During the days, she was incessantly occupied with her work, as was he, but now, with the shortening days, the evenings were long, and there should have been opportunity to talk, to somehow bridge the distance that had grown between them during these last few years. Instead, she escaped into more chores, insisting the table had to be scrubbed with salt, or how could she have forgotten to mend Malcolm’s breeches.
She never touched him out of bed, gliding away like a fleeing doe when he tried to hug her or simply take her hand. He didn’t understand. He tried to show her how overjoyed he was with the coming child, but when his hands spanned her expanding waist, she shrivelled under his touch, her face acquiring a distant look. He had to talk to someone about all this before he burst, but not with Betty, not with a pretty lass that followed him around with her adoring beautiful eyes wherever he went.
*
“Maybe she’s afraid,” Alex said, having listened to a very hesitant Ian.
“Afraid?” Ian slurped the hot soup.
“That things might go wrong; that something might happen to her – or the baby.”
Ian shook his head. “She’s fit as a fiddle, and Malcolm was an easy delivery.”
“How would you know?” Alex said with some acerbity. “And, even if it was, maybe it scared her. Some women just hate it.” She came to stand behind him, and stroked his hair. Hair so like his father’s used to be, a deep vivid brown that even in winter retained a tone of chestnut to it. Her fingers unravelled tangles, dragged their way through wavy soft curls that had gone a long time unbrushed. Alex produced a comb from her apron pocket and began to tug her way through his hair. Ian sat immobile under her ministrations and to her surprise, Alex realised he was crying.
“Ian?” She hugged him, kissing his cheek.
“Don’t mind me,” he said in a gravelly voice. “It’s just…”
“Just what?” Tenderly, she smoothed a lock of hair in behind his ear.
“She doesn’t touch me like this,” he admitted in a pained whisper. “Not anymore.”
“Oh, Ian.” Alex kissed him again. “She will. Just bear with her for some time, okay?” And if she didn’t shape up then Jenny was going to find out just how protective Alex Graham was of her children – all her children.
“A lioness,” Matthew agreed with a weak smile when she told him this. His hair had also been brushed into some kind of order, his face washed, his sore nose anointed with grease that smelled of peppermint, and he was sitting up in bed, nursing a steaming cup of something he insisted tasted like horse piss.
“Much more dangerous than a bloody lion.” Alex sat down beside him and adjusted his clean shirt. “Better today?”
“Aye.” He tentatively pulled in air through his nose, sounding as if he were gargling. Alex smiled and indicated the mug.
“That’s why you have to drink that. All of it.”
He made a face but drank all the same.
“He’s right,” Alex said, snuggling up to him.
“Hmm?” Matthew yawned and put his arm around her shoulders.
“Something’s bothering Jenny, and I don’t believe it’s the baby or her strained relationship with her father.”
Matthew yawned again. “Breeding women are a strange kind, aye? It will sort itself once the wean is born.”
Chapter 15
It was touch and go who was the most surprised: the Burley brothers or Matthew. There was no doubt whatsoever as to who was the most frightened, with Matthew sinking back with a little hiss into the trees, musket in hand.
“Why if it isn’t Mr Graham himself,” Philip Burley said. “Just the man we wanted to see.”
“You’re trespassing,” Matthew told them, putting some more yards between them. A few paces behind the brothers limped a fourth man, and when Matthew saw the grisly coat, he concluded this was the accursed Indian scout.
“We are? Oh dear, oh dear.” Philip caressed his musket, looking at Matthew. “We heard the hunting is exceptionally good here.”
“And so we came,” Stephen filled in.
“No dog?” Philip asked, taking a step towards him.
Matthew wheeled and ran.
He was fast, and had the added advantage of knowing his land where they did not, leaping over trunks and crevices with the grace of a buck. A musket ball whistled past him, and he increased his speed, hoping Ian or Mark would have heard the shot. He slipped on a patch of ice, lost his footing, and rolled to the bottom of a long incline, scrambling to regain his feet.
