A Rip in the Veil (The Graham Saga)

by Belfrage, Anna

  “Joan says so.”

  “But not even Luke would so harm a woman, would he?”

  Matthew shrugged. They’d both seen Luke in one of his rages, seen him lose all control. He turned to look at Simon with despair.

  “My brother, Simon! Abusing my wife. And she pregnant and hurting and begging him to stop!”

  “Maybe he didn’t know – about the wean, I mean.”

  “And that’s an excuse?” Matthew spat in the gutter, wiping his hand hard across his face. “I swear if I find him, I’ll kill him.”

  Simon paled at his tone. “He’s in Edinburgh.”

  “And now you tell me?” Matthew glared at him from under his wide-brimmed hat.

  *

  Alex retreated into silences and blankness. Mostly she avoided him – all of them – disappearing for hours on end to walk the woods or sit alone in the hayloft. The bruises faded, but her eyes remained sunk in her face, wary and dark they would but rarely meet his before she averted them, hands fiddling with her apron, her skirts.

  “It’s my fault,” she said one day. They were sitting in the parlour, and Matthew closed the book he was reading and looked at her. There was a strained set to her mouth, and she’d pulled back her hair into a tight little braid. It didn’t become her, her hair should float and fall around her face, not be tamed this brutally.

  “Of course it isn’t.” His gaze strayed to her waist and then away.

  “You don’t sound as if you mean it.” She took a long, steadying breath. “I shouldn’t have provoked him, but I guess I didn’t think. It sort of got to me, to see him sawing his way through Joan’s wrist.”

  “Oh, Lord…” Matthew hung his head, torn apart by the fact that it was his brother, a man he could – no, should – have killed that had done this to his wife. He was at her side in seconds, tried to take her fisted hands. “Tell me, don’t carry this alone, lass.”

  “I can’t.” She wrenched herself free and fled the room, and behind her Matthew sank his face into his hands and groaned. How was he to help her, help them both, if she wouldn’t let him?

  He tried. God knows he tried to talk to her, prise a description of that night from her, but every time he did, Alex just shook her head and escaped him, leaving him to imagine one sequence of events after the other, each of them successively more cruel, more degrading.

  “She needs time,” Joan said when he came to her. “And she’s right, isn’t she? You do think she is to blame, at least a little.”

  “I blame him, accursed bastard that he is.”

  “Aye – and her, for not handing over her ring.” She sighed and patted at his arm. “It wouldn’t have mattered if she had. Luke didn’t come to rob you of what little gold you may have. He hurt her to hurt you. You know that, don’t you?”

  That didn’t help, he told her, if anything it made it all so much worse. “My Alex, and her so damaged and I can’t help her.”

  Joan clasped his hand and gave it a little shake. “You love her, you really do.”

  Matthew muttered something and looked away. Loved her? Oh aye, he most certainly did. That’s why all of this was like ingesting ground glass, leaving him torn and bleeding on the inside.

  He woke to her muffled sobs, his heart breaking at each of these low desolate sounds. His hand moved of its own accord, stroked her back, her arm, while he made shushing noises, anything to stop her hurting. And then she was in his arms, her mouth was wet on his neck, on his mouth, her whole body demanding that he love her, hold her. And he wanted to, dearest Lord he did, his body arching under her touch, his mouth seeking hers. He rose above her, he kissed her, and there, unbidden, came the images of his damned brother making free with Alex as he had done with Margaret, and everything in Matthew shrivelled at these far too explicit pictures.

  With a groan he fell back beside her. Not the same, he reminded himself, not at all the same – but it didn’t help.

  “Nay.” He shifted away, disentangling himself from her. She froze, eyes huge in the pale oval of her face, and flipped over on her side, her back stiff like a board. Matthew wanted to stretch out his hand and pull her close, mayhap kiss her hair, comfort her, but more than that…no, he just couldn’t, not when his brain was invaded by disjointed pictures of Luke with his Alex.

