“Is she pretty, your wife?” Alex asked.
“I think so,” the minister said, smiling. “Actually, most men find her pretty,” he added with some pride.
“And you don’t mind?”
“Mind? How mind?”
“That other men admire her.”
The minister laughed and said that he most certainly didn’t – rather the reverse.
“Ah.” Alex threw Matthew a barbed look. “But I suppose she’s always modestly dressed, right? In black or dark grey, like you.”
“Black? My Hope in black? I think not. She likes colours, does my wife – and silks.” Minister Allerton lowered his voice. “Some would call her vain.”
“And is she?” Alex asked.
“Vain? Yes, of course she is – but a woman as handsome as my wife is entitled to a certain vanity.” The minister’s face softened into a little smile.
Alex went on to say how glad she was to hear that some men took pride in their wives instead of begrudging them what little pleasures they might have. At this, Matthew’s foot came down on her toes – hard. She retaliated by kicking his shin, had the satisfaction of hearing his hissing intake of breath, but otherwise pretended he didn’t exist and returned to her conversation with the minister.
Minister Allerton looked quite relieved when she initiated a discussion about the ministry instead.
“When did you know for sure?” she asked, and Minister Allerton smiled.
“I was eighteen, nineteen perhaps?” He patted her hand. “Daniel will know, or he will not. And if he doesn’t know then the teachers responsible for his spiritual well-being will urge him to wait or perhaps do other things in life. Be a teacher or such.” He smoothed back his sparse hair to lay flat against his pate and gave her a serious look. “Will you be disappointed in him if he’s not ordained?”
“Disappointed? Me?” She swallowed back on a gust of laughter. “No, I won’t. I just want him to be content with the choices he makes.”
“Content?” He tilted his head. “Not happy?”
“Content is good enough – and it’s a definite prerequisite to being happy now and then.” With that, she stood up. After a quick curtsey in the minister’s direction, she grabbed the basket she had placed below the table and hurried off.
*
Matthew wasn’t quite sure if he was mostly angered or humiliated by his wife’s behaviour. He kept his eyes on her as she made her way through the small room, head held high. By the door, she stopped for a moment to exchange some words with Minister Walker and William. It irked him to see her smile and laugh, to see how she for an instant leaned forward to say something to the minister, one hand resting as if by chance on William’s arm. And then she was off, as light-footed as a wench, and not one word, not one look, had she exchanged with him.
“May I be forward enough to suggest it would seem you have displeased your wife in some way?” Minister Allerton said before serving himself an extra slice of cheese.
“I already know that,” Matthew said. “What I don’t know is how to make it better.”
Chapter 38
“Are you planning on milking this much longer?” Matthew asked a few mornings later, his hand closing around her wrist and thereby hindering her from leaving the bed. Two days of icy silence, of eyes that stared blankly through him, were quite enough. And last evening… It had cut him to the quick to have her sitting as far away from him as possible, laughing and talking with Simon and William, but the moment he joined them, she’d stood and walked off.
“Milk what? That you made me dress like a nun, or that you had the gall to dance with other ‘half-dressed’ women while I was back here alone?”
“Both, I imagine,” he said, refusing to let go despite her irritated tugging.
“Jerk,” she hissed.
“I’ve tried to apologise.”
“Not for dancing with Kate – her and her tits that were more or less hanging out.”
“Alex!” Matthew laughed. “That they were not!” He pinned her down, eyes locked into hers. “I promise there will be an occasion for you to wear that pretty bodice of yours, and on that occasion I will dance only with you. And your breasts, should they wish to join in.”
“Dream on! When I want to dance, I’ll dance with a man that properly appreciates me.” She shoved at him, and when that didn’t help, she took a firm hold of his hair and yanked, hard. “Let me go, you oaf.”
“Stop pulling my hair,” he growled. “And you’ll not be dancing with any other men but me.”
“Hypocrite! So it’s okay for you to drool all over Kate Jones’ breasts, but I’m not allowed to do the same, am I?”
“What? Drool over Kate’s bosom?” He winced when she tugged at his hair again.
“You know what I mean! And let me go, I…”
He kissed her. She spluttered and bit his lip. He returned the favour, swallowing her indignant yelp.
“Listen to me.” He grabbed her wrists and forced her to let go of his hair. She scowled. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was wrong to do as I did, spoiling the wedding for you.”
“Huh.”
He brushed his nose against hers. “I don’t like it, when we argue.”
“Me neither.” She gave him a sharp look. “So, when is this occasion?”
“Very, very soon, so you best begin to practise. Dancing with me is exhausting, aye?”
“I can keep up,” she said, her mouth softening perceptibly.
He gave a silent word of thanks to Minister Allerton for his brilliant idea and kissed her.
“Don’t push it,” she murmured when they came up for breath.
“Oh, aye? Do you want me to stop?”
“Umm…” She shook her head.
“Nay, I thought not.”
A loud banging on the door had them breaking apart, and when Matthew recognised the voice, he rushed for the door. A panting Ruth stood on the other side, her hair still in night braids.
“Harry,” she stuttered, “wee Harry is dead, and I’m to get Betty.”
