Matthew nodded that he did, making Alex give him a very long look.
“And then another girl at Mrs Malone’s, a Cornish girl called Moll, and that same day a girl who was sent on an errand by her mother.” Julian shook his head. “There is rumour that it may all have something to do with Henry Jones, and, of course, people suddenly recall his father’s sordid business.”
Alex made a face: Dominic Jones had been a detestable man with a heart the size of a pea – and in the business of abducting people, no matter colour, and selling them like slaves.
“I’ve told the girls they may not go out alone,” Julian finished, “and the elders are considering putting into place some kind of voluntary constabulary.”
“How terrible,” Alex said. “Poor girls! Stolen away, no doubt.”
Matthew tightened his hold on her hand. “Aye, like the Ingram lass.”
“The Ingram girl?” Julian leaned forward. “What happened to her?”
“The Burleys,” Matthew said, “that’s what happened to her.”
Alex pressed her leg against his, and she just had to glance at her girls and ensure they were still there, laughing with Temperance and Patience.
*
Several weeks of hard work took their toll, and, on a Sunday in August, the whole Graham house lay sunk deep in sleep when Alex woke. She dressed, patted Matthew on his back, and slipped out, stopping to grab something in the pantry.
It had rained during the night, a mild summer rain, and now the world lay sparkling under the rising sun. The white oak rustled in the breeze; over by the barn, a stand of hollyhocks dipped and bowed, their flowers dashes of pink against the silvered grey of the wooden walls. The rosebush that grew by the door shivered in a sudden gust of wind, showering the ground below it with scented, white petals. Standing on the door stoop, Alex stretched and caught sight of Jacob, moving at a steady pace in the direction of the river. Her son would probably appreciate her company – as well as his share of the cinnamon bun she carried in her apron pocket – so she hurried after him, unwilling to break the scented peace of the morning by calling out his name.
After a while, she realised he was walking and stopping, walking some more and stopping. She kept her distance, observing his slow progress, and it came to her that what she was seeing him do was what she had watched Matthew do well over fifteen years ago at Hillview. He was saying goodbye – to trees and stones and slopes, to fields and woods – and finally he stood before the river. From the set of his shoulders, Alex suspected he might be weeping, so she took her time walking down the last incline. He turned when he heard her, a rueful smile hovering over his long mouth, sat down on the log, and patted for her to come and sit beside him.
“You’re leaving.” Alex felt her heart disintegrate into bits and pieces that landed with heavy plonks in her stomach.
Jacob just nodded, keeping his eyes on the shimmering surface of the river. “I’m no longer at home here,” he said simply.
“You’ve outgrown it, just like Daniel has outgrown it.”
“No.” Jacob shook his head. “That’s not it. I love my home, would like nothing more than to stay and build a life here. But how?”
“We could help you perhaps,” Alex tried, hearing the eager tone in her voice.
Jacob dropped his eyes to his hands and shook his head again. “I’m an educated man,” he said with a faint smile. “A trained apothecary, no less, and I want to use my knowledge, somehow.”
Alex blew out her cheeks, raised a hand to brush at his thick, fair hair. For the last few years, he’d worked here and there: a stint in Boston, a town he’d found far too straight-laced; half a year down in Jamestown where he had collected the seeds of several rare plants and sent back to that Master Castain in London; some months at the apothecary in St Mary’s City, working with a man who unfortunately had a son to take over after him.
Jacob lobbed a stone to land in the water. “I’m going back to London. Master Castain has offered me a share in his business – and his daughter.”
“And do you like her?” Alex asked, forcing herself away from the realisation that this time he would leave for good and she would never see him again.
Jacob shrugged. “Well enough. A kitten with claws is Isabelle Castain, but pretty and rich.”
“You can’t marry someone because you like her well enough, or because she’s rich. You have to love them.”
Jacob gave her an irritated look. “Most make do with less,” he said in a quiet voice that made Alex want to cry.
“Not you, not my beautiful Jacob. You must find a woman with whom to share your life and heart.”
