Beneath the Magnolia's Boughs - Part One
Beneath the Magnolia's Boughs - Part One
Rating: NC-17 (overall)
Pairing: Dean/Sam, other characters include John, Mary, Missouri, OMC, OFC, and a person who bears a resemblance to the YED.
Category: M/M, AU, Historical
Summary: In the Old South, the heirs of two plantations are married against their will. One a tool to his father's aspirations, the other struck for life by a repulsive curse, will they be able to make a happy future together?
Author's Note: This all started when I received a comment on one of my other fics. antychan said: "Um, just wanted to say that I thought of you today after my BFF and I spent quite some time making a historical SPN harlequin romance plot up over the phone. You could write it." Having read the (extremely detailed) plot, and being flattered beyond all sense, I might have mentioned I would give it a go. That is this fic. So, I take no blame credit for this tale. :-) antychan did an awesome beta job for me too. So, without further ado, antychan and sallycandance, this is for you!
Part One
“Momma Missouri! Momma Missouri!” The little boy came stumbling through Momma Missouri’s door, tears dripping down his face.
"What is it child?” The woman’s voice was soothing honey, worn no less strong with advancing years. She caught the distraught boy to her and held him. “You be telling Momma Missouri now an’ we’ll see what we can do.”
Wide, wet hazel eyes gazed up at her, full of all the hurt in the world. “They said…” He hiccupped. “They said I wasn’t born right.” He broke out into fresh sobs.
Momma Missouri wanted to get her hands on those boys and show them the flat of her hand. There was nothing more cutting than the cruelty of children. Cuddling the trembling little body, she told him, “Now you listen to me. Them boys don’t know a word of what they’re saying. You was born out of love, and there ain’t nothing more right than that.”
“That’s what Papa says.”
“And who do you think it be that told him? Momma Missouri knows lots of things, young ‘un.” The sobbing had stopped, and a watery smile was blooming on the sweet little face.
“Do you know the story about my family?” He knew she did. She had told it to him many times.
Momma Missouri smiled. Letting the boy go, she walked over to one of her most prized possessions; a lovingly carved rocking chair. Settling herself in it, she patted her lap. The child scrambled up and settled in against her generous curves. “Well now, that be one of them things that Momma Missouri knows very well. Once upon a time, before you was even born…”
***
John Winchester wanted only one thing in his life; to marry the woman he loved. Mary Whitman, the only child of the neighbouring family, was everything he had ever wanted in a wife. She was beautiful, sweet-natured, and exceedingly capable. He wanted a partner, not a delicate flower. The Whitman Plantation, that Mary stood to inherit, was only small, but John had no care for such things. The Winchester Plantation was the largest in the area, and he had no need of further land. His father, Joseph, would no doubt have considered this a blasphemy - ”You can never have enough, son. The world is full of small men who thought they had enough and found out the hard way that they didn’t.” - and would have considered this a grave concern when choosing a wife. As it turned out, though, had John Winchester got what he wanted a great many Southern sons would have lost their lives in war.
Joseph Winchester was a very practical, very cold and, as a consequence, very rich man. He hadn’t gotten where he was in this world by letting his heart rule his head. It hadn’t hurt that his great-grandfather had emigrated from England with a fortune already made, or that his wife - who had died of a fever shortly after birthing Joseph’s precious heir - had left him something of a fortune too, but Joseph was not one of the idle rich. He was a hard man who worked and lived for his family name and the plantation they had built up. So, had he known about his son’s affection for the neighbour’s girl he likely would have proceeded just as he planned to regardless. Without fanfare - or consulting his son’s wishes - Joseph arranged for, and announced, John’s marriage to the daughter of the owner of the largest bank in the county, a most advantageous match for the cunning parents if less so for their unfortunate children.
