“Hmm.” He decided to drop the subject – after all, her spiritual welfare wasn’t his concern. But deep inside, he knew that he wanted it to be, every facet of Alex’s life he wanted to be his concern. It shook him to the core to admit that.
“You don’t speak much of your mother.” Matthew broke an agreeable stretch of silence.
“No,” she said, all of her signalling that with this very short answer the subject had been broached, discussed and closed.
“Why not? You talk so much about your father. Is she dead?”
Alex sighed. “As far as I know she isn’t even born yet, is she?” She looked away, hands clenching into fists.
“You know what I mean.”
Her reticence was making him curious. He let his eyes travel over her, wondering if her mother had bequeathed the strong bones, those pointed ears with no earlobes to talk of, and that wee dimple in her cheek. He narrowed his eyes, trying to recall who she reminded him of. He was inspecting her far too openly and she frowned.
“I hate it when you do that,” she said, levering herself over the side of the crag. She dropped to the ground and stood waiting for him.
“Do what?” He landed beside her.
“Look me over as if I’m a choice piece of steak.” She sat down at the base of the rock. Matthew muttered an apology and lowered himself to sit beside her. He snuck her a look, his brain snatching at several half-baked comparisons. Sweetest Lord! He reared back from her, muffled an exclamation.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.” Margaret! She could be Margaret’s sister!
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she demanded, brows pulled into a frown.
“It’s nothing, I sat down on a thistle or such.” He made an affair of looking for this thistle, all the while peeking at her.
Slowly he relaxed; aye, there was a resemblance, even a strong resemblance, but it was no more than that. Both had blue eyes, both had the same well-defined, arched brows and similar facial structure, but Alex’s hair was a vivid, curling brown, here and there threaded with strands of treacle and honey, glints of deep, dark reds. Not like Margaret’s waves of black, a rippling pelt of shiny silkiness that fell like a waterfall down her back when she pulled out the pins. He leaned back against the crag, cleared his throat and smiled at her.
“So, your mother.”
*
Alex closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. She didn’t want to talk about her mother. Even leaving aside that last horrifying afternoon – no, don’t go there – Mercedes had been uncomfortable to grow up around. Too intense, too…well, weird.
He kicked at her foot. “Alex!”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Why don’t you want to talk about her?” he asked back.
She hitched her shoulders.
“Ah, lass, I’m sorry. Is she dead then?”
Alex shook her head, feeling an uncomfortable rush of heat up her throat and cheeks. She had no idea; she supposed Mercedes was dead – she should be – but she wasn’t sure, not anymore. Alex pulled her legs close and studied the barren landscape. No cars, no distant tractors, no distorted music from a passing vehicle. She missed that, all those sounds that she belatedly realised had tied her to her time.
“Mercedes,” she said, “her name is, or will be, Mercedes.”
“Mercedes? And that’s a Spanish name?”
“Well it certainly isn’t Swedish or Scots,” she replied with irritation. “Her first name was really Maria de las Mercedes, but as every second woman in Spain is called Maria in one form or other, she was always known as Mercedes. And her sister was Dolores, but I never knew her. She’s dead.” And taboo; Mercedes clammed up whenever Alex asked her about this unknown aunt.
“She’s an artist,” Alex went on, smiling at the memory of her mother in front of her easel: smudges of crimson and cobalt on her hands, emerald green streaking her arms, and that ubiquitous cigarette, lying forgotten in the ashtray as Mercedes bent forward to add yet another miniscule dot of zinc white to her latest masterpiece.
“She painted the occasional cat or horse for me, but mostly she painted…” Her voice drifted off as she tried to think of how to explain the disturbing canvases that flowered from her mother’s hands. “I think she painted grief, grief and loss, you know?”
“How’d you do that?” he asked.
“I don’t know. But when you looked for too long at her paintings it was as if a silent scream built inside of you.”
Matthew looked pale and Alex laughed dismissively.
“Silly, right? I guess she was good with her brushes, twisting those columns of colour so that they pulled your eye in; always red and orange, always like a huge fire that surged and struggled against the constraints of the frame.” Alex stared off across the faded greens and browns that stretched in silence all around them. “Sometimes she painted small canvases, blues and greens with the odd dash of white. John always complained that they gave him a headache, made his stomach heave, and he’s right, they were rather weird, disconcerting somehow.”
She felt a sharp twist inside at the thought of John. What was he doing now? Would he believe Diane when she insisted that she, Alex, had decided to go AWOL, or would he know that she’d never do that?
“You don’t speak much of him, John, either,” Matthew said.
“Well, you don’t speak too much about her, Margaret, do you?”
“No, but if you want me to, I will.”
“It’s not really any of my business, is it?” Her eyes caught his and held them, and they sat like that for some time, green locked into blue.
“Mayhap it is,” he smiled, and stretched out a finger to run down her cheek. All of her thudded, wanting him to touch her some more, but instead she sat back, forcing him to drop his hand back to the ground, to rest very close to hers.
“Maybe; and if you tell me about her, I’ll tell you about him.”
He splayed his hand so that his little finger touched hers. She closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing.
