*
It was a week or so later that Lucy found out about a new rival to Henry’s affections. A whore, albeit, and perhaps not in any way a major threat, but Lucy’s face tightened uncomfortably all the same. She was standing on a low stool while Mrs Malone was tweaking the dark green folds into place around her waist, her eyes fixed on the mouth of the slut leaning back against a wall and talking.
“Does she know?” the whore asked her madam with a little smirk. Lucy supposed Mrs Malone must have replied something because the trollop laughed, fanning herself in the heavy summer heat.
“Every night he comes,” the young woman grinned, “and every night he stays. Yesterday, he told me he wanted me to be his exclusively.” Mrs Malone straightened up at that, turning round to say something to the girl. Something she didn’t like to hear – that was evident from her countenance.
“He loves me,” the wench said, pouting. “Look!” She stuck her hand into the front of her chemise and pulled out a pendant on a gold chain. A pearl, the perfect match to Lucy’s ear bobs. Belatedly, the whore became aware of Lucy’s burning eyes and with a mumbled something escaped from the room.
Once home, Lucy went in search of her mother-in-law, bursting with the need to share her anger.
“All men do,” Kate sighed, patting Lucy’s hand. “They have other urges, carnal needs so much stronger than ours.”
Lucy wanted to stamp her foot. She had carnal lusts as well, needs she’d been suppressing for the last five or six months while Henry had been avoiding her bed.
“She is of no importance,” Kate said.
Lucy scribbled on the scrap of paper she held in her hand.
“He did?” Kate’s mouth set into a straight line. “No, that’s not right. I’ll speak to him.”
When she did, Henry shrugged. He liked Moll: she was easy to please, laughed a lot, and had the most impressive tits.
“So does your wife,” Kate said, feeling most awkward discussing Lucy’s physical attributes.
“But her I can’t bed, can I?” Henry retorted. “Not for some weeks yet.”
“And when you can? Will you stop seeing your whore?”
“Probably not. Why should I? Mrs Malone runs an establishment that I frequent anyway, what with her excellent beer and good food.”
“You have a young wife – a beautiful, devoted wife who has just given you two sons. It would behove you to treat her with courtesy, not give away presents you bought for her to your bit on the side.”
In an exact copy of his defunct father, Henry raised first one, then the other brow. “I shall do as I please, but I will of course be mindful of my sweet wife’s feelings.” He frowned and tilted his head. “Are you sure you don’t know what happened to Barbra?”
Kate shook her head. The last time she’d seen Barbra she’d been carrying a loaded breakfast tray on her way to her mistress. Kate gave her son a helpless look. “As if she’d gone up in smoke.”
Henry nodded. “At times—” he began, but then broke off.
“Yes?” Kate leaned towards him.
“I…” He took a big breath and averted his face from her. “She can be somewhat disconcerting at times.”
“Lucy?” Kate laughed. “Yes, of course she can. All that silence… But she’s a sweet girl at heart, and she loves you.”
“Hmm,” Henry replied, sounding rather unconvinced.
*
Lucy had taken to carrying the little painting with her. Not always – never when she visited her mother – but now and then she held it in her petticoat pocket and liked that it was there. The sounds were at times too distracting, making it difficult for her to concentrate on other things, and sometimes days would go by when it remained behind lock and key in her drawer, but more and more, Lucy felt naked unless she carried the painting close.
There were individual voices now, and she listened in fascination as these anonymous people told her their tales. In particular, there was one voice, a dark, rich female voice, that she heard over and over again. This voice had the most to tell, and Lucy had no idea what language was being spoken but she understood it all anyway. A small girl growing up in an ancient city in the south of Spain, a girl whose mother died, who had a sister and a father that she dearly loved and saw burning at the stake.
Lucy covered her ears at this, shaking her head back and forth to stop herself from hearing the detailed description of how these unknown died. But she had to hear more, and it dawned on Lucy that it was this voice that was the creator of her magic square. Mostly, the voice spoke of a man. Mi amor, it whispered, and it lightened when it described long gone summer evenings when she and this man…such passion, Lucy thought, and her insides burnt with heat for her own man who still kept his distance, even now that the twins were nearly one month old.
