Like Chaff in the Wind (18 page)

He produced the half-written letter to Simon from inside his shirt and reread what he’d written so far. He laughed darkly at the task he was lumbering his brother-in-law with; to investigate how Malcolm Graham had died in late 1653, nigh on nine years ago. Well, if anyone could do such it would be his legally trained friend. Behind Simon’s cannon ball exterior and joviality, there ticked a mind of extreme sharpness. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to achieve by his request; a possibility to have Luke convicted of murder? But what if it was Margaret who’d pushed Malcolm to die?

He heard the flapping sound first and raised his eyes from his letter to see in front of him a ship. The crew was busy taking in the sails, anchors were lowered with dull splashes, and the deck was full of men. He gawked; how had it sailed up so close without him noticing? Boats were setting out in the direction of the ship, and with a sinking feeling he realised he recognised this particular vessel.

Matthew stuck the letter into his coat pocket and retreated further into the shade, an unwilling spectator to the events unfolding in front of him. His eyes stuck on the men being lowered into the boats, pale blobs for faces. He was only yards from the landing stage and he stared at the newcomers. Had he looked like that, filthy, with a pervading stink of vomit and a pallor that indicated weeks out of the sun? He wanted to back away, but felt obliged to watch this to the bitter end, remaining rooted to the spot as the sad little caravan stumbled towards the auction block on landless, weakened legs.

“Brings back memories, doesn’t it?” Jones said, materialising out of nowhere by his side. When Matthew moved away, Jones followed. “Once a slave, always a slave.” He brought his riding crop down hard against the leather of his boots, laughing when Matthew flinched at the sound.

“Once a glob of shit, always a glob of shit,” Matthew said. Jones raised his crop. “Go on,” Matthew taunted. “Go on and use that on me, and see what happens to you.”

The whip came down, Matthew sidestepped, and Jones almost overbalanced with the momentum of his movement, but regained his balance with the grace of a huge cat, wheeling so fast Matthew had no possibility of evading the crop. It slashed him across the ear, and with a growl Matthew pounced.

A fist connected with his chin, he grunted, hit back, and then it was all a whirlwind of kicks and punches. Too big, too strong; Jones was sneering, big hands clenched into fists the size of hams. The saner part of Matthew’s brain begged with him to break and run, flee, and he actually started to turn when a kick sent him sprawling to the ground.

Merciful Lord! He bit his tongue with the force of the impact, his mouth flooding with the taste of his blood. Up; get up. Matthew shook his head in an effort to clear his mind, a movement flashed to his right and he rolled, Jones’ foot missing his head by an inch no more. He had regained his feet and was levering himself upright, when the next kick drove into his flank. Ah! Like a punctured pig’s bladder he collapsed to the ground, leeching on to the foot. Jones cursed, tried to tug himself free. Matthew pulled with all his might, and like an uprooted tree Jones toppled towards him. Matthew rolled again, narrowly evading having Jones land on him.

Matthew groaned, heaving himself up on all fours. Jones cursed and spat, sat up and threw himself at Matthew, squashing him flat. No air. Matthew coughed, tried to dislodge this unbearable weight from across his back.

Water; they were by the shoreline, and a huge, meaty hand came down on Matthew’s nape, dragging him towards the water. Matthew dug his hands in, his toes, his knees, heaving himself backwards. Jones grunted, sank his fingers into Matthew’s neck and lifted him towards the pebbled shore. Matthew bit him, gained a second or so of respite, and retreated from the water. Jones said something, his fingers were back, punishing digits that sank into tendons and nerves. An inch, yet another inch, grass became sand, sand became pebbles and here was the water. Jones forced his head under the surface.

In desperation Matthew bucked, his elbow connected with something and the hold on his neck relaxed sufficiently for him to tear himself free. He crawled on all fours and there was the hand again, pulling him back towards the water, while all around men catcalled and cheered. I’m going to die, Matthew managed to think. His head was yet again submerged. He struggled like a fiend, found purchase against the bottom with his hands, succeeded in pushing himself high enough to gasp some air before going down again.

