#I regret to inform you England is no longer a real country

[scavengedluxury]

I wonder why a national newspaper would run with this debunked urban myth on the day the Bank of England raised interest rates to 5%?

[lochrannn]

Warnings: Sexual Content (M Rating)

Characters: Lila Pitts; Diego Hargreeves; Allison Hargreeves; Klaus Hargreeves; Hargreeves Siblings (background)

Relationship: Lila Pitts/Diego Hargreeves

Roommates AU; Fake Marriage; Slow Burn; Mutual Pining; Emotional H/C

Chapter 4/?

-

Of course it’s been something that, at the very back of her mind, has been causing her no small amount of stress, but Lila has been doing a very good job of just completely ignoring the topic. Only, when her co-worker Nandi, a med student from South Africa, asks Lila how much longer she’ll be staying in the country, now that she’s dropped out of her degree, does it fully register with her that her student visa has expired and she’s into the last three weeks of her grace period. After that, she’ll be in the country illegally.

Lila smiles at Nandi brightly and tells her that she’s not made a decision yet and that she’s looking at a couple of options.

On her break she goes out into the alley and bums a smoke off one of the teenage busboys who seems to be working at the restaurant that’s right next to her café, even though she’s not had a cigarette in years, and contemplates what to do.

And predictably she comes up short.

So after her shift ends, she heads to the public library and finds several volumes on immigration law for research, because she doesn’t want to ask one of the librarians.

After an hour of frustratedly thumbing through the books, the only short term solution she has found is to get married to a citizen.

She’s back at square one with no idea what to do, when she leaves her books on the collection cart and heads out into the rainy evening.

By the time she walks in through the door, she’s not sure if she’s just breezed straight through panic and worry or whether she’s just too numb to feel it, but at the smell of cooking food, she immediately follows the aromas to the kitchen and for a moment gets distracted at the door by the sight of Diego gently stirring something on the stove.

Apparently sensing her arrival, Diego twists around to look at her and says, “Oh hey, I didn’t hear you come in.”

Lila drags her eyes up to meet his and belatedly realises that she’s unabashedly been staring at his arse in a pair of perfectly fitted jeans.

“Uh…” she says dumbly.

Somehow she’s got so used to him not being around over the last few days that coming home to someone in the flat is completely throwing her for a loop.

“I’m making gorditas,” Diego says, having turned back to stirring and making idle conversation, “d’you want some?”

When she doesn’t answer right away, still dealing with the whiplash of her day, Diego turns back around and asks, “Hey, you ok?”

Lila scrambles for an answer and, trying to avoid telling Diego that the sight of him all sexily making food has made all the thoughts in her brain combust, she accidentally lands on the other truth and blurts, “Yeah, uh, fine… just dealing with some visa troubles!”

Diego’s expression turns into one of such genuine concern that Lila instantly regrets being the cause of that.

“Ah shit! That sucks,” he says. “Anything I can help you with?”

Lila snorts loudly, “Thanks, but I doubt there’s anything you could do… short of marrying me,” she adds in a sarcastic tone.

There’s a beat where Diego looks at her with a completely blank expression and she knows it’s not the cooking that suddenly makes the temperature in the small kitchen go up a couple of notches. Then he makes a face that’s half smirk and half shy smile and something behind Lila’s ribs cracks at the sight and she hopes she never has to see it again, because she hasn’t the foggiest idea how to respond to it.

“Ha! Yeah,” Diego says then, pointing at her with his spatula and then turns back to the stove again.

“So, uh, d’you want some?” he asks, with a strained kind of casualness, not actually looking at her, and this time Lila is quicker to answer, “Yeah… yes, thanks! I’ll just go get out of my work clothes!”

Lila hurries into her room and then leans against the closed door for a moment. What the fuck is wrong with her? Only a few days ago, she was accusing Diego of being weird and now she’s joking about getting married. This is ridiculous!

She pushes off from the door and begins taking off her work clothes to change into something more comfortable.

Lila’s only justification for her odd behaviour is that she really is stressed out by the idea of having to leave the country. It’s not like she couldn’t start out again somewhere else, Australia maybe, the main thing is, she knows she can’t go back to England, too many bad memories there, but she just doesn’t want to.

She’s been floating about her whole life, and even though what she has going on right now isn’t exactly conventional, to her it feels like a respite. Maybe it won’t be permanent, but here in this city, with her job, and her flat, she’s been feeling significantly more settled than she has in a while and she doesn’t want to have to give that up so soon.

If only she could just marry Diego…

Is that really such an insane solution? Lila thinks to herself, while pulling on a pair of leggings.

She would pay him, of course, and she knows he needs the money. It’s a terribly weird thing to ask your landlord/recent lover/friend but Lila just cannot conceptualise any other solution. And he’s been remarkably patient with her antics over the last few days, maybe he’s actually a lot more relaxed about this sort of thing than she thinks. She can at least make the offer, worst case scenario they go back to being awkward around each other for a few days and she’s sure they’ll be back to normal in no time at all.

Lila makes her way back towards the kitchen and finds Diego already in the process of piling food onto the small table that barely has any room in the first place.

There’s a plate with little flat and round doughy things and a few dishes with different steaming fillings in them. There’s a decidedly spicy smell in the air and Lila can’t help the way her mouth starts watering.

“Yo, don’t just stand there, take a seat!” Diego says with a chuckle and Lila heads straight for the table and says with a laugh of her own, “Don’t have to tell me twice! Fuck that smells amazing! Did you make all of this yourself?”

“Uh, some of the fillings are made up of leftover takeout from the last couple of days,” Diego answers with a bit of a bashful shrug as he sits down across from her and shuffles around some of the dishes so he can squeeze one more onto the table, “but I made the gorditas and added some shit to the fillings,” he amends a bit more confidently.

Lila takes one of the little dough pockets and immediately starts spooning in different salsas and pastes. She doesn’t ask what’s in them, just picks up the dishes and gives them a sniff to decide which ones she wants.

“Mmmm!” she hums almost desperately when she takes her first bite. She looks up at Diego who is looking back at her with a glint in his eyes and chewing delightedly on his own food.

“Fuck, this is good!” Lila says, rudely not even having swallowed all of her mouthful.

“I know, right!” Diego answers with a chuckle.

They fall into easy conversation. At one point Diego gets up to get two beers from the fridge to wash down the food and Lila tries to get comfortable on the hard kitchen chair by tucking one of her feet underneath herself and her knee up under her chin.

After they run out of gorditas, Diego uses some slightly stale bread to finish up the rest of the fillings and then gets up to pile the dishes into the sink.

“I can do the dishes!” Lila offers, seeing as she’s been mooching off of Diego’s labour all evening.

“Nah,” Diego says, ��dinner’s on me!”

As he starts filling the sink with water, the sudden domesticity of the scene reminds Lila of her plan to actually ask Diego for help.

She excuses herself and heads back to her room and while she’s rummaging through her drawers looking for her cheque book, her pulse starts speeding up and she tries to calm her nerves.

If he says no, she thinks she can handle the fallout of that, though she’ll still be lost for a way to stay in the country. But right now, she’s almost more anxious about what happens if he agrees. But tonight has been one of the most pleasant evenings she’s had in months and probably the most fun she’s had with anyone – she’s strenuously not thinking about the amount of fun she had sleeping with him. Diego’s her only real friend in this city and if after everything they can manage to hang out like this, then, Lila tries to convince herself, they can be pretend married for a while without it being too awkward.

Diego’s drying his hands on a dishtowel when she comes back into the kitchen.

“Diego?” Lila asks, tentatively.

“Mh?” He doesn’t properly acknowledge her as he reaches up to put the clean plates back into the overhead cabinet.

“Earlier… you asked if you could help me with my visa troubles…” Lila feels ridiculous. She’s always been confident and able to ask for, occasionally even straight up demand things. She has a sneaking suspicion that if it were anybody else, she’d just slap the cheque down on the counter and inform them of her plan, but somehow here with Diego, she’s just so unsure of herself.

Diego turns around and leans against the stove top. “Yeah?”

“I… uh… I’d pay you of course! I have money. Turns out I don’t have the same sense of pride as you,” Lila says with a slightly wistful shrug, “I took my mother’s money when she died, felt like it was the least I deserved after the way she treated me my whole life…” she drifts off.

“What do you want to give me money for?” Diego asks, crossing his arms but there’s a peculiar expression on his face that Lila can’t quite read.

“Will you…” She cuts herself off, she can’t ask him like that, “Would you marry me? You know, for money, so I could get a visa?”

Diego’s eyes go really, really wide. Clearly he did not expect her to ask that question and Lila immediately decides to backtrack, “No, you’re right, that’s insane! Forget I asked, I’m sure I can work something out somehow. I just need to do a bit more research and then…”

“Yeah, ok!” Diego interrupts her firmly and Lila’s mouth snaps shut.

She stares back at him and Diego looks no less harassed than when she first asked but he also seems resolved.

Lila panics. “You really don’t have to, I’m sure there’s loads of options. And honestly, if I’m just careful about it I’m sure nobody’s going to find…”

“I’ll do it!” Diego interrupts her rambling again and Lila can’t quite believe her ears.

“Diego, it’s illegal!” She says almost desperately.

“Are you trying to talk me out of it now?” Diego asks with no small amount of exasperation. Then he laughs, but with very little humour in it, “To be honest, the United States government and I have a slightly different understanding of what illegal means in this context.”

That gives Lila pause and she raises her eyebrows, questioningly.

Diego looks down at where he starts scuffing the toe of his shoe into the grout between the tiles, his arms are still tightly crossed.

“I was born in Mexico. From what I can piece together my mother brought me over the border when I was only a few months old. She died soon after that. The only things I have my father to thank for are my siblings and my citizenship. So yeah, I’ll help you.”

-

They’ve agreed to go down to city hall the next day to apply for a marriage license. No point in delaying the process, this way they can start the visa proceedings before Lila is officially illegally in the country.

After agreeing to get married the ease with which they spent the evening flies out of the window again and they quickly retreat to their separate rooms.

Diego’s lying, still dressed, on top of his comforter waiting till he can’t hear Lila moving about anymore before he’ll head to the bathroom to get ready for bed himself.

He doesn’t regret agreeing to Lila’s plan, not really. It’s fucked up that she has to even resort to something like this to avoid getting thrown out of the country, and honestly, had she asked he would have said yes even if she hadn’t offered him money.

But it’s less messy this way, a clean business arrangement. He already feels just a little bit guilty, because he’s not sure he didn’t also agree out of some sudden selfish fear that she’d leave. He pushes that thought back down as well, because what should he have done, say no just because he can’t quite handle his feelings for her? That wasn’t really an option either.

He breathes out heavily when the light in the hall goes off and gets up from the bed to go brush his teeth.

[46ten]

Hello! I love your blog and find it very informative! Could you write something about AH relationship with James Monroe?

A lovely early friendship torn apart by political rivalry and misunderstandings that descended into harsh accusations, duel invitations, and never-ending Hamilton family hatred for the man? You can read the letters between them that Founders has here. I am unaware of AH ever discussing his opinion on Monroe in greater depth than what I’ve quoted below, and I’m completely unaware if Monroe ever offered a lengthy opinion on AH personally. There’s a new Monroe biography out (James Monroe: A Life by Tim McGrath) that may be more interesting than anything I write about.