She took her time one lovely July evening, dabbing perfume here and there, rolling up her cream-coloured stockings well above her knee before she gartered them with light blue ribbons. A new embroidered shift, the tight-fitting blue bodice he so liked, a silk petticoat to match and then her new skirts, slashed to show off petticoat and lace. Even her shoes looked new, whitened with chalk by the house slave. Her hair: she dug her fingers into it and twisted her head this way and that while considering what to do with it. Now, in summer, the deep, golden red was highlighted by streaks that were almost white, creating a most flattering effect, and Lucy decided it looked its best tumbling free – after all, they were not expecting guests.
Her stomach was tight with apprehension when she made her way down the stairs, smiling at Henry, who actually gaped. For a fleeting instant, Lucy was certain she had succeeded, that he had understood the message and was as eager as she was to rejoin her in their bed. An instant, then he bowed and said he was compromised elsewhere and had to be off.
Kate came forward to hug her, lips moving rapidly, and for once Lucy had no idea what she was saying, her eyes blurring with tears. She tore herself free, signed something about going outside, and fled the house for the garden. She sat for a long time on the bench that faced the flat expanse of the shallow bay. Somewhere to her far right, down in the port area, her husband was cavorting with his whore instead of being here with his wife. She took hold of her silken petticoat and tore it apart, ducking her head to hide her tears. He would pay for this, she vowed, and so would that smirking Moll.
*
The second girl was a mistake. She’d never intended for Mrs Malone’s niece to see the picture, but before Lucy could react, the girl was gone, evaporated into nothingness. Lucy stuffed the picture into her loose pocket and turned to stare out of the window, her fingers gripping the sill. So quick! The weight against her thigh burnt and throbbed, and for a moment Lucy swayed, overcome by an urge to pull it out and stare at it herself. To drop away – what would it feel like? Lucy shuddered at the thought of never seeing her children again and leaned her forehead against the thick, greenish glass.
A hand closed on her arm, and Lucy near on leaped out of her own skin, startled to see Mrs Malone’s face very close to hers.
“Have you seen Eileen?” Mrs Malone said, mouthing each word carefully.
Lucy did her best dim-witted look.
“Eileen!” Mrs Malone repeated, a fine spray of spittle flying from her mouth. She looked most upset, she did. “I saw her enter this room, moments after you.”
Here? Lucy shook her head. No, she wrote, she had not seen anyone, but then she’d been at the window, and so…Mayhap Eileen had stepped outside for a breath of fresh air?
“I think not. She was to help me with your fitting.”
Lucy spread her hands in a helpless gesture. Mrs Malone muttered something Lucy did not catch, shrewd eyes locked on Lucy’s face. Quite uncomfortable it was, to be so inspected, and in particular given that Lucy knew that behind Mrs Malone’s plump exterior whirred a brain as sharp as Lucy’s own.
Moll was sent off to find Eileen, and came back flushed like a newly boiled ham, telling the madam that
Eileen was not to be found, not in the house, not in the town.
Mrs Malone turned to frown at Lucy. “Are you sure? Have you not seen her?”
Lucy shook her head repeatedly, but didn’t like it one bit when the madam’s eyes locked on her neck and cheeks. Lucy rarely blushed, but right now she could feel her skin heating into a deep pink hue.
*
Henry was somewhat taken aback upon entering the bawdy house that evening. Mrs Malone had retired to her bed, the girls were moping, and only the man in the taproom was his normal, jovial self, saying with a little shrug that apparently the disappearance of Mrs Malone’s niece had affected the whole complement of whores badly. Moll came over and dragged him away, recounting the incident in hushed tones as they made their way to one of the private rooms.
“I swear,” Moll said, pouring them both some more wine, “she knows – something your wife knows. Poor Madam is most distraught about Eileen and she insists that your wife must be made to tell.”
“Tell what?” Henry downed his wine in one long swallow. “She said she hadn’t seen her.”
