Like Chaff in the Wind (13 page)

Chapter 17

“It was my fault,” Alex repeated for the nth time since they had returned from the funeral. “If only I hadn’t meddled…”

But she’d been obliged to, still angry with herself for not having interceded when she saw the other man being whipped. She grimaced; it hadn’t helped, had it? The poor slave had died anyway, dragged to his death by the length of chain.

“It happened,” Mrs Gordon said. “It wasn’t your hand that wielded the blade, no?”

“No, but it might just as well have been. Poor Don Benito, to die so far away from home and family.”

“He would have died far away anyway, and surely to die in a bed with your hand held by a friend is a somewhat easier going than to be flayed alive by heathen Indians.” Mrs Gordon had some very wild preconceived notions about Indians, Alex sighed, before reverting to her moping. Things weren’t helped by the fact that he’d left her well over fifteen pounds. Even Mrs Gordon had looked impressed when Alex poured out gold sovereigns and silver shillings.

“He was well buried,” Mrs Gordon said, “and he even got to lie in that horrible hair shirt.” She patted the bench beside her and with a little grunt Alex sat down, glad of the shade.

“I couldn’t even find him a Catholic priest.”

“It was opulent enough as it was, no?” Mrs Gordon shrugged. “Close to papist in trappings and rituals, I’d reckon.”

“It was definitely not Presbyterian,” Alex nodded.

“Absolutely not,” Mrs Gordon said. “Anyway, I don’t think it much matters, the important thing is that God has welcomed him home. Well; assuming God makes an exception now and then for a papist.”

“Assuming God exists,” Alex muttered in an undertone. At present she wasn’t too sure.

“What?” Mrs Gordon leaned towards her.

“Nothing.”

Mrs Gordon gave her a long look before bustling off to find them something to drink.

They were leaving tomorrow, and despite her grief over Don Benito, Alex’s heart lifted at the thought. In a month she’d be with Matthew. She crossed her fingers just in case.

“Here,” Mrs Gordon extended a wooden cup and sat down beside her. “I’ll miss this house,” she said, studying their surroundings. It was a pleasant little place, the solid house enhanced by the extended porch that ensured shade throughout the day and the neat little garden.

Alex gave her a sly look. “I’m sure you’d be most welcome to stay.” She laughed at the expression on Mrs Gordon’s face. “As the new Mrs Coulter, of course.”

“Hmph.” A nice enough man, Mr Coulter, Mrs Gordon told Alex, but to marry him would be to live forever in the shadow of his defunct wife. “He can’t let her go, or mayhap he simply doesn’t want to.”

“What about you? Have you let your husband go?”

Mrs Gordon turned to face her. “My Robbie is always here,” she smiled, patting herself somewhere in the region of her heart. “But I no longer have him in my bed.”

“Never?”

Mrs Gordon laughed and shook her head. “Well, aye, there are times when he visits, no? But it’s when I invite him in. When it gets too lonely.”

“And your girls?” Alex asked hesitantly. Mrs Gordon rarely spoke of her dead family, and it was only by adding up the odd bit here and there that Alex had pieced together the sad story of how Mrs Gordon had lost her entire family in less than a year. Smallpox, an accidental drowning, and then the girl who’d been ill for years had died last, coughing her lungs out.

“My lasses go with me always, and not a day passes when I don’t think of them.” Her eyes flashed in the direction of Alex. “It isn’t right, a mother shouldn’t have to bury all her bairns.”

Alex gave Mrs Gordon a hug.

*

No sooner had they left the protective barrier of Barbados, than Alex felt the first waves of nausea begin to climb her back. By noon she was lying in her berth, her stomach hurting after hours spent voiding her guts, and for three days she remained in her cabin, swearing she would never, ever, set foot on a boat again. Except that she would have to; how else to go home?

It was a relief to make it out on deck – until she bumped into a man she for a fleeting instant thought was Luke. With a squeak she recoiled, falling against Mrs Gordon, who luckily was stout enough to handle it. The stranger gave her a wary look, muttered an apology, and hurried off towards the galley.

