipe.
“Oh, aye! Buxom Bruenette in the blue callycoe. The one flittin’ abouet with the coffee pot. Hand o’ Gad, ‘e was makin’ oeyes!”
“I didn’t!” James insists as soon as his throat permits; Hall harrumphs in dismissal.
“Hogwash. She’s a handsome young thing, looks just loike Bill’s woife, if Bill’s woife were yet a maid!”
If Sellers has an opinion on the matter, he doesn’t offer it, though he glares acidly upon his colleague.
“Well, yes – that is – I allow she is handsome – ” James admits.
“A-ha! Oi knew it! Lookit the lad blush, Bill! Almoest endearin’, bless me. Should we wave ‘er o’er?”
“Noe! Noe, doen’t! Oi hadn’t really – Oi hadn’t – Oi’m not sweet on ‘er, or – or – ”
“David, you’ve gi’en our ‘prentice apoplexy,” Sellers quips laconically. Then, leaning in: “Get hold o’ y’self, lad. He’s only teasin’. I believe you.”
Something quivers on the man’s lip that James doesn’t trust, but Hall is quick on the uptake.
“Youe reck’n ‘e prefers another.”
Sellers shuts his eyes and nods, sagely.
“Indeed. Young James, as it happens, much prefers the redhead.”
Surprise steals breath from the young man’s lungs. His heart pounds against a mixture of sheepishness for having his affections so loudly speculated upon, anxiety that they’d been discovered, and a vague reaffirmation that he must despair of them.
He knows. How does he know? Has he been talking with Henri? Oh, God, What did Henri say…?
“Red’ead? What red’ead?” Hall exclaims, looking round with deeply furrowed brows. “Oi ha’en’t seen no red’ead.”
“A pity, you just miss’d the lass,” Sellers hums; his colleague grouses and continues searching the dining room. Much to the ‘prentice boy’s chagrin, the sage co-editor opens one eye to level it on him, alight with mischief.
“Noe red’ead escapes mye noetice, Bill.”
“On my life, David, she’s about, and James has his eye on her.”
“Well Oi doen’t bloody see one.”
Sellers suddenly rounds on him. “And you are too damn’d old t’be at oglin’ young maids. Save’m fer the ‘prentice boys. Haven’t you a wife to ravish?”
“Pshaw! Oi doen’t oegle.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Oi doen’t, Oi saye!”
The malcontent James feels with the direction of this conversation is nearing apogee. It must show considerably on his face, if the sudden shift in Sellers’ expression is any sign.
“I reck’n we’ve unsettl’d Mister Hiller enough,” he proclaims, gesturing for another turn at the pipe. “Shall we leave it be?”
“Foine. But the lad should get out more! Imaginin’ red’eads…”
When the sun sinks low, setting the clouds ablaze in amaranth, City Tavern’s crowd turns restless. Brandy, whiskey, and rum replace ale; reinforcements of footmen arrive to relieve the winded frontlines; throngs of men stretch their legs, only to sit down again in the adjoining rooms for an impromptu pharo tournament.
“Back to the shop with youe, lad,” Mister Hall proclaims as he rises to his feet. “Youe’ll do the honor of escortin’ ‘im, Mister Sellers.”
“Aye, so I will, Mister Hall.”
“Youe’ll return for a round of cards?”
“I always look forward to lightening your burden of coin.”
“Oi thank youe, good sir.”
August’s brisk afternoon heat has rapidly cooled to something altogether pleasurable, tempered with river breezes. Taverns in every street corner have opened up doors and windows to let in the fresh air, awnings flapping a cheerful welcome. Sunset tints the city’s innumerable steeples, rooftops, and ships’ masts in rosy tones, while below them twilight spreads in shades of blue. The streets are alive with evening business – carts pulled by mules, spry carriages by manicured ponies, and men and women by the gust of their whims. The first fireflies blink in the cool dark of hedgerows. Lamplighters armed with ladder and torch set to their nightly rounds. Alley cats wait impatiently for scraps to fall their way, and high above the city’s chimneys, swifts titter and wheel about, with bats at gambol in between.
And, mercifully, the far-off rumble of cannon fire is nowhere to be heard.
It won’t do to end tonight with reflections of how the Crown’s forces loom near. There is naught anyone in the city can do about it right now. James walks on, absorbing himself in the clop of horseshoes on street cobbles, the feel of the breeze on his face. He doffs his hat a moment to run fingers across his scalp, loosening his hair from the tight queue he’d drawn it into, but only just. A lock falls from the ribbon and he lets it play in the wind.
“In a mad rush to get abed, are you?” comes William Sellers’ amused voice. James’ footfalls stutter and he falls into stride with the editor. He draws his hands behind his back to busy his fingers with something.
“No, sir. I – ah – have long legs.”
“Which make fer long strides.”
“Rather.”
There’s a lull while Sellers – nearly a head shorter – considers the lad striding on long legs beside him. They must make for an odd pair. In the distance, lively fiddle music tumbles from the open windows of a tavern. The tune of Nottingham Ale, probably
“You know, as Miss Phillips would have it, you are wont to idle chatterings,” he renews after a beat. “I daresay you’ve been uncharacteristically mute.”
