So, I requested feedback/encouragement/kudos and holy crap did you lot deliver! In honor of the fact that I’ve gotten so many lovely, lovely comments and gotten so much writing done as a result – here’s the next chapter!Wherein Silver meets Thomas and Miranda Makes a Decision.
As usual, the chapter’s also up on Ao3 here:
http://archiveofourown.org/works/8200756/chapters/19701670
Chapter 11: Decisions and Detente
He had come home in a daze. The world was spinning, and Thomas’ head spun with it, his mind entirely editing out the drive as he attempted not to be ill with the fear and anger and guilt that numbed his lips and sent his stomach churning. He did not remember how he had gotten into the carriage, nor how he had gotten into the house, although he had a vague memory of Hobbs’ hands helping him in and of begging the man to check the surrounding alleyways for signs of James. He had returned and shaken his head, a look of defeat on his face.
“I’m sorry, my lord. There’s no sign of the Captain beyond -” He gestured to the hat in Thomas’ hands, and Thomas felt as though something in his stomach unclenched. He was not dead, then. He had gotten away, or been taken alive – he had to have, because Miranda was missing, and it was all coming apart, just as it had done last time, only this time it wasn’t James that had been left to pick up the pieces. This time it was Thomas, and he was not equipped for this – not ready to face a world in which both of the people he loved were gone, taken from him by forces outside of his control, and it occurred to him suddenly and horribly that James had not been either. The terror coursing through him now – was this what James and Miranda had felt the night he had been stolen from them? Was this – Dear God on High, was this what they had gone through?
No. No, he reminded himself – this could be nothing next to the anguish and the raw grief he had seen in James’ and Miranda’s eyes the day they had told him of their lives in the wake of his imprisonment and death. What Thomas felt now was fear – raw and undeniable, causing his heart to pound and his muscles to seize, but it was not the terror that Miranda had undoubtedly faced when – when –
He clenched his fist. They had taken Miranda. He had never considered himself a violent man, but the very idea of Miranda being manhandled out of their carriage – threatened with the death of a man loyal to them both to ensure her good behavior – It was despicable, and the thought of James being injured – being taken as well…
His wife and their lover had turned pirate for him – because they had lost him. He had understood the idea – had even flattered himself that he understood something of the desperation that had driven them to it, but he had not. Standing in the fog, holding James’ hat in one hand and what he could only presume was a ransom note for Miranda in the other, Thomas Hamilton felt a cold chill run down his spine, true understanding washing over him. If anyone had harmed James or Miranda –
He shook himself, breathing hard, and ran a shaking hand through his hair. He was not James, or Miranda. He was not given to rage, but the feeling coursing through his veins was perhaps the closest he would ever come to feeling that particular emotion, and it shook him. For one moment he had lost track of who and what he had endeavored to be all of his life, and the notion that it should overtake him –
It was not going to happen – not now, not ever, because he was going to find them. He had no idea what bottomless well of intrigue this particular gambit had sprung from, or what drinking from that well might earn him, but it did not matter, not with their lives on the line. He turned to Hobbs, his mind made up, his blood on fire with anger and fear and all of it overlaid with iron-hard resolve. He was going to set this right.
“Take me to my father’s home,” he had told Hobbs. “I will need his papers. I -” He looked up and down the street, and then down at the letter in his hand. “Take me home,” he repeated, and Hobbs had nodded.
“Aye, sir.”
He had not slept, not that night, nor the morning that followed it. He had ignored the questioning looks of the servants – had refused breakfast – had, in fact, ensconced himself in his father’s study, pulling books from the shelves, paging through account ledgers –
And gotten nowhere, thus far. That was the worst of it. He had come charging into his father’s study intending to do war – intending to find something that would prove to be Miranda and James’ salvation. To appear in front of his lovers’ captors and –
And there, he thought wretchedly, was the problem. He had no idea what in the hell he was going to do – not the slightest inkling of where to begin, much less how to proceed from there. Hell – he did not even know which Churchill he was dealing with. It was perfectly possible that he faced the entire family.
