Revenge and Retribution (The Graham Saga)

by Anna Belfrage

  *

  “That’s what you get from playing the hero,” Alex said to Ian next morning. He couldn’t move, not even to get out of bed to piss, and Betty had come running to fetch help, hiccupping with fright that maybe this time her Ian was bedridden forever.

  “Not that I’m not grateful,” Alex said, rolling him over on his front.

  “Ah!” His breath caught in his throat, and he threw a panicked look in her direction.

  “It’ll be alright,” Alex soothed, helping him down flat. She could see the swelling, a puffy redness at the lower end of his spine. Inflammation in muscles that had been strained well beyond their capacity, but a careful probing along the vertebrae indicated no new damage, even if he hissed at times. She worked out the worst of the tensions, and covered him with cold poultices.

  “Some days on your front, and then you’ll feel much better,” she said to Ian, stroking his dark hair. He mumbled something unintelligible into the linen. “Was it worth it?”

  Ian twisted his head to see her. “Aye.” His face broke into a huge smile. “It was. I…” He waited until Betty rushed over to stop Christopher from hitting Timothy again, and fumbled for Alex’s hand. “I was made a man again,” he said, gripping her hard.

  “Idiot, you’ve been a man since the day you saved Matthew from sure death by hanging, back in Scotland, and you were only twelve.”

  Ian flushed. “Not to myself, not since the accident.”

  “Idiot,” she repeated and kissed his bandaged brow. She sat with his hand in hers until he fell asleep.

  “Quite the healer,” Constance commented when Alex entered the kitchen an hour or so later.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Well, you are, what with all those strange concoctions, all those smelly poultices.” Constance paused. “You slice your men open, clean their wounds, sew them up…” She tilted her head, and a weak ray of November sunlight struck her in the face, making her squint.

  “Things any competent housewife knows how to do,” Alex said, looking about for Matthew. “I suppose that’s why it so impresses you.”

  “He’s gone outside,” Constance informed her, impervious to the jibe. “To help your youngest son with the new puppy.”

  “Ah.” Alex threw a look out of the window. Huge dog. She grinned. Yet another hairy monster that she refused to let inside.

  “So many sons,” Constance said enviously.

  “Yes, very many sons.”

  “Unfortunate that you’ve lost one,” Constance continued, with very little genuine compassion in her voice.

  “Lost one?”

  “The little Indian – gone with the heathen.”

  “He isn’t lost.” Alex kept her voice calm.

  “Oh yes, he is. As lost as my boys are to me.”

  No, he isn’t, you fucking cow, Alex thought. She considered cutting herself a slice of cake, but after Constance’s comment the other evening, Alex had been forcing herself to abstain, so she sucked in her stomach and broke off a dried peppermint leaf to chew.

  “I’ll never get them back,” Constance said. “Not even when he dies will I get them back. At most, I will be allowed to see them a couple of times a year.”

  “They have their home here,” Alex replied – and a far better mother than Constance would ever make in Ailish.

  “I do love them,” Constance said, meeting Alex’s eyes. “It wasn’t them I threw sugar at.”

  “What you did to Ailish—”

  “Irish cow! Usurping my rightful place, ordering me about as were I one of her serving wenches – and she a bond servant herself!”

  “She’d been running the household since Elizabeth died. And, if we’re going to be honest, you didn’t much want to, did you? At least, not at first. Even more to the point, you had no idea how – you probably still don’t.”

  “That’s what you have slaves for. I would’ve bought some well-trained house slaves and set them to run the place – properly.”

  Alex shook her head at her. “I don’t hold with slaves.”

  “Oh?” Constance laughed. “Well, I do.” She moved over to the door. “Most educated people do, but it’s not to be expected of half-illiterate peasants – after all, what would you do with all that spare time?”

  “Educated? You?”

  “In my home, we have a library.” Constance smiled wickedly. “Not a paltry collection of thirty-odd books.”

  “And in my home, we actually read them and broaden our minds. Seems to be something you’ve missed out entirely.” Alex folded her arms over her chest and stared Constance out of her kitchen.

