Table Of ContentForever In My Heart
The Pocket Watch Chronicles
By
Ceci Giltenan
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, locations and dialogues
in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely
coincidental. Any actual locations mentioned in this book are used fictitiously.
All rights are retained by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,
without permission in writing from the publisher except in the case of brief
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sharing, or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright
infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the
FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Copyright 2020 by Ceci Giltenan
www.duncurra.com
ISBN: 978-1-949407-10-5
Produced in the USA
D���������
To my daughters
Meghan,
I gave you the gift of life, but the gift of joy, love and compassion you
bring to life has blessed me and everyone around you in more ways
that you’ll ever know.
Jennifer,
I may not have given you the gift of life, but life gave me the gift of
you—so it’s a little like winning the lottery. I hope you always know
what a blessing you are to those who love you.
“You walked into my life like you had always lived
there, like my heart was a home built just for you."
~ A. R. Asher
C������ 1
Govan, Scotland,
December 20, 1857
Mary Campbell huddled on the floor near the old hearth where
the iron stove stood. Dear God, why had she asked? Jock was
drunk. And when he was drunk, nearly anything she said might set
him off. But it was payday. And if there was any chance of getting a
few extra bob with which to buy something the tiniest bit special for
their Christmas dinner next week, it was on payday—before he
drank it all away. But payday also meant he’d had a few extra pints
in the pub on the way home.
Jock grabbed her arm, jerking her to her feet and giving her a
hard shake.
“By God, woman, I work hard for my money. I’ll give ye what I
see fit to give ye and not a farthing more.”
Letting go of her shoulders, he backhanded her with such
force that she lost her balance. Her head hit the wall beside the
fireplace and she crumpled to the ground, dazed. Darkness pulled at
her. How she’d love to just give in to it, but the voice of their four-
year-old daughter penetrated the fog like a lighthouse beacon.
“Mama?”
Struggling to remain conscious she said, “Katie, go back to
bed.”
Her daughter’s lower lip wobbled and tears slid down her
cheeks. “But, I’m scared.”
“Get yer sniveling hide back to bed or I’ll give ye something to
cry about,” Jock snarled.
Mary struggled to her knees. “Please, sweetling, go.”
The noise must have awakened the baby too. His wail rent
the dark cottage and chilled Mary’s soul. Jock could not tolerate
crying children. She needed to get between the children and her
raging husband but it wasn’t possible. He’d already taken the first
step toward the bedroom, his fist clenched.
She couldn’t let him. Her hand brushed against the fire iron.
Without thinking, she grabbed hold of it. It was the only weapon she
had. But before she could take a single step toward him, he stopped.
His whole bearing changed. His step slowed, his shoulders
dropped and he relaxed his fist, reaching an open hand to caress
Katie’s cheek. He crouched in front of her. “Don’t cry, little one.” He
glanced around the cottage as if he’d never seen it before. “It’s late.
Ye must have had a bad dream. Let’s see if we can calm the
screeching rascal and tuck ye back into bed.”
Mary’s own shock was mirrored on Katie’s face.
Jock stood, took the wee lass by the hand and led her back to
the bedroom.
Mary followed, still holding the poker at her side.
Her husband, who’d never done a single thing to help care for
their children, let go of his daughter’s hand and picked up wee
Robbie. Cradling the baby in his arms he gently bounced and rocked
from side to side, making soft soothing sounds.
“There, little man. Wheesht now. Ye’ve scared the wee lassie
with yer caterwauling.”
As Robbie began to calm, Jock shifted the babe into the crook
of his left arm and with his right hand gently nudged Katie toward her
bed.
“Now, little miss, ‘tis a cold night. Let’s get ye tucked up nice
and warm under these covers.”
Mary stood in the doorway, mouth agape.
Jock helped Katie under the covers, tucking them snuggly
around her. “My, this is a thin blanket. I’ll see if I can find something
to help keep ye warmer.”
Those words couldn’t have just come from Jock’s mouth. How
many times had Jock confidently stated that children weren’t meant
to be coddled? “A little chill, a little hunger makes them strong.”
Mary had blankets hidden in a chest under Katie’s bed. After
Jock was asleep, she’d slip out of bed and cover both children with
warmer blankets making certain to put the thin ones on top. Not that
Jock was in the habit of ever checking on them. Still, she took the
precaution anyway. If she had believed his show of concern now was
genuine, she’d have gotten the blankets out. But it wasn’t. It couldn’t
be. And she couldn’t take the risk. This was some sort of act. But to
what purpose, she knew not.
Then, to Mary’s further shock, he leaned down and gently
kissed Katie’s cheek. “Good night, sugar plum.”
Sugar plum? Not once had he called Katie anything except
‘girl’ nor had he ever given her a goodnight kiss. For that matter, he
hadn’t given Mary a gentle kiss since the day they were married.
