Work Text:
June, 1774
Miss Sarah Phillips, of the London Phillipses, daughter of renowned Major Sir Samuel Phillips of the King’s Dragoons, youngest son of the late Lord Alistair Phillips of Hampshire, does not mean to indulge in rude breeding, nor allow herself any weakness of constitution. But as the heavy door to the Hall and Sellers’ printing house falls shut behind her – brass bell jingling through the wood – she cannot help that her lip curls
Weeks of travel down rutted North American highways had given her nose a respite from civilization. Forest and field alike were all a-riot in spring blossoms, and the delicacy had perfumed the journey to Philadelphia. Dogwood, rhododendron, milkweed, elderberry; they had been a restorative after endless months of Atlantic brine, Bostonian industry, and cramped urban stables. Even the air around cattle pastures was sweet with new-mown hay, and when the road meandered through marsh and wetland the fetid clumps of skunk cabbage were rapidly forgotten for the pines.
Now, nestled once more in civilization’s bosom, there’s that sulfur to the air – that omnipresent stagnation of puddles, night soil, and muck which haunts a port city. Midday sun beats its rays along the wooden shingle of Philadelphia’s roofline, stirring the last of the morning dew to waft. It lends no quarter to her accosted senses.
Still, Sarah wonders that the smell of a well-lived-in city should shock her nose quite so. Why, only think if it – a London-born, London-bred girl, startled that Philadelphia should have an aroma. It isn’t even bad as the threatening miasma that oft rises from the Thames. Had she lost her wits in Boston?
Noticing how her nose bunches, Sarah smooths her features into impassivity. She means no slight, of course, though a well-bred English girl might be entitled to take offense. She hopes the two ‘prentice boys loping on ahead haven’t taken notice.
On cue, young Henri’s exuberant shout brings her back to the present. She walks beyond the shopfront’s long awning and pulls down her hat’s brim against the swarthy noontide sun. It takes the space of a second or two for her eyes to adjust and register the lanky-limbed, sharp-jawed apprentice looking intently at her. Embarrassment lights up her nerves with the start that follows.
James Hiller’s lips part in his customary grin – the boyish one that pushes his ears out ever further, that straddles the line between impertinence and absolute impertinence. Even more nettlesome, he makes only the barest effort to smother the giggle at play in his throat. Sarah’s belly knots in a way she interprets as indignance; she gives vent with a tsk that – lamentably – serves to buoy James’ merriment.
“Set to rights, now?” he asks after settling. “Had no design t’startle you.”
Setting off the glitter in his eyes, his demeanor is gentle, his voice soft, carrying none of the sneer she expects. His gaze darts to her neck; her hand having flown up to the locket hanging near her collarbone, the gold – his mother’s gold – still rests beneath her fingertips.
She makes her hand fall back to her side. Something close to guilt complicates her irritation and her eyes roll defensively.
“I wasn’t startl’d, Mister Hiller.”
His eyes flick back up to hers. “No. Matter o’ course. ‘Tis yer custom, leapin’ two feet midair whene’er you chance look upon me.”
Good humor crinkles his cheeks. She tries to cow him under a glare, the only consequence of which is a full laugh as he walks on and gestures for her to follow.
“You look a wildcat,” He snickers, shifting the canvas market wallet slumped across his shoulder. “Miss Sally Grumblepuss.”
“And you look a – a rascally fellow wanting in manners!”
Sarah knows the comeback is dull – can feel the lameness of her wit in her very soul – but James makes a sound somewhere between guffaw and scoff. Any little sign of his being unnerved by her is a victory too sweet to deny relishing.
Sarcasm renders his voice deadpan. “A rascally fellow? You pierce my soul. Truly. I am beset, milady –“
“Don’t call me that.”
“– beset and laid low by yer sharpest o’ wits n’ sharpest o’ tongues.”
“Whye’er do I have you boys drag me along your chores.”
For a moment, James regards her with an expression she can’t quite read. “Not much t’be done in the shop that serves you, maybe? I’d be restless without employ, m’self. Besides,” he adds, mischief trickling back in his features, “you admire our manly tenacity.”
