A Newfound Land (The Graham Saga)

by Belfrage, Anna

  “And I’ll insist on it ’til my dying day.” Thomas shook his fist at Jones.

  “Which might come sooner than you think if you repeat such slanderous nonsense.” Jones scowled.

  “A threat?” Matthew shook his head. “Now, now, Mr Jones, we can’t have that, can we?”

  “Outside, all of you!” Mrs Malone yelled, but no one moved.

  “I did not attempt to shoot you, Graham. That is a misconstruction. I have repeated over and over again that it was the Indian I was aiming at. To hear Mr Leslie insist I had my gun levelled at you…well, I find it most hurtful.” Jones placed a hand somewhere in the region of his heart. “And I will not tolerate such calumnies. I have a reputation to uphold.”

  “Aye, that you do; a reputation as a cold-hearted, greedy bastard who stops at nothing to line his purse with an extra shilling or two.”

  Jones laughed. “That’s called being a trader, Mr Graham. Profit is always profit, however small the amount. And if you excuse me, I shall now comply with Mrs Malone’s wishes and leave – as should all of us.”

  “Not him.” Thomas pointed at Burley.

  “Oh, him as well. Or else I will be obliged to have my men kill you, which would, of course, be most unfortunate and cause Mrs Malone substantial distress.”

  “I’ll kill him first!” Thomas pulled his knife. Peter grabbed hold of his arm, shaking his head.

  “Most wise.” Jones nodded. “And one shouldn’t make threats one can’t deliver on, Mr Leslie. Philip Burley would make mincemeat of you – in a matter of seconds.”

  Thomas blustered, Peter hung on to his arm, and Matthew could do nothing but seethe as Jones and his party made for the exit.

  At the door, Philip Burley turned. “Just so you know, Graham, I don’t make empty threats. And one day…” He dragged his finger over his throat, laughed and hurried outside.

  *

  “You were there!” Matthew glared at Mr Farrell. “You heard the man, you saw that damned Burley.”

  Mr Farrell squinted at the sun and muttered that, even if he had been there, he had no recollection of the events as such.

  “He threatened me,” Matthew said, “and that Jones—”

  “That Jones what?” Dominic said, joining them. He nodded at the two ministers and murmured a greeting to Mr Farrell.

  “You’re harbouring a man who tried to kill me,” Matthew said, “at your behest, no doubt.”

  “At my behest? And you have proof of this?” Jones looked Matthew up and down. “You must stop this, Mr Graham, all these accusations levelled against myself. Figments of an overheated imagination, gentlemen,” he added, directing himself to the ministers. “Yes, Graham and I have a past, but from there to want him dead? Really!”

  “You do, and we both know why.”

  Jones waved Matthew silent and pursed his mouth. “As to Burley, I dare say you’re right. The man is a scoundrel, and I have therefore decided not to do business with him, however lucrative. And I had him forcibly removed from town this morning.” His eyes met Matthew’s, a triumphant gleam in them.

  “Forcibly? You had him aboard one of your sloops,” Thomas put in.

  “Most forcibly. Burley had matters he wanted to attend to – here.” Jones grinned. “It may be I saved your life, Graham.”

  “Saved it? It was you…” Matthew closed his mouth, irritated by the mild look of disapproval on the ministers’ faces. “You were there, Minister Walker.”

  “I was. And while I saw the Burley brothers attack you, I did not see Mr Jones doing so.” Minister Walker patted Matthew on his shoulder. “I understand you find this most distressing, Brother Matthew. But leave Mr Jones out of it – unless, of course, you have proof.” With an apologetic shrug he was off, with the other minister and Mr Farrell in his wake.

  Thomas said something about having to visit the farrier before they set off and left Matthew alone with Jones.

  “I should tell them,” Matthew said. “And maybe I will; the whole sorry tale starting with Fairfax’s murder.”

  “You do that and I’ll put you through hell.” Jones’ previously so affable mien was replaced by an intimidating scowl. “As I said, you have sons, Graham. One word from you and who knows what will happen to them?”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “I wouldn’t? I don’t make idle threats either. Best you keep it in mind.” Jones stretched to his full height. “As I said, stay out of my life and I’ll stay out of yours – well, what remains of it, now that Philip Burley has his eyes set on you.” Jones smirked and sauntered off.

