“English,” he said.
“Sorry,” she muttered, “it’s just—”
“Aye, I know. You may of course speak Spanish when you’re alone, but not otherwise.”
“My apologies, Mr Graham,” Father Muñoz said. “It was not our intention to be rude.”
To Matthew’s relief, Alex had very little time to spend at Father Muñoz’s bedside, and even less when Minister Allerton rode in two days later, accompanied by his three daughters, Ruth, and two hired menservants.
If nothing else, his wife’s attention was at times entirely diverted by the way their eldest daughter behaved around the minister, commenting in a rather dark voice that did he notice how their Ruth shone up in Julian’s presence and dimmed when he left?
Aye, of course he did but unlike Alex, he wasn’t overly worried about the age gap – after all, it was common that men took a second wife if their first passed, and of course a man would look first for a fertile replacement. Also, it was apparent to him that Julian was as smitten by Ruth as Ruth was smitten by him, but Julian was struggling with this, his eyes flitting often from Ruth to Temperance and back again. No, Matthew decided, should Julian come asking, he would say yes, no matter that Alex would in all probability bury her nails in his back.
“I’ll never speak to you again if you do,” Alex threatened when he told her this one morning.
“Aye, you will. You know she wants it too.” He kicked bedlinen and quilts out of the way, settling himself beside her in the bed.
“It’s an infatuation! A young girl mistaking admiration for a man she respects with love.”
“Admiration and respect seem to me good, stable foundation stones to build a marriage on,” Matthew said with a grin. “It’s seemly in a wife that she regard her husband with utmost devotion and respect.” He laughed at her angry face and pulled her close. She set her hands to his chest and shoved.
He still loved this game of theirs: a half-aggressive foreplay where she tried to break free, pretending to deny him, while he demanded her submission, reminding her with his body and his hands that she was his wife, and his wife never, ever denied him – anything.
Afterwards, he remained heavy on top of her, very much in place. Her hands were drifting with extreme gentleness over his hair and back, small, strong fingers tracing the contours of his neck, his shoulders, the rounding of his buttocks. With the early morning sun, their bedroom was alive with colour, the small panes of red and green glass that he had bought her some years ago throwing multi-hued light to dapple the well-scrubbed floor, the white linen and their bodies. He kissed a red reflection on her cheek and moved to lie beside her, one leg over hers.
“Daniel might not like it.”
Alex snorted. “Of course he won’t. Imagine having your baby sister as your mother-in-law! It’s probably borderline incestuous.”
*
Alex raised the question a few hours later with the priest, more to distract him from her examination of his leg than out of any genuine interest in his expert opinion.
“No, I don’t think so.” Father Muñoz creased his brow together in deep thought. “It’s perhaps somewhat irregular, but not incestuous.”
“Too bad,” Alex muttered, making the priest laugh. He stopped laughing rather abruptly when she undid the bandages and pushed hard against the skin on either side of his healing gash. “Does it hurt?”
“Yes,” he squeaked.
She pressed a finger into his undamaged shin. “Does that hurt?”
“Yes.”
“Sissy,” Alex said under her breath. His leg seemed to be healing, but she was worried the damage to muscles and tendons was such that he would never walk with ease again.
He shrugged when she told him this. “I still have a leg, and I don’t use it much in my daily work,” he said, surprising her into a burst of laughter.
Conversation became somewhat livelier with two men of God in the house – maybe a bit too lively, Alex sighed, when Father Muñoz and Minister Allerton settled down for yet another intense religious debate, the minister seconded by Daniel, the priest fighting his corner alone.
Father Muñoz sat up straighter and looked at Minister Allerton.
“No.” He shook his head. “Absolutely not. God allows our actions to speak for us.”
“Of course,” Minister Allerton said, “if we belong to the chosen few.” He gave the young priest a challenging look.