Once more, Henri’s pitched scream rises on cue – the sort of shriek made by children that cannot be classified, one with all the appearance of bloodcurdling agony despite being uttered in the very pitch of joy. Sarah’s gaze snaps to the direction of his voice, only to find Henri engaged in some sort of circuitous chase with a pigeon. The empty wheelbarrow he’d been tasked with lies abandoned on its side not three yards away.
“Yes, of course,” Sarah mutters. “Manly tenacity.”
James, in spite of himself, is unable to hold back a chuckle. The tiniest little spark blossoms in Sarah’s chest at the sound. She allows herself freedom enough to indulge the faint smile tickling her cheek. But then –
“By the by, that isn’t one of yours, is it?” she asks when the set-upon pigeon quits the street to escape Henri’s clutches. She’d noticed a metallic flash from around the bird’s leg before it had flown too far away. James runs a hand over his chin, twiddling nearly-existent hairs, and, squinting over the distance, gives the bird – now perched atop the market’s long roofline with its fellows – its due consideration.
“No. She’s one o’ Mister Ogden’s racers, I reck’n.” The corners of his mouth twitch as he levels his brightening eyes back with Sarah’s. “Mine are all a hair too fat t’defy Henri, if you hadn’t notic’d.”
An impulse that will not be denied takes hold of the gentleman’s daughter. “Surely you mean a feather.”
“Pard’n?” James’ brows furrow together.
“Your birds are a feather too fat.”
For a moment, the ‘prentice boy gawks at her. Then a broad, toothy smile spreads his lips. The laughter that follows is almost musical, and James seems so diverted that his ears – already conspicuous enough – flush to a rosy glow. Tumbling echoes in the market sheds startle the pigeons to flock the next roof over.
Really, isn’t her best turn of phrase, nor her quickest flash of wits. But that little spark in Sarah’s chest riots for her to join the gleeful sound. She allows herself only the satisfaction of a smirk, though it quivers against waves of mirth.
“Now, come a-pace, Henri!” James shouts amicably when his laughter settles. “Leave off Ogden’s dove, will yeh!”
“Szat bird is a szeef!”
“A what?”
“A szeef! A szeef!”
“A what?”
“A thief,” Sarah mutters. “Honestly.”
James shoots her a sly look before addressing the little Frenchman as he hurries back abreast. “Hardly believe mine ears. A szeefin’ dove, you say?”
“She ‘ad an ‘aypenny in ‘er beak,” the younger boy declares breathlessly as he lugs the wheelbarrow back to rights, wobbling a little as he balances the weight in his palms and the trio walk on.
“Humm! Wish I’d thought o’ turnin’ doves to pickpocketry,” James muses aloud. “I should be richer’n a Chew by now, I reck’n. Maybe richer’n a Phillips.”
Sarah resists the urge to scoff aloud at such obvious bait, but grants him an exasperated roll of the eyes – a gift which only serves to brighten his cheek.
“’Twill take more than an army of doves hunting halfpence to answer that ambition, Mister Hiller,” she retorts. James cries out in mock-offense, pressing his hand to his chest. The display worms its way under her skin; Sarah only just manages to bridle a half-vexed, half-amused giggle in time. The briefest flicker of – well, something – traces itself across James’ features before he blusters anew, voice cracking.
“Howe’er can you think me so careless, Miss Phillips? My doves have loftier aims. They shall quest fer Spanish dollars.”
“And who are you, to raid Spain’s coffers? Sir Francis Drake?”
“Haven’t you heard? Drake’s been dead fer no less’n a decade.”
“A decade, he says!”
“Tell a lie, no less’n two.”
Unimpressed with the turn of conversation, Henri interrupts their banter to focus on the topic at hand.
“Seagulls make better pickpocketers.”
James rounds on him with a snort. “Mabye fer muffins!”
“Bah ouais, ’ow else to be spending coin but on mouffons!”
“Muff-ins. ‘Tis pronounc’d muff-ins.”
Henri lets out a frustrated noise. “Ooh la, muff-ehnz! Muff-ehnz! Szat is better?”
Sarah supposes she really should be above humoring such silliness, but that warm, sparkling sensation in her chest has done nothing but flourish, and she’s all but forgotten the smell of a city’s street. She finds herself more than pleased to linger with the boys’ flights of fancy.
