“You could have asked. I would probably have said yes, but it was mine, not yours.” Matthew remained astride, not replying. “I said you could’ve asked.”
“I heard you.”
“Well then why don’t you answer? You had no right to sell it, you hear? It was mine, goddamn you!” She kicked in the general direction of the horse.
“Not anymore, as of yesterday your goods are mine to dispose of as I see fit.”
“Fantastic, what a great start to our marriage to have you go behind my back and sell my, I repeat my, bracelet.”
“I didn’t go behind your back!”
“No, you didn’t bother to tell me at all.”
“I needed the money, Alex. You know that.”
He needed the money to come home in style. Good broadcloth breeches, new linen shirt under a short, dark green coat with wide sleeves showing off the cuff ruffles of his shirt, and a gigantic horse. Ugly, a huge ugly horse named Samson with hooves you could use as soup tureens. She, on the other hand, looked like a church mouse. Brown skirt, brown bodice and still no shoes.
“You should still have asked; I would’ve said yes.” She got to her feet and ignored him when he bent down to help her back up. “I’ll walk, I don’t feel like riding my horse.” She set off at a brisk pace in what she assumed was the right direction.
“Alex!” He wheeled the horse around her, forcing her to a halt. “Get on. It’s a long way to walk.”
“No, but never mind me, why don’t you just gallop off or something so that you can show off your flashy horse – sorry, my flashy horse – to your grovelling tenants. God help us if the returning master were to show up on foot and in worn clothes, right?”
He flushed, turned the horse and dug his heels in, leaving her to watch as he raised a cloud of dust in his wake.
“Bastard, idiot, bloody, bloody man.” He was gone now, disappeared from sight, and she was blindingly angry with him. Did he expect her to follow, like an obedient little dog? “Obey, my arse,” she said, and stepped off the road and onto the grass. She walked along for some time, assuming that he’d soon come back, but by the time the sun was beginning to dip behind the trees, and he’d still hadn’t shown, she was on the verge of tears.
“What the fuck am I doing? Why do I do something as stupid as marrying that…that…old-fashioned jerk!” And why was he doing this to her, again? He’d promised that he wouldn’t go charging off, and then he just did. She felt a small jolt of fear. Maybe he’d hurt himself, been attacked by highway men, and was at this moment lying bleeding in a ditch minus coat, horse and purse.
*
He wasn’t, and a moment later he came trotting up the road and rode over to where she had sat down in the shade. He could see she was angry and hurt in the way she refused to meet his eyes, or in any way acknowledge he was there, and he sighed inside.
With every mile he got closer to home, he was starting to question the wisdom in marrying this strange woman. He could have offered her the safety of his house without pledging himself to her, and these niggling thoughts left him with a sensation of deep shame. He’d bedded her, he’d promised he loved her and he did, just seeing her sitting in the grass brought that home to him, but still…would she be the wife he needed? He couldn’t picture her doing the rounds of the tenant’s cottages like Mam had done, and she had none of the skills or the experience needed to run a house the size of Hillview.
It shamed him even more that she’d been right in her accusations. He did want to ride in on a good horse and in new clothes, a shield against all the whispered comments and worried eyes he was sure he would meet.
He drew Samson to a halt and looked down at her, thinking she was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, rosy with anger and with dirty, dusty feet. He should have bought her something new as well, had even fingered a soft shawl embroidered in blues and greens, but it had stuck in his craw to use her money to buy her presents. Not to buy himself things, though… Time to grovel, he decided, and dropped off the horse to sit beside her.
“You’re right, I should have asked.”
“Too right, you should.” She raised her eyes to him, and he saw such disappointment in them he flinched. “You promised,” she said, not allowing him to drop his gaze. “You swore you’d never barge off and leave me alone again.”
There was no other word for it; he squirmed. “I wasn’t far, not far at all.”
She filleted him with her eyes. “I didn’t know that, did I? You made me feel abandoned, when you’d promised me you never would.” She sighed and looked away. “And you do it on purpose.”