“Hmph!” Father Muñoz drank deeply from his mug of beer. “God is not that fickle. We live on this earth a short while, and it’s in many ways a testing ground for eternal life that comes later. God is merciful and forgives us our trespasses on behalf of His Son. He sees us labour and strive to be good, and He is pleased. He sees us fall into a life of evil, and He decides if the stay in purgatory will be long and painful or if we go to hell directly. But it’s the quality of our sins and the genuineness of our repentance that ultimately decide our eternal fate.”
Too right, Alex agreed, even if she sincerely hoped God was somewhat selective when it came to deathbed repentance. If not, heaven would be chock-full of some rather nasty types.
“Purgatory!” Minister Allerton waved dismissively. “Nowhere in the scriptures is that mentioned. It’s nothing but a figment of imagination that allows the dying sinners to hope they may still be saved.”
“Not to me,” Father Muñoz said, looking quite mulish. “To me, God is more prone to forgive than damn, and as such He has created one last opportunity for the lost soul to gain entry to heaven.”
The argument went on and on, the churchmen plunging deeper and deeper into the scriptures and the history of the Christian Church.
“Why be good?” Father Muñoz argued. “Why should we strive to lead exemplary lives if God has already preordained who goes to Heaven?”
“Why be good?” Minister Allerton replied mockingly. “Why strive to lead exemplary lives if all you have to do is beg forgiveness for your sins before you die?”
Most of the adults around the table nodded in agreement.
“Lewd and sinful,” Mrs Parson muttered to Alex. “All papists are, more or less. And then, on their deathbed, they recant. Not that it helps the misguided souls, bound for hell as they are. Pity on the wee priest who seems a good enough man – just like his father.”
“Hmm,” Alex said as neutrally as she could, and then brought the whole discussion to a halt by plonking down the pudding dish in the middle of the table.
*
The minister was an enthusiastic and hard-working extra pair of hands during the harvest, resulting in him eating like a horse and retiring more or less immediately after supper, so tired those beautiful grey eyes of his were reduced to narrow slits. His daughters and Ruth always left when he did, and mostly Sarah would trail after Ruth, thereby leaving the parlour to Alex, Matthew, Mrs Parson and the priest, who never seemed tired at night – probably on account of his late mornings.
“My father,” Father Muñoz spoke haltingly. “¿Mi padre, cómo era?”
Alex sat back in her armchair and let her mending sink to her lap.
“A bit of a fop.” She grinned, recalling the first time she had met him. “All ribbons and lace and cuffs and high-heeled boots and a most impressive hat!”
Mrs Parson chuckled from where she sat. “An eye-catching gentleman, he was, Don Benito.”
“You knew him too?” Father Muñoz sounded very surprised – and eager.
“Oh aye. I had the pleasure of several months in his company,” Mrs Parson said. “It was I that found out, no? That added two and two together.”
“She spied on him.” Alex rolled her eyes. “Probably ogling him on the sly.”
Father Muñoz went a vivid red. “He was a priest!”
“We didn’t know that. It wasn’t something he announced to the world, was it? And he was a bonny man, he was, with right well-turned legs.” Mrs Parson smiled and looked at the priest. “You look like him, not that I’ve seen you in the flesh a
s I did him, but—”
“He presented himself as a royal envoy,” Alex interrupted, “destined to the colonies on behalf of the king.”
“The king? Charles that is?” Matthew leaned forward with interest.
Alex nodded. “Yes, and if you ask me, he’s a closet Catholic – the king, I mean.”
“Oh aye? And you would know how?” Matthew gave her a fond smile, hovering very close to being patronising.
“Call it a gut feeling.” His mother was a devout Catholic; his brother had openly converted; he had never allowed persecution of Catholics – Alex ticked off one argument after the other. “Let’s just say he definitely isn’t Presbyterian – a bit too lax morally.” That made Father Muñoz frown.
“It’s true,” Alex said, “all those mistresses, his poor queen humiliated by an endless procession of royal bastards, and the brother has quite an eye for the girls as well, as we hear it.”
“The Duke of York is a most devout man,” Father Muñoz said primly. “When I saw him last, he seemed utterly devoted to his young wife, Maria de Modena.”
