Like Chaff in the Wind (32 page)

Alex was bitterly regretting not having burnt that stupid little picture the moment she knew it for what it was. How could she even be considering to send her boy through time with the help of one of Mercedes’ magic paintings? Out of the corner of her eye, she studied Isaac where he sat behind Matthew, now in his jeans and t-shirt, and in his face she saw a mirror of her own fear, but even more a shimmer of joy. He was so eager to get back, no doubt he’d throw himself around Diane’s neck in a way he’d never done with her. She caught Matthew’s worried eyes on her and smiled bravely, urging the placid roan mare into a trot.

It was early evening once they reached their destination. Matthew scanned the surroundings, stamping at the middle of the crossroad before walking back to where Alex stood immobile, overwhelmed by the memories of that muggy May day when time cracked open at her feet, just here.

“Nothing,” he said, and Alex quivered back into normality. She took one big breath, held it for some seconds and turned to her son.

“Right; explain what you did last time.”

Isaac hitched his shoulders. “I just looked, and then I saw you.”

Alex crouched down beside him. “This may be dangerous, so we have to agree on some ground rules, okay?”

Isaac’s tongue darted out to lick his lips, but he nodded all the same.

“You’ll look first, and I’ll be holding you. Only if you see a place or a person you recognise will I let you go.” She clasped her son’s head between her hands and stared him into the eyes. “If you don’t see anything from your old life, you have to say so. We can’t risk you falling into some other time.” She kept her eyes sunk into his for a long time. “Do you understand?”

He nodded again.

She swept him into her arms and kissed him. “I’m so glad that I got to see you again. You’re a beautiful boy, and you have a very proud mother. Remember that, sweetheart.” She cleared her throat, looking away as she wiped at her eyes. “And when you get back I want you to do three things for me. One; kiss your Offa from me and tell him to stop teaching you bawdy songs, two; hug John and tell him he’s got a fantastic son, three; eat a huge helping of chocolate cake, okay?”

Isaac smiled at this last part and promised he would.

Matthew went to retrieve the wrapped painting. Even through all the layers, Alex could hear it, the soft murmuring of a seashell calling you towards the sea, the wailing song of Sirens that twisted itself into your head and whispered to you to come, come closer and look. She breathed through her mouth, suppressing the urge to clap her hands to her ears, leap to her feet and flee.

Matthew brought a coil of rope with him and looped it round the crossroad oak before knotting it around himself and Alex. Isaac made huge eyes but didn’t say anything, holding the little package unopened in his hands.

“A hug lad,” Matthew said and drew Isaac close. “I’m honoured to have made your acquaintance, Master Lind, and don’t forget you carry messages from me as well.”

Alex gave him a surprised look, but she didn’t say anything, kissing Isaac one last time before nodding in the direction of the parcel.

“Go on. But just so you know, I’m a bit of a coward so I’ll probably keep my eyes closed.”

Isaac smiled and undid the strings. Alex wrapped her arms around his waist, and Matthew tightened his hold on her shoulders.

She couldn’t stop herself from peeking. Blue paint smiled up at her, bright light poured from a little point towards which all the blue tumbled, and in her arms Isaac tensed, leaned back with a little whimper, but then relaxed, hands extended to what to Alex looked like a widening funnel of eye scorching light. So much noise, bloody hell, so much damned noise! Matthew gasped, his voice rose in a loud prayer, and Alex wet her lips, wanting to join in, begging whatever God existed to keep her safe.

“Look! Offa!” Isaac heaved forward, struggling against her arms. “Offa!” He wriggled and twisted, a live eel in Alex’s arms. “Offa, I’m coming Offa!”

No matter how she tried, Alex couldn’t unclench her hands. She was dragged into the painting with Isaac, and the rope around her waist cut into her, burning her skin, but then it was no longer there and she was free falling and she didn’t want this, oh God, she didn’t. Matthew! She could feel his hands on her arm, round her waist, hear his voice, how he pleaded with her, with God, and still she couldn’t let Isaac go. Magnus; in his garden, mouth falling open in shock, and she knew that he was seeing her and that she had to get back, quickly, before she was forever lost. Small hands struggled with hers.