“Yes, yes, ‘tis all well and good, but are seagulls not a mite conspicuous for roguery?” she offers. James ogles her again before startling himself with laughter. Henri, however – unfazed and all sobriety – humors the thought immediately.
“Seagulls fight. Are you not remembering Boston, Sarah? When one left James bloodied over ‘is fried oysters?”
At the swiftly reddening ears of his elder, Henri’s gravity lifts in a fit of giggles.
“Look’ee here, Henri, Oi wasn’ bloodied,” James scoffs, his vowels beginning to lose their discipline. “And there was more’n one o’ the li’l shoites! …Pard’n m’language, Sarah.”
“There were more than one,” she tuts.
A self-satisfied grin has taken her face hostage at last, and James rewards his incorrigible companions by sputtering incoherently. Unable to contain herself any longer, Sarah lets fly her laughter, fully delighted with triumph – and, somehow, James’ bitterness does not hold. A cool breeze flows through the city from off the harbor, chasing away the stagnant air; it’s too fine a day for grudges or wounded pride.
Besides, they’ve chores to attend, and they’ve nearly reached Front Street. If they hasten, they can make their object – a warehouse along the quay with whom the Hall and Sellers print shop has maintained a line of credit for some time now – before the sun pulls any more sweat from their skin.
Suddenly, Henri leads the charge. He makes quick work of bounding down the steep grade to the waterfront, wheelbarrow jittering and pulling him forward. Torn only briefly between bringing his junior to heel and not leaving Miss Phillips to her lonesome, James hollers out as he gives chase, his long-jointed legs working up a brisk lope, hand held fast to his three-cocked hat and queue flopping about his shoulders. A stout, gray cart-pony spooks at the sudden motion in her periphery, hooves clattering in place on cobblestone; the put-upon driver works to simultaneously calm the animal and scowl at such insolent youths. Sarah spares the man a penitent look and curtsey before giving his pony a polite berth. Then, securing her skirts, she bolts to catch up with her ill-governed comrades. She imagines her shoes clop like the pony’s against the sidewalk masonry, darting full-tilt from streetside to quayside. Any shame at taking part in such a scene is only short-lived; with every yard gained it gives way to mirth – then determination – and the wind wicks the sweat built up on her brow.
When at last she comes abreast of her companions, she finds herself heaving for breath and her heart pounding in her chest. It isn’t so disagreeable a feeling, though she knows her face and chest must be flushed wholly from exertion. James glances at her in quick scrutiny before chiding Henri anew.
“You’ve done it now,” he snarks, gently pulling the boy’s ear and earning an offended yelp for the trouble. “Only gone n’ made Miss Phillips gallop about town.”
“I do not gallop,” Sarah declares between breaths. “And don’t distract from your share in the mischief, Mister Hiller!” The corners of his mouth twitch upward, but – wisely – he neither denies nor presses the issue, and the three carry on in a far more respectable pace.
Philadelphia’s long waterfront is alive with business. A veritable forest of full-bellied merchant ships creak at anchor, their canvas sailed furled, tar on timber baking in the noontide sun while colorful ensigns flap against a blue sky. Seagulls gambol in the air, cackling when they descend upon the least-defended of catches. Horseshoes clack and wagons trundle along the street, while the hubbub of laborers – stevedores and draymen, sailors and dockworkers, and yes, even apprentices – thunders on the boardwalk. The slup-slup-plunk of water against the docks forms a steady refrain, tying everything together into one bustling, cacophonous fascination.
Sarah feels her lip curl once more. If High Street has an aroma, the harbor positively shouts with scent. Hot pitch, sweat, brackish water, manure, moldering wood, oily fish gasping their last in hempen nets, and every so often a waft of what can only be dead mollusks rotting away in river muck. Fortunately for Sarah’s long-suffering nose, the endless quayside taverns have set their kitchens to slow-roasting joints of meat. Savory, charcoal-rich woodsmoke spilling from so many chimneys absolves ten thousand pungencies, if only to insinuate its own.
When the trio pass by one such corner – the sign hanging above a dingy-windowed rathole of a tavern declares it the Cod’s Head – a distinct tinge of charred beefsteak flavors the breeze and stirs Sarah’s stomach. A distant part of her mind counts the hours since their breakfast of hasty pudding; four, five, six? What had the clock in the shop chimed when she woke? Without intending it, her heels slow and allow her senses to ponder meat drippings, kitchen pepper, and the passage of time. Not a particularly wise reflex, as her mouth now waters.
