Megan Denby

by A Thistle in the Mist

  The ever-present look of solemnity melted from Vanessa’s face and rays of sunlight seemed to come alive in her deep brown eyes. “I’ll be right back, Rabbie,” she said, then spun around – most out of character – and skipped back up the drive.

  Rabbie glanced at me with a grin and I silently mouthed, ‘Thank you’ over Johnny’s head. He shrugged a shoulder and I turned to follow Vanessa. She dashed ahead, but then peered over her shoulder, slowing to a more ladylike pace. I caught up and we entered the house together.

  “Vanessa, Edie baked some fresh scones on the morn. Mebbe she’ll part with a pot of her strawberry jam and some...” My voice trailed off as I glanced to my left into the parlour.

  I felt the blood drain from my face and a deep numbing begin in my center. I stood frozen for a long moment then stumbled into the room.

  Dark hair brushed the collar of his blue velvet waistcoat. He stood with his back to me, his long legs slightly parted, tanned hands set on his hips as he stared out the large parlour window.

  “Duncan.” His name fell from my lips on a strangled whisper, slipping out, unbidden.

  He turned as Vanessa dashed past me, gossamer strands of white-gold billowing behind her.

  Dark brows gathered over clear grey eyes as he stared at me in confusion. “I beg your pardon, Miss?”

  Vanessa launched herself into his arms while the room slowly tilted before me. “Uncle Pete!”

  The small girl’s voice sounded far away, as though under water. My heart drummed slowly in my ears until I could hear nothing else.

  The gentleman peered at me with concerned eyes as he scooped his niece into his arms.

  Grey eyes... not blue.

  Uncle Pete... not... not Duncan.

  “Vanessa! Look at you, milady! You’ve grown a foot!” The grey eyes continued to watch me over Vanessa’s bright head.

  The tilt became a spin that grew faster until the man’s voice faded. I stood, rooted to the spot, unable to move. Vanessa turned in her uncle’s arms and peered back at me. Finally, my legs obeyed the sluggish command from my head. I turned and jerked from the room, my shoulder glancing off the archway.

  “...your new governess, Nessie?” The deep voice trailed after me and I felt as though I struggled against a strong current as I climbed the stairs. I grasped the railing, to keep from falling back then lurched the last few steps.

  Golden sunlight flowed through my window, blinding me as I pushed the door closed and collapsed on my bed. The deep pillow muffled my sobs.

  “Lord, Duncan. Why was that not you? Why? Goddamn you! Why?”

  Images of my husband held at bay for so long, broke free and attacked my mind with unkind clarity. Vulnerable blue eyes, square white teeth, the slash of his dimple. That bloody dimple. That crooked smile. Hands... warm on my face. And his scent – musk and horse and spice. Snippets of wee Heath joined his father and the tears poured from my eyes, hard sobs wrenched from my chest.

  “God please. Please. I need them so,” I begged quietly.

  “Your husband isn’t really dead, is he?” Vanessa’s soft voice filtered through my sorrow. At the same time, I became aware of her small hand on my back.

  “I dinna ken, Ness,” I answered, my voice softened by the pillow. I tasted the salt of my tears. “I dinna ken, lass, and it’s the not knowin’ that hurts so bad.”

  “Don’t worry, Meara. I won’t tell anybody.” Her hand rubbed soothing circles across my back. Her voice was tentative as she continued, “Johnny said your eyes are just like Mama’s. But I said he was wrong because Mama’s eyes are blue and yours are green.”

  I sniffled loudly and pulled myself into a sitting position, tucking away the pictures of Duncan and Heath as I listened to her tender voice.

  She stared down at the quilt and traced the pattern with a delicate finger. “But now I know what he meant.” She looked up at me and a sheen of tears softened the beautiful eyes. “Mama has sad eyes and... and so do you.” A single tear spilled over and slid down her cheek.

  I stared at this lovely child, so young and yet so old. Hesitantly, I held my arms open to her. Very slowly, she leaned in and I wrapped my arms around her slender form. Gradually, a softening moved through her and she laid her head against my shoulder. As I stroked the shimmering hair, another fair lass, flowed into my mind. Hannah, my dear sweet Hannah. So innocent, so lovely.