He was up, veering to the left, but Walter was far too close. Matthew bounded up the next hillside, crashed through a thicket of blackberry brambles, and heard Walter curse. From his right came Philip, musket held aloft as a club. Over the relatively flat expanse of ground, the younger man gained on him, and it was but a matter of yards before that musket would strike him over the head, or between his shoulders.
Philip cheered, increased his speed, and the stock of his gun came down, whooshing through the air. It caught Matthew squarely over his left arm, a blow strong enough to send him staggering. For an instant, he was down, knee on the ground, and here came Philip, musket raised for yet another blow. Matthew swung his own weapon, striking Philip over his legs. A misdirected swipe, not at all enough to do Philip any serious damage, but at least Matthew was back on his feet while Burley was down. Matthew tightened his hold on his musket, preparing to deliver one final blow. A shot: it nicked his arm. Stephen screamed as he came running with Walter at his heels. Matthew fled.
His breath was catching in his chest. His teeth ached with the effort of pounding up and down the undulating, wooded hills. From behind came the sounds of determined pursuit, and Matthew knew that, unless he made it back home, he would soon be dead – a protracted and painful death, no doubt. His ankle was beginning to throb, his boots dragged at his tired legs and there was blood trickling down his arm. He heard Walter jeeringly call his name. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw him closing in. Another shot, this one uncomfortably close to his head, and Matthew ducked and wove amongst saplings and boulders.
Matthew’s mind cranked into ice-cold logic, and he led them deeper into the woods, where their speed and youth would be less of an advantage. He skirted the abandoned Indian village, dropped heavily down the steep side of sheer rock that bordered it, and ran flat out for the distant opening in the trees, for the safety of his fields. Matthew could hear his own ragged breathing, his heart was beating like a drum in the constricted space of his chest, and he sensed them closing in on him like wolves round a wounded deer. He opened his mouth and screamed.
*
Ian frowned. Was that Da? He couldn’t recognise the voice, distorted with fear, but moved towards it nonetheless. The kitchen door slammed open, and there was Mama running like the wind towards the sound, kitchen knife in one hand, skirts in the other. In only her stockings, she burst across the frozen yard, and Ian fell into step with her, pitchfork still in hand. From the river came Mark, lithe and swift with his flintlock already at his shoulders, and now Ian could hear the thrashing sound of someone running for his life through the underbrush.
“Matthew!” Mama gasped. “My Matthew.”
A crash, someone keened – a triumphant sound – and Da burst into the open, legs stumbling as he rushed towards them. Indians? The shrubs parted, and out came the Burleys. Here? How came they to be here? Ian tried to scream a warning. Fifty yards in front of him, the Burleys had almost caught up with Da; so intent on bringing him down, they hadn’t noticed the three of them.
Mama shrieked. It near on made Ian jump, and it definitely had an effect on the Burleys. Heads snapped up, and Walter threw his musket into a firing position. Da collapsed on his knees, crawling as fast as he could towards them. Ian increased his speed, brandishing the pitchfork like a three-pronged lance before him. His vision narrowed into a chute with Walter his target. He heard Mama exclaim, felt the rush of air as a musket ball whizzed by him. Thirty yards…twenty-five. He tightened his grip on the worn wood of the pitchfork handle. Twenty yards…fifteen, and the Burley brothers turned and ran. Mark fired and Philip yelped, clapping his hand to his head. Ian hollered, all of him filled with a need to chase them down and beat them into lifeless pulp. Mark grabbed at his arm and brought him to a standstill.
“Nay,” Mark panted, “we can’t risk that they turn on us.”
Ian wrested himself free, scowling at his brother. So close!
“They all had muskets,” Mark said, “and I don’t think a pitchfork is the best of weapons when you go hunting wolves.”
Ian glowered, but nodded, wishing that he’d had the smooth stock of his flintlock in his hands instead.
