Revenge and Retribution (The Graham Saga)

by Anna Belfrage

  “I told you,” Matthew said. “The wee man stood up and said he would go with the Indians.”

  “But he was hurt!” Robert scrubbed a hand through his hair. “And why would he do such a thing anyway?”

  “I think his intent is to bring the word of God to the heathen.” Alex served the men cider and sat down beside Matthew.

  “You should have stopped him,” Martin Chisholm said. “He won’t survive long out there in the wild.” It could have been funny, if things weren’t as painful as they were, the way he went a bright red. “Being a priest, I mean,” he qualified.

  “We had our attention elsewhere,” Matthew said.

  “Yes, I suppose you would. I’m most sorry for your loss,” Robert mumbled.

  “He isn’t dead!” Alex exploded, lifting herself off the bench in one fluid movement. “He’ll come back, okay?” She banged the door behind her and barged off in the direction of…she didn’t know, slowing her pace as dejection flowed back into her body.

  *

  Matthew followed her exit with a slight crease between his brows. Days would pass in which she acted entirely normal, and then there’d be these moments when life drained out of her, leaving her a husk. He smiled wryly to himself. It was the same for him, but he was better at submerging himself in the tasks at hand, channelling the emotions that coursed through him into something else. He returned his attention to the Chisholms, listening with interest – and relief – when Martin told him the Burley brothers and their gang had retreated into Virginia, chased all the way there by Chisholm and Leslie men.

  “Not as many as they used to be,” Martin said with quiet satisfaction, running a hand down his rifled flintlock.

  “You shot one?” Matthew asked, surprised.

  “Oh yes.” Martin leaned forward and caught Matthew’s eye. “It doesn’t make sense for them to keep on returning here. We’re all too well protected. Unless, of course, they are hoping to avenge themselves for perceived wrongs.”

  Matthew’s body hair crept up to stand at attention.

  Martin nodded seriously. “Tread with care, Matthew, you and your wife both.”

  “I still can’t grasp it,” Robert said later, looking down at the little bundle of possessions in his hand. “He never said anything about going out into the wilds to christen Indians.”

  “Partly he did it for our son, I think,” Matthew said.

  “That was a most Christian thing to do,” Robert said.

  “It was a foolish thing to do. He was unwell, still limping badly. I don’t think he finds it easy to keep up with an Indian band.” Matthew stared off in the general direction of the west. Somewhere out there was his son, and he hoped that he was well and safe. He had very little hope for the wee priest. “Let’s pray he knows to keep his mouth shut, at least to begin with. They don’t much take to missionaries, do they?”

  “No,” Robert said, “I’ve never met one who came back.”

  *

  “Mama?” Ian placed a hand on Alex’s shoulder and squeezed. “Why are you staring at that tree?”

  “I’m staring at the name on it,” Alex corrected, moving over to allow him to sit beside her.

  “Ah,” Ian nodded. “David?” he asked, studying the unevenly written Samuel.

  “Yes.” Alex slid lower on the bench, her eyes searching for her sons.

  “They’re down by the water with Jacob,” Ian told her. “Weekly bath.” As if on cue, a high whooping sound carried through the September air, and Alex smiled.

  “Jacob.” She shook her head. “I bet you he’s horseplaying with them instead of making sure they’re actually using the soap.”

  “Hmm,” Ian replied vaguely, looking as if such behaviour was something he sympathised with.

  “Will someone make sure Samuel keeps himself clean?” Alex said.

  “They’re a clean people, and I suppose Thistledown will make sure he washes regularly.”

  “And will he come back?” The question she hadn’t dared to ask either herself or Matthew, she burdened Ian with. He gave her a lopsided little smile. She rested her head against his shoulder. They had sat here so often, she and him, talking about life and death, his bitterness when his back was damaged, his love for both his wives, and always had they been honest with one another. She hoped he would be now as well.

  “I don’t know, and if he does, he’ll be very changed.”

  Alex nodded, gouging at the ground with the toe of her shoe. “Will he know me?”

  “Aye,” Ian replied with conviction. “He will know you the instant he lays eyes on you – just as I’d recognise Mam immediately, should she appear here.”

