I tried my best to follow Gracen’s advice as well, making sure I said very little, and never about anything personal. There were times I had to ask questions, but whenever possible, I stuck with quick smiles and nods. My leg was healing quickly, but I still hadn't figured out what my plan would be for getting home, so staying here seemed like the best idea for the time being.
That first day, I'd heard rumors that a high-ranking British officer had come by, but since I hadn't been dragged out of the house to face murder charges, I assumed Gracen's father had taken care of it. Still, I kept a low profile.
In some ways, my schedule wasn't much different than it had been in Iraq. Up at dawn, working my ass off, and then, by evening, I would retreat to my room, usually too tired to do anything but lie down on the uncomfortable bed and stare aimlessly at the ceiling until exhaustion caught up with me. I usually spent those last waking minutes thinking about home, about my parents and Ennis, sometimes about Bruce, and more often about Gracen.
I hadn't seen him much since that night, catching quick glimpses of him here and there as I went about my chores. I caught myself staring at him a few times, watching how he moved, the confidence with which he carried himself. When I’d gotten the chance to talk to him, the discussions had been short and quick, Gracen usually asking about how I was being treated before rushing off to attend to one thing or the other. He wasn't cold, exactly, but there was a definite effort to distance himself.
Except I was certain I could feel him watching me. Every time I tried to catch him, he was busy with something else, but I knew he kept looking my way. His eyes haunted me, and at times, I felt as if they could see right through me. Every time he did look my way, I found myself flustered. Half the time, I dropped whatever I was holding or forgot important things. Like my name. Or why I shouldn't just tell him the whole truth about who I was and what had brought me there.
I wouldn’t, of course, because I'd already gotten myself into enough trouble. I didn't need to add “crazy person claiming to be from the future” to it.
Sometimes it was like he was two different people. One I'd become vaguely familiar with during our time together outside the estate. The other was the façade I saw for the first time when Gracen had brought in his father to meet the new servant.
Roston Lightwood was the complete opposite of his son. He was shorter than Gracen, but still a tall man. His hair was silver, though I suspected it'd been dark at one time. His eyes were hazel, but the color wasn't the only difference. His expression and gaze were cold, disdainful. He was a man of stature, and he had no problems flaunting it in front of everyone, as if his very life depended on his ability to make everyone around him feel small.
He looked me up and down for the briefest of seconds when he'd first seen me, clicking his tongue as I watched him genuinely size me up, as if I were one of his horses and he was deciding what to do with me. He'd only asked for my name, nothing more, and when I'd given it to him, he quickly dismissed me with a wave of his hand.
Maybe it was wrong of me, but I despised him immediately. I quickly lowered my gaze so that he wouldn’t see my emotions all over my face. I didn't know what Gracen had told his father about the “man” who'd killed the British soldiers, but I did know that the only thing Roston knew about me was that I was a charity case who had nowhere else to go. That put me lower than the colonial servants, which was saying something.
He ran the household like clockwork, and the servants were wary of angering him. I'd never seen him angry, but I'd seen his look before, the look of a man who would do anything to get what he wanted and would never take no for an answer.
It was a miracle Gracen had a gentle side at all living under this man’s thumb.
“Washington is a madman.”
Roston stood firmly in the center of the study, wine in his hand as he demanded the attention of the room. Gracen sat in a chair beside him, eyeing his father as the older man gestured in the direction of the city.
“As if a ragged bunch of farmers would be a match for the greatest army in the world.” Roston drained half of his glass. “Hopefully, this loss will show those rebels that this is a lost cause for them.”
I stood to one side in the parlor, my head lowered as Titus whispered instructions to me every few minutes. I moved swiftly through the room, doing as asked, making sure Master Lightwood and his guests were kept content. It took all of my self-control not to show how disgusted I felt, both at what they were saying and at myself for serving them without speaking up.
There were four other men with them, all Loyalists who had gathered to discuss the siege and the battle. I'd already bitten the inside of my cheek a dozen times or more to stop myself from speaking up, the ridiculous accusations and insults being tossed around both frustrating and provoking.
I was pretty sure Titus was hoping I'd slip up and voice my opinions on the matter, maybe get thrown out, or worse, arrested and handed over to the British. What had Gracen called me? A sympathizer? I didn't know if he'd passed that along to Titus, or if Titus had figured it out somehow, but the sideways looks the steward was giving me told me that my placement here hadn't been accidental.
So far, I'd caught Gracen’s eye only once throughout it all, and I'd seen the concern there. He didn't need to worry. As pissed off as I was by what they were saying, I had enough self-control to bite my tongue.
Besides, I reminded myself, I knew how the war would eventually end.
“A marvelous victory,” one of the guests voiced, raising his glass as if to toast what I knew had been the turning point...for the Americans.
I suppressed a smile as I remembered that the British had lost more than twice the number of soldiers as the Americans. Technically, they'd won, but history would record Bunker Hill as a different kind of victory.
