Like Chaff in the Wind (The Graham Saga)

by Belfrage, Anna

  “A letter,” he smiled, handing it over. “And I have berths for you.”

  Alex whooped.

  “The ship sails in three days,” the harbourmaster added, looking from one to the other expectantly. The joy dissipated as fast as it had come, leaving in its wake an echoing hollowness.

  “Three days? Is there not a possibility for it to wait a week?” Matthew sounded pleading.

  The harbourmaster shook his head. “No, it sails on time. It’s already taking aboard cargo.”

  Matthew took Alex’s hands in his. “I can’t let him die alone.”

  “I know,” Alex replied, working hard to contain the roaring, angry voice inside of her. His fault – all of it his fault!

  “I appreciate your kindness,” Matthew said to the harbourmaster. “But we can’t leave on such short notice. We have a dying friend.”

  The harbourmaster nodded. “I heard: not that Fairfax is a great loss to mankind, if I may say so.” He gave Alex an encouraging smile. “There’ll be more ships, ma’am.” With that he was off, no doubt to find new buyers for the precious berths.

  Alex leaned her head against Matthew’s chest and wept. Home! Had he not gone out to Suffolk Rose, obliging her and James to come after, they’d be on their way home. He rested his cheek against her head.

  “I’m so sorry, lass, I’m so very, very sorry.”

  Finally she wiped her eyes. “At least we have a letter to read, but let’s read it back in our room. Let’s save it for later tonight, okay?”

  What she really wanted to do was to yank the letter out of his hands and tear it open to read it now, immediately. Her eyes hung on the thick paper square as he nodded and tucked it inside his shirt. Matthew put the back of his hand against her face.

  “You can go with this ship,” he said, sounding as if he’d choked on something unpalatable. “I can buy you passage and come after on a later boat.”

  Leave him? She met his eyes and shook her head. “No way; I’m not leaving you. With your luck, you’d probably find yourself on a boat bound for Greenland or something.”

  “Sounds like a wonderful place,” he said, with a smile in his voice.

  “It isn’t, it’s a misnomer, or an indication of the Vikings having a very peculiar sense of humour. It’s covered with ice. And polar bears.”

  In an effort to distract them both, she launched into a detailed description of Eskimos and igloos, and how in the future men would explore the barren wastes of snow. Sometimes she missed the diversity of her previous life, she told him, the availability of information about so many different things.

  “Mmm,” Matthew said. “But why would anyone living here need to know about yon Eskimos?”

  She looked away and sighed; in this day and age it was always about the here and now, a slow plodding pace that sometimes drove her crazy.

  “Do you think of it often?” Matthew sounded belligerent, surprising Alex into turning towards him.

  “Think about what?”

  “About your other life,” Matthew clarified, his eyes scanning her face.

  “Not really, every now and then yes, but not so much about my life as such, as about my people.”

  “We are your people,” he corrected harshly. “Mark and I, Joan and Simon, even Mrs Gordon.”

  “Soon to be Mrs Parson,” Alex smiled, eliciting a responding glimmer in his eye. She opened her fingers to twist them into his. “They are my people too; Magnus, Isaac and John. They will always be my people.”

  He grunted, clearly dissatisfied by this reply. They walked in silence for some time, swinging their braided hands between them like infatuated adolescents.

  “So you never wish yourself back, then?”

  “No, never. They are my people, but you, Matthew Graham, you are my life.” She kissed his cheek and tore away to run the last few yards home.

  *

  Mrs Adams had long ago resigned herself to her guest’s obsession with cleanliness, and had agreed that she might use the laundry shed for her ablutions, thereby eliminating the need to carry pail after pail of water up the stairs. So when Alex rushed by her and asked if she could use the shed, she just nodded, bustling to find towels and soap.

  “A taper?” she asked, nodding in the direction of the hearth.

  Alex shook her head. “In this heat?”

  Mrs Adams gave her a condescending smile. “This isn’t hot,” she said, echoing Matthew’s earlier comment. “Come August, well then you can talk about heat.”

  “I can’t wait,” Alex mumbled.

