Whither Thou Goest (The Graham Saga Book 7)

by Anna Belfrage

  Most of all, I watch Magnus, see him stumble through his days, and I want…oh God, I want to whisper in his ear, let him know how much I love him. At times, I think he hears me, for he will suddenly raise his head and smile, and I swear he sees me as clearly as I see him. But I hope not. I do not wish him to see me thus destroyed.

  Juan tells me of the miraculous events of my return: how one day I was found, badly burnt but still alive, in my bedchamber. I shudder as I recall that long fall: a slow-motion dance with Ángel Muñoz immolated in my arms before the eyes of my horrified daughter.

  Alex hid her face in her arms. Matthew held her close, not saying anything.

  “This is the final proof, isn’t it?” Alex cleared her throat. “This just proves, once and for all, that she was a witch, a sorceress.”

  “Aye, but you’ve known she was since the day you saw her…” Matthew coughed and looked away. “…burn yon Ángel to death.”

  Some years later, Juan tells me, Hector Olivares reappeared just as miraculously, but where I was charred when I arrived, sunk into a sleep so deep it was impossible to wake me, Hector woke to agonising pain, to perceived fires that ate away at his flesh. They still do, as I hear it. It should make me glad, but I am too old to feel anything but regret – and fear.

  Juan tries to tell me it will all come to nothing, but I can see it in his eyes, that these latest visits from the Inquisition have him worried. It almost makes me laugh. So many years later, and still it seems I may end as Dolores and my father, Benito. And when Juan tells me the Inquisition has dragged Hector off for questioning, I do laugh – out of spite and incredulity.

  They will come for me as well, I feel it in my heart that they will. But, until they do, I paint, fields of golden barley with me walking through it, young and supple with my hair as dark as it used to be. I paint squares of blues that shift from palest white to deepest indigo, and this is not time I paint. No, this is the eternal hereafter, a peaceful nothingness where souls commune and meet before their Creator. Juan says those paintings are most pleasing, suffusing him with a sense of well-being, a warmth in his chest. I paint and I paint, but however I try, I cannot commit Magnus to oils. He evades me, and I weep with anger and frustration, because all I truly want and need is him, is Magnus.

  I wait to die. Please let me die, please don’t let me linger any longer, let me die before the Inquisition comes for me. I yearn for the soothing blues, for the moment when I will once again perceive Magnus’ presence by my side. He will be there, I know. Please let me die, please, please let me die.

  I am Mercedes Gutiérrez Sánchez, he is Magnus Lind, and we were born five hundred years apart. Magnus Lind, my Magnus. Mi hombre, mi amor, y yo soy tu mujer.

  Alex spent a long time refolding the brittle paper. Beside her, Matthew sat in silence, and she could feel his eyes resting on her.

  “Mercedes Gutiérrez Sánchez, rest in peace,” Alex said out loud, raising her free hand to dash at her wet eyes. My mother.

  “Mercedes Sánchez? Who is this Mercedes?” Ángel snarled.

  Alex turned to face him and was on the verge of telling him Mercedes was her mother. Matthew’s hand closed on her arm, and Alex swallowed back on the words.

  “That’s the name of the person who wrote this,” she said instead. “Was she kin to Juana?” Of course she was, which would mean Alex was related to the angry young Spaniard who glowered at her from under dark brows.

  “How would I know? All I know is that Juana came tainted, the descendant of a Jewish witch.”

  “What happened to her?” Alex asked.

  “To Juana?”

  “No, to her ancestress.”

  “To the Jewess? Why should you care? She’s been dead for ages.”

  “Tell me!” Alex said.

  “She was dragged to the stake for heresy, she and that wizard lover of hers, the former inquisitor Hector Olivares.” Ángel laughed. “Old like the hills the both of them, wizened and ill, and still they held hands when the fires began to lick their feet.”

  “Held hands?” Alex gripped Matthew’s fingers.

  “Oh yes, and not one sound did they make as the flames consumed them.” Ángel crossed himself as well as he could. “The devil protected his own.” He jerked his head in the direction of the papers Alex was holding. “Mine.”