*
Matthew couldn’t find the energy required to rise. Instead, he sat down, extending his shaking legs before him.
“What are they doing here?” Alex asked in a voice that was markedly unsteady.
Matthew found that a most idiotic question, so he just shook his head and concentrated on calming his heartbeat. He couldn’t collect when last he had run for so long and so fast. Distractedly, he noticed his breeches had tears and burrs in them after his panicked rush through the woods.
“Are you okay?” Her hands inspected him, travelling down his damp back, his sleeves.
He nodded and gulped for more air. “I lost the bird,” he said.
Alex stared at him. “You lost the bird,” she echoed.
He grunted. A big fat turkey, but he had thrown it away in his haste to flee.
“Small price to pay,” Alex said, and now she was weeping, falling to her knees to envelop as much of him as she could in her arms.
*
For three days, they rode in search of them, him and his sons, and for all that they picked up the trail for a while, it was as if the Burleys had gone up in smoke.
Matthew was in a foul mood when he entered the kitchen, hanging up his wet cloak with an irritated gesture before sitting down at the head of the table, waiting for his food.
“South-west,” he said through the piece of bread he had stuffed into his mouth, “they’ve gone south.” He sighed. He didn’t like it that the Burley brothers knew where he lived, where his family was. How easy it would be to sneak down at night and set the farm alight and then…
Several times over the last few months had come news of isolated homesteads burnt to the ground, people and beasts seemingly swallowed by the forest. The Burleys, he’d wager, back to their original slave-trading business but now dealing in whites rather than Indians.
“No!” Alex said when he shared this with her. “Who would want to buy them?”
“Indians, I presume, and some whites as well.”
“But they’re free men!”
“And you think anyone will care?” he asked her with a crooked smile. “The bairns will forget soon enough, the women will be made to forget, and the men die quickly.”
*
Slowly, they relaxed back into normality, into winter days spent catching up on all the undone chores of summer and autumn. But it was there: all the time, the Burley threat hung over them, tainting their lives, seeping in to undermine the safety of their home.
“Should you really…?” Alex said, breaking off when he scowled at her. She frowned back, took a determined breath and continued. “Is it really wise to walk about alone?”
Matthew pulled on his gloves and stamped his feet into his boots before replying. “I won’t be a prisoner to fear. Besides, we know they’re gone.”
“For now,” Alex replied.
“They won’t be back.” Matthew heard himself how utterly ludicrous that sounded. Before she could say anything, he stepped outside, whistled for one of the dogs, and hurried off into the forest.
He came back late in the afternoon, light of heart and mind. He had reclaimed his land over the day, walking very much on purpose to where he had run into the brothers. From there, he had tracked his own frantic progress through the woods, allowing himself to relive the fear he had felt.
For a moment, he stood scanning his empty winter fields, mentally seeing his sons and his wife converge on him as they had done that day, all of them determined to keep him safe, and something warm and soft settled in his chest. He looked over to where Alex appeared from the smoking shed, her basket filled with what he supposed to be trout, given the tails he saw sticking up, and strode to meet her.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi, yourself.” He took the basket from her.
“Good walk?”
He nodded and gave her a short description of what he’d done. “I even found the turkey,” he finished, setting down the basket to root around in his leather game bag.
“Matthew! It’s been dead well over a fortnight!”
“Aye, nothing but bones and feathers left.” Matthew produced a hare instead, laughing at her relieved face.
Chapter 16
“This has to stop,” Jenny said as she always did afterwards, never meaning it. She got up from her knees and turned to face Patrick. “I can’t do this anymore. It’s wrong, and should Ian ever find out…”
Patrick tightened his belt into place before raising his eyes to her. She flushed at the look he gave her, all too aware of how she must look, her bodice gaping open over breasts he had recently fondled, her skirts still rumpled, straining over her large belly. His child, she moaned inside, this was Patrick’s child. At times, all she wanted to do was to run away with him, sacrificing everything she had just to be with him, a bond servant with nothing to his name.
