Mrs Gordon bustled out from the back regions and assured Mr Parson she was quite capable of taking care of his wee shop while he went and had a cup of tea, and in less than five minutes Alex was seated on a small stool in the open kitchen door, sipping with pleasure at the hot liquid in her cup. Mr Parson tsk:ed at her summary of the events of the morning, but did not seem unduly concerned.
“In this case it doesn’t really matter. As you’re his wife, and you hold his indenture, well then his indenture belongs to himself.” Alex found that somewhat confusing, and Mr Parson explained it again. Anything a wife owned belonged to her husband. In this particular instance she could see a benefit in that, but for the rest…
“And what if a rich girl marries a nasty character who only takes her for her money?”
Mr Parson chewed his lip. “A girl will marry where her father chooses her to. The father has an obligation to ensure the future husband is a man of good character. He will surely intercede if his daughter is treated badly.”
“And what happens when the father dies? Or her brother or whoever has been responsible for arranging the marriage?”
Mr Parson didn’t reply; instead he offered Alex some more tea.
*
It took some time for Matthew to catch on to the fact that Alex was no longer following him. A quick look up the street ascertained she was nowhere in sight, and he was ashamed for taking out on her what was really his own fault. But to have that pompous man deny him something that should never have been taken from him in the first place made him want to gag. He considered retracing his steps to find her, but after some moments of indecision chose to keep on walking, making for the waterfront where he sat down in the shade, discarding his coat to allow the weak breeze to cool him.
He knew his silences worried her, and sometimes he sensed how excluded she felt, but he couldn’t let her in, not when all he wanted to do in those dark moments was to hurt someone. He turned his angered thoughts on Luke; this was all his fault. Thinking of Luke only served to incense him further, fuming at fate that had chosen to let this twisted evil creature live instead of having him carried away in a childhood fever.
Red-haired and green-eyed, Luke had been a bonny high-spirited lad, a lad so much younger than him that he was more of a nuisance than a brother. And when he’d returned from the war, Luke had tagged after him, admiration shining out of his eyes for this stranger who was his brother and had killed men, several men, in the heat of battle. Somewhere there the relationship between the brothers shifted from one of mutual affection to one of distance.
A year later their rigid father had thrown Luke out for fornicating with Margaret, ignoring Luke’s pleas that he be allowed to marry her, for he loved her, loved her, you hear? If only Da had agreed to that, Matthew sighed. Instead, fifteen-year-old Margaret was left at Hillview pining for the man she had always loved, but was convinced would never come back. So she turned to him, to Matthew, and he was flattered by the attention of this beautiful lass – no, woman. He had lain with women before, of course he had, but never had he been touched the way she touched him, never felt himself burn with want, and three years after Luke had left he wed Margaret.
And then Luke came back, coincidentally the day they buried Da. After that it all went wrong; his wife taking Luke to bed in their room, laughing at him when he came upon them. And the child; his son, wee Ian that Margaret told him was Luke’s. Except that he wasn’t, as he found out many years later.
He sighed and used a stick to trace a capital L in the dust before him. Years in gaol because of Luke – convicted of a crime he’d never committed. A child stolen from him, impossible to reclaim, another child lost to the cruel beating Luke had submitted Alex to. He should have killed him when he had the chance – no one would ever have known. Instead he had sliced off Luke’s nose, and for that Luke had done this to him. So much hatred, a vicious yellow bile that tainted both their lives. Now it was too late; there was no way back, no possibility to repair all those destroyed bridges.
He produced the half-written letter to Simon from inside his shirt and reread what he’d written so far. He laughed darkly at the task he was lumbering his brother-in-law with; to investigate how Malcolm Graham had died in late 1653, nigh on nine years ago. Well, if anyone could do such it would be his legally trained friend. Behind Simon’s cannon ball exterior and joviality, there ticked a mind of extreme sharpness. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to achieve by his request; a possibility to have Luke convicted of murder? But what if it was Margaret who’d pushed Malcolm to die?
