Revenge and Retribution (The Graham Saga)

by Anna Belfrage

  She traced a long, strong ‘I’ on the glass.

  She would gladly have kept him with them, but he pined for his time. He hated it without his Offa and John, he wanted his Playstation and TV, to go to school and play football with his friends. At night, he cried for the world he’d lost, and finally Alex decided to try and help him back.

  By chance, Alex had one of Mercedes’ paintings, and on an August afternoon, she, Matthew and Isaac rode out together to see if it could be made to work. It did. Alex shuddered. Oh God, it did. She closed her eyes in an attempt to avoid reliving the horrible tilting feeling, the endless drop through a funnel that screeched and clamoured with captured grief and death. Unsteadily, she straightened up and wrote ‘SAAC’ behind her previous ‘I’, encircling the name with a heart.

  Chapter 25

  “You think Luke sent it,” Jacob said next morning.

  “No. I know Luke sent it,” Alex said.

  Jacob gave her an angry look. “You don’t know. How can you?”

  Alex tapped her stomach. “Gut feeling. If it comes to a crunch, trust your gut more than your head.”

  “But why?” Jacob sounded desolate.

  “Luke has a long memory, and Simon was instrumental in drafting those final documents that humiliated him entirely before Matthew.” She stared off for a moment, recalling that long gone summer afternoon when Luke had been forced to renounce Ian – return him to Matthew, his true father – and, on top of that, to pay the princely sum of five hundred pounds to Matthew in compensation for the multiple wrongs done to him. “I suppose he found it amusing, to imagine Simon looking too deep into the painting.”

  Jacob didn’t reply. He had his herbal open, and had, until she came in, been busy entering the properties and qualities of his latest additions, carefully drawing stems and leaves and bell-shaped flowers. Now, he traced the outline of datura stramonium with his finger, lost in thought. Rather apt, given their subject, Alex reflected, this plant being as deadly as a nest of vipers.

  “I reckoned he’d destroyed it,” Jacob said.

  “Yeah, that would have been the right thing to do.” She gave her son a long look. From the way he was chewing his lip, she suspected Luke had somehow put the painting to the test, with Jacob as a witness.

  “And why, if he knew what it was, didn’t Simon make sure it was burnt? How could he be so remiss?”

  “Or Lucy so disobedient.” She hitched her shoulders to show she had no idea, and now it was all too late. Four innocent women gone, and God knew where they had ended up.

  “How come you know of these pictures?” Jacob asked.

  Alex sighed and shifted in her chair, uncertain how to answer. Mrs Parson knew since decades back as did Simon and Joan, Ian knew of a need, and Mark she’d told as well, but to share all this with more of them… Jacob’s eyes never left her, and, just like his father’s whenever he was truly intent, the irises were a bright, penetrating green.

  “I just do.”

  He looked very unconvinced.

  “I found one like it,” Alex said, deciding a half-truth was better than nothing. “In Cumnock, very many years ago. And it was so pretty to look at, but when you held it too close…” She dropped her eyelashes to hide her eyes. “It made me sick to the stomach – very, very sick.”

  “Aye,” he whispered, thereby confirming her previous suspicions regarding Luke’s penchant for empirical observation. “I still don’t understand. How can you think Uncle Luke would do something so malicious?”

  “He is malicious, and when it comes to your father and his brother-in-law, Luke has some very blind spots.”

  Jacob glared at her. “That isn’t true. He has forgiven Da for all that with Margaret and his nose.”

  “Oh, how high-minded of him.” Slicing off Luke’s nose had been a bit primitive, she still thought, and Luke had since then lived with a silver cap to replace his severed nose.

  Jacob flushed at her tone, saying that he loved his da, but he loved his uncle as well – a lot – and surely it was not only one’s fault if brothers fought?

  “No,” Alex said, “but let’s not forget that it was your uncle who was perfidious, not your father. It was your uncle who tried to have your father hanged; it was your uncle who had your father sold into slavery; and it was your uncle who murdered his father, old Malcolm Graham.”

  “No!” Jacob rose to his feet. “Nay, Mama, that you must have wrong. Grandfather died in a drowning accident. And wasn’t it Da who stole Luke’s sweetheart away, abusing his brother’s trust?”

