Megan Denby

by A Thistle in the Mist

  MEGAN DENBY

  ~

  A Thistle in the Mist

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A Thistle in the Mist. Copyright © 2012 by Megan Denby. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  ~ For my family ~

  My Grandma Ross, who inspired this story,

  My boys, Cruse, Chase, Mason and Mitchell, who tolerantly listened to my ideas,

  My twins, Olivia and Austin, who occasionally slept so I could write,

  My parents, who encouraged me from the beginning,

  My brother, Danny, who will always be my little brother and supports me no matter what,

  My sister, Kim, who gave me the praise I needed to continue and who edited every word,

  And for Jen, my saving grace, who pushed me to follow my dreams.

  ~And~

  A very special thank you to my friend, Andrew Ives, for meticulously

  editing my story from start to finish.

  ONE

  August 1807 Duntulm Castle, Stronghold of the Clan MacDonald

  Collapse of the Castle of Cards

  August was strangely hot that summer, ‘hotter ‘n a shearer’s armpit’, as Da was fond of saying. The sun was scorching; the graceful leaves of the birch gleaming emerald next to the blue of the sky. I felt the damp of Caulley’s flanks as I slid from his back. His velvety muzzle tickled my face when I hugged his neck and he nickered his I-love-you sound before I handed him over to our stable lad, Rabbie.

  Squinting against the sun, I didn’t notice Death lingering by the door, didn’t notice the cold as he slid in ahead of me.

  ‘My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here,” I crooned. Rabbie Burns’ My Heart’s in the Highlands had been stuck in my head all morning and though I knew the birds were probably covering their ears, I sang my heart out as I made my way down the path to the back entry of my home, Duntulm Castle. The tang of fresh bread chased the sunshine and fields from my nose.

  Our cooks, Mary MacLean and her daughter, Janet Sherrifs, bustled about the kitchen, busy with the day’s baking.

  “Kick the mud from them boots, lass!” Mary chirped, her eyes crinkled to blue triangles, as she looked up and smiled. Ginger hair, threaded with white, frizzed from braids that encircled her head. She watched as I obediently stamped my feet on the stoop before she flattened a mound of dough with one ample fist.

  Janet glanced up at me and smiled then slid a pan of scones from the stone oven. With a sigh, she pressed one hand to her lower back and rested the other on the rise of her unborn child.

  “It’s a fine mornin’, ladies,” I said as I gave Janet a squeeze. Before Mary could stop me I stole a scone then juggled the steaming bun between my fingers as I searched for the butter and poured a cup of milk. Plopping down on a stool, I inspected my gown. Highland mud stained the hem, a regrettable mess for our washing lass. I reached up and half-heartedly smoothed at the knots that possessed my hair then bit my cheek to stop from grinning like a fool. I was so happy! Propping my elbows on the table, I leaned forward and blew on the bap.

  “Och, Meara MacDonald, where have ye been on the morn?” Mary asked as she wiped her hands on an apron that stretched over her belly like an overstuffed pillow. With a knowing smile, she studied my face. “Ye were out ridin’ with young Duncan agin weren’t ye, lass?” she asked as she chucked my chin.

  “Aye, that I was,” I answered, stretching to press a kiss to her warm cheek. Then dipping a finger into the butter, I studied it though I didn’t see a thing.

  “Home from trainin’ is he? I hope that means that de’il Napoleon’s givin’ up the fight!” Mary swiped at a strand of her hair, smudged a puff of flour across her forehead. “And how is yer braw laddie?”

  “Oh, Mary, he’s so fine, ye ken!” I caught the drip of butter with my tongue then bit into the roll, my mind warming with images of Duncan MacLeod, twenty-year-old laird of the neighbouring Dunvegan Castle and an officer with the 42nd regiment. Black hair spiked from his brow as we galloped side by side across the moor. Blue eyes, dashed with bits of gold, blazed into mine as he challenged me to a race. Caulley’s hooves churned up the ground and mud splattered my face as I pulled ahead of Duncan’s mount, Tormod. When I glanced back, he was grinning, dimple slashed deep.

  I couldn’t hold back my smile and clumsily covered it with my mug. Milk slopped over the side and dribbled down the front of my dress.

