Serpents in the Garden (The Graham Saga)

by Anna Belfrage

  “Oh, stop that! It just makes you look a total idiot.”

  Ruth raised her head at Alex’s irritated tone, but after a few seconds went back to the game.

  “I miss home,” Joan said.

  “All of us miss home – more or less, of course, but nonetheless.” Alex leaned forward, inspecting Joan minutely. There was a grey tinge to her skin, hollows under her eyes, and her normally so full long mouth – a feature she shared with her brother – was thinned into a gash. “Is it the pain?” To her consternation, Joan began to cry, a silent weeping that resulted in slow heavy tears. “Joan, honey…” Alex whispered so as not to alert Ruth, whose ears seemed to have grown to the size of an elephant’s. “…let’s get you inside, okay?”

  “Better?” Alex sat down on the side of the bed.

  Joan nodded and closed her eyes, taking yet another drag at the half-smoked joint. It made Alex feel like a drug runner, to supply Joan with the tight rolls of hemp leaves, but they did seem to help.

  “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” Alex took Joan’s hand.

  “Aye,” Joan said, avoiding meeting her eyes.

  Hmm. Something other than the illness was gnawing at her sister-in-law, and Alex was willing to gamble a small fortune on that it all had to do with their hasty departure from Scotland.

  Joan cleared her throat. “Would you…would you be kind enough and fetch Simon for me?”

  “Of course. Now?”

  “Now.”

  Alex burst into Simon’s office, still out of breath after her short but speedy sprint, and came to an abrupt stop at the sight of Matthew. He was sitting side by side with Simon, his head lowered over some documents that Simon quickly covered at Alex’s entrance.

  “Joan asked me to fetch you.”

  “Is she poorly?” Simon grabbed at his coat, a look of panic in his light eyes.

  “Not more than normal, but she wanted you.”

  “Lock the door, aye?” Simon threw a large key in the direction of Matthew, and flew out of the room.

  “How bad is it?” Matthew asked once they were alone.

  Alex was tempted to ignore him, but Joan was his sister. “Bad. She’s dying. Bit by bit, whatever it is she has is eating its way through her. Unfortunately, I fear it’s going to take a very long time.” Alex shook her head. “But that’s not really it. Something else is driving her half-mad with fear, but she just won’t tell.”

  “Aye.” Matthew replaced the few documents left scattered on the desktop in the drawer, locked it, and dropped the small key into its hiding place in the single china vase that decorated the sparse room. “It’s driving Simon mad too.”

  “It is? You know what it is?” She really had no intention of talking to him, ever again.

  “Murder, our wee Simon is a murderer. And someone, apparently, knows.” He picked up the single paper he had left out and handed it to Alex. She frowned at the handwriting: very stiff, as if someone had made an effort to disguise their hand.

  It isnae easy tae end someone’s life. A blow tae the heid, many blows tae the heid, and they lie deid in the mud. Ye thought ye wurnae seen, but ye wir, darting oot from beyond St Giles tae hurry hame tae yer wife an yer deef lassie. Ultimately, naebody evades the lang arm o the law, Master Melville, naebody…

  “Oh dear.” Alex read it again, folded it together and gave it back to Matthew. Simon? She had major problems seeing him bashing someone over the head to the point of killing them.

  “They threatened his lass. One of the aldermen’s cousins told Simon that comely deaf lasses would fetch quite the price on the right market, and so…”

  Alex took a shaky breath. “So, he killed this cousin and they took the first boat out?”

  Matthew nodded and shredded the paper into pieces.

  “Strange,” he said once he was done. “Written in Scots but, according to Simon, it came from London.” He turned to face Alex with a tight little smile. “And who in London do you know that speaks Scots and probably knows where Simon lives?” He waited, watching her as she thought this through.

  “Luke,” she said after a long while, “but surely he wouldn’t—”

  “You think not? And who was it that so neatly clipped Luke’s wings and deprived him not only of Ian—”

  “Whom he no longer wanted,” Alex interrupted.