*
He helped her back onto her feet, holding on to her a bit longer than necessary. Blood was flowing so swiftly downwards it left him lightheaded, and his fingers tightened round her hand as he struggled to bring himself back under control.
He couldn’t walk like this, with his privates a coil of aching tension and throbbing blood. For an instant he saw himself pulling her back down onto the grass, saw how he struggled with her odd breeches and… He snaked an arm round her waist and pulled her close, ignored her little “oh” of surprise, and kissed her.
She stiffened at first, hands flat against his chest. But then an arm slid round his neck, the other followed suit, and he drew her even closer. She opened her mouth to his, and she tasted of tart, unripe blackberries, of the grass stalks she’d been chewing as they walked, and, very faintly, of smoked fish.
He just couldn’t let her go, and she didn’t seem to mind, grinding her hips against him in a way that made him groan. Ah, Jesus; he was on the verge of losing all restraint, and so, seemingly, was she, a pliable warmth in his arms.
He released her so abruptly she nearly fell. She stepped back, an unreadable look in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he stuttered. “I shouldn’t…” His chest was heaving, as was hers, and in silent consent they turned away from each other, a moment in which to collect their thoughts and regain a semblance of control over themselves.
When they began to walk he took her hand and she let him, opening her fingers to braid them with his. All that afternoon they said nothing at all, but their intertwined hands seemed to fuse together, and it was with reluctance he let her go to set up their camp for the night.
“Is it safe?” Alex nodded at the little fire.
He gave her an amused look; ever since their run in with the soldiers she was constantly scanning their surroundings, and now she half rose, doing a full turn before sitting down again.
“Lik
e a bloody neon sign,” she muttered, kicking in the direction of the fire.
“Neon sign?”
“A huge, illuminated signpost. Maybe we should put it out.” She glowered at the cheery little blaze.
“Why? We’ve not seen any sign of them for days, have we?”
“No, but still…”
Matthew produced cheese and bread and she subsided into silence while they ate. But she kept up a constant vigilance, eyes flying from one outcrop of stone to the other.
“Alex,” Matthew sighed, “you need not worry – not now, in the dark. They’d never risk their horses over this terrain at night.” When she continued to look unconvinced he placed a hand on her leg and gave it a little shake. “Trust me.”
“Huh,” Alex said, but he could see her relax. To further distract her he rummaged in his bundle, extending something to her.
“Here; it must be cold with nothing but a shirt on you at night.”
She unfolded the woollen shawl and beamed at him.
“But what about you? Those ratty blankets of yours have more holes than threads in them.”
“I got me a plaid.” He didn’t intend to tell her he’d stolen it – and the shawl.
“Shall I tell you then?” he said. “About Margaret?” She nodded and scooted closer. “I first met her when she was six and I was eleven,” he began, and Alex slipped her hand into his, making him think of very many other things than that far gone day when Margaret was brought to live with them, perched in front of his father on his big grey mare. He sternly told himself to concentrate.
“She was an orphan, and my father had been given wardship over her, him being an elder of the Kirk.” Da had been present at the hanging of Margaret’s father, and seeing as the lassie was left destitute and alone, he had offered to take the girl in and raise her.
“Poor her; both her parents were dead?”
“Aye.” Well; as far as they knew, the mother supposed dead. “She was quite wild, and it took Mam time to tame her, to make her comb and braid her hair, to say her prayers and stop trying to run away. Poor wee Margaret, she was always crying for her mother.” He looked at Alex and tugged on her hand until she was sitting close enough that he could feel the warmth of her along his side. She smelled of green wood and winter apples, sweet and somehow soft.
“Margaret and Luke were of an age, and over the coming years those two ran Mam and Da ragged with one wild prank after the other. They were much younger than me, and I didn’t notice them except at mealtimes. And then for several years I was gone from home, and when I came back they were no longer wee, but still doing everything together. People talked, but Da chose to wave it off, reminding the speaker that those two, Luke and Margaret, were like brother and sister, nothing else.”
“Why were you away from home? Did you go to university or something?”
“University?” Matthew laughed. “Me? I’m a farmer. No, I was in the wars, for four years I was a soldier of the Parliament.”
“But…you can only have been a boy!”
“I was fifteen when I joined, nineteen when I rode back home.” And by then a king was dead, his son in exile, and the dawn of a new world stood bright around him, he thought ironically.
“Anyway, one night Da found them in the hayloft, and he had Luke beaten to an inch of his life and sent away the next day, leaving a weeping and desolate Margaret locked up in her room.”
“He threw Luke out for sleeping with her? That seems kind of harsh.”
“Aye well; Da and Luke had not been seeing eye to eye for quite some months by then.”
“But he was a child! You don’t just throw your son out like that.”
“He was all of fifteen, fully capable of making his own way in the world.” He could hear himself how defensive he sounded.
“At fifteen?” She shook her head.
“At fifteen I was serving as a soldier,” he said sharply.
