“So now we know.” He sat down with a thud.
“Unfortunately.” Alex sat down beside him and scrubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “Oh God, what do we do?”
He stared down at the floor. “I have no choice,” he said in a voice that was on the point of breaking. “I can’t let this lie. I must tell him.”
“Or not – after all, it might work itself out. If we send Patrick away and—”
“I have to,” he cut her off. “I can’t keep something like this from him. It would be wrong.” He bowed his head further and mumbled something.
“What?” Alex asked.
“I was just quoting the Holy Writ: Father, if thou be willing remove this cup from me… But he won’t, will he?” Matthew stood up, and from the slump of his shoulders to the way he held his hands, Alex could see how heavy this burden was.
“Do you want me to come with you?”
Matthew extended his hand to her. “I don’t think I can do it without you.”
It felt like a wake, this slow trudge up to where Ian was hewing logs into shape for his cabin. He saw them coming, and his right arm dropped, the axe falling out of his hand. He looked from one to the other in a way that reminded Alex so much of how he’d been as a boy, a child torn in two because no one could tell him for sure who his father was. She smiled wryly. To her, it had always been obvious that Ian was Matthew’s, not Luke’s – every single line of the tall body facing them screamed it out loud: that he was Matthew Graham’s son. His son in more ways than one, Alex shivered, because now they were to tell him that his wife had betrayed him, just as his mother had betrayed his father.
“Jenny,” Ian whispered. “Something has happened to Jenny and the babe.”
Alex’s heart went out to him – to them both – as Matthew went over to his immobilised son and wrapped his arms around him.
“Not as such,” Matthew said, and Ian slumped. Matthew led him over to sit, keeping an arm around him. It was terrible. Even for her, standing to the side, it was almost unbearable to hear Matthew tell his son that his son’s wife was being unfaithful, and it was made even worse by the brittle look in Ian’s eyes, a pleading expression that begged them to laugh and tell him this was all in jest.
*
It didn’t register at first. Ian heard what Da was saying, but somehow he couldn’t string the words together into sentences that made sense. And then his brain connected the random words into a meaningful whole, and for a moment the world tilted.
“Betty?” Ian kicked at the ground. “She saw?”
His parents nodded, and he kicked again. Was that why the lass looked at him the way she did? Was she sorry for him, when he’d thought her in love with him? When Mama told him about that day in early March up at Forest Spring, he flew to his feet.
“You knew already then, and you didn’t tell me?”
“Not for sure. How could we tell you something like this without knowing for sure?” Mama placed a hand on his sleeve. “But now we do know, and we have no choice but to tell you.”
“Thank you,” he said, twisting out of her hold.
He sat down beside Da again, and felt a strong arm come round to hold him close. It didn’t help, because all of him was disintegrating, small parts of him floating off into the air and disappearing like melting snowflakes. How could she do this to him? Whore! His hands knotted themselves, all of him was shaking, and had he had her in front of him he would have… His hands itched. He was within his rights to punish her, to whip her until she bled, and throw her out to face the world, and, God, he wanted to, very much did he want to. Patrick he was going to hurt, that much he knew, but he didn’t really care about him – it was her betrayal that had him swimming in a sea of burning rage. He lowered his head and concentrated on breathing. One breath, two breaths, three breaths…
“The babe might still be mine,” he said after a long, strained silence.
“Aye, but we’ll never know for sure,” Da said.
Ian shrugged and looked away. “Apt, isn’t it?” He attempted a laugh but failed miserably. “Here I spend most of my childhood not knowing who my father is – and Mam couldn’t tell me either – and now I am to welcome yet another ambiguous child into the world.”
“You’re my son,” Da said, gripping his shoulder.
Ian shook himself free. “You don’t know that; not for sure.”
Da opened his mouth to protest but Ian waved his hand at him. “You’re my da. I made that choice very long ago. But we will never know.” He got to his feet again, picked up his axe, and returned to the log he had been working on when he saw them. “I want to think,” he said, sinking the axe hard into the wood. “Alone.”