Patrick pouted. “I like my little wanton,” he said, sticking his hand up under her skirts. “So does my cock. Where would we go, he and I, for sport?”
“I’m not wanton!” Oh yes, she was, a little voice told her, because all this man had to do was jerk his head and she came running, so eager to please, so eager for him to use her as he just had.
“No?” Patrick laughed. “And what would your husband call you if he found out? He’d call you even worse.”
She slapped him. “Get out, and never come back. If you do, I’ll—”
“What?” Patrick was very close, his hand rubbing at his reddened cheek. “What?” he repeated, winding his hand into her hair. She gasped when he forced her towards him.
“Nothing,” she said, all of her melting with want.
“Jenny?”
The voice from outside had Jenny’s heart skipping a beat or two. Sweet Jesus in his meadows! Alex Graham was coming this way, and suddenly they were scrambling away, Patrick to throw himself out of sight behind the hay, Jenny to duck into the furthest stall and adjust her clothing.
“Mother Alex?” she replied in what she considered a very calm voice. “I’m here, down at the end.” She smoothed down her hair, clapped her cap into place, did laces with trembling fingers, and arranged her shawl.
*
Alex stood by the door and peered in the direction of Jenny’s voice. Her daughter-in-law rose into sight from behind one of the cows and came towards her, brushing at her apron as she went.
“Isn’t Patrick here?” Alex asked as she entered the byre.
“Here, mistress,” Patrick replied from behind her, appearing with an armful of hay.
Alex looked from her daughter-in-law to her bond servant. She could taste the tension in the air. Besides, she could smell it as well.
“Matthew has need of you,” she said to Patrick. “The three furthest wheat fields are to be tilled today.”
Patrick bobbed his head head, mumbled a farewell to Jenny and hurried off to where he had left the mule.
Alex turned the full force of her eyes on Jenny. Under her inspection, Jenny shrank back for an instant before straightening up to walk outside. Hmm. Was that hay in her hair?
“Finally spring,” Jenny said, extending her arms towards the March sun.
“Don’t remind me; first major laundry run tomorrow.” Alex smiled though, as pleased as Jenny was with the fact that winter was over. And today she was going to make nettle soup for supper, thrilled to bits at eating something fresh and green again, however unenthusiastic the majority of her family was.
“Betty will be accompanying us down to Providence,” Alex said once they were settled by the kitchen table. “She misses her family, poor thing, and for a girl used to living in a town, this must be the back of beyond.”
Jenny nodded and lowered herself to sit. With a little face, she stood back up again, smoothing skirts into place before sitting down.
“Your back?” Alex asked sympathetically.
“My everything.” Jenny grimaced, making Alex laugh.
“Only two more months.” Alex reached forward to pat Jenny’s hand.
“How is Naomi?” Jenny asked.
Alex broke out into a wide grin. “Horribly recovered, and the baby thrives.” A boy: her first biological grandson, with eyes she was convinced were going to be as blue as her own, even if Matthew kept on reminding her that most babies were born with blue eyes.
She studied Jenny for some minutes, drew in a huge breath, and locked eyes with her. “What’s going on?”
“Going on?” Jenny sounded confused, but Alex saw just how tightly she pressed her legs together, hands twisting into her skirts. “How going on?”
In reply, Alex sniffed and Jenny went an almost painful red. “With you and Patrick.”
“Nothing.” Jenny laughed. “How can you possibly think there is?”
Alex set her mouth and met Jenny’s wide, innocent stare. “I love Ian very much. I’ll not see him hurt. Not by you, not by anyone.”
Jenny swallowed audibly.
“So whatever it is you and Patrick are up to—”
“I just said: we are up to nothing!” Jenny interrupted in an angry voice.
“Don’t give me that!” Alex snapped, leaning forward. Jenny retreated, her back hitting the wall behind her. “As I was saying, whatever it is you are up to, end it. Now.” With that, Alex stood up and grabbed at her basket. “I actually came by for a cheese.”
