His smirk was intolerable. Cuddy made it a point to avoid it, and there was enough to tend to throughout the manor to make that fairly easy. The late crop of corn needed to be harvested, and there was still the last batch of linen to dye. Fortunately Wilson and his household had made soap earlier in the month and were willing to trade a goodly amount for thread.

Wilson’s ward, Allison Cameron was handy at spinning as well as weaving; she came over often, as much to leave the odious company of Vogler and his lieutenants as to barter home goods and share gossip. She filled out the weekly sewing circle that included Wilson’s latest wife Emily and Mrs. Farber from down the lane; a flinty widow with considerable holdings along the riverfront.

The four ladies made a formidable grouping, and House avoided them when they clustered in the parlor, each bringing her willow basket of work with them. Had he or anyone else looked under all the needlework, they might have found packets and letters of interest, but since no-one did, the status quo remained. The ladies sewed, gossiped, and when they took a break for molasses cookies and tea, the baskets made a quick shift in the manner of musical chairs, so that Widow Farber’s basket because Mistress Cuddy’s basket; Mistress Cuddy’s basket in turn became Emily Wilson’s basket; Emily’s became Alison’s basket, and Alison’s was now in the possession of Mrs. Farber.

A quick and subtle exchange.

No so was the gossip, which was generally lively. All of the women agreed that General Washington was a handsome man; that the price of corn was going to go higher; that war was inevitable, and that Janoski’s barmaid Honey was going to find herself with very short apron strings by spring if she didn’t mend her hussy ways. Once the needlework was done, the ladies made their adieus and Cuddy took a moment to carry her basket back up to her room.

Normally that was not a worry, but lately House had taken to wandering the entire manor, and one never knew when he would appear. He generally avoided trips to the encampment for as long as he could, and never volunteered to go; more often he had to be fetched and could be heard grumbling as he mounted up and rode off.

The greater concern for Cuddy was simply running into the man in some empty room. He loomed over her, and from the expression he gave her whenever they were alone it was clear that he enjoyed the cat and mouse aspect of their arrangement. He didn’t frighten Cuddy; he annoyed her in a way that left her pulse quickened and her stomach tight.

Still, the weekly rent was useful, and House kept his hands to himself for the most part, so it was with great reluctance that Cuddy invited him to the dinner party.

“Dinner?”

“Dinner. Stuffed roast goose, hominy, stewed turnips and wine,” she recited impatiently. “Nothing exotic, but I’m sure that won’t stop you and your appetite.”

“Surrounded by a bunch of stiff-necked locals forced to be polite to my face while I tout the many and myriad benefits of loyalty to good old Georgie three?” House mused with gleeful spite. “I’m sure my dinner conversation will enthrall them.”

“You don’t give a rat’s nethers for either side of the current situation,” Cuddy told him with more conviction than she felt. House arched an eyebrow at her. He was sitting in the middle of the library, trying to tune the harp, which stood on a battered piece of canvas, half of the gut strings curled at his buckled shoes. His sleeves were rolled up, and he’d left off powdering his hair, although it was still carelessly tied back.

“No, but they won’t know that, and it’s more fun to prod the rebels than to sit and agree with them. Hand me that pitch pipe—“ he told her. Cuddy picked it up from the table and held it out, trying hard not to look at the instrument OR at House.

The harp had been David’s; he’d brought it with him from Ireland and had played it passingly well. Mostly ballads in Gaelic, of course, but he knew some other tunes too. She’d put it away after his first year at sea, and hadn’t let herself think of it since then; it was too painful a reminder.

And yet here it was, out in the sunlight and in House’s hands. Cuddy felt a pang of betrayal.

House looked up at her and blew a note on the pipe, then plucked one of the strings. It was slightly flat, and he tightened the string until it matched the note. Satisfied, he picked up one of the other strings. “So . . . your husband’s been dead for nearly four years, yet you keep up the pretense. Interesting.”

Cuddy stiffened. She crossed her arms and looked out the window. “David is at sea. I get letters from him regularly.”

“No you don’t,” House corrected her quietly. “You get letters from SOME one, but they’re in a different hand from the earlier notes you have tucked away in that little wooden box in your desk.”

Cuddy blinked, not daring to turn around. Her jaw ached. “Christ! You go too far.”

“I’m not the one keeping a ghost around. My question is why? Why go through the charade to avoid widowhood? It’s clear that you know your husband is dead, but for some reason---“

“—House!” she turned finally, eyes boring into his. “My reasons are my own, and you don’t need to be privy to them.”

He didn’t smile as he looped a new string on the harp. “They’re not that hard to deduce. A widow with no male kin sitting on a valuable piece of property would be fair game for confiscation by the Crown, whereas a wife, patiently awaiting her lord and master would be within her rights to manage HIS property in his absence. Quod erat demonstrandum.”

Cuddy held her breath for a moment, controlling her temper, then exhaled slowly, not blinking. She spoke firmly, each word measured out. “Dinner party, yes or no?”

House glanced at her for a moment. “Yes. And wear that burgundy silk in the back of your wardrobe, would you? I’m fond of the color.”