  “Slow down, lass, no one’s goin’ to take it from ye!” Mary wagged a finger at me then exchanged an amused look with her daughter. “Just look at those dreamy, green eyes, Janet. She doesna hear a word. Ye’d think her lugs was no workin’,” she clucked as she playfully tugged on one of my ears.

  I swatted Mary’s hand aside and rolled my eyes at Janet. She smiled at me, amber eyes twinkling. Mary continued, undeterred, “Well, lass, ye best go tidy up those curls and change that gown. I ken yer mother doesna mind but ye no want yer father to see ye lookin’ so wild. Yer just eighteen, no more than a bairn yerself and ye ken he doesna like ye ridin’ the moor without him.”

  I opened my mouth to argue then thought better of it. “Aye, Mary,” I conceded, downing the last of my milk.

  Then without warning, a scream rent the air, slicing into my chest like the blade of a freshly honed dirk. I froze. Janet’s round eyes locked with mine. My stool clattered to the floor behind me. Tapestries that blanketed the stone walls, blurred as I hurtled down the corridor. The desperate sound tore at my ears as I made my way to the front of the castle. When I reached the foyer I jerked to a stop.

  “Blessed virgin,” Mary breathed near my ear as a rushing sound filled my head.

  Hannah, my sister of fifteen, knelt on the floor at the base of the stairs. My mother lay at an impossible angle, her head cradled in Hannah’s lap. Something dark soaked Hannah’s skirts, pooled by her legs and crept across the floor. A keening vibrated behind Hannah’s closed lips while she stroked Mother’s moonbeam hair; her fingers stained the colour of rubies.

  “Mother? Mother!” My legs gave out and I fell to the floor beside my sister. A numbing started inside of me as I reached out and gathered Mother’s slender hand in mine. So warm. So familiar. But the steady beat I searched for was gone and her stare passed through me. “No.” I could not breathe. Hannah’s haunted eyes held mine. I reached over Mother and dragged her into my arms. Her whimpers scraped at my heart as I stared over her head at Janet and Mary. Eyes, identically wide with horror, gaped back at me.

  “What happened, Hannah? What happened?” I begged.

  “I dinna ken, Meara... I just found her, I just found her...” Hannah moaned into my chest.

  I patted her head over and over, the soft wisp of our breath hovering over the silence of Mother between us.

  A flash of familiar skirt, at the top of the stairs, pulled at my eyes and I glanced up. I did not stop to think but set Hannah loose, and bounded up the stone steps two at a time. “Mary, find Da!” I flung over my shoulder, my eyes never leaving the dark corridor ahead.

  Something cool feathered my arm and goosebumps skittered across my flesh as I squinted against the shadows. The wall sconces faltered and wheezed a greasy smoke, unsettled by the distinct figure that rushed past.

  Aunt Deirdre? Bloody Christ! She did this!

  I lifted my skirts and chased after my aunt, passing my chambers and Hannah’s before reaching hers.
Her door smashed inward, crashing the wall, as I shoved into her room.

  She sat before her looking glass, brush poised in her bony fingers. Without turning, she eyed me in the mirror, sparse brows twitching over her black eyes. “Och, Meara, ever the drama! Could ye at least knock, girl?” she demanded, her eyes sliding away, her hushed words screaming loudly.

  I stared back at the long face, at the heaving shoulders; a clear sign she’d just run the length of the corridor. A tremor rippled through one eyelid but otherwise her face remained impassive.

  How can she sit here like this when she surely just killed Mother? I thought wildly.

  Deirdre McBain had appeared at our door months earlier with her younger brother Sloan claiming to be the bastard offspring of Mother’s father, Rory McQueen. My grandparents, Rory and Searlaid McQueen had been lost to scarlet fever the previous spring so there was no verifying Deirdre’s story. Mother had no siblings and though initially shocked, she’d wanted to believe them; a brother and sister she’d never known about! Deirdre produced a ring that bore the McQueen crest, and swore it had belonged to my grandfather. Still suffering badly from the loss of her parents, as we all were, Mother had invited Deirdre and Sloan into our home. It had taken little to persuade my father, who doted on Mother, to let them stay.

