Chapter Text
✦
"So you're a traveller as well."
Claire, along with Bree―I'll call her Brianna―and her husband, Roger, had ushered me back into the sitting room, which they called the 'parlour', leaving Jamie to discuss other matters with Lord John―I assumed it might've been somewhat regarding the Revolutionary War.
William had left for Wilmington, long before the two older men would find themselves cooped up in the study upstairs. I hadn’t stayed in North Carolina long enough to appreciate the state, or even the country itself, but hearing that he was going there made my heart clench.
Wilmington. By all technicalities, I was home. But what does home mean if I don’t have my family with me? If I didn’t have a single person I knew by my side? Mister Lord Ellesmere certainly didn’t count, and neither did Lord John.
I couldn’t go into town, since they hadn’t offered to take me. They told me to stay, so I did, and William would travel in the company of another resident here at Fraser’s Ridge.
Ian Murray.
He was a sight to behold when my eyes found him. A white man in cultural garb, that of Native Americans. He arrived shortly after Brianna introduced herself, and by extension, Roger.
“It is a pleasure to meet ye,” Ian said, with a stone face, not harsh, just… neutral. With not even a hint of a smile.
"Likewise,” I responded. I’d forced myself to look right at him, maintaining eye contact and refusing to break it. It intrigued me and I wanted to just stare. But I didn’t.
Immediately, he caught on to my accent. "Are ye no' from here?"
I shook my head. "No. I'm from―" I stopped myself, narrowly, about to reveal the country where I was born. At that moment, I found panic in Claire's expression, and then continued. "―The Philippines."
"The Spanish colony?"
Every part of my being urged me not to roll my eyes. "Yes..." I flashed another glance Claire's way, then back to Ian. "The Spanish colony." My words came out more strained than they should have.
"What brought ye to the Americas?"
With a tight smile, I exhaled through my nostrils. "Family." I didn't mean to act that way, now that I remember how badly my patience was diminishing. I saw his reaction as well, the flash of disappointment, probably thinking that he was wasting my time. That was far from the truth. I changed my act and gave him a more genuine smile. "Sorry, I'm terribly exhausted."
Then, the corner of his lips tugged upwards. "Dinna fash. Once ye have rested, there will be plenty o' time to get to know more about each other."
Ian was swept away then, greeting Lord John and his uncle, Jamie. I didn't miss the lingering body just behind the door frame, out in the hallway, where William stood, watching me. It was as if he hesitated, and now that I think about it, he probably didn't want to leave. My smile widened, as I waved, but he didn't return the small greeting. He disappeared, following Ian upstairs with the other men. Maybe he wasn't the type of person to show affection in front of others. But, why would I expect that?
Now, I sit here on the surgery table, as Brianna stares at me, fascinated that I've found my way back to this time. "Yeah," I answer her, finally. "I guess you could say that."
"Well, you don't need to be so coy about it," she jokes, crossing her arms over her chest. "Tell us more about yourself."
I tense up, gripping the table, preparing for whatever reaction they might give me. It takes me a moment to gather my wits. I hoped I could've just come out with it, but it's harder than I thought. To tell the truth, dropping it on them like a weight off my shoulders. I then clasp my hands together, take a deep breath, and start to run my thumb over the button. "My name is Cressida Cristobal, I am a Filipino woman, and I was born and raised in New South Wales. The first colony of Australia."
"Australia?" Roger echoes, his eyes widening, stunned. "An outlander, surely."
"Huh?" My brow crooks upward. "What do you mean?"
He chuckles as if I've said something funny. "Among us, you're the only person from the colonies."
"And now you voluntarily live in the colonies," I quip, smirking.
"I'm certain that we needn't call it as such," Claire chimes in. "We know that in our times it is an independent country."
I nod, but can't help myself, responding with, "But in this time, the States are still occupied by the English."
A tinge of surprise flashes across her face like she didn't expect me to sound so cunty. She probably wouldn't describe me like that. "Yes. They are."
