It's been a while. Three years, as a matter of fact (which is absolutely astonishing to me). So first of all, thank you for bearing with me, or for giving this story a chance for the first time. The past couple of years have wrought their changes for me, as I am sure they have done for you—so really, if you are back to read more, I must offer you my sincere thanks. (And I must also applaud Cherilee for suggesting in her review that I fell into a rift in time, because that is the closest thing to the truth and the only excuse I have for abandoning Kat and her quest for so long.)

And so, while I can't offer you a reunion just yet, I can promise that I will make it happen someday. In the meantime, if you're looking for a bit of insight into what everyone's been up to, you might take a look at my completely nonsensical sort-of-crossover "Emergency Handshake" (though I am not exaggerating when I call it nonsensical).

And now all that's left is for me to thank you one more time for reading, and especially for every review and message that made me feel like this was a story worth finishing. So—thank you, and enjoy!

- LLLady Southwark

PS. Thank you as ever to TTT, beta extraordinaire and authority on all matters military.

October 1781

Colonel Tavington was most seriously displeased—more displeased, in fact, than he could remember being, which was saying something, given the past two years.

"Well, damn," said General Cornwallis, voicing the predominant thought of everyone in the tent. He sighed heavily and sank onto a chair, mopping his brow with a handkerchief.

"Quite," said General O'Hara. He also sighed heavily. "Nothing to be done for it, Milord. You had no choice. Isn't that right, Tavington?"

Under his superior's glare, Tavington had no choice but to reply. "Quite right, Milord," he growled.

Cornwallis sighed again. "Very brave of Captain Lawrence to volunteer, wasn't it?" Looking utterly defeated, he leaned back and ate a lemon drop.

"Very," said Tavington, his voice dripping with sarcasm. His eyes were trained on tent's opening, through which Lawrence could be seen quite clearly in the early morning light, marching along behind a drummer and waving a white handkerchief. It was, Tavington thought, a role to which Lawrence was uniquely suited, given his affinity for handkerchiefs and his propensity for taking the easy way out. He had positively insisted on being the one to surrender, once news of Cornwallis's decision spread among the officers at Yorktown.

"I simply can't believe it," said Cornwallis, absentmindedly observing Lawrence's progress across the field. "All these years—all of these lives—all for naught."

"You have performed honorably, Milord. No man could have done more," said O'Hara. Tavington snorted inwardly; fewer balls and more musket training would certainly not have hurt the chances of His Majesty's army.

Feeling O'Hara's piercing gaze alight on him, Tavington nodded stiffly. "Indeed," he said, endeavoring to keep any hint of malice out of his voice. It would not do to have O'Hara further eroding Cornwallis's opinion of him now, not when Tavington's career post bellum would be so heavily contingent upon the General's good opinion. Most unfortunately, O'Hara had never been enthralled with Tavington the way Cornwallis was; perhaps this was because O'Hara had not had the pleasure of getting to know Tavington's former wife, he thought with malice. Despite her manifold negative qualities, she had been useful in advancing his professional goals, given that the entirety of His Majesty's army seemed positively enthralled with her. Tavington could feel his blood begin to pound as he thought of Kat, something he tried to do as rarely as possible. Abruptly, he realized that his hands had curled into fists and that he was now glaring outright at O'Hara, whose eyebrows had lowered dangerously. He breathed in deeply and banished any thoughts of that traitorous woman from his mind, rearranging his features into what he hoped was a sufficiently innocent and respectful expression to throw O'Hara off the scent.

Frowning, O'Hara turned back toward the front of the tent, through which Lawrence was now but an indistinguishable red-coated figure in the distance—though, Tavington noted, he was still waving his handkerchief with utmost enthusiasm. As they watched, a line of blue coats stepped up to meet him, surrounding him. The handkerchief subsided with a final flourish.

Cornwallis sighed again. "What next?" he said hopelessly, the weariness in his voice making him sound like an old man.

For once, Tavington had no retort, inward or otherwise.

