A Newfound Land (The Graham Saga)

by Belfrage, Anna

  “It’s yours,” she said. “I thought it was about time you had a horse you want to name something again.”

  “Mine?” Matthew was already running a practised hand down the dry legs.

  “I saw you, the day before yesterday. You were all over him, and when you walked away I decided to buy him for you.”

  His eyes flashed to hers. “That’s why you’ve been so thrifty in your purchases.”

  Alex hitched her shoulders. “So what will you call him?” She came over to pat the horse on its withers.

  “Moses.”

  “Moses?” Alex laughed and took a step back. “Well, now that you mention it, he does look like an abandoned baby in a reed basket.”

  *

  Next morning, they were woken by Peter at dawn. “Come, you must come quick.”

  “Has he been up all night?” Alex whispered to Matthew as they hurried after Peter in the direction of the docks.

  “It would seem so.”

  “Hmm.” The only 24/7 establishment in town was Mrs Malone’s. Alex sniffed when they caught up with him, and he smelled of smoke and beer and cheap perfume. Well, maybe Elizabeth didn’t mind.

  Any further musing on this matter was cut short when they reached their destination: the shoreline of the Severn. There was a small group of men waiting, and Alex recognised three of them as being town elders. Bobbing in the water was a body, and even before they’d turned the corpse over, Alex knew who it was. Sykes streamed water from mouth and nose when they dragged him ashore, and planted in his chest was the handle of a knife.

  “Not Barbados.” Alex looked down at the lifeless shape.

  “No,” Matthew said, “but I can’t say I feel all that sorry for him, do you?”

  “Not really,” Alex said.

  “An admission of guilt of sorts,” Peter put in. “He didn’t kill himself, so someone wanted him silenced.”

  “Aye well, no proof. And if I know Dominic, he was nowhere close to Sykes last night. Someone else did this at his behest.” Matthew kicked at the ground.

  “Jones was at Mrs Malone’s,” Peter said. “All night.”

  Matthew cursed, a long string of colourful expletives involving sheep, livers and the devil’s seed. Alex cast a glance at where Sykes was thrown on his back. Having Jones reappear in their lives was like pulling the scab off a healed wound and finding an abscess below, full of putrid flesh and pus. Dear old Sigmund would probably be all for this airing of old hates and remembered wrongs, but Alex wasn’t all that sure she agreed with Freud – some things were better left alone.

  It was in a somewhat dampened mood that they made their way back to the inn. Halfway there, Matthew ran into an acquaintance, so Alex strolled the last hundred yards or so on her own. She nearly jumped out of her skin when someone grabbed her sleeve, and wheeled to stare into a pair of peppercorn eyes she had never thought to see again.

  For a moment she stood there, dumbfounded. Mrs Parson, here! Still those exceptionally white teeth set in a face that was a wrinkled pink, still a plump and inviting chest covered by a pristine white collar over a dark bodice. In fact, she looked not a day older, despite it being almost ten years since Alex had seen her last.

  With a shriek of joy, Alex hugged the older woman, dancing them round and round until Mrs Parson recovered sufficiently to dig her heels in, thereby bringing them to an abrupt stop.

  “What are you doing here?” Alex couldn’t let go of Mrs Parson, had to keep hold of her hand. Shit, she was about to start crying.

  “I could ask you the same, and here I was thinking you were back in Scotland.”

  “But...” Alex looked at her. “I wrote you several letters, telling you the whole story.”

  “You did? I didn’t get them.” Her eyes locked down on Alex’s belly and she grinned. “Breeding again?”

  “No, just some excessive flatulence,” Alex said, making Mrs Parson laugh. “So why here?”

  Mrs Parson shrugged. “Mr Parson passed away last summer.”

  Alex waited for more, but apparently Mrs Parson considered that this one-liner clarified everything.

  “And?” Alex prompted.

  “I couldn’t stay in Virginia without him, no? On account of me not being Anglican.”

  Alex sighed. How could religion cause such rifts?