  “When I come to you with my need you won’t deny me,” she whispered into the dark and he could hear how much it cost her to keep her voice steady. Matthew moaned, twisting his face to hide himself against the soft, worn linen of his pillow.

  “You said it worked both ways, and now…well, now I come to you with mine.” She rolled over again, her face only inches from his. He reared back and put a hand on her shoulder. To draw her close? To keep her away? He didn’t know.

  “I can’t, lass. Not like that. But I can hold you.” He gave her a weak smile and held up his quilt to invite her in.

  “That’s not enough.” She slipped out of bed and left the room.

  *

  “Will you stop doing this?” he said next morning, rubbing his hand hard across his face in a futile attempt to wipe away his exhaustion.

  “Do what?” she asked mildly, in total contradiction to the expression in her eyes.

  “You know what I mean! You get out of bed and then you don’t come back, and I spend the night looking for you, to make sure you’re safe.”

  She banged his plate down in front of him. They were alone in the kitchen, Joan having decided that she needed to inspect the smoking shed.

  “Well I’m here when you need me, aren’t I?” She glared at him. “There’s food on your plate when you need it, clean clothes when you need them, warm water when you need to wash. All your needs I make sure are adequately cared for, right? And here I was, thinking it was supposed to work both ways.” She slammed the door on her way out. With a resigned sigh he got to his feet to follow her.

  He found her where he knew she would be, in the stables. As he walked down the length of the building towards Samson’s stall he heard her voice, a hushed monologue in a language he didn’t understand. She started when he appeared in her line of vision and ducked under Samson’s massive neck to hide her face from him.

  “It’s been over a month, and unless we talk about it, this will fester, poisoning every aspect of our relationship. It already is.” He gave her a crooked smile. Whatever it was she wasn’t telling him, it couldn’t be worse than what he was imagining.

  She met his eyes over the horse’s back. “I don’t want that,” she said, eyes so dark the pupils were deep wells only faintly ringed with blue.

  “Neither do I.” He extended her cloak to her. “Walk?”

  They didn’t talk, they just strode side by side, holding hands. By the time Matthew led them in the direction of the little graveyard, her fingers were tightly braided round his. He stopped at the gate and swung it open, brushed some wet leaves off the bench, and invited her to sit.

  A weak December sun filtered through the bare branches of the rowan, long extended fingers of shadow thrown across the faded grass. Their breath came in soft puffs, and Matthew slid to sit closer, pressing his thigh against hers. He could feel her relax, a slow softening of muscles that for weeks had been rigid with fear and grief. He didn’t push, he just sat beside her, every now and then sweeping his thumb in a caressing movement over the back of her hand.

  “I can’t stand it,” he finally said in view of her continued silence. “I can’t…I see these pictures in my head of you with him, and I can’t wipe them away, and I want to… Alex, I’m so sorry!”

  “Of me with him?” Her confusion was apparent, and he turned to look at her. Her eyes widened. “Oh my God; you think he raped me?”

  “Didn’t he?”

  Alex made a slow negating movement with her head, and Matthew’s shoulders dropped several inches.

  “He…well, he just lost it, you know? He punched me and hit me, he swore at me, hit me some more, and I begged for him to stop, but he just went on and on about you
and Margaret, and how would you like it now, when he did to your wife what you’d done to her, and —” She threw him a look and came to an abrupt stop. “It isn’t your fault.”

  “Aye it is, I should have been there to protect you.”

  “Well, he made sure you weren’t, didn’t he? And had you come back, what could you have done alone against six men?” She shivered when the sun disappeared behind fast moving clouds. “I don’t think he was fully aware of what he was doing – besides, he was drunk.”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  “No; it definitely isn’t.” Her hand drifted down to knead at her abdomen. “Our baby.”

  Matthew took both her hands in his and knelt before her. “We’ll have other babies, lass.”

  “But not like this one,” she replied, tears hanging off her eyelashes.

  “No, not like this one.”

  “He would have had your eyes,” she breathed.

  “She would have had your mouth,” he whispered.