He ran his fingers over the letter once more, staring at the crest on the wax. Churchill – John and Sarah Churchill, better known as the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough. He was, in an odd way, not truly surprised, he supposed. After all, Miranda had –
He swallowed hard against the wave of fear that threatened to wash over him, making his hands shake and his breath stop in his throat. He could not give in to this – not now. His wife had pointed out the Duchess’ presence the night of his father’s death. He remembered it vividly now, and cursed himself for a fool at the remembrance. Why, why had he not thought to chase the lead that she had offered him? Why had he been such a colossal idiot as to –
He scrubbed his hands through his hair again. He was not doing either Miranda or James any good this way. He had to concentrate. He needed a plan. A good, solid –
“My lord?”
He jumped, startled, and turned, to find his father’s chamberlain standing in the doorway, his eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline at the mess Thomas had created in Alfred’s formerly nearly impeccable study.
“My lord -” the man started again, looking around. “Ah – there seems to be -that is -”
“Yes, I know, it’s a disaster,” Thomas acknowledged wearily. “Please, Neville – what is it?”
The older man’s expression softened.
“You have a visitor, my lord. He says he knows where Captain McGraw is to be found.”
Thomas took two steps forward, dropping the ledger in his hands, his attention suddenly entirely focused on the chamberlain.
“What?”
“A Mr. John Silver, my lord.”
************************************
“Good boy.”
The horse Miranda was speaking to nickered, and she petted his nose, taking a moment to simply breathe. She was still shaking – her hands trembled like an old woman’s, and she could feel the rest of her following suit. She massaged her hands, still partially bound, and ran them over her hair, gratified to find that it was still in some semblance of order, not hanging about her face.
The man sitting in the carriage thumped against the walls, and she shot a glance at him, shaking her head.
“You’ve only yourself to blame, you know,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll either break free or be found by evening.” She ignored the muffled curses that greeted her pronouncement, and turned back to the horse. “He’s very loud, isn’t he?” she asked. “You have my sympathies.”
She was not sure what had possessed her, in retrospect. When she had first come to the decision to escape, she had not stopped to think about the matter. Her course had seemed clear – act, or be used against Thomas and James, to the potential detriment of them all. The poor fool in the carriage with her had not even seemed to realize that anything had changed until the moment she had wrapped her bonds around his neck and squeezed, her arms suddenly possessed of a strength she had not previously suspected herself of having. He was still alive – at least, she thought he was, although from the blue cast to his face right before she had let go, she was not certain she had not done him permanent damage. Part of her hoped she had – the foul creature had, after all, been giving her a most unpleasant look, less of a watchful gaze and more of a leer. No more than he deserved, she thought savagely. Maybe now George Churchill would have the good sense to instruct his lackeys to keep their hands off of her as they valued their lives.
She felt another shiver travel down her spine, and she rested her forehead against the horse’s neck. She had her answer, or at least part of it. The man who had ordered her abduction was Lord Admiral George Churchill, brother of the Duke of Marlborough and brother-in-law to his wife, Sarah. She knew who she faced. Now, though –
She raised her head again, looking the horse in the eye.
“I’m not certain whether he deserves a bullet in the head or a medal,” she murmured. On one hand, she was absolutely certain that she had the Churchill family to thank for the removal of Alfred from their lives, and on the other…
She needed to know why she had been taken from their carriage. She needed to know where James was, whether he was alright, and what their plans were regarding Thomas, and she knew exactly where she could obtain her answers. And yet –
Thomas would be worried. James, if he was not injured or captured as she had been, would be out of his mind with panic over her safety. If she turned back now – if she took the carriage and made the trip to London – she could be back in the space of a half day. She could be back in her husband’s arms – could allow him and James to take the lead as she had always done, while she murmured advice into their ears and begged to be heard when they were doing something stupid.
She looked at the men that sat, bound and gagged inside the carriage, and she felt a jolt of anger travel through her. No. She was not going back to being that Miranda – not now, not anymore. She had done this – she, Miranda Barlow Hamilton. She, who had survived ten years of exile, who had lived without Thomas and functionally without James for all that time. She had, she realized with a sort of cold clarity, reached a turning point, sometime in the past few hours – at the precise moment, she suddenly understood, when she had reached out to save herself, nearly killing a man with so little compunction it took her breath away. She was not Lady Hamilton. That woman was dead, and the woman who was currently standing on the road between Windsor and London, her hand fisted in the horse’s mane, mud splattered on her skirts and rope still wrapped around her wrists, had no intention of turning back to allow others to take the lead this time. George Churchill lived in Windsor, and she intended to wring her answers out of him with her own two bloodied hands if necessary. Her decision made, she set about releasing one of the horses from the traces, checking its tack and saddling it before gathering her skirts up and swinging herself up and onto the animal. She would start by going to pay a visit to Kitty Ashe and her daughter. They could offer her food and shelter while she constructed a plan.