However, Joseph had not raised a weak, biddable son. John was, in many ways, like his father. The house slaves would whisper for years to come of the row that arose that night. Both men in a full rage was something fiercesome to behold. No one dared to enter the study until much, much later. In fact, no one was even game to go near, so not one person knew what it was that had made John suddenly stop short and agree - though still unwillingly - to the arranged marriage. Had they been brave enough to listen at the door, they would have found out that it was his father’s cruel pronouncement that he would not give John leave to marry any other girl, no matter how much his heart may be set on her. Without his father’s permission, no man of God would perform the ceremony; such was his father’s power over those in the area. They could have run away, but John refused to put that kind of stigma on the good woman whom he cared so much for. So John married Katherine, the banker’s daughter, and hoped that Mary would one day forgive him.
Mary, it turned out, would have miseries of her own. Her dear father fell ill and, fearing for an unwed daughter with a plantation and small wealth, also sought a partner for his child. What he found was a newly arrived, purportedly blue-blooded young aristocrat. What he was, in fact, was a lesser son of an impoverished lordling so far removed from the royal family that nearly half the population of England would have had to suddenly die for him to be an heir to any crown. He was an older man than Mary; nearly twice her age, in fact. He was not unhandsome, with a squarish, angular face and cleft chin, but his thin lips held a cruel tilt and his narrow, deep-set eyes were devoid of any true emotion. He was ambitious and pitiless, more so than anyone at the time imagined. His name was Fredric Talbot.
So neither John nor Mary got the marriage they had hoped for. John and Katherine had a comfortable enough relationship, neither one loving the other but aware that making the most of their marriage was the best they could do. Mary and Fredric had no such understanding. Once her father died, Mary became a ghost in her own home, all but ignored by the husband who now had his plantation. When the news spread that the Winchesters were expecting the arrival of the next generation, Mary fell into a deeper depression, but again it went unnoticed by her husband, who got it in his head that he, too, needed heirs. There was little love lost between them, but Fredric got his wish, and Mary’s pregnancy was announced just eight months after Katherine’s. Mary’s predicament did not improve with the birth of her son, Samuel. In fact, it worsened considerably. Mary began to suffer from night sweats and fevers, or chills. Food held no interest for her, and she began to waste away. When she developed a cough that brought blood to her mouth, the doctors pronounced her as suffering from consumption and incurable.
Katherine had also given birth to a baby boy, much to the delight of Joseph. Another male heir to continue his family name, to uphold the honour he had come to expect as his due, and to continue expanding his great empire. To commemorate the auspicious occasion, Joseph hosted a public baptism for the boy, Dean. Everyone of any importance crowded into the church to see the spectacle, and got to see much more of one than they had anticipated. Barely had the water been sprinkled and the family begun their stately procession down the church steps before a disaster that was to echo through all their lives occurred. A strong, dark hand reached out and clasped Joseph’s arm, halting his steps. Enraged, Joseph turned on the slave who had dared to touch him. Uncowed, the black man held out a small burlap bag, and said, “For the child. Good luck it shall bring him.”
Joseph was speechless for all of a second, before he let out a roar and knocked the bag out of the man’s hand. He shook off the unwelcome touch and shoved the smaller man away, down the stairs. The public humiliation of having been addressed by a slave drove Joseph down the steps after him, pulling his belt from his waist as he moved. The man had landed hard and awkwardly at the bottom of the steps, dazing him and giving Joseph all the time he needed to approach, belt raised high, before bringing it down on the slave’s unprotected form. With no way to protect himself, the man curled in on himself, trying to cover his head as blood began to flow from the cuts dealt by the belt’s wicked metal buckle. Again and again, Joseph brought the makeshift whip down until, finally, John grabbed his arm and yelled, “Stop! You’re killing him.”
It was, however, too late. Had anyone bothered to examine the man’s body, they would have discovered that Joseph had landed several hard blows to the slave’s head, making death inevitable. As it was, no one dared to say a thing. The dying man, though, had no such qualms. Had Joseph known anything about his slaves, he might have recognised this man as a powerful worker of voodoo. The bag he had offered the child would have served as a protection throughout his life, but lay in the dirt beside him. He looked up at his murderer, daring to look him in the eye, and cursed, “As I offered you good and you dealt me evil, I now offer you in kind. No heir will you ever have…from this generation. Never will a…boy father a son, and…your grand-daughters will be…barren. Only in unnatural acts…by true love…will your line…continue. So I curse you…with…my…last…breath.” And so it was.