*

When Alex came out of Mr Parson’s shop, she met a stream of people hurrying off towards the river and fell in step, curious about the general air of festivity. She stopped when she saw the ship, the men. Her eyes flew over the crowd, searching for Matthew, and her heart did an odd little manoeuvre when she saw the knot of men, a tight huddle of loud voices and cheers that was oblivious to the on-going auction.

She shouldered her way through, using feet and elbows when she needed to. Just as she made it to the front, the noise died away, and when she broke through the last line of men she saw why. Matthew and Jones were down by the water, Matthew’s limbs flopping weakly while Jones was holding his head under water. Alex didn’t stop to think.

“Murder! He’s murdering my husband!” She launched herself on Jones, grabbed the big man by his hair, and pulled – hard. Jones swore and swatted at her, but by doing so he relinquished his hold on Matthew, and to Alex relief she saw her husband’s head reappear, mouth wide open as he gulped down air. She tightened her hold and dragged Jones’ backwards, him howling like a stuck pig. Her grip on his hair slipped, and with an angry exclamation Jones pushed Alex away, turning back to his intended victim.

“Fifty witnesses,” Alex called, “and I swear, Dominic Jones, that I’ll see you hang if you as much as lay a finger on my husband again.” She planted herself in front of him, all of her tensing. If he tried anything she’d send him flying – she hoped, gulping at the size of him. Jones came to a stop and swept eyes over the by now very silent spectators. He hesitated, looked over to where Matthew was on hands and knees, retching. His hands twitched, they curled themselves into threatening fists, and then the harbourmaster was there as well, coming to stand between Matthew and Jones.

“Go,” he said to Jones.

“Get out of my way,” Jones growled. “He started it, and now he must pay the price. An indenture to raise his hands to a free man!”

“He didn’t start it, you did,” the harbourmaster said. “And I’ll add my voice to Mrs Graham’s if need be.” A murmur of assent rose from among the men, quite a few shuffled on their feet, and two came forward to help Matthew stand. With a colourful curse and one last look at Matthew, Jones stalked off.

The harbourmaster placed a pudgy hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “Stay away from him, Graham. Jones is a dangerous man.”

Matthew nodded, dragging a shaking hand over his wet face. He inhaled, held his breath and exhaled, repeating the procedure a couple of times before taking the few steps that separated him from Alex. She didn’t say anything – she couldn’t – she just raised her hand to his cheek, his mouth.

“I’m alright, truly, Alex, I’m fine.” He led her to where he had left his coat, lying on a makeshift bench. “We won’t be trying for a passage with her.” He spat in the direction of the
Henriette Marie
.

“Of course not,” Alex said. “Although we could perhaps sneak aboard and set her on fire.” That coaxed a small smile from Matthew.

“He was going to kill you.” Her hands knotted themselves into the fabric of her skirts, and she couldn’t quite remember what to do to relax the tension in them.

“But he didn’t.” Matthew worked her fingers loose from her skirts, one by one.

“No, he didn’t.” She stepped up close enough to rest her forehead against him, drew in his scent, so reassuringly warm and alive. Matthew held her to him, long fingers tracing soothing patterns up and down her back. “He’ll try again.”

“Aye – and all at the behest of my beloved brother.” He leaned back to see her face. “You bought me free in the nick of time. Had you but been a few weeks later, I would have been dead, Jones would have been richer, and Luke would have been whooping for joy.”

“Probably.” Alex snuck her hand into his, and they walked back not saying anything much until they turned into the small lane leading to the boarding house, where Alex drew him to a stop.

“Here,” she said, digging into her pouch to produce the copy of the contract with Fairfax.

Matthew looked at her in confusion.

Alex squirmed; she didn’t really like saying this. “I’m your wife, right?”

He half smiled and raised an eyebrow to assure her that she was.

“Anything I own is therefore per definition yours – even I am yours.” She grimaced, he waited, clearly amused. “So, if I hold your indenture, and I’m your wife, well then it follows that the person who really owns your indenture is yourself. No matter what the Governor says or does, you’re free.” She waited as he worked that one through, and it made her glad to see the light it kindled in his eyes. “I wonder what all this makes me,” she grumbled as they turned into the yard. “A cow?”

Matthew hooked a finger in the waistband of her skirt, drawing her towards him.

“You’re mine, aye. My wife – no cow.” He squeezed her buttock and jerked his head in the direction of the house. “Bed. Now.”

