What Is A Legacy?

Chapter 15

It had been a few weeks.

Long, painful weeks since he'd been thrown in the Bastille. His head felt like it had been put through a meat grinder, for his headache had only gotten worse since his arrival. Part of it was due to him being punched and chloroformed, but also that he'd barely touched the food and water he'd been brought. He was afraid it was poisoned.

Now, it didn't make sense for France to kill America's diplomat, especially one sent by the president. That was sure to turn some heads and spark war, not aid like France needed. The only reason they threw him in prison was simply monetary, and there was no chance of them receiving said money if Thomas was killed.

Isabelle and Byron and Andre had been literal godsends, handing him cold compresses when he needed them, bringing him water and clothes, even going so far as to eat his food before he did to prove that it was safe.

Later, when everyone was asleep and the prison was quiet, Thomas allowed himself to cry. For the pain he was in, for the people he missed, for the kindness he had been shown. And he was worried sick about Eliza and Philip, knowing they hadn't heard from him in weeks. He prayed God would find a way to help him.

Life here, he'd come to learn, though usually stress-filled and cold and damp, wasn't as bad as it could be. He had good neighbors and was fed decently well. So he'd accepted that was where he would stay for the rest of his life, unless Washington sent help, which was unlikely. The very reasons America couldn't aid France were the same reasons Thomas assumed they couldn't help him.

So when Lafayette, escorted by two guards, showed up at his cell door one day, he thought he was hallucinating. At least dreaming. Maybe it was the headache that had plagued him since his arrival.

The thought that he was hallucinating spurred other, more irrational thoughts, like the idea that maybe his entire stay at the Bastille thus far had only been a hallucination. But he shook himself of that idea, at least for now.

"Lafayette? Is that really you?" Thomas asked as the door was unlocked and the man was pushed through.

"Five minutes," one of the guards barked, and then they were alone. Save for Isabelle and Byron watching them closely. But they said nothing.

"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," Lafayette started, crossing the cell in one long stride to meet Thomas at the bed. "I wanted to, but they wouldn't let me."

"It's alright, Lafayette, I'm not mad. Just glad to see you."
The Frenchman smiled a little. "I wish it were under better circumstances."

"You and me both, brother."

Lafayette began to dig in his coat pockets. "I want you to take this and write to Washington. I will write too, explaining what has happened, but it would be more believable if you wrote too. They don't know I've brought you these things, but I will come by every week or so to collect what you write and return the responses." Into Thomas's hands he pushed paper and quills, along with tiny jars of ink. It took Thomas a moment to find his words.

"Marquise, thank you." He could write now. He could write to Eliza and Philip and Washington and even Alexander. The thought of that almost made him laugh, and he had never been more glad for it. He clasped Lafayette's hands. "I cannot express my gratitude enough. Thank you."

"It's the least I can do." Lafayette looked Thomas up and down, and by the way his face fell, Thomas was sure he looked terrible. "I wish I had known what they were planning to do to you. Maybe I could have-"

Thomas cut him off gently. "There's no way you could have known, Lafayette. And I'm alright, for the time being. These-" He held up the paper, "just made my day. I can't thank you enough."