“Who’s that?” Now that Alex had recovered from her initial surprise, she saw that the resemblance wasn’t that strong. Luke had hair the colour of a fox pelt, a deep burnished red, while this individual had lighter hair. Also, the eyes were not quite as green, and in stature this lanky person had very little in common with either Luke or Matthew.

“The new cook, on account of Mr Davies choosing to remain on Barbados with one of Captain Miles’ little brood.” Mrs Gordon clucked with amusement as she explained that it hadn’t been only Nell who had made herself available on the earlier crossing. “But this Anne she held herself to the one man, and when they knew she was with child, they chose to remain on land. I suggested Mr Davies should talk to Mr Coulter, and Anne would make him a good maid.”

“You thought it was yon Luke, no?” Mrs Gordon said later, interrupting Alex in her intense study of the cook who was leaning over the railings, smoking a pipe.

Alex nodded, her hands clenching. “I hate him for what he’s done to us. I spend far too much time thinking about how to make him pay.”

“Och, aye?” Mrs Gordon sounded very relaxed. “Is it not enough to saw off his balls with a wee knife and feed them to him?”

“No, ground glass would be better, or tincture of monk’s hood, or spitting him on a red hot sword. Anything to make him die in agony.”

Mrs Gordon paled. “Well; you have been thinking, no?”

“You hang for murder,” she added after a couple of seconds of silence.

“I know, and you don’t need to worry. I’ll never do something like that.” Alex turned her wedding ring repeatedly round her finger, lost in thought.

“You worry that the master might.”

“If it were me, three things would have kept me alive; Matthew, Mark and the warped wish to avenge myself on Luke.” Alex exhaled loudly. “What will that kind of hate have done to Matthew?” She didn’t say anything more, she just lost herself in the twisting motion of her ring.

*

Once she had gotten over her instinctive dislike of the man, Alex found the cook to be an entertaining, if somewhat mournful, companion. His name was Ignatius, he told her, sighing loudly.

“My father and his brothers were all aitch names, so me and my siblings all begin with an I. Isobel, Isaiah, Isaac, Immaculata…”

“What?”

“She’s a nun,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Luckily, given that name…” Alex said, receiving an amused smile in return. “Did your mother really call you Ignatius?”

“No. My family calls me Iggy, and my sister is Im.”

“Well thank heavens for small mercies,” Alex said. “Look at it from the bright side, it will be easier for your children; James, Jenny, Jane, Janet.”

“All taken,” he said, rolling his eyes before disappearing down into his galley.

Mrs Gordon wasn’t too happy about the fact that the new cook was Catholic, on account of it soon being lent and everyone knew the Catholics went a bit overboard during those forty days leading up to Easter.

“Fish once or twice a week, aye,” she confided to Alex, “but every day no.” In the event, Iggy seemed possessed of a roomy conscience when it came to religion and food, and won Mrs Gordon’s heart permanently when he baked her a marrow pie – on a Friday.

*

In comparison with the Atlantic crossing, the following month was an agreeable cruise, with steady winds blowing them northwards at a sedate pace. No storms, no days of absolute stillness, and with every passing day Alex felt the anxiety in her grow.

Her dreams were tossing nightmares that had her landing on the cabin floor, disoriented and full of fear. Mrs Gordon soothed and hugged, she sat with Alex’s head pillowed in her lap and sang her to sleep, rocking from side to side. But most of all she smiled and repeated time and time again that of course Matthew Graham was still alive. How could he be otherwise when his wife was coming for him?

Chapter 18

“Jamestown.” Captain Miles pointed in the direction of the small collection of houses, and Alex smothered an incredulous laugh. This the main port of entry to Virginia? Captain Miles gave her a brief history; years of starvation, savages that one day swept out of the woods and killed or carried off more than a third of the little colony, stubborn men that clung to the dream of carving themselves a new home here, far from their English roots.

