Isaac shrugged; Offa was big and strong, made the best chocolate cakes in the world, and talked and talked about plants.
“Just as always, then,” Alex laughed.
“Eva says he must exercise more, but Offa doesn’t want to.”
“Eva?”
“Offa likes her,” Isaac said offhandedly. “He kisses her a lot. Diane says its yucky, two old people going on like that.”
Now why didn’t that surprise her? Alex bit back on a caustic remark, hating that it was Diane, and not her, who had access to Magnus.
“And Diane,” she asked, pulling on her skirts. “Is she okay?”
Isaac gave her a guarded look and nodded.
“And do you miss her?”
“Yes,” he said in a whisper. “I miss her all the time.”
“It’s alright,” Alex told him. “I’m glad that you do. That means that she’s been good to you, right?”
Isaac swallowed back a sob. “I…she…she always wakes me up for school, and then…” He wiped at his eyes. “We watch scary movies together, only Diane and me, when the twins are asleep and Dad’s still at work, and…”
“Shh,” Alex said, pulling him close. He reared back, and Alex dropped her arms. Isaac sat with his back to her, digging his fingers into the sandy ground. Shit; this was much more difficult than she’d expected it to be.
Alex finished dressing before re-splinting his leg. “It’s healing very well, but from now on you’re ordered to swim at least once a day, okay? It will help the muscles, I think.” She helped him into his clothes and handed him his crutches, matching her pace to his as they walked back to the house. “Once your leg is healed I’ll see what we can do. Maybe there’s some way to get you back.”
Wild hope flared in Isaac’s eyes, hope that died away as quickly as it had come.
“How?”
“I don’t know, but maybe I can think of something.” She stopped him as they came in full view of the house. “First you have to get well. Then we’ll see.”
*
“How can you tell him that?” Matthew looked at Alex with a disapproving groove between his brows. “You can’t get him back, can you?”
Alex squirmed inside. He wasn’t going to like this, but there was no way out of it now.
“I think I can.”
“Oh aye? How?”
They were sitting on the bare head of the hill that gave their home its name, and below them were spread the buildings, the meadows, and the closest barley fields. They had walked up hand in hand through the woods, stopping often to kiss as Matthew insisted that this was one tree they had not kissed under before. It was the first time since they had gotten back home that they were alone, the children left in Joan’s competent hands.
“I found another painting.” Alex went on to tell him about the package that she was supposed to deliver to Sir William and how she had opened it, driven by an unexplained impulse. “I considered burning it,” she finished.
“Why didn’t you?” Matthew’s voice was very distanced.
“I don’t know,” Alex replied, pulling at the grass. “I…God, this sounds silly, I just felt I shouldn’t.”
He nailed her with eyes that glinted a dangerous green. “Why?”
She just shrugged, and he got to his feet.
“Did you think you might need it?”
“No!” she protested, but deep inside a little voice cackled in objection. She gripped his hand and tugged until he sat back down. “I honestly don’t know why I didn’t burn it. But I swear I never planned on trying to leap back into my own time.”
He studied her in silence, looking anything but convinced. “And will you burn it if I ask you to?”
“Gladly. But not before I’ve tried to get Isaac back through it. He doesn’t belong here, his heart belongs there, with John and Magnus, with Diane.”
Matthew frowned – no, scowled – and shook his head. “He’s but a lad. We should keep him here with us, not send him flying through time. I don’t like it, those wee paintings are full of witchcraft. Ungodly, they are… And what if he ends up somewhere else entirely?”
Alex swallowed at the thought. “I said we have to try. And I have no idea how this works, or even if it works, but I’ll need you very close, okay?”
Matthew bit his lip, eyes gone very dark. Finally he wrapped his arms around her.
“Aye, I’ll be very close.”
She reclined against him, sitting between his legs. He relaxed his hold, letting his hands travel down to rest on the slight bulge of the new child.
“Are you sorry? That you’re with child again?”
“I think it’s too soon. Rachel will barely be weaned when the next one comes, and that isn’t exactly a pleasing notion. My tits will be like the udder of a cow if I’m not careful.” His hands came up to cup her breasts, squeezing them with appreciation. “But no,” she breathed. “I’m not sorry for the child as such. How can I be?” But she made a mental note to build up a sizeable supply of Queen Anne’s Lace seeds and all the other herbs Mrs Parson had told her about, because she had no intention of becoming pregnant quite as quickly next time round.
“I like it when you’re like this, when you grow round because of me.”
“One could almost think you’d prefer me to be permanently pregnant.”
“It suits you. You’re never as beautiful as when you carry my bairn in your womb.”
“It makes me look like a giant peach.” She glanced down at herself and made a little face; everything swelled – her tits, her belly, even her feet.
“More like a pear – somewhat heavy round your bottom.” He wiggled a hand in under her, gave her posterior a little squeeze.
“Matthew!” She batted at him.
“Well I like pears. Much, much more than peaches.”
“Huh,” she said, but was pleased all the same.
Chapter 40
“And so…” Simon spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “He’s untouchable.”