  “Anyhow, it wasn’t as if I wanted to stay, not when my sweet man was dead.” Mrs Parson threw Alex a brooding look, surprisingly sad for her. “I miss him, and it was hard to stay in a place where I always expected him to walk in through the door.” She slipped her arm in under Alex’s and rearranged her face into a smile. “And you? Why are you here?”

  “We couldn’t stay, on account of us not being Anglican.”

  “Aye?” Mrs Parson came to a standstill. “Nay, you’re jesting. Not in Scotland!”

  “Well, that is something of an exaggeration, but it’s pretty tough to be an outspoken Presbyterian at present. The ministers have been thrown out of their livings; it’s forbidden to meet and hold services outside the approved church; and men are jailed and fined and even hanged for aiding and abetting an outlawed man of the kirk.“

  “And yon Matthew would be one of those aiding and abetting, no?” Mrs Parson nodded sagely.

  “Yes, he was.” And had they stayed, it would have been their family that was torn apart, the children sold into servitude, she no doubt as well, and her Matthew would have been hanged from the neck until he swung dead.

  “Well, it didn’t happen, did it?“ Mrs Parson pointed out and went on to bombard Alex with questions, ten years of life recapitulated in five minutes.

  “Do you have any reason to stay here in Providence?” Alex asked once she’d brought Mrs Parson up to date. She’d even told her about Magnus, receiving nothing but a mild headshake in response – it helped that Mrs Parson already knew the truth about Alex.

  “Not really; very full of upright men with inflated views of themselves,” Mrs Parson muttered, making Alex burst out in laughter.

  “So then you’ll come back with us,” Alex stated.

  “With you? To where?”

  “To Graham’s Garden, our home.”

  “Graham’s Garden?” Mrs Parson chortled. “And what do you grow there, pray?”

  “Oh, you know, silver bells and cockle shells.”

  Mrs Parson gave her a sharp look. “You’re somewhat strange at times, Alex Graham.”

  “Well, that’s nothing new, is it?“ Alex grinned and hugged her yet again.

  Matthew was as delighted as Alex was, even if he refrained from hugging Mrs Parson, and he definitely didn’t break out in a spontaneous dance. But he beamed at her and supported Alex’s suggestion that Mrs Parson come home with them, overruling her weak objections by saying she was nearly family – had she not accompanied Alex over the seas all those years ago to buy him free from his unrighteous slavery?

  Agnes took one look at the grey-haired woman in her old-fashioned collar and cap and adopted her as a surrogate grandmother, smiling properly for the first time since Alex had met her.

  *

  “Is she a relation of yours?” Elizabeth said next day, looking Mrs Parson up and down with an approving expression on her face.

  “Not really,” Alex smiled, “but we’ve known each other a very long time.”

  “Aye,” Mrs Parson said from where she sat pillion behind Alex.

  “She’s a renowned midwife,” Alex went on. “She’s even been called in to attend the ladies of Jamestown.”

  “Really?” Elizabeth sounded impressed. “Well, you’re a welcome addition to us all, Mrs Parson. I dare say Celia will be most relieved.”

  “And soon perhaps also Jenny, right?” Alex teased.

  Elizabeth gave her a flaming look. “What are you implying?”

  “I thought...that maybe she
and Jochum...”

  “Jochum is German!” Elizabeth’s face fell and she looked over at Matthew, at present busy trying out Moses’ paces. “It’s a suitable match,” she said, this time directing herself to Matthew, not Alex, by the simple expedient of kicking her horse into a trot to catch up with him.

  “What is?” Matthew sounded confused, drawn back from his contemplation of Moses’ smooth gaits.

  “Ian and Jenny,” Elizabeth clarified.

  “Elizabeth,” Peter warned from further down the line, “we’ve already discussed this.”

  Elizabeth snorted. “It just goes to show, husband, how important it is to raise your children properly. Our daughters have never voiced an objection at your choice of men for them, and our dear Nathan never questioned your selection of a wife for him.”

  “And look how happy that’s made him,” Alex murmured.

