Hamilton's Battalion

by Courtney Milan

  That drew a sharp gasp from Mercy; Andromeda smiled in satisfaction and raised a brow.

  “No one judges you for…” Mercy moved her head and shoulders about, unable to say the words aloud. “You know.”

  “For being damn nigh irresistible?” Andromeda asked. She wasn’t entirely jesting, but Mercy couldn’t call her vain. She was justified in that confidence. “They might judge me. But they know I’m a good person and a good friend, and around here, that’s what matters.”

  Mercy couldn’t accept that. She felt a flash of anger at the casual confidence in Andromeda’s tone.

  “And I’m sure your family feels the same way.” Mercy thought she’d delivered a line that would surely wipe that smug look from Andromeda’s face, but the vexing woman didn’t bat a lash.

  “Oh, you know there were all kinds of people in the battalion.”

  Andromeda was right. There was Rachel…Jacobs? No, Mendelson. The woman had dressed in men’s clothing to fight for her country. And a few years earlier, a soldier named John Hunter had arrived for an interview with his business partner. It had been quite clear to Mercy that they were partners in a great many more things, and oh how she had envied them. But still…she hadn’t considered…

  “Grandfather always told me that it didn’t matter who a person loved, but how well they treated others and what they did to make this country and this world better. That has been the family philosophy pertaining to the general populace, and I’m pleased to report it also applies to me.”

  Mercy felt the words like a blow to the belly. That couldn’t be true. No. Because Jane had said…well, if Andromeda’s words were true, if she lived as she wished and was still accepted, then everything Jane told her all those years ago had been wrong. Lies. Mercy’s tears, her pain—her words curling into ash and her world crumpling in on itself—had all been for naught.

  She couldn’t discuss it any further.

  “You should return to the shop now,” Mercy said as she fastened her cloak and drew herself up, preparing to leave. She couldn’t stay a moment longer, with her thoughts scattered as they were.

  She was met with silence.

  Andromeda was examining her, head tilted to the side. It was the longest the woman had been quiet, and it made her nervous. Mercy knew her cloak was as unfashionable as her dress; her hair was done in two simple cornrows instead of a stylish bouffant; she was a plain woman. Andromeda was probably cataloguing her faults: priggish, frumpy, boring.

  “Be sure to tidy behind the counter,” Mercy reminded her curtly. Somewhat impolite, but better than Stop reminding me of what I can’t have.

  “An unprovoked parry,” Andromeda murmured. The chastisement seemed to amuse her. “I do have work to finish, but…” Her head tilted even more, and Mercy realized the vexing woman was scheming. Yes. That tilt, that grin, the way crow’s feet bracketed her eyes, highlighting the mischief in them. “What are you doing with the rest of your afternoon?”

  “Returning to The Grange, of course,” Mercy said. She began making her way through the tavern, which was quieter and less crowded given that much of the lunchtime crowd had come and gone.

  Yes. That is it. That is all. You have achieved your task and should return home.

  “Isn’t today your day off?” Andromeda asked as they stepped into the street. She kept pace with Mercy’s strides easily.

  “It is my day of rest and I’ve yet to do that. I visited at the orphanage before I came here and I’m fatigued.”

  That soft, pitying look came over Andromeda’s face again and Mercy wished she hadn’t revealed that. She usually sent her donations in, but had stopped by on a whim. She had resisted returning to the orphanage for years, sure that it would be painful, but it hadn’t been. Not very. She’d been happy to see that the facilities had improved, and to speak to some of the children. Her visit hadn’t brought emotion crashing down about her ears.

  She hadn’t even flinched when the director of the orphanage mentioned how Jane had been in to visit with her husband and children a few months back. She was glad that her friend had gotten the life she wanted. In that moment, Mercy realized she’d never asked herself what she herself wanted in the years since Jane’s decision had brought her dreams crashing down around her. Why was that?

  Because you were too busy focusing on what you should not want.

  “What did you do at the orphanage?” Andromeda asked, interrupting Mercy’s introspection.