Matthew grunted, reading his way through the documents compiled by Simon. Rich and well connected, his brother had over the last few years reaped success after success. It stuck in Matthew’s craw to find out just how good a life Luke Graham was enjoying. Horses, jewels, part ownerships in various businesses – including a shipping company that traded exclusively with the Colonies – decorated for his valour by the king, a constant member of the court that circled round Charles the Second. A true wit, an educated man and an impressive chess player, Matthew read, snorting with irritation.
“There must be something I can do! Can’t I press charges for unlawful abduction? For setting paid assassins on my wife and myself?”
“With what proof, Matthew?”
Matthew cursed, loudly and creatively. “It’s not right.”
The would be murderers had been turned over to the authorities, but to a man they’d refused to name their employer, insisting they didn’t know him – and in all probability they were telling the truth.
“Nay,” Simon sighed. “But whoever gave you the notion that life is fair?” He looked over to where Alex and Joan were hanging laundry, smiling when he heard his wife laugh out loud. “Forget him.”
“I can’t.”
“I told you,” Alex said later that evening when Matthew complained to her about the sheer injustice of it all, that his brother should get off scot free. “But it doesn’t really matter, does it? After all, you’re back, safe and sound, and that in itself is probably enough to have Luke yowling like a cat with his balls in a mousetrap.”
Matthew laughed out loud at her simile. “You think?”
“Mmhh.” She brushed at his hair. “Simon’s right. Pretend he doesn’t exist and concentrate on your own life, okay?”
“It’s just…” He fisted his hands, clenching them hard enough to have his knuckles protest.
“I know, of course I know. But don’t give him the satisfaction of tainting your whole existence. He isn’t worth it.�
� She snuggled closer, a heavy warmth against his chest. “God, I’m tired,” she mumbled, “and I swear, if Rachel doesn’t sleep through the night, I’ll hang her out the window.” She yawned, eyes blinking heavily. “Did you see Isaac and Mark today?”
“Aye,” Matthew smiled, “more enthusiasm than skill.”
“Well it’s not easy, kites are tricky to build – and fly.”
“I noticed,” he teased, “your design was somewhat top heavy.”
“Let’s see you do better, mister kite-expert. Anyway,” she added through yet another yawn, “my point was that they were playing together.”
*
Over the coming weeks, Isaac grew into Hillview. He woke at dawn when the household began to rise, and now that he could move around, he was first down to the breakfast table, downing porridge and ham and bread in impressive quantities. After that, he’d limp down to the hen house to do his daily chore – feeding the hens and collecting their eggs – and most of the morning would fly by as he was told to do this or that.
He was useful here, and Matthew would at times praise him gruffly. Like when he managed to save some of the piglets from their farrow-mad mother by using the crutch to whack the sow repeatedly over the snout until someone else could come and save the little piggies.
Still, no matter how well he was conforming to his new reality, there wasn’t a day when he didn’t long for home. Most nights he fell asleep staring at the wall as he forced himself to remember their faces: Daddy, Offa, Diane and the twins. Sometimes it all got too much, and he would struggle up into the woods and hide himself away and cry, hoping that soon he’d wake up and find all this a dream.
On one of those afternoons, he was interrupted by the appearance of a boy he hadn’t seen before, and Isaac sat up, scooting back until he had his back to a trunk. The boy was roughly his age, perhaps a bit more, and his dark chestnut hair hung almost down to his shoulders. Hair surprisingly like Matthew’s and Mark’s, as were his eyes, a light hazel that regarded Isaac with frank curiosity.
“Who are you?” The boy hunched down some yards away, studying the crutches.
“Isaac.”
“Ah, the foundling.” The boy laughed at Isaac’s surprised expression. “We all know what happens down at the big house. And now that the master is back, we’re all that much more curious.” He sat down. “I’m Ian,” he said, and it was obvious he assumed this would mean something to Isaac. “Ian Graham, nephew to the master.”
“I’ve never seen you there,” Isaac said.
Ian looked away. “Nay, we don’t go there much.”
“We?” Isaac saw a whole troop of Ian lookalikes headed by an obvious twin brother to Matthew.
“My Mam and I. We live up there – in the wee cottage.” He pointed up the slope.
“Why there?” Isaac said, making out a small, dilapidated house. “Why not down in the big house?”
Ian mumbled something about not knowing why.
“Are you family then?” Ian asked, turning inquisitive eyes on Isaac.
“Yes.” Isaac didn’t want to say much more than that, but Ian pestered him with questions until Isaac told him he was Alex’s son, here for a long overdue visit, and that he had broken his leg falling off a horse.
“It must have been a huge horse.”
Isaac nodded and they both fell silent. A high voice called for Ian and he stood.
“Mam; mayhap I’ll see you again.”
“Sure,” Isaac smiled. Ian grinned back and then he was gone, melting into the woods.
It became the highlight of Isaac’s day, these meetings with Ian. Every afternoon he’d duck out of sight behind the privy and make his way up to the millpond where Ian would be waiting. A boy, almost like him, and they fished and told each other stories, lying flat on their backs to stare up at the revolving skies. And then one day Matthew walked into the clearing, and Ian flew to his feet, took one look at his uncle, and fled.
