Hamilton's Battalion

by Courtney Milan

  “No! No.” Mercy shook her head. “It was just…something silly.”

  Andromeda gave a sigh of relief. “I’m a seamstress, Mercy. While I will critique your clothing, your words are safe from me. I’d be happy to get ten pages of silliness from you. A hundred.”

  Mercy stared at Andromeda, her brown eyes luminous in the candlelight. “I know. It’s just…I didn’t want to disappoint you. And I was convinced I had.”

  There it was again: that inclination of the head that made Andromeda itch to reach out and stroke her. Mercy had grown up in cellars and orphanages; how did she come through all that with this kind of fragility? Andromeda thought of Mercy’s rigid uprightness.

  Ah. That’s how.

  “I won’t say that you could never disappoint me, but it would take much more effort than posting a silly letter.”

  Mercy glanced up and Andromeda smiled. It was like getting a thread through the eye of a needle, finding the right smile for that moment: not too eager, not too aggressive.

  Gentle.

  Mercy leaned forward a bit and Andromeda knew she had succeeded. “As luck would have it, I’m here now. Whatever it was you wanted to say can be said to my face.”

  Mercy stood abruptly; the thread had slipped past the eye of the needle, it seemed.

  “I should prepare for bed,” she said.

  Andromeda finished her tea and passed over the cup, then flopped back on the bed and rolled onto her side. She heard Mercy groping around for what seemed like much too long. “Need help with your buttons?” she asked.

  “Not at all.”

  “I have two perfectly good hands that c—”

  “Andromeda.” The word had the same near-hysterical tone as when she’d stormed out of the shop, and later in the coach. Andromeda quieted.

  There was the sound of Mercy blowing a puff of air between her lips, and then darkness descended upon the room. Then there was a creak in the floorboard and the shift of the mattress as Mercy climbed onto it. She lay down stiffly and Andromeda imagined her lying in repose with her arms crossed over her chest, like one of the antiquities she’d seen a sketch of. It hadn’t struck her as the most comfortable position.

  There was no talking for a long moment, and Andromeda supposed Mercy had fallen asleep, tired from the work of her day.

  “How go things with the purchase of the building?” Mercy asked. Her words were benign, but she was only a few inches away and Andromeda could feel the heat of her. It seeped through the ticking of the mattress, spread through the rough sheets. Perhaps Mercy was always this warm, but Andromeda had touched her several times. Even when Mercy had taken her hands in that odd, moving attempt to warm them, she had not produced this kind of heat. What had she been thinking of in that long silence, before asking her question?

  Andromeda turned onto her side facing Mercy, closing a bit of the space between them in the process. She could see nothing in the darkness, but she could feel the shape of Mercy before her.

  God, if she burns like this from a distance…

  “I am still having trouble with the sale. It seems the proprietor doesn’t approve of selling to an unmarried woman, never mind that I earn more than many men.”

  “Have you no intention of being married?” Mercy asked. It was asked in a polite tone, as if she didn’t particularly care to hear the answer.

  “No, though I suppose many women have no such intention and become wives all the same.” Andromeda hated the silence that followed her words, mostly because of the thing she hadn’t said. She felt uncertain and it made her uncomfortable, so she did exactly what she’d been chastised for her entire life: she rushed headlong toward what frightened her.

  “Actually, I’ve had my mind set on one person in particular, of late, but I’m still unsure of how I’ll be received. I’m reaching rather far above my station, you see.”

  “Oh.” There was a shift, and despite the total darkness, Andromeda knew Mercy had turned her back to her. Rejection barreled into her. She knew not every woman was open to being wooed by another of their sex, particularly one who had invited herself into her bed, but she had thought Mercy felt something…

  A kind of panic filled her. How was it that she had planned on doing the wooing but was now the one bereft at being set aside?

  “I hope he is not foolish enough to reject you,” Mercy finally said in a rough voice. “I think any man would be lucky to have you.”

  Andromeda’s ability to be gentle had reached its end. Her hand shot forward in the dark, landing on the bare skin of Mercy’s arm. That soft skin beneath her palm sent a charge through her, but she ignored it.