  “God willing you will be on your way home by then,” Mrs Adams chirped. She was a remarkably cheerful person, Alex reflected, at times borderline enervating.

  “I sincerely hope so.”

  “The harbourmaster said how he’d arranged berths for you, hasn’t he found you then? He—” Alex slammed the kitchen door hard behind her.

  Alex propped the door open to let in some light into the dim interior of the laundry shed, and sat down on one of the work benches, kicking at the washboard propped against the trough. Home… and Mark… She tried to picture him in her mind. He would have outgrown all her smocks by now, a small boy, no longer a baby. Someone else was making his clothes, and at this rate it would be Joan, not her, that would be the first to dress him in shirt and breeches. The thought gnawed like a rabid rat at her heart. She was going to return to face a little stranger, a boy whose likes and dislikes she didn’t know.

  She sighed; of course they owed it to James to be there for him when he died for Matthew. God, he was an idiot at times! If only…But no; how was she to blame him, when all he had set out to do was to avenge the harm done to them both? Stupid, stupid man! She bit off a piece of nail and chewed it meditatively. There would be other boats, she decided as she undid her shoes and took off her stockings. For a long time she stared down at her toes, not really seeing them when her eyes misted over with tears. She scrubbed at her face, took several steadying breaths, and turned her attention to the business of washing instead.

  *

  He had closed the wicker shutters and lit candles, throwing the room into a dusky half-light. Alex let out a surprised ‘oh’ when he moved towards her.

  “Undress,” he said, taking in the way her wet hair hung in heavy ropes down her back. He loved this; to stand and watch as his Alex shed one piece of clothing after the other, until she was naked and white before him. Her breasts were already rounding with pregnancy, and above her dark pubic triangle there was an obvious little bulge. He rested his hand against it, his thumb caressing her skin.

  “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, and her skin flushed into pink. He combed his fingers through her wet hair, unravelling one tangle after the other, and she leaned against him, pressing her naked breasts against his shirtfront. His cock was thudding by now, demanding to be let out to swive his wife, but Matthew was in no hurry, he had all day, and he concentrated instead on the intricate whorls of her ear, the line of her neck as it flowed down towards her collar bones, the way she fitted perfectly into him. Minutely he inspected her nipples, the birthmark on her right hip, the dimples just above her buttocks, and she stood breathing heavily under his touch.

  He backed her towards the bed, kissing her until he had to break away to gulp air. He eased her down to sit and guided her hands to his breeches, standing stock still when she released his cock from its constraints. Her mouth, Jesus sweet, her wonderful warm mouth, her tongue, her fingers fluttering over him, caressing his balls. He could scarcely breathe, drowning in a sea of sensations that centred round what she was doing to him.

  “Now.” She shifted back and pulled him down on top of her, and he stumbled on his breeches and fell awkwardly, hearing the rope frame groan and squeak.

  “Now,” he agreed and his cock was like a homing pigeon, burying itself in her. He filled her, he cupped her buttocks and held her so close he could feel her womb. He rode her, he drove her before him, he came and he went, and it built and it built and
still he held back, because she had to know she was his, had to feel in every tingling nerve that he was in her, on her, possessing her. Only when he felt her begin to buck and saw her eyes glaze as she lost herself to him, did he let himself go, uttering a deep guttural sound of animal release.

  Chapter 30

  They read the letter in bed by the light of the headboard candle. They were all well, it began by assuring them, but wee Mark had been sick with the measles over his birthday, and had then succumbed to a nasty ear infection that had them all up for several nights running. In the end, Simon wrote, his eardrum had burst, and a large quantity of pus had leaked out.

  “He’s deaf!” Alex sat up in consternation.

  “Nay, that isn’t what it says. It says his eardrum burst – no great matter, is it?”

  “It hurts like hell, and we should have been there, with him.”

  “Aye well; he had Joan and Simon there.”

  “Hmph!” Alex said, but nodded for him to go on reading.