But I’ll try. Things must have started out okay between them. They were both at the Battle of Trenton (Monroe was wounded). Monroe then served as aide-de-camp to William Alexander, Lord Stirling, whose brother-in-law was AH supporter William Livingston and daughter was Catherine Alexander, who would marry AH Treasury right-hand-man William Duer. They spent time at Valley Forge together, they both became good friends with Lafayette, etc. AH wrote positively of Monroe in 1779 to John Laurens:

Monroe is just setting out from Head Quarters and proposes to go in quest of adventures to the Southward. He seems to be as much of a night errant as your worship; but as he is an honest fellow, I shall be glad he may find some employment, that will enable him to get knocked in the head in an honorable way. He will relish your black scheme if any thing handsome can be done for him in that line. You know him to be a man of honor a sensible man and a soldier. This makes it unnecessary to me to say any thing to interest your friendship for him. You love your country too and he has zeal and capacity to serve it. 22May1779

With notes of recommendation from Hamilton, Lord Stirling, and Washington, Monroe became a lt. col, but with no field command available (AH certainly sympathized), he decided to resume his studies instead of continuing with the Army. He went on to become a member of the Continental Congress, etc.

In Feb 1786, Monroe (age 27) married Elizabeth Kortright at Trinity Church NY, with Rev. Benjamin Moore presiding (see here for my notes about the Hamiltons’ church affiliation). The Hamiltons may have attended; EH gave birth to Alex Jr. three months later. Elizabeth was the niece of Cornelius Kortright, who was a frequent business partner of Nicolas Cruger, AH’s old boss on St. Croix (AH worked for Kortright & Cruger 1769-1771). So Monroe - as did many others - likely had knowledge of AH’s personal background (and despite the current narrative surrounding AH, at the time almost no one seemed to care or consider AH’s background especially noteworthy; AH also freely introduced his cousins to friends, so it’s not at all clear that he ever thought he had something to hide and offered up the “blemish” of his parents’ relationship/his illegitimacy to several people).

But Monroe was a friend of Jefferson and Madison and ended up on their side politically (Monroe preceded Madison as an anti-federalist). His position in the Senate, and his authorship of articles in response to AH’s articles (written under several pseudonyms) all certainly aggravated AH.

And then there was the matter of Gouverneur Morris. In 1792, Monroe was one of the people trying to block the appointment of G. Morris as U.S. Minister Plenipotentiary to France. (Read an account of Morris’ actions in France/England here and enjoy the pettiness of his leaving Thomas Paine in jail.) In 1794, Monroe replaced Morris as Minister to France (1794 to 1796). He opposed AH as Minister to Great Britain (x) and his reasons are pretty sound and fair-minded (John Jay famously got the position and a treaty named after himself). Monroe was replaced in June 1796, both for anonymously publishing letters criticizing Washington and just not doing as the Federalists wanted, and replaced by Pinckney. Of course, AH played a part behind the scenes in encouraging his replacement and choosing Pinckney.

So by the 1790s they are political rivals, with Monroe writing in defense of Jefferson and Monroe blocking the appointment of AH’s friends/allies and AH interfering with Monroe’s business and encouraging his removal.

But in 1797, things got really personal. Rewinding to Dec 1792, Monroe was contacted by a jailed James Reynolds, who offered information about acting as AH’s agent/partner for speculation on gov’t securities. (Why Reynolds was in jail is a great deal more complicated than this, but I’m skipping all that.) Monroe investigated, got others involved, got the disclosure from AH himself that the money was actually because of blackmail over an affair with Maria Reynolds and produced letters showing this and gave letters and asked for copies of theirs, etc. (I think this part has been written about a lot, so I’m not going to go into further details). Five years later, the following was AH’s recollection of the matter (written to Muhlenberg and Monroe, 17July1797):

It is very true, that after the full and unqualified expressions which came from you together with Mr Venable, differing in terms but agreeing in substance, of your entire satisfaction with the explanation I had given, and that there was nothing in the affair of the nature suggested; accompanied with expressions of regret at the trouble and anxiety occasioned to me—and when (as I recollect it) some one of the Gentlemen expressed a hope that the manner of conducting the enquiry had appeared to me fair & liberal—I replied in substance, that though I had been displeased wtih the mode of introducing the subject to me (which you will remember I manifested at the time in very lively terms) yet that in other respects I was satisfied with and sensible to the candour with which I had been treated. And this was the sincere impression of my mind.

But actually, Monroe didn’t entirely believe AH’s account (”I hate you” point number 1) and conducted his own further interviews with Clingman and Maria Reynolds, which AH would only learn about in 1797 with the publication of pamphlet V of the History, but then Monroe pretty much left it alone, by his own account. He stated he sent all papers about this to a friend in Va (more on this below), and this is where the matter rested publicly for nearly five years.

But it’s not a real secret. By spring 1793, everyone in major political circles knows about it (and EH knew about it, it’s impossible for me to believe she didn’t). In under a week back in Dec 1792, Monroe, Wadsworth, Wolcott, Venable, Muhlenberg, Randolph, Webb, Beckley, and Jefferson all know, and Clingman talks freely. AH had permitted copies of letters to be made (and according to Monroe’s account, knew Beckley’s clerk had copied them), and on and on. BUT, no one is going to publish stuff about it - the confession of an extramarital affair would have been seen as a private family matter that would only serve to disturb “the peace of the family” - indeed, for AH naysayers then and historians since, claiming adultery was a convenient excuse if there was financial impropriety, because the matter wouldn’t be vigorously pursued further. (Philadelphia was a huge city for prostitution, and no one wanted the private sexual escapades of famous men broadcast to the world.) AH, I’m sure, knew everyone knew too, but worked from an understanding that no one was going to try to score political points on something that would expose his wife to public ridicule. But even though it was private, it was still Great Gossip! If AH was willing to taunt TJ publicly about Sally Hemings and, according to TJ, privately about his sexual pursuit/harassment 30 years ago of Elizabeth Moore Walker (wife of one of TJ’s best friend), and J. Adams is still repeating crazy gossip about AH 30 years later, you better believe there were references made to this affair at parties, gatherings, etc. EH dealt with it however she dealt with it, and I hope that AH’s “I have paid pretty severely for the folly” confession refers to some harsh treatment by EH.

And then in June 1797 Callendar began publishing pamphlets (lost to history except where AH quotes them in the Reynolds Pamphlet), some of which were gathered in some unknown order in his The History of the United States for 1796. Remember that Monroe was recalled from France in July 1796. It seemed to be a persistent belief of the Hamilton family that Monroe authorized and perhaps himself gave copies of the letters to Callendar for publication (”I hate you” point number 2).

And to be clear, because this gets muddled in some historian’s accounts - Callendar publishes AH’s account of his “particular connection” to Maria Reynolds and continues to goad him about it in published pamphlets and letters throughout June and July 1797 (the “harassment” of AH on this point in vague terms in pamphlets and newspaper letters actually started at least as early as 1795). AH’s confession in his own pamphlet was not an out-of-the-blue revelation of an affair that hadn’t already been publicly revealed.  

Why would Monroe do this, in the Hamilton mind? Because he was pissed about no longer being French minister and blamed AH - he took a political dispute and decided to drag the Hamilton family into it. His delay in responding to AH, however, was likely seen as some kind of admission of guilt. On 5July1797, AH wrote to Monroe:

[Quoting from pamphlet V of the History] “When some of the Papers which are now to be laid before the world were submitted to the Secretary; when he was informed that they were to be communicated to President Washington, he entreated in the most anxious tone of deprecation, that the measure might be suspended. Mr Monroe was one of the three Gentlemen who agreed to this delay. They gave their consent to it on his express promise of a guarded behaviour in future, and because he attached to the suppression of these papers a mysterious degree of solicitude which they feeling no personal resentment against the Individual, were unwilling to augment” (Page 204 & 205). It is also suggested (Page 206) that I made “a volunteer acknowledgement of Seduction” and it must be understood from the context that this acknowlegement was made to the same three Gentlemen.

The peculiar nature of this transaction renders it impossible that you should not recollect it in all its parts and that your own declarations to me at the time contradicts absolutely the construction which the Editor of the Pamphlet puts upon the affair.

I think myself entitled to ask from your candour and justice a declaration equivalent to that which was made me at the time in the presence of Mr Wolcott by yourself and the two other Gentlemen, accompanied by a contradiction of the Representations in the comments cited above. And I shall rely upon your delicacy that the manner of doing it will be such as one Gentleman has a right to expect from another—especially as you must be sensible that the present appearance of the Papers is contrary to the course which was understood between us to be proper and includes a dishonourable infidelity somewhere.

And AH went ahead and wrote the following to editor John Fenno defending himself (6July1797):

For this purpose recourse was had to Messrs James Monroe, Senator, Frederick A. Muhlenbergh, Speaker, and Abraham Venable, a Member of the House of Representatives, two of these gentlemen my known political opponents. A full explanation took place between them and myself in the presence of Oliver Wolcott, jun. Esq. the present Secretary of the Treasury, in which by written documents I convinced them of the falshood of the accusation. They declared themselves perfectly satisfied with the explanation, and expressed their regret at the necessity which had been occasioned to me of making it.

But Monroe had just returned from France in June 1797, and he denied any prior knowledge of Callendar’s publication, and in general seemed to have had a “WTF!” reaction to AH’s sudden accusations. According to David Gelston’s account of the meeting between AH and Monroe on 11July1797:

Colo. M then began with declaring it was merely accidental his knowing any thing about the business at first he had been informed that one Reynolds from Virginia was in Gaol, he called merely to aid a man that might be in distress, but found it was a Reynolds from NYork and observed that after the meeting alluded to at Philada he sealed up his copy of the papers mentioned and sent or delivered them to his Friend in Virginia—he had no intention of publishing them & declared upon his honor that he knew nothing of their publication until he arrived in Philada from Europe and was sorry to find they were published. (my emphasis)

AH was so agitated that this conversation went downhill from there, seeing that “[AH] expected an immediate answer to so important a subject in which his character the peace & reputation of his Family were so deeply interested.” And then (”I hate you” point number 3):

Colo. M then proceeded upon a history of the business printed in the pamphlets and said that the packet of papers before alluded to he yet believed remained sealed with his friend in Virginia and after getting through Colo. H. said this as your representation is totally false (as nearly as I recollect the expression) upon which the Gentlemen both instantly rose Colo. M. rising first and saying do you say I represented falsely, you are a Scoundrel. Colo. H. said I will meet you like a Gentleman Colo. M Said I am ready get your pistols, both said we shall not or it will not be settled any other way. Mr C [John Church] & my self rising at the same moment put our selves between them Mr. C. repeating Gentlemen Gentlemen be moderate or some such word to appease them, we all sat down & the two Gentn, Colo. M. & Colo. H. soon got moderate, I observed however very clearly to my mind that Colo. H. appeared extremely agitated & Colo. M. appeared soon to get quite cool and repeated his intire ignorance of the publication & his surprize to find it published, observing to Colo. H. if he would not be so warm & intemperate he would explain everything he Knew of the business & how it appeared to him.

Monroe called him a scoundrel to his face! (After having been called a liar.)

And THEN, Monroe refused to sign a document absolving AH of any accusations of financial speculation with Reynolds (”I hate you” point number 4).

If I cod. give a stronger certificate I wod. (tho’ indeed it seems unnecessary for this with that given jointly by Muhg. & myself seems sufficient) but in truth I have doubts upon the main point & wh. he rather increased than diminishd by his conversation when here & therefore can give no other.

