America: Chapter 7
The Abernathy Trilogy
Abernathy, Abandon, America
by Kristen
America
Chapter 7
August, 1773
Justin
"Hello," calls a voice from the shadow. A body emerges as that of Amos. "I didn't know if you'd come back again."
"Why shouldn't I?" I ask.
He shrugs and sits down beside me. The wall behind our backs vibrates with the sounds of the orchestra getting into tune. "Horrid weather lately. It's bad for business. Men usually stay home."
I nod in sympathy. The predicted storm had come just as the sailors foretold: swiftly and brutally. It assaulted the city for days, during which I stayed in most of the time, and read whatever I could borrow from the innkeeper. Brian has had a mess with damaged shipments, and wrote to say that he would not have an evening free for some time.
Now, the first dry day of the week, the city ventures out once again, through the puddles and rivulets that decorate the cobblestones. Bits of food and sodden paper are strewn about the streets, collecting in clutches beside the buildings and in corners. Though the storm has passed, the sky remains sullen and dark, with bloated grey clouds hanging nearly low enough to touch.
Amos sighs, discontented, and stands up suddenly. "I'm not of a mind to play the peacock tonight. You game for a drink?"
"Alright," I say, hoping to sound nonchalant and not overeager. Having a friend is a novel enough experience for me, but to be invited to a pub as well! It feels so delightfully... normal.
"So," Amos says conversationally as we walk along the grey-cast streets. "What brought you across the pond?"
"A fire," I say mechanically, having spent all my months on the Marianna preparing the story. "We lost everything, and thought to start anew here."
"We? You and your family?"
"Yes...of sorts."
He picks up on my hesitation immediately. "You and your gent."
I blush, more out of guilt than modesty. Part of my brain is yelling that I was supposed to tell everyone that Brian is my cousin. That was the plan. But the other part of me reasons that Amos is a special case, and would never be a threat to Brian and me. After all, why would one of "us" snitch on another?
"So what is he like?" Amos asks, and I realize that my delay had been affirmation enough of his suspicions. I find myself smiling shyly in search of an answer.
"He's...wonderful."
"He give you that nice ring?"
"Yes," I reply proudly, rubbing it with my fingers.
"Rich, then?" he asks.
"No," I say, a little thrown by the question.
"Married?"
"No!"
"Well. He does sound good," Amos concludes, as we turn down a dark alley adjacent to the pier.
The passage is so narrow that one cannot even raise one's arms to the sides. In the dark, I can barely see his back in front of me, and I feel an unusual trepidation. Night was never scary in the countryside.
A bolted metal door presents itself to us at the end of the long, cavernous alley. I look wistfully backwards to the entrance, now merely a foggy blue square in the distance. The air seems colder here, and I rub my arms for warmth.
Amos raps three times on the door, but receives no answer.
"Is this the tavern, truly?" I say in disbelief, hoping not to sound as nervous as I feel.
Before he can answer, a voice calls out from behind the door. "Who's there?"
"Molly," Amos calls back, nudging me teasingly in the dark.
The door opens slowly at first, then easily as the man inside apparently recognizes the face.
"Come on, then," Amos says, and pulls me inside after him.
Once inside, I find that it rightly is a tavern, at least as far as I imagined one to be. We gaze around the small, cramped room, dimly lit and with a low-hanging ceiling clouded by tobacco smoke.
A long bar supports the right side of the room, behind which stands a tallish man idly wiping glasses. In the center are a few round tables, crudely made and strewn with playing cards. On the left side are several small couches, arranged conveniently for conversation, and not at all for modesty.
Most notable, though, are the men, of which there are maybe a dozen, and all with eyes fixed squarely on us.
Amos heads toward the left side, pulling me along behind him. We take our place on one of the small couches, and I look to my companion for clues. He settles back easily with a casual smile on his face, and I struggle to do the same.
Gradually the other patrons return to their previous occupations, and I discreetly look around. There are men of every age here, from the grey-haired to boys even younger than us. Most are seated at the tables, talking amiably. Some decorate the couches as we do, having what appear to be very intimate conversations.
"Hey. Justin." Amos calls. "You quite alright? You look white as a sheet."
"I'm alright."
"Want to leave?" he offers.
"No," I say, feeling childish. "Shall I go and buy our drinks?" He looks at me incredulously, and shakes his head at what must be my utter naivete.
From the corner of my eye, I catch a man slowly weaving his way toward us through the sea of tables. I glance over at Amos, to find his gaze now trained on the man like a pointer after a pheasant.