  *

  Two days later, Ian was up and about, albeit somewhat gingerly, and sufficiently recovered to scowl when Matthew rode out yet again with Mark and Jacob in search of the Burleys, leaving him at home.

  As she had done the two previous days, Alex spent most of the day worrying, and when the threesome finally came back, well after nightfall, she shooed them all inside for a late supper, listening with half an ear as Matthew recounted just how fruitless their day had been.

  “Gone west,” Matthew said, “and, from the look of the tracks, four or five horses.”

  “Let’s hope they fall into a swamp somewhere.” Alex placed a plate of fried cabbage on the table.

  “They won’t be back this side of winter.” Matthew speared a slice of salted pork with his knife and stretched for the baked onions.

  “Mayhap they’ll never come back,” Mark said.

  Constance made an amused sound. “The Burleys? Stubborn as mountain goats, the lot of them, and they have an axe to grind with you.”

  “Good friends of yours?” Mark asked, making Constance flush.

  “Of course not!” Thomas Jefferson sounded irritated. “But, seeing as they were born close to where we come from—”

  “Ah,” Mrs Parson nodded. “Blood kin. That explains quite a lot.”

  Thomas Jefferson glared at her, pulled Constance to her feet and left the room.

  “I swear, Matthew, if she doesn’t leave soon, I’ll throttle the woman!” Alex stabbed the needle through the cloth, wishing it was Constance’s arm. They were alone in the kitchen, Mrs Parson having retired early. She could hear Constance and Mr Jefferson conversing in the parlour, but had no inclination to join them, preferring the peace and quiet of her emptied kitchen.

  “One or two more days,” Matthew said. “I heard the minister comment to Mr Jefferson how there was no hope in budging the Leslies on the lads, but that her portion in the will has been agreed with Nathan.”

  “Peter is still alive, and his will is being torn apart?”

  “Aye, Thomas said how it broke his heart to see his brother still as a corpse while the minister and the lawyer argued with Nathan over his bed.”

  “Well,” Alex said, “he should be there, to express what his opinions are.”

  “Express his opinions? He blinks: once for aye, twice for nay. But Nathan has been a good lad in this, taking the time to read everything back to his father, and ensuring he agrees to it all. And the one thing Peter wouldn’t countenance was his wee sons ending up in Constance’s tender care.”

  “Good for him,” Alex muttered. “How long do you think he has?”

  “The minister said how it could be days, or years, but he doesn’t think it will be long in this case. Two apoplexies in less than a month does not bode well.”

  “No,” Alex said. “I’m going to miss him.”

  “So will we all.” Matthew sighed. “And his brother most of all.”

  Chapter 23

  Lucy saved the picture from Emily Farrell, stuffing it inside her bodice. It wasn’t her fault, nor the picture’s, she tried to communicate. It was the snotty-nosed boy who was to blame, for entering where he wasn’t welcome.

  Her brain was reeling with the potential consequences of the last few minutes, and her eyes kept straying to Emily Farrell’s mangled hands. Not a whole nail; two fingers looked as if they had been crushe
d and the left wrist seemed somehow disjointed, hanging at an odd angle. As she watched, she saw bruises springing to the surface of that oh, so white skin, and as to the boy… In difference to little Frances, Nicholas had a spectacular bruise over his right cheek, and he kept on complaining that his shoulder hurt and so did his arm.

  Lucy regretted having gotten to her feet. If she had stayed where she was, chances were the boy would simply have disappeared, and then her secret would still have been safe, not flayed wide open as it now was.

  She could see Emily was screeching, spittle flying from her mouth, but the articulation was far too bad for her to make out any more but the repeated witch. Witch? Lucy shook her head in denial. She was no witch, had no special gifts. It was the painting, and it wasn’t her fault, was it, if people looked too closely at it.

  The bedchamber was suddenly full of people, agitated people with arms that waved: Emily’s servant, the wet nurse with one of the twins, little Frances with her hysterical nurse, and then Kate appeared at the door and, with a smart clapping of hands, brought things back to normal. Lucy relaxed. Her mother-in-law would know what to do.

