Sons of Liberty

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “Thank you,” Raechel said, numbly. She didn't feel as though she’d done well. Yes, she’d made it into the enemy camp, but only because the enemy had chosen to let her in. “If I’d realised Adam had gone bad ...”

  “People like him are very good at concealing their true natures,” Irene said. “And it was you who stopped him. I don’t think there’s any good reason to beat up on yourself.”

  “I don’t feel that way,” Raechel admitted. “Is that wrong?”

  “You’re new to the game,” Irene told her. She started to pace the room. “Like I said, under the circumstances, you did well.”

  “But I was tempted,” Raechel said. “There was a bit of me that wanted to join them!”

  “There always is,” Irene said. “These groups wouldn't be half so dangerous if they didn't have an ideology that appealed to the poor, the dispossessed, the men and women yeaning to be free. One cannot bury oneself in a larger group without feeling an attraction to that group.”

  She shrugged. “And the idea of being a free woman was tempting, no?”

  “Yes,” Raechel admitted. She wondered, briefly, what her aunt was plotting, in London. If, of course, she was out of the madhouse. “I’ve got six years to go before I can consider myself a free woman.”

  “You could give it up,” Irene pointed out. “You’d be free then, would you not?”

  Raechel frowned. The idea of just walking away, of leaving Raechel Slater-Standish behind and assuming a whole new identity, was tempting. It wasn't as if she had free access to her father’s money anyway - and, with a little fiddling, she could make sure that no one else had access to it either. Irene could show her a whole new way to live, if she wished. Just selling some of her jewel would be enough to ensure she could start a life well away from London - and her relatives. And there would be plenty of work for secret agents.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted, finally. “It’s all I have left of my family.”

  She cursed under her breath. If she’d been born a man, she wouldn't have to even think about the prospect of being married off to a fortune hunter. But instead ...

  “Think about it,” Irene said.

  She cleared her throat. “We can't stay much longer in New York in any case, so I was thinking we’d explore some of the other cities before heading back to England,” she added, thoughtfully. “My record as a chaperone is a little spotty” - Raechel had to laugh - “and so the Viceroy’s niece will be accompanying Gwen and Bruce, now the replacement magicians have finally arrived. I don't think she’ll get in their way.”

  Raechel smiled, rather wanly. She was pleased that Gwen had found someone, but at the same time she couldn't help feeling a little envious. Gwen had the power and clout to keep herself safe, if her husband turned nasty; hell, she could practically write her marriage contract to suit herself. Raechel didn't have that freedom, no matter what she did. She would concede most of her independence the moment she tied the knot.

  “She probably won't,” Raechel said. “Gwen could certainly talk her into leaving them alone for a few hours, every so often.”

  She smiled at the thought. She had the feeling that Arielle Franklin-Rochester would spend half of her time getting into trouble - she reminded Raechel far too much of herself - but that was someone else’s problem. Gwen’s mother would no doubt be happy to present her at court, for the start of the London season. And, as someone with ties to several different families, she’d be very sought after in London. Gwen would probably find herself warding off marriage proposals after her introduction.

  “Probably,” Irene agreed. She smiled. “And now we have some peace, I think it’s time to do more practicing with your shields.”

  “My shields held,” Raechel protested. Jane had known who she was, but she hadn't done it through reading Raechel’s mind. “They did, really.”

  “You may meet a stronger talent next time,” Irene said, firmly. She sat down, making eye contact as soon as she was facing Raechel. “Let us see how well your shields hold up.”

  Raechel sighed and gathered herself for the fight.

  ***

  “It feels awfully strange to be leaving,” Bruce said, quietly.

  Gwen nodded, watching New York’s towers slowly receding into the distance. The fast clipper would be uncomfortable, compared to Gwen’s first ocean crossing, but the ship would be nearly uncatchable, unless the French got very lucky. And, with no less than two Master Magicians onboard, it was likely the French would consider it a stroke of very bad luck.

