The wedding was celebrated in her father’s house. Five elder sisters and their spouses, an assortment of nephews and nieces, as well as a number of family friends had the little house bursting at the seams. Mother had made miracles when it came to the food, and there was ham and salted dried lamb, there were baked fowl and, in pride of place, a dish heaped with jellied fish.
A few hours later, Betty retreated to a corner. The room was still full of people and, over by the door, Father and Matthew were standing to the side, talking intently. Mother was laughing at something Minister Walker was saying, and Kate Jones floated by, gravitating towards the men. Simon Melville was dancing, and Betty couldn’t stop herself from giggling as this oh so round man capered about the room, as elegant as a doe in flight. Betty adjusted her borrowed skirts, fingers lingering on the light green silk.
“You look beautiful,” Mother said, making Betty smile.
“So do you.”
Mother shrugged, saying that weddings required an effort. Betty nodded, taking in the silver buckles that adorned Father’s shoes, Mother’s dark blue bodice, and Ian’s new breeches. Everyone was in their best – well, with the exception of Alex, who was standing to the side in her everyday clothes, her shawl wrapped round her shoulders. Betty frowned. Alex looked sad – and hurt. Betty was on the point of going over to talk to her when Ian pulled her into a dance, and when next Betty looked, Alex was no longer there.
“Now?” Betty looked at her husband. Husband; she tasted the word and suppressed a grin.
“Now.” Ian said something to his father, who gave an imperceptible nod, and then he took Betty by the hand and escaped out of the house, rushing her through the empty, sun-baked streets of Providence.
“Oh, Ian…” Betty could barely speak. The room was decorated with fragrant herbs and meadow flowers, from the door all the way to the bed. He undressed her, garment by garment, and all the time he hummed, a sound of deep joy that made her skin pucker and her knees – well, they seemed to have permanently given up.
Chapter 37
“Alex! It’s hot enough as it is without you plastering yourself to me.” Matthew rolled over onto his back to glower at her.
“I’m not. It’s just an uncommonly narrow bed, okay?” As if to underline her words, she shoved at him, her eyes a frosty blue.
“And my back hurts,” he complained, “and my head aches something fearful.”
“Poor you,” Alex said witheringly. “That’s what you get when you over-imbibe.”
“It was a wedding feast, and the ale was very good.”
“Mrs Malone’s, I suppose? After all, you would know, right?”
“Aye.” Matthew stretched. Ah Jesus, his back! “Will you…?” He placed a hand on his aching muscles.
“No way! But, hey, why don’t you ask Kate – or Mrs Malone.” With that, she was out of bed, pulling on her clothes.
He sighed. She hadn’t forgiven him for yesterday, even if she had tried to not let it show too much at the wedding itself. The pretty bodice she had preened in lay thrown in a corner, and he wasn’t quite sure how to go about this. He had other concerns, far more urgent than his wife’s trampled vanity, but Matthew hadn’t liked how hurt she had looked, or how she had stood in the corner of the Hancock parlour, her far too warm shawl crossed tightly over her plain, everyday wear.
“Did you enjoy yourself, then?” he asked, which, from the look she gave him, was not the best of openings.
“No,” she replied coldly. “I felt the poor cousin from the country.”
Matthew squirmed. He had lost his temper when she’d called him a straight-laced idiot, and had retaliated by telling her no wife of his would go about dressed like a whore. Alex’s eyes had gone very round, an expression of absolute hurt flitting over her face, before she turned her back on him to change. All afternoon and most of the evening, she’d stood to the side, her normally so vivacious self submerged into a grey mouse – because of his excessive prudery as she’d put it, before telling him the only reason she was going was because of Ian. And even worse, somewhere halfway through, she’d just left, not even bothering to tell him – nor had he noticed, not at first.
“You looked very pretty – you always do,” he said, trying out a smile.
Alex raised her brows. “Don’t lie, okay? I looked by far the oldest and drabbest woman in that room. I hope that was the effect you wanted to achieve. It sure helped boost my self-esteem.” She finished dressing in icy silence, braided her hair as harshly as she had done yesterday, picked up her straw hat, and left the room without a backward glance.
Matthew groaned and sank back against the pillows. She had been so proud of that new bodice, but all he could see were her breasts rising far too prominently above it, and he didn’t want anyone – anyone, you hear? – to see her like that except himself.
He exhaled and got out of bed, making for the small window. He drummed his fingers against the windowsill, and reverted to the dark concerns with which he had woken.
According to William, Walter Burley had been released a few weeks ago. From what William had heard, the brothers had left Jamestown, to a large extent due to the irate kin of the poor lass. The question, of course, was whether they’d come back here or not. Not, William had insisted, reminding Matthew that they’d been outlawed by the elders.
Matthew wasn’t quite as convinced. He nibbled at a torn nail and frowned at nothing in particular. How unfortunate it hadn’t been Philip’s throat he slit all those years ago, he reflected. Somehow, he suspected it was the eldest brother that carried the largest grudge against him.
