The Prodigal Son (17 page)

“You’re sailing very close to the abyss,” Simon said once he caught up with Matthew. “What in God’s name have you done?”

Matthew didn’t reply. The last week had been a race against time, with Ham pressed to his limit when Matthew stormed off in the direction of Edinburgh just before midnight on Sunday instead of early Saturday morning when he officially set off. But it had been worth it, he thought, shocking himself. A life taken in payment for Williams and the minister, for the petty cruelties that coloured all his neighbours’ days, but most of all for Alex, for the blood-red welts on the pale skin of her back.

“Matthew?” Simon said. “You haven’t been fully honest with me have you?”

“Nay, I haven’t,” Matthew said. “Will you still stand by me?” he asked, once he had finished retelling the events.

Simon closed his eyes in exasperation. “It’s too late to ask now.”

Matthew was very ashamed, dropping his head.

“And what will Alex say?” Simon said.

Matthew straightened up. “You won’t breathe a word of this to Alex, never, you hear?”

Simon swore that he wouldn’t. “But you must tell her. You can’t keep something like this from her.”

“Aye,” Matthew said. “But I’ll choose the when and the where with caution. And it isn’t now.”

Except that there was no way Matthew could evade the bright blue of Alex’ eyes, scorching their way into his soul; she knew him better than he knew himself, and when she followed him across the yard into the stable he knew it wouldn’t be him choosing anything, it would be her. So he took her by the hand and helped her up the ladder to the hayloft and there he sat with her on his lap and told her how Gower died. She didn’t say anything once he had finished, leaning back against his chest.

“No one,” she finally said. “We’ll tell no one. And we’ll never talk of it again.”

“Never,” he agreed.

Chapter 13

“Daniel Elijah?” Alex looked down at the wean. “Two very solemn names, don’t you think? It makes him sound very religious.”

“Good,” Matthew said, caressing the downy head of this his latest bairn. “Quite appropriate for a future minister.”

“A minister?” Alex raised a brow.

“Aye, a man of the church.” Matthew had problems keeping a straight face at her dumbfounded expression.

“But what if he doesn’t want to?”

“We’ll make him want it.” Matthew scooted closer, eyes on his nursing son. It was still a miracle to him that something so small could be so determined when it came to food. “Both of us,” he added, ignoring Alex’ frown.

He waited until his son had finished feeding before taking him from his mother, holding the wean in the crook of his arm.

“A wee lad, hmm?” he crooned. “Look at you, all rosy and glowing with health.”

“What will the others be?” She sounded put out, clearly not taken by the notion that he should decide what direction his sons’ lives would take.

He smiled. “Mark will be a farmer, and this wee one will be a minister.”

“And Jacob?”

Matthew shrugged. Jacob could be so many things; strong and placid and with a good head on his shoulders, Jacob would make his own way in the world.

“Jacob? Ah, well Jacob will be happy.”

“And the others won’t,” Alex muttered.

“Aye they will.”

“And Rachel?”

Matthew rolled his eyes and made a choking sound that had Alex bursting out in laughter.

“Rachel will be a wife. God help her future husband.”

May; wooded slopes clad in bright new greens, drifts of bluebells and windflowers covering the ground, the trees in the apple orchard heavy with flower and sitting there, in the shade, his wife and his newest child. Matthew remained where he was, watching how she lifted Daniel from her breast to settle him in his basket. She smiled in the direction of Jacob and Rachel, playing among the trees, and he was filled with a sensation of deep contentment. His world, his family, a small corner of paradise that belonged to him – made possible by the woman who now raised her hand in a wave. Three sons and one madcap daughter in a bit more than six years, and there would be many more, for she was healthy and fertile and both of them were still calf-sick with lust for each other.

“Here,” Matthew extended the small posy of flowers he had picked.

“For me?” She looked pleased.

“Aye,” he said, dropping down beside her. “Seeing as I couldn’t find my honey-haired mistress.” Now what had made him say something as foolish as that? She gave him a chilly look, and he felt a familiar rush of shame at the memory of Kate Jones, with her dark eyes and hair the exact shade of honey. But he’d only bedded her because he was ill and afraid he would die, all those years ago in Virginia.

“I…” he said.

