The Prodigal Son (4 page)

“Be quiet,” Alex told Rachel. “It’s your own fault, isn’t it?” She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the smell that emanated from her daughter. “I told you, Rachel Graham. How many times have I told you he’ll butt you if you don’t let him be?”

Rachel snivelled. She was fascinated by the billy goat, standing for hours by his enclosure, sometimes to feed him apples, but far more often to throw things at him and make him bleat. Today she’d apparently decided to open the gate for him so as to properly make his acquaintance which had ended with the goat sending her flying face first into the adjacent pile of manure – and serve the little missy right.

“Phew, you really stink!” Alex led Rachel towards the little river that bisected their property on its way to join the Lugar Water. “And you,” she pointed at Matthew. “You stink too. So you best come along.”

“Nay, I don’t, I only picked her up.”

“And held her in your arms, and there’s something sticking to your hair.”

“You best do as she says,” Simon said, tongue-in-cheek. “She sounds very determined.” He fell in step with them, humming something under his breath.

“And as for you, Simon Melville, you’re not coming inside until you’ve washed,” Alex said over her shoulder, already busy at the water’s edge with a squirming Rachel.

“Me?” Simon made huge eyes. “Why me?”

“You caught the goat – and, let me tell you, it shows.”

Simon looked down at his mud spattered shirt and grinned. “You’re just wishing to see me in all my glory, Mrs Graham. You must be hungering for a peek at a real man.”

“I’ll give you real man,” Matthew growled, stretching himself to his full six feet plus two. “Come here, you wee twat and let me show you, aye?”

Simon laughed and charged, sending both men to fall fully clothed into the water.

“Idiots,” Alex said, before going back to scrubbing her daughter.

An hour or so later all the Graham children were clean and playing by the water’s edge. Alex regarded them with pride; Mark and Rachel were small clones of their father, with the same somewhat olive skin, the same dark hair and the same eyes, shifting from muddy green to bright emerald depending on their mood. Jacob, however, was a throw back on his maternal grandfather, a thick thatch of blond hair topping an oval face with a skin tone just like hers – pale with pink in winter, tawny gold in summer. But his eyes were the same magical hazel as his siblings’.

“They’re so beautiful,” Alex said, slipping her hand into Matthew’s.

“Very.”

“This is where you’re supposed to say they all take after their mother,” Simon laughed from behind them.

“But then he’d be lying,” Alex said, squeezing Matthew’s hand once before letting it go. “All of them look like their father – gorgeous.”

“Besotted,” Simon sighed as Alex moved away. “I don’t know how you do it, but you’ve turned that poor woman’s head.”

“I heard you,” Alex called back over her shoulder. “Supper soon, your favourite Simon; spinach soup.”

“Ugh,” Simon muttered.

Supper was a loud and cramped affair, the entire household squeezed together round the kitchen table. As always Matthew sat at the head of the table, even if he did offer Simon the single chair with a rather rude referral to Simon’s overall size. Not that Simon seemed bothered, calmly sliding in to sit on one of the benches.

“Girth has nothing to do with grace,” he said, winking at Alex. “I dare say I can still best you on the dance floor, Matthew Graham.”

Most probably, Alex grinned, because for all his general resemblance to an apple on legs Simon was by far the most graceful and tenacious dancer she’d ever seen.

Alex liked her kitchen – especially on occasions such as these, when it was full of talking, laughing people. Over the last few years she’d implemented quite a few changes, starting with how clean she kept things. The previously dark and sooty walls now received regular scrubbings, the floors were swept on a daily basis and once a week she had Sarah and Janey on their knees with a bristle brush. The small window allowed some daylight even in winter, but now, in full summer, the kitchen door was always kept propped open, and on an evening as light as this one there was no need to use the tallow candles that stood on the table, daylight spilling in through the open door.

For all that they all looked rather depressed at the sight of the dark green soup, in a remarkably short time the bowls had been emptied, her family cheering up at the sight of the pie she had Janey fetch from the pantry.

“Chess?” Matthew stood, brushed some pie crumbs off his shirt and jerked his head in the direction of the parlour.

“By all means,” Simon said, “and this time…”

“When pigs fly,” Matthew snorted, “but it’s good that you try.” He kissed Alex on his way out, murmuring that he didn’t think the spinach soup had gone down well – with anyone.