Jenny was on her feet immediately and led the way to the dairy.
On the way back home, Alex mulled things over. There was no doubt in her mind that she had more or less caught Jenny and Patrick
in flagrante
, and then there were the other times. The time Patrick had ducked out of the dairy just as Alex arrived, the two or three times she could swear she’d seen Jenny in the woods far too close to Graham’s Garden, the evening when Patrick appeared from among the trees and several minutes later there came Jenny, from a slightly different direction, but still… What was the stupid girl thinking of, and what was she, Alex, going to do? Well, at least she knew she had to do one thing: speak to Matthew.
*
“She knows!” Jenny was panting from her hurried run through the forest, cutting across to where she knew Patrick would be working. “Oh sweetest merciful Jesus, she just looked at me, and I could see she knows!” She was dancing on her toes with panic.
“How can she know?” Patrick said. “No one has ever seen us, have they?”
Jenny had never told him about Betty, but decided this wasn’t the time to update him, so she just shook her head. Besides, Betty wouldn’t tell now if she hadn’t told before, would she?
“We have to end it.” Jenny looked Patrick in the eye. “I – we – can’t risk being accused of adultery!” She shuddered: adultery could carry the punishment of death, for both.
“They can never prove anything without our confession.”
“Oh God,” Jenny groaned, twisting her hands together. “What have I done?” She glared at him. “It’s your fault. You forced yourself upon me, and I, weak woman that I am, couldn’t stop you.”
“You didn’t want me to stop. If you did, you could have told your husband.”
“Ian!” Jenny’s throat closed up at the thought of how he would react. He’d look at her with those beautiful eyes, and she’d see the love in them extinguished to be replaced by ice. She didn’t want that. Now that it was nearly too late, she was filled with the certainty that she wanted nothing but to be a good wife to him, from now until the day she died. No more Patrick, ever, she swore, and her heart cracked at the thought. Dear Lord, she loved them both.
Jenny grasped at the smooth trunk of a maple sapling. The sky was whirling above her, the treetops chased each other round and round, and with a little ‘oh’ she collapsed to sit in the grass. Patrick crouched down beside her, his hand running up and down her back.
“We end it now,” he told her, helping her to her feet. “And whatever they ask us, we just repeat that, no, we’ve never done anything untoward. Agnes will help, I think.”
“Agnes?” Jenny didn’t understand.
Patrick chuckled. “Agnes is in love with me, and I’ve pretended not being entirely adverse to her little advances.” He shoved at her. “Go, hurry back home.” Jenny nodded and turned to rush off. He caught up with her ten yards into the forest, drew her close, and kissed her roughly.
“Take care of my child,” he said, and in his eyes flared a tenderness she had but rarely seen. His thumb came up to caress the wet skin under her eyes, and he kissed her again, a soft, warm touch of his mouth on hers, before returning to the field.
*
Once home, Alex set off in search of Matthew, finding him in the stables. He gave her a long look, brows in a forbidding line.
“Where have you been?”
“Forest Spring, for a cheese.”
“I don’t want you walking alone through the woods! How many times must I—”
Alex waved him silent. “We can talk about that later, okay?” Quickly, she shared her suspicions with him.
“Jenny? With Patrick?” Matthew was dumbfounded.
“I’m not sure, but there’s something there…and today…” She cleared her throat. “I could smell it.”
“But you’ve never seen them.”
“No, not as such. I hope I’m wrong, that I’m just overreacting.” Alex found a carrot in one of her pockets and broke it into pieces to feed it bit by bit to Moses.
Matthew wrinkled his brow and went back to his currying.
“I can’t tell Ian,” Alex said, “but I must, right?”
“Unless you’re sure, you can’t tell him.”
Alex felt her shoulders collapse with relief. “No, I can’t, can I?” She sidled over in the narrow stall to end up behind Matthew, her arms round his waist, her cheek leaning against his back. “What do we do?”