He stared out at the flowing water before them. “Not everyone does, Mama.” He put an arm around her and hugged her. “But Isabelle is bonny and wild, and has a tongue on her that makes me at times laugh, at times want to whip her. She makes me laugh a lot, aye?”
“She was twelve last time you saw her – a child, Jacob. You’ve no idea what kind of woman she is growing into.”
“Nay, and nor is it a prerequisite that I wed her.” He caught her eyes and smiled. “I don’t aspire to what you and Da have, but I’d like to have someone to return home to.”
“You should aspire to what we have. Look at your brothers. They’ve found it.”
Jacob tilted his head at her, his eyes a vivid green in the morning sun. “You think? Ian and Betty, aye, perhaps. Mark and Naomi… Oh aye, they like each other, those two, but is it like the heat that burns between you and Da? Nay, I don’t think so.”
“Of course it is,” Alex said, even though she knew she was lying. Naomi and Mark were content, suitably matched and the best of friends, but no, it was nowhere close to what bubbled in the air whenever she rested her eyes on her Matthew.
“Symbiosis, that is you and Da. You can’t truly live the one without the other. It would be like taking a fish out of water and leave it to flop on land.” Jacob slid off the log to sit on the ground instead, using the trunk as a backrest.
“You make it sound like a disease or a weakness.” Alex was shaken by this accurate description.
“I’m jealous, I think,” he said softly.
“Oh, Jacob! You’re not yet twenty-one, sweetie. I was an ancient twenty-six when I met your father.” She slid down to sit beside him, trying to cradle his much longer body against her own.
“And Ruth is not quite seventeen, and she has already found it.”
Alex sat up straight. “Ruth? What do you mean by that? She’s a child, for God’s sake!”
Jacob grinned. “You know what I mean, Mama. You see it too.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Alex huffed.
“Oh aye, you do. I see how you watch them and you don’t look very pleased.”
“He’s old!” Alex blurted, and Jacob laughed out loud. “Old and rather plain, I might add.”
“And yet…”
“And yet…” Alex sighed. “I still think he’s far too old.”
“Love is blind,” Jacob replied, and now his voice was very serious.
“Which is why parents must use common sense at times.” She didn’t want to talk about Ruth and Julian.
“It isn’t only your profession as such, is it?” she asked as they made their way back up towards the house.
Jacob gave her a wary look but didn’t reply.
“You miss him, your uncle, don’t you?” Alex made an effort to keep her voice neutral.
From all accounts, Luke, Matthew’s estranged brother, had been very decent to Jacob, and even if Jacob no longer spoke of Luke with the enthusiasm he’d used when he just got back, Alex was convinced that was more due to the very cool reception his panegyrics got than a fundamental change of his feelings. She knew he corresponded regularly both with Luke and his cousin Charlie, and just as regularly came responding letters in Luke’s driven, strong hand.
“Aye,” Jacob said with an edge of belligerence. “I’m fond of Uncle Luke.”
; “Hmm.” It would be Luke who saw her grandchildren, Luke to whom Jacob would turn for advice. And she…she wiped at her overflowing eyes.
“Mama.” Jacob took her in his arms. “I must, aye?”
“And I’ll never see you again,” she sobbed, her fists knotting themselves into his shirt.
He held her to his chest. “You know I always carry you with me,” he said, sounding as if he was about to cry as well. “You and Da, my brothers and sisters—”
“And that doesn’t help one bit.” She stepped out of his arms and turned her back on him, struggling to regain an element of composure. This is what life is like here, she reminded herself. One son in Boston, the other in London, and they could both as well be on the moon.
“I must,” Jacob whispered behind her, his voice broken.
“I know,” she whispered back, crossing her arms over her chest. He touched her shoulder, but she just shook her head and leapt away from him, escaping into the woods.
Matthew came to find her some time later, walking barefoot up to where she was sitting alone in the furthest corner of the herbal garden. He lowered himself to sit beside her. “He isn’t leaving yet, not until next spring.”