  *

  “It’s all conjecture,” Matthew said some hours later. “I can never make a case against him. All I have is a murder and a last-minute will that named Jones as the benefactor of estates previously left to a relative.” He was still shaken by Jones’ parting comment, his mind invaded with images of his sons dead, he himself dead, his wife… Matthew took off his hat and scrubbed at his hair in an effort to dislodge these disconcerting visions.

  “Have you at least written it all down?” Thomas said, from where he was riding just in front of Matthew.

  “I have. I’ve left it with William Hancock – together with my will.”

  “Good.” Thomas nodded.

  “Good? If it comes to that, I’ll be dead.” But it wouldn’t come to that, he comforted himself. Burley was far away, and he was capable of defending himself, a better swordsman by far than most.

  “Nothing will happen.” Peter held in his horse to wait for them. “As long as you don’t say anything, Jones won’t do anything.”

  “It’s not Jones I’m worried about,” Matthew said. “It’s Burley.”

  “A long ride from where he lives to where you live,” Peter said. “With time, he will forget, Matthew.”

  “You think?” Philip Burley struck Matthew as a man capable of holding a grudge for a lifetime.

  “Or die. Men as disreputable as he is tend to live brief lives.” Peter clapped his heels to his mount, making the horse break into a trot. “We’d best pick up pace,” he called over his shoulder. “If you’re not home in time for the birthing, you’ll be a dead man anyway.”

  Matthew laughed and urged Moses into a canter. His wife waited for him; a wean was soon to be born. Life would go on, he told himself. Nobody would kill him; nobody would tear his family apart. He wouldn’t allow it, and for now he was strong enough to keep them all safe. For now.

  Chapter 35

  “I don’t think I want to do this ever again,” Alex said, and Matthew wasn’t sure if it was her that was incapable of unclasping his hand, or him that just couldn’t let go. Her hair was plastered to her sweaty brow, her legs were still shaking with the effort of giving birth, and on her stomach lay the latest addition to their family. Her left arm encircled the wean – a lad. She licked her lips and took a shaky breath.

  “I don’t think I want you to either,” Matthew said just as unsteadily.

  It had been a long, hard struggle, this their eighth child, and Matthew was washed by a wave of tenderness at the sight of her reclining against the pillows, still in her soiled shift, the entire room smelling of blood and sweat and fear.

  His son mewled and moved his limbs in a crawling motion, the small head lifting and butting hard in its search for food. Matthew disentangled his hand from Alex’s and lifted the wean to lie at her breast, watching with the same wonder he always felt as this new life latched onto the offered nipple and began the arduous work of feeding. Alex moaned, a hand coming down to press at her lower belly. She made a face at her as yet uncovered legs and the mess between them.

  Mrs Parson patted her on her thigh. “I’ll fetch some warm water and then we’ll get you into a clean shift and clean sheets.”

  “Sounds wonderful.” Alex smiled, her eyes blinking. She shifted the wean to her other breast
and leaned into Matthew, her head heavy on his shoulder. For a moment, he thought she might have fallen asleep like that, the babe at her breast, and he draped his arm closer around her and the wean both.

  “You were wrong.” Her voice drifted up with a note of satisfaction. “And I was right. A boy.”

  “Aye, you were.” Matthew laughed into her hair, but then he began to weep, and she crawled as close as she could and cried as well.

  “So what’s his name?” Alex asked some time later. There was some colour in her cheeks, the room had been aired and cleaned, and she was sitting up in her best chemise, ready to receive the rest of the family. Matthew stroked her hair and kissed her brow.

  “Samuel.” Matthew lifted his son to lie in his arms. “Samuel Isaac Graham.”

  “Samuel? Such a big name for such a wee lad.”

  He smiled at Alex’s choice of words – she didn’t even notice. “He’ll grow.”

  “Oh, he will, and let me tell you he was pretty big to begin with.” She grimaced, unlaced her chemise and placed their bonny lad at her breast.

