Megan Denby

by A Thistle in the Mist

  His sporran lay a foot away. He stared at the dried blood, no doubt his. With stiff fingers he worked it open and reached inside. The little white handkerchief was soft in his hands. The purple thistle, with its uneven stitches, swam before his eyes. Scrunching his lids, he trapped the tears. The scent of wildflowers floated, like a sweet breath of the moor, and he buried his face in the cloth.

  “Ah, Meara, dinna give up on me. I’m comin’ home for ye, lassie,” he whispered.

  He had to go to her. Needed to go to her. Now. He hadn’t been able to save his mother but he would not fail his bonnie bride.

  He opened his eyes again to a large pair of handcrafted leather shoes.

  “Oh, Mister MacLeod, I’m so glad to see you awake.”

  He could not see the face from where he lay but he recognized the accent as that of Sister Emeline. It was a kind, melodic voice and his eyes moved up the length of black cloth.

  She squatted down, hands the size of a man’s, splayed on her knees. “May I ‘elp you up, sir? Are you ‘urt some?”

  He pulled his eyes from the hands and looked up. Her eyes, a glow of brown, overflowed with concern. The gentle face, framed by a nun’s wimple, somehow did not match the large hands.

  “Aye, lassie, if ye dinna mind, I could use a wee bit of help.” Though he did not intend to whisper, the sound that emerged from his lips was no more than a rasp of harsh breath.

  Before Duncan could attempt to raise himself, two strong arms scooped him up and deposited him on the bed. Gentle hands arranged the pillows behind his head.

  He peered up at Sister Emeline, feeling somewhat shocked and a lot foolish. “Well now, I thank ye, lass. Ye’ve a mighty strong pair of hands there.”

  She stared down at her hands and a blush scurried up her cheeks. “Please sir, call me Sister Emeline.” Her lips rose in a wide grin, revealing a finger-sized gap between her front teeth.

  Duncan swallowed, attempting to clear his throat.

  “Oh, here you are, sir.” Emeline retrieved a pitcher of water and a fresh mug from her cart. “Once the fever got so ‘igh you weren’t able to eat on your own so we ‘ad to get a little food into you wi’ the feeding tube. It was rough on your throat I’m afraid.” Her eyes darted to the offensive hose on the table and back to Duncan. “I’m so very glad to see you awake, sir.”

  Duncan nodded and attempted to drink the water. His lips took a moment to remember their purpose and water sloshed onto his bare chest. Emeline grabbed a cloth from her well-stocked cart and mopped away the drops.

  “Where am I?” he managed.

  Sister Emeline smoothed at his sheets, her voice soothing, “You’re at the Abbyshire Infirmary in England. Your ship brought you ‘ere after the battle wi’ the French.”

  Duncan closed his eyes, concentrated and tried to remember. Little snippets flashed through his mind; images of a rough voyage. The screams of his injured comrades collided with his own, banging against the inside of his skull. He felt a hand close around his own and squeeze gently. He opened his eyes and stared up into eyes warm with sympathy.

  “Would ye be knowin’ if my wee cousin, Ranald Stewart is a patient here?” he asked shakily, the agonized voices still loud in his head.

  “Ah, no, sir. I’m sorry to tell you he’s not. There were six of you from your regiment. One did not make it and four have been sent home. You are the only one left. Perhaps your cousin is already safely home?” she said kindly.

  Duncan prayed that he was alive then asked the question he was afraid to ask, “How long have I been here, Sister?”

  Emeline patted his hand. “You’ve been ‘ere many weeks, Mister MacLeod. We truly didn’t know if you would make it.”

  Her voice exuded calm reassurance, a balm for his frayed nerves. She pointed to his leg, “The doctor ‘ad to remove round shot and set the bones during the voyage. The side of your ‘ead was split open too. Some French bast... err I mean soldier used ‘is saber on you but it was a clean cut at least.” She blushed again then nodded, her habit flapping like the wings of a laughing gull.

