Although this fiction blog is illustrated with photos of dolls, and dollhouse miniatures, the language and content of the storyline is intended for an adult audience. Please be advised.
|A ride to the Revere's house in Ian's wagon|
At one point, he took her hands and placed them on the reins, allowing her to take lead of the horses and the wagon. That small exchange of contact made her heart race, and the chest binding a vise squeezing the air out of her. Get a grip, Spinelli! He's just a guy. A drop dead gorgeous guy, but a guy just the same. No different from the hundreds of jerks back home. All nice and shiny on the outside, and selfish to the core. No need to go looking for trouble in 1775. Plenty of that where you come from. Besides, he thinks you're a disabled kid. A boy. He's just being polite. Calm yourself down girl.
Too soon, Sawyer pulled the wagon to a stop, and turned to speak to Beckett. "Revere's place is just down there's a way. If it's all right with you folks, I'd rather not take my wagon down this bit of road. Spring rains have made it nearly impassable, and I'd rather not risk gettin' stuck. You can't miss it though. Three story. L-shaped." He jumped off the driver's bench, and offered a hand to the "deaf boy", allowing her one last spark of contact.
Beckett and the man shook hands, making meaningless promises to talk again. Roxanne looked away, composing her face into a mask of indifference, and when he patted her on the shoulder to say good bye, she stared dumbly ahead, giving no sign she understood. He climbed back into his wagon, and continued down the road, giving them a final wave as he left.
Roxie and Beckett stood in the road for a minute or two watching him leave, until the Sheriff abruptly turned without a word in the direction Sawyer had pointed. She hesitated a moment, reluctant to lose sight of a dream, and then scrambled after him, fully expecting he'd have something to say. She'd caught a few of the looks he'd given her from the back of the wagon, none of them suggesting he was even mildly amused.
"What the hell was that about?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know exactly what I mean. Those flirty, puppy dog eyes you were making at Sawyer. Are you out of your fucking mind?"
"I wasn't..wasn't doing any such thing. I was just trying to look...simple. Like you said to do."
"Knock off the innocent act, Spinelli. I know very well when a woman's flirting. You were flirting. I can't imagine what you thought you'd gain from it."
Embarrassed, she worked to defend herself. "That's not true. I...I was just trying my best to act like someone lost in their own world. I'm sorry my performance didn't meet with your damn approval, Mr. Perfect." Once said, she immediately wished she could swallow back the words. The tone and the attitude. She'd known going into this it was a test of sorts. That he would measure her ability to follow orders, and physically keep up with him. And now, it was obvious she had failed on all levels.
Before she could apologize, he stopped dead and turned to her. "I'm gonna state three facts, Spinelli, and I want you to listen carefully. Fact # 1...we are here on a mission. Our mission is to retrieve the target, my wife, and return her to her own body. Nothing else matters. Not your issues, or mine. Are we clear on that?
She could only nod, a knot growing in her throat, her cheeks hot with shame.
"I didn't hear you. Are we clear on that?"
"Good. Fact #2...the less interaction we have with anyone or anything in this time period, the better. We do not want to draw any unnecessary attention to our presence here, because doing that puts our mission at risk. Complicates things, and I don't like things complicated. Understand?"
She looked away, unable to face him. "Yes, Sir."
"And Fact #3...Mr. Sawyer was flirting back. Which means one thing. He is most likely gay, and possibly a pedophile at that. You are posing as a teenage boy. He has no reason to believe you are anything but what we say you are. Yet, he goes out of his way to please you. To try and make you happy. Think, Spinelli! Why else would he do that?"
That thought had been a tiny bug burrowing in the back of her head, but she had squashed it before it could take hold. She knew a lot of gay guys. All types. And Ian hadn't given off those vibes. Then again, since the time travel, she hadn't been herself. Hadn't felt...well...right, as if part of her hadn't made the trip. She wondered if it had anything to do with the whole "lost part of the soul" theory.
"Is it possible Mr. Sawyer is just a nice person, Sir?"
Beckett made a face, and shook his head. "You really can't be that naive, can you, Deputy? You're no simpering virgin, of that I'm sure. And by your own admission, you've had more life experience in the seedy underworld than most people. If you look at this logically, you'll come to the same conclusion. And even if he is a straight guy, or even bi-sexual, if the case may be, he's from this time period, and you are not."
"I understand, Sir."
"I sure as hell hope so, Spinelli. Do not make me regret bringing you along. Please restate our mission for me."
"Our mission, Sir, is to locate the target, and use whatever means required to return the target to her own body with minimum interaction among or with the locals."
"That is correct, Deputy. And we will successfully complete that mission." He turned and walked away, leaving her to swallow her shame, disappointment and broken heart in one sour mouthful.
Part of him felt a twinge of guilt. She wasn't a trained operative. Truth was, she wasn't a trained anything. But she had shown more perseverance, more commitment than a lot of newbies he'd worked with. Plus, she had volunteered to accompany him for purely altruistic reasons. Part of it had to do with Kevin, for whom she obviously cared deeply. But he had a soft spot towards her for her genuine concern over his Desert Rose. She understood how confused Maureen would be at all that was happening, how desperate was her situation, and had offered herself up in the rescue of his wife.
