“I’ll go with Da,” Wee Ian said solemnly, his chin out, hands behind his back like a patriarch watching over his family. He stepped next to his father and said, “Someone has to watch out for him so he doesn’t ‘blew it’ again.” He looked right at me as he used the colloquialism incorrectly, but accurately.
I couldn’t help it. I rushed over and grabbed Wee Ian with Judah still at my breast. I squeezed the two of them to me, not wanting to let the elder boy leave to watch his father kill people in retaliation for deeds done months ago.
I looked up to Wallace for help, knowing there was nothing he could do. But he tried. He looked right at Ian and said, “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.”
“Not this time, cousin, not this time,” Ian said right back at him, and then headed down the porch steps toward the woods.
Wee Ian went over to his little sister and kissed her on the head. “Good-bye, Wren. Watch out fer yer brothers, hear?” Then he ran outside, and caught up to his father who looked down, made sure the boy was with him, and with a definite relief shown in his bearing, continued down the path the horse and the men had taken.
Ӂ Ӂ Ӂ
“You don’t think I’m a coward, do you?” Wallace asked.
His question took me completely off guard. “No; why would you ask, or even think, that?” I replied, truly baffled.
“Because I don’t fight, didn’t fight, when the taxman came, and when the…those…um...”
I didn’t want him to fumble, so I just popped in, “the incident in the woods?”
He nodded sheepishly.
“Well, if I remember correctly, you came armed with nothing but a draw knife, ready to fight three men for me. I have no doubt that if they hadn’t had a blade to my face, you would have—shall we say—taken out every one of them. You risked your life to protect me; you suffered a hideous indignation worse than bodily death rather than allow me to be hurt. I’m just glad I was able to get you back.” I walked up to him and put my hand on his face, and looked deep into his heart by way of his eyes. He saw I was speaking the truth, and smiled weakly.
“And as far as Captain Asshole, I was the one dealing with the situation first, and you let me continue until it was resolved. I think the greatest thing you did for me today was to let him know that you had complete faith in me and my abilities. And you were right; I would have asked for help if I needed it. Well, I did ask for help, but I asked Him,” I said as I looked up. “And He is the One who gave you to me—and I always thank Him for that. You’re always there when I need you. Besides, any man with a hand can make a fist and throw a punch. Not many know when and how to deal with situations so that a punch or an arrow or a gun isn’t needed. That is where you excel.”
Another weak smile appeared, but I could tell he still wasn’t mollified. “Okay, what do you want to tell me?” I asked.
“I almost killed someone once, actually four someones. Papa had been very diligent in teaching me the many ways to fight—properly, of course. I could fence, use a broadsword—which isn’t an easy task, by the way—shoot a pistol, and he even had a man from the Orient show me some unusual ways to use my body to disarm and even kill a man. But Papa was also insistent that I knew that being able to tactfully avoid physical or armed confrontation—while at the same time having all parties satisfied with the arrangement—was much more valuable than fighting. Diplomacy is the civilized man’s warfare, he’d say. I did listen to him, but I was young, and didn’t really understand what he meant.
“I was sixteen years old and full of myself. I was tall and proud of it. My classmates weren’t even up to my shoulders. The girls had just started to notice me and were fluttering around me like pigeons after breadcrumbs. The other boys didn’t like that at all. They knew that they couldn’t beat me. I was too big. Fighting would get us all expelled from school, too, and our fathers wouldn’t care for that…” he looked at me and grinned.
“So, they lay an ambush for me when school was out for the holidays. It was Christmas Eve, and I wanted to get Papa one of those brandy-soaked cakes; you know, the kind you light on fire just before eating it? Well, I heard there was a shop in town that still had some of them left. I left Uncle Tony’s house early in the afternoon—we often spent the holidays with him—and hoped that the shop was still open. Somehow they found out where I was going, because when I got there, four of my classmates were waiting for me.
