A Rip in the Veil (The Graham Saga)

by Belfrage, Anna

  “You want to bed her?” Simon sounded astounded.

  “No! I don’t know what I want. I’d like her to plead that I come back to her.”

  “And would you?”

  “Nay,” Matthew said, “but I’d like that she should ask so that I could tell her so.”

  Alex was still awake when Matthew entered their room. He had hoped she wouldn’t be, not wanting to talk to her while his mind buzzed with images of himself and a penitent Margaret. He flushed with shame; in his bed was his wife, and he had his head full of pictures of that other wife, the one who crushed his heart. And saved his life, for had she not thrown herself across him that Sunday almost a fortnight ago, he would’ve been dead. He became aware of Alex and found himself staring into two glacial blue eyes.

  “So, do you?” she demanded.

  “Do I what?”

  “Do you want to fuck her? You know, to lay your ghosts at rest.”

  He considered lying to her, or even pretending he had no idea what she was talking about, but some sense of self-preservation made him decide to tell her the truth, as well as he could.

  “At times.” He ignored her colourful curse and went to sit beside her. “I don’t love her, but I wouldn’t mind the opportunity to humiliate her as she did to me, laugh at her while she begged for me to…well, you know.” He snuck her a quick look. So far the truth had not gone down well. “It’s nothing I would ever do.”

  “But you think about it, you and her, fucking.”

  “And you don’t? Don’t you at times think of him, John, like that?” He hoped she didn’t, that he’d succeeded in erasing his predecessor entirely from her heart and mind.

  “And if I did, how would that make you feel?”

  “I’d hate it.” He caught her eyes. “Do you?”

  She shook her head vehemently. “I think of him, but never like that.”

  “Oh.”

  “But you do.”

  He hitched his shoulders. What could he say?

  She turned her back on him, shoulders stiff with reproach. Matthew patted her hip and she slapped his hand away. He sighed, stood to undress. He looked down at her still shape, so unmoving he was sure she was holding her breath. For a moment he considered leaving her to sleep. In the end he decided not to.

  “I love you,” he said as he rolled her over to face him. “Only you. You know that.”

  “Huh.”

  He had to work for it that night. Hard. Fortunately, he was both persistent and creative.

  * * *

  “Really?” Minister Weir’s nose twitched.

  “Well, I’m not sure,” Luke Graham said, “but I find it…coincidental.” He dabbed at his swollen, bruised face and scowled.

  “How do you mean?” Hector asked from his corner. He was making an effort to stay out of the light, to keep his ageing body hidden – in particular after seeing the undisguised shock on Luke Graham’s face when he‘d greeted him. He looked down at his hand, closed so firmly round the earthenware mug. Old, but as yet strong, even if he suspected it was but a matter of time before whatever was happening to his outer shell began to attack muscles and tendons as well.

  “The man said, how he and his friends had attempted to rob a man and a woman on the moor. And the woman…” Luke shook his head. “She’s strange, my brother’s wife, and she’s not from here. Who knows what she might be?” He raised his hand to rub at the narrow scab that decorated his throat.

  “A foreigner,” Minister Weir nodded.

  Hector gave him an irritated look. The man had major issues with xenophobia.

  “That in itself is not necessarily an indication of anything sinister, this inn is full of foreigners.”

  “Sailors, to be expected here in Leith.” Luke continued with his incredible story about a woman in long blue breeches and the two robbers she’d kicked to death.

  “I…” Luke broke off, twisted his mouth into a rueful smile. “Well, I suppose I fear for my brother – what if his wife and this woman is one and the same?”

  The hell you fear for him, Hector sneered.

  “Of course you do,” Minister Weir said, patting the younger man’s hand in a paternal gesture.

  “I’ll make it worth your while.” Luke produced a velvet pouch. “And even more should she hang.”

  Minister Weir gave him a stern look. “Do you think me motivated by gold?”

  Hector choked on his beer.

  “Of course not,” Luke said, “see this as contribution to your expenses, no more, no less.”