  “I helped the children with their letters,” Mercy said.

  “So your entire day of rest has been spent in the service of others.” Andromeda tsked, and the sound drew Mercy’s attention back to the exasperating woman’s mouth. It was a mouth that inspired queries: were her lips as soft as they looked? Would she kiss how she spoke, brash and unrelenting? It wouldn’t be so terrible to find out, would it?

  Questions that should remain unanswered, and further proof that Mercy should return home as quickly as possible.

  “You can catch a later hackney,” Andromeda said suddenly, as if she and Mercy had been in the middle of a discussion. She then nodded in agreement with her own assessment. “And if it gets too late, I can take you back myself. I’m quite the rider.”

  “Pardon?” Mercy wasn’t quite sure what decision had been made on her behalf.

  Andromeda took her by the elbow and flagged a passing coach, trundling her in, then climbing in after her. “Thomas Street, please,” she called out. “The Grove.”

  This was unexpected. Mercy didn’t like unexpected. She had planned to go home, to get away from Andromeda and the raucous feelings the woman and her self-assured charm aroused, and now everything was being thrown into confusion.

  “Where are we going?” Mercy demanded as the cab began to move.

  “Thomas Street,” Andromeda repeated slowly. “The Grove.”

  “Are you in the habit of dragging women along on your adventures, without a care as to whether they wish to accompany you?” Mercy’s face felt hot and her breath grew shaky. The muscles at the back of her neck felt uncomfortably taut. She had been so close to reprieve from the emotions Andromeda stirred in her, and now she was in even closer confines, stuck with the woman for who knew how long and going Lord knew where. “You can’t just do with me as you desire!”

  She gasped in a breath, balled her fists in her lap, and focused on the press of her nails into her palms instead of the tide of emotion trying to knock her legs from under her.

  “Why must everything be such a drama with you, Mercy? And you wonder why I prefer Charles.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and wished she could fling herself out from the carriage instead of further embarrassing herself. She tried to rein in her emotions, tried to avoid the awful breathless feeling that was closing in on her.

  “Oh dammit, I’ve done it again,” Andromeda said. “I can stop the coach. I will if you want. But I think you’ll enjoy where I’m taking you, and I’ll ensure that you get back to The Grange safely. Do you want to leave? Truly? Are you not the least bit curious?”

  Mercy thought about what awaited her if she left that moment. A long ride back up to Harlem. More work. Mrs. Hamilton. Angelica. Perhaps John come to visit, needing her assistance with the biographical work his mother had handed off to him.

  Mercy scoffed at Mrs. Hamilton’s obsession with her late husband, but if she looked back at the past few years, her own life had nothing to show for it besides that same work of preservation. And perhaps she’d had reason to immerse herself in someone else’s life, their joy and grief. It had allowed her to ignore her own.

  She opened her eyes. Andromeda was looking at her expectantly, hand raised to rap on the cab and make the driver pull the reins on his horse.

  Mercy shook her head, and Andromeda lowered her hand. She still looked concerned, and—for once—uncertain.

  “I don’t like surprises,” Mercy said, trying to brush away the panic that had almost overtaken her. There was nothing to fret about; she
could leave when she wanted, and if she was honest with herself, she did not want to go back yet.

  Are you not the least bit curious?

  She was, despite knowing better. That stubborn, hopeful part of her stretched behind her rib cage like a cat awakening from a long nap, ready to scrounge about for scraps.

  “Don’t like surprises? Perhaps you haven’t received a good one before,” Andromeda said, venturing a smile. “But if you do not like them, this shall be the last.”

  Mercy wanted to remind her that they’d never see each other again, anyway, but she didn’t. She let that thought calm her. It wasn’t as if anything could come of a few hours more in this woman’s presence. Her life would go back to normal as soon as she got back to The Grange.

  And that is most definitively what you want.

  Andromeda reached out and placed a hand on Mercy’s knee. Her fingers stroked soothingly, but her touch sent a shivering thrill up Mercy’s thigh, where it settled between her legs.

