Closer to town came the stink of habitation: privies, piled offal, the disgusting stench of accumulated stale blood and intestines from behind the butcher, the general aroma of far too many unwashed bodies in clothes that had been worn well beyond their laundry date. Alex wrinkled her nose fastidiously, noted a new inn, a bakery, and the colourful sign declaring the presence of a barber surgeon.
“So where is this famous establishment, Mrs Malone’s brothel?” she asked.
“Nowhere close to where you will be.” Matthew helped her off the horse, dismounted and handed the reins to the stable boy. “You won’t go anywhere close to the further docks.”
“Not even with you?”
“Not even with me. It’s no place for a well-bred woman, and you wouldn’t like it – not at all.”
“Maybe I should be the judge of that,” Alex muttered, but with no real heat. She could imagine just how squalid the area would be. She’d seen her fair share of ports.
*
“I’m not sure this is how I want to spend a fine autumn morning,” Alex said the next day.
Matthew tightened his grip on her elbow and increased his pace, informing her that seeing as it was Sunday they were going to kirk, and that was that. He nodded to acquaintances on his way there, every now and then he stopped and introduced her, and Alex smiled and curtsied, very much the doting, dutiful wife of Mr Matthew Graham. Once at the meetinghouse, she followed him into the whitewashed interior and slid in to sit on a bench.
“Oh God, how much longer?” Alex groaned two hours later. Matthew squeezed her hand and sent her an irritated look. She subsided back against the bench, letting her mind escape from the boring sermon.
The meetinghouse was packed, but whether that was because of devoutness or because of social constraints was up for discussion. To not attend was to risk both fines and public denouncements for ungodliness, and Alex supposed that might be somewhat bad for business in a town dominated by the congregation elders. Her eyes drifted across the women, most of them in muted colours like her own dove grey, and lingered on the impressively silent children, equally soberly dressed. Here and there she saw a dash of blue, of soft russet or pale yellow, but mostly it was grey and brown, and she was swept with a longing for T-shirts in bright colours and with ambiguous messages, jeans that sat tight around your legs and showcased your curves, and Converse sneakers in red or wild purple. She sighed and fidgeted, accidentally bumping into Matthew. She was hot, she was bored, and she went back to her silent scrutiny of the congregation.
*
Matthew felt Alex stiffen beside him. She sat ramrod straight with her eyes locked on someone sitting several rows down on the other side of the aisle. He followed her gaze and his hold on her hand became a clamp, his fingers twisting themselves so hard round hers that Alex let out a muted little yelp. Jones! Here, in his kirk, for all that he was Anglican as far as Matthew recalled. With him sat his wife, Kate, and a long row of sandy-haired children. Matthew’s throat worked with the effort to swallow. Kate... As if he’d called her name, she turned, her eyes sweeping the room and finding his. He saw how they widened, darkening with surprise, and she leaned towards her husband and whispered something in his ear. Jones just nodded, keeping his eyes on the minister.
Kate sneaked yet another look at Matthew, and he smiled at her, receiving a slight curving of the mouth in response. Still with hair somewhere between sun and honey, and dark eyes that had once been his only tenuous link to life. Not only her eyes, but her body as well, wrapping itself around him when he had needed it the most. Kate seemed to see what he was thinking, because her smile widened, a triumphant edge to it as she directed it at Alex. And Alex retook her hand, folding her arms over her chest.
“I thought the purpose of going to church was to concentrate your thoughts on God,” Alex said once they were out in the sun. “Not sit and drool over a former lover.”
To his irritation, Matthew felt himself flushing. “I wasn’t drooling.”
“No? I could have fitted an apple into your mouth, so wide did it gape.” Alex escaped into the shade of a plane tree, and he followed her, regarding the people as they came out of the meetinghouse. Neighbours and business partners, the men relaxed now that the religious part of the day was over, laughing amongst themselves while their wives made quiet conversation in small groups. Kate was in one of those groups, talking with animation while her eyes scanned the crowd.
