*
“So, are you settling in?” Alex asked Joan after having made appropriately impressed sounds as she was guided round the new Melville residence. The small house was surprisingly light, with two small glass-paned windows to the front, and light filtering in from the open kitchen door that gave onto a small yard where a couple of hens were clucking.
“Well enough, even if it’s quite a small place.”
“A small place,” Alex echoed with a laugh. “Shame on you, to disparage our thriving town.”
“Not much bigger than Cumnock.”
“Oh yes, it is, if you include the docks.”
“Ah,” Joan said. “I don’t go there much.”
“No, I don’t think you should, nor should Simon.”
“He does as it pleases him,” Joan said in a cool tone. “As I hear it, Mrs Malone’s attracts its fair share of the male citizenry.”
“And Lucy?” Alex asked to get off this uncomfortable subject.
Joan’s eyes drifted over to her daughter, who was sitting in the small backyard. “Men look at her; all the time they look at her. And she, God help her, she looks back.”
“She has to. It isn’t as if she can eavesdrop or something, is it?”
Joan shook her head. “You know what I mean. Some lasses just have that…that…knowingness about them. No, the sooner she’s wed the better – in particular given her deafness.”
“But not at fifteen!”
“Nay, of course not, but once she’s betrothed, it will be easier.” Joan fiddled with her cup and smiled down at the table. “There’s a lad much taken with her, a right bonny lad of good family.”
“Oh,” Alex muttered, not that interested. She glanced at Lucy, who was sitting on the small bench under the single tree, her head bent over some mending.
“Henry Jones,” Joan continued. “Have you perhaps heard of him?”
“Henry Jones?” Alex strangled a surprised guffaw. “Kate Jones’ eldest?”
Joan leaned forward eagerly. “Aye, that’s him. Rich as I hear it – very rich.”
“Let’s just say I have no fond recollections of his father, Dominic Jones.”
Joan looked nonplussed and Alex sighed.
“Jones was the overseer who so mistreated Matthew, all those years ago in Virginia.” Alex nodded at the shocked look that flew up Joan’s face.
“Hmm.” Joan gnawed at her lip. “The lad seems polite enough. And you can’t hold him responsible for the ill deeds of his father.”
“No, that would be unfair, however biblically correct.”
Joan flashed her an irritated look but didn’t say anything, shifting the conversation to other matters.
*
“I’m not sure.” Betty studied Simon Melville cautiously.
“You’re not sure that you want to remain married, or you’re not sure that you want to end the marriage?”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
Simon tilted his head to one side, and Betty had to quell an urge to laugh. Mama Alex was right: he did look like a large bird.
“Aye, probably, but it’s a question of progression. First, you begin to consider whether you wish to remain married; then you move on to thinking about ending it.” He picked up a leather-bound tome from his cluttered desk and used it as a clumsy fan. “Hot, no?”
“It’s even worse come August.”
“Worse?” Simon looked down at himself. “I’m melting away in this heat!”
“Not a bad thing perhaps,” Betty said before she could help herself.
He raised his brows. “You’ve been talking to my wife,” he said, wagging a finger at her. He leaned forward on his elbows. “Why?” he asked, throwing her entirely. He rolled his eyes at her. “Why do you want to end the marriage?”
“I…” Betty hesitated, uncomfortable under his penetrating eyes. “I’m not sure my marriage is valid,” she ended lamely.
“Aye, it is, as long as you want it to be. You know that, Betty Hancock.” He smiled broadly at her. “And so does your father, which is why you come to me to voice these belated concerns of yours, because should he hear them, he’d insist you come back to live with him while he makes arrangements for a new, rather hasty marriage.”
Betty gave him a pleading look. “I don’t want that.”
“Nay, of course you don’t, because you already know the man you want to marry.” He grinned and winked.
“Yes, but I’m not sure he wants to wed me…”
“No, not at the moment,” Simon agreed. “He’s but recently divorced.”
Betty’s face, her neck, went uncomfortably warm. How could he possibly know that?
