Hamilton's Battalion

by Courtney Milan

  Not feeling quite so superior to my Eliza now, are you?

  She swiped at the bust with a vicious barrage—as vicious an attack as could be meted out by feathers—but the smirk remained. So did the ache in her chest.

  She’d thought herself so careful over the past several weeks. She’d had a system in place for when each letter arrived. She wouldn’t be foolish enough to allow herself to tear at the seal like a lovesick girl waiting for word from her lover. It was simply correspondence between two friends, she reasoned. She wouldn’t want anyone to be confused about that, least of all herself.

  She waited forty-five minutes exactly before opening each letter. Forty-five minutes of telling herself that she wasn’t excited, that each slide of the minute hand across the clock face didn’t make her pulse race faster until her whole being was fairly throbbing. That finally sitting at her desk, removing the seal, and revealing Andromeda’s barely restrained script didn’t give her a delicious gratification that swept down from the nape of her neck to her toes.

  She had developed a strict pattern for reading the letters too. Once quickly, once slowly, then once again the following morning, before she wrote out her response. She wouldn’t overindulge like a child let loose in a sweet shop, and she wouldn’t tempt herself by reading before bed. Because though Andromeda spoke of her shop, her plan to open a boarding house, and all manner of banal observations, there was a definite undercurrent to the words that might lead Mercy astray in her dreams, and she was already dangerously off course.

  Andromeda had talked about Mercy coming in for a new dress, and then she’d described how she would take Mercy’s measurement—down to the very last detail. Mercy wasn’t certain how anyone could survive a fitting by Andromeda Stiel; she’d hardly survived just reading about it.

  Holding herself away from everything had grown easy for Mercy, until Andromeda had come along and mucked it up. Mercy had been foolish, had read too much into Andromeda’s friendliness. She’d driven her away. Just the thought of it made her body go tight with anxiety.

  Two weeks before, she’d taken a deep breath and, instead of her usual reply, she’d copied out a poem she’d written in her journal. The first poem she’d written in years.

  Delicate hands flutter like two brown birds

  Winging free over the verdant vale

  Riding the currents of the warm spring gale

  Stopping to sip at rushing creeks

  Moving ever faster as they sing a song of

  Unimaginable beauty

  And, oh, how I wish

  These untamable creatures

  Would impart their wild wisdom

  Upon me

  She’d folded the letter, sealed it, taken the extra precaution of putting it into an envelope, and then mailed it out.

  She hadn’t received anything from Andromeda since then.

  Mercy had created a thousand excuses as to why a letter should take so long to arrive when they had been coming so regularly—her imagination really was back in top form. But she had eventually resigned herself to the fact she was the reason. She’d ruined everything. Why had she sent the poem? Had she thought to impress Andromeda?

  The rebuke to the last poem she’d shown to the object of her admiration echoed in her head.

  “Enough of these foolish words! I will marry, and that is final. What did you think would happen?”

  Mercy skulked about The Grange, pinched with embarrassment every time she remembered that she’d exposed herself so shamefully. Again. She imagined Andromeda opening the letter, imagined her frowning at the flowery words on the page. Turning it over and holding it up to the light with that exaggerated manner of hers to see if she was perhaps missing something of note that would explain why Mercy would send her such a thing. What had Mercy thought could come of such audacity?

  Nothing could come of it.

  Nothing. What Andromeda should be to you.

  Yes, she should be nothing. But somehow, nothing had become what lifted her out of bed every morning. Nothing was what made her feel like she was ascending again when she marched up the stairs, the possibility of a waiting letter pulling her into the light. Nothing had quite possibly become the something she had been hiding from all of these years.

  And she had ruined it.

  She had finished her dusting and was heading down to the kitchen when she heard the sound of hooves approaching during a lull in the storm.

  “Henry, are we expecting anyone?” She poked her head into the kitchen in time to see the butler’s brows crease in annoyance. He placed the teakettle on the tray along with the cup.

  “No, and even if we were, no one of sound mind would show up in this weather.”