"Hello, my dear," says the man approaching Amos, stooping down to press a kiss to his cheek. "We haven't had the pleasure of your presence in a while. And who is this?"
"This is James," Amos says, meaning me.
"Enchanted, James," says the man, smiling pleasantly, but not offering his own name. I guess by the one-sided introduction that anonymity is canon in this place.
Amos' friend buys us each a mug of spiced wine, and himself a cognac. He settles down on the chair next to Amos and the two begin to talk with their heads very close together. Amos' left arm lies on the side of the settee between them, and one of the man's hands rests lightly on his wrist. I drink the wine quickly for lack of better occupation, feeling rather awkward, but not keen on showing it.
Shortly, another man approaches, this time seating himself in the chair beside me.
"Fancy another?" he asks, politely pointing to my empty mug. Admittedly grateful for something to do, I accept.
I drink the wine, enjoying the new warmth running through my body, and try to listen attentively to the man beside me. He asks me several questions about myself, and I find the lies coming easier now with the wine. He is not an unpleasant man, but I feel an acute sense of foreboding, as though at any moment this exchange will cross a line, with him on one side and me making apologies on the other.
Some time later, the conversation lulls, and I find the man looking closely at me.
"You are remarkably beautiful," he muses, with no preamble.
"I...thank you," I stammer uncomfortably, suddenly pretending to be very interested in my lap.
"And modest," he says. I can hear the smile in his voice, as though he is pleased with the discovery. He reaches a hand up to lightly draw a bit of my hair back behind my ear. "Would you like come sit here with me?"
"No, thank you," I answer, looking over to Amos for help. But he has already removed himself to the other man's couch, and is sitting in his lap. Though his back is to me, I can tell they are kissing, the man's arm wrapped possessively around Amos' slender waist.
Harshly tossed back into my own calamity, I suddenly find that the man has placed his hand upon my knee. And here you are, Justin, I think to myself. You wanted so badly to meet other men like "us," and now look at what you've gotten yourself into. What did you expect?
I breathe heavily, almost too afraid to react one way or another, when I feel his fingers lightly trace the line where my breeches end and the thin layer of stocking begins. Quickly it is too much, and I jump up, knocking over his drink in the process.
"I'm sorry," I stutter clumsily, not able to look at him. As though burned by fire, I run for the door and am out of the tavern before noticing whether Amos saw me leave.
Abernathy, Abandon, America
by Kristen
America
Chapter 7
August, 1773
Justin
"Hello," calls a voice from the shadow. A body emerges as that of Amos. "I didn't know if you'd come back again."
"Why shouldn't I?" I ask.
He shrugs and sits down beside me. The wall behind our backs vibrates with the sounds of the orchestra getting into tune. "Horrid weather lately. It's bad for business. Men usually stay home."
I nod in sympathy. The predicted storm had come just as the sailors foretold: swiftly and brutally. It assaulted the city for days, during which I stayed in most of the time, and read whatever I could borrow from the innkeeper. Brian has had a mess with damaged shipments, and wrote to say that he would not have an evening free for some time.
Now, the first dry day of the week, the city ventures out once again, through the puddles and rivulets that decorate the cobblestones. Bits of food and sodden paper are strewn about the streets, collecting in clutches beside the buildings and in corners. Though the storm has passed, the sky remains sullen and dark, with bloated grey clouds hanging nearly low enough to touch.
Amos sighs, discontented, and stands up suddenly. "I'm not of a mind to play the peacock tonight. You game for a drink?"
"Alright," I say, hoping to sound nonchalant and not overeager. Having a friend is a novel enough experience for me, but to be invited to a pub as well! It feels so delightfully... normal.
"So," Amos says conversationally as we walk along the grey-cast streets. "What brought you across the pond?"
"A fire," I say mechanically, having spent all my months on the Marianna preparing the story. "We lost everything, and thought to start anew here."
"We? You and your family?"
"Yes...of sorts."
He picks up on my hesitation immediately. "You and your gent."
I blush, more out of guilt than modesty. Part of my brain is yelling that I was supposed to tell everyone that Brian is my cousin. That was the plan. But the other part of me reasons that Amos is a special case, and would never be a threat to Brian and me. After all, why would one of "us" snitch on another?
"So what is he like?" Amos asks, and I realize that my delay had been affirmation enough of his suspicions. I find myself smiling shyly in search of an answer.
"He's...wonderful."
"He give you that nice ring?"
"Yes," I reply proudly, rubbing it with my fingers.
"Rich, then?" he asks.
"No," I say, a little thrown by the question.
"Married?"
"No!"
