Unrealized
by Thalia
Rating: PG-13
It'd been a charmed existence for Zephan Delaney before she'd come with
all the force and fury of white mist and fogged up his world, twisting
things twelve different ways before he'd realized that things would
never be able to go back to the way things had been before.
She'd arrived in her fancy chaise, complete with snooty groomsman and
kid-gloves and a parasol with enough lace on it to hem a wedding gown,
and it had been a lot of gossip all around before Miss Adelaide
Waterhouse had come. Sure, and he'd seen fancy girls like her before,
wont to faint at the sight of a mouse or the sound of thunder. Everyone
said that Aileen McCormick had been a fool to run away to London with an
Englishman when she could've had Patrick Delaney. Zephan ignored the
whispers that involved his own Da, but privately agreed that Aileen
McCormick had indeed been a fool.
And now Aileen's daughter had come, because her mother had died and had
requested on her deathbed to be buried where she'd been born, and Zephan
had caught sight of her face as that pretentious-looking coach had
clattered unsteadily past on the rough, rocky road. Pale cheeks and dark
hair, behind glass panes and black lace, and Zephan had had the oddest
sensation, from the first time he'd seen her, prissy-pretty and all
dolled up, deceptively docile, that she'd spell trouble for him... and
really, wasn't that just silly?
The girl hadn't done much to encourage that odd notion in her first week
there, to be sure. Met with Father Sullivan and cleaned her mam's old
home, looking all manner of odd in her fine garments.
He got a close look at her for the first time at the funeral, standing
in front of the assembled, her head downcast as she said a few words in
a crisp, patrician English accent about her mother before laying white
roses down on the casket. She raised her head after making her short,
grave speech, and it was just for a moment that she met his eyes.
She was pretty in that dainty snooty way of English lasses, true enough.
He'd heard that her mother had been a beauty back then, chestnut curls
and roguish hazel eyes, but there was little of that in her pale, heart
-shaped face. Hair darker than the wings of a raven, small features, big
blue eyes liquid with grief... and yet, behind the sadness, a hint of
defiant pride, as though she knew full well what everyone was whispering
about her mother, and wouldn't suffer any ill talk. And then the moment
was over, and Zephan shrugged and helped the others lay the soil over
the grave. She left alone in her chaise, vanishing into its black
interior like a ghost.
And really, he didn't think much of her until he ran into her again,
determinedly hoeing at the overrun garden in the back of the house in
the blazing sun, her dress-- simpler than what she'd worn before but
still far too fine-- smudged with dirt. He'd stalked up to her and taken
the hoe from her hands, a bit of a smirk on his face.
"I dinnae think this is fine lady's work, lass."
"And it is work that must be done, so I will be having that back, sir,
if you please," she'd snapped back with more asperity than he would have
thought her capable. English lasses were supposed to hand the tool to
him and demand that he do it, then, since he was the inferior race after
all.
And so it was a pattern, where he'd challenge her to something and she'd
meet it, perhaps not always very easily, but meet it nonetheless,
speaking with awful politeness. A part of him felt almost cruel about
it, because sure and she'd be ruining her looks working like a man, but
then, he'd never demanded anything of her, either.
A month, two, three, and everyone wondered when she'd leave again and
everything would settle back into its old, idyllic simplicity. None of
the other girls took notice of her, though several village children
seemed to love her, still too young to know that it was discouraged.
They always reported that Miss Adelaide was awfully smart and pretty and
could tell the best stories. And Zephan wasn't trying to pay more mind
to her than necessary. It wasn't his fault that she was so noticeable,
dainty steely lass with her inky hair and her glimmering blue eyes and
her mellifluous, careful voice.
And he didn't realize that he'd started to respect her-- respect the way
she held her head up high but not too high in this world amongst
strangers, respect the way that her hands had become slightly brown and
strong by doing what work needed to be done herself, respect her for
taking the time with the wee ones-- until he'd caught her brought low,
and then it had been so shocking to see her crying that he wondered how
it was that he'd ever thought her a prissy English lass who'd weep at
the drop of a hat.
It was as improper for him to listen as for her to tell him, both of
them leaning against the side of her house, her shoulders still shaking
as she tried to hide red eyes and trembling lips from his scrutiny. She
could take the whispers about herself, she said... could take the looks,
the hands that barely covered sneers on others' mouths. She'd worked
hard, and she'd tried, really, and why do they continue to disrespect
the dead? And it was a silly thing to cry over, Angharad Murray
speculating with Meghan O'Neill that her mother must have gotten up the
duff and run away with an English pig to spare the shame of birthing a
bastard. She should have been beyond being affected by petty gossip...
and what was he DOING?
For Zephan had found himself pulling her close, stroking her soft hair,
angrier than he'd ever been at the very people he'd known all his life.
She shook like a leaf in his arms, but didn't move away, and he suddenly
understood that some things went past where one grew up and the opinions
of others, and he'd been right to guess that she'd be trouble. He caught
sight of her slightly work-hardened, exquisitely-formed hands clenching
around the rough homespun of his shirt, and felt his heart constrict--
then expand, and it was then that he realized exactly what it all meant
for him-- for them. And then when he cupped her delicate face in his
hands and kissed her surprisingly warm lips, something flowed, trickled
between them before exploding into shards of light, prickling like ice
as it enveloped them both.
The village became a hailstorm of gossip and speculation when Zephan
Delaney took a most unsuitable English wife. Some said that it was a
circle completed, some said that it was history repeating itself.
Those parties actually involved in the gossip, who had learnt a few
things since the day they'd met, didn't seem to care in the least.
~fin
(
geocities.com/wyse_k)