  “He?” she asked.

  “The man you desire. The one above your station.”

  Andromeda couldn’t see her, and couldn’t imagine what expression she was making because she hadn’t heard this wavering, weak tone before. She hadn’t had time to learn it yet; she barely knew Mercy, which made what she did next all the madder.

  “You really are a fool,” Andromeda said. And when she heard a soft gasp of surprise, she angled her mouth toward it and didn’t stop until Mercy’s warm lips were pressed against hers.

  Chapter Nine

  Mercy couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t.

  There had been the shame of her incorrect presumption, then the shock of Andromeda’s hand on her arm, and after that there was only the earthy scent of tea-warmed breath and the slide of a luscious mouth over hers.

  Her death wouldn’t be an honorable one; her tombstone would read Here lies Mercy Alston, asphyxiated in the throes of lust. Not honorable, but she’d imagined many ways to die and this seemed like the best way to do it—and one she hadn’t ever thought possible.

  She’d been trying to remain calm, to hold off panicking because the woman who had undone her resolve after so many years was in her bed. Her body hadn’t complied, really—she’d burned with both embarrassment and need as she stared up into the darkness trying to gather her wits. She’d felt a bit of relief mixed in with her regret when she learned that Andromeda seemed to have her sights on some man. That was how love worked for women like her, or perhaps just for her in particular.

  The painful words of her last, and most resounding, heartbreak still rang in her ears.

  “And how did you suppose we would spend a life together? You think some pretty words will provide for me? You think no one will gossip?”

  She wanted to press her hands to her ears, to bite her cheek at the awful memory; she could still hear the ripping of the packet of letters, smell the flames that had engulfed her years of words.

  This was why she didn’t want to feel. This was why she’d been relieved, in a way, to be mistaken about Andromeda’s attentions. She’d thought that she’d made an early escape from that inevitability. But then Andromeda’s hands…her mouth…

  Andromeda’s lips moved over hers gently, so featherlight that the brush of them shouldn’t have made Mercy’s thighs press together and her nipples grow taut. But each little brush dredged up hidden feeling in her, like the lobstermen hauling up their cages from the briny deep. In the darkness, there was just the solid presence of Andromeda above her and the warm sweetness of her mouth.

  Mercy took a deep breath through her nose, then pushed up into the kiss. It was the wrong decision, she knew it even as her elbows pressed down into the scratchy ticking of the mattress and her tongue tangled with Andromeda’s.

  There was a moan in the darkness, and then Andromeda’s other hand was at Mercy’s shoulder, pressing her down into the pillow. Her mouth clung to Mercy’s as she gave in to the pressure and sank down into the bed. Andromeda made low, hungry groans as she kissed her, noises that sent unspeakable pleasure thrumming through Mercy’s veins.

  “I want to see you, but I don’t trust you not to change your mind while I search about for the flint,” she said against Mercy’s mouth.

  Arousal flared anew, higher and hotter than Mercy had thought imaginable.

  “You�
�ll just have to use those hands you’re always boasting of,” Mercy replied, and was pleased to hear Andromeda’s scandalized laughter.

  “So you’re one of those,” Andromeda said, sitting back so she straddled Mercy’s thighs. Mercy froze for a moment, remembering their first encounter.

  “One of what?” she asked in a worried voice, and heard Andromeda huff in annoyance.

  “A missish little thing who was just waiting to be caught in the dark with an ardent admirer to show her naughty side,” Andromeda said. Her weight shifted, and she nudged her knee between Mercy’s thighs. Her hands were moving, cupping Mercy’s face, then sliding down her neck. Andromeda’s fingertips traced Mercy’s collarbones, then tugged at the neck of the loose chemise she’d worn to bed. She pulled slowly, slowly, and Mercy could feel every fiber of the rough material graze the taut tips of her breasts before the cool air of the room hit them. The textured material was replaced by the warm pads of Andromeda’s thumbs, brushing back and forth over the sensitive skin. Her thumbs were rough, surely resistant to pinpricks, but so gentle.

