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Chapter Text

John Laurens threw his thin bedlinen off and swung his legs around, planting his bare feet on the hardwood floor of his bedchamber. He scratched the puckered scar on his right shoulder that still caused him discomfort from time to time and rose to his feet, walking to the window to peer out of the gauzy sheers. John’s room was situated on the anterior of the third floor of the house at the corner, with tall windows that faced West, providing a few extra hours of light in the evening that John used for either correspondence, his studies, or painting. His father's black carriage was parked out front and was currently being cleaned and polished by James, one of the more than three hundred black persons owned by his father, Henry Laurens.

He wiped the sweat from the previous evening’s humidity from his neck and under his arms and shaved with a quick, practiced hand. At his sister’s suggestion, he decided to forego the powder he often dusted his hair with in favor of a black ribbon tied at the nape of his neck. Martha had thought it important that his hair be his natural honey blonde today and not alter his appearance in any way. He dressed in a silk suit of ecru, with delicate rose pink and sage green embroidery adorning the trim of his breeches, as well as the long lines of his waistcoat and coat. Stockings and a pair of suede shoes, the color of sand completed the look. The shoes, a gift from France from one of his dearest friends, Lafayette, were new. He tucked a thinly wrapped parcel in the bottom of his leather rucksack and made his way down the stairs.

“Jack is that you?” his father called from the dining room. John’s boot touched the landing at the bottom of the stairs, his hand gliding down the railing until it reached the end where he deposited his bag in the foyer before he joined his father for breakfast. “It is,” he returned once he’d passed under the door frame to their dining room. Henry Laurens smiled, a saucer of coffee halfway to his lips before his eyes ticked to the plate at his right where John always sat, a hard-boiled egg in a porcelain cup waiting for him. “I require coffee,” he declared and took his seat at the right of his father. Sarah, another of Henry’s slaves materialized to fill a cup for John and he smiled and thanked her even as she did. “Thank you, Sarah, how are you this morning?” John asked. “I’m well, Sir,” she replied, and curtsied, then passed him the cream she knew he would reach for. Were they alone, he would remind Sarah that he preferred she call him John, not Sir, but with the patriarch of the family at the table, he knew better than to draw his ire towards either of them.

John stirred his coffee and took two sips before he cracked the top of his egg with one swift motion. “Your sisters have already eaten and are now about the garden, cutting fresh flowers for the house. They insist on an abundance of flowers of every color they can manage to find for the arrival of their niece.” John offered a tight smile in response and spooned a portion of egg into his mouth preventing a verbal reply. When John remained silent now biting into the corner of a slice of buttered bread, Henry continued, “After so long apart from my family, it pleases me to see both of my daughters so cheerful. They’ve been flitting about since the sun came up guessing at what she might look like, who she might look like and what she should like to eat or do.”

Frances Eleanor Laurens was Johns only child, born a mere month after he left London and his wife Martha, then heavily pregnant with Frances, to join the Continental Army in America to offer his service and life to the pursuit of liberty from King George and his increasingly tyrannical acts. John had quickly become part of General George Washington’s military family as a volunteer aide de camp in August of ‘77 when Frances was 7 months old. Martha had passed away after a brief illness on a visit to France in 1781 and Frances had been in the care of family members until she could be safely transported to America after the war. Now was that time. She had set sail some weeks before and the ship carrying her and a family friend of his wife’s family, the Manning’s was spotted at dusk the previous evening sailing into Charleston Harbor.

The clock above the mantelpiece chimed 8, and a moment later, Shrewsberry appeared in the doorway. “The carriage is ready, Mr. Laurens.” Henry smiled at John as he rose, draining the last of his cup of coffee on his ascent and set the cup down with a clank on the saucer. He tugged on the bottom of his thin waistcoat and nodded a brief farewell to his father before heading out the front door and down the steps to the carriage where his light bag had been loaded for the evening stay at a boarding house. The ride to Charleston Harbor would take the majority of the day and they would find lodgings for the night before making the long journey back to Henry’s plantation the next morning.

John had brought along a book that Hamilton had recommended, An Essay on the Writings and Genius of Pope, by Joseph Warton in his most recent letter from Philadelphia. He smiled to himself and touched the breast of his jacket where the letter was now safely tucked away so it could easily be referenced in the reply he intended to write on the road.

Alexander Hamilton was the closest friend John had, a man he’d met when he joined George Washington’s military family as a volunteer aide de camp in August of 77’. In Hamilton, John found a man who shared his passions. Passion for liberty not only of America but of all enslaved persons as well. They had also shared a passion for each other that neither time, distance, nor familial duties had been able to affect. Their affections for one another were quite simply put, unalterable.

