Fiddler's Green

II

Time always collects its dues. We all eventually learn that. Though we may hope and long for the good to prevail, the world is more grey than we realise. Perhaps we are all born in a world of barbarity, where guilt is merely an animal instinct and we will keep pushing until we receive the result we desire. And that, good friends, is where our story picks up, with Mary doing exactly that.

"I confess myself befuddled on why you insist on returning to the Americas." Mary refused to look up from her book, turning the page from her position in the chair in a distinctly unladylike and petty manner. "And going to a public house full of privateers and scalawags, no less!"

Constance Smith was as stiff and proper as the corset she wore under her neatly ironed but threadbare dress, becoming and fitting in with the fashion of the upper class of the time, not that she was noble herself. She had opened Smith's Boarding House for Young Ladies to host the young women who came from farming towns around the country to work in Liverpool's factories and various markets. Mary had entered under her tutelage nearly four years before, when she was new to the city and just about everything else.

Her landlady insisted on her learning proper decorum, informing her that she may be in the city to work, but that did not mean she couldn't find a proper husband while she was there. Mary bit her tongue- sometimes literally- to avoid complaining over the injustice of it all, doomed to live in her worst nightmare of a world that she could do nothing to change without losing her minimal foresight of what might come next. So, she pretended. It was a boring game, really, nothing like that which kids play together.

"I need to get home." Mary told Mrs. Smith, who wrinkled her nose at such informal verbiage. She'd forgotten to add in the accent that she had adopted around the woman.

"Why would you wish to go back to those infernal colonies when you have freedom and a life at the tips of your fingertips here, girl?"

"The United States has been an independent country for nearly eighty years." She practically spat out, sour at the reminder of the current climate. Constance merely responded with a patronising smile, seemingly satisfied at drawing a rise out of her, pityingly patting her on the head as she made her way back to the door.

"Do realise that your actions affect my standing and I can ask you to leave at any time. Learn how to control your temper and I will not." She warned. "Please, lass, I am only trying to help you. Stay out of those taverns."

With that, she left, Mary staring out the small window of the unpainted room, shakily beginning to dress herself. Would Constance really throw her out? She wasn't a fool or prideful enough to think she could make it on her own. Women were expected to stay silent, and while doing that was one of her strong suits when she was in school, she could hardly bite her tongue at things that were not commonplace where she was from.

She may have been able to sit the university exams, but that didn't mean she was able to attend the classes, much less earn a degree. Mary grit her jaw, the panic rising when she remembered that she may never make it home. Was life truly supposed to be mundane? She had had so much to look forward to. It felt like she had taken everything for granted, even if she didn't know something like this would happen.

It was only the hope that she may someday make it back that was keeping her alive and awake as the skin on her hands cracked and blistered from her demeaning work as a handmaid for the nearby nobles. She'd spent the last four years saving up her meager wages so that she might gain passage on a ship back to America. Now she was doubting her plan. The technology there was not much more advanced than in England, and it wasn't as if the trappers would care that she had papers.

Her only salvation would be to somehow discover someone who would listen to and believe her insane but true story or to find something mystical that could send her back like the thing that had sent her here. Oh, why did she go poking around in his bag? The work day ended and she became part of the dusty crowd heading back home.

She disassociated, trusting her habits to guide her home and her instincts to keep her aware of any danger. Though her feet moved, she was unaware of their direction, too caught up in her thoughts and calculation and worries to pay attention. Strangely, she found herself hit by the same smell of sweat and ale. The door to the pub was opened, beckoning her. Mary did say she was going to come back, and the fates allowed it.

"I though' I told you to be safer?" Said Stan when he noticed her sitting at the end of the bar.

"I thought I told you that I was coming back anyway?" Mary shot back, tossing a coin onto the bar top and asking for a glass of gin with a smile. She downed a good part of it, bolstered by the acrid bite and rush of adrenaline.

"No one's 'bout ta take a..." He trailed off, rethinking what he was going to say and stood up, reaching over behind him to start to clean some glasses with a rag that looked to be older than she was.

"On a ship. You'll find that I don't care." She finished her drink, pushing it back towards him.

"They're a superstitious lot.," Stan hesitated, looking for a word and glancing around at the other patrons of the bar. "Sailors."

"I know most men here are privateers, sir."

Someone sat down next to her, but Stan was staring her down with the same look of warning that Constance had given her that morning. Mary felt like a teenager again, glaring back with a cool expression, stalwart in her goals. No one could take her hope away from her.

"A mug, please." There it was again, the same voice from last night. She tensed, refusing to turn around to stare at him. She'd been used to stuttering from him, but he spoke with confidence now. Four years would do that to you. With an absent smile, she nodded to him.

"Officer Parker." Peter looked shellshocked, a flush coming to his cheeks and a sheepish grin coming to his face. He appeared exactly as she remembered from class when he would get caught zoning out.

"Miss Watson." She smiled back, turning to Stan to continue.

"So, do you have any referrals for me? I'm getting to New York one way or another." Stan shook his head, deigning to ignore her. It would seem that this Peter Parker had the same tells as the one she had known before and the same insatiable curiosity.

"Pardon me for asking, but why exactly do you want to go to America?"

"I want to get back home." She met his gaze with stalwart stoniness. Peter merely blinked, downing another gulp of the bitter liquid in his cup.

"Well, we may just be able to come to an agreement, then."