Revenge and Retribution (The Graham Saga)

by Anna Belfrage

  *

  “You’re a remarkable woman,” Julian said to Alex some days later. He nodded in the direction of where Matthew was sitting. “Does he know how fortunate he is?”

  “Ask him,” she suggested, escaping to supervise Ruth’s packing.

  Matthew listened with some amusement – and quite some pride – as Julian extolled Alex’s multiple Christian virtues, chief among them her compassion and capacity to forgive.

  “He accused her falsely, and still she concerns herself with his wellbeing, supporting him now that his wife is gone. A marvellous woman, most remarkable.”

  “Aye, she is,” Matthew said, “and on top of that, opinionated and stubborn and—”

  Julian laughed, shaking his head. “That too. I was somewhat concerned that she should launch herself into a discussion regarding God’s grace and predestination the other day. Even worse, I worried that she might state that God in all probability is a papist.”

  “Well,” Matthew said, “none of us know, do we? We can but lead our lives as well as we can and hope it will be enough at the Day of Reckoning.”

  “Matthew Graham! Do I hear you voicing doubts about our faith?”

  “Not as such, no. But I do agree with Alex in that God surely is just, no matter what else He might be, and so He won’t pay particular heed to if we’re Papists or Protestants or Quakers or such. He’ll look to our faith and our actions rather than to a predestined order of things.”

  “That’s heresy,” Julian said.

  “To us as Presbyterians, aye. To Protestants and Catholics, no. And who is to know? Only God knows, and He isn’t telling, is He?” Matthew cocked his head. “Does this disqualify me as your future father-in-law?” he teased, grinning at the expression that crossed Julian’s face.

  “Err…” Julian coughed. “…umm, well, no I suppose. I must take it upon myself to bring you and your wife safely back into the folds of our beliefs.”

  Matthew laughed out loud. “You may find that quite the struggle. Not with me, but with Alex, remarkable woman that she is.” He shook his head to show Julian just how futile his efforts would be.

  The discussion was interrupted by the remarkable woman herself, who came in to inform her husband their daughter was finally packing.

  “She could stay here,” Julian said, his casual tone belied by the gleam in his eyes.

  “Oh, I’m sure she could, but she isn’t. Not this time.” Alex leaned towards him with a small frown on her face. “Not yet seventeen, and nothing – I repeat, nothing – untoward will happen between you before she turns eighteen.”

  He flushed. “Nothing has happened.”

  “Oh yes, it has. You’ve kissed her, haven’t you?” Only this morning, Matthew had seen them, a stolen embrace in the kitchen, and, from the way his daughter melted herself into Julian’s arms, he knew it was a matter of weeks at most before something else happened, which was why, of course, Ruth was coming home with them, despite her voluble protests.

  “Umm…” Julian said, ducking his head to avoid their eyes.

  “And you liked it,” Alex stated rather unnecessarily in Matthew’s opinion – what man wouldn’t? “Well, Julian dear, so does she, and unfortunately, in some aspects she is far too like me: what we like, we want more of.” She shared a quick look with Matthew, her eyes dark and promising.

  “I would never dishonour her,” Julian said stiffly.

  “Aye, we know. But she would, and you wouldn’t stand a chance in hell.”

  “Hmm.” Julian fussed with his clothes, hand lingering on his starched collar – no doubt to remind them of his impeccable morals, given that he was a minister. “Will I be allowed to take farewell of her?”

  “Aye,” Matthew said, “and we will even accord you some moments of privacy. Moments, mind.”

  *

  Simon had decided to sell his little house, having been offered to rent a room with the Hancocks. “They have a room to let, and I don’t need much more. Besides, I can’t stay there, not in a home so full of Joan. I can’t enter the kitchen without expecting to see her there, and our bedroom… No, I can’t stay there.”

  “It may be a bit premature,” Alex said. “Maybe you should wait and see.” Esther Hancock kept a nice home, but both Esther and William were very devout – far from Simon’s rather relaxed attitude to religion. Fortunately, Betty had not inherited their excessive religiousness, maybe as a consequence of far too many hours spent on her knees as a child.