Alex laughed, tried to wiggle free from his arms and hands. “Forget it; I’m starving. You’ll have to wait until after dinner.”

Matthew took a firm hold of her and propelled her towards the stairs. “Nay, you’ll wait with dinner.”

He definitely tried, and for some instants it was almost like it used to be between them, sparks flying hot from finger to skin; almost, but not quite, and then the stranger was back, a man who made courteous, distanced love to her. It made her want to kick him in his balls.

Chapter 24

Next morning, Alex only had to glance at Matthew to see his elation had faded back into his customary simmering resentment. He was sitting at the little desk, brows pulled into one dark line, busy with his letter. Alex sighed; one of the first casualties to these black moods was early morning sex, mainly because he was out of bed and dressed long before she woke up. She stretched, rolled in his direction. He pretended not to notice she was awake, his quill scratching over the paper.

“Hi,” she tried, receiving a grunt in reply. She patted the bed beside her, half sat up. “Come here,” she purred, her breasts clearly visible. Matthew sat back and stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles.

“I’m already dressed.”

She hunched together for an instant before straightening her spine.

“Fine.” She got out of bed, dressing with angered haste before detouring round his chair on the way to the door. “This will never work. We’ll never find our way back to how we used to be if you continue closing me out.” He extended his hand to her, but she shook her head. “Too late, Mr Graham. I’m already dressed, see?” He flinched as she threw his words back at him and it made her glad. Bastard!

“It isn’t only my responsibility. I try and try, I laugh and play happy families, I try to show you that I love you just as much now as before, even if the man I now share my bed with is very different from the man I once met on a moor. It hasn’t exactly been a piece of cake for me either, you know.”

“It wasn’t you sold like a beast,” he snapped. “You didn’t spend months living like a slave.”

“No, I just spent month after month imagining what you might be living, dying inside at the thought that someone was abusing you, starving you.” She sent him a dark look, grabbed at her hat, and left.

*

Matthew saw her emerge into the alley, adjust the straw bonnet and set off towards the town. He should go after her, but what could he possibly say? He watched her drop out of sight, sealed his letter to Simon, and went down to breakfast, pleasantly surprised to find James there.

“Did you quarrel?” James asked. “She looked right upset, wee Alex.”

Matthew shrugged. “I don’t rightly know,” he said, salting his eggs. “She says I close her out, and aye, I do. I can’t burden her with the rage that gnaws at my insides, and in my darker moments I fear that I might take it out on her.” He sighed and concentrated on his food until the plate was wiped clean. “It used to be I would love her in the mornings,” he mumbled, keeping his eyes on the table. “Even the first few days back with her I did. But now I wake long before her, and my cock is stiff and hard but it is more rage than love. So instead I rise and dress.” He drew his mug of beer towards him and drank. “It hurts her. She likes it when we start the day together – and so do I.”

“And today?”

Matthew squirmed. “She wanted me, and I told her I was already dressed.”

“Ah,” James nodded, digging into his pouch for his pipe. “You have to explain, and you must do it soon.”

Matthew drank some more. He already knew that; he just didn’t know how.

*

Alex was still buzzing with rejection when she reached the Governor’s rooms. Announcing that she had objects from the king to deliver, she was admitted to the dining room where Sir William sat very lonely at the end of a long table. Still in morning attire, with a plum silk dressing gown over a linen nightshirt, Sir William stared balefully at her.

“What incompetent fool let you in? And unannounced at that!”

“Sir William,” she curtsied, ignoring his little outburst.

“Two months,” he said, attempting a dismissive wave of his hand.

“I decided I wouldn’t allow myself to be as petty as you are.” She dug into her pouch and retrieved two small, wrapped objects. “These were entrusted me by Don Ángel Benito Muñoz de Hojeda upon his death in Barbados, and I promised to fulfil his charge and deliver them to you, with compliments from the king.”

“A book,” Sir William said, hefting the larger of the objects, and the look of pleasure on his face was so spontaneous that Alex smiled, despite the fact that she was still mad as hell. He put down the parcel unopened. “May I offer you some breakfast?”