  “Hmm.” Minister Weir caught the pouch when Luke lobbed it to him. “I’ll get to the bottom of it, but it would help if we could find the witness.”

  “Aye, not too difficult, I reckon. The man’s a drunk, babbles his story to whoever plies him with sufficient whisky.” Luke produced a few coins and dropped them on the table. “Down Lanark way,” he added before excusing himself, mumbling something about needing to find the captain of his ship.

  “Well, well,” Minister Weir said, rubbing his hands together. “Isn’t this exciting? A murderess, no less, mayhap even a witch.”

  “Indeed.” Oh yes; very exciting, exciting enough that Hector’s hands were twitching. Minister Weir grinned slyly at Hector.

  “Interesting enough for me to persuade you to come along?”

  “Absolutely; after all, how often does one get to expose a murderer?” Finally, he thought, hiding his smile in his mug, at last he’d have the pleasure of meeting Alex Lind face to face.

  Chapter 30

  It was a quiet ride back home, Matthew submerged in his own thoughts. Alex sighed. For the last few days the single subject of conversation had been Ian, Matthew keeping up an intense debate with Simon as to how he should go about to reclaim his son.

  Simon had been categorical. The divorce document and the subsequent disowning of the boy would be difficult to reverse – besides, he’d pointed out in a voice so low Alex wasn’t supposed to hear it, how would Matthew’s new wife feel about having Ian come to live with them?

  A damn good question, Mr Melville, a question Mr Graham should perhaps have raised with his wife first. Still; she could sympathise with his feelings, and just the thought of a child growing up under Luke’s care made her shudder.

  “If you wanted him back, I’d do my best to welcome him,” Alex said, smiling at his surprised look. She nudged her mare closer. “It’s not only me that’s transparent at times,” she said, reaching over to pat his leg.

  “Do you think I should try?”

  Alex mulled this over for a long time. If she were to be honest, she would be uncomfortable with his son in the house – particularly a son torn from the only parents he’d ever known. Matthew was still waiting for an answer, his eyes resting on her with a look she couldn’t quite interpret.

  “I think it would be cruel to the mother.” She drew rein, waiting until he’d turned and halted Samson. “I would have no problem with Ian living with us, but I’d never accept having Margaret there. Ever.” Definitely not after what she’d overheard the other evening, all that crap about wanting to have Margaret beg him to take her back. His intense performance in bed that night had assuaged some of her jealousy, but most of it was still very much alive and kicking.

  A slight flush stained Matthew’s cheeks. “My son should grow up with me.”

  “Your son doesn’t consider you his father. He’d hate you for wrenching him away from his mother. It would be devastating to them both.”

  “Mayhap I should let them stay on in the cottage, then I can see him now and then.”

  “No. She goes.” She drove her heels into the horse and left him in the middle of the road.

  Once back home, Alex took care of the unloading, shooing Matthew off to inspect his fields or go and scratch the sow, or why not check on the oxen?

  “The oxen?” He looked over to where the two placid beasts were grazing in the closest meadow. But he seemed glad enough to be let off the unpacking, leaving s
atchels and pannier baskets by the door before leading the horses off to the stable. Alex waited until he was out of sight before digging into one of the panniers. Right at the bottom, hidden under bolts of fabric, was Mercedes’ picture, wrapped in burlap.

  She caressed the bundle. It hummed into life, strands of whispering song leaking out of it. Shit! She fumbled and dropped it. It should burn. Burn it now, yes, burn it now. Gingerly she picked it up. She’d tried to destroy it back in Cumnock, but at the last moment she’d pulled it back from the fire, incapable of burning this last tenuous link with her mother.

  “Welcome back,” someone said from behind her. Alex smiled a bright greeting at Mrs Gordon, loaded her arms to hide the package, and rushed upstairs. She held the wrapped painting at arm’s length. She’d burn it. Yes, of course she would. But not today. Hastily she stuffed it into the mule chest.

