“Matthew!”
But he was asleep again, a soft steady snoring emanating from him. Alex placed her son in his cradle and moved over to open the small window. She stood for some moments in the cooling draught, listening to the rustling sounds of the night.
“Thank you,” she said to the far away heavens. “For my home and my children, but mostly, dear God, for him.” She grinned; the Alex Lind of old would have laughed herself silly, but then what did she know, hey?
“Alex?” Matthew’s tousled head rose from the pillows.
“I’m here,” she replied. “I’m always here.”
Historical Note
When the first English colony was established in Virginia (and I don’t count the Roanoke debacle) in 1609, the eager participants came with dreams and hopes of easy riches. Sadly, Virginia had no mountains of silver, nor was gold abundant. And those stories of rivers full of sturgeon, of woodlands crammed with mulberry trees (and the accompanying silk worms) proved as false as the myth of El Dorado, leaving the colonists in the rather unfamiliar situation of having to work – and work hard – to survive.
During the first few decades of its existence, the Colony of Virginia was something of a death machine, with mortality rates so high it became difficult to attract new settlers. Things changed when tobacco was introduced to the colony. This addictive golden weed thrived in Virginia’s fertile soil, and with a huge – and growing demand – for tobacco in Europe, the colonists had at last struck gold.
Tobacco is a labour intensive crop. With ever more acreage being put under cultivation, the Colony of Virginia screamed for more people to work the expanding fields, and so the age-old system of indentured servants was transplanted from England to the colony.
The indenture system meant that the planters carried the cost for transporting over the servants, receiving 50 acres of additional land for each servant they brought across. The servant paid nothing for his passage and was placed under contract for four to seven years to work off the debt of transportation. The majority of the people brought over this way signed on voluntarily, but quite a few were deported – some due to crimes, some due to being perceived as dangerous elements. (And yes, Oliver Cromwell deported thousands of Irish men to the West Indies – for the sin of being papists) Others were abducted – or cheated into setting their mark on a contract.
Once the terms of service were concluded, the servant received some sort of severance pay and was free to make his own fortune. Indentures were often badly treated – Matthew’s experiences are in no way atypical to what male servants on a tobacco plantation might have experienced. Forty per cent of the indentures died before the contract ended. Many more had their terms of service lengthened for one misdemeanour or other. A female indenture who became pregnant – no matter if this was due to being raped by her master – would have two years tacked on to her contract.
*
William Berkeley is the longest serving Governor in Virginia history, a complex character that alternated moments of great insight with others of sheer pig-headedness. In actual fact, when Alex arrived in Virginia in 1662, William was in England for a meeting with his superiors, not returning until 1663. However, I needed him to be in Jamestown when Alex was there, and I hope you’ll excuse this little tweak in William’s travelling plans.
William was a man of many talents: he wrote plays, he had a well-developed head for business, he believed in free trade well before that concept was even invented, and he was innovative when it came to agricultural practises. He was an able soldier and a loyal servant to Charles I and his son. He was also extremely intolerant of Puritans and Quakers, he kept a keen eye on his own personal interests, and with increasing age he also developed an increasingly autocratic streak which ultimately led to his downfall in the aftermath of Bacon’s Rebellion in 1676.
It is interesting to note just how many people seem to have crossed the Atlantic a multiple number of times in the seventeenth century – William Berkeley being one of them. Veritable globetrotters, many of them, and this in a time when the sea journey was hazardous, when many ships were lost and time spent at sea could vary from six weeks to well over four or five months. On top of this, bodily comforts were at a very basic level. If you wanted to wash, you did it in sea water, the diet was restricted to salted foodstuffs and biscuits so hard they had to be softened in ale before you could bite into them, and as to sleeping accommodations, well the smaller you were the better. It was even worse if you travelled over in the hold as an indentured servant – and still they came, in hundreds upon hundreds they came, fleeing from a homeland without a future to build themselves new lives in the unknown. I sweep them a bow, these long-gone travellers, and hope they achieved some of their dreams.
