Matthew opened the book to read the flyleaf. “The Pilgrim’s Progress,” Matthew read out loud.
“Oh!” Alex leaned over the table. “I had this when I was a child!” Not in this version, obviously: a heavy book in grey covers with several colour plates – in particular, she remembered the picture of Atheist, almost toppling over with mirth as he derided Christian.
“You did?” Thomas laughed. “I think not, Alex. Not unless you are much, much younger than you look. This book is not yet three years old.”
For a moment, Alex was tempted to tell him the whole story, from when Christian sets out from his house, pointed in the direction of the wicket gate by the Evangelist, and how he strays from his path due to all the characters he meets. Mr Worldly Wiseman, Help and Hopeful with whom he crossed the River of Death…
“Alex?”
“Hmm?” She returned with a mental thud to find Matthew regarding her. She stretched out her hands to caress the dark red leather. “It must have been the cover that triggered a memory. More beer, anyone?”
*
“It’s just…” Alex shook her head, slipping her hand into Matthew’s. “I suddenly realised how often I had read it, and I have no idea where I got it from. Definitely not the kind of book Magnus or Mercedes would have given me.” They were sauntering towards the river for some time on their own.
“As I hear it, Master Bunyan is an impressive preacher. Mayhap he spun a tale you liked.”
She nodded, her eyes lost in the blue of the summer sky. “He dies. He leaves his family, driven by this great need to deliver himself from sin, to find God, and he does, and he’s so happy, but all I could think of was his wife and his boys, left all alone without him.”
Matthew’s lips curved into an exceedingly sweet smile. “I don’t plan on leaving you.” He raised their braided hands and kissed them.
“Never?” she quavered.
“Not until I die, and not even then, I think.”
“I don’t want you to die,” she said through a constricted throat.
“Aye…it’s easier to contemplate the thought of dying than that of being left behind.”
Alex couldn’t reply; she just nodded.
“Ah, lass, come here, aye?” He gathered her close and she buried her nose into his shirt and inhaled, drawing in the warm, reassuring scent of her man. He kissed the top of her head; she clung to him. Matthew nuzzled her neck. “I’m still here,” he said, his exhalations tickling her. “And there’s plenty of life in me still.” A big, warm hand slid down her back, his other hand followed suit, and she was being held impossibly close, all of her squashed against him.
A couple of heartbeats later, she was on the ground. He was shoving her skirts out of the way, and she was tugging at his breeches. A wordless, intense coupling, a reconfirmation that he was virile and here with her, would be for many, many more years. Alex lost herself in the here and now, relishing his strength, his weight, the sound of his heavy breathing, how he groaned her name when he came.
Afterwards, she held him, tightening her hold when he made as if to roll off.
“No,” she said, “not yet. I need…”
Matthew subsided and, for the coming minutes, she stroked his back, his arms, his head. When he snorted her in the neck, she giggled. He did it again, and she laughed, laughing even more when he tickled her.
“Better?” he said as he helped her to her feet. Alex smiled and nodded – but it wasn’t, not really, because now that he asked, the suffocating realisation that one day he might die and leave her all alone was back.
*
Alex was sitting in the graveyard, shredding a white rose to pieces, when Ian came to find her.
“Mama?”
“Mmm?” She laughed when he held up a bruised thumb.
“Will you blow on it?”
She blew and he sat down beside her. “Can you bend it?” she asked, nodding when he bent his thumb up and down. “You’ll live.”
“What is it?” He studied her narrowly.
“I don’t know.” She gave him an embarrassed smile and went back to her rose shredding. “I guess I’m just having one of those days when mortality hangs heavy.”
She kept on seeing herself standing to the side while they buried Matthew, and just the thought had fear clawing at the inside of her chest. To wake alone, go to sleep alone, live out day after day alone… Alone amidst all their children, every single one of them a painful reminder of him. So she had come to sit here, beside Magnus, and she wasn’t sure that had helped at all, because all she could hear was her father’s sarcastic laughter whenever the concept of afterlife was discussed.