  *

  They threw themselves back into their respective chores over the coming weeks. Alex rarely saw Matthew during the day, and it took some time before she caught on to the fact that he seemed to be avoiding her on purpose.

  Once she did, she began to plan for random encounters only to verify that it took him but a couple of minutes before he mumbled something about having to see to the calf, or repair the storing sheds, or do something about the loose tine on his pitchfork.

  He’d kiss her, pat her behind, before he hurried away, and she watched him thoughtfully, trying to understand what it was he was keeping from her. Not that she didn’t have a pretty good idea.

  A long walk in the woods confirmed her suspicion. Margaret was still in residence, although she seemed very ill at ease when she saw Alex.

  “What do you want?” Margaret was washing her hair, sitting outside in only her shift and a shawl. Even with wet hair, the bloody woman looked stunning.

  “Why are you here? Why aren’t you with your husband somewhere? Preferably very far from here?”

  “He’s on his way to Holland, to meet with the king.”

  “Not king yet.”

  “No, but soon,” Margaret said.

  She produced a comb and began to unravel her damp hair, turning her back on Alex.

  There was a breaking sound, and Ian appeared from among the shrubs. He came to a halt when he saw Alex, a shy smile appearing on his face.

  “Hi,” she said to this miniature Matthew.

  “Mistress,” he bowed, both hands cupped tight over something.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “For my Mam,” he said, “look Mam.”

  Margaret smiled down at her son who opened his hands to release a white butterfly. She threw Alex a look.

  “Still here?”

  Alex raised her brows. “This is my home, not yours. And I want you to leave, as soon as possible.”

  Matthew came to the table that evening with a thunderous expression on his face. He barely ate, drinking large quantities of beer instead, and once the meal was concluded he told Alex that he wished to speak to her, and stalked off in the direction of his study.

  She was humiliated by his tone, and chose to remain where she was. If he wanted to talk to her, then he could bloody well sit down beside her, not request her presence in his office as if she were an errant child.

  “Didn’t you hear?” he sounded very cold, standing in the doorway. Mrs Gordon threw him a look and scuttled off to her own room.

  “You wanted to talk to me, or rather tell me off, and you made sure everyone at the table knew that, didn’t you?” Alex stood and moved over in the direction of the hallway. “I’m going to bed. If you have something to say, you might just as well tell me now.”

  “It’s not your place, nor your right, to order people off my land.”

  “Oh dear, has Margaret been telling tales?” She took a step towards him. “But that would mean that you’ve seen her.”

  “Of course I have, she came to find me, all in tears.”

  “Poor, poor, Margaret, did you perhaps hold her in your arms and shush her? Take the opportunity to soothe those restless ghosts of yours?”

  “I did no such thing!” He glared at her.

  “Really? But a hug perhaps, you know, a comforting little squeeze no more?” Matthew went a dusky red all over. “Yeah; I thought so. It’s very simple, either she goes or I do. Take your pick.” She pushed by him and up the stairs, slammed the door hard and shoved the bolt into place.

  *

  Next morning he cornered her on the way to the privy, took hold of her arm and led her out of hearing distance from the curious audience consisting of Sam, Robbie and Gavin. She had no idea where he’d slept, but assumed he’d bedded down in his study or in the loft. Frankly, she didn’t give a shit.

  “You won’t lock me out of my bed, ever again,” he shouted at her, eyes golden in the early sunlight. “I’ll never have my wife do that to me again.”

  “At least I was alone in there, not like her, screwing your brother! And let go of my arm, you idiot, you’re hurting me.” He gave her a rough shake and let go, sending her tumbling to the ground.

  “Fine,” she said as she got to her feet. “I’m leaving.”

  “No you’re not.” He pulled her close, wrapping an arm hard round her. “Please listen.”

  She shrugged; she really didn’t have much choice, pinned as she was to his chest.

  “I gave her my word. I promised I wouldn’t throw her out.”

  How touching. Bastard! And how about discussing it with her first, hey?