Still, that whole interaction between Roxanne and Sawyer was odd. The colonist hadn't struck him as gay, not initially, but people had a way of hiding their true desires. He himself was a perfect example of that. Throughout his career, he had prided himself on the ability to see beneath the surface of human masks. It was what made him the successful operative he was. Find the weakest link, the chink in the armor, and go in for the kill. In Sawyer's case, he'd hadn't felt anything that set off his radar. He appeared, as Spinelli had stated, a nice guy.
Discussion didn't matter. It was best for all involved if they left Ian Sawyer to memory, and focused on the task at hand. Until this moment, he hadn't let him self think about actually seeing Maureen in Rachel Revere's body. How it might make him feel. How he might react. It hadn't made sense to dwell in emotions when there was cold, hard obstacles in the way. But now that he was minutes away from facing that dilemma, he was a tad concerned, though he'd never admit it. Not to anyone, even Maureen.
Would he recognize her somewhere in that strange body? Would she recognize him? If it was the same for Maureen as it had been for the others, he'd recognize her eyes. Once it had been pointed out to him back home, he'd been able to see the differences. In the eyes, as well as in the gestures, the speech pattern, the little idiosyncrasies that made each human being unique. And Rachel in Maureen's body had seemed to be able to access some of his wife's memories, something that made him more than a bit uncomfortable. But if she held him in any distaste, she hadn't made it public, and for that he was grateful.
Then there was that whole... intimacy thing. Because he had the benefit of Kevin and Roxanne's experiences, he had quickly come to the realization that the woman in the flat over the deli was not his wife. He hadn't needed to deal with the issue of being intimate with someone who wasn't Maureen. Mrs. Revere was safe in her modesty and faithfulness to her husband, but he wondered if it had gone the same for his wife. In this time period, it was unlikely that a wife would not make herself available to her husband as he wished. For her own safety...her own sanity...it was likely his Desert Rose would have just submitted. At least he hoped she had. He hoped that she had enough common sense to do whatever it was that kept her safe and sane, knowing he would fully understand.
The house came into view just as Sawyer had described. He'd never paid much attention to it in modern day Boston, hadn't ever taken the tour as part of The Freedom Trail. But seeing it there, home to Maureen for at least a few days, as well as the famous Paul Revere, gave him a new sense of admiration. He went around to the front, and knocked at the door, preparing himself for the face of Rachel Revere, or at least a younger version. He had researched extensively for images of Rachel as she might have been in 1775. There were several of paintings that had been done when she was a woman of 60, but only a handful of a more youthful Mrs. Revere. They showed a serene face with high forehead, straight, long nose, and an ample bosom. He had tried to picture Maureen with big boobs and couldn't. It would be interesting, to say the least.
The door was opened by a sullen young girl of about 11, holding a squealing infant in her arms, whose lungs were healthy if high pitched wailing was proof of such things. She looked at him with gray blue eyes, wary and apprehensive. He plastered the most generic of smiles on his face, lest he scare the poor thing. "Good Day, Lass. Is Mrs. Revere at home?"
She answered his question with a long stare, then politely asked, "Who be it, Sir, that is asking?"
No doubt Revere had schooled his children to be aware of the danger the climate of the time brought, and he respected the girl's fortitude in dealing with strangers.
"I am Mr. Theodore Walker, Miss Revere. Your step-mother's cousin. From Philadelphia. I've come to visit with the greetings and well wishes of her family in regards to her recent marriage and the birth of her child."
The girl weighed his answer, and then, over the squealing of the infant, pointed to the back of the house. "Ma is back there, fetching some milk." Then without further information, the girl shut the door, and he could hear her slide the bolt in place. Where others might have been offended at her abrupt rudeness, Beckett was impressed. Paul Revere was a man after his own mind, who obviously instructed his children to the dangers that might affect them, and what action to take. As a father, he he'd surely do the same.
He walked over to Roxanne, whispering to her in a low voice. "You stay here. Keep an eye out for anyone approaching the house. If you see anyone, come get me."
She nodded, knowing better than to ask further questions, and he turned and walked toward the back of the property. There was a small shed, home to a large cow tied to a post. The woman sat on a three-legged stool, her back to him, tugging at the cow's swollen udders, and spitting out a furious stream of familiar obscenities. He felt a sudden, overwhelming sense of relief. He'd heard those words before. Many times. His Desert Rose had the face of an angel, all porcelain skin and auburn curls, and the language of the roughest sailor when she was frustrated or angry.
He stopped a few feet away, not wishing to startle her, and called out, "Mrs. Revere?" Then, needing to be sure, and unable to wait any longer he added, "Maureen?"
The woman spun on the stool, and turned to face him. Her eyes were wide round saucers over the long nose, and her wide mouth dropped open. "Ted? Ted? Oh my God...thank you Jesus...is it really you?" She ran toward him, flinging herself into his open arms, tipping the sloshing bucket, and covering them both in a warm, frothy bath of milk.
|Rachel Walker Revere|
Copyright 2015 Victoria T. Rocus
All Rights Reserved