Some hours later, Tavington sat alone at the small writing desk in his tent. Cornwallis had finally dismissed his officers, requesting to be left alone while the camp awaited Lawrence's return. It wasn't often that Tavington could empathize with Cornwallis, but he did in this instance feel a similar need for solitude. Not because of the surrender, of course: Tavington knew for a certainty that, had he been in Cornwallis's position, the outcome of the Yorktown campaign would have been quite different. The refusal of anyone in His Majesty's army to take risks, to make logical sacrifices for a disproportionate gain, was simply maddening. Once back in London, Tavington vowed, he would be in a position of greater power, able to make decisions for himself rather than having to cede to those who were weaker, more cowardly—

"Colonel Tavington!" came an all too familiar voice from directly outside the tent. "Colonel, might I be permitted to enter your opening?" The flap of the tent shook as a hand grasped it excitedly.

With a growl, Tavington rose from his chair and marched over to the tent's entrance, thrusting the flap aside and nearly throwing Lawrence, who was clutching it tightly, to the ground. "What do you want, Captain?"

Lawrence was bouncing on the balls of his feet, obviously brimming with excitement, which Tavington found absolutely inexplicable given the unendurable shame of the day's events—but then, Tavington often found Lawrence inexplicable. "You'll never guess whom I met! In the American camp!"

Tavington strongly considered slapping Lawrence for referring to their enemies as anything but traitors, but he knew the yob well enough to know that there was no stopping Lawrence from making his point when he was thus enthused. Best simply to get it over with. "Whom did you meet?" he growled, stepping closer to Lawrence to better tower threateningly over the other man.

Lawrence seemed impervious to this. "Alexander Hamilton!" he cried rapturously, clapping his hands in his excitement. "Do you remember? When we were at Mr. Jefferson's lovely home, Monticello? Everyone was in such raptures about him! And of course, Edward has always spoken so warmly of him, you know, so I simply knew he would be a capital fellow, but I never dreamed of having the opportunity to meet him! He's very popular, you know—there were crowds of men around him, and I had to beat them off just to have a civil conversation! And then they blindfolded me! It was all very exciting!" With a flourish, Lawrence pulled a handkerchief out of his coat and waved it in the colonel's face. "Alexander even gave me his handkerchief, as he felt very guilty for depriving me of mine—you know, the one I surrendered with! He embroidered his initials on it himself!"

Tavington's brows had dipped increasingly lower throughout this speech, and by its conclusion, his hand was also firmly wrapped around the hilt of his sword. "Captain Lawrence," he snarled, "I shall leave aside for a moment your obvious willingness to fraternize with the enemy, which I assure you will not go unnoticed by General Lord Cornwallis. But I must ask you why you have seen fit to trouble me with your traitorous raptures about the man who is largely responsible for the final defeat of His Majesty's army!" Tavington abandoned any attempt to control himself, his voice rising with each syllable until he was positively shouting. A bevy of privates standing nearby turned to see what the commotion was about and then, thinking better of it, quickly turned and scurried away.

But Lawrence was still oblivious. "He's invited us all to dinner after the ceremony of surrender! All the officers! We're to wear our finest coats, and he intimated that there might be dancing afterward!"

Tavington was now livid. "Captain! Do you mean to say that you are excited at the prospect of dining with the rebel scum who have cost us our colonies and quite possibly our careers? I have had enough of this, Captain Lawrence!" He stepped closer, half unsheathing his sword in his fury.

"Had enough of what?" demanded Cornwallis, appearing around a corner. He took in the scene, frowning ominously at Tavington's flushed and angry face. "Is there a problem, Colonel Tavington?"

"Milord!" barked Tavington, pointing at Lawrence. "Lawrence is enthusiastically suggesting that we dine with the traitors!"

"Well, of course he is," boomed Cornwallis, now just as obviously annoyed with Tavington as he seemed to be pleased with Lawrence. "Captain Lawrence has done us a great service this day. He bravely volunteered to undertake the arduous task of surrender"—here Lawrence puffed up his chest and flourished the handkerchief once more, while Tavington snorted in disbelief at the description of surrender as brave—"and he is to be treated with respect! Particularly given that, upon our return to London, I shall see that he is promoted to Major!"

