Like Chaff in the Wind (17 page)

“Is he very ill?” In her opinion the shrunken man looked as if he was about to expire at any moment.

“He’s dying,” Matthew replied, “and he knows it.”

Washed and dressed in a clean shirt, James sat with them to eat, but he ate little, and finally Mrs Gordon stood up and disappeared, returning in some moments from the kitchen with a frothing mug. Alex sniffed; spices, hot wine, and very much honey beaten together with eggs. James smiled his thanks.

“I have a problem with the solids.”

Alex gave him a narrow look; no wonder he looked so frail if he couldn’t eat properly. James gave her a weak smile and sat back, visibly wincing when his emaciated shoulder blades settled against the wall. He looked out at the dark night with disgust.

“It’s April, time for long evenings of soft light, for the smell of new leaves on the trees…” He sounded so homesick Alex reached across and patted his hand.

“Maybe one day you’ll go back.”

James smiled, his eyes misting over. “Perhaps. But I think not.”

Chapter 23

The bed creaked when Matthew got out and moved over to the window. One of the shutters screeched against the windowsill, and with an irritated sound Alex sat up. Matthew was standing by the opened window, arms braced against the frame. She padded across the floor and put a hand on his shoulder. The effect was spectacular. Matthew whirled, snarling like a cornered dog. She gasped, raised her arms to shield herself from the blow she expected to come flying her way. Instead, Matthew cursed and flung himself towards the door, and a few moments later she heard him in the yard below. His shirt was a blob of white in the dark, a blob that moved with speed away from her.

“Shit.” Alex sat down on the bed. Far too often she woke up alone, him long gone, and if anything his confrontation with Jones had made it worse, with Matthew coiled in constant anger, an anger that had him tossing restlessly through most of the nights. After those first wonderful days, the darkness in him tainted their sex life as well, Matthew being too careful, always holding back. Whenever she came too close, whenever her caresses became too intimate, he shied away, retreating into the safety of the mechanics of sex rather than the magic of making love.

He reminded her of a wild fern; one long brush along its fronds and it curled itself up tight around its inner core, a whispered
Noli me Tangere –
don’t touch me – echoing in the wind. But this was her man, goddamn it, not some piece of greenery! Worse of all was when he retreated to lie for hours on their bed, rejecting her company as he stared unblinkingly at the wooden ceiling above. It unnerved her, this absolute stillness that left her standing very alone on the outside. She sighed and slid down to lie on her back, eyes locked on the door.

When she next woke it was daylight, and he was back, busy shaving.

“Today,” he said.

“Today?” Alex had no idea what he was on about, and anyway, shouldn’t they first discuss last night?

“The Governor; I want us to see him today.” He wiped his face clean. “I won’t be an un-free man anymore, and after that run-in with Jones I want to do this as soon as possible.” A month and more since she bought him free, he reminded her.

Alex resigned herself and inspected her meagre wardrobe. “The russet, it’s the best I have.”

“As long as you’re decent,” he warned, and with a quick kiss hurried off to find some breakfast.

“He might not be there,” Alex pointed out when they set off. Her linen shift was already sticking to her skin and she found herself longing for air conditioning – or at least a good deodorant.

“He is. I saw him ride in right early.”

“Ah.” She yawned. Always so tired lately, her body surprisingly heavy. It must be the heat, in combination with a humidity that made her hair go Shirley Temple in the extreme, spontaneously transforming into a mass of fashionable ringlets. Not that anyone saw them; Matthew Graham’s wife always wore her hair neatly coiled and capped.

“What did you do all night?” she asked him.

“I walked.” He pressed her hand tight under his arm. “I’m sorry, lass,” he muttered, and she could hear that was all he intended to say about last night – at least for now.

*

Sir William was bored. He fluffed at his shoulder length hair, still mostly its original dark brown, eyed the line outside his office with irritation, and swept inside to settle behind his desk, quill in hand to convey the impression of a very busy man that must not be importuned more than necessary.

His mind wandered back to his mulberry trees and silk worms, congratulating himself yet again on having succeeded in multiplying them so well. He groaned inwardly at having to be here instead of at home on Green Spring, and in particular now, in May, when his fields were a promising, beckoning green.

An adjustment to his tasselled sash, and with a wave of his hand he indicated to his secretary to let the first supplicant in. Hopefully he could conclude business in time to ride the few miles out to his home before dark.