"Sorry," I immediately blurt out, feeling guilty for my attitude. "I'm just―"
"―Tired." She smiles. "Well, I'm sure we can set something up for you, either in this house, or you can stay in the cabin."
It doesn't take me long to think about it, considering Brianna and Roger and their living situation. I look up at the ceiling as if I could see the rooms above us on the second floor, then back at the couple. "Where do yous stay?"
Yous. Why do I insist on speaking the way that I do?
Brianna blinks at her mother, then back at me. "We stay in the cabin, but I'm sure we can make space for you―"
Instantly, I shake my head, rejecting their offer. "―No. Thank you. I'm not gonna kick you out of your home."
"You hardly have an option."
I shrug, nonchalantly. "I'll just stay with William and Lord John, wherever they're going to." Claire hitches her breath, catching my attention as I eye her up and down, then back up again. "What?"
"Well, they'll most likely find accommodation in Wilmington," she informs me.
"Okay? Then I'll go there."
Suddenly, the room got tense and I felt it in the way I squared my shoulders, sitting upright and no longer gripping the edge of Claire's operating table. There's hesitation. I don't need to sense it if I can see it on all three of their faces. Brianna and Roger looked sympathetic if anything, and Claire... she seemed... determined. Protective? I'm not sure. I don't know her enough―or any of them―to put a finger on what they're like or how they might feel.
"The people there..." The older woman speaks as if this apothecary is a church, delivering her confession. "... They exercise their beliefs―or more so, their ignorance―regarding others who are..."
And then she pointedly looks me over. I purse my lips, clasping my hands together, on my lap. "Coloured.”
Even though I know the weight of my situation, I'm able to come to terms with it, she nods carefully as if any other response would break me.
"Would they do anything if I'm in William's company?" My voice is weaker now. "Or John's?"
"Probably not." Claire steps forward, timidly. "But there's still a chance that they will try to harm you, no matter if you are a free woman."
I clench my teeth together, defensively. "I am a free woman."
"Only because William and Lord John took you under their wing," Brianna cut in, also stepping forward. "I'm sure either of them might've said that if not for their efforts, you would've been taken."
"I don't want to think about that."
Brianna holds my hands, comforting me as best as she can. "I'm sure you don't."
My brows furrow, before I change the subject. Only slightly. "How do you guys know so much?"
Claire lets out a scoff, but not to mock me. She’s amused. For the past hour or so, because that’s how long I’ve been here, it seems everything I’ve said to anyone incites some kind of laugh. “The man himself.”
Almost too eagerly, I guess, “William?”
"John,” she corrects me.
"Of course.”
Brianna snickers. “He wrote to us before you arrived.”
My frown deepens. “How long do couriers take to deliver letters?”
“Faster than carriage,” Roger comments. “Didn’t ye make stops on the way here?”
Oh. Of course. “Yeah.”
"That settles it, then, doesn’t it?”
I only nod.
Brianna moves closer than Claire, so now she stands in front of me. “I’m curious…”
I chuckle. “Isn’t everybody?”
Her smile beams, like the morning sun isn’t the only source of light for this room, as she pulls her hands away from mine. “… What year are you from?”
I don’t mean to appear so stunned as my lips part and I almost gasp. I blink at all three of them, swallowing my nerves and turning over the button, my fingers working like a spider and her prey on the web. “2024.” Twenty-twenty-four is how I answered that.
"Christ." Roger has to find his footing, grasping the edge of the operating table. "You're far in there aren't ye, lass?"
For some reason, I start to think about how old they might be if they lived through their years, not here in 1776, up until the 21st century. It's simple maths, right? Only if I knew their ages. "Yeah."
"How old are you?" Brianna presses, leaning beside me.
Our eyes meet, and I've never seen so much fascination like I might be a relic myself. "25."
"Goodness, you're so young." Claire releases an exasperated breath, then I see a flash of recollection cross her face. "You said you came here by accident, I recall."