Lawrence clapped his hands, looking positively elated. Tavington could bear it no longer. "Milord, this is ridiculous!" he burst out.

Cornwallis's visage turned visibly redder. "Ridiculous, is it, Tavington? You are treading on dangerous ground, sir! You have questioned my leadership, and you have certainly insulted Captain Lawrence, who has been nothing but an asset to you and the Dragoons! If you continue to find yourself unable to keep your emotions in check, you shall also find yourself without a commission after all this is over!"

Tavington breathed in deeply before responding. It would not do to lose control again in front of Cornwallis. "Milord," he began, every bit of his concentration focused on keeping his voice steady and his temper in check, "I apologize. I would never dream of intentionally casting doubt upon Your Lordship's leadership or decisions." Cornwallis looked unimpressed by Tavington's effort at self-control, so he decided to try another approach. He took another deep breath and adopted what he hoped was a believably emotional tone. "As you know, the loss of my wife was a great blow to me. Now, given the uncertainty of my future, I find myself—struggling—to face the renewed prospect of a future without her."

To his relief, Cornwallis—and Lawrence—were now both looking deeply distressed. "My dear Colonel," said Cornwallis, his voice catching slightly, "Mrs. Tavington's loss is felt deeply, by us all."

Tavington nodded, dropping his gaze to the ground to conceal a smirk. "Thank you, Milord." He waited for the General's next pronouncement, but after a moment, the only sound that could be heard was Lawrence's faint sniffling. Tavington gathered himself and looked back at the General, who was now patting Lawrence on the back, gazing wistfully into the distance. Unable to stop himself, Tavington sighed loudly.

This seemed to bring Cornwallis back to the present moment. He harrumphed loudly and turned back to Tavington. "Yes, we all miss Mrs. Tavington greatly. But you must learn to carry on without her, Colonel." Lawrence blew his nose loudly into the handkerchief. Tavington restrained the automatic tendency to roll his eyes. "I'm sure her loss is felt most by you at social gatherings," continued Cornwallis, "but you must learn to move in society alone. Company is the only way to allay your grief."

"Milord," murmured Tavington in as polite a tone as he could manage.

"Which is why you must attend the officers' dinner," the General finished, rather loudly.

Tavington gaped at him. "Surely, Milord, my—reentry into society can wait until our return to London?"

"Nonsense!" boomed Cornwallis, a gleam in his eye. "You shall attend the dinner in my stead. It will provide an excellent opportunity for hierarchical interpenetration."

"Milord?" choked Tavington.

"I'm feeling very ill," Cornwallis said, punctuating the sentence with a cough. "Yes, far too ill to attend. You shall represent His Majesty's army on my behalf, Tavington. Remember, our future relations with the—er—United States of America depend upon it." He grimaced, as though the words tasted bad.

Unusually, Tavington found himself at a complete loss for words. Lawrence, however, had no such difficulties. "Oh, it will be such fun, Colonel!" he cried, his earlier tears forgotten in his enthusiasm for high treason. "I simply can't wait to introduce you to Alexander!"

And so it was that, two days later, Tavington found himself marching across the field toward the American camp. True to his word, Cornwallis had refused to accompany them, claiming illness; O'Hara marched at the head of the line in his place, his jaw set and his expression somber. The troops shuffled along behind him as the fifers played a mournful tune. It was, Tavington thought, the most profoundly mortifying experience imaginable to march behind furled flags, and he felt a blinding hatred toward everyone whose stupidity and incompetence had led to this moment.

In marked contrast to the solemnity of the proceedings, however, Lawrence was practically hopping with excitement. He had insisted on bringing his horse along ("But Daniel must be there, sir! Don't you recall his heroics at Guilford Court House?"), and he had somehow managed to affix Hamilton's handkerchief to its head like an old woman's bonnet. He also seemed completely unable to keep from speaking, much to his superior's chagrin.

"…and Alexander did mention that there would be sausages at the banquet! Sausages! Can you imagine? I gave up sausages for Lent, but then supplies have been so short since Easter that I haven't been able to indulge myself!" Lawrence sighed and lapsed into a clearly meditative silence, for which Tavington was profoundly thankful.