“Nothing, but I’ll have myself a wee talk with Patrick.”
She rubbed her cheek against his back. She could hear in his voice how affected he was, no doubt drawing horrible parallels between what might be happening to Ian and what had happened to him, when Ian’s mother – Matthew’s first wife – took Matthew’s brother to bed.
“I’m so sorry,” Alex said quietly. “I don’t want you to relive all that.”
“Mostly I don’t, but this…” He shook his head. “I’ll not see my son as badly treated. I’ll—”
“Shush, we don’t know, okay?” She tugged at him, making him turn in her arms before cupping his cheek. “We’ll deal with it together if we have to, and let’s just hope it’ll never come to that.”
*
“He denies it,” Matthew said later that evening, “but then he would.” He kept his voice low, a cautious eye in the direction of Betty and his daughters, who were involved in a game of draughts.
Mrs Parson muttered that otherwise he would be a fool, and whatever else Patrick might be, a fool he was not. Alex agreed, but was at the same time relieved. If both insisted on denying, maybe all of this could blow over. She was just about to say that when there was a loud shriek from the gaming table. The board flew into the air, scattering pieces all over the place.
“I didn’t cheat!” Sarah glared at Ruth. “I was winning, and then you say I was cheating.”
“Now we’ll never know,” Alex said. “What with you throwing it all up into the air, who’s to know if you were cheating – or winning?”
Sarah transferred her bright blue stare to Alex. “She always wins – always. And now I was winning, and she said I was cheating.”
“She was,” Betty agreed.
“What? Winning or cheating?” Matthew asked with a small smile.
“Pfft,” Betty snorted, “you can’t really cheat at draughts, can you?”
“Sarah can,” Ruth put in. “She can never beat me honestly.”
“I can so!” Sarah kicked in the general direction of her sister. “I beat you at chess last week.”
“That was a lucky game!” Ruth flashed back. “You’ll never win again. I dare you, Sarah Graham, I dare you to a new game.”
“Oh dear, sore point that,” Alex murmured.
Betty came over to join them by the hearth, still smiling. “At least they’ll spend the rest of the evening in silence,” she said, indicating where two heads were now bent over the chessboard.
“You think?” Matthew said.
The game ended with a triumphant Ruth knocking Sarah’s king over.
“I’m supposed to do that!” Sarah protested. “It’s me that pushes the king over when I give up.”
“Lassie, you’ve been staring at the board for the best part of half an hour without finding any way out of Ruth’s wee trap.” Matthew beckoned his youngest daughter over, and settled her on his lap. “How would you like coming with us down to Providence when we go in April?” Ruth’s eyes flew to his, green with jealousy. “You too,” he hastened to add, and found himself fending off two highly excited daughters, who nearly tumbled him to the floor in their attempts to ensure he knew just how much they loved him.
“Is there a church in Providence?” Sarah asked once they had calmed down.
“A meetinghouse, you know there is,” Matthew replied, “and we’ll go to service there.”
“Not one of our meetinghouses,” Sarah said, shaking her head. “Is there perhaps a convent?”
“A convent?” Betty made big eyes at her. “Why would there be a convent in Providence?”
“There should be,” Sarah grumbled, “for us lasses that wish to become a nun.”
“A nun?” Alex was working very hard to avoid laughing out loud. “Why would you want to be a nun?”
Sarah mumbled something about not being allowed to be a minister, so then she could at least become a nun.
“Nay, that you cannot,” Matthew said. “Nuns are papists, and that you’re not.”
Sarah pouted. “Then I’ll be a lady pirate.”
“More in keeping with your character,” Mrs Parson commented.
“Let’s just hope you’re not prone to seasickness.” Alex lowered her sewing to her lap, and let her eyes stray out of the window to the dark March sky. Was Jacob seasick? She sighed, and sent off a silent prayer that wherever he may be, he be alright.