Mr Jefferson joined her, studying Alex’s depiction of her children with some admiration. “This is very good.” He smiled at Alex, earning himself a black look from Constance.
“Oh aye, Mama is a right good limner,” Mark said. “Has a full set of wee sketches upstairs.”
“Really?” Mr Jefferson sounded interested. “Of what?”
“My children, mostly,” Alex said, avoiding Mark’s amused eyes. In truth, most of her sketches were of Matthew.
“We prefer oils,” Constance sniffed. “Portraits done by real painters.”
“Ah,” Alex said, before leading the way to the downstairs bedroom she’d put aside for Constance’s use.
“Here?” Constance looked about with a displeased expression. “Why, it’s smaller than the room my slave girl sleeps in back home.” She took off her cap, smoothed at her dark hair before pinning the nominal scrap of lace back into place.
“Well then, go back there,” Alex suggested. Over the last few minutes, Constance had spewed barbed comments about everything. What? No instruments? No settle? No upholstered armchairs? Why, it was all very simple, wasn’t it, but then, out here in the woods… If Matthew hadn’t taken hold of Alex’s hand and held it firmly in his own, she would have raked her nails over the prim expression on Constance’s face.
Constance ignored Alex and went to sit on the bed. “Very narrow.”
“I’m sure you’ll fit,” Alex replied.
“Fit, of course I’ll fit!” Constance snapped.
“And Fiona is rather thin, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Fiona?” Constance shook her head. “No, Fiona will sleep elsewhere.”
“No, she won’t,” Alex told her. “But it’s up to you to fight it out between yourselves if she should sleep on the floor or in the bed.”
If Mr Jefferson was unhappy with his assigned sleeping nook in the parlour, he was intelligent enough to keep it to himself, attempting to compensate for Constance’s stinging remarks by his own appreciative murmurings.
“It’s a bit difficult for her, what with her husband and her sons.” Mr Jefferson looked a bit hangdog, dark eyes darting in the direction of Constance, now busy haranguing Fiona. “She’s such a warm person, so easily upset by the plight of others, and to see Mr Leslie like that…” He let his voice drift to a stop.
“She hides it well,” Matthew said.
“Timid,” Thomas Jefferson sighed, and Alex had to convert a guffaw into a cough. Sometimes men were really, really stupid.
*
After a long, endless afternoon, punctured by shrill demands for this or that, the household sat down to supper. Agnes placed rye bread on the table, set down a pitcher of ale, and helped Alex serve the soup. Constance sniffed, stirred and tasted, grimacing as she shoved away the plate.
“I’m not partial to peas, and all these herbs…” She shook her head, throwing Alex a sly look. “Well, one never knows what they might be.”
“Thyme,” Alex said, using her ladle to stir the thick pea soup that smelled not only of thyme but also of mustard and salted pork.
“Hmm.” Constance muttered a comment to Mr Jefferson.
Once the soup bowls had been cleared away, Constance sat up expectantly, only to slump theatrically a few moments later.
“No main course?”
What did she expect? Silver platters laden with pheasants and swans?
“That was the main course,” Alex said.
“Then I’d better have some,” Constance said with ill grace. “I can’t risk to starve.”
“Too late,” Alex snapped. “We’re moving on to dessert.”
Constance perked up. She had quite the sweet tooth, she admitted with a low laugh. In fact, her father at times cautioned her against eating too much as it might make her unnecessarily sweet.
Alex made a face. Was the woman inane or did she just enjoy being an enervating little bitch? She put the pudding dish on the table, seeing her family shine up at her cheesecake – the Swedish kind, with curd and almonds and eggs.
“Swedish?” Constance nibbled carefully. She served herself twice, heaping her plate with far more than her fair share, but when she stretched herself for a third, Alex whipped away the dish.
“Everyone hasn’t had their seconds yet,” she said, making Constance blush at the implied criticism.
Constance looked around the table and back at Alex. “You don’t need yours. In fact, it might do you well to abstain.”
“What?” Alex planted her hands on the table, half rising to stare at Constance.
