Matthew’s throat constricted at the thought. “He isn’t lost,” he said, setting the glass back untouched on the table. “It’s an unkindness to insinuate he might be.”
William made a small sound. “It’s not my intent to hurt you, Brother Matthew. I know the pain of losing a son…five we’ve lost.” His eyes flew to his wife for an instant before returning to Matthew. “My intention is rather to protect my daughter. Is she to live forever in hope? See the years go by, let her life slip through her fingers as she waits for one who may be dead – who may have found himself a new life far from here?”
“If he does, he’ll write. My lad wouldn’t want his mother to spend her remaining years wondering where he may have ended up.”
“If he can,” William said, “but sometimes life happens.”
“William!” Esther hissed. Matthew closed his eyes for instant, seconds in which his brain was taken over by graphic images of what fates might befall his son.
*
Well over an hour later, Matthew shouldered his way into Mrs Malone’s. As always, the inn was full of male patrons, some like him there for the beer, others for the lasses. From the kitchen came enticing smells of baked onions and sausages, the whores smelled abundantly of perfume, and the men reeked of lust and grime. Matthew made his way over the floor, ducking here and there to avoid the lanterns that suffused the room in a hazy golden light – most becoming to the whores, some of whom were getting on a bit. One of the wenches came dancing towards him, her cleavage so generous he could see most of her heavy breasts. She simpered at him, but Matthew waved her away and ordered a beer.
Matthew sat down in a dark corner to nurse his drink and his foul mood. These last few days hadn’t been good days, what with Alex holding back on him, wee Daniel setting sail, the damned Burleys, and then this long conversation with Hancock. In the end, they’d decided that, for now, nothing would be done, but that should Betty reach eighteen with Jacob still not back, well then…
Matthew drained his beer and beckoned for another one. And another, and another. He sat sunk into black gloom and regarded the bustle around him; the lasses that flirted and laughed; the men that panted with expectation.
Mrs Malone herself appeared for an instant, a statuesque woman with the most magnificent red hair Matthew had ever seen, even if Alex had drily informed him that it was dyed – anyone could see that. The madam let her eye rove her small kingdom to ensure her girls were working diligently, and after satisfying herself that all the private rooms were in use, she nodded at her barman and disappeared up the stairs – in all probability to count up her profits.
There was something of a commotion by the door, and Matthew looked up blearily to where a group of men were exclaiming in anger and disgust, glaring at a black stranger. Black? Matthew knuckled his eyes. Aye, black, or at least a deep brown. One man, whom Matthew recognised as Mr Farrell, was waving his arms around in agitation, pointing at the dark man and repeatedly slurring an angry “slave”. And then Mr Farrell wasn’t standing up anymore, but was flying in a neat arc through the air to crash against the counter.
Women shrieked; men screamed and raged. Matthew ducked instinctively when a bottle came flying through the air towards him. The barman was attempting to regain control when Mrs Malone reappeared with a musket. The roar was deafening, and for a split second everyone in the establishment stood frozen to the spot. That was all Mrs Malone needed. Using her musket as a club, she made her way through the crowd until she reached the door where she pointed at the black man and told him to get out – now.
Matthew was impressed. In dishabille, with her hair hanging undone down her back and her heaving bosom very much on display, Mrs Malone looked verily like an Amazon, and the way she wielded her musket only served to further strengthen that opinion. She stood panting by the counter, resting back on her arms in a way that had the gawking men drooling over all that exposed flesh.
“How is he?” she asked, indicating Mr Farrell who lay groaning on the floor.
“The effrontery,” Mr Farrell managed, sitting up with his hairpiece in his hand. “A black man to bear hand on such as me. I’ll see him punished, I will.” He got to his feet, one arm hanging awkwardly by his side. “What say you? An escaped slave is on the loose, and you’ve all seen how wildly he attacked me.” An assenting rumble rose around him.
“I say we go a-hunting!” one man called out, and several men hooted their agreement.
Mrs Malone frowned and murmured something to the barman.
“Before you do,” she interrupted, “let me offer you something to drink – on the house.”
Not only an Amazon, but an Athena as well, Matthew concluded, throwing the madam an admiring look.