Roston smiled at the man and raised his glass as well. “I almost pity the colonists,” he said with a smile. “Then I remember that I have better things to do with my emotions.”
The rest of the party – minus one – chuckled at that, and my fists clenched. Gracen looked over at me again, and this time, I knew my true feelings were showing. But it wasn't just anger at what the other men were saying. It was at what he wasn't saying. I wanted to yell at him to speak up, to tell them how a colonist had saved his life, but I didn’t.
It wasn't easy.
“It’s George Washington,” another man said. “Instilling false hope in these colonists. Some of them are nothing more than peasants, really. A shame, how their loyalty can so easily be manipulated.”
“A true gentleman cannot be manipulated,” a third chimed in. “These savages had no loyalty to begin with.”
“I wouldn’t necessarily say that,” Gracen said, and for an instant, the entire room fell into an awkward silence. His eyes flickered to me for a second, but no one else seemed to notice, though I suddenly felt like the temperature in the room had gone up a couple degrees. “They are loyal to their cause. I think we can attest to that.”
“A lost cause,” Roston corrected.
Gracen hesitated as he looked at his father, then nodded slowly. “That may be, but loyalty nonetheless.” “Whether these skirmishes end in their favor or ours, we cannot deny that their loyalties lie with their commander-in-chief.”
Roston scoffed as one of the other guests chuckled heartily. “Commander-in-chief indeed,” the elder Lightwood sneered. “The man’s a hooligan and a fake. His followers will notice that soon enough.”
“Precisely, Father,” Gracen smiled, his voice even. “His followers. Certainly, we can call that loyalty.”
“I believe, Roston, that your boy has found sympathy for the colonists,” one of the guests chuckled. From where I stood, though, I could see the man’s eyes, and the look he was giving Gracen was far from amused, despite the fake smile on his face.
Roston noticed it too.
“My son is more loyal to the Crown than his father,” Roston said firmly. “If it were not for my sake, he
would be standing in the ranks of the king’s army shooting rebels as we speak.”
“Then why hold him back?” the other man challenged.
Roston took a sip from his wine as he regarded his guest. The challenge had not gone unnoticed, and I could easily see the fury building.
“My son’s engagement party is the day after tomorrow,” Roston said, his voice strained yet calm. “After that, he is free to do as he pleases.”
My chest tightened in a way I didn't like, and I stole a glance at Gracen. His face had gone white, though judging by the similar color of his knuckles, anger, not fear, was the emotion behind it. His lips pressed together, and I knew he was holding back what he really wanted to say.
“In that case,” one of the other guests broke through the tension that had risen in the room, “a toast to the young Lightwood.”
The other men raised their glasses in unison, and from my corner in the shadows, I tried to tell myself that Gracen's engagement didn't matter to me.
Not. At. All.
Chapter Fourteen
“You a different one, ain’t ya?”
I looked up from the buckets of water I'd just dragged in to see a young black girl looking down at me. I'd seen her around but hadn't talked to her. And to be honest, my interactions with the rest of the staff had lost what little importance they'd had.
It was the day of Gracen’s engagement party, and the preparations for it weren’t the only things keeping me awake at night. I hadn't seen Gracen since that night in the parlor, and I hadn’t dared ask about him either. Titus clearly felt that what happened had put me in my place, and I wondered if it was less my loyalties and more my relationship with Master Gracen that had concerned him. Though what Titus suspected that relationship was, I didn't know.
I was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that he was engaged, a fact that had kept me up late, kept me distracted when I should've been trying to figure out how to get home. I had no idea why I cared that he was getting married, only that I did. I tried writing it off as some sort of weird bond due to what we'd gone through together, but a part of me couldn't help but feel it was something more.
Not that it could ever be anything other than what it was. For all I knew, Gracen and his wife-to-be were the ancestors of some really important person, and if I messed with that, I'd seriously screw up the world I wanted to get back to.
“Not just your talkin',” the girl said. She eyed me from where she stood, her dress hanging on her lean figure. “Everything about you is different.”
I smiled at her, and her eyes widened a bit. I felt bad about that. I'd been trying to keep to myself, so even in the short time I'd been here, I'd developed a reputation for not being the friendliest person. I was pretty sure Titus had done all he could to help me along with that.
“What’s your name?” I asked as I straightened. I winced as the movement pulled the still tender skin on my leg.
She wasn’t as tall as most of the other women, but I had a feeling it was more due to her age than anything else. She had that lanky look that I had before I hit my last growth spurt.
“Dye,” the girl answered.
“I’m Honor,” I said, holding out my hand.
She looked at it briefly before taking it, her hold firm as she nodded.
“So, Dye, why do you think I’m different?”
She shrugged, but her eyes never left mine. “You’re no colonist,” she said. “You ain’t from these parts, but you don't sound like no foreigner I ever heard.”
I stuck with the story I told Gracen. “I ran away from home, and Master Gracen was good enough to hire me.”
Dye shook her head. “You ain’t run away from nothin’,” she said firmly. “You been brought here.”
