“No, sir, I’m sorry. I’ve never been to that part of Scotland, at least that I remember. And I’ve never heard of a Benji Pomeroy.”
“Ach, no. His name is MacKay, after his father. Benjamin MacKay, but we called him Benji or Mac.”
“Oh, shit,” James mumbled. He drew in a deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut, and hoped that this was just a bad dream and really wasn’t happening.
“What do you mean, ‘Oh, shit’?” Sarah asked.
James opened his eyes and saw that everyone in the room was focused on him. “Before I came to America, I got a letter from a Benji MacKay in North Carolina. Oh, shit, shit, shit!” he exclaimed irrationally. He realized that this wasn’t helping the tension in the room. He closed his eyes again, took a deep breath, and began to share what little he remembered.
“I wish I had a photographic memory, but crap, all I remember is the letter said something about how he needed to talk to me about Leah. I didn’t know any Leah at the time, and the only people I knew in North Carolina were the ones I had met at that little café in Greensboro back in 2012…” he glanced at me, indicating that I was one of those people, whether I remembered it or not, “and a person named Bibb Stephens, a business person I was corresponding with about a property purchase nearby. Sh… Darn it. At the time, I didn’t even know if Bibb was a man or a woman!”
“Yeah, right, and Bibb turned out to be your mother, and I became your wife less than two weeks later,” Leah said. “Things happen so quickly here in North Carolina,” she added in a perfect imitation of Judy Garland as Dorothy Gale from the Wizard of Oz.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure he’s fine,” I assured both Jody and James. “And it’s not as if we could go back…um…go forward…um… Well, whatever direction it would have to be, we can’t go change it. Phew!”
***64 The Promise
“Can I see your knife?” Jenny asked.
“What?” Wee Ian replied, his voice squeaking in shock. “That’s a private matter and none of yer business.”
“Well, I got a knife. Do you want to see mine?”
“You canna have a knife. A girl has the other kind. Only men and boys have knives,” he said.
“Oh, yeah? Then what’s this?” Jenny reached into her pocket and pulled out the penknife Grandpa Jody had gifted her.
“Oh, that kind of knife—you mean a dirk.” He had been thinking of the ‘other’ kind of knife. “Oh, sure, here.” He unsheathed the blade he had recovered from his father’s assailant’s belongings and handed it to her, hilt first.
She turned the knife over in her hand, found its balance point, held it up to the sky to see if it was crooked or if the edge had nicks in it, then gave it back to him. “What kind of knife were you talking about?” she asked, her head down, concentrating on the geometric designs she was creating in the dirt with her big toe.
“Weel, like I said, it’s kind of private, ye ken, the other knife.” He slipped off his moccasins and decided to play in the fine, silt-y dirt, too.
“Huh?” Jenny looked up at him, nose wrinkled and mouth opened. She didn’t have a clue as to what he was talking about.
He knew by her unblinking stare that she would pester him until he told her. It was better to tell her and get it over with. “Weel, the Indians refer to a man’s…ye ken,” he mumbled, and looked down at the front of his breechclout, “as his knife. That’s why I said ye canna have a knife.”
“You mean your stuff?” she asked.
“Stuff?” he echoed. He had never heard it called that.
“Yeah, stuff.” She dusted off her hands and said, “Hey, if you show me your stuff, I’ll show you mine. I got two hairs on my stuff now. Do you have any hair on yours? I know when you get to be a real man, you get hair down there. But you’re not a real man, so you probably don’t have any hair, huh?”
“Weel, I got a little,” he admitted shyly.
“Can I see?”
He could tell that she was just curious, but his answer was still, “No.”
“I think you’re lying,” she teased.
“No, I’m not,” he replied adamantly, and crossed his arms. He walked away from their dirt drawing canvas and sat down next to the big chokecherry bush.
“Then what are you afraid of?” she said, then added gently, “I won’t laugh.”
“Why would ye laugh?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged her shoulders and came over to sit down next to him—a little too close, he felt—then almost whispered, “Why won’t you show me?”
