Chapter 23
“Where’s Patrick?” Jenny asked in a casual tone. “I haven’t seen him of late.”
“Gone.” Alex gave Jenny an appraising look. The baby was due any day now, the whole belly having sunk down to hover just above her pubic bone.
“Gone?” Jenny’s fingers whitened with pressure when she clenched them round the handle to the baby basket she was presently lining. “Why?”
“I have no idea,” Alex lied and went back to her cooking.
Jenny made a strange sound, like a muffled honk, and with a muttered excuse fled the room. Alex was overwhelmed by a wave of compassion for her. How alone she must feel, even more now that Ian so clearly avoided her, exchanging a minimum of words with her, no more.
“Oh God, what a mess,” Alex said to Mrs Parson once the kitchen was empty of anyone but them.
“Aye, you can say that again.” Mrs Parson nodded, frowning down at her knitting. She used her fingers to ensure she hadn’t dropped any stitches before going on.
“You do have spectacles,” Alex informed her.
“Spectacles? They’re for old people, no?” Mrs Parson snorted.
Alex grinned. The old woman was pushing seventy, but apart from a general stiffening of her joints, she was almost disgustingly healthy.
“Will he keep her?” she asked Alex.
Alex shook her head. No, Ian had made up his mind, and with every day she could see him hardening his heart towards Jenny, his eyes regarding her with an impassiveness that Alex found quite disturbing. At least Jenny wouldn’t be destitute, some of her jointure being settled on her in case of divorce. Luckily, as she suspected Jenny would not receive much of a welcome should she choose to go back to Leslie’s Crossing. Little Constance would have a field day.
*
“Enough,” Matthew said, drawing the oxen to a halt. “Tired?” He smiled down at his son.
David straightened up from the crouch in which he’d been working for the last few hours and nodded. “So much stone,” he moaned, looking down at his reddened hands.
“And just as much there.” Matthew nodded at the next patch of half-cleared land. “But this we can plant this afternoon and then do that tomorrow, aye?”
David nodded again, boyish shoulders sloping downwards.
Matthew sighed inside. The laddie was too young to have to work this hard, but there was no choice, not now that Patrick was gone. A few weeks, no more, and then the new fields would all be cleared and planted, and he could release his son to go back to playing.
They were coming up the river path, the oxen ambling along, when a sudden movement caught Matthew’s eyes. David squawked and took hold of Matthew’s hand. On the other side of the river stood a group of Indians, and a tremor coursed through Matthew. These were not Susquehannock. These were Iroquois, and just the name had the hair along his spine rising. One of the men took a step forward and raised a hand, and after a couple of heartbeats, Matthew smiled in relieved recognition.
“Run, lad,” he said to David. “Run and tell your mama we have guests for dinner.”
“Guests?” David breathed.
“Aye, lad, guests.”
For a moment, Matthew thought Alex was about to hug Qaachow, but at the last moment she remembered herself, giving their Indian friend a nod instead.
“Qaachow,” she said, “it’s been years.”
The former Susquehannock tribal leader bowed back. He was much greyer than last time they’d seen him, his body far too lean, with a disfiguring scar on his right arm.
“What happened?” Alex asked.
“Snake bite,” he said in English that sounded rusty, not at all as fluent as it once had been. Mayhap he had little opportunity to practise it where he lived now. Qaachow extracted a small pouch and handed it to Alex. “From Thistledown.”
Alex shook out several seeds into her hand.
“Squash,” Qaachow said, “and beans.”
“Thank you.” Alex curtsied, making Matthew grin at the sheer incongruity of the gesture. His guest seemed to agree, smiling as he bent his naked torso in a slight bow in her direction before turning back to him.
“How is your son?” Matthew asked.
Qaachow smiled, his eyes travelling over the younger Graham boys. “He’s well.” He beckoned to Samuel, who at first hung back but, after a glance from Matthew, obediently stepped forward.
“This is for you.” Qaachow held out a small pouch decorated with quillwork and beads. “It contains your Indian name and spirit. A gift from your foster brother and me, your foster father.”
Samuel received it carefully. Matthew smiled crookedly. The lad knew that he had an Indian foster brother, having heard often enough how Mama had saved the little Indian baby from starvation, but not until this moment had Samuel realised that, as a consequence, he had an Indian foster father. Matthew swallowed down on the lump that was clogging his throat. His wee laddie, and from the way Qaachow was eyeing him, it was clear the Indian leader hadn’t forgotten Matthew’s promise all those years ago.
