Revenge and Retribution (The Graham Saga)
Page 39
“I had no idea that something so simple could be this good.” Robert Chisholm stretched to spear yet another salt-baked beet on his knife, lathered the beet generously with butter, and bit into it.
“And it’s good for you, full of vitamins and other stuff,” Alex said, busy slicing bread.
“Vitamins?” Martin looked at her.
“That’s what my father used to say,” she temporised, which wasn’t a lie, even if he’d said it in the late 1900s. “Maybe it’s a Swedish expression.”
Mrs Parson coughed loudly and placed the large pot of soup on the table before sitting down in the armchair reserved for her out of deference for her advanced age. She fiddled with her starched linen cap, and turned her black eyes on the little Spanish priest who had ridden in with the Chisholms. “Are you planning on staying to officiate at the funerals as well?” she asked, and Robert choked on his ale.
Carlos Muñoz blinked, an elegant hand coming up to smooth at his collar. “What funerals?”
“Well, you’ve wed most of the younger Chisholms almost two years back, you’ve baptised all the new weans, and so you can’t have much cause to linger much longer, can you? Unless you’re counting on them needing you for last rites and such nonsense before they pass on.”
“Mrs Parson!” Alex said, glaring at Ian and Mark who seemed to be on the verge of exploding with laughter.
“It is no nonsense, and I’ll not have you disparage the Holy Church,” Carlos replied stiffly. “As to why I am still here, at present I find myself trapped due to inclement weather.” He slid a look up the table to where Sarah usually sat, but now, in her last month of a most unwelcome pregnancy, their youngest daughter shunned the table when there were visitors. Alex stifled a sigh. The young priest had developed quite the crush on Sarah.
“You shouldn’t tease him like that,” Alex remonstrated with Mrs Parson once the men had gone outside, leaving them alone in the kitchen. “We both know why he’s still here.” She inclined her head in the general direction of Sarah’s room. “If it hadn’t been for him…” Alex left the rest unsaid. They both knew it was Carlos who had helped Sarah cope with her situation, chosen by Sarah as her sole confidant. Most unorthodox, given that Carlos was a Catholic priest.
Mrs Parson looked somewhat shamefaced. “He’s a good lad, for all that he’s a papist. But it’s time he leaves, aye? For his sake, Alex. Yon lassie of yours won’t want much to do with him once this is over.”
“You think?” Alex was surprised by this assessment. In her opinion, Sarah was too fond of the priest, and at one point, Alex could have sworn Sarah was in love with him as well. She threw a distracted look out of the window, eyes lingering on Carlos, who was already mounted on his mule.
“She’ll want to forget, all of this last year she’ll want to bury, and wee Carlos is very much a part of it, no?”
“She can’t forget,” Alex reminded her. “There will be a child.” She watched the Chisholms and Carlos out of sight up the lane before turning to face Mrs Parson.
“She doesn’t want it. She has said so for the last few months.”
“She might change her mind once she sees it.” Alex was in two minds about this: one part of her hoped Sarah would change her mind, the other couldn’t quite see how a child with Burley blood would fit into the Graham household.
“I think not,” Mrs Parson said. “You must start thinking about finding it a home elsewhere.”
Alex was so busy mulling over her discussion with Mrs Parson, it took her some time to notice her entrance into the little parlour had effectively muted whatever conversation Thomas and Matthew had been having.
She set the tray down, handed them a mug of tea, took her own, and went to sit by the fire. First, she studied Thomas. Under her inspection, he fidgeted but by busying himself with his pipe, managed to avoid her eyes. Then, she turned her attention to Matthew, and he calmly looked back, but she knew him too well, saw how his little finger twitched, how still he held his head, and the hair along her back began to rise.
“Something’s wrong.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, directed at them both.
“We don’t know,” Matthew said.
Thomas gave him a sidelong glance, and sucked on the carved stem of his pipe, holding his tongue.
“What is it you don’t know?” Alex asked, but there was a hollow feeling in her chest at the look that now flared in her husband’s eyes.
The men exchanged a look. Matthew sighed, beckoning that she should come over. She knew it was bad when he sat her on his lap, despite being in company, one strong arm encircling her waist.
“Philip Burley,” he said.
“Oh, Jesus.” The mug she was holding in her hands slid through numbed and ice-cold fingers to hit the floor.
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For a Historical Note and more information about Matthew and Alex, please visit Anna Belfrage’s website at www.annabelfrage.com
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Published in 2014 by the author
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Copyright © Anna Belfrage 2014
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