  Given that Margaret was dead, Alex sincerely hoped that wouldn’t happen. A small note of happiness hummed inside of her. At least he’d recognise her, know her for who she was: his mother. The rest they could take from there.

  In this much improved mood, Alex decided to drop in for a chat with Betty. She might have been distracted lately, for obvious reasons, but not so distracted as to not notice that Malcolm was giving Betty a hard time, growing increasingly rude – as long as his father was nowhere close.

  Betty gave Alex Timothy to hold and laced herself back up. “I don’t like it,” she said.

  “No, I can understand that.” Alex stopped Christopher from helping himself to yet another bun.

  Betty made a face. “I thought they were going back to Charles Towne as quickly as possible, and now Ian says they’ll be here over the winter.”

  “Mmm.” Alex nodded. Peter Leslie had been struck with apoplexy, and Jenny insisted that she and her family stay, at least until they could ascertain whether he was on his way to recovery or not. Most dutiful, Alex supposed, and how convenient that Malcolm and Maggie lived but a short hour’s ride from Jenny’s father. “Just because she’s there doesn’t mean Ian needs to let her see them more often.”

  “Malcolm wants to,” Betty sighed, “and what Malcolm wants, Maggie wants.”

  “But Ian decides.”

  Betty smoothed back her riotous hair, struggling to bring that mass of coppery curls into some sort of order. Malcolm wheedled and begged, she said, nagging insistently that he should be allowed to see his real mother, and Maggie… Just yesterday, the girl she had always cared for as her own had shoved her away, shrieking that she wanted her real mother, not Mam. It had forced Betty to step outside so as to hide her tears.

  “And what does Ian say?” Alex asked. Idiot of a man! He should have put a stop to this ages ago.

  “He doesn’t know what to do. If he refuses them to see her, Malcolm shrinks into himself. If he lets them see her, they become more and more unbearable.”

  “Time to put your foot down, honey.” Alex stroked her daughter-in-law over her arm.

  “So what do I do?” Betty asked, her eyes huge. Remarkable eyes, Alex always thought, like carnelians.

  Alex scrunched her brows together. “I’ll handle it, okay?”

  It took her two minutes to find Malcolm. He was sitting outside the stables, polishing an assorted collection of harnesses and bridles. He was looking quite grumpy, and when Alex came over, he took the opportunity to complain, saying that it wasn’t fair that he had to do all this alone.

  “Tell your grandfather that,” Alex said, suppressing a small smile when Malcolm sighed, boyish shoulders slumping in defeat. “I thought you liked Betty.” Alex sat down beside him.

  The boy shrugged. “Aye, but she isn’t my mother.”

  “No?” Alex regarded him in silence. Malcolm squirmed under her eyes. “Who sewed your shirt?”

  “Mam – I mean Betty.”

  “Mmm. And your breeches? Your stockings?”

  “Betty.” It came out sullenly.

  “And when you were ill last winter, who was it that took care of you?”

  “Betty.”

  “Mam, you mean.”

  “Betty. My real mam—”

  “Your real mam left, Malcolm. She left your father. Sh
e left you and Maggie.”

  “She didn’t want to! She wanted us with her, but Da took us and—”

  “And what?” Alex bored her eyes into the boy.

  “He made her leave. On account of Betty.”

  “That’s a huge lie.” Alex stood up and looked about for a suitable escort. Not Ian, because he would throw a major fit, nor Matthew for the same reason. She saw Jacob come out of the privy and waved him over, telling him she urgently needed to go to the Leslie place, and would he be kind enough to ride with her?

  “Right,” Alex said, sitting down to face Jenny with Malcolm beside her. “I want you to tell Malcolm exactly why you left Graham’s Garden.”

  “I already have,” Jenny said.

  “Well then, you can tell it all again.” Alex smiled dangerously. “And I’ll correct you when your memory fails, shall I?”

  Jenny glared at her, at Jacob who was lounging against the wall.

  “Start the summer before Maggie was born,” Alex prompted.

