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Original Fiction:

Southeast Kansas Gothic

“No,” he said, pouring a cup of water and pushing it toward her place before he stabbed a piece of meat and put it on his own plate.

That’s it? Just ‘no’ and kiss my ass? “The MacDonnells are still here,” Leah said, trying not to sound irritable. “Isn’t it protocol or something to see them off?” Or does Malie MacDonnell offend you soooo much?

Dougal shrugged. “I sent word down that you were ailing.”

“Good god, I can be in company without shaming you,” she muttered, and saw the lines of his face harden as his eyes flashed. Something in her wanted to freeze like a rabbit, but she forced herself to lift her cup and take a sip, watching him out of the corner of her eye.

“Christ, woman, ye came back after the midnight bell,” Dougal growled, pouring himself a cup of ale and setting it down harder than necessary. “And ye’re crabbit as an auld broc wi’out sleep. I can make your excuses and let ye rest the morning.”

Crabbit, am I? Leah thought, bristling like a – yeah, ok, point. She thumped down into the chair and lifted the towel that covered most of the breakfast tray to find a big bowl of steaming broth and barley, and a pile of fresh, soft bannocks. Her stomach gave an intrigued rumble.

“Mrs. Fitz sent up her best restorative broth,” Dougal said in response. “Swears it’ll mend everything from headache to a churning stomach.”

It was too dark to be chicken broth; possibly mutton, but it didn’t have that gross fatty sheepy smell that coated the back of her throat, so she sampled a bit of it. Her nose wrinkled, then smoothed – it was mutton, but either the barley mitigated the worst of it, or Mrs. Fitz had managed to strain the sheepiest bits out. It was tolerable, anyway. She broke off part of a bannock and dipped it in, then snagged a bit of the cold chicken that lay on the platter next to the bannocks, responding to Dougal’s raised eyebrow with a “I’m not sick, remember? I’m just crabbit.” But her head did hurt, she realized as he snorted, and her back was killing her, probably from hours cramped up on the settee.

His fault. Mostly his fault.

“I meant what I said last night,” she said quietly, feeling her stomach start to tighten again. “I’m tired of everyone thinking I know what to do, like I’m not just trailing after Letitia and hoping for the best. Do you know it took nearly a week of being rousted out of the library every morning before Annie finally just told me where I was supposed to be?” She glared at the noise he made, like a laugh he’d tried to choke off. “Yes, hilarious. Until it’s not. Really, what if it had been me speaking up last night, instead of her, not even knowing I shouldn’t? Would you paddle my ass in front of everyone?”

He did laugh, then. “I wouldnae make such a spectacle of it, mo nighean. Your feet are steady,” he added gruffly, when she puffed up and looked ready to snap, “it’s your mind that’s runnin’.”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “It never stops.” Only in our bed. Or on the table. Or . . .

He watched her for a long moment, picking at her bannock, then dropped another piece of chicken onto her plate as if it would solve everything. “It’s not led ye very wrong yet,” he said, “and I’ll set ye right if it does. Now have a rest and stop talking yerself into a fankle.”

He’s exhausting. So fucking solid he can’t imagine that everyone isn’t. But she couldn’t see any angle that he might be able to grasp, so she finished her breakfast in silence and let him smooth a hand over her hair as he stood.

“I’ll have your maid come up before midday,” he said, “and see if ye feel sociable then.”

Leah nodded tiredly, feeling every little twinge in her weary muscles. “I don’t suppose you’d rest that rock up against my back, when I lay down again?” she asked, mostly-joking as she rose. But he pulled the granite from the hearth and wrapped it, tucking it right above her hips instead of at her feet, and shut the door quietly as he left.

“What do you think of this one?” Leah asked, peering over her glasses to check the edge of a linen sheet. “The hem could be reinforced, but it’s not fraying yet.”

Margaret leaned over and nodded, and Leah envied her young eyes. “It may be worn by spring, but it should do for now with just a bit of care.” She narrowed her eyes appraisingly at the sheet in her own lap. “This one ought to be sent down, though,” she said, noting the slightly-shabby hem, and held it out to Eleanor.