The Prodigal Son
The Graham Saga continues in book three
Four shadows rose out of the darkness of the moor, darting from patch to patch of vegetation. Here and there they found cover behind a boulder, now and then they huddled together under a stunted tree, gliding noiselessly due north. It was too early for birds, so when a sharp whistle cut through the air, the leading shadow set off at speed, his companions slinking after him towards a protective outcrop of stone.
“Hush!” Matthew Graham sank down, the three men accompanying him doing the same. He pointed to where a group of six riders were making slow progress on a marshy stretch of ground. “More soldiers,” he said, his voice a low hum.
“And here was I thinking they were but angels of deliverance,” the man sitting closest to him said, and despite their situation Matthew smiled. The speaker moved closer to Matthew, his mouth a scant inch from Matthew’s ear. “They won’t find us.”
“You think not?” Matthew tried to sound unconcerned, but his eyes were stuck on the approaching group of soldiers, his brain scrambling to find a way out of this neat little corner. Summer dawn was only hours away, and no matter that he and his companions were all cloaked and hooded in dark colours somewhere between brown and grey, they would be visible the moment they stood to run.
“Nay,” Minister Peden replied comfortably. “They may look, but they won’t see.” With a slight nod he indicated the strands of fog that were multiplying over the wetter ground. Days of insistent heat had dried out the moor, resulting in clouds of evaporated water that reverted to fog and mist when night was at its coolest.
“At least the weather is with us,” another of the men commented in a low voice.
“God, my friend,” Sandy Peden corrected. “God is with us, and this is yet another sign that He hasn’t forgotten us.” Without another word he moved off, and one by one the others followed him, shrouded in the early morning mist.
“That way,” Matthew said a bit later. “If you keep to the left of yon trees, you’ll find a passable path that will lead you all the way to Kilmarnock.”
“Thank you,” the tallest of the three men said. “And be sure to convey my gratitude to your wife as well.”
“Aye,” Sandy grinned. “Please tell Alex how appreciative we are of your hospitality.”
“Umm,” Matthew said. Alex wasn’t quite as enthusiastic about extending help to their Presbyterian brethren as he was. Even if she cooked and packed baskets with food, sending along blankets when she could, he knew she didn’t like it, in particular not now, not since the last few arrests that had dragged at least one of their neighbours before the court to answer to charges of treasonous activities. The man had been flogged publicly.
“Truly,” Sandy said, and now there was no laughter in his grey eyes. “Do thank her, Matthew. I know it costs her in fears.” With that he was off, taking the lead as the three ministers made for the depths of the moor. Not until they’d dropped out of sight did Matthew set off for home.
*
“Where have you been?”
Matthew started when his brother-in-law popped up to block his path. “Out.”
“I gather that.” Simon Melville frowned, taking in the sword and pistol, the lon
g cloak that was now bundled over an arm. “This is no game.”
“Hmm?”
“Never mind.” Simon gestured in the direction of the yard. “You have visitors.”
“Visitors? At this hour?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Simon said with a certain edge. “They’re not soldiers here to drag you off for questioning – not this time. It’s your ex-wife, no less.”
“Margaret?” Matthew came to a halt. “What might she be doing here?”
“I have no idea; mayhap she’s hankering for long morning walks over the foggy moor.”
“I’m doing what I must, Simon, you know that.”
“What you must? You’re helping them break the law! They’ve been ousted as ministers, they’re not allowed to preach or teach, they may not perform any types of rites, and to aid and abet them is to risk the full displeasure of the powers that be.”
Matthew just shrugged.
“Oh well,” Simon sighed. “You’ll do as you please.”
“Aye.”
Simon threw him a sidelong look. “She brought Ian with her.”
“Ian?” Matthew increased his pace.