The above was sent to Burr on 16Aug 1797. AH had already pled his case to Monroe:

“...there appears a design at all events to drive me to the necessity of a formal defence—while you know that the extreme delicacy of its nature might be very disagreeable to me. It is my opinion that as you have been the cause, no matter how, of the business appearing in a shape which gives it an adventitious importance, and this against the intent of a confidence reposed in you by me, as contrary to what was delicate and proper, you recorded Clingman’s testimony without my privity and thereby gave it countenance, as I had given you an explanation with which you was satisfied and which could leave no doubt upon a candid mind—it was incumbent upon you as a man of honor and sensibility to have come forward in a manner that would have shielded me completely from the unpleasant effects brought upon me by your agency. This you have not done.

On the contrary by the affected reference of the matter to a defence which I am to make, and by which you profess your opinion is to be decided—you imply that your suspicions are still alive. And as nothing appears to have shaken your original conviction but the wretched tale of Clingman, which you have thought fit to record, it follows that you are pleased to attach a degree of weight to that communication which cannot be accounted for on any fair principle. The result in my mind is that you have been and are actuated by motives towards me malignant and dishonorable; nor can I doubt that this will be the universal opinion when the publication of the whole affair which I am about to make shall be seen.” 22July1797

In his mind, AH then believed he had to make a full accounting of the whole Reynolds debacle, since this jackass Monroe wasn’t going to sign-off on a denial of the whole matter of financial speculation on government securities. And back to the Hamilton family ire - it seemed that Monroe was not going to stop them from being slandered and dragged by doing what they felt he had already done - agreed that AH did not engage in financial speculation with Reynolds. Because Monroe would not acquiesce on that one matter, the Reynolds Pamphlet with all its detailed glory/humiliation where AH had to lay out his whole case was published, at least in the spin that occurred in the Hamilton family mind. (I’ve already written about the Reynolds Pamphlet here and here and briefly here and addressed a question about AH and infidelity here.)

Who was this “friend in Va?” Some historians have written this was TJ, but there are letters from decades later that Madison was the person who received the original letters and copies that Monroe had re Reynolds investigation, and they remained unopened until Monroe returned to the U.S. in 1797:

I have always understood from Mr. Monroe, that when he left this country he deposited with you, his packet of papers, relating to the investigation into the conduct &c of Genl. Hamilton—which was never opened, until it was returned by you to him, after his mission had terminated, and after the developement of its contents had been made from an other quarter. It would be very gratifying to me, if you have any facts, within your immediate reach, respecting the matter,if you would cause them at a leisure moment, to be communicated to me—The subject to which I refer, was, as you no doubt know, one of great feeling & excitement subsequently between Genl. H. & Mr. M., arising from causes of which I am aware, & particularly from the impression made on Genl. H. or the declaration by him of the belief, that the contents of the papers referred to, were made public by Mr. M—The children of Genl. H. have always indulged a feeling on this subject towards Mr. M. which renders it desirable that all the evidence in the case should be procured by his family. It has occasionally been hinted to me, that in a proposed publication of the Life of Genl. H., the subject might be touched, and it is equally my duty, as it would be my inclination, under such circumstances to have it in my power to do full justice to the character & memory of Mr. M. on this, as on all other occasions, where either might even by implication be assailed—I feel great reluctance in troubling you on the subject, but a conviction that you will appreciate my motives, impels me to do so. Samuel L. Gouverneur to James Madison, 1Feb1833

S.L. Gouverneur was the son-in-law of James Monroe (married their daughter) and nephew of Elizabeth Kortright Monroe. (Yes, he married his first cousin.) From the draft of Madison’s response (Feb 1833, Founders does not have a copy of the letter sent, if it’s still in existence):

I can only therefore express my entire confidence that the part Mr. Monroe had in the investigation alluded to, was dictated by what he deemed a public duty; and that after the investigation he was incapable of any thing that wd. justify resentful feelings on the part of the family of General Hamilton.

Of the public disclosure of the matter of the investigation, other than that from the avowed source, I know nothing; except that it could not proceed from the packet of papers deposited with me by Mr. M., which was never opened until it was returned to him, after his Mission had terminated.

Back to the main topic: the Hamiltons clearly saw Monroe playing a decisive role in the whole thing. But who was actually responsible for passing copies of letters to Callendar? Monroe was sure it was Beckley, former House clerk:

You know I presume that Beckley published the papers in question. By his clerk they were copied for us. It was his clerk who carried a copy to H. who asked (as B. says) whether others were privy to the affr. The clerk replied that B. was, upon wh. H. desired him to tell B. he considered him bound not to disclose it. B. replied by the same clerk that he considered himself under no injunction whatever—that if H. had any thing to say to him it must be in writing. This from B.—most certain however it is that after our interviews with H. I requested B. to say nothing abt. it & keep it secret—& most certain it is that I never heard of it afterwards till my arrival when it was published. Monroe to A.Burr, 2Dec 1797, in a letter that may have never gotten to him (entrusted to TJ)

Others at the time also believed it to be Beckley, though one historian suspected Tench Coxe too. Why was this ever published? Well, Callendar wrote in the History that it was because of the treatment of Monroe:

Attacks on Mr. Monroe have been frequently repeated from the stock-holding presses. They are cowardly, because he is absent. They are unjust, because his conduct will bear the strictest enquiry. They are ungrateful, because he displayed, on an occasion that will be mentioned immediately, the greatest lenity to Mr. Alexander Hamilton, the prime mover of the federal party.

Theodore Sedgewick told Rufus King it was Beckley, too and provides another motivation:

The House of Representatives did not re-elect Mr. Beckley as their Clerk. This was resented not only by himself but the whole party, and they were rendered furious by it. To revenge, Beckley has been writing a pamphlet mentioned in the enclosed advertisement. The ‘authentic papers’ there mentioned are those of which you perfectly know the history [46ten interjects: haha, some secret. So if Sedgewick and King know, Troup knows, Ames knows, G. Morris knows, etc. AH’s affair with Reynolds and the investigation was never a secret with this crowd], formerly in the possession of Messrs. Monroe, Muhlenberg & Venable. The conduct is mean, base and infamous. It may destroy the peace of a respectable family, and so gratify the diabolical malice of a detestable faction, but I trust it cannot produce the intended effect of injuring the cause of government.

So William Jackson is the second for AH, Aaron Burr the second for Monroe, and this Monroe-AH duel possibility stretched into the Winter of 1798 (x, x), having picked up again in December 1797 (Monroe replaces Burr with Dawson). TJ was still writing to Monroe about it in February 1798.

What had Monroe been doing that late summer/fall instead or figuring out how to conduct his affair of honor with AH? After an illness in August, oh, writing his own book (or having TJ ghostwrite it, depending on your views of Monroe’s intelligence) entitled A View of the Conduct of the Executive, in the Foreign Affairs of the United States, Connected with the Mission to the French Republic, During the Years 1794, 5, & 6, criticizing G. Washington and the administration every which way (published in Phila. 21Dec1797). GW, as he liked to do, made responses in the margins of Monroe’s little book; this editorial comment is hilarious: “GW’s remarks on Monroe and his book, taken together, comprise the most extended, unremitting, and pointed use of taunts and jibes, sarcasm, and scathing criticism in all of his writings.” Read that here.

So in the Hamilton mind, not only was Monroe trying to score points against Hamilton (and dragging private family matters into it), but he was criticizing GW too (and thereby AH, since even in retirement he continued to run the GW and Adams administrations, practically)! (”I hate you” point number 5.) In the first half of 1798, Monroe’s work got a lot of attention, earning the ire (and vocal and written condemnations) of Pres. Adams, of Timothy Pickering, and of many other Federalists. Monroe went back to Va. and appeared to lick his wounds and feel sorry for himself, based on his letters to TJ. I think it’s reasonable to speculate that Monroe is the “dirty fellow” alluded to in Angelica S. Church’s June 1798 letter to EH when the latter traveled to Albany - it was most likely seen that Monroe was the cause, or at least could have stopped, all the pain/attention of the public disclosure of the Reynolds affair. I don’t know if AH and Monroe ever really interacted after this. Monroe became Gov of Va, and then replaced Rufus King in 1803 as Minister to G.B.

EH and the Hamilton kids never forgot, see recollection here re. EH. Or watch a dramatization here. That Monroe remained a political rival of the Federalists and AH’s friends/allies also certainly didn’t help (Monroe & Madison and G. Morris continue at each other for many years.) On basic facts, it doesn’t quite make sense to me - I don’t think Monroe was culpable in the sharing of information, and I think he was being as fair-minded as he felt he could be - but there may have been additional encounters/statements/whatevers known to these parties that are now lost to history. There may also be fun details in JCH’s volumes on his father.

(For giggles, see this attached clipping: "the passage [in the Reynolds Pamphlet] in which Hamilton owns and laments his fault is admirably written.”

https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/imgsrv/image?id=uc2.ark:/13960/t90864f94;seq=231;size=125;rotation=0

[imjustthemechanic]

Natalie Jones and the Golden Ship

Part 1/? - A Meeting at the Palace

I’m going to regret this, but this is the sequel to Natalie Jones and the Stone Knight.  The Committee for the Appraisal of Archaeological Peril are given their first proper job - looking after a possibly-cursed mummy.  As it turns out, though, the three-thousand-year-old corpse of Princess Sitamun is going to be the least of their problems...

It was a rainy day in September when the committee for the Appraisal of Archaeological Peril met for the second time at Buckingham Palace.

It was a very informal meeting, but then, their first official gathering, two months earlier, had been pretty informal, too.  They were an ad hoc department, with no regalia, no buildings, no documents, and no particular qualifications for membership other than having been at the Battle of the Tower and the Queen liking you.  There’d been some hints that this new meeting would resolve at least some of these deficiencies, but Natasha Romanov – who for the past few years had been calling herself Natalie Jones and saw no reason to stop now – hoped not too many.  The last thing she wanted was to be part of the pomp and bombast of proper British government.

A valet took her car at the end of the Mall, and two guards escorted her through the sea of tourists’ umbrellas and opened the gate for her.  There, she was just in time to meet a second member of the Committee – Dr. Sam Wilson, their medical expert.  He grinned and waved to her.

“Natalie!” he said.  “How’ve you been?”

“Not bad!”  Nat gave him a quick hug, and then both, with the guards, hurried across the sprawling pavement towards the palace steps.  “I’m still working in the archaeology department at Dundee,” she told him, raising her voice as thunder rumbled overhead.  “I’ve noticed my students are much more polite this year!” Her deeds at the Battle of the Tower, and her past as a Soviet spy, had been international news that summer.

Once on the palace porch the rain could no longer reach them.  Nat took down the hood of her jacket, and Sam pulled his hat off.

“What are you up to?” she asked, as the doormen let them inside.

“I’m working at Raptor Rescue near Eccleshall,” he replied.

“Good for you,” Nat nodded.  “Do the birds complain?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” said Sam.  “I thought people were whiny, but no – and the bigger the bird, the more of a baby they are.  There was this Golden Eagle, we named her Margo, who swore up and down that she was dying when all she had was an infected talon.  We amputated the toe and gave her some antibiotics, and she’s back in the wild now.”

“That’s wonderful,” Nat said, smiling warmly as she gave her wet jacket to a butler.  She would be the first to admit that her sense of empathy was badly stunted, but even to her there was something heartwarming about Sam not only getting to talk to birds like Sir Sigurd in the fairy tale, but finding a useful application for it.