There was nothing he could say, because she was right. He knew, the moment he’d spurred Samson on, that it would scare her to see him ride away, and the thought of her dependency on him thrilled him. It made her weak where he was strong, and he could choose to protect her from the fear of losing him or not, as it pleased him.
“Alex.” He kneeled down in front of her. She wouldn’t lift her face, but kept her gaze on the pebbles she was rolling round in her palm. He tugged at her hair until she raised her eyes. So blue, he thought, blue like forget-me-not’s at dusk. “Today it’s thirty- three days since you dropped into my life, and I can no longer imagine a life without you. And it’s the same for you, isn’t it?”
She nodded grudgingly.
“So when the anger hits me, when I do what I just did, how can you doubt that I’ll come back for you?”
“You took your time about it,” she said, a slight wobble to her voice. He leaned forward and kissed her, tongue flickering for an instant against hers before he sat back.
“I’m like a homing pigeon, and you’re my dovecot. Without you I’d be homeless, so wherever I go, for however long, I’ll always come back. Always, you hear?” He smiled at the waves of pink that washed up her cheeks, and held out his hand to her. “Now; let’s get on your horse and go home.”
He had placed her in front of him this time, and as he rode up the last stretch his hand slid down to hold her close, a nervous shiver running up his spine. Would she like it? Would Hillview seem the paradise to her it was to him? He nudged Samson on over the top and released his held breath at the view that opened in front of him.
The small valley bathed in afternoon sun, golden light danced over the damp grass and glinted off the shingled roofs. The crops were mostly in, the denuded fields dark splotches against the green of the sloping meadows. The late barley still stood man-high, and on one of the closest corn fields Robbie was loading sheaves onto the flatbed cart.
The stables, the barn, they were just as they had been when he last saw them, that day when he was hauled off to stand trial for something he hadn’t done. Someone had painted the stable doors, and the henhouse had been reroofed, the wooden shingles still a whitish green.
He saved it until last, but finally he turned his eyes to his house. Pride fizzed through his veins at the sight of the two storey building, a grand modern house built by his grandda just before the Bishops’ Wars. His eyes flew over the weathered stone walls, the slate roof with two chimneys, one at each end. He heard a surprised shout, and there in the door stood Mrs Brodie. He sighed; he’d hoped Joan would’ve been here to receive them, but she was staying with their Graham cousins, helping tend Aunt Moira who was ill.
*
Alex hadn’t said a word, taking in his world, his home. She sniffed; there was a tang of manure, a man came out of the stable, pushing a wheelbarrow full of what she assumed to be soiled straw, and dumped it onto a pile just off the side. A cloud of flies buzzed up, but settled just as quickly.
She hoped he wouldn’t ask her what she thought, because right now she had no idea. It was so much smaller than she’d imagined from his descriptions, the main house not much more than a normal sized cottage in her days. Well, perhaps a bit bigger, she conceded, but no way close to the half-timbered Tudor manor house she’d pictured. People burst from doors, women and men congregated in front of the main entrance, and Matthew
’s hold on her tightened before he clucked Samson into a walk.
She counted them as they got closer; four men – one not more than a boy and one positively ancient – three women and two girls. There was absolute silence as Matthew held in Samson, all eyes glued to Alex, an astounded whisper flying between the women before they reverted to staring at her. Alex didn’t want to get off the horse, made uncomfortable by this scrutiny, and considered yanking on the reins to turn him and somehow ride away, but Matthew deposited her on the ground and dismounted, one hand immediately at her waist.
His hand trembled where it lay, and Alex suddenly understood his need for horse and clothes, how important it was to him to return an apparent landowner, not a convicted felon. She moved closer to him in an attempt to give him reassurance, wanting very much to take his hand, because just the feel of it would stop her heart from beating like a jungle drum inside her chest. As he made no move to take hers, she supposed it wasn’t on for men of certain standing to hold hands with their wives in public.