  Kate listened to Emily’s account of events and turned to Lucy. “Is this true? Did Emily’s little boy begin to vanish into your painting?”

  Lucy couldn’t deny it, so she nodded. Not my painting, she tried to tell Kate. Nothing I have ever done.

  “Where is it now?” Kate asked.

  Lucy chose not to reply, but Emily pointed an accusing finger in the direction of her chest.

  “She took it back. I think she hid it under her clothes.” It lay warm and comforting against Lucy’s heart, whispering that all would be alright, there was no reason to become unduly upset.

  Kate extended her hand. “Give it to me.”

  Lucy shook her head, backing away.

  “Lucy, give it to me. I must see it.”

  Lucy handed it over, and for some moments, Kate stood looking down at the little thing before shaking her head. “Impossible, this is but an amateurish attempt to capture the sea. Lucy must really improve on her brushwork.”

  Not me, Lucy screeched inside. It isn’t me who’s painted it!

  Kate beckoned Nicholas forward, but the child hung back, gripping his mother’s hand hard.

  “Tell me what happened,” Kate said.

  She straightened up after a couple of minutes.

  “The day your arm was so badly bruised,” she said to Lucy.

  Lucy’s eyes flew to Frances, and Kate gasped, rushing over to cradle her granddaughter to her.

  “What is it you’ve done?”

  Nothing, Lucy assured her, she had done nothing. Hastily, she scribbled how she had found the painting, no more.

  “But you knew what it could do!”

  Lucy shook her head. No, she insisted, she hadn’t known. Not at first. She snatched at the picture from where Kate had left it, and held it to her chest. It fills my world with sound, she explained to her mother-in-law. With it, I can hear.

  “How hear? Hear me now?”

  No, not like that. But she heard all the same, sounds from the past and perhaps from the future.

  Kate stared at her and ordered everyone out of the room, before following them out.

  “Lock the door,” she said to one of her slaves.

  Lucy was left alone at last, and sank down to sit at her desk.

  *

  Joan felt her heart shrink to the size of a gallstone and drop heavy like lead to land well below her middle. Her eyes flew from one face to the other, hoping to see that this was some kind of sick jest, but the three men before her remained solemn and serious.

  “Lucy?” she croaked. “My Lucy?”

  William Hancock helped her to sit, keeping a supportive hand on her shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry, Joan, but yes, it would seem your daughter has been taken over by Satan himself.”

  “No,” Joan protested in a whisper. “She’s a good girl, my Lucy. She goes to church regularly. She knows her Bible.”

  “That doesn’t always help,” Minister Allerton said.

  “What…” Joan wet her lips, wondering where Simon was. “What is it you say she’s done?”

  “She didn’t do anything as such,” Minister Allerton said, and Joan closed her eyes in grateful relief. “Not today,” he added.

  “A child was nearly swallowed by a painting of hers,” William explained, patting Joan when she moaned. “The mother pulled him back to safety. We have as yet not questioned her properly, and, to be fair, Lucy seems very distraught, even if she refuses to relinquish the painting.”

  It speaks to her, Joan almost said, but bit her tongue at the last moment. A comment like that would implicate her as well, and that would do neither Lucy nor herself any good. She stared at the small parlour window, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the thick glass. A witch, verily a witch she looked, thin and stooped with eyes that burnt like grey coals in an otherwise inanimate face. What had Lucy done?

  Joan picked at the dark wool of her winter skirts, and hid her face from the three pairs of eyes that studied her with a mixture of compassion and fear. The lasses that had gone missing during summer… Joan swallowed back a groan and tried to sit up straight to meet the concerned looks. “I’m sure you are wrong. My Lucy is a good lass. She wouldn’t do anyone any harm.”

  William sent a boy to fetch Simon, and a mere half-hour later, he came rushing in, out of breath. Simon was very rarely lost for words, but the bald description of events given him by William left him moving his mouth soundlessly. He staggered across the room to join Joan, gripped her hand hard, and looked at his friend and business partner with entreating blue eyes. “You’re jesting.”