“I ignored them as I went in. They didn’t like that. They started calling me names, but I was determined not to let them bother me. ‘Boot-licker,’ ‘bollocks-breath’ and ‘shite-pile’—they were just frustrated teenagers, trying to sound big, saying all the nasty sounding words they could think of. But when I heard the name ‘bastard,’ I froze. Evie, I could take just about any name but that one. I’d heard it since I was old enough to—no, even before I knew what it meant. When I came to London to attend school, I thought that stigma would stay at Richwood Hall, but it didn’t. In retrospect, they probably didn’t know about any of the rumors. It was probably just a dirty name to them. But I let them get me angry. Then someone threw a snowball with a rock in it. It caught me in the head, right here,” he said, and parted the hair in front of his left ear to show me the scar.
“Between the pain in my head, and the rage at hearing that name again, I lost it. I was livid and, well, it was as if I was somewhere above my body, watching this frenzied madman beat four of his peers until they stopped moving. I stopped swinging and kicking because…well, maybe it was because I was tired of not getting any reaction when a punch or kick landed. I regained my senses—slowly at first—and then saw the pile of muddy, bloody bodies I had created, all because I had let my mouthy classmates make me mad.
“Evie, it was just me, unarmed, and I almost killed those boys. I didn’t know what to do, so I ran. I forgot all about the plum pudding cake. When I got home, I asked to be excused for my disheveled appearance, saying that I had fallen down and hit my head,” Wallace pointed to the same scarred spot near his ear, “and I was sorry that the dessert had been spoiled. Papa never called me out over it. I was sure he suspected something was amiss, though. You see, I never was a good liar.
“Well, the four boys recovered and never called me names again. Actually, they never talked to me at all, and would walk to the other side of the courtyard rather than come near me. They spread the story that they had been waylaid on Christmas Eve by a gang of ten highwaymen, were beaten and robbed, but were still able to inflict grave bodily injuries on their assailants.”
Wallace grinned weakly at the memory of his attackers’ fabrication. “But I received my punishment with the guilt I had to carry. It would have been easier if I had been whipped for it, but Papa didn’t believe in the belt. I never hit anyone in anger again. I knew I couldn’t control my rage once I started. But if you hadn’t been under Gimpy’s knife, I would have, oh…” Wallace’s words stopped as he sucked in a deep breath to compose himself, jaws clenched in recollection.
I put my arms around his neck and brought myself as close to his body as our clothes would allow. “Let’s hope we never get in a situation like that again, all right?” I gave him a quick, sisterly kiss. “You’ve received the fighting blood from the Pomeroys, and the tutelage and temperance from Julian. Now, I think you’ve managed to overcome the reaction to fight with knowledge of when it is appropriate, and the smarts to know how to avoid it all together. I think you’re quite well-balanced.”
I purposely tilted off center to force him to catch me and bring me back to center, still in his arms. “Well-balanced and practically perfect in every way,” I said in a dead-on imitation of Mary Poppins. Then I planted a long, very un-sisterly kiss on, in, and around his mouth. “Perfect.”
***45 Wedding Day Blues
August 3, 1781
I’m getting married.
Again.
I wasn’t sure if my marriage to Ian was actually legal since we hadn’t had any witnesses. Jody assured me, though, that sin
ce Ian and I had performed the traditional rite of handfast, we were indeed wed, but the marriage was only valid for a year and a day. Ian’s surprise visit last month sped things up a couple of months or so—I didn’t want to do the math because I really didn’t like reflecting on the past. But it didn’t make any difference because he essentially ‘released’ me from the handfasting, and wished Wallace and me well in our upcoming marriage. I was no longer obligated to wait for the entire 366 days to pass before having a proper wedding. I didn’t care if this was my first or fourth wedding; it was going to be my last. I had met Mr. Right and he was mine.
The babies were six weeks old now, and Sarah said I should be able to resume—or in the case of marrying Wallace—commence ‘relations.’ Resume, commence, either way, I was more than ready for my wedding night—I was eager.
Sarah hadn’t examined me since the babies were two weeks old, and I wasn’t looking forward to another one of what I called ‘those physical indignations.’ She wanted to give me the customary six-week postpartum checkup to make sure I had completely healed.