“You’ve met him?” Alex asked.
“Yes,” the priest replied, “twice.”
“And does he have the Stuart nose?” Mrs Parson asked.
“The nose?” The priest sounded bewildered.
“Aye.” Mrs Parson mimed a gigantic beak.
“Ah.” The priest laughed. “I suppose he does. I only saw him but briefly – messengers are rarely dealt with face to face by the royals, even when they come from the Holy See. Besides, what’s important is that he has a young Catholic wife – surely there will be issue to ensure a strong Catholic line of kings on the English throne.”
Alex scoffed. “It won’t happen.”
“How would you know?” Father Muñoz frowned.
“I just do. One Catholic king the English may countenance, but a Catholic line – never. Anyway,” she said, bringing them back to the original subject, “it was Mrs Parson here who caught on.”
“Aye, I saw the hair shirt,” Mrs Parson nodded, “and then…” She looked somewhat embarrassed. “I found his vestments, and his rosary beads.”
“Oh, just like that?” Father Muñoz said. “Lying about in the open?”
“No,” Mrs Parson replied, snapping her mouth closed with an audible click.
“Poor man,” Alex said, “living in that horrible hair shirt. His skin was covered in rash, and it itched and itched, making him scratch himself as if he had fleas or something.”
Father Muñoz brushed at his sleeves and nodded. “A penance – and rightly so.”
“You think?” Alex gave him an irritated look. “And how would you know? Did you live his life?”
“He broke his vows.” Father Muñoz sounded priggish.
“He loved,” Alex corrected, “and if he hadn’t, you wouldn’t have existed, would you?”
“And maybe that would have been just as well,” Father Muñoz said in a voice so desolate all three of them turned towards him.
Chapter 12
Harvest time was as exhausting as it always was: long days spent in the vegetable patch, evenings in the kitchen preserving what had been harvested from the garden, and on top of that a convalescent patient. As his strength returned, Carlos Muñoz insisted that he should help as well as he could, and so Alex took him along to reap raspberries.
As they worked, she told him about his father, doing her best to describe a man with likes and dislikes, views and opinions. She told him of Don Benito’s tendency to sing, no matter that he couldn’t hold a tune if his life depended on it, of how hopeless he was at chess, and of how prone he was to vicious headaches.
“Just like me!” Carlos said a couple of times, dark eyes looking at Alex with such hunger that she realised no one had ever spoken about Don Benito before – unless it was to condemn him as a sinner bound for everlasting hell. Mostly, it was Don Benito’s innate sweetness she emphasised, how compassionate he was, how his eyes would rest upon them all with warmth and humour.
Haltingly, she told him of the fight that had resulted in his death, and how he had insisted he be buried in his hair shirt, nothing else. “He took a blade meant for me. It was all my fault.”
“I am sure he has forgiven you for that,” Carlos said with a small smile. “You were his friend.”
Alex nodded, her eyes filling with tears. “And he was mine; a good, generous man.”
Once they were done with the berries, Alex got to her feet and stretched, bending this way and that in slow, regular movements.
“Backache,” she said at his surprised expression.
“Ah.” He nodded, and she could swear he was trying to calculate her age.
She suppressed a grin. Father Muñoz had spent the last few minutes throwing her furtive, if admiring glances. For all that he was a priest, he was a typical male, his eyes having a tendency to glue themselves to her chest. She grabbed an empty basket and made her way to the opposite side of the garden, Father Carlos limping along beside her.
“Your father had been sent to spread the word of God among the Indians,” Alex said, now picking corncobs.
“The Indians?” Carlos threw a timorous look at the surrounding forest.
“Sí. He was to stay among them until he had a congregation of twenty or died, whichever came first. It would probably have been death. He was very frightened. He’d heard all these terrible stories about how the Indians would roast missionaries to death, or make sport of killing them piece by piece.”
“Do they?” Carlos asked with a quaver. “¿Los Indios, matan a los misionarios?”