*
Alex shook loose her hair the moment she left the inn, produced one of her hairpins, and swept it up into its more normal soft bun before replacing her hat. She’d behaved like a truculent child yesterday, protesting at his prudery by making sure all of her looked its worst. Even Simon had commented, wondering if she was practising for the part of a future widow.
She set her teeth at that. Old – there were days when all of her felt old, and when she put on that beautiful red bodice yesterday, she had seen herself in the mirror and she had actually smiled because she was quite pretty, her breasts still round and relatively high, and her skin a becoming pink – thanks to rigorous use of her homemade body scrub and oils. When she’d turned to show Matthew, he had walked his eyes up and down her body in frank admiration before telling her she was going nowhere like that – not his wife, to display herself like that before the elders of his kirk. Stupid man! All the other wives had been on display, all other women had shown some expanse of chest skin, albeit not as daring as Kate Jones in that gorgeous olive gown of hers. And Matthew, goddamn him, had looked and gawked, but her, his wife, he gave no opportunity to compete. Plaster herself to him indeed… Arsehole!
Her black mood abated somewhat during her quick walk to Joan’s home. She’d been wrong in her previous comment to Matthew: the drabbest woman in the room yesterday had been Joan, not so much due to her clothing, which if sedate had not been entirely prim, but because of how gaunt and grey she looked.
Alex bit at her lip. She’d caught the flying glances between Joan and Simon, and so much was clear to her that something had them worried. Lucy? Alex thought not. The girl looked as sleek and well-fed as a cat in cream, and it was probably all to the best that she and Henry were to be wed within the year.
Joan led her out to sit in the small backyard, and Lucy brought out tea with the help of Ruth, who was staying in Providence with her cousin for some weeks. Initial caution had transformed into a wary acceptance, and the two girls soon had their heads bent over the chessboard.
“She’s very quick,” Joan said to Alex, indicating Ruth. “Less than three days, and she has already picked up quite a lot of Lucy’s hand signs.”
“Mmm.” Alex regarded her sister-in-law levelly. So far, they had discussed the wedding, little Harry Hancock’s declining health, Kate Jones’ somewhat daring gown, the weather, and the state of Joan’s leek and cabbage bed. “What is it?”
Joan arranged her features in an expression of mild surprise.
“Oh, stop that! It just makes you look a total idiot.”
Ruth raised her head at Alex’s irritated tone, but after a few seconds went back to the game.
“I miss home,” Joan said.
“All of us miss home – more or less, of course, but nonetheless.” Alex leaned forward, inspecting Joan minutely. There was a grey tinge to her skin, hollows under her eyes, and her normally so full long mouth – a feature she shared with her brother – was thinned into a gash. “Is it the pain?” To her consternation, Joan began to cry, a silent weeping that resulted in slow heavy tears. “Joan, honey…” Alex whispered so as not to alert Ruth, whose ears seemed to have grown to the size of an elephant’s. “…let’s get you inside, okay?”
“Better?” Alex sat down on the side of the bed.
Joan nodded and closed her eyes, taking yet another drag at the half-smoked joint. It made Alex feel like a drug runner, to supply Joan with the tight rolls of hemp leaves, but they did seem to help.
“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” Alex took Joan’s hand.
“Aye,” Joan said, avoiding meeting her eyes.
Hmm. Something other than the illness was gnawing at her sister-in-law, and Alex was willing to gamble a small fortune on that it all had to do with their hasty departure from Scotland.
Joan cleared her throat. “Would you…would you be kind enough and fetch Simon for me?”
“Of course. Now?”
“Now.”
Alex burst into Simon’s office, still out of breath after her short but speedy sprint, and came to an abrupt stop at the sight of Matthew. He was sitting side by side with Simon, his head lowered over some documents that Simon quickly covered at Alex’s entrance.
“Joan asked me to fetch you.”
“Is she poorly?” Simon grabbed at his coat, a look of panic in his light eyes.
“Not more than normal, but she wanted you.”
“Lock the door, aye?” Simon threw a large key in the direction of Matthew, and flew out of the room.
“How bad is it?” Matthew asked once they were alone.
Alex was tempted to ignore him, but Joan was his sister. “Bad. She’s dying. Bit by bit, whatever it is she has is eating its way through her. Unfortunately, I fear it’s going to take a very long time.” Alex shook her head. “But that’s not really it. Something else is driving her half-mad with fear, but she just won’t tell.”
“Aye.” Matthew replaced the few documents left scattered on the desktop in the drawer, locked it, and dropped the small key into its hiding place in the single china vase that decorated the sparse room. “It’s driving Simon mad too.”
“It is? You know what it is?” She really had no intention of talking to him, ever again.