“Go!” Isaac screamed. “Go back to him, Mama!” He was free, falling towards the ground, yelling that he was safe, and there was the rope, there were Matthew’s hands, his arms. Her vision shrank together, the previously so wide funnel of bright light converted into a pinprick. No Magnus, no Isaac, no nauseating sensation of hanging suspended between the here and there, only the reassuring solidity of the ground below her, of Matthew’s arms around her. She turned blank eyes on him, blinked, blinked again. Her brain checked out.

By the time Alex came to, she was lying wrapped in her cloak, Matthew’s coat a pillow under her head. All of her ached; from the smallest joint of her pinkie toe to the hairs that grew on her crown. She let her face fall to her right, and saw Matthew a distance away, feeding a fire into a burning blaze. She knew what he was going to do and was glad that he’d do it without her help. She would never dare to touch that canvas again. Nor did Matthew. Instead he sharpened the end of a branch and speared the picture, carrying it dangling to roast above the fire. Almost like hot dogs on a scout trip, Alex giggled.

The fire caught and white smoke uncurled itself from the picture to hang hovering in the air above. Alex closed her eyes and sniffed. Lemon peel and cinnamon, the heavy tang of sun warmed rosemary, and with one last plaintive cry it was gone. Alex shuddered in relief.

Chapter 42

2007

Magnus couldn’t stop hugging him. Isaac squirmed.

“I’m fine, but if you have some chocolate cake I wouldn’t mind a piece.”

Magnus laughed and cried at the same time, unable to stop himself from touching Isaac’s cheek, his shoulder, his hair.

“We have to call John,” he said, but Isaac hung back.

“Can we wait a bit? I…” He looked confused, dark brows forming one single line of concentration. “I want to talk to you first.”

Magnus nodded. The poor child must be suffering a major shock at finding himself back in his time, so if he wanted to wait, then so be it. Come to think of it, Magnus was trembling all over as well.

He led the boy into the kitchen and served him milk and cake, watching with amusement as he wolfed it down.

“You didn’t like the food?”

Isaac grimaced and shook his head. “It was pretty awful.”

“Well, Alex was never much of a cook.”

Isaac hitched his shoulder; she did as well as she could, he told Magnus, it wasn’t her fault they didn’t have tomatoes and pasta, orange juice or ice cream, was it? Isaac sighed, eyes drifting out to the garden.

“Mama…”

“Isaac?” Magnus shook his grandson. “Are you okay?”

Isaac gave him a watery smile and held out his glass for more milk.

Magnus listened in silence to Isaac’s long and muddled tale, plying him with cake and milk at regular intervals. Isaac ate and talked, and at the end he dug into his pocket and drew out a little wooden figure.

“It’s for you.” Isaac dropped the dark wood into Magnus’ open palm. “He says thank you for your daughter.”

Magnus twisted little Alex round and round. She was still his girl, in the way she laughed and held her head. But the weight of hair at her nape, and the unfamiliar clothes made it difficult to recognise her. What was beyond doubt was the love that had gone into the making of the little piece, hours of careful whittling to create this miniature effigy of a woman who sat and laughed at the world.

“He loves her,” Magnus said, feeling ridiculous saying this to a child.

Isaac nodded seriously. “And she loves him. She never wants to leave him.” He dug into his back pockets and produced several sheets of thick, heavy paper, handing them to Magnus.

He couldn’t tear his eyes from the little family spread across the table in front of him; Rachel, Mark, Matthew and Alex. There was a severe looking young woman that Isaac explained was Auntie Joan, and a glittering, beaming man who was Uncle Simon, and then there was Matthew, fast asleep with his daughter held in his arms. The tenderness with which Alex had drawn him, mirrored the love that had gone into the little carving, warming Magnus to the bone.

Time and time again, his eyes returned to the astoundingly honest self-portrait, his Alex standing more or less naked on the page, and he traced the woman she had become, finding very little of the girl she once used to be.

She was rounded with yet another child, and Magnus felt a flare of irritation with Matthew for not letting her be, surely one child a year was a bit too much. But then his eyes fell once again on the sleeping Matthew and he shook his head in amusement. She wouldn’t let him stay away from her.

He went back to his detailed study, and she looked healthy enough, arms and hands strong with manual chores. He laughed at the caustic comment by her shins, explaining that yes, that was hair, a lot of hair, but they hadn’t really gotten round to waxing yet.

