I really enjoyed writing this scene.
Feb. 24th, 2025 10:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ceiswynSo it makes me proud that it seems to have achieved exactly what I wanted it to :)
(Context: Peter is Burr's enslaved valet. Burr has escaped from the dodgy military abduction ordered by Jefferson, and is lying low with an ally/acquaintance while he plans his next move)
---
Peter was surprised to find his master already awake and writing when he entered his room. Master Burr had been out very late again last night; he knew because none of the others who used that route up the side of the house would have cursed in French at missing the handhold to heave up onto the porch roof. Apparently Mr Clay’s remonstrances after master Burr had waked the household on finding the door locked at 3 am had had some effect, if not the one desired.
“Master Burr?”
Burr held up a finger as both an acknowledgement and an admonishment to patience, as he painstakingly copied down numbers from one paper to another, then tore one and scattered the fragments liberally in the kindling under the tea-kettle. Peter laid out everything he needed as his master got up from the desk and changed into his breeches.
It was just like visiting friends in another town. Half a year of danger and privation, the march east watching master Burr banter with his armed guard, the uncertain rendezvous at an abandoned house with a lame boatman wearing an utterly abominable hat, the careful ride north from friend to friend, often under the cloak of night; and now suddenly it was as if they had spent all that time attending parties in New York. Peter the messenger and spy was forgotten, and Peter the valet was expected to provide silent and unexceptionable service once more. It was frustrating and confining, like an ill-fitting set of clothes; and yet when he thought about returning to the war he felt overwhelmed by dread. Not that it mattered how he felt.
He was just finishing the dressing of master Burr’s hair when their host walked in.
Mr Clay was a lean man, with gaunt, protruding cheekbones and a determined chin. This morning he was tight-lipped with anger.
“Colonel Burr,” he said in a controlled drawl, his voice very dry. “I am sorry for the necessity, but I must ask you to control your boy.”
Peter’s fingers twitched and the hair ribbon slipped, letting a lock of hair fall free. He quickly started to mend his mistake, with shaking fingers. Mr Clay, he knew, did favour the whip.
“I am very sorry to hear that,” master Burr said politely. “What has young Peter done?”
“The housekeeper found him sneaking about the house last night.” Clay’s voice was an icy contrast to the heat of the morning. “He could give no good reason to be out of the garret, and he was insolent when ordered back there. This is a respectable household, Colonel Burr. I cannot have such goings-on. Why, my wife and little girl sleep only a floor above.”
Amidst Peter’s sudden panic, he found space to be affronted by the implication. Not to mention the illogic. He said nothing.
“Thankyou for bringing this to my notice,” master Burr said gravely. “It is a defect I had not expected to hear of, in a boy I had thought trustworthy beyond question.”
Peter was not sure whether that was a warning to him or to Clay. He winced either way.
“I shall see it does not occur again,” master Burr added, and Peter winced again. He stood quietly behind his master's chair, drawing out the loops of the ribbon with small motions, reluctant to make any move that might draw attention to himself.
“Thankyou, Colonel Burr, I appreciate it as a gentleman.” Clay continued to ignore that the person he was talking about was standing right there in front of him. For once, Peter found himself grateful that most southerners pretended not to see slaves. This morning seemed like a good time to be invisible.
“Is there any word yet from Washington city?” master Burr changed the subject briskly.
“Not that our Attorney-General has sent word of,” Clay said with a shake of his head. “Are you determined upon this course, Mr Burr?”
His hair now neatly brushed and tied, Burr stood, and Peter took the opportunity to quietly retreat a few steps. “It seems the most expedient, Mr Clay. I cannot return to the front with a danger of unlawful arrest hanging over me. I must meet the charges and refute them. I hope, with your aid.”
“Then I guess I remain at your service, sir.” Clay gave a respectful nod of his head before retiring.
Peter busied himself with tidying up the tools of master Burr’s toilette.
“Peter.”
He sighed, accepted the inevitable, and turned to his master; a little disconcerted, as ever, to find himself looking slightly downwards. “Yes, master?”
One black eyebrow arched at him. “You will furnish me with an explanation.” It was a statement of fact, not a request.
“I was not doing anything improper, master Burr, truly I was not!”
“I had thought your understanding in logic was sufficiently advanced by now to discriminate between what you were not doing, and what you were doing. And which of these things was asked for.” Burr’s words were precisely enunciated, and his face gave away nothing.
“I had simply thought,” Peter said apologetically, “that when Mr Clay was so unhappy that you waked the house on Tuesday, master, perhaps it would be better if I were available to open the door the first moment you knocked?”
Peter was not quite quick enough to read the tiny flicker around master Burr’s eyes before his forbidding expression returned. “And it did not occur to you that lurking in the corridors late at night might result in some solicitude to any person who heard you or encountered you.”
“Um…” There were so many thoughts crowding onto Peter’s tongue, from ‘I didn’t think that anyone else would be around at that hour’ to ‘the same way you thought about worrying the household by banging on the door when everyone was sound asleep?’, but with a heroic effort he managed to prevent himself actually saying any of them.
Master Burr turned away (still favouring one ankle a little when he moved, Peter noticed, which might explain how he had missed that handhold coming in last night). “If I require your services at any time, Peter,” he said over his shoulder, “I will ask for them. And I shall not be requiring them now for some hours. Go up to your quarters, and remain there until sent for.”
“Yes, master Burr.” Peter retreated, eyes smarting a little at the unfair harshness. It was not until he thought about that morning again, long after, that he realised that not only had he escaped the lash, but that he had very effectively been kept out of Mr Clay’s sight all day.