“Dear Lord.” Matthew closed his eyes: poor Esther, poor William.
“When?” Alex asked.
Ruth had no idea. She had just done as she’d been told: run to fetch Betty, and tell her parents.
“I suppose it’s something of a relief for little Harry,” Alex said. “He had a hard time of it the other day, didn’t he?”
Matthew nodded. The laddie had struggled for breath through most of the wedding, clinging like a limpet to his mother.
“But nor for the mother – or the father.” His eyes found hers, and they shared a moment of silence, recalling a beautiful, angry girl-child running to the defence of her father – and her death. “Rachel,” Matthew breathed, “our wee Rachel…”
*
Betty smoothed down a waving lock on the small head, adjusted the brand new smock so that it lay as it should, and beckoned to her father.
“He looks at peace, I think,” she said, smiling down at little Harry, who did look at rest, his feather lashes shading the thin cheeks, the mouth slightly open as if he were about to say something. Her father sobbed and stroked Harry over the cheek with his forefinger.
“Another little angel for God,” he said.
Betty nodded, thinking that taking six from the same family was excessive, and that wasn’t counting the four Mother hadn’t borne to full term. She fussed with the baby shawl Mother had insisted he be covered with, folding it to lie close to the little body. It had always been a matter of time before Harry died, constantly ill since the day he was born. Even had he grown up, what would have become of him? Sweet little Harry was not like other children, his tongue somewhat too big for his mouth, his eyes so strangely slanted. But he had been a happy boy, a child that attempted to smile even as he struggled to drag air into his lungs, and now he was dead.
Mother lay prostrate upstairs, and had it not been because it was unseemly to display grief at the death of a child – little Harry was, after all, reunited with his heavenly Father – Betty suspected her father would have gladly joined her, much more shaken by this expected death than she’d thought he would be.
“She sleeps – at last,” Joan said, coming down from where she’d been sitting with Mother. From the kitchen came Willie’s voice, high and plaintive, and then Alex’s lower voice was there to shush. A moment later, Alex opened the door with her hip before entering with a laden tray that she set down on the table furthest from the little coffin.
“Food – and beer,” she said.
Betty’s throat and eyes filled with tears. Her brother was dead, and the room that two days ago had been the scene of her wedding now held a wake. With a small sound, she exited the room, needing a few minutes of solitude.
*
“I must,” Betty said a few days later. She didn’t want to. She wanted to ride back home with Ian, but she couldn’t leave her parents to cope on their own, not for some weeks.
Ian kissed her nose. “We have a lifetime before us, young and healthy, the both of us.”
“A lifetime?” Betty leaned her head against his chest. “That’s relative. Harry had a lifetime as well – a very short one.” She blinked away her tears. It must be the pregnancy that was making her this maudlin, just as it was making her over-tender and nauseous. Ravenously hungry, she would fry up eggs, and then she couldn’t eat them, her whole stomach flipping at the sight of those quivering yolks.
“A long lifetime.” Ian smoothed back her hair, no longer imprisoned in a tight braid but collected in a soft bun at the back of her head like he wanted it.
*
They were all rather subdued when they set off, very early on a Tuesday morning, but by the time it was Thursday, and home was only a few hours away, they were in a considerably better mood, however uncomfortable the previous night had been – rainy and cold. The only irritant was Matthew’s horse, because poor Moses had developed an inflammation in one of his hooves.
“You ride on.” Matthew sighed and got off. “He’s gone lame again.”
“Ride on?” Alex shook her head. “I’m not about to leave you all alone here. We can walk together.”
“We’re only hours from home; go on with you.” Matthew pointed at Dandelion. “I keep the dog with me; you take the mule.”
“I’m not sure…” Alex dismounted. “What about Indians? Or the Burleys?”
“The Burleys?” He managed a little laugh. “Why would they be here?”
“Stranger things have happened,” she muttered, “and we know for a fact they’re not in Jamestown, don’t we?”
“I very much doubt they’re anywhere close,” Matthew said, “and, as to the Indians, we haven’t seen any since spring, have we?”
“Nay, we haven’t.” Ian scanned the forest around them. “I can ride on ahead and you can come walking.”
“Alex can go with you. Have supper ready for me when I come in.”
“Hmph,” Alex snorted. “I think I’ll walk instead.” But she threw a hasty look to the west, because she was in a hurry to get home and make sure all her children were alive, not dead like poor little Harry.
“Go on, lass, I’ll be fine, aye?” Matthew helped her back into the saddle and smacked the horse into a trot.
Ian and Alex had just forded a shallow stream when Alex drew her horse to a halt. “Are you sure he’ll be alright?” She looked back in the direction they had come.
“Aye. He has both pistols and musket.”
Alex chewed her lip. This was a bad idea: to leave Matthew alone. “I’m not sure. Maybe we should go back.”
“Mama,” Ian groaned, “we’ve covered a mile or so already.”
“So, we uncover it.”
“We ride on,” he insisted. “He has the dog – you know how frightening he can be.”
Alex chuckled. Dandelion was as huge as his sire, dear dead Narcissus, and just as protective of his family.
“We should have named him Fang or something.” She grinned.
