Robert wasn’t a stupid man, and he usually wasn’t reckless. He planned his days carefully, and he stuck as close to those plans as life would allow. Becoming a spy hadn’t exactly been in the plan, but extenuating circumstances could be forgiven.
Which was why his own actions were so baffling to him. Writing letters that weren’t meant to be sent was one thing, but anonymously posting them on an impulse was another. He’d made sure that no one had seen him, but still it was reckless and foolish and he was kicking himself for it for days. His handwriting wasn’t exactly unknown. Robert kept the records for the cafe, since Rivington had no taste for it. If Hercules showed it to him Robert would be done for.
But nothing happened. Hercules and Robert went on with their days, each doing their work for the cause while pretending to be nothing more than passing acquaintances. Though Robert supposed if he really thought about it that was all they were. They were at most coworkers. It was just the nature of their work that made it feel like a bond made of something substantial. That was why he’d written the letter in the first place, a trick of the mind.
It didn’t explain why he’d written the second one. The only explanation for that letter was that Mulligan had winked at him from across the room and Robert had been set aflame. He didn’t know why he posted that one either. Or the one that followed, inspired by Mulligan “accidentally” bumping into him and passing a note into his pocket. Or the one after that, that hadn’t been spurred by anything at all.
The letters were, of course, vague. There was no recreation of moments, or words said. Nothing linked Robert directly to it and Hercules didn’t seem interested in tracking down who was sending him anonymous love letters.
They were likely burned after the first few lines were read and Hercules realized what they were. Robert took a strange sort of comfort in that, embarrassed as he was by the depth of his feelings.
But all things must end and that included his time in New York.
He rode out of the city with only a vague thought to what he was leaving behind. He couldn’t allow himself anything more or he might start to mourn the loss as if it had been his to miss in the first place. Once he was home, in the safety of his father’s house, and nothing to keep his mind truly distracted, he started to mourn it anyway.
He tried not to, he reminded himself hourly that he hadn’t belonged there, that he had never wanted to be in the position at all. Yet he missed his place behind the bar, he missed listening to all secrets, even if they held no significance to Washington. He missed catching a flash of auburn out of the corner of his eye and the way his heart jumped in his throat every time, no matter how much he scolded himself for it.
It had been three weeks when his father brought him the letter. “Just arrived for you. Seems you didn’t burn the bridges as thoroughly as you thought.” He gave Robert a grin and then settled in the chair next to him.
Robert turned it over in his hands. It was fine paper and the wax was imprinted with an M. Robert’s heart gave a thud and for a moment he forgot how to breathe. A part of him didn’t want to open the letter in front of his father, sure that he was already blushing from the mere fact that Robert had been of enough interest to Mulligan to write to him. He felt foolish, but he knew that standing and leaving the room would only make the situation worse.
He broke the seal and pretended not to notice his father watching him from the corner of his eye.
The letter was short. Hercules just wanted to know that Robert had made it out alright. He’d heard from Rivington that Robert had left, but true to his word Rivington was acting dumb as to why. Robert felt a surge of affection for James, along with a bit of guilt for the way he’d taken advantage of him.
Robert was about to excuse himself to go write a response when he realized that he couldn’t. The moment he set quill to paper he’d expose himself. All the warmth left him, he was just cold and afraid. And angry. He’d ruined his actual opportunity to be friends with the man with his absurd feelings and poor impulse control.
**
The letter haunted him. It sat on his desk waiting for him every morning and every night. It needed a response, asking his father to write it for him would only bring questions and problems. He’d have to disguise his handwriting, change what he could in order to throw Hercules off the scent.
He drafted the letter first and as he wrote it again, he carefully changed the shapes of letters, spaced some things too close and others too far. When he was done he didn’t think it looked a bit like the original. Just to be safe and make sure only the correct one went out, he burned the original before he sealed and posted the letter.
The response was back a week later. It was longer, filled with what Robert assumed normal people wrote back and forth about; business, the weather, silly stories about mutual friends (Rivington had been trying and failing to find a replacement bartender much to Hercules’s amusement). It was the postscript that frightened Robert that time.
P.S. You didn’t have to disguise your handwriting. I had seen it plenty before. You kept the book on the bar and I already know James’s script quite well.
Robert didn’t know what to do with that information. It froze him in fear, but also in confusion. If Hercules had known the whole time, or even a part of the time, why hadn’t he done something? Why was Robert still alive? And if he’d just been keeping Robert around for his usefulness, why had he reached out? Why was he responding now? Why bring it up at all?
“Are you alright?” his father asked. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
Robert shook his head. “I’m fine.” Robert was not fine. “Mr. Mulligan has just said something very surprising.” That, at least, was true.
Samuel hummed quietly. “He must be something. You like so few people.”
Robert frowned. “I never said I like him.”
Samuel laughed. “Not aloud. But speaking has never been your primary mode of communication.”
Robert rolled his eyes.
“You should invite him to dinner.”
“Why?”
“Sometimes it’s nice to have company, Robert. Need not be more complicated than that.”
It felt more complicated than that. But two days later Robert extended his father’s invitation for dinner to Mulligan. He said that his father wanted to meet the man who had been working with Robert. He justified it to himself by pretending it was just to sort out what Mulligan had put at the end of his last letter since some things were too dangerous to sign with one’s name. In his heart, he knew it was because he’d have done anything to see Mulligan’s smile again.
Mulligan arrived the following Thursday.
“Robert,” Mulligan said, as he got off the horse to meet him.
“Mr. Mulligan,” Robert said, leading him into the barn where there was food and water for his horse.
“How many times do I have to tell you? Call me Hercules.”
Robert didn’t say anything but made no move to leave the barn.
Hercules nodded with a knowing smile. “Does your father know he invited me to dinner?”
“Yes.”
“Ah. So you didn’t want to talk about the letters?”
“What about them? You wrote to me asking about my wellbein-”
“The ones from before. You know that’s what I meant.”
Robert sighed. “What do you want?”
Hercules stared at him for a beat, like he was looking for something. “I burnt them. You don’t need to worry.”
Robert’s stomach twisted and he wasn’t sure if it was the relief or something more insidious, like disappointment. “Thank you. Shal-”
“But that doesn’t mean I want to forget about them.”
“You need to stop cutting me off.”
Hercules shrugged. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t look sorry. “But it doesn’t change the fact that the things you wrote were far from unreciprocated, despite what you seemed to think.”
Robert’s eyes went wide and he couldn’t breathe. “Oh.”
“What we were doing was too important for me to risk. In case I was wrong.”
“You didn’t know?”
Mulligan shook his head. “All I had was a hunch and a hope. You changing your handwriting made me bold.”
“Oh. Because you need help being bold,” Robert shot at him irritated that his evasions had been what gave him away.
Mulligan smiled again. “When it comes to you I do.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes. A bolder man would have kissed you already.”
Robert fought the urge to smile but when he lost he decided that the best he could settle for was hiding his smile. He leaned forward, wrapped a hand around the back of Mulligan’s neck, and kissed him, softly but with clear intent.
It only lasted a few seconds, but when he pulled back Mulligan looked breathless. “You enjoy being contrary, don't you?”
“So do you.”
Hercules laughed and rested his forehead against Robert’s, his hands resting on Robert’s waist.
Robert forced himself to pull away. “We should go inside before my father comes looking for us. And keep your hands to yourself in front of him.” Robert started toward the door.
“So I don’t have to the rest of the time?”
Robert rolled his eyes and shook his head but he was smiling all the same.