“Get up,” she ordered, squeezing the horse’s sides with her heels, and the horse began to move, leaving the carriage sitting behind her as she headed west.
**********************************************
Thomas Hamilton, as it turned out, was not at the house on Albemarle Street. John had spent ten minutes pulling the full story out of the reluctant head butler, and a further half hour getting to the correct address – an impressive edifice that somehow made him want to turn around and leave the moment he looked at it, and that he had been told had belonged to the elderly Lord Hamilton. Looking at the place, John could not help but wonder how the man James had spoken of – the visionary, clever, good, bloody infuriating Thomas – could have come from a place such as this. It spoke of a certain fortitude, and against his will John felt a spark of admiration and even understanding. Survival and adherence to one’s own nature under such conditions took willpower, he knew – none better.
“John Silver to see Lord Hamilton,” he introduced himself, and withstood the butler’s dubious expression. “He’s expecting me.”
“I highly doubt -”
“That he would appreciate you second-guessing his intentions. Yes. You’re right. I couldn’t agree more.” He smiled pleasantly at the man, and then grinned when he was shown into the house.
The inside, he discovered, was every bit as foreboding as the outside. Something about the thankfully late Alfred Hamilton’s house was just dark – whether it was because of the layout of the rooms, or the lingering shade of the bastard himself, John could not have said, but either way he felt a shiver run up his spine. The sooner he, and by extension Thomas, were out of this place, the better. He stood, waiting impatiently while he was announced, and then quite suddenly he was in the study, eyes taking in the man that James had called both his lover and his friend.
“So,” he said cheerfully, “You’re the man I fought a war over.”
Thomas was – John was not sure how to describe the man, in all truth. He was tall, and blond, just as James had once described him. In the pale morning light, John could see that his eyes were blue, although of a less intense shade than John’s own, and he appeared to have had a rough night, judging by the rumpled hair, the bags under his eyes, and the general mess in his father’s study.
“Mister Silver?” he asked, and John cocked his head. Interesting. Somehow he had pictured Thomas Hamilton as having a different voice – deeper, perhaps, or simply less… something.
“You know,” he said, “I’d pictured you differently somehow. When he talked about you, he made it sound like you were some kind of bloody saint.” Thomas winced, and John felt a jolt of satisfaction travel through him at the gesture. Good. Let him be uncomfortable with the picture that John was intent on painting for him.
“You know where James is?” he asked, and John nodded.
“I do,” he answered. “He’s safe, for the moment, no thanks to whatever mess you’ve managed to get him into this time.” Another wince, and another vicious thrill at the gesture.
“He’s not injured, or -?”
“Oh I wouldn’t say that,” John answered. “When I left he’d only just woken up. He’d passed out after some stupid fuck hit him in the head with a pistol, you see, and if I’m any judge, and I think I am, he’s got a sprained knee that will take a week or two to heal. I’d imagine he’ll be covered in bruises for at least a few days if not longer. Well done, Lord Hamilton. Once again, you’ve managed to land everyone in the shit.”
Thomas closed his eyes, either in horror or in thanks for James’ safety, and John watched him, his arms crossed. When Thomas opened his eyes again, he looked weary.
“Where is he?” he asked, and John shook his head.
“Oh no. I’m not telling you shit until you tell me what the fuck is going on, what you’ve done, and how you’re planning on fucking cleaning up your own mess.”
He had not planned on this. He had walked through the door intending to get Thomas’ measure without openly antagonizing the man, but the longer he stood here, the more angry he was. Here, in front of him, was the man that had fucked up James’ life so badly all those years ago. Here was the man that had turned his friend into a hollowed-out shell of a person, bent on vengeance without thought for the cost. Here, wailed some treacherous, angry, heartbroken part of himself, stood the reason that John had spent so many years trying to pull James Flint out of the spiral of grief and pain and failed so very badly, and for what? A lost cause that the man had put more effort into than any care he might have had for James or his wife. All of a sudden he wanted to shout – wanted to rail at the man, to demand to know who the hell he thought he was to fuck up so many people’s lives like this. He wanted –
He wanted to know why the bastard was smiling at him.