James stopped mid-afternoon, parking the carriage and twin black horses under the shade of low hanging broad-leaf trees to dine on the lunch Sarah had packed for them of fresh bread, cooked chicken, a portion of cheese for each man, and apples, John insisting they eat quickly. The closer they were to Frances, the more eager he was that her long journey come to an end. Near two months on a ship with friends of family must have been overwhelming for her and it was not lost on John that she was still mourning the loss of her mother to whom she had been so close. Privately, he had been making arrangements to have Martha’s remains brought to South Carolina where she could be buried in the family plot where they would all be one day, but he had told no one, save for Alexander, in the event that they didn’t complete the journey.

Charleston Harbor was dusty, loud, and crowded when they arrived as the sun began its descent on the horizon. When John had finalized the arrangements with the Manning’s in his last correspondence, instructions were given that if Frances and the family she was traveling with were to arrive during the day, they would find lodgings nearby and leave word with the ship. By this hour, they would have their things unloaded and have taken rooms and were likely dining together.

James stopped and parked the carriage, and John hopped out before he could come round to open the carriage door for him. “I’ll jus’ go see about Miss Laurens, Mista Laurens,” said James. John thanked the man that had worked tirelessly for Henry for more than a decade and watched him jog to a man with a ship’s manifest where he would inquire as to whether they had disembarked the ship or remained.

James returned with news that Miss Laurens, as well as her chaperones, Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Bloom had left word that they were staying at an Inn and would leave word with the keep as to their comings and goings. While James took the carriage to see to the horses, John walked through the streets to the row of Inns, Taverns, boarding houses and shops that lined the streets until he came to Drayton Hall where he booked a room for the two of them for one night and asked that a cot be brought into the room as well as requesting three breakfast and lunch meals be packed for them to take in the morning. Having made the last of his preparations, he set off to find the building described by the ship steward to James in hopes of finding his party.

He had only passed by four or five shop windows when he stopped short and held his breath for a long moment. For standing at the very next shop, a dressmaker, was a handsome couple with a young girl, the woman's hands on her shoulders protectively. The man took notice of John then and, following his gaze to the young girl, arched his eyebrows and took a step towards John.

“Might I presume you to be Mr. Laurens?” he asked in a deep, but amiable voice. While both the woman and the young girl now turned to notice John, he nodded as he closed the short distance between the two parties and extended his right hand. “You presume correct, Mr. Bloom.” The two men shook hands for a long moment as they exchanged pleasantries. Mrs. Bloom, now facing John as well, having guided the two of them while the men were introducing themselves.

John’s eyes now settled on the young girl that he had immediately known was Frances. There was no mistaking her parentage with John’s nose and chin, Martha’s fair hair and she had both of their blue eyes, though the color matched Martha’s more he thought. She had her head tilted downward shyly until John spoke, “Hello,” at which point she looked up and smiled a closed-lipped smile in response. “Hello,” she replied in a clear and confident tone that made John’s expression brightened. He took a knee in front of her, unconcerned with soiling his breeches and held out the palm of his hand for hers. “You are most certainly Frances Eleanor. My name” he began, only to change his mind, “...well I’m your Father, Frances.” He watched her eyes scan his face with curiosity before placing her hand in his timidly. “Hello, Father,” she said, knees bending into a curtsy that John knew she had been taught by not only his deceased wife Martha but his sister Martha as well when she was living in London. When she stood upright again, she added, “Bonjour Papa”, and John beamed. “Bien, Frances,” he praised. “Bonjour mon fille,” he replied and lifted her hand to his lips.

How many times had John worried about what he might feel when they met? He worried he would become too emotional, or that he might feel nothing at all. He hadn’t expected to feel such an immediate and overwhelming affection. A feeling that he knew her and that she was his. Hamilton had written to him, effusing his affections for his own young son, Phillip, and John had chastised him for seemingly being so single-minded. He could hardly do so again, now that he had met his own daughter and in one moment, had felt his world veer in her direction. She was so young and vulnerable and the weight of the losses she had experienced, as well as the absence of her own father for these first years of her life, made his heart break. He had been so willing to lose his life for his country, eager some even accused, and now he felt the same pull towards this person that he knew little about, and yet he knew Frances. As though she had always been his, even before she was born. She was always to be. And now, she was here, and John would give up his life for hers as readily as he would have for his country, for South Carolina, and for his friends.

John rose to his feet, letting her small hand slide out of his and shook the hand of Alice Bloom, who had accompanied Frances on the months-long journey. “I must thank you both for taking on the responsibility and care of seeing Frances safely here to me. I insist on paying your expenses while you’re here. Alice fixed the collar of Frances’s dress while Joseph shook his head. “No need, Mr. Laurens,” he began, only to be interrupted by John, “John, please.” Joseph nodded once and continued, “John, we appreciate the kind offer, however, there is no need. It was our pleasure.” “No trouble in your crossing, I presume?” John inquired, and Joseph again shook his head, “A few storms, nothing of concern.”