“You’re fat,” Constance elucidated, shoving away from the table.
Matthew very slowly sat back, wiped his mouth, and locked eyes with Constance. “Who do you think you are, Constance Leslie, to sit at my table and insult my wife?”
Constance glared at him, her pointed chin jutting. “I was just pointing out the truth: your wife could do with shedding a pound or two.”
“Constance!” Mr Jefferson hissed, squirming on his seat.
“What did your mother do to you? Dip you in a vat of vinegar and leave you to soak?” Mrs Parson said.
“She did no such thing! I was raised properly!” Constance’s face set into a scowl.
“But they missed out the part about respect to your elders and politeness in general, did they?” Mrs Parson said. “And they forgot, didn’t they, to teach you not to hurt people on purpose, no?”
Constance went a bright red, leaping to her feet. “It was an accident!”
“Accident, my arse,” Alex said. “You just happened to cross the kitchen, dig out the ladle, fill the ladle with boiling sugar and fling it at Ailish. Happens all the time.”
“Constance?” Mr Jefferson got to his feet as well. “What is this they’re talking about?”
“You misconstrue!” Constance shrieked. “And that Ailish: who did she think she was?”
“Misconstrue?” Mark echoed. “What is there to misunderstand? You could have blinded her.”
“Constance?” Mr Jefferson repeated.
“She didn’t tell you?” Mrs Parson chuckled. “How she was thrown out of the Leslie home on account of her throwing hot sugar in her daughter-in-law’s face?”
“Be quiet!” Constance yelled. “Be quiet, you old crone! I know all about you and her…” She swung to point at Alex. “…the two of you, making strange decoctions and salves.” She wheeled on her toes and rushed from the room, leaving a stunned silence behind.
Mr Jefferson hovered between door and table, not quite sure what to do.
“You gather, I hope, that we’re not overly thrilled to have Constance here,” Matthew said.
Mr Jefferson nodded unhappily.
“We’re only doing it as a favour to Thomas and Peter Leslie,” Matthew continued, “and, rest assured, Mr Jefferson, that if Constance doesn’t improve her behaviour, you will be sleeping in the stable with the beasts. And I’ll not have her insinuating things about my wife or Mrs Parson, so you’d best reprimand her in private.”
Jefferson nodded several times, assuring Matthew that of course he would, and Constance had not really meant it how it came out.
“Huh,” Alex put in, rather shaken by Constance’s veiled accusation of witchery.
“She’s very upset at present.” Mr Jefferson looked apologetic. “And you are well acquainted, I presume, with Peter Leslie’s refusal to allow her access to her sons. What mother wouldn’t suffer from being separated from her babies, and Constance is a most tender-hearted woman – deep inside.”
“Deep enough that no one ever sees it,” Alex said. “As I recall, she gave the babies over in the keeping of their wet nurse, and that was that.”
“But of course! A well-bred woman doesn’t nurse her own. Surely you are of similar thoughts, Mrs Graham, and—” He came to a stop, eyes flying to Betty who had Timothy in her arms.
“A good mother nurses her own,” Alex said. “It ensures a healthy child.”
“But�
��” Mr Jefferson cleared his throat. “I must find Constance,” he mumbled and left the kitchen.
Fiona got to her feet. “I should go as well, help her with her undressing and all that.”
Alex raised her brows. “She must be old enough to manage that on her own, so why does she need a maid?”
“For the lads,” Fiona said, “on the way back.”
“Oh.” That was news to Alex. She assumed Peter’s intent was for the boys to stay with Nathan and Ailish, and grimaced at what she perceived could be a huge legal battle.
She raised the subject once she and Matthew were alone in the parlour, receiving an amused look in return.
“Nay, it won’t be much of an issue. Guardianship of the lads rests with their closest male relative, and that is Nathan. Or Thomas.” Matthew closed the book he had been reading, marking his place with a piece of ribbon.
“So, if you were to die while our youngest boys still are underage, it would be Ian, not me, who’d be their guardian?”
Matthew nodded. “But I don’t intend for that to happen.”
