Instead, she persevered, smiling brightly at them, conversing stubbornly with Rosie and Sam, Mrs Brodie and Gavin, a half-grown boy who wouldn’t do more than nod or shake his head in reply – alternatively flee when he saw her approach.
Whenever Alex entered the kitchen, a silence the thickness of a bear pelt descended until she left again. She stood in the passageway and heard the conversation and the jesting resume, and she felt lonelier than she had ever felt before.
She cheered up when she saw the orchards. This was an area she knew something about, having spent several summers with her apple loving grandmother as a child.
“Applesauce, and maybe dried apple rings.” This was a novelty she could see. “We do them in Sweden, you peel and core the apples, slice them very thin and hang them up to dry.”
“These apples we use for cider and winter apples,” Mrs Brodie informed her, sounding unimpressed by dried fruit and apple sauce.
“Some we’ll use for apple rings,” Alex said, needing this one little victory to confirm that she was not only nominally mistress of the house.
Mrs Brodie made a small guttural sound but desisted from further comments – to her at least. Apparently, she decided that the master needed to be informed of his wife’s whimsical ideas, and later that afternoon Matthew strolled across to where Alex was sitting in a ray of sunshine and dropped down beside her.
“Apple rings?”
“Yup. Apple rings.”
He smiled and kissed her on the cheek. “Okay.”
By the time Matthew came indoor in the evenings, Alex was exhausted after her day spent in a silent trench war, and all she wanted to do was to curl up in his lap and cry, because how was she ever to cope or fit in? But she didn’t let on; he was so happy to be here, and his eyes sparkled over supper as he told her of this or that tenant and how bonny the bull calf was, and did she know his favourite mare was still here?
He fell asleep the moment his head touched the pillow, a hand on Alex’s waist, and beside him she turned and tossed, staring for hours into the dark while her head buzzed with jumbled images of her lost life and this her new, unfamiliar existence.
She was inundated with homesickness, stuffed the pillow in her mouth to muffle her sobs. She didn’t belong here. She longed for days in the office, evenings with John and Sundays with her father; for leisurely meals, good wines and conversation about other things than the weather and the goddamn animals – things like politics and business, casual gossip about the latest scandal, tips about movies to see.
*
Matthew hadn’t felt this alive in years. He bounded up in the mornings to hurry off and oversee the work for the day, not noticing how difficult things were for Alex. Or rather he did, but expected her to manage on her own.
He sat on the roof of the barn and repaired it, and when he raised his eyes off the closest crossbeam he was filled with a curling cloud of happiness at being back where he belonged. Sometimes he’d hurry up the hill towards the moor, dodging between oak and alder saplings, and when he was far enough from the house, he’d throw himself down on the fading grass and lie spread-eagled with his gaze lost in the deep blue high above. He felt the world turning below him, his blood surged and roared in his ears, and all of him prickled and sang with the joy of being alive.
He woke early on the Sunday to a room that was hazy with the soft light of dawn and a cock that stood with urgent want. Matthew turned and smiled when he saw Alex beside him, her curved back towards him. His wife. Apart from that first night, he hadn’t bedded her since they got here, exhausted after days spent on catching up on three lost years, and now he spooned himself around her. She grunted and shifted away, a very clear not now. He pulled her back.
“Uh.” She sounded very irritated, brows pulling together in a frown. He lifted her shift out of the way. “Matthew, I want to sleep.”
“Well, I don’t.” He flexed against her and she tried to move away. He flipped her over on her back, and her eyes snapped open, two slits of blue glaring up at him. He lay on top of her, pressing his stiffening cock against the soft warmth of her uncovered belly.
“Get off, I don’t feel like it.”
“I do. You’re my wife, and there are some things my wife doesn’t do.”
“Like what? Sleep late in the morning?”
“Aye, that as well, but that’s not what we’re talking about, is it?”
He raised himself to undo the fastenings of her chemise, baring her breasts to his hands. He cupped one and squeezed, just a bit too hard, making her hiss in surprise and attempt to shift from under him. He held her still and studied her face, his hand still holding her breast.
“She doesn’t say no. When I come with my need, my wife doesn’t turn me away. Never again.”
“But…”
He kissed her into silence. “No buts, no buts at all.”
She shook her head and tried to sit up, he grasped her by the shoulders and held her down. Come on, he urged her wordlessly, come on then and fight. So she did, her eyes spitting flames, and he took hold of her wrists. There was no way she could win, but she tried anyway, a silent heaving struggle that ended with her lying still and panting beneath him.
He kissed her, his tongue following the contour of her upper lip. She tried to say something, but he was in no mood for talking, so instead he kissed her until she opened her mouth to his and kissed him back. He brushed his fingers over her breast, down her flank, he slid a hand under her waist and held her still, pinned against the bed by his weight and strength.
She set her hands to his chest and shoved, but it was a half-hearted shove, a token resistance, no more. He kissed her again, a kiss that had very little to do with gentleness or courtship, far more with a need to show her who he was, and who she was – his woman.