  Instinctively, my arms tightened around Vanessa. What had happened to this child? What held this family captive? It was a secret that had caused Grace to withdraw and Vanessa to trust no one. It was a secret that kept John from his family, though I had no doubt he loved them.

  Whatever it was remained a mystery, so for now I cuddled my young charge close and was comforted that my own pain and secrets had allowed her to come to me.

  The sound of small feet slapping the hardwood floor roused me from my reverie as Johnny careened into the room. “Come on, Nessie! Uncle Pete’s here and he’s going fishing with me and Rabbie ‘cause Mama’s still sleeping and ...” The words cascaded from his mouth like a bubbling waterfall but halted abruptly. He stared at his sister with wide blue eyes. Vanessa still sat cuddled in my arms.

  He looked from Vanessa to me and back to his sister. He crooked one brow comically and put his small fists on his hips. “Don’t you hate Meara any more?” he asked with all of the innocence of a five-year old.

  Vanessa’s eyes smiled into mine before she grinned indulgently at her little brother. “No Johnny, I don’t hate her.”

  Johnny peered hard at me, his eyebrows gathered low over the solemn eyes, “What did you do to her? Vanessa never liked nobody before, ‘cept me.” Then his small nose wrinkled. “You don’t look so good. Your eyes are all puffed up and fat.”

  Then he reached over and grabbed Vanessa’s hand as I self-consciously touched my fingertips to my eyelids.

  “Come on, Nessie! Everybody’s waiting for you and you were supposed to get some food Rabbie said.”

  Vanessa glanced back at me as her brother yanked impatiently on her hand. Her brown eyes were suddenly soft and shy. “I better go.”

  I pulled her close and whispered in her ear, “Thank you, lassie.”

  She nodded, a shy smile upon her lips. Then she stood and let her imp of a brother drag her from the room.

  “Bring back a nice fat trout for dinner,” I called after the retreating pair.

  Johnny paused and looked back, his eyes wide with horror. “Yuck! We aren’t gonna eat those fellers. We’re just gonna look at ‘em and let ‘em go!” Then he tugged his sister from the room and I listened to the sound of their feet as they raced down the stairs.

  Crossing the room, I opened the cupboard to the mirror that hung on the door. I stared at my reflection. Johnny was right. My eyes were ‘all puffed up and fat’ and my nose was red as well.

  I poured a little water into the bowl on my washstand and splashed it on my face. The stinging in my eyes lessened though my nose remained clogged.

  I walked over to the window and peered down to the stables. Uncle Pete stood chatting with Rabbie who readied a horse and cart for the fishing trip. I saw clearly now that this man was a few inches shorter and his shoulders were not nearly as broad as Duncan’s. In the sunlight, I could see that his hair was lighter.

  Bittersweet sadness flowed through my veins as I stared at this man who could have been Duncan.

  Johnny rounded the corner of the house, his sister running at his side. She carried a large picnic basket and Johnny carried a leather pouch, no doubt housing the unfortunate dew worms.

  Uncle Pete hoisted Johnny up onto his shoulders as Rabbie finished securing the horse.

  Nessie turned and glanced up at my window. My eyes locked with hers and I paused for a moment then raised my hand, as I had on that first day two months ago.

  She stared back up at me and I thought perhaps she had changed her mind. Then she slowly raised her hand and waved back while her face broke into a smile as bonnie as the day.<
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  ******

  A flash of light stabbed at my eyes and I was instantly awake. I sat up, disoriented, and peered around my dark room, not sure what had disturbed me. I looked toward the window as another flash lit up my room, followed by an angry growl of thunder.

  I pushed the quilt back, slid my legs over the side of the bed and felt the floor pulse beneath my feet. Slipping my robe from the bedpost, I padded across the cool floor to the window as I tied the belt at my waist.

  The dim outline of the stable rose up in the dark. Another sheet of lightning chased away the night and briefly washed the backyard in white light. It was followed moments later by a clap of thunder. The house shook with the aftershock and next the sky opened. Fat drops hurled themselves at my window, breaking apart and slipping down the glass.

