Whither Thou Goest (The Graham Saga Book 7)

by Anna Belfrage

  “For now,” White Bear said, before turning to hug Thistledown.

  Da was waiting in the yard when Samuel came back home. The setting sun patterned the slopes in elongated shadows, there was a crust of frost on the grass, and the air smelled of snow. The white oak stood in stark outline against the eastern horizon, its denuded branches raised towards the skies. Da was sitting on the bench below the oak, legs extended before him, two of the dogs at his feet.

  He smiled when he saw Samuel. “Alright, then?”

  Samuel joined him, sitting down as close to him as he could. “Thank you,” he said, scrubbing his head against Da’s shoulder. A big hand came up to ruffle his hair.

  “You’re welcome, son.”

  *

  If having David back home was a pleasure, Samuel was not quite as enthused by the presence of Ruth and Julian. He had quickly gathered that Mama was somehow displeased with them – it showed in how she talked to them and, more importantly, in how little she talked to them.

  When he asked David, all he got was a shrug, saying that it all had to do with Julian belting Sarah – so hard, in fact, that she had gone and baptised herself a Catholic. Whatever the truth in all this, Ruth spent far too much time coddling him, and even worse, in Samuel’s opinion, was when Julian decided they might as well make up for time lost and together review the Bible.

  Hours of religious instruction were made somewhat less boring when Julian decided Charlie should join them. Samuel gaped at Charlie’s horrifically non-existent biblical knowledge, as did Julian.

  “I don’t want to do this,” Charlie said. “I’m convinced, Minister Allerton, that I have the knowledge I need for my spiritual well-being. After all, I’ve studied at Oxford.”

  “Ha,” Julian snorted. “Classics and Humanities! No, my dear boy, you’re sorely in need of spiritual guidance – has no one properly instructed you in the Holy Book?”

  “Umm,” Charlie mumbled, grimacing behind Julian’s back, and Samuel stuffed his hand in his mouth to stop himself from laughing.

  *

  “He’s lost one soul to Catholicism, now he’s about to pry one soul from Anglicanism to Presbyterianism,” Alex commented to Matthew, still laughing after having listened to Charlie’s loud groans at having been set the book of Job to study during the week.

  Matthew made an amused sound. “Anglican? Nay, Alex, Charlie is woefully ignorant about the Christian faith in whatever guise you may present it. We’re doing him a favour by ensuring he gets such good tutelage.”

  “Probably beats the hell out of doing Humanities in Oxford,” Alex laughed.

  “It seems to me he mainly caroused.” Matthew nabbed a piece of warm saffron bread behind Alex’s back.

  “I saw that!” she warned, but he was already at the door, innocently holding two empty hands aloft, his mouth full. “Men…” she muttered, and Lettie nodded seriously from where she was standing on a stool to help. “Not all, of course,” she amended with a smile, adjusting the blanket in Edward’s basket.

  From outside came loud calls and shrill laughter, and Alex propped her chin up in her hand to watch her three youngest boys and Malcolm play a heated game of football. Her eyes stuck on Samuel, still bandaged around head and arm, but here, with her. She exhaled, content just to look at him, and turned back to her granddaughter, alerted by the sudden and suspicious silence.

  “Lettie!” Alex flew after the child who was sprinting out of the kitchen at full speed with a sizeable piece of saffron bread clutched to her chest. Too late, and Alex glowered, but laughed when Lettie pranced like an Indian chief with her prize in her hands. “That child is a throwback to Rachel.”

  “She is?” Ruth said, sitting down to feed Edward.

  “All through,” Alex smiled. Well, except that this little imp had eyes as blue as her own, while Rachel’s had been hazel. She busied herself making some chamomile tea, lost in memories of little Rachel, dead since almost twenty years.

  “Have you heard from Sarah?” Ruth said, recalling Alex to the here and now.

  “One letter. It seems Michael is doing well for himself as a printer’s assistant.” Sarah had sounded lonely, left a bit too much to her own devices in a town she didn’t know, and on top of that pregnant.

  “She’s carrying?” Ruth made big eyes at this. “But they’re but recently wed!”