  “His brother’s trust?” Alex snorted. “Your father was like a lamb before a wolf when it came to Margaret. She, despairing of ever seeing Luke again, made sure her nest was well fleeced, and so set out to seduce Matthew. Which she did quite well, I might add.”

  She choked on jealousy, on anger. Margaret, drop-dead gorgeous with her black silk hair, eyes a lighter shade of blue than her own. She swallowed in an effort to calm down. A sister, born three hundred years before she herself had been born. And neither of them had known –how could they – even if both had seen and noted the startling resemblance. It had only been when Jacob found the little painting in Luke’s desk, and when Luke had told him that the painting was a gift to Margaret from her long-lost mother, that Alex had at last understood why she and Margaret were so alike. Yet another impossibility in her life; yet another unwelcome gift from her mother. A veces no te quiero, she thought. Sometimes I don’t love you, Mercedes. Quite often, actually, and with this new resurfacing painting, it was even truer. A witch, a witch, her mother was a witch! Yo siempre te quiero, I always love you, she heard ringing in her head. Mi hija, te quiero, long dead Mercedes seemed to whisper.

  “Tough,” Alex muttered out loud, making Jacob look at her warily. “It doesn’t matter much anymore, does it?” Alex got to her feet. “Matthew and Luke live with an ocean between them, and that, I think, is best for both.”

  Jacob shook his head. “Deep down, they miss each other.”

  “Maybe, but not enough for either of them to fully forgive the other. And now Luke has permanently painted himself into a corner, hasn’t he?”

  Jacob jerked at her tone, his chin coming up. “Not to me.”

  “And if all this harms me?”

  “How can it? You’ve just assured me you know nothing.”

  Alex didn’t reply. She just left the room.

  *

  Sarah had no recollection of the day when her Offa landed in the thicket up by the strawberry dells, nor had she ever before heard a tale as mind-boggling as that of Lucy and the disappearing girls. And somehow it all seemed to implicate Mama, even if she didn’t understand how. She had noticed how Mama hung on to Da’s hand during the minister’s visit, had seen the infinitesimal protective shift in Ian and Mark as they took that casual step closer to where their parents stood. Sarah drew her knees up even closer to her chest and hugged them hard. She wanted Ruth to be here to talk to about all this, not wishing to speak either to Mama or Da. Finally, she sighed and decided to go and find the only person left to her.

  “Do you—?” Sarah stole a piece of pie dough and nibbled at it.

  “Aye?” Mrs Parson prompted, slapping away Sarah’s hand when it came back for more.

  “Is Mama not a wee bit strange?” Sarah blurted, her cheeks heating at her own disloyalty.

  “Strange?” Mrs Parson laughed. “Aye, that she is, lass. Opinionated and stubborn like yon mule your da bought last year, strange in what she feeds you, and very, very strange when it comes to all that washing.”

  Sarah heaved herself up to sit on the kitchen table, using one hand to dig into her bodice and adjust her stays.

  “But she’s no witch,” Mrs Parson went on, “and that is what concerns you, no?”

  Sarah lifted her shoulders. “I don’t believe her to be one, but she is that wee bit odd.” She smiled at the image of her mother in shift and shirt, poised on her toes as she led them both through a series of fi
ghting exercises.

  “The world is full of odd people,” Mrs Parson said, “and you must take into account that your mother is Swedish. Brought up in a frozen, ice-packed country with God knows what monsters roaming their streets.”

  “But she was badly frightened yesterday.”

  “Aye, that she was – as she should be. It’s a grave matter, and many a woman has ended their life at the stake, innocent of nothing more than a wee bit of healing.”

  Sarah blinked. What?

  Mrs Parson patted her on the thigh. “Not in this case, lass – your da will not allow it, and woe betide the man who tries to wrest his wife from him. Anyway, it’s the picture they wish explained. No one has accused your mama of anything.”

  “Constance did,” Sarah breathed.

  “Constance? Spiteful baggage! Nay, what she had to say is easily discounted as nonsense. But Alex isn’t too happy about riding down to Providence, and I don’t think your da will find it easy to forgive Simon Melville for involving your mama in all this sorry business.”