  “Happy?” Elizabeth stared at her. “A marriage is about duty and assets, of obeying the will of your betters to safeguard the future of your family; not about something as frivolous as happiness!”

  “I don’t agree,” Alex said.

  “No, my dear, you wouldn’t, but then you’re so lacking when it comes to instilling obedience in your children that it makes my hands itch at times.”

  “The day you touch one of my children with your itching hands is the day you discover what pain is!” In her agitation, Alex almost fell off her horse. Mrs Parson took a firm grip of her waistband and pulled her back into sitting straight.

  “Someone should,” Elizabeth said. “It seems neither mother nor father have fully understood the responsibilities of parenthood.”

  Matthew halted his horse, turning Elizabeth’s way with a formidable scowl.

  “That’s enough, Elizabeth,” Peter snapped. “You’ll ride beside me in silence for the rest of the way.” When she hesitated, he rode over and yanked hard at the reins. “Now, wife, or I’ll have you walking behind us.” Elizabeth’s cheeks burnt a deep red, but she meekly allowed her mare to be led off.

  “Well, that definitely nailed down the coffin lid on an Ian and Jenny match,” Alex said.

  Matthew gave her an irritated glance. “It’s been buried a long time.”

  “Really? It sure didn’t seem so. And, anyway, what does she mean Jochum is German? Not exactly news to them, is it?”

  “He’s Catholic,” Matthew said.

  “So am I. Technically at least.”

  Matthew smiled and rode Moses as close as he could to Alex’s roan. “Technically you were a heathen when I found you. Not even baptised as I recollect it.”

  Mrs Parson snickered in agreement.

  Matthew held in his horse and looked down at Alex. “Ian could do worse than Jenny Leslie.”

  “Sure he could, but he doesn’t love her – he said so.”

  Matthew sighed. “I’ve promised I won’t force him into marriage – not him or any of our children. But I may still attempt to reason with him.”

  Alex met his eyes for a long time. “You know as well as I do that if you asked it of him he’d do it, because he loves you too much to want to disappoint you. After all, you’re the only parent he has left to him.”

  Matthew flushed and grudgingly admitted she was right.

  “So be careful how you reason with him, okay? A steel hand in a glove of velvet is still a steel hand.”

  Chapter 14

  Ian was not concerned when Alex told him of her latest altercation with Elizabeth and the potential resurrection of his match with Jenny.

  “She doesn’t want it, and if there’s one child in the Leslie household that can wind both parents round her little finger, it’s Jenny.” He laughed and raised his eyes to Alex. “There are ways of forcing the issue.”

  “Ian!” Alex shook her head in amusement. “Just like Fiona tried to do with you.”

  “That was different: she was bedding with more than me.”

  “Yeah, entrapment; not very nice at all.”

  Over by the stables Fiona appeared carrying a bucket full of milk, her eyes locked on the ground.

  “She’s not too happy right now, I think,” Alex said.

  “Nay,” Ian agreed with certain bitterness. “To be wed to the farm hand is less of an achievement than marrying the eldest son.” He stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles, sitting in a posture that was so like Matthew’s that Alex experienced a time warp. Except that she’d never known Matthew this young and innocent – he’d come with his own dark baggage when she met him.

  “So, did you enjoy being the man of the house?” she teased, sitting down beside him. She offered him a carrot and bit into one of her own.

  “Aye, I did, and it was a right treat to sleep in the big bed.”

  “What?!!”

  He laughed and assured her he hadn’t. They sat in companionable silence and ate their carrots.

  “I saw her in the forest.” Ian tilted his head in the direction of Fiona. “With him: Lars. Should I tell Jonah?”

  She thought about that for a moment. “No, it would only make their life more difficult.”

  Ian’s mouth set in a harsh line. “It’s wrong; she’s a married woman now.”

  Alex looked away. “Not her first choice, was it?”

  *

  She told Matthew some selected bits and pieces of her conversation with Ian.

  “I’m not comfortable with having Lars wander about in the woods with a hard-on.” And, she added, she was certain it was him she’d caught a glimpse of earlier today as she was returning from a solitary swim in the by now uncomfortably cold river. It made her break out in a rash, to imagine Lars gawking at her as she came up naked from the water.

