Better Loved, Part Seven

by J. Rosemary Moss

Genre: Fan-Fiction (Bonanza)
Rating: PG

LINK TO PART ONE

~

If Antoinette hadn’t been so worried for her sister, the next few days would have been heaven. She spent all her time with Adam and Kevin, who were keeping her away from Rampart Street. Therese didn’t want her infected by Monique’s fever.

Antoinette only saw Therese once during that time, but she could tell that her sister had softened to both boys. She no longer looked at them as if they were nasty insects to be swatted or avoided.

Adam splurged on a private hotel room for the trio. One of the boys would stay behind during the day and read to Antoinette or teach her games—dice, cards and chess—while the other would run errands for Therese.

And in the evenings, when the three of them were together, they would teach her songs—that was the best part. Irish war songs mostly, because Kevin insisted on them.

Adam said that the Irish uprising songs were all alike: “We were brave, we were glorious and then we were slaughtered by the English.”

Kevin shook his head at him in disgust. “You don’t even have the decency to be a Jacobite, do you?” he asked.

“As best we can figure, my ancestors marched with Cromwell,” Adam said with an apologetic grin. “And later with William of Orange.”

Antoinette stared at Kevin as he made retching sounds. “Never mind,” he managed at last. “We’ll have a song or two for Charlie anyhow. But first let’s give Wexford her dues.”

“What’s Wexford?” Antoinette piped up.

“Wexford, my darling girl, is a county in Ireland,” Kevin explained. “My own county, I might add.”

“A friend of mine, Father Ronan, told me it was a hotbed of rebellion,” Adam commented as he took out his guitar and warmed up with some scales.

“Aye,” Kevin admitted. “That’s a source of pride, it is. And you shouldn’t be making that face, Adam. We’ll lick the English someday.”

He responded with a sympathetic shrug. “I wish you luck.”

“Well, you Yanks whipped them,” he said reasonably. “Why shouldn’t we?”

“We whipped them because England was three thousand miles away—not next door.”

Kevin snorted. “We’ll manage to get a republic all the same. Now let’s have a song for the Croppy Boys.”

“What are they?” Antoinette asked as she stood by Adam’s side and ran a finger along his guitar.

“In 1798 they were the lads who cropped their hair short after the new French fashion,” Kevin said with a wink. “They filled the ranks of the uprising.”

They sang for the Croppy Boys but Antoinette interrupted before Kevin could choose another war song.

“Who’s Charlie?” she asked. “You said you’d sing songs for him too.”

“So we did,” Kevin said, nodding his approval. “Bonnie Prince Charlie was the rightful King of England, but the English denied him his throne. The Scots fought for him in 1745.”

“And the English massacred them at Culloden,” Adam pointed out.

“Aye,” Kevin sighed. “It’s the same sad, bloody tale—for both the Scots and the Irish. But admit it, Adam. Even a thick-skulled Puritan such as yourself has a soft spot for the Stuarts.”

Adam grinned. “There are some good songs about Charlie—I’ll admit that much.”

He strummed on his guitar again and began to sing:

Bonnie Charlie’s gone awa’
Safely o’er the friendly main;
And many’s the heart will break in twa
Should he no come back again.

Kevin smiled and joined in:

And will ye no come back again?
Will ye no come back again?
Better loved ye cannot be,
Will ye no come back again?

This must be a well-known song among whites, Antoinette decided, for at the sound of it some other men knocked at the door. Two were English and one was American. The three of them brought in some brandy and port. They toasted Prince Charlie and then they added their voices to the tune:

We watched thee in the gloaming hour
We watched thee in the morning grey
Though thirty thousands pounds they give
There is none that would betray!

And will ye no come back again…

As Kevin poured her half a glass of port Antoinette decided that this was her favorite song in English. She listened hard to learn the lyrics.

And many’s the gallant soldier fought,
Many’s the gallant chief did fall,
And death itself was dearly bought
All for Scotland’s King and Laird!

And will ye no come back again…*

The other gentlemen stayed for some time. Antoinette was surprised to see that Kevin got on just fine with the Englishmen, despite his constant talk of the Irish rebelling against them.

Later, when it was just the three of them again, she stripped down to her chemise, folded her clothes into a neat pile and then curled up on Adam’s lap. She felt him put his arms around her and absently stroke her hair as she shut her eyes.

She listened to the boys talk. They touched on all sorts of topics, but they always came back to history.

Antoinette smiled to herself, for they reminded her of her father. She remembered him lecturing her about history, especially the evils of the French Revolution. In fact, he had given her the middle name of Charlotte Corday to honor the woman who had assassinated Marat.

She was drifting off to sleep when she heard Adam refer to her. “I think it’s time I took this little girl to bed,” he said.

“Might as well get used to that,” Kevin told him with a knowing laugh in his voice. “You’re going to marry that little girl.”

Antoinette opened her eyes as Adam responded. “She’s a seven year old, Kev.”

The Irisher shrugged. “That matters now. It won’t in ten or fifteen years. Trust me, Adam. I have the sight.”

Adam didn’t grace that with an answer. He just rolled his eyes as he stood up and carried Antoinette to bed. She quickly shut her eyes again as he tucked her in. He gave her a gentle kiss on her forehead and then went back to his talk with Kevin.

Antoinette stayed awake for a little while, thinking. She believed in the sight. Everyone in her family was superstitious—everyone except Therese. Her mother always had some gris-gris around the house, despite Therese complaining that no good Catholic should have Voodoo charms.

If Kevin really had the sight—and all the Irish had that, didn’t they?—then she would grow up to marry Adam. But did that mean she’d be his real wife or his quadroon wife?

She thought Adam would make a fine husband. She would like to marry him either way.

But suddenly she remembered Adam’s words to Kevin: “They deserve better than to be some white man’s mistress.”

* Traditional Lyrics

LINK TO PART EIGHT