Cuddy left angrily, making a mental note to call on the locksmith as soon as possible.


The dinner party went well; all the way up to the shooting anyway.

House said little, but his presence made itself felt throughout. Wilson, his wife and ward sat on one side of the table, Jacob, Chase and Foreman on the other. Cuddy hadn’t wanted to give House the honor of the foot of the table, but he claimed the seat without a word, his expression mild. She knew better, but let it go; Chase said the grace and they all began to serve themselves, passing dishes and comments.

“New York has begun to barrel and ship oysters; they should keep all the way to from there to Hamburg,” Chase commented. Across the table from him, Allison smiled, and passed the turnips.

“Hardly the most savory of cargoes, I’d imagine. Timber would be more practical.”

“Better timber or oysters than slaves,” Foreman grumbled.

Jacob shrugged. “Hard enough to bring in crops of tobacco or cotton on servants alone, Eric. If the king permitted more immigration on a yearly basis there would be less of a market for manpower.”

“It’s more of an issue of land grants, really,” Wilson tried to interject, and the discussion took off from there, lively and full. Foreman and Wilson favored immigration while Chase and Cuddy generally opposed it without some form or regulation. House sat drinking claret and seeming to listen. When a lull came in the conversation he broke in, his voice low and amused.

“You’re all idiots. The king doesn’t make any decision these days, it’s all done in his name by his cabinet. He’d rather garrison an army in Boston and rub their presence in your faces than admit to the inequities of colonial representation and economics, simple as that. As long as Lord North is in charge of the Royal Seal, you’ll have Hanoverians sitting on your arses like boils.”

Jacob spoke first, his expression mildly amused. “You don’t sound particularly fond of His Highness—rather dangerous a position for a man with your chosen commission to take, isn’t it?”

“I dislike stupidity, and I’m magnanimous in my loathing of it. Politics doesn’t enter into the matter per se,” House retorted. “If you seven honestly believe that any member of Parliament gives two shits for your best interests, then think again: The Colonies are nothing but one large resource, ripe for exploitation. What the Crown won’t take, the Dutch East India Company will.”

“That’s sounding a bit treasonous,” Chase warned, looking around the table worriedly. House gave a shrug, biting his words off, his British accent sharper with his irritation.

“Mayhap, if I was sitting with Colonel Vogler and his arse kissers. But I’m not—I’m snug at a table-full of discontented citizens who’ve been testing me all night. I don’t care for your petty games or your domestic discontents, gentlemen. The only saving graces are the claret, and the cut of Mistress Cuddy’s dress—both are to my taste.”

Cuddy rose, ominously, and for a moment the men around the table flinched, but before she could launch into a scathing reply to House’s rudeness, the fast thrum of hoof beats approaching the manor grew louder in the pause. Chase, Foreman and Jacob looked to the door; Wilson looked at Cuddy, who nodded. He rose and hurried to the front door as a hoarse voice yelled out.

“House! I’ve come for Doctor House!”

House rose, looking irritated. “Christ, what now?” He strode into the foyer, and through the open front door Cuddy caught a glimpse of a figure leaning down from a lathering horse, half in shadow.

Wilson held a lantern up. “Yes? What—“

The figure shouted again. “Move away—House!”

The glint of light fell on the pistol in the man’s outstretched hand. House stepped forward brazenly. “Stop yelling.”

The man fired. House stumbled back and fell against the coat rack, clutching it as the man yelled. “Stay! Stay away from him.” He added in a taunting voice, “Shocking, isn’t it? Who’d want to hurt you?”

Cuddy ran, pushing the dining room chairs out of the way. Wilson was already at House’s side; the horseman clattered away as servants came running to the foyer in a panic. Foreman waved to a few to follow him after the horseman. Cuddy looked at House.

He lay sprawled on the ground, his right thigh spouting blood in great scarlet sprays across the parquet floor of the foyer; Wilson was struggling to rip open the hole in the breeches, and yelling to Jacob to pull off his cravat and tie it higher up on the leg.

Cuddy shouted. “Chase! House’s bag is inside the door of his waiting room—bring it! Allison, get water from kitchen; Emily, bandages from my scrap bag by the fireplace!”

“We’ll have to dig the shot out—it didn’t go through,” Wilson gritted. “House!”

“Stop . . . yelling and stop the . . . damned bleeding!” House hissed weakly, his hands helping Jacob to tie the tourniquet. He was pale and trembling, but not panicking, and that helped considerably.

Cuddy knelt and took his head on her thighs, cupping his face. “Stay calm, we’ll do what we can. Both Chase and Wilson have some experience with surgery.”

“On sheep, right?” House grunted. “Listen to me, ‘Lisa—get the ball out, then cauterize. Poker . . . from the fireplace. Close the vein . . . “ He mumbled, going paler still. Cuddy looked at Wilson, who nodded.

“He’s right; he’ll bleed to death if we don’t close the vein. Henry, get to the fireplace and start heating up the poker. Where’s the water?”

