Noticing Hamish’s eyes flick upwards momentarily, away from his bride, Sara followed his line of sight, surprised to see that a tiny robin had followed the bridal party into the church to land high up in the ceiling rafters. It hoped from foot to foot before fluffing its feathers and settling, appearing to be prepared to stay for the service. She hoped the small bird would stay still and not fly around or poop on the wedding guests down below. Frowning at Hamish, she was rewarded with a bright cheery smile of unconcern so returned her attention to the bride. The bird was soon forgotten as Liana reached the front of the church. David handed her off to Hamish and wedding service got under way.
***
It was late but no one wanted to go home. They had danced well into the wee small hours of the morning. Babes and small children had fallen asleep on laps after gorging themselves on tasty treats provided by the church women’s guild and Arthur’s head had dropped to his chest some time ago as he nodded off in a comfortable armchair set to one side of the dance floor. It seemed that the whole village had come out to celebrate. Hamish and Liana had issued a general invitation to any who wanted to attend their wedding dance via the church notice-board and David had made additional announcements when reading the banns in the weeks leading up to happy event. By the crowded dance floor, it appeared that very few had not taken up the offer. The village hall was full to overflowing with men standing around outside the door gossiping while their wives and partners tried to get them to come back inside to dance. And what a dance it had been …a local Ceilidh folk band with the help of a very able caller had provided the music for the traditional Scottish Eightsome Reel, followed by Strip the Willow, The Dashing White Sergeant, The Gay Gordons, The Military Two-step, The St. Bernard's Waltz and numerous others ...the local crowd with assistance from Hamish Scottish relatives had attempted them all with gusto and no shortage of merriment when missteps were made … and in the band’s breaks there’d been some hilarious entertainment by the bridal party and their guests …Hamish and Steve had led the men singing ‘I’m Gonna Be’ to the women …not entirely on key but with rampant alcohol-fuelled enthusiasm! Liana had sung ‘An Innis Àigh’ in perfect Gaelic for Hamish with a beautifully haunting lyrical voice worthy of a recording contract and accompanied by several strikingly beautiful women who looked suspiciously as if they might know the woods around White Briars better than most. At the end of the song Steve ribbed Hamish that at least their kids would have a fighting chance of having a decent singing voice while also noting on the ethereal quality of her ‘back-up’ musicians. Hamish agreed heartily with the first and pretended not to hear the latter.
Around two thirty, having farewelled those guests who were heading home to bed and leaving the party’s stragglers who looked to all appearances as if they were settling back with the dregs of the last keg of Guinness and a few bottles of left-over wine to see in the dawn, Hamish and Liana opted to walk home through the woods. Liana was carrying a lantern and had donned a forest-green velvet-lined and hooded long cape to keep off the night-time chill but Hamish was still warm from the last of the dancing and welcomed the cooler air. They had a house full of invited guests, including Steve, Linda and the children residing in the cottage so were heading for the summerhouse as their first-night retreat. As they walked silently together, holding Liana’s hand in his, Hamish fidgeted nervously with the band on his left ring finger with his thumb, turning the metal to feel the deep inscription that he knew read ‘is ann le mo ghraidh mise agus is leamsa mo ghraidh’, translated it read ’I am my Beloved's and my Beloved is Mine’. He hadn’t expected to feel wedding-night jitters but he didn’t think that the slightly sick feeling in the pit of his stomach had anything to do with the excellent wedding feast he’d eaten or the sparing amount of alcohol he’d consumed so had to conclude that it was a case of nerves. Hamish couldn’t help but remember the first night he’d walk this path after clearing it …the night he’d found Liana lying unconscious on his lawn, and of all that had changed for them since that time. It had taken more time for them to overcome their grief for loved-ones gone before their time and to accept that they could have a future together that was more than their separate lonely existences. He was searching for something to say when the path ended and they entered the summerhouse glade just as the moon peeped from behind a bank of clouds, reminding Hamish, too of the evening he had first seen the statue that would later come to life in the form of Liana. In the soft moonlight he noticed the swans at the pool edge, nesting close to one another, their necks entwined as they slept.
Liana set the lantern down at the flagstone outside the doorway, intending to open the doors. “Uh, uh,” Hamish chided gently, stopping her before she could lay a finger on the door handle. “I believe that’s my job”. Laying his hand over hers he could feel her pulse racing and realized that she was feeling as nervous as he. It helped. He took her hand more firmly and placed it on his shoulder, before scooping her into his arms, intending to carry her over the threshold. She turned her head and lightly touched her lips to his ...the kiss deepened.
…And in that moment as they kissed, all thoughts of past and future, his and hers, went right out of his mind …there was only now, this present, this precious gift of shared love given to each of them and the beginning of a new life together. He gathered her into his arms and crossed the threshold into their new existence.
