Serpents in the Garden (The Graham Saga)

by Anna Belfrage

  “I hope they’ll come up to us soon,” she said.

  “They’re welcome whenever they wish,” Matthew said, “but it’s better if they’re a wee bit settled first.”

  Probably. But that might take a very long time, given Joan’s open dislike for her new home.

  Chapter 21

  “Did you have a good time?” Alex asked Betty, holding in her mare.

  “Yes.” Betty’s brows creased together. “Mayhap I should have stayed. Mother did seem rather poorly.”

  “So, why didn’t you?”

  Betty mumbled something about wanting to go home, kicked her horse into a trot, and bounced off to join Matthew and Sarah further up the line.

  Alex gave her a long look, wondering what it was that was exerting such a pull on the girl. Not the younger boys, not Ruth or Sara, maybe Naomi, definitely not Agnes…hmm. That didn’t leave all that many, did it? Ruling out herself and Matthew, it was either Mark or Ian, and, as far as she could recall, Betty had spent very little time with Mark. She turned this interesting little conundrum round for some time, but was distracted by Ruth’s excited cries that she’d seen a moose, a huge moose.

  *

  Late in the afternoon, three days after setting out, they were home. The moment Alex set foot on the ground, her three young sons swarmed over her, and she had to kiss and cuddle and hug, exclaim at how big they’d grown while she was away, and was that a baby raven Adam was cradling? He beamed that it was, and Alex was dragged away to inspect the cage that Mark had helped him build, and did she know just how many worms this little bird could eat?

  Very carefully, he ran a finger over the soft fuzz on the baby bird’s back. “I’m going to teach him to talk. Mark says you can.”

  Matthew came over to study the bird and ruffled his son’s hair. “I had a wee corbie when I was a lad, bigger than this when I found it, with a broken wing.”

  “And did it talk?” Adam asked.

  “Nay.” Matthew laughed. “But it was a wise bird for all that.” He inspected the worms and shook his head. “Meat is better. See if you can trap a few mice, and give it to him in pieces.”

  “In pieces?” Adam looked quite distraught. “Must I slice them up?”

  Matthew ruffled his hair. “’Tis a hard job being a parent, laddie.”

  Samuel came next, showing her a huge bump on his brow. David had learnt to whistle – rather tunelessly. Naomi proudly held out little Tom for inspection, Hannah clutched at Alex’s skirts, Agnes popped out from the dairy to welcome them home, and even Mrs Parson bustled outside for a quick hug.

  Two people kept their distance. Jenny smiled vaguely in Alex’s direction before disappearing in the direction of the dairy, and Ian gave her the briefest of hugs before turning his attention to the stabling of the horses. There was a tightness to his mouth that increased when she came after him, a quick negating movement of his head making it clear she was intruding. Alex sighed: there wasn’t much she could do unless he let her in, and so she left him alone – at least for now.

  Once all her people had been adequately greeted, Alex took a little turn around her home, a slow walk to ensure it was all still there. For the first time ever, being home was not the same as feeling safe, and every now and then she stopped, staring at the encroaching forest. What she had always perceived as a natural barrier protecting the frail little clearing that was her home was now a threatening darkness that could hide dozens of lurking Burleys, and at one point she stooped, picked up a rock and lobbed it at a shadow, exhaling when the only resulting reaction was the angry chatter of a bird.

  “Mama?” Mark’s voice made her jump. Her son strode towards her, his dark hair lifting in the breeze. “What’s the matter?”

  Alex eyed him from under her lashes. Normally, she would have chosen Ian as her confidant, but seeing as he seemed reluctant to spend one-on-one time with her, she slid a hand in under Mark’s arm and told him about their latest meeting with the Burleys. Mark listened in silence, his brows pulled together.

  Alex made a sweeping gesture with her free hand. “We don’t know. They can be anywhere out there, and we won’t know until it’s too late.”

  “The dogs—” Mark began.

  “The dogs? And what good are they against armed men?” Alex shook her head. “We’re like sitting ducks, all of us.”