The butler took their jackets away, and another man in a uniform entered the red-carpeted foyer.  “Sir Samuel? Lady Natalie?” he asked, startling two people who were more used to being addressed as ‘Doctor’.  “Her Majesty is waiting for you.  If you would come with me, please.”

They climbed a flight of stairs with an ornate, scrolling gilded railing, and followed a hallway lined with mirrors and elaborate candelabras.  Halfway down this they stopped outside a set of carved wooden doors, where three more Committee members were waiting.

These were good friends as far as Natasha and Sam were concerned, and there were more hugs and handshakes as everybody exchanged greetings.  Detective Inspector Sharon Carter was still working for the police in Inverness.  Sir Stephen of Rogsey spent most of his time there, too, in order to be close to Sharon while he took online courses to catch up on the science and history he’d missed while being turned to stone for a thousand years.  The third individual with them was a man in his sixties, short and a little overweight, with blue eyes and shaggy graying hair.   He smiled and raised a hand to greet Natasha first.

“Hi, Ginger Snap!” he said.

“Hi, Dad!”  Nat went up to hug him, too – he held her tight, and lifted her slightly off her feet. “Sorry I haven’t been emailing. It’s been very busy since the school year started.”

“I bet it has,” said Allen Jones, setting her down again.  “I hear you’re giving a talk on the Grail legend at Yale next year.”

“Yeah.  Apparently I’m an expert on it now or something.”  Nat rolled her eyes – the real thing had turned out to be very different from the stories.  “I still need to figure out what I’m going to say… I’ll probably do all the research and throw something together the night before.  How’s Blackpool?”  Allen was working there as an electrician.

“Damp,” he said, “but it’s actually nice to be back to work.  Retirement was getting boring.”

Sam looked around at everybody gathered.  Someone was missing.  “Where’s Francis?” he asked.  The sixth member of the Committee was Clint Francis from Barton-in-Fabis in Nottinghamshire, a man who’d briefly believed himself to be Robin Hood.  The delusion hadn’t lasted long, but when he got his memory back he’d been able to retain the legendary outlaw’s skill at archery.

“He texted,” said Sharon.  “Apparently he missed the train he was supposed to take and had to get a cab, so he’ll be here, just late.”

“That sounds about right,” Nat nodded.

“Guess what?”  Sharon looped her arm through Sir Stephen’s and smiled proudly.  “Steve got a job!”

“Good for him!” said Allen.  “What’s he doing?”

“There is a chapel in the city of Inverness with a very fine stained glass window depicting the martyrdom of Saint Andrew the Apostle,” Sir Stephen explained. “The window was damaged by some godless vandals and since I am familiar with the painting of glass, the city has engaged me to repair it, using as much of the original glass as possible and painting the new pieces to match.”

“That’s perfect,” said Nat.  Before the Lady of the Lake had made him a warrior, Sir Stephen had wanted to be a painter.  Restoring medieval windows was ideal, and would keep the restless man from getting bored.

The carved door opened, and two security men in elegantly tailored suits emerged to check everybody’s identification one last time.  Once they were satisfied, the taller one opened the door wide to show them in.  “Right this way,” he said.  “Her Majesty the Queen and his Grace the Earl of Dudley are inside.”

Beyond the doors was an immense drawing room with turquoise rugs, filled with gilded furniture and hung with portraits of people in wigs and fancy coats, many of them larger than life-sized.  General Fury, the recently-created Earl of Dudley, was waiting just inside.  He greeted them with a smile.  Fury was the head of the CAAP, although he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to do anything in that capacity and appeared to have hoped he never would.  He had also made it known that he hated the idea of having a title, which was perhaps why he was dressed in his military uniform, with an eyepatch.

“What happened to the glass eye?” asked Sam.

“My granddaughters like the patch better,” Fury replied.  “Apparently it makes me look like a pirate.  It’ll get old eventually and they’ll start to miss me popping the glass eye out and back in again.”

“Down here!” called a voice from the far end of the room.

There, on an elaborately carved and brocaded Louis the Fifteenth sofa with many embroidered cushions, was the Queen of England.  It was only ten AM, but she already had a drink in her hand, and was watching somebody feed pieces of haggis to one of her corgis on the seat beside her. She was dressed in a shade of fuchsia that clashed violently with the turquoise carpeting, and made it difficult to look directly at her.  From what Nat knew of the Queen, she’d done this on purpose.

“Nice to see you all looking well,” said the Queen, as they gathered around her – standing, since even knights and ladies didn’t sit in the presence of the monarch without special permission.  “Sir Stephen, you’re looking as offensively attractive as ever.  Where’s the sixth guy?”

“He missed the train,” said Sam.  “He’s on his way.”

“Figures,” said the Queen.  She tossed back the rest of her drink and held out the glass for one of her servants to refill.  “Well, I’ve a lot to do today.  I’m opening a women’s centre in Vauxhall at lunchtime, and then I’m heading up to Suffolk to look for a stud.”

There was a pause.  The Queen waited for one of them to say something, but nobody dared.

“For my stables,” she finally added, disappointed.  “So let’s get down to business.  I’ve got a surprise for you!  Stop looming over me like bloody Stonehenge and I’ll show you.”

The six present members of the CAAP murmured thanks and arranged themselves on the sofas and ottomans around her.  The corgi regarded them with suspicious eyes, but was soon distracted by the haggis again.

“First of all,” the Queen said, “We got these.  Michaels, come here.”

One of the men in suits – evidently Mr. Michaels – stepped forward to hand out leather-bound booklets the size of passports.  The black covers were undecorated, but when Natasha opened hers she found a photograph of herself with her name and an identification number on one side, and on the other a gold badge with a stylized depiction of the White Tower behind the image of Sir Stephen’s magical shield, with supporters. Instead of the traditional British lion and unicorn, these were a gorilla and a sabre-toothed tiger, two of the sculptures that had come to life in the Tower grounds.  The whole thing was surrounded by a wreath of ivy, and at the bottom was a banner that said Committee for the Appraisal of Archaeological Peril.

“The College of Heralds finally came up with something I didn’t hate,” the Queen said, “so we are pleased to present you with badges.  Museums and archaeological sites across the country and our remaining overseas territories have instructions to let you in if you’ve got one of these.  Promise me you won’t use them to rob anyone.”

“I’ll give Mr. Francis his, if and when he shows up,” said Natasha, taking Clint’s badge too.  She looked over at Allen, who was smiling and shaking his head as he looked at his own. He’d ever imagined he’d have anything like it.

“Thank you, your Majesty,” said Fury formally.  He tucked his into his breast pocket.

“Second,” the Queen went on, “we’ve got your first proper assignment.”

That made everyone look up.  Exactly what the CAAP was supposed to do was a little uncertain.  The Holy Grail and Kracness Circle had been some very perilous archaeology, but nobody was sure what else might be in that category.

“As you may have read in the news,” said the Queen, “the Victoria and Albert is giving the sarcophagus of Princess Sitamun back to Egypt, mummy and all.  It’s some sort of gesture of reconciliation, or something like that, although as I understand it, it was the French who stole the damned thing.  It’s being put on a train next week to go to Cairo, where a Dr. Mostafa will take charge of moving it to their museum.  The folks in charge are a bit worried about the whole affair and have requested that you go along.”

“In case the mummy gets up?” asked Sharon.

“Seems so.”  The Queen shrugged.  “It’s a mummy – there’s probably six different curses on the moldy old bitch and they’re taking no chances.”

Nat looked around at the others.  Babysitting a corpse wasn’t exactly the sort of thing they’d had in mind when they agreed to be a part of this organization, but there were probably far worse things they could have been asked to do.

“So we just drop the mummy off in Egypt and then we come home?” she asked.

“You can sightsee a bit.  I won’t stop you,” said the Queen.  “But that’s all the museum folks want, is you tagging along just in case.”

“We can do that,” Sharon decided.

“Absolutely,” Natasha agreed.

“I always wanted to see the pyramids,” said Allen.

“Wonderful!” said the Queen.  “I’ll let them know and they can give you the departure information.  Now, does anybody want a drink before I run off?”

They turned down alcohol, since it was still early in the morning, but did allow the butler to serve them tea and coffee.  The Queen puttered off with her corgi trotting behind her, but Fury stayed a bit to chat – and ten minutes after her Majesty had left, Clint Francis arrived.  He was soaking wet and carrying a Starbucks cup in one hand, and panting as he was escorted in by two guards who were jogging to keep up with him.

“Hi!” he said cheerfully.  “What did I miss?”

[hollywritesinstardust]

Sister Sinner, Chapter Four

Request: Do you do cross-overs? I was thinking Neal Caffery’s younger sister works with the BAU, her brother, Mozzie, and Peter on a case, and ends up crushing on Derek Morgan.

Fandom: Criminal Minds/White Collar

Characters/Pairings: Derek Morgan/Reader; Garcia, Hotch, Prentiss, Reid, Rossi, Neal

Words: 2,136

Y/N - Your Name

            “The good news is that he was definitely in contact with someone the entire time. The bad news is that the Gambinos – or whoever else might have been on the mic – only opened their end of the transmission when they communicated into his wire, which was for only seconds at a time and not long enough to trace. The radio signals bouncing out were encrypted very heavily with very dense coding and went through half a dozen proxy servers in the New England area before leaving the country.”

            Garcia looked very nervous as she presented the results of your first undercover meeting with Gio, and although you couldn’t say you had enjoyed being in his company, you were kind of excited that you would have to keep reprising your role as Sofia. It felt good to be the one under pressure for once – the one in the loop, the one whose abilities were coveted, the one who had the power to make it or break it. Since going good, you’d been doing far less of your own thing, mostly because you knew it would make things rough for Neal if Peter (or anyone else in law enforcement, for that matter) caught you.

            “Garcia,” Hotchner prompted, inserting just the one word in his boss voice between her rambling sentences.

            The techie stopped, swallowed, and nodded. “What I’m trying to say, sir, is that they have someone with their own special spice of signal protection that I can’t get through without the cooperation of governments in China, Belarus-“

            “Countries who are less likely to grant American law enforcement access to their satellite data,” you mused. Garcia nodded disappointedly. “Well, that’s fine. We don’t want to catch them now, anyway. We need more evidence, otherwise we’ve got them on shady charges at best. We want them on smuggling, even if we can’t nail ‘em for murder.”

            “He said they will be in touch. He wasn’t speaking on his own.” Prentiss took a glance at Reid, who nodded and then repeated, word-for-word, what Gio had said to you. Your eyes lingered on him for a moment – odd but useful, kind of like Mozzie’s photographic memory. The black-haired woman continued with her reasoning. “He wasn’t even trying to be discreet.”

            “Or he was, and he’s just bad at it,” you suggested.

            Morgan was clicking the end of a pen on the desk. “Nah, these guys wouldn’t hire an amateur.”

            “Maybe they pegged her as a smart one and assumed she would have done her homework,” Rossi posited wryly. “After all, what’ve we got on this Gio guy? Nothing. A high-profile armament doesn’t just drop into his lap unless someone knows who pads his pockets.”

            “Then they’re definitely going to call on me again.” You just hoped they would have the class to not be like the femme fatale that had broken into Neal’s penthouse to call on him.

