My Highland Home

MHH Chapter 7

 I always thought I'd be the type of girl to fight back when she was bullied. To bite and claw and kick and scratch until I couldn't fight anymore. I'd never thought of myself as the type to sit back cower, cry and pray for some white knight to come to their rescue. Man was the truth humbling, I thought shivering in my bed. The room was far from cold, the cool was coming from deep within. Perhaps I thought darkly, it was a part of my soul dying. Pulling the rough linens and the wool blanket back to my chin, I burrowed into the warmth. My eyes were fixed and probably a bit fearfully observing the door, almost as though I expected him to come back and threaten me some more.

My stomach growled rebelliously, extremely aware that Meg hadn't brought me my evening meal, even though the idea of putting food into my mouth was almost as appetizing as taking a bath in a pig sty. I wet my lips, happy to note that the tears that were seeping from my eyes had begun to peter off. Sure, I was terrified; that was reason enough to cry I guess, but really my tears were caused by anger. The seeds of which still blazed in my chest. Another tear leaked out the corner of my right eye. I wanted nothing more than for my voice to return full force at that moment. Perhaps then I could straighten out this crazy situation.

Somehow everything was inside out. The re-enactors were taking things way, way too far. And seriously, I thought everyone knew that head injuries should be attended to at a hospital by a real doctor. Meg and the man claimed to have some sort of knowledge about my father, albeit rather negative opinions of him. My father was a history nerd for Pete's sake! What could he have possibly done to piss off the huge Scot? The more I thought about it and bounced ideas around the more confusing the whole mess became, however the thing that weighed most heavily on my mind was the fact that in the morning I was going to be married.

I suppose most girls dream about getting married from a rather young age, but not me. I didn't want to get married for a long, long time. And when I did I wanted it to be to a man who loved me and didn't have any serious obsessions, someone quite the opposite of my parents. I want someone normal, or typical if you prefer. The husband, who went to work for eight hours five days a week, came home to me and 2.5 children and a house in the suburbs. A guy that would be happy to pop the top on a beer and hide in his garage for a few hours before grilling burgers and hotdogs on the grill for supper on the weekends. I expect that what I wanted in a future mate was far from what most girls dreamed their Mr. Right to be. I didn't want a dramatic romance like you see in the movies or read in books. I just wanted someone dependable, stable and normal. Was that so much to ask for?

Sighing, I cracked my neck in irritation. What a nightmare this summer was turning out to be! My thoughts returned to the Scottish bully. What was the point of him coming in to threaten me that way? There was no crowd of tourists to see his spectacular performance; in fact there hadn't even been any other re-enactors around either. The sinking feeling grew in the pit of my stomach. I was sure he'd prop me next to him at the alter in the morning, he wasn't the type to back down I sensed. However, it did make me wonder if the marriage would be as fabricated as I hoped. It wasn't legal to marry a seventeen year old girl without her parents consent, right, especially an American girl, who was only allowed here on a temporary Visa?

The weight in my stomach was making me feel queasy. Something definitely did not feel right about this. The electrified feeling that shot through my body as the Scot had given me the once over sure felt real enough. Heat that had nothing to do with fever swept over my cheeks. Surely he couldn't think that I'd be easy enough to go along with his marriage and then let him perform his husbandly duties? A choked sound of outrage fell from my lips. He couldn't be so stupid, could he? I didn't even know his name; he was crazy if he thought he was going to touch me. In fact, I thought with a snort, he'd be lucky if I didn't bite him when the priest pronounced us man and wife.

Wait! The priest; that was it! Why hadn't I thought of it before? Of course the priest wouldn't marry us if I was unwilling. The Scot had a point though, my voice not really allowing me much opportunity to protest. Surely the sight of my face would give him pause to question the marriage? Especially one so hastily arranged. I'm no history geek like my parents, but even I knew that in the period the re-enactment occurred, that marriages were often long drawn out affairs. There had been exceptions, of course, but I didn't want to dwell on that.

It was as I was furiously thinking of how to make my displeasure of the match known to the priest that the door creaked open a tiny crack. It was enough to make me draw in another painful gasp. Pulling the bedding up like a shield, I was much relieved to find Meg peeking around the door. She carried a tray and I noticed immediately that her gaze strayed away from mine. It really bothered me that she wouldn't look me in the eye. What had my father done that had been so bad that my association with him made people treat me like this?

Meg set down the tray and lit a few of the candles in the room. Aside from sitting on the bed and steadily spooning food into my mouth, much of it could have tasted like ash for all the attention I paid. Mechanically I chewed and swallowed waiting and hoping that Meg would say something. Slowly the food disappeared from the tray and I was growing desperate. Swallowing in a gulp, I reached for her hand. As she recoiled a soft cry escaped my lips. What was wrong with these people? I hadn't done anything wrong.

"What did I do," I uttered harshly. My voice so rough it was barely human sounding.

Meg turned away as though she didn't hear me and I had it. Pushing the tray off of my lap and to the floor, I screamed. I screamed with the unfairness of it all, the frustration, the fear, the pain, the misery and the loneliness that I'd bottled within me in the previous days. It was a horrible sound, a pathetic one. Meg rushed back to the bed, bending to pick up the overturned tray. I flung back the bedding and somehow managed to roll myself from the bed to stand none too steadily on my feet. Weaving, shaking and determined, I used as much of the furniture in the room and even the walls to prop myself up. That really got Meg's attention. In a flash she was off of her knees and around the bed, trying to usher me back under the covers. A last reserve of energy I hadn't known I'd had helped me to weakly push her away. I suppose perhaps the fury in my eyes might have helped.

The steps from the bed to the fireplace were agonizing and felt as thought it took years to travel the distance of less than eight feet. Meg raced from the room, her shouts echoing down the hall and back into my chamber. The worst part of my little sojourn was bending down to grab a handful of cold ash from a pail. I wasn't sure I'd be able to stand straight again after that, but I did. No one but I would know that I had to use my free hand to pull myself back up the wall. Sliding a few steps to the left and into the light of a candle, I raised my shaky hand and smeared ash over my index finger. My handwriting was probably ghastly, but hopefully I would finally be able to communicate something to these people.