  “Well then it seems you’ve made up your mind, right? So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go and pack.”

  “Alex! You’re being unfair. I can’t just put them out, where would they go?”

  Alex thought about that for a moment. “I have no idea. But neither do I care.” She felt a twinge saying that, thinking of Ian. “She has a husband. Isn’t it enough that she cheated on you, connived in sending you to jail – excuse me, to hang, but unfortunately for them someone felt like being lenient – lied to you about your son, do you also have to support her?”

  He let go of her and took a step back. “She saved my life that night back in Cumnock. If it hadn’t been for her, Luke would have killed me.”

  “She did?”

  He nodded and scratched at his head. “She begged him not to kill me. And he listened.”

  “Oh.” All the anger ran out of her, leaving her drained. She dropped down to sit and Matthew followed suit.

  “If you insist I’ll ask her to leave, but I ask you to let them stay – not for her sake, but for the lad’s.”

  Alex did not at all feel like being generous. She wanted Margaret gone, she wanted the living reminder of the fact that she’d been Matthew’s wife gone. She exhaled loudly.

  “I don’t like it.”

  Matthew’s mouth quirked into a little smile. That was rather apparent, he told her, and he had to concede she had the right of it. She glanced at him and then away.

  “What if Luke shows up? He will, sooner or later, and what if you run into each other?” Or if he walks into me…Her guts tightened into a knot, and she closed her eyes, squishing down her lids until all she saw was bright red.

  “I’ll tell her it’s a prerequisite. She may remain here as long as he stays away.”

  Alex found that a dubious comfort, but gave a small nod.

  “And you keep well away from her, Matthew.”

  He bowed his head in acquiescence.

  Entering the kitchen, Alex was attacked by the scents of porridge and honey, eggs and warm bread. It made her want to throw up, and she concentrated on breathing through her mouth. She sat down on the bench beside Matthew and shook her head in a no at the extended plate. Mrs Gordon studied her for a moment and smiled, dark eyes glinting.

  “You’re breeding.”

  Matthew looked at Alex, letting his eyes slide over her breasts.

  “I think so, but its early days yet.” Alex hadn’t wanted to say anything before she was absolutely certain, a
nd gave Mrs Gordon an irritated look. “I was planning on telling him myself.” She stormed out of the kitchen before she burst into tears.

  *

  “You’d best go after her,” Mrs Gordon said, grinning at Matthew. He regarded her calmly and tore off another piece of bread.

  “It’ll keep. I’ll go and find her after breakfast.” Inside he was loud with joy, but surprised that he hadn’t noticed. The last few weeks of tension around Margaret must have made him unobservant, and it struck him that he hadn’t really seen her naked since they got back from Cumnock – not to properly look at.

  He found her on the hill, standing with her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes fixed on the endless miles of moor spread before her.

  “How far along are you?” he asked, hugging her from behind.

  “Two months.”

  He counted in his head; a January babe.

  “It makes me very glad.” He turned her in his arms, fiddled with her bodice, her shift, and eased the cloth down until her breasts were uncovered. Yes, they were heavier, and when he breathed on them, her nipples prickled, dark against her pale skin. “I should have noticed,” he said, rearranging her clothes. “But I’ll take my time with you tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  He smiled at her disappointment and let his fingers travel up her throat and tease at her earlobes. Her eyes unfocused, her lips parted and he kissed her, a long warm kiss.

  “Tonight,” he repeated once they came up for air. One swift caress and he walked off, leaving her burning for him. He liked that.

  *

  What to begin with had been something that made Matthew laugh and shake his head in amused exasperation, had become something he looked forward to, whether in winter or in summer.

  Every Saturday, Alex insisted that they should have a bath, and when Matthew and Rosie protested at the work involved in heating all that water and filling the wooden hip bath upstairs, she had decided that bathing would be done in the kitchen, after supper. In winter, she’d light candles and spread the linen towels to heat in front of the fire, and then she’d wash her way up Matthew’s limbs in a way that covered both of them with soap suds before she was done.