“I know,” she cut him off, leaning back against him. “I had a bad dream last night.”

“Och, aye?” Matthew found a long stalk of grass and began nibbling at the soft, pale end. Alex settled into him and yawned.

“About Magnus; he looked awful, his head shaved, and all of him sort of shrunk together…” Her voice trailed off. “I think he’s ill.” She gnawed at her lip, looking quite concerned. “He’s too young, not yet sixty-four.”

“We can’t do much for him from here,” Matthew said, “and three score four is an impressive age.”

“You think?”

“My da died before the age of fifty,” Matthew reminded her.

Alex made an irritated sound. ”Yeah; he drowned – not exactly due to old age, was it?”

“He’s still dead. And besides, it’s just a dream, not necessarily true.”

“It’s ages since I dreamt of them,” Alex said, “and I almost never think of them. Not of Magnus, not of my little Isaac; slowly but safely it’s all becoming a fairy tale.”

“Aye, of course it is. This is your life, you belong here with me and our bairns.”

“But I used to belong there.”

Matthew grunted, as always uncomfortable discussing the more disconcerting aspects of his wife’s life. He shifted to lie on his back, one hand on her, the other on the rim of the baby basket. Alex fiddled with his shirt, patted at his stomach, his thighs. He stretched, enjoying these slow caresses.

“Do I look old?”

He raised his head to look at her, sitting beside him. Old? His Alex? He bit back a smile. Of course she had aged since the first time he saw her, and four bairns had not slid unnoticed from between her thighs, leaving her somewhat more rounded in hips and arse. He doubted she’d fit into those odd breeches – jeans, was it? – of hers today, but to him the overall impression was more pleasing, softer somehow. He peeked at her chest; two round and shapely breasts peeked back as well as they could through linen and bodice. He lifted his hand and gave the closest one an appreciative little squeeze.

“You look lovely,” he smiled, very satisfied with his little sidestep.

“But do I look old?”

“Nay, that you don’t, you look younger than Joan, even than Rosie.” That pleased her, he could see – Rosie was eight years her junior.

“See? Diet is important – and hygiene.”

“Aye, we all know that,” Matthew teased. “Teeth cleaned morning and night, baths once a week.” He looked at her hopefully. “You might need some help later, no? With your oils.” She all naked, the whole room suffused by the concentrated scent of lavender, his hands exploring a body he could never get enough of.

She laughed and leaned over to kiss him. “You have a dirty mind, Mr Graham, and let me remind you our son is not yet three weeks old.” Her eyes were very close to his. “But I wouldn’t mind some help with my oils.”

“Nay; I didn’t think you would.”

Next morning Alex woke alone, a damp baby fretting in his basket. Daniel made small demanding sounds and Alex staggered to her feet, wondering where Matthew might be. She made a small face when she recalled it was Sunday. He’d be down in his study choosing Bible texts for today. Probably a passage she’d never heard of before, making him sigh and tell her he expected her to study it during the week. She hated it when he did that, and in protest she generally didn’t read the texts, which led to some heated arguments along the lines that she, as his wife and mother of his children, must know the Holy Book well enough to impart it to the new generation.

“I can do the Old Testament part,” she’d offered, “at least the general lines of it.” General lines were not good enough, and now Alex was constantly being quizzed about Job and Moses, and Joshua and who was Jezebel and Ahab, leaving her head spinning as over and over again she had to admit her ignorance.

“Let’s just hope no one throws you into the lion’s pit,” she muttered to Daniel and offered him her breast. For an instant it hurt, and then both she and baby relaxed as Daniel set himself to the important task of nursing. Alex yawned. She’d had a restless night, dreaming the same dream over and over again. Always Magnus, eyes as blue as her own dulled with pain, his long, tall frame decimated to a beanpole. He’s dying, she gulped, soon he’ll be dead and I’ll never see him again. And despite it all she laughed – very shakily, but still. To Magnus it was the other way around; she was dead, had been drifting dust in the wind for centuries before Magnus was even born.

Very rarely did she dream of her lost life; to do so two nights in a row seemed something of an augury, and she spent the coming half-hour thinking about what might be ailing Magnus. Daniel coughed, recalling her to the here and now, and it was with some relief that she banished these thoughts of lost people in a lost future.