Johns eyes fell on Frances again as she fidgeted impatiently and ran the toe of her black shoe along the groove between the cobblestones. “Good news,” he said cheerfully turning his attention back to the Bloom’s. “Have you all eaten dinner?” Frances perked up, craning her neck back to look up at John causing him to suspect they had not. “We were just discussing that,” Alice answered, turning slightly to smile warmly at Frances. “Frances hasn’t eaten much today.” In a lower register she added, “Nerves I expect.” John nodded and bent at the waist to meet Frances eye. “Would you like to have dinner now Frances? Are you hungry?”

She nodded emphatically scratching the end of her nose with her index finger, and John noticed she had long, slender fingers as he did. “Yes, please,” she replied politely. He nodded once and turned to the Bloom’s once more. “Can I persuade you both to join us?”

The two looked at each other before Joseph answered, waving John off with his hand. “Thank you for the kind offer but I expect you would enjoy dining with your daughter alone. I’ll have her trunk and portmanteau brought to your man at your carriage.” John flinched at the intimation that James was his man, but made no objection, merely pointing out where the black carriage with gold trim was now parked in the shade. “Thank you.”

Alice turned to face Frances, her gloved hands cupping her cheeks and kissed her forehead. “It has been our pleasure, Miss Frances Eleanor Laurens, to accompany you on this journey these long weeks. I found you to be a cheerful companion always.” Her husband retrieved a handkerchief from his waistcoat and handed it to her over her shoulder, seemingly expecting the tears that now flowed down her cheeks. It seemed as though it only now struck Frances that they were parting ways and she would be moving on with John as her own bottom lip quivered and her chin shook, revealing a small dimple. She straightened her posture and took a deep breath, and hugged her caretaker of the last months as John watched with trepidation.

When they parted, Alice stood straight and wiped Frances’s tears with the corner of the handkerchief before wiping her own. “If I don’t see you again before you leave for your new home, we will continue to pray for you as we have each night since we met you. Now don’t forget your promise to me, Miss Frances. When you finish your sketch of me, you must send it to me so I may hang it in my parlor.” Frances nodded, “Yes, Ma’am.” Alice turned to John to explain, “You have a very talented young daughter, Mr. Laurens. She sketched and painted to pass the time away but was unable to complete a sketch she started of me, as she ran out of charcoal. Her grandfather sent along a new box of charcoals, but it would seem your daughter required a larger one,” she mused.

John arched an eyebrow with interest. “Well, we shall have to procure what you need in order to finish and keep your promise, Frances.” After another round of goodbye’s, the Blooms turned to continue on their walk, Alice stopping to look over her shoulder several times before Joseph touched her elbow and she walked straight on with him.

Alone with the six-year-old daughter, he had never met before this day, John straightened himself and tugged at his waistcoat, a habit he picked up from his father, and held out his hand. “Let’s see about getting some dinner, shall we? I’m famished.” She hesitated a moment before taking his hand. Perhaps she felt the weight of the moment as he did. That from this moment, it was the two of them. He sought to encourage her with a smile and she finally took his hand, and he took her into the inn where they could dine in the dining hall at a small table with two wooden chairs where they were brought lemonade, ham, boiled potatoes, and long green beans.

John noted that her table etiquette was quite good as he asked her questions about the ship, the weather they had encountered and how she spent her time. When she required assistance to cut a particularly thick piece of ham into smaller bites, he got up from the table to squat beside her, his hands covering hers and simply adding some elbow grease to her own effort until she had several more manageable bites on her plate. She reminded him of his younger siblings and the assistance he had provided them at the dining table and felt a new fondness for the young girl who would depend on him for so much.

After dinner, they found James eating the food that had been packed for him with a few other carriage drivers who were also indentured. Slavery was a practice abhorrent to John. He had fought tirelessly during the war to secure their freedom through service in the war but had failed more than once. With the war now over, he was ready to pick up a new weapon and wage a new war, this time on the institution of slavery itself with his quill and perhaps, a position in politics. He did what he could, treating the men, women, and children his father owned with respect and kindness, but he had learned at an early age that it did them no favors to do things for himself. They belonged to his father by laws that John intended to help change along with men like Hamilton, and he had seen the cold manner in which his father had treated those John had shown kindness too. Henry wasn’t a cruel man, but he viewed it as their purpose to serve the Laurens family in any thing they required. John would have servants when his own home was built. Men and women who received a respectable wage for the services they would provide John and now, Frances.

James met the pair at the carriage where John introduced James merely as a man who had served the Laurens family well for many years and, the man who would drive their carriage home. James removed his hat and bowed before he greeted her politely, “Good evening, Miss.” She returned his bow with a curtsy and James smiled a closed-lipped smile before opening the rear of the carriage to hand John her leather bag that would contain her bedclothes and likely a hairbrush and change of clothes for the next day. He also handed John his own satchel made of fine leather that contained his own bedclothes, a shaving kit and fresh shirt for the next day. On the bottom of his bag, unknown to Frances, was a gift wrapped in thin brown paper tied with a white lace ribbon provided by Martha.

John exchanged a few instructions with James, indicating that he wished to depart early in the morning and shook off James’ offer to carry their things and see them to their room. “I can manage James, thank you.”