---
(Context: Peter is Burr's enslaved valet. Burr has escaped from the dodgy military abduction ordered by Jefferson, and is lying low with an ally/acquaintance while he plans his next move)
---
Peter was surprised to find his master already awake and writing when he entered his room. Master Burr had been out very late again last night; he knew because none of the others who used that route up the side of the house would have cursed in French at missing the handhold to heave up onto the porch roof. Apparently Mr Clay’s remonstrances after master Burr had waked the household on finding the door locked at 3 am had had some effect, if not the one desired.
“Master Burr?”
Burr held up a finger as both an acknowledgement and an admonishment to patience, as he painstakingly copied down numbers from one paper to another, then tore one and scattered the fragments liberally in the kindling under the tea-kettle. Peter laid out everything he needed as his master got up from the desk and changed into his breeches.
It was just like visiting friends in another town. Half a year of danger and privation, the march east watching master Burr banter with his armed guard, the uncertain rendezvous at an abandoned house with a lame boatman wearing an utterly abominable hat, the careful ride north from friend to friend, often under the cloak of night; and now suddenly it was as if they had spent all that time attending parties in New York. Peter the messenger and spy was forgotten, and Peter the valet was expected to provide silent and unexceptionable service once more. It was frustrating and confining, like an ill-fitting set of clothes; and yet when he thought about returning to the war he felt overwhelmed by dread. Not that it mattered how he felt.
He was just finishing the dressing of master Burr’s hair when their host walked in.
Mr Clay was a lean man, with gaunt, protruding cheekbones and a determined chin. This morning he was tight-lipped with anger.
“Colonel Burr,” he said in a controlled drawl, his voice very dry. “I am sorry for the necessity, but I must ask you to control your boy.”
Peter’s fingers twitched and the hair ribbon slipped, letting a lock of hair fall free. He quickly started to mend his mistake, with shaking fingers. Mr Clay, he knew, did favour the whip.
“I am very sorry to hear that,” master Burr said politely. “What has young Peter done?”
“The housekeeper found him sneaking about the house last night.” Clay’s voice was an icy contrast to the heat of the morning. “He could give no good reason to be out of the garret, and he was insolent when ordered back there. This is a respectable household, Colonel Burr. I cannot have such goings-on. Why, my wife and little girl sleep only a floor above.”
Amidst Peter’s sudden panic, he found space to be affronted by the implication. Not to mention the illogic. He said nothing.
“Thankyou for bringing this to my notice,” master Burr said gravely. “It is a defect I had not expected to hear of, in a boy I had thought trustworthy beyond question.”
Peter was not sure whether that was a warning to him or to Clay. He winced either way.
“I shall see it does not occur again,” master Burr added, and Peter winced again. He stood quietly behind his master's chair, drawing out the loops of the ribbon with small motions, reluctant to make any move that might draw attention to himself.
“Thankyou, Colonel Burr, I appreciate it as a gentleman.” Clay continued to ignore that the person he was talking about was standing right there in front of him. For once, Peter found himself grateful that most southerners pretended not to see slaves. This morning seemed like a good time to be invisible.
“Is there any word yet from Washington city?” master Burr changed the subject briskly.
“Not that our Attorney-General has sent word of,” Clay said with a shake of his head. “Are you determined upon this course, Mr Burr?”
His hair now neatly brushed and tied, Burr stood, and Peter took the opportunity to quietly retreat a few steps. “It seems the most expedient, Mr Clay. I cannot return to the front with a danger of unlawful arrest hanging over me. I must meet the charges and refute them. I hope, with your aid.”
“Then I guess I remain at your service, sir.” Clay gave a respectful nod of his head before retiring.
Peter busied himself with tidying up the tools of master Burr’s toilette.
“Peter.”
He sighed, accepted the inevitable, and turned to his master; a little disconcerted, as ever, to find himself looking slightly downwards. “Yes, master?”
One black eyebrow arched at him. “You will furnish me with an explanation.” It was a statement of fact, not a request.
“I was not doing anything improper, master Burr, truly I was not!”
“I had thought your understanding in logic was sufficiently advanced by now to discriminate between what you were not doing, and what you were doing. And which of these things was asked for.” Burr’s words were precisely enunciated, and his face gave away nothing.
“I had simply thought,” Peter said apologetically, “that when Mr Clay was so unhappy that you waked the house on Tuesday, master, perhaps it would be better if I were available to open the door the first moment you knocked?”
Peter was not quite quick enough to read the tiny flicker around master Burr’s eyes before his forbidding expression returned. “And it did not occur to you that lurking in the corridors late at night might result in some solicitude to any person who heard you or encountered you.”
“Um…” There were so many thoughts crowding onto Peter’s tongue, from ‘I didn’t think that anyone else would be around at that hour’ to ‘the same way you thought about worrying the household by banging on the door when everyone was sound asleep?’, but with a heroic effort he managed to prevent himself actually saying any of them.
Master Burr turned away (still favouring one ankle a little when he moved, Peter noticed, which might explain how he had missed that handhold coming in last night). “If I require your services at any time, Peter,” he said over his shoulder, “I will ask for them. And I shall not be requiring them now for some hours. Go up to your quarters, and remain there until sent for.”
“Yes, master Burr.” Peter retreated, eyes smarting a little at the unfair harshness. It was not until he thought about that morning again, long after, that he realised that not only had he escaped the lash, but that he had very effectively been kept out of Mr Clay’s sight all day.
---