He suppressed a sigh as he listened to the concocted little story of the couple in front of him. The wife was pleasing to the eye, if excessively modest with an unfashionably high neckline to her linen shift, and he noticed with mild interest that it was she who was doing most of the talking, her husband standing silent beside her. Not out of choice, he decided, but because at present he had no legal status. He considered their situation; she was wed to him and therefore she and all her worldly goods were his to dispose of as he saw fit. At the same time, she now owned his indenture, having exposed herself to a daunting sea crossing to find him and buy him free. So now he was both owned and owner… He stopped listening, sinking into this interesting little conundrum until he realised she’d fallen silent and was expecting him to say something.

“Have you got any proof of his supposed innocence?”

“How am I supposed to get that?” she said. “In general courts only issue documents on convicted people, or people who have at least stood some trial. My husband has not been accused, nor yet been on trial, so how could I furnish you with this document you request?”

He shrugged. He let his eyes wander over them again. The man was a Scot, he heard that in his speech.

“Are you Presbyterian?” he asked, a slight interest sparking in his brain. The man nodded that he was. “A Covenanter?” Sir William inflected his voice with disgust.

Matthew Graham straightened up to his full height, ignoring the restraining touch of his wife’s hand.

“I am.”

“A soldier?” Sir William leaned forward, eyes boring into the uncommonly tall man.

“For a while,” Graham said. “Four years, aye?”

“How old are you?”

Graham looked somewhat surprised. “Thirty-two.”

Sir William sat back; this Graham would have been fifteen at Naseby, twenty-one before that accursed Cromwell won the north. But only eleven when he himself left England to hold Virginia for the crown – after far too many months spent in Scotland, fighting for the King.

“On what side did you fight?”

This was a rather needless question, Sir William recognised, watching the tall Scot square his shoulders. But one never knew, did one, and men had been known to change sides – in some cases more than once.

“I was for the Commonwealth,” Matthew Graham said, and Sir William frowned at the pride in his voice.

Sir William eyed him with dislike. He had no patience with these extreme religious fanatics, although he had to concede that the couple in front of him looked no threat to law and order, for all that the man admitted to being of Puritan beliefs. The King was restored, he reminded himself, and the kingdom was healed. No more rifts, no more conflicts that tore the country apart. Still…he’d loved the old king, and in the younger man’s eyes he saw a mild satisfaction at having been on the side that won the armed conflict. It galled him, spurring him to a pettiness not generally in his nature.

“You wish to free him?”

Mrs Graham nodded, presenting a freshly inked deed, rolled together to preserve it from creasing. He read the document through and shook his head.

“No; I have no proof that this man isn’t a dangerous criminal, and I fear that he’s a potential dissenter. I’ll see you back in two months, and then we’ll see.”

The green flare in Graham’s eyes had him sitting back, and he turned to look at the wife instead. Blue ice made him recoil.

She curtsied and raised herself back up. “Until then, Sir William. And I will of course wait until that occasion to turn over some effects I have been requested to ensure reach you personally.”

He stuttered in indignation. “Are you carrying dispatches for me?”

She gave him yet another cold look. “Am I? Not that I know off. I have gifts to give you, at my convenience.” She placed her hand on her husband’s arm and swept out of the room, leaving Sir William slack-mouthed.

*

“That went really well,” Alex said. Matthew was stone under her hand, walking so fast she had to break out into an undignified trot to keep up. “Matthew! Please…” When he didn’t slow, she let him go, stumbling before she regained her footing.

In front of her, Matthew’s back was moving away and she came to a stop, not quite knowing what to do. Her pouch was heavy with the carefully wrapped objects she had been entrusted in getting to Sir William, and for an instant she considered throwing the three items into the river. But she didn’t, because for some reason handling them – and in particular the larger of the rectangular objects – sent shivers up her spine.

It was all Matthew’s fault; she had suggested that she should first give the Governor the packages, and then, once she’d established herself as a once removed trusted emissary from the English court, request he sign the deed – which she was certain he would have done, not even bothering to read it properly. But Matthew had been adamant. He wanted the Governor to sign the deed based on his own story, not because he was distracted by other things. And now he was off to sulk, or throw himself on their bed and refuse to talk to her, while the rage that simmered inside of him cooled down to manageable levels.