“I think she’s looking for you. Go ahead, be my guest and go over to her.” And if you do you won’t be touching me anytime soon, her eyes told him, shards of a dark, daring blue under the brim of her straw hat.
“Alex...”
She turned her back on him and waved at Elizabeth, approaching them through the crowd with Peter and Henry Walton in her wake.
“What a good preacher!” Elizabeth said once she was within what she considered hearing distance, which in practice meant everyone within a furlong heard her. “It’s at times like these that I realise how much I miss the spiritual guidance of a minister in my day to day life.”
“Yes, it definitely inspired you to pure thoughts, didn’t it?” Alex gave Matthew a barbed smile, hooked her arm in under Elizabeth’s and strolled off.
*
Alex threw Matthew a look over her shoulder. Her husband’s long mouth had set into a thin, displeased line. Huh, as if he had any reason to be pissed off! It was him and his open gawking at damned Kate that was the issue here, wasn’t it? Well, okay, maybe she was overreacting – a bit – but she hated it that he should smile at Kate the way he did, a softness in his eyes and face that made her want to twist his goddamn balls until he squealed.
“Oh look! Celia’s parents!” Elizabeth dropped Alex’s arm as if stung, grabbed at her husband and dragged him off towards an elderly couple surrounded by three young men.
Alex made a face at being so blatantly dumped and turned with a sigh towards where she’d left Matthew, but he wasn’t there anymore and neither was Henry Walton. Instead, Alex found herself eye to eye with Dominic Jones and his wife.
“Great, my favourite people in the world.” Alex gave them a false smile. “Why can’t you just drop into a hole somewhere?”
Up close, Kate looked somewhat worse for wear, with a dissatisfied set to the mouth and skin that was covered with red, flaking patches, especially over her nose and right cheek. Still, there was no denying Mrs Jones was a handsome woman, her golden colouring expertly set off by the shimmering, tawny velvet she was wearing. Alex twitched at her grey skirts with irritation.
“The sentiment is mutual.” Jones twirled the riding crop he was carrying.
“I’m glad we cleared that one up.” Alex turned her attention to the Jones’ children. The twins were ten she knew, having been present at their birth, and then there were five more, the youngest carried in the arms of a maid. “You’ve been busy,” she said with reluctant admiration. Kate grimaced, and between them flew a look of absolute understanding.
Jones looked at his large family and nodded proudly. “There will be more. My wife is not yet thirty-five.”
At this rate his genes would spread alarmingly, Alex reflected, studying Jones’ offspring. Not a good thing, in her book.
“I was hoping for a word with your husband,” Jones said.
“My husband doesn’t want to talk to you.”
Jones’ small eyes glinted strangely. “It would be unwise of him to attempt me any harm – including defaming my good name.”
“Defaming your good name? Why would he want to do that? After all, what have you ever done to him but beat him to an inch of his life and then...oh, yes, then you attempted to pin a murder on him, didn’t you?”
“Shh!” Kate said. “People are looking!”
“You give us a wide berth and we’ll give you the same.” Alex lowered her voice, ignoring Kate. “But if you threaten us or if anyt
hing happens to Matthew, I swear I’ll tell the whole town about Fairfax’s death. Might make it a bit uncomfortable for you – as far as I know, there’s no statute of limitation on murder, is there?”
Jones went a sickly white. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“No, of course you don’t. Your conscience is as pure as driven snow.” A quick look down the street showed her Matthew making his way back towards the meetinghouse. Alex hurried off to intercept him. She had no intention of exposing Matthew to his former tormentor. Or pretty Mrs Jones, come to think of it.
In the event it didn’t help, what with Jones following hot on her heels. Matthew stood like a cornered dog. Very briefly, his eyes flitted over to do a quick inspection of Kate, but then he was back to eyeballing Jones. Of a height, the two men overtopped six feet, but where Matthew was wide in shoulder and chest, Jones was massive all over, although the intimidating effect was offset by the fact so much of his bulk lay concentrated round his midriff, muscles converted to fat.
