#End of Act 1 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kc-the-writer · 2 months

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23 October 1776

The morning sun crept across the room, warming the bed and causing the young man to stir. Despite the chill in the air, he found himself in fear of the heat on the mattress. In a flash, his mind returned to the flames that might have consumed him if destiny had not. Opening his eyes and taking in the reality of decadent new surroundings, he was confident his destiny had indeed found him. His eyes flicked to the bedroom door, one he had not yet crossed, and he wondered what new life awaited him on the other side.

"Found you!" Constance's voice chimed as she shooed a little black cat through the threshold of the bedroom door. "You leave the Lieutenant alone, now. The mice are after my pumpkins, and you're bothering him? We all have work to do, and this poor man has nothing to offer you. Shoo!" Hands full, she closed the door with her bare foot and muttered a curse at the curious feline. Despite the tray, heavy with breakfast and medical supplies, she moved with grace and purpose, as though mornings tending to the soldier had become a favored ritual. When she crossed the room to the desk by the window, the smell of warm cinnamon rolls wafted behind her, filling the space and Bradford's heart with comfort in the warmth.

Intoxicated by the scent of the tea and cinnamon, he heaved a heavy sigh of relief. Constance had been an eternal reminder that there was comfort to be found in warmth. Bradford might have grown to fear fire entirely if not for the way Constance carried it so beautifully in her spirit. Even with the morning sunshine blazing through the window and catching her flaming red hair alight, he delighted in the flames that ignited the space around her. "Good morning, Doctor Constance."

"Just Connie, to you, for now. I take much more pleasure in making medicine than I would enjoy administering it. I cannot imagine the horrors the healers under my father's command must see," she shuddered. Taking her crystal bottle in hand and a seat at his side, she sighed at the warmth of the featherbed. "No, I do not think tending to soldiers would suit me at all. You shall be my one and only."

"I like the sound of that. And the smell of breakfast. In fact, I find I am more hungry than in pain. Would it trouble you too much if we were to eat before you got to work?" He asked, stomach rumbling beneath his bandages.

Frowning, Connie glanced at the tray. "I suppose I could dress for the day while you eat if it is a necessary change to the schedule. You do look terribly hungry. I can leave you to your buns if you wish. She stood from the heat of his bed, regretting it instantly as the drafty October breeze blew through her modest morning gown.

"Or, you could have breakfast with me? If you have not already eaten. You need not leave me to take my meals alone. I require very little privacy; in fact, I might enjoy the company. You've been my only visitor save for the priest. I found him presumptuous, reading me the last rites so soon," he rolled his eyes as he took the teacup from Constance's outstretched hand. "Awful sod, thought my life was ending. In ways, it did. I feel like a new man under your care."

"You flatter me, Lieutenant. Alright, scooch," she laughed as she settled into bed at his hip. She dragged the breakfast tray onto her lap and placed a cloth napkin over his. "I suppose there's no denying Verity's cinnamon buns to a man in pain. They do seem to be the cure for all my teas, and elixirs cannot heal."

Making no attempt to fill the silence between bites, Constance and Bradford gorged themselves on the steaming cinnamon bread. They found their minds too carried away by the buttery cream glaze to notice the sky had taken on a similar white shade before turning grey. Neither had a reason to see that the bed was no longer warmed by the sunshine but instead now by their proximity in the feather bed.

As a particularly raucous rumble of thunder rolled through the heavens, Constance flinched and found herself feeling surprised that Bradford had grown so accustomed to the sound. She imagined some, like herself, never grew out of expecting cannon fire. His fearlessness was enviable, though Constance wondered what horrors witnessed in battle had hardened him to the din. When she opened her lips to speak on the thought, she was disrupted by the flash of lightning and the immediate downpour of rain against the tar-pitched roof. "I suppose my duties in the garden will have to wait until tomorrow. That leaves me with very little to occupy my time this evening. How about a game of cards later? Perhaps you prefer chess?"

