Alex lay down beside him and pillowed her head on his chest. “Yes, that was pretty bad. Still, life has done a pretty good job of punishing him, hasn’t it?”
“You think? Rich and respected, two – no, three – homes, a likeable lad and two lasses…”
“And always alone. The single person he truly loved is no longer there for him, is she?”
He was silent for some moments, his hand stroking her scarred right arm. To not have her here with him, it was an unbearable thought. “No,” he said, “that must be hell on earth.”
“In Luke Graham’s case, he might as well get used to it. After all, he’s going to be spending all eternity in hell.” She propped herself up on her elbows and looked teasingly at him. “Unless, of course, Luke has converted to Catholicism, in which case he can confess and repent and make it all the way to the rolling green meadows of heaven.”
“Alex!”
“It’s just a thought. Maybe I should include it as a suggestion in my letter regarding the painting.” She laughed and kissed him on his nose. “Speaking of sin,” she murmured and threw a leg over him.
“Not a sin.” He smiled up at her, threading his fingers through her hair to make it stand like a dark halo around her. “More like a sacrament, aye? Heaven on earth, if you will.”
And it was. Hands that knew exactly where to touch and how to fondle to make the other twist with pleasure, warm mouths, tongues that darted out to flutter teasingly over tautened skin, over moist and secret places. He rolled her over, kissed her eyes, her nose. She grabbed him by the ears, made impatient by all this foreplay.
Matthew chuckled, lifted her leg high, and in one swift movement came inside of her, gratified by her loud exhalation. He drove himself deep inside of her; she uttered an inarticulate sound telling him to please do it again, and do it fast. So he did.
“Promise?” she said as they walked back.
“Promise,” he replied, smiling tenderly at her.
“A long walk once a week, right?”
“Every Sunday, lass. You and I and no one else.”
“Good, especially seeing as tomorrow is Sunday.”
“Insatiable,” he groaned.
“…and the lucky man is…you!” She stuck her tongue out, making her astoundingly like Sarah at her most enervating. Young and wild, she looked, walking barefoot with her hair undone.
Matthew plucked an early columbine and handed it to her with a very formal bow. “I love you.”
“I sincerely hope so,” she laughed back. “After such an afternoon, who wouldn’t?” She stopped and stood on her toes to smooth back his hair from his forehead. “I love you too.”
Chapter 34
Simon winked and handed Betty a sheaf of papers. A free woman again – at least until her father found out. Well, she wasn’t going to tell him, not after their latest acrimonious exchange along the lines that soon the two years of grace were up, and after that Father had every intention of seeing her wed – quickly.
“He won’t like me for this,” Simon said, “but you should consider getting with child before you tell him.”
Betty’s cheeks heated uncomfortably. A rounded belly would go a long way in convincing Father to agree to a match with Ian Graham – not much else would, given Jacob’s behaviour.
“I’ll shame him twice.”
Simon shrugged. “It happens – and you didn’t set out to, did you?”
Betty folded the documents together, slid them into her petticoat pocket, and danced out of the room. Jacob had signed the annulment with quite the flourish, leading her to believe he had been relieved rather than aggrieved. Now it was all done, their marriage vows declared null and void through these documents. She wasn’t going to tell Ian, not yet. Instead, she went in search of her mother, finding her in the little parlour.
Betty stopped for a moment in the doorway. Mother had taken a long time to recover after her latest ordeal in the birthing chamber, and even now, with little Harry close to a year, a grey tinge clung to Mother’s skin. On account of all those sleepless nights watching over Harry, Betty sighed, thinking that her baby brother was not long for this earth, no matter how much effort Mother expended on keeping him here. She went over to sit on the low stool at her mother’s feet.
“There you are,” Mother smiled. “I was just wondering where you were.”
“I was with Uncle Simon.” Betty gnawed at her lip. She wanted to tell her mother about Ian and the fizzy feeling that soared through her every time he looked at her, but she wasn’t sure she dared to. Would Mother not go immediately to Father, and then what?
“No letter from Jacob?”
“Not as such,” Betty replied with a little shrug.
Mother let her embroidery drop to her lap and gave Betty a searching look. Betty pretended great interest in a spot on her skirts, not wanting her mother to see the huge smile that she felt on her face. Mother stroked Betty’s hair, the hand lingering for a while on Betty’s head.
“I don’t want to know, but I’m very glad for you, child.”
With a little sound, Betty pillowed her head in Mother’s lap. “Thank you,” Betty whispered into the folds of Mother’s skirts.
*
“…but that was only to be expected,” Thomas said, twisting in his saddle to look at Matthew.
“Not by the Piscataway,” Matthew said, wiping at his face to clear it of some of the driving rain. “They hoped for something more out of the original treaty.” A waste of time, this latest meeting regarding the militia, with more animosity directed at Robert Chisholm for being a papist than at the Iroquois. He threw his Catholic neighbour a look, but Robert looked as unperturbed today as he’d done throughout the meeting. Not that Matthew was fooled by Robert’s impassive exterior. He knew the younger man well enough to know he’d had to struggle to hold onto his temper on several occasions, foremost when Edward Farrell was at his most provocative.