“She’s in the yard. I don’t think Alex intends to invite her inside, and even if she did, I doubt Margaret would enter. She insists she’ll wait outside until she can talk with you.” Simon’s face broke out in a wide grin. “I don’t think she helped herself by reminding Alex that any decisions are yours to take anyway, so why waste breath telling Alex what she will then have to repeat to you?”
“Nay,” Matthew said, smiling faintly. “I reckon Alex didn’t like that.”
The two women turned towards them when they entered the yard. Of similar height and colouring, with dark well-defined brows, high cheekbones and shapely necks, at a distance they could be taken for sisters. But where Margaret was all willowy grace, Alex was rounder of breasts and hips – assets presently accentuated by her very trim waist. She must have tightened the stays a notch or two before going out to receive their visitors. He studied his wife; silent, arms crossed over her chest and dark blue eyes never leaving Margaret or the half-grown lad beside her, Alex looked icily impressive – and displeased. With an inward sigh, Matthew went over to greet his guests.
*
Alex watched Matthew come towards them, long legs striding at such speed that Simon was jogging to keep up. She gave her husband a thoughtful look; yet another morning waking to an empty bed, and she had a pretty good idea of what he’d been doing. It was a constant source of contention between them, his insistence that he had to help his brethren, her loud protests that it might come at too high a price. Bloody stubborn man! She gnawed at her lip and frowned.
Having Margaret show up with Ian in tow hadn’t exactly improved her mood, nor did the fact that Margaret, as always, looked gorgeous. No practical skirts in brown for Margaret, oh no; dear Margaret sported a gown in a vibrant blue that complemented her eyes, her neckline was adorned by Brussels lace, and on her head she wore a rakish hat of the same hue as her dress, with glistening, black hair falling in arranged ringlets well down her back. Long riding gloves in soft red leather completed the outfit, although on a day as hot as this, Alex suspected they were quite uncomfortable to wear.
“Mama?” Mark tugged at her skirts. “Who’s that?”
Alex smiled and brushed his hair back from his brow. Nearly six, Mark was normally his father’s shadow, but the tension in the air had made him gravitate towards his mother, with his two siblings in tow.
“That’s your cousin, Ian.”
She was convinced Mark had forgotten the events surrounding the last time he’d seen his cousin, nearly two years ago, but from the wary look in Ian’s eyes she could see that he had not – and nor had any of the adults presently in the yard. Not that she blamed them – two grown men, brothers, fighting with deadly intent until their respective wives managed to step between them.
“He’s my son,” Matthew had said on that occasion, pointing at the then nine-year-old Ian. “My son, and you know it, Luke Graham.”
Alex threw a quick look in the direction of Ian; still a startling copy not only of Matthew but also of Mark – same dark hair highlighted by chestnut strands, same hazel eyes fringed by thick dark lashes. The resemblance as such was not all that much of an issue, given that Luke and Matthew were brothers – or it wouldn’t have been if it hadn’t been for Matthew’s angry outburst. Why have you brought him back, Alex thought, throwing eyebolts at Margaret. Why couldn’t you stay well away from me and mine?
“I have nowhere else to go.” Margaret kept round, imploring eyes on Matthew as she spoke.
Smart move, Alex fumed, because for some inexplicable reason, Matthew had a soft spot the size of an elephant when it came to his ex-wife. Totally incomprehensible, given how the woman had behaved – married to the one brother while betraying him with the other.
“And I had to get away. People are dying like flies, and I hope you’ll allow me the use of the wee cottage yet again.”
“What?” Alex took a hurried step back. “The plague? You’ve brought the plague?” Even this far north, they’d heard of how London and the villages around it were suffering a virulent outbreak of the Black Death.
“Nay, of course not,” Margaret said. “We haven’t been in London proper for months. But what with the heat of the summer and the increasing number of deaths, I thought it safer to repair even further north. I can’t risk my son.”
Matthew’s eyes strayed to Ian and Alex sighed. She could commiserate, to a point, with his feelings for the boy that should have been his but no longer was – due to Margaret’s lying insistence that Luke had fathered her child – but Matthew’s statement almost two years ago could put her children’s inheritance at risk, and there were days when she had problems forgiving him for that.
