Serpents in the Garden (The Graham Saga)

by Anna Belfrage

  “Oh, aye? And is he a nice man this time?”

  Helen shrugged. “My father’s choice, and a respectable enough merchant, even if he’s rather old and has very little hair.” She looked yearningly at Jacob’s heavy mane, making Jacob duck his head and hide behind the curtain of fair hair. “I was thinking,” she murmured, “that maybe we could…one more time?”

  Jacob studied her. She’d made an effort, the linen very white, and her hair recently washed. His cock swelled. One more time and never again, it begged. Look at her, and you like her soft, round breasts, don’t you?

  “Aye, that would be nice. One last time.”

  She smiled at him. “Tonight,” she whispered and, with yet another curtsey to Mistress Castain, left the shop.

  “I hear Widow Wythe will soon be a married woman,” Master Castain said, coming over to stand beside Jacob.

  “Aye, in less than a week.”

  Master Castain threw him an oblique look. “And so will young Miss Foster.”

  Jacob glared at him. “No, she won’t. She doesn’t want him.”

  “And how would you know that, Jacob Graham?” Master Castain could look quite threatening despite his short stature, and now he frowned at Jacob. “I’ve told you: Charlotte Foster is not for the likes of you. Twice, Richard Collin has had you beaten for sniffing too closely around his ward, and if you aren’t careful, it will soon be thrice.”

  “I am careful,” Jacob informed him. “Very careful. I don’t see her at all.” Which was not much of a lie: it had been but three times since July.

  “Hmph,” Master Castain snorted.

  Jacob decided to change the subject. “Will you help me with my reading, master? I’m not entirely comfortable with the preparation of tonics against hair loss.”

  “They never work,” John Castain snapped, but then smiled, shaking his sparsely covered head. “But it’s hope we sell, and hope comes best in pleasing colours and agreeable tastes.”

  “Oh? Mama says beer is the thing. Beer and lentils.”

  “On your head?” Master Castain made a disgusted face.

  Jacob laughed out loud. “Nay, you eat them. On account of the vitamins.”

  “Vitamins?” Master Castain said before waving his hand at Jacob. “No, son, I already know. It’s something they have in Sweden.” From the master’s tone of voice, Jacob suspected he might be talking a wee bit too much about Mama.

  *

  “Well done!” Master Castain said halfway through October, clapping Jacob on the shoulder. “You did very well.”

  Jacob flushed with pleasure. For hours, he had been drilled by fellow apothecaries, in everything from the use of leeches, to tonics to strengthen the blood or reinvigorate a flagging manhood, and he hadn’t stumbled even once. His head was full of recipes, of herbs and their uses, of how best to draw the essence of elderberries, and what remedy to recommend to someone suffering from excessive flatulence.

  “I didn’t list the properties of pomegranate as I should,” he said, somewhat chagrined.

  “No,” Master Castain said, “there’s still work to do.”

  Jacob nodded distractedly. Charlotte would be crossing London Bridge within the hour, and they had an assignation to meet outside the milliner’s shop halfway across. It was the first time in weeks they had met, and Jacob’s innards were filling with bubbles of expectation. He hurried after Master Castain, shivering in the easterly wind that promised at minimum rain and possibly sleet, and tugged his cloak tighter round him. The hood shadowed his entire face, leaving only his nose to brave the cold full-on.

  “Home?” Master Castain said.

  Jacob shook his head. This was his afternoon off and, after promising to be back before supper, he rushed off in the direction of the river.

  She was waiting, her fur-lined hood pulled up, and only by the way she rocked from side to side did he recognise her. Charlotte moved to a rhythm uniquely her own, a soft swaying that men found most alluring. He stepped up to her, drew back his hood for an instant before letting it drop back down, and she did the same, her mouth curving into one of those smiles that had him promising her the moon should she want it.

  They fell into step with each other, jostling their way through the crowds until they found a sheltered, quiet corner between two stretches of shops. Charlotte’s maid followed them at a distance, turning her back to give them some privacy.

  “Are you alright?” Jacob asked.

  Charlotte muffled a small sound. Alright? How could it possibly be alright, did he think, when most nights she had to bolt her door to be left in peace?

