Like Chaff in the Wind (The Graham Saga)

by Belfrage, Anna

  “So you think they have it worse?”

  Mrs Gordon raised her brows and scanned the crowd of waiting men.

  “These are poor men, no? They work their plots by themselves – you can see that.”

  Alex followed her eyes. Yes, weathered men in worn clothes; some stood barefoot, and all had a light in their eyes as they studied the women.

  “They’ll buy themselves a wife,” Mrs Gordon went on, “and she will toil beside him. And it’s a harsh life, no? Much harsher than being a milkmaid on one of the large plantations.”

  “But at least they’re still free,” Alex tried, receiving an irritated headshake in return.

  “Free? A wife isn’t free. She belongs to her man.”

  “I don’t, I’m free. I don’t belong to Matthew.” But she did – legally at least, however much it irked her to admit it.

  Having seen his human cargo disposed of, Captain Miles strode over to join Alex and Mrs Gordon. He had offered to escort them to a boarding house on the outskirts of the town, assuring them that it was clean and had a very competent cook.

  “So, did you make a profit?” Alex asked, making the captain frown.

  “No, this has been a loss making trip. Unless I get a good price for the cane spirit, that is.”

  “Rum,” Alex said, “call it rum. And I told you, didn’t I? It’s a commodity in the making – trust me.”

  “It smells like the devil,” he sighed. “Looks like tar water and the taste is not much better, is it? Still,” he shrugged, “I spoke to one of the innkeepers, and he seemed interested enough.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Alex said. Her eyes were darting this way and that, taking in the little settlement. Not that small, actually, with quite a few shops and businesses ranged along the main thoroughfare. “It’s bigger than I thought it would be.”

  “Much bigger than it was,” the captain said, “and thriving. A lot of money in tobacco.” His arm flew out to steady Mrs Gordon who’d slipped on a patch of mud.

  “Not enough to pave the streets,” Mrs Gordon muttered, fussing with her cap and collar. She brightened when Captain Miles steered them down a narrow lane, making for a house from which emanated the promising scent of baking bread. “I hope they have butter.”

  “I hope they have a hipbath,” Alex said, making Mrs Gordon laugh.

  *

  Already on her first day in Jamestown, Alex found the registry, but to her frustration it was closed, the chief registrar being busy with his spring planting. A yawning doorman told her to come back Monday two weeks, and refused to allow her inside to flip through the archives herself.

  “Please?”

  “No,” the doorman said, “I will not have you bring disarray to the order within.”

  “I can’t afford to wait two weeks!” she said, her heart tumbling inside her. The man shrugged and closed the door in her face. Alex kicked at it: so close and still too far away, and with every day she could feel how his beat grew weaker, a continuous slowing that had her sitting up at bed, pleading with him to stay alive, please God stay alive.

  Mrs Gordon tried to distract her, assuring her that the good Lord would not have led them all the way here only to have her find him dead.

  “How do you know?” Alex said. “He hasn’t been all that much help this past year, has He?”

  “I know, aye? And so do you.” Mrs Gordon took hold of Alex’s hand and stared into her eyes, refusing to let go until Alex nodded in agreement.

  *

  Three days after arriving, Mrs Gordon had a thriving business up and running. Mrs Adams, their landlady, had clapped her hands together at hearing Mrs Gordon was a midwife, and had made a massive PR effort, resulting in Mrs Gordon being called away at all hours, delivering one child after the other. Business was further helped along by the elderly apothecary, who took one look at Mrs Gordon and grinned like a jack-o-lanterns, exposing a crooked but relatively complete set of teeth.

  “One could think they’ve all been bottling it up until you arrived,” Alex teased, serving Mrs Gordon a steaming omelette.

  Mrs Gordon gave her a tired look. “It’s March, no?”

  “March?”

  Eliza the cook laughed at Alex’s incomprehension. “Babies come in batches, Miss Alex – in March and in September.”

  A statement which, if anything, made Alex even more confused. She turned to Mrs Gordon, who sighed and explained that a lot of babies were made in June and in December.

