Megan Denby

by A Thistle in the Mist

  She snared a lock of her hair and resumed the twirling, choosing her words carefully, “Och, it’s a good thing Sloan wasna truly Hannah’s uncle.” She paused dramatically, waiting until she had Robert’s full attention. “Otherwise people might ha’ looked upon it as incest, ye ken. I guess Sloan takes after his true father, Donnie; just couldna keep his cock in his pants.” She shrugged her sloping shoulders. “Dinna ken why he’d go sniffin’ after a young thing like yer Hannah though.” Lizzie leaned in again, her thin lips tipped cruelly as she smirked into Robert’s face. “Do ye think wretched cowards are mebbe attracted to one another or...”

  “Argh!” A bellow of rage ripped from Robert’s chest. He kicked the quilt from his legs and hoofed his freed foot at Lizzie’s startled face. His heel bashed into her forehead and she reeled back. Tripping over the rocking chair she lost her balance, upending the little table. With arms flapping wildly, she continued her backward tumble until her head connected with the stone hearth and like a plant wilting in the heat, she slid to the floor.

  Robert stared at the crumpled heap.

  She resembled a baby bird that had fallen from its nest; limbs bent crookedly, head thrust forward at an unnatural angle. Oatmeal, from the fallen bowl, seeped across the floor, crept toward the nest of hair that had fallen forward to hide Lizzie’s face.

  Robert’s breaths burst from him in loud, painful gasps. Disbelief rendered him motionless. Hannah. Dear, sweet Hannah. Lord no.

  What had he done to his family? Lizzie was right! He was a weak coward. He had turned his back on his girls, wallowed in his own self-pity. He had caused the death of Jessie and now sweet Hannah. And what had that monster done to Hannah before she resorted to taking her own life? Sobs racked his body, his thin shoulders heaving with great, spasmodic jerks. And where was his joyful Meara?

  A faint crackling filtered through his haze of sorrow and Robert turned his dull eyes toward the sound.

  Small, perky flames licked hungrily at the legs of the rocking chair. The lamp had slipped from the nightstand when Lizzie had fallen and kerosene pooled beneath the broken slivers of glass.

  Panic sped through Robert’s veins as he stared at the spreading fire. He pulled at his bindings, his fingers scrabbling uselessly at the knots. In that instant Robert realised he did not want to die. He wanted to live. He needed to live. He needed to find Meara. He needed to find his grandson. He needed another chance. Blessed Lord, he needed to live!

  “Please, please help me,” he prayed.

  Robert heaved at the strips of cloth but they held fast. With bare feet, he kicked at the slats that surrounded his bed. His strength ebbed, his spurt of energy lagging, but Robert refused to give up. Over and over his foot bashed the rickety wood.

  Smoke curled around his head as the fire lapped at the quilt he’d kicked to the end of the bed. Robert’s scarred lungs rebelled against the assault. He choked, his eyes streaming. Bending his knees he aimed a final kick, desperation guiding his foot. With a splintering crack, the wood gave. Hurriedly, Robert slid the bindings down the ruined slat and past the splintered wood. His right hand was free!

  He turned his attention to his other hand.

  Black smoke billowed from the end of the bed. He glanced at Lizzie. The fire had reached her and he stared for a moment, unable to tear his eyes from the tendril of smoke that waved up from her skirts. Flames reflected brightly in his sunken eyes.

  Quickly he turned back to his trapped hand. His fingers moved sluggishly at the tight knots. His strength was wavering and he knew he was running out of time. Fits of coughing interrupted his attempts. He needed to rest for just one moment. He laid his head back and watched the smoke reach out to him. Feebly, he bent his knees. He would kick the other railing off too, but his legs flopped to the bed.

  Defeated, Robert MacDonald slumped back against his pillows and closed his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Meara. I should ha’ listened to ye. Please forgive me, lassie,” he whispered.

  Greasy smoke crept up his nostrils and Robert felt the heat of the fire lick at the soles of his feet. His coughing subsided and he lay quietly, waiting.

  Vaguely he became aware of a cool sensation washing across his body. A feeling of tranquility surged through his chest. Was this death? Was this it? A feather light touch caressed his bound wrist. At the same time the sweet scent of honeysuckle cleansed the acrid smoke from his nostrils. With a start, he opened his eyes. Air whistled across his teeth and his lips parted in silent wonder.