  “I wish—” he began, but broke off, shaking his head. It tore at him, to not be able to help her, save her from this cruel stepfather. He took her hand instead and caressed her palm with his thumb. They spoke briefly to each other, huddled against the icy wind. As they said their farewells, she allowed him to kiss her, whispered a new date, and rushed off.

  Jacob remained where he was, stamping his feet in the cold. This was becoming quite unbearable, and in his head the most preposterous plans were being hatched, all of them ending with him and her forever. He laughed. He was seventeen soon, and too old to believe in fairy tales. If he stood on his toes, he could still see her, weaving her way in and out of the crowd, and suddenly her hood was thrown back and the light of a lantern spilled over her hair, making it gleam like gold. How apt: the daughter of a goldsmith, shimmering in golden hues. A wealthy lass, accustomed to a life of comfort. What could he possibly offer her?

  He sighed and trudged back home.

  Chapter 30

  “I told you that wee kitten has lethal claws,” Mark said.

  “But still, to throw boiling sugar at someone and claim it was an accident!” Alex shook her head. “Ailish is going to be permanently disfigured, and from the way Nathan looked at Constance today, she should be fearing a trial – or a knife in the back. Are you okay?” she asked Mrs Parson, who was hanging on grimly to Mark.

  “Aye,” Mrs Parson replied through gritted teeth. “But maybe you could walk the horse instead?”

  “Oh.” Mark drew rein. “Better?”

  “Ugh,” Mrs Parson replied, and released her hold somewhat.

  The rider had come at midday. One of the younger Leslie field hands had stormed into the yard on Peter’s best horse and begged them to come quickly as the mistress was badly burnt. Alex had been shocked: the right side of Ailish’s face, her ear, shoulder and neck, all a blistered mass made worse by her frantic attempt to get the sticky, burning sugar off her.

  Constance had looked contrite, trying to blend into the wall, but at Ailish’s anguished looks in her direction, Alex had evicted her and told her to make herself useful – if she could.

  Once they were home, Alex went to find Matthew.

  “Peter has a civil war on his hands,” she said, “and I’m not sure he’s fully aware of what the fallout might be, what with Nathan siding with poor Ailish, while that cow Constance flutters her eyes and says it was an accident.”

  Matthew grunted and went on with his leatherwork. “Constance Leslie is not a nice woman, but neither was she given the welcome she should have been accorded the day Peter Leslie rode back to present his new wife.”

  Alex rolled her eyes at him. In her book, Constance was a conniving little bitch, and to fill a ladle with melted sugar and throw it at someone…

  “She even had the effrontery to ask us to look at her hand as she had burnt herself.”

  “And did you?” Matthew asked.

  “No, why should we? Oh, by the way, Jenny was there.”

  It had been a difficult meeting, with Jenny dropping a curtsey before shooing Ailish’s brood from the room. Some stilted words in the kitchen with Jenny replying monosyllabically that yes, she was well, and no, she didn’t intend to stay for more than some weeks – she was only here to sort out the details of her jointure.

  “She wants to see the children.” Alex looked over to where Betty was capably ca
rrying Maggie in her shawl, while helping Malcolm balance on the paddock railings. Matthew came to stand behind Alex and slipped his hands around her waist.

  “Canny lass,” he said with a nod in the direction of Betty.

  “Canny? How canny?” Alex smiled at Betty. Gone was the insecure girl of a year ago, and in her place was a high-spirited, confident young woman, eyes bright and hair even fuzzier than usual.

  In response, Matthew pointed to where Ian was leaning against the stable door, his eyes glued to where his children were playing with his intended wife.

  “I think she likes them for their own sake.”

  Matthew laughed into her hair. “But very much on account of their father.”

  Alex wandered over to the stables and gave Ian a short recap of the events at the Leslies’ – including Jenny’s presence there.

  “Aye, I already know.” Ian cast an eye at the lowering black clouds. “It’ll snow soon.”

  “Ian!” Alex elbowed him. “We’re not talking about the weather, are we?”

  He looked down at her and stretched his lips into a faint smile. “Nay, we were talking about my erstwhile wife. About as interesting.”

