“Mmm,” Alex said very much later. They had taken their lovemaking out of the tub to the wide bench that ran the length of the shed. Her legs were splayed wide under him and his cock remained buried deep inside of her, shrinking back in size. She hitched a shoulder and patted him on the bum. “You’re squashing me.”
Matthew grumbled, but shifted to lie half on her, half off her, and propped himself up on his elbow to look at her.
“Esther Hancock is with child.” He nodded at the pitying expression on Alex’s face. They were of an age, Esther and his Alex, and yet another pregnancy must be more of a burden than a joy.
“That’s her seventeenth pregnancy!”
“It is? There are only seven bairns to show for it: six lasses and wee William.” He cupped her breast and squeezed. “Not like you, my fruitful wife, ten pregnancies and nine live bairns…”
“…and there will be no more,” she told him.
“Nay, no more.” He bent his head to kiss her, his mouth lingering a long time. He released her mouth and smiled at how dark her eyes were. He kissed her brow, her nose, the hollow at the base of her throat, her navel…
Matthew slid down her body and alternated between nibbling at the insides of her thighs, and kissing the soft folds of pinkish flesh that always reminded him of a flower, a blushing rose hiding its core from the world. Alex undulated below him, hands resting lightly on his head.
“Your turn,” he said, guiding her down his body.
“Aye…” he added dreamily a bit later, helping her straddle him. How well they matched each other: all of him inside of her, his hands on her hips to hold her there, impaled on him. He tensed his thighs, rose upwards, and she sighed. He did it again, and her breath rasped in and out. He cupped her breasts, holding her upright when he knew that what she wanted to do was to fold forward, fall over him, kiss him. He clenched his buttocks and she gasped, pressing down on him. A surge of bright red heat exploded through his loins, up his cock, and for a brief second he was sure he would die.
“No more babies,” she murmured from where she had collapsed on top of him. “But definitely much more sex.”
He laughed, hugging her close. Oh, aye, much more sex.
*
Betty froze by the privy when the door to the laundry shed opened. Now? In the middle of the night? A cloud of steam escaped from the hot space inside, Matthew appeared in only his shirt, hair still damp, holding a lantern. Alex fell out after him, laughing at something he had just said. Betty had never seen an adult woman look quite so…so…dishevelled? Her shift was undone, leaving one shoulder bare, and the dark hair was a nest of messy curls. Their hands met and braided. Instinctively, he adjusted his stride to hers and they swayed in perfect synchronisation in the direction of the house. Betty was overwhelmed by a wave of jealousy. That should be her, with Jacob, not his old parents! On quick and silent feet, she scampered after them, slid in through the kitchen door, and tiptoed into the room she shared with Agnes.
*
Betty was tired of Agnes’ constant panegyric over her poor, dead brother. From what Betty had managed to find out, it would seem Angus had been a conflicted soul, and then there were all those times when she’d seen Alex more or less supervise Angus the moment he interacted with the younger boys. Betty pulled her brows together into a thoughtful frown. She’d heard of men that abused other men; the Bible was rather explicit when it came to the sins of Sodom, but men lusting after boys? Small boys like David and Samuel? She studied Agnes from the corner of her eye.
“What happened to Angus once you got here?” she asked, interrupting Agnes halfway through yet another description of Angus as a wee lad, already so well versed in his Bible.
Agnes fell silent, her fingers tightening on the feathers of the dead hen in her lap. “He was sold off,” she said in a curt tone. “He spent several years on a tobacco farm down south, and then the master bought his contract and brought him here – where he died in that unfortunate fire.”
Betty gnawed at her lip. She had overheard Alex describe to Thomas Leslie how she’d seen Angus hang himself from one of the roof beams, but, after careful consideration, she concluded this wasn’t something she should tell Agnes. Instead, she went in search of her favourite among Jacob’s brothers, Ian.
*
Ian enjoyed his conversations with Betty, flattered by being singled out as her confidant. To be quite honest, he also enjoyed basking in her admiring looks, but this he preferred not to dwell too much upon. The lass was easy on the eye and sharp of wit, so mostly their conversations were light-hearted things, with him laughing much more with Betty than he had ever done with Jenny.