  Mercy trembled and tried to hold her hips still as sensation spread through her, both from Andromeda’s touch and the echo of her words.

  Ardent admirer.

  Andromeda’s thumbs slowed but didn’t still, a torturous tempo that inexplicably seemed to increase the pleasure she was receiving.

  “Wait,” Andromeda said. Stroke. Pause. Stroke. Pause. “Did you really think I would insult you? In the midst of this?”

  Mercy knew it was foolish, but she also couldn’t lie, not with Andromeda making her feel so much that she could barely think straight.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” she said. Her hands went up to finally smooth over those curves she had fantasized about since she’d first come upon Andromeda bathed in sunlight. An angel, she’d thought then. An angel who was at that very moment driving her mad with lust. That was all well and good, for Mercy was already fallen.

  Mercy cupped Andromeda’s waist, slid her hands up so that the weight of Andromeda’s perfect breasts rested against the backs of her hands. “It’s all right.”

  Andromeda stopped moving for a moment, then one of her hands slid back up to Mercy’s neck, tugging her up toward her. Mercy knew the kiss was coming, but was surprised by the ferocity of it, and the tenderness.

  “I will never hurt you, Mercy,” Andromeda whispered fiercely. Then her knee notched up between Mercy’s thighs, until it was pressing into that throbbing flesh. After that, it all happened so quickly. The sweet friction between her legs, Andromeda’s mouth at her neck, then lower, as she drew Mercy’s nipple between her teeth and teased at it with her tongue.

  “Oh Lord,” Mercy whispered, then pleasure arced through her, piercing her like the rays of morning sun bursting through the clouds to spread over the Hudson. It went on and on, spreading joy through her body, joy so intense she was certain that she must be illuminating the dark room with her pleasure. She collapsed back onto the bed, but Andromeda’s caresses didn’t stop.

  “Andromeda,” she panted, backing up and away from what had become too much pressure—too much pleasure.

  Andromeda moved beside her, pulled her close, and they lay in sated silence for a moment.

  “So, what was it you wanted to tell me in this letter?” Andromeda whispered.

  In the darkness, Mercy felt like anything was possible, but she was too raw to discuss the poem just then. “I—I’ve started writing again,” she said.

  “‘Again’ implies you stopped. What’s that about?”

  She sounded so curious. So interested. Mercy wouldn’t tell her everything, but something was a start.

  “Many years ago, I thought I was in love. No, I was most definitely in love. I thought I was loved back. That was the part I was misinformed about.”

  “And what happened?” Andromeda asked. “Is there someone I should take my sewing shears to?”

  Mercy was surprised to find herself laughing. Laughing while talking about the things that had wounded her so dearly.

  “She didn’t love me, or if she did, she stopped. And then it happened again. And again. And the last time was so terrible I decided I was done.”

  She didn’t describe the burnt letters or Jane passing her in the street with her husband, pretending she didn’t know her.

  “With…her?”

  “No, with it. With love.”

  It seemed silly when stated like that, the pain that had been her driving motivation for years.

  Andromeda took a deep breath and Mercy steeled herself. “Hm, a bit of a hasty conclusion I’d say, but I’ve made some hasty decisions myself.” Andromeda’s words were slow, measured. She was taking her time in responding and Mercy knew that was something that didn’t come naturally to her. It was that consideration that did Mercy in. She loved Andromeda. Simple as that.

  Can you really be so brainless as to fall for this again?

  Mercy felt two arms wrap around her, and then a hand smoothing over her hair, and the anxious thoughts fell away. “Tell me about this writing.”

  Mercy didn’t know what she had expected, but she found herself relaxing in Andromeda’s embrace. “A poem. That’s what the letter was. A poem, for you.”

  She turned her head in toward Andromeda’s neck, hiding although it was too dark for her face to be seen.

  “Brilliant,” Andromeda breathed, stroking a hand over Mercy’s shoulder. “I knew you were brilliant.”

  “You haven’t read it yet,” Mercy said. Her lips brushed against Andromeda’s collarbone and she was surprised and pleased to feel Andromeda tremble against her.