  She wrapped an arm around him, knowing they were largely unobserved. Arielle was below decks, suffering from a nasty bout of seasickness, while the crew had other things to do than keep an eye on two of their passengers. The clipper would pick up speed as soon as she hit open water, seeking a fair-weather passage back to Britain. If Arielle thought the constant motion was bad, so close to New York, she was in for a nasty shock soon.

  But it’s hard to be angry at her, Gwen reminded herself. We could have been landed with an older chaperone.

  Bruce glanced at her. “Are you nervous?”

  Gwen shrugged. “About facing my mother? That ... that could be bad.”

  “I meant about getting married,” Bruce said. “Did you think we should have gotten married in New York?”

  “My parents insisted on having a London wedding,” Gwen said. She had the feeling that Lord Mycroft had pushed them to that conclusion, although there was no way to be sure until she got home. “Your father agreed with them.”

  “We could have gotten married in New York, even if it was just a formal wedding,” Bruce reminded her. “I don’t think father would have stood in our way.”

  Gwen shrugged, again. Like it or not, their marriage was political, regardless of their feelings for one another. She had no doubt that the British Government was already laying the groundwork for the wedding, billing it as a sign of the newfound unity between Britain and America. Bruce was practically American royalty, insofar as it existed; he even had family ties to one of the most well-known American rebels. There would be no bigger wedding, certainly not one with more significance, until Princess Charlotte’s children were married.

  “I can wait,” she said, although she wasn't sure if that were true. Her dreams mocked her, reminding her of everything they’d done together. She awoke, sometimes, utterly unsure if she’d been dreaming or not. “It does have to be done.”

  She felt her chest, carefully. If there was a new life growing there, she couldn't tell. Lucy might be able to check, once they reached Britain ... and then? She'd just have to insist on holding the wedding as quickly as possible. Luckily, Lord Liverpool and King George had ample reason to insist on it themselves. The ties between America and Britain had to be made as tight as possible before the new parliament came into existence.

  “It does,” Bruce said. He smiled at her. “Do you want to go flying around the mainmast?”

  “I think the sailors wouldn't be pleased,” Gwen said. “And besides, wouldn't that give away your powers?”

  “Too many people saw me at the ball,” Bruce admitted. He shook his head, slowly. “There might be no formal acknowledgement of my magic, but they know I am a magician.”

  And people will think I should have left him in America, Gwen thought. Wayne is in charge now, and new magicians have arrived, but a Master would be far more useful.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Bruce added. “I couldn't have kept my powers a secret for much longer.”

  “They’ll want you to take my job,” Gwen said, only half in jest. “Or at least to learn how to fight.”

  “I wouldn't,” Bruce said. “I hate doing paperwork.”

  Gwen laughed, then elbowed him. “Good,” she said, sticking out her tongue impishly. “My career is saved.”

  She caught his arm before he could elbow her back, then held him, gently, as America slipped away in the distance, the last of the giant towers slowl
y vanishing beyond the horizon. And yet, she knew she’d be coming back. Bruce would want to return, she was sure, and the war was not yet over ...

  And there are many other places to go, she thought, as she leaned into his embrace. The whole world is waiting for us.

  ***

  “My career is doomed,” Viceroy Rochester muttered to himself.

  “Surely not, Your Excellency,” his secretary said. “Everything has been placed in order. A potential disaster has been averted and the war is going well.”

  Rochester scowled at the younger man. “Leave me,” he ordered. He wasn't in the mood to be flattered, even though there was a part of him that enjoyed the attention. “Have the maid send in tea.”

  “Of course, Your Excellency,” the secretary said.

  He bowed, then hurried out of the office. Rochester watched him go, thinking dark thoughts about young men who only saw the immediate results of their actions and never considered the long-term consequences. Yes, there was an agreement between the Crown and the Sons; yes, the war was going reasonably well. And yet, Rochester had no illusions. Too much had slipped past him, in the last year or so, for him to believe his term in office would be renewed. His son’s magic, his son’s allegiances ...