Magnus fisted his hand round the paper, spent a considerable time smoothing it back out. His Alex; alive and well in another time, just as he’d always hoped. So why didn’t it make him feel better, to know that she was loved and loved? If anything, all of this just turned the pain of losing her up yet another notch. He sighed, looked up to find Isaac fast asleep, his head resting on the table. Magnus kissed him and stood to reach the phone. It was time to call John and tell him to come and get his son.

Chapter 43

“Tell me again; why are we doing this?” Alex asked, sitting down on the bench. Matthew grunted with the effort to get the stone in place, snug against the roots of the tree. He stood and wiped the sweat from his brow, studying the little memorial with satisfaction.

“He’ll come looking,” he said, using his shirt tail to dab at his damp face. “And when he does, he’ll find this and know you never forgot him.” He smiled down at his wife and trailed his index finger along her jawbone, leaving a smudge of dirt behind.

Alex leaned forward to read the wording. “
Isaac Lind. Never forgotten, always present
.” She sat back and sighed. “…not even born,” she muttered.

Matthew stretched. It was peaceful underneath the solitary rowan, the July evening quiet and warm. He studied the ordered lines of stones around him; his family, reaching back across time, most of them dying well before their sixties. He kneeled in front of Da’s grave, brushing it clean from debris.

“Has Simon gotten anywhere with his investigations?” she said.

Matthew didn’t reply, his fingers lingering over the carved name before coming over to join her at the bench.

“Some, aye.” He extended his legs. His bare shins were tanned a deep copper after a summer in the fields, as were his feet. “I told you he died in the mill run.”

“Yes, and seeing it was December and he couldn’t swim, it seemed an odd place for a spontaneous bath.”

He gave her a stern look. “It isn’t a matter to jest about.”

Alex loosened her linen from her sweaty skin and apologised.

“Samuel recalls how my father received an urgent message that there was a problem at the mill, and swears he set out just after the morning chores, telling Samuel he’d be back before dinner.” Matthew stopped and cleared his throat. “I actually saw him as he left. It was the last time I saw him alive, and I called out to him as he crossed the meadow, making him stop and wave before he went on his way. And when he wasn’t home for dinner, I went looking.” A cold December day, him hunching against the wind as he strode off towards the mill, Mam’s worried voice ringing in his ears.

“Simon has spoken to the miller, and he insists he sent no message. The waterwheel was working as it should, and he spent most of that day in the mill as such, unfortunately too busy to look outside. He only noticed something had happened when the wheel clogged.” Matthew grimaced. Da had been dragged down and under, the body mauled under the heavy shovels of the wheel before escaping crushed and deformed into the millrace. Poor Da, Matthew shuddered, I hope he was dead by then.

“The ring,” he said out loud. “We never found the ring.”

“What? It slipped off his finger?” Alex sounded mildly incredulous.

“Nay, he carried it on a chain. It was his mother’s. She died in childbirth with his youngest brother, and that is what he had of her.”

“It must have been torn off him in the water, and then it was swept away, right?”

“Aye, perhaps.” He doubted it. Da always kept the ring tucked out of sight, safe under his shirt, and despite the damage done to his body, shirt and breeches had been relatively intact, the neckline of his shirt still laced close. No; the only way it could have come off was in a struggle, a hand closing round the chain and yanking it off. Now that would require quite some strength, he mused. Not Margaret, and he was surprised just how relieved that conclusion made him.

“So no luck there,” Alex said. She’d produced a stocking from her pocket and was busy mending the worn heel. Matthew looked away; Simon had been right; too late, too little.

“Nay. But there’s one witness that recalls seeing the master arguing loudly with someone, and he swears it was a man, not a woman, on account of the person’s height and general size.”

“Luke; told you so.”

“Not enough, though,” Matthew sighed. “Do you really think he would do it?” he asked after a moment of comfortable silence. Alex folded the stocking together in her lap and looked away across the fields.

“Do I think he planned it? No. Do I think he could do it? Yes. He’s totally unpredictable when he flies into one of his rages.” She took off her cap and undid her hair, shaking it free to fall over her shoulders. A bright curl tickled his face. He sneezed, she laughed.

“Simon and Joan are leaving,” Matthew said.

“I know, Joan told me. Edinburgh. I don’t understand, why can’t they just go back to Cumnock?”