“Sorry, have I started speaking in tongues?” he asked caustically. “I said -”
“I heard you,” Thomas answered. “It’s good to know that James has someone else who cares about him. I owe you a great deal for that – almost as much as I owe him.”
John gaped.
“You thought I was going to argue with you,” Thomas observed dryly.
“Well – yes,” John admitted.
Thomas sighed and raked a hand through his hair, mussing it further. “I’m well aware of what I’ve done, even if I’ve not lived most of it,” he said quietly. He looked up. “I don’t suppose there’s any possibility of putting this discussion off for another day?”
John scowled, and Thomas nodded.
“Very well. You’ve a right to be angry, of course.” He looked at John frankly, his eyes raking over him with the same kind of curiosity that had led John here. “He’s told me a lot about you,” he offered. “Including what you’ve done for him, and what you lost for it. I know I can’t possibly repair that damage, but -”
“Wait – he’s told you?”
Thomas gave him an odd look.
“Yes of course,” he answered, and John felt his face contort into an incredulous expression.
“We are talking about the same person?” he asked, and Thomas gave a low chuckle.
“Yes,” he answered. “I would hope so, anyway. God help the world if there were two of James!”
His laugh was – well. It might have been the first good thing John had found about the man. It softened his face – made him suddenly look less of a stuck up ponce and more the person that James had told him about. The thought made him angrier if possible. The reckless idiot that had started this shouldn’t have a smile that brightened the room. He shouldn’t be laughing, especially not now.
“You know what he’s done for you – in your name – and you’re laughing?” he asked, and Thomas sobered.
“It’s either laugh or cry, Mr. Silver, and with the month I’ve had -”
John raised an eyebrow. He looked around the room slowly, his eyes taking in the furnishings and the sheer lavish grandeur of the place.
“Yes,” he drawled. “I’m sure you have a great deal to weep over.”
That got the reaction he’d been looking for. Thomas frowned, something flashing in his blue eyes, and Silver stood his ground, allowing the taller man to frown all he liked.
“More than enough,” Thomas answered, a note of warning in his voice.
“Oh yes,” Silver goaded. He could feel his heart beating faster, the tingle of adrenaline and anger fueling him as he leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the other man, his lip curling upward in derision. “I’m certain the death of your miserable shit of a father was very difficult. Tell me, did you orchestrate it yourself, or did you let James do your dirty work agai-”
Thomas took two steps toward him (and Christ he was tall, John registered, as his long legs covered the distance. James had never mentioned that). He reached out with one hand, and John stopped, looking downward as the taller man latched onto the front of his coat and pulled him upward and closer to himself.
“In the past two months,” Thomas snapped, his voice low, “I have lost one of my dearest friends. I have woken up to find that my wife and my lover have been through horrors I can only begin to imagine. I have sat, helpless and fucking useless while they try to find some way back to themselves after what they have endured. My wife is currently missing – taken by the same people I now suspect murdered my father, and on that subject, yes, Mr. Silver, I’m very much certain that through my attempts to safeguard Miranda and James, I have once again set in motion the events that led to his untimely demise. If you think that I do not deeply regret the harm my actions have caused to the people I love, or that I am willing to stand here and listen to you cast aspersions on the nature of my relationship with James when I have spent all night wondering if he’s alive or dead, then you are very much mistaken. You say you know where James is. Tell me. Please.”
He was breathing hard, and up close, John could see his eyes in exquisite detail. Thomas Hamilton, he realized –
Was not lying. He was angry, he was frightened, and above all else, he was saddened and frustrated as hell. The realization took the wind from his sails, and abruptly, he felt the anger drain from him, at least in part. James, he realized with a touch of wry irony, had excellent taste in men, and in this one in particular, stupid noble fool though he was with his gratitude and apologies for things he had no control over. Silver grinned, the expression much less forced now than it would have been an hour earlier.
“So,” he said, ignoring Thomas’ fist, which was still wrapped around the front of John’s coat, his knuckles digging into his chest, “you do care about them.”
Thomas’ face contorted, and he regarded Silver with an incredulous expression the equal of Silver’s own.
“What?” he asked, and John shrugged.