  “No, Brother Simon, I’m not. At present, Lucy is held under lock and key at the Jones’ residence, but we’ll move her over to safer quarters this evening.”

  “Safer quarters? How safer quarters?” Joan asked.

  “We’ll keep her in the cellars of the meeting house,” Minister Allerton said. “To leave her where she is now is to risk major upheaval and damage to both property and life.” Briefly, he explained that Emily had shouted her story out loud to the people of Providence, and people were already baying for blood – in particular the Farrells and the family of the girl who had disappeared back in early August.

  “The girl?” Simon looked very confused. “Why the girl?”

  “Had Emily not come in time, her boy would have been lost, invisible to us. That is what happened to little Cynthia as well,” William replied. “Just as it did to the little whore and Mrs Malone’s niece.”

  “Conjecture,” Simon said. “No proof, none at all. Those lasses might have left voluntarily, or been abducted, or slipped off the wharves to drown! We don’t know what has happened to them, do we?” He gave Joan’s hand a little squeeze, as if to reassure her that all would be well.

  She sighed, recognising the expectant look that settled on his face. Simon Melville was an excellent lawyer, and his daughter would not go defenceless.

  “No, we don’t, but people leap to conclusions, and in view of what nearly happened to Nicholas…” Minister Allerton shrugged.

  “Besides, there is the matter of the picture as such,” Lionel Smith spoke up. He had so far remained silent in the company of his elders.

  “The picture?” Simon swallowed noisily. “How so?”

  “It must take considerable skill in the dark arts to create something like that,” Lionel said.

  “Aye,” Simon said, “most considerable.”

  “And if so, then you can but agree that your daughter is indeed a witch,” Lionel concluded.

  Simon looked up at him with a deep crease between his bushy brows. “You must forgive me, young Lionel, but somewhere in your reasoning you lost me.”

  “Well, it follows that if she has painted it—”

  “But she hasn’t,” Simon interrupted, “and she has said so.”

  “She can’t very well admit t
o it,” Minister Allerton said.

  “She hasn’t.” Simon got to his feet, his paunch straining against the dark green coat and its pewter buttons.

  “No proof,” William said, “and Kate seems to think she has.”

  “I know she hasn’t,” Simon insisted. “I know. I’ve seen such paintings before, wee pieces of evil.”

  “You have?” Minister Allerton eyed him doubtfully. “Where?”

  “In the keeping of Alex Graham,” Simon said.

  “No,” Joan whispered, trying to grab at his coat. “No, Simon, don’t.”

  “It’s she who brings them with her,” Simon went on, directing himself to Lionel. “Go and ask her, ask Alex Graham where those witch things come from!”

  “Are you accusing Alex of being a witch?” Minister Allerton said.

  Joan closed her eyes. Foolish, foolish man. Now what had he done?

  “No,” Simon mumbled, “not as such, of course not. But those wee pictures…Lucy didn’t paint it, that I know.”

  *

  Lucy didn’t like it at all when they came to take her away. She struggled and shrieked, throwing wild looks at Kate and Henry, who stood stony-faced and watched. At one point, she imagined she saw Henry start, and hoped he was coming to her aid, but instead he wheeled and left, and Lucy screeched at his betrayal. It was all his fault! If he hadn’t gone to others when she was here, waiting for him, longing for him, then none of this would have happened. Kate wrapped her in a cloak and squeezed her shoulders before standing back as Lucy was manhandled out of her home.

  Lucy had never been down in the cellars under the meeting house, and balked at the narrow dark stairs. Here? She imagined there would be rats and spiders, and when they shoved her into a small room, she grabbed at the door frame and pushed back, fighting to get out. Another shove sent her flying into the dark, the door was pulled to, and Lucy, who had nothing but her eyes to rely on, was left in absolute darkness. With shaking hands, she inspected her surroundings, and there she found a pallet bed. Lucy sat down on the bed and extracted the painting from its hiding place. Maybe she could lose herself in it as well. She gripped it between her hands but it lay silent in her hold. In the dark, she couldn’t make it play for her, and she curled up to cry on the bed.