  “Oh, don’t worry, the child is definitely conceived in wedlock.”

  Ruth blushed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  Alex sighed and came over to sit beside her, tugging at the heavy dark red braid. “I know you didn’t, but it comes out sounding as if you did.” Ruth mumbled something indistinct about not being able to help if other people valued her words at other but face value.

  “Will she be staying down south, then?” she asked.

  Alex nodded, inspected the dried apple ring she had found in her apron pocket, and popped it into her mouth.

  “You could go down and visit her,” she suggested.

  Ruth shook her head, smoothed down Edward’s hair before carefully replacing his woollen cap. “Julian wouldn’t approve,” she said and left the room.

  “Julian wouldn’t approve,” Alex mimicked in an undertone, and Mrs Parson laughed.

  “Wee Sarah is an apostate. You can’t have a minister’s wife consorting with such.”

  “Huh,” Alex snorted, draped her shawl over her shoulders, and went to find the Christmas ham.

  *

  After Christmas came Hogmanay, and the men carried trestles back and forth while the women prepared one dish after the other in the increasingly stuffy kitchen. Even Betty was there, insisting loudly that she was the only one who knew how to make a good honey cake, and what was New Year without one of those?

  “One?” Alex shook her head at her. “Try five or six. What with the Chisholms and the Leslies and the Ingrams…” Mentally, she counted through their guests, and threw a despairing look at the prepared food. “This will never be enough. We all know old Mrs Chisholm eats like a horse.”

  “So do her sons,” Mrs Parson said, “and Thomas is no mean eater either, is he?” This said with a possessive pride that made Alex grin at her.

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ve got something squirrelled away for him to nibble on should he go hungry from the table,” she teased, and Mrs Parson raised her brows before going back to minding the beef stew that was simmering over the hearth.

  There was no time for her hoped-for bath. Instead, Alex had to do with a hasty wash in their room before donning her finery. She brushed an imaginary speck of dust off Matthew’s coat, and took a step back to inspect him.

  “Quite the laird,” she teased, and twitched the lace at his cuff to lie better. He looked very pleased with his appearance, and twisted this way and that with the small looking glass in his hand. He had cut himself while shaving, and blotted the scratch with a linen towel one more time before turning to look at his wife.

  She liked it that he ate her with his eyes, all the way from her dark red bodice, her breasts swelling against the embroidered cotton of her long-sleeved chemise, to her intricately braided and coiled hair. With a flirty look at him, she raised her skirts to garter her stockings with ribbons as dark red as her bodice.

  “Let me,” he said, and tied one neat bow around each leg, smoothing down her petticoats and skirts afterwards. He drew her into his arms and kissed her cheek. “Dance?” he murmured, and slipped his hands round her waist, crooning softly under his breath. Alex smiled and closed her eyes, recognising the song as one of the many she had taught him through the years, all about too much honesty, too much love, and holding on to each other until we died.

  Matthew broke off to smile down at her. “True, isn’t it?” he said, the back of his hand resting for an instant against her cheek.

  “True,” she breathed, and turned slowly in his arms. Oh yes, she intended to hold on to this man of hers. Every day that remained of her life, she planned on holding on to him.

 
Chapter 46

  Charlie returned from Providence’s harbourmaster with several letters – three for him and one for Matthew – and Matthew took one look at the handwriting and tucked it into his coat pocket, saying he would read it later. Charlie nodded, mumbled an excuse, and set off in the direction of Kate Jones’ warehouse. There had been no further visits from the militia, so apparently Matthew’s letter had convinced Lord Calvert Charlie was no longer in his colony, but just in case, their nephew kept his head shaved and covered by a stylish dark wig.

  “Nice of Kate to take him in,” Alex commented, watching him walk off. A very different Charlie to the wreck they had found on Barbados, self-confident and boisterous, even if at times given to long hours of brooding introspection.

  “Aye,” Matthew agreed, “and she’ll keep him gainfully employed for a year or so.”