            When Hotchner called for the dismissal, telling everyone to pack up and go get some rest before morning, it was like he was the teacher and everyone else was racing to leave before he tacked on a last-minute homework assignment. You waited for the room to empty out while stretching in your chair, letting the tiredness show on your face. Undercover operations were always more taxing than you expected them to be.

            Morgan was the last in the conference room. The handsome agent had caught your interest several times – not just when he spoke, although you definitely liked that he had more than just a few brain cells floating around up there. JJ was pretty, and Reid was cute, but Morgan was attractive, in the way that gets people a fan following on social media with tags that you wouldn’t want to read off in a room full of children.

            “Alright, Y/N.” He stopped while he was pushing in his chair and peered at you over the table, openly curious, but relaxed. “The suspense is gonna do me in if I don’t ask. So what’s it like? Being his sister.”

            You raised an eyebrow and glibly responded. “Got a friendship crush on my brother, Morgan?”

            He laughed, shaking his head. “Something like that shapes a person. Shapes their relationships. Siblings are impacted by how their brothers and sisters bond with them, the values they teach and the roles they fill. How did his antics fit into your life? Why did you let them stay?”

            You seriously considered not answering. You understood his curiosity – it was far from unique to him – and appreciated that he had asked without sounding underhanded or judgmental. In the moment, though, you decided that it wasn’t going to hurt anything, and maybe if you let him see a little more than the others could, then he’d be a bit more motivated to trust you and feel like he knew you. You’d seen Peter and Neal fight because of lacking trust too many times, and you wanted real friendships, not friendships that fell apart as soon as there was a hint of doubt.

            “Believe it or not,” you started, choosing your words carefully and leaning on the table, “Neal gave me an ultimatum.” The agent’s eyebrows went up slightly in surprise. “Not as such,” you elaborated pensively, “He would never intentionally do that. But the context mandated it. It was never said, but I understood. Be involved, and be my family. Or don’t, and…” You stopped, shaking your head, being mindful how much information you gave out. Neal’s reasons for running were personal. Not so personal that they weren’t your business, because they were mostly about your family, but private enough not to want to share. “If I hadn’t gone, I would’ve been safe. I would’ve been free. I would’ve known that I could go home every day to a woman who loved us and took care of us and been fed and housed. But I also would’ve lost my brother, and to me, that was unfathomable.”

            Neal had promised, a long, long time ago, that you were his best friend, and he would never leave you. It was entirely possible he hadn’t realized what he’d been making you choose between at the time, but though he said he understood completely if you chose to remain in St. Louis, you had intuitively known that the next time you’d see him could be decades away, if ever. Runaways don’t come back home when they intend to successfully run away.

            “Be involved?” Morgan repeated, crossing his arms.

            You surveyed his face and decided the gesture wasn’t in disapproval, so you expanded on it.

            “Not commit crime. Just run away.” You shrugged. “Be involved in his new life, whatever it meant. Neal did his best to keep me clean and safe, but… there’s always a degree of inevitability. Especially in a hypothetical situation where people want money and are allegedly more or less cheated out of it. I could’ve stayed or gone any time I wanted, but it wasn’t worth losing him.

            “We were a bit codependent.” You chuckled reminiscently. “Not as much anymore. It’s hard to be codependent when one of the parties are in prison.”

            “I bet.”

            You licked your lips and swallowed. “Anyway.” You stood up to leave. That was more sharing and caring than you usually did in a month, even with El, the undisputed queen of compassionate and empathetic conversation. “Neal was – and still is – my best friend. I’m not always happy with the choices he’s made. And I’m definitely not always happy with their consequences. Yet, I can never regret the choice I made to follow him. Whatever you might want to accuse him of, he has always done his best for the people he loves, and that’s better than a lot of others.”

            Before you left, you paused. And turned around. You’d tried explaining your story to a couple of people before, people you’d known longer and trusted more, and in spite of this, you had never had a more thoughtful or quiet audience.

            “Agent Morgan?” You let your own interest loose and looked right at him, making eye contact and holding it with piercing, alert brown eyes. “Do you believe that choices change the courses of our lives?”

            He pondered it a moment, then nodded decisively. “I do. Yes. One thought, one idea, one feeling in the right place, time, or context can be enough to have someone stoned for treason or venerated as a saint. It could leave in a moment or it could persist and become an entire cultural revolution. Why?”

            “Do you have any of those choices in your past?” You couldn’t help but ask and hope you weren’t going nosy.  

            Morgan weighed this thoughtfully. “Oh, yes. Most definitely.” He decided, and seemed content to say so. Then, even though you thought it had been implied that you wanted to know a bit more than just the yes or no answer, he picked up his phone and left.

            You sucked on the inside of your cheek. You weren’t sure whether or not you were a huge fan or Morgan’s quick leave, but you did know that the role he had chosen for himself, as an FBI agent, would either fill quickly without him or leave a gap in his team that damaged their effectiveness.

            Teams were like organisms, sometimes, except where Morgan’s was well-used to him and functioned like a well-oiled machine, Sofia was in the business of selling hers. There was something very poetic about how each of you used people and relationships to get where you needed to be, and for just a moment, you felt a hot flash of jealousy, because you wanted to claim a sense of belonging. You wanted to be able to say that you were required and comfortable.

            Except that was all very ridiculous and you shoved it aside as quickly as you could. Morgan had a pretty good life, from where you were standing, but that didn’t mean you wanted what he had. If you prioritized things like that, then you never would’ve run away with Neal in the first place. Right?

            It was a nightmare come true.

            You couldn’t convince yourself that Mozzie was lying, not after everything, not after hearing for yourself the recording of the gavel being banged.

            You cried into Neal’s shoulder while he cradled you lovingly, shushing you softly and rubbing up and down your back the same way he did after you were hurt in Copenhagen and he couldn’t take you to the hospital for fear of both of you being caught. While your shoulders shook, he was admirably composed for a man who knew he was hugging his sister for the last time for at least four years.

            “You should’ve let me do it,” you whimpered, digging your hands into his jacket. “I’m not eighteen for another few months. They might’ve charged me as a minor.”

            “It’s a grand felony,” Neal gently corrected you, pushing your hair out of your face. “They’d have tried you as an adult. And you know I’d never let anything happen to you.”

            “Like this is so much better,” you retorted. Despite that you were starting to argue, you still held tight to him. “You’re gonna be trapped in a cage and I’m gonna be alone.”

            “You won’t,” he promised, rubbing a tear off of your face with an earnest, sentimental look on his face. “Mozzie and Kate will take care of you. Kate will make sure you’re not alone and Moz will keep you supplied with money, food, clothes – he has connections.”

            You sniffed and looked deeply into his eyes, trying to memorize the blue and the youth in his face. You knew prison could change a person and couldn’t believe this would be your last opportunity to see your brother as you knew him now. “But they’re not you.”

            His smile turned sad. “I know. I’m going to miss you, too, sweetie. We knew this could happen. I told you Burke was good.”

            Good? Burke was taking your only family away. “I hope he goes to hell,” you spat hatefully.

            Neal’s surprised and scolding expression was the only reason you felt even a little bit remorseful for saying it. He tilted your chin to look at him in the eyes and said firmly, “Hey, don’t go there. He’s a good man, he’s doing his job. He told the DA I cooperated once I was caught. If it wasn’t for him, I’d probably be doing ten.”

            “I still hate him enough for the both of us, since you’ve clearly lost your mind.” You mumbled into his shirt, hugging him tightly again and wishing you could ignore that Neal wasn’t wearing one of the nice suits he loved.

            He’d been forced to wear an outfit supplied by the Department of Justice instead.

A/N: This one took a while and was harder to write - it was mostly filler. I hope you enjoyed!

On the tags list are: @bestillmystuckyheart, @skeletoresinthebasement, @werewitchling, @1enchantedfantasy1, and @ragweed98!

[giantbandgeeks]

today is the day that Molly would have been born if the backyard universe was real life. in honour of that, here’s a tiiiny drabble about how it went.

july 30, 2017

Harry knew that the baby was due soon. He just wasn’t sure how soon. Mara never told him anything, had never let him go to any appointments. She rarely even let him see her.

It killed Harry to leave the country for Dunkirk promo, knowing that his child could very well come into the world without him knowing, but he had to go anyway. He got back to England just in time to move into a new home in the outskirts of London, where Mara and the baby would live with him. They were still hopeful that the baby would be a secret from the world, and the new property would help that. Between all the promo for the movie, no one even noticed that Harry had moved house.

It was a relief when Mara moved some of her things in, and Harry saw that she was still pregnant. It wasn’t like she’d even tell him when she went into labour, or she’d even let him be at the hospital when she gave birth. But, Harry still had the slightest bit of hope that she would come around.

Even late in her pregnancy, Mara was nonstop. She was no longer Harry’s publicist– that had ended when they found out she was pregnant– but she had other clients that had her preoccupied every time Harry saw her. The fact that she was still working so much had Harry thinking that her due date wasn’t as close as he had calculated.

Harry had offered his help in bringing her stuff in from the car, but Mara had just sneered and said she could do it on her own. So, he sat in the kitchen and pulled up the calendar on his phone to try and count back to when he had found out she was pregnant, and the last time they had sex. Like always, early August was the conclusion he found for the due date.

If she was really due in the next few days, Harry knew he’d be angry that she was still lifting heavy boxes. But, he had no conclusive proof. She’d throw that back in his face and deny anything he had counted himself. Even if he was right.

As Mara walked through the kitchen again, he found himself almost regretting that he had slept with her at all. Her true colours had come out way too late in the relationship, and by the time Harry knew what a bitter person she was, he already knew she was pregnant with his child. And despite that all encompassing terror he felt when thinking about being a father, and having to protect a child from the media shitstorm that was his life, he was the tiniest bit excited to be a dad.

“Mara,” Harry stood up, following the path she had taken out of the room. He had decided that he wouldn’t mention anything about her carrying his baby when he offered to help this time. Only the fact that it would go faster if he helped. But, he was sidetracked when he noticed the trail of liquid on the floor. “Did your water just break?”

“No,” She bit back, slamming her trunk shut. Mara’s stubbornness made her a damn good publicist, but she couldn’t deter Harry that easily. Harry set his jaw and listened to her make a phone call to the company’s private car service.

“Then why aren’t you just driving yourself wherever it is you need to go so urgently?”

“Get your nose out of my business, Harry Styles.”

“If you’re in labour with my baby that’s my business too, Mara Kennedy.”

“Fine, that was my water breaking. All over your kitchen floor,” She glared at him, almost daring him to say something.

“Let me drive you to the hospital,” Harry finally said, not taking his eyes away from Mara.

“No,” Her voice was ice cold, just as it always was when Harry brought this up. “You will come to the hospital a respectable amount of time after she is born, as if you are just an ex-client coming to visit.”

“It’s a girl,” He breathed, hanging onto the piece of information Mara had let slip. He didn’t say anything more, but his thoughts swirled; he was going to have a daughter. And, Mara’s reasoning made sense to him. She was trying to protect their daughter’s identity. That didn’t mean he liked it, but he couldn’t fight it as easily.

“My car is here,” Mara leaned in to pull a duffle bag out of her backseat. With that, she left Harry standing in the driveway. He was hoping someone would call him once his daughter was born, but wouldn’t know until it happened.

While he waited, he called his mum to let her know that Mara was in labour. Her excitement took away some of his anxiety about the whole affair, but until his phone rang six hours later with a call from an unknown number, Harry was a bundle of nerves.