  Simon went on to describe what had been planted and on what fields, how the cabbage patch in the kitchen garden had been ravaged by rabbits, and how Gavin had narrowly escaped with his life intact after an incident involving bees, an irate Rosie, and the new bull.

  “New bull?” Matthew frowned down at the paper. “What happened to Atlas?”

  “Roast beef?” Alex said, which Matthew didn’t find at all amusing.

  The letter ended with a very apologetic paragraph, where Simon began by explaining that he had not felt himself to have any choice, and that he was sure Matthew would agree that was the case. After all, what was he to do when Margaret showed up with wee Ian in tow, weeping that she had nowhere else to go?

  “What? She’s at Hillview? Bloody hell!” Alex slammed her hand into the bedpost and ended up sucking her knuckles, eyes narrowed into blue slits. Simon went on to say that of course Margaret wasn’t staying at the big house, but was back in her little cottage. By the way, he added, Ian was a copy of his father, as was that little rascal, Mark.

  “What does he mean? That it’s obvious they’re brothers, not cousins?” Alex looked as if she’d been fed a handful of worms.

  “Half-brothers,” Matthew said.

  “Huh; last time I saw him, Ian was all you – just like Mark.”

  Matthew folded the letter together in silence. He shared Alex’s dislike of having Margaret back at Hillview, but deep inside it thrilled him that both his sons were there.

  “Why is she there?” Alex settled down to rest her head on his shoulder. “Do you think Luke’s thrown her out?”

  Matthew had no idea, and nor did he care. Margaret and Luke deserved each other, and he hoped they would tear as big chunks out of each other as they had torn out of him. But he pitied the lad, and said as much.

  “Yes,” Alex said, “poor kid. Not a good role model in sight.”

  “Role model?”

  “Someone to emulate,” Alex explained.

  “Simon is there. Surely any lad can use him as an example.”

  Alex hid her face and laughed. “How many boys would want to use Simon as an example? Mostly he looks like a meatball on legs, and he sits a horse like an egg on a hot skillet, sliding this way and that.”

  “You shouldn’t judge on looks alone,” Matthew said, trying to sound reproving. But he grinned all the same.

  “I don’t, but small boys definitely do. They want heroes, dashing men with cloaks and swords – not a brainy small town lawyer.”

  She turned on her back, caressing her belly. He covered her hand with his, following her movements up and down.

  “Has it quickened yet?” he asked, feeling a twinge of jealousy that only she should be allowed to experience that moment in time when the wean sprang from possibility to certainty.

  “No, not yet. Do you think it’s a boy this time as well?”

  “Nay, this time it’s a lass. A lass as wild and magnificent as her mother. A lass who will follow her man to the ends of the world and beyond, no matter what it costs her.” He smiled down at her. “And if this isn’t a lass, then the next one will surely be, or the one after that, or the next…”

  “Five?” she croaked.

  Och aye; at least five. He wanted many bairns with this woman, a line of strong healthy sons and daughters. He cocked his head, looking at her. Theoretically, they could have a dozen children, but he saw no point in telling her that, given how shocked she seemed at the notion of five. Ah well; she’d get used to the idea successively, with each bairn slipping from between her thighs.

  “Do you mind?” he said.

  “What? Five? Let’s say it’s a bit daunting to a girl who grew up in a time where a woman can decide how many children she wants. In general people opt for two.” She turned on her side, uttering a long ‘mmmm’ when, he spooned himself around her. “We’ll have as many kids as we make,” she said, reaching back to pat him. “Because I definitely don’t intend doing without.”

  “Me neither, and my wife is most accommodating – dutiful and obedient.” He laughed when she slapped him on his thigh, yelped when she pinched him instead.

  *

  There were still days when Matthew woke far too early, awash with rage, but after that time with Alex down by the sycamore, he had learnt to trust that she’d be able to handle it should he need her to. This morning, it was enough to lie and hold her, hearing her steady breathing. Today was the day of James’ trial, and he worried; about the trial as such, about Jones being called to the stand and insisting that Matthew Graham had killed Fairfax, not James. What would the court say, faced with the obvious frailty of the defendant?