It was Letitia’s suggestion-slash-gentle-order? to go through the linens for the upper household and decide which needed a bit of mending and which ought to be sent down to the servants, to turn and makeover, or cut up into rags, or take home if Mrs. Fitz thought it suitable. Light enough work for Leah to do after her morning convalescence (a lovely few hours of sleep only slightly disturbed by the lack of Dougal’s warmth at her back. The stone almost made up for it, though), especially when Margaret volunteered to help. Leah wasn’t certain if Eleanor’s presence was by her own will, or another steel-and-silk suggestion, or if Margaret had dragged her by her ear (Margaret hardly seemed like an ear-dragger, but you never knew what older sisters were capable of), but they were all packed into the little drawing room. Leah and Margaret shared the settee, going through one basket at a time, tucking the still-good sheets into another basket at their feet and giving the older ones to Eleanor to lay on the table by the window. It let her burn some energy and kept her from grousing.

Mostly.

“I’m glad you’re helping,” Leah said, folding her sheet carefully before adding it to the ‘good’ basket. “I would have worried over every one, whether to keep or not.”

“Did ye no’ do this at home?” Margaret asked, picking up a new specimen and running a finger along the hem.

“Oh, sure,” Leah answered, happy to be truthful. Depression-era grandparents meant almost everything got made-over or repurposed at least once. “But every house has its own standards.”

She heard a scornful sniff, there by the window. “And does Leoch meet yer colonial standards?” Eleanor half-muttered.

Ok, ha’penny Nellie Oleson. “More than,” Leah said, forcing a little smile to her face. “I like an old sheet; they just get softer every time they’re washed.”

Eleanor made a not-disagreeable noise, and Leah mentally added another mark to the “win” column.

Ok, it was barely a win, but still. She didn’t disagree. There’d been more tallies in that column lately, slowly gained with every genuine question and tiny commonality; if they kept it up, pretty soon Leah wouldn’t be able to tell if Eleanor really still disliked her or was just, like, a teenager.

I’m not even going to think “good grade in stepmothering;” look how highlandering turned out. Just keep reaching out and let her reach back in her own time.

“My grandmother said that when she was little, they’d turn worn sheets sides to middle,” Leah offered, testing the seam on the next piece.

“Is it hard to get linen there?” Margaret asked. “And tea, and other things?”

Uh . . . ok, consumer revolution, port city, didn’t you have to read like a decade of Pennsylvania Gazettes for that one class?

Yeah, in 2003.

“It’s not so hard anymore,” Leah ventured, relying on vagueness. “Not as hard as when the old folks were settling, anyway. The port is always active.”

“Do ye have bears there?” Eleanor spoke up, suddenly attentive. “And wolves? Our cousin Jamie said there were cats big as ponies and –”

“He only said that to scare us,” Margaret broke in. “He stayed at Beannachd when we were small,” she told Leah, “and if we pestered him he’d say we’d get packed off to America with the other clarty bairns, and the tigers would get us.”

Leah laughed with genuine amusement. Three hundred years or no, children weren’t so very different. “Well, you don’t have to worry about tigers,” she assured Eleanor, “not in the wild, anyway – someone might keep one, I guess – and bobcats don’t get that big.” When Eleanor’s face threatened to fall back into disinterest, she hurried to add, “Lots of bears, though.”

“Have ye seen them?” the girl asked, leaning forward. “Father said there used to be bears in Scotland, ‘til they were all hunted.”

“Yes, lots,” Leah answered, then kicked herself. “I mean, in menageries. Not wild. I wouldn’t like to meet one in the woods. Maybe if it was just a black bear,” she mused.

“Why?” Margaret asked, interested herself. “Are they tamer?”

Leah shook her head, linens forgotten. “I don’t imagine so, but they’re supposed to scare easier. You know: ‘if it’s black, fight back; if it’s brown, lay down; if it’s white, uh –” No no, please continue. Give them nightmares. “. . . I forget the end of that rhyme. It’s about polar bears, anyway, and we’re not likely to see any of those anywhere. What do you think about this one?” she asked, grabbing another sheet and hurriedly shoving it under Margaret’s nose.

“There’s a hole in the seam,” Margaret said, eyes half-crossing to look at it, and Leah took it back with a mumble about sending it down for mending.