  Duncan felt a smile tug at his lips as he reached up and walked his fingers along a curved scar that traversed the side of his head.

  “You were in bad shape. After the surgery you were brought ‘ere. Your leg was infected and you ‘ad a ‘igh fever. The doctor wanted to remove your leg but I wouldn’t let him.”

  Duncan could well imagine the Sister blocking the doctor from removing his leg. He wouldn’t want to come up against her!

  “So I stayed wi’ you and bathed and dressed the wound and tried to keep you cool. You ‘ad a ‘igh fever for so long then you slipped into a deep sleep and couldn’t eat.” Emeline paused and her soft eyes twinkled. “You’re very strong, Mister MacLeod, even when you are at death’s door. You nearly broke my arm in two when I used the feeding tube.” She smiled at Duncan, shaking her head, “No sir, you didn’t like that one bit.”

  “I’m... I’m sorry, Sister. I dinna remember a thing,” Duncan muttered, his cheeks burning. Had he really lifted a hand to this gentle lass? “I thank ye for all ye’ve done, Sister. It seems I owe ye my life.”

  “Oh, there’s no need to thank me sir. I’m just so ‘appy to see you awake. Now we must work at making you strong again so you can get ‘ome. I think you have someone special waiting for you.”

  She turned and righted the table, gathering the letters as she continued, “You ‘ad quite a few letters with you when you arrived but a few more came while you were most ill.”

  Stacking the letters on Duncan’s lap, she knelt to retrieve the scattered mess. She held up the nasty-looking tube. “You won’t need this anymore,” she smiled as she tossed it on the cart.

  She set his sporran on the night stand and passed the handkerchief to Duncan. He took the cloth and stared at the stitched letters of his wife’s name.

  M-E-A-R-A

  Sister Emeline watched him, saw the pain darken his blue eyes. “Right then, I’ll just go and fix a nice meal for you, get some meat back on those bones. Is there anything in particular you’d fancy, sir?”

  Duncan shook his head, his thoughts far away, “Nay lassie, whatever ye have’ll be fine.”

  The nun studied her patient for a moment then turned and pushed her cart back down the aisle. He needed time alone.

  “Sister Emeline?” Duncan’s voice was like two rocks scraping together, grating from his damaged vocal cords.

  Emeline paused, looked back. “Yes, Mr. MacLeod?”

  “Would ye ken the date?” Duncan caught his breath, waiting for her answer.

  “Right, sir, it’s the second of May,” she answered quietly, wishing she could erase the shock and dismay from his face. Then she clambered up the aisle, the cart squeaking in front of her.

  Blood roared in Duncan’s ears. Meara would surely have given up on him by now! He’d left her in August and promised to be home in a month. She would be twenty now and he had turned twenty-two while he slept!

  Lord! He had to get home!

  He sat propped against the pillows and stared down at the letters strewn across his lap. He felt the thin parchment of an envelope, smoothed his finger across the flowing script... Meara’s handwriting. He picked up the first letter and recognized it as one of the letters that he had carried during those long lonely months. It was dog-eared, having been read and re-read countless times. He set that one aside along with four others. The contents of each letter was etched in his mind.

  The next envelope jumped about in his trembling hands, as though it were alive. His fingers took a long time to recognize the orders his head was issuing. At last a page slipped out and he looked at the date then hurriedly opened the other three letters that bore Meara’s hand. A quick glimpse at the last envelope and he tossed that one aside; it was not from Meara. Arranging his wife’s letters in chronological order, he began to read:

  November 27 1808

  My dearest husband,

  I miss you so much, Duncan!
You are in my mind and heart always.

  You must be so lonely and I pray you are well my lad and not suffering terribly.

  I have some news that I must share with you or I fear I may burst with excitement.

  Duncan, you shall be a father! I carry your bairn...

  The letter dropped from Duncan’s hand. His head fell back onto the pillow. He allowed the hot tears to come. He didn’t care who saw. He was going to be a father! Meara was carrying his baby! But with the knowledge came a fear that turned his hands to ice. What if something happened to her? What if she had trouble like his mother? He couldn’t bear to lose Meara too.