*
“Mrs Brodie,” Matthew inclined his head. “Ewan, Sam.” Short muttered responses, a general shuffling of feet. It made Matthew nervous, and his eyes slid across the assembled faces, wondering which one of them would run like a hare to advise Luke he was back. He cleared his throat and urged Alex forward. “May I present my wife then? Alexandra, Mrs Matthew Graham.”
“Hello,” Alex said brightly, “nice to meet you.” She’d exaggerated her outlandish accent, and it made Matthew suppress a grin to see the surprised reaction of Mrs Brodie et al. But at least they were smiling now, a swift chatter as they inspected his wife, a softening in their eyes as they looked from her to him and her again.
“Welcome home, master,” Mrs Brodie said, “it’s been far too long.”
“Yes, very much too long.” Matthew turned towards the hill. He was filled with a childish urge to spread his arms wide and rush up through the woods, but instead he offered Alex his arm and led her inside.
Matthew wasn’t sure if he wanted to take his new wife to bed in the same room where he’d been so cruelly deceived by his first spouse, but in the event he was given no choice, and that evening Mrs Brodie ushered them both into the main bedroom with a satisfied expression on her face.
The feather mattress had been aired and turned, clean linen brought up from the closet, and Rosie had plumped the pillows into welcoming white mounds, giving the bed hangings a discreet shake to clear them of some of the accumulated dust.
“Will you be wanting anything more?” Mrs Brodie asked, eagle eye sweeping the room to make sure there were candles, towels and water.
“No, this is fine,” Matthew said, closing the door in her wake.
He stood to the side and watched as Alex wandered round the bedchamber. She trailed her fingers over the mule chest, rubbed at one of the two pewter candlesticks, and looked somewhat flustered at the sight of the chamber pot. She went over to the small window, inspected the pitcher and basin, did a slow turn round the bed and sat down on it, her hand gliding over the soft sheen of the worn linen sheets. She bounced up and down a couple of times, making the rope frame creak.
“It’s quite narrow.”
“It is?” Matthew shook his head. This was the biggest bed in the house, a bit more than four feet in width. He hung his breeches on one of the clothes pegs, draped his stockings over the stool and took a hesitant step in the direction of the bed, all of him overwhelmed by images of a long gone April day. Something must have shown on his face, because Alex got to her feet and moved towards him, brows pulled together in a worried frown.
“Is this where they…” she cleared her throat. “You know, where you found Margaret and Luke?”
“Aye, this is the bed where I was conceived, where I was born. It’s the bed where I bedded my wife and thought I conceived my son, except that I didn’t, did I? Instead I was cuckolded in it.” He looked at the bed with distaste.
“We could burn it.”
“Burn it? It’s a fine bed.”
“Yes, but if you’re uncomfortable sleeping in it —”
“It’s not the bed’s fault,” he cut her off.
He didn’t speak as he helped Alex undo her lacings, his eyes on her as she hung up her clothes and went over to wash. For an instant he imagined her Margaret, and only when she turned, her short hair haloing her head, did he relax into the certainty that this was Alex – his Alex. Still he hung back, reluctant to cross the few yards that separated him from the bed.
“I don’t bite, remember?” Alex settled back against the pillows and grinned. “Well; unless you want me to, of course.”
That made him laugh, and he resolutely shoved all memories of Margaret aside and went to join his wife in bed.
* * *
Hector threw up, wiped at his mouth and sat back.
“I’m sorry,” he said, which was both inadequate and unnecessary given that Diego was dead as a rock. But someone had taken the time to bury him, had dragged him to this shallow resting place behind the brambles – too shallow, not enough to disguise the scent of rot. Which all in all was a good thing, because otherwise how would he ever have found him?
He was inundated by a spurt of anger. If Diego hadn’t gone looking for the Lind woman he’d have been safe back in Chicago. The thought brought him up short. Could she be here too? Well, why not? They’d disappeared in the exact same place, on the same day, and due to the same weather phenomenon. It didn’t require a gigantic leap of imagination to assume they’d ended up in the same time.