  Mark frowned. “That’s not true. We can fight back, defend our own.” He set his jaw and gestured to where his daughter was playing in the grass. “The man who tries to harm me and mine, I’ll kill.” He looked quite determined – and very young.

  Alex patted him on the arm and said nothing more.

  The sun was setting as she made her way up from the river. The yard was full of children and dogs, Ian was working on his cabin, and from the main house came the comforting scents of soup and bread. Alex counted the dogs: six all in all, and four of them bloody big. By the barn stood her man, laughing at something David was saying, and when she stepped into a patch of evening sun, he saw her and came to meet her. He looked indestructible, his elongated shadow thrown before him, his head and shoulders silhouetted against the golden light.

  They strolled towards the house, hand in hand. Just before they reached the door, he drew her to a halt.

  “It’ll be alright,” he said, looking her in the eyes. The conviction in his voice was such that the fist-sized knot in her belly softened. His hand cupped her face, the rough texture of his calloused palm stroking her cheek. She leaned into his reassuring touch.

  “I hope so.”

  “It will be fine, lass.” Matthew’s eyes glimmered in the setting sun, a beautiful golden green that had her thinking of sun-drenched meadows.

  “Of course it will,” she said, relegating the Burley bogeymen to a locked drawer in her mental filing cabinet.

  *

  “It’s nice to be home,” Matthew chuckled once he and Alex closed the door to their bedroom behind them for the night.

  “Do they always talk so much?” Alex mock groaned.

  “Like their mama.” Matthew ducked to evade the pillow she threw at him. “It’s no better, is it?” he asked in an entirely different tone, helping her undo the lacings down her back.

  Alex sighed and shook out her clothes before hanging them neatly on their respective pegs. She threw a considering look at the burst seam on her stays and made a mental decision to cut back on puddings for some weeks.

  “No,” she said, “Ian tries and Jenny flees.”

  Matthew batted away her hands and undid her hair. He picked up the brush and set to work, a deep furrow of concentration between his brows.

  “It may be the bairn.”

  “Perhaps.” Jenny was huge, and the baby was due any time within the coming two or three weeks, but in Alex’s experience those last few weeks were weeks when she’d needed Matthew very close, all the time. She said as much.

  “Ah.” Matthew smiled. “But you weren’t the norm.” He swept aside her hair and kissed her just behind the ear. “Pink, you were; pink and rounded with my bairn, and always eager for me.”

  “Still am.” She grinned. “Lucky you.”

  He helped her to her feet and turned her to face him. “Very.” He stooped slightly to place a soft kiss on her mouth. More butterfly kisses on her cheek, her mouth, and Alex slid her arms round his waist and leaned back, head thrown back to give him access to her neck. He backed towards the bed; she followed. His fingers on her lacings, and the worn linen of her shift slid down her arms, her back. She released him to shrug the garment to the floor.

  Matthew slid his warm hands down her flanks. “Dance for me.”

  “Like this?” Alex felt rather self-conscious, dressed in only her hair.

  “Aye,” he said, eyes burning into hers.

  So she did, humming to herself as she did some rather explicit dance moves.

  “Like Scheherazade,” she said with a smile, shaking her head so that her hair fell like a veil before her face. She fluttered her ey
elashes, rose on her toes, and twirled, her hands cupping her breasts.

  “She didn’t dance, as you tell it. She mostly talked – a typical woman.” He grabbed at her, pulling her close. They swayed together, a coordinated series of movements in which eyes locked into eyes, hips ground against hips. He released her, she danced away, he caught her extended hand, and she did a slow spin, ending up trapped in his arms, her back to his chest. She rested her head against his shoulder while pressing her bottom against his growing erection.

  “You want it this way?” he said, nipping at her earlobe. His hands flowed over her belly, settled on her hips and yanked her against him.

  “Whatever way you want it.”

  “Aye,” he breathed in her ear. “Whatever I want, my wife gives me.”

  Moments later, she was on her knees in the bed, her cheek pressed to the pillows, her hips held still by his grip.

  “I love you,” he said, entering her. “So very much do I love you,” he went on, thrusting into her again. “So much, so much, so much…” He picked up pace, she clutched at the sheets, meeting his thrusts as well as she could.