He heard the flapping sound first and raised his eyes from his letter to see in front of him a ship. The crew was busy taking in the sails, anchors were lowered with dull splashes, and the deck was full of men. He gawked; how had it sailed up so close without him noticing? Boats were setting out in the direction of the ship, and with a sinking feeling he realised he recognised this particular vessel.
Matthew stuck the letter into his coat pocket and retreated further into the shade, an unwilling spectator to the events unfolding in front of him. His eyes stuck on the men being lowered into the boats, pale blobs for faces. He was only yards from the landing stage and he stared at the newcomers. Had he looked like that, filthy, with a pervading stink of vomit and a pallor that indicated weeks out of the sun? He wanted to back away, but felt obliged to watch this to the bitter end, remaining rooted to the spot as the sad little caravan stumbled towards the auction block on landless, weakened legs.
“Brings back memories, doesn’t it?” Jones said, materialising out of nowhere by his side. When Matthew moved away, Jones followed. “Once a slave, always a slave.” He brought his riding crop down hard against the leather of his boots, laughing when Matthew flinched at the sound.
“Once a glob of shit, always a glob of shit,” Matthew said. Jones raised his crop. “Go on,” Matthew taunted. “Go on and use that on me, and see what happens to you.”
The whip came down, Matthew sidestepped, and Jones almost overbalanced with the momentum of his movement, but regained his balance with the grace of a huge cat, wheeling so fast Matthew had no possibility of evading the crop. It slashed him across the ear, and with a growl Matthew pounced.
A fist connected with his chin, he grunted, hit back, and then it was all a whirlwind of kicks and punches. Too big, too strong; Jones was sneering, big hands clenched into fists the size of hams. The saner part of Matthew’s brain begged with him to break and run, flee, and he actually started to turn when a kick sent him sprawling to the ground.
Merciful Lord! He bit his tongue with the force of the impact, his mouth flooding with the taste of his blood. Up; get up. Matthew shook his head in an effort to clear his mind, a movement flashed to his right and he rolled, Jones’ foot missing his head by an inch no more. He had regained his feet and was levering himself upright, when the next kick drove into his flank. Ah! Like a punctured pig’s bladder he collapsed to the ground, leeching on to the foot. Jones cursed, tried to tug himself free. Matthew pulled with all his might, and like an uprooted tree Jones toppled towards him. Matthew rolled again, narrowly evading having Jones land on him.
Matthew groaned, heaving himself up on all fours. Jones cursed and spat, sat up and threw himself at Matthew, squashing him flat. No air. Matthew coughed, tried to dislodge this unbearable weight from across his back.
Water; they were by the shoreline, and a huge, meaty hand came down on Matthew’s nape, dragging him towards the water. Matthew dug his hands in, his toes, his knees, heaving himself backwards. Jones grunted, sank his fingers into Matthew’s neck and lifted him towards the pebbled shore. Matthew bit him, gained a second or so of respite, and retreated from the water. Jones said something, his fingers were back, punishing digits that sank into tendons and nerves. An inch, yet another inch, grass became sand, sand became pebbles and here was the water. Jones forced his head under the surface.
In desperation Matthew bucked, his elbow connected with something and the hold on
his neck relaxed sufficiently for him to tear himself free. He crawled on all fours and there was the hand again, pulling him back towards the water, while all around men catcalled and cheered. I’m going to die, Matthew managed to think. His head was yet again submerged. He struggled like a fiend, found purchase against the bottom with his hands, succeeded in pushing himself high enough to gasp some air before going down again.
*
When Alex came out of Mr Parson’s shop, she met a stream of people hurrying off towards the river and fell in step, curious about the general air of festivity. She stopped when she saw the ship, the men. Her eyes flew over the crowd, searching for Matthew, and her heart did an odd little manoeuvre when she saw the knot of men, a tight huddle of loud voices and cheers that was oblivious to the on-going auction.