All who were gathered there were witnesses to these events. As they had all seen - or heard rumours of - the power wielded by the voodoo priests, none were game to denounce the curse as foolishness. Indeed, most there completely believed that the curse would prove to be true. It set Joseph on a journey for repudiation. He had, with one impetuous act, brought down all he had managed to build up. So he set out, month after month, to find the most powerful voodoo priests in all the South, but they all answered him the same. This was Death Magic, and there was nothing more powerful. There was no way to reverse the curse. The only man who could have done so was dead, by Joseph’s own hand. The grief, the overwhelming despair over all he had lost, over what he had brought down upon his head and his family’s, ate at Joseph like a canker, and he died before Dean even reached his first year.
John, now in charge of his father’s ‘great empire’, sought redemption through other means. He had seen how his father’s rule had affected those under his charge. He had seen the injustices that had befallen many a slave. So he decided, then and there, to reverse the evils that had been done. John, never one to follow societal mores, dared to see the slaves as more than chattel, as human beings, and equals. No longer forced to work unreasonable hours for little gain, and supplied with accommodations better than simply adequate, his workforce worked just as well, if not better than they had under threat and whip. Not as foolish as some would have imagined, John even went so far as to consult with his workers, and benefited greatly from taking their knowledgeable advice. They became his asset, his trusted advisers, and even his friends.
Katherine, horrified by the disgraceful fate that awaited her son and disgusted by her husband’s behaviour towards his lessers, sought distraction elsewhere. She met a man from London visiting relatives and quickly set about securing his affections. It did not take long for her to acquire his promise to take her back to London, having decided it was far better to be a rich man’s mistress, away from the shame and scandal that dogged her footsteps here. John remained unaware of his wife’s machinations until it was too late; having received word that she had boarded a ship with her patron that morning. Two weeks later he again received word, this time to tell him that the ship had sunk in a storm and he was now a widower with a small child to raise. So it was that John turned to his new friends for help, and received it in spades. The women adopted the sweet little boy, giving him more love than his mother had had to spare, and teaching him tolerance in an intolerant world.
TBC
Rating: NC-17 (overall)
Pairing: Dean/Sam, other characters include John, Mary, Missouri, OMC, OFC, and a person who bears a resemblance to the YED.
Category: M/M, AU, Historical
Summary: In the Old South, the heirs of two plantations are married against their will. One a tool to his father's aspirations, the other struck for life by a repulsive curse, will they be able to make a happy future together?
Author's Note: This all started when I received a comment on one of my other fics. antychan said: "Um, just wanted to say that I thought of you today after my BFF and I spent quite some time making a historical SPN harlequin romance plot up over the phone. You could write it." Having read the (extremely detailed) plot, and being flattered beyond all sense, I might have mentioned I would give it a go. That is this fic. So, I take no blame credit for this tale. :-) antychan did an awesome beta job for me too. So, without further ado, antychan and sallycandance, this is for you!
Part One
“Momma Missouri! Momma Missouri!” The little boy came stumbling through Momma Missouri’s door, tears dripping down his face.
"What is it child?” The woman’s voice was soothing honey, worn no less strong with advancing years. She caught the distraught boy to her and held him. “You be telling Momma Missouri now an’ we’ll see what we can do.”
Wide, wet hazel eyes gazed up at her, full of all the hurt in the world. “They said…” He hiccupped. “They said I wasn’t born right.” He broke out into fresh sobs.
Momma Missouri wanted to get her hands on those boys and show them the flat of her hand. There was nothing more cutting than the cruelty of children. Cuddling the trembling little body, she told him, “Now you listen to me. Them boys don’t know a word of what they’re saying. You was born out of love, and there ain’t nothing more right than that.”
“That’s what Papa says.”
“And who do you think it be that told him? Momma Missouri knows lots of things, young ‘un.” The sobbing had stopped, and a watery smile was blooming on the sweet little face.
“Do you know the story about my family?” He knew she did. She had told it to him many times.
