"Why must ye be so stubborn, lass," her father had once admonished her. "The day ye take it into yer head t' stop breathin', 'twill be yer last, I ken it will," he'd said to her once, in frustration. She could still hear his voice in her mind sometimes.
She didn't know why she was always so determined to go her own way either. It frustrated her as much as anyone. But she would not give Gracie up. They would manage just fine on their own.
There was a funeral for one of the settlers, with military honors, a friend or acquaintance of them all who'd passed away recently, where The Flowers of the Forest had been played on the bagpipes at the gravesite. One day they would play the same for her military father. She felt a tightening in her chest; for as much as they had had their disagreements, she could not bear the thought of not seeing him again, if something were to happen to him without her being there. He was her father, and Gracie's grandfather. She hoped one day to make the voyage back to Scotland once more with Gracie to see him before . . . she couldn't even bear to think of it.
She'd led a tribute in song, with no other vocal or instrumental accompaniment, in the lilting way she remembered her grandmother used to sing it, as she knew and remembered much of her Gaelic, Gràdh Geal Mo Chridh', or Fair Love of My Heart in English, a traditional song from Eriskay, to great appreciation. A few people clasped her hand in gratitude.
She didn't see John again until that Sunday. She saw him enter the church and remove his hat to pay his respects, and remembered how she had kissed him.
He rode home, slumped in the saddle and still a little drunk, and singing Auld Lang Syne in a low voice, still hearing the music. And thankfully Stranger had guided him home, knew the way without being prompted, with barely a touch of the reins. The horse had brought his master home in an inebriated state a few times before, it was true, John chuckled to himself.
Gabe leapt up off the porch and greeted him enthusiastically home, and John have him an equally ruffling pet on the head. He walked Stranger back to his stall, or perhaps stumbled a little was more apt, and after putting the horse away for the night and once in the door of the cabin, he rolled into bed, not even changing out of his clothes, still smelling of drink and perfume.
He had enjoyed the night, even danced with a few pretty and sweet-smelling women, in the dizzying whirl of the fiddle music and drink. He had wondered if he would catch a glimpse of her somewhere at the festivities and he did, or he thought he did, a woman wearing a beautiful dark red evening dress with a well-dressed gentleman at her side; Winfield, he thought, though he was too far away to be certain. They were standing overlooking the balcony of the grand new hotel and watching the bonfire, the procession of torchbearers and the fireworks illuminations and firecrackers lighting up the sky and the streets, amidst all of the noise and the smell of gunpowder below. It was strange and vexing to him, his still wanting her, even with Winfield's insult still fresh in his mind. He'd tell her when next he saw her, and he danced again with Nessa Kerr.
He'd also been surprised to see an old familiar face after all this time - sitting at a table in a far corner of the saloon bar with a drink, a patch over one eye, wearing a shabby-looking coat, and about as welcome as a cobra. No, that wasn't true. What had befallen him was not Dondarrion's fault; he'd gone into it all with the certainty and fire of conviction, and with eyes wide open. It might even have been worse for him without him. Beric Dondarrion, Lord of Blackhaven, the gentleman convict himself. To look at 'im, you'd never know he was an aristocrat, except for his fine speech and manners whenever he chose to make them known. The sight of him stopped Marston in his tracks; not sure if he wanted to revisit that time.
"Well, well - what brings you here," he'd quietly said, eventually approaching him and trying not to attract any undue attention. Not that it was very likely, given the diversions of the night's celebrations; but he hadn't betrayed them, and after all this time, he wouldn't now. The Lord of Blackhaven turned and stood when he saw him, smiling that disarming grin of his and offering his hand.
"Same as you, my friend, I'd say, same as you. To start my life a second time. Buy you a drink?"
Marston truly was glad to see him, and they laughed and greeted each other in a hearty embrace, shared a few more rounds of drinks before the night was through.
"Good to see you again after all this time, brother," Beric told him. As in brotherhood.