  “It is?” Alex got to her feet and walked over to the railing. “I don’t think so.” With that, she let go, and the papers lifted in the breeze, soared upwards for a couple of heartbeats before drifting down to the sea.

  *

  “She died at the stake,” she said much later, turning to face Matthew, who had squeezed in beside her in the narrow berth. It was too hot to lie crammed like this, but he sensed that she needed him close, no matter that their bodies were covered in a sheen of sweat.

  “Aye.” Not that it surprised him, and a small part of him considered it right, that a witch should die by fire. But it must be an awful death, and Mercedes did not seem to have been an evil witch – more of an unfortunate one.

  “You think she deserved it,” Alex said.

  “No one deserves to die like that.” He stroked her cheek. “It seems she died well.”

  “Died well?” Alex pulled back from his touch. “How can you die well when you’re tied to a post and set on fire? And why was she holding hands with Hector? It was his fault, everything that happened to her family. He denounced her father and her sister. He…” She choked.

  “Maybe she forgave him,” Matthew said.

  “Forgave him? How could she?” Alex subsided against him, pillowing her head on his chest. Matthew tugged at her hair, winding one long curl round his finger. “He didn’t deserve her forgiveness,” she muttered.

  “No, but maybe she needed to forgive.” He lay staring out at the dark, praying silently that the good Lord have mercy on this lost soul, that He give her the gift of eternal peace.

  Chapter 21

  “The moment he comes in through that door, I’ll—” Julian shook his head, as he must have done multiple times since the day back in May when they’d discovered David’s short letter waiting for them in the parlour.

  Ian looked at his brother-in-law and grinned. “I don’t think you need to worry on that account. I suspect Da has punished him as it is.”

  “He was in my care, the little ingrate!” Julian glowered for a while longer but managed to find a smile for Ian’s son, Malcolm. “Off you go, Malcolm. Minister Walker is expecting you for your Latin.”

  The two men watched the boy leave the room in silence.

  “He misses his uncle,” Julian sighed, “or rather his uncles.”

  “Aye,” Ian said. With no more than a year between them, David and Malcolm were inseparable, and even more so after Samuel had been adopted into the Indian tribe.

  “It still tears at Matthew,” Julian mused out loud. It took some moments for Ian to understand what Julian was referring to, but once he did he shook his head.

  “It tears at both of them, but Da feels the most guilt. It was his promise that led to Samuel going with Qaachow.” And also, in Ian’s opinion, it was Da that was the most concerned about Samuel’s faith, while Mama considered that aspect more or less irrelevant. Ian decided this insight might not be politic to share with Julian, minister that he was, and instead dug into his coat to produce a small wooden rattle. “For the wean, and a right good-looking lad he is.”

  Julian’s face broke up into a smile so wide Ian could see the black, rotting tooth, two teeth back from his right incisor. Instinctively, he ran his tongue over his own healthy teeth, cleaned as thoroughly as always just some hours past.

  “The size of him,” Julian said, “nigh on nine pounds!”

  Ian smiled. The man kept on rushing off on one pretext after the other to peek at his laddie, now all of eleven days old.

  “I’m attempting to find him a wet nurse,” Julian said.

  “A wet nurse?” Ian gave him a concerned look. “Is Ruth poorly, then
?”

  “No, no, she’s thriving. But it isn’t seemly, is it? For a woman of a certain standing to nurse her own child.”

  “It’s good for the babe and the mother. It helps the mother recover from the ordeals of birth, and, through her milk, the babe is immunised against disease—” He broke off at Julian’s astounded expression.

  “How immunised?” Julian asked. Ian didn’t rightly know. It was Mama who had explained this to Betty and Naomi: how if a mother had had measles, the wean would not contract them while nursing on account of anti…anti…something in the mother’s milk protecting them. Knowledge no woman of this day and age would have, Ian reminded himself with a shudder and therefore looked appropriately vague.

  “And it protects the mother from begetting too soon,” Ian said instead. From the expression on Julian’s face, this was something he was very aware of. “It wears a woman out. Childbirth is heavy work.”