She longs to suggest they stop somewhere for a quick bite, perhaps cold meat from an ordinary’s kitchen or oysters off a street vendor, only – well. She knows better than to expect nuncheon, or at least presume the day’s allowance fat enough to humor the idea. At least her stomach hasn’t set into growls.
Strangely enough, the boys aren’t of the same mind to savor daydreams – even Henri doesn’t seem riveted by the thought of a meal. Instead, James’ gawky outline tows his companions straight through the crowd in a confident bid for the hour’s object, and he moves with such determination that Sarah has little recourse but to oblige. In little time, she finds herself crossing the double-wide threshold of a deep warehouse. Despite stark sunlight filtering through the windows, it takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the interior. Even so, James has already marched up to what she can only imagine is the foreman. Short, barrel-chested, with his half-powdered hair pulled taught in a queue and stubble casting a shadow on his jaw, the juxtaposition between this man and the beanpole of a ‘prentice boy makes a fine tableau. She swallows back her giggle.
After exchanging the requisite silver, James tucks away several large clay inkpots – “Boney-fied India ink, Miss Phillips!” “Boe-na-fie-dee, who taught you Latin?” “The pigeons.” “…Ah. Right.” – in the market wallet, then weighs down the wheelbarrow in packaged reams of rag paper. Transaction thus complete, he gestures Henri forward – only for the smaller boy to protest as he pushes ineffectually at the handles. So it is that the heavy lifting must fall to the older apprentice, who grumbles only the requisite amount at his lot.
Noontide ever ages, and the harbor’s business continues to grow. Sarah expects they should beat a hasty return to High Street, and, for the most part, they make fine work of drawing near that great thoroughfare. But then James suddenly veers from their path to knock on the door of a modest building. A few cedar tiles are missing from the roof, and the corners of the windowpanes are clouded over, and the chimney sags, but the shutters have a fresh coat of limewash and a new awning shades the front step. A heavy sign creaks where it hangs off the second floor, emblazoned with the painted image of a volant albatross clutching an ear of barleycorn.
Curious – and only a little suspicious – Sarah draws up behind the elder apprentice to ask what they might be doing here, but he turns round to put a hand on her shoulder. Surprise at the touch has her gaping at him.
The look lands more confrontational than she’d intended; James falters a little. “You… ah… well. Best you aren’t seen in a Water Street alehouse, Sarah. Keep an eye on Henri.”
Something about the request – nay, demand – flickers through her veins, and before she can help herself:
“You aren’t my mother!”
James removes his hand from her shoulder. “I – what?”
Sarah huffs, though now more from surprise at herself than frustration with her friend. “And whye’er are we stopp’d at an alehouse, anyway? Are apprentices not forbidden it?”
“Szey are!” Henri cuts in, merrily and unhelpfully. James lets out an exasperated sigh.
“Moses had me go fer a jug, seeing as we’re out,” he explains. “I’ve been about this errand frequent enough that the entire block is us’d to me now. But they’ll have gossip enough if a prett – uh – new girl walks in.”
Gossip! Sarah doesn’t register his verbal stumble, nor fully note the flush tinting his ears, nor can she help that her hands curl into fists. All she can really attend is a simple frustration in her pit of her stomach, made all the more uneasy by its emptiness.
She chews her tongue. He isn’t wrong, of course, though the fact is not an easy draught to swallow. She supposes its scandal enough that a girl of her social standing would while away her spare time near the docks, regardless of her chaperones. Lady Phillips would surely have succumbed to aneurysm, had she seen how eagerly her daughter caught up with the boys when they made to leave.
But then – why should complete strangers speculate on the morals of a girl not yet come into society, all because she spent a brief moment in a tavern? It isn’t as though she’s there to purchase spirits, and surely this establishment isn’t a – a bawdy house. Dr. Franklin’s esteemed associates would never patronize it!
“Please, Sarah,” James’ voice, softer this time, recalls her to the present. “Won’t be but a moment. In and out, then on our merry way with us.”