It had been Hahona who had been his first visitor at home for the first footing of the new year, Hira's fierce-looking eldest son, and likely at her urging, with a gift of his mother's potato bread, which he was always glad to receive, for a wee chat on New Year's Day, as they had learned some of and respected each others' customs now. But Janet was to come by to see him later.
He sat far away from the piano, in a chair at the table, leaning forward with his chin resting on his closed fist. He seemed to not be himself, to be troubled, more than usual, she thought. Nothing she played seemed to cheer him. She tried one more piece from Chopin's oeuvre, one she hadn't yet played for him, Opus 28, No. 15. The Raindrop prelude. She loved the gentle and delicate way it started, the seeming darker tone it took in the middle, and then the eventual gentle and serene resolution back again.
"Is anything wrong?" she finally asked him. He did not answer.
She resumed her playing, this time a romantic, haunting Chopin mazurka in the kujawiak style and calling dreamily to mind a nocturne, or fantasie. One that they both loved, Mazurka in A Minor, Op. 17, No. 4. It was one that she had played before, the coda ending notes so light that they seemed to rise into the air like a feather and drift away, unanswered.
After a moment or two, when she had finished, he stood. "That was magnificent," he said, but he did not appear pleased. It seemed as though he wanted to end the visit, which surprised her.
He looked at her for a moment. He sighed heavily.
"Oh aye, there is something wrong," he said.
He said it almost sneeringly, she thought.
"Ye see," he continued, "I am unhappy. I am in love with ye. I want ye. I can think of naethin' but ye. So if ye've come here with no feelin' for me, then ye'd best go."
She didn't know what to say, could not speak.
"Go," he repeated, gently, and he walked to the door and opened it. "Ye can make other arrangements for the piano, or ye can keep it here, if ye like. But I cannae continue on this way wi ye."
She felt as if she would cry then, but she would not let him see that. How dare he; he had no right to say these things to her, to bring this about. Instead, in her frustration she walked up to him and slapped him, as hard as she could across the unscarred side of his face, and for the time before that she should have and didn't as well. He caught her gently by the wrist so as not to hurt her, and chuckled. No, she had not hurt him, the blow was about as injurious as that of a fly, but to stop her from doing it again. At least he had gotten some kind of a response from her.
She realized that she did not want to leave, did not want to end this relationship, if you could call it that. Yes, she had feelings for him. It was now no longer just about the piano. She admitted to herself that she wanted him too. The effort seemed to drain her of energy, and she fell back against the doorframe, sinking down onto the floor in a pile of layers of skirts and petticoats and frilly undergarments, whether in a stubborn refusal or staking a claim.
He knelt before her, wanting to make sure she was all right. He did not understand. She did not wish to be owned by anyone.
"Speak, woman!" he demanded. "Have ye naethin' t'say t'me about it?"
And she threw her arms about his neck, fell into his arms, holding him tightly. She pounded the side of her fist against his chest, but there was no longer any force to it, leaning her cheek against him. He held her there, for a few long moments, kissing the top of her head, stroking her hair. All was quiet, except she could hear the solitary bellbird singing again, somewhere outside.
"It's all right," he told her.
He looked down at her, cupping her face in his large hands, his hands covering her cheeks, and he kissed her mouth, and she kissed him, over and over again.
Between kisses, he whispered to her, "When will I see you again?" She looked up at him and felt something bittersweet. She touched his scarred cheek; he'd just told her not more than a few moments before that he never wanted to see her again.
"I'll come back soon," she assured him, and she kissed him again. "Soon".
But now she really did have to leave, to see about Gracie. He knew that and understood. He helped her back up to her feet.
He asked if she would like him to escort her home; but she told him no, that she wanted to be alone with her thoughts, to enjoy the pleasure of thinking of him as she walked through the trees and by the sea along the path back, and he nodded his head once and smiled, and kissed her hand, until the next time.
But all she could think of on the walk home was the horror of how she could not now marry Edward.