How am I supposed to explain all that? I couldn't even explain it to William and Lord John, and for good reason, and maybe these three might understand me better... but I can't shake this feeling that none of it would make sense. But they're travellers, right? They have to know about the stones. There have to be other locations where I could possibly get back that they know about if Hartleyhenge doesn't exist. "Right, I was meant to explain, wasn't I? Before that cockhead interrupted so rudely―"
Claire clears her throat, pointedly, giving me a stern look. I swore once, so why do I think it’s appropriate to make it a constant thing?
"Right. Sorry." My eyes drift out towards the window, watching the tenants and workers in the crops, performing their tasks tirelessly. “I was… close to Wilmington. My friends and I hadn’t seen each other in so long, and so we decided to go out camping together..." Sorrow weighs me down, and I feel my breathing slow. "... It was meant to be for the weekend..." I seemed to have a faraway look, as Brianna placed her hand on my shoulder, offering her comfort. That was enough compassion, like a surge of energy where I could compose myself again and tell my story.
"We went to Hartleyhenge. There were these standing stones and my friends happened to own some houses on that street, where the heritage site was basically their fuckin' backyard." No one reprimanded me for my foul mouth, as I glance up at them to find their tense expressions, sharing looks. “What? Do you know something?”
It was Claire who met my gaze first before she spoke. "That is how we all travelled."
I look at Brianna. "Even you?"
Brianna nods. "And my husband after me."
With the slightest turn of his head, I notice the scowl on Roger's face. It concerns me, but I understand that it's absolutely none of my business. I revert my attention to Brianna and Claire. "So, the stones... is that a common method of transportation? So to speak?"
"It seems it's the only method of transportation." Brianna moves towards the window I've been staring out of, looking over the field and the path from where I arrived in the carriage, with William and Lord John. "But, it isn't the most reliable."
"Why not?"
"Roger and I... we both tried to return to our time, but it didn't turn out as we hoped it would."
What? The stones can just decide not to work for someone when they wish to go home? Even when they weren't meant to be relocated to a new world? That's going to be a problem. Going to be? That's already a problem. I'm not supposed to be here.
The panic rises, only slowly, as I feel my chest heave, breathing like I hadn't in a while. Maybe it's because I've been holding my breath for the past thirty seconds or less. Maybe it's because I'm quite literally panicking, even if I don't realise it at the moment. "So if I wanted to..." My words come out weak, blinking away the tears that sting my eyes. Maybe I've always said I'm stuck, I don't remember, but now I truly am. Something far worse: lost to time. "... I can never go home?"
A sob escapes through my lips as Claire responds with the same kind of tenderness I've heard from mum, her hands holding mine. "I'm sorry, but we can't risk it."
"What do you mean?" I'm almost desperate, clinging to her.
She hesitates, her breath hitching, as she holds on tighter. "What I mean to say is..." Her voice trails, sharing glances with her daughter, before looking upon me once more. "... The stones will not work the way you might think."
My bottom lip quivers, having anticipated this answer, bowing my head in defeat. But I don't want to believe it. I can't believe it. If anything, I refuse to. "There has to be some way where I can go back..."
"I'm sorry." Even her own voice shakes now, with empathy. "Truly."
Mum would only ever apologise if she cannot for the life of her say no. She never wanted to see me upset because of her responses, and she never seemed to realise that I'd always be upset long before whatever conversation or argument we'd have. This is like one of those times. Claire comforting me, not saying no in fear that that could be the reason I'd break.
Within the two weeks that I've been here, I've done my best to come to terms with my life as it is. My best. I like to believe that I get over things really quickly, no matter how jarring the situation might be, but that's not the case at all. I'm delusional, believing that everything has turned out fine as of late. It hasn't. I've been distracted. And I'm distraught. This is all a repeat of what William and Lord John had told me earlier.
I don't have much of a choice.
I am a spectator in this world, now. This has become my fate decided by God himself, or the Others who sit idly while he reigns. I will live as the woman from 200 years ahead, and sit pretty and listen quietly.
But I won't stop trying.