Apparently thoughts of Hamilton and his sausage were enough to distract Lawrence, because he mercifully kept quiet for the last few moments of their march. As they drew close to the American line, the drums and fifes fell silent, and Tavington was left with nothing to distract him from his infuriation at the situation. A few meters from the Americans, the troops halted their forward motion, and O'Hara stepped forward alone. "Oh, isn't he brave!" whispered Lawrence, a quaver in his voice, as the general walked toward Washington and his companions.

Tavington restrained himself from retorting that surrender was inherently cowardly—why did everyone insist on equating surrender with bravery in this instance?—instead contenting himself with a quelling glare at Lawrence. O'Hara was now offering the sword of surrender to an imposingly tall man who could only be Washington. Tavington felt a thrill of hatred as Washington, instead of accepting the sword, motioned to another officer to accept it. The rebels were ensuring that His Majesty's Army experienced supreme humiliation, and Tavington vowed to himself that he would never forget the absolute indignity of this moment. Nor would he ever willingly consort with an American, be it Thomas Jefferson, Alexander Hamilton—or Kat. Woe betide his erstwhile wife if he ever found her, the traitorous minx.

But Tavington's pleasant ruminations on how exactly he would punish Kat for her treason were interrupted by Lawrence, who was pulling frantically at his superior's sleeve. "Colonel! Colonel Tavington! Look! There he is! That's Hamilton!"

Tavington wrenched his arm free and, unwillingly, looked in the direction that Lawrence had indicated. Just next to Washington was stood a short, undeniably well-looking young man with Grecian features. One hand caressed the hilt of an impeccably polished sword, while the other held a lacy white handkerchief embroidered, Tavington could only assume, with his initials. As he glared at this fop who had, inexplicably, beaten the world's greatest military force, Hamilton looked over at Lawrence and, smiling slightly, nodded affably.

"How gentlemanly!" whispered Lawrence loudly, patting his horse's handkerchief-adorned head and gazing with what looked suspiciously like adoration back at Hamilton. A moment later, the ceremony of surrender having been completed, Hamilton stepped forward.

"On behalf of General Washington, Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army, the officers of the Army of Great Britain here represented are cordially invited to dine with us, in the hope that our two states may have a long and peaceful relationship." Bowing, Hamilton moved back into line with his superior, and the group turned to march across the field toward a handsome manor house. O'Hara, looking pale and resigned, nodded to Tavington, and the Dragoons unwillingly fell into line behind the general—all except Lawrence, who seemed suddenly to fancy himself Tavington's right-hand man.

"I know it's difficult, Colonel," he whispered conspiratorially, patting his horse's flank. "But the Americans seem quite determined to be friendly!"

Tavington could restrain himself no longer. "Captain Lawrence," he spat, "these rebels are traitors. I am loyal to His Majesty, and I shall never forget the fact."

Lawrence looked somewhat abashed and did not attempt to converse further with Tavington until they had reached the house, at which point he was obviously overcome with enthusiasm. "Sausages, sir! Do you smell them?"

Tavington did not answer, instead marching straight past Lawrence, who had stopped to hand over his horse's reins to a stable hand. For a moment, Tavington was tempted to seize the reins away and ride back to the British encampment that very moment. But he was obliged to abandon that happy thought almost as soon as it occurred. He could not afford to ruffle Cornwallis's feathers, or O'Hara's; both men would be useful in advancing his plans once they were all back in London, and neither would be pleased if word got out that he wasn't at this bloody dinner.

Lost in thought as he approached the house, Tavington was startled to be addressed. "You must be Colonel Tavington, oui?" said a smooth, pleasant voice, heavily accented. Tavington halted, looking around for the speaker, and saw an imperious-looking man in a French uniform. "Lee has told me about you. I am called Lafayette."

Tavington's blood had begun to boil at the mention of Lee—either one to whom the man referred was a mortal enemy—and the revelation of the Frenchman's identity did nothing to calm him. The Marquis de Lafayette was as foul a name as Alexander Hamilton to the British, and Tavington, observing his enemy face to face, was utterly incensed at the idea that these two princocks were largely responsible for the final defeat of His Majesty's Army.