“Life doesn’t stand still, lass. These years when Simon has been tending to Hillview have been detrimental to his lawyering. Others have established themselves, and now there’s not enough work to be had.” That too was Luke’s fault; Simon’s budding practice ruined, and now his best friend and his sister would live too far away for more than two or three visits a year. “I offered him a share, I told him he and Joan were welcome to stay, that Hillview is theirs as well.”

“Really? Without asking me?” There was a distinct edge in her voice, making Matthew smile. At times she forgot that some decisions were only his to take. “And what did he say?”

“No. That he wasn’t cut out to be a farmer, and that he longed to stick his nose back among the heavy tomes of law, to use his brain in drawing up a complex deed.”

“He has a point, all farming requires is brawn, no brains. Ouch!” She glared at him, rubbing at where he’d pinched her. “Well okay; some brains then. Anyway, Simon is somewhat lacking in the brawn department.” She chuckled, shaking her head. “It still amazes me, that someone can be so…err…so round.”

“Like an apple,” Matthew laughed. “Round, but solid. I can assure you there’s a lot of brawn there as well.”

*

All of Hillview swung into harvest mode in the last week of July, and the coming weeks were filled with work, from early dawn to late at night. Matthew yawned his way through supper and stumbled up to bed, falling asleep long before Alex had closed down the house round them. It felt empty now that Joan and Simon were gone, and there were days when Alex hungered for the company of an adult, someone she could properly talk to. Rosie had been replaced by a new girl, Sarah, and the other maid, Janey, was efficient but taciturn, evading Alex’s attempts at conversation.

With both Joan and Mrs Parson gone, it fell on Alex to manage the household by herself. She enjoyed it, liked being in charge, no longer nominal mistress of Hillview. In the morning, she’d decide what was to be done during the day, making weekly plans in her head to ensure meals were varied, laundry washed, and the house kept aired and clean.

She scurried from kitchen garden to dairy shed, from the pantry to the orchards, and at her instructions the apple trees were picked bare, with most going directly for cider but some kept back for winter apples. It was bloody exhausting, all this work, and it wasn’t until late September that Alex could find the opportunity to sneak off into the woods, a stolen hour spent only with herself and her own thoughts.

Had Alex been able to, she would have turned and walked away the day she ran into Margaret. As it was, her apron was filled with mushrooms, and she had a bawling Rachel slung across her chest. So instead she knelt, slipped the carrying shawl over her head and jerked her head in the direction of the screaming child.

“Do something, preferably something that makes her shut up.”

Margaret held Rachel at arm’s length, her eyes darting between Alex and the baby.

“She’s hungry,” she guessed.

“She’s always hungry.” Alex tied her apron together and looked around for somewhere to sit.

“You can come in,” Margaret offered, indicating her cottage just up the slope. “I won’t bite you.” Alex followed her into a small but very clean room, and sat down on one of two stools, holding out her arms for a Rachel that by now was the colour of a beet.

“Temper, temper,” Alex said and bit back on a hiss when Rachel clamped down hard on her breast – probably in revenge.

Margaret sat down opposite, eyes on the feeding child.

“It must be uncomfortable,” she said, looking at Alex’s swelling belly. There was a longing tone to her voice, hands smoothing over her flat abdomen.

“Tell me about it.” Alex half reclined against the wall to allow Rachel easier access to her food. “Where’s Ian?”

Margaret stretched with obvious pride. “Helping with the harvest. Matthew said he could.”

“He’s a nice boy,” Alex said generously. He was, a polite boy that now and then came into her kitchen to eat.

“Aye, he is,” Margaret smiled.

“He has quite a hand with his cousin.” Alex emphasized the last word.

“Aye, he’s quite fond of wee Mark. Talks a lot about his cousin.” Same emphasis. Margaret stood to find a pitcher of cider and some wooden mugs.

“I’m glad that you let him come down to the big house,” she said keeping her back to Alex. “It’s lonely for him here, with me.”

It had to be lonely for Margaret as well, evening after evening spent in solitude up here. Alex was swept by a most unwelcome wave of compassion, but set her jaw at the idea of inviting Margaret to Hillview. She just couldn’t.

“Why are you here?” she asked, not to challenge but to understand. Margaret extended a brimming mug to her and stared off at absolutely nothing for a couple of minutes.

“Luke and I had words.” Margaret finally said.

“About your gift,” Alex nodded.