  “In June because all the young lasses go a bit out of their head when the grass is green and sweet, and in December because there is not much else to do, no? Don’t tell me,” she went on with a decided edge to her voice. “It’s different in Sweden.”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” Alex replied huffily.

  “Why don’t they pay you in money?” Alex asked as Mrs Gordon lugged a stone jar of honey up the stairs.

  “Because they don’t have any.”

  “Are they all poor?”

  “Nay, but the few coins they have they need for their taxes. Everything else they barter for.” Mrs Gordon eyed Alex for a moment. “Why don’t you do that? Take all this and barter it.” She waved her hand at the smoked hams, the honey jars, the odd candles and a couple of soft woollen shawls.

  “For what?”

  Mrs Gordon considered that. “Well, not for yarn,” she said, still unimpressed by Alex’s knitting. “But for linen and embroidery thread. You’re good at that, no? You could sew and sell – like the wee smocks you did for Mark, or the shifts you’ve sewn for yourself with that rose pattern around the neckline.”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “It helps to keep busy, lass.”

  Every morning, Alex loaded her basket with an assortment of items and worked her way round town, returning with linen and cambric, thread and yards of pale yellow or green ribbons. In the afternoons she sewed, often outdoor under the huge sycamore that decorated the furthest corner of the lot the boarding house stood in, sometimes indoor in her room.

  “This is right bonny,” Mrs Gordon said, studying the first completed baby smock. She inspected the work carefully, her beady eyes ensuring that Alex hadn’t cheated on the hems.

  “Mrs Gordon! I know what I’m doing, okay?”

  “Okay, okay,” Mrs Gordon muttered back, making Alex stifle a giggle at this very modern expression.

  *

  Ten days after being deposited on the landing stage, Alex was back, this time to take farewell of Captain Miles. He promised to ensure her letters would be delivered to Hillview and swept her into a tentative embrace.

  “Be careful, and when you find him, be sure to let your husband know he is a right fortunate man. Such a wife as he has is a rare treasure indeed.”

  “Do you think I will? Find him, I mean.”

  Captain Miles made a helpless gesture. “That I don’t know. But I’ll pray that you do.” He turned to hug a surprised Mrs Gordon. “Take care of our lass,” he admonished, receiving an insulted look in return. “You need to be down here every day,” he told Alex, one foot already in the longboat. “If you want passage home, you must meet each coming ship and negotiate with the captain before someone else books the berths.” He smiled slightly. “I’ll be back next year, but by then you’ll be long gone.”

  “I sincerely hope so,” Alex said.

  “Aye well, so do I.” He bowed and nimbly stepped aboard.

  *

  The day the registry opened, Alex was first in line, her hands tight fists in her skirts. What if he had died already on the crossing? And how was she to find him anyway? The chief registrar listened to her garbled explanation and promised to help, leading the way down dusty shelves as he read his way down indecipherable labels.

  “Ah,” he said, “the Henriette Marie, you say?”

  Alex nodded, wanting to yank the leather satchel from his hands and page her way through the papers inside. He limped over to a carrel illuminated by the light from a small window, and sat do
wn, indicating she should pull up a stool and join him. Very slowly he turned each page, not, Alex realised, out of a sadistic desire to keep her on tenterhooks, but because he had to peer his way through each document, his eyes almost crossing with the effort.

  “Matthew Graham?” he said after a while. Alex nodded, feeling her insides moving slowly up from her belly to crowd her throat. He frowned as he read his way through for the second time. “Ah…the Suffolk Rose.”

  “That’s not good?” Alex could not keep the fear out of her voice.

  “I…” he stammered, “no…well…” But he smiled and tapped at the deed which sold Matthew to a Mr Fairfax for seven years. Alex tensed at the name; this was the bastard who’d made big business out of abducting innocent men. “We have no notation that he is dead either.”

  Alex’s shoulders dropped half a foot. “Would you always have that?” she said, and to her immense embarrassment her eyes filled with tears.