  Kate had developed quite a fondness for Charlie, and suggested that such a worldly young man might find it less irksome to work for her than act the farmer at Graham’s Garden. They were all relieved by this arrangement, and so Charlie rode through Maryland on Kate’s behalf and was to take ship to Jamestown and Charles Towne in some weeks there to conduct some further business.

  Alex settled herself more comfortably on the low stone wall that ran the perimeter of the Customs House. The April sun was agreeably warm, and a recent shower had cleared the air of any dust, leaving it crisp and fresh. David and Samuel were playing an intense but low-voiced game of marbles in the protective shadow of a tree, keeping a watchful eye out for any approaching minister. Her gaze lingered on Samuel. He could no longer raise his arm above shoulder level, and his ear wasn’t about to ever grow back, but it didn’t seem to bother him unduly.

  They had tried to have him stay with Ruth and Julian, but Samuel got restless behind doors. So, after a couple of attempts, they had arrived at a compromise: Samuel spent a month at a time with Julian, studying for long, long days, and then he had a month back home, a month with extended visits to his Indian family.

  Alex set her mouth. Had it been up to her, Samuel would never have been allowed close to Qaachow again, but Matthew had overruled her, stating that the lad had need of them. And he did, Alex admitted reluctantly. No matter that her son was now mostly Samuel, White Bear was still very much alive.

  “What are you thinking?” Matthew asked, coming to stand beside her. He extended a rosebud to her, plucked from the nearby bush.

  “Nothing, really,” she said, accepting his gift. She tilted her head back to look at him. “She seemed happy, don’t you think?”

  “Quite,” Matthew said.

  Their short visit to St Mary’s City had reassured them as to their daughter’s well-being, and Matthew had even admitted to Alex that he found Michael a good enough sort, industrious and serious for all that he was a papist – and with Burley blood.

  “Ready?” He extended his hand to her, helped her up to stand. They strolled along the shoreline, making for Kate’s house and waiting dinner. Halfway there, they were hailed, and stood waiting while Simon came jogging towards them, coat tails flying behind him.

  “And Duncan?” Alex asked.

  “Duncan?” Simon groaned and shook his head. “I had no idea that a lad that small could run you so ragged.”

  “What did you expect?” Matthew said. “We told you.”

  “And he talks, incessantly that wee lad prattles.” Simon threw Alex a dark look. “From his grandmother, no doubt.”

  “Nay,” Matthew said, “she still has her tongue.”

  “I’m not talking to you – either of you.” Alex increased her pace so that the two men could fall in step behind her. Alex wasn’t really listening to their conversation, far more interested in a pair of curlews that ran back and forth over the mudflats bared by the receding tide.

  “…and by now most of them are dead,” she caught, and turned to Matthew.

  “Who?” she asked.

  “I thought you weren’t talking to me,” he said, but became serious as he explained how Captain Jan had told him most of the Monmouth rebels carried over to Barbados were dead.

  “And him? Brown?” Alex asked. “Has Jan heard anything about him?”

  “Hale and hearty,” Matthew replied with a crooked smile. “A constant companion to the Governor.”

  “Too bad,” Alex muttered. “I’d sort of hoped he’s been swallowed whole by a crocodile.” She threw her husband an oblique look. “It’s strange how often the bad guys thrive and prosper, and the good guys dwindle and die.”

  “Aye,” Simon said, “but ultimately it catches up – at least we must hope it does.”

  “Not much of a comfort,” Alex said.

  “He’ll get what’s coming to him in the afterlife,” Matthew said.

  “Whoopee,” Alex muttered, making Simon grin.

  *

  It was late afternoon, nearly evening, by the time they made their farewells and set off back to town, hand in hand through the spring green grasses that bordered the waters. Dusk rose like smoke from the damp ground, hovered at first round their legs, and then shot up towards the violet sky, and suddenly it was almost night, whatever little light remaining trapped in a hovering line of white and green on the western horizon.

  As always, Alex felt short-changed: light passed too quickly into dark, and the witching hour, the time when the world hung perfectly balanced between night and day, was far too short at these latitudes. She longed for interminable twilights that shifted gradually from blue through purple to grey, evenings spent sitting by an unlit window watching how night folded itself over the land.