"Poker is my game, but there is so much one can learn about his opponent in a game of chess. I accept the challenge," he smiled, lighting up at the idea of having fun. A month had passed since his last night of games. He wondered if Bennie and Marcus had abandoned the city with the others and what had become of the home the men shared. It seemed unlikely he had a home to return to. At least, he knew that in the confines of the stately bedroom, he had one friend left in the city. "Tell me you will be gentler with me in a game than you are with your tonic?"

Reaching for her crystal vial, Connie shook her head. "No games until you have taken your medicine and I have changed your bandages. So far as gentleness goes, I'll make no such promises in chess: no mercy, no retreat, no surrender. You understand how I was raised, sorry. But I promise to go easy with the medication where possible. I am trying to adjust the recipe so that it doesn't feel so -"

"Tortuous?"

Connie's expression softened as she pulled the cork stopper. "Indeed. Now, let's look at what progress we have made under the batting," she said as she began to unwind the white strips that had covered his blistering wound.

With each inch of exposed skin coming into view, Bradford grew more surprised by the efficacy of his healer's care. What was once charred beyond recognition had now glowed pink and tan. Pearlescent white scars streaked down his limb, but he knew the severity of the burns he experienced should have robbed him of it entirely.

Pleased with her work, she smiled at his bare arm and helped him sit up fully. "Now, let's look at those ribs," she instructed, unlacing the corset she had tied him into to keep his bones in place as they healed. Bradford looked down at his bare chest, stunned to find the bruising had long since faded. "My God."

"Goddess, if you must, but Connie will do," she grinned. She was clearly impressed with her tonic. "I believe you've earned your dignity back and will no longer need to sleep in my corset. The arm needs more of my special recipe, but I believe we can change the ribs to salve alone. A new bundle of dandelions is drying in the cellar as we speak. This one will not burn, only a tingle," she promised, warming the cream between her hands before placing them on his torso.

Moving slowly, Connie worked her fingers into his flesh, down to each aching muscle. From his collarbones, she worked down to his chest, and with a swift dig of her thumb over his heart, Bradford felt it start to beat faster. As though she had willed it, restarted it, vexed it to beat only at her command. There was no stopping the sigh of relief that escaped his lips at the sensation.

Working to his ribs, she lingered over the ones that had suffered the most, careful in her touch as promised. "Beautiful," she whispered as she ran her fingers down the trail of dark hair that disappeared into his breeches. Feeling an unfamiliar heat rising to her cheeks, she looked into the surprised brown eyes looking back at her. "That is to say; you've healed nicely, Lieutenant. I've done excellent work."

"Indeed you have," he sighed as he lay back on the pillow. If he had been capable of forming a thought, not one image or idea that came to him might have been enough to move the blissful smile from his lips. Perhaps if he'd opened his eyes, he might have been able to change his expression before it was forcibly changed as his features twisted at the feeling of the healing tonic seeping into the scars on his arm.

"You will be well enough soon. I will not need to touch your arm. I just ask that we test your strength. Your arm looks to be healing properly, but let us see if you can squeeze my hand. Ready?" Connie laced her fingers through his and waited.

Finding his breath after the shock of the treatment, Bradford agreed and curled his fingers around hers. A jolt of discomfort moved from his wrist to his shoulder at the movement. "Good, again," his novice healer instructed. With each squeeze of her hand, he felt more robust and capable. Only then was he convinced his limb would be saved. "Wonderful," Connie sighed, returning his squeeze. "It seems we have made remarkable progress. That's all the torment I will inflict upon you this morning. Medically speaking, of course," she smirked. "I'll return in a moment with the chess board, she said, rising from her place at his side and collecting her supplies. "While I am in the library, would you like a book? Something to keep you occupied?"

"A book would be such a delight, even a newspaper if you have one. What do you read?" He asked, finding himself genuinely curious. He hoped, after all, that she did read. He had heard that it was uncouth for ladies of her standing to do so, but something about her contained wisdom hard to find outside of a glorious story of a romantic heroine.

Returning to him and lowering her voice, she grinned. "I cannot bring you a newspaper. I steal them from my father and burn the nightly evidence of my thievery. In the future, I will be certain to bring them to you before I do. At present, I have just finished reading a story of a young servant girl; her employer is relentless in his attempts to coerce her to surrender her virtue. Oh, but it ends so happily," she sighed.