He tapped his nose. “In my business, lassie, it comes in handy to read faces. And it’s not as if there’s an interminable supply of young men up in the woods, is it?”
“Oh.” She didn’t know what to say.
“You don’t need to worry. I won’t be telling.” He sat back. “I’ll draw up agreements for you to end your marriage, but you must tell Jacob yourself.”
“I’ve already written a letter, and I’ll include an annulment if you prepare it for me and ask that he send his reply to you.” The letter had been burning a hole in her petticoat pocket for well over two months, but until the receipt of Jacob’s latest letter, there’d been no address to which to send it.
“And to Ian you will say that you’ve decided to end this farce of a marriage, but that you’re holding back on telling anyone on account of your father,” Simon said.
“Yes,” she said, “if he should ask, that is…”
“I dare say he will. Men are most flattered by lasses that fall in love with them, and you’re quite a comely lass, wee Betty.”
“Oh.” Once again, she had no notion what to say, so she curtsied and fled the room.
*
For all that this was a trip Alex would have preferred not to have made, she enjoyed the brief visit to Providence – even if the summer heat made it all rather sweltering. As an additional plus, there’d been a letter from Jacob waiting, and she’d spent a couple of happy hours penning him a reply.
On one of her walks through the settlement, she bumped into Mr Farrell, who complained loudly about the heat, the disappointing development of the price on tobacco, and the ever-increasing taxes. Alex hemmed and hawed, listening with pretend interest. There was really only one thing she wanted to discuss with Mr Farrell, and when he at last fell silent, she drew in a deep breath and asked about Leon.
“Leon?” Mr Farrell’s face was an absolute blank.
“Noah,” Alex corrected herself. “You know, the slave that tried to run away.”
“Tried to run away? He had run away, but was caught.” Mr Farrell gave her a stern look. “You should not concern yourself with such. Slaves are wild and dangerous creatures.”
“He’s a man, Mr Farrell – and last I saw him, he looked close to death.”
“He did?” Mr Farrell hitched his shoulders. “He was in a bad way for some weeks, but by now he is fully recovered, and docile as a lamb.” He grinned. “I’ll have no more trouble from him, Mrs Graham. Noah knows his place now, and I’ll get many years of hard work out of him yet.” He leaned towards Alex. “I’ve told him, you see, that next time he does something foolish, I’ll have him sold down to the West Indies. Tobacco is a harsh crop, Mrs Graham, but sugar cane is much, much worse.” With that, he was off, bidding Alex a good day as he hurried towards the meetinghouse.
Alex felt sick to the stomach, but had no idea what to do. When she discussed this with Ian, he sighed and told her there was nothing they could do. As he heard it, Noah was living out his life down in the south of the colony, on one of Mr Farrell’s plantations.
“Besides, Da wouldn’t want you to meddle,” Ian said. “Last time you did, it cost the poor man hours of suffering.”
Alex squirmed, but had to concede he was right. Her misdirected efforts had, if anything, made Leon’s life even more of a living hell tha
n it already was.
“Still,” she said.
“Aye, poor bastard. But maybe he’s reconciled himself to his new life.”
“You think? Would you, if it were you who’d been unjustly enslaved?”
“Not at first, but with time…” Ian sighed. “He’s been flogged a number of times. There comes a point where it is either give up and adapt or die, and most of us prefer to live – however reduced our lives.” He patted her hand. “Hopefully, he will forget. Forget who he was, what he could have been. That will make it easier for him, I think.”
Alex spent the rest of the morning moping, but after an afternoon spent safely out of the sun with Joan, she was in a much better mood, and it was with relish she set off for the short walk to the inn, accompanied by Ian and Simon, who was regaling her with one story after the other from his practice in Edinburgh. Mostly, he recounted amusing anecdotes, making them laugh, but she kept on hearing it: the sad tones of homesickness and yearning. She was on the verge of asking him what had really happened to make him come this far, when from the further side of the square came a babble of angry voices.
Seconds later, a lone man burst into view, running as fast as he could to get away from the mob on his heels. He was barefoot and half-dressed, his long shirt covering him down to his knees. Long, dark hair streamed behind him, and in his right hand he carried a musket.