“Or Yellow Devil,” Ian suggested, nudging his horse on. He made an exasperated sound when Alex refused to budge, sawing at the reins to turn her mount.
“I’m riding back, but you go ahead, okay?”
*
It was the dog. If it hadn’t been for how Dandelion stiffened, Matthew would have become aware of them too late. A deep rumble emanated from Dandelion, hackles sprouting in a yellow crest along his back and shoulders. Matthew whipped up one pistol in one hand, musket in the other, frowning as he scanned the woods.
There: silent shapes moving like pack wolves through the undergrowth. He recognised them with a flare of fear. When the four men stepped into sight, one of them a huge man Matthew had never seen before, Matthew leaped for cover.
Dressed like Indians, hair braided the Indian way, the Burley brothers and their unknown companion could easily been mistaken for natives – at a distance. Close up, those light grey eyes gave them away for what they were: white men with souls the colour and consistency of pitch.
“Well, well, Mr Graham. Imagine running into you like this.” Philip Burley grinned, eyes never leaving Matthew’s guns.
“Aye, I imagine it’s a right surprise.”
“Surprise? No, not really – we’ve been following you since some hours back. However, we didn’t expect to find you alone. Fortunate – for us.” Philip’s voice heaved with threat.
“Alone?” Matthew held back the snarling dog with a clipped command.
“Four against one,” Philip said.
“And two of you at least will die – as you should, outlaws that you are.”
“Ah, yes. Something else we have to thank you for, isn’t it?” Philip took a step towards him.
“Thank me? You’ve brought the weight of the law down on yourselves without any help from me.”
“Is that so? That’s not how I hear it. I hear how a certain Mr Graham has presented evidence that paints the three of us as ogres, men without morals or hearts.”
“I’ve told nothing but the truth,” Matthew said.
“Absolutely.” Philip inclined his head in a little bow. “And we will prove you right. Prepare to die, Graham, slowly and painfully.”
Matthew levelled his pistol and fired. With a little ‘eh’, Stephen clapped his hands to his thigh and sank to the ground.
*
The shot almost made Alex fall off her horse.
“Matthew!” Alex thumped her heels into her surprised mount, leaned forward over the mare’s neck, and yelled her on. Ian thundered by, half standing in the stirrups, musket in one hand, and Alex used the free ends of the reins to whip her mare into galloping even faster.
Another shot rang out, and now there was the distinctive sound of Dandelion’s barking, threaded through with Matthew’s raised voice. Indians, Alex thought. Oh my God, I’m going to find him dead and scalped.
The woods thinned as she got closer to the sounds. Light filtered through the foliage, leaves rustled in the wind, and the moss squelched under her mare’s hooves. Ian was by now well ahead. Alex gripped her pistol, trying to remember if it was loaded or not, and tried to make her mare fly.
She wasn’t quite sure what happened next. Ian barged into a small clearing, and three men in Indian garb turned to see him bearing down on them. Holy Matilda, it was them, the Burleys! One of them was down, lying curled together on the moss.
A shot rang out. Matthew threw himself to the ground, yelling something unintelligible. The dog lunged, a yellow massive shape that threw itself at the man crawling on the ground. Philip – yes, she was sure it was Philip, his dark hair falling in a signatory lock over one eye – raised his musket at Ian. She heard Matthew scream a warning. Ian rode on, his barrel pointing straight at Philip. A shot – no, two shots – rang out. In slow motion, Ian tumbled from his saddle to land on the ground with a sickening crunch. Matthew screamed his son’s name, and Alex rode straight into the men still standing, shrieking like a Viking berserk.
She was too frightened to think. With her pistol in one hand, she launched herself off the horse, bringing Philip to the ground. Bloody hell, that hurt! Philip shoved at her and she whacked him over the head with the pistol. She was on her feet, and Matthew was screaming, the dog was barking, one of the horses neighed, while Ian lay still and silent on the moss. Her son! She ran towards him.
Someone grabbed hold of her skirts. Alex almost fell, but succeeded in remaining on her feet. She pulled free, intent on getting to Ian. So still. Was he dead? Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Walter fire. Matthew stumbled backwards, and Walter cheered. Oh God, was he wounded? But, no, she heard Matthew call her name, there was a whooshing sound behind her, and, at the last moment, she flung herself to the side. Philip cursed and came after, lifting his musket as a club.
She had no time for this; she had to help Ian. Without really knowing how, she’d bunched her skirts, baring her legs. Philip’s brows rose, eyes nailed to her limbs. Keep on gawking, mister! She rose on her toes, swivelled and slammed her leg into Philip’s side, causing him to double up and gasp.
Stephen – she assumed it was Stephen, not seeing much more than his bleeding backside – screamed and tried to shield his head from Dandelion. Walter kicked at the dog, yelling for Philip to come and help. Matthew discharged his musket, and Walter staggered. The fourth man was already limping away, and Alex aimed her pistol at Philip.
Two light eyes stared at her. His tongue flickered over his lips, and he took a shuffling step backwards. She came after.
“Die,” she said and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. Philip sneered and advanced, the steel of his knife glinting in the sun.