“How did you sleep on the ship, Frances?” John asked as they crossed the dirt street to the inn where they’d eaten. “I was frightened some of the time,” she replied, peering up at him sheepishly. “But then I was brave,” she finished. “Oh? What made you brave?” he pressed. She pulled her blonde braid round and tickled her chin with the end, telling him, “Grandfather told me before I left for America that my father is brave and if you can be brave then so can I because I’m your daughter.”

John halted on the cobblestone sidewalk and swallowed hard before pivoting to face her, squatting so she could meet his eye. “Your bravery makes me very proud, Frances,” he told her with sincerity. “I worried that you might be scared on the ship, there are storms from time to time and unfamiliar sounds, but I trusted that you are mature enough to do what needed to be done and I had faith that you would arrive here in Charleston safely.” He took her braid and tickled her chin himself with the tied-off end and she giggled, and John looked down the street, distractedly watching a dog barking at some invisible perceived danger. When his eyes returned to Frances she was studying his face intently in a way he recognized. Her eyes followed not his nose or the color of his eyes or hair, but the lines of his face. The contours of his cheek and brow, the shadows under his eyes and the angle of his jaw. John immediately recognized she had an artists eye and made a mental note to find an art instructor when she was settled.

Frances blinked with heavy lids as the excitement of the day caught up with her. Twenty-four hours ago she had arrived in this harbor under cover of night and had spent her day in a new country surrounded by an array of new people, new sights and experiences entirely unique to her. For the first time, John wrapped a strong arm around her legs and lifted her up, settling her on his right hip and bending to the left to pick up her bag. She wrapped her arms around his neck for the support he thought until she rested her cheek on his shoulder as he ascended the stairs to their room.

After seeing to her more immediate bedtime needs, he helped her dress in a cotton nightdress and turned down her bed. She sat down on the edge to climb in but rather than tuck her in, he went to his bag and pulled out the small flat gift he’d brought with him, then plucked her up and sat her on his knee on his bed, holding the gift out to her. “I brought this for you, I hope you like it.” Her blue eyes twinkled and she smiled at him before excitedly untying the lace ribbon and unwrapping a copy of ‘An Easy Introduction to the Knowledge of Nature, and Reading the Holy Scriptures’, by Sarah Trimmer, a London author of children’s books. She mouthed out the first two words and was attempting to sound out the third when John cut in to help. Together they read the title and she opened the pages, her lips moving as she read the words she recognized. “Do you like it?” he asked, wondering if a book with illustrations may have been more interesting to the young girl when she twisted on the bed to face him, neck craned back and smiling. “Yes, thank you, Father. Only, I don’t know all the words just yet,” she informed him. John smiled in return and tucked a loose length of wavy hair behind her ear. “Well, that’s easily remedied. I’ll help you, and you also have your Grandfather, your Aunts, and your Uncle Harry.” His stomach turned, recalling that there was only one Uncle for Frances now, John’s youngest brother James having passed away some years before.

“Come now, time for bed, tomorrow will be a long day,” he told her and lifted her easily to cradle her in his arms, laying her down in her bed for the night. “Tomorrow night you’ll be in a bed your own with your own things. There’s much to tell you and to be excited for, but for now, sleep.” She pulled the thin blanket up and rolled onto her side and yawned. John smoothed back more loose hair wondering how he would make it neat again in the morning and bent low to kiss her temple.

He put her book along with the wrappings on top of her things inside her bag and watched her quickly fall asleep from the chair at the small desk in the room. When her breathing had slowed and John was sure she was asleep, he pulled the letter he’d received from his Alexander the day previous from his waistcoat pocket and began writing his reply…

My Dr Alexander,

I received last evening your letter of the 11th inst. with joy. I now go too long without the comfort of your ink strokes, after so long a time spent with them in every space in which I moved. In keeping with my promise never again to exclude you from the details of my life apart from you, I tell you that I write you now from a room I’ve taken in Charleston Harbor, where my young daughter of six sleeps on a cot…

Chapter Text

Heavy footed steps on floorboards in the hall roused John from his sleep before the sun made its daily introduction, and for a minute, John imagined he was back in one of the brick and stone homes Washington had used as his HeadQuarters during their war for American independence. He missed the comforting, familiar sound of Tilghman checking on the status of coffee, and the muted clod of the hooves of a courier riding in with the morning dispatches. He longed for the bellowing of Harrison and the steady opening and closing of the front door. Most of all, though, he missed Alexander. The scratch of his quill at ungodly hours, trying to sleep through his incessant chatter as he worked through his thoughts before putting them to paper, and the way he would sometimes bring John coffee in their room if they were fortunate enough to share one. It wasn’t often, but if it could be managed, Alex would bring a cup for each of them to their room, and they would share a few minutes alone together before joining the rest of Washington’s military family to carry out their duties.