“That’s the Indian!” Alex said, eyes riveted to the signature coat the man was wearing, the heavy braids bouncing up and down as he ran.
“You know him?” Simon said.
“We’ve seen him before,” Ian said, “and we have no cause to like him.”
“You can say that again.” Alex frowned. If their Indian companion was here, did that mean the Burleys were here as well?
By now, the pursuing men had disappeared up the street the Indian had taken, and in their wake came a number of people headed by Mrs Malone, who looked quite ferocious in hunting green and a musket. The long, red hair had escaped whatever restraints had been in place to begin with, and Alex was rather taken aback by the expanse of cleavage the madam was exposing to the world.
“Castrate him!” the madam yelled. “That’s what men like him deserve!” She halted and pressed a hand to her side.
“A stitch?” Alex asked.
“Aaah, I haven’t moved this fast in years.” Mrs Malone dabbed at her sweaty face with her sleeve and scowled in the direction the Indian had gone. “Miscreants, you and your scar-faced companion. But, this time, you’ll not get away with it, you hear?”
Between breaths, she told them of how the Indian and his companion had mistreated one of her girls, leaving her half-dead and without hair. “That Stephen Burley is a sick bastard,” she said, spitting to the side. “Took a knife to her, he did.”
“Stephen Burley?” Alex inched that much closer to Ian.
“In the flesh. That face is difficult to disguise.”
“Oh, and his brothers?”
Mrs Malone hitched a shoulder, causing the neckline of her dress to slide down her arm. “I haven’t seen them. He came with the Indian.”
“They’re not welcome here,” Mr Farrell put in, giving Alex a brief nod. “Brigands, the lot of them. Whenever they’re in town, slaves disappear from the pens, so I make them thieves as well. Hang them, I say, hang them as high as we can!”
“Hear, hear,” said the butcher.
The butcher’s wife appeared from a nearby house and handed Mrs Malone a shawl. “Will she be alright?” she asked.
“My lass?” Mrs Malone’s mouth shaped itself into an elongated spout. “I hope so. Hair grows back, and the gashes will heal eventually.”
Loud whoops carried from the direction of the palisade.
“Caught him,” Mr Farrell said.
“And Stephen?” Alex asked.
“They’re looking for him down by the docks.” Mr Farrell waved a hand in the general direction of the port. “Unless he can fly, we’ll get him as well.”
The Indian was dragged back to the square, and a rope was produced, while loud voices chanted that the man should hang, and hang now. Alex backed away. She had no intention of witnessing this, and seeing as both Ian and Simon had joined the loud group of men, she decided to walk the last two hundred yards or so to the inn on her own. The evening was still light, the street looked empty, and when the Indian screamed, twice, Alex hurried off.
*
It took her only a few minutes to regret setting out alone. At every shadow, at every sound, she jumped. Idiot, she chided herself, you’re overreacting. Stephen Burley is miles from here – anyone with any sense of self-preservation would be. She vacillated for a couple of seconds, considering whether to return to the square or continue. A series of catcalls and jeers interspersed with the screams of someone in pain made up her mind, and she continued towards the inn. The last part of her walk was through a narrow alley, bordered by buildings of assorted heights. She squinted into its dusky interior. Nothing. At the other end, she could make out the entrance to the inn. Alex picked up her skirts and ran.
Halfway across, she stumbled, slipped in something soft and fell. She landed heavily, her palms stinging from the grit and gravel.
“Shit.” Alex got to her knees. There was a thud, a hand closed on her arm and pulled her upright.
“Mrs Graham.” Philip Burley bowed, courteous as ever. But his fingers were sinking into her arm, and he was standing far too close, pinning her against the wall.
“Mr Burley. I heard you were in Virginia.”
“I was – last week. But now, as you see, I’m here.” He looked her up and down, shifted that much closer. “You humiliated me last time we met,” he said in an even voice.