It is unnerving, to find herself so readily disarmed by the look in his eyes, though whether a consequence of their softness or their stark blue shade she cannot say. Holding his gaze, she gives him a small nod. Concession sinks like lead in her body; she wishes it wasn’t so nettlesome.
She watches on as his knuckles rap the door, more firmly this time, and it finally creaks open. The ‘prentice boy then disappears behind it as he’s greeted by a deep, jovial voice. Nothing more to do but wait patiently, she lets out a held breath and stands next to a post holding up the tavern’s long awning. She takes to people-watching in an attempt to ignore her gizzard growing rowdy, while Henri has long taken to kicking at stones.
Tinny bells ring in a schooner drawing to land somewhere in the far northern end. Gusts of wind push at groaning timber and stir dust into swirls. Nearby, a group of small, frolicsome children gambol with a dog, its excited barks bouncing in the alley. Wasps hover round a puddle that smells of stale beer. A jewel-like dragonfly darts to settle on the awning post before the ever-present breeze coaxes it away.
Conspicuous with overloaded pack-baskets, neck-yokes, and pouches, colorful hucksters make their rounds up and down the street in droves, crying out their wares or services all in a buzzing chorus:
“Buye some cherries! Black Hearts, Whoite Hearts, May Dyukes! Foine n’ roipe!”
“Grindin’ dull knives, razors, shears!”
“Weidenkörbchen! Ich verkaufe Weidenkörbchen!”
“Charcoal fer stove n’ oven!”
“Ne’er too late fer a-whitewashin’! Who-o-o-o has walls needin’ whitewash!”
And then, entirely too close and loud: “Sarah, can I borrow some money?”
She startles and whips round to see Henri skipping up with an expectant hand outstretched. Sarah eyes the little urchin with suspicion. “Beg pardon?”
“I ‘ave ‘unger. I will pay you back.”
“I am hungry,” she corrects impatiently; on cue, her stomach grumbles aloud and she feels heat creep up to her ears.
“Hah! Me too, no?” Henri’s voice brightens with giggles, proud of himself for the wordplay. Then, “szat lady over szere ‘as cherries. We will share. One shilling, please.”
“A shilling? That won’t do, they cannot possibly be so dear this time of season.”
“Szey can if I am buying all of szem.” He gestures impatiently with his empty palm.
Cherries would make a fine snack. Full-bodied, plump little things, glossy skin pulled taught over ruby flesh, firm but with just the right amount of give. A touch of sweet in perfect concert with sour and tart; plentiful juice dark as port wine, staining fingers purple. Hold by the stem, work round the pit, quench all at once your hunger and thirst and yearning. A girl could dispatch a bushelful if she didn’t take care to mind her manners.
Sarah shakes herself from the daydream and tries to focus on the issue at hand.
“Remember when you last had so many cherries?” She chides.
“I will not be eating szem all at once szis time! Promise.”
“I don’t believe you.” Still, an apologetic smile parts her lips. “E’en if I did, I haven’t money on me, and certainly not a shilling.”
Henri makes a petulant noise, but Sarah’s attention gets caught on the sound of a heavy door falling shut. James – now fully encumbered with the weight of the wallet slung about his shoulder and a large redware jug in hand – approaches his two companions with a wry expression.
“Oh no, you don’t!” he says, gesturing at Henri, who still has palm outstretched. “Don’t you go sweet-talkin’ Miss Phillips into lendin’ you her money. He pays his debts with pebbles, Sarah.”
The younger boy folds his arms and wears a magnificent frown. “Szey were not pebb-ooulsss. Szey were marbles.”
“Can’t very well pay rent with that!” James fires back, focusing himself on a way to balance the jug upon the wheelbarrow without ale sloshing over on their precious cargo.
“Mister Hiller,” Sarah starts, her words slow in mock-concern. “You are apprenticed… You don’t pay rent.”
“Aye, but the point stands. A man can’t make his living on marbles.”
“No,” Henri concedes, “but now you can challenge everyone in town to a game and make your money back ten folds over. It is a – qu’est-ce c’est – a vested mint.”
“An investment,” Sarah offers, biting her lip to hold back a laugh when James shoots her a look of disbelief.
“Whye are you encouragin’ ‘im?” he mutters under his breath, finally stirring the giggle from her lungs.