“Because it’s private,” he said with conviction, although he didn’t really know why he couldn’t show her.
“Why?”
“Because it is,” he declared with a tone of finality.
“Why?” Jenny didn’t believe the subject was closed. Everybody had one, so why was it so personal? He should know that without her saying so.
“Because yer only supposed to show it to yer mate—ye ken, the one yer marrit to,” he said with exasperation. There, that ought to shut her up!
“Okay, let’s get married then,” she said, grinning from ear to ear.
“No,” he huffed, then looked around to see where he could hide. She was too close, though, and would see him wherever he went.
He looked over and saw that his father seemed to be resting peacefully. At least, Evie was smiling at him now, even if he was asleep. He tried to recall if he had ever seen her smile at him before. If she had, she hadn’t done it for very long. She looked happy, and that was a good sign.
“I said…why can’t we get married, or marrit, or however you say it? It means the same thing, right?”
He nodded and said, “Because.” Evidently she had asked him at least once before. He hadn’t heard her the first time, but that didn’t seem to slow her down.
“Because why? Don’t you like me?” she asked sadly.
He realized that he felt sorry for her. She must be an orphan because she wasn’t with Wallace and Evie a few weeks ago. It wouldn’t hurt him to show her a little sympathy. “Weel, yes, I like ye—sort of—but ye talk too much.”
“If we get married, I promise I won’t talk too much,” she said, her eyes searching his to see if her pledge had made a difference.
He peered, unblinking, into her face to make sure she knew what she was saying. “Promise?” he asked, then noticed how long and soft brown her eyelashes were, perfect for setting off the sky blue of her bright, shiny eyes. She had a few freckles on her nose, too—little spots of happiness, he thought.
“I promise. You’ll have to show me your stuff then because we’ll be married, huh,” she said, nodding her head, making sure he understood his part of the obligation.
“So if we’re marrit, I’ll show ye my stuff, but then ye willna talk too much, aye?”
“Uh-huh,” she said quickly, trying to make her answer as short as possible for him.
He was beginning to like this. She was already talking less. Maybe she would make a good wife. “All right. Just say that ye want me fer yer husband, then that’s all there is to it.” At least, that’s how he thought they did it back at his village. He wasn’t sure how the white man did it, and had never really talked to his father or mother about it. But this was good enough for a girl.
Jenny remained still—just looked at him—not saying a word. Was it working already? “But ye have to say ye want me fer yer husband first, and THEN stop talking so much.”
Jenny nodded.
Scout leaned into her face and glared at her. He was beginning to get exasperated with her and wasn’t going to remind her again that she had to ask him to be her husband. She didn’t need to be his wife if she would stay quiet without it.
“Will you be my husband?” she asked slowly, timidly.
She must know what a promise is. She sounded as if she was thinking about each word before saying it, not jabbering like a jay. Maybe she really will be a good woman, especially if Evie is her new mother. And she sure is pre
tty. “Aye, I mean, yes,” he said, then leaned forward and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.
Jenny didn’t say a word, but shook her head ‘no,’ and pointed to her lips. She wanted her kiss on the mouth.
Scout, the boy formerly known as Wee Ian, sighed then leaned forward and gave Jenny Pomeroy-Hart, his child-bride, a kiss on the mouth. Before he could pull away, though, she grabbed him and pressed her mouth to his, twisting and turning her head, keeping a hard pressure on his lips with hers.
“Ow! Yer teeth hurt me. Yer supposed to do it soft, like this,” then showed her how gently he could touch her mouth with his. He pulled away and grinned. He just might like being marrit.
Jenny started rearranging her skirts. She pulled the green calico up and held the bundle to her chest with her chin. “See,” she said, pointing to her newly discovered pubic hairs.
“Oh,” is all Scout could think to say.
She dropped her skirts. Neither of them spoke. She finally looked up at him, then stared down at his crotch. He followed her gaze, shrugged his shoulders, and shifted aside his breechclout. “See,” he said, and pointed to his sparse dark hairs, suddenly feeling braver. “I got more than ye do, but that’s okay; ye’ll get more. And yer breasts will get bigger so ye can feed bairns when I plant my seed in ye. But I think we ought to wait for that until I can build us a home of our own. Do ye think it will be all right if ye stay with yer mother and father a while longer?”