  “Perhaps I was mistaken,” she said, shaking her head. She handed him an extra cube of sugar to place beside Angelica’s cup; he knew she liked her tea sweet but discouraged her from the habit.

  He sighed and accepted it, then both of their gazes darted abovestairs as the sound of the heavy knocker echoed in the hallway.

  “Go get it before Angelica does,” Mercy said. Sometimes the woman would jump up in excitement and rush to the door, expecting Philip. “I’ll bring her tea.”

  Henry dashed up the steps and Mercy hurried behind him as quickly as she could without spilling the hot liquid. She got to the door of the parlor just in time to intercept Angelica.

  “Come, it’s time for your tea.”

  “Whoever is at the door?” Angelica asked, eyes glossy with unshed tears.

  “Likely someone lost in the storm,” Mercy said.

  “Perhaps it’s—”

  “No, it’s not him,” Mercy said gently. It will never be him.

  “You don’t know that,” Angelica said mildly. “I miss him. Why hasn’t he come to visit us? Doesn’t he miss us?”

  Her heart ached for the woman, trapped by the eternal torment of love. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to be punished for your capacity to care. Andromeda looked into Angelica’s tearstained eyes and wished the world weren’t so cruel to those who found the most beauty in it.

  “He does miss you, very much. But he wouldn’t want you to worry so,” Mercy said. “He would want you to be happy.”

  “It’s hard to be happy when the people you love leave you,” Angelica said. Mercy closed her eyes and heat pressed at her lids. She thought of her parents, cold and still. She thought of Jane’s lovely face, lovely even as she burned Mercy’s letters.

  “You think me selfish, but this will protect you, too. One day you’ll understand.”

  She opened them and tried to smile at Angelica. “It is hard, and we cannot always achieve this goal. But we can try, yes?”

  Angelica nodded.

  “Come, sit before the fire. Your hands must be chilled from playing.”

  “Mine are about frozen through from holding the reins, so I do hope that’s an open invitation,” a familiar voice said, and Mercy nearly did drop the tray then. She turned and found Andromeda shivering in the doorway, arms wrapped about herself. Henry had taken her coat, but the skirt of her blue dress was dark with moisture and her hair was still festooned with snow and ice.

  Mercy put the tray down carefully. “What are you doing here?”

  “Lovely to see you, too,” Andromeda said through chattering teeth.

  “Why were you out riding in this weather?”

  To see me? The hope lodged in her fast and sharp.

  “My grandmother was ill, so I went up to Suffolk for a few days. I was coming back when this storm blew in.” An involuntary shudder shook her from head to toe. “I didn’t think I could make it back to town and got a bit desperate.”

  “Oh. Of course,” Mercy said. It had been silly to think that anyone would come explicitly for her. That didn’t stop the lump from forming in her throat at even the thought of the sickness that could beset Andromeda. Of the possibility Andromeda’s boundless energy wouldn’t pull her through it. She blinked away sudden ridiculous tears, the sight of Androme
da and the state she was in conspiring to overwhelm Mercy’s emotional parapets.

  This is why. This was why she hadn’t wanted to feel. This was why she couldn’t. It was too much, and for what? Certain heartache.

  Henry cleared his throat. “Given the…unusual circumstances of Miss Stiel’s arrival, I believe that Mrs. Hamilton would wish that she warm herself here. I’ll have Sarah arrange the fire belowstairs, too.”

  Mercy wasn’t quite sure where Andromeda should go either. During her previous visit, she had arrived as a guest of Mrs. Hamilton’s, but now she was a Negro woman who had called unannounced.

  Henry left and Mercy turned her attention back to their guest.

  Andromeda’s eyes were overbright and she shivered uncontrollably. It reminded Mercy of her final days in the cellar on Gold Street, of her parents shaking with fever and her powerless to help them.

  She wasn’t thinking when she marched over to Andromeda and grabbed the woman’s hands. Mercy pressed them together as if in prayer, then rubbed her own hands over them.