“Eight months in which to make our farewells, and then I’ll never see him again.” His thick, blond hair, the size of him, the way he always scratched his cheek when he was thinking, how his long mouth curved into a smile…so like his father, and yet uniquely Jacob, a child of sun and air. She inhaled and sat up, rubbing at her red-rimmed eyes. “I’ll never meet his wife. I’ll have no idea what she sounds like when she laughs or even if she laughs. I’ll never be able to see, with my own eyes, if he’s happy, yes or no. And his children – to them we’ll be storybook figures, not even real.” She dug at the damp soil with her bare fingers. “I don’t want him to leave.”
Matthew blew softly in her face before leaning his unshaven cheek against hers. “I know that, lassie. And you know that he must. He has a life to lead.” He licked his thumb and rubbed at a smudge of something on her cheek. “Breakfast? You can make me pancakes, if you want.”
Despite herself, she snorted with laughter. “Pancakes,” she agreed, and allowed him to help her up on her feet.
Chapter 13
August had been one very hot, long month. Joan lay in only her shift and a shawl in the shade of the backyard tree, and breathed properly for the first time in weeks. Though still humid, the air was no longer heavy with water, and even here, in the enclosed yard, Joan could feel the briskness of the unseasonal wind. A storm, she thought yearningly, a real Old World storm with rain and hail and cold winds that buffeted you from side to side as you struggled up the hill in the direction of the Castle.
She longed for Scottish rain, for the smell of damp soil and drenched fallen leaves. She wanted to see the startling red of rowanberries outlined against the autumn gold of their fronds, to draw in lungfuls of crisp air, and feel her nose and cheeks redden with cold. She sighed, staring up at the flecks of blue she could see through the crown of the tree.
The sudden appearance of Lucy startled her, but with a weak smile she sat up to allow Lucy room to sit. Her daughter looked very well, and this new gown of hers in deep green suited her colouring. Joan did consider it somewhat immodestly cut, showing off too much bosom, even if Lucy had draped a linen shawl to cover herself with. Frances was carried into the garden by a silent black man, and Joan opened her arms to her little granddaughter who prattled happily but unintelligibly, her hands flying in simultaneous sign language.
“And the twins?” Joan asked.
Lucy smiled, using her hands to indicate just how big and strong Jeremy and James were.
Joan laughed. “They’re only some months old, so they can’t be that big, can they? Not unless they’ve grown mightily in the week since I saw them last.”
Lucy adjusted her hand span somewhat. She got to her feet and bustled into the kitchen, returning with a pitcher of barley water and two porcelain mugs. With a concerned expression, she reached over to take Joan’s wrist, strong young fingers closing round bones so frail Joan suspected it would take very little effort for her daughter to pulverise them. Two perfect eyebrows rose into an unvoiced question.
“I’m homesick,” Joan said. “I wish I were in Scotland instead.”
Lucy brought her brows down in an irritated little frown, exhaled, and after some more minutes of conversation got back onto her feet. She had some errands to run, she explained, and tomorrow was Kate’s birthday.
“Ah, yes. I don’t think I’ll be coming, lass.”
Lucy’s face fell, but she found a smile for her mother and assured her that was alright, before kissing Joan on her brow in goodbye.
“You be careful,” Joan admonished. “I don’t want you to disappear as those other lasses have done.” Not lately, thank heavens, but four lasses to go up in smoke… Not a trace had been found of them, except for the small lace cap of the youngest girl.
Lucy’s face broke up in an amused smile. No, she promised, she wouldn’t go up in smoke.
Once Lucy was gone, Joan sank back down on her bench in the shade, thinking of her vibrant, beautiful lass. Not yet nineteen, and already such composure. Mayhap it had to do with being deaf, this having forced Lucy from an early age to become adept at studying and copying behaviour – mostly adult behaviour. She frowned. At times, she got the impression that Lucy was keeping a secret from her, something the lass wanted very much to tell her but chose not to. She pursed her mouth and made a note to ask Simon if he had ensured the painting was destroyed.
“She says so,” Simon said in reply to Joan’s question. “I have no reason to doubt her.”
“She said so once before,” Joan replied.
“But she saw her little lass nearly fall through! She loves Frances too much to risk something like that again.”