"Well. He does sound good," Amos concludes, as we turn down a dark alley adjacent to the pier.
The passage is so narrow that one cannot even raise one's arms to the sides. In the dark, I can barely see his back in front of me, and I feel an unusual trepidation. Night was never scary in the countryside.
A bolted metal door presents itself to us at the end of the long, cavernous alley. I look wistfully backwards to the entrance, now merely a foggy blue square in the distance. The air seems colder here, and I rub my arms for warmth.
Amos raps three times on the door, but receives no answer.
"Is this the tavern, truly?" I say in disbelief, hoping not to sound as nervous as I feel.
Before he can answer, a voice calls out from behind the door. "Who's there?"
"Molly," Amos calls back, nudging me teasingly in the dark.
The door opens slowly at first, then easily as the man inside apparently recognizes the face.
"Come on, then," Amos says, and pulls me inside after him.
Once inside, I find that it rightly is a tavern, at least as far as I imagined one to be. We gaze around the small, cramped room, dimly lit and with a low-hanging ceiling clouded by tobacco smoke.
A long bar supports the right side of the room, behind which stands a tallish man idly wiping glasses. In the center are a few round tables, crudely made and strewn with playing cards. On the left side are several small couches, arranged conveniently for conversation, and not at all for modesty.
Most notable, though, are the men, of which there are maybe a dozen, and all with eyes fixed squarely on us.
Amos heads toward the left side, pulling me along behind him. We take our place on one of the small couches, and I look to my companion for clues. He settles back easily with a casual smile on his face, and I struggle to do the same.
Gradually the other patrons return to their previous occupations, and I discreetly look around. There are men of every age here, from the grey-haired to boys even younger than us. Most are seated at the tables, talking amiably. Some decorate the couches as we do, having what appear to be very intimate conversations.
"Hey. Justin." Amos calls. "You quite alright? You look white as a sheet."
"I'm alright."
"Want to leave?" he offers.
"No," I say, feeling childish. "Shall I go and buy our drinks?" He looks at me incredulously, and shakes his head at what must be my utter naivete.
From the corner of my eye, I catch a man slowly weaving his way toward us through the sea of tables. I glance over at Amos, to find his gaze now trained on the man like a pointer after a pheasant.
"Hello, my dear," says the man approaching Amos, stooping down to press a kiss to his cheek. "We haven't had the pleasure of your presence in a while. And who is this?"
"This is James," Amos says, meaning me.
"Enchanted, James," says the man, smiling pleasantly, but not offering his own name. I guess by the one-sided introduction that anonymity is canon in this place.
Amos' friend buys us each a mug of spiced wine, and himself a cognac. He settles down on the chair next to Amos and the two begin to talk with their heads very close together. Amos' left arm lies on the side of the settee between them, and one of the man's hands rests lightly on his wrist. I drink the wine quickly for lack of better occupation, feeling rather awkward, but not keen on showing it.
Shortly, another man approaches, this time seating himself in the chair beside me.
"Fancy another?" he asks, politely pointing to my empty mug. Admittedly grateful for something to do, I accept.
I drink the wine, enjoying the new warmth running through my body, and try to listen attentively to the man beside me. He asks me several questions about myself, and I find the lies coming easier now with the wine. He is not an unpleasant man, but I feel an acute sense of foreboding, as though at any moment this exchange will cross a line, with him on one side and me making apologies on the other.
Some time later, the conversation lulls, and I find the man looking closely at me.
"You are remarkably beautiful," he muses, with no preamble.
"I...thank you," I stammer uncomfortably, suddenly pretending to be very interested in my lap.
"And modest," he says. I can hear the smile in his voice, as though he is pleased with the discovery. He reaches a hand up to lightly draw a bit of my hair back behind my ear. "Would you like come sit here with me?"
"No, thank you," I answer, looking over to Amos for help. But he has already removed himself to the other man's couch, and is sitting in his lap. Though his back is to me, I can tell they are kissing, the man's arm wrapped possessively around Amos' slender waist.
Harshly tossed back into my own calamity, I suddenly find that the man has placed his hand upon my knee. And here you are, Justin, I think to myself. You wanted so badly to meet other men like "us," and now look at what you've gotten yourself into. What did you expect?
I breathe heavily, almost too afraid to react one way or another, when I feel his fingers lightly trace the line where my breeches end and the thin layer of stocking begins. Quickly it is too much, and I jump up, knocking over his drink in the process.
"I'm sorry," I stutter clumsily, not able to look at him. As though burned by fire, I run for the door and am out of the tavern before noticing whether Amos saw me leave.