She shouldered her way through, using feet and elbows when she needed to. Just as she made it to the front, the noise died away, and when she broke through the last line of men she saw why. Matthew and Jones were down by the water, Matthew’s limbs flopping weakly while Jones was holding his head under water. Alex didn’t stop to think.
“Murder! He’s murdering my husband!” She launched herself on Jones, grabbed the big man by his hair, and pulled – hard. Jones swore and swatted at her, but by doing so he relinquished his hold on Matthew, and to Alex relief she saw her husband’s head reappear, mouth wide open as he gulped down air. She tightened her hold and dragged Jones’ backwards, him howling like a stuck pig. Her grip on his hair slipped, and with an angry exclamation Jones pushed Alex away, turning back to his intended victim.
“Fifty witnesses,” Alex called, “and I swear, Dominic Jones, that I’ll see you hang if you as much as lay a finger on my husband again.” She planted herself in front of him, all of her tensing. If he tried anything she’d send him flying – she hoped, gulping at the size of him. Jones came to a stop and swept eyes over the by now very silent spectators. He hesitated, looked over to where Matthew was on hands and knees, retching. His hands twitched, they curled themselves into threatening fists, and then the harbourmaster was there as well, coming to stand between Matthew and Jones.
“Go,” he said to Jones.
“Get out of my way,” Jones growled. “He started it, and now he must pay the price. An indenture to raise his hands to a free man!”
“He didn’t start it, you did,” the harbourmaster said. “And I’ll add my voice to Mrs Graham’s if need be.” A murmur of assent rose from among the men, quite a few shuffled on their feet, and two came forward to help Matthew stand. With a colourful curse and one last look at Matthew, Jones stalked off.
The harbourmaster placed a pudgy hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “Stay away from him, Graham. Jones is a dangerous man.”
Matthew nodded, dragging a shaking hand over his wet face. He inhaled, held his breath and exhaled, repeating the procedure a couple of times before taking the few steps that separated him from Alex. She didn’t say anything – she couldn’t – she just raised her hand to his cheek, his mouth.
“I’m alright, truly, Alex, I’m fine.” He led her to where he had left his coat, lying on a makeshift bench. “We won’t be trying for a passage with her.” He spat in the direction of the Henriette Marie.
“Of course not,” Alex said. “Although we could perhaps sneak aboard and set her on fire.” That coaxed a small smile from Matthew.
“He was going to kill you.” Her hands knotted themselves into the fabric of her skirts, and she couldn’t quite remember what to do to relax the tension in them.
“But he didn’t.” Matthew worked her fingers loose from her skirts, one by one.
“No, he didn’t.” She stepped up close enough to rest her forehead against him, drew in his scent, so reassuringly warm and alive. Matthew held her to him, long fingers tracing soothing patterns up and down her back. “He’ll try again.”
“Aye – and all at the behest of my beloved brother.” He leaned back to see her face. “You bought me free in the nick of time. Had you but been a few weeks later, I would have been dead, Jones would have been richer, and Luke would have been whooping for joy.”
“Probably.” Alex snuck her hand into his, and they walked back not saying anything much until they turned into the small lane leading to the boarding house, where Alex drew him to a stop.
“Here,” she said, digging into her pouch to produce the copy of the contract with Fairfax.
Matthew looked at her in confusion.
Alex squirmed; she didn’t really like saying this. “I’m your wife, right?”
He half smiled and raised an eyebrow to assure her that she was.
“Anything I own is therefore per definition yours – even I am yours.” She grimaced, he waited, clearly amused. “So, if I hold your indenture, and I’m your wife, well then it follows that the person who really owns your indenture is yourself. No matter what the Governor says or does, you’re free.” She waited as he worked that one through, and it made her glad to see the light it kindled in his eyes. “I wonder what all this makes me,” she grumbled as they turned into the yard. “A cow?”
Matthew hooked a finger in the waistband of her skirt, drawing her towards him.
“You’re mine, aye. My wife – no cow.” He squeezed her buttock and jerked his head in the direction of the house. “Bed. Now.”