  “No, but sooner or later we are informed.” He patted her hand and courteously looked away while she wiped her eyes and regained some composure.

  “Is it far?” she asked as he led her back to the door. “To Suffolk Rose.”

  “Three hours by foot, and there is a road all the way there.” He gave her a concerned look. “You should not go out there by yourself.”

  “I have no choice, do I?”

  As she made to step outside he put a restraining hand on her sleeve.

  “What will you do if he says no?”

  Alex blinked. The thought had never struck her. “No?” she asked dumbly.

  “He may not want to part with him.”

  “But why not?”

  “Well…he, umm, Mr Fairfax, well…”

  “I know,” Alex said, “a man with the morals of a snake.”

  The registrar mumbled something about Mr Fairfax being a prominent member of the colony, and such allegations had best be voiced in very selective company. But he wiped at his rheumy eyes and told her she was right, Mr Fairfax was neither a kindly nor a good man.

  “And so he may refuse,” he said, making a helpless gesture.

  “If he says no, I’ll crush him.” She straightened up to her full height. “He won’t; after all, I’m willing to pay a premium price.”

  On the way back to the boarding house she didn’t know whether to dance with joy or crawl with fear. The look on the old man’s face as he’d said Suffolk Rose, had the hairs on her body standing in premonition. Energy drained out of her so fast she just had to stop, hurrying over to stand in the shade of a tree. She placed her hand just below her sternum and took several deep breaths, closing her eyes as she steadied her thundering pulse.

  “I’m here,” she whispered, “I’m here, Matthew.”

  Chapter 19

  2006

  “What is it you’re painting?” Magnus leaned over Isaac’s shoulder.

  “I don’t know,” the six year old artist said. “I think it’s a hill.”

  Magnus looked at the mass of greens and browns and purples and picked it up to stand it on the easel before taking a step back.

  “Yes, I think you’re right. It’s a hillside, isn’t it?”

  Isaac slid down from the stool and dug around among the half squeezed tubes of paint until he found a vivid pink, squeezing out a small blob on his miniature palette.

  “You think?” Magnus said doubtfully. He rather liked the overall muted impression of the picture in front of him. Isaac ignored him, picked up a brush and added a couple of dots before stepping back.

  Magnus looked from the painting to him in amazement.

  “How did you know?” The pink spots had brought everything together, and Magnus found himself thinking that if he sniffed long enough he would actually smell the scent of sun warmed heather and briar roses. Isaac flushed at his Offa’s praise, but busied himself with putting all the caps back on his paint tubes.

  Magnus sucked in his lower lip and regarded his grandson with a slight frown. His eyes slid back to the little painting. The hillside was eerily alive – shit, he could swear he saw the heather move, and what was that, a rabbit darting off? Impossible. A single drop of sweat slid down his spine. Magnus blinked and shook his head. The little canvas settled down into a still life, and Magnus decided he had imagined what he’d just seen. Oversensitive, that was what he was, so scared of finding in Isaac’s painting anything that whiffed of magic. Yet another look at the depicted hillside, and he almost laughed: smudges of brown and green, no more no less, right?

  Isaac had finished with his tubes and was now tidying the table.

  “He’s such an adult when it comes to this,” Diane had said the other week, standing with Magnus to watch Isaac clear his workspace. Yes, he was; when he was painting Isaac became someone very different from the boy he normally was, turning inward with such concentration that he didn’t hear unless you stood in front of him. Now, however, their junior Monet was hungry, and he skipped all the way down the stairs with his hand in Magnus’, wheedling that he be allowed at least two hours Playstation instead of the daily maximum of one.

  *

  Fridays were Magnus’ and Isaac’s special days, and had been since the day Alex went missing. Originally, because John felt Magnus needed the boy so as not to succumb to grief, and then it had become convenient during the months when John and Diane went through a tentative courtship. Since the twins, it was mostly for Isaac’s sake, a whole day of uninterrupted access to one of his adults. These days always followed a pattern: Magnus picked Isaac up from school, they went shopping together, and then returned home, one to cook, the other to paint.