I will go home. I have to.
✦
My trunk, and we've packed light since leaving the manor, lies open on the ground of a new and temporary room, as I sift through the layers of different outfits that Mary and the girls had picked out for me. They've already decided on my colour theme, having speculated I'd look better in the colours of meadows, but I opted to throw in some warmer tones as well, like burnt oranges and burgundy.
I still wore the blue dress that I travelled in, and Brianna had offered to lend me one of hers: a more cosy get-up with patterns of wildflowers on blush pink. She said I could wear it tomorrow, or tonight for dinner if I wished.
The sky has changed into a blur of pink and purple, when I approach the bedroom window at last, abandoning my task of donning dummies with the other gowns. A peaceful sight, watching the thin trees sway with a passing breeze, while the sun dips below the horizon. Here I contemplate, whether or not I should just wear what I have on currently, or have a bath and try on Brianna's dress. Would I be able to wear it tomorrow? Would it be ‘improper’? I'd just be having dinner tonight. It's not as if I'll be doing any kind of physical activity, except eating.
A knock pulls me out of my thoughts and I look into the three mirrors of the vanity, finding William's reflection standing in the doorway, not quite passing the threshold. He'd removed his uniform, donning the waistcoat and his white shirt underneath it, tucked into his trousers. That scarf he normally wore around his neck is gone, and I suppose he wore it all the time, as I marvel at the skin there.
Swiftly, I twist on the cushioned seat to meet his scrutiny, then smile, still blushing because there's no chance I'm able to avoid that. "Hi."
"Good evening," he murmurs, slightly amused, before he falls into seriousness. "How's your head?"
I turn my back to him, continuing our conversation through the mirror. "My head?"
He squints his eyes at me, and I can't tell what he's thinking. But then, he says, "Do you often forget all of the injuries you've endured?"
Something clicks into place—my sensibility. Maybe I hadn't fully recovered yet, even if it's been a while. "Oh. Right. That." I shrug. "Yeah, I suppose I do, don't I? But, to answer your question: I'm feeling fine."
"Just fine?" He chuckles. "May I enter?"
"You're a big toe beyond the door."
He frowns.
I roll my eyes, failing to fight a smile. "Yes."
A glimmer in his eye doesn't sneak past my attentiveness, catching on to it with a thorough squint, picking it apart as if it meant something.
William glides through the room as he pleases. As he always pleases. Situating himself on a couch lining the wall, he surveys me, like he might as well have been making a diagnosis himself.
"What?" I grumble at his reflection.
"Have you removed those stitches?" His eyes meet mine through the mirror.
I look away, nodding, shyly. "Claire has. She was kind enough to, noticing a sizeable chunk of my hair missing, which to my talents has been kept well hidden." I reach up and gently graze my fingers over the scar, where I can feel the prickling sensation of hair growing again. Just along the shape that seems bigger than I thought it was. It must have been a big rock when I hit my head or just a really bad fall.
"That's a comfort to hear."
A simple glance at his reflection and my heart stamps into a competitive race with that same sensibility, pounding in my chest, thoroughly trying to win. William is already staring at me, but his expression is unreadable. I hold his stare, realising now that I haven't stopped smiling since he showed up.
"Are you suffering any headaches?"
In the cushioned seat, I pivot my body and face him properly. "Besides you?" It's meant as a joke.
Which, thankfully, he laughs at. "I'm a headache to you now, am I?"
"Well, not entirely." I stand up and approach him, stopping a metre away. A respectable distance. Until he also rises to his feet and comes a few inches closer.
"Allow me."
"To what?" I almost demand.
"To check your scar.”
Pursing my lips, I silently reprimand him. "You know you could’ve just asked so I’d—"
He placed a single hand on my shoulder and spun me around so fast that I didn’t have a chance to catch my breath. Or even finish my fucking sentence. It shocked me, to say the very least. It annoyed me even more so. “What the fuck—"
”Quiet.” William’s fingers gently parted my hair, to carefully inspect my head.