“Ian?” Isaac called after him. No reply, just the crashing of someone rushing through the undergrowth. Isaac frowned up at Matthew, not at all understanding why Ian had been so scared.
Matthew shrugged, eyes locked in the general direction of Ian’s hasty departure.
“There’s bad blood between his father and me, very bad blood.”
Isaac moved closer to Matthew. “He looks just like you.”
“Aye – and like Mark.” For some reason Matthew’s brows pulled together into a frown.
*
“You’ve seen them?” Alex sat back.
Matthew muttered something about having been round to all his tenants.
“So you’ve spoken to them.”
“With her, not with the lad. And it was only very briefly.”
“Really?”
“Well, I had to; it would’ve been impolite not to thank her for her financial help.”
“Oh, of course. Alternatively one could consider it the least she could do, given that it was her lowlife husband who had you abducted in the first place.”
“Alex,” he sighed.
She moved over to sit in his lap, arms hard around his neck.
“I don’t want you to see her. Or him.” Especially not Margaret, not beautiful, willowy Margaret with her black, black hair and light blue eyes. She sneaked a look down herself. Definitely not willowy, and if she was going to be quite honest, she never had been. Not fat either, just a bit more round all over. But she hated it that Margaret and she were so alike, alike enough to compare.
“You’re much prettier,” Matthew said. Alex threw him an irritated look; was she that transparent? Apparently yes, at least to judge from his grin.
“Yeah right; any man with a modicum of self-preservation would say that with his pregnant wife in his lap,” Alex snorted.
Matthew bit her ear until she squealed. “Are you calling me a liar?”
“That or potentially blind,” she said through gusts of laughter as he tickled her. He kissed her, a long promising kiss.
“I’m no liar,” he told her once he allowed her up to breathe. “And there’s nothing wrong with my eyesight.”
She kissed him back. “Promise? That you won’t see either of them?”
“Aye, I promise,” he sighed.
*
Joan was reticent when Alex badgered her about Margaret next day, saying shortly that Margaret had come with the lad and asked that she might stay at the cottage again.
“But why? Why on earth would she come here?”
“She knew you weren’t here, and I fear she thought you’d never return – at least not him.” She used her head to indicate her brother, presently crossing the yard with Mark and Isaac at his heels. “They gravitate towards him.”
Alex followed her gaze. “Like the three musketeers.”
Joan huffed, making Alex smile. Alex had told them the story over the last few summer evenings, and Joan had been captivated, eyes wide as she bombarded Alex with questions about d’Artagnan, Cardinal Richelieu, the unfaithful queen and the wicked, depraved Milady de Winter.
“Is it true?” Joan had asked repeatedly. “Did the French Queen betray her husband with the Duke of Buckingham? Because if she did, well then the present king of France is a bastard – and an English bastard to boot!”
“It’s a book,” Alex had tried, “not necessarily the truth.”
“She could have gone somewhere else,” Alex said, reverting to the subject of Margaret.
Joan shook her head. “She came home. This is the only home she’s ever known.” There was a thread of implied criticism in her voice that made Alex shut her mouth before she said anything more. Inside she was fuming; this was her home now, not Margaret’s, and she could bloody well get off her arse and leave. Preferably immediately.
It didn’t exactly get any better when she found Matthew with Ian a couple of days later. She had tucked a fretting Rachel into her shawl and gone for a long walk, doing a silent high five when the child fell asleep. She was halfway down the
slope with the birches, when she heard Matthew’s voice, coming from behind a thicket to her right. She moved closer and saw him sitting with an unknown boy, so much an older copy of her own Mark that she had to swallow back on an exclamation of surprise.
They were paddling their feet in the little stream, and she couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but she could see the way the boy’s eyes hung off Matthew, and how her husband placed his arm around the boy. Matthew closed his eyes at the proximity of the boy, and one half of her felt sorry for him, the other was dying with jealousy that he should be here, with Ian, instead of with their son. He had promised her! She retraced her steps and made her way back home.
“Did you have a good day?” she asked later that evening.
Matthew yawned and nodded.
“I missed you in the afternoon, I went looking for you.” Take it! she told him mentally, take the opportunity and tell me about you and Ian.
“You did?” Matthew said. “I must have been somewhere else.” He patted the bed beside him. “Will you be coming?”
Alex shook her head. “I’ll just get myself a mug of milk, I’ll be right back.” She sat in the dark kitchen until she was certain he was asleep.
Chapter 41
It didn’t take Matthew long to work out that something was chafing at his wife, and not that much longer to understand that somehow it was him who had affronted her. She maintained a constant distance, leaping to her feet to hurry off when she saw him making for her, and keeping an impressive bulwark of children around her. If he tried to kiss her, Rachel had to be fed or changed or have her rash seen to. When he took her hand, she disengaged herself and told him she had promised Isaac to go swimming, or Mark to go into the woods. In the evenings, she complained about the heaps of mending she had to do, waving him off to bed while assuring him she would be up later, once she had finished this shirt or that smock. He never managed to stay awake until she came up.
Not until he saw a flashing movement as he came down from yet another afternoon with Ian, did he put two and two together, and he went in to supper with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Like Chaff in the Wind (The Graham Saga) Page 31