  “Bullshit – and don’t try that cool, impervious look on me. It makes you look quite inane. So, will you let her see the children?”

  “I promised her, so aye, I will. But not here, not at home. I’ll ride over to Leslie’s Crossing with them in a day or so.”

  “Does he miss her, do you think?” Alex indicated Malcolm, who had joined his uncles for a wild game of football in the frozen yard.

  “Aye.” It came out very soft, a mere whisper. “Not as much now as in the beginning,” Ian continued in a more normal tone of voice, “and, with time, even less. But for now, aye, the lad misses his mother.”

  “She never will.” Alex nodded in the direction of Betty, who was walking towards them, singing something to the flailing bundle in her shawl.

  “Nay. She has a new mother.” Ian went over to reclaim his daughter.

  “Not formally she doesn’t,” Alex muttered to his back.

  *

  Ailish remained in bed when Alex accompanied Ian to Leslie’s Crossing some days later. The rawness had subsided, but already the puckering had begun, and where once there had been smooth skin, in the future there would be a huge and rather ugly scar.

  “Thank God it didn’t hit you closer to the eye,” Alex said, breaking open the aloe vera leaves she’d brought with her to get at the gel.

  Ailish didn’t reply.

  “I’ve made you some calendula tea to use as poultices,” Alex said, “and then you must keep it as dry and clean as possible.” She felt helpless. Burns such as these should be treated in a hospital by people with white coats and stethoscopes hanging round their necks, not by someone like her. She picked up Ailish’s hand and held it for a while. The younger woman’s silence was unnerving and, from what Nathan had said, this was the way she’d been for the last few days.

  “I’ll come and apply some more gel before I leave, okay?” Alex said, stroking back the thick hair.

  Ailish remained mute, her eyes fixed on the rosary beads she was twisting through her fingers. It was with relief that Alex left the room, making a weak excuse along the lines of brewing more tea.

  She found Nathan in the dark kitchen, all messy hair and tired eyes.

  “How is she?” he asked, hoisting his youngest son to lie in the crook of his arm.

  “It’s not infected, but her face will be marked for life.” Alex patted him on the shoulder. “I’m so sorry, but there’s nothing to be done, I’m afraid.”

  “She’s afraid I won’t love her if she’s disfigured,” Nathan said with a perceptiveness that surprised Alex. To her, he had always been the spoilt eldest son, used to getting his own way in a household that consisted mostly of sisters.

  “And won’t you?” Alex found a mug, crumbled a generous amount of willow bark into it, and used a ladle to fill it with simmering water from the iron cauldron that hung over the hearth.

  Nathan just shook his head. “Five children, Mistress Alex, as well as rearing my two by Celia as if they were her own. I never loved Celia – I’ve always loved Ailish – I always will.”

  “Then you’d better tell her that.” Alex handed him the mug of willow bark tea and held out her arms for the baby. “Go on, she’s awake. Make sure she drinks it all.” She shoved Nathan out of the kitchen and went to find Peter.

  “You’re going to have to do something,” Alex said to Peter, handing him his grizzling and damp grandson. “You can’t expect Ailish to continue living with someone who intentionally hurt her.”

  “Constance says it was an accident.”

  “Accident, my arse! She filled the ladle and threw it at Ailish!”

  Peter shrank together in his chair, his chin all but disappearing into his neck. His once so vigorous hair was now trimmed very short, and on the desk a hairpiece lay thrown on top of an unfinished letter.

  “Nathan says she must be punished,” he said.

  “Yeah – harshly.”

  “Do you suppose Nathan will take it up with the ministers?”

  “He should,” Alex said, “but, for your sake, he won’t.”

  Peter fidgeted with his cravat, his long fingers smoothing it down against his chest. He looked old and tired, and Alex felt sorry for him, even if this whole mess was his fault. She supposed there were days when he missed Elizabeth, even more when he regretted marrying Constance. From what little she’d overheard, there was no great fondness between man and wife, a minimum of words, no more. Not like with Elizabeth, Peter’s companion and confidant in everything he did.

  “I heard Walter Burley has been arrested,” Peter said, thereby distracting Alex from his marital issues.