“At times, I imagine. After all, to them, hearing about our God must be as heretic as it would be to you to hear of their gods.”
“But our God is the single true God!”
“He is?” Alex said. “Can you prove it?”
Over the carrots, Carlos Muñoz told her of how his uncle had begotten sons of his own, and how the unwanted nephew had been turned over to a nearby monastery to raise. He was only six, and already given in vocation to God, with his uncle Raúl promising the monks a sizeable monetary donation once the boy had taken full vows.
“So I did,” Carlos said with a shrug.
“And was that what you wanted to do?” she asked, overwhelmed with pity for the orphaned and abandoned little boy she could see in her head.
“No.” Carlos looked over to where the Graham men were returning from the fields. “I wanted to be a seafarer, like Cristobal Colón and discover new lands and territories.”
“So why?” Alex said. “¿Porqué? Why did you take your vows if you weren’t sure this was what you wanted to do?”
He twisted his mouth into a wry smile. “I was made to see reason, and now I am well reconciled to the fact.” He stared out at the forest and crossed himself. “Maybe I can achieve what my father was sent out to do: to bring the word of God to the heathen.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! I told you, didn’t I? They might kill you.”
Carlos shrugged. “I have been charged with a holy mission – just like my father. Besides, if it happens, it happens. And Tio Raúl would be very pleased – especially if I were to die.” With that he turned away and began harvesting the squash.
*
“He’s spent time in Ireland in preparation for coming here,” Julian Allerton told Matthew, watching the slight priest hobble down in their direction.
“Aye, you can hear it in his English,” Matthew nodded. “I suppose it makes it easier to meet his congregation. It’s not as if the Chisholms have much Latin.”
“Enough, I dare say,” Julian said. “They can’t say Mass or take the sacraments without it.”
“Learning by rote is not knowing for real.” Matthew had no Latin, and he was intensely jealous of Daniel for having it, and now David would soon as well. As did Jacob, he reminded himself, feeling a swelling pride that his sons should be better educated than he himself was.
“Is he here purely as a prie
st?” Julian asked.
Matthew had been wondering that himself. After all, Carlos Muñoz was a Spaniard.
“I don’t know, but he is a mite young to be entrusted with espionage.”
“Too young?” Julian laughed. “Surely it is the young and daring that stick their heads into the hornets’ nest.”
*
“He’s been sent to bring the comfort of the Holy Church to the Chisholms – and to evaluate the possibility of a concerted effort to bring Catholicism to the Indians,” Alex told both of them later that afternoon. “Spreading the True Faith is a major concern for the Spanish crown.”
“Oh aye,” Matthew agreed, “and just by chance it would halt any Protestant expansion into the wilds.”
“Really!” Alex grinned. “How can you think they might be that wily?” She jerked her head to where Carlos was sitting in the shade. “It scares him silly, to ride out among the savages.”
“It should,” Julian said. “They don’t, as a rule, take kindly to missionaries.”
“And still he’ll go,” she sighed. “Even more now that I’ve told him his father was meant to do it.”
“God help him,” Julian Allerton uttered with sincerity. He looked over to where Ruth was sitting with the other girls. As if she’d felt his eyes upon her, Ruth raised her face to Julian and flashed him a blinding smile, making him smile in return.
Alex watched this side play in silence and bored her eyes into Julian until he flushed.
“Umm…” he stammered. “Err…” He furrowed his brow for an instant. “Have you heard about the girls in Providence?” Without waiting for their answer, he launched himself into a rather long monologue.
“How do you mean, disappear?” Alex slipped her hand hard into Matthew’s. Unexplained disappearances could of course mean a lot of things, but her knees were of the firm conviction that this was bad, really bad.
“There one moment, gone the next,” the minister said. “Three – no four – so far. All young women.” He shook his head at that and threw another look in the direction of the girls seated beneath the spreading white oak. “First, it was a slave girl at the Jones’ place; then it was Eileen, Mrs Malone’s little niece, you know?”
Revenge and Retribution (The Graham Saga) Page 10