  “You’re chilled to the bone!” She knew her voice was shrill but she couldn’t help it. She wanted to cry; shrillness was the preferable alternative.

  “Well, I am now, but I’ll soon burst into flames if you keep at that,” Andromeda said.

  Mercy wasn’t sure if Andromeda meant the innuendo in her words.

  “I do need my fingers for my work, Mercy. And for other more pleasurable pursuits.” Andromeda’s voice went low at that last bit—she’d meant the innuendo, and then gone for more. It seemed even a devil of a chill couldn’t keep her from playing at seduction.

  Mercy shook her head and began pulling Andromeda toward the hearth. “Of course you’d be foolish enough to ride out into a storm and catch your death of cold. Irresponsible, impulsive—”

  Mercy was stopped by Andromeda tugging back, pulling her up short. Andromeda’s icy fingers slipped through Mercy’s, drawing their palms together. When Mercy turned back, the irksome woman was grinning at her.

  “Careful,” she said, her voice still shiver-shaken. “I might think you’d care if I did.”

  They looked at each other for a long moment, and it was Mercy who tore her gaze away first.

  “Would you like some tea?” Angelica asked. Mercy had nearly forgotten her mistress was there.

  “Actually, if you have any of that coffee…” Andromeda turned toward Mercy and batted her damp lashes. The glow of the flames illuminated her face, her stark beauty, and Mercy reminded herself of the hell this woman could drag her into if she let her.

  She always had preferred the heat, unfortunately. She could only hope that she wouldn’t be burned too badly this time around.

  Chapter Eight

  “Well, this isn’t quite the reception I expected,” Andromeda muttered as she finished plaiting her hair into a single braid. She received no response, as she was quite alone in Mercy’s chamber.

  She sat on the edge of Mercy’s bed and looked about the space. An old wooden desk with Mercy’s writing implements lined up neatly across the top of it. A wooden chair. A bureau for her clothing. There was no color, no decoration—nothing to reflect the vivid personality that had eventually come through in Mercy’s letters. That personality was nowhere to be found in Mercy herself, either, truth be told.

  She told you she didn’t like surprises; you should have taken her at her word.

  After the outburst in the parlor upon Andromeda’s arrival, Mercy had kept her distance, claiming a surplus of work. There had been no more worried looks or tender caresses. Andromeda had soaked in a hot bath to warm herself, eaten the meal she’d been given, and now lay in Mercy’s bed with a few warm bricks that had been brought by Sarah, another servant. The wind still blustered outside.

  She had left against the advice of her family, but she’d had the solution to her problems in her bag and had thought she could beat the storm. She had been restless worrying that the building would be sold out from under her, that if she let even a moment pass, her opening would be blocked off forever. When the storm grew too dangerous to navigate, another opening had emerged.

  Mercy.

  Their exchanges had become warm, personal. Andromeda had assumed that Mercy would be pleased to see her. Instead she had been vexed, agitated, and on the brink of tears. Andromeda hadn’t given up, but she was starting to reconsider her choice to seek shelter at The Grange.

  It grew late, and she was wondering if Mercy would sleep in the hallway rather than join her when the door pushed open with a quiet scrape against the jamb.

  Andromeda kept her eyes closed, listening to the sway of Mercy’s skirts and the near-silent creak of the floorboards. Was she tiptoeing? In her own room? There was silence, and Andromeda opened her eyes.

  Mercy stood beside the desk, holding a mug in her hands, and the scent of floral tea filled the air. She was staring at Andromeda. There was no tightness or prudery in that expression, no. It was open and unguarded and filled with such longing that Andromeda felt pinned by the weight of it. She had been worried she alone felt the intense desire, but to be looked at like that dispelled all doubt.

  Mercy closed the door, then stepped forward and held out the cup. “I thought you were asleep,” she said.

  “Sorry to disappoint,” Andromeda said, pushing herself up to a sitting position. “I can pretend to be if you like, but I’m fairly awful at pretending to be something I’m not. You may have picked up on that.”