His dreaminess was broken by a light snore across the room, his memories banished for the moment as he sat up to check on the small child asleep there. John’s six-year-old daughter, Frances, had only arrived in Charleston the afternoon before, and when John bumped into her on the street with her chaperones from London, it was the first time he’d laid eyes on her. Today they would be driven in his father's carriage back to Mepkin, the plantation owned by Henry, and Frances, still grieving her mother, would start a new life on a new continent with a father she barely knew.

He sat up in his linen nightshirt, draped his arms over his knees, and watched her for a few minutes with curiosity. Becoming a husband and father at twenty-one while his country was at war was unplanned. Now, he was a widower with a small child, and entirely ill-prepared as a father. Am I up to it? What kind of father will I be? he wondered, not for the first time.

He had exchanged letters with Hamilton on the subject of fatherhood, as John tiptoed his way through their fractured friendship after Hamilton discovered that John had a wife and daughter in London. Alexander was himself a new father, and their discussions had only served to aid in mending that relationship. Bringing up children was one more subject on which they largely agreed. Working in close quarters for years meant that Alex was well acquainted with John's relationship with his own father, and that while he appreciated the structure and discipline of his youth, he didn’t wish to be such an inflexible parent. Daughters were dealt a different lot in life than sons, and there were few limits to what John could do for Frances, but he had seen the disappointment in his sister’s faces when their interests were ignored and their curiosity discouraged, and he had a desire to do better by Frances. In a late night discussion with Alex at the close of the war, John had likened their new nation to a blank canvas, in which they had no idea what role they would play, let alone women and young ladies. John wished to prepare Frances for anything. He wanted her to have every advantage he could provide; education was the nucleus of that plan.

John felt an entirely new form of pride when they met and Frances’ greeting had been, ‘Bonjour, Papa’. He was embarrassingly uninformed in regard to her education in London, but language studies would be pursued, either by himself or with tutors. It appeared, to John’s delight, that she possessed a natural talent for art, and he wished to encourage that as well. He had seen a shop the day before that sold the charcoal he’d promised her, and made a mental note to stop before they left for Mepkin. He hoped that as they formed their new nation, she would have as many opportunities currently provided for men. Perhaps doors were soon to open for women that no one could imagine now. Would women in the workplace be necessary? All possibilities must be considered, and Hamilton had readily agreed.

John took a breath, and reached for the breeches hanging off the back of the chair at the writing desk. Frances’ floral frock from the day before hung neatly beside them. He pushed his feet through the legs and hopped from the bed, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he tugged them over his hips. He was used to getting an early start after spending six years rising early; being ready to ride out at a moment’s notice was a job requirement in Washington’s office. Were he alone now, he’d already be untying his horse, and if Hamilton were here with him, he’d be less inclined to rush away from the warmth, if not comfort, of their bed and his embrace.

His mouth formed a sentimental smile, and John pinched his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger as he took out the memory of their last night together months ago. Passions were always intensified before a battle or separation loomed, but the last time was different. The war was won, soldiers and officers were returning to their homes and their families, and that included Hamilton. They stole every moment that availed itself to them, talking excitedly, often over each other, as they planned their own lives, and speculated on their new nation between kisses.

Frances snored again, abruptly cutting off John’s thoughts. He watched in fascination as she stirred, rolling onto her side to face John, a bare, pink foot protruding from the bedding. He decided he could afford to let her sleep a while longer and use the additional time to write a letter to her grandparents in London. He took out a fresh sheet of paper and dipped the quill, supplied by the inn, in the inkpot, tapping the tip against the inside of the clay pot lightly before pressing it to paper.

Midway through a sentence assuring them she had made the crossing without incident, she awoke. John watched her, quill suspended in mid-air above the sheet, as she sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes with her fists, and yawned. She blinked back sleep, looking around the unfamiliar room until she found her father, who was replacing the lid on the inkwell.

“Good morning,” he smiled warmly. “Did you sleep well?”

Frances was quiet, pushing back the thin summer bed covering and swinging her legs around until her feet were flat on the floor. She slouched on the edge of her bed and mumbled, “Good morning,” rubbing her eyes again with small fists, and yawning before she answered his question. “I think so. Sometimes I thought the bed moved like on the ship.”

John chuckled and moved to sit next to her. “I’m sure it did. I recall that very thing when I traveled as well. Were you seasick?” he asked, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

She shrugged sheepishly, seemingly reluctant to answer; or perhaps she was still drowsy with sleep. John didn’t know her well enough to make a judgement.

“I--sometimes I felt ill, but I didn’t get sick,” she answered sheepishly.

“Hm. I myself was often sick, in particular when I sailed from France to join the Army.” Her eyes widened at his admission, and her jaw dropped, which led to another yawn. She quickly covered her mouth with her hands and giggled. John laughed as well.

Frances hopped to her feet, and spun around to look at her father, twisting her hands in front of her and fidgeting on her feet. “My Grandfather--he told me I’m not to disappoint you. He said you are an important man, and you made great sacrifices for your country, and I am to do as I am told and be a good girl.” She nodded sharply, as though she’d successfully recited something she’d rehearsed.