  Cool fingers loosened the knots. Hair, the colour of summer sunshine, curtained the face of his saviour. A beautiful light shimmered from within, casting an ethereal glow about her slight form.

  “Jessie,” he breathed.

  The bindings fell away from Robert’s hand. He reached out and his fingers sifted through the gloss of her hair, gently pushed it from her face.

  Her smile was tremulous, azure eyes limpid. She held her hand out to him and Robert placed his trembling hand in hers. Their eyes met and she nodded slightly.

  Effortlessly she guided him from the bed, her movement fluid. With his arm slung heavily about her slender shoulders, she drifted to the door, Robert’s legs dragging uselessly.

  Robert peered over his shoulder and they paused at the door. Hungry flames engulfed his bed. Lizzie’s smouldering plaid ignited and her crumpled form caught fire. Her hair went up with a ‘poof’, revealing her wizened face. It glowed red for a second, before the patchwork skin bubbled and peeled away from the bones. Robert shuddered and looked away.

  Strands of beautiful sunlight blinded him as the door swung open. He lifted his face to the sky, felt the heat on his skin. They glided up the deserted alley and Robert found himself gently deposited on the ground.

  He peered up but the face he sought was in shadow, darkly silhouetted against the backdrop of the dazzling sunshine. She bent over him and her hair shrouded them both as her cool lips found his. A gentle finger smoothed a tear from his cheek as her lips moved to his ear.

  Her breath was achingly familiar, her scent a salve for his scarred soul.

  “Meara.”

  She had not uttered a word but his daughter’s name filled his mind, just as sure as if she had spoken it aloud. Her fingertips trailed down his cheek until her small hand cupped his face. Then she sat back and he was certain he saw the sparkle of tears. He reached up and stroked her luminescent skin, his fingers coming away wet.

  “I promise I will find her, Jessie,” he whispered and she pressed his hand to her cheek.

  Shouts of alarm intruded. Suddenly, a clambering throng of people gathered down the street.

  “Lordy! Look at her burn!”

  Robert turned his head and looked back at his prison. With a thunderous explosion, orange flames leapt toward the sky.

  “Och! No one’s comin’ out of there alive! That auld witch’ll be dead, surely!”

  “Look!” They had spotted him. “Is he alive?”

  The crowd descended.

  Robert turned back.

  She was gone.

  “Angels must ha’ been watchin’ o’er ye the day, laddie!” A concerned face crowded into his and the sunlight disappeared.

  He held his hand up to his face. Tears glistened on his fingertips and he brought them to his mouth, tasted her one last time. The sultry note of honeysuckle slowly faded on the warm afternoon breeze.

  The crowd converged on him. “God’s eye, look at him! The lad needs a doctor!” Strong arms scooped him up. “Lord, man, what happened to ye? We thought as it was just the old hag that lived there!”

  Robert frantically scanned each face in the crowd.

  At last he found what he sought. His eyes settled upon the back of not one, but two flaxen-haired lassies. Their fingers were laced, their heads close together.

  Good bye. Good bye, my lassies.

  Tears flowed then, unchecked, while he bade silent farewell to Jessie and Hannah. As he watched, they faded into the shimmering sunlight, as though
they had never been, as though perhaps, they had been conjured by a desperate man.

  NINETEEN

  June 25 1809

  The New World

  The laughing gulls were not amused. They hurled insults at one another, swerving to avoid collision as they fought for the finned creatures that teased just below the lapping surface. Not a cloud marred the blue sky. Sunlight united briefly with sparkling waves only to fracture an instant later into countless glittering jewels. Sails snapped and billowed as balmy winds filled them and propelled us toward a small speck of land, sitting coyly on the horizon.

  The captain’s prediction had sadly proven correct. Sarah Burnett and her infant son, Isaac, had passed away within hours of each other, four days after O’Flynn’s attack. I could not bear the anguish that shadowed Molly’s eyes as she watched her family’s wrapped bodies slip into the blue. She was too young to understand but knew something was terribly wrong.