“They came here, gentlemen with house servants, and found that there was no one but them to till the ground or cut down the forest. It came as a shock, aye? Some refused, but threatened with not eating if they didn’t work, they resigned themselves and put those soft lilywhite hands of theirs to good use.” Captain Miles studied his own callused hands and smiled at Alex. “In return they claimed large tracts of land, and now their children live the life of gentlemen, while the work is done by lesser men – like your husband.”

“He isn’t a lesser man!” Alex bristled.

Captain Miles assured her that he was certain that Mr Graham must be a most impressive man, but surely in his present circumstances… Alex sniffed and went back to studying the shore.

Men were gravitating towards the landing stage, there were cheers that carried across the water. Captain Miles mumbled an apology to Alex and hastened off to see to the unloading of his cargo. Of the original sixty odd women, fifteen had been sold as bond servants, three had died on the crossing, some had slipped away on Barbados, and on deck now stood only thirty-eight, complemented by five red-haired girls from the Scottish settlement on Barbados that in Alex’s opinion all looked as if they had jaundice – or worms, maybe even both.

The women hung over the railings, waved and bantered with the gathered men, for all the world as if they were here for a daytrip no more. There was a stampede to be first off the ship, but Alex chose to hang back, descending into the last of the longboats.

Alex had not expected such curiosity, and adjusted her straw hat to hide her face. The men who congregated round the landed women studied her hungrily, but with Mrs Gordon as a scowling watchdog on one side, and Smith on her other, Alex made it through the press of men to stand some distance away.

Captain Miles was already on shore, and with a carrying voice took over the proceedings, clearing a space for the women to stand, one by one. Age, religion and status was repeated time and time again.

“Mary, twenty-two, Church of England, unwed.” Or “Agnes, thirty-one, Presbyterian, widow.” Some men made as if to fondle the goods, but were beaten back by Captain Miles’ crew. The ten remaining bond servants were disposed of, and one after another the girls were led off, with flashes of uncertainty and fear crossing their faces.

Captain Miles had explained that female bondservants were a commodity in this heat infested place, and that therefore they would fare better than their male counterparts. Whoopee; not much of a dream scenario, and at Alex’s continued questioning the captain had admitted that several of the girls would in all probability end up pregnant, victims of sexual abuse or, in some cases, of genuine affection.

Alex saw one pretty girl – Jenny, twenty, papist, unwed – fall in step behind a man old enough to be her father, and shuddered at how the man ogled the girl. Jenny would be warming her new master’s bed that very same evening, of that Alex was sure.

“How terrible,” Alex said to Mrs Gordon. “Imagine being bonded to someone like that.” With her head she indicated a large man who was standing to the side, flicking casually at his boots with a riding crop.

“A bond servant has a term of service, aye? And Captain Miles says how the lasses are generally treated well enough to survive. Once they do, they can choose their own lives. But these…” Mrs Gordon waved her hand in the direction of the women who were now being led forward. “…these will have sold their lives for the passage. Once you’re wed, there is no getting away from the man.”

“So you think they have it worse?”

Mrs Gordon raised her brows and scanned the crowd of waiting men.

“These are poor men, no? They work their plots by themselves – you can see that.”

Alex followed her eyes. Yes, weathered men in worn clothes; some stood barefoot, and all had a light in their eyes as they studied the women.

“They’ll buy themselves a wife,” Mrs Gordon went on, “and she will toil beside him. And it’s a harsh life, no? Much harsher than being a milkmaid on one of the large plantations.”

“But at least they’re still free,” Alex tried, receiving an irritated headshake in return.

“Free? A wife isn’t free. She belongs to her man.”

“I don’t, I’m free. I don’t belong to Matthew.” But she did – legally at least, however much it irked her to admit it.

Having seen his human cargo disposed of, Captain Miles strode over to join Alex and Mrs Gordon. He had offered to escort them to a boarding house on the outskirts of the town, assuring them that it was clean and had a very competent cook.

“So, did you make a profit?” Alex asked, making the captain frown.

“No, this has been a loss making trip. Unless I get a good price for the cane spirit, that is.”

“Rum,” Alex said, “call it rum. And I told you, didn’t I? It’s a commodity in the making – trust me.”