He sent wood chips flying; he chopped and chopped, venting anger and humiliation on the length of timber at his feet. He choked on his rage, a hard knot working itself up and down his gullet. God, how gullible she must have found him! He drove the axe head into the wood, and worked until his shirt stuck to his back.
It helped to gouge his way through the log. With each stroke, the red anger inside of him receded, the heat that threatened to boil over cooled, until he was left with a controlled, icy rage that lay like a lid across the angry whipping thing in his guts. The babe, he reminded himself as he envisioned various scenarios, he must think of the wean. And so Ian made up his mind to not do anything at all – for now.
“She’ll be birthing soon,” he told Da with a callous shrug, “and then I’ll see.”
It cost him to keep his voice this low and matter-of-fact, and it cost him even more to nod in the direction of Patrick and find a smile for Jenny, but he did, even if he set Malcolm beside him as a bulwark between Jenny and himself. Nor did he attempt to touch her, or converse with her beyond the small talk over the kitchen table. Once he’d finished his food, he told the table at large he’d be working late in the carpentry shed, ruffled Malcolm’s hair, and escaped outside.
*
“Another evening like that and I’ll burst,” Alex said to Matthew later. She tucked the quilts around Adam’s small body and smiled down at her three sons, lying so close together in their bed. At Ian’s insistence, Malcolm was sleeping downstairs with his parents, and Alex guessed he would be wedged between his mother and father, however little bed space that left for Ian and Jenny.
“If he wants it this way then that’s the way it’ll be,” Matthew replied, trailing her into the girls’ room.
Ruth as always slept on her back, one hand thrown high above her head, the other resting on her chest, while Sarah was her normal whirlwind self, the bedclothes tangled round her legs. Matthew freed quilts and sheets, ensuring Ruth got her fair share back, while Alex smoothed down hair and kissed brows.
“What will Peter say?” he asked once they were in their bedroom.
“Nothing compared to what Elizabeth would have said,” Alex said. “Her favourite daughter to so shame the family.”
“Mmm.” Matthew worked the willow twig over his teeth, splashed some water in his face and retired to sit on the bed.
“They’d have flayed her.” Alex sniffed at her latest concoction. “You like it?” She held out the stone jar to him.
Matthew smacked his lips together. “It makes me think of a nice piece of pork.” Right; not quite the effect she wanted to achieve. Alex shoved the jar to the side and decided to go easier on the thyme next time round.
“Ian might,” Matthew said. He stretched out on the bed, gesturing for her to join him.
“Might what?” Alex slid down to lie beside him.
“Whip her. He’d be within his rights.”
“Bloody barbaric… Hey, you’ve stolen my pillow.” She made a grab for it.
“I like this pillow.” He sank his head into it.
“So do I,” she said, but gave up at the sight of his smirk. She’d get it back tomorrow anyway.
“So how would you see Ian deal with his adulterous wife?” Matthew asked, spooning himself tight around her.
> “I don’t know…divorce her, I suppose.” Alex felt a twinge of pity for Jenny, soon to be cast out on her own.
“And the bairns?”
“The children stay with him; at least, Malcolm does.” She turned to face him. “It is a grievous thing to take a baby from its mother.”
“Aye, but it’s his right.”
“And what rights does she have?” Alex asked, even if she already knew the answer.
“None.” Matthew rolled over onto his back. “An adulterous wife has no rights, no rights at all.”
*
It gave Ian very little satisfaction to exact his revenge on Patrick. He looked down at the gasping man and was disgusted: with Jenny, with Patrick, but just as much with himself for having set upon an unsuspecting man. Patrick groaned and righted himself to a sitting position.
“What was that for?” Patrick slurred.
“You know why. You have been making free with my wife.” Patrick began shaking his head. Ian loomed over him, hands fisted. “Don’t lie to me.”
Patrick licked his lips, looked away. “I never meant it to happen,” he croaked, his shaking hands held up in a conciliatory gesture.