  When Matthew entered the cell later that morning, James was ashen-faced with pain, but he refused the laudanum, drinking an impressive quantity of whisky instead. He hung on to Matthew’s arm as they crossed the little square, but once inside the court room, he straightened up and walked on his own to his designated place. Neatly dressed, down to borrowed shoes and stockings, James stood throughout the proceedings, leaning heavily on the table before him to keep himself upright.

  It was a quick business, thank the Lord, the judge listening with severity to the described crime and nodding at the conclusion drawn by the constable. No innocent man would profess himself a murderer, and James repeated that yes, it was him who had ended the despicable Mr Fairfax’s life by driving twelve inches of Toledo steel into his heart. The outcome was given, and Matthew barely listened to the sentence, his eyes on his pale and trembling friend.

  “You will hang, Mr McLean,” the judge said. “A week from now you will hang.”

  “A week?” James breathed hoarsely. “Why wait a week?”

  The judge looked at him with puzzlement.

  “If it pleases your honour, I would ask you to hang me as soon as possible. Today, or tomorrow.”

  “A week,” the judge insisted, slamming his gavel down with finality.

  “I’ll be dead before the week’s up,” James said some time later to Matthew. “And I’ll die here, in this soiled straw without a glimpse of the sky.” He strained his face in the direction of the small window covered by a grimy square of oiled skin, and for the first time it seemed he would weep.

  “I’m so sorry,” Matthew said, “Oh God, that I could help you somehow.”

  James looked at him for a long time. “Ask Mrs Gordon, mayhap she can help.”

  Matthew managed a weak smile. “Not Mrs Gordon for much longer. Mr Parson has proposed and been accepted.”

  James chuckled, broke off with a gasp. He waved Matthew’s hand away, took a couple of breaths.

  “He’s a most fortunate gentleman, be sure to tell him.”

  “Oh, he already knows,” Matthew said, “and if he doesn’t, she’ll be sure to inform him herself.” Before he left he took down the yellowed skin, allowing in a ray of bright sun that fell like golden rain into the gloom of the little room.

  James smiled. “Thank you.”

  The soon to be Mrs Pa
rson refused to do anything more than what they were already doing.

  “I can increase the laudanum so that he sleeps most of the time, but more than that I can’t do.”

  Matthew sighed but nodded his agreement. To poison someone, even if it was by their explicit wish, was to invite unnecessary attention from the authorities.

  “Do you think he’ll die? Before…”

  Mrs Gordon shook her head. “Nay, I think not. There’s a very strong flame in that man, and it won’t allow him to relinquish life easily. I pray for him, aye? Every day, I pray that God have mercy on him and take him home.”

  “Aye,” Matthew said, “so do I. But it would seem our Lord has other matters on His mind.”

  “The Lord does as well as He can, I reckon,” Mrs Gordon shrugged.

  *

  On the penultimate day of his life, James asked that Alex be allowed in to see him together with her husband. James lay wheezing in the straw when she entered the small space, and even in his exhausted state, he registered the shock that swept her face at the sight of him. A living skeleton, he was so thin it hurt to lie for long in one posture, his bones protesting at the unpadded pressure of the wooden floorboards. She smiled, a strained smile, and came over to him.

  “I brought you a clean shirt,” she said. To die in; he hoped she’d taken it in at the sides so that it wouldn’t flap like a sail around him come the morrow.

  “That is kind of you,” James said between shallow breaths. It was pushing against the diaphragm, this thing in his belly, and every breath was an effort. Strange, how something as natural as breathing should become an endeavour requiring fortitude and concentration. He rested his eyes on Alex. He had wanted to see the lass one more time because she reminded him slightly of his Elizabeth, all those years ago when they first met.

  “Would you mind undoing your hair?” he asked.

  Alex shook her head but looked at Matthew – as she should, married woman that she was. Matthew gave a nod, and she lifted her cap off her hair and undid it.

  “Ah…” James exhaled, beckoning her closer. His hand rose from the floor, fingers spread to comb through the wavy hair. Alex took his hand in hers and guided it through her curls, silent tears coursing down her face.