Serpents in the Garden (The Graham Saga)

by Anna Belfrage

  “You think?” Mrs Parson snorted. “I think not.” She lowered her voice and told Alex that, in her opinion, it had been a rash and foolish thing Matthew had done, promising Qaachow to have the raising of Samuel for a year.

  Alex just nodded. She looked over in the direction of Samuel, proudly showing off his new accessory to his brothers and nephew. White Bear, she thought, and in her mind she saw a polar bear raise itself on its hind legs and stare at her before it dropped back down on all fours and turned its back on her to walk away. She shuddered, and Mrs Parson put a hand on her arm.

  “Nothing,” Alex assured her with a weak smile. “Just a goose walking over my grave.”

  Mrs Parson gave her a very strange look. “You don’t have a grave.”

  “No, not yet,” Alex said.

  *

  “Adopted?” Matthew said. “So you’re no longer Susquehannock?”

  “The Susquehannock are a splintered remnant of a once great tribe,” Qaachow said, “and I have done what I must to ensure the survival of my people. So, now I’m an adopted son of the Mohawk, and my son speaks Mohawk, not Susquehannock, as do all our children. We’re forgetting our language and our customs, for it is as Iroquois we now live and fight.” It came out with a bitter edge to it, accompanied by a lingering look at Matthew’s fields and home, land that had once belonged to Qaachow’s tribe.

  “And is that why you are here? To fight?” Matthew asked.

  “We fight against the Piscataway. They have ever been a thorn in the side of the Susquehannock.”

  “And you attack the odd colonist,” Matthew said.

  “The odd one,” Qaachow said, “but it wasn’t us that harmed your old neighbour.”

  “Nay, but it may have been people of your tribe.”

  “It may have been.” Qaachow gave Matthew a dark look. “And, on the other hand, it might not. A white man in buckskins and with feathers in his hair looks verily like an Indian in the dark.”

  “What is it you’re saying?”

  Qaachow hitched one shoulder. “A band of white wolves killing white men. They sell the children and women into slavery, they steal the horses and the cows, and all is blamed on us.” And not only that, he said, at times they raided Indian villages as well, taking the young women with them and leaving the men dead or dying behind.

  Matthew made a disgusted face. Yes, he could well believe it could happen – he knew it happened, courtesy of men such as the Burleys.

  “Brothers?” he asked.

  “Brothers: three of them. One of them has a badly scarred face. We drove them off some weeks ago.”

  “Ah.” Matthew’s stomach shrank into a throbbing knot. They’d been here – again. More dogs, he decided, more muskets, and…

  Qaachow placed a hand on his shoulder, dark eyes very close to his own. “We chased them all the way back across the great river, into what you call Virginia.”

  Matthew’s shoulders softened with relief.

  Qaachow seemed to consider this particular subject as dealt with, nodding in the direction of where Samuel was playing with his brothers and cousins. “He’s a fine boy, tall and strong.”

  “Aye,” Matthew agreed, not at all liking just how hungrily Qaachow regarded his son.

  Qaachow stood up, and at his short command his men did as well, moving over to stand in a loose group some feet away from the table.

  “I’ll come for him,” Qaachow said to Matthew. “He’ll make a fine Indian.”

  “Not yet,” Matthew said, hating it that there was a pleading note to his voice.

  “No, not yet – but soon.” With that, Qaachow was gone, him and his band of braves evaporating into the surrounding trees.

  *

  “Will I be an Indian then?” Samuel said in a small voice, rubbing his face against Matthew’s chest. They were sitting on the bench under the white oak, finishing off what little remained of the food Alex had served their guests.

  “Nay, you won’t. You’ll live with them for a while and learn their ways, and then you’ll come back to us.” Matthew stroked his boy over the knobbly back, pressing him close.

  “Maybe I don’t want to.”

  “I’ve given my word, lad. And you might find it quite an adventure.” Matthew kissed the dark head and met Alex’s eyes. What had at the time seemed nothing more than a gesture towards a man it behoved him to keep as his friend was now becoming a most uncomfortable commitment. He didn’t want his son to be taken away and grow up among the heathen, but he had seen it in Qaachow’s eyes: it was Samuel that ensured Graham’s Garden wouldn’t be touched by the Indians – or the Burleys – and Qaachow intended to claim his prize.