“Too bad,” Alex said, “I have enough left for dinner tomorrow.” She laughed at his grimace and shooed him off before going over to inspect the leftovers and set the oats to soak for tomorrow’s breakfast.

“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” Simon was saying when Alex entered the parlour. The chess board had been shoved to the side, with both men sitting staring into the fire.

“Aye, it is.” Matthew sighed and extended his long legs in front of him. “They’re raising an army, Sandy says – he had it from yon Carstairs – an army that has as its single purpose to root out every single Covenanter here in the southwest.”

“Good luck to them,” Alex said. “That would mean more or less everyone living here.” This was Presbyterian land – from here all the way to Ayr and up to Lanark.

“We’ll see; it may be they’ve taken on more than they bargained for,” Matthew said, an edge of steel to his voice.

Alex frowned; over her husband’s head she met Simon’s concerned eyes and made a helpless gesture. Matthew Graham was a very stubborn man and there were some principles he wasn’t about to compromise on, foremost amongst them his right to hold to his faith.

Two days later Simon kissed Joan, promised to be back in three or four weeks to see how she was faring, and sat up on his placid gelding.

“You’ll take care of her?” he asked Alex.

“Of course we will, she’s much better off here than in Edinburgh, isn’t she?” She made a slight face: Edinburgh was not a place she had any particular fondness for – at least not in its present state. Dark and damp, overcrowded and shrouded in the haze of peat smoke, it wasn’t the most welcoming of cities.

“Aye, if nothing else it smells less,” Joan interjected from behind her. She walked over to the horse and patted Simon on the leg. “Go. I’ll be fine, and so will he.” She placed a hand on her belly.

“He?” Alex asked.

“Aye, a lad,” Simon grinned, “the first of many.”

“As many as the good Lord gives us,” Joan smiled back. Alex shook her head in exasperation and went off to find her man.

Chapter 3

Alex woke abruptly and for a couple of minutes she blinked at her surroundings, trying to recall where she was. The dream had been vivid and it took time to adapt to the fact that she was at home, in her bed, rather than in a berth on a small ship halfway across the Atlantic.

She stretched lazily. More than two years they’d been back home after their travels overseas, a long roll of days punctuated by the birth of Jacob, the day the new bull made a brave rush for freedom only to sink into the swampy ground of the farthest meadow and the not so long ago afternoon when Rachel decided she could fly, leaping out of the hayloft to land stunned and with a broken arm.

Sometimes Alex yearned for the years she’d spent looking for her abducted husband, a period in her life that at the time had seemed a nightmare but which in retrospect had acquired a nimbus of adventure and holiday. She knew Matthew wouldn’t agree. He kept the memories of those long months of slavery on the plantation Suffolk Rose in Virginia safely locked away, but even now, more than three years since Alex had found him and bought him free, there were still nights when he woke them both with his nightmares, raging in hatred at the man who had done this to him – his own brother.

She heard her daughter’s voice floating up from below. High and demanding, Alex could imagine exactly what she was on about – too much on Mark’s plate, too little on her own. That girl could eat a horse for breakfast and still complain about being hungry before dinner. No wonder she ran all of them ragged.

When Alex turned to look at her husband she found him already awake, his eyes resting on her half-naked body in a way that left no doubt as to how this Sunday morning would begin. Except that she wasn’t really in the mood, she was irascible this morning – over tender somehow – so she grunted and rolled away from him, only to be pulled back against his warm chest.

“You know I don’t like it when you do that,” Matthew said. He bit her earlobe and trailed his tongue down her exposed neck.

“I just don’t feel like it,” she said, knowing that would only make him more insistent. This was one of their more complicated games; the wife being taught that the husband would not be denied and that she must subjugate herself to him. It was a game they both played with enthusiasm, and by the time Matthew used his knees to spread her thighs open to him, she was tugging at him, telling him to hurry, please hurry.

“You’re a very stubborn man at times,” she said some minutes later, picking at his hair.

“And you must repeatedly be reminded of your wifely duties,” he mock sighed, kissing her on the cheek.

“Do you think it will be today?” Alex asked, getting out of bed as naked as the day she was born. “She looks positively huge.” She caught his grin and had to smile. Compared to her in the advanced stages of pregnancy, Joan looked like an underfed waif. She rolled her eyes at him, making him laugh as he settled back to watch her wash and dress.