  “Why did he?” Sarah sniffed appreciatively when Mrs Parson stirred the heavy meat stew that was to go in the pie.

  “Desperation, no? His wee lass to hang for witchery – it would drive most men to extremes. I pity them both, poor Joan and Simon.”

  “And Lucy?” Sarah asked.

  Mrs Parson shook her head in a slow but definite no.

  *

  “Do you want us to ride with you?” Ian came over to stand just outside Aaron’s stall.

  “No,” Matthew said, “we ride well accompanied.”

  “And on your way back?”

  “I’ll hire some men.” With a slap on Aaron’s neck, he exited the stall and joined Ian by the wall. “I’m not looking forward to this, and as to Alex…”

  Ian nodded in agreement. “She’s badly frightened.”

  “Aye, and so am I, son. God help me, so am I.”

  “Of her being accused a witch?” Ian laughed.

  Matthew gave him an irritated look. “Nay, of course not. I know her not to be one, and never has she done anything that can be considered close to witchcraft. It’s the painting. I fear it will be terrible for her to see it.”

  And for him. Twice had he seen such time squares, twice his insides had risen in panicked rebellion, and the last time… Ah, God! He’d nearly lost her there. Damn Simon to everlasting torture for not having destroyed it! And for this, for having called on Alex as a witness of a sort, insisting she was somehow to be blamed for what Lucy might have done. Matthew’s knuckles protested in pain when he drove them into the wooden planks.

  “I’ll ride with you,” Ian said, giving him a hug.

  “Nay, lad, you don’t. You stay and mind our home. And you must promise to keep the candle lit of a night, should wee Samuel stumble home.”

  “You need me.”

  “We do, God knows we do, but we’ll manage this ourselves” Matthew sucked at his grazed knuckle. “Why, Ian? How could Simon do this? And why didn’t Joan stop him?”

  Chapter 26

  Matthew held Alex by the hand as they crossed the small square in the direction of the meeting house. It was raining, a foggy drizzle that clung like a damp sheen to their clothes and skin, the cobbles under their feet slippery. Just by the door, they ran into Simon and Joan. Matthew steered Alex away from them, but Simon stepped out to block them.

  “Matthew.” Simon put a hand on his sleeve.

  “Don’t touch me,” Matthew said. “Lay a hand on me again and I’ll break every bone in you.”

  Too right. Alex crawled out of her bubble of fear long enough to throw Simon a scorching look. Simon snatched his hand back as if burnt. “She’s my wee lass. I must try.”

  “And this is my wife, and I’ll not let you, or anyone else, harm her.”

  “We don’t mean to harm her,” Joan said. “Just explain that magic exists of itself and that Lucy hasn’t done anything evil.”

  Even in her present state of panic, Alex was inundated with pity at the sight of Joan. Frail to the point of transparency, her beloved sister-in-law looked about to collapse. Grey eyes met hers beseechingly, a skeletal hand extended towards her. Alex stretched out her hand, but was arrested halfway through the movement by Matthew, who at present was too angry to register Joan’s desperate state.

  “She hasn’t? Hasn’t she enticed the unaware to fall through?” Matthew said.

  “So has she,” Simon pointed at Alex.

  “I don’t know what you mean, Mr Melville,” Matthew said.

  Simon looked stricken. “Matthew,” he tried again.

  Matthew looked him up and down for a long time. “I once had a friend I trusted with my life and loved like a brother. I no longer do.” With a curt nod, he ushered Alex inside.

  Alex was incapable of speech, her tongue glued to the roof of her mouth. She hung on for dear life to Matthew, and even when Minister Walker indicated she step forward, she still held on, forcing Matthew to stand beside her. The room was bare. Apart from the long desk behind which the three ministers and two elders sat, there were a couple of stools and, on a separate small table, a leather bound Bible. No people, except for themselves, the Melvilles, Lucy and Kate, but the single thing Alex truly registered was the small square of colours that stood propped with its back to the ministers and therefore, unfortunately, in full view to her.