  “Offa?” Isaac curled up beside Magnus on the sofa.

  “Hmm?” Magnus tugged his hand through the short dark hair of his grandson.

  “Why don’t we ever go to the churchyard?”

  The question threw Magnus completely, and he closed his book and sat up straighter.

  “Why would we do that?”

  “Stuart goes there all the time. He goes with his Mum and they put flowers on his granddad’s grave.”

  “But I’m still here. So why would you want to go to the graveyard?”

  Isaac blew out of his nose so heavily it made him sound like an aggravated rhinoceros.

  “But Mama isn’t, is she?”

  Magnus sighed. How the hell was he supposed to explain this? He looked down at Isaac, wondering yet again where those delicate features came from. In some he saw Mercedes, but there was nothing of either himself or of Alex in the face turned up to meet his eyes.

  “Your mother doesn’t have a grave,” Magnus said, deciding there was no way out of this but to tell the truth. “We don’t really know where she is.”

  Isaac frowned at him. “But Diane says she’s gone and won’t be coming back.”

  Magnus nodded. “And she’s right. It’s just that we don’t really know what happened the day she…”

  “Died,” Isaac supplied.

  “Went missing,” Magnus corrected. Isaac eyed him for a couple of minutes, clearly confused.

  “But if she’s missing, then she can come back.”

  “Oh, shit…” This wasn’t his decision to take. “Wait here,” Magnus said and went over to call John.

  *

  John was as uncomfortable as Magnus, studying his son seriously. Finally he opted for an abbreviated version of the truth.

  “Alex – Mama – went out for a drive one day and she never came back. We found the car, we even found her phone, but we never found her. There was an awful thunderstorm that night and the police think that maybe she was hit by lightning and you know, poof.”

  “Poof,” Magnus nodded in agreement.

  “Poof?” Isaac blinked. “Like zapped into a puddle?”

  “More or less,” John said. “So you see, as there was nothing left of her there was nothing we could bury.”

  Isaac digested this for some time. Finally he shrugged.

  “Can I have some ice cream?” />
  Chapter 20

  Mrs Gordon promised to wait for her in the kitchen, no matter how long it took, and gave her an encouraging pat on the back.

  “Close, aye?”

  Alex was so nervous she stumbled over her feet as she followed the house maid down the hallway to the master’s office. Please let him be alright, she prayed, please let me not have come too late. She was too jittery to sit, and instead walked back and forth across the room, taking in its impressive but somewhat heavy furnishing. Everything was in dark wood; the desk, the chair behind it, the intricately carved chest, the panelling. The floor was laid in a herringbone pattern and stained almost black, and to the side stood a large table, covered in a deep red Turkish carpet.

  “Mrs Graham, I believe. What can I do for you?” The man who entered the room looked irritated, his face still heavy with sleep. He settled an impressive wig on his shaved head, and strolled over to lean against his desk.

  “I wish to buy my husband’s indenture from you,” she said.

  Fairfax looked at her with increased interest. “Your husband?”

  “Mr Matthew Graham.”

  Fairfax hitched his shoulder. “Mr Graham? I have no idea if he’s here. My overseer handles the indentures, not me.” His mouth came together into a little pout, conveying just how superior he was to the men presently slaving themselves to death on his land. Bastard.

  “You bought his indenture late last May,” she said, “and as far as I can make out he’s still with you.”

  “He is?” Fairfax was scrutinising her, eyes travelling over her breasts, her face, back to her tits. It was all Alex could do to remain standing still, unnerved by how he was eating her with his eyes. “He might be dead,” Fairfax added with a yawn, “they die quite rapidly at times. The heat, I assume.”

  Helped along by the fact that you probably don’t feed them all that much. Alex threw a look out the window at where half a dozen men shuffled by, shrunk shapes in faded ragged clothes. She gulped. What if he’d died? Starved to death, and all because she’d been delayed? No; she took a calming breath, pressed a hand to her stomach.

  “But you’d know if he was dead, right?” she said, and she hated it that she was pleading.