Jenny nodded. She wanted to be married to Scout, but didn’t want to leave her new parents yet. She had been with them less than a lunar month. She knew her mother still needed her, even though she now had another daughter to help with the cooking and cleaning and babies.
“You can stay with us, too, if you’d like,” she said, hoping she hadn’t spoken too many words. Then she leaned in and kissed her husband again like he had showed her. She liked having a husband to kiss.
***65 Another Mystery
Leah stroked James’s forehead with the pink terrycloth washcloth her mother had given her—a keepsake from Mom’s trip to the 21st century and Leah’s former place of employment, Moses H. Cone Memorial Hospital.
They were both exhausted—it had been a long day for everyone—but it was still too hot to sleep. They lay on a quilt on the floor, taking turns swiping the moist cloth across each other’s face and neck. The evaporative effect was temporary, but welcome just the same. She dipped the cloth in the clay bowl, swished it around to suck up more of the cool well water, squeezed it out, and began lightly brushing it across his chest, zig-zagging down slowly to his belly button.
“Now, how is it that your Uncle Julian is related to you?” she asked, resisting the urge to flick his firm, dark nipple.
James grabbed her hand before she followed through with her impish prank. “My turn,” he said. “Hand me the cloth.”
Leah stood up, but held the rag tight. “Shoot, it’s too hot even for this.” She pulled the Mickey and Minnie Mouse nightshirt off over her head and tossed it on her pile of skirts and shoes. “I know, I know,” she replied to James’s unspoken admonition, “life starts early in the country. I’ll wake up earlier still and throw it on again before Jody or Wallace or Julian come in. If the chickens wake them up, I’m sure they’ll wake me up, too.”
“It’s the roosters, not the hens, who are the alarm clocks. Here, give me that cloth before it gets too warm in your hand.”
Leah twirled the pink remnant from her mother’s former robe in the air like a lariat, then tossed it at his head. He reflexively put his hand in front of his face and grabbed it before it made contact. “Not quite a pillow fight,” he said, then dabbed it on the back of his neck, “but definitely cooler. Lie down before I change my mind and go to sleep.”
Leah gracefully transitioned from standing to reclining on her back. “Lots of yoga,” she said. She put her hands behind her head, presenting her entire nude torso to him. “And no fair tickling, either. I want to relax enough to sleep.”
James used the corner of the washcloth like a stylus, dragging it across her collarbones then down between her breasts. “More cloth,” she mumbled, eyes shut in concentration. He opened it out and, using both hands, draped it down her chest, switching it back and forth sideways to cool the underside of her still perky breasts.
She opened one eye. “I’m glad I don’t have big, saggy boobs. I’d get a rash there for sure…”
James distracted her with a kiss to her tummy. He couldn’t help it. She had absolutely beautiful breasts, but her belly mound seemed to be calling for his attention. “How long do you think it will be before we have children?” he asked, trying not to sound too anxious.
“I don’t know. I might be pregnant already and we just don’t know it yet. I mean, we were sure going at it enough…”
James continued his gentle kisses, the cloth laying unemployed between her breasts. “Hey, hey, hey,” Leah said. “It’s too hot for that. And like I said, I might already be pregnant.”
James sat upright, a scowl on his face. “If you think the only reason I want to make love to my wife is to get her with child, you are sincerely mistaken.”
“Good Lord, I hope not. And the operative words in that statement are ‘make love,’ not have sex or carnal knowledge, or…or…” Leah looked over and saw that James was giggling like a child. “Yeah, you got me,” she said, realizing that he had been joking.
“I certainly do,” he said, and planted a quick kiss on her belly. “And as for Uncle Julian, his brother, my great-grandfather Anthony, was the start of my line. Or at least, the continuation of the line from the early 1700s. Uncle Julian’s line stopped with his stepson, Lord Urquhart, Viscount Cavendish—that would be Wallace. It was assumed he died in the war since he simply disappeared while in His Majesty’s service.”