“Ah. You have her mistaken. She says so of Henri.”
“Hm.”
James reaches up to ease the cravat round his neck. There had been enough to distract him all evening from the fabric’s close, bothersome warmth until now.
It does not escape Sellers’ attention. “What a fine knot. Well-tied. Who taught you?”
Amidst all the warring emotions this evening has conjured, the softest tickle soothes James’ breast as he recalls Sarah’s nimble fingers looping and crossing and looping the muslin earlier that afternoon. Once or twice he’d actually felt her fingertips brush his skin; he’d had to resist the impulse to press his lips to hers as she worked magic in him.
Much as he’d like to tarry awhile with the memory, it isn’t conducive to allaying Mister Seller’s apparent suspicions. He does his best to compose his features.
“I was ne’er taught.”
“D’ye mean to say you stumbl’d into a serviceable Maharatta by way of accident.”
James chuckles despite himself. “Can a lad not study the subject?”
“Hah! I know better’n to take you for a student of etiquette.”
“Fair enough!” They pause conversation to dart through the crowded intersection to the next block, focusing their wits about the task. Then, in as casual a voice as James can muster: “If you must know, Miss Phillips had the management of it.”
“Miss Phillips?”
James can practically hear the man’s eyebrows shoot off his face.
“…Aye,” he returns, cautiously, giving his superior what he hopes is a dubious look. “Does it truly bring such shock? She is my friend, and she knows more of finery than I could ever hope to know. Or wish to know…”
“Reck’n so,” Sellers replies. “But ‘tis something of an intimate gesture, no? A girl, tying a lad’s cravat…”
She’d been standing close enough he could have pushed her against the wall and kissed her till they fainted. His prick tingled every time her fingertips brushed bare skin and all he wanted was more of her, more. Even now, parts of him warm when imagining that her fingers slipped on purpose, that she’d been just as preoccupied as he in bridling wild impulses.
So long as she’s around, he’ll never learn how to tie a cravat.
His hands tighten their grip on each other behind his back and he studiously avoids Sellers’ eye. “I didn’t find it so intimate. She surely didn’t. ‘Twas friendliness. Friendliness. Nothin’ more.”
The way the other man slows his pace causes the fine hairs on his neck to raise; the silence coming from his guardian is positively charged.
“I need not remind you, Mister Hiller, of your apprenticeship terms.”
Startled at the invocation of employment, James feels his stomach plummet. His head whips back round only to be met with a sharp, though not cruel, gaze.
“Sir?” his throat is gone dry. Still Mister Sellers stares at him, until finally the man draws a heavy breath. They’ve halted at another intersection.
“You are bound apprentice to Hall and Sellers, in the usual custom, until one-and-twenty.”
“Yes. Matter o’ course. Oi knowe that…”
“And you are but se’enteen.”
“Eighteen. Sir.”
Traffic opens, and the men bustle forward before its swallowed up again with horses and carts.
“While there is no law that forbids a lad from cultivating affections…” Sellers trails off, maybe in hopes that his apprentice will catch on and he need not pursue this line of thought aloud. James has some trouble willing his tongue to move.
“If it please, sir. What are you on about?”
Sellers airs a mild huff. “Look, lad. I would be nothing more than a petty tyrant, were I to endeavor to prevent a lad’s natural affections or keep him from seeking an attachment – ”
“I’ve form’d no attachment,” James hurriedly protests, so quick on the jump that his hands leave his back. “Certainly not to Miss Phillips. The very idea of it! A tradesman, with a gen’leman’s daughter…!”
His walking partner only quirks a brow at him when his voice cracks.
“Hellfire itself cannot hinder affection, Mister Hiller. But affection – well. ‘Tis a fleeting thing. And it has ways of rushing a lad headlong into thoughtlessness. All I require is that you keep from doing something stupid. Always bear in mind, that for all things on Earth there is a cost. And… ‘twould serve well to remember apprenticeship forbids you to marry during your term.”
His stomach coils in on itself. Even as distant parts of his mind bid him be still, every fiber of his being inflames to rail against the admonishments; to declare to Heaven itself that what he feels for Sarah Phillips is a far sight from thoughtless, farther still from stupid, and the very farthest thing from fleeting.
And what gave the impression that he was even considering matrimony right now?
What the De’il has Henri been saying? I am going to kill him…
“I’ve gi’en you pause,” Sellers notes.
“I am not thoughtless, sir,” James murmurs intently, hoping that his voice is even. “And how could anyone conceive of marrying at a time like this? They’re at our threshold, Mister Sellers.”
“I grant you war changes things. Changes situations. Sets men upon acts they may otherwise ne’er have taken.”
Contrarian flames work their way up his throat. “Are not some such acts lauded as heroic? Hon’rable?”
“Aye. Some.”
Damn yer eyes n’ damn yer bloody unflappable proide.
James bites down to keep the invective silent. Watching fireflies sparkle the hedgerow shade, he silently counts down from ten. His hands curl and uncurl.
“I only mean to remind you of the way things are, James,” Mister Sellers says at length. “Until your majority, I’ve some legal duty to guide you. Come, be peaceful, while there’s peace to be had yet. ‘Tis a fine e’enin’.”
“Aye, sir. A fine e’enin’.”