“Matthew? Let’s go.” Alex gripped his arm. He didn’t seem to hear, eyes glittering a dangerous green. Jones smirked and brought the short riding crop down with a dull thwack against his boot. The sound made Matthew jerk, and Jones smiled, a taunting sneer that made Matthew turn to stone under her hand.
“Matthew!” Alex squeezed as hard as she could. The short whip smacked against the leather again, Jones sinking his eyes into Matthew.
“A beast of burden, Graham,” Jones said. “I trust you remember how you bleated to the world that you were nothing but a slave.”
“Dominic!” Kate gasped. “That’s enough!”
“Bastard!” Matthew spat, and for an eternally long second, Alex was convinced this was when her husband would pull his knife and gut his erstwhile tormentor. So, apparently, was Jones, backing away with some haste.
“Go!” Alex barked, hanging on to Matthew. Kate took hold of her man and dragged him away.
Matthew slowly relaxed. He blinked, shook himself, and without a word led the way to the inn.
Chapter 13
A few days later, Matthew stood by the meetinghouse and watched Dominic Jones lord it over his fellow merchants. Resplendent in a pale silk waistcoat, a matching coat, and with Sykes a few paces behind, all that was missing was a slave carrying a parasol to properly underline just how rich and powerful Jones was.
Matthew’s eyes lingered on Sykes. The man was his usual ratty self, armed with both sword and pistol. An idea took shape, and he hastened off to find Peter Leslie.
*
Sykes looked pale. He licked his lips, eyes darting over to Jones as if he were hoping for some reassurance from his employer. Instead, Jones distanced himself from him, leaving Sykes to face Peter Leslie alone.
“Retribution,” Peter said. “I expect compensation for those two girls.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” Sykes said, “and, besides, I have no money.”
“Nay, but your paymaster does.” Matthew jerked his head at Jones, sidling away into the crowd. “Why the hurry, Jones?” he called out. “Afraid, are you?”
“Afraid?” Jones came to a stop. “Why should I be afraid?”
“Stealing is a serious offence – and stealing lasses in particular.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Dominic eyed Sykes as if the man had the plague. Sykes shrank under the weight of the look.
“My wife saw him.” Matthew ensured his voice carried over the assembled men. He pointed at Sykes. “She saw him make off with Mr Leslie’s property. And…” He paused, swept the small crowd with his eyes. “…Sykes does nothing without Mr Jones’ permission, do you, Sykes?” He turned towards the man so abruptly Sykes near on sat down.
“I have no idea what you’re on about,” Sykes said.
“Very well,” Peter said. “In that case, we will take up the matter before the elders tomorrow. I’m sure Mrs Graham will be willing to testify.”
“A woman,” Jones drawled, “and your neighbour. How are we to know she doesn’t lie?”
“For shame, Jones!” Peter might be thin and wiry, but he was tall enough to meet Jones’ eyes head on. “Tomorrow,” he said to Sykes. “And should you not appear before us, we will hold you guilty and set a price on your head.”
“But...” Sykes threw Jones a desperate look.
Jones shook his head and shouldered his way out of the crowd.
“I wouldn’t set my hope on him,” Matthew said to Sykes. “You’re all alone in this.” He leaned forward. “He’ll see you hang and not lift a finger. So why not tell us the truth? Did you abduct those lasses on his behalf? More money for him, a few coins for you?”
Sykes backed away. “I’ve done nothing, and your wife is a slanderous witch if she says different.” With that parting shot he escaped.
“Well,” Peter said, coming to stand beside Matthew, “it seems you’ve ruffled quite some feathers.”
“Alex doesn’t lie. If she says she saw Sykes there then she did.”
“Ah, yes, but it isn’t Sykes you’re after, is it?” Peter clapped him on the shoulder. “Go carefully, Matthew.”
“I always do. It’s something I learnt under Jones’ tender care.”
*
Alex listened in silence to Matthew’s description of events, sighing inside. This was going to breathe further life into the infected feud with Jones, and not for a second did she believe Sykes would give Jones up.