“So, I need you, Alex.” He moved his hips, not a question but a demand, and she scowled up at him. Matthew brushed his nose against hers, his leg already wedging itself between hers. “I need you so very, very much.” His tone softened her face and when he pressed himself against her again, she widened her thighs.
Some time later, he rolled to the side, releasing her. She got out of bed and he propped himself on his arm to watch her as she washed and dressed. She took her time about it, throwing him the occasional look over her shoulder, and he waited until she was almost done before he beckoned for her to come over.
“Take it off, take it off and come back to bed, wife.”
“You wish,” she said, and when he rose off the bed she squealed, laughing when he grabbed her, undressed her.
“Does it work both ways?” Alex asked as she finished dressing for the second time that morning. She pulled on her stockings and gartered them before looking round for her hand me down shoes.
“Hmm?” Matthew looked up from his shirt.
“You heard me.”
“Of course it does,” he said seriously.
“Good, I’ll hold you to it.” There was a challenging gleam in her eyes as she swept by him, and Matthew’s toes curled in anticipation.
*
Once he was dressed, Matthew went to join his wife in the kitchen, detouring by his study to pick up his Bible. She gave him a surprised look when he sat down by the table, flipping through the Holy Writ with one hand, while feeding himself with the other.
“I have to choose a text,” he said, “the household will be in within the hour to hear me read.”
“Hear you read?” She yawned, sitting back against the wall.
“Aye, I read, we pray and mayhap sing a psalm or two.”
“What? Every Sunday?” Alex sounded hesitant.
“The household expects it, and it’s important. What better day to read and reflect on God’s word than on His day of rest?”
“Ah,” Alex nodded.
“Is this new to you then, mistress?” Mrs Brodie broke in from where she was standing by the hearth.
“New? How do you mean?”
“Well, don’t you stu
dy the Holy Writ where you come from?”
“Of course we do.” Alex said, looking quite indignant. It made Matthew bite back on a smile.
“That’s good,” Mrs Brodie nodded, “and what text will you be wanting the master to read us then? I dare say he’d gladly let you choose, as this is your first Sunday here.” She straightened up and adjusted her linen cap.
Matthew eyed her with irritation. Mrs Brodie had the instincts of a badger hound when it came to weaknesses in others, and there was an expectant expression on her face as she leaned towards Alex. His wife, however, surprised him. She stood up, smoothed down her skirts, and gave Mrs Brodie a smile that bordered on glacial.
“Why, Mrs Brodie, I think I’d like him to choose. As his wife, I must defer to his judgement.” With a curt nod she escaped outside.
*
Later that Sunday afternoon, Matthew went looking for Alex. He’d seen her set off up the hill after dinner, and once he got to the top he found her sitting on a small outcrop of stone, just at the edge of the moor.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she said without turning around. She’d been crying, the skin under her eyes bloated and red.
“What’s the matter?”
“Oh, you know; one of those days.” She pulled up her knees and rested her chin on them. “I miss my home.”
“You are home.”
“Yeah, right; you know what I mean, don’t you?” She sighed. “It’s…I don’t know. I just feel so totally useless, and whenever I ask something the cow – Mrs Brodie, I mean – sniffs and says that she’s not used to having to teach the mistress everything. And she’s right; I don’t know how to milk, or gut a pig, I’ve never cooked over an open fire, I don’t even know the bloody Bible!”
He frowned. “You mustn’t refer to the Bible like that. It’s blasphemous.”
“See? Even you think I’m strange.”
“You are strange. But you’ll learn, all those things that seem new to you now, you’ll master over time.”
“Maybe. But I’m not sure I even want to.” She scratched at her head. “I’m used to another life. And today, well, today I miss it. I want to go home, I want to…” She hitched her shoulders.
“Is it him? Is it John you’re missing?” He tried to sound relaxed.
“Him too.” She gave him a very blue look.
“So if you could, would you go back? If a door through time opened here, now, would you walk through it?” And what about him? Would she just leave him? Plunge him back into loneliness?
“There is no door.”
“But if there was, what would you do?” He was close enough that he could feel her exhalations on his face, see the tear tracks down her cheeks.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. He reared back, she grabbed his hand. “I don’t. But I think that if I did walk through that door, I’d spend the rest of my life missing you. Talk about torn in two, hey?”
Something soared inside of him, a fluttering feeling that rose from his gut to tickle its way up his gullet and explode as a smile on his face.
They took the long way back, Matthew pointing and explaining as he led her all over his lands. Every now and then he’d stop for a word or two with one of his tenants, noting with a small smile how they all gawked at Alex. Well, she was bonny, his wife, and when she smiled and laughed it was difficult not to laugh with her.
He detoured through the graveyard, and Alex helped him brush the graves free of leaves and debris.
“She died while you were in prison?” She patted Mam’s headstone.
“Aye. Of consumption.” And grief, at seeing her eldest son betrayed by her youngest. “I wish I’d been here for her, we were very close, Mam and I.”
Alex took his hand. “She knew why.”
He just nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He coughed, placed a late rose on her grave and led the way towards the water meadows.
“Why aren’t we going over there?” Alex indicated the small cottage that stood half hidden some way up the hill. Matthew lengthened his stride and shook his head. “It’s yours isn’t it?”