  The maid opened the door, her dark face frowning with worry. Rochester pointed at the table, motioning for her to leave the tray and then nodded at the door. The maid hurried out, clearly worried. A number of black men had been lynched since the news of the slave revolt had spread through New York, leaving the remainder terrified for their lives. It was yet another problem his successor would have to deal with.

  He poured himself a cup of tea, then walked over to the window and drank it, slowly. There had been too many shocks, recently; he knew he needed a rest. But there were certain matters that could not be put aside any longer. He put the teacup down as soon as it was empty, then strode over to the desk. One of the drawers had a false bottom, where he kept some of his most sensitive documents. Opening it carefully, he removed a set of top secret contingency plans, reaching underneath to pick up an old envelope. In truth, he didn't really know why he’d kept it. It was a bitter memory he would have preferred to forget.

  Closing the drawer, he sat back and held the envelope in his hands, remembering. He’d been old when he married his wife, old enough to be more interested in her social position than her body. Indeed, lust had never been a great part of his life. He’d certainly never patronised the brothels where so many of his fellows sowed their wild oats, or caught something unpleasant that killed them, if they couldn't work up the nerve to seek out a Healer. It wasn't something that had ever bothered him. And he’d never really grasped that it did bother his wife. The best doctors in the land swore that women had no interest in sexual pleasures.

  But that hadn't been true. And his wife had had an affair.

  She’d confessed, of course, when her pregnancy became obvious. She was a married woman who had had almost no contact with her husband. Rochester hadn't needed to be a genius to deduce that his wife had had an affair. Indeed, part of him had almost been relieved. The thought of fathering a child had bothered him more and more, even though he wouldn't be the one carrying the baby. He’d acknowledged the child as his own, the moment the baby had been brought into the world, and thought no more of it.

  But did Gwen know?

  She was the Royal Sorceress. It wasn't beyond belief that she’d know that the Rochester line had never produced any magicians. She’d certainly look it up when she returned home, he thought, just to try and see where Bruce had come from. And she’d find nothing. But would she think to cross-reference Bruce’s date of birth - and date of conception - with her former master’s visit to the Americas? Would she realise that it had been Master Thomas who’d fathered Bruce?

  And what would she say, if she did?

  Rose’s family had forced her to confess, fearing what would happen if her husband found out that he’d been cuckolded. They’d clearly helped Bruce to conceal his powers too. A Master Magician, appearing in a magic-less line ... people would ask questions. Master Thomas might have returned, just to take his son. He’d been desperate for a heir long before he’d decided to train Lady Gwen. The family would not have survived the scandal.

  There was no proof, of course, save for the envelope in his hand. Rose’s confession, her plea for mercy. He could have killed her for sleeping with another man, or kept her a prisoner in his house, and it would have been perfectly legal. And yet, he'd been relieved. He didn't really care enough about the bloodline to want a son of his own. Master Thomas had probably never even known he had a son. He’d certainly made no attempt to investigate Bruce for potential powers ...

  And Bruce himself didn't know the truth.

  If it got out, now, there would be a scandal. Bruce’s position in society would be destroyed, ending his marriage before it had almost begun. Rochester himself would be the laughing stock of the ton, just like poor William Hamilton. And who knew how Lady Gwen would react? Her family would certainly not be pleased.

  Rochester rose, holding the letter in one hand. In truth, he wasn't sure why he’d kept it. He’d liked his wife, he’d been affectionate towards his wife, but he had never really loved her. Perhaps if he had, he would have been angrier at proof of her adultery. Instead, they’d shared parenthood together until she died, leaving him with a lone son who wasn't really his. But he was proud of the man Bruce had become.

  He stood in front of the fire for a long moment, gazing into the flames. There was no way to escape the sense that he wasn't long for the world, that his aging body wouldn’t last much longer, that one day the flames would burn him as surely as they burned wood and coal. But his death wouldn't be for a while yet ....

  Goodbye, he thought, taking one last look at his wife’s handwriting. He didn't care to reread the letter. He’d read it too many times over the last few days. And farewell.

  Quite calmly, he dropped the letter into the fire and watched it burn.

  The End

  v.1 by silverchocobo