“Tough, that’s what you get when you become obsessive pains in the butt. It’s you harassing us, not the other way around. It’s you that threaten and intimidate. It’s you that—”
“I loved my brother,” Philip interrupted, “and your husband killed him!”
“How you gripe! Isn’t it time you got over it? He was killed fair and square – no, wait, he was killed despite you being four against one.” She yanked at her arm. Quite useless. If anything, he tightened his hold. “Let me go!”
“Why should I?” His eyes swam very close to hers; his breath tickled her cheek. “You taunt me, woman. Every time we meet, you rile me.” He squashed her against the wall and trailed a finger down her neck. A shiver ran through her, even more so when his finger continued along her neckline.
“Don’t…” she spluttered.
Philip laughed. “Or else?” He continued with his groping, Alex slapped at him, heaving in an effort to dislodge him. “I should reconsider,” he murmured, his lips at her ear. “Why kill Matthew Graham? Why not steal his wife instead? More enjoyable for me, more devastating for him.” He chuckled, the sound converted to a low yelp when Alex bit him in the shoulder. “Slut!”
“Get off!” She raked him over the face.
He gripped her by the shoulders and slammed her into the wall. It left her dazed, and he pressed his advantage, one strong leg forced between her thighs, his hips pressing against her. Two icy eyes bored into her. “You’re coming with me, and, come morning, you’ll be much more biddable.”
“In your dreams!” Alex filled her lungs and screamed. Philip tried to cover her mouth. Alex bit his finger. He cursed. Alex screamed again.
“Mama?” Ian’s voice rang down the alley.
“Here,” she yelled, “I’m h—” Philip slapped her into shocked silence.
Ian charged, pistol in one hand, Simon hollering like an aggravated bull at his heels.
Philip pulled Alex to stand in front of him. “She goes with me. Alive if you leave, dead if you don’t.”
Ian came to an abrupt halt. Philip relaxed the throttling grip on her throat. Alex stomped down on his foot, grabbed hold of his forearm with both hands, took a step to the side to achieve some momentum, and crashed her hip into him, bending forward to send hi
m flying over her head. He landed with a thud and lay still.
“We got him!” Alex said, looking down at Philip.
“I think not.” The disembodied voice floated down from one of the sheds. Walter aimed his musket at Ian. “Don’t move,” he warned. “Nor you,” he added, nodding at Simon. “Not unless you want to scrape off young Graham’s brain from the planking behind him.”
Ian trained his pistol on Philip, and from the way his arm was twitching, he was sorely tempted to pull the trigger, no matter Walter’s threat.
“No,” Alex whispered.
“Best not,” Walter agreed. “Help him,” he said over his shoulder, and Stephen jumped down, landing a yard from Alex. He stank, of rotten vegetables and fish, of mud and shit. He must have hidden in the offal heaps behind the docks, and during his headlong flight he’d hurt himself, because he was limping, favouring his left foot as he moved.
“Philip?” Stephen shook his brother. There was a muted groan in response, and slowly Philip Burley heaved himself up on his knees, one arm dangling uselessly by his side.
“My arm,” he said.
“Nope, your shoulder,” Alex said. Too bad he hadn’t landed on his head and broken his neck. This looked like a dislocation, no more.
“You—” Philip broke off to gasp.
“Not now!” Walter said. “We must be off, brother.”
“Ian! Do something! We can’t let them get away!” Alex made as if to grab Philip, but at Stephen’s snarl, she fell back.
“If he as much as twitches, I’ll shoot him.” Walter watched his brothers out of sight, and dropped down to land like a graceful cat in front of Alex.
“The debt increases every time we meet,” he said, walking backwards away from them. His musket was still trained on Ian. “We will collect, Mrs Graham – we always do.”
*
“Wherever they are, they’re not here,” Mr Farrell said much later. “We’ve searched the whole town, the port, and even the closest plantations, but they’ve gone up in smoke.”
“Great.” Alex hugged herself. The earlier euphoria at having given Philip a lesson had evaporated, leaving behind a debilitating and overwhelming fear.
Serpents in the Garden (The Graham Saga) Page 23