Momma Missouri smiled. Letting the boy go, she walked over to one of her most prized possessions; a lovingly carved rocking chair. Settling herself in it, she patted her lap. The child scrambled up and settled in against her generous curves. “Well now, that be one of them things that Momma Missouri knows very well. Once upon a time, before you was even born…”
***
John Winchester wanted only one thing in his life; to marry the woman he loved. Mary Whitman, the only child of the neighbouring family, was everything he had ever wanted in a wife. She was beautiful, sweet-natured, and exceedingly capable. He wanted a partner, not a delicate flower. The Whitman Plantation, that Mary stood to inherit, was only small, but John had no care for such things. The Winchester Plantation was the largest in the area, and he had no need of further land. His father, Joseph, would no doubt have considered this a blasphemy - ”You can never have enough, son. The world is full of small men who thought they had enough and found out the hard way that they didn’t.” - and would have considered this a grave concern when choosing a wife. As it turned out, though, had John Winchester got what he wanted a great many Southern sons would have lost their lives in war.
Joseph Winchester was a very practical, very cold and, as a consequence, very rich man. He hadn’t gotten where he was in this world by letting his heart rule his head. It hadn’t hurt that his great-grandfather had emigrated from England with a fortune already made, or that his wife - who had died of a fever shortly after birthing Joseph’s precious heir - had left him something of a fortune too, but Joseph was not one of the idle rich. He was a hard man who worked and lived for his family name and the plantation they had built up. So, had he known about his son’s affection for the neighbour’s girl he likely would have proceeded just as he planned to regardless. Without fanfare - or consulting his son’s wishes - Joseph arranged for, and announced, John’s marriage to the daughter of the owner of the largest bank in the county, a most advantageous match for the cunning parents if less so for their unfortunate children.
However, Joseph had not raised a weak, biddable son. John was, in many ways, like his father. The house slaves would whisper for years to come of the row that arose that night. Both men in a full rage was something fiercesome to behold. No one dared to enter the study until much, much later. In fact, no one was even game to go near, so not one person knew what it was that had made John suddenly stop short and agree - though still unwillingly - to the arranged marriage. Had they been brave enough to listen at the door, they would have found out that it was his father’s cruel pronouncement that he would not give John leave to marry any other girl, no matter how much his heart may be set on her. Without his father’s permission, no man of God would perform the ceremony; such was his father’s power over those in the area. They could have run away, but John refused to put that kind of stigma on the good woman whom he cared so much for. So John married Katherine, the banker’s daughter, and hoped that Mary would one day forgive him.
Mary, it turned out, would have miseries of her own. Her dear father fell ill and, fearing for an unwed daughter with a plantation and small wealth, also sought a partner for his child. What he found was a newly arrived, purportedly blue-blooded young aristocrat. What he was, in fact, was a lesser son of an impoverished lordling so far removed from the royal family that nearly half the population of England would have had to suddenly die for him to be an heir to any crown. He was an older man than Mary; nearly twice her age, in fact. He was not unhandsome, with a squarish, angular face and cleft chin, but his thin lips held a cruel tilt and his narrow, deep-set eyes were devoid of any true emotion. He was ambitious and pitiless, more so than anyone at the time imagined. His name was Fredric Talbot.
So neither John nor Mary got the marriage they had hoped for. John and Katherine had a comfortable enough relationship, neither one loving the other but aware that making the most of their marriage was the best they could do. Mary and Fredric had no such understanding. Once her father died, Mary became a ghost in her own home, all but ignored by the husband who now had his plantation. When the news spread that the Winchesters were expecting the arrival of the next generation, Mary fell into a deeper depression, but again it went unnoticed by her husband, who got it in his head that he, too, needed heirs. There was little love lost between them, but Fredric got his wish, and Mary’s pregnancy was announced just eight months after Katherine’s. Mary’s predicament did not improve with the birth of her son, Samuel. In fact, it worsened considerably. Mary began to suffer from night sweats and fevers, or chills. Food held no interest for her, and she began to waste away. When she developed a cough that brought blood to her mouth, the doctors pronounced her as suffering from consumption and incurable.