The sweetest flowers in all the world-
A baby’s hands.
Algernon Charles Swinburne
Epilogue One- Fourteen months later
Betony
Betony Rose McAllister came boldly and bravely into the world complements of one last almighty push from her mother, to be cradled safely in the capable hands of Doctor McLean. Having fought valiantly against the local midwife for the privilege of delivering this baby he was taking the utmost care not to drop his precious bundle. He held her for a moment to inspect that all was well, before placing the babe gently on her mother’s stomach.
“Here Hamish,” he said, offering surgical scissors to Hamish, “You’ll be wanting to cut the cord I presume?” At Hamish’s nod he passed the implement over. That small ceremony completed and after assuring himself that mother and baby were indeed, both well, he suggested to the midwife that they might leave the room to go and make a well-deserved cup of tea for themselves and let this new family have a few minutes to start get to know one another before any more cleaning up was done. The midwife raised impressively bushy eyebrows a fraction but took the hint and followed the good doctor from the room and down the staircase.
Hamish, to whom the birth had seemed to take days rather than the sixteen hours that it had been clocked at, sat gingerly on the edge of the big bed, watching his wife and daughter, relief and wonder written in his fatigued yet satisfied gaze. He reached out a finger to his new daughter’s tiny hand, marvelling at her perfection ...she grasped it in a response that was automatic to new-borns but wondrous to new-parents, all the while nuzzling around her mother’s breast, searching for milk that wasn’t quite there. As Hamish watched, she opened her eyelids, her piercing blue gaze directed towards her mother’s face smiling down at her with pride and joy. The room was adequately warmed by a recently-installed heating system but still Hamish dropped a soft pale primrose-yellow cot blanket over their small oh-so-precious bundle, concerned that she might start to chill.
“Are you going to one of those daddies that hover over their children, checking up on them and worrying about them all the time?” questioned Liana, achieving the near-impossible by looking dog-tired and radiantly beautiful at the same time.
“I should think so ...in fact, absolutely. But only until she’s twenty-five or so,” he replied; now softly stroking his daughter’s downy baby hair. Then he rethought, adding, “Or maybe, thirty-five.... You don’t think she’ll mind me tagging along on dates with her, do you?”
“Oh dear,” Liana said, “You have got it bad, haven’t you? Seriously though ...Are you worrie
d that she too might be taken from you?” She searched his face, become so familiar and so dear to her in this past year of marriage.
“No,” he said, “At least, no more than any other father might be. Of course, I want nothing more than to see her grow up, but, if all this has taught me anything, it’s to take happiness where I find it, and not to presume anything of the future,...and right now, right here, I couldn’t be happier.” He leaned over to give her a lingering kiss then sat back, admiring the view of mother and daughter. “You did wonderfully ...though I’m not sure if my hand will ever be the same again.” Ruefully, he turned his right hand over to survey the damage ....it was red where she had been wringing it for hours on end, tooth-marks in one finger where she had forgotten herself in her pain at one stage during the labour and had bitten down on the thing nearest her mouth.
“Oops, sorry,” she laughed, “And just so that you know, I shouldn’t think it will be safe to even mention the likelihood of having another baby, for, oh, I don’t know....at least another ten years.”
It was his turn to laugh; “I’ll try to remember that, Mrs McAllister, when you are insisting, in a year or two, that Betony needs a little brother or sister.” He looked at their beautiful daughter, herself exhausted by the trauma of birth, drifting off to sleep at her mother’s breast. “This is as close, you know, Liana that we mortals get to experience immortality, in this existence, anyway....seeing ourselves in our children. I hope you never feel disappointed ....that you never wish you could go back to...” his words were stopped by Liana’s hand across his mouth.
“Shhh,” she whispered, “You’ll wake our beautiful baby.” They both looked down at their daughter, her face dissolving into a picture of peace and contentment as she relaxed into repose. Enfolded in her mother’s protective arms, as sleep finally took hold of her completely with the speed that only babies seem able to achieve, her other fist, which had so far remained tightly closed, unfurled,.... revealing something that had so far remained hidden from her parent’s sight.
A single tiny pink rosebud, exquisitely perfect, nestled in her palm.
Epilogue Two
Green Jack
Green with envy. Well, Jack thought, from his vantage point up on the roof …green was such a good colour on him. She had everything her heart desired while he had nothing. He had thought that while Liana remained in the garden, and held sway over the powers he so desired that his hands were tied, and when she was gone he would gain power, but that had proven false …for even without her there he hadn’t been able to make much progress on the domination he sought.