Alex laughed, tried to wiggle free from his arms and hands. “Forget it; I’m starving. You’ll have to wait until after dinner.”
Matthew took a firm hold of her and propelled her towards the stairs. “Nay, you’ll wait with dinner.”
He definitely tried, and for some instants it was almost like it used to be between them, sparks flying hot from finger to skin; almost, but not quite, and then the stranger was back, a man who made courteous, distanced love to her. It made her want to kick him in his balls.
Chapter 24
Next morning, Alex only had to glance at Matthew to see his elation had faded back into his customary simmering resentment. He was sitting at the little desk, brows pulled into one dark line, busy with his letter. Alex sighed; one of the first casualties to these black moods was early morning sex, mainly because he was out of bed and dressed long before she woke up. She stretched, rolled in his direction. He pretended not to notice she was awake, his quill scratching over the paper.
“Hi,” she tried, receiving a grunt in reply. She patted the bed beside her, half sat up. “Come here,” she purred, her breasts clearly visible. Matthew sat back and stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles.
“I’m already dressed.”
She hunched together for an instant before straightening her spine.
“Fine.” She got out of bed, dressing with angered haste before detouring round his chair on the way to the door. “This will never work. We’ll never find our way back to how we used to be if you continue closing me out.” He extended his hand to her, but she shook her head. “Too late, Mr Graham. I’m already dressed, see?” He flinched as she threw his words back at him and it made her glad. Bastard!
“It isn’t only my responsibility. I try and try, I laugh and play happy families, I try to show you that I love you just as much now as before, even if the man I now share my bed with is very different from the man I once met on a moor. It hasn’t exactly been a piece of cake for me either, you know.”
“It wasn’t you sold like a beast,” he snapped. “You didn’t spend months living like a slave.”
“No, I just spent month after month imagining what you might be living, dying inside at the thought that someone was abusing you, starving you.” She sent him a dark look, grabbed at her hat, and left.
*
Matthew saw her emerge into the alley, adjust the straw bonnet and set off towards the town. He should go after her, but what could he possibly say? He watched her drop out of sight, sealed his letter to Simon, and went down to breakfast, pleasantly surprised to find James there.
“Did you quarrel?” James asked. “She looked right
upset, wee Alex.”
Matthew shrugged. “I don’t rightly know,” he said, salting his eggs. “She says I close her out, and aye, I do. I can’t burden her with the rage that gnaws at my insides, and in my darker moments I fear that I might take it out on her.” He sighed and concentrated on his food until the plate was wiped clean. “It used to be I would love her in the mornings,” he mumbled, keeping his eyes on the table. “Even the first few days back with her I did. But now I wake long before her, and my cock is stiff and hard but it is more rage than love. So instead I rise and dress.” He drew his mug of beer towards him and drank. “It hurts her. She likes it when we start the day together – and so do I.”
“And today?”
Matthew squirmed. “She wanted me, and I told her I was already dressed.”
“Ah,” James nodded, digging into his pouch for his pipe. “You have to explain, and you must do it soon.”
Matthew drank some more. He already knew that; he just didn’t know how.
*
Alex was still buzzing with rejection when she reached the Governor’s rooms. Announcing that she had objects from the king to deliver, she was admitted to the dining room where Sir William sat very lonely at the end of a long table. Still in morning attire, with a plum silk dressing gown over a linen nightshirt, Sir William stared balefully at her.
“What incompetent fool let you in? And unannounced at that!”
“Sir William,” she curtsied, ignoring his little outburst.
“Two months,” he said, attempting a dismissive wave of his hand.
“I decided I wouldn’t allow myself to be as petty as you are.” She dug into her pouch and retrieved two small, wrapped objects. “These were entrusted me by Don Ángel Benito Muñoz de Hojeda upon his death in Barbados, and I promised to fulfil his charge and deliver them to you, with compliments from the king.”
Like Chaff in the Wind (The Graham Saga) Page 18