  But to me, something had felt wrong from the beginning. I had tried hard not to judge and I wanted to accept them for Mother’s sake but I couldn’t help but watch my new aunt and uncle with suspicion. Deirdre, with her darting eyes and nervous fingers, had immediately triggered unease in me. She was pleasant to my mother, but the sentiment never reached her eyes, and I thought her simpering interest in my father improper. And Sloan was nothing short of vile. His leering eyes, ever-present smile and moist-fish handshake left me wanting to wash him from my skin. Feeling that something was amiss, I had confided in Da.

  “Da, I just dinna trust them! Is there no way to check their story? Sloan is repulsive and Deirdre... well there’s just somethin’ no right, Da. She’s... she’s so odd! And she doesna favour Mother in the least. Mother’s bonnie and fair and Deirdre’s dark and well... she’s a mingin’ gawk! And she canna keep her eyes from ye, Da! It’s just no right!” I tried to make Da see how troubled this woman made me feel.

  “Meara, ye mind yer tongue!” he had scolded, though I’d seen the twitch of a grin at my description of Deirdre. “Yer imagination is workin’ owermuch. True, they are strange, lass, but they’ve had a rough life and ye need to be more understandin’. Yer Mother’s happy to have them and they’ve helped her move past her sorrow. Surely that’s all that matters.” He had reached out and patted my cheek, his voice gentle, but dismissive, “Dinna fash now.”

  But I didn’t want to be dismissed. And I did worry because I knew. I had glimpsed a madness glowing in the depths of Deirdre’s eyes, just waiting to be fanned to life. And I knew.

  She continued to stare at me now, brittle eyes penetrating mine.

  My voice shook badly. “Why, Deirdre? Why’d ye do it? Why’d ye push her? I saw ye! I saw ye run! She loved ye and ye killed her! Ye bloody killed her... ye killed my mother!” I swallowed and stared into twin pools of dark. “Da will have ye thrown into the gaols! Ye willna get away with this!” I was babbling and I gulped as nausea waved through me.

  The room whirled and I sank to the bed. The impact was hard as the truth plucked away my fake bravado.

  Mother was dead.

  Blessed Lord. Please. No, I begged silently.

  I would never again see the light in her blue eyes or feel her arms around me. Her honeysuckle scent would never again surround me and the sound of her lilting voice was no more. I pressed my trembling fingertips to my forehead, to the centre where she had kissed me, just that morning.

  Mother was gone.

  I scrambled for the chamber pot, too late, as I threw up across Deirdre’s bed. Sweat slid into my eyes and I mopped at it with my sleeve, my head heavy on my neck. Raising my eyes, I looked through my hair at Deirdre’s reflection.

  The hairbrush had stilled mid-stroke and her face seemed turned to stone. She eyed the mess of her bed in the mirror, the nostrils of her hooked nose spread in disgust. Turning around, she jabbed the hairbrush at me. “Ye ken nothin’, Meara. Ye saw nothin’. Ye blether like a fool!” Her voice wavered slightly and a sheen of perspiration glistened, like a beacon, on her upper lip. With a subtle shift she tipped her head, black eyes drooped to slits. “Yer father hasna listened to the lies ye’ve fed him about us yet... has he?” she challenged, her voice as sleek as velvet.

  I pulled back and stared into her eyes.

  A smirk twisted her lips. “What makes ye think he’ll believe ye the now?” she asked, lifting her chin.

  She’d been eavesdropping! We stared at one another, this knowledge between us, as I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand.

  At that moment a deep cry of anguish rattled the castle.

  Da!

  “I willna let ye away with this,” I whispered. Then I rose and hastened back to what was left of my family.

  ******

  When I reached the top of the stairs a hurting settled, like a shroud, upon my shoulders. Like a macabre piece of art, streamers of sunlight from the window behind me, painted my family below in shimmering gold.

  Da’s coppery head drooped, his chin heavy upon his chest. His strong hands were helpless, at once small and weak, as he stroked Mother’s brow. Her lashes lay like black lace on her cheeks, as though she slept.

  But she wasn’t asleep.

  Hannah swayed back and forth, Mother’s head still cradled in her lap. My sister’s eyes, the colour of wild cornflowers, were blank orbs in her ashen face. Purple tinged her parted lips. I gripped the railing and crept down the stairs, past the portraits of my family, to kneel beside my father. With hesitant hands, I reached. His desolate eyes found mine and he grabbed for me, crushing me to his heart.