Da had mayhap been hasty in throwing Luke out, and Mam had been distraught for days, a constant shadow at Da’s heels as she pleaded with him to reconsider. Too stubborn at times, was Da, and Mam’s nagging had, if anything, set his mind even more. And Luke had it coming; months of open defiance, far too many complaints regarding his carousing ways in Cumnock, and then that time when he’d told Da he was old enough to make up his own mind, and that he, Luke Graham, was for the king, no matter that Malcolm Graham was a Covenanter. Youthful bragging, no more, but blasphemous in a household where the eldest son had served in the Commonwealth armies.
“And then what happened?” Alex said.
Matthew hitched his shoulders. Margaret had wept for days, but once she emerged from the chamber she shared with Joan, she had concentrated all her attention on him. It had surprised him to discover that the lassie had grown into quite the swan, and he had spent several evenings watching how she moved, how blue her eyes were and how bonny she was when she laughed. He sneaked a quick look at Alex, so uncomfortably similar to Margaret, and just as quickly looked away.
“She was a very pretty lass.”
“So you fell in love with her,” she said, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“I did,” he sighed, leaning back against the rock. “Mam tried to warn me, Joan as well, but Da…well, the thought of his ward having been despoiled by his son stuck in his craw, so he was glad to see the way I began looking at her over the coming months, encouraging me to do the right thing by the lass. And she seemed to enjoy my company, spending all her time with me.”
Long evenings out in the stable, him sweeping and currying, her sitting on the bales talking to him; summer afternoons when she’d appear on the edge of the field, her hand shielding her face from the sun as she looked for him. The way his heart leapt at the sight of her, how her hands would leave him trembling with want, and him taking at face value what he now recognised had been a desperate struggle to survive in a world where the people she loved were all gone.
“I think she did love me, a little. And had Luke not come back, mayhap it would have been a good marriage. But he did, appearing on our doorstep five years ago come December.”
“That was the winter Da died in the mill race, and no one could understand how he came to be there – he was afraid of water, always kept his distance from the millpond. And as we came back from burying him, Luke rode into the yard, all in flashing silks, his hat decorated with white ostrich feathers.” He sighed and disentangled his hand from hers, leaning forward to add another piece of wood to the fire.
“Do you…nay, no matter.”
“Do I what?” she said.
He kept his eyes on his twisting hands and cleared his throat. “Do you at times deny your man your bed?”
“I don’t understand, how deny? Do you mean are there times when he wants to, but I don’t?”
He mumbled something in agreement, looking at her from under his lashes.
“Of course there are, but John’s pretty persistent, and, well, I like to, you know, so mostly he manages to convince me even when I don’t want to.” She took his hand. “Did she?” she said gently. “Did she deny you?”
“She was ill, or she said she was, and when she asked me to please sleep elsewhere, troubled as she was by pains and aches, well I did.” He threw Alex a look. What a fool he’d been! “Not always, though,” he hastened to add, “and I was tender and careful of her, gentle so as not to hurt her, but she would lie unresponsive in my arms, not at all the lass I wed. When she told me she was with child, I thought that maybe that was it, so I did as she asked and didn’t touch her like that…I didn’t want to force myself upon her.” He looked away into the night.
“I was gone a lot during her pregnancy. There was unrest and I was called to fight, riding back and forth across Scotland to stamp out the royalists. Luke remained mostly at home, and only afterwards did I learn he slept where I should sleep – at her side.” His mouth dried up with acrid bitterness; cuckolded, in his own bed, by his own brother.
H
e intercepted a pitying look from Alex and turned away, all of him flooding with resentment at reliving these feelings. Night after night in that damned hell house of a prison he’d relived it, day after day as he was worked as a dog, the only thing he’d seen had been that devastating image of them, entwined together in his bed.
All the way from the south to here, it had been that memory and the rage it woke in him that spurred him to go on. But for the last few weeks the image had faded, and he’d slept nights without once dreaming of it, all because of her, the woman sitting by his side as he tore off the scab on this painful wound and retold it all again.
“But…what about your sister? Your servants? Why didn’t they tell you?”
“Joan was married by then, and they were discreet. Well, they would be, I suppose.” He fell silent and stared into the flames. “I loved him so much. From the first moment I held him in my arms, I loved my wee Ian, and it was all a lie. When she told me he wasn’t mine, I wanted to kill her, but instead I threw her out and kept the bairn, but I couldn’t hold him like I used to, and all I saw when I stood by his cradle was her and him, as they were the afternoon I found them.” He sighed and hugged himself. “So I sent Ian to her, because how could I keep him and not love him as he should be loved? But sometimes I miss him, and there’s a gaping hole in my heart where he used to sit.” He busied himself with the fire, anything to keep his face hidden from her.
“Who do you think killed your father?” Alex said, breaking a strained silence.
“Killed him? I told you, he drowned.” Matthew looked at her in astonishment.
“But you said, didn’t you? That you never understood what he was doing by the water to begin with.”
He stared at her, swallowing so hard his throat ached. “Merciful Christ! You think she did? Or him, Luke?”
“I have no idea, but it all seems a bit strange, doesn’t it?”
He nodded, recalling the grey, ice-cold body of his father and how water ran out of his mouth, his nose and ears, when they got him out.
A Rip in the Veil (The Graham Saga) Page 11