“We can’t risk lives to defend Indian against Indian,” Thomas protested, “and it’s best to remain neutral in their indigenous squabbles.” He pulled his cloak closer, muttering something about it being spring, not winter.
Matthew hemmed: in this, he had to concede Thomas had the right of it. Besides, there was very little a white militia could do to support the Piscataway.
“I saw Philip Burley yesterday.” Thomas gave Matthew a quick look.
“Aye, so did I.” Matthew spat to the side. By the time he’d called out the constables to arrest the bastard, he’d been gone.
“Took to the water,” Thomas said when Matthew recounted this. “Swims like a fish, that one.” He shook his head, making his long, greasy hair bounce. “Fool to come here! There’s a price on his head, and yet he has the effrontery to stroll down Main Street.”
“He didn’t know that until he got here,” Matthew said. “I dare say he’ll blame me for having been outlawed.”
“Probably.” Thomas frowned. “About time, if you ask me. Those brothers should have hanged years ago!”
“As I hear it, Walter Burley remains in custody,” Robert Chisholm put in. “Why they haven’t hanged him yet is something of a mystery.”
“Mystery?” Thomas snorted. “The Burleys are well connected in Virginia. Besides, the girl has changed her story. Now, she no longer recalls who it was that raped her, saying that she fears she may have identified the wrong man.”
“Has she, do you think?” Robert asked.
“No,” Matthew said. “But Walter Burley has very persuasive brothers, doesn’t he?”
“Poor wench.” Thomas sighed.
“What do you think of the new minister?” Matthew asked to change the subject. He looked back to ensure Betty and Agnes were keeping up, and nodded at his new field hand, John Mason. He bit back a smile at the thought of Agnes: meant to stay behind in Providence now that her contract had expired, she had been afflicted by a bout of panic and decided she preferred to return with the master to Graham’s Garden – helped along, Matthew suspected, by John Mason’s golden locks.
“Somewhat dour,” Thomas replied.
Robert chuckled. “All your ministers are dour. Your churches are dour, your rites and sermons are dour.”
Thomas’ face acquired a bright red hue. “Papistry is nothing but—”
Matthew placed an arm on his sleeve and shook his head. “Nay, Thomas, leave him be. Robert is but teasing. I liked the man and I didn’t find him dour, rather the reverse.”
Minister Allerton reminded him of Sandy Peden, his dear friend and minister, with dark grey eyes and a thinning head of what must once have been reddish hair. Not when he spoke, because Minister Allerton had never set foot outside his native Boston until this new assignment had been given him, and he spoke with an accent quite different from anything Matthew had ever heard before. But he had enjoyed the sermon on the Good Samaritan, and he had liked it when the minister congratulated him on his fine son, Daniel.
“You know my lad?” Matthew had asked.
“Oh, I’ve had the pleasure of teaching him for well over a year, and that is one very bright boy. Most devout as well,” Allerton continued, smiling in a way that made his eyes twinkle. “Not always the most well behaved, and he has a disturbing effect on the younger female population – which he well knows.”
“He’s almost fifteen,” Matthew had said, “and lads like lasses.”
“Oh yes. And your son, I think, very much likes a certain Miss Temperance Allerton.”
“Ah. Your lass?”
Minister Allerton had beamed proudly. “Yes, my eldest.”
*
“He’s never even mentioned a Temperance in his letters,” Alex laughed when Matthew told her all this a couple of days later. “Temperance…poor child!” She slipped her arms round his waist and scrubbed her cheek against his shirt. He held her to his heart for a couple of seconds before going back to his unpacking.
“He’s a lad,” Matthew said in a teasing tone. “We don’t tell you everything. And if the daughter is anything like the father, I would say he has chosen wisely.” He kept his back to her while he fiddled with his leather satchels.
“Chosen? As you said, he’s a lad. Besides, you just told me Minister Allerton has almost no hair and resembles Sandy. Poor girl, I tell you, poor, poor girl.”
Matthew chuckled. “When have you ever seen a lass with no hair?”
“It happens, and what is it you’re hiding?”
In response, Matthew brought out nine coloured glass panes: six red and three green.
“Oh!” Alex knelt and picked up one of the red panes. “They’re beautiful!” She twisted it this way and that, sending coloured light to dance on the whitewashed walls of their bedroom.
“For our room,” he said, delighted by her reaction. “I thought it would make a nice pattern on the floor and the sheets.”
Any further inspection of her gift was precluded by Ruth, who fell into the room, followed by an equally excited Sarah.
“Jenny…” Ruth gasped.
“…and Patrick!” Sarah filled in, her eyes round with amazement.
“Here?” Alex got to her feet.
From outside came Ian’s voice, raised in anger, curses flowing from his mouth in a surprising and uncharacteristic flow that had Matthew raising his brows.
“Here apparently,” he said and rushed down the stairs.