John’s head jerked up, and he felt his heart sink. Disappointing his own father had brought John a tremendous amount of anxiety when he was younger, and he had no interest in being the source of such in his own child. “Frances, come sit with me, s'il-vous plait,” he asked, patting his knee. She stepped closer, and he lifted her up onto his knee, sweeping the stray hairs from her face with timid fingers. “I am afraid I don’t know very much about you, Frances, nor do I know how much or little you may know about me, so we shall have to learn together. I expect you to mind me as you did your mother and your grandparents, but I do not want you to worry about upsetting or disappointing me.” He chuckled humorlessly and clucked his tongue, thinking of his sisters. “Surely you have no memory of your Aunt Martha, but I assure you, both of your Aunts do not hesitate to offer their opinions or displeasure. You are free to do the same, Frances.”

She giggled in response to John’s impression of his sisters, and asked, “Are we going to Mepkin today?”

“We are. Once you’ve dressed, sleepyhead, and we find something to eat downstairs. Are you hungry?”

She slid off of his knee and picked her frock from the chair. She answered, “Yes, please, Papa,” before deciding to test John’s offer to express herself. She wiped her hair from her face and announced, “Only, I do not like poached eggs.”

After a breakfast of coffee, eggs, and leftover ham for John, and porridge with cooked apples for Frances, John paid the bill for the evening’s stay, in addition to purchasing a breakfast for James and some food for them to eat on the way. John opened the inn door for Frances and found James with their carriage, waiting outside.

Frances wore a dress the color of indigo, and had managed her hair on her own, much to John’s relief. He found himself wishing he had thought to bring his sister along. She would have been helpful when it came time for Frances to dress, and when she needed to use the chamber pot.

“Good morning, James,” John greeted, handing him their bags and the food, wrapped in paper and tied with string. James lifted his worn hat, bowing to each with a closed-lipped smile. “Mornin’ Mister Laurens, Miss Laurens.”

John touched Frances’ shoulder until she echoed his greeting. “Good morning, James.”

“Horses are fed and watered, and we can get you both back straight away, Mister Laurens. You just say so, sir!”

“The sooner, the better, James.” John opened the carriage door himself while James moved quickly, loading their belongings onto the rear to be secured along with Frances’ trunks. Instead of moving to climb in, however, she looked up at him expectantly, chewing on a fingernail.

“Is something wrong?” he asked her.

She shuffled her feet in the dry dirt and looked down the street. John made a note that her shoes were worn. She would need a new pair, and sooner rather than later. “Papa,” she said, sounding like the beginnings of a request.

John tipped his head to one side and eyed her quizzically. “What is it, Frances?” he asked, using a soft and encouraging tone.

“The charcoals?” she asked shyly, reminding John of his promise to her.

“Ah… of course.” Without offering an explanation to James, John took Frances’ hand and led her back onto the boarded walkway. “We can purchase those now, yes. Do you need new paints as well, or is it only charcoal that you’re bereft of?” She stopped cold and blushed.

“I only have broken bits left,” she admitted shyly.

“We’ll have to do a proper inventory. Only then will we know exactly what is needed.” he told her. This much was easy, he thought; providing for her needs and wants. There were difficult conversations to be had, and saying yes now, to this, seemed a good way to get to know her.

As they approached the carriage, John informed James, “I need to see Miss Laurens’ paintbox, please, James, as well as her portfolio, thank you.”

“It’s in there, Papa,” she told him, pointing to her smallest crate; a plain, black, hard covered crate with brass fixtures and her initials written on top in gold ink, ‘F.E.L.’. John personally unsecured it from the rear and unlocked it. When he lifted the lid, there was a thin blanket on top for swaddling an infant. John ran his fingertips over the fine, soft article and recalled purchasing it for Martha as a gift after they were married. He put the memory aside with the blanket and found the paintbox on the bottom of the crate, carefully moving items out of the way until he could pull it out by the handle. Tucked between the box and the side of her traveling luggage was her portfolio. It was leather and bound with worn leather ties, also bearing her initials. “Very well, let me see what you’ve been working with,” he said to her with a smile. “Would you find your charcoals, please Frances?”

She bounced on her toes excitedly, and easily found the recognizable lump of canvas cloth that carried the last few remaining fragments of her charcoal set, handing them proudly to John. He held the fabric in his palm and weighed it. “Oh dear, you are running low; this is all?” She nodded, rocking on her heels. “You were busy on the ship, weren’t you?”

“I draw every day,” she told him matter of factly. “’Do you not, as well?”

“I--I had little time to indulge in my hobbies, but perhaps I should begin to make time again.” Now that he knew what Frances needed, which was apparently everything, he folded up her canvas while she tied up her portfolio, and together they set off in the direction of a merchant. While they walked, Frances chattered about this and that, asking about her Aunts, and if there were any cats at Mepkin. He chuckled, opening the shop door for her, and answered, “There are, but they stay in the barns and stables.”