  He could see it in her movements, in her eyes, how Alex wanted to take him by the hand and lead him away for a talk. He knew exactly what it was she wanted to discuss – Samuel – and also what she needed him to say. Lies, he sighed, she needed lies; worthless reassurances that of course Qaachow would not claim on his promise – reassurances he didn’t know how to give her, not now.

  She waited until they were alone, cleared her throat, and looked at him beseechingly, eyes the colour of cornflowers at dawn. She opened her mouth; he held his breath. Just at that moment, Agnes burst from the house, asking the mistress to hurry because Jenny’s waters had broken.

  *

  “Ian?” Betty shoved the door open. “Ian? Mama Alex says that you must come. Jenny has begun her labour.”

  Ian didn’t reply and went on with what he was doing.

  “Ian?”

  “She can do it without me.” Ian kept his back turned. He had no intention of sitting in the kitchen waiting, while his false wife birthed a child that might or might not be his.

  “Oh,” Betty said, edging closer. “Don’t you want to be there?”

  “No.” He set down a pail of slops for the sow and scratched her behind the ears. The pen was full of half-grown piglets, and Betty bent to fondle soft ears, scratch at bristling backs before straightening up.

  “But maybe…”

  “Didn’t you hear?” he exploded. “I don’t want to be there. I don’t care!”

  “That’s not true,” she replied, coming even closer. “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be this upset.”

  He laughed hollowly and rested back against one of the walls, crossing his arms. “Mayhap I’m upset because she’s cuckolded me.”

  Betty blushed at his matter-of-fact statement, but came to stand beside him. “I’m sorry,” she said clumsily.

  “Sorry?” He turned to face her. “Is that why you tag after me like a wee dog, because you pity me?” He winced inside at the hurt expression that flew up her face. “Well, is it?” he challenged, overwhelmed by a need to know.

  “No,” she breathed, her eyes luminous. “No, I don’t think this is pity.” With that, she stood on her toes and pressed her lips against his. A soft kiss, warm and tentative, promising and daring, her tongue flitting out to run over his lips. For an instant, her tongue met his, and then she wheeled and ran.

  Ian sank into a crouch and groaned. The wee lass loved him, and, God help him, he thought he might love her. A hypocrite, he thought with dark amusement, that was what he was. So quick to condemn Jenny for loving elsewhere, and all the while this russet lass had been worming herself bit by bit into his heart.

  *

  “A perfect girl.” Alex handed the child to Ian. He nodded, settling the weight of the child in his arms.

  “Elizabeth,” Jenny said weakly from the bed. “I want to call her Elizabeth.”

  Ian shook his head. “Nay, this is Margaret.” He handed the girl back to Alex and left the room.

  “He knows, doesn’t he?” Jenny said. “All of you know.”

  “More or less,” Alex said.

  “Stupid girl,” Jenny hissed. “Why didn’t she keep her mouth shut?”

  “Why didn’t you keep your legs shut?” Mrs Parson said.

  “He made me, he forced me – ask Betty.”

  �
�And that is why you didn’t tell?” Mrs Parson’s voice dripped with incredulity. She moved over to study the child. “So, it was just that once, was it?”

  Jenny attempted a feeble nod but averted her eyes.

  “And you can swear on your immortal soul that this wee lass is Ian’s daughter?” Mrs Parson peered down into the little face, ran a honeyed finger inside its mouth to verify the palate was whole.

  “Yes,” Jenny whispered.

  “You lie,” Mrs Parson said, “and your lover admitted it all before he left.”

  “What will happen to me?” Jenny asked Alex in a surprisingly level voice, staring at the door that was still reverberating after Mrs Parson had slammed it shut.

  “I’m not sure. I suppose you must ask Ian that.”

  Jenny held her little girl close, one finger tracing the small rosebud mouth, the finely formed eyebrows, the nose.

  “I truly don’t know. I have no idea who fathered her.” She raised her face to look Alex straight in the eyes. “But at least I know she’s mine.”