  *

  “Samuel Isaac,” Magnus held the baby in his arms and studied him for a long time. Two new grandchildren in fifteen months and both so alike at the moment of their birth they could be twins. A tuft of dark hair, eyes that were an indefinite shade of muddy blue, and a long mouth, curved into an involuntary smile.

  “They could bear a stamped legend,” Magnus joked. “You know, Made by Matthew Graham.”

  “It’s a good mould, and if they turn out anything like their father once they’ve grown up—”

  “Spare me the panegyrics. I already know you consider Matthew Graham to be God’s gift to womankind.”

  “No,” Alex yawned, “but he’s definitely God’s gift to me.”

  *

  “That’s what you’ve been waiting for,” Mrs Parson said to Magnus some weeks later, nodding her head in the direction of the baby basket where Samuel slept under the cover of a thin linen cloth.

  “Yes, I thought that I should at least get a peek at him before I died.”

  Mrs Parson studied him with her head tilted to one side. She reminded Magnus of a huge magpie, with those bright black eyes framed by a white linen cap and white linen collar.

  “I know,” he mumbled, “I look more dead than alive.”

  Mrs Parson made a dismissive sound. “You look very thin – emaciated even. But that isn’t dead, is it?”

  “It will be; soon.” These days, the headache was a constant, and increasingly the pain was such that he wanted to yank his left eye out to allow whatever it was that was growing in him expansion room.

  “Aye, probably.” Mrs Parson folded together her knitting and came over to place a hand on his head. “Another pipe?”

  He gave her a grateful look. Alex had this strange notion about rationing his weed, insisting overconsumption would make him an addict. Rather hilarious, given that he would be dead long before his addiction became a problem. Magnus sighed. Right now, all he wanted was for this to be over.

  *

  “What day is it today?” Magnus asked Alex a few days later. He craned his head back to look out at the pale blue summer sky but closed his eyes with the effort.

  “Midsummer’s Eve.”

  How apt, Magnus thought, to die on the longest day of the year. He lay in silence, listening to the sounds around him. Sounds of life, of continuity: Samuel’s soft snuffling from where he slept in his basket only feet from his ear, David’s piercing screams from outside, and Agnes’ low soothing voice, shushing him. In the distance he could hear a horse – probably Moses – and there were birds, and hens cackling, and the ubiquitous sound of young, vibrant beings, his grandchildren, tumbling around in the summer afternoon.

  He smiled at Jenny’s tuneless singing, recognised the tread of Matthew’s feet on the kitchen floor – there was that damned plank that always creaked – and from beside him came the clicking sound of Mrs Parson’s knitting. He listened some more and heard that one sound was missing. Alex was holding her breath, and that meant she was trying very hard not to cry. He moved one hand in her direction and immediately her fingers closed over his.

  “It’s not too bad,” Magnus lied. It was fucking terrible! Whenever he opened his eyes, it was like having a red-hot needle poked through his tender cornea, so he preferred to keep them closed. Behind his eyelids swirled blacks and blues and the occasional dash of bright vermillion and orange and sometimes – thank heavens – a soothing green, and then it all began again and he was in so much pain that sometimes he could feel each individual strand of hair as a hurting, aching extremity. He sighed; he should have taken his planned overdose months ago, but he’d been too much of a coward, and since then he’d used up all his pills, buying himself short reprieves from the pain.

  He heard Matthew enter the room, hesitating for a few seconds before pulling up a stool to sit beside Alex. It almost made Magnus laugh; like a lit de parade, the adults of his family converging to watch him die. He twisted his face towards the twilight that hovered outside the small window.

  “I always knew,” he said.

  “Knew what?” Alex asked.

  “That I’d die at dusk.” He turned his face to the wall. Soon he’d be dead, and never again would he see the trees or the clouds, never would he walk over fields, brush his legs through knee-high grasses. Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered except for the pain that inhabited his head, the humongous effort it was to keep on breathing. There was a numbness in his chest, a squeezing sensation as if his heart was cramping. Air. He needed air, and he sucked and sucked, but nothing seemed to reach his lungs. No click, click, click from his right-hand side; instead, Mrs Parson’s hand closed over his, her breath warm on his cheek as she leaned over him.