Katherine had also given birth to a baby boy, much to the delight of Joseph. Another male heir to continue his family name, to uphold the honour he had come to expect as his due, and to continue expanding his great empire. To commemorate the auspicious occasion, Joseph hosted a public baptism for the boy, Dean. Everyone of any importance crowded into the church to see the spectacle, and got to see much more of one than they had anticipated. Barely had the water been sprinkled and the family begun their stately procession down the church steps before a disaster that was to echo through all their lives occurred. A strong, dark hand reached out and clasped Joseph’s arm, halting his steps. Enraged, Joseph turned on the slave who had dared to touch him. Uncowed, the black man held out a small burlap bag, and said, “For the child. Good luck it shall bring him.”
Joseph was speechless for all of a second, before he let out a roar and knocked the bag out of the man’s hand. He shook off the unwelcome touch and shoved the smaller man away, down the stairs. The public humiliation of having been addressed by a slave drove Joseph down the steps after him, pulling his belt from his waist as he moved. The man had landed hard and awkwardly at the bottom of the steps, dazing him and giving Joseph all the time he needed to approach, belt raised high, before bringing it down on the slave’s unprotected form. With no way to protect himself, the man curled in on himself, trying to cover his head as blood began to flow from the cuts dealt by the belt’s wicked metal buckle. Again and again, Joseph brought the makeshift whip down until, finally, John grabbed his arm and yelled, “Stop! You’re killing him.”
It was, however, too late. Had anyone bothered to examine the man’s body, they would have discovered that Joseph had landed several hard blows to the slave’s head, making death inevitable. As it was, no one dared to say a thing. The dying man, though, had no such qualms. Had Joseph known anything about his slaves, he might have recognised this man as a powerful worker of voodoo. The bag he had offered the child would have served as a protection throughout his life, but lay in the dirt beside him. He looked up at his murderer, daring to look him in the eye, and cursed, “As I offered you good and you dealt me evil, I now offer you in kind. No heir will you ever have…from this generation. Never will a…boy father a son, and…your grand-daughters will be…barren. Only in unnatural acts…by true love…will your line…continue. So I curse you…with…my…last…breath.” And so it was.
All who were gathered there were witnesses to these events. As they had all seen - or heard rumours of - the power wielded by the voodoo priests, none were game to denounce the curse as foolishness. Indeed, most there completely believed that the curse would prove to be true. It set Joseph on a journey for repudiation. He had, with one impetuous act, brought down all he had managed to build up. So he set out, month after month, to find the most powerful voodoo priests in all the South, but they all answered him the same. This was Death Magic, and there was nothing more powerful. There was no way to reverse the curse. The only man who could have done so was dead, by Joseph’s own hand. The grief, the overwhelming despair over all he had lost, over what he had brought down upon his head and his family’s, ate at Joseph like a canker, and he died before Dean even reached his first year.
John, now in charge of his father’s ‘great empire’, sought redemption through other means. He had seen how his father’s rule had affected those under his charge. He had seen the injustices that had befallen many a slave. So he decided, then and there, to reverse the evils that had been done. John, never one to follow societal mores, dared to see the slaves as more than chattel, as human beings, and equals. No longer forced to work unreasonable hours for little gain, and supplied with accommodations better than simply adequate, his workforce worked just as well, if not better than they had under threat and whip. Not as foolish as some would have imagined, John even went so far as to consult with his workers, and benefited greatly from taking their knowledgeable advice. They became his asset, his trusted advisers, and even his friends.
Katherine, horrified by the disgraceful fate that awaited her son and disgusted by her husband’s behaviour towards his lessers, sought distraction elsewhere. She met a man from London visiting relatives and quickly set about securing his affections. It did not take long for her to acquire his promise to take her back to London, having decided it was far better to be a rich man’s mistress, away from the shame and scandal that dogged her footsteps here. John remained unaware of his wife’s machinations until it was too late; having received word that she had boarded a ship with her patron that morning. Two weeks later he again received word, this time to tell him that the ship had sunk in a storm and he was now a widower with a small child to raise. So it was that John turned to his new friends for help, and received it in spades. The women adopted the sweet little boy, giving him more love than his mother had had to spare, and teaching him tolerance in an intolerant world.
TBC