  They lay close together afterwards, Matthew’s body like an outer peel round hers. He found her hand and braided his fingers with hers.

  “He’s hurting,” he said, sounding sad.

  “Who?”

  “Ian.”

  “Yes,” Alex said. “And so is she.”

  *

  Betty woke, blinked, and was ridiculously happy to be here, no matter that she had to share a bed with Agnes, no matter that already at this early hour the house was loud with noise, several young voices talking and laughing in the kitchen. She dressed, stuck her feet into clogs, and near on danced across the yard to the stables and the waiting cows. And Ian.

  “I heard you had a letter from Jacob.” Ian tugged at Betty’s thick braid in passing. She didn’t reply, lugging a stool and an empty pail to the next cow in line. She liked milking, and, according to Matthew, she was right good at it for someone who’d never tried it until the advanced age of sixteen. Betty leaned her forehead against the warm flank of the cow, used the cloth that hung at her apron to wipe the teats clean, and took them in a firm grip, using her whole hand to tease the milk from the udder.

  “So what did he write?” Ian asked from where he was sitting three cows down.

  “That he was in London and aimed to stay there awhile. He hoped to see if he could find a physician to apprentice himself to.”

  “Fool. A physician is an educated man, a university man. Nothing else?” he asked after a while.

  “He sent me a ring.”

  “A ring? Let me see!” Ian’s head appeared for an instant above the cows.

  Betty held up an empty finger.

  “Ah, it didn’t fit.”

  “Yes, it did. It’s just that I’m not sure I want to wear it.” She met Ian’s eyes.

  “Oh.” Ian ducked out of sight. “Why not?”

  Betty carried the full pail out into the passage, and massaged her hands for an instant before finding another bucket and moving towards the last cow.

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I don’t feel married.” The silence was very heavy for some time. “He…” Betty swallowed. “Somehow he convinced me to do something I’m not sure I really wanted, and then he just left.”

  Ian’s head reappeared, his eyes unfathomable in the weak light of the stable. “He shouldn’t have done it, lass. No one will think the worse of you if you decide to break the contracts.”

  The moment she did, her father would be there with another suitor, and that was something Betty definitely didn’t want. And yet…she gnawed her lip. Among her few private belongings lay a half-written letter to Jacob, and as she sat with her cheek against the comforting warmth of the cow, she made up her mind. She would write to Jacob and tell him she no longer wanted this.

  Once she was done with the milking, she followed Ian out, carrying the heavy pails over to the dairy shed. She watched him move, the way his muscles shifted under his worn shirt, and she wanted so very much to lay a hand on him, blushing at these sinful thoughts. Very rarely did she confront the dawning realisation that she, Betty Hancock – or was it Graham? – had fallen in love with a married man, a man nine years her senior and Jacob’s brother to boot. When she did, she did what she did now. She closed her eyes, and for some seconds allowed herself to be swept away to a world where such a love might be possible.

  *

  “Malcolm might just as well be their son.” Jenny shrugged off Ian’s arm. “He eats with their three youngest, he sleeps with them, he takes the holy weekly bath with them… I hate living here. Why can’t we just go back to Forest Spring?” She was about to fragment under this unbearable pressure. Her eyes strayed after Patrick whenever she saw him, all of her wanting him to turn towards her, command her to come to him.

  “You know why,” Ian said. “You heard about the Chisholms.”

  Jenny swore under her breath. “Indians! Why don’t we just kill them all?”

  “What a terrible thing to say.” Alex entered the kitchen, carrying a basket of eggs.

  “But the way they’ve behaved lately doesn’t greatly endear them to us, does it?” Ian said.

  “No.” Alex sighed. “How is poor Andrew Chisholm?”

  “He won’t walk again and his poor wife…” Ian shook his head.

  “She shouldn’t have bit him.” Alex sat down beside them.

  “It served,” Ian pointed out. “It stopped them from further hurting her husband.”

  “Thank heavens three of them were killed – three less to worry about,” Jenny said.