  “Not that it will help her much,” Alex sighed, sitting down to a late meal in the kitchen. Matthew set down a plate of fried eggs before her, got her some bread and a large slice of cheese.

  “No,” he said. “What a terrible way to be welcomed into the world: no congratulations, no rejoicing, only this compact, heavy silence.”

  Alex swallowed the last of her eggs and nodded. “Where’s Ian?”

  “Out.” Matthew waved at the blue May night. “With a stone bottle of beer and my flask full of whisky.”

  “Ah. Should we go after him?”

  “Nay.” Matthew placed an arm around his wife and drew her close. “What a long day.”

  Too right. Her head wheeled with Qaachow, Jenny, the new baby and Ian – her beloved son who was hurting so badly and whom she couldn’t help – not at all.

  Chapter 24

  Jacob was very pleased with himself. Helen had appreciated his little gift, and after a couple of agreeable hours spent in her company, he was hurrying in the direction of Whitehall, tugging at his coat as he went.

  Since that first interview with his uncle, he’d been invited back a couple of times, and he was looking forward to an afternoon with a man he found as fascinating now as the first time he saw him. Everything about Uncle Luke breathed success: his clothes, his furnishings, the quality of his horses, his unobtrusive servants… Nothing about Uncle Luke breathed happiness, rather the reverse, and to Jacob this was something of a conundrum.

  “He lacks a woman,” Helen told him when he tried to explain this to her. “I’d wager he still grieves for his wife, his one single love.” She sighed happily at the sheer romance of it all, making Jacob silently wonder if she was feeble in the head. There was no lack of women in his uncle’s life; that much Jacob had quickly understood from the odd comment made by Luke, mainly along the lines that, should Jacob feel the urge, it was best he came to his uncle, who would see him introduced to some of the more reputable establishments in London.

  *

  If Jacob was fascinated by Luke, that was nothing compared to how entranced Luke was by this nephew of his. Cheeky, bright and full of bubbling energy, Jacob reminded him very little of an older brother he snidely remembered as somewhat dull and dreary. He supposed the lad must take after his mother, except that, at times, Jacob tilted his head just like Matthew did, or pinched the bridge of his nose while frowning down at the chessboard in a way that made Luke experience a most unwelcome sensation of loss for a brother he’d expended so much energy in hating.

  Sometimes he’d watch the two lads, his Charles and Jacob, and the similarities between them were such that they could have been brothers, so clearly stemming from the same root. Mostly though, it was Jacob’s sheer boldness that captivated him, from the fact that he had set off to see the world with nothing but a shilling or two in his pouch, to how he had managed to carve himself a place here in London, mainly due to his engaging manner and quick head.

  Some discreet enquiries had brought back the information that Master Castain was much taken with the lad, lauding him for his tenacity and diligence. Strangely enough, that made Luke proud – odd seeing as Jacob wasn’t his. He did some further sleuthing, and discovered that the lad had found a welcoming bed as well, and Luke chuckled, quite convinced dear brother Matthew wouldn’t approve, in particular as the lad was married.

  “It holds,” Jacob said, “marriage by consent, and it was consummated. She’s my wife.” They were strolling up Lombard Street, Luke having business to conduct at the Royal Exchange.

  “You’re too young for that.” Luke laughed. “Far too young to tie yourself to someone for life.” He took a hasty step to the side to avoid being spattered by mud as a cart trundled by, having to grab Jacob by the arm to pull him out of the thoroughfare.

  “Oh, aye? But you were even younger when you bedded Margaret that first time.”

  “That was different. I had known her since we were bairns. And we didn’t wed at the time.”

  “But you wanted to,” Jacob said. “Mama always says how much misery could have been avoided had old Malcolm made you wed her instead of throwing you out.”

  Luke gave him a surprised look. That was mightily generous of Alex, all things considered.

  “She wasn’t rich enough,” Luke said, feeling a wave of ancient, bile-green rage rise through him. But the old fool had paid. He smiled coldly: one well-placed push and Da had gone into the ice-cold water of the overflowing millpond, and Luke had watched as he drowned.