When they left a half-hour later, both father and daughter had enough art supplies to last the rest of the year, even taking into account Frances’ daily art habit. She hugged her new charcoals to her chest, while John carried a new watercolor box for each of them, along with an easel, folded underneath one arm. A generous supply of paper and canvas was uncomfortably tucked under his other.

While James secured their purchases with their belongings for their now-imminent departure, Frances paused at the open carriage door, staring up at John with the same blush that often tinted his own cheeks in moments of shyness or modesty.

“Surely you can’t have forgotten something, we purchased half the shop!” he teased her, pressing the back of his hand to her forehead the way his mother did when he had too much, or too little, color. She’d been frozen in place for several seconds, but now, she lurched forward, wrapping her small arms about John’s waist. “Thank you, Papa.” Then, pursuing the praise she’d received from him the previous day when she first spoke to him in French, added, “Merci, Papa! Merci, beaucoup!”

John swallowed hard, and patted her back. “Vous êtes les bienvenus, Frances, bien sûr, vous êtes les bienvenus.”

She’s affectionate, like her mother, John thought, as Frances climbed into the carriage and took a seat facing the back of a horse. Martha had often reached for John’s hand, and she embraced him each morning before he left their chambers. He took the empty seat across from Frances, a few items having been left on the seat for him at his request, though he left them for now. When James announced their departure, John moved to sit next to Frances and pointed out the ship she’d arrived on the previous day. With her eyes trained on the ship, she excitedly told him about a pod of whales they’d seen on their voyage. He asked thoughtful questions as she gave him a detailed account of the week-long journey with two virtual strangers that had brought her to Charleston, and to her new life in the United States of America.

John enjoyed listening to Frances talk. She had a creative mind that extended beyond her artistic abilities, and he wondered how he might cultivate that in her. He decided he would ask Alexander for his advice.

They fell into an easy silence once they were away from the busy port, and John’s thoughts wandered to Alexander, as well as plans for his office in the house John planned to build. Frances watched from both windows, occasionally asking after a bird that flew overhead, or a body of water. “Are there fish in that water?” she asked of each. John would answer in detail, to help her familiarize herself with her new environment, as much as for his own delight in learning her voice and the way she spoke and thought.

They ate their lunch on a blanket on the grass by the side of the road, while James ate his next to the horses while they drank from a stream off the road. When they were back on the dry road to Mepkin, John pulled out a small book he’d purchased for Frances, and offered to read it to her to pass the time. ‘The Governess,’ by Sarah Fielding, was a popular new novel for children, and John had been eager to read it to, or with her. No sooner than she realized the book was about a boarding school, however, Frances asked nervously, “Will you be sending me to a boarding school? My grandparents told me you would want to, but I don’t want to, I just came here!”

John lifted her onto his lap and held her against his chest, stroking her soft corn silk hair and soothing her as he whispered, “Shh-shh.” Tears streaked her rosy cheeks at the thought of another new place to live, but she soon allowed herself to be comforted by her father, pressing into his chest and curling her fingers around the embroidered lapel of his coat. “No, Frances, I won’t be sending you to boarding school. At least, not for now, you’re much too young. I don’t want you to worry about anything, alright? There are decisions to be made regarding your education, but you don’t need to think about any of that today. First, we need to get you settled.”

John picked up the book again and found his place. Frances had not moved from his lap, turning the embroidered button of his waistcoat in her fingers absently, listening to the story.

Sometime later, his reading was interrupted when they passed another carriage on the road. Both carriages halted to exchange pleasantries, and upon learning it was Lt. Col. Laurens riding inside, John was greeted with cheers by the occupant, a cousin of a man who had been at Charleston with John, when he and thousands of others were forced to surrender. Without thinking, John carried Frances out of the carriage, where she sat perched on his arm now, as he spoke with the man. John introduced Frances, and though he knew he should have set her on her feet to meet him more properly, he felt protective over her, even in friendly company. He felt Frances’ eyes on his face as he shared a few benign details of that regrettable day, shielding her from the death and destruction that he had witnessed as the British laid siege to their home for weeks.

“And you were shot too, we heard! First at German Town and later at Coosawatchie! We all prayed for you, of course” this man exclaimed excitedly. John narrowed his eyes, all good humor gone from his face. If this man was so enthralled by the battles that they fought for his independence, perhaps he should have enlisted himself.

Frances responded with eyes as wide as saucers, but said not a word, although John noted her arms tightened around his neck to the point of discomfort.

He rubbed her back again, and set her on her feet, where she slipped her hand in his unreservedly. “It’s a shame you didn’t enlist yourself, sir. We certainly needed the help, here in Charleston in particular.” John’s brow remained furrowed, rows of wrinkles forming on his forehead, and he replaced his new hat atop his powdered and queued hair. When the man offered only a gaping mouth in response, John’s pursed lips turned up into a generous smile. “Forgive me, sir, the Army thanks you for your prayers, and now that the war is won, I hope your prayers will be for those who are not here to enjoy it.” He took a step towards the carriage making eye contact with James, who watched carefully; a silent acknowledgment that he was ready to leave.