Chapter 10
Matthew woke very late next morning with uncomfortably indistinct memories of the remainder of last night. A very pretty lass…Henriette? Caroline? Matthew groaned and hid his face in his pillow. What had he done? His head throbbed, but a careful inspection assured him all of him was whole. He sniffed at his torn shirt and grimaced. He smelled like a bawdy house! Oh God; Alex would flay him alive.
The door opened, and he flinched at the sharp shaft of light.
“Awake?” Ian’s dry voice sounded amused.
“Uhhhh,” Matthew replied, hoping Ian would understand. A hand appeared with a cup of cider and Matthew gulped it down.
“It seems I got you out at the last moment,” Ian went on with an element of reproof. “That wee lass had a good grip on you.”
“I was drunk,” Matthew informed him haughtily. He closed his eyes. “I’m still drunk.”
“I don’t think Mama would care why.”
“Nay.” A quick shudder at the thought of Alex’s reaction flew through Matthew.
He was still very sore on the inside of his skull when he stepped out into the street some hours later. The voice that called his name cut through his sensitive brain tissue and made him wince, but he turned in the direction of the speaker, if nothing else to stop whoever it was from calling his name again.
“Kate!” Matthew shone up with genuine pleasure – it had been some time since he saw her last, one or two years back. “I hear you’ve managed to evade the hunt,” Matthew teased, looking her up and down. Widowhood became her, he reflected, and especially now that she had left the sober colours of her widow garb behind and moved on to this far more attractive golden red. It brought out the colour of her hair and lightened her eyes, and, all in all, she looked most pleasing.
Kate Jones rolled her eyes and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm with far more familiarity than he was comfortable with. He shook his head and increased the space between them, making her smile.
“You fear word of our cuddling might reach Alex?”
“Aye,” he replied, miming a cut throat. Alex might have forgiven, but she had definitely not forgotten, that he’d bedded Kate all those years ago, when he was a slave and Kate the single thing he had to hold onto.
Kate laughed and dropped her hand to walk beside him, no more.
“You look well,” Matthew said, having concluded a detailed but surreptitious inspection. Well, he assumed being rid of a husband like Dominic Jones had to be a relief.
“I am well.” Kate brushed at her velvet skirts.
“And the bairns? Are they well?”
“Bairns?” Kate laughed out loud. “The youngest is seven, Matthew, and the eldest is seventeen.” A shadow flew over her face.
“Is seventeen?” Matthew asked perceptively.
Kate sighed. “John died of the measles two years back, so now it is only Henry left of the twins.”
“I’m so sorry,” Matthew said.
Kate looked away, her chin quivering. She cleared her throat and turned to face him. “And you? I hear that one of your sons has taken to the seas.”
Matthew kicked at the ground and muttered something about gossiping women.
“Esther is my friend. She’s quite upset by the whole situation, and what with her breeding again…” Kate made a face. “She misses her daughter. But then all mothers miss their children once they’re gone.”
Matthew inclined his head in silent agreement. “And yet all children must ultimately leave the parent nest.” He looked thoughtfully at Kate. “Don’t you miss it? Someone to help you place the bairns and order your affairs?”
“I can take care of my affairs on my own, and as to the children, I haven’t begun looking for suitable partners – they’re still too young.”
“Henry is seventeen,” Matthew reminded her. “And the next lad is what? Fourteen?”
“He’ll not wed yet. I’m of a mind to send Henry to Boston for some years.” Her eyes slid over to meet Matthew’s, and a slow smile spread over her face. “How old is your eldest girl? Twelve?”
“In a few months.” Matthew smiled back.
“Mayhap that would be a suitable match for my Henry.”
“Alex won’t want her to wed too young,” Matthew prevaricated. Alex wouldn’t want Ruth anywhere close to Henry Jones. Nor did he, not really, but he liked the mother well enough, and the lad stood to inherit a sizeable property.
“We can wait, and we don’t have to decide anything as yet. But it’s an interesting thought, isn’t it?” Kate smiled again, leaned forward to peck him on his cheek, and told him she was late for her appointment with Mrs Malone.
“Mrs Malone?” Matthew must have sounded very surprised because Kate burst out in laughter.
“I’m not applying for a position, but Mrs Malone happens to be the best dressmaker in town. Quite a lucrative sideline, I gather.” With that, she was gone, nodding in passing to Ian who bowed before taking the few steps necessary to bring him abreast with Matthew.
