Whither Thou Goest (The Graham Saga Book 7)

by Anna Belfrage

  Every afternoon culminated with the daily chess game – at times played indoors, just as often on the veranda. With each passing day, Alex could see the tension build in Matthew. Brown humiliated him. No matter Matthew’s considerable skills in the game, Brown was always a step ahead, those dark eyes of his glittering with amusement when Matthew yet again fell into Brown’s elegantly executed trap.

  “Oh dear.” Mr Brown beamed at Matthew, who looked as if he was about to explode. “Checkmate again.” He rose and bowed, humming to himself as he left the room.

  Matthew slumped dejectedly by the board. “He is a right canny player,” he muttered. “I don’t quite know how to beat him.”

  “Let him win a couple of times,” Alex said, “and study how he plays. He’ll probably grow careless.”

  “A couple of times?” Matthew gave her a despairing look. “This is the fifth consecutive loss, and while I dabble in the gentlemanly pursuit of chess, wee Charlie slaves another day in the field.” He swept the board and its pieces to the floor, and stalked outside.

  Chapter 29

  “Who was that?” Ruth threw a long look after Michael, who was already halfway round the closest corner.

  “A man,” Sarah said, forcing herself to look away from where Michael had disappeared. She hugged her secret close, and felt it glow inside of her. Forty-six days she had known him, and every one of those days she had contrived to see him, short stolen moments discreetly out of sight from the nosy busybodies of Providence. Until today, that is, when she’d lost track of time, thereby causing Ruth to come looking for her.

  “I can see that.” Ruth shifted her baby closer to her, and pursed her lips into a narrow funnel. “So who?”

  Sarah pretended not to hear.

  “Sarah! You can’t walk out alone with unknown men! It’s unseemly. And you, in particular, must at all times behave with utmost modesty – you know that.”

  “I do? Why?” Sarah knew, of course. A constant whispering surrounded her, lads would hurl the odd insulting comment after her, and all she could do was pretend not to hear. Lasses her age would at most bid her a good day before scurrying off to whisper and point, while their mothers would cluck and simper to Sarah’s face, only to shake their heads and mutter behind her back that where there was smoke there was fire – look at her, so vibrant and inviting.

  “Your reputation,” Ruth hissed. “It must remain untarnished.”

  “Too late for that,” Sarah said bitterly. “But not through any fault of mine.”

  Ruth sighed, hefting precious Edward close enough that she could brush her lips along his wee lace cap. “I know, but please, Sarah—”

  “I haven’t done anything!” At most, her hand had grazed Michael’s in passing, and while Sarah longed for every glimpse of him, every moment spent in his company, envisioning anything more made her insides shrivel. “We’d best get going,” she added, extending her stride.

  “It was you, not me, that was late,” Ruth retorted, puffing in her efforts to keep up. “And don’t run!”

  “Sorry.” Sarah dropped her pace somewhat. They were on their way to visit Kate Jones, hoping she might have news of their parents that had as yet not reached them. Already into August, and so far there had been but one letter, from Jamaica, in Da’s bold hand.

  “So, did Julian agree?” Sarah asked, mostly to break the lengthy silence.

  Ruth gave her a brilliant smile, and for the coming minutes Sarah was submitted to a long and detailed account of just what Ruth had said to convince her husband that wee Edward would thrive best at his mother’s breasts. Sarah listened distractedly, made the right noises at the right time, and by the time they’d reached Kate’s house, Sarah was quite convinced Ruth had forgotten all about Michael.

  Sarah liked Kate Jones: no condemning looks, no snide remarks, just a woman who greeted her cheerfully whenever they met, and who had no compunction in strolling through Providence with Sarah at her side.

  Kate invited them to join her in the shade, but shook her head when Ruth asked if she had any news about Mama and Da.