  Lightning struck again and this time it revealed John’s carriage rolling up to the stable. I squinted and leaned forward, pressed my nose to the glass. John sat hunched in the seat, a hat drawn low on his head so I couldn’t see his face. He stood then mostly fell from the carriage, catching himself before he hit the ground. The stable door opened and Rabbie dashed out into the storm. He was bare-chested, having undoubtedly been roused from his bed. Within seconds Rabbie was soaked as he worked to unhitch the horse. Between the flashes I watched John weave his way to the front of the carriage and drape his arm around Rabbie’s bare shoulders. Rabbie turned to look at John as more thunder crashed overhead. The horse shied and shook its head, rearing up. Rabbie grabbed for the bridle, knocking John’s arm away. John stood for a moment, swaying in the rain, watching Rabbie struggle to calm the horse. Then he turned and shuffled up the drive and out of sight.

  The yard lit up the lone figure of Rabbie as he led the frightened animal into the stable. The lightning was instantly followed by a tremendous crash of thunder. The storm was directly overhead and I could no longer see a thing as the rain pelted the glass.

  Where did John go every night? Why did he take the carriage instead of riding one of the horses and why this self-imposed ban from spending evenings with his family?

  I turned at the familiar sound of small feet in the hallway. Then my door burst inward and wee Johnny stood in the doorway, his ragtag bear dangling from his hand. Chestnut curls stood in wild disarray about his head. He was clearly frightened, though he held his small mouth tight to stop the trembling.

  “Och, young John, I’m so glad to see ye, man! This storm is a little loud. I’m no scared of course but I could use some company the now.” I walked over to my bed and patted a spot beside me. “Would ye care to join me, lad?”

  Johnny didn’t hesitate but charged across the room, flinging himself up onto my high bed.

  The house vibrated once more and Johnny launched himself into the circle of my arms, his wee body quivering. I cuddled him close as another white face peeked shyly through my open door. I held my free hand out. “Come, sweet Nessie. Johnny and I are just keepin’ each other company.”

  Nessie smiled gratefully then tiptoed quickly across the room, joining us on the bed. I wrapped the quilt around all of us and we snuggled close.

  “When I was a wee lassie, and the angels danced loudly up in the sky, like they are tonight, I’d squeeze in between Mother and Da, with my sister Hannah.”

  The memory brought a tightness to my throat and I swallowed it away as I continued, “Da would cuddle us close and he’d tell us a story about a poor wee donkey. Would ye care to hear it?”

  I felt the small heads bob up and down in the dark.

  With Da’s heavy brogue rumbling in my head, I began:

  I once had a donkey that would not go.

  Would I whip him?

  No, no, no!

  I put him in the stable,

  And give him some corn,

  He’s the best wee donkey,

  That ever was born.

  As I quoted a few more of Da’s poems, the thunder gradually faded, and the children’s breathing grew even as they drifted off to sleep.

  I turned and peered at Johnny’s wee face, his curved cheek soft against my pillow and Heath, always at the edge of my mind, emerged from his hiding place. I embraced his vision as the soft chuff of the children’s breath lulled me to sleep. A cherubic face with a crown of dark curls guided me through the dark for the remainder of the night.

  TWENTY-THREE

  September 14th 1809

  Home

  The harvest moon bathed the trail in an orange glow. Pine trees creaked an ancient lullaby. Empty birch stretched their branches wide, dark skeletons clawing at the night sky. The hoot of an owl pierced the still. Pine needles whispered aside and dry twigs snapped, broken by the uneven step that trod on them.

  Duncan’s breath burst from his nostrils in twin streams of white, his teeth clenched tight. He limped slowly, with sadistic intent, each step shooting hot pain down his thigh. He refused to use a walking stick to ease the discomfort. It was a pain he relished, a pain he deserved.

  He had suffered a series of setbacks after learning that Meara and their child were dead. Pneumonia had set in and the fever had returned. Days had turned into weeks and during those days he did not know whether he dreamed or if he had died and gone to heaven. Visions of his bonnie lass, rounded with their child teased his mind and tortured his soul. Delirium played a twisted game with his mind – Meara rocking their child, his mother’s sparkling smile as she dived beneath the waves, chasing Meara through the highlands, a large casket and a tiny one being lowered into the dark ground, a carved dolphin falling from his mother’s hands to land in a pool of blood over and over and over.