“Thanks for the offer, but honestly, Sarah, my modesty has returned. A pregnant woman doesn’t seem to be shy that way, and when she’s in labor, well; she’ll let anybody check her bottom end if it means getting the baby out faster.”
“All right, but would you at least let me feel your belly? I want to make sure you haven’t developed any abnormal masses. Your uterus expanding big enough to carry three babies could cause problems with clots…and you wouldn’t necessarily feel any pain or discomfort.”
Sarah had asked my permission in a clinical, sisterly, and pleading manner. The last two aspects of her request, and the furrowed forehead of extreme concern, persuaded me to let her poke and thump my tummy.
I sat down on my chaise and pulled off my winter shawl, tacky with sweat, which had stuck to my bare skin. The air moving across my damp neck and shoulders immediately produced an evaporative cooling effect. I sighed at the brief, blissful moment of feeling cool, if only on a few inches of skin.
I had decided to spend the day covered with my shawl, in self-imposed misery, because I didn’t want to appear semi-decent or offensive to our guests. I refused to wear a corset and didn’t want my unbound body shape offending anyone. Uncorseted women were called ‘loose’ women, and although they meant it literally, its connotation was the same now as it would be in the future. I knew Sarah and the men didn’t mind that I wouldn’t wear stays, but we had company coming soon, and I wanted to be courteous.
I kicked off my slippers, lay back, and tried to relax. Another sigh escaped as I felt that same wonderful cooling on my bared feet. Lying down in the middle of the day felt great. Why should I stress over whether I needed the exam or not? I decided to give in to it and enjoy the rare, and guilt-free, moments of idleness.
Sarah helped me hike up the skirt of my new green calico gown. She chuckled when she saw them. “You still like those white cotton briefs, I see.”
I growled at her like a dog at a stranger. She grabbed a handful of skirt, playfully threw it over my face, and then got down to business. She pulled my panties down to just above my pubic bone and started kneading my flesh with two fingers, as if she were looking for lumps of flour in bread dough. I peeked over my skirting as she worked over my much smaller, but still mushy, belly.
“I don’t see how you swelled up as big as,” she looked around for a comparison, “well, as big as this house, and still didn’t get any stretch marks. I only had one child at a time, and my belly looked like a road map.”
“Good genes, I suppose,” I said as I worked the rest of the skirt out of my face with my chin. “It certainly wasn’t because I used fancy designer creams or lotions.” I unbuttoned the top two buttons of my blouse and looked down at my huge breasts. “Looks like I’m going to have candy-striped boobs, though. These red lines will fade to silver ones, right?”
Loud footfalls, boots stomping up the porch steps, interrupted our conversation. I yanked up my underwear and the two of us tugged at my clothing to get me presentable. I buttoned up as I sat up, sucking in deep breaths of composure, then relaxed—it was Wallace.
It had become a standard, unspoken protocol that when one of the men approached the house, he was to walk heavy as he came up the porch steps to the door. If I was nursing—and it seemed as if I always had at least one baby feeding—I would have a chance to cover up. It might have been different if it was winter, but this was July. Our small, un-air-conditioned southern home had only one small window. It was hot enough inside to bake bread by late morning—or at least it felt that way to me. The skin-to-skin contact necessary to feed the babies was hot and sticky for me and for them. As a result, the red blush of prickly heat spread from their cheeks to my breasts. When alone, or only in the company of people under ten pounds, I tried cooling down by baring as much of my upper body as I could.
It was impossible to keep our home environment comfortable. Still, I did my best, stealing random moments of bareness for me, keeping the babies in their sleeveless little green calico gowns and skimpy clouts rather than swaddled. The babies were small and didn’t fill their diapers with much output. For right now, I’d rather suffer a wet spot in my lap than deal with diaper rashes on their behinds. I still wasn’t brave enough to hold and feed them bare-bottomed though.