  “What?” Alex stared at him. “Where?”

  “In Jamestown,” Thomas Leslie replied in his brother’s stead, nodding in greeting at Alex as he entered the room. “For rape.”

  “Oh,” Alex said.

  “Fourteen, the girl is.” Thomas produced his pipe and a pouch of tobacco. He frowned down at the pouch and, from the way his jaw was working, Alex assumed he was thinking about his own daughter, almost as young when she was brutally assaulted several years ago.

  “If we’re lucky, he hangs.” Peter patted Alex’s hand.

  “If we’re lucky?” Alex echoed.

  Peter sat back. “It’s her word against his. As I hear it, he’s insisting she gladly went along with it. Besides, those brothers would have hanged years ago had it not been for their powerful friends in Virginia. That Philip has most of Jamestown eating out of his hand, one way or the other.”

  “Blackmail, probably,” Alex said.

  Peter nodded. “Maybe. But it’s also a matter of lucrative business endeavours. The Burleys have enriched quite a few of their Virginian neighbours.”

  “Whatever the case, he won’t be coming by here any time soon,” Thomas said, “and that’s really what’s most important.”

  “For us, yes, but not for her, poor girl.” Alex sighed.

  “No, not for her,” Thomas agreed.

  It was only reluctantly that Alex agreed to stay for dinner, and if she found it difficult, Ian must have hated it, sitting very much to the side throughout the meal. Constance acted the lady of the house – to be fair she was, even if Nathan looked as if he’d gladly throw her out the door – serving them bread and beer to go with a watery cabbage soup. All through the meal Constance kept staring at them, dislike shining out of her eyes when she studied her husband and her stepson, but particularly whenever they rested on Jenny.

  “Have you seen anything of – what was his name? Patrick?” Constance asked spitefully. A bright flush stained Jenny’s face while Ian looked at Constance as if he was considering disembowelling her.

  “Constance,” Peter sighed from his end of the table, cutting his eyes in the direction of Ian.

  “What? I am but asking – out of co
ncern for my stepdaughter.”

  Alex raised her brows. “Of course, we all know how much you care for Jenny.”

  “Not as such, but her morals reflect on me, and I have repeatedly urged my husband to do his fatherly duty and whip her – drive the sins of the flesh out of her body once and for all.”

  Jenny made a strangled noise and pushed back from the table.

  “Was it worth it?” Constance asked her, ignoring Peter’s warning sounds. “Did he merit putting your soul at risk?”

  Jenny was on her feet, making for the door.

  “Or mayhap it was just a matter of needing a real man in your bed – Our Lord knows I can sympathise with that!” Constance called after her.

  “That’s enough!” Peter exploded, rising to his full height. “How dare you sit there, wife, and insult not only my daughter but my guests and myself?”

  “Not my guests,” Constance snapped back.

  Peter lunged across the table, got her by the scruff of her neck, and dragged her screaming out of the room. All the way up the stairs, she kept on shrieking abuse at him, calling him a fool, a withered old man, a disgusting goat.

  “If you don’t unhand me, I’ll—” she yelled.

  The slap echoed down the stairs, and for some seconds there was silence before she started up again.

  “We’d best go,” Alex said.

  “Aye.” Ian was already at the door, holding Malcolm by the hand.

  *

  “I swear, Matthew, it was very embarrassing,” Alex said, having recounted the events. “I never thought I’d say this, but if ever a woman deserves to be whipped, it is Constance Leslie.” She frowned at the huge rent in one of David’s shirts.

  Mrs Parson murmured a fervent assent. “More than once, mayhap on a regular basis, no?”

  “Hmm.” Alex squinted as she threaded her needle. “I invited them over for Christmas Eve.”

  “Who?” Ian and Matthew looked at each other and then at her.

  “Thomas and Mary, Nathan, Ailish, the children…oh, and Jenny.” She concentrated on her sewing, her cheeks heating under their combined looks.

  “Well, that will be nice and cosy, no?” Mrs Parson chuckled. “The ex-wife and the wife-to-be in the same room. You’re a daftie, Alex Graham, you hear?”