Ian heard her out, not saying anything, but his arm was a comforting weight around her shoulders, and it was so much easier to talk to him of how afraid it made her to imagine a world without Matthew than it was to speak to Matthew of it. She refused to mention the Burley brothers, but their threatening presence hung heavy all the same, and Ian tightened his hold on her shoulders, a brief, one-armed hug.
It grew dark around them, a fragrant summer night laced with honeysuckle and the blooming mock oranges that stood like sentinels around the graveyard. Before them, the ground fell away in a gentle slope towards the main house, and, further away, the river was a band of light grey, bordered by the darkness of the woods. Alex reclined against Ian, and for some time they sat in silence.
“She’s with child,” Ian said, and she could hear the joy fizzing through him.
“That was quick.”
“You knew?” He sounded unsurprised, more resigned.
“Let’s just say that Betty has been coming in very late – or should I say early?”
“Does Da know?”
That came out much more apprehensive, Alex noted.
“He isn’t blind. The two of you have been going around as bright as fireflies the last four or five weeks.”
“Ah.” Ian fiddled with his belt. “Is he upset?”
Alex snorted. Matthew had won his bet, hadn’t he?
“Bet?” Ian sounded confused.
Alex patted his hand. “It makes us both very glad. However, it’s not exactly going to make William Hancock a happy bunny, is it?”
*
Alex found all this haste somewhat excessive, but Matthew and Ian were adamant: the wedding must take place before Betty began to show – for her sake. So, off they went to Providence, armed to their teeth and with Dandelion at their heels. Once in Providence, Matthew shooed Ian and Betty off to talk to Minister Walker, before taking Alex by the arm and setting off in search of William.
“No.” William set his mouth in an implacable line and shook his head. “Absolutely not.” He half turned towards Esther for support but she kept her eyes on Harry, her shoulders rigid with reproof. “I have other suitors for Betty, some of them most advantageous.”
“For her or for you?” Alex heard Matthew sigh, and she didn’t need to look at him to know he was looking at her with mingled pride and exasperation.
“For her, of course,” William retorted, his cheeks going a purplish pink.
“But she wants to marry Ian,” Alex said.
“And before that she wanted to marry Jacob!” he flared.
“Actually,” Alex said, “you wanted her to marry Jacob. They just brought things forward a bit.”
By now, Matthew had managed to get his hand in through the side slit in her skirt and pinched her, hard. Alex muffled a yelp and Esther’s eyes flew to meet hers with concern.
“I’m afraid matters have proceeded beyond the point where they can be stopped by a parental no.” Matthew got to his feet, uncoiled himself to his full height, and went over to stand close to William, overtopping the lawyer by several inches. “The lass is carrying my grandchild, and I won’t have it born a bastard or, even worse, raised by a man no blood kin to it.”
“Slut!” William hissed.
“She loves him,” Matthew said, “and she knew you wouldn’t consent unless you had t
o.”
“I can still say no,” Hancock threatened.
“Aye, you can. But it’ll be a wee bit difficult to explain that to the ministers. In particular now that Betty and Ian have admitted their sin and expressed their wish to do the only right thing: wed.” Matthew placed a tentative hand on William’s shoulder. “It’s not a bad start to a marriage, to know you love each other.”
“No,” William grudgingly admitted. “I suppose it isn’t.” His eyes drifted over to Esther, a shadow of a smile playing over his lips.
*
Betty Hancock spent the last night as a formally unwed woman in the room she had for so many years shared with two of her older sisters. The room was hot and uncomfortable, reminding her of that night almost two years ago when she and Jacob… Betty backed away from the memories of a heavy fair fringe, eyes framed by thick lashes and a long mouth.
She opened the small window and stared up at the clouded sky. Hot and rain, not the best of combinations, and especially not tonight, when what she wanted was a star-studded sky and a crescent moon to gaze at. Jacob had written a very nice letter, and Ian had twisted like a hooked worm at Jacob’s stiltedly worded blessing. Scamp, she smiled, she had no doubts he’d taken great pains to come up with the exact wording, making sure his big brother felt properly indebted to him – for life.