  Something nudged at the back of his mind. Sister Emeline’s voice echoed in his head, ‘it’s May the second.’

  He shot upright and counted back on his fingers to August the sixth. God no! It had been almost nine months! Meara was due to have their child any day!”

  He grabbed the letter and finished reading. Meara’s excitement and happiness bubbled from the page.

  He scanned the next letter in his small pile.

  December 25 1808

  My dearest husband,

  It is Christmas! I can feel our bairn moving within me now, the tiny fluttering of wee fingers and toes. My belly grows larger every day and I canna eat enough!

  I hope you will still love your fat wife...

  Duncan grinned and swallowed around a lump in his throat.

  Well I dinna want to worry you, Duncan, but I feel I must be honest. Deirdre and Sloan have locked me in the tower room. Now dinna fash yourself. I am fine and well fed but it is Hannah that I worry for. I’m sure Sloan is bothering her again, hurting her in some way and I can’t protect her from here.

  I feel selfish writing this to you, laddie, for I have heard how horrible the conditions are for you but we need you, Duncan. I need you. Please, if you can, come home soon!

  Merry Christmas my dear husband, keep well my love!

  Love always, Meara

  The paper crumpled in Duncan’s clenched fist. Hot anger knifed through him. Deirdre and Sloan McBain would pay for this. He would have them thrown in the gaols where they belonged. He would personally see to it! No matter how weak he was, he would leave today and take care of them.

  With shaking hands, Duncan smoothed out the letter and set it aside before snatching up the next.

  January 23 1809

  I was overjoyed when Rabbie sent me a note that the war is over. You will be back in my arms before this letter can reach you, surely!

  Our bairn is so busy, Duncan and never stops moving, even when I sleep. I canna wait until you feel the movement of our love beneath your hands.

  I pray you are well. I haven’t seen Deirdre or Sloan since the day they brought me up here. Alas, my poor wee Hannah is no so fortunate. I feel so helpless, Duncan!

  I watch for you every day. I know that soon you will come riding up the road from Uig.

  Until that day, laddie, you are in my heart.

  Love Meara

  Duncan closed his eyes and let the image of his wife fill his mind. Her belly strained against her gown as she paced back and forth in front of the windows of her prison. Watching. Waiting. Helpless.

  He raked his fingers through his hair, until the shorter hair that was beginning to grow back stood in wild spikes on one side of his head.

  He grabbed the last letter.

  February 11 1809

  My dearest husband,

  Hannah came to me today. Something is desperately wrong. I can see it in her eyes. Something

  has happened to her and I know it is Sloan. I need to get out of here. I need to help her!

  I am starting to fear that something has happened to you, Duncan. I pray for your safe arrival but God will not listen to me, but I know you will come. I refuse to believe anything else.

  The bairn keeps me going. This wee life inside of me needs me. I will keep it healthy and I know you will be home and together we will have this bairn.

  I love you, Duncan. Please come back to me, lad.

  Love Meara

  Desperation leapt from the paper. Duncan sat up and shoved his legs over the side of the bed. He was going home to Scotland. He was going home to his wife and bairn! He ignored the pain and pushed aside his sheet. The corner of an envelope poked at his leg and his fingers closed around the forgotten letter.

  He held it up. The script was cramped and uneven. D. McBain. Deirdre!!

  A tremor shuddered down his spine and the hair on the back of his neck stiffened as dread spilled through his body. He broke open the blob of wax and ripped the letter from the envelope. The date jumped out at him – February 11, 1809 – the very same date as Meara’s last letter!

  A violent trembling seized his hands as he tried to read the letter.

  Dearest Laird MacLeod,

  It is with a heavy heart that I write this letter. I have just learned of your grave condition and as Meara’s stepmother I feel it my duty to inform you that your beloved Meara has passed on... your bairn was stillborn...