Jock’s kisses were aggressive and hard.
Mary didn’t know what to do. She just stood there, the iron still
in her hand ready to protect her children at any cost.
By the time Jock had Katie in bed, the baby had gone back to
sleep. Jock gently laid Robbie in his cot, covered him well and then
turned to leave the room. For a moment he appeared stunned, as if
he hadn’t known she was there.
“I uh…didn’t see ye. Why are ye holding that fire iron?”
“Ye were…I mean, I thought ye were…”
“Oh dear, God, yer face? He hit ye.”
As stunned as she was, Mary couldn’t hold her tongue. “He?
There’s no one else here. Ye hit me.”
As if everything that had just happened wasn’t bizarre
enough, Jock said something that she didn’t think he had ever
uttered in his life.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
He took a step toward her and instinctively, Mary backed
away from him.
He stopped. “Please, I swear I won’t hurt ye. Come sit near
the stove and let me see what I can do for your injuries.”
This was too much. Mary trembled and burst into tears. She
could steel herself against his violence, but kindness and
compassion?
In two strides he had his arms around her. “Oh, lass, please
don’t cry. It’s over. It’s all over.”
She dropped the fire iron. His strong arms felt wonderful, just
as they had when he was courting her. She wanted to sink into that
embrace and believe that he could make things right. It resurrected
all the hopes and dreams she’d had before they wed and which the
stark reality of married life with him had soon crushed. Now,
reminded of her loss, her heart ached again.
“Shh…shh…shh. It’s all right. Everything’s all right.” He
rubbed her back gently, continuing to whisper soothing words.
She had to regain control. She could not give in to this. She
drew in a deep breath and took a step backwards, out of his
embrace.
“A little better now?” he asked.
She could only nod.
“Then come sit down.”
With a hand at the small of her back, he guided her towards
the rocking chair beside the stove. Once she was settled in the chair
he stepped back and shook his head a little, as if trying to clear it.
He scrubbed his face with his hands. “Damn. I’m plastered.”
“Plastered?”
“Blotto…sloshed.” Apparently realizing she was still confused,
he added, “Stinking drunk.”
“Oh.” She frowned. “Well, aye, ye are. Perhaps ye should sit
down.”
“Not until I’ve seen to yer injuries. Where do ye keep yer
kitchen towels?”
The fact that he didn’t know where they were came as no
surprise. He’d probably never held a kitchen towel, much less
fetched one or put one away. “They’re in the top drawer of the
sideboard.”
He took one out, wet it with water from the pitcher on the
washstand. “Damn, this is cold. The whole room is cold.” He reached
his hand towards the stove. “It’s barely warm.”
“I banked the fire after I cooked supper.”
“I think that’s a bit early. It’s much too cold in here and any
heat that reached the children’s room is completely gone. I’ll take
care of it after I’ve seen to you.”
“Jock, ye told me not to use too much coal.” Fearing he’d lose
his temper, she rushed to apologize. “I’ve tried to do that. I use as
little as possible. I get it burning in the morning to make yer
breakfast, then I bank it ’til time to cook the evening meal. Then I
bank it again and pray there are live coals in the morning.”
He crouched in front of her, frowning. “Ye don’t keep it burning
all day? No wonder it’s cold in here.”
“But ye said—”
“Never mind what I said before. Things will change now. Let
me tend to ye, then we’ll talk. I’m just going to wipe the blood away.”
With the utmost of care, he cleaned the blood from her lip and
cheek. “It looks like yer lip has already stopped bleeding but yer
cheek is bruising. I want ye to hold this cold cloth against it for a few
minutes. The cold will ease the sting. I’ll get ye a blanket so ye don’t
chill too badly.”
What in the name of God was going on? Was he just trying to
find out where she hid the extra blankets? “I’ll be fine. I’ll just fetch
my cloak from the peg by the door.”
“Nay, sit still. I’ll get it.” He retrieved it, wrapping it around her
with the same care he’d shown the children.”
Mary just stared, speechless.
“Now, about the coal. Do we have any?”
“Aye, of course. But ye only buy a small amount each month
and tell me to make do. If we use it for heat all day, as well as
cooking, we’ll need to buy more.”
“So it’s all we can afford?”
“Why are ye asking me this?” Did he know? Had he found out
that she’d been taking in sewing piece work? Early in their marriage,
when she’d realized the effect his penchant for drink had on their
resources, she had casually suggested that she could supplement
their income by doing some sewing for a local tailor.
He had split her lip that night too, raging, “Over my dead body
will ye do that. I won’t have the whole village of Govan believing my
wife has to work because I can’t take care of my family.”
But he couldn’t take care of his family because of the
inordinate amount of his wages that he spent on drink every week.
So she secretly did the sewing anyway. It was the only way she had
enough money to buy food.