Alex’s eyes fluttered over to Simon Melville, who winked at her. She stuck her tongue out, making Simon grin. A thousand times he’d told her not to worry, that there was no way Ian had a claim to Hillview, not now that he was the recognised son of Luke. Besides, he’d said rather smugly, he’d drafted the documents himself, and so he could assure her there were no loopholes, none at all.
“You may stay,” Matthew said, and Alex glowered at him. He should at least discuss it with her first. At times Matthew was a bloody old-fashioned man – to be expected, given that this was in fact the seventeenth century, and the odd one out was she, born in 1976.
Not that it showed, she reflected, throwing a quick glance down her body. In skirts and bodice, her head neatly capped and a clean apron covering the dark material of her skirts, she was undistinguishable from most of the women of the here and now. All in all a good thing, because to shout to the world that she was from a future time, would be the equivalent of tying a noose and placing it around her neck. Witches hang, and no one would listen to her protestations that she’d done nothing to transport herself from modern day Scotland to here, that it had all been due to the thunderstorm.
Her eyes flitted to the sky and she almost laughed at herself. No storm brewing, and besides, it had to be a once in a lifetime experience to live through a thunderstorm so gigantic it caused a rift in time. Once in a lifetime? It should be impossible, and yet here she was, a living breathing example of the fact that sometimes impossible things happened – as they had done to her seven years ago, when time was torn apart at her feet.
Alex returned her attention to Margaret, who was beaming at Matthew. To Alex’s huge irritation, Matthew smiled back.
“Thank you.” Margaret dismissed the hired grooms who’d escorted them, and set off in the direction of the cottage, her son at her heels.
“You’ll stay away for the first few weeks,” Matthew said. “As a precaution.”
“Aye, a precaution. I see.” Margaret paled, looking so frightened that Alex felt sorry for her.
“I’ll send up Sarah later, you’ll need food and such, right?” she said.
Margaret gave her a gra
teful look and hefted the rather insignificant bundle she was carrying.
“Aye, we left in haste.”
“I can imagine.” An instant of shared motherhood flew between them.
*
“That was generous,” Simon muttered to Matthew as Alex strode away to arrange for a basket to be taken to the cottage. Matthew nodded. Not that it surprised him, because this wife of his might on occasion blow both hot and cold, but was mostly a temperate warm, being in general kind and cheerful. He put out a hand to stop Rachel from whacking Jacob over the head with her wooden doll.
“Nay, Rachel! You mustn’t fight with your wee brother. It’s unseemly.”
“He pushed me.”
“He did no such thing,” Matthew said, sinking down onto his haunches to give her the full benefit of his stare. “If you hit him, then you mustn’t be surprised when he hits you back.”
Rachel gave her baby brother a sly look. At almost three, Rachel was tall and sturdy for her age and topped Jacob by a head. Let him try, her face told Matthew, let him try and I’ll send him flying.
“One day he’ll be taller and stronger than you, and you won’t want him hitting you then.” He sincerely hoped his children had grown out of squabbles by the time Jacob overtopped Rachel, but eyed his daughter doubtfully. He adjusted her cap and gave her a gentle shove in the direction of Mark.
“Keep an eye on your sister,” he said. Mark’s face clouded and Matthew beckoned him over. “And you won’t go near the cottage.” Mark looked crestfallen. “You can help me carry up the basket later, but only if you watch Rachel first.”
Mark sighed but took Rachel’s hand, wandering off in the direction of the swing Matthew had made them.
“And you make sure she stays with you, all the time,” Matthew called, receiving a despairing look in return that made Matthew smother a smile. Where Rachel got her boundless energy from was an open question, although Matthew insisted he had been a most biddable child – at least until the age of seven – so therefore it had to come from her mother.
Like Chaff in the Wind (The Graham Saga) Page 36