“God bless you, Jacob,” she whispered to the June night.
*
Next afternoon, sweat beaded Betty’s upper lip, her chest, her lower back. Her thighs were slippery with it, and a quick look at Ian showed he was sweating as much as she was. She half laughed, converting it to a discreet cough. How could she possibly be this nervous? He tightened his grip on her hand, and from the way his fingers trembled, she knew he was as affected as she was. She was barely aware of the people around them, of Minister Walker in front of them. All she concentrated on was his strong comforting hand that was holding on so hard to hers. And then it was over, and she was Betty Graham – for real.
The wedding was celebrated in her father’s house. Five elder sisters and their spouses, an assortment of nephews and nieces, as well as a number of family friends had the little house bursting at the seams. Mother had made miracles when it came to the food, and there was ham and salted dried lamb, there were baked fowl and, in pride of place, a dish heaped with jellied fish.
A few hours later, Betty retreated to a corner. The room was still full of people and, over by the door, Father and Matthew were standing to the side, talking intently. Mother was laughing at something Minister Walker was saying, and Kate Jones floated by, gravitating towards the men. Simon Melville was dancing, and Betty couldn’t stop herself from giggling as this oh so round man capered about the room, as elegant as a doe in flight. Betty adjusted her borrowed skirts, fingers lingering on the light green silk.
“You look beautiful,” Mother said, making Betty smile.
“So do you.”
Mother shrugged, saying that weddings required an effort. Betty nodded, taking in the silver buckles that adorned Father’s shoes, Mother’s dark blue bodice, and Ian’s new breeches. Everyone was in their best – well, with the exception of Alex, who was standing to the side in her everyday clothes, her shawl wrapped round her shoulders. Betty frowned. Alex looked sad – and hurt. Betty was on the point of going over to talk to her when Ian pulled her into a dance, and when next Betty looked, Alex was no longer there.
“Now?” Betty looked at her husband. Husband; she tasted the word and suppressed a grin.
“Now.” Ian said something to his father, who gave an imperceptible nod, and then he took Betty by the hand and escaped out of the house, rushing her through the empty, sun-baked streets of Providence.
“Oh, Ian…” Betty could barely speak. The room was decorated with fragrant herbs and meadow flowers, from the door all the way to the bed. He undressed her, garment by garment, and all the time he hummed, a sound of deep joy that made her skin pucker and her knees – well, they seemed to have permanently given up.
Chapter 37
“Alex! It’s hot enough as it is without you plastering yourself to me.” Matthew rolled over onto his back to glower at her.
“I’m not. It’s just an uncommonly narrow bed, okay?” As if to underline her words, she shoved at him, her eyes a frosty blue.
“And my back hurts,” he complained, “and my head aches something fearful.”
“Poor you,” Alex said witheringly. “That’s what you get when you over-imbibe.”
“It was a wedding feast, and the ale was very good.”
“Mrs Malone’s, I suppose? After all, you would know, right?”
“Aye.” Matthew stretched. Ah Jesus, his back! “Will you…?” He placed a hand on his aching muscles.
“No way! But, hey, why don’t you ask Kate – or Mrs Malone.” With that, she was out of bed, pulling on her clothes.
He sighed. She hadn’t forgiven him for yesterday, even if she had tried to not let it show too much at the wedding itself. The pretty bodice she had preened in lay thrown in a corner, and he wasn’t quite sure how to go about this. He had other concerns, far more urgent than his wife’s trampled vanity, but Matthew hadn’t liked how hurt she had looked, or how she had stood in the corner of the Hancock parlour, her far too warm shawl crossed tightly over her plain, everyday wear.
“Did you enjoy yourself, then?” he asked, which, from the look she gave him, was not the best of openings.
“No,” she replied coldly. “I felt the poor cousin from the country.”