Wallace and Julian had constructed and set up what I called a playpen. The men laughed at the name, but agreed that it was an apt description. Right now, since they were still small and didn’t move much more than a fist or a foot, the child container was perched atop sawhorses. With this arrangement, I didn’t have to bend down to floor level to pick up the babies, and the airflow was better for cooling them. I had to admit, I was a little jealous of their life of leisure. When they were hungry, they got their hot dinner brought right to them on the second or third screech or cry.
“Ye canna be feedin’ them at the first wail. Ye need to let them work up an appetite,” Jody said. “At least that’s what my sister Elly told me. Otherwise, ye’ll be feedin’ them all day and all night. Ye need yer rest and time to yerself too, ye ken.”
Jody was careful about speaking of his family. I knew Jody’s sister, Elly, was Ian’s mother. I didn’t know if he had written to her to let her know that she was a grandmother again, and that Ian had fathered three babies at the same time—and with the same woman.
I snorted at the very idea. Fathered; I guess I should say he sired three children because he sure didn’t take to fathering. Oh, well, his loss, Wallace’s and my gain. I stamped my foot and twisted the sole of my handmade slipper into the ground. Sarah looked over at me like ‘am I supposed to know what you’re doing there?’
I repeated the stamp and squish into the ground movement. “Bad thought, struck down and buried,” I said.
She tipped her head back, sucking in a sigh of understanding, and nodded. Yes, she knew what I was talking about. It was cool to have someone around who was like me. It was also nice that I didn’t have to over-explain my idiosyncrasies.
Wallace—my betrothed and the man I loved—was a great father. His fathers, Julian and Jody, were both delighted with their grandchildren. Julian had never been a grandfather, had never even been a father to a baby before, so infants were new to him. Jody had been close to his nieces and nephews in Scotland, and then lived right next door to his daughter Mona’s children. Those first grandchildren were a cherished part of his daily life until they time traveled with their parents, back to the late 20th century for medical support. Jody loved babies and spent as much time as he could spare with his new wee kinfolk.
The men were all tuned into their own godchild’s cry, too. Jody, who was essentially tone deaf, could differentiate Leonardo’s cry from the other two’s, but couldn’t tell the difference between Judah’s and Wren’s squalls. Julian would know if his godson was the one fussing. He’d be on edge, trying not to interfere, but would give me ‘the look’ if I didn’t attend to his godson, J
udah, right away. He even asked if I needed help on occasion. I knew he didn’t want to change diapers, and he certainly wasn’t equipped to feed the baby, but he was definitely little Judah’s advocate and quite good at settling him down for sleep after a feeding.
Wallace was still partial to Wren, but was on hand to help with all of the children. He was more attentive and helpful than most men of this time. I take that back, he was probably more helpful than most men of any time. He told me that he hadn’t had any brothers or sisters and had always wanted them. He was lonely as a child, with only adults and animals for company. He knew early on that he wanted a big family, but hadn’t been in a hurry because he wanted to make sure he had a good wife. “I didn’t know I would find the perfect woman and get a big family all at the same time. God sure has been good to me,” he said as he rubbed little Wren’s back. He kissed her on top of her pink fuzzy head. “He’s been verra good to me.”
Ӂ Ӂ Ӂ
Jody and Julian had stayed outside at the corral fence when Wallace went into the house to check on Evie and the babies. The morning was hot, and a break sounded good. The two of them were leaning on the fence, not doing anything but waiting for a bit of breeze to blow across their sweat-soaked bodies.
Julian was deep in thought, going over and over it in his mind. Why had he not talked to Wallace sooner? He had planned on telling him the basics of human reproduction and how it was accomplished when he was entering puberty, but that window of opportunity had long since passed. He should have taken Wallace to see Mrs. Abbott when he caught him with his classmate’s book, London’s Women of Pleasure. Surely one of the girls in her employ could have delicately and tastefully shown an innocent yet inquisitive lad of sixteen the basic mechanics of heterosexual sex. He, or someone, would have to tell Wally today, before the wedding, how it was between a man and a woman. After the ceremony, there might not be a chance to speak with him in private before his wedding night, as it were.
Naked in the Winter Wind (The Fairies Saga Book 1) Page 48