Henri waves his hand in the air. “Ouais, ouais, tout de même. An investment.”
Unimpressed – and his repeated attempts to find a good balance on the wheelbarrow foiled – James shoves the ale jug into Henri’s hands, takes up his own burden, and pushes the group forward with a grumble. Shooting his elder a sour look, Henri marches boldly forward to leave the others in his wake. When crowds begin to mill about the space between them, something protective claws at Sarah’s chest.
“Don’t leave sight, Henri!” she calls out, reflexively picking up her pace.
“And don’t bloody drop the ale!” James adds unhelpfully.
In response to both of his elder companion’s admonishments, Henri turns round for a moment – walking backwards – and makes a show of mock-dropping the jug; James lets out a snarl and charges as best he can with the wheelbarrow still in hand. Letting out an absolute squeal of delight, the young boy whips about and pelts as fast as he can down the street until James lets off.
Irritation at her concerns being ignored entirely knots together in Sarah’s gullet until it feels like one solid mass. What provocative companions for a gentleman’s daughter! One moment is a font of mirth and amusement, only to be soured by such displays of complete disregard in the next. She feels the sting harder than she knows she should.
“Will you two stop bloody nettlin’ each other so?!” she snaps, voice bouncing off the clapboard and brick buildings of the wharf.
Fuck.
She claps a hand up to her mouth; she imagines the throngs up and down Water Street now stop their business to stare, just as her companions falter to give her a bug-eyed look; shame burns at her cheeks.
But James’ face turns radiant, his irritation with Henri forgotten, and the little Frenchman laughs so hard he snorts.
“Miss Phillips!” James remarks as Sarah elbows past him with a huff. “What positively foul language fer a gentlewoman’s tongue!”
“Oh, mind your own tongue,” she snaps back. Henri is all giggles as he skips on ahead, neither falling back in with his companions nor leaving them completely in the dust. James eyes Sarah with amused astonishment – an expression she finds unexpectedly pleasant to have inspired – but she keeps her gaze pinned forward.
“Henri knows the way, Sarah,” he says, gentle coaxing in his voice. “’Tis no bother.”
At that, she glances round. “You certainly sounded bother’d.”
“Well – fine. Reck’n I was. A little. He can be such a shite. And anyway, what o’ you? You’ve been back n’ forth with it this whole time.”
Sarah wants to feel more annoyance at the accusation, but James holds no malevolence in his countenance. She picks at a nail for a moment, then her shoulders sag with a defeated sigh.
“I am hungry,” she admits. “I should not be so affected. ‘Tis unseemly.”
“Hunger makes the best of us orn’ry,” James replies. When she looks back at him, his eyes have a faraway light. A smile softens his expression and his gaze refocuses on the girl walking at his side. “High Street’s close by, we’re almost home. Let’s get y’fed.”
“Get me fed!” Sarah echoes. “I’m not a horse.”
“Aye, but you gallop like one.”
She levels him a half-hearted glare that, on seeing his expression, melts into cautious amusement.
“That was your doing. Ass.”
“Takes one t’know one.”
“You are insuff’rable, Mister Hiller.”
“Incorrigible, e’en.”
“Spell incorrigible.”
“You spell incorrigible.”
“Since you clearly cannot… I – N – C …”
True to James’ word, within the space of ten minutes the trio have made it to the great intersection of High Street and hang a left to begin the uphill march from the waterfront back home. Still, Sarah’s stomach has not given up an inch of its protestations, and with each growling squeeze she thinks she turns dizzy. Adding to her woe, the intersection is a crowd of food vendors, peddling hot, steaming foodstuffs. Smoked sausages, fried crabs’ legs, toasted penny loaves, and more. The charged aroma of proteins, sugars, and fats, all golden and cooked – overwhelming the brackish smell of a harbor – renders Sarah salivating. She hopes she still walks with a respectable posture. How much longer now till the shop?
What even is in Fifty-Three High Street’s larder, anyway? Potted herring? Field peas? Leftover Indian pudding? Maybe there are some eggs what can be fried, or a hefty hock of sweet ham.
No, not ham; she knows there isn’t ham. Such a meat, she is beginning to understand, is a luxury best preserved with all the other memories of home. It’s saltpork for the honest laborers of the New World!