They bid each other a final goodbye, and John waved from the window until the wheels of the carriage began to move again. Frances fidgeted on her seat across from him for several minutes once the horses had started moving, until John picked up the book and started reading again, discouraging any inquiries she may have for the time being.

Frances drifted off mid-afternoon, slumping to one side. John marked the page before closing the book and laid it on the seat next to him. Worried she’d fall over in her sleep, he moved to sit next to her, placing an arm about her shoulders to support her. She immediately leaned into him, and he felt her body relax as she slipped into dreamland.

While she slept, John held one hand in his palm, examining her slender fingers and occasionally ducking to kiss her head. There was a scar on one knuckle he intended to ask her about, and John seemed to have a vague recollection of her frock. A hand me down from his sister, perhaps? Martha would certainly remember.

Before she’d woken, James turned the horses and carriage onto the final stretch of road that would take them to Mepkin. John had been home for months, but he still appreciated the stirring in his heart which occurred each time he knew he was close, and he allowed Frances a few more minutes to rest while he savored the final stretch.

When the house came to view, he retracted his arm from her shoulder and propped her upright with his shoulder, prompting her to sit up.

“Frances?” he nudged quietly. “Fanny?” he said softly, invoking her nickname. “We’re nearly there. Come on now, time to wake up, your aunts will be running to meet us in a few minutes.”

Without opening her eyes, she leaned back into John’s side, hoping to steal a few more moments of rest. He smiled to himself, and, suspecting it would work as it did with Mary Eleanor, told her, “If you watch, the dogs will probably run to meet us!” he told her excitedly.

She turned her face upwards toward his and smiled, eyes still closed. John knew she had left a beloved cat in London, and like most children, she was an animal lover. She stretched animatedly, and yawned, finally pushing her lids open by will.

“Dogs? We have dogs?” She pushed the heel of her hands off from his chest until she was upright and clambered to look out the window on John’s side, her sleepy eyes scanning the landscape expectantly.

“Well,” John admitted, “we don’t have dogs, so much as your grandfather has dogs, but I suppose we will someday.”

Her head swiveled around to stare at him with a renewed smile, and she clapped her hands enthusiastically. “Can we have a little dog? And can I have a kitten? I had a kitten at my house in London, and her name was Snowball, but I couldn’t bring her on the boat with me. It wasn’t safe.” Her voice and face had become sad and longing and John patted her back sympathetically.

“Yes, your grandfather told me. I’m sorry you had to leave Snowball. We’ll need a cat or two, once our house is finished,” he told her. “I’m sure we’ll have kittens.” Struck with inspiration of his own, he asked, “Did you draw or paint Snowball? That’s one way to keep her in your memory.”

She checked for dogs once more before pivoting on the balls of her feet to face John. “Snowball was a boy cat, but I did paint him. I tried to, anyhow, but his fur is wrong.” Her face pulled into a sour expression at the memory, much the way John’s own face displayed frustration with his own painting when the paper failed to represent his intent.

John hummed and patted the empty seat next to him, inviting her to watch from her seat. “I’m sure your painting instructor can help you with his fur. Or perhaps I can,” he offered. “I manage with feathers and such.” She smiled at him as though she didn’t think he’d be much help, which he was about to challenge when a string of barks and yips harnessed her attention, and she slid off the seat again, easily finding the hounds that had come to meet the carriage.

“One… two… three,” she counted aloud, and while her eyes were on the dogs, John’s found the entrance to the house, where Martha was standing on the porch, smoothing down her skirts with Henry on her heels, and Mary Eleanor running down the lawn.

He waved before studying Frances’ face for any hint that she recognized them. When she gave away nothing, he asked, “Do you recognize anyone, Frances? They’re standing on the porch, waving.” John pointed in their direction and waved again. Instead of waving herself though, Frances took a nervous step back into John’s legs and looked at him with a wary expression on her blushing face. “You were just a baby, Frances, it’s all right that you don’t remember anyone. They remember you.”

After a long moment spent staring at the trio of waving hands--where was Harry?--she finally spoke. “Do they remember Mama, too?” John swallowed at the mention of Martha and hummed as he nodded.

“They do. Your Aunt Martha, especially. They were friends and wrote to each other.” She offered no reply, but John recognized grief in her eyes. For her mother, certainly, but there was something else. Curiosity?

The carriage came to a stop with the horses, and James jumped into action to open the door for them, only to find John had already done so. Frances held tightly to the hand John offered, and after stepping out himself, he bowed dramatically, inviting her to make her own exit to excited cries from his sisters, calling her by her nickname.

No sooner than her shoes hit the ground, Martha and Mary skipped forward, and Frances moved closer to John’s leg, looking up at the father she hadn’t known a day ago for reassurance.