  “No, I haven’t heard more myself, except that Captain Jan is planning to go to Curacao and then back up through Barbados to load sugar.” Kate smiled down at Edward and complimented Ruth on her son, saying that with each day the boy grew more and more like his father. Most unfortunate, in Sarah’s opinion, because whatever other attributes Julian might have – and she’d be hard-pressed to list them – good looks was not one of them. Aye, he had bonny eyes, a darker grey than Michael’s, and aye, he had right nice hands, but beyond that…

  A sound from the opposite side of the shaded courtyard made Sarah turn. A baby basket stood in the shade. A small chubby fist waved in the air, the gauze covering held in a tight grip. Some minutes more, and a very demanding sound came from the basket’s depths. Sarah jerked and got to her feet.

  “Have you ever seen him?” Kate said.

  Sarah shook her head. She had seen her uncle about town on several occasions since she got here, and they had talked about anything and everything but the fact that the child she had birthed now lived with Simon.

  The few times she’d seen Simon with what she assumed to be the lad in his arms, she had fled, ducking into convenient shops or alleys. Once, she had followed them all the way to the meetinghouse, and when Simon had hefted the boy up higher on his shoulder, Sarah had seen eyes as blue as her own stare back at her.

  “Maybe you should,” Kate suggested.

  Sarah swallowed, and all she could hear was the loud rushing sound of her blood through her head.

  “He has the strangest hair,” Kate went on. “It’s growing out fair at the roots, but the ends remain the same black they were when he was born.” She smiled at Sarah. “He’s a very sweet boy, and he looks just like you, only you.”

  *

  “She stiffened up when Kate suggested she might hold him,” Ruth told Julian later that night, “and then she wheeled and just ran off.” She sat down by the small table and proceeded to brush her hair. It spilled like rippling copper down her back, and Julian lay propped on one elbow and watched as all that hair was captured and braided into a loose night plait – unnecessary as very soon he would undo it, spread it out to lie fanned around her head.

  “I felt so sad for her,” Ruth said, and Julian grunted an agreement: a sorry business, in truth. He fidgeted when she began washing, making small sounds of increased irritation when she insisted on rubbing hands and face with scented oils and lotions. After her skin, she turned her attention to her teeth. An obsession, in his mind, this constant teeth cleaning, and now he was expected to do it as well, even to the point of masticating a couple of leaves of mint every night.

  Julian groaned silently. His entire domestic life danced to the tune set by Alex Graham, and he didn’t like it, frowning at the surprising amount of vegetables he was expected to eat, at the cost related to weekly baths, at the insistence that he change his shirt at least once a week, and that he wash not only face and hands but also his member twice a day.

  “Mama says,” Ruth would begin, and Julian stopped listening. For the last few weeks, this had been the constant preamble as he had been bombarded with one reason after the other for why Edward should be fed by his mother, not some stranger, and eventually he had succumbed with ill grace, snapping at Ruth that she was being disobedient and opinionated but that, for the sake of his own peace, he would reconsider.

  She was finally ready for bed, and floated towards him across the bare wooden boards. She giggled when he tickled her flank, squirmed when his fingers drifted over her mound, and then he rolled himself on top of her, savouring the fact that he had a young, fertile wife. Her thighs were strong and smooth, her arms warm around his back, and he settled himself inside of her for a long, slow ride towards completion. A son, she had given him a son, and God willing she would give him many more.

  Next morning, Ruth told Julian of the man she’d seen speaking to Sarah.

 
; “A man?”

  “I have eyes,” Ruth replied, “and it was not a woman nor yet a lad.”

  “But she can’t be talking to unknown men on her own!” Julian frowned at the floor. Sarah was as headstrong as her mother, and deep down Julian would now and then reflect that had Sarah not been disobedient, she would never have been abducted. He pulled on his right stocking and retrieved the left one from where he had dropped it to the floor the previous evening, gartering them both just above the knee before pulling on his dark grey breeches. His coat…now, where had he put his coat?

  “Here,” Ruth said, holding it out to him.

  “I’ll talk to her,” Julian said and hunted about for his shoes.

  “There.” Ruth pointed to where she had placed them, neatly side by side just beside the door. “Yes, I think it may be wise to point out the importance of decorous behaviour. Otherwise, Da will never see her married.”