“If it’s white, stand and fight?” Eleanor mused, mostly to herself.

Good god, definitely not. “If it’s white, take flight, perhaps,” Leah offered. Is that better or worse than ‘say goodnight?’

“If it’s white, ye’re aright?” Margaret murmured, eyes shining when her sister giggled.

“If it’s white . . .” Eleanor thought for a moment, “be polite?”

The laugh burbled up from Leah’s chest. Oh my god, are we joking together? “That’s one way to handle it, I suppose.”

She expected Annie had come to check on her when the door began to swing open, and was still mid-laugh when she saw Margaret’s eyes widen and her mouth snap shut.

“You’re up and about, then?” Dougal asked, shoulders filling the doorway. He glanced at the baskets of linens, at his daughters, before his eyes lit upon his wife.

“Yes, thank you,” Leah said. “Well enough to sort the linens.”

“And the bears,” she thought she heard Eleanor say, too quietly to reach Dougal’s ears. Leah’s mouth twitched. If it’s white, giant bite, she thought. She’d trot that out once Dougal left.

“Aye,” he said, noting at Margaret’s industrious work and raising an eye at Eleanor, standing by the growing pile of sheets on the table. “Eleanor, help yer mother finish. It’s supper soon.”

If Leah felt her stomach drop, she could only imagine what the girls felt. If Dougal felt anything at all – like the temperature dropping a good twenty degrees – he made no sign of it, only nodding at Leah and shutting the door behind him as he left his landmine sitting in the room.

Leah’s throat worked, and her mind raced – Speak up? Ignore him? Stand on her head? – and she winced as Eleanor’s voice dropped to a hiss.

“You’re not our mother,” she snarled. “I don’t care what he says, you won’t take her place!”

“I’m not –” Leah half-started out of her seat, but Margaret made a little, painful noise, and Leah’s head turned in time to see the girl’s face crumble.

“He shouldnae have said that,” Margaret muttered, looking away and busying herself with the sheet still on her lap. “It’s no’ right. Ye’re no’ –“ she cleared her throat and stood, handing the sheet off to Eleanor to add to the pile.

That one’s not a discard, is it? Leah shook the thought away and stood slowly, smoothing her skirt as she took a deep breath to steady herself. “I’m not. You’re right, I’m not, and I never will be, and it wasn’t fair of him to say it. I’ll . . . I’ll talk to him about it.”

Eleanor scoffed, looking out the darkening window; Leah’s could see her face going tight in the reflection. “D’ye think he’ll listen?” she asked bitterly.

I think elephants could fly easier than he’d listen to me, unless I’m walking out the door. Leah’s lips pressed together briefly before she replied. “He’s thoughtless, but I don’t think he meant to hurt you. I’ll make sure he sees that he did. I’ll kick him till he does,” she offered, mouth twisting into a wry smile.

Eleanor snorted, so much like Dougal it made Leah’s chest hurt, and stared hard at the glass. Margaret nodded once, her face slowly falling back into its placid lines as she put a hand on Eleanor’s arm.

On your side, Leah thought, if you’ll let me be, and slipped out of the room.

Ugh.

If this were my world, I could just be like “dude, what the hell?” and he’d be annoyed but he’d listen. Probably. Eventually.

But nooo, I have to calibrate my approach. “Good sir, kindly think upon the gentle feelings of your daughters . . .” “Dearest husband, you are most generous to bestow upon me the title of mother, but your daughters think it’s fucked up . . .” “Oh great and powerful Oz, please let me click my little red shoes . . .”

She waited until after supper, gauging his mood to be a solid B+. He seemed reasonably pleased to have gotten rid of the MacDonnells, and equally so to see Leah already sitting by the fire in her dressing-gown, a book in her lap.

“Thank you for letting me rest this morning,” she said, because it seemed like a solid way to begin. “I did need that, it turns out.”

He made a nose like a jovial scoff. “The keep willnae fall without you,” he said, shrugging off his coat to leave it draped over his chair. He cast his glance toward her. “And I’ve an interest in keeping ye well-rested, mo bhean.”

Leah rolled her eyes. “You have the constitution of a twenty-year old,” she sniffed, then let out a little shriek when he scooped her up from the chair, waistcoat half-undone, and set her up on the table to steal her breath with a kiss.