“Aye, but I have no interest in meeting that particular tenant.”
“Why don’t you kick him out if you don’t like him?”
“It’s not a him, it’s a her. I couldn’t just throw them out,” he said defensively. “It would have been cruel to the bairn. And she has no other family.”
Alex came to a halt. “Are you telling me your ex-wife is living here?”
“Aye,” he grunted.
“But why haven’t you told me before?”
Matthew shrugged. “I forgot.” He took her hand and tugged her back into motion. “I don’t want you to spend time with her.”
“Well I don’t want to either, so that’s alright then, isn’t it?”
“And Luke?” she asked a bit later. “Is he here as well?”
“Not if he knows what’s best for him.” Matthew spat to clear his mouth of the bitter taste his brother’s name always brought in its wake.
Chapter 21
Minister Crombie rode his small hill pony down the lane one early Tuesday morning, a somewhat harried expression on his face.
“I’m telling you,” he said to Matthew a few minutes later. “It is restless times we’re living in.”
“Oh aye; have been for all my life.”
Minister Crombie nodded, looking very dour. “But now it has all taken a turn for the worse. The Protector dead and gone, and yon Charles Stuart inching his clever way closer and closer to the throne. Anyway, I didn’t ride all the way out here merely for a political discussion. I came to warn you.”
“Ah.”
“They found the body of the man they hanged,” Minister Crombie said. “Some well-meaning soul had cut him down and buried him. So now they know.”
“Who knows what?”
“The local garrison,” Minister Crombie said. “They know that the dead man wasn’t you.”
“They do? Who told them?”
“They had the remains carted in.” Minister Crombie looked rather sick at the thought. “And several people stepped forward to swear it wasn’t you.” He threw Matthew a worried look. “Luke’s friends, most of them.” He sighed and shook his head. “Stay away from Cumnock and go canny. It is but a matter of time before they come looking.”
Minister Crombie refused Matthew’s invitation to dinner, repeated his admonishment to be careful and sat up on his horse, muttering something about needing to make haste back to Cumnock.
Matthew walked him up the lane, shook hands and trudged back down, deep in thought. It took some time for him to react to hearing his name called, and even more to recognise the voice, but once he did he broke into a huge grin, and after helping her dismount, he swept Joan into a wild hug.
“Let go,” she protested, half laughing, half crying. Matthew complied, steadying her at the last moment to avoid her falling to her knees. They stood face to face and the exuberance drained away, leaving them grave and sad.
“Three years…” Joan lifted a gloved hand to his face. “What happened?” She ran a finger over the scar that bisected his brow and continued as a shallow groove below the hollow of his eye.
“Whip.” He jerked his head out of reach. “Mam? Was it bad for her in the end?”
“It was awful. And then there was you and Luke – she never spoke to him after your trial. Margaret tried; several times she came by, but Mam refused to see her.”
Matthew looked at her in surprise. “Margaret? She did?”
Joan nodded. “I think she was ashamed. She swore she’d had no idea what Luke was planning, but I’m not sure I believe her – always a glib liar, our Margaret.” She patted his arm. “I’m sorry, that there was no alternative than for her to stay.”
Matthew hitched his shoulders. He was uncomfortable with Margaret living this close, even more because it reasonably meant Luke was skulking round as well, but it had been his decision, not hers, to offer Margaret somewhere t
o live when his good for nothing brother couldn’t.
At times he wondered what kind of man Luke would have been, had Da not thrown him out all those years ago. It had warped him somehow, and the impetuous, fiery lad hardened into a bitter young man with a grudge, simmering with anger that at times he just couldn’t control. His jaw clenched; Luke deserved no understanding.
“Have they wed?” he said, motioning for Gavin to take Joan’s mare.
“Do you care?”
“No,” he lied, “for the lad, aye, but for them, no.”
Joan fell into step with him, and he clasped his hands behind his back, strolling towards the house. She looked at him again, stopped him and ran her hand down his face. He laughed, embarrassed, and twisted away from her touch.
“I’m no ghost, Joan.”
“So,” he repeated. “Are they wed?”
“Aye.”
It was strange that it should hurt so much. He didn’t want her back, but there was an element of injustice in it all that made him rage; God should have struck them down, not blessed their adulterous union.
Joan came to a stop when Alex appeared in the door. She gaped, blinked and wheeled to frown at Matthew.
“Does she know?”
“Know what?”
She snorted. “Does yon woman know that she’s a spitting image of your first wife?”
“No she isn’t,” Matthew said with an edge. “Her hair is lighter and her chin is square where Margaret’s is pointed, and —”
“So you have been making comparisons,” Joan interrupted him.
He looked away. “Aye, I have. But I cared for her long before I saw the likeness, and now I care for her despite the likeness, not because of it.”
“Will she believe that, you think? Because someday she’ll meet Margaret, and unless she’s blind she’ll see it too. And she won’t like it, what woman would?” She stopped and grabbed him by the arm. “You have to tell her.”
Matthew made despairing gesture. “But how do I do that?”
“I don’t know, but do it soon.”
A Rip in the Veil (The Graham Saga) Page 21