  It made her ill. Her head filled with sounds of agony and pain, and her knees shook with the effort to keep upright. Her eyes she kept on the floor, on her shoes, on the unseasonal fly that buzzed around Minister Walker’s head – anywhere but on the beckoning, seductive little canvas that begged her to come closer and look very deep. From the way Matthew’s hand tightened around hers, she knew he was badly affected as well, and that in itself was a comfort.

  “Mrs Graham.” Minister Walker cleared his throat and peered at her from above his wire-framed spectacles.

  “Minister,” Alex managed to push out of her mouth, curtseying.

  “Do you know why you’re here?” the minister continued, waving at the fly that hovered round his head.

  “Not really, no.” If she kept her head turned to the side, she avoided even peripheral eye contact with the picture, making it easier to function as she should.

  “Hmm,” Minister Walker said, sharp eyes darting from Alex to the picture and back again. Beside him, Mr Farrell was looking sick, droplets of sweat beading his forehead, and from the way he was sitting, eyes glued to his hands, Alex deduced he was as perturbed by the canvas as she was.

  “Does it affect you?” Minister Walker asked, tapping at the picture with a rather dirty finger.

  “Yes,” Alex whispered. Minister Walker produced an old shawl and dropped it over the painting. A sigh of relief swept through the room. Only Lucy Jones remained unperturbed, eyes staring vacantly straight ahead.

  “Mr Melville has come forward to inform us that you have earlier experience of paintings such as these,” the minister said. “That you in fact have a certain familiarity with them and the magic they can do.”

  “Familiarity?” Alex marvelled that her voice should sound as steady as it did. “I’m not sure I understand. Yes, I’ve seen something similar before, and yes, it made me feel as unwell as this one does.” Even covered as it was, the painting called to her, a continuous whisper that urged her to come closer. Alex felt her resolve weakening and took a shuffling step in the direction of the painting, but was brought up short by Matthew’s hold on her.

  “And what did you do with it?” Minister Allerton asked, leaning forward to catch her eye.

  “Destroyed it,” Alex said. “I burnt it behind the privy back home, and it screeched when I did.”

  The men before her looked at her, aghast.

  “It screeched?” Mr Farrell licked his lips, eyeing the propped-up canvas with caution.

  “That’s how I remember it.” Alex swayed on her feet, cold sweat running in rivulets between her breasts and down her back. �
��Matthew,” she whimpered, and he gripped her waist and pulled them both a few steps back.

  “That isn’t true!” Simon stepped forward, avoiding looking in their direction. “She sent a child through it, she did.”

  “A child!” Minister Walker exclaimed, staring at Alex.

  “Aye, a lad. She used the painting to send him back to his time. She says these little squares are windows through time.”

  “Is this true?” Minister Walker looked at Alex who just shook her head.

  “Alex! You know it is,” Simon said.

  She stared straight through him, hating him for what he was putting her through.

  “A lad, you say? What lad?” Matthew interrupted.

  “Isaac,” Simon clarified.

  “Isaac!” Alex moaned. “Oh God, Isaac!” Awful it had been, a terrible, terrible thing to do, to send her seven-year-old back through time. But what choice had she had, when her son so clearly pined for his other life?

  “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Mr Melville,” Matthew said, staggering when Alex more or less collapsed against him. He turned to face the ministers. “Aye, we had a son called Isaac, and he was gone from us before the age of eight. His stone stands among the other stones in the graveyard back home, and, as you see, the thought of him still makes my wife distraught.”

  “He didn’t die!” Simon insisted. “You sent him back! Through one of those accursed paintings!”

  “Were you there to witness this?” Minister Allerton asked.

  “No,” Simon said, “but—”

  Minister Allerton waved him quiet. “Have you ever seen Mrs Graham use a painting such as this?”

  “No,” Simon repeated in a whisper.

  “Ah.” Minister Allerton sat back and regarded him thoughtfully before directing himself to his fellow elders. “I must say I don’t fully understand the relevance of Mrs Graham’s presence. She doesn’t stand accused, does she?”

  “Nooo…” Minister Walker dragged the vowel out. “No, Brother Julian, she doesn’t. Not unless we can prove that she has been dabbling in these dark arts herself, and Mr Melville says she has.”