  “Wait and see for what? Do you truly think I’ll marry again? Nay, Alex, any bedding I‘ll be doing will be such as I pay for.”

  “You don’t know,” Alex insisted, saddened by the bleakness in his voice.

  “Aye, I do.” Simon sank down to sit like a collapsed soufflé. “I don’t think I could make the effort required to live in marriage – not again. All that hard-won intimacy; those years when you must explain out loud what Joan knew without me saying it.” In his hand, he was holding a length of ribbon, a pale dove-grey that Alex recognised as being Joan’s. “I will hold myself to Joan. My heart, my soul, she owns forever.” He roused himself and stood, tucking the ribbon inside his shirt. “But I won’t promise to be celibate – she knows I can’t hold it anyway.”

  “And why change your habits after her death?” Alex said with a certain sting. “Now that she can’t be hurt by your constant presence at Mrs Malone.”

  Simon gave a low laugh. “We found our way back to each other, and it wasn’t constant, at most twice a month. And Joan understood and forgave.”

  “I never would.”

  Simon smiled down at her and held out his hand to help her up. “Aye, you would. You love him.”

  Alex made a doubtful sound, making Simon laugh out loud and comment that it was clear as day that she and Matthew were as besotted with each other now as they’d been when first they married.

  *

  On the day of their departure, frost roses decorated the windowpanes of the little attic window, and the floorboards creaked with cold.

  “It’s snowing!” Ruth sounded hopeful.

  “So it is.” Matthew nodded. “Best dress warmly,” he added and went back to his porridge.

  “Mayhap we should wait,” Ruth said.

  “Wait? For what?” Matthew added a dollop of butter and honey to his steaming bowl and sniffed. Very nice.

  Ruth gave him an exasperated look and stomped off. Matthew winked at his wife and went on with his breakfast.

  An hour later, they were well on their way, Providence a half-mile or so behind them.

  “It’s going to be cold,” Alex said from where she was sitting before Matthew on Aaron.

  “Aye,” he agreed, pulling his thick winter cloak closer. Lined with wool fleece, it hung heavy round them both. “Keeps people inside.” Given that he knew Philip Burley was nowhere close, he’d dispensed with hiring extra men, but all the same, the whirling snow came as something of a relief. He beckoned Ruth closer and nodded when he saw she held the loaded musket over her thighs.

  “If we ride well into the night, we can be home by late tomorrow evening,” he said. “Just a short break to allow the horses to rest and get their wind back.” Home. It felt like an eternity since they had left, even if it was no more than three weeks.

  “In time for Christmas,” Alex said. Matthew studied the bulging saddlebags and shook his head. He didn’t hold with excessive gift giving, but Alex had insisted they buy something for each and every one – practical things, mostly. In his pouch he carried his New Year’s gift to her, and he snuck his hand down to ensure it was still there. Not at all practical, he smiled, but he hoped she would like it all the same.

  Chapter 30

  It was a relief to be back home, to allow oneself to fall back into routines and everyday life. Sarah was overjoyed to see Ruth – at least for the first few days – and then the house was once again filled with the noise of their continuous bickering and arguing, interspersed with loud bursts of laughter an
d long conversations where the fair and the red head leaned very close together.

  Adam monopolised Alex from the moment she was back, tagging after her like a constantly talking shadow with his black and white dog, now ceremoniously baptised Lovell, at his heels.

  “Why Lovell?” Alex crouched down to scratch the puppy.

  “You know: ‘The rat, the cat and Lovell our dog ruled all England under a hog’.”

  “Ah,” Alex said. “Want to help me with the turnips?”

  No, Adam most certainly didn’t, and, with a little relieved wave, Alex set off in the direction of the root cellar. Adam was endearing company – for an hour or so. Almost two days listening to his detailed description of his beloved animals was a bit too much, for all that Hugin starred in a number of amusing anecdotes.

  On her way back up from her inspection of her winter vegetables, Mark caught up with her and from the look in his eyes, she knew he was bursting to tell her a secret, but instead he took her by the elbow and guided her to his cabin. Not a particularly difficult secret to guess, she grinned, watching Mark kiss his wife tenderly. “You look well.” Alex sat down beside Naomi. As always, Naomi had her lap full of mending, and now she held up a torn, light green smock and sighed.