“Hello?” He answered after deliberating over letting it go to voicemail or not. As a general rule he never answered a number that wasn’t in his contacts, but he decided to do it. Just in case.

“Is Harry Edward avaliable?”

“Speaking,” He was confused as to why they had used his middle name in place of his last name, but figured it was some matter of privacy that Mara had thought up.

“This is Highgate Private Hospital. Mara Kennedy wanted us to call to inform you that she gave birth to her daughter about an hour ago.”

“Did she say when she’ll be up for visitors?”

“No, but visiting hours end in two hours. If you can get to the hospital before then, I’m sure they’ll be happy to receive you.”

“Thank you,” Harry hung up, and hurried to get to the hospital. He sped most of the way, and felt the adrenaline coursing through his veins as he parked and headed inside.

Unlike what the nurse had said, Mara was not happy to see Harry. Her face fell from a rare smile when he entered the room, but passed the bundle into his arms nonetheless. An immense calm fell over his body when he looked down at his daughter for the first time. There was no doubt in his mind that she belonged to him.

“What are we going to name her?” Harry asked after he had spent a good five minutes just looking at his daughter. She was swaddled in a hospital blanket, and had a pink beanie pulled onto her little head. “I was thinking Molly for a girl.”

“No,” Mara’s expression turned sour. “Her name is Margaret.”

“Molly can be a nickname for Margaret.”

“So can Mara.”

Harry finally looked up at Mara, trying to keep his expression neutral. He would never call his daughter Mara, and the woman knew that. She had to be egging him on. They stared each other down for a few more seconds before the baby moved in Harry’s arms and he looked back down at her.

“Her middle name is Anne,” It was Harry’s turn to speak with finality in his tone, and Mara must have sensed that he wasn’t going to budge on it.

“I’ll finalize the birth certificate when the next nurse comes in,” He was surprised that she relented so easily, but wasn’t going to question it. The next 18 years of Molly’s life were not going to be as smooth, especially since he was definitely going to call her Molly and not Mara or Margaret. Mara was a difficult woman, but despite this fact Harry somehow knew that his daughter would make it well worth it.

[blacklister214]

Second Son Chapter 7: Lucky

I checked and apparently it has been almost a year since I’ve updated this one...so sorry about that and thanks for sticking with the story! Here’s the url for the whole story on Fanfiction.net. Enjoy!

Jacob glanced at the dashboard clock and found to his dismay He’d only been on the interstate for eleven minutes. It felt much longer. His gaze traveled to the grim-faced occupant of his passenger seat. Jacob’s stomach clenched in an unfamiliar way.

This should have been a good moment for him. It had been less than an hour since Jacob and Elizabeth Scott had left the Nebraska Department of Health and Human Services and begun the drive to the girl’s home. She hadn’t argued with him, or tried to renege on their deal. In a few hours all of his efforts will have paid off and he’d be returning to Reddington’s side with his mission accomplished. This should have made him happy. He was going back to where he belonged.

Over the past few weeks Jacob had found that he missed the older man’s company. He missed Reddington’s quirky anecdotes. He missed being prodded to try some seemingly inedible dish. He missed sharing a quiet drink after a successful business negotiation. Despite wishing to return to his long-time companion however, Jacob’s feelings about leaving Nebraska were muddled.

Elizabeth Scott shifted slightly in her seat and Jacob forced himself keep his eyes on the road. He knew exactly what was wrong with him, of course. It was the girl. He was unhappy because the girl was unhappy. Why was anyone’s guess.

According to the file he’d once stolen from his social worker, Jacob had an ‘attachment disorder.’ He ‘lacked empathy’ and ‘struggled to form emotional bonds’. For the most part Jacob couldn’t argue with that assessment. Even with Dembe, the caring had come gradually. With Liz it was different. He only spent a few hours in her company and yet somehow it had been enough for him to connect with her. It was probably for the best he’d be cutting with the farm girl sooner rather than latter. If she had this effect on him now, he couldn’t imagine what would happen if he stayed.

Jacob shook himself. He couldn’t believe he’d even allowed himself to entertain the thought. Jacob Phelps, settling in Nebraska, just to be close to some girl? It was beyond ridiculous. He had to do something, distract himself from his errant thoughts.

“You okay?” Brilliant opening line. Reddington would have been so impressed with his conversational skills. Liz didn’t even bother to turn her head away from the window.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Jacob’s mind flashed to Elizabeth as she’d been inside Reeves’ office. The caseworker had been jumpy when he’d passed the file into Liz’s eager hands. Jacob had forced himself to respect her privacy and not read over her shoulder. Instead he’d kept his eyes on Reeves, who he’d been concerned might pass out from the terror over breaking department policy. He’d been sweating like he’d just turned over nuclear missile codes to the Russians. They’d all sat in silence for ten minutes as Elizabeth read and re-read the documents. At last she’d stood, put the envelope on Reeves’ desk and told Jacob she was ready to go home. That was the last thing said to him in the past forty minutes.

“You seem quiet.”

“Unlike some people, I don’t  talk unless I have something to say.” Jacob was silent a moment as he weighed his options. Clearly Elizabeth wasn’t eager to share her thoughts with him. On the other hand she was obviously having some kind on internal struggle. If he kept prodding she might change her mind and choose to vent to him.

“Do you regret reading the file?”

“None of your damn business.” Jacob smirked at Elizabeth’s increasingly spiky tone. If he kept going, she was definitely going to explode.

“I’m just saying if you wanted to talk about it-” Elizabeth suddenly turned to Jacob eyes flashing dangerously.

“I don’t, so stop bugging me!” Jacob glanced at his passenger’s face and registered that the expression was very similar to the one she’d wore before she’d flipped a table over and attacked him. Under ordinary circumstances he wouldn’t have minded sparring with Elizabeth Scott, but given that he was currently driving at over 60 miles per hours, now probably wasn’t the best time for a physical altercation.

“Copy that.” It was time to change tactics. Fortunately he had a plan B already in place and Liz’s comment had inspired him.

Jacob kept his left hand on the wheel of the car while his right groped for the top of the storage compartment between his and Liz’s seats. He flipped the lid open and withdrew a plastic case.

“What are you doing?”

“Putting in a CD. You clearly don’t want to talk. We have two more hours on the interstate, and radio reception tends to be unreliable.” He slide the metallic disk into the player and advanced to the fifth track. He grinned as the rapid beats blasted out the car’s speakers.

“Are you serious?” Jacob turned to her, his face a picture of innocence.

“What? I like this song.” It wasn’t a lie, technically. Admitted he’d had hadn’t been an immediately convert to Destiny’s Child, but there was something catchy about the rhythm of this track at least.  

“Bullshit.” Jacob’s smile widened. If she didn’t believe that he was indeed a fan, he’d be more than happy to demonstrate for her. He started bopping his head to the music.

“I wanna put your number on the call block. Have AOL make my emails stop, cause you a bug a boo. You buggin what? You buggin who? You buggin me, and don’t you see it ain’t cool.”

As Jacob sang, he watched Liz out of the corner of his eye. He could see the corners of her mouth twitching as she fought to suppress a smile at his antics. This spurred him on to an even more impassioned performance, until finally he had her laughing.

“You’re an asshole.” There was no venom in her insult, in fact it was almost affectionate. A warm feeling washed over him, as he looked at her chuckling over his clownish behavior. He’d made her happy, if only for this brief moment. He took a strange amount of pride in that.

“Come on, you know you want to...” He nodded at the speakers.

She rolled her eyes, then began half-heartedly, “When you show up at my door you're buggin me.”

Jacob joined her, “When you open up your mouth, you're buggin me. Everytime I see your face you're buggin me, you're buggin me, you’re buggin me.”

By the time the song finished they were both in stitches. Jacob was perfectly willing to continue their car karaoke, but Liz reached out and hit the stop button on the player.

“Why’d you kill my jam?” He was genuinely confused. He had thought they were both having a good time.

“Destiny’s Child is not your jam. You got that CD because of me.” Jacob considered lying, but found he didn’t really want to. Instead he decided on the route of verbal ambiguity. It was a technique he’d learned from Reddington, who was a great fan of obscure truth.

“I noticed their poster in your bedroom, but that doesn’t mean I can’t like them.” Jacob answered Liz’s sceptical look with a shrug. “It’s true. I travelled a lot growing up and the man who raised me believed in embracing a broad range of cultural experience. Have you ever heard of Tuvan throat singing?”

“No.”

“It’s impressive. These guys can sing two to four notes at a time. Of course it isn’t always melodic. At certaining points the singer can sound like they are burping for a really long time.” Jacob’s mind flitted back to the festival Reddington that dragged him and Dembe when they were 15 and 16. At one point they’d looked at each other and burst out laughing. Reddington had scolded them, but the glint in his eye had told Jacob that he hadn’t really been angry.

“You’re making this up. I bet Tuva isn’t even a real place.” He wasn’t surprised Liz hadn’t heard of it. American public education didn’t really bother with world geography, at least beyond the “big name” countries.

“It is...though now it’s called Tyva. It’s on the northern border of Mongolia.”  Jacob’s seven years with Reddington had been much informative than a high school and college education would have been, at least were global knowledge was considered.

“And you’ve been there? To Tyva?”

“Yes.” They’d spent two weeks hiking, rafting, and trekking through the Sayan mountains. Jacob had appreciated the aesthetics of the landscape, but he was thrilled when they had finally returned to civilization. He could only take so much tranquillity, not to mention time away from hot showers.  

“Where else have you been?”

Jacob shrugged. “A lot of places. Greece, France, South Africa, Pakistan, Papua New Guinea, Thailand, England, Argentina, Poland, Columbia-”

“You bullshitting me right now?” He could understand why it would sound far-fetched. Elizabeth was seventeen and she hadn’t yet left her home state, let alone the US. Jacob was only four years older than she was and had already visited six of the seven continents.

“I was raised by an international businessman. We travelled a lot.” Of course most of the places he’d visited hadn’t been for vacations. There’d been quite a few times they’d been crossing borders to evade police authorities and then departing immediately for a destination across the globe.

“You’re telling me, you’ve been around the world and yet you choose to set up shop, here, in Nebraska?” Jacob paused a moment, wanting to be careful with his answer. Elizabeth believed he was a local private eye hired by her father. Reddington had made it clear that no one know should know anything about his investment in the girl, including the girl herself.

“You don’t think much of your home state do you?” Liz snorted, apparently accepting his deflection for the moment.

“We both know Ohama isn’t exactly Paris.” Jacob smiled. Why was it girls were always so obsessed with Paris, like it was some romantic Mecca. The reality wasn’t quite what they imagined.

“Which frankly is a good thing. Paris smells like pee.” The horrific odor was the number one thing that tourist brochures did not advertized about the ‘City of Lights’.

“What?”

“If you’re a man it’s totally legal to urinate on the street, so the city smells like pee.” Jacob was pretty sure people peed in the streets in every city in the world, but at least in most of them it was frowned on, if not illegal.

“But it’s not legal for women?”

“I know. Sexism, am I right?” Liz laughed, then her express sobered.

“I still rather be there than here. Nebraska feels so small sometimes I can barely breath.” Despite the miles of nothing currently surrounding them, he understood what she meant. Nebraska was in many respects a nice place to live. It was scenic. It was safe. For many people it would be idyllic. Unfortunately for her, Liz clearly wasn’t ‘many people’. It was too static, too dull for someone like her. She needed a challenge, an adventure.