He stood; he had no clear idea of where he was, but in the distance he could make out a huddle of houses and supposed that would be the closest thing to a town he’d find. He needed funds and clothes and cigarettes. He laughed, studying his trembling fingers. Maybe he could find some tobacco at least. And maybe he could find Alexandra Lind.
He sighed; so he finds Alexandra and then what? Would it help him at all? At least she’d be able to tell him what her damned mother did to disappear so completely three years ago. And should she not want to… Well, he had ways of being most persuasive when he had to, so he’d have her telling him the truth in a matter of minutes. The thought sent a little frisson up his spine. He liked making people talk.
He held out his arms. His body was changing, the smooth and tanned skin wrinkling at a worrying pace – as if this latest fall through time had released an ageing agent previously held at bay. He turned his hands this way and that. For a man pushing one hundred and ten, he was in pretty good shape, he comforted himself. He clenched his fists. It wasn’t right! He shouldn’t be here, he should be dead and buried in Seville, and all of it, yes, goddamn, all of it was Mercedes’ fault. And if he couldn’t make her pay, well then maybe he could have some fun with her daughter. Hector’s fingers curled in anticipation. After all, did not the Bible state that the sins of the fathers revolve on the sons?
Chapter 20
The following few days were very confusing. Alex woke that first morning to a bed already empty of Matthew, and when she made her way down to the kitchen, eyes crusty with too much sleep, she was met with silent disapproval from both Mrs Brodie and Rosie.
“I didn’t know there was some kind of eleventh commandment, Thou shalt not sleep late,” she quipped during a brief run in with Matthew. “One would think I was at minimum one of Babylon’s whores from the looks they gave me.”
He laughed, assuring her that in the future he’d make sure she was well and truly awake before he left her. That sounded promising, and she tried to look cheerful as he hurried back to the barn.
Alex had never felt so out of place in her whole life. The differences between this time and her own were much more evident here, in a functioning household, than they’d been on the moor when it was only Matthew and her – after all, hiking and camping were in many ways unchanged over the years. But here…all these people, all of them expecting her to know what to do and how.
She was submerged in questions,
from what did she want for dinner to did she think they should slaughter the hog now. How should she know? She had no idea, she had never shelled peas, never wrung the neck off a hen, and as she wandered around her new home she began to realise that she had a huge uphill in front of her.
The linen closets were opened for her inspection, and she wasn’t sure if what she was seeing was good or bad. All she saw were rows upon rows of neatly stacked sheets, of pillowcases with embroidered edges and piles of folded linen towels.
“Lavender sachets,” she said, needing to make some kind of comment. “I like the linen to smell of lavender.” Mrs Brodie pursed her mouth, but nodded and promised she’d see to it.
The house was moderately clean, but Alex frowned at the dust on the skirting boards, and very pointedly looked into the corners, making Rosie blush and mutter something about being only one, aye, and it was a big house.
“Hmm,” Alex said in a tone that had Mrs Brodie throwing a black scowl at Rosie before assuring Alex all the floors would be scrubbed thoroughly within the coming week.
“Good.” With an internal sigh Alex wondered when her elusive sister-in-law would show up, because she was sure Joan knew how to run this home, and maybe she could teach her.
It was a segregated little world. The farm labourers were welcome to enter the kitchen, to sit at the trestle table laughing and jesting with Mrs Brodie and the two maids. If needs must, they’d go and find the master in his study, a small room just off the main hall where Matthew, just as his father, now had to struggle with his accounts. But none of the men ever entered the parlour, or ventured upstairs. Mrs Brodie and Rosie of course went everywhere, but they would knock before entering, and Rosie scurried away like a mouse if Alex entered a room.
“I don’t think she understands me,” Alex said to Matthew. “She just looks at me with those huge cow’s eyes of hers.”
“She understands you, but she might be a bit shy.”
“Right.” She wasn’t about to tell him that she suspected Mrs Brodie very much on purpose spoke an almost unintelligible brogue, nor did she intend to share all those moments when she was certain they were all laughing at her behind her back.
A Rip in the Veil (The Graham Saga) Page 20