I scoff, crossing my arms. “Cockhead.”
He only laughs at that, a pretty sound that I’ve always enjoyed hearing, but not in this case necessarily.
He spends a moment coming through my hair with his hand, tracing the pattern of the scar, and finally making his report. “It isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”
“Well, how did you think it would’ve been?” I face him only after he’s stopped his assessment, still unimpressed that he manhandled me like that.
“Worse.” He quirks a brow, grinning. Then a slight frown appears, showing his concern. “No side effects?”
I shake my head. “I wouldn’t know what the side effects would be. I’ve never had a head injury this bad. Or at all.”
”You have survived thus far.”
I only nod in agreement, then return to the vanity, and begin brushing my hair. I tried to ignore the way his eyes had followed me, discerning it only as a friend watching over a friend. “You’re not in your uniform.”
“Do I have to be?”
”I didn’t say that.” I almost slam the brush down.
This fucking guy.
Again, he snickers or chortles or giggles, like the idiot he is. “I only jest. You are quite serious when you choose to be.”
I lift my brows. “Is that right?” Now, it’s my turn to assess him as I face my friend , scanning his more casual attire, even if it’s still his uniform. “When you’re wearing that red jacket and your scabbard, you’re so awfully uptight.”
There’s a flicker in his expression, as his smile drops slightly. Had I offended him? “Even if I choose not to wear the entire assemblage of my uniform, I’m no less a soldier.”
I throw my head back, a weight of annoyance overwhelming me dramatically that I’d react as such. “I only jest…” I mimic what he’d said. “God, are you ever any fun?”
William perks up, clasping his hands behind his back, making a good attempt to prove that I’m wrong about his demeanour by puffing out his chest and rolling his shoulders. “I can be.”
“Hm.” It’s up for consideration. “Whatever you say, my lord.”
He approaches me again, hands still behind his back. His smile returns, but there’s a hint of curiosity. Always. Never not curious. “How do you know what a scabbard is?”
I shrug, looking down at my fingers, then begin to play with the button. His button. “Do women not often know what a scabbard is?”
“That’s not what I asked.” His voice is softer, but the assertiveness makes me nervous. “Where did you learn about it?”
"At home. I suppose I just do my research.”
"And such things regarding weapons and tools of war interest you?”
"Not enough for you to talk my ear off.” I smile sincerely. "But, a lot of things interest me, as I've told you before."
His gaze hardens, picking me apart like I've also done with him. "Yes, I can recall..." He trails, wandering off in his own little world. "You are quite the modern woman."
"Oh?" My smile turns roguish. "Because I find fulfilment in the unexpecting things that we, delicate creatures, couldn't ever fathom?"
Maybe I'm overdoing it with whatever eloquence I might possess, but I'm thankful he laughs. "You are hardly the 'delicate' person."
Squinting my eyes at him, I press on, "For swearing a few times?"
"I doubt it was 'a few times'." William mirrors my expression, returning the challenge. He tilts his head, considering something, as he crosses his arms over his chest.
I definitely notice how the sleeves tighten, shaping his biceps deliciously, which prompts me to trail my gaze down to his hands. His fingers squeeze the muscle there, and my mind starts to wander on its own. Sometimes it's something I can't control. Sometimes I allow it. But right now, I'd smack myself and declare it inappropriate. He is my friend.
Instantaneously, I blink up to find him catching me in the act of pure admiration. Infatuation? Both. All of it.
He isn't surprised. Only amused, raising his brows, expecting some kind of explanation I might come up with.
But I don't have it in me to defend myself, standing there, terribly embarrassed. I can't say I'm sorry for checking him out. "What?" I demand. I'm always demanding.
He doesn't respond for five solid seconds, also raking his eyes over my body, shamelessly. Challenging me. Like he wants to see how I’d react. Or he's already seen my reaction and... enjoyed it?
The fuck?
Finally, he fashions a smirk, almost suggestive, but I deny that possibility, and gestures towards the door, simply stating, "Come. Let us have our supper."