Evidently Tavington's rage was visible on his countenance, because Lafayette was regarding him coolly, eyebrows raised. "I would say I am charmed to meet you, but I suspect zat you would not agree," Lafayette said, clearly unperturbed. "We are at peace now, Colonel Tavington. I am at your service." He bowed deeply.

Feeling he had no other option, Tavington jerked his head in a curt approximation of a bow and growled, "Colonel William Tavington at yours."

At that moment, Lawrence appeared, and Tavington suddenly felt that perhaps he would not try quite so hard to block his underling's promotion to Major when they returned to London. "Oh! You must be Lafayette! It's quite an honor, sir! Captain James T. Lawrence at your service!" He bowed several times during this short speech, making him look rather like the work of a confused puppeteer.

"Ah, Captain Lawrence, ze honor is mine. Hamilton speaks very highly of you." Lafayette's obvious regard for Lawrence was baffling to Tavington, who was again feeling rather antagonistic toward the yob. "Shall we go in to dine?" Lafayette nodded toward the house's grand doors, through which officers in red and blue coats were filing.

"Oh, yes, please!" Lawrence clapped his hands as the trio began to move toward the door. "I'm so looking forward to the banquet! Alexander—I beg your pardon, Colonel Hamilton—mentioned that there might be sausages, and I do so have a hankering for them!"

Tavington took a deep breath to calm himself, allowing Lawrence and Lafayette to draw ahead of him into the house and out of earshot. Focused solely on the baronetcy that must someday be his, he grasped the hilt of his sword firmly and stepped over the threshold into the house.

Some three hours later, the meal had wound to a rowdy close, and Tavington felt that if he had to sit for one more minute, he was likely to insert his sword into an unfortunate part of someone's anatomy and cause a diplomatic incident. Lawrence had, most unfortunately, achieved universal popularity throughout the meal; consequently Tavington, who was seated next to him, had to listen to hours of Prussian jokes, lamentable poems Lawrence had composed about his horse's bravery, and, of course, his raptures about the exquisite sausages. The Marquis de Lafayette was rather more taciturn throughout the meal, but Tavington loathed him all the more for his flawless manners.

Just as Tavington was seriously considering challenging Lawrence to a duel simply to have an excuse to leave the ballroom in which they were seated, Hamilton stood up to address the crowd of intoxicated and, now, generally merry men. "Gentlemen, it has been our honor to host you this evening. The meal may be over, but our celebration of peace is not. Let us seal our newfound friendship with dancing!" There was a loud cheer as all present shoved back their chairs and stood to push the tables into the room's periphery. Tavington saw Hamilton pushing his way through the crowd toward where he and Lawrence stood, the latter deep in conversation with Lafayette, who was nodding thoughtfully.

"And those sausages were so marvelous! I wonder if I might take one to Daniel? My horse, you know—but of course, horses don't generally eat sausages." Lawrence paused to consider this.

Tavington seized the opportunity to speak, wanting desperately to escape before Hamilton reached them. He could not bear the thought of conversing with both Lafayette and Hamilton—not to mention Lawrence—at once. "I find myself fatigued," he growled, bowing shortly to both of them. "I must bid you good night."

He turned on his heel and strode away before either could respond, but he caught Lawrence's wistful voice behind him as he went. "The poor colonel! You know, he never seems in a humor for dancing now—not since his poor wife—"

With a snarl, Tavington strode out of the ballroom and out the front door, glad to be away from Lawrence and his traitorous friends but incensed by the mention of his wife. He knew it behooved him to continue to play the part of the grieving widower, but he found it increasingly difficult to maintain the role. As soon as he was out of these infernal colonies—and colonies they would ever be, to him—and back in society in London, he would make a new life for himself. A life without Lawrence, or Cornwallis, or any mention of the war except for Tavington's own successes with the Dragoons. A life with the all the fineries that rank and power could obtain. And most of all, a life which did not include even a hint of his former wife.