  The letter blurred and blood screamed through his head. The letters fluttered to the shining floor as Duncan jerked himself from the bed.

  “Nooooo. It canna be. It’s a lie.”

  All sound ground to a halt as patients lining the room turned as one and gaped at the gaunt, tortured face of the naked young man. Wild black hair reached to his shoulder on one side and stood in short spikes on the other. His sunken eyes burned with a desperate light.

  Duncan’s vision swirled but he clenched his teeth and staggered up the aisle.

  Emeline ran to her patient just as he teetered and crumpled into her outstretched arms.

  “Meeeearaaaa!”

  Emeline recognized the name that rasped from Duncan’s torn throat. It was the name he had uttered so often when the fever had hold of him. She sank down to the floor and cradled the broken man as his eyes slid shut and he slipped back into the blessed arms of unconsciousness.

  ******

  The scent of jasmine filtered through his grief-soaked mind and he thought he might vomit. His head ached but he opened his eyes. Watery strands of early morning sunlight met his stare. He lay on his side, the curtain closed around his bed. He did not blink, but stared at the wall.

  Meara was dead.

  His child was dead.

  Just like his mother. Just like his baby sister.

  He had failed them all.

  She had trusted him and he had failed. He may as well have killed Meara and their bairn with his own hands. He was no better than his own father. He had got Meara with child. He had asked for her trust and he had left her alone at the mercy of her crazed aunt and uncle.

  His eyes filled, overflowed, tracing a path of misery down his nose, his cheeks, wetting his pillow. Still he did not move.

  He had nothing. He wanted to die.

  “Oh, you’re awake, Mr. MacLeod.” Sister Emeline peered through the space in the curtains at Duncan’s still back.

  Duncan did not respond, did not care.

  A warm hand patted his shoulder. “I am so sorry for your loss, sir. Is there anything I can do for you? Is there someone I can write to for you?” Emeline felt her face grow hot as Duncan continued to ignore her. She’d seen sorrow too many times and knew Duncan had a long, sad road ahead of him.

  Duncan heard the curtain slide open further and the syrupy scent of jasmine grew stronger, curling into his nose. He shook his head violently, fighting to clear the smell from his nostrils. Savage fury filled him as he grabbed Meara’s handkerchief and pressed it to his nose.

  Wild flowers. Wild flowers, goddamn it! Not fucking jasmine!

  Rachel pushed into the small space by the bed. Her voice was bright and grating. “Well, well, Mr. Duncan MacLeod. I’m so very pleased to finally make your acquaintance. You’ve given Sister Emeline and me quite a scare over the past weeks,” she gushed.

  Emeline opened her eyes wide and shook her head, silently trying to catch Rachel’s at
tention. But Rachel either didn’t notice or didn’t care and proceeded to lean in close to Duncan.

  Duncan lay motionless, his nails biting deep into his palms. The shrill voice stirred a desperate anger that pulsed through Duncan’s skull.

  “My little sister came with me today. And I’ve brought some books along so I’ll just bring her in and we’ll read to you. Won’t that be lovely, Mr. MacLeod? Sir?” Rachel tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for a response.

  Duncan’s knuckles stood white against the back of his hands. He wanted to wring her neck. Why wouldn’t she just shut up?

  “Rachel, I think it’s best if we let Mr. MacLeod rest today. He’s ‘ad a bad shock. There are plenty of other patients you and Hannah can read to this morning.” Emeline said with a touch of anger.

  Hannah.

  Duncan went rigid at the sound of the familiar name. Ever so slowly he turned his head and looked over his shoulder.

  Emeline and Rachel peered expectantly at him. Rachel had her arm around a young girl with brown hair and violet eyes. Except for the hair and a smattering of freckles, the girl closely resembled her older sister.

  Hannah – Rachel’s sister – not Meara’s. What in bloody hell had he been expecting?

  At the haunted look that darkened Duncan’s eyes, Emeline firmly pushed the two girls away from the bed and pulled the curtain closed.