The thought of his wife made him sigh, and for some moments he stopped listening to Betty, immersed in yet another attempt to comprehend what was gnawing at Jenny.
“…so did he?”
“Hmm?” With an effort, he returned his attention to Betty.
“Angus. Did he…err…?” The lass blushed.
Ian wasn’t sure whether to tell her the truth. Betty Hancock – no, Graham, at least for now – was a bright enough lass, but young, just sixteen. She had hoisted herself up to sit on one of the workbenches, and was swinging her feet back and forth. When she leaned forward to listen to what he was saying, she reminded Ian very much of a squirrel, her reddish brown eyes intent on him. The bridge of her nose was covered with a myriad of small freckles, as was the skin along her sedate neckline. But it was to her tightly braided hair – visible here and there, despite the cap – that his eyes leapt repeatedly. He wondered what she might look like with that head of copper curls undone and floating free round her shoulders. If his inspection disconcerted her, she didn’t show it, shoving her hands in under her thighs.
“Aye,” he finally said, “Angus made untoward approaches to one of my brothers.”
Betty gasped. “But they’re babies, they’re as small as Willie is.”
“Not the wee lads; it was Daniel.” Very briefly, he told her what Matthew had told him.
“How could he?” she said, wrinkling her nose.
Ian shrugged. “I reckon he couldn’t help himself, lass.” He gave her a teasing glance. “Just as you couldn’t, that last night with Jacob.”
That was the wrong thing to say because, just as quickly as she’d come, she was gone, her back very straight as she stalked off in the direction of the woods.
*
For some reason, Ian’s comment had Betty feeling hot and bothered – angry even. She preferred not to talk to Ian about Jacob. She wanted to talk about…Ian, a small voice whispered in her head, or Betty, or maybe Ian and Betty, but she definitely didn’t want to talk about Jacob. Dear Lord, what was the matter with her? She scrubbed at her face and smoothed at her apron in an effort to regain some composure, but it didn’t much help. A brisk walk was what she needed, so she increased her pace, making for the forest.
Some way in, Betty stumbled, slipped on the mossy ground, and tumbled down a small incline to land in an undignified heap. She straightened out her limbs and sat back against the stone behind her. This was a nice, secluded place, and the late October sun was warm on her face and body. She dug into her bodice, pulled out a folded and refolded letter from her mother, and read it once again, hearing between the short lines how much her mother missed her.
Betty folded the letter before returning it to its keeping place, close to her heart. She longed for home and her mother – even her father – more than she longed for Jacob. She scratched at a small scab on her arm and sighed. She had no idea what she wanted anymore, but two years seemed an interminable amount of time. She looked down at her hands: long, thin fingers, each of them crowned with an oval, well-tended fingernail. Very bare hands – nothing to indicate she was a married woman. Betty laughed at herself. She wasn’t sure she was.
The warmth in her protected hollow made her drowsy, and she yawned, pillowing her head on her arms. A little nap…she yawned again, thinking of Jacob, or was it Ian? At some p
oint, she must have fallen asleep, because she woke to the sound of agitated voices very close by, and shrank back against the boulder, fearing that they might be Indians. Betty peeked out from behind the thorny thicket, and, to her surprise, it was Patrick and Jenny. They were arguing, with Patrick holding Jenny’s arm in a way that seemed to hurt her, and she kicking at him.
Betty’s eyes widened when Patrick yanked Jenny close and kissed her. She squeaked a ‘no’, but neither of them heard, and Betty was no longer quite sure what she was seeing. Jenny was still struggling, but her hands were locked round Patrick’s neck as if she was holding him close, and her body leaned into him, rather than away from him. Moments later, they were on the ground, Jenny’s legs bared most indecently when Patrick pushed her skirts out of the way. Jenny moaned loudly.