  No sooner did Sarah come down the stairs but Julian led her off to his study.

  “What?” Sarah said, yanking her arm free from his hand.

  Julian cleared his throat and went on to tell her that he would not tolerate any indecent behaviour, not while she was under his care.

  “Indecent behaviour?” Sarah’s low alto climbed to a piercing soprano. “What are you insinuating?” She glared at her sister, making Ruth blush.

  “I saw you,” Ruth muttered, “talking to that unknown man.”

  “Oh aye? And what precisely did you see?”

  “Just that you talked,” Ruth said, “for no more than a moment, but still.”

  Sarah huffed. “I exchanged some words with a man wishing for directions, and you accuse me of fornication?”

  Julian didn’t like her tone, and even less the way she was scowling. “Now, now, Sarah, Ruth hasn’t done anything of the kind. We are but pointing out that—”

  “—you would be discredited if I behave like a wanton,” Sarah bit him off, and her blue eyes spoke of a serious intent to do them both bodily harm. “I have no intention of doing that, and as far as I know, I’ve never behaved in a way that merits such concern.” With that, she left them standing in the study and with impressive dignity exited the room.

  *

  “But it’s only out of concern for you,” Michael said an hour or so later when they met where they usually did, in the small copse of trees that bordered the graveyard.

  “I don’t think that’s entirely true.” She looked down at her hands, busy with a long, uneven grass braid. “He’s far more concerned about his reputation, what with him being a minister. I don’t understand how Ruth can be so besotted by him.”

  “She is?” Michael pillowed his head on his coat, and looked up at the few splotches of blue that were visible through the foliage. Sarah made a disgusted sound, and Michael laughed. “It’s a good thing for a wife to be besotted with her husband. It would help in the bedding.” He snuck a look at her. “To be bedded by force can’t be a pleasurable experience, can it?” She flinched, and he closed his eyes before she could catch his look.

  “No,” she whispered, and the desolation in her voice made Michael want to take her hand. He didn’t. Instead, he pretended to sleep, relaxing into an agreeable doze.

  The August heat was constant and cloying, and the little garret room he rented had enough air to see him through at most two hours before he began to twist and turn, sweating like a pig despite his nude state. Here, there was a breeze, and he felt himself begin to slip into real sleep, dreams lining up along the outer edges of his subconscious.

  A soft, recurring sound disrupted his rest: a steady click, click, click that he recognised but couldn’t fully place. Drowsily, he opened an eye and just as quickly closed it again. Sarah Graham was a Presbyterian, and… No, he must have seen wrong. Yet another peek, and he raised himself on his elbow.

  “A rosary?” His voice made her drop her beads, and he picked them up and handed them back to her. She was embarrassed, stuffing them back out of sight.

  “Are you a Catholic?” Michael knew she wasn’t – or at least that her father wasn’t – and her sister was married to one of the ministers.

  “No, but it helps at times.” She clearly didn’t want to talk about it, but Michael pushed on.

  “So, how?”

  “A friend – a priest – gave them to me.”

  “You count a Catholic priest among your friends?”

  She nodded once.

  Michael sat up. “Don’t your parents…err…don’t they object to such a friendship?”

  Sarah gave him a flashing smile, followed by a hitched shoulder. “Mama no, Da isn’t entirely comfortable with it.”

  “No, I can imagine not,” Michael murmured.

  “Carlos helped me through my moment of dire need.” Sarah looked away at absolutely nothing, a softness to her lips that made Michael jealous.

  “Aren’t you too young to have lived through a time of dire need?” he asked unnecessarily. After all, he knew of her ordeal, or at least Uncle Philip’s bald – and probably not entirely truthful – version of it.

  “No,” she answered in a voice he could barely hear.

  His hand rested for a moment on her arm. “Tell me.”

  Sarah shook her head. “I don’t think I can – or want to.”