So dazed is she, cataloguing everything edible that springs to mind, that she hardly takes notice of Henri weaving between vendors without heed for James’ call.
“Like a blood’ound he is,” the elder apprentice mutters, huffing a little as he pushes the wheelbarrow against the slope. “Reck’n we won’t make it to the shop, after all.”
“What?” Alarmed, Sarah’s eyes widen at her companion. He’s slowed to a halt and slips his fingers in the market wallet, clay pots faintly clinking together as he fishes about.
“Ah – well – Moses gave me extra coin, in the event the ink cost more than promis’d us.” He pulls out a handful of copper, looking it over and counting under his breath.
“We’ve enough?” Sarah asks quickly, clipped with impatience; the smoked sausage vendor is awfully close. James’ face tightens in concentration, then smooths out as he hands her the coins.
“Reck’n so, if Henri’s eyes aren’t too rich. Go chase’m down, I’ll be along – ”
But Sarah is already halfway caught up with the youngest of the three before James can finish his sentence. To her dismay, Henri has disregarded the sausages entirely in favor of – well, she isn’t entirely sure. She finds him chattering – in French, no less – to a young woman sat on a stool, clothed in brightly patterned fabric, her colorful headwrap set off by rich, nutmeg-toned skin. When her hazel eyes flick to meet Sarah’s, their expression closes up a little, turning her guarded and business-like.
“Howd’ee, miss. Try my pepper pot? Bes’ in the city.”
“How d’ye do,” Sarah replies, tipping her head a little. She cannot place the woman’s accent; it doesn’t sound French.
“Oh! Sarah!” Henri cuts in excitedly. “Szis is Madame Laurent, she is Marseillaise, just like me! And ‘er pepper pot is sze best! Can we ‘ave some, Sarah? Si vous plaît?”
Some of the brightness returns to Madame Laurent’s eye when she looks back at Henri, but her voice lowers just a hair. “Aye, Henri, papa was Marseillais. That is how I knew you were. Now are you buyin’ pepper pot or jus’ come here to chatter?”
Before Sarah can conjure an affirmative, a hearty waft of slow-stewed meats and vegetables meets her nose. Curiously, it stings her eyes, which might have been enough to dissuade her if hunger wasn’t threatening to undo all of her wits. Without fully intending it, she takes a step forward and peers into the big, steaming copper kettle that Madame Laurent has started into stirring.
“Smokin’ hot, miss,” she says, slowly, as if in a warning. But a half-smile creeps into her cheeks. Sarah pays the woman’s expression little heed and rubs the coins in her fingers together.
“How much for three bowls, ma’am?”
“Henri, what mischief is this!” Comes James’ voice, half-taunting, half-serious.
“Howd’ee, Mister Hiller,” Madame Laurent chuckles, and James tips his hat. She turns to Sarah. “You know the Hall ‘n Sellers boys, eh?”
Remembering herself, Sarah dips into a small curtsey. “Sarah Phillips, ma’am, of London, England.”
“England! Henri, what mischief is this? Trickin’ an English Miss into pepper pot!”
Confused, Sarah looks round, waiting for an explanation.
“Pepper pot, smokin’ hot,” Madame Laurent provides, lifting a ladleful of the thick stew, a savory broth surrounding chunks of vegetables and what looks to be beef. Then, more directly: “Hot peppers, Miss. A heapin’ measure of ‘em.”
That would explain why my eyes water so. For a moment, Sarah hesitates and she imagines turning back to the smoked sausage.
“It is delicious, Sarah,” Henri enjoins, cutting through her thoughts. When she looks down at the young boy, she finds his eyes wide, without an ounce of mischief in them. Henri Lefevbre, completely and entirely sincere; completely and entirely disarming.
Adventure is half the reason she’s even here, in the colonies, isn’t it? This probably counts as adventure.
“How much for three bowls?” she repeats, and Madame Laurent’s smile widens as she names her price.
“You don’t want it, Sarah,” James interrupts. “You’ve ne’er eat anythin’ so hot.”
“You don’t know what I’ve ne’er eaten,” she lobs back, handing over most of their coin.
“I am in earnest, Sarah! ‘Tis a dang’rous dish fer gen’lefolk.”