Leah reached up and stroked the sparse, dark hairs on his chest. “Bibb told me before she left that her genealogy chart, as far back as she had been able to trace it, was in the safe that the MacLeods broke into. They didn’t find any money or deeds in it, so tossed everything in a trash can and set it on fire, laughing as she pled with them not to, that there were important, precious papers and family photos in there. She didn’t have the family tree memorized, but said there was something about a Scout and Genevieve in the late 1700s. She also said she was pretty sure their last name was Pomeroy-Hart…”
James sighed deeply then lay back beside her. “I don’t know the connection, and I forgot about asking Marty about it before he…he…left.” He gulped back his feeling of abandonment, then continued. “There is a small fortune in a safe deposit box in London. Only the first-born males in the family line know about it. Hmm, I don’t know if Bruce knew about it, but since he was Marty’s first born from his marriage to Teighlor, he probably did. It’s in Billy’s care now. Anyhow, I was made aware of it at a relatively early age, probably to encourage my curiosity with the Hart part of the name. You did know that Marty manipulated me on purpose, right? Made me curious about Julian Hart and his line?”
Leah nodded, lips pressed tight so she didn’t tell him to knock it off and get over it. He continued. “I wound up getting married, briefly, but not briefly enough. When that skank of the female persuasion cleaned out all she could and then tried for the rest of the family assets through the courts, I never became desperate. Shoot, even if I had been left with nothing but my skivvies, it would have been better than having her in my life. But I digress. I always knew that no matter how much money was gone, I still had the Pomeroy-Hart fortune.”
Leah’s eyebrows raised, but she remained mute. The Pomeroy-Harts have money?
“I know,” James said and matched her eyebrow movement. “They sure don’t look like they have much now. I can’t be sure they’re the same Pomeroy-Hart line, and that I am a long distant relative of your mother and therefore of you. No, we’re not kissing cousins,” he said and gave her a quick ‘cousinly’ kiss. “I don’t know when the funds were first deposited. I didn�
�t ask nor did I have a reason to. I don’t see any Genevieves or Scouts around, either.” He sighed. “I guess if it is this family that becomes rich, it will be a generation or more down the line. In the meantime, we’ll all work hard, hopefully eat well—and keep out of musket ball range—and live long, eventually prosperous lives.”
~END of AYE, I AM A FAIRY~
Preview of The Great Big Fairy follows:
The Great Big Fairy
*1 I’m Benji; Where’s Leah?
August 17, 2013
Greensboro, North Carolina
Police Department
Billy sighed deeply, fingering the letter the mop-haired boy had brought to him earlier. He agreed with James. The young man might be a MacLeod, but he certainly didn’t resemble his brothers in anything but the overabundance of hair. The courteous young man had asked if he needed him to wait while he read the letter. Billy assured him that it wasn’t necessary and even offered him a tip. ‘No,’ the lad had said. He was just performing a service for a very nice man, and he had already been paid. He had paused before he left.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that James was your brother. You sure look alike.” He shook his head and let himself out of Billy’s office. “Nah, couldn’t be,” he said to himself, as he walked out the door, “ʽcause James is a British lord or somethin’—some kind of royalty, I think.”
B illy slipped the letter containing the contact list of who to trust and who to watch out for into the top drawer of his desk. Some of the names he recognized, others had English addresses and phone numbers. They weren’t important now, but might be in the future. He’d investigate them tomorrow.
He was finally finished with his paperwork. It had been a long night. James and Leah had left only an hour and a half ago, and unless something drastic occurred—and he didn’t even want to speculate on that possibility—he would never see his newfound brother or sister-in-law/best friend again. But, now he, Billy Burke the lifelong orphan, had a mother, and that was a blessing he had stopped hoping for about fifteen years ago. He also knew who his father was and, although he might never be able to meet the elusive Marty Melbourne, he could find out more about him from his mother, the sweetest woman in the world, Bibb Stephens.
Aye, I am a Fairy (The Fairies Saga Book 2) Page 55
