The Traitor's Stain (wattys 2019)

Chapter Twenty: Setauket, Long Island

Another man is going to be quartered in my home, Ophelia thought to herself as she did her laundry, hanging it up to dry on the clothesline behind the house. Just as I get rid of one of them, just about to have my own home to myself, I get some other soldier quartered in my home.

The news had shocked her down to her very core. She'd hoped that Colonel Erikson had just been trying to make a joke or something, but she knew he wasn't. And the fact that he didn't even seem to know the man that she was about to have under the same roof as her daughter scared her half to death. "A trusted man from New York, sent by Major John Andre, himself," Colonel Erikson said. "I haven't personally served with Mr. De Jong, and none of my men seem to have, either. However, I trust the Major's judgement: he's a good man, as are the men he trusts."

I wish I could share your optimism, Ophelia had thought. Still thought. I really do.

But, she couldn't. Ophelia simply couldn't just trust whoever this John Andre person had sent. As far as she knew, her doom was just getting closer and closer while she stood there and hung her laundry up to dry like a lamb waiting patiently for the slaughter.

"Afternoon, 'Phelia!"

Ophelia looked in the direction of the voice. Abraham was walking towards her, a smile on his face.

Don't let him see how nervous you are, she thought to herself as she forced a smile onto her face. Don't let him worry about this; surely, you can take care of it, yourself.

It was the same lie she'd told herself since Noah left. You've been cooking with minimal help: surely you can get food, yourself. You know how to maintain a ledger: surely you can keep it maintained on your own. You know how to do all of the chores: surely you can get them all done in a timely manner, with a little help from Beth. She was sick of saying that to herself over and over again, but... sometimes, it seemed like it was one of the only ways for her to get through the day without breaking into pieces.

"Afternoon, Abraham," Ophelia said with that fake smile. "What are you doing here?"

"Just having a stroll around town, thought I'd come and pay you a visit," Abraham said with a nonchalant shrug. It was a blatant lie, of course, but he sold it well. It seemed like a childhood spent getting into trouble and having to talk himself out of it had paid off. "How have you been? I feel like I haven't seen you in awhile."

"I'm fine," Ophelia lied. "Why do you ask?"

"Come on; don't lie to me," Abraham said. He still sounded cheerful: he was still just joking around with her. "You're really bad at it."

She didn't say anything: she simply began to move faster to get her laundry hung up.

Finally, Abraham seemed to sense there was something wrong. "Something's happened, hasn't it?"

Ophelia's face began to feel white hot, embarrassed. Ashamed that she couldn't take care of that problem herself. Ashamed that Abraham and the others had to worry about this, now, on top of everything else.

"They're moving Private Connors out of my house," she said, "and they're replacing him with somebody else."

Abraham frowned. "Who?"

"Some man named Mr. De Jong, from New York," Ophelia said. "I'm scared: what if... he's not like Connors?"

"Don't panic," Abraham said. "We just... why don't you write to Noah? That always seems to cheer you right up."