Daughter of Liberty

A Revolutionist or Two

Lane opened her eyes. It was the most difficult thing she had ever done. It was like picking up two buckets of water. Too heavy.

She was in a room. Not her own and not any belonging to her home. Lane propped her head up to look around. There was a fire beside her, now just coals. A small kitchen was not too far away and she could reach the table with her hand. Lane pulled aside the covers and sat up.

Her vision swam and she almost fell back down. Using the fireplace mantle to steady herself, she stood up. Her whole body was in pain.

What had happened? Last night-

It all flooded back to her. The excitement of watching the rebels. The cold water. Leaving Eleanor. Lane's heart squeezed. She had left Eleanor.

Something moved in the house. There was somebody behind the door. Lane braced herself, not sure what she was going to be able to do.

"Is she awake?" A man's deep voice asked.

The door opened to a woman. She had her hands on her back and she was yawning. She was very much pregnant. "Aye," she called back.

"Who are you?" Lane asked.

The lady raised an eyebrow, "The woman that saved your life."

She looked there woman up and down, "Surely you did not jump into the water."

The lady scoffed as she made her way across the room to the little kitchen. Her brown curls were lighter than Lane's and they were loose. "Surely not. Henry brought you along with your crying sis."

"Where is Eleanor?" Lane asked.

The door opened wider and a man came inside. This time Lane got the bed between them. He was dressed like a dock man. "We sent her home. There was no use in her staying here."

Relief flooded Lane. "Then...I should be going home to."

The woman shook her head, "Not after yesterday's events. You shouldn't be alone on those streets."

"What happened yesterday?" Lane asked.

The couple shared a look, but didn't say anything. A nock on the door sounded through the little house. The man opened it, "I suppose this would be your escort?"

Lane leaned over to see who was at the door. "Fletcher, what are you doing here?"

"Your father is too busy to notice yet, and Eleanor told me where you would be," he offered as an explanation.

Fletcher looked up at the man and then puffed out his chest. The man cracked a smile and opened the door.

"Wait until she's dressed," the lady ordered.

Lane looked down on herself. She was in a nightgown. A blush rose from her cheeks and she reached for the cloak on the floor. It was damp, but not soaking. "This will be fine. I need to be home."

She followed Fletcher out, thanking the couple. "Take this," Fletcher handed off his jacket to her before turning to the street.

They had been right. The streets were chaos. Everyone seemed to be moving down the same way. There were soldiers flooding the streets, knocking on doors. "Is this about the tea?" Lane asked.

Fletcher turned to her, his eyes wide with surprise. "Miss Carrington, how do you know about that?"

"Why do you think you picked me up from a strange home?" She retorted.

His jaw tightened, "The other Miss Carrington said you had a terrible accident."

Lane rolled her eyes. Terrible accident indeed.

As they turned into a smaller alley, another person stepped in. "I cannot believe my eyes," the voice dropped with tainted joy.

Lane turned and regretted not just running. It was George. He swaggered farther into the alley. His tie was loose around his neck and his hair was not kept. Was he-

"Mr. Hutchinson, you need to go home," Fletcher called out from behind them.

George looked Lane up and down slowly. She felt disgusted but she didn't flinch. He took a step closer, almost tripping over, "Don't worth, peasant. Miss Carrington and I are great friends."

"We are nothing of the sort," Lane whispered through her teeth. She could smell his breath now. It was the same smell of the filth that collected around the pubs.

George brushed a hand through his hair, "Don't try to refuse me this time."

Lane flinched and stepped back, sideways into the wall. She looked up and Fletcher was between them. Before George could react, Fletcher swung his fist. The punch landed on George's jaw. The next to his gut.

Fletcher stood above him, his fists balled. Pure rage radiated off of him. Lane watched. Something in her wouldn't stop him if he continued to heat up that horrible person. But her words were came out different, "We need to leave, Fletcher. Before anyone sees us."

He was pulled out of his trance and turned to her. She initiated the walking away and he followed. For the rest of the trip he was silent. Not the silence of an obedient footman, but the silence of anger.

Lane hated that silence. She hated the way people dealt with their emotions. Crying was too much. Silence was far too little.

In her room, it all caught up to her. She was sitting at her vanity, brushing her tangled hair. She had nearly drowned. Almost froze to death.

The door burst open and a person ran through the room. Eleanor's arms wrapped around Lane's neck and squeezed her in a tight embrace. She placed her head in her sisters neck and stayed there in silence.

"I'm okay..." Lane tried to comfort her sister. She patted her arm.

After a moment, Eleanor lifted her face just enough so her words were not muffled, "You smell of rotten fish." She pulled away and crinkled her nose. Lane glanced at her sister's puffy eyes but said nothing.

"I'm afraid, Lane," Eleanor confided in her sister. "I do not feel safe anymore. Something is happening." She walked to the window and spread the curtain just enough to see into the street below.

It must be bad if Eleanor is willing to talk of it. "I know you don't care for this much, but things change Eleanor. This country is not England. It never will be. I believe it's just changing."

"And what will the change bring you?" Eleanor asked desperately. "Will we be thrown out on the streets? Spinsters? Will our family perish?"

Before Lane could articulate her thoughts, the maids came inside with the bath tub and boiled water. They prepared the bath and Eleanor left.

"Miss Carrington," the elder maid, Louise spoke. "Be careful of what you say this evening. The master is on edge." Lane has spent many years getting the maids to talk to her. So being curt or rude would be fruitless. Instead she nodded and sunk farther into the warm water.