“Aye,” he growled when at last they broke apart, “and I’ve need of it, with a wife so bold as you.”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” she laughed, pushing him away and hopping down as he growled. “That poor table has taken enough abuse lately.” She reclaimed her chair defiantly. “And you need a wash; I can tell you’ve been out riding.”

He muttered something unintelligible and finished stripping while she tried to think herself back on track.

“It’s less than six weeks till Christmas; did you realize that?” she asked. “Do you give the girls gifts?” The gift of not traumatizing them, for instance?

“Gifts are for Hogmanay,” he grunted, splashing himself with cold water from the ewer, “and christening days.”

“That’s an extra week, then,” Leah mused. “What are you planning to give them?” Let me guess: you haven’t thought about it. Their mother always handled it. You’ll stop at Ye Olde MacSeven-Eleven an hour before.

Dougal shrugged, reaching for a linen towel to dry himself. “Get them what ye like, lass. See if Letitia is making a jaunt to Dingwall; I’ll give ye coin for it.”

Leah’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I think they’d much prefer a gift their father actually chose, instead of his wife.”

He snorted. “I’ve no time to look at ribbons and fripperies.”

“Uh, yes you do,” Leah argued. “They’re your daughters. What did you do last year; did their mother have something ready for them, or was she still – um. Had she passed yet?” She looked down, fidgeting with her ring. Treading a little hard, aren’t you?

“She passed in autumn,” he said shortly, and no longer seemed interested in acting half his age. He poured a finger of whisky and downed it quickly, looking out the window. “And she might have had something set by, or Tibby might have done aught for them; I dinnae ken. I was tending to business just then.”

Leah waited for some kind of surprise to take her, but strangely she felt no real shock, only a deep ache. “Colum sent you on clan business around a holy day?” she asked, not really believing it. “Or was this more of your . . .” she tamped down the first words that sprang to mind, “your politics?”

“Could ha’ been,” he shrugged.

Was, she thought with a sigh, turning her face toward the hearth. Dude, I might be struggling with the highlandering and stepmothering, but you suck at fathering. Did you really leave those kids alone at the holidays after they just lost their mom? Were they all together, at least, or scattered to the four winds? She hoped they’d been all together at Beannachd, at least; it would have been murder for Tabitha to be there alone, with her mom only just gone. No wonder she was such a – no, we’re putting her in the ‘grieving kid’ category too now, no name-calling.

“Ok,” she said briskly, standing and pulling back the bedsheets. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to Cranesmuir sometime soon, aren’t you?” She watched him half-turn his head toward her, not listening-listening, but still. “You’re going to ride down an hour earlier than you planned, and you’re going to buy them each a gift. It doesn’t even have to be, like, meaningful and heartfelt; it just has to be from you. From you,” she added, climbing into bed and pulling the covers up to her neck. “Don’t send someone else. It can be ribbons and fripperies, if you can’t think of anything else.”

She flopped onto her side, facing the wall. “Eleanor’s new dress is blue, if you want to find something to go with it. Margaret’s ordered her first silk gown; it’s a peachy kind of pink. Something cream-colored would look nice with it, I think. A lace handkerchief, maybe.” She thought for a moment. “I don’t know about Tabitha and Molly.”

She heard another dismissive noise from the region around the window. “But not the same thing for all of them. And put my stone by my feet before you draw the bedcurtains.”

Silence.

Leah poked her nose over the covers and found him watching her, his half-shadowed face looking more sardonic than angry. He raised the whisky glass. “More orders for me, have ye?” he asked.

If I thought you’d take them . . .

“You shouldn’t call me their mother,” she said quietly. “They have a mother, and they miss her.”

“Ach, Christ,” he muttered, turning away again. “They ken what I meant.”

She stared into the dark, at the candlelight flickering against his shoulders. “Dougal MacKenzie,” she sighed, suddenly exhausted. “I don’t even think you know what you meant. I don’t think you thought about it at all. But you have got to start thinking, because those girls have one parent left, and you’re it. God help them,” she added, mostly under her breath, then covered herself again and vowed not to come out again until dawn.

Chapter Three: These Are the Days begins on Sunday, June 21, with Part One: Queens