“It smells like the devil,” he sighed. “Looks like tar water and the taste is not much better, is it? Still,” he shrugged, “I spoke to one of the innkeepers, and he seemed interested enough.”

“Well, that’s good,” Alex said. Her eyes were darting this way and that, taking in the little settlement. Not that small, actually, with quite a few shops and businesses ranged along the main thoroughfare. “It’s bigger than I thought it would be.”

“Much bigger than it was,” the captain said, “and thriving. A lot of money in tobacco.” His arm flew out to steady Mrs Gordon who’d slipped on a patch of mud.

“Not enough to pave the streets,” Mrs Gordon muttered, fussing with her cap and collar. She brightened when Captain Miles steered them down a narrow lane, making for a house from which emanated the promising scent of baking bread. “I hope they have butter.”

“I hope they have a hipbath,” Alex said, making Mrs Gordon laugh.

*

Already on her first day in Jamestown, Alex found the registry, but to her frustration it was closed, the chief registrar being busy with his spring planting. A yawning doorman told her to come back Monday two weeks, and refused to allow her inside to flip through the archives herself.

“Please?”

“No,” the doorman said, “I will not have you bring disarray to the order within.”

“I can’t afford to wait two weeks!” she said, her heart tumbling inside her. The man shrugged and closed the door in her face. Alex kicked at it: so close and still too far away, and with every day she could feel how his beat grew weaker, a continuous slowing that had her sitting up at bed, pleading with him to stay alive, please God stay alive.

Mrs Gordon tried to distract her, assuring her that the good Lord would not have led them all the way here only to have her find him dead.

“How do you know?” Alex said. “He hasn’t been all that much help this past year, has He?”

“I know, aye? And so do you.” Mrs Gordon took hold of Alex’s hand and stared into her eyes, refusing to let go until Alex nodded in agreement.

*

Three days after arriving, Mrs Gordon had a thriving business up and running. Mrs Adams, their landlady, had clapped her hands together at hearing Mrs Gordon was a midwife, and had made a massive PR effort, resulting in Mrs Gordon being called away at all hours, delivering one child after the other. Business was further helped along by the elderly apothecary, who took one look at Mrs Gordon and grinned like a jack-o-lanterns, exposing a crooked but relatively complete set of teeth.

“One could think they’ve all been bottling it up until you arrived,” Alex teased, serving Mrs Gordon a steaming omelette.

Mrs Gordon gave her a tired look. “It’s March, no?”

“March?”

Eliza the cook laughed at Alex’s incomprehension. “Babies come in batches, Miss Alex – in March and in September.”

A statement which, if anything, made Alex even more confused. She turned to Mrs Gordon, who sighed and explained that a lot of babies were made in June and in December.

“In June because all the young lasses go a bit out of their head when the grass is green and sweet, and in December because there is not much else to do, no? Don’t tell me,” she went on with a decided edge to her voice. “It’s different in Sweden.”

“I wouldn’t think so,” Alex replied huffily.

“Why don’t they pay you in money?” Alex asked as Mrs Gordon lugged a stone jar of honey up the stairs.

“Because they don’t have any.”

“Are they all poor?”

“Nay, but the few coins they have they need for their taxes. Everything else they barter for.” Mrs Gordon eyed Alex for a moment. “Why don’t you do that? Take all this and barter it.” She waved her hand at the smoked hams, the honey jars, the odd candles and a couple of soft woollen shawls.

“For what?”

Mrs Gordon considered that. “Well, not for yarn,” she said, still unimpressed by Alex’s knitting. “But for linen and embroidery thread. You’re good at that, no? You could sew and sell – like the wee smocks you did for Mark, or the shifts you’ve sewn for yourself with that rose pattern around the neckline.”

“I’m not sure—”

“It helps to keep busy, lass.”

Every morning, Alex loaded her basket with an assortment of items and worked her way round town, returning with linen and cambric, thread and yards of pale yellow or green ribbons. In the afternoons she sewed, often outdoor under the huge sycamore that decorated the furthest corner of the lot the boarding house stood in, sometimes indoor in her room.