  Slowly she toppled towards him, and he released her hands to wrap his arms round her, hold her safe against him, while a flurry of wet snow danced around them.

  Chapter 26

  Mrs Gordon inspected the kitchen, did a quick stroll round the house, hemmed and hawed as she inventoried the pantries and the storing cupboards, and then sat down on the single kitchen chair, folded her arms, and began a long and heated negotiation with Matthew. Half an hour later they were in agreement; Mrs Gordon would come to work for them, replacing the disgraced Mrs Brodie.

  It had been Alex’s suggestion to ask her, insisting even when Matthew muttered something about her living very far away and being a midwife to boot, but in the end he’d agreed to send and ask. The reply had come in person, Mrs Gordon riding in on a hired horse, arms clenched tight around its groom, and now she sat by the fire as if she’d always belonged there, her bright black eyes studying Alex with open curiosity.

  “How’s your knitting?” she asked, tongue-in-cheek.

  “Progressing,” Alex said, deciding to ignore Matthew’s muffled laugh.

  “Ah well, that’s good, no?” Mrs Gordon said. “Have you finished anything yet?”

  “Umm,” Alex said and hastily turned the conversation to the upcoming party.

  *

  Five days later, Alex sat down with a thud on the kitchen bench and groaned.

  “I’m dead on my feet and the party hasn’t even started yet.”

  Joan pulled yet another pie from the baking oven and plunked it down on the table. The whole kitchen smelled of kale and cabbage, there were pies everywhere, and currant cakes and bread and legs of smoked lamb and an awful lot of things that quivered in jelly. Alex intended to keep well away from those. Mrs Gordon and Joan sank down beside her, and in silence they studied the heaped foods before them.

  “We’re done,” Joan said, eyeing the fruits of their labour.

  “I sincerely hope so,” Alex said, “this should feed an army.”

  Joan laughed and stretched, grinding her knuckles into the curve of her back.

  “You’d best eat a bite before, unless you fancy fighting for it later on.”

  A few hours later, Matthew stood at the barn entrance to receive his guests and tenants, slapping men on the back, bowing to the womenfolk. Alex stood beside him, smiling and curtseying to what to her seemed an endless line of unknown people. For the first time ever, it was Matthew that was the host at the Hogmanay dance, and she could see he was nervous, wiping his hands down the fine cloth of his new breeches – made by his very proud wife, no less.

  There was plenty of beer and cider, and it didn’t take long for a general spirit of cheer to settle on the crowd, further augmented by all the food. It was like watching a swarm of biblical locusts; one moment the plates were overflowing, the next there were at most crumbs left.

  Mrs Gordon bustled over to ask whether Alex wanted her to replenish the plates.

  “Do we have anything left?”

  “Oh aye,” Mrs Gordon grinned, “but they don’t want more food, they want whisky.”

  “I would never have guessed,” Alex said, thinking that in some respects things were pretty much the same no matter what century you were in.

  After the first few dances, she didn’t see Matthew except in glimpses. He danced and laughed, so obviously in his place, with his people, that it had made Alex feel even more alone. It cut her to the quick, the way he melted in to belong with her on the outside, wrong footed in the dances, excluded from jokes and the buzz of conversation by accents that broadened as the evening went along. But she smiled and laughed, danced with everyone who asked, drank far too much cider and laughed some more, before the effort of it all became too much and she settled herself in a dark corner to watch.

  “Everyone wants a piece of him,” Simon said, materialising with two brimming mugs in his hands. Alex nodded, her eyes tracking Matthew on the dance floor. He was flushed with exertion, dancing in shirt and breeches only, and as she watched he lifted his blonde partner in a high arc, her wide skirts falling to reveal pink silk stockings. That was the third time he danced with that particular girl.

  “Who’s she?” She’d never seen the woman before, of that she was sure, and she couldn’t remember her coming with his Graham cousins. But maybe she had.

  “Her? Oh that’s Sarah. They were sweethearts once, before…” Simon broke off and looked at Alex with amusement. “She’s married, aye? And it was nothing but a childhood fancy.”