“Aye. But I had to, I couldn’t not help Matthew.” Margaret shook her head, making her black hair glisten and shine where the sun caught it. “On the king’s coronation day, no less, and Luke wanted me to wear the large pearl, and I…” She gulped. “…well, I had to tell him.”

“It made him very angry,” she said after a few moments of silence.

“I can imagine,” Alex nodded, having no problems at all envisioning just how angry. Luke was, in her considered opinion, borderline crazy, or at least in dire needs of constant medication – not exactly available in the here and now.

“I don’t think you can,” Margaret said quietly. She inhaled, exhaled, twisted the fringes of her shawl tight around her fingers. “We made it up, and for some months things were as they used to be. And then…well, he’d had too much to drink, aye? So the next morning I left, taking Ian with me.”

“But you’ve been here over a year!” Alex shifted Rachel to her other side.

Margaret nodded, sitting down opposite Alex. “More than that.” She shrugged. “I had nowhere else to go.”

“Oh. But you’re not planning on staying, are you?” It came out rather frigid, but Alex couldn’t help it. No way did she want Margaret as a permanent resident.

“No,” Margaret replied coolly. “Why would I? Once Luke is back from Holland, we’ll be going back to London.”

“He’s in Holland?”

Margaret nodded. “At the request of the king.” She smiled, running a hand over the shimmering silk of her shawl. “He gave me this. He had it delivered to me with a letter, begging me to forgive him.”

“And you did.” Alex rolled her eyes

“I did. I couldn’t do otherwise.”

It was said with such simplicity that Alex leaned forward and clasped Margaret’s hand.

“Love is a pain in the arse at times,” Alex said, giving her a smile.

“Oh aye; very much so.” Margaret smiled back.

Matthew was not pleased when Alex told him of her run in with Margaret, muttering that he would prefer it if she kept well away from her – he didn’t much fancy the idea of his present wife conversing with his former wife.

“Well, at least now we know why she’s still here. It’s because Luke is off on the continent somewhere – has been for several months.” She gnawed her lip. “It irks me; you know, that Luke’s so high in favour with the king that he’s sent off on missions like that.”

Matthew raised his brows. “Would you have me playing the courtier as well?”

“You?” Alex laughed and shook her head. “Somehow I don’t quite see you carrying it off.”

“Ah, no?” He made a foppish hand movement, smirked and crossed his eyes.

“No; for a start you dress too plainly, and I can’t see you prancing around, bowing left right and centre.” She finished brushing her hair, braided it and turned on the stool to face him, sprawled as he was on their bed. “But you must remember that Luke has the ear of a king, and kings make very uncomfortable enemies.”

“Aye, they do.” Matthew pounded his pillow into shape and patted the bed. “I’d best tell her to leave – before he comes for her.”

“You can’t; she has nowhere else to go – unfortunately.” Alex made a face and stood.

“Are you planning on keeping that on?” Matthew asked, looking with obvious interest at her rounded figure.

“What? This?” Alex tugged at her shift and grinned. “No.” The linen rustled to the floor behind her.

*

Some weeks later, Sandy Peden rode down the lane, looking most complacent. With a little flourish he handed Matthew a document, chuckling as he explained this was a copy of the letter he’d sent to His Majesty, and being quite a man of the world when he needed to, he’d used one of the royal mistresses as the go between.

“What? You know her? The Castlemaine?” Alex was quite impressed.

“Really, Alexandra! How would a lowly preacher like me know someone like her? But I do know one of her lute players, and so…”

Matthew had by now finished reading the letter and handed it over to Alex.

My, my; this little epistle dripped of venom as it described just what Luke Graham had done to his brother, starting with that unjust accusation of treason eight years ago, and ending with the ambush on the moor.

Alex gave him an admiring look. “Do you think it will work?”

Sandy beamed, displaying teeth that were in serious need of TLC. “Oh aye; the king is right fond of family ties – holds them sacred, near on.”

Sandy stayed for the better part of a week, monopolising Matthew into long convoluted discussions about religion in general, and the present precarious state of affairs for the Kirk in particular.

“We’re back where we started,” he said. “Back to how things were before we all signed the Covenant. It is but a matter of time, mark my words, before we’re all asked to abjure that holy vow.”

“But…no!” Matthew shook his head. “The king cannot meddle in men’s faith! We went to war over that once, will we need to do it yet again?”