  “Oh, Da,” I breathed, peering up into his face.

  Spasms racked his frame. “No Meara, no lassie,” he sobbed. My heart broke as I stared up at him.

  “I know Da, I know.”

  My tears dripped from my chin. Hannah whimpered and I pulled her to me with one arm. I buried my face into Da’s chest. His plaid scratched my cheek. His heart thudded at my ear. His arms crushed us and we clung to one another, Mother’s empty body between us as her honeysuckle essence slipped away.

  A rush of skirts sounded at the top of the stairs. I stiffened and peered up and felt my face grow hot as I watched Aunt Deirdre’s dramatic descent. She swept down the stairs. Back straight. Head high. Features carefully set in confusion. She had taken time to twist her hair into a knot and tint her cheeks with rouge.

  “What is it, Robert?” Lifting the hem of her skirt, she stepped close and peered down at Mother. Disbelief artfully slackened her sharp features.

  She was an accomplished actress and I wanted to kill her.

  “Jessie? Dear Lord. Not Jessie. Not my sweet sister!” She sounded distraught. But her lying eyes told another story. Cold. Dead. Empty. She bent toward us, long fingers reaching.

  I lunged, like a rabid dog, shoved at her legs and shielded my mother from her. She lurched back, her eyes snapping her true hatred for me.

  Da, oblivious to our exchange, released Hannah and I, stumbled to his feet and turned to Deirdre, “I canna live without her, Deirdre. Yer sister’s my life,” he managed in a voice I did not recognize. He stared down at Mother’s broken body. “Sweet Jesus. Why? Why?”

  Aunt Deirdre glided forward, overlong arms stretched to ensnare my father. “Oh Robert, come my poor lad, come to me, my luaidh.” The endearment slithered from her lips and Da obediently shuffled into her embrace.

  My luaidh. The Gaelic endearment, my love, my darling, Mother’s pet name for Da, filled me with rage. Hot sweat pricked across my back.

  How dare she?

  Fury rose up my throat. My eyes burned and I shook badly. I sucked a cooling breath and took hol
d of the tremors. With great care, I moved to shift Mother from Hannah’s lap. As I cupped her head, my fingers slid through the blood and plunged into the back of her broken skull. Warm. Soft. Slippery. Sharp. I flinched and a cry of hysteria gurgled in my throat. Horror gripped me. Silence rang loud in my ears and a dark frame edged my vision. I set Mother’s shattered head on the hard floor, stared at my hands as though they belonged to another, felt her still-warm blood on my fingertips.

  Somehow I pushed myself back up and feeling as though I moved under water I guided Hannah to her feet. My fingers stuck for a long moment to the clammy skin of her forearm and I stared at the rusty fingerprints left behind. Panic rose in me. Closing my eyes, I shoved it down. The silence in my head faded to sound and I turned to face the huddle of servants.

  “Edme, do ye heat some bath water.” The washer girl scurried away, glad to have something to do. “Mary, take Hannah to her chambers and help her out of that gown,” I managed, my voice oddly blurred. Mary gathered Hannah into her arms and I watched as my sister swayed then leaned into her. With wooden steps, she allowed Mary to guide her up the stairs.

  I turned back.

  With lazy scrutiny, Deirdre watched me over Da’s shoulder. Her dark eyes glowed, alight with victory as she rubbed slow, intimate circles across his back.

  I bit down hard on my lip. The pain was good. “Leave hold my father, Deirdre!” I commanded, the words slashing from my mouth.

  Da turned, eyes muddied with confusion.

  I stepped toward him, reached for him. “This was no accident, Da! She pushed Mother down the stairs. I saw her run away after she did it!”

  His brows rose and he peered at Deirdre, who spread her hands in bewilderment. Then he looked back at me and passed a hand over his eyes before slowly shaking his head.

  “Nay, lass.”

  My chest hurt. “Da, ye must listen to me! She hid in her room. I just came from there! She brushed her hair... her bloody hair, Da... as if nothin’ happened!” I wrung my hands, felt my fingers stick together.