“Murder, our wee Simon is a murderer. And someone, apparently, knows.” He picked up the single paper he had left out and handed it to Alex. She frowned at the handwriting: very stiff, as if someone had made an effort to disguise their hand.
It isnae easy tae end someone’s life. A blow tae the heid, many blows tae the heid, and they lie deid in the mud. Ye thought ye wurnae seen, but ye wir, darting oot from beyond St Giles tae hurry hame tae yer wife an yer deef lassie. Ultimately, naebody evades the lang arm o the law, Master Melville, naebody…
“Oh dear.” Alex read it again, folded it together and gave it back to Matthew. Simon? She had major problems seeing him bashing someone over the head to the point of killing them.
“They threatened his lass. One of the aldermen’s cousins told Simon that comely deaf lasses would fetch quite the price on the right market, and so…”
Alex took a shaky breath. “So, he killed this cousin and they took the first boat out?”
Matthew nodded and shredded the paper into pieces.
“Strange,” he said once he was done. “Written in Scots but, according to Simon, it came from London.” He turned to face Alex with a tight little smile. “And who in London do you know that speaks Scots and probably knows where Simon lives?” He waited, watching her as she thought this through.
“Luke,” she said after a long while, “but surely he wouldn’t—”
“You think not? And who was it that so neatly clipped Luke’s wings and deprived him not only of Ian—”
“Whom he no longer wanted,” Alex interrupted.
“…of Ian, but more importantly of a very large sum of money?” Matthew finished. “Simon is adamant that there were no witnesses, and, if so, this is nothing but mischief. Nasty mischief, but nothing more than that.”
“Enough to hurry poor Joan into an even more premature grave,” Alex muttered. God! How she hoped her letter had made her dratted brother-in-law curious enough to lose himself in the painting and land at the feet of Neanderthals or something.
Once he’d locked the door, Matthew offered her his arm. Alex shook her head. She was perfectly capable of walking on her own, thank you very much. After all, she had walked all the way back to the inn alone yesterday, hadn’t she?
“Alex,” Matthew sighed. “I’m sorry, aye? But I don’t like it when you wander around half-dressed to be gawked at by other men. It makes me jealous.”
“So, instead it was me that had to be jealous and feel ugly and unattractive.”
“Ugly?” Matthew shook his head. “You’re never ugly, Alex.”
“Really? Is that why you spent so much of yesterday staring down Kate Jones’ cleavage instead of standing by my side?”
“I didn’t!”
“Yes, you did. Every single woman in the room you looked at – all of them except me.”
“You were angry with me,” he mumbled, “and I did look at you – from time to time.”
“Huh.” She didn’t say anything more for the remainder of their short walk.
“I had looked forward to yesterday,” she said, following him to their room. “It isn’t as if we do much partying, is it? And you took it all away from me.” She was being ridiculous, petty, childish, but she just couldn’t help it. “I want to go home, as soon as possible.”
She retrieved the discarded bodice and caressed the deep red, running her fingers over her own excellent needlework. Red on red, she had embroidered the alternating panes with clambering vines, and all along the lacings there ran a line of small, small daisies.
“Won’t you wear it now?” Matthew said.
“Whatever for? I wanted to look pretty and young, make you proud of me, but…” She threw the garment on the bed. “I’ll cut it down to something for Ruth or Sarah.”
Matthew winced at her tone and tried to take her hand. She shifted away. He exhaled – loudly – and made for the door.
“You haven’t forgotten that we are to have dinner with Minister Allerton, have you?”
“No, as far as I know, I’m not demented.” She preceded him out of the room and sailed down the stairs.
Alex wasn’t exactly mollified when they ran into Kate.
“Feeling better today?” she asked Alex before smiling radiantly at Matthew.
“Better?” Alex shook her head. “I haven’t been ill.”
“Oh…I thought that since you left before the dancing yesterday… Pity, given what a good dancer your husband is.” Again, Kate smiled at him, receiving a weak smile in return.
“Yes, he is, isn’t he?” Alex purred, throwing mental daggers at Matthew.
Kate gave her an interested look and, with a slight wave, ducked into the nearby bakery.
Alex said not one word to Matthew as they made their way up the street to the little eating house. It made him nervous; she could see it in how he kept on glancing her way. They found the minister waiting outside, a nice-looking man with gentle eyes and hair the colour of carrots. He smiled at Alex and told her just how much he’d been looking forward to meeting her, given that Daniel spoke so warmly and so often of her.
“He does?” Alex said, feeling a burst of pride.
“Now, now, Mrs Graham. You know he does – what son would not boast of a mother such as you?”
Well, that compliment definitely settled things for Alex, and for the rest of their meal, she concentrated her attention on the minister, totally cold-shouldering her husband. Instead, she leaned forward to meet Julian Allerton’s eyes; she laughed and talked and flirted quite blatantly with him. The poor man didn’t quite know how to handle this, eyes leaping nervously from her to Matthew, but if anything that made her intensify her attack.