  “…of Ian, but more importantly of a very large sum of money?” Matthew finished. “Simon is adamant that there were no witnesses, and, if so, this is nothing but mischief. Nasty mischief, but nothing more than that.”

  “Enough to hurry poor Joan into an even more premature grave,” Alex muttered. God! How she hoped her letter had made her dratted brother-in-law curious enough to lose himself in the painting and land at the feet of Neanderthals or something.

  Once he’d locked the door, Matthew offered her his arm. Alex shook her head. She was perfectly capable of walking on her own, thank you very much. After all, she had walked all the way back to the inn alone yesterday, hadn’t she?

  “Alex,” Matthew sighed. “I’m sorry, aye? But I don’t like it when you wander around half-dressed to be gawked at by other men. It makes me jealous.”

  “So, instead it was me that had to be jealous and feel ugly and unattractive.”

  “Ugly?” Matthew shook his head. “You’re never ugly, Alex.”

  “Really? Is that why you spent so much of yesterday staring down Kate Jones’ cleavage instead of standing by my side?”

  “I didn’t!”

  “Yes, you did. Every single woman in the room you looked at – all of them except me.”

  “You were angry with me,” he mumbled, “and I did look at you – from time to time.”

  “Huh.” She didn’t say anything more for the remainder of their short walk.

  “I had looked forward to yesterday,” she said, following him to their room. “It isn’t as if we do much partying, is it? And you took it all away from me.” She was being ridiculous, petty, childish, but she just couldn’t help it. “I want to go home, as soon as possible.”

  She retrieved the discarded bodice and caressed the deep red, running her fingers over her own excellent needlework. Red on red, she had embroidered the alternating panes with clambering vines, and all along the lacings there ran a line of small, small daisies.

  “Won’t you wear it now?” Matthew said.

  “Whatever for? I wanted to look pretty and young, make you proud of me, but…” She threw the garment on the bed. “I’ll cut it down to something for Ruth or Sarah.”

  Matthew winced at her tone and tried to take her hand. She shifted away. He exhaled – loudly – and made for the door.

  “You haven’t forgotten that we are to have dinner with Minister Allerton, have you?”

  “No, as far as I know, I’m not demented.” She preceded him out of the room and sailed down the stairs.

  Alex wasn’t exactly mollified when they ran into Kate.

  “Feeling better today?” she asked Alex before smiling radiantly at Matthew.

  “Better?” Alex shook her head. “I haven’t been ill.”

  “Oh…I thought that since you left before the dancing yesterday… Pity, given what a good dancer your husband is.” Again, Kate smiled at him, receiving a weak smile in return.

  “Yes, he is, isn’t he?” Alex purred, throwing mental daggers at Matthew.

  Kate gave her an interested look and, with a slight wave, ducked into the nearby bakery.

  Alex said not one word to Matthew as they made their way up the street to the little eating house. It made him nervous; she could see it in how he kept on glancing her way. They found the minister waiting outside, a nice-looking man with gentle eyes and hair the colour of carrots. He smiled at Alex and told her just how much he’d been looking forward to meeting her, given that Daniel spoke so warmly and so often of her.

  “He does?” Alex said, feeling a burst of pride.

  “Now, now, Mrs Graham. You know he does – what son would not bo
ast of a mother such as you?”

  Well, that compliment definitely settled things for Alex, and for the rest of their meal, she concentrated her attention on the minister, totally cold-shouldering her husband. Instead, she leaned forward to meet Julian Allerton’s eyes; she laughed and talked and flirted quite blatantly with him. The poor man didn’t quite know how to handle this, eyes leaping nervously from her to Matthew, but if anything that made her intensify her attack.

  “Is she pretty, your wife?” Alex asked.

  “I think so,” the minister said, smiling. “Actually, most men find her pretty,” he added with some pride.

  “And you don’t mind?”

  “Mind? How mind?”

  “That other men admire her.”

  The minister laughed and said that he most certainly didn’t – rather the reverse.

  “Ah.” Alex threw Matthew a barbed look. “But I suppose she’s always modestly dressed, right? In black or dark grey, like you.”

  “Black? My Hope in black? I think not. She likes colours, does my wife – and silks.” Minister Allerton lowered his voice. “Some would call her vain.”