Betty tried to rush to Jenny’s help, but the thorns tore at her skirts, thereby hampering her progress as she tried to force the thicket. By then, it was too late: she could see that in the way Patrick’s bared buttocks clenched and unclenched, and in how passively Jenny lay beneath him, her arms tight around him. Tight around him? The angry shout died in Betty’s mouth, and halfway through the brambles, she ducked down to hide until Patrick was gone.
“Jenny?” Betty shook her. “Are you alright?”
“Alright?” Jenny raised a face covered in tears and snot to glare at her. “How can I be alright?”
Betty’s face heated at her own idiotic remark. “I saw—”
“Saw? What did you see?” Jenny sounded angry rather than distraught.
“How he…how he made free of you.” Betty avoided looking into Jenny’s pale blue eyes. “We must tell Ian and Father Matthew, and they’ll know what to do.”
Jenny’s hand came down like a clamp on Betty’s arm. “You’ll tell no one!”
“No one?” Betty was very confused.
Jenny stuffed the handkerchief she had used to wipe her face back into her sleeve, brushed down her skirts, and raised her arms to order her hair, hands like lark wings as she rebraided the dark hair that floated free around her face.
“Don’t you see?” Jenny said with her back to Betty. “They’ll blame me.”
“But—”
Jenny interrupted her with a harsh sound. “It’s always the woman’s fault.” She turned to face Betty and placed a hand on her stomach. “I’m with child. I don’t want there to be any doubts cast as to this child’s paternity.”
Betty nodded that she understood, even if she didn’t. The child was already there, so how could what she had just witnessed have any bearing. Unless… Fragmented images thronged her brain, of Jenny’s hand in Patrick’s hair, of how Jenny’s bare calf had come up to rest on Patrick’s leg, of Jenny’s arm round Patrick’s waist, holding him close rather than trying to dislodge him. No, she was misinterpreting things. After all, hadn’t Jenny attempted to tear herself free? She’d even kicked Patrick.
Jenny grabbed hold of Betty’s hands. “Will you promise never to tell unless I ask you otherwise?”
Rather unenthusiastically, Betty promised. “But what will you do?”
“Do?” Jenny laughed hoarsely. “I’ll pretend it never happened, and that is what I want you to do as well.”
*
Jenny took her time walking back to Forest Spring, her brain in overdrive. If the little goose told, Patrick would be forever banished from her life, either thrown out or, even worse, dead, and that was something she couldn’t bear even to think about. She must be a depraved woman, because she wanted Patrick to do what he did to her. She liked it when he was hard and careless, his hands forcing her to do just as he wanted. Not at all the considerate lover her husband was, and yet…
Jenny came to a halt, and took a couple of deep breaths. She had to put an end to all this. If she didn’t, she might find her whole life bursting apart. She placed a protective hand over her womb. After five years of trying, there was a child growing in her, and the sensation was one of utter joy – except for when she was afflicted by the horrible insight that she had no idea who the father was.
When Ian returned late, she was waiting for him, newly bathed and in her best embroidered shift; nothing else.
“Malcolm?” he asked when she wound her arms round his neck.
“Asleep, and tomorrow is Sunday.”
“So it is,” he nodded, and the shift was already on the floor. He carried her over to their bed and made love to her until the candles guttered one by one.
In the dark, Jenny lay awake beside his sleeping shape and held on very hard to his hand. She loved this man, the way his hazel eyes shifted with his moods, the way his hands were warm and soft on her skin – of course she loved him. So, why was it Patrick she saw while they were making love? Why was it Patrick she wanted to hold her, take her?
She rolled over to face Ian and traced his sleeping profile. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “Oh God, Ian, I am that sorry.” And she knew that she wouldn’t put a stop to it – at least not yet.
Chapter 14
“She is too!” Naomi nudged Betty. “See?”
The two girls giggled, watching Agnes balancing across the frozen yard towards the stables with a pie in her hands.
“She’s what? Ah,” Alex said when she saw Patrick pop his head out of the stable door before opening it wide to allow Agnes and pie entry. “I don’t think he is.” She went back to her cinnamon rolls.
“No,” Betty said with surprising sharpness. “But he knows she’s in love with him.”
