Text Size Large SizeMedium SizeSmall Size    Color Scheme Black SchemeWhite SchemeGrey SchemePaper Scheme        

You Say You Want A Revolution...

In 1775, Bostonians awoke to Paul Revere's Midnight Ride. "The British are coming, the British are coming!" And they truly were. When Lieutenant Masen, fighting on the side of the British, arrives at Bella's doorstep as part of the Quartering Act, their fates crash, and problems ensue. Their strictly relationship as dwellers turn into a troubled and complicated love life. Their intertwined fates become one, and romance takes over. Who knew history could be so entertaining? All Human, with a few surprises in store. Starts late-winter 1775. CHAPTER FOUR WILL BE UPLOADED SOON! :)bannefffr.jpg picture by samara_c_2007 Banner made entirely by me! :D -I will start updating soon!

NOTE: This is historical fiction, and will have a heavy dose of history, so in your reviews, tell me if you like history or not, and depending on the opinions, I will see if I will have lots or little history in this :D

1. Lieutenant Masen

Rating 3.4/5   Word Count 736   Review this Chapter

Saturdays were usually calm days in Boston. On any normal Saturday, I’d wake up, wash up, cook breakfast for my family, and begin my daily sewing. On the occasional holiday, I’d cook up something extravagant like my mother used to do for us when my brothers and I were younger. But as the years passed, Renee became ill and could no longer do hard work.

Father never really existed to neither my brothers nor me. Renee and Charles had separated three years after I was born, something I now understand. Their fights had been constant before and even after my birth. I would’ve done the same if I was in my mother’s shoes. I respected her decision and always would, for I never really got along with my father very well. My brothers were so dear to me. I loved them more than anything else in the world. They’d looked after me, and I looked up to them as sort of father figures. Well, of course, how can’t you, when your brother is Samuel Adams, I mean, how do you NOT look up to him. Yes, I knew my brother could, most of the time, be very hard headed and stubborn, but hey, it ran in the family. He’d taking up the last name Adams as a way to protect his immediate family of public danger, and had convinced his wife, along with his cousin to do the same.

As for my other brother, Michael, well he was just Michael. But many of my friends seemed to disagree. They swooned and gushed about him constantly, something that bothered me sometimes. But at least he had the decency to do something with his life. Mom always said that he would become a bar worker or something, but she was extremely surprised when she was wrong. Michael was a professor and for that, I loved him even more. And as for me, well, I’m just me. Isabella Swan, born to Charles Swan and Renee Dwyer. I wasn’t married, or anything, and wasn’t planning on it anytime soon. The thought of marriage just outright frightened me sometimes. I guess I was just afraid of dedication or something.

As I thought of all this, I sat in the rocking chair by my home’s door, deciding staying indoors was best. After George III and his government decided to impose all these stupid taxes, I decided cutting back was going to be my only option. I started humming lightly and before I knew it, I was singing a whole song. Abruptly, my singing stopped, and I realized why: someone was at the door. I rushed to put away all my sewing materials before anyone could come into the house. I put the green shawl giving to me by Sam’s wife, Abigail, over my shoulders, and opened the door.

The door swung open under my hold, and standing there was a soldier. A soldier, of all people. I racked my brain for a sensible explanation for why a soldier was standing outside my doorstep. On a freezing November morning. On a Saturday morning, out of all the days on the calendar.

“Hello, ma’am,” was the only thing that came out of his perfect mouth. His rare accent sounded like a mix of British English, and American English, something I’d never heard before. He carried only a rifle, a small, worn suitcase, and himself. His beautiful self. His grey helmet only made wisps of his hair viewable, but enough to tantalize me. It was the color of the sunset, the color of in between yellow and orange, but a rich one at that. Almost golden. His firm jaw was one of strength and age, for he seemed old enough to have enlisted in the army.

But what caught me the most of this sight was that yes, he was in a grey uniform— one I’d never seen before— but if you looked close enough, as I was doing now, you could see small flashes of red. It was as if he’d been wearing a Redcoat’s uniform but covered it up with anything resembling grey like dust or powder, maybe even paint. That puzzled me deeply, but not enough to question his being here yet.

I would’ve expected the tax collector, or maybe even my mom’s sister-in-law. But no, standing in front of me was a soldier, a soldier unlike any I’d seen before.