  “That child… I swear, Lettie should have been born a lad!” But her mouth curved into a wide smile, and the way her hand drifted down to her stomach confirmed Alex’s little hunch.

  “She reminds me of our Rachel,” Alex said, looking at the dark-haired toddler, who was suspiciously quiet in her corner.

  “Mark says so as well, and given some of the stories he tells of his sister, I quake already.”

  “Yes, it was a bit terrifying at times. Like when she decided she could fly and jumped from the hayloft, or when she convinced Jacob that children were just like fishes – if you stuck your head under the water and breathed, you’d learn how to swim.” Alex laughed softly. She could still recall the sheer fright when Mark came running up the path from the eddy pool back in Hillview, screaming that Jacob was dead.

  She turned her attention to Lettie. “Lettie Graham. Don’t you even dare, child, you hear!” With surprising speed, she had her granddaughter under one arm, her free hand rooting in the little mouth. “Spit it out! Shit, bloody hell! Don’t bite me, you little hellion, or I’ll bite you back!” Lettie coughed. She coughed again and threw up, a cascade of half-digested porridge and several pieces of coal. Alex held the dripping, stinking child at arm’s length and smiled at her son. “Yours, I think?” she said, handing him the girl. Mark grimaced but took her outside, throwing black looks at the two grinning women.

  “And still you want another.” Alex rolled her eyes.

  “Says the woman who has nine – no, ten – children of her own,” Naomi said with a chuckle.

  *

  To be home was also to be made painfully aware of the one who was missing. She lived Samuel’s absence in a way she’d never lived anyone’s absence before. Rachel, well, she’d died, and there was nothing to be done, and Jacob had chosen to run off to sea. But Samuel…at times, the guilt threatened to strangle her. Why hadn’t she done something? Rushed for the Indian boy and forced a trade, or… Like a constant thorn in her heart it was, and every morning there was that infinitesimal moment of time when she thought things were as they always had been, before she remembered that somewhere out in the forest Samuel wandered far from home. Did he miss her? Sometimes, she imagined she could hear him crying, and once she was so convinced he was actually there, she climbed up to the hayloft to look for him.

  It was difficult to talk to Matthew about it, partly because she blamed him – and blamed him a lot – for that promise made so long ago; partly because every now and then she would see him stop whatever he was doing, head cocked in the direction of the western forests. If she had problems with guilt, Matthew was drowning in it, and she was reluctant to add more stones to a burden that was already threatening to crush him. And should Samuel not return… Alex slammed the hatch on that treacherous thought.

  “He may not want to,” Mrs Parson said when Alex broached the issue with her. “Mayhap the lad takes to Indian ways, no?”

  Alex gave her a dark look. “He’s my son.”

  “Aye, and he would still be your son, even if he chose to live out there, no?” Mrs Parson waved a hand in the direction of the north-west.

  “He’s coming home.” Alex banged the door hard in her wake.

  *

  The day before Christmas, Alex saw David walk off in the direction of the river, and wrapping herself in a cloak, she hurried after him. David had been very silent since they had returned home, or maybe it was because she had been away that she noticed just how often he snuck away to be alone, and almost always to the graveyard or the river.

  The snowfall of a week back had melted away, but two nights of freezing cold covered the ground and trees with hoar frost, and David’s footprints stood black against the glittering surface. Not that she needed to track him: he was still visible where he walked dejectedly in front of her, scuffing at the ground. His wooden sword dragged behind him, and Alex wept inside, realising just how much this d’Artagnan was missing Buckingham – royalist or not. David walked all the way down to the water’s edge, pausing by the flat rock where Samuel had left his folded clothes.

  Alex wrapped her arm round his shoulders. He leaned his weight against her. “I don’t think he’s coming today.”

  “Nay,” David sighed. “I don’t think so either. But I hoped, on account of it being Christmas soon.”

  “Indians don’t hold with Christmas, honey. I don’t think Samuel will be celebrating the birth of Our Lord this year.”