That wouldn’t exactly take a genius, Alex thought with an exasperated smile.
“I don’t like him,” Betty added unnecessarily, given her tone. “Agnes can do much better than that conceited man.”
Mrs Parson looked up from where she was steeping willow tea for Matthew, who was in bed with a fever, and nodded in agreement. “He thinks much of himself, young Patrick does. But then I suppose he would, no? He’s a comely lad.”
“Who is?” Ruth came into the kitchen with Hannah in her arms.
“You’re supposed to be in bed, young lady,” Alex said.
“I was in bed, and then who crawled all the way up the stairs on her own?” Ruth kissed her niece tenderly on the top of her dark head and set her down. She coughed, a heavy dark sound, and sat down close to Mrs Parson to rest her head against her. “My chest hurts, and Sarah just coughs and coughs.”
“I’ll be up with a cordial presently, but now be off with you, back to bed, lassie.” Mrs Parson smiled fondly at Ruth, who nodded and padded off. “At least the lads are up and about again.”
“More than up and about – try tearing the whole place down!” Alex was tired: two weeks of colds and fevers, interrupted sleep, and sheets that had to be changed in the middle of the night were taking their toll. She moved over to Betty and gave her a quick hug. “I don’t know how I’d have managed without your help,” she said, receiving a shy smile in return.
“I couldn’t help.” Naomi sounded defensive.
“Nay, of course not,” Mrs Parson said. “You had one sick man, no? Enough to run any woman off her feet.”
“Alex?” came a demanding, very hoarse call from above, and all four fell over in helpless laughter.
Alex came back down to find that the buns were done and that Mrs Parson had made them both a cup of herbal tea. For once, the kitchen was empty, the large table containing nothing but a bowl of late apples and two fat tallow candles. On one of the long benches, one of the household cats was sleeping, and Mrs Parson was sitting in Matthew’s armchair, feet propped up on a stool.
Alex liked her kitchen. It was airy and clean, agreeably warm, and very neat. There was a workbench under one of the windows on which stood a clay pot that housed Alex’s precious aloe vera plant, as well as a large, battered pewter basin. A narrow door led to the pantry, and beside it were a set of shelves that contained what little crockery they had. The walls had been recently whitewashed; pots and saucepans hung on nails within easy reach of the hearth and th
e small baking oven, and firewood was stacked in one corner.
Alex sank down to sit. “I don’t know how you do it.” She bit into a freshly baked cinnamon roll.
“Do what?” Mrs Parson moved the chair so that the afternoon sun hit her squarely in the face, and sat back with a contented sound. The new kitchen was a light place, with two windows replacing the former single one, even if Matthew had grumbled loudly at the cost.
“You’ve never been sick. Not one single day in all the years I’ve known you.”
“That would be a bad habit to break now, no?” Mrs Parson cradled the earthenware mug in her hands and blew.
“Yeah, so please don’t.”
“Oh, I don’t plan to. I’m aiming to live to a hundred or so. After all, how would you cope without me?”
“Not at all.” Alex clasped the old woman’s liver-spotted hand. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Tsss! It’s my knitted goods you’re after, Alex Graham – that and my meat pie recipe.” But she sounded quite touched, an uncharacteristic wet glimmer to her bright black eyes.
*
“I love this time of the year,” Alex said to Ian a couple of days later, efficiently gutting one trout after the other. She drew in a long, invigorating breath of crisp November air. It was a beautiful, still day, the kind that brought roses to your cheeks the moment you stuck your face outside, with the fallen leaves crunching with frost under your booted feet.
She rubbed her frozen fingers together and stamped her feet. “Not perhaps if you stand still too long,” she hinted, making him laugh.
“Is it a wee walk you want, Mama?” Together, they strung the fish up and carried them over to the smoking shed.
“A long walk, but Matthew doesn’t want me walking about too much on my own, and he’s stuck in bed for another day or two.”
They walked in silence for a while, Alex setting a brisk pace that Ian easily followed.
“Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know how we’d have coped without your help these last few weeks.”
Serpents in the Garden (The Graham Saga) Page 12