She eyed the heaped eggs and felt her stomach somersault, a swift wave of nausea flowing up towards her mouth. She couldn’t be! Not so soon…

“An orange, perhaps?” Sir William suggested, scratching at his impressive beak of a nose. “I’ve grown it myself, out at my plantation.”

Alex made adequate complimentary noises, doubting the Governor had done much more than oversee the planting. From the look of his hands, he wasn’t much into manual labour.

“Why don’t you open it?” she asked, indicating the book.

“The longer I wait, the more of a surprise it will be. It will keep a few hours more.”

Alex nodded, slicing her orange into edible sections. “And the other?”

Sir William weighed it in his hand. “A ring,” he guessed, “or perhaps a medallion.”

He opened it and showed her an excellent miniature of a man with saturnine features and a lot of long hair; the king, obviously. Around the central image was depicted an oak, and she wondered if that was an attempt to relay the impression that Charles the Second was as stout and long-lived as an oak. Sir William laughed at her.

“It’s the Royal Oak, the tree in which he hid whilst hunted like an animal by the Commonwealth troops.”

Another huge hole in her history education, Alex concluded. The miniature was mounted and Sir William pinned it on his dressing gown to show it off.

“Very nice,” she murmured, hiding a smile.

“Yes,” the Governor said, “a small reminder, I think, of where my loyalties must lie.”

“Thank you for the orange,” Alex said once she had finished it and got to her feet. “I hope it’s a good book.”

Sir William called her back before she reached the door. “The deed, I will sign it now, if you have it with you.”

“I do.” Alex dug into her pouch, heat flying up her neck, her cheeks, and all the way to her ears when her fingers grazed the third package, the one she had chosen not to hand over. She shivered just from touching it. She handed the deed to Sir William, who unrolled it and signed it before giving it back.

“I was not at my best yesterday,” he muttered, avoiding her eyes.

“No, you’re much nicer today.” She placed a hand on his. “We all have our bad days, right?”

If he was taken aback by her forwardness, he didn’t show it. “Yes, I dare say we all do.” He smiled, dark eyes crinkling together.

*

Once she was back outside, Alex half ran in the direction of Mrs Adams’. She had no idea what had made her unwrap the third package on her way into town, and she had taken but the quickest peek before shoving it deeper into her pouch. Now the package called to her, an insistent whisper that she pull it out and look at it, look closely and drown.

Oh God; sweat broke out along her spine. A painting; one of Mercedes’ magic time portals, blue and green swirls leading towards a vertiginous midst of brilliant white. And all the time it had been lying among Don Benito’s things, talk about a coincidence! If one was given to fanciful thoughts, one could almost imagine the painting was doing its best to find her. Alex laughed shakily. That was totally ridiculous, she told herself, but she had to stop and take a couple of steadying breaths.

She hefted her pouch. It should burn – no, it must burn – and yet…well, maybe she shouldn’t. Matthew would insist it be destroyed the moment he clapped eyes on it, and that insight made Alex come to a halt, turn and set off towards the apothecary, hoping to find Mrs Gordon there.

She was. Alex blinked and broke out in a huge smile. Mr Parson and Mrs Gordon stood face to face in the little shop, holding hands. Alex watched tall, distinguished Mr Parson creak down to kiss Mrs Gordon on her brow. She turned her back, counted to one hundred and then barged in, catching the courting couple in a heated kiss.

“I need your help.” Alex grinned at the mottled red that stood bright against the white of Mrs Gordon’s collar. “You can kiss her a bit more later,” she promised a peony pink Mr Parson, tugging Mrs Gordon in the direction of the kitchen. “Look at you,” Alex said to Mrs Gordon. “Quite the guy magnet you are.”

“Och, aye? And what is a guy magnet?” Mrs Gordon patted her starched collar back into place.

“A woman who has men drooling.”

“Not all men,” Mrs Gordon said primly.

“No, just Captain Miles, Mr Coulter on Barbados and now Mr Parson.”

“Mr Coulter was a bereaved widower and Captain Miles is a married man.”

“They still fancied you, and you know that.” Alex smiled at the expression that flashed across Mrs Gordon’s face. “I want you to keep something for me,” she went on, digging into her pouch.

In her haste, she threw the package at the table but missed, causing it to teeter on the edge before falling to the floor. The soft cloth around it snagged on the wooden table top, thereby allowing the painting to land uncovered on the floor. Alex squeaked and took an instinctive step back.