  Mercy’s mouth formed something resembling a smile, but also not far from the face a person made before they were violently ill. Andromeda should have been put off by the fact that she couldn’t tell the difference, but she was ever optimistic.

  “Here. You should take this. Something warm to keep away the chill.” Mercy handed over the cup, and then wrung her hands, the very picture of a fretful woman.

  Andromeda thought of what her mother had told her during her visit when she’d finally admitted that her above-average levels of absentmindedness had been driven by infatuation.

  “You’ve got no patience. Remember when you tried your hand at horse training? Scared the mares half to death and had the stallions ready to break down the fences. Go slow, my child. Rushing headlong into love means you might run right past the person you’re after.”

  Her father had listened to this advice with a peculiar smile on his face that Mercy didn’t want to know the cause of.

  Patience. Feh. Andromeda made a sound of annoyance and Mercy flinched. Perhaps her mother was right.

  “Thank you.” Andromeda bought the warm glass to her lips and took a sip. “I’m about ready to burst from all of these warm drinks, but I appreciate them.”

  Mercy’s gaze was still anxious, but annoyance crept in. “Well, I hope they prevent you from getting ill. Riding about in the wind and ice is dangerous. You must be careful, Andromeda.”

  “Why?” She took another sip of tea and kept her gaze on Mercy. “Death comes for the prudent and the impetuous alike, you know.”

  “Perhaps,” Mercy said. “But rushing into danger that might be avoided is foolish. There are worse things than death, Andromeda.”

  “I know,” Andromeda said carefully. “That’s why we must make sure that we take our pleasure where we can. Life is hard, and then you die. Prudence is well and good, but there’ll be time for that in the afterlife, don’t you think?”

  She kept her gaze locked on Mercy, who looked completely flustered.

  Be patient.

  “And thank you for allowing me to stay with you.”

  “Yes.” Mercy’s reply was short. “You came here by chance and you didn’t want to put Mrs. Hamilton in a bind. I… It is fine.”

  She turned her back, ending the conversation by dropping into the wooden chair before her desk.

  Andromeda didn’t think it wise to reveal that it hadn’t been entirely chance, so she simply sipped her tea.

  Mercy had taken up her quill and was studiously ignoring Androme
da.

  “I’m more concerned that I put you in a bind,” Andromeda finally said. “I know that responding to my letters is one thing and having me show up on your doorstep is another.”

  “It isn’t my doorstep on which you arrived,” Mercy said. The only sound was that of quill on parchment. She finished whatever it was she was writing and turned in her seat. She had that stiff, priggish look about her again.

  “I wondered if my last letter displeased you. I know it was an odd thing to send.” She didn’t meet Andromeda’s gaze, and her expression was disconsolate.

  “The letter about the toad that hopped into the soup pot when the Washingtons came for dinner? Why would that displease me?”

  “I sent one after that,” Mercy said. She lifted her head and met Andromeda’s gaze.

  “I’ve been away from the shop for a week now. The trip to my parents’ is long and it makes sense to visit for a few days. And I needed time to work out the details of something regarding the purchase of the boarding house.”

  She wouldn’t bore Mercy with the details of the intricacies of a printing press. On second thought, Mercy would likely love to hear such boring intricacies. But there’d be time for that later.

  “You didn’t receive it!” The smile that news caused to grace her face was different from the smiles Andromeda had seen at the Grove; she hadn’t even borne witness to half of Mercy’s beauty, it seemed. The woman’s shoulders dropped and her head tipped back a bit in relief, and the slight give in her made Andromeda want to toss the tea aside and kiss her.

  Patience. She sipped again, knowing the warmth couldn’t match that of Mercy’s mouth. She hoped she’d be able to prove herself right, and soon.

  “Thank heavens,” Mercy said. “I would have been rather embarrassed had you read it. I shouldn’t have sent it.” Her shoulders drew up again.

  Andromeda pulled back the reins on the swell of anticipation that had begun to gallop in her blood. “Oh. Was it a letter telling me to desist?”

  Andromeda was already debating whether to press her case or just let Mercy be.