“I dare say Peter wasn’t planning on having a stroke either.”
“I’m nearly ten years younger. And,” he added with a twinkle, “I’m far, far healthier.”
“Yes, I suppose you are,” she said, eyeing him critically. Except for the heavy colds he always got in winter, he was remarkably healthy, and his daily work kept him lean and fit, with only the slightest of softness around his middle. He could still run almost as fast as his sons, still wield an axe or drive the plough into the stony ground, still hit a raccoon from well over 200 yards, and in bed… She concentrated on the shirt she was mending, turning the cuffs to get some more wear out of it. Once she was done, she folded it away and stood.
“Is she right?” she asked, walking over to sit in his lap.
“Is who right?” He stuck his nose in between her breasts and exhaled, tickling her.
“Constance. Am I too fat?”
Matthew kept his nose where it was for some time, arms pleasantly tight round her. “I love you just as you are.”
“I sincerely hope you’d love me even if I was the size of a gorilla. That wasn’t what I asked, was it?” She leaned back to see his face. “Am I?”
Matthew just shook his head. “You’re just as I want you to be. Round and bonny, but not fat, definitely not.”
“Hmm,” Alex replied, somewhat mollified – even if she decided then and there that she was going on a diet.
Chapter 21
Lucy nearly fell down dead the day she found her mother-in-law holding her little picture. How careless of her! She flew across the room and snatched it out of Kate’s hands, all of her shaking with fear. She didn’t even try to explain; she just whirled and bounded up the stairs, wondering how on earth the picture had made it all the way downstairs. In her pocket – she sagged with relief. Yes, it had been in the petticoat pocket and mistakenly been carried down for laundry.
Lucy had expected Kate to subject her to a barrage of questions regarding her odd behaviour and was dumbfounded when her mother-in-law instead came up to discuss an evening event, complete with music and dancing. Dancing? Lucy enjoyed dancing and was good at it, the soles of her feet quick at picking up on the deep bass vibrations of certain instruments. A new dress? No, Lucy assured Kate with a smile, she had dresses enough, and the new green one…
“A new one,” Kate insisted. “I think perhaps in rich red with a pale yellow petticoat to match.”
*
Henry was doubtful about the whole thing, but knew his mother well enough to not even attempt a discussion, promising that he would invite some of his friends.
“I want it to be mostly young people,” Kate said. “An opportunity for Lucy to be with people her own age, and I’ve already arranged for music so that there can be dancing.” She sighed, placed a hand on his arm. “I fear she’s lonely, and even if she attempts to occupy herself with this and that – she’s even dabbling in paints, I think – time must pass dreadfully slowly for one who cannot talk or hear.”
“Paints?” Henry had never seen Lucy as much as raise a brush.
“Not very good,” Kate said. “A little nondescript thing, mostly in blues and greens.”
“Ah.” Henry shrugged.
“So, we’re in agreement? You invite your friends, and I will arrange for music and dancing.”
“Dancing? Is that entirely wise?” Henry frowned at her. The new minister was a solemn man, much given to promoting the narrowness of the dutiful Christian’s path, and even if Henry had a roomy conscience, he had no intention of riling the ministers.
“Oh, come!” Kate scoffed. “It will be a most proper affair. I shall invite both Reverend Norton and the new minister, if you like.”
Henry shook his head. “Minister Macpherson is not the most expansive of men, and as I hear it he isn’t in town, but why not include Minister Walker and his wife?”
They both grinned.
*
The only one who was not dragged along in the general enthusiasm over the upcoming party was Lucy. She had quickly concluded that Kate was doing this for her sake, creating a stage for her misfit daughter-in-law to shine, and she was in two minds about all this.
Yes, she very much looked forward to glowing in her new gown, whipped together at impressive speed by Mrs Malone and a bevy of assistants. No, she didn’t want to be paraded like the village idiot before the condescending eyes of what counted as Providence’s high society. Besides, she had other concerns. Where before it had been enough to spend a solitary half-hour with the painting, increasingly she found herself losing track of time to find the morning gone, sunk into all those stories that the painting whispered and dripped into her head.