  An older couple, William and Morag Cameron, with no children of their own, instantly took Molly under their wing. She had a cabin to sleep in and thought it delightful! As the days passed, a rosy blush once again coloured her cheeks and a hesitant smile played with her lips. She blossomed with the love the couple offered and I felt she would be fine.

  I looked toward land and released a long breath. This Nova Scotia would be a mere stopover for me before I returned home to claim my son. Of this, I was certain.

  Following Sean O’Flynn’s drunken ‘fall’ overboard, Rabbie and I composed a letter to Angus and Mary. In it we assured everyone we were well and told them of our destination. With shaking hand I had forced myself to write questions, fear knotting up inside of me.

  How is my wee Heath? Is Deirdre treating him well?... please look after my son until I can return... any word from Duncan?

  We had also asked Angus to send us enough coin, if possible, to pay for our indenturement and our return passage. I knew Da had the funds in his coffers, but there was little hope that Angus or anyone else would be able to get past my aunt and uncle to secure it.

  The captain had promised to deliver the letter for us and I had no choice but to believe him. But it would take so long, another two months at least, until he docked back in Scotland. He had also promised to wait for a response from Angus and deliver it to us upon his return. All of this would take four or five months and of course everything depended on the weather. Once again I prayed for a late winter.

  The deck was crowded with gentry and indentured servants alike. We had buried eleven at sea, including Sarah and her son. Some had been sickly to begin with and yet others had begun their voyage just as strong as Rabbie and I. We were a ragtag lot. All had lost weight and everyone was sorely in need of a bath.

  I stood alone at the railing, basked for a moment in solitude. With the demise of O’Flynn, Rabbie had relaxed his vigil. I was glad for him, glad to see him carefree. I smiled as I watched him play tag with Molly, his gangling lankiness emphasized by the too-tight shirt and too-loose breeches. The wee lass’s delighted giggles skipped across the breeze, tickled my ears and soothed my heart.

  Land loomed and my stomach plunged at the sight of it. A bell clanged cheerfully in welcome, alerting the folks of Pictou, Nova Scotia of our approach.

  “It does the heart good to see land agin, lassie. I just wish it were bonnie Scotland we were lookin’ on the day.” I glanced sideways at the captain. The sun bleached white the wicked scar that bisected his face. His eyelids drooped at half mast in their customary squint. The lazy lids were deceptive but I knew firsthand those keen blue eyes missed nothing.

  “Aye, Captain, but I’ll be lookin’ upon bonnie Scotland agin before my next birthday,” I vowed, firmly. I looked back toward land, at the seaport village and the green expanse that spread out behind. I shielded my eyes with my hand against the bright and turned to the captain, “How can I thank ye, Captain? Ye’ve done so much for us.”

  “Dinna fash yerself, lassie. I just wish I could do more, but I’ve got to settle up wi’ my crew and secure supplies for the voyage home. The Lord willin’, I’ll be makin’ two more crossings afore the ice sets in just to make up for the loss from this voyage. I dinna mean to sound callous, but I didna expect to lose so many.”

  “I understand, Captain.” And I did. I didn’t like it. I just wanted him to take us back home with the promise of payment. But he was a business man and I was little more than a stranger to him. He had been more than generous and we needed to take care of our own problems now.

  His large hand settled on my shoulder. I flinched slightly, a residual and involuntary reaction as the result of Sean’s assault. The captain noticed and withdrew his hand. “Well, lass, I’ll be leavin’ ye in good hands at least. John Carleton’s a fine man and will treat ye and young Rabbie fairly. He doesna need to ken that ye intend to leave as soon as yer able. There are plenty more indentureds.” He looked at me pointedly then straightened and glanced toward the first mate who was manning the helm. “Time for me to go help the lads drop anchor.”

  His rolling gait mimicked the swell of the waves as he limped away. He certainly had a lot of faith in this John Carleton and I hoped, with all my heart, that he was right. I sighed and then smiled as Rabbie approached.

  “Well Rabbie, my wee brother, this is it eh, lad?” He grinned back at me before he glanced toward land.

  “Aye, Miss Meara, er, uh, Meara, but dinna get too attached to this place. We willna be here for verra long.”

  “Nay, Rabbie, I dinna intend to.” Rabbie had dropped the ‘Miss’ when he addressed me so we appeared to be siblings, but Mary had instilled fine manners in her son and he still found it difficult.