  “My grandmother loved April evenings,” she said. “She’d make us a cup of tea, and then we’d sit by the kitchen table and not say a word while her apple orchard sank slowly into the night.”

  Matthew tightened his hold on her hand but didn’t reply.

  “I miss them,” Alex went on, “the northern nights.” She shook herself out of her maudlin state and picked up her skirts. “Last one to the watering post is a rotten egg,” she challenged, and shoved him hard before flying off.

  Supper was soup and rye bread, followed by an hour or so in Julian’s little parlour, Ruth and Alex sitting to one side while the men locked horns over the chessboard.

  “She’s marrying Macpherson?” Alex couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice, eyeing Patience with pity.

  “It’s a good match,” Ruth said.

  A good match? Patience might not be the prettiest of girls, but she was young and healthy, had a very nice smile, and to burden her with a man like Gregor Macpherson…Alex grimaced in disgust.

  “He’s a minister,” Ruth said, “an educated man.”

  “Educated? The man’s a boor.”

  Ruth gave her a severe look. “He’s a minister,” she repeated, “and Patience is eighteen come September, so it’s time she’s wed.”

  “Minister Macpherson is positively ancient,” Alex hissed, not wanting either Julian or Patience to hear. She shook out Matthew’s spare shirt and threaded a needle to stitch the undone hem back up.

  “He’s two years younger than Julian,” Ruth said.

  “No! Really?” Alex sneaked a look at her son-in-law who looked at least ten years Minister Macpherson’s junior. Ruth nodded and rested her eyes affectionately on her husband.

  “He’s a good-looking man,” she whispered with pride, leaning against her mother.

  “Mmm,” Alex replied, thinking that her daughter must be blind to consider Julian handsome in the company of her Matthew. She liked how he kept his hair short these days, letting it hug the shape of his skull, and right now, with a two-day beard sprouting salt and pepper on his cheeks, he looked decidedly rakish – almost dangerous.

  He looked up and caught her frank look, returned it in kind before dropping his eyes to the chessboard, leaving her short of breath and very warm. Alex pricked herself in the finger and swore. Matthew smiled, moved his knight, and declared Julian checkmate.

 
“Aren’t you going to read it?” she asked Matthew much later, resting back against the pillows in their bed. He stood silhouetted against the open window, a dark shape against the somewhat lighter dark beyond. Rain pattered on the sill and the shingles of the roof, and from very far away came the single bark of a dog. When Matthew turned, the whites of his eyes gleamed for an instant, and then all she saw was a blob of white crossing the few yards towards her. His shirt rustled when he lay down beside her. She scooted close, using her toes to caress his hairy shins.

  “Tomorrow,” he said. “I don’t intend to go and find a taper now.” He turned her over, fitted her into the curve of his body, and slid his hand in to cup her breast. “I’m in no hurry to read it. I’ve done my brother a favour, but damned if I want to be the recipient of fawning gratitude from a man I hold in such low regard.”

  *

  Alex stretched languorously in the early dawn and sat up in bed. An insistent bird had been chirping good morning for the last hour or so, and Alex was in two minds about whether to kill it or enjoy its cheerful greeting.

  She padded over to the window, and the bird flew off in a flurry of brown and bright orange, cheeping saucily that it would be back the moment she moved away. She watched its dipping flight to the neighbouring roof, and dropped her eyes to where Luke’s letter lay on top of Matthew’s belt and knife.

  “Bring it here,” Matthew said from the bed, pummelling their combined pillows into a comfortable backrest. She did, curling up beside him to rest her cheek against his chest. She yawned and slid her hands in under his shirt, letting her fingers travel in a desultory fashion over his chest, down to his navel and up again, tugging every now and then at his hair. He shifted in protest when she tugged too hard, but was otherwise silent, the papers that crackled in his hands the only sound. After a very long time, he folded the papers together, and Alex noticed his hands were shaking – shaking badly.

  “Matthew?” Alex sat up.

  He was stunned, eyes glazed, and mutely he handed her the letter. Not only a letter, but a formal document of some sort, and Alex frowned at official seals and signatures, trying to make sense of what she was reading.