  “I am impulsive, but I wish to give you pleasure, not cause you distress.”

  The thrill between Mercy’s legs resolved into an ache, but then Andromeda pulled her hand away and smoothed out the creases in her own skirts. She began rattling something off about the pleats in her dress and Mercy received a shock when she realized that Andromeda was nervous, too. That calmed her a bit, to know that even someone brash and beautiful might feel anxious—and that perhaps she was the cause of it.

  They pulled up in front of a squat brick building, and Mercy stared through the window in awe of what she saw. Other Negroes milled about, couples mostly, though there were groups of friends and families as well. They were all shades and from all walks of life, but all seemed to partake in a shared excitement about their destination as they all filed through a door at the ground floor level of the building. After paying their driver, Andromeda took Mercy’s elbow again, and they followed suit.

  They passed through a small, dark apartment, and for a moment Mercy was sure she had been dragged into some foolishness, but then they stepped out through a door leading to the backyard and Mercy gasped.

  It wasn’t quite beautiful—not yet. It was clearly a work in progress. The tables and chairs arranged around the large yard were worn and mismatched, and the ground was packed dirt. The sparse trees had only the beginnings of blooms on them and loomed somewhat menacingly in their skeletal state. But most tables were occupied by Negroes of every station, and they all faced a stage. And on the nearly bare stage were players, also Negroes. They were dressed in common clothes, and one or two held manuscripts. When they opened their mouths, out came the words of the Bard.

  That sharp, sweet joy that Mercy had denied herself for so long spread through her as she watched the players strut about. She didn’t take her eyes away from the stage, even as they were led to a table and seated, even as Andromeda ordered them refreshment.

  “A fellow from the Caribbean just opened this pleasure garden and theater. They’re going to have musical performances, dance, and put on plays.”

  Mercy nodded, leaning in toward Andromeda a bit even though she still watched the stage. She had been wrong—the Grove was already beautiful.

  “I’m making the costumes for the players—today is just a rehearsal, as the show doesn’t start in truth for another month or so,” Andromeda said in a low voice. As low as she could manage, that is. “I’m sorry if you don’t like it. The boy says they’re already in the second act, and I’m sure you can’t stay to the end. But I thought…”

  “Shh!”

  Andromeda looked hurt, and Mercy shook her head. “You misunderstand. You have many things to apologize for, but not this, so hush. I am…” She swallowed against the emotion that buffeted her about although she was still in her seat. Andromeda had known just the right place in the teeming heart of New York to bring Mercy. No one had ever known before. No one had ever endeavored to know. It had always been Mercy fumbling about trying to please others, all for naught. “I am delighted. Thank you for bringing me with you.”

  She expected Andromeda to grin or make a sly remark, but instead the woman gave a small nod and sat back, her gaze turning toward the stage. Mercy followed suit, then caught sight of something in her peripheral vision.

  Andromeda had reached her hand out, gaze still on the players. Mercy trained her gaze back on the stage, too, but she felt the first contact of Andromeda’s fingers with the metal chair back, the vibration as they curled through the ornate iron bars. The slow brush against the fabric of Mercy’s cloak and then a final vibration as Andromeda gripped the metal tightly.

  Mercy exhaled and then leaned back, telling herself it was perfectly all right that Andromeda’s knuckles pushed gently into her back. Four of them in a line. Four points of pressure connecting her to the woman beside her.

  She did not move away.

  “We that are true lovers run into strange capers,” one of the players recited, and Mercy let the beauty of the words overtake her.

  They watched in silence, and at act four Andromeda walked out with her to hail another hackney, one that would take her back to The Grange. Mercy couldn’t think of past betrayals or pretend that she hadn’t enjoyed herself. Her heart and her head were full of words that had nourished her—she hadn’t realized she’d been starving until she heard them, and she held them close as she parted ways with the woman who could be the ruin of her if Mercy wasn’t careful.

  It wasn’t until the coach was approaching The Grange that she realized she hadn’t said goodbye.