  “What?” Matthew finished his currying and stood back to admire Moses’ gleaming hide. He slapped the horse on the rump and came over to where she was sitting on an overturned bucket. “He was spying on you?”

  “I’m not totally sure, but yes, I think it was him.”

  “Hmm.” His brows came down in a forbidding dark line over his eyes. “I’ll talk to her, and if that doesn’t help, I’ll talk to him.” He pulled her up to stand and kissed her brow. She sniffed at him and wrinkled her nose.

  “When was the last time you had a proper bath?”

  “Two weeks ago,” he said, “before we left for Providence.”

  “Well then, it’s about time, don’t you think?” Alex inspected the pale blue of the October afternoon and grinned at him. “A last communal wash for all the Graham men?”

  Matthew didn’t exactly look thrilled to bits, but nodded all the same.

  The boys were no more enthusiastic than their father, but they all recognised the determination in Alex’s voice, and so they slouched off, dragging a reluctant Magnus with them.

  “Oh, come off it, Pappa. You’re the man from Sweden. How often have you told me how you used to saw up holes in the ice to go swimming in the winter?”

  “Why would he do that?” Mark said.

  “I don’t know,” Alex said. “Ask him. It’s all that Viking blood.”

  “Viking?” Daniel said. “Are you a Viking, Offa?”

  Magnus rolled his eyes at Alex and fell into step beside Daniel and Matthew.

  “Of course I am. All Swedish men are Vikings – except we don’t do much raiding anymore on account of us having become Christians.”

  Alex followed them down to the river, shouted encouraging remarks to her sons, threatened them all with the lye unless they used the soap properly, and knelt to rub her younger sons dry.

  “Jacob, teeth.” Alex waved a willow twig in his direction.

  “Must I?” he whined, looking at her from below his straight, blond fringe.

  “Jacob Graham, cut it out. You’ve done this morning and night since you were a baby, so why this sudden aversion?
”

  “But why?” Jacob grumbled. “The Walton lads don’t do it, and the Leslie lasses laugh when they see us fiddle around with our wee sticks.”

  Alex bared her teeth. “See? All my teeth. Next time you’re at Leslie’s Crossing, check out Mrs Leslie’s mouth. It might come as something of a shock. And even Kristin Walton has at least one rotten tooth.”

  Jacob muttered some more but took the proffered twig.

  “I sincerely hope he doesn’t ask Elizabeth to show him her teeth,” Alex commented to Magnus, who was sitting beside her. “I wonder if it will help, if what I try to teach them about cleanliness will survive down the generations.”

  “Probably not,” Magnus said. “Some of it might, but not all.”

  “Great. I have these huge babies and teach them to keep themselves clean and healthy, and then what? The genes die out in four or five generations?”

  “Not the genes.” Magnus laughed. “Just the habits.”

  “Whatever.” She should write them a book, a little tome outlining the benefits of vegetables and hygiene, and hope it would survive a few hundred years, a treasured family heirloom or something. She muffled a laugh.

  “What?” Magnus asked.

  “Nothing.” She tilted her head at him. “Maybe I should use you as an example. Seventy years old and fit like a fiddle, and all due to eating salads and brushing your teeth every day, hey?”

  Magnus got to his feet and scowled at her. “Healthy? I’ve got cancer!” With that he stalked off.

  “Bloody hell,” Alex muttered.

  *

  Later that afternoon, Mrs Parson laughed at Magnus and told him that, to her practised eye, he seemed far from dying, looking remarkably hale for a man of seventy. They were alone in the kitchen, the small space silent for once. Magnus sat down on the bench closest to the window and busied himself with the jackrabbits that had been hanging in the larder for the last week or so.

  “It depends what you compare with,” he said. “After all, you’re comparing with the people of the here and now where the lifespan is somewhere around the late forties.” It was a relief to be able to talk to someone about the strange facts surrounding his and Alex’s presence in this time.