Still, he was a determined sort of fellow and time meant little to him. He was more than able to hunker down for the long haul …and what he wanted he would eventually find a way to get…
THE END
This series will be continued with Sara’s story, Flights of Fancy, to be released early 2015.
To my readers:
Hello and thanks very much for reading my book. If you enjoyed it, I’d be thrilled if you’d take a moment to leave me a review at your favourite retailer.
Thanks again.
Irene Davidson
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Heartfelt acknowledgments and thanks are made to:
The real Ali, (who moved to Africa with her husband and family…) who read the entire manuscript, at a stage when it was barely-readable ...but still, despite its obvious faults, offered only positive comments. People like you, I’ve discovered, are few and far between. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
University of Otago library staff, for their enthusiastic responses to my strange research requests, for instance, “Are mute swans actually mute? And, would a Kent dialect really sound like something from ‘Darling Buds of May’?”
And last but absolutely not least …to Tim, for supporting a penniless would-be author in the house and to Scott and Bryony, for just being your wonderful selves!
Front cover images: Green man By Lauren Raine (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons
Female figure from a postcard by Elisabeth Sonrel
Dedicated with love and gratitude, to the memory of my mother
Audrey Scott Davidson
15 May, 1927 - 18 November, 1999
Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made. Our times are in his hand who saith, 'A whole I planned, youth shows but half; Trust God: See all, nor be afraid!
Robert Browning
About the Author:
Growing up in the far south of New Zealand, Adrienne rapidly came to the conclusion that her native home was a long way from anywhere and unless she wanted to spend all her holidays on Stewart Island she’d need to get used to flying.
With this in mind, she jetted off to school in Tennessee, university in Palmerston North, work in London and holidays in France, gathering material for writing as she went.
After a degree in biology she studied post-grad in Landscape Architecture before producing two beautiful babies; both of whom are now well on their way to being grown-ups.
Adrienne currently lives in Perth, Western Australia with Tim and assorted fostered and adopted greyhounds that lie around while she writes …the greyhounds, that is, not Tim.
Other titles by Irene Davidson
Collecting Thoughts, *waiting for the last coat of varnish to dry* for end of 2014 release.
Flights of Fancy, *under construction* I hope to be ready to publish early 2015.
Connect with Irene Davidson
Friend me on Facebook
Website: http://leafonabreeze.com
Smashwords Interview: https://www.smashwords.com/interview/AOaks
Smashwords profile page: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/AOaks
A sample of Irene’s next title: Collecting Thoughts
Chapter One
“Stay on the right, stay on the right, stay on the right,” Darcy intoned with monotonous regularity, chanting the words quietly in time with the flip-flap of the front windscreen wipers so as to not wake her sleeping passengers.
All of a sudden the headlights of a daffodil-yellow minivan pierced through the misty drizzle, materialising out of nowhere like some feral fiery-eyed apparition from around the corner of the road ahead of her. All Darcy saw was that the van’s wheels were well over the centre of the narrow asphalt lane.
Instantly, her muttered mantra morphed into a startled yelp of terror, “…Aargh! Get on your own side, you great bloody great road-hog!” The rapidly approaching vehicle left her with nowhere to go except up the banked verge of the slick-surfaced lane-that-was-little-more-than-an-asphalt-footpath she’d been so carefully negotiating.
With a hastily indrawn breath and scrunching up her shoulders as if it would make her car instantly narrower: like some ugly green rental-car version of Harry Potter’s purple triple-decker Knight bus, Darcy braked hard and hauled the steering wheel as far to the right as she dared. The last thing she wanted was to get stuck on the soft verge…and yeah, she’d heard all the bad jokes about not mentioning soft verges to the French. At this point in time she was far more concerned with avoiding a tragically premature end to the trip she’d spent so much time and energy selling to the children as a wonderful French adventure, by colliding with this obviously manic French driver.
It would be such a shame, she thought fleetingly, especially now that she was so close to getting herself and the children to the village alive and in one piece.
“That’s if I can find the bleedin’ village,” she mumbled grumpily, resorting to one of Patrick’s favourite expletives in her frustration at being lost in the French countryside. Talking to herself had become something of a habit in the weeks since his abrupt departure. Her best friend, Halley, had said it was an early indicator of going off the deep end, sanity-wise, but as far as Darcy could see, imminent insanity was the least of her worries at this point in her life.
The
jolly green giant lurched part-way up the bank and back down intact, as the van flashed by.
Expelling her pent-up breath with relief at the near-miss, Darcy steered back onto the road. The male driver of the delivery van had not slowed even slightly; instead giving her a cheerily unrepentant grin and a cheeky parp from a horn that sounded as if at belonged more in one of Rosie’s Noddy DVDs than on any real road.
Flowers in the Morning Page 37