  Jenny threw her a hateful look, said that she had no reason to repeat herself, and stood, for all the world as if she intended to leave.

  Think again. Alex clamped down on Jenny’s wrist. “Tell him. Otherwise, I will – in detail.”

  There was a flash of defiance in Jenny’s eyes. She yanked at her wrist, but Alex had no intention of letting go, staring her former daughter-in-law firmly in the eye.

  “So, you or I?” she said.

  Defeated, Jenny looked at her son and hung her head. “I fell in love with Patrick.”

  Malcolm nodded, saying that he knew that, they were married now.

  “Before, while I was still married to your father.” She raised her eyes to his. “I didn’t intend it to happen.”

  “No,” Alex interjected, “love has a tendency to just happen. But you chose to act on it.”

  “Act on it?” Malcolm looked confused.

  “She bedded with him,” Alex explained for his benefit, and a wave of bright red flew up Jenny’s face. “Well, you did, didn’t you?”

  Jenny nodded.

  “You did?” Malcolm stared at his mother. “But why? Didn’t you love Da?”

  “He had Betty,” Jenny flashed.

  “No, no, Jenny, that isn’t right. Tell your son the truth,” Alex said. “Betty was living with us at the time, Malcolm, but your father never touched her in any way until after he divorced your mother. Isn’t that right, Jenny?”

  Jenny’s mouth compressed into a thin line. “Yes,” she mumbled.

  Malcolm sat very still, eyes hanging off his mother.

  “You said—” Malcolm licked his lips.

  “I was ashamed,” Jenny said in a low voice. “I didn’t want you to think less of me. And I didn’t want to leave you, I swear I never did.”

  “That, for what it’s worth, I can assure you is true,” Alex said. “Your mother loves you very much, of course she does. But so does Betty, and you’ve been treating her very badly lately, haven’t you?”

  Malcolm nodded mutely.

  Alex stood up and with a quick smile suggested that Jacob follow her and leave Jenny and Malcolm alone for a while.

  Jacob led the way to the kitchen, no doubt attracted by the promising smell of biscuits. Most of the Leslie family were there, seated round the table. The door was propped open, the sunlight revealing a floor that could have done with a good scrubbing – as could several of the children milling about.

  “How’s Peter?” Alex asked once they were settled in the kitchen.

  “Not well,” Ailish said from where she stood in a corner, placed so that the light fell on her undamaged cheek, leaving the ugly, puckering burn scar that covered the other half of her face in the shadow. “It was a fearful thing to witness,” she went on, receiving a confirming grunt from Thomas. “One moment he walks tall and straight across the yard, the next he lies flat on his back on the ground. He hit his head badly coming down.”

  “Very much blood,” Nathan filled in, “but Father never lost consciousness. I’m not sure whether that is a good or bad thing.” He sighed, and Ailish drifted over to give her husband a comforting squeeze on the shoulder.

  “And now?” Jacob helped himself to yet another hot biscuit.

  “He sits in a chair or lies in his bed, incapable of moving his right side,” Ailish said. “Tears flow constantly from his eye, drool runs from his mouth, and he can eat but soups and mash, poor man.”

  “Can he talk?” Alex asked.

  “He understands everything, and he attempts to talk, but the paralysis makes it difficult to understand him.” Thomas scratched at his short grey hair and shook his head. “He finds it difficult to let others see him like this.”

  “I can imagine.” Alex stretched across the table to clasp Thomas’ hand. Poor Peter: he wasn’t that old, just a few years over sixty.

  “Our main worry is Constance,” Thomas said as he accompanied them back to their horses.

  “Constance? Why would that be a worry?” The woman hadn’t been anywhere close to here in four years or so.

  “She’s his wife. And how is he to fend himself if she decides she wants to sit close and take care of him and their sons?” Thomas made a sound conveying just how ridiculous the thought of Constance caring for anyone was, and brushed a few crumbs off his dark grey coat.

  “Nathan can tell her to eff off,” Alex suggested.

  “Eff off?” Thomas said.

  “Umm, you know, not bother you,” Alex said, seeing her son grin at her over Thomas’ head.