  “Woman is born to it,” Julian said with a slight shrug.

  Ian raised his brows.

  “I’m almost forty.” Julian sounded defensive. “I want sons I can enjoy while still alive.”

  “And Ruth? Don’t you want her alive?” His thoughts flew to Betty, and the constant, nagging worry he was living with these days, not daring to rejoice in the babe for fear of what it might cost him in the end.

  Julian made a dismissive sound. “Ruth is young and healthy, the birth was easy, as such things go, and so…”

  Ian opened his mouth to say something more but refrained. Ruth was Julian’s wife.

  Mrs Parson sighed when Ian told her of his conversation with Julian. “He wants her great-bellied as soon as possible again.”

  “Mama won’t like it.”

  “This is none of her business. This is between husband and wife.” She patted Ian’s arm. “Ruth is a strong lass – and canny. She’ll sort her life out on her own.” She slowly got to her feet, and for the first time ever, Ian noted just how ancient she was, her movements careful as she made for the door.

  “Will you be able to ride on the morrow?” he asked with open concern. He was in a hurry to return home, this brief trip to Providence undertaken solely to bring Mrs Parson home – he wanted her at hand, for Betty.

  “Pfff,” Mrs Parson huffed. “Don’t worry, laddie. It’s my own bed I’m missing, aye?” With a slight creak, her spine straightened up, and her hands busied themselves adjusting her shawl and cap. “It will be a blessing to come home, and I don’t think I’ll be leaving it again.”

  *

  Sarah held the wean in her arms as she had never held her own son and studied the sleeping face. Eyelashes so fair as to be almost invisible, the line of future brows dusted in hair just as fair, and a round, bald head.

  “Like his father,” she said with a giggle, and Ruth giggled back while Patience, Julian’s sixteen-year-old daughter, frowned.

  “Father isn’t bald,” she protested.

  “Not completely, no,” Sarah said.

  It would improve his appearance markedly if he shaved off those last remaining strands, but according to Ruth, Julian was prickly when he came to his hair – or rather lack of it.

  The babe began to squirm, small head turned towards the warmth of her body, insistent butting motions as he tried to find the teat, and Sarah deposited him with Ruth, retreating to sit on her stool. Patience watched for a while and then left, promising Ruth she would stop by the butcher on her way back home.

  “He’s found a wet nurse, a slave girl on Farrell’s plantation that he’ll rent.” Ruth caressed the downy head of her soon two-week-old son and sighed.

  “Oh.” Sarah wasn’t sure what to say. She had heard Ruth quarrel repeatedly with Julian over this the last few weeks, but Julian had remained stubborn as a mule, repeating over and over again that his wife would not nurse beyond the baby’s first two months.

  “It will be a relief, I assume,” Ruth went on in a flat voice, “not to find myself constrained by little Edward’s needs.” She smiled at the head at her breast in a way that belied her words. Ruth shifted the lad to lie at her other breast, and sat in silence for a while. “I don’t want to,” she said in a strangled voice. “I don’t want to let him go into the care of another woman.”

  “Then don’t.”

  Ruth bit her lip. “He’s my husband. I must do as he says.”

  Julian listened in stony silence before telling Sarah this was a matter in which he forbade her to meddle, and besides, Ruth was wrong to speak of it to Sarah.

  “She has to talk to someone,” Sarah said.

  “To me,” Julian replied.

  “But you won’t listen! You’ve already arranged matters as they please you, with no consideration for her!”

  “I’ve arranged matters in the best way for us all,” he said, sounding irritated.

  “Not for her. She loves the wee lad, and wishes to do by him as our mama has done by us. All mothers do.”

  “They do?” He gave her a sharp look. “And yet I recall you refusing to even touch your son.”

  His words were like an open-handed slap across her face. “That was different,” she croaked, and fled the room.

  She had no real notion as to how she came to be so far away from town. She must have walked in a mighty rage, because behind her the Jones’ house was nothing but a small square, while before her stretched a rustling sea of reeds, yellowing in the summer sun, here and there interspaced with open bodies of water.