“Since when?”
“Last summer.” A taunting look appeared in Patrick’s eyes, and Ian’s next blows had blood spurting from Patrick’s nose, his mouth.
“Get out,” Ian said. “Get yourself off our land while you can, aye?”
Patrick fled.
He didn’t like it how disapproving Mama looked when he recounted what he’d done to Patrick.
“What would you do then?” Ian challenged. “In your time?”
“Well, I wouldn’t have kicked the crap out of him – or her in my case. Divorce her, that’s what you’d have done in my time – and found out if the child was yours, which isn’t an option at present.” She came over to join him by the workbench. “The first question you have to ask yourself is if you love her. Love her enough to try again.”
Ian cleared his throat. “I’ve tried. All through these last months, I’ve tried, but she…and now it’s too late. I can’t forgive her for this.” He threw the piece of wood he was presently working on into a corner.
There was another complication as well, a complication in the form of wild reddish-brown hair and eyes to match, but he pushed that thought away from him. He had never acted upon it.
“If it had been the once, or at least no more than a couple of times, then maybe I could. But from what Patrick confessed, it has been going on for nigh on a year. A year of putting horns on me and laughing at me behind my back.”
“I don’t think Jenny’s been laughing at you. She cares too much for you.”
“Not enough to remain faithful. Not enough to ensure the wean she’s carrying is mine.” A bitter taste flooded his mouth. “No, I don’t love her enough to try again. I don’t love her at all, not after what she’s done to me.”
“And the baby?”
“The wean is mine.” Ian went over to stand in the doorway.
“You don’t know that,” Mama said from behind him.
“It’s mine. I won’t let it go.” His eyes rested for a moment on Naomi, who walked by outside with Tom tucked neatly into a shawl and Betty laughing by her side. As if on cue, the lass turned her head in his direction, and for an instant those red-brown eyes met his, sending a flash of heat through him.
“Just as long as you hold to that.” Mama ducked under his arm and turned to face him. “A child deserves to know where it belongs – but I don’t need to tell you that, do I?”
“Nay, that you don’t.” He stretched out his hand and tweaked at a curl that had escaped from her thick bun.
“Mama,” he whispered in a broken voice. “My mama.”
“Always,” she said, standing on her toes to kiss his brow.
Chapter 23
“Where’s Patrick?” Jenny asked in a casual tone. “I haven’t seen him of late.”
“Gone.” Alex gave Jenny an appraising look. The baby was due any day now, the whole belly having sunk down to hover just above her pubic bone.
“Gone?” Jenny’s fingers whitened with pressure when she clenched them round the handle to the baby basket she was presently lining. “Why?”
“I have no idea,” Alex lied and went back to her cooking.
Jenny made a strange sound, like a muffled honk, and with a muttered excuse fled the room. Alex was overwhelmed by a wave of compassion for her. How alone she must feel, even more now that Ian so clearly avoided her, exchanging a minimum of words with her, no more.
“Oh God, what a mess,” Alex said to Mrs Parson once the kitchen was empty of anyone but them.
“Aye, you can say that again.” Mrs Parson nodded, frowning down at her knitting. She used her fingers to ensure she hadn’t dropped any stitches before going on.
“You do have spectacles,” Alex informed her.
“Spectacles? They’re for old people, no?” Mrs Parson snorted.
Alex grinned. The old woman was pushing seventy, but apart from a general stiffening of her joints, she was almost disgustingly healthy.
“Will he keep her?” she asked Alex.
Alex shook her head. No, Ian had made up his mind, and with every day she could see him hardening his heart towards Jenny, his eyes regarding her with an impassiveness that Alex found quite disturbing. At least Jenny wouldn’t be destitute, some of her jointure being settled on her in case of divorce. Luckily, as she suspected Jenny would not receive much of a welcome should she choose to go back to Leslie’s Crossing. Little Constance would have a field day.
*
“Enough,” Matthew said, drawing the oxen to a halt. “Tired?” He smiled down at his son.