  “It is not quite as simple, Alex.” Thomas smiled crookedly. “All these years he has refused her divorce, and so he hasn’t regulated the legalities as he should have done.”

  “What? He doesn’t have a will?”

  “Of course he has a will,” Thomas said, “but he also has a wife that has certain rights.”

  “Oh.” Well, Alex assumed that was as it should be – Constance had come well-dowered and must as a consequence have a good jointure. “He isn’t dead, so you can draft whatever documents he needs now.”

  “And how will he sign them?” Thomas asked her.

  “He doesn’t have to. You can bring a lawyer and one of the ministers up here, and he can talk to them, verify the documents in their presence. Witnesses, like.”

  “Hmm,” Thomas replied, and a small smile touched his lips. “Yes, that could be done, I suppose.”

  *

  It was the first time Ian had been truly angry with her, his eyes so cold it turned her stomach.

  “I won’t have you meddling in my business,” he barked, “and it’s I, not you, that decides what truths my children must be told.”

  “Oh, really? And what were you actually doing to sort it all?” Alex snapped back, helping Malcolm down before dismounting.

  “I was planning to talk to the lad myself,” Ian replied, drawing his son towards him.

  “Wonderful. When? You were letting him get away with being rude to your wife, his Mam, day after day.”

  Malcolm twisted at her words, eyeing Ian warily.

  Ian flushed. “I was going to handle it, but I wasn’t planning on involving my ex-wife.”

  “Tough.” Alex stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at him. “Me, personally, I think the truth comes better from the horse’s mouth.”

  “It wasn’t your call! This is my son, not yours! I don’t recall asking you to meddle.”

  “Meddle? I wasn’t meddling, you idiot! I was trying to help Betty, who, in case you haven’t noticed, has been having a rough time with both Malcolm and Maggie lately.”

  “I have noticed, and next time my son speaks out of line to her, he’ll feel the strap.” Ian griped Malcolm hard to him and stared belligerently at Alex.

  “Great! Fantastic way of addressing the problem – so proactive.”

  “You don’t tell me what to do! You’re not my—” He bit off so abruptly, Alex snorted with involuntary laughter.

  “I’m not what,
Ian?” she asked with deceptive mildness. “Go on,” she went on at his continued silence. “Tell your son.”

  Malcolm craned back his head to look at his father.

  “You’re not my mother,” Ian whispered.

  Alex closed the distance between them so quickly Ian backed away, his son a shield between them. She was swimming with hurt, but kept her voice low and composed.

  “Oh yes, I am, Ian Graham. In everything that counts, I’m your mother, and you know that, don’t you? And if it weren’t because I have better things to do, I’d lay you over my knees and belt you for saying what you just did.”

  “Mama,” Ian said, but Alex was already ploughing away from them, running in the direction of the house.

  “Is it true?” Malcolm stared after his grandmother. “Is Granny not your mother?”

  “You heard her. In everything that counts, she is.” Ian looked down at his son and ruffled his hair. “But no, she isn’t my birth mother.” He leaned back against the sun-warmed stable wall, his eyes on Alex until she stepped inside. “She didn’t have to love me, and yet she always has and made me know it.” He smiled down at his son. “And I love her. More than anyone else in the world bar my wife and my bairns.”

  “More than your da?” Malcolm asked.

  “Aye,” Ian breathed, “even more than Da.”

  *

  They made it up, of course. Just before supper, Ian came to find her and offered her a rosebud. Wordlessly, she opened her arms to hug him close, this her beloved son, thinking that the ways of the heart were totally inexplicable.

  “I’m too old to be belted,” he murmured.

  “You think? Don’t tempt me, Ian Graham.”

  Chapter 19

  “I’m not sure I like it when you read from Leviticus,” Alex told Matthew once he had finished the customary Sunday evening reading. “It’s very harsh.” All those callous instructions to kill – for adultery, for homosexuality…

  “Those are the laws,” Matthew replied.

  “Very primitive laws. It’s never quite as black and white in real life, is it?”

  “Are you saying adultery can be condoned?” Matthew asked her, following her up the stairs.