  Sister Emeline watched helplessly as her patient slipped farther and farther away. Rachel had set her sights on Duncan and was insulted when Emeline asked her to stay away. For some inexplicable reason her very presence seemed to enrage him. If she had asked Duncan, he would have told her that the conceited, simpering young woman with her ingratiating manner and cloying scent was everything Meara was not. And he only wanted to think of his feisty, wild, headstrong bride. Then if he thought of nothing else, he could almost convince himself she was still alive.

  The fever finally broke and the days of bleak recovery began. Sister Emeline tried her best to tempt him with hearty meals but Duncan had no stomach for food and ate only to survive.

  Though Meara’s face filled his eyes constantly, wee Hannah sat just on the periphery and he knew he must go home and take her away from Deirdre and Sloan then make them pay for what they had done.

  His ship had docked in Uig, earlier that morning. He had no luggage, save for his sporran. Tucked inside were Arthur Keith’s watch, his own Mother’s carved dolphin with its worn patina and the precious letters and handkerchief from Meara. If he pressed the cloth to his face and concentrated hard enough he imagined it still redolent with her wildflower scent. He had no money. He spoke to no one but had immediately headed for the road that led from Uig to his home and to Duntulm.

  Damp leaves crumpled beneath his feet as he stoically moved forward. The air was sharp and cool, the taste of coming winter cold and fresh on his tongue. Wings flapped suddenly to his left as a night bird startled from its perch. But Duncan limped on, his thoughts far away.

  Memories of Meara teased him and he drifted back to the day he had fallen from the tree and pretended to be dead, when he had been twelve and Meara just ten.

  She had been so furious, her skinny boy’s body rigid with anger, her green eyes flashing dangerously. She had jumped atop Caulley and raced ahead to the stables. Duncan had been a guest at Duntulm and was expected back for dinner and so had followed Meara instead of returning to Dunvegan.

  When he reached the stables, Meara was nowhere in sight and Hector MacLean, Mary’s husband and Duntulm’s stable hand, was busy brushing down Meara’s horse, Caulley. Hector turned to him, his round face red with contained merriment and his blue eyes bright with mischief, “Ye’ve angered the wee lass something fierce, young Duncan. I’d best be watchin’ my b
ack if I was ye, lad,” he laughed, his face reddening further beneath his shock of rusty hair. He clapped Duncan on the back and turned back to the horse. Duncan laughed along with the groomsman before he slid the saddle from Tormod’s back and rubbed him down. Then he led his horse to an empty stall, fed and watered him, hugged his neck then closed the stall door. Knowing well Meara’s temper and knowing well he deserved her wrath after scaring her, he turned to leave the stable with some trepidation. Pulling the door closed, he reached back through the round opening in the door to secure the latch. As he turned back something dropped from the sky – screaming like a banshee – and landed in front of him. He covered his head and hit the ground, almost pissing his pants in the process. When peals of laughter and unrestrained giggles found his ears, he uncovered his head and looked up. Meara sat on the ground next to him, tears rolling down her cheeks, moss green eyes crinkled with laughter.

  While he’d been busy with Tormod, she had silently climbed up on the low roof of the stable and waited for him. When he turned his back, she had jumped off with a bloodcurdling scream, to land in front of him. With cheeks burning, he got to his feet and pulled her up as well, wanting nothing more than to kiss her laughing mouth, “Well, guess I deserved that, lass,” he conceded to his giggling companion.

  Hector had watched the whole thing, his face split in a huge grin, “I tried to warn ye, lad,” he had said.

  Duncan couldn’t help but smile at the memory. That was the day he had stopped thinking of Meara as his playmate and knew one day he would ask her to be his wife.

  He sobered at that thought then moved into a clearing and stepped to the side of the road to relieve himself. As he did, he stubbed his toe against something solid. Glancing down, his breath left him in a gush of warm air.

  He stared at the silver, weathered wood then crouched down to run his fingers across the smooth surface. It was the wagon wheel, the wheel he had so arrogantly kicked from the cart, on his wedding day, so long ago.