  She sat down on the ground, took off her hat, and undid her hair, letting it fall down to lift in the breeze. This was quite a secluded spot, some feet from the meandering dirt track that passed for a road, but still hidden from view as long as she remained sitting. It was hot; hot enough that the air seemed to settle like a wet quilt around her shoulders, mould itself to her body, and drag her down towards the ground.

  Sarah undid her cotton bodice, and after a quick look around, drew it off to sit in only her shift and skirts. Longingly, she looked at the water a few yards in front of her. She was filled with a surge of homesickness, a longing to be spending this beautiful June afternoon at home, by the river. She could near on feel it: the initial shock when she submerged her overheated body in the cold, clear river, replaced by the wonderful sensation of swimming naked, the cool water sliding like silk over her skin. Well, she couldn’t very well swim naked here, but she could…

  Swiftly, she dropped skirts and petticoats, unlaced her stays and in only her linen shift she waded into the water. It was too warm compared to what she had imagined, but it was refreshing, and after one final peek to ensure she was still alone, she lifted her hair out of the way, submerged herself all the way to her neck and then stood, water rushing off her. She made her way back to the shore slowly, kicking at the water to send glittering sprays into the air.

  *

  Michael Connor had seen Sarah explode out of the Allerton residence, and had since then trailed her at a distance as she strode across the town, cut towards the river shore and walked off along the water. The path twisted in a series of turns, and for a moment he’d thought he lost her, but he retraced his steps and so he came to be on the track just as she stepped out of the water.

  She might as well have been naked, the thin cloth clinging to her breasts and thighs. All of her was revealed. Through her wet shift, he could see the shadow of her bush, the shape of her nipples. He wanted to touch her, had to touch her, and in preparation he wiped his hands against the rough cloth of his breeches. He took a step towards her, a twig snapped under his boot, and she reared her head, threw herself at her skirts, and there, in her hands, flashed a wicked long blade.

  “My pardon.” Michael held up his hands to show he meant no harm. “I was walking along and then I saw this apparition, this Venus step out from among the reeds and water, and I just had to look closer.” Walking along? These last few weeks, he’d followed her whenever he’d seen her, but until today it had only been frustrating glimpses, with no opportunity to initiate con
versation.

  “Venus?” Sarah looked down her front and blushed, milky skin going a dusky shade of pink. It made her even more enticing, and he couldn’t help himself, he took yet another step towards her. She backed away, skirts clutched to her chest. “I fear you have me at a disadvantage, sir.”

  Michael smiled. “Yes, it would seem I do. Rare are the times a man gets to see a mermaid in the flesh.”

  “You said Venus just now,” Sarah said, and her shoulders dropped somewhat, reassured, no doubt, by his mild bantering. “And now you demote me to a mermaid.”

  “It’s the hair. It flows like golden seaweed round your head.” And it did, the sun making it shimmer where it hung loose around her head. Not at all curly, but thick and straight, and so long it grazed the upper slopes of her buttocks.

  “Ah.” Yet again, she blushed, and blood rushed through his veins to collect in his loins. She retreated a further few steps, keeping a tight grip on her knife.

  He waved his hand at the track. “I’ll retreat to allow you some privacy,” he said, and with a little bow leaped out of sight.

  Not too far away, though, close enough that he could watch her dress. She cursed colourfully at the uncooperative lacings on her stays, the buttons on her bodice took her ages to do up, and he liked it that she seemed so agitated, eyes flying every so often in the direction where she thought he was.

  He waited until she was busy with her hair before he reappeared, noting how she moved closer to where she had left her knife. The hat was tied into place, the dagger was picked up in her right hand while shoes and stockings were in her left, and she was ready to go.

  “Michael Connor,” he said and bowed.

  “Sarah Graham,” she replied, curtseying. It made him want to laugh. He’d never seen a girl brandishing a knife curtsey before.

  “Graham? Matthew Graham’s daughter?” He suppressed a smile at her pleased and surprised look.