“This is right bonny,” Mrs Gordon said, studying the first completed baby smock. She inspected the work carefully, her beady eyes ensuring that Alex hadn’t cheated on the hems.

“Mrs Gordon! I know what I’m doing, okay?”

“Okay, okay,” Mrs Gordon muttered back, making Alex stifle a giggle at this very modern expression.

*

Ten days after being deposited on the landing stage, Alex was back, this time to take farewell of Captain Miles. He promised to ensure her letters would be delivered to Hillview and swept her into a tentative embrace.

“Be careful, and when you find him, be sure to let your husband know he is a right fortunate man. Such a wife as he has is a rare treasure indeed.”

“Do you think I will? Find him, I mean.”

Captain Miles made a helpless gesture. “That I don’t know. But I’ll pray that you do.” He turned to hug a surprised Mrs Gordon. “Take care of our lass,” he admonished, receiving an insulted look in return. “You need to be down here every day,” he told Alex, one foot already in the longboat. “If you want passage home, you must meet each coming ship and negotiate with the captain before someone else books the berths.” He smiled slightly. “I’ll be back next year, but by then you’ll be long gone.”

“I sincerely hope so,” Alex said.

“Aye well, so do I.” He bowed and nimbly stepped aboard.

*

The day the registry opened, Alex was first in line, her hands tight fists in her skirts. What if he had died already on the crossing? And how was she to find him anyway? The chief registrar listened to her garbled explanation and promised to help, leading the way down dusty shelves as he read his way down indecipherable labels.

“Ah,” he said, “the
Henriette Marie
, you say?”

Alex nodded, wanting to yank the leather satchel from his hands and page her way through the papers inside. He limped over to a carrel illuminated by the light from a small window, and sat down, indicating she should pull up a stool and join him. Very slowly he turned each page, not, Alex realised, out of a sadistic desire to keep her on tenterhooks, but because he had to peer his way through each document, his eyes almost crossing with the effort.

“Matthew Graham?” he said after a while. Alex nodded, feeling her insides moving slowly up from her belly to crowd her throat. He frowned as he read his way through for the second time. “Ah…the Suffolk Rose.”

“That’s not good?” Alex could not keep the fear out of her voice.

“I…” he stammered, “no…well…” But he smiled and tapped at the deed which sold Matthew to a Mr Fairfax for seven years. Alex tensed at the name; this was the bastard who’d made big business out of abducting innocent men. “We have no notation that he is dead either.”

Alex’s shoulders dropped half a foot. “Would you always have that?” she said, and to her immense embarrassment her eyes filled with tears.

“No, but sooner or later we are informed.” He patted her hand and courteously looked away while she wiped her eyes and regained some composure.

“Is it far?” she asked as he led her back to the door. “To Suffolk Rose.”

“Three hours by foot, and there is a road all the way there.” He gave her a concerned look. “You should not go out there by yourself.”

“I have no choice, do I?”

As she made to step outside he put a restraining hand on her sleeve.

“What will you do if he says no?”

Alex blinked. The thought had never struck her. “No?” she asked dumbly.

“He may not want to part with him.”

“But why not?”

“Well…he, umm, Mr Fairfax, well…”

“I know,” Alex said, “a man with the morals of a snake.”

The registrar mumbled something about Mr Fairfax being a prominent member of the colony, and such allegations had best be voiced in very selective company. But he wiped at his rheumy eyes and told her she was right, Mr Fairfax was neither a kindly nor a good man.

“And so he may refuse,” he said, making a helpless gesture.

“If he says no, I’ll crush him.” She straightened up to her full height. “He won’t; after all, I’m willing to pay a premium price.”

On the way back to the boarding house she didn’t know whether to dance with joy or crawl with fear. The look on the old man’s face as he’d said Suffolk Rose, had the hairs on her body standing in premonition. Energy drained out of her so fast she just had to stop, hurrying over to stand in the shade of a tree. She placed her hand just below her sternum and took several deep breaths, closing her eyes as she steadied her thundering pulse.