“It’s not a snake,” Mrs Gordon said, bending over stiffly to study the small oblong painting.

Alex looked at her in surprise. “You don’t feel it?”

Mrs Gordon shook her head. “Feel what?”

“Hmm,” Alex gnawed her lip. “Don Benito gave it to me,” she lied, “my mother painted it.”

Mrs Gordon picked up the lightweight square and placed it on the table, eyeing it with interest.

“Your mother? Did he know her?”

No of course he didn’t, Alex felt like saying, my mother hasn’t been born yet – hang on a minute; yes she had, Mercedes had been born ages ago, in medieval Seville. And she’d been here – in this time – leaving paintings behind her, and all of this was so confusing it made Alex want to retreat to bed and sleep for a week. Alternatively throw up.

“No, but he must have found it in Seville, that was her home town.”

“She wasn’t very good, was she?” Mrs Gordon said, making Alex choke on a bubble of laughter. If only she knew! “What is this? A wee sea? A portion of a river?”

“I don’t know, and maybe it isn’t good, but it was my mother’s, and I’d like you to keep it for me.”

“Why?”

Alex sighed. “Matthew doesn’t like it.”

Matthew didn’t even know it existed, but the moment he did, he’d cleave it in two with an axe, and that was something Alex couldn’t allow to happen. She had no idea why, the rational part of her mind was telling her that the right thing to do was to destroy it, but her instincts were telling her not to. Mrs Gordon’s black eyes darted from the picture to Alex, but finally she agreed.

“We have to wrap it up, cover it completely,” Alex said.

Ignoring Mrs Gordon’s surprised expression, she approached the painting with her eyes squished shut, wrapping it up by feel alone. At Alex’s insistence, Mrs Gordon found yet another length of cloth, and by the time Alex was done, a neatly tied parcel rested on the table, the seductive whispers from the canvas muffled into an indistinctive hum. Alex relaxed.

“Explain,” Mrs Gordon said, her peppercorn eyes indicating none of them were going anywhere until Alex had told her the truth.

“I can’t, you won’t believe me.”

Mrs Gordon shoved the parcel in the direction of Alex. “If you won’t tell me, then I won’t keep it. I can see you think it dangerous.”

Well, she had a point there, Alex conceded, wondering how on earth to begin.

“You can start at the beginning,” Mrs Gordon suggested. “You can start by explaining why a lass would wander around in long, blue breeches and her hair cropped short, like you did the first time I saw you, nigh on four years ago.”

Alex gave Mrs Gordon a considering look, squared her shoulders, and took a deep breath. Here goes.

“Jeans, they’re called jeans, the long pants, and where I come from everybody wears them, both men and women.”

Mrs Gordon didn’t say a word. Not once did she interrupt or exclaim her disbelief. She just sat and listened, her face a perfect blank. Alex talked and talked, unnerved by her silence.

“The painting is a door back, I think,” she concluded, looking at the wrapped object with fear.

Mrs Gordon poked at the painting. “You think you might need one?”

“No! Of course not! But I just…well, you know, sometimes I miss her, my mother.”

“Was she a witch?”

“Mercedes?” Alex laughed hoarsely. “Well, yes, I suppose she was.” She hugged herself. “But I’m not.”

Mrs Gordon’s face wreathed itself into a huge smile. “You? Of course not! You can’t even knit properly.”

At this point in time, Mr Parson stuck his nose in through the door to tell Mrs Gordon there was a baby on its way, and would she please hurry as the future father had just fainted on his shop floor. Mrs Gordon swept the packed painting into her midwifery bundle, winked at Alex, and hurried after him.

Alex chose not to return to her room. Instead she wandered down to sit on the landing stage, paddling her bare feet in the muddy water of the James. It had been a relief to tell Mrs Gordon, but her suspicion regarding the back door rankled, especially as it had struck a bit too close to home.

These last few weeks, she’d found herself thinking far too often about that lost life: a life of comfort and security, a life where she had her father and a son. Here she also had a son, and she had thought herself to have a man, but the Matthew who had been returned to her was fundamentally changed, and she didn’t know how to help him heal. She followed the wheeling flight of a couple of terns and sighed.