  “Aye, he will.” David tilted his head back to meet her eyes. “In here, he will.” He clapped his chest with his hand.

  “You think?” Alex felt strangely heartened by David’s conviction.

  “He says our names every night,” David whispered. “Slowly, slowly, he says them – all of them. And then he prays as you’ve taught us.”

  “I’m not sure,” Alex said. “He’s not yet eleven. It’s easy to forget when you’re that young.”

  “Not Samuel, not my brother.”

  They sat down together on the fallen log, and David rested his head against her.

  “Will he ever forgive us?” Alex asked, regretting the words the moment she uttered them out loud. Not a question to ask a child, she reprimanded herself severely.

  “Forgive you?” David sat up straight. “And what were you to do? Fight the Indians when they came in force?”

  “We could have done something.”

  “It wouldn’t have helped.” David hugged her. “Samuel knows it.”

  They lapsed into a comfortable silence, watching as the sun transformed the frosted trees into prisms of magical colour. It was very quiet, the migrating birds long gone, and the remaining sparrows and thrushes keeping low to the ground, or at least going about their business without expending energy on making noise. A crow cawed, it cawed again, and then it was all absolute stillness.

  David shifted closer to her. The frost on the log had melted under her, dampening her skirts, but she was reluctant to move, and so, apparently, was he. There was a far-off rustling, and the crow called again. The shrubs on the other side of the river parted; a group of men stepped out on the further shore.

  “Indians!” David breathed.

  “Samuel,” Alex groaned simultaneously, and now she was on her feet, because he was there, her son, standing only fifty feet from her, side by side with Qaachow. Oh God, my boy, he’s brought my boy home, she thought, and her arms went out in an embracing gesture. Samuel took a tentative step in her direction, but Qaachow said something to him, and he ducked his head and stepped back into the forest.

  “No!” Alex was already wading through the shallows, ignoring the iciness of the water. “No! Goddamn you, Qaachow! Give me my boy back!” Her eyes burnt into the Indian chief, but he didn’t reply, gesturing to h
is men to deposit the sorry bundle they were carrying by the water’s edge. Alex slipped, and had to swim furiously against the ice-cold current.

  “Mama!” David was shrieking in fear behind her, but Alex didn’t care. She was going after her boy; she had to fetch him home. She slipped again, and the waters closed over her head. Jesus! It was cold!

  She resurfaced, spitting like a drowning cat. Samuel was rushing towards the water, and before he could be stopped, he had thrown himself in, buckskins and all, to come to her aid.

  “Samuel! Oh God, Samuel! Get back, son.” Alex had her head over the water, wiping at her hair with an arm that was unbearably heavy. Her fingers, she couldn’t feel her fingers. But her eyes locked into Samuel’s, and she smiled. Down she went again, her mouth filling with water. A weak kick, and her head broke the surface.

  “I love you, Samuel,” she gargled, before being tugged under by the current, and once again she heard David’s frantic ‘Mama’ from somewhere behind her. But she was almost there, only yards separated her from her son, and then there were arms around Samuel and he was being carried away.

  “Mama!” he screamed. “Mama!”

  Alex sank, her legs useless in the cold. Other hands took hold of her, and she was half carried, half dragged to lie panting and shivering on the shore. By her nose were a pair of moccasins, and, following them up, she found the legs, the torso and then, finally, the face of Qaachow.

  “My son,” she croaked. “I want my son back. You’ve had him long enough, and I die, you hear. Every day without him, I die!”

  “A year,” Qaachow reminded her, backing away.

  “Curse you, Qaachow!” Alex managed to get up on her knees. “May your seed fail; may your children and grandchildren wither and die; may your people fall into sickness and suffer iniquity and pain. All of this until my son is returned to me.”

  Qaachow looked completely taken aback, staring at her with something like fear in his eyes. She rose, tried to wipe her face free of the tendrils of hair that were plastered across it. From the forest came Samuel’s voice, calling for her, for his brothers, his da. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the other shore where Matthew was standing surrounded by their sons, Jacob already stripping off his clothes.