He had once confided to her just how much he enjoyed these long Sunday mornings, looking endearingly embarrassed when he told her he collected these images of her in her morning disarray, all wild hair and nothing else. So she took her time, washing slowly, brushing her hair with slow, long strokes – well, in general giving him ample opportunity to gawk and compliment. Except that today he didn’t, his eyes on the ceiling rather than on her, a concerned little wrinkle between his brows. He shifted from side to side, gnawed at his lip and threw her a look.

“What?” She met his eyes.

“I spoke to Margaret,” he said.

Alex pulled on her shift. “Really? And what did she say?” She settled the linen cap atop her head, ensuring most of her hair was tucked out of sight.

“She has to hurry back to Luke.”

She relaxed, focusing on the stone jars in which she kept some of her oils.

“Oh good,” Alex muttered. “About time those star crossed lovers were reunited.” She dipped her finger into her homemade rose scented cream and rubbed it into her hands and up her arms.

“He’s written to her on several occasions,” he went on, indirectly admitting that he had been talking to Margaret of other things beside leaking roofs and draughts. She sent him a dark look.

“I’ve met her occasionally in the woods, aye?”

Alex nodded, but she didn’t believe him.

She returned her attention to her hands, doing a primitive manicure while keeping her face hidden from him. Stockings and garters, petticoats and skirts, and she swished across the room to retrieve her bodice.

“When will they set out?” Alex asked, attempting to lace the dark green bodice. It strained over her chest and a sudden insight flew across her mind. Another one! And Jacob not yet two…

“She rides out tomorrow.”

It took some time for Alex to react, busy as she was with counting days, but once she did she raised his face to his.

“She?”

“Aye, I’ve promised to keep Ian here, for now.”

Without a word she retrieved her shawl and left the room.

The night had been cold and wet. Everything glittered in the weak September sun, sheer veils of fog clinging to the long grasses that bordered the little river. Alex hurried towards the woods and the long incline that led to her favourite thinking place, the bare hilltop from which she could see her whole orderly world. She brushed against berry laden brambles and ducked under the branches of an elm, breathing deeply when she stepped into the stillness among the trees.

Behind her, the household would be coming in to sit in the kitchen to listen to Matthew read them yet another passage from the Bible, his dark, rich voice explaining the lessons to be learnt. He’d be pissed at her not being there, but frankly she didn’t care. He should have asked her, he knew she found it difficult to have Ian around, even at a once remove in the little cottage. Now he was going to live in their house, with her children.

She burst into a run, stopping only when she could taste blood in her mouth, which was far too soon. She was woefully out of shape – at least compared to what she once had been. The daily karate workouts in her former life had become the occasional kata exercise, sneaking away to do it alone in the woods. And now another child… more walks, she decided, long walks.

Alex picked leaves as she ambled up the hillside, filling her apron with the yellow fronds of rowan, the muted green of oak leaves and the occasional bright red of a clambering vine. She had mingled feelings regarding a new pregnancy, but reminded herself that you reap as you sow and they were always very keen on the sowing part, she and Matthew. Well, she had no intention of telling him her news, he didn’t deserve to know, at least not today. She went on with her dark, mental grumblings and the touch of a hand on her arm so surprised her she shrieked, releasing her hold on her apron so that the leaves fluttered to the ground.

“Fantastic,” she said once she recognised Margaret. “The one person I really, really want to see.”

“You do?” Margaret sounded surprised.

Alex sighed; sarcasm wasn’t quite as widespread in this day and age as it had been in the life she came from.

“No, but it doesn’t seem I have a choice, does it?”

She hadn’t met Margaret properly in the two months she’d been staying here, being far too busy with the hectic days of harvest to find the time to take her rambling walks up and down the hillsides. In all honesty she hadn’t wanted to see her, hating the fact that the sheer presence of Margaret made her feel diminished, a bad copy of a glorious original. Superficially, they were very alike, with similar features and colouring. Except that where Alex’ hair was a normal if curly brown, Margaret’s hair shone like black satin, and where Alex had a tell-tale thickening across the bridge of her nose, Margaret’s was elegant and narrow. Everything about her was perfect, from those wide blue eyes to that pointed little chin.