“Do you mind if I give you some advice, as someone who has travelled pretty much anywhere you can imagine?” Liz made a face as though she’d swallowed something sour.

“Let me guess: ‘There’s no place like home?’” Jacob smirked at the Wizard of Oz reference. Having never had a home, he was in no position to assess the veracity of that statement.

“No. Traveling is great, but where you go doesn’t matter nearly so much as who you go with.” Jacob thought of Reddington, Dembe, and Mr. Kaplan. Any memory of wonder, discovery, or joy that he’d possessed had been with one or all them beside him.

“You really love them, don’t you?” Jacob glanced over at Liz sharply, “Your brother and foster Dad.” Love? Liz threw out that word like it was so simple. It wasn’t, at least not for him.

“I’d have nothing without them. I’d be nothing without them.” If Jacob had never met Reddington he would have probably spent his life on the streets, until the police eventually caught him. Then it would have been off to Juvie for him. He wouldn’t have met Dembe. He would have grown up alone, with no one caring if he lived or died.

“I get that. Sam is...my whole world.” Jacob felt a wave of mutual understanding pass between them. As different as their childhoods had been, they both knew what it was to be saved.

“You’re lucky. We both are.”

“You never finished the story about your brother. What happened after he threw you into the dresser and cracked your skull?”  Jacob was surprised she remembered what he’d said to her in the waiting room, let alone was interested in hearing more. Even more astonishing was that he wanted to tell her. He let his mind drift back to the day that had changed the course of his life.

The address on Dembe’s card didn’t belong to a doctor’s office or a clinic. Instead he found himself sitting in basement of a Brooklyn brownstone. There was medical equipment, and what appeared to be a patient table, but somehow Jacob doubted that this practice was listed in the phone book. That probably wasn’t a bad thing. Reddington clearly had money, and he wouldn’t have instructed Dembe to use this physician if the man didn’t know what he was doing. A competent doctor willing to overlook legal restrictions was a good acquaintance to have.

“You’ve been to this guy before?” Dembe nodded once. Jacob waited a moment before determining his babysittee wasn’t planning to elaborate.

“Why?”

“I was unwell.” Before Jacob had a chance to deliver a sarcastic retort, the door opened and a large bearded man strode in. Dembe stood immediately and extended his hand in greeting.

“Dr. Koslov.” The bearded giant laughed, crossed the room in two bounds, and seized the offered limb.

“Dembe, my fine lad. It is good to see you looking so robust. Mr. Reddington was right when he claimed you had a strength many growth men would envy. Your recovery is nothing short of miraculous. I am confused to see you here alone, without him. He is well I trust?” The man’s English was perfect, but his ascent was definitely foreign. Definitely eastern European.

“Yes, he is well, but Jacob is not.” The doctor turned his attention toward Jacob, who pulled off his cap.

“Come here, boy.” Jacob complied and the man began removing the bandages Dembe had wound around his head. Jacob winced as Koslov inspected his head wound.

“You are fortunate. I think we can get away with two staples. I assume this will go on Mr. Reddington’s account?” Dembe opened his mouth to speak, but Jacob cut him off.

“Actually no, I’d like to cover this myself...assuming we keep this visit between us.” Dembe’s face darkened with disapproval.

“You should not ask Dr. Koslov to lie to Raymond.” Jacob shoot a return glare toward Dembe.

“I’m not asking him to lie, just to not to volunteer the information. That’s covered in patient confidentiality, isn’t it?” Jacob twisted his head to check the doctor’s expression.

“For ordinary doctors, yes, however I am not an ordinary doctor, nor is Mr. Reddington an ordinary patient.” Jacob’s stomach sunk. Of course this guy was in Reddington’s pocket. He should never had come here.

“So you won’t do it?” The doctor studied Jacob’s face for a moment before sighing.

“Given that the injury isn’t too serious and that you are not Mr. Reddington’s ward, I’m willing to hold my tongue on two conditions: 1) You can pay me the $500 fee and 2) You can convince Dembe to likewise maintain his silence. I’ll give you a few minutes alone to discuss it.”

Jacob waited until Koslov had left the room before turning to Dembe. Everybody had a price, Jacob just needed to find his. “How much is going to take to keep you quiet? $100? $200?” Dembe’s glower became even more pronounced.

“My honor is not for sale. I am prepared to face the consequences of my actions.” The ward of the shady Mr. Reddington was a damn choir boy. Fan-fucking-tastic.

“Easy for you say. What’s the worst Reddington’s going to do to you? Ground you? That will a real hardship for the guy who didn’t even want to leave the hotel room. Versus me, who will be out of the best paying job I’ve ever had. The job that was going to keep me fed for months. Have you ever been starving, Dembe? Not hungry… but starving?” Self-righteous was easy for people who had nothing at stake.

“Yes.” Jacob blinked. That wasn’t the answer he’d expected. It was hard to imagine the huge boy having ever missed a meal. Then again the doctor had mentioned Dembe’s ‘miraculous’ recovery. Maybe the kid’s life had been harder than Jacob had assumed.

“Then do you get why I might not be real eager to feel that again?”

Dembe was silent a moment before nodding. That was a promising start. What else could Jacob say to convince the guy not to rat him out? Would an apology work? Dembe had cracked his skull, but Jacob had deliberately provoked him. They both shared the blame for what happened.  

“Look...I was a dick. I know that. And I get that you don’t want me around. That’s fine, that’s nothing new for me. If you want me to not say another word to you for that rest of the week, I’ll do it, but I need this job. Please.” Jacob couldn’t remember the last time he’d used that final word with anyone. He only hoped it would pay off here.

Dembe was quiet for nearly thirty seconds before reaching a decision. “I won’t lie to Raymond...but I won’t expose any falsehood you tell. You can even tell him we left the hotel, if you’d like. Get your $200 bonus.”

“You know about that?” Had Raymond told Dembe before Jacob’s had arrived about the details of their deal?

“I was listening at the door.” Yet again Jacob’s massive charge surprised him.

“Kind of sneaky for someone as honest as you.” The kid clearly had layers, Jacob would give him that.

“Raymond is honorable is his own way, but I have found him less than forthright, on occasion.” For a non-native English speaker. Dembe sure knew some fancy words.

“Forthright? Seriously? Do you read the dictionary for fun, or something?” For a moment the older boy looked almost embarrassed.

“I enjoy books. Raymond reads to me, when he has time.” Jacob pushed down the unexpected feeling of jealousy. It was stupid to envy Dembe his relationship with Reddington. He wasn’t a little kid anymore. He certainly didn’t need anyone to read him bedtime stories.

“There’s a library near the hotel. I can bring you some books tomorrow, if you want.” Jacob had ‘borrowed’ one or two in the past and had yet to be caught. He could probably sneak out a few more if Dembe was interested.

“I would appreciate that. Thank you.” The older boy smiled at him, and Jacob unexpectedly found himself smiling back. Maybe the week wouldn’t be a nightmare after all.

“So then what happened?” Liz’s voiced pulled Jacob back into the present.

“The doctor fixed me up, good as new.”

“And your brother kept your secret?” Jacob nodded. When Reddington had returned that night, Jacob had told him that they’d hung out in the room all day. Dembe had seemed surprised, given that he’d agree not to contradict any story Jacob came up with. He’d assumed Jacob would want to take advantage of the opportunity to get the extra $200.

Jacob had considered it, but in the end he’d decided not to. He told himself it was for practical reasons, that such a lie would be more easily exposed, but in reality it hadn’t felt right, particular after Dembe had reimbursed Jacob for the money he’d spent at the doctor.

“Yeah. First time anyone ever did anything like that for me.” Dembe had shown him mercy that Jacob had done nothing to deserve.

“He sounds like a good brother.”

“The best.” Jacob felt an unwelcome pang of loneliness. It had been over a month since he’d spoken to Dembe. He hoped his brother was keeping himself safe. Jacob didn’t know what he’d do without him.  

“You’re lucky. I always wanted a sibling. A part of me was hoping that maybe I already had one.” It took a moment for Jacob to realise Liz was talking about the file. It was funny that she wanted to discuss it now, when less than thirty minutes go she’d nearly bitten his head off for asking.

“You were an only child?” Liz nodded.

“As far as the State of Nebraska knows I am. Although apparently my biological father was a con man who ditched me to go the lam, so who knows.” Jacob could hear the undercurrent of anger beneath the flippant tone.

“And your mother?”

“Died in a fire, that she may have started herself. The report was ‘inconclusive.’” No wonder Liz hadn’t felt like sharing what she’d found in the file. She was probably expecting him to respond with an ‘I told you so.’

“Could have been worse. She could have been a negligent crackhead like my birth mother.” Liz turned sharply to look at him. Jacob shrugged, feigning a nonchalance that after all these years he wished he could actually feel. “Family isn’t blood, and blood isn’t family. I think we both made out alright.”

“Yeah, I think we did too.” They fell into a companionable silence, very different from the one they begun the trip with. Jacob found that he no longer dreading the length of the ride, but rather it’s conclusion. He didn’t want to drive away from Liz, knowing he’d never see her again. Stupid and sentimental of him, but it was what it was. Jacob looked over at Liz and found her looking out the window, smiling at the seemingly endless fields stretching to the horizon. She was happy. They were both going home. It was enough.

[nikolinaboldero]

Lecture notes; ‘The favourite child of capitalism’. Discussing the logic of the Fashion system.

25/01/19.

In today’s lecture we covered numerous topics, first we spoke about the logic of the fashion system. Morna Laing underlined how fashion has mechanised as a result of the industrial revolution. Prior to the revolution everything was done by hand, by artisans. After the industrial revolution everything became mechanised, sewing was not done by hand instead it was done on a sewing machine.

Fashion - ‘The favourite child of capitalism’. Sombart 2009. ‘Fashion is dress in which the key feature is rapid and continual changing of styles’. Wilson 2003. These two quotations suggest that fashion is a necessity, that trends are constantly changing which encourages us to keep buying more. It also explains how fashion can be used to portray social status and depending on what you wear you can be marginalised in society. ‘A cheap coat makes a cheap man’. To great extent, this statement is not true, people can wear cheap clothing, it might be second hand but it could come from a designer, therefore once is was very expensive.

Craik 1993- ‘the hallmark of fashion is said to be change’. - Fashion is about change. - Fashion involves a continual stream of new styles that render old styles. - Fashion is authoritarian. - Fashion is dictated by an elite. - Fashion is about power.

Morna Laing spoke to us about these three concepts; Neomania, planned obsolesce and cycles of change. Neomania refers to this idea of newness, needing to have the latests thing. When people shop in Zara there is often a sense of urgency because there are limited runs of each style. This is the same in Topshop ‘buy it now or regret it later’, suggesting that these clothing lines are limited and that if you don’t purchase one of the garments then you won’t be able to find the same piece again. Planned Obsolescence, refers to when you plan in advance what piece of clothing is no longer going to be useful. However it is not that this piece of clothing is falling apart, and is of a bad quality, but instead it suggests that something is no longer useful because it isn’t in fashion. This has been a common trend with ‘skinny jeans’, people making out that they are no longer In style, despite them still having practical purpose. Cycles of change; in the past there were two seasons: Autumn and Winter, Spring and summer. Now there are many more collections, such as; cruise, couture and resort.