  “And is she?” Alex asked.

  “Vain? Yes, of course she is – but a woman as handsome as my wife is entitled to a certain vanity.” The minister’s face softened into a little smile.

  Alex went on to say how glad she was to hear that some men took pride in their wives instead of begrudging them what little pleasures they might have. At this, Matthew’s foot came down on her toes – hard. She retaliated by kicking his shin, had the satisfaction of hearing his hissing intake of breath, but otherwise pretended he didn’t exist and returned to her conversation with the minister.

  Minister Allerton looked quite relieved when she initiated a discussion about the ministry instead.

  “When did you know for sure?” she asked, and Minister Allerton smiled.

  “I was eighteen, nineteen perhaps?” He patted her hand. “Daniel will know, or he will not. And if he doesn’t know then the teachers responsible for his spiritual well-being will urge him to wait or perhaps do other things in life. Be a teacher or such.” He smoothed back his sparse hair to lay flat against his pate and gave her a serious look. “Will you be disappointed in him if he’s not ordained?”

  “Disappointed? Me?” She swallowed back on a gust of laughter. “No, I won’t. I just want him to be content with the choices he makes.”

  “Content?” He tilted his head. “Not happy?”

  “Content is good enough – and it’s a definite prerequisite to being happy now and then.” With that, she stood up. After a quick curtsey in the minister’s direction, she grabbed the basket she had placed below the table and hurried off.

  *

  Matthew wasn’t quite sure if he was mostly angered or humiliated by his wife’s behaviour. He kept his eyes on her as she made her way through the small room, head held high. By the door, she stopped for a moment to exchange some words with Minister Walker and William. It irked him to see her smile and laugh, to see how she for an instant leaned forward to say something to the minister, one hand resting as if by chance on William’s arm. And then she was off, as light-footed as a wench, and not one word, not one look, had she exchanged with him.

  “May I be forward enough to suggest it would seem you have displeased your wife in some way?” Minister Allerton said before serving himself an extra slice of cheese.

  “I already know that,” Matthew said. “What I don’t know is how to make it better.”

  Chapter 38

  “Are you planning on milking this much longer?” Matthew asked a few mornings later, his hand closing around her wrist and thereby hindering her from leaving the bed. Two days of icy silence, of eyes that stared blankly through him, were quite enough. And last evening… It had cut him to the quick to have her sitting as far away from him as possible, laughing and talking with Simon and William, but the moment he joined them, she’d stood and walked off.

  “Milk what? That you made me dress like a nun, or that you had the gall to dance with other ‘half-dressed’ women while I was back here alone?”

  “Both, I imagine,” he said, refusing to let go despite her irritated tugging.

  “Jerk,” she hissed.

  “I’ve tried to apologise.”

  “Not for dancing with Kate – her and her tits that were more or less hanging out.”

  “Alex!” Matthew laughed. “That they were not!” He pinned her down, eyes locked into hers. “I promise there will be an occasion for you to wear that pretty bodice of yours, and on that occasion I will dance only with you. And your breasts, should they wish to join in.”

  “Dream on! When I want to dance, I’ll dance with a man that properly appreciates me.” She shoved at him, and when that didn’t help, she took a firm hold of his hair and yanked, hard. “Let me go, you oaf.”

  “Stop pulling my hair,” he growled. “And you’ll not be dancing with any other men but me.”

  “Hypocrite! So it’s okay for you to drool all over Kate Jones’ breasts, but I’m not allowed to do the same, am I?”

  “What? Drool over Kate’s bosom?” He winced when she tugged at his hair again.

  “You know what I mean! And let me go, I…”

  He kissed her. She spluttered and bit his lip. He returned the favour, swallowing her indignant yelp.

  “Listen to me.” He grabbed her wrists and forced her to let go of his hair. She scowled. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was wrong to do as I did, spoiling the wedding for you.”

  “Huh.”

  He brushed his nose against hers. “I don’t like it, when we argue.”

  “Me neither.” She gave him a sharp look. “So, when is this occasion?”