  Chapter Five

  Spring light streamed into the parlor through the wall of windows, ridding the room of the oppressive air that sometimes lingered like sprits trapped between worlds.

  Angelica sat at the pianoforte in the parlor, running through the same songs that she played any time she was near the instrument. Mercy knew she’d been an accomplished player in her youth, but now she tapped at random keys, the notes occasionally coalescing into some semblance of rhythm before falling apart.

  Mrs. Hamilton was on the chaise, a soft smile on her face as she read over the final version of Andromeda’s account of her grandfather’s story.

  Mercy shifted uncomfortably and fussed with the sewing in her lap. She generally never worried that her work might be lacking, but she had never really cared about what she was writing before. Or rather, she hadn’t cared about the source of the words.

  After returning from her visit into town, Mercy had lain in the darkness of her chambers and reexamined the day’s events without self-censure. She’d allowed herself to feel every bit of Andromeda’s beauty instead of blocking it out, to laugh at the jokes she’d frowned disapprovingly over. She’d allowed herself to relive every touch: a caress along the back of her hand; a stroke of the knee; the press of four knuckles against her back.

  Mercy had felt Andromeda’s touch all through her body, like the first time she’d tasted spiced rum. Warmth, burning and sweet at once, had suffused her. Mercy wished to practice temperance in matters of the heart, but Andromeda’s brief caresses, and her curious wit, had set her down the path to temptation.

  No. It is finished. Do not think of her.

  “Mercy.”

  She realized Mrs. Hamilton was calling her name. The pages rested in the woman’s lap, and she wore an amused expression.

  “Sorry, missus. My mind must have drifted.” She stifled a yawn; she hadn’t been sleeping well.

  Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Andromeda’s lovely, expressive face. The way she twitched her nose when she knew she’d said something risqué, or how she leaned forward and locked eyes at the end of a particularly long sentence instead of pausing to take a breath. Andromeda spoke as if she wasn’t quite sure she’d get the words out before keeling over but was determined to try.

  “I said that this is wonderful.” Mrs. Hamilton looked at her as if she expected an explanation for that.

  “Thank you. I simply relayed Miss Stiel’s words.”
<
br />   Mrs. Hamilton shook her head. “No. That is what you usually do. While she is quite the storyteller, I’m talking about you.”

  Mercy felt like a bird who had flown through an open window that slammed shut behind it. She’d been so careful, before this. Not too much deviation from the original recounting. Simple words instead of ones that would make the story soar.

  “Your descriptions of the storyteller herself are quite vivid,” Mrs. Hamilton continued. She opened a huge ledger that contained the stories of the other battalion members she had been able to contact, and tucked the pages concerning Elijah Sutton in between other packets. “You described her laughter as ‘carrying like the burble of a spring through the vale.’” Mrs. Hamilton closed her eyes as if savoring those words.

  “I’m sorry,” Mercy said.

  Mrs. Hamilton’s eyes opened and her brows lifted. “You must know after all these years of hearing about my Hamilton that I appreciate a finely turned phrase. Excellent work.”

  Guilt and pleasure pulled and pushed at Mercy: guilt at the unkind thoughts of her mistress she’d shared with Andromeda, and pleasure at someone complimenting her writing after all these years. It wasn’t the same heady rush that had sent heat up her neck when Andromeda complimented her, but it was pleasant all the same.

  She stood and bowed her acknowledgement. “I am glad to have pleased you. Shall I take Miss Angelica for a walk around the grounds, if she so desires?”

  She glanced over at Angelica, who was still tapping away, and that’s when Mercy realized something. Angelica wasn’t picking keys at random—she was playing one half of a duet.

  Her chest went tight for a moment, and though Mercy didn’t believe in bad presentiments, she would take that one-sided declaration of love as a warning.

  Not again. Never again.

  “I would like that, yes,” Angelica said, a smile breaking through the somber mask of concentration she’d worn while playing. “Father once told me that walking sharpened a mind made dull by repose or conversation with John Adams.”