Outskirts of Charles Town,
North Carolina
End of the Reign of Queen Anne;
1712
Kell took another deep drink of brandy. The smooth burning liquid slid down his throat painfully, yet easing his own pain with each drink. Sitting on his mother's favorite settee, he stretched his legs out toward the warmth of the fire. He kept his boots on, despite the fact that both is mother and Mrs. O'Donnell hated when he wore boots in the house after working in the fields. It didn't matter though.
Nothing mattered anymore.
Taking yet another swallow of the decadent liquid, he finished off his glass. Setting it on his thigh, he let his head roll back, languishing in self pity. Why did everything always happen to him? Did God hate him so damn much? A sudden lurch of rage and self loathing bit into him deeply. If the would could have caused a physical wound, he would have bled to death.
Standing, Kell began to pace in the saloon. Why couldn't he have been there for her? Why the hell couldn't he have been there? Bile and hated boiled up inside his throat.
A sudden image flooded his mind as he stood. His mother sitting on the edge of his bed when he was seven. He'd had scarlet fever and she wouldn't leave his side. She'd fed him broth of chicken, and wiped his forehead with cool cloths. He'd been so scared, but she had always calmed his fears, never leaving his side. And he'd survived.
And now she was gone.
"Why?" Kell screamed and threw the delicate crystal glass into the fireplace. It shattered, breaking into a million pieces. Kell fell to his knees screaming obscenities, and began to hit the hardwood floor with his fists. He hit them against the floor until they bled, ached under the force and pressure he put on them. The pain felt good, it was something he knew. Physical pain he could deal with. He couldn't deal with this emotional kind of pain.
Through his torment, the fire in the hearth played, dancing over his features. Casting shadows that moved and pulsed through the room. As Kell broke down into sobs and bloodied fists, the fire grew bright. Anger, hate and guilt spread through the room like a foul disease.
"Kelloch Alistair," Mrs. O'Donnell ran into the room, full of swinging skirts and apprehension. Her normally full and ruddy face was bright with anger. "You close that big mouth of yours and quit yer drinking! Your sister's upstairs bawling something fierce. Your banging and was that glass breaking?-is making her even more crazed."
Kell stood swaying on his feet. He was feeling the effects of the alcohol now. His vision was blurred around the edges, and he was slightly off balance when he stood. He caught himself on the edge of the settee, and closed his eyes against sudden nausea. When the world had quit its infernal spinning he glared at Mrs. O'Donnell.
"I am the master and head of this house, Mrs. O'Donnell. You will listen to my orders, and no other. Is that quite understood? If I wish to yell, drink or whatever else I find pleasing, I will, and you will not order me about." Kell brushed past her, staggering as he went.
"Begging your pardon sir, but I would rather take orders form the devil himself than you while you've been drinking, my young sir." Mrs. O'Donnell turned to watch Kell turn around and face her. "Tis the blinking truth that not long ago you were under my charge."
"I'm a man now, Mrs. O'Donnell. I'm twenty and four years of age. And by God, I am a man. I'm the bloody Baron of Jamison, Viscount Havisham, Earl Townsende, and Duke Hawthorne. I am a bloody man!" Kell raged at his former nanny. The woman wasn't impressed in his show of temper.
"Nay, your no man, Kell. Until you've a proper wife and child, with normal sensibilities, you will be man. Not just for your age, nor any title you carry in a country an ocean away. No." Mrs. O'Donnell shook her head at him and began to ascend the stairs to check on his sister.
Kell staggered back into the saloon and grabbed the decanter of brandy off the side table, he fell onto the sitting couch. Pulling the top of the crystal decanter off of the brandy, he threw the crystal piece into the fireplace, letting it break just outside the hearth.
Bringing the dark liquid to his lips, he took a long, deep swallow. Pulling the bottle away from his lips, to dark lines of the rich alcohol rolled down his jaw to drip on his pristine white starched shirt. Sitting up, he tore his blue dinner dress jacket off of his arms, before falling back onto the sitting couch.
Kell woke the next morning to a pounding headache. Groaning, he pressed his hand to his head, and cursed his very existence. Sitting up slowly, he wincing over the pain in his skull. Muttering another distasteful blasphemy, he opened his eyes and blinked at the brightens of the daylight.
Someone had opened the drapes already, causing the morning light to stream directly into his eyes. He had a distinct impression that someone did that on purpose, in punishment for the ruckus he had caused the night before. He was going to have a very stern talk with the Mrs. O'Donnell after breakfast. The devil take that Irish woman, she was very well going to be the death of him.
"Bloody Hell," he muttered quietly to himself, as he blinked at the bright light. Glancing down, he saw the decanter at his feet, only the barest traces of brandy left. Ah, how he would do anything for another glass of the liquid. Anything to rid of him of his foul humor.
"Well good morrow to you too, Kelloch." A deep rumbling male voice said brightly from his left. Glancing up, Kell wanted to roll over and go back to sleep. "What? You arn't going to bid me a good morrow?"
Kell shook his head before wincing over the pain. "Nay, Sir Oliver." Standing, his knees felt as if they were made of water. With out much choice, he sank back down on to the sitting couch. How had he gotten here? By boat, you dolt, he said to himself. Shaking his head mentally, he forced himself to relax.