“Gone,” he said.
“Gone?” Matthew asked.
“The Burleys. Young Farrell told me they’d been seen riding south towards St Mary’s City late last afternoon.”
“Ah.” That was good news, even if Matthew feared it was but a matter of time before he ran into them again. Those three demented brothers were nothing if not persistent, and what had begun as a hunger for revenge on account of their miscreant of a brother’s death had swelled into an obsession, further fuelled by all the times when the Grahams – be it him or his wife – had bested them.
They walked along in relative silence for a while, Matthew nodding to the odd acquaintance, Ian commenting on the new houses that had sprung up since last he was here.
Providence – or Anne Arundel’s Town, as the minority Anglicans insisted on calling it – was growing at an impressive pace, and, for all that it remained more of a village than a town, it had something of a bustle to it, a quality it shared with most ports, Matthew reckoned. The area round the docks was a beehive of activity, one warehouse after the other lined the waterfront, and on the opposite side were the slave pens, at present very empty. There was even talk of erecting a windmill down by the wharves, but so far nothing had come of that; as Matthew heard it, because Mr Farrell was reluctant to part with the land in question.
At present, the little town was thronged with people, most of them farmers like himself, come to attend the Michaelmas market. Matthew came with hams and sausages, smoked fish and pelts, further supplemented by Jenny’s cheese and Alex’s stone jars of honey. From what Matthew could see, Jenny was holding her own in their stall, giving them but a hasty wave before going back to her business endeavours.
Ian suggested they repair to an inn for some beer, but Matthew shook his head: no beer, not yet.
Ian laughed. “Why were you there? And why go to Mrs Malone’s in the first place, when you know Mama doesn’t like it that you do?” Precisely because she didn’t like it, Matthew thought, recognising how childish that was. He was still angry with her over Angus, and after that dismal discussion with William, he had needed some cheering up.
“The beer is good,” he said.
“Aye, that it is,” Ian said. “But the lasses are good as well. I had to pay that wee redhead off last night before she would let go of your balls.”
“Thank you,” Matthew muttered. “I didn’t want to.”
“Oh, aye? It didn’t seem so.”
Any further discussion about this uncomfortable subject was cut short when they entered the main square. A triumphant Mr Farrell was watching while the stranger from last night was stripped and put in chains, despite his loud protests that he was a free man, as free as any of them, and all this was a mistake.
“Hey, man, what d’you think you’re doing? Just let go of me, okay?” His dark skin glistened with sweat, he struggled like a fiend, but the odds were overwhelmingly against him, and in less than ten minutes, he was being dragged away, as naked as the day he was born.
“No!” he shrieked. “What the fuck is this? No!”
Matthew shifted restlessly from foot to foot. This was wrong, somehow, and he was on the point of interrupting when Ian placed a hand on his arm.
“No, Da, it won’t help him, and it may harm you.”
“He says he’s free, and now look at him, chained like a beast.”
“Do you know for sure that he isn’t lying?”
“Nay.” It was just something about how the man carried himself, how confidently he had stepped into Mrs Malone’s last night, and how he spoke – definitely how he spoke.
Ian hitched his shoulder. “You don’t know, Da. And it’s rare for a black man to be free.”
William Hancock appeared beside them, nodding at this last statement. “If he is free, he’s a fool to come here without documents to prove his freedom. The man couldn’t properly explain where he came from or what he was doing here.” William frowned and shook his head. “He kept on repeating something about a crossroads and a thunderstorm, and when Mr Farrell called him a lying Negro, he got most upset and loudly demanded he be called an…em…Afro-American – yes, that’s it, an Afro-American.”
Matthew had stopped listening beyond the word crossroads.
“Where?” He asked in a breathless voice that had both Ian and William looking at him with concern. “Where was this crossroads?”
“Down south,” William said.
Matthew felt the strength drain away from his legs so fast that, if it hadn’t been for Ian’s support, he would have fallen to the ground. A crossroads, here! He’d hoped all such time nodes were left forever behind in the old country, ensuring Alex was safe with him.