  Scores of people crowded the docks of Pictou as the captain guided the Ghillie Dhu alongside the dock. A party-like atmosphere swept through my fellow passengers. A young couple danced a jig on deck as a man dressed in rags plucked at his Jew’s harp and stomped his foot. As the anchor was dropped, the Captain allowed the paying passengers to disembark first. Then the indentureds were lined up and the Captain shuffled the paperwork that would need to be registered after all transactions had been completed.

  We stepped onto solid ground for the first time in seven weeks. My legs felt like liquid, as though still swaying with the movement of the ocean. It was a strange and unfamiliar sensation and, suddenly nervous, I slipped my hand into Rabbie’s as I looked around at the bustling village.

  Rabbie squeezed my hand reassuringly. “It’ll be all right, Meara.” I squeezed his hand gratefully, and wondered if he was as nervous as I. There was a possibility Mr. Carleton would not hire both of us, but I had not mentioned my fears to Rabbie and we had made no alternate plans.

  I stared around at the mass of people. There was much joyous weeping as families reunited and old acquaintances were rekindled. We were surrounded by the burr of the Scots tongue and I felt comforted to be near so many countrymen. Here and there well-dressed gentlemen called out various names. I watched as many of our fellow indentured servants stepped forward as their names were called. Most of the servants had made prior arrangements or their fathers had and the Captain had all of their paperwork in order. A few, like Rabbie and I, awaited further instruction.

  A tall, fine-looking gentleman made his way through the crowd. Thick, chestnut hair curled over his forehead. He was clean-shaven except for side-burns that ended at his jaw line. Lush, thick lashes framed his coffee-coloured eyes. His garments were elegantly cut, obviously those of an upper-class gentleman. Buff-coloured breeches were tucked neatly into polished, knee-high, leather boots. He wore a double-breasted vest of deep green over a pleated white shirt with full, loose sleeves. As he scanned the disembarking passengers, he twisted a top hat round and round with his long, tapered fingers.

  “Sarah? Sarah Burnett?” He spoke with a refined English accent that confirmed his social status.

  Rabbie and I glanced at one another. This has to be John Carleton, I thought.

  Captain Duff clumped acr
oss the dock ahead of us and hailed the man. “Och, John, yer lookin’ braw as usual.” John Carleton accepted the captain’s proffered hand with a gracious smile. I relaxed a little. His smile was warm and his eyes seemed kind.

  “Captain, it’s good to see you! May I say you’re looking fine as well, sir?”

  “Aye Johnny, ye might but we both know ye’d be lyin’!” The captain grinned mischievously, bright eyes gleaming, as he heartily clapped the taller man on his back.

  As we watched, the two men turned and strode across the dock. “And how is Grace doin’, John?” The contrast was great; one elegant, almost graceful in his movement, the other bandy-legged and rough.

  William and Morag Cameron passed us. Molly skipped excitedly between them, her small hands safe in theirs.

  “I like this place. Don’t you like this place, Auntie Morag? No more stinky ship.” Her trilling voice was a melody on the breeze and I smiled at her enthusiasm. No, we didn’t need to worry about this young lassie. William was to be the headmaster of the new District School and Molly would be well taken care of.

  The captain and Mr. Carleton paused a short distance away. Both heads turned simultaneously toward us. The captain continued to speak, though his words did not reach us. Mr. Carleton nodded intently and glanced our way again with interest. Undoubtedly, he had just been informed of his newest acquisition. They started toward us.

  Self-consciously, I smoothed at the idiotic ruffles that grew like weeds from my grubby gown. I felt Rabbie’s hand warm on the small of my back. I took a deep breath and forced my hands to my sides.

  “Johnny, I’d like ye to meet yer new governess, Miss Meara and her brother, yer new stable lad, young Rabbie.”

  He nodded his head politely then his eyes narrowed with ill-concealed disdain as he perused my gown. “Miss Meara, I’m very pleased to make yer acquaintance. I’m quite certain my children will be delighted to meet you as well.” His voice seemed strained to my self-conscious ears. Who could blame him? I looked like a bloody trollop for God’s sake, not someone he’d trust his children with. Damn this dress!