“Madam saw Eileen enter the fitting room. That was the last time she was seen. Don’t you find that somewhat strange?”
Henry blanched, recalling Barbra had disappeared in a similar, abrupt way. “Maybe Eileen had a fancy man of her own.”
Moll shook her head. “If a girl plans to run away, she packs her best clothes. Eileen was in her housedress, and all her clothes and trinkets remain in her room. No, there’s something here that isn’t entirely right.” She came over to sit on his lap, winding her arms round his neck. “She knows about us,” she said in a shaky voice. “I can see it in her eyes, and she doesn’t like it. It frightens me.”
“It does?” Henry laughed. “My wife is no fool. She knows men have lustier appetites than one woman can cater to.”
“A witch, Mrs Malone says she might be a witch,” she breathed, a wary look in Henry’s direction. He didn’t reply, but filled up his glass with more wine and raised it with a shaking hand to his lips. A witch, he had married a witch. Fancies, he snorted to himself and emptied his glass.
Henry had drunk somewhat more than he should, and was weaving his way up the stairs to his bed, when the door to Lucy’s room crashed open. He winced at the sound, raising a hand to his tender forehead. Light patterned the landing floor, and cast in shadow against all that light stood his wife, wearing something that shimmered transparently. Lord, she was beautiful, and now what was she doing? The neckline…slowly, she undid it and widened it, and her breasts popped out, free and unencumbered, the nipples a soft light pink. She held out her hand, and Henry stumbled towards her, in his befuddled state not truly caring if she might be a witch or not.
*
Lucy slipped out of bed and went over to use the chamber pot, padding like a gracious cat across the floor. The moon hung huge and white in the night sky, and in bed Henry scrunched up his eyes against the weak light and rolled over on his side, his naked skin covered by a sheen of perspiration.
Lucy opened the window wide to the night air, heavy with the scents of roses and honeysuckle. Well after midnight, and still warm enough that she could stand like this and not feel cold, even in the sea breeze that drifted into the chamber. She stopped by the desk and cocked her head. Yes, there it was: the soft muted sound of her painting. Poor Eileen. How careless of her to leave the painting in the open as she had done, hoping that it would be Moll that came into the room first.
She studied the shape of her sleeping husband and pulled at her lip. She had smelled Moll on him, she had tasted her on his lips, and, worst of all, she had seen his mouth move as he came, and it hadn’t been Lucy he had said. Eileen was a most unfortunate accident, but Moll still had to go.
Chapter 10
After several long discussions, Matthew and Alex had agreed that it was best to keep the fate of the Ingram girl something of a secret – at least from the children. As a consequence, Matthew’s new rules, effectively making the woods out of bounds unless either he or one of his elder sons came along, were met with protesting groans, in particular from Sarah, who grew increasingly darker of countenance with each passing day.
“I’ll be fine. I have Viggo.” Sarah hugged the large grey dog that was her constant shadow.
“Your father says no,” Alex said, thereby setting Sarah off again, a loud complaint that made Alex’s ears hurt.
Finally, Alex decided there was no option but to explain why. Sarah listened and hitched her shoulders, saying that she could take care of herself, making Alex raise two exasperated brows.
“I can,” Sarah insisted, chin jutting stubbornly. Hmm. Alex looked her over. Sarah scowled back, kicking at the ground as she muttered that it was not the same, not at all, to walk the rolling slopes of the forest with someone beside her.
“I know,” Alex said. “I hate it too.” She was equally constrained, but at least she could work off some of her edgy restlessness in the little clearing beside the graveyard. No one came there, and the huge mock oranges shielded her from the forest while she forced herself through sets of push-ups and crunches, slow concentrated revolving movements and quick combinations of kicks and hand chops. It was all coming back to her, and yesterday she had even managed to break through a thin branch. The outer side of her hand still hurt, but it had definitely been worth it. She regarded her daughter and impulsively took a decision.
“Come.” She got to her feet. With a rather unenthusiastic Sarah at her heels, she set off for the graveyard, having first detoured by the house for one of Matthew’s old shirts.