  “So what does she look like, this Betty of yours?” he said to change the subject. He grimaced as he stepped around a stinking pile of ordure, nimbly leapt aside when a sedan chair came rushing by.

  Jacob shrugged. “Brown eyes, brown hair, and freckled, all over like.” He smiled. “She doesn’t like her hair – I think it’s nice, soft and curly, all fuzzy.”

  “Ah.” Luke nodded, thinking the lass sounded rather plain. “And if you come back and she’s wed elsewhere?”

  Jacob came to an abrupt halt, causing a man to barge into him. There were several minutes of raised voices as Jacob went down on his knees to retrieve the man’s spilled wares.

  “Wed elsewhere?” Jacob looked at his muddied breeches. “She can’t – she’s wed to me.”

  “And her father can tear up the contracts as easily as that.” Luke snapped his fingers. “Would you mind?”

  Jacob’s brow furrowed into a concentrated frown. “I would be devastated,” he said, making Luke laugh out loud.

  “Nay, you wouldn’t, Jacob Graham, and you’re an awful liar, you are.” He clapped his nephew on the back. “If you truly loved her as much as you say, you wouldn’t be spending the odd night in Mistress Wythe’s bed, would you?” They had by now reached Cheapside, as always thronged with people, and he took hold of Jacob’s arm and guided him to the right, towards his destination.

  “Oh, so you were celibate, were you? All those years when you were away from Margaret?” Jacob threw back.

  “No, but mostly I paid for it, and rarely I cared. But you care for…Helen, is it not? You buy her trinkets, bring her the odd flower.” Luke smiled at the way Jacob’s face had turned a bright pink. “I’m not judging you. I am but pointing out that maybe it was all a bit too rash.”

  “I‘ve given Betty my word,” Jacob said stonily.

  “Aye, but what if she doesn’t want it?”

  Jacob looked away. He seemed on the verge of replying, but whatever he’d intended to say was drowned in a shriek. Luke frowned when he saw the horse and the man it was dragging behind him. Cheapside was lined with spectators, loud, angry people screaming at the wretch that had no possibility of avoiding the rotting foodstuffs that were thrown at him, fastened as he was to a primitive wooden frame.

  “Another one?” Jacob sounded dismayed and moved closer to Luke.

  “It would seem so.” Yet another papist accused of one more grievous sin after the other, forem
ost amongst them a lurking intent to kill the king – or a magistrate, a reverend, a good honest Anglican merchant. Luke would wager a sizeable purse that the broken man presently being transported to his execution was as innocent as all the other papists that had been killed in recent years, but that mattered not one whit, not when the people were baying for blood.

  “What kind of king condones such?” Jacob said. “Look at him, tortured and beaten until he admitted to whatever was said of him.”

  “Hush, lad!” Luke threw a nervous look at the men closest to them. “And it’s not the king,” he added in a low voice. “His Majesty had yon troublemonger Oates jailed nigh on two years ago on account of his perjury.” Luke moved his nephew along by the simple expedient of placing his hand on Jacob’s back and pushing.

  “The people wanted him freed,” Luke said, once they were out of the press of people. “It’s parliament, not the king, that condones what is being done to the papists.”

  “So why doesn’t the king stop it?”

  “He can’t,” Luke said shortly. From the way Jacob looked at him, Luke could see his nephew found this unbelievable. Luke gave him an irritated look, considering whether to launch himself in defence of his royal master. No use, he concluded: the finer aspects of politics would be lost on someone as young as Jacob.

  *

  Charles and Jacob quickly became close, and Jacob looked forward to Charlie’s frequent visits to his workplace, enjoying having someone to talk to while he created bed after bed of sweet-smelling herbs and plants. Mostly, Charlie would beg Jacob for details about his huge family, listening with particular interest when Jacob talked about Ian.

  “I never knew him,” Charlie said, “and Father has never spoken much of him. But Mam did – until the day she died, she would talk about him, her Ian.”

  “Do you miss her?” Jacob asked, throwing his cousin a look.

  Charlie lobbed a clod of earth in the direction of the water gate. “I do, and so does Father. At times—” Charlie broke off.

  “At times what?”