*
“Ian! No!” Da’s voice cut through the red curtain of rage that had invaded Ian’s brain. Strong arms took hold of him, and he was pulled back, with Mama and Betty standing themselves between him and Patrick, who was getting to his feet helped by Jenny who had dismounted.
“You could have injured him!” she snapped at Ian.
“Do you expect me to care?” Ian snarled. He shook himself loose from Da’s restraining hold, and crossed his arms to stop himself from shoving Mama aside to hit Patrick again, or was it Jenny he really wanted to hurt?
“Why are you here?” Ian demanded. “And why did you bring your fancy man along?”
“My wife and I…” Patrick began.
“Wife?” Ian looked from Jenny to Patrick. “You’re married?”
Jenny nodded in confirmation, her eyes on the ground while she fidgeted with her cap.
“Once a whore always a whore,” Mark said, giving Patrick a belligerent look. “But seeing as she comes reasonably well dowered, I don’t think you particularly care.”
Jenny flushed a painful red, and, to his irritation, Ian felt sorry for her.
“Mark!” Mama frowned and indicated the very interested group of children who were following the conversation. “Now, assuming we’re all done with the pleasantries, why are you here?”
“I want to see my children.” Jenny looked directly at Ian and cleared her throat. “Please?”
Ian was very tempted to say no, but on his nape rested Da’s eyes, and, even more, Malcolm was pressed tight against his side, craning his head back to look at him. Ian drew a thumb down his son’s nose. “Go on, lad,” he said.
Malcolm shifted from foot to foot, but remained where he was.
Ian couldn’t help it. He raised his chin to meet Jenny’s eyes in triumph. See, he taunted, he’s already lost to you. But the apparent pain in her face shamed him, and he crouched down, smiling at Malcolm.
“It’s alright, son. She’s your mother, aye?”
Malcolm took a hesitant step in Jenny’s direction, he took two, he took three, and then he was in her arms and she was crying in his hair.
“Any particular reason for this impromptu visit?” Da asked.
Patrick threw him a cautious look. “We’re here to make our farewells. We leave for Carolina within the month.”
“Carolina?” Ian asked.
“To the south,” Patrick said.
“I know where it is,” Ian snapped, “and it’s very far away from here.”
“Far enough.” Patrick nodded with obvious relief, eyes straying to the assembled children.
Ian’s face tightened to the point of being painful as he watched Patrick study Maggie, who was standing to the side, fingers sunk in Viggo’s shaggy coat. Ostentatiously, he walked over to his lass and swung her up to sit on his arm. Maggie made a series of warbling sounds, gripped his shirt, and hid her face against him.
“May I?” Jenny held out her hands. Ian nodded and handed Maggie over. His wee Maggie did not much like to be carried in the first place, not now that she could stand and take the odd step, and even less to be held by someone she didn’t know. She stiffened in Jenny’s arms, brows pulled together in a ferocious frown. When Jenny attempted to kiss her, she opened her mouth and bawled. Quickly, Jenny returned her to Ian, retaining a hold on one small, bare foot.
“She looks very healthy.” She stroked the soft skin.
“She is, somewhat of a temper on her, but very healthy.” Now that Ian understood this was a final visit, he was feeling more generous, and so he smiled and caught Jenny’s eye. “Like her mother.”
“And her grandmother,” Jenny whispered back. She studied Maggie’s little face, eyes darting back and forth between Ian and Patrick.
“Much like me in other things,” Ian said with a clear warning in his tone.
“Yes.” Jenny let go of the squirming foot.
*
Betty waited until she was certain Ian had settled his children for the night before sneaking down to his cabin on soundless feet. The evening was warm enough that a shawl was excessive over her shift, but she tugged it tighter round her shoulders and swallowed so loudly it almost made her giggle. She had seen the way Ian’s gaze had locked on Jenny’s waist when she sat up on her horse, and, after some scrutinising of her own, had understood that Jenny was with child – again.
All the way up the lane, Ian had followed his former wife and her new husband with his eyes, and Betty had seen him afflicted by doubts and uncertainties when he looked from Patrick to Maggie and back. It would have been easy to laugh it all off. Little Maggie had no doubts as to who was her father, and with her dark hair and light eyes she looked very much a Graham. Except that her hair grew in a widow’s peak – just like Patrick’s – and her lower lip jutted out – just like Patrick’s.
Betty decided not to knock. The well-oiled latch lifted easily, and Betty slipped inside a room that was dark after the lingering dusk outside. She had never been here this time of the night: Ian’s and her love trysts had mostly happened in the hayloft or out in the woods. She could hear her own pulse; loud and red it swished through her head. Her stomach was a mass of writhing things, her knees were beginning to wobble, and her mouth… She opened it and breathed in short, audible gulps. This was unseemly. A woman should not come like this to a man.
She groped behind her back for the latch, and for a moment considered escaping back outside, before something happened that was irreversible, but she knew she wouldn’t, not now that she had worked up the courage to come. Besides, he needed her, she sensed that, especially tonight after seeing his ex-wife ride away with the man that had put horns on him. She felt a forceful cramp in her privates, and blushed in the dark. If he needed her, she wanted him, her body yearning for his touch.