Chase came and knelt next to Wilson; both men began to gently probe into the messy strings of torn muscle and flaps of skin on House’s thigh. Emily and Alison carried a steaming wooden bucket between them and moved back, passing folded bits of clean rag forward. Cuddy kept House’s head up, and spoke to him firmly. “Bite—“ She directed, slipping a twisted section of rag across his mouth. He weakly opened and did it.

Wilson splashed water to wash away what blood he could, but more kept leaking out of the damaged area. Chase was fishing into the wound, probing as gently as possible, not noticing or caring about the scarlet splashes on his lace sleeves. “I think I have it—“

He pulled out his fingers, a lead ball the size of a marble between them. Wilson splashed more water. “Henry!”

“Coming!” The older man shouted, “It’s taking a while to heat the damned thing up!”

“It won’t do him a damned bit of good if he’s dead before you get the iron here!” Wilson snapped, tightening the tourniquet. The blood across the floor had nearly reached the doorsill. Jacob’s heavy footsteps echoed from the dining room as he moved quickly, holding the poker before him, the bottom third of it red-hot.

“Move,” he tersely told Emily and Alison, who were already shifting back. He looked to Wilson, who took it gingerly from him. “Jesus—“

Wilson looked to Jacob, Chase and Cuddy. “Hold him. House, if you can hear me, brace yourself—“ He pressed the glowing tip into the wound.

Instantly the horrible hiss and rising blood steam filled the foyer, along with House’s agonized shriek. The yell died away as House lost consciousness, but the hideous stench of burning flesh hung in the air. Wilson shifted the iron, his expression grim as he pressed it again into the long and ragged wound.


Cuddy tried not to yawn. She sat in the parlor, facing the implacable figure of Colonel Edward Vogler, who was gazing back at her, his expression unreadable. He spoke flatly. “The situation is . . . regrettable.”

“Yes,” she murmured, rubbing one hand along her skirt. Ruined, of course—blood didn’t come out of silk willingly. It was nearly dawn, and her fatigue was making her light-headed. House had been carried to his bed, and one of the manservants was keeping watch on him. Everyone else had gone home, but Vogler had insisted on an immediate report of the incident.

There wasn’t much to report. Foreman and the two servants had found the shooter’s trail leading back to the main road, but not much else beyond a scrap of a letter with the address of Plainsboro Manor on it.

“Do you recognize this, Mistress Cuddy?” Vogler held out the piece of parchment. The handwriting was somewhat feminine, Cuddy noted, but said nothing for a moment, shifting her gaze out towards the foyer. They’d poured bucked after bucket on the floor, but the wood was still stained and dark.

“No, although I suppose it’s from some lady friend of his. I’m not privy to his correspondence, Colonel,” she wearily replied. Vogler gave a businesslike shake of his large head, looking like an annoyed bulldog in a white powdered wig.

“House has always been more trouble than he’s worth. I’m sure Mistress Warner is tied up in this somehow. It means I’ll have to send an inquiry to Elizabethtown, and see if honor has been satisfied, and in the meantime my troops are without their surgeon for God knows how long. A bad business, Mistress Cuddy—fortunately your dinner party seemed to rise to the occasion.” He paused and added, “An interesting group you had to dine.”

“I often have them to dinner,” Cuddy replied sharply. “James Wilson and my husband were childhood friends; Henry Jacob is my attorney, and Eric Foreman is a business associate of the highest merit. The only reason House was even invited was to balance out the seating at the table, Colonel.”

“And he’s managed to upset more than that this evening,” Vogler pointed out with a sigh. “Will he recover?”

“I don’t know. He seems to have a resilient constitution, and as long as infection doesn’t set in he has a fair chance,” Cuddy echoed Wilson’s prognosis. “We’re doing what we can to keep him sedated for a while.”

“Best for all concerned,” Vogler agreed. “I’ll leave him in your hands. Inform me if he dies.” With that, he gave an absent bow to Cuddy and left her, his heavy boots loud against the wooden floor.

Cuddy rose, and moved towards House’s room, fatigue and frustration settling on her shoulders like a cloak. She opened the door and found young Paul asleep in the ladder-back chair; she woke and dismissed him, then waited until he was gone to move closer to the still figure on the feather bed.

House was still unconscious and she took a moment to study his face, noting how much younger he seemed. His beard was coming in now, a shadow over his thin cheeks and chin, heaviest under his long nose. Cuddy lightly stroked his cheek, uncomfortably aware of how long it had been since she’d touched a man so intimately.

His skin was cool; she knew he’d lost a great deal of blood, but Wilson had assured her that the wound was sealed, and given time, House would recover. “He won’t be the same—if he walks at all, he’ll limp, and whether or not he can manage his horse—“ Wilson’s parting shrug said it all, and Cuddy knew it was out of their hands now.

House opened his eyes.

Cuddy started. House moved his lips, making no sound, and she leaned closer, wondering what he needed to say to her--

“I . . . can see . . . right down your dress . . . “ he weakly smirked, and closed his eyes again. Cuddy bit her lips, as much to hold back her laugher as her annoyance.

He was going to survive, all right—if only long enough so that she could box his ears.