“My name?” Samuel said. “My name is Samuel.”
Qaachow smiled down at him. “Your Indian brother and you are like bear cubs, twins to the same mother. So he is Little Bear and you are White Bear.”
“White Bear,” Samuel repeated and hung the amulet pouch around his neck.
*
Alex watched all this from a distance, clenching her hands in her skirts to stop herself from doing something dangerous – and rude – such as rushing over to tear the amulet pouch off her son and throw it in the river. She made an effort, pasted a bland smile on her face, and invited their guests to dinner.
As always, Qaachow refused to step inside, but he studied the new house with interest, complimenting Matthew on its general size. Mark and Ian set up trestles outside, and Alex served the Indians and her men bread and meat and beer, before retreating to leave them space to talk.
In the kitchen, Betty and Naomi were staring through the window, with Agnes hanging over their shoulders.
“Has he come to take the lad with him?” Mrs Parson piped up from her corner.
“The lad?” Alex’s heart did some very strange arrhythmic things in her chest. “No, no, that’s not yet. Not until Samuel is about twelve or so. By then, he’ll probably have forgotten.”
“You think?” Mrs Parson snorted. “I think not.” She lowered her voice and told Alex that, in her opinion, it had been a rash and foolish thing Matthew had done, promising Qaachow to have the raising of Samuel for a year.
Alex just nodded. She looked over in the direction of Samuel, proudly showing off his new accessory to his brothers and nephew. White Bear, she thought, and in her mind she saw a polar bear raise itself on its hind legs and stare at her before it dropped back down on all fours and turned its back on her to walk away. She shuddered, and Mrs Parson put a hand on her arm.
“Nothing,” Alex assured her with a weak smile. “Just a goose walking over my grave.”
Mrs Parson gave her a very strange look. “You don’t have a grave.”
“No, not yet,” Alex said.
*
“Adopted?” Matthew said. “So you’re no longer Susquehannock?”
“The Susquehannock are a splintered remnant of a once great tribe,” Qaachow said, “and I have done what I must to ensure the survival of my people. So, now I’m an adopted son of the Mohawk, and my son speaks Mohawk, not Susquehannock, as do all our children. We’re forgetting our language and our customs, for it is as Iroquois we now live and fight.” It came out with a bitter edge to it, accompanied by a lingering look at Matthew’s fields and home, land that had once belonged to Qaachow’s tribe.
“And is that why you are here? To fight?” Matthew asked.
“We fight against the Piscataway. They have ever been a thorn in the side of the Susquehannock.”
“And you attack the odd colonist,” Matthew said.
“The odd one,” Qaachow said, “but it wasn’t us that harmed your old neighbour.”
“Nay, but it may have been people of your tribe.”
“It may have been.” Qaachow gave Matthew a dark look. “And, on the other hand, it might not. A white man in buckskins and with feathers in his hair looks verily like an Indian in the dark.”
“What is it you’re saying?”
Qaachow hitched one shoulder. “A band of white wolves killing white men. They sell the children and women into slavery, they steal the horses and the cows, and all is blamed on us.” And not only that, he said, at times they raided Indian villages as well, taking the young women with them and leaving the men dead or dying behind.
Matthew made a disgusted face. Yes, he could well believe it could happen – he knew it happened, courtesy of men such as the Burleys.
“Brothers?” he asked.
“Brothers: three of them. One of them has a badly scarred face. We drove them off some weeks ago.”
“Ah.” Matthew’s stomach shrank into a throbbing knot. They’d been here – again. More dogs, he decided, more muskets, and…
Qaachow placed a hand on his shoulder, dark eyes very close to his own. “We chased them all the way back across the great river, into what you call Virginia.”
Matthew’s shoulders softened with relief.
Qaachow seemed to consider this particular subject as dealt with, nodding in the direction of where Samuel was playing with his brothers and cousins. “He’s a fine boy, tall and strong.”
“Aye,” Matthew agreed, not at all liking just how hungrily Qaachow regarded his son.
Qaachow stood up, and at his short command his men did as well, moving over to stand in a loose group some feet away from the table.
“I’ll come for him,” Qaachow said to Matthew. “He’ll make a fine Indian.”