  “Go with God, Magnus Lind,” she said, and he heard it in her voice that he was dying, that any moment now he’d be dead, and he didn’t want to be.

  In Magnus’ head, things happened that were frightening and awe-inspiring – like being high on something far more potent than marijuana, his brain dissolving into extraordinary fireworks. Everything was spinning; he saw bands of shifting colours and he shot forward through time and there was Isaac – in Stockholm, Magnus noted with pleased surprise. He was dragged backwards in time, he whizzed past Alex, and there was his Mercedes. He squinted because he’d never seen her so old, but there she was, her dark hair a beautiful silvered grey covered by a lace mantilla, and he realised she was back in her time, living out her life, and all of him shrivelled in panic. I don’t want to die if she’s not there waiting for me! Idiot, his brain jeered, no one’s waiting for you – you don’t believe in the afterlife, do you? No, Magnus Lind, this is the final curtain call, and soon... No! He shrieked in protest at God, at the bursts of light that were falling like confetti in his head.

  Hands on his arm, someone kissed his cheek, dragging him back to a glimmer of real life. With an effort, he opened his eyes.

  “Alex? Lilla hjärtat?”

  “Pappa.” She clasped his groping hand and held Magnus as he began the final fall from life. It no longer hurt. It was all a soothing cold that was like rustling silk over his poor, aching brain. It grew dark. The spinning slowed to a gentle twirling and he could no longer hear, but he could still feel Alex’s hand in his.

  It grew even darker and it was very cold but it didn’t matter because now there was a growing point of light and in it he saw Mercedes. She was young, her hair fell free down her back, and she held out her hand to him and smiled.

  “Mercedes?” he whispered.

  “Estoy aquí,” she murmured. “I’m always here, amor mío.”

  *

  “He’s gone,” Mrs Parson said.

  Alex extricated her hand and placed it on Magnus’ cheek. So cold, so no longer him... She turned to Matthew and held out her arms. Wordless
ly, he gathered her to him, and she sat in his lap and was rocked like a child while she cried. But in her head she saw Magnus and Mercedes wander off hand in hand into a deep, restful blue, and very faintly she heard her father laugh, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy.

  Chapter 36

  The coffin was lowered into the waiting hole, and on shaky legs Alex took the few steps required to deposit her posy on the dark wood.

  “Alright?” Matthew’s hand rested for an instant on her arm. She nodded and retreated to stand to the side while the men began filling in the grave, shovelful after shovelful of dark, moist soil landing with a thud on the wooden lid.

  “Devastated,” Jenny told Elizabeth in an undertone. “She took to her bed for the following day.”

  Alex frowned, but pretended not to hear, keeping her eyes straight ahead.

  “Really?” Elizabeth whispered – well, tried to. “She looks strangely ravaged for an expected death. It’s a miracle her father held on this long, what with him being nothing but skin and bones.”

  “Ian says it’s on account of her only ever having had a father,” Jenny said.

  “Ah,” Elizabeth said. “Yes, she is a singularly lonely person, isn’t she? No siblings, now no parents…”

  Alex turned their way, tired of pretending she couldn’t hear a word.

  “How’s Celia?” she asked Elizabeth, smiling down at Jenny’s baby, Malcolm, fast asleep in his mother’s arms.

  Elizabeth’s lips pursed for an instant. “She has me a trifle concerned. She has swollen most significantly of late in both hands and feet, complains about headaches and a constant mauling backache.”

  “Swollen? Like with dropsy?” Mrs Parson popped her head in between them.

  “Yes.” Elizabeth gave Mrs Parson a worried look.

  “She’s due shortly, no?” Mrs Parson asked.

  “In a fortnight, we reckon.”

  “Any bleeding?”

  Elizabeth made a scandalised sound. “I won’t discuss my daughter-in-law’s private matters at a funeral. It isn’t seemly!” She swivelled her head this way and that to ensure no one was listening and then dropped her voice. “Yes, but not much.”