  “And now they’re most aggravated, and we don’t know where they’ll show up next, which is why we’re staying here.” From the look on Ian’s face, Jenny knew it was futile to argue. She heaved herself onto her feet and left the room without a word.

  Once in the yard, Jenny made for the gap between the privy and the barn, throwing an angry look at the half-built cabin that was soon to be her home. She puffed as she crawled under the slats that fenced the paddock, clumsily got to her feet, and made for the woods beyond.

  The child kicked inside of her, and Jenny had to stop for a moment to regain her breath, clasping her hands protectively around the baby.

  All around her, the woods stood in bright greens. Orioles and cardinals whistled from the thickets, blackbirds chirped and squabbled higher up the trees, and the ground was dotted with the white of trilliums and the heavy heads of early lupines. Not that she cared: Jenny barged through the undergrowth, aiming for the river. She stood staring down at the swollen flowing waters. Maybe she should just walk into it and let the current take her. It would be quick, and she’d heard drowning was a painless way to die. No, she didn’t want to die; not yet, not now. She hurled a stone into the river, sat down on the log Matthew had placed there as a bench of sorts, hid her face in her hands, and cried.

  *

  Betty was picking flowers, meandering through the woods closest to the farm. She broke off a twig of new birch leaves and added it to her sizeable bouquet, wondering whether to give it to Alex or Mrs Parson. To her surprise, she could hear the river and realised she’d walked in a circle, lost in her daydreams.

  Jenny was sitting by the water, and Betty hung back. Since that episode in October, Jenny had avoided her just as much as she’d avoided Jenny, and, even if she could see Jenny was crying, Betty suspected her presence was not what Jenny needed or wanted.

  She was considering what to do when Patrick appeared on the path above them, leading one of the mules. He came to an abrupt stop at the sight of Jenny, left the mule, and went over to where Jenny was sitting. He didn’t touch her; he didn’t seem to talk to her either. He just sat down beside her and rested his hand close to hers. Two little fingers brushed against each other and hooked together. Very, very slowly, Jenny leaned her head against his shoulder, and, just as slowly, his arm came up to hold her close, his other hand
sliding up to rest on her belly.

  Betty sank down into a crouch. Poor, poor Ian.

  Chapter 22

  “What should I do?” Betty asked Mrs Parson, once she’d finished telling her what she had witnessed back in October as well as the recent tender scene down by the river.

  Mrs Parson arranged her flowers in silence, deep in thought. “What do you think you should do?”

  “Tell Ian?”

  Mrs Parson shook her head. “That’s not for you to do, lass.” She exhaled loudly. “You must tell Matthew, aye?”

  Betty looked at her, aghast. “I can’t talk to him about… Couldn’t you?”

  Mrs Parson sat back down in her chair. “Nay, that I can’t. It’s not I that have seen anything, is it? But if you can’t tell Matthew, then you must tell Alex.”

  *

  “Bloody hell,” was what Alex said, feeling how her knees weakened so abruptly she had to sit down. “And you’re sure you saw them having sex back in October?”

  “Sex?” Betty looked confused.

  “Fornication,” Alex elucidated.

  All of her twisting, Betty repeated her earlier description, and Alex had to agree it left very little room for an alternative interpretation.

  “At the time, I thought he might have forced her, and she begged me not to tell on account of the shame always being the woman’s.” Betty pulled at her lower lip in a gesture that made her look remarkably like her father. “Now I’m not that sure – although at first she seemed terribly aggrieved with him, kicking and hitting at him.” She moved restlessly in her seat. “Was I wrong not to tell?”

  “Hmm?” Alex looked at her blankly. “Oh! No, no, of course you weren’t. She asked you to keep it quiet.” It would have been much easier if Betty had held to that promise, Alex reflected, because now there was no way back – glossing it over and pretending nothing had ever happened was out. She’d have to tell Matthew and then… She quailed.

  Matthew’s reaction was one of absolute stillness. In the shaft of sunlight falling in through the wide open barn doors, his eyes went a deep gold, his pupils shrinking down to pinpricks. It made him look rather sinister; the impression further helped along by the way his hand gripped the hammer.