“Not yet,” Matthew said, hating it that there was a pleading note to his voice.
“No, not yet – but soon.” With that, Qaachow was gone, him and his band of braves evaporating into the surrounding trees.
*
“Will I be an Indian then?” Samuel said in a small voice, rubbing his face against Matthew’s chest. They were sitting on the bench under the white oak, finishing off what little remained of the food Alex had served their guests.
“Nay, you won’t. You’ll live with them for a while and learn their ways, and then you’ll come back to us.” Matthew stroked his boy over the knobbly back, pressing him close.
“Maybe I don’t want to.”
“I’ve given my word, lad. And you might find it quite an adventure.” Matthew kissed the dark head and met Alex’s eyes. What had at the time seemed nothing more than a gesture towards a man it behoved him to keep as his friend was now becoming a most uncomfortable commitment. He didn’t want his son to be taken away and grow up among the heathen, but he had seen it in Qaachow’s eyes: it was Samuel that ensured Graham’s Garden wouldn’t be touched by the Indians – or the Burleys – and Qaachow intended to claim his prize.
He could see it in her movements, in her eyes, how Alex wanted to take him by the hand and lead him away for a talk. He knew exactly what it was she wanted to discuss – Samuel – and also what she needed him to say. Lies, he sighed, she needed lies; worthless reassurances that of course Qaachow would not claim on his promise – reassurances he didn’t know how to give her, not now.
She waited until they were alone, cleared her throat, and looked at him beseechingly, eyes the colour of cornflowers at dawn. She opened her mouth; he held his breath. Just at that moment, Agnes burst from the house, asking the mistress to hurry because Jenny’s waters had broken.
*
“Ian?” Betty shoved the door open. “Ian? Mama Alex says that you must come. Jenny has begun her labour.”
Ian didn’t reply and went on with what he was doing.
“Ian?”
“She can do it without me.” Ian kept his back turned. He had no intention of sitting in the kitchen waiting, while his false wife birthed a child that might or might not be his.
“Oh,” Betty said, edging closer. “Don’t you want to be there?”
“No.” He set down a pail of slops for the sow and scratched her behind the ears. The pen was full of half-grown piglets, and Betty bent to fondle soft ears, scratch at bristling backs before straightening up.
“But maybe…”
“Didn’t you hear?” he exploded. “I don’t want to be there. I don’t care!”
“That’s not true,” she replied, coming even closer. “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be this upset.”
He laughed hollowly and rested back against one of the walls, crossing his arms. “Mayhap I’m upset because she’s cuckolded me.”
Betty blushed at his matter-of-fact statement, but came to stand beside him. “I’m sorry,” she said clumsily.
“Sorry?” He turned to face her. “Is that why you tag after me like a wee dog, because you pity me?” He winced inside at the hurt expression that flew up her face. “Well, is it?” he challenged, overwhelmed by a need to know.
“No,” she breathed, her eyes luminous. “No, I don’t think this is pity.” With that, she stood on her toes and pressed her lips against his. A soft kiss, warm and tentative, promising and daring, her tongue flitting out to run over his lips. For an instant, her tongue met his, and then she wheeled and ran.
Ian sank into a crouch and groaned. The wee lass loved him, and, God help him, he thought he might love her. A hypocrite, he thought with dark amusement, that was what he was. So quick to condemn Jenny for loving elsewhere, and all the while this russet lass had been worming herself bit by bit into his heart.
*
“A perfect girl.” Alex handed the child to Ian. He nodded, settling the weight of the child in his arms.
“Elizabeth,” Jenny said weakly from the bed. “I want to call her Elizabeth.”
Ian shook his head. “Nay, this is Margaret.” He handed the girl back to Alex and left the room.
“He knows, doesn’t he?” Jenny said. “All of you know.”
“More or less,” Alex said.
“Stupid girl,” Jenny hissed. “Why didn’t she keep her mouth shut?”
“Why didn’t you keep your legs shut?” Mrs Parson said.
“He made me, he forced me – ask Betty.”
“And that is why you didn’t tell?” Mrs Parson’s voice dripped with incredulity. She moved over to study the child. “So, it was just that once, was it?”
Jenny attempted a feeble nod but averted her eyes.
“And you can swear on your immortal soul that this wee lass is Ian’s daughter?” Mrs Parson peered down into the little face, ran a honeyed finger inside its mouth to verify the palate was whole.