  “I’ve read your letters, and you weren’t even trying in those.” Andromeda’s mouth was near Mercy’s ear. She nipped at the lobe and it was Mercy who trembled then. “So yes, a poem, which is trying by its very nature, is going to be brilliant.”

  Mercy couldn’t argue with that—her mouth was suddenly occupied with a much more pressing matter.

  Chapter Ten

  Mercy awoke in the darkness and stretched. She could tell she was awake earlier than usual, and was certain she wouldn’t fall back asleep. The night had been spent learning Andromeda’s body by touch in the darkness and, when she could stand it no longer, by candlelight. Beautiful dips and curves of smooth brown skin. Scars on her knees and elbows from a life of rushing into things fearlessly.

  Each dark brown mark had filled Mercy with an unexplained joy. She hadn’t kissed them, but she’d run her fingertips over them—as she had over every part of Andromeda—and felt a brief rush of bravery. The feeling that it was okay to be hurt, again and again, by your own recklessness. Perhaps that’s what life was, and hiding from it as Mercy had been doing was living a half life.

  She’d tried to temper her emotions, but she couldn’t. One couldn’t remove foundation stones from a dam and expect it to hold. She’d built up her entire world around denying herself happiness, and now she felt so strongly for Andromeda that it scared her.

  It can’t last. It won’t.

  She shook her head and rolled away from Andromeda’s warmth into the cold stillness of the room. For the briefest of moments she felt utterly alone in the darkness, but she took a deep breath and reminded herself that Andromeda was still there. So were the questions she had asked, lingering like the scent of their arousal.

  “What do you want?” Andromeda had asked once, then again, and a third time between their bouts of lovemaking.

  “You,” Mercy had answered each time, reaching for her.

  Finally, as the candle guttered, Andromeda had shaken her head and asked one last time. “What do you want from life? I am quite the catch, but what else do you want for you?”

  Mercy froze. She didn’t know. She’d only just allowed herself the possibility of love; could she ask for anything more? Was that allowed to her?

  As she pulled on her robe and slipped through the door toward the kitchens, she started to think maybe it could be. But she ha
d spent so long not thinking of it that she wasn’t sure where to begin.

  To write again. Fear pulsed in her at the thought, but she’d mentioned her poetry and Andromeda hadn’t laughed. She’d thought it brilliant.

  To be a part of the world again. No, that wasn’t right. She was already a part of the world; that had never changed, try though she had. She could expand her world to include Andromeda. She needn’t travel far for that, after all. She just needed to be where Andromeda was. She had enjoyed the security of a life at The Grange, far from her painful memories. She didn’t regret her choices, but ten years was a long time.

  She felt her way through the dark hallway, certain she wouldn’t fall because she knew every possible obstacle. And that had been part of the appeal of life at The Grange, hadn’t it? That and the reminder in the everyday devotion of the Hamiltons. She’d scorned Mrs. Hamilton and Angelica for living their lives for those who had loved them and passed on, but she’d been living her life for someone who hadn’t even truly loved her in return.

  She was done with that.

  In the kitchen, the embers of the cooking fire glowed in the hearth, and Mercy set to work breathing it to life. She needed warm water for the coffee she’d bring to Andromeda.

  Andromeda was always so sure of herself; she could help Mercy figure out what she wanted from life. Surely she could.

  Mercy puttered about in the kitchen for a bit. It was when the water had finally begun to boil that she noticed crinkled sheets of paper clipped above the fireplace. They looked like they’d been wet through and hung to dry. She grabbed the edge of one between her fingers and scanned it. A local Negro paper, judging from the announcements. A baptism. A barn raising. An engagement announcement.

  No. NO.

  “Miss Andromeda Stiel to wed Mr. Martin Shear, her childhood sweetheart, in an early summer wedding…”

  Mercy pulled her fingers away from the broadsheet as if burned. She hadn’t misunderstood after all. Andromeda had said she’d been planning something. That she’d found a solution to her problem with the sale. But then Andromeda had said she wanted Mercy, hadn’t she?