  “I suppose he must’ve had quite the string of sweethearts, what with him being the master’s eldest son.”

  Simon considered this and grinned. “He had no luck with the lasses, Matthew. It was always me they wanted.” He expanded his considerable chest and preened, looking very smug.

  Alex laughed and shoved at him. “Of course; you must have had them swooning over you.”

  Simon winked and stood up, extending his hand to her. “You don’t believe me, I can tell. Let me show you, dearest good sister.” He swept her off to dance, and Alex found to her amazement that not only was he by far the best dancer there, but he was right; as he danced and jumped and twirled her round, he was followed by many, many female eyes.

  *

  It was almost midnight, or at least she thought it was, and Alex picked up her cloak from where it was thrown across a bench and stepped out into the cold night air. She knew exactly where she was going, hurrying across the yard and over the water meadows, her eye set on the bare patch of hill that rose before her.

  The night was clear, with a half-moon hanging like a slice of lemon in the sky, and the stars spread out in twinkling fields around it. She heard the distant baying of a dog, the rustling of things she startled as she walked through the woods, and from well behind came the sounds of fiddles and song.

  Alex stopped for an instant to look back at the manor spread out below; candles in the windows, a muted square of light that spilled from the open barn door, and shadowy shapes that even at this distance moved unsteadily on their feet. She wondered briefly if one of them might be Matthew, but then turned back up the hill. She had an appointment to keep.

  All day she’d been thinking of them; of Isaac and John but mostly of Magnus. New Year had been his and her thing, because Mercedes hated this marking of time, and would lock herself into her studio to paint, refusing to join in any festivities. So Magnus and Alex cooked and spent the hours counting down to midnight talking about the year that had been. She wondered if he’d be alone this year, or if he’d be with John, but deep down she knew that he’d be as alone as she’d felt the whole day.

  All their New Year’s Eves had ended the same way; they’d go out into the garden and stare up at the sky, looking for the North Star. Even when the sky was overcast they’d still go out and scan the skies. And on the stroke of midnight Magnus would toast the star, visible or not, and smile down at his daughter.

  “Skål, lilla hjärtat,” he’d say and she’d reply in Swedish as well. />
  “Skål, pappa.”

  Alex reached her high point and craned her head back to look at the carpet of stars. Like diamonds, little points of glittering ice in a dark sea. She located the North Star, closed her eyes and pretended; in her hand a champagne flute, by her side her father, and from the open door behind them streamed electrical light and warmth. In her head, her father held out his arms and she walked into them and knew that she was safe, because he would never let anyone hurt her again, no one at all.

  “So, who do you miss the most tonight?” Matthew’s dark voice made her jump, but she remained standing where she was, shivering in the cold. He moved over to her and placed a warm hand against her cool cheek. “What are the things you need the most, tonight on Hogmanay?”

  “Need or miss?”

  “Both.”

  She looked up at the sky again. “I miss him so much.”

  “Who? John?”

  She smiled at the edge in his voice. “Magnus, it’s him I miss the most.” She felt ashamed saying that, after all, shouldn’t she be missing Isaac the most? “And I hate it that he’ll be so alone, without me.”

  “But he has Isaac.”

  “Yeah, he has Isaac. A three-year-old boy.”

  “A child of his blood, lass.”

  She liked that; and anyway, John would be there for Magnus as well, and so would Diane. A spike of jealousy flared through her gut. Magnus had always liked Diane – too much in Alex’s opinion.

  Matthew’s arm slipped round her waist and gathered her close, and she rested her ear above his heart, listening to the steady, strong beat. It trickled into her ear, it flowed through her brain and down her spine – his pulse, reverberating through her. She rubbed her cheek against his coat and his hand came up to stroke her head.

  “So,” she said, clearing her throat. “In reply to your question; I miss them all at times, but there’s only one person that I truly need and want, and that’s you, Mr Graham.” She laughed at herself; pathetic, Alex Lind, totally pathetic. But true.