David straightened up from the crouch in which he’d been working for the last few hours and nodded. “So much stone,” he moaned, looking down at his reddened hands.
“And just as much there.” Matthew nodded at the next patch of half-cleared land. “But this we can plant this afternoon and then do that tomorrow, aye?”
David nodded again, boyish shoulders sloping downwards.
Matthew sighed inside. The laddie was too young to have to work this hard, but there was no choice, not now that Patrick was gone. A few weeks, no more, and then the new fields would all be cleared and planted, and he could release his son to go back to playing.
They were coming up the river path, the oxen ambling along, when a sudden movement caught Matthew’s eyes. David squawked and took hold of Matthew’s hand. On the other side of the river stood a group of Indians, and a tremor coursed through Matthew. These were not Susquehannock. These were Iroquois, and just the name had the hair along his spine rising. One of the men took a step forward and raised a hand, and after a couple of heartbeats, Matthew smiled in relieved recognition.
“Run, lad,” he said to David. “Run and tell your mama we have guests for dinner.”
“Guests?” David breathed.
“Aye, lad, guests.”
For a moment, Matthew thought Alex was about to hug Qaachow, but at the last moment she remembered herself, giving their Indian friend a nod instead.
“Qaachow,” she said, “it’s been years.”
The former Susquehannock tribal leader bowed back. He was much greyer than last time they’d seen him, his body far too lean, with a disfiguring scar on his right arm.
“What happened?” Alex asked.
“Snake bite,” he said in English that sounded rusty, not at all as fluent as it once had been. Mayhap he had little opportunity to practise it where he lived now. Qaachow extracted a small pouch and handed it to Alex. “From Thistledown.”
Alex shook out several seeds into her hand.
“Squash,” Qaachow said, “and beans.”
“Thank you.” Alex curtsied, making Matthew grin at the sheer incongruity of the gesture. His guest seemed to agree, smiling as he bent his naked torso in a slight bow in her direction before turning back to him.
“How
is your son?” Matthew asked.
Qaachow smiled, his eyes travelling over the younger Graham boys. “He’s well.” He beckoned to Samuel, who at first hung back but, after a glance from Matthew, obediently stepped forward.
“This is for you.” Qaachow held out a small pouch decorated with quillwork and beads. “It contains your Indian name and spirit. A gift from your foster brother and me, your foster father.”
Samuel received it carefully. Matthew smiled crookedly. The lad knew that he had an Indian foster brother, having heard often enough how Mama had saved the little Indian baby from starvation, but not until this moment had Samuel realised that, as a consequence, he had an Indian foster father. Matthew swallowed down on the lump that was clogging his throat. His wee laddie, and from the way Qaachow was eyeing him, it was clear the Indian leader hadn’t forgotten Matthew’s promise all those years ago.
“My name?” Samuel said. “My name is Samuel.”
Qaachow smiled down at him. “Your Indian brother and you are like bear cubs, twins to the same mother. So he is Little Bear and you are White Bear.”
“White Bear,” Samuel repeated and hung the amulet pouch around his neck.
*
Alex watched all this from a distance, clenching her hands in her skirts to stop herself from doing something dangerous – and rude – such as rushing over to tear the amulet pouch off her son and throw it in the river. She made an effort, pasted a bland smile on her face, and invited their guests to dinner.
As always, Qaachow refused to step inside, but he studied the new house with interest, complimenting Matthew on its general size. Mark and Ian set up trestles outside, and Alex served the Indians and her men bread and meat and beer, before retreating to leave them space to talk.
In the kitchen, Betty and Naomi were staring through the window, with Agnes hanging over their shoulders.
“Has he come to take the lad with him?” Mrs Parson piped up from her corner.
“The lad?” Alex’s heart did some very strange arrhythmic things in her chest. “No, no, that’s not yet. Not until Samuel is about twelve or so. By then, he’ll probably have forgotten.”
Serpents in the Garden (The Graham Saga) Page 20