"I prefer the happy ending to the newspaper if you are certain it is no imposition. I cannot bear the papers and the state of this war," he looked past her, watching as the rain fell from the gables. His eyes fell closed in discomfort at the rumbling of the distant thunder.

Fully agreeing to his preference, Connie offered another gentle squeeze to his fingers. "I can certainly understand. It must be so different; living in the garrisons is one thing– fighting in the streets must be another. You've been brave, Lieutenant. You have earned your escape into a good book. Though, I confess, you are the first soldier I have met who acted with any rationality in matters of work and war. When my father was injured, getting back into uniform was all the man could want. His desperation nearly drove poor Verity to her wit's end," she blushed, ashamed to speak poorly of a man who commanded respect everywhere but his own home. Though, the house where he lived was hardly his own.

"Perhaps I might be eager to return to the streets if I had not enjoyed such great care," his thick brow arched as he met her gaze. "You are performing miracles, Connie."

Pulling her hand away, Constance averted his gaze and tucked a rogue curl behind her ear. "Not according to My father. He fears I will fail to have you in fighting shape before Christmas.

"Will you?" He asked, fear now spreading through him, his ribs aching, and the thought of war sent his heart racing faster than it had under her touch.

Afraid to look up from her bare feet, Connie shook her head. "Not if I can help it. It would be a shame to see you spend Christmas morning loading ships or marching into battle. If I can keep you in my bed and bring cinnamon buns to you, I will. Perhaps, I might even find a stocking to fill for you."

"I cannot imagine your father allowing it. It seems impossible to envision the Christmas spirit outweighing his penchant for battle. Sitting at the piano singing hymns while Verity roasts a goose- I cannot see your father in sight," Bradford chuckled sadly. Returning his gaze to Constance, he shrugged, "Was he always a soldier?"

Constance tried and failed to remember a single Christmas spent with her father. There had been plenty of roast goose, Bradford had been right about Verity, but memories of Major Fosythe rarely came in pretty packages. "He was, indeed. A good one, too. One of the best. He will spend the holidays awaiting orders and will expect you to do the same. You see, my father can seem cruel. I suppose the same can be said for all soldiers. Though, if I may confess, I might have liked to have been one. Tell me, Lieutenant, is it not grand? It must be wonderful having something to fight for!"

Shaking his head, realizing how long his dark curls had become since he was bedridden, Bradford searched for the words. Not wishing to argue, not wanting to trod on her way of life, he spoke gently. "My experience was far from grand."

She found herself genuinely surprised at his words. "Then, why? Why do you fight?" None of her father's most prized men had dared speak of war as though it had been anything worse than an inconvenience. To the soldiers, it had been an honor. To the priest, war had packed his churches with mothers and wives awaiting word from loved ones, happy to give to the collection plate as though it would save their sons and husbands. To the doctor, the war started a boom in business for his crude prosthetics. To the merchants, perhaps the most fortunate of the bunch, the war had meant more wealth than peace could ever hope to offer.

"I donned that uniform for the same reason most other young men do. Simply because I had no other choice," he answered after taking a moment to find the truth. Honest words falling from his lips felt as wonderful and strange as the touch of her hands on his chest. He found himself wanting more of the sweet taste of truthful words.

Carefully considering his words, Constance backed away from the door's threshold, reluctant to leave for the library before asking one final question of him. "Then, Lieutenant, what if you could do anything you wanted? How would you live if you were stripped of your uniform for good?"

Thinking back to his dying wish, recalling his desires as the boot pressed down onto his neck, he smiled. "Connie, all I want in this life is what you have. A beautiful home, a trusted servant, and a daughter as whip-smart as your father has. More than that, I want a tradition. Not based on violence or lies. I want the roast goose, the hymns. I want peace. A real family."

Constance sighed sadly, imagining the happy family in the portrait in her father's study, filling the room with hymns and indulging in Christmas pudding. She wondered if she may ever know the joy of tradition he had described in his wishes. "You shall start a grand tradition, indeed."

#the pendleton tradition #end of act 1

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