“Aye, you’re right,” Joan said, flooded with relief. Of course Lucy would have destroyed it, if nothing else to keep her bairns safe. She ran her tongue over her dry lips and looked at Simon for a long time. “It’s all a wee bit strange though.”
“Hmm?” Simon looked up from the meat pie he was presently enjoying. “Beer?” he asked, using his knife to point at the pie.
“Aye, beer and broth and a lot of onions to go with the beef.”
“Good,” he said through a huge bite. “Very good.” He sat back and wiped his mouth. “What’s strange?”
“All these lasses… The first one was a house slave out at the Jones’ – Kate says that the last she saw of her was Barbra entering Lucy’s room with a breakfast tray…” Joan let her voice trail away. Too much time, she chided herself, you have far too much time on your hands to concoct all these improbable stories.
Simon was sitting very still, staring at her.
“And then…” Joan cleared her throat. “…then we have wee Eileen. And Mrs Malone swears she saw the lass enter the parlour only minutes after Lucy.”
“What is it you’re saying, wife?”
“I don’t know,” Joan whispered. “But it worries me. And you yourself said how Moll was one of Henry’s favourites, and one day she was gone as well.”
Simon squirmed, making Joan smile. He didn’t much like being reminded by her that he spent time at Mrs Malone’s. They’d arrived at some sort of armistice lately, whereby Joan turned a blind eye to his regular visits to the whores, and he restricted himself to once, perhaps twice a month, and never stayed away the night. Her eyes met his, and they shared a smile, considering the unorthodox state of affairs. He’d come home and find her waiting, and they would talk an hour or so before repairing to bed where he’d hold her while she slept.
“She wouldn’t do something like that,” Simon said, returning to the matter at hand.
Joan was unconvinced. “You think?” She hid her face in her hands and sighed. “We should have burnt it ourselves, and God help us if it’s her and they catch her.”
Simon came round the table to hold her. “She
wouldn’t, of course she wouldn’t.” But he promised he would ask her again if she’d burnt that little piece of evil.
*
On the evening of Kate’s birthday, Lucy stood beside her mother-in-law to welcome the guests, curtseying prettily to the elders. She beamed when her father approached them, but was taken aback when he took her to the side and asked her about the painting. Again! Lucy gave him an angry look. Had she not already told him she’d destroyed it? What did he require, she scrawled, a handful of ashes to show him she was speaking the truth? And what about her babies, she added indignantly, did he truly think she’d risk them? Her father mumbled an excuse, looking mortified.
Lucy sniffed and walked back to Kate, and all the while the picture in her petticoat pocket laughed and sang, wept and whispered. Lucy Jones could no more set a taper to it than she could chop off her own arm.
Lucy had no fondness for large social gatherings, her lip-reading skills rendered useless when so many people spoke at the same time. On top of that, she had problems concentrating. Pressed to her thigh, the painting called and whispered, making it difficult for her to hold up her end of the conversation. Not that she needed to. All that was expected of her was to look pleasing, to beam at her husband whenever his eyes strayed in her direction – which they did quite often – and on occasion to share a look with her mother-in-law.
In between these onerous tasks, Lucy could allow her mind to float free, to hear yet another instalment in the story of the Voice. Lately, it had been a lot about the daughter that had plunged through time and whom she, the Voice, would never see again, just as she would never lay eyes on any of her grandchildren, or on her wonderful man, not even after death, she suspected.
After death – was the Voice dead?
The Voice laughed. Death was a relative in respect of time. For a person born in the future to fall back and die in this time, how could they be dead if they had as yet not been born? No, the Voice clarified, some people died – the lucky ones.
Lucy sank her nails into her palms, deeply disturbed by the heavy sadness in this statement. The Voice laughed again, a sound rich in texture, flowing like silk over Lucy’s mind. I’m dead, it told her, of course I’m dead. I was born in 1461 and died in 1999 – or was it 1599? Lucy’s nails sank even deeper, leaving painful crescents in their wake.
Revenge and Retribution (The Graham Saga) Page 11