Leona

Leona

Author's note: Most people in paragraph marked with * did exist. My purely fictional characters stretched the truth very liberally and thin around them.

Leona fretted about her son. Leona O'Reilly, wife of Irishman, Patrick O'Reilly, mother of four red-headed sons ages seven to fifteen and one little girl with red-gold long curls, sat at the family kitchen table with the brief letter her eldest son, Fred, had written from the far away camp where at age eighteen he was learning to be a soldier. Although he tried to keep it cheerful for her sake, she knew how to read between the lines. She knew he was using this army life as a way to escape his blacksmith life here and make his own way in the world. She prayed he could stay alive while he was proving himself. He'd chosen a very dangerous solution.

Of course, ever since she shared the truth about his birth with him two years prior, Fred no longer felt like a part of this family on wheat waving farm land. Really, even before that he felt left out. That is why he finally forced her hand to tell him the truth. Why did he have dark hair when all the others bore red like the father and his mother was fair? Why could he never get along with his 'Pa', Patrick, when everyone else thought the Irishman was kind and easy going?

As her children and their father slept, Leona drifted into the for-company-only parlor in their simple farmhouse and gazed at the cherished portrait that traveled with her across an ocean and a continent to hang in honor at the lowly sharecropper's home in the middle of South Dakota.

The forbidden memory resurfaced.

A fleeting smile crossed her usual staunch expression as she drifted back in time into the arms of a dark-haired romeo that enticed her into doing unheard of sinful acts. Forbidden acts that aroused something within that gave her unknown pleasure she never wanted to disavow. Something that could never be. She a royal princess. He a lesser lord barely above a commoner. Not an advantageous match in any sense, therefore not allowed. Never to be. She sinned an unforgivable sin. She lost all rights and ties to her aristocratic family.

*In her day Infanta Marie Theresa House of Braganca of Portugal was often mentioned as one of the most beautiful women in all of Europe. Leona's grandmother, whom she favored in physical beauty, was the third wife of Archduke Karl Ludwig of Austria therefore she was an Archduchess, sister-in-law to Emperor Franz Joseph I of Austria, King of Hungary. She was also step-mother to Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the throne who, according to newspapers that infiltrated the humble home, stopped an assassin's bullet and died along with his beloved wife, Sofia, on a diplomatic visit to the Austria-Hungarian province of Bosnia back in the summer of 1914. Archduke Franz would have been a great uncle, or maybe actually a half-great uncle, to little Leona. She remembered him as someone who liked to go hunting in far away lands like Africa or Australia.*

Leona also remembered once being told how her grandmother had stood up for Uncle Franz's right to marry the lady-in-waiting, Sofia, whom he loved although she was beneath his station, as long as their children could never inherit the throne. No such intervention was launched on her own behalf years later when she wanted to marry a merchant baron. It was why she ended up marrying the seaman, Patrick, asleep in their double bed upstairs.

But killing a presumptive heir to an empire is the stuff wars are fought over. And this debacle was a catalyst that started the 'war to end all wars', as stated by the US President when he called all the young men, like her strong rebellious Frederick, to arms. Prince Frederick from the House of Habsburg. Would-be heir to the Austria-Hungary Empire of Europe in a righteous world. Did he even understand who he was taking up arms against? Would he be fighting his own cousins? Killing in his homeland? It pained her to think about it.

If I wrote a letter to the war department or whatever powers-that-be could I get him released from this fate? Or would this US regime consider all of my family here as enemies of the state and have them impounded. Would the land of the free do that? Whom could I trust to ask that would know answers to my questions? The wealthy owner of their sharecropping land, Raymond McCormick, living in the fine house up on the hill, was the only well-educated man she knew that might understand. But could she work up the courage to ask him?

She realized how very tired she was as she looked at the basket full of darning to be done and the looming pile of ironing awaiting. Anything left undone would still be waiting for her tomorrow. With a heavy sigh she turned down the wicks in all lanterns downstairs and carried a candle in a holder up the stairs and checked in each of the bedrooms where her children slumbered. May the Lord bless and keep them. Quietly she entered her own bedroom and listening to Patrick's deep rhythmic breathing eased out of her skirts, pulled her long nightgown overhead and lowered her undergarments. Silently she let down her thick luxurious hair, thoroughly brushed it and re-braided it before slipping between the sheets barely breathing less she arouse her husband.

His arm automatically reached over to pull her toward him. He stroked her smooth skin as he pushed her nightgown up, “Um, you feel so good.” Rolled on top of her as he nuzzled his face in the curve of her neck. Found the opening between her legs; grunted one, two, three times; rolled off; patted her covered bosom; mumbled, “Ah, that's my good girl.” And fell immediately back to sleep. Maybe he never woke up. She stared blankly up at the ceiling as she pulled the slightly dampened gown down again. Wonder if I'll ever know that unknown pleasure again. She thought briefly.

Patrick loved her very much. She knew he did. He worked very hard providing for her and the ever growing family. She rubbed her hand over her expanding waistline. Another fine red-headed prince? Yes, my fate certainly took a turn from princess to pauper.