She decided not to return to the boarding house, but set off in the direction of the apothecary. She was sure she’d find Mrs Gordon there, generously dispensing advice in between her elegant flirting with the helpless proprietor, Mr Parson, a tall thin man with an impressive mane of white hair. His shop was crowded with flasks and jars, with bunches of drying herbs, honeycombs and strange things she preferred not to look too closely at, all of it suffused by a rather pleasing scent of beeswax and cloves.

“Mrs Graham! Come for a spot of tea?” Mr Parson beamed down at her from his ladder and she smiled back. One reason Alex appreciated Mr Parson, was that not only did he sell tea, he also liked tea, having developed an addiction to the beverage during several years spent in Lisbon. Having discovered an avid tea drinker in Alex, he always offered her a cup when she came by. It was horribly expensive, but every now and then she would allow herself the luxury of a two ounce bag, hoarding it for herself.

Mrs Gordon bustled out from the back regions and assured Mr Parson she was quite capable of taking care of his wee shop while he went and had a cup of tea, and in less than five minutes Alex was seated on a small stool in the open kitchen door, sipping with pleasure at the hot liquid in her cup. Mr Parson tsk:ed at her summary of the events of the morning, but did not seem unduly concerned.

“In this case it doesn’t really matter. As you’re his wife, and you hold his indenture, well then his indenture belongs to himself.” Alex found that somewhat confusing, and Mr Parson explained it again. Anything a wife owned belonged to her husband. In this particular instance she could see a benefit in that, but for the rest…

“And what if a rich girl marries a nasty character who only takes her for her money?”

Mr Parson chewed his lip. “A girl will marry where her father chooses her to. The father has an obligation to ensure the future husband is a man of good character. He will surely intercede if his daughter is treated badly.”

“And what happens when the father dies? Or her brother or whoever has been responsible for arranging the marriage?”

Mr Parson didn’t reply; instead he offered Alex some more tea.

*

It took some time for Matthew to catch on to the fact that Alex was no longer following him. A quick look up the street ascertained she was nowhere in sight, and he was ashamed for taking out on her what was really his own fault. But to have that pompous man deny him something that should never have been taken from him in the first place made him want to gag. He considered retracing his steps to find her, but after some moments of indecision chose to keep on walking, making for the waterfront where he sat down in the shade, discarding his coat to allow the weak breeze to cool him.

He knew his silences worried her, and sometimes he sensed how excluded she felt, but he couldn’t let her in, not when all he wanted to do in those dark moments was to hurt someone. He turned his angered thoughts on Luke; this was all his fault. Thinking of Luke only served to incense him further, fuming at fate that had chosen to let this twisted evil creature live instead of having him carried away in a childhood fever.

Red-haired and green-eyed, Luke had been a bonny high-spirited lad, a lad so much younger than him that he was more of a nuisance than a brother. And when he’d returned from the war, Luke had tagged after him, admiration shining out of his eyes for this stranger who was his brother and had killed men, several men, in the heat of battle. Somewhere there the relationship between the brothers shifted from one of mutual affection to one of distance.

A year later their rigid father had thrown Luke out for fornicating with Margaret, ignoring Luke’s pleas that he be allowed to marry her, for he loved her, loved her, you hear? If only Da had agreed to that, Matthew sighed. Instead, fifteen-year-old Margaret was left at Hillview pining for the man she had always loved, but was convinced would never come back. So she turned to him, to Matthew, and he was flattered by the attention of this beautiful lass – no, woman. He had lain with women before, of course he had, but never had he been touched the way she touched him, never felt himself burn with want, and three years after Luke had left he wed Margaret.

And then Luke came back, coincidentally the day they buried Da. After that it all went wrong; his wife taking Luke to bed in their room, laughing at him when he came upon them. And the child; his son, wee Ian that Margaret told him was Luke’s. Except that he wasn’t, as he found out many years later.

He sighed and used a stick to trace a capital L in the dust before him. Years in gaol because of Luke – convicted of a crime he’d never committed. A child stolen from him, impossible to reclaim, another child lost to the cruel beating Luke had submitted Alex to. He should have killed him when he had the chance – no one would ever have known. Instead he had sliced off Luke’s nose, and for that Luke had done this to him. So much hatred, a vicious yellow bile that tainted both their lives. Now it was too late; there was no way back, no possibility to repair all those destroyed bridges.