Fashion is ideological, it is not natural. With fashion there is an ability to express your own identity, people can feel empowered by the clothing they wear because it defines them as a person. In many international catwalk shows, I have noticed a growing trend in the number of expressive garment collections, collections which create a sign of rebellion against social and political injustices.

Viktor and Rolf- Couture Spring 2019 ‘All these statements that are so obvious or easy- there’s a lot of banality on Instagram and social media in general- are counterbalanced with this over-the-top, shimmery, romantic feeling’. Rolf Snoreren, explained to WWD. Viktor Horsting and Rolf Snoeren titled this collection Fashion Statements. ‘To what extend can you say something with clothing, literally’, they said backstage. ‘The outcome proved to be a clever contradiction: the feminine, princess-perfect dresses contrasted brilliantly with the hard-hitting statements’. This shows how fashion can be used as expressive pieces of artwork. They are there to contradict, and raise awareness of particular themes and ideas. I really liked this collection because of the contrast between these elegant tulle dresses with the bold, simplistic text centred in the middle of the dress.

During the lecture we also spoke about this idea of Trickle Down Fashion. This suggests that fashion trends start and originate from the upper class, then moves to the middle class and then to the lower class. This is exemplified by Chirstian Dior’s New look. High fashion started in Paris. Rationing happened during and after the war in order to preserve clothing stock.  After the war Dior launched the New Look; it’s most prominent features being rounded shoulders, a cinched waist and a full A line skirt, America and England soon emulated the style. You could also buy dress patterns allowing you to make similar outfits in this style.

Fashion ideas don’t necessarily always trickle down, they can start on the street and then bubble up. ‘First there is genuine streetstyle innovation. This may be featured in a pop music video and streetkids in other countries may pick up on the style. Then, finally- at the end rather than the beginning of the chain- a rizzy version of the original idea makes an appearance as part of a top designer’s collection. Instead of trickle down, bubble up. Instead the bottom end of the market emulating the top end, precisely the reverse’ Polhemus 2007 452-3. An example of this is the PUNK rebellion movement. Punk was an anti-establishment movement, they used safety pins to symbolise this idea of resistance. This safety pin bubbled up in the mainstream and was seen on dresses as an accessory, replacing zips and buttons. Another example is during the 1960s when there was the youth culture revolution, ‘teenager emerged’. Dressing in a different way to your parents as a result of the baby boom and more disposable income to be able to afford new clothing. Also another factor which created this youth culture revolution was the introduction of the birth control pill, this meant that there was more freedom, people expressed their freedom through the clothing they wore.

From the lecture I learnt the difference between symbolic production and material production. Symbolic production refers to catwalks, advertising, glamour, perfection, fashion, ‘untouched by the human hand’. Material production is often hidden from view- lack of transparency as to the production ‘journey’ of an item ‘backstage’. Marx, the economist and revolutionary socialist  highlighted that those who are actually making the fashion garments are usually alienated from their work. For those who are specialised in work, doing one particular function are unable to connect with their work because they don't see the value it is having and what they are contributing to the fashion industry. Another thing we discussed in the lecture which explains why the workers are often ‘alienated’ is because they can't actually afford the clothing which they are making, they receive the low wages, whilst capitalists get richer. 

Overall I really enjoyed this lecture, I found it really interesting. I liked how there were links and comparisons made between the information and real life examples. This made the information easier to understand. Assessing the different quotations will definitely improve my reading skills and it will also improve my visual analysis skills which are essential for my next unit assessment.

Viktor and Rolf- couture spring 2019. 

Punk- anti establishment: example of the safety pin. Vivienne Westwood rebellion movement SEX PISTOLS. 

[katsindiebookblog]

  Title: Vanished

Author: T.K. Leigh

Genre: Mystery/Suspense/Thriller

Release Date: February 7, 2017

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Recommended for mature readers due to strong language and graphic violence.

Rayne Kilpatrick has everything. A job she’s dreamed of since a little girl. The perfect house. And a man she loves and is about to marry… Until he never returns from a humanitarian mission.

Gone. Disappeared. Vanished.

When footage of his gruesome murder by a Muslim extremist group is shown across the country and around the globe, she wants the person responsible for the disappearance of the man she loves to pay. She wants him to lose the one person who means the world to him, too, and she won’t stop until he does.

Alexander Burnham has everything… Finally. A job he enjoys where he can actually make a difference in the world. The perfect woman who he’s loved his entire life. And the most beautiful daughter a father could ask for… Until he walks into her bedroom one morning to find it empty.

Gone. Disappeared. Vanished.

It’s a race against the clock for Alexander to put the pieces together and find out who has taken his daughter and what they want from him. As information comes to light, he is forced to bury the guilt he feels after losing his fellow team member and focus instead on finding and saving his daughter…

Before it’s too late.

Vanished can be read in conjunction with or separate from the Beautiful Mess series.

Review

Vanished by T.K. Leigh

Kat’s rating: 5 of 5 stars

*** I voluntarily reviewed this book, I gained no monetary incentives nor was I specifically requested to review the book, these are my honest ramblings and I hope you enjoy reading them – kat***

I will say this was a hard book to read in one sitting, I had to take breaks at certain points because my heart and throat and eyes couldn’t take it. Even as I neared the end, I had to go do something else as I was crying so hard I couldn’t see my kindle! and I will say the warning is correct, this is NOT a romance, it’s like reading an episode of Criminal Minds, the tension, stress of the investigation came over strongly in Ms. Leigh’s writing.

I have been a fan of T.K. Leigh since I met her in 2015, I bought her Beautiful mess series at the Readers and Writers Down Under Signing, at the recommendation of a facebook friend, Shaneen introduced us and T.K. was such a lovely person, very supportive and free with her advice for new authors. I am sad to admit that those books are still unread on my bookshelf! WELL NO MORE, I am making time to read them this month (Somehow) #bloggerproblems! (very carefully so not to spoil the books, I really hate opening my signed books to read) #Bookaholic

So I read this book blind, with no knowledge of the series. I think I am glad in a way because I went in with no preconceived ideas on what to expect.

At first I was thinking it would be a 3 – 4 star as I had a bit of a hard time relating to Rayne, I couldn’t understand how she had gotten so lost, that she would consider something so heinous. Even when I learned about why she was so low I couldn’t understand how she thought that Alex Burnham deserved what she was planning to do. As I read on I got more involved, the story started to give me my answers, but also would give me more puzzles to ponder.

I may have taken breaks from reading to do other things, but my mind was constantly trying to work out what was going on, what would come next and whether Melanie would survive.

By 61% I was hooked, by the complexity of the plot and as the clues for Melanie’s kidnapping were revealed the tension mounted.

As Alex and the Authorities try to piece together the clues to who has taken Melanie, Alex’s life and those around him are put under the microscope.

TK has done a very good job at expressing the anguish, the neverending torment of questions a parent would ask themselves if dealing with this situation.

I lost my youngest in a shopping centre when he was 6 years old, he was found 15 minutes later, but the agony of not knowing, the rampaging thoughts of what may have happened, my heart was so painful and to this day it’s as fresh in my mind and it was 20 years ago.

This remembered pain, well it came back in spades reading this book, I had a lump in my throat, at times tears, and a sense of anguish, as events unfolded.

This is a good book, but its dark, its tragic, but compelling and the emotions that come across the pages feels so real, you would think it was based on experience (god forbid).

But I guess that becoming a mother herself was all that the author needed to channel the emotion she would need to write this book. This book encompasses every parent’s nightmare. All I could think while reading this book was how I would cope in Olivia’s shoes. I tend to immerse myself into a story so, as I said and even now when writing this review I was getting choked up.

I could write more, but I don’t want to put too much in the review, I recommend you grab a copy and read it yourself (With tissues at hand).

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Excerpt

This was no longer home to a fearless girl who had more love for Olivia than she deserved. This would now become a place of nightmares for her daughter. Would she ever be able to sleep in this room again? Would she ever want to sleep alone? Would she ever feel safe?

Olivia struggled to come to terms with what Melanie’s life would be like if she survived this. She hadn’t done anything to deserve this. Alexander wasn’t without his faults, and neither was Olivia, but Melanie was so young, so pure, so innocent. Now, at far too young an age, she would be jaded by the cruelties of the world.

Would she ever see her smile again?

Would she ever hear her carefree laugh?

Would she ever feel her unconditional love as she flung her arms around her?

Bleakness invaded Olivia right down to her core as she fell onto Melanie’s unmade bed. Sheets that were once warm from her presence had grown cold, and Olivia could no longer keep it in. She wasn’t just watching a made-for-TV movie about a successful, semi-famous family losing their daughter. She was living the nightmare. wishing with everything she had that this would all be over soon, that it wasn’t real.

“Wake up!” Olivia screamed, slapping her face as relentless tears streamed down her cheeks. She curled into a ball, the torment growing inside her becoming unbearable. It felt like someone was ripping her open with sadistic apathy, the pace languid and sluggish, taking pleasure from each strained breath she struggled to capture. Her skin prickled with the heat of a thousand branding irons. No matter how loud she screamed, it wouldn’t dull the pain.

“Wake up, Olivia!” she bellowed again, louder and more desperate. Nothing worked. No matter what she did, no matter how loud her cries, nothing would wake her from this nightmare.

Sobs wracked through her body as she fought for air. She tried to gain control over her body and tears, but it was useless. She was no longer in command of her own destiny. Even the seemingly innate task of inhaling and exhaling had become arduous and complicated. Melanie was her lifeline, her reason for living. Without her, Olivia’s heart gave out, her lungs refused to work, her body shut down.

Suddenly, a pair of familiar, strong arms cradled her, lifting her off the torturous bed, cocooning her in a shelter only they could provide. They comforted her sobs, giving her exactly what she needed. She cried into her husband’s chest, a hundred tears falling for every regret. No words were spoken. Lowering himself to the floor, he simply held her in his lap, wiping her tears, providing her with warmth in this cold, hateful world.

She didn’t know how many minutes ticked by as he remained there, silently assuring her with his presence that they would get through this, that everything would work out. Still, she knew they would never be the same. This had shaken their family to its core. There was no returning to the way things were before.

Olivia cried harder.

She cried for all the time she should have spent with her daughter instead of working tirelessly for one charity or another. She cried for all the times she told her no when she should have said yes. Yes, we can have pancakes for dinner. Yes, we can go feed the ducks at the pond. Yes, we can make Christmas cookies in July.

Exhaustion set in as her cries subsided and she closed her eyes. The last thing she saw before drifting off was Melanie standing alone in a dark room, a blank expression on her pale face.

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Author Bio

T.K. Leigh, otherwise known as Tracy Leigh Kellam, is a USA Today Bestselling author of the Beautiful Mess series, in addition to several other works. Originally from New England, she now resides in sunny Southern California with her husband, dog, and three cats, all of which she has rescued (including the husband). In late 2015, she gave birth to her first (and only) baby. When she’s not planted in front of her computer, writing away, she can be found training for her next marathon (of which she has run over fifteen fulls and far too many halfs to recall) or chasing her daughter around the house.

T.K. Leigh is represented by Jane Dystel of Dystel & Goderich Literary Management. All publishing inquiries, including audio, foreign, and film rights, should be directed to her.

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Review:Vanished by T.K. Leigh #NewRelease #5StarReview @givemebooksblog and @tk_leigh Title: Vanished Author: T.K. Leigh Genre: Mystery/Suspense/Thriller Release Date: February 7, 2017 Book Links  99c for release day only AMAZON…