Sarah made huge eyes when Alex stopped and began to undress, looking even more confused when Alex pulled a man’s shirt over her head and used a length of rope to tighten it round her waist. She folded her skirts and bodice, hung her stays from a branch, and stepped into the centre of the clearing, breathing in deeply.
“When I was a child, my mother decided I had to learn to defend myself,” Alex said, smiling at her daughter. Blue-eyed and blonde, with thick hair falling down to her waist, Sarah was a throwback on Alex’s Nordic antecedents, reminding her far too often of her father, Magnus – in temper as well, one might add, because Sarah Graham was as opinionated, strong-willed and fiery as Magnus had been.
“Defend yourself? Against what?”
“All sorts, mostly men with evil intents. And it has come in useful once or twice.” Two men dead on a hillside, the third fleeing for his life.
“You’ve had to fight?” Sarah’s voice fluted into a soprano.
“Yes.” Alex chose not to detail further. “So I thought…” She stretched this way and that under the guarded eyes of her daughter. “…that maybe you should learn as well.”
“Me?” Sarah laughed.
“You.” Alex smiled back.
*
Afterwards, Sarah walked back down the slope, bright-eyed and rosy like a peony. For the first time in days, she was smiling, despite insisting that Mama had caused her permanent harm with that last awful exercise. She had watched, amazed, as Alex whirled and kicked, and had applauded when Alex chopped a branch in two, making Alex grin before she admitted that it hurt like hell.
“So, do you want to do this again?” Alex took Sarah’s arm to turn them both in the direction of the kitchen plot. Mrs Parson was already there, hovering like a black butterfly over the flowering stands of bee balm and yarrow, her white capped head as neat as always. How on earth that woman managed to always look so clean was something of a mystery, in particular as Alex knew for a fact that Mrs Parson had never, ever taken a full body bath. Or if she had, it had been between midnight and dawn and involved no water carrying at all.
“Aye,” Sarah replied to her question. “You do it every day?”
“I try.” Alex swept her eyes over the rows and rows of vegetables to weed or harvest, and made a face. “Sometimes there’s no time.” She nodded in the direction of the closest rows, and Sarah bunched up her skirts, tied the straw
bonnet tight around her head, and set to work.
“Beets for dinner today?” Sarah asked a bit later.
“Mmm,” Alex replied through the carrot she was eating. “Not only,” she assured her daughter at the crestfallen look on her face. “Agnes has some new cheese, and there is ham to go with it – and pudding.” She looked over to where David and Samuel were moving the cows from one fenced pasture to the other, and saw Malcolm come moping after them. “He’s been a bit sad lately,” she said, nodding her head in his direction.
“He walks confused,” Mrs Parson put in from behind them, coming down the slope with her basket clutched tightly in both hands as a balance aid. She sat down on the fallen log they used for a bench, her black eyes focused on faraway Malcolm. “It’s done him no good to have his mother visit, and now he’s all too aware that he, of all the children here, doesn’t have his mam with him.”
“He misses her,” Sarah said.
“I don’t think so,” Mrs Parson replied, “or at least he didn’t, not until she made a reappearance. But now…”
“Now, he compares and finds Betty lacking,” Alex sighed. “Twice, I’ve heard him tell her she isn’t his real mother.”
“Until she slaps him and tells him that for all purposes she is, he’ll continue doing that,” Mrs Parson said. “He needs her to show him she cares enough for him to punish him.”
“Umm,” Alex protested. Had she ever punished Ian? She couldn’t recall that she had. But she had tolerated no disobedience either, insisting that he bathe and clean his teeth just as her own children did, overriding any protest by folding her arms over her chest and staring him down.
“Are they staying here?” Sarah asked. “Jenny and her husband, I mean.”
“I sincerely hope not!” Alex said, imagining far too frequent run-ins with Jenny – and Patrick. “Besides, Thomas said Patrick has a nice business in Charles Towne, a thriving carpentry shop.”
Revenge and Retribution (The Graham Saga) Page 8