Matthew squirmed. He had lost his temper when she’d called him a straight-laced idiot, and had retaliated by telling her no wife of his would go about dressed like a whore. Alex’s eyes had gone very round, an expression of absolute hurt flitting over her face, before she turned her back on him to change. All afternoon and most of the evening, she’d stood to the side, her normally so vivacious self submerged into a grey mouse – because of his excessive prudery as she’d put it, before telling him the only reason she was going was because of Ian. And even worse, somewhere halfway through, she’d just left, not even bothering to tell him – nor had he noticed, not at first.
“You looked very pretty – you always do,” he said, trying out a smile.
Alex raised her brows. “Don’t lie, okay? I looked by far the oldest and drabbest woman in that room. I hope that was the effect you wanted to achieve. It sure helped boost my self-esteem.” She finished dressing in icy silence, braided her hair as harshly as she had done yesterday, picked up her straw hat, and left the room without a backward glance.
Matthew groaned and sank back against the pillows. She had been so proud of that new bodice, but all he could see were her breasts rising far too prominently above it, and he didn’t want anyone – anyone, you hear? – to see her like that except himself.
He exhaled and got out of bed, making for the small window. He drummed his fingers against the windowsill, and reverted to the dark concerns with which he had woken.
According to William, Walter Burley had been released a few weeks ago. From what William had heard, the brothers had left Jamestown, to a large extent due to the irate kin of the poor lass. The question, of course, was whether they’d come back here or not. Not, William had insisted, reminding Matthew that they’d been outlawed by the elders.
Matthew wasn’t quite as convinced. He nibbled at a torn nail and frowned at nothing in particular. How unfortunate it hadn’t been Philip’s throat he slit all those years ago, he reflected. Somehow, he suspected it was the eldest brother that carried the largest grudge against him.
*
Alex shook loose her hair the moment she left the inn, produced one of her hairpins, and swept it up into its more normal soft bun before replacing her hat. She’d behaved like a truculent child yesterday, protesting at his prudery by making sure all of her looked its worst. Even Simon had commented, wondering if she was practising for the part of a future widow.
She set her teeth at that. Old
– there were days when all of her felt old, and when she put on that beautiful red bodice yesterday, she had seen herself in the mirror and she had actually smiled because she was quite pretty, her breasts still round and relatively high, and her skin a becoming pink – thanks to rigorous use of her homemade body scrub and oils. When she’d turned to show Matthew, he had walked his eyes up and down her body in frank admiration before telling her she was going nowhere like that – not his wife, to display herself like that before the elders of his kirk. Stupid man! All the other wives had been on display, all other women had shown some expanse of chest skin, albeit not as daring as Kate Jones in that gorgeous olive gown of hers. And Matthew, goddamn him, had looked and gawked, but her, his wife, he gave no opportunity to compete. Plaster herself to him indeed… Arsehole!
Her black mood abated somewhat during her quick walk to Joan’s home. She’d been wrong in her previous comment to Matthew: the drabbest woman in the room yesterday had been Joan, not so much due to her clothing, which if sedate had not been entirely prim, but because of how gaunt and grey she looked.
Alex bit at her lip. She’d caught the flying glances between Joan and Simon, and so much was clear to her that something had them worried. Lucy? Alex thought not. The girl looked as sleek and well-fed as a cat in cream, and it was probably all to the best that she and Henry were to be wed within the year.
Joan led her out to sit in the small backyard, and Lucy brought out tea with the help of Ruth, who was staying in Providence with her cousin for some weeks. Initial caution had transformed into a wary acceptance, and the two girls soon had their heads bent over the chessboard.
“She’s very quick,” Joan said to Alex, indicating Ruth. “Less than three days, and she has already picked up quite a lot of Lucy’s hand signs.”
“Mmm.” Alex regarded her sister-in-law levelly. So far, they had discussed the wedding, little Harry Hancock’s declining health, Kate Jones’ somewhat daring gown, the weather, and the state of Joan’s leek and cabbage bed. “What is it?”
Joan arranged her features in an expression of mild surprise.
Serpents in the Garden (The Graham Saga) Page 33