  He decided to let it lie for now. Instead. he dug into his shirt and produced his own rosary, a beautiful set of beads he had inherited from his devout mother. He couldn’t quite remember the last time he had said a decade, nor when he last went to confession, and given the present religious rumblings here in Maryland, being Catholic was something best not shouted out loud.

  “I’m a Catholic.” He smiled teasingly. “Next time we meet, we can sit in silence and tell a decade or two – most decorous.”

  Sarah laughed. “I don’t think it would do my reputation much good,” she said, getting to her feet. “Tomorrow?” she asked, and he liked it that her blue eyes were bright with need.

  “Tomorrow,” he promised, and watched her walk sure-footed down the rocky slope.

  *

  “I saw you!” Ruth challenged, stepping out from the shadow of the meetinghouse. “You are seeing a man on the sly, and that you mustn’t do!” She was bright with righteous indignation.

  “I’ll see whoever I wish,” Sarah snapped back, “and if I have one friend, one single friend, then how can you begrudge me a few hours in his company?”

  “It’s not appropriate. You’re the sister-in-law of a minister, and mustn’t expose yourself to gossip of any kind.”

  “Oh aye? For my sake or yours?”

  “For your sake, of course,” Ruth said, sounding offended.

  “I think not. I think you’re so puffed with pride at being the minister’s wife that you won’t have me risk any kind of slur on you.”

  “I’ll tell Julian,” Ruth threatened.

  “You do that and I’ll never speak to you again.” Sarah left her older sister speechless as she hurtled down towards the sea.

  Chapter 30

  It was an exquisite dress, a beautiful thing in pink silk that consisted of a tight little bodice, skirts that were pleated and ruffled. Every afternoon, it was hung out to air on the back porch; every afternoon, Brown would come out at five, lift down the dress and hand it to one of the slave women. And, as Alex understood early on, the woman who was handed the dress had the dubious pleasure of joining her master in bed.

  “He hits them,” Alex said to Matthew, nodding as discreetly as she could in the direction of one of the housemaids. The poor woman looked as if she’d run into a door.

  “Aye, I can see that.”

  “We must do something,” Alex said.

  “What?” Matthew asked testily. “There’s nothing we can do.”

  Unfortunately, he was right, so Alex bit her tongue and tried to be as supportive as she could when her husband night after night was humiliated at the chessboard by Brown. Every time, Matthew begged that he be allowed to buy Charlie
free, and every time, Brown refused.

  At times, Brown would lead them on long walks across his lands, and just by chance – huh – they’d happen upon where Charlie and his fellow slaves were worked like beasts, whips flying, insults hailing. Alex would hang like a leech round Matthew’s arm while that damned Sassafras Brown just grinned before leading them off on yet another excursion of the surrounding forests.

  He pointed out kapok trees and gumbos; he spoke of music and plays, of poetry and science, enticing even Matthew into a long discussion about the properties of comets. But he refused to allow Matthew or Alex to talk to Charlie, telling them both that if they did, he’d have Charlie flogged.

  “Once you win, not before, and at this rate, perhaps he’ll die before you do,” he said with obvious glee, and Matthew raged in private, suggesting one more preposterous scheme after the other to save his nephew from this slow death.

  “We can’t,” Alex said, “and you know that. There are five white men here including Mr Brown, and two of them constantly carry muskets. We’d not get beyond the lane before they caught up with us.”

  After yet another massive supper, they were sitting in the library, Matthew and Alex hostages to their host’s bonhomie. The little serving girl entered with a tray laden with teapot and mugs made of china so fine it was almost transparent, and set it down before Alex with a curtsey. Alex did a double take: the child was wearing the pink silk dress. It was far too big for her, the bodice gaped over a narrow chest that had nothing to fill it with, and the hem dragged on the floor.

  “…don’t you agree, Mrs Graham?” Mr Brown was saying.

  “Hmm?” Alex hid her face by busying herself with pouring tea. There had to be something she could do to help the girl. Inspired, she held out a brimming cup to Mr Brown and upended it right over his crotch, scalding her own fingers in the process.