  “Very, very soon, so you best begin to practise. Dancing with me is exhausting, aye?”

  “I can keep up,” she said, her mouth softening perceptibly.

  He gave a silent word of thanks to Minister Allerton for his brilliant idea and kissed her.

  “Don’t push it,” she murmured when they came up for breath.

  “Oh, aye? Do you want me to stop?”

  “Umm…” She shook her head.

  “Nay, I thought not.”

  A loud banging on the door had them breaking apart, and when Matthew recognised the voice, he rushed for the door. A panting Ruth stood on the other side, her hair still in night braids.

  “Harry,” she stuttered, “wee Harry is dead, and I’m to get Betty.”

  “Dear Lord.” Matthew closed his eyes: poor Esther, poor William.

  “When?” Alex asked.

  Ruth had no idea. She had just done as she’d been told: run to fetch Betty, and tell her parents.

  “I suppose it’s something of a relief for little Harry,” Alex said. “He had a hard time of it the other day, didn’t he?”

  Matthew nodded. The laddie had struggled for breath through most of the wedding, clinging like a limpet to his mother.

  “But nor for the mother – or the father.” His eyes found hers, and they shared a moment of silence, recalling a beautiful, angry girl-child running to the defence of her father – and her death. “Rachel,” Matthew breathed, “our wee Rachel…”

  *

  Betty smoothed down a waving lock on the small head, adjusted the brand new smock so that it lay as it should, and beckoned to her father.

  “He looks at peace, I think,” she said, smiling down at little Harry, who did look at rest, his feather lashes shading the thin cheeks, the mouth slightly open as if he were about to say something. Her father sobbed and stroked Harry over the cheek with his forefinger.

  “Another little angel for God,” he said.

  Betty nodded, thinking that taking six from the same family was excessive, and that wasn’t counting the four Mother hadn’t borne to full term. She fussed with the baby shawl Mother had insisted he be covered with, folding it to lie close to the little body. It had always been a matter of time before Harry died,
constantly ill since the day he was born. Even had he grown up, what would have become of him? Sweet little Harry was not like other children, his tongue somewhat too big for his mouth, his eyes so strangely slanted. But he had been a happy boy, a child that attempted to smile even as he struggled to drag air into his lungs, and now he was dead.

  Mother lay prostrate upstairs, and had it not been because it was unseemly to display grief at the death of a child – little Harry was, after all, reunited with his heavenly Father – Betty suspected her father would have gladly joined her, much more shaken by this expected death than she’d thought he would be.

  “She sleeps – at last,” Joan said, coming down from where she’d been sitting with Mother. From the kitchen came Willie’s voice, high and plaintive, and then Alex’s lower voice was there to shush. A moment later, Alex opened the door with her hip before entering with a laden tray that she set down on the table furthest from the little coffin.

  “Food – and beer,” she said.

  Betty’s throat and eyes filled with tears. Her brother was dead, and the room that two days ago had been the scene of her wedding now held a wake. With a small sound, she exited the room, needing a few minutes of solitude.

  *

  “I must,” Betty said a few days later. She didn’t want to. She wanted to ride back home with Ian, but she couldn’t leave her parents to cope on their own, not for some weeks.

  Ian kissed her nose. “We have a lifetime before us, young and healthy, the both of us.”

  “A lifetime?” Betty leaned her head against his chest. “That’s relative. Harry had a lifetime as well – a very short one.” She blinked away her tears. It must be the pregnancy that was making her this maudlin, just as it was making her over-tender and nauseous. Ravenously hungry, she would fry up eggs, and then she couldn’t eat them, her whole stomach flipping at the sight of those quivering yolks.

  “A long lifetime.” Ian smoothed back her hair, no longer imprisoned in a tight braid but collected in a soft bun at the back of her head like he wanted it.

  *

  They were all rather subdued when they set off, very early on a Tuesday morning, but by the time it was Thursday, and home was only a few hours away, they were in a considerably better mood, however uncomfortable the previous night had been – rainy and cold. The only irritant was Matthew’s horse, because poor Moses had developed an inflammation in one of his hooves.