He stared in the direction they’d dragged the poor bastard. The stranger came from another time, a time when black people were as free as white men were. He was as vulnerable as a newborn babe in the here and now. Without a backward look, Matthew hastened over to talk to Mr Farrell.
“No,” Mr Farrell cradled his broken arm to his chest. “He isn’t for sale, Brother Matthew.” He looked over to where his latest human asset was being chained to a cart and smiled nastily.
“Everything is for sale, Mr Farrell, as long as the price is right.”
“Not this one. This one will work his life out for me.” With that, he bowed and turned away.
“Explain,” Ian said, having followed Matthew across the square.
Matthew blew out a long gust of air and looked at his eldest son. “It isn’t really my story to tell.”
“I won’t spread it, but you have to explain why you attempt to buy a slave when you know Mama doesn’t hold with slavery.”
“She wouldn’t mind if I bought this one.” Matthew grabbed Ian by the arm and led him off towards the bay. For a long time, he walked in silence, having no idea how to begin – or even if he should begin.
“Well?” Ian said. They were well out of town by now, surrounded by nothing but reeds and water.
Matthew looked about for somewhere to sit and perched on a rock. “You know how we’ve always told you that me and your mama met each other on a moor?”
Ian sat down beside him. “A right huge thunderstorm, and Mama’s father went missing and you thought him dead.”
“Quite,” Matthew said.
“But he wasn’t, and I still don’t fully comprehend how he came to be in yon thorny thicket back home.”
“Nay, that was a surprise.” Matthew frowned down at the tear in his shirt, fingering the ragged edges. “As you said, it was a thunderstorm, and one of those bolts of lightning threw Alex to land at my feet.” He smiled at the memory. “She was a strange lass, dressed in long blue breeches she called ‘djeens’. And her hair was short.” He indicated with his hand how her hair had been no longer than to her ears, seeing Ian’s brows rise in surprise.
“Had she been ill?”
Matthew laughed hollowly. “Ill? No, not as such.” He took a deep breath. “She was thrown through time.”
Ian looked at him for a long time and then began to laugh. “You’re making this up,” he said once he had calmed down.
“I wish I was, but no, I’m not. Alexandra Lind was born in 1976, and a few weeks short of her twenty-sixth birthday, time unravelled beneath her feet and sent her spinning to land in 1658.”
It was almost amusing: his son blinked owlishly, mouth gaping wide.
“Is she…?” Ian licked his lips. “Is she…?” He stood up, all of him twitching.
“A witch?” Matthew filled in. “Do you think she is?”
Ian sat back down. “Nay. If she is, she’s not a very good one.”
Matthew smiled in agreement. He wasn’t about to tell Ian about Mercedes, because there he had no doubts: Alex’s mother had been a witch, her paintings throbbing with magic, horrible little squares of greens and blues that sucked you in and spat you out in another time.
“And Magnus?” Ian asked.
“Magnus…” Matthew hedged. Dear Lord! The man had tumbled out of the year 2016 to arrive here in 1672. “He was ill, and he wanted to see his daughter before he died.”
Ian bit his lip. “How?” he said hoarsely. “How did he do that?” He had paled to the point of acquiring a bluish tinge to the skin around his mouth.
“A painting,” Matthew said. “A wee, accursed painting, that was how.” Matthew saw Ian’s hand form itself into a protective sign against evil and smiled sardonically.
“Aye,” Matthew agreed, “it’s enough to make your head ache – even without Mrs Malone’s excellent beer.
“Crossroads,” Matthew continued. “That first time, Alex was standing on a crossroads when she was caught in a thunderstorm – a huge thunderstorm by all accounts.” He smiled briefly at his son. “That’s why Alex is so terrified of lightning – and crossroads. Twice, time has opened at her feet at the crossroads on the way to Cumnock; twice, I’ve managed to keep her here with me.” He swallowed, recalling just how close a call it had been.
Matthew cleared his throat. “Yon crossroads is very exact, and Magnus told us how such crossroads can at times mark points where the weave of time is weaker than it should be.”
“So it rends more easily,” Ian said, his face reverting to a more normal colour. He turned to stare at his father. “And that black man: he has fallen through as well!”
“I don’t know for sure, but, aye, that would explain some.” Matthew painted a brief description of a future society in which all men were equal, no matter race or creed, and Ian listened with an incredulous expression on his face.