“He won’t show. Come tomorrow, he’ll be halfway to Barbados or somewhere.”
“Better in Barbados than here.”
“Maybe.” Alex went back to her packing: salt and sugar, spices and candles, a big chunk of scented soap, ribbons for her girls, knife blades that Matthew would work into wooden handles for their younger sons, but best of all were the bolts of cloth.
“I thought you wanted to buy it ready-made.” Matthew fingered the high quality serge and broadcloth. In russet and pewter grey, in a dark blue and a serviceable brown, the various lengths contrasted pleasingly with the pale of the linen lying beside them.
“It made me feel immoral.” Besides, she’d found something else she wanted to spend her money on – a present for him, something to make him forget Dominic Jones and his vitriolic comments. Not that she thought it would work, and in particular not now, after hearing how he’d gone after Sykes. Still, she hugged her secret to her, managing not to break out in a wide smile.
“Elizabeth thinks I’ve lost my mind. She goes on and on about the importance of weaving your own cloth.” Alex made a face. Weaving was a skill that eluded her, just as spinning yarn was.
“Nay, she suspects it is me that’s gone soft in the head. She’s urged me to stop this wastrel behaviour in you; have you produce good homespun for us all.”
“I bartered for some of it.” Most of it, actually. Her embroidered smocks and shifts had been far more appreciated than she’d hoped for, and so her pouch of coins had remained virtually untouched. Once again, she had to stop herself from grinning, her secret bubbling inside of her, making her want to laugh out loud.
“I have the new serving wench below.” Matthew jerked his head in the direction of the door.
Alex got off her knees. “What’s her name?” she said as she followed him down the stairs.
“Agnes, and a sweet, soft-spoken lass she is.”
Agnes stood very alone in the yard, and Alex took a step back at the sight of her. “How old is she? She looks about fifteen.”
“Eighteen, she says, and she both writes and reads.”
“And her family?”
Matthew looked away. “It’s still the same sad story. The lass is from Ayrshire, and her family was fined from hearth and home on account of her father hiding a minister from the soldiers.”
“They split them up?”
�
��Her father died on the crossing, and so the rest of the family must work off his passage as well as their own. Her younger brother has been bonded out for fourteen years.”
“Fourteen years? But how old is he?”
“Twelve,” Agnes informed her in a high voice. “Wee Angus is but twelve.” She fretted with the worn fringes of her shawl and curtsied in greeting to Alex. “I don’t know where he is, and he is all I have.”
Alex wanted to tell this waif of a girl that they would somehow help her find her brother, but a look from Matthew silenced her. There were no promises they could make, and both of them knew that.
“They said he was a man, and he was sold off the day we were landed. I didn’t get to tell him goodbye or to remind him to say his prayers at night. He’ll be fine, won’t he?” Agnes asked with a pleading note. “He’s but a wee lad, and surely they will be kind to him.”
“Of course they will.” Alex looked at Matthew for help.
“He was crying when they led him off,” Agnes said. “Crying for me and Mam.”
“Is she here? Your mother?” Alex was willing to take all of their savings and at least reunite this girl with one family member.
“Nay, Mam lies in the kirkyard back home.” Agnes’ grey eyes softened, and she raised a shaking hand to push an escaped lock of fair hair back under her cap. She was quite pretty in an unobtrusive way, with a fair complexion and a full lower lip. A pity she was underweight and so dirty as to be grey, but none of those drawbacks were of a permanent nature.
Somehow Agnes’ sad little tale took a lot of the lustre out of Alex’s gift to Matthew. What had seemed a great idea yesterday seemed ostentatious today, and when a few minutes later a large stallion was led into the yard, Alex watched her husband apprehensively. His eyes flew to the dark bay, a covetous gleam in them as he inspected the deep chest, the white feathered fetlocks and the wide blaze down the horse’s face. He took a step towards it and turned to Alex with an expression on his face that made her insides double flip with happiness.
A Newfound Land (The Graham Saga) Page 12