Twice, she had considered destroying it, and once she had even brought it close to her lit candle, but the voices, the sounds… Cold sweat broke out along her spine at the thought of once again immuring herself in silence, and she just couldn’t do it. The Voice had become like a close friend, a person whose secrets had been handed over into her cupped hands to hold and cherish.
*
Kate rarely did anything half-heartedly. The household groaned with all the preparations for the upcoming event, and Lucy took to escaping the house, either by visiting her mother or by taking Frances walking along the shoreline. Frances was an easy child: give her some sticks and some water and she’d keep herself happily entertained, while Lucy sat beside her, free to let her mind wander. Frances tugged at her skirts, and Lucy looked down at her from where she’d been staring out at the sea, mentally hearing the water crash against the rocks.
“Mama,” Frances mouthed and patted her leg. “Look, Papa.”
Henry? Lucy followed the pudgy little finger to see it was indeed her husband and his boon companion, Edward Farrell. She took her daughter by the hand and strolled towards them. Her cloak stood wild around her in the rising wind, and even with one hand clapped to hold her cap in place, she could feel her hair beginning to escape its braid to whip around her face.
She saw them laughing, an admiring flash flying through Edward’s eyes, and she stopped, waiting for them, quite aware of how appealing she must look against the backdrop of the swiftly moving clouds. She squinted to better see them, focusing on their mouths. At a distance of only a dozen yards, she could easily make out the lip movements, and smiled at Edwards’s frank comment on how the wind had moulded her clothes to her bosom. It was unfortunate that he kept his face turned in her direction and that the rising wind forced him to enunciate with far more precision than he normally would use; otherwise, she would never have caught his follow-up.
“It must be difficult for you,” Edward Farrell commiserated, “to live with a woman as strange and simple as she is.”
In vain, she waited for Henry to say something cutting in her defence. Instead, he just nodded, clasped his hands behind his back, and continued towards her.
*
Some things a wife mu
st never do, Lucy thought bitterly much, much later. She must never taunt her husband, never flaunt his authority, and never, ever refuse him access to her bed. She winced as she stretched one limb at a time, making sure all of her was still there before getting out of bed to pad across the room to where she had her chamber pot. It hurt to crouch, and she wondered what her back and buttocks looked like, but decided she didn’t want to know.
It had all begun by chance: Henry placing a hand on her lower back to draw her close, capturing her eye before telling her that he would be up shortly to spend the night in her bed – as if it were a boon she must be grateful for. Something had flared in her. She had scribbled a note and pressed it into his hand before striding off.
She hadn’t expected him to be so quick, nor had she thought her little note would so aggravate him. All she had written was that his strange and simple wife had no wish to see him in her bed that night, hoping to cause him shame, not anger. She had expected a chagrined apology, not a hand that closed on her arm and threw her into her room. And she had no idea where her own anger had come from, but where he had hurt her, she had hurt him back, sending him stumbling with an open-handed slap that caught him straight across the mouth.
She straightened up and looked over to where her bed was in total disarray, one pillow torn in two, the top mattress halfway on its way to the floor. On the floor lay her clothes, torn from her, and there, in a corner, was his coat, the sleeve barely hanging on. He had punished her for hitting him, and she had hit him again. At one point, they’d stood panting like animals, both of them half-naked. And then…Lucy ran a tongue over her teeth, used her fingers to inspect her face. A bit puffy on one side, that was all. At least he had bruises of his own, and next time… Yes, next time. She waited until the new maid had finished making up the bed and smiled as she placed her little picture openly on the pillows.
When Henry came down for breakfast, she was already there, smiling serenely at him. The bruise across her cheekbone was expertly concealed, her hair fell in soft waves round her face, and very much on purpose she sat back, allowing the silk nightgown to gape open over her breasts. She saw his nostrils widen, eyes glazing somewhat as they locked on her chest. He stood and with a jerk of his head suggested they repair upstairs. Slowly, she smiled and slowly she stood, placing her hand in his.
Revenge and Retribution (The Graham Saga) Page 17