I frowned, not understanding. “What do you mean?”
“I know runaways,” Dye said, “and you ain’t one. I reckon you don’t run away easy.”
I was about to reply when Titus walked into the kitchen and started barking orders. Dye instantly acted like she'd been busy helping me with the buckets as we trudged to a corner of the kitchen and got to work. I saw her eyeing Titus from where we stood, and when her gaze fell back to me, her expression told me that she wasn't done talking.
I wasn't sure yet if that was a good or bad thing.
The party was beyond extravagant.
Never in my life had I ever seen so many people in such close quarters, flaunting their riches as if competing against one another. The level of sheer narcissism and pretentiousness almost made me gag. The worst part was that I knew people in my own time weren't any different. Even those who protested the war saw nothing wrong with lavish parties and excessive spending habits.
The bulk of guests were gathered in the main dining room, the biggest space in the entire house. I spent most of the morning being taught how to properly set the table. Now, I stood to one side, waiting for a gesture from one guest or the other before rushing to get what was needed, fighting the urge to spit in the wine as I wore my best fake smile and acted as if the condescending tones and barks thrown at me were normal.
Part of me wondered how many of these people would remain in America after the war ended, if their descendants lied about loyalties the way I knew some people did regarding slavery and civil rights. Had I been fighting to protect the descendants of these arrogant, prejudiced people? Fortunately, I was kept too busy to dwell on those thoughts for too long.
The entire staff was working tonight, the overwhelming number of guests kept us all on our toes, and from the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Dye, the expression on her face telling me that I wasn't the only one needing to practice self-control.
I had to admit though, being in the midst of the upper class during this time period had certainly opened my eyes as to why these people were Loyalists. Everything about the revolution endangered their way of life. While people would always complain about the chasm between the rich and the poor, as well as the problems with immigration, the distinctions of class had gotten blurred in most places.
Despite my desire to announce to the entire room that they were the ones fighting a losing battle, I kept a low profile, making sure I met every snide comment or lecherous glance with a polite smile and nod of my head. My temper simmered just below the surface, threatening to explode with every new insult. At one point during the festivities, I tried to retreat to the kitchen where I wouldn't have to deal with people, but Titus seemed to sense my discomfort and pushed me back out into the melee.
Since I appeared to have no other choice but to smile and bear it, I instead focused on the details. The clothing, the food, the speech patterns. Ennis would've killed for only a few minutes of what I was experiencing. If – when, not if – I got home, I didn't know if I'd be able to share what happened with anyone, but if I did, Ennis would be it, and he'd want to know everything.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention!”
The chatter quickly died as we all turned toward Roston. He, like almost all of the other men in the room, had donned a wig for the occasion, and it only added to his pretentious manner. I didn't know the proper names for everything he was wearing, but it all looked stiff and heavy, the quality of the material obvious even from where I was standing. For one surreal moment, I felt like I'd fallen into some historical painting or textbook picture.
Then Roston began his speech, and I snapped back to the reality of my present situation.
“There comes a time in every man’s life when the happiness of his son is of utmost importance.” His voice seemed to echo in the silence, his words reverberating through the room. “That time has come for me, as I stand proudly amongst you all to celebrate my son’s engagement to the beautiful Miss Clara Stiles.”
A double set of doors to Roston’s left opened, and I felt the breath catch in my chest as I saw Gracen for the first time tonight. He was dressed as finely as his father, but the younger Lightwood wore it better. Each cut and line, from his coat
to his breeches, told me that the clothes had been specially made for him. He must've been as sweltering as the rest of the people crammed into the room, but his face betrayed nothing. And I could see all of it. He wasn't wearing a wig, but he'd pulled his hair back in the current fashion, somehow managing to tame his wild curls.
He only held my attention for a few seconds, however, as my gaze turned to his fiancée. She was gorgeous, her dress perfectly complimenting her curves even as it dazzled the room. Her sandy-colored hair was piled up on top of her head in a way that made me wonder how long it had taken to get it to stay. Her sapphire eyes moved across the room, clearly taking stock of all in attendance. Her features were fine and delicate, the epitome of feminine.
The minute the couple stepped through the doors, the entire room burst into applause. I forced myself to join in despite the ache I felt. No matter how much I told myself that I should be happy for Gracen, that this had technically already happened, I couldn't stop my chest from tightening, couldn't stop the way my stomach churned.
As I watched the couple stride into the room, my breath began to come in short gasps. The corset I'd been forced into made each inhalation painful and I looked around for an escape. The noise around me became overwhelming, the scent of so many bodies overpowering. I could barely think.
Then, suddenly, I felt a hand on my arm. Dye had already begun to pull me away before I even registered that it was her. I concentrated on staying on my feet, trusting her to take me somewhere safe. As she led my escape, I could hear Roston’s voice booming behind me as he started up again. Something about duty and honor that made me want to laugh. I could respect Loyalists who managed to love their home country while still respecting others. I didn't have to know much about him to know that men like him were patriotic because it suited their lifestyle.