“I was never certain,” he answered. “He didn’t say much, and from what I gathered, you were either the most noble idiot on the face of the planet, or the most callous son of a bitch I’d ever heard of. Congratulations. You may be an idiot but you’re not the heedless shit I first took you for.”
Thomas let go of his coat abruptly. He took a step back, and closed his eyes once more. When he opened them, his face had sort of – scrunched itself up, frown lines forming between his brows, his mouth open a fraction. The expression, John had to admit, was rather endearing, now that he was willing to grant the man points for that sort of thing.
“That was a test?” Thomas asked. Silver tugged on his clothing, setting it to rights, and flashed him a grin.
“Oh no,” he answered. “I came in prepared to hate you. You’ve just managed to convince me otherwise. Did I hear you say that your wife is missing?”
“Yes,” Thomas answered, his tone still bewildered. “I think I’m beginning to understand why James said he spent the first two months of your acquaintance trying not to kill you. Do you do this to everyone the first time you meet them?”
“That depends on what I want from them,” John answered. “We should return to James. I’ve locked the door behind me, but we both know him well enough to know that won’t last, and he’s already got a nasty head wound. Wouldn’t want him to injure himself looking for me.”
He turned and left the room, still grinning, and heard Thomas curse and follow after him.
“And I’m the one that got locked in Bedlam,” he heard the taller man mutter.
*****************************************************
Miranda released the reins with a weary sigh. She hopped down from the saddle, her hands going automatically to massage her aching rear end. It had been a long journey, but she had finally found her way to Windsor, and now she longed for nothing more than a warm bath and, if not a fresh set of clothing, then at least the ability to wash her own things. Not, of course, that she anticipated any such hardship from the house of the woman who had, until her exile from London, been a great friend and confidant of hers. Katharine Ashe, despite her husband’s departure, had elected to remain in London, now as in her previous life, and it was to her that Miranda turned now as the closest source of refuge. She made some small effort at brushing the mud off of her dress, and patted her hair. There were still red marks around her wrists from being bound, but there was nothing to be done about those, or about the roughness of the cloak she had taken from Churchill’s hapless lackeys.
She had not gone visiting much, in the past few months. It had not, she was sure, gone unremarked, and she was certain that this appearance would cement her reputation as a woman gone mad, but she found that she truly did not care. If she had her way, they would all be out of England soon enough anyway, and whatever scandal she managed to create would disappear with her.
“Lady Hamilton?” The stablehand that spoke to her sounded hesitant, almost disbelieving, and she turned to him with a short, tight smile.
“Yes. Andrew, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Be so good as to tell Lady Ashe I’m here, would you?”
“Of course, Ma’am. Would you like -?”
“I’ll go to her immediately,” she interrupted him, sparing him the awkward question that was sure to follow. “I’m aware I must look a fright, but I’ve some rather urgent news and a request to make, if she’ll see me.”
“Yes, Ma’am. Excuse me. I’ll just -” He took the reins from her hands, leading the horse away toward the stables, and she straightened her clothing once again before walking toward the house. She was admitted by the somewhat startled looking butler, who led her into the house, through the front hall, and into a parlor.
“My lady?”
“Yes?” The voice that emanated from behind the door was one that she had not heard in over a decade, and she bit her lip, looking upward at the ceiling. She had not done Kitty Ashe any favors lately. Peter would be in no more danger in Jamaica than he would have been in the Carolinas, but the position was undeniably less prestigious and the task ahead of him harder in some ways. She could only hope that her former friend would not hold the change against her or Thomas.
“Lady Hamilton has arrived, my lady. She requests -”
The door opened, and Miranda caught sight of Lady Katharine, who looked straight at her, her dark brown eyes that were so much like her daughter’s wide and alarmed.
“Miranda?” she asked, and Miranda gave her a wan smile.
“Kitty,” she greeted. “I’m sorry to have come without warning, but -”
“My God – Lady Hamilton, what’s happened to you?”
The voice that came from behind Kitty stole her voice from her, her throat suddenly refusing to produce sound. She looked over her friend’s shoulder at the other woman, suddenly breathing harder, anger and fear mixing as she attempted to find her composure again. At last, she answered, her voice hard enough to have split diamonds.
“I should think you know all too well, your Grace.”
Meg's Mumbles 