Taken aback by the older boy’s fearful tone and look, she glances incredulously at Henri.
“You are only saying szat because you cannot ‘andle pepper pot!” the little Frenchman snickers. “You cried last time!”
James huffs, and when he snaps back at his younger brother, Sarah can hear his vowels unravel.
“Oi weren’t cryin’, Henri! Oi was – ‘twas a grain in me oeye –”
“Someszhing in ‘is eye, incroyable. You were crying. You were crying like a little baby mouse-boy. You should ‘ave been seeing it, Sarah! So much snot.”
“Oh, really?” Sarah purrs, the scent of a challenge mingling with the steamy wooden bowl now settled about her hands; Madame Laurent says nothing, but her smile maintains as she ladles out Henri’s portion and watches the boy tuck in.
James sputters, a flush tinging his ears. “That’s not – ”
“Do not deny it, James,” Henri giggles around his bite, then points his spoon. “I will bet you twelve shillings szat Sarah ‘andles it better.”
“Oi know better’n teh make bets with you,” James sneers. “And you don’t bloody well have twelve shillins’.”
Sarah can no longer help herself; even if she suffers a defeat – likely, considering how her eyes water – it would be enough to see James laid low by a vegetable.
“How about with me?” she asks sweetly, making her face as innocent as possible. For some reason, James seems to choke up a little when he looks her way. His ears redden further.
“Sarah – ”
“I won’t e’en play for money. Just bragging rights. Please?”
When Madame Laurent hands James Hiller his portion, her smile has grown toothy. He looks helplessly between his companions before finally giving in.
“Foine,” he growls, taking the bowl and spoon. “But ne’er you saye we didn’t bloody warn you, Miss Phillips.”
“I think I can handle myself perfectly well, thank you.”
Locking her eyes with his, Sarah lifts the first bite to her mouth, her long-suffering stomach in a tailspin with how patiently it has had to endure the scent of food so near.
A hearty savor of beef, rich and tangy, rounded out by gristle and tinged with something oddly sweet – tripe, maybe? Salt brightens up the thick broth, and she chews into soft chunks of starches and bitter greens. Hunger urges her on, uncaring of anything else in the world but the primal sensation of filling her belly with sustenance. She takes another bite; and then another; and then, her courage frenzied, a heaping gulp.
At first, she attributes the growing warmth on her tongue to the temperature of the dish. But then – faster than she could have expected – her mouth turns into an oven and forces her spoon to slow. The dish sets fire to everything it touches! Sweat blooms across her face. She blinks back a film of tears, hoping against all hope that her stinging nose isn’t running.
Still, Sarah Phillips musters as much willpower as she can to hold her gaze on James steady, to match his pace and his determination to win. Flavors turn mute under the wild, molten shout of cayenne, chili, and black pepper, but on she races, channeling the pain into competitive drive.
And then, with mere spoonfuls left, a break shows in James’ rubescent face. He swallows, shudders, and lets out a yelp. He nearly tosses the bowl aside as he shakes his head, eyes slammed shut.
“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!” he coughs. “Oi give in! Mercy!”
From behind, Sarah hears Henri holler out, enjoying his friend’s triumph as if it were his own. Madame Laurent’s laughter is bright and musical as she takes back the emptied bowls.
The thrill of victory goads Sarah to finish her remaining bites, the taste made all the sweeter by a tongue gone numb.
And then – emboldened – she makes eye contact one last time with James, and licks the bowl.
“Chroist, you’ve already won,” James glowers, wiping an eye, but he coughs out a laugh.
The breeze from off the Delaware rushes through Philadelphia. The sweat on her brow cools, and though her whole face burns and her lips have gone numb and tears sting her eyes, she fancies the hellish sensation already begins to ebb. Something pleasant washes over her to spite all of the pain.
Head held high in a display of mock-haughtiness, she chuckles brightly. “You should ne’er have challenged a lady, James. Doubly so, you should ne’er have challenged a Phillips.”
And then, mischief dancing on her tongue: “You owe me twelve shillings, Mister Hiller.”
Heart and belly full, Sarah Phillips gallops down High Street even as her friend’s exasperated cries chase after her; but the burn in their mouths is fading, and the day is too beautiful for grudges.