“Where’s your da?” Alex asked Mark over breakfast, shaking her head in a silent no when Rachel stretched for the third time in the direction of the honey pot.

“I don’t know, I thought he was still in bed.”

Alex pursed her lips and after wrapping Daniel in his shawl went to look for her husband. In the study his Bible lay open and Alex scanned the text, smiling when she realised this was in fact a book she did know, the book of Ruth. But of Matthew there was no sign, not in the house, nor anywhere else. This was not like him, and Alex’ mouth contracted into something the size of a prune as she tried to understand what this might mean. She went down to the meadows and studied the horses, but they were all there, grazing under the stand of alders that bordered the little river.

“Have you seen the master?” Alex asked Gavin, who straightened up from his contemplation of absolutely nothing. “Have you?” Alex repeated, eyes tightening when Gavin went bright red. “Gavin, I just want to know he’s alright. So have you seen him?”

Gavin twisted and admitted that he had, very early, setting off in the direction of the hill. The hill… Alex looked up towards its bare head. Beyond it lay the rolling moss and with a sickening jolt in her stomach she understood where he’d gone. It was Sunday, and now that spring was here arranging a hidden prayer meeting was so much easier. But there were still dragoons all over the place, even if being on horseback was a doubtful advantage over some of the rougher patches of the moor. Alex tightened her grip on Daniel as she stared at the spot where, God willing, her husband would reappear live and well before the day was done.

Each hour was an eternity. Alex started at every sound, she sat on the bench outside the kitchen door with her eyes peeled, alternating between looking up the lane and up the slope. A glorious, warm Sunday, and she couldn’t enjoy one minute of it, hating it that time crawled by as slowly as a snail in treacle. Lapwings wheeled unsteadily over the closest fields, the resident kingfisher darted by in a flurry of orange and blue, but Alex wasn’t in the mood for ornithology. Morning, dinner, a long, long afternoon, and when the shadows began to lengthen she couldn’t stand it any longer. With Daniel in his shawl she set off up the wooded slopes.

Alex was sweaty with exertion by the time she made it to the top of the hill. The May twilight lay purple around her and she turned to look down at her home. It all looked so peaceful, cows in the meadow, the goats bleating in their enclosure. A shriek cut through the silence, and Alex smiled in exasperation when something small pelted across the farm yard, shadowed by a larger shape. Mark out to discipline his sister, and once he caught up with her there were a number of yelps that indicated he had gotten his own back. She turned towards the moor. The air was pungent with the scent of new grass, of wild garlic and the nutty scent of the bright yellow gorse that criss-crossed the moss – deceptively beautiful at a distance, horribly thorny if you got too close.

Daniel squirmed against her chest, and Alex hefted him closer, rocking him. Matthew should be back by now, and her eyes scanned the empty expanse, trying to see something, anything, that indicated he was safe and well and making his way back to her and his home. In the falling dusk the rolling moss darkened, soft mists rising from the damp ground like floating veils. When the horses appeared out of nowhere, disembodied in the shifting light, she plunged to hide below the trees.

“Thank you. God’s speed on you.”

Alex recognised Matthew’s voice, but remained where she was until she heard him rustling through the grass. He jumped at the sight of her.

“Alex! Why are you here?”

“Why do you think? Because I fancied a walk?” She gave him an angry look. “Where have you been?”

“You know where I’ve been, and I told you that I’d still continue to go when I could.”

“You could’ve been arrested! How can you take that risk?” She put both her hands at her waist and glared at him.

“We knew what we were doing. It would be hard going for a troop of dragoons across the gorse.”

“You came back by horse.”

“Aye, for the last part.” Matthew slipped an arm around her and drew her close. “I just had to,” he said, leaning his head against hers. “I have a need of it, to hear the words of God.” He used his free hand to open up a window in her shawl, and smiled down at his sleeping son, placing a long finger on the little button nose.

“Sandy will be here in three days, to christen the wean.”

“As long as he comes nowhere close to the house,” Alex said, stepping out of his embrace.

Matthew’s jaw tightened. “He’s my friend, my preacher. I’ll not have you talk of him as if he were vermin.”