Serpents in the Garden (The Graham Saga)

by Anna Belfrage

  “You ride on.” Matthew sighed and got off. “He’s gone lame again.”

  “Ride on?” Alex shook her head. “I’m not about to leave you all alone here. We can walk together.”

  “We’re only hours from home; go on with you.” Matthew pointed at Dandelion. “I keep the dog with me; you take the mule.”

  “I’m not sure…” Alex dismounted. “What about Indians? Or the Burleys?”

  “The Burleys?” He managed a little laugh. “Why would they be here?”

  “Stranger things have happened,” she muttered, “and we know for a fact they’re not in Jamestown, don’t we?”

  “I very much doubt they’re anywhere close,” Matthew said, “and, as to the Indians, we haven’t seen any since spring, have we?”

  “Nay, we haven’t.” Ian scanned the forest around them. “I can ride on ahead and you can come walking.”

  “Alex can go with you. Have supper ready for me when I come in.”

  “Hmph,” Alex snorted. “I think I’ll walk instead.” But she threw a hasty look to the west, because she was in a hurry to get home and make sure all her children were alive, not dead like poor little Harry.

  “Go on, lass, I’ll be fine, aye?” Matthew helped her back into the saddle and smacked the horse into a trot.

  Ian and Alex had just forded a shallow stream when Alex drew her horse to a halt. “Are you sure he’ll be alright?” She looked back in the direction they had come.

  “Aye. He has both pistols and musket.”

  Alex chewed her lip. This was a bad idea: to leave Matthew alone. “I’m not sure. Maybe we should go back.”

  “Mama,” Ian groaned, “we’ve covered a mile or so already.”

  “So, we uncover it.”

  “We ride on,” he insisted. “He has the dog – you know how frightening he can be.”

  Alex chuckled. Dandelion was as huge as his sire, dear dead Narcissus, and just as protective of his family.

  “We should have named him Fang or something.” She grinned.

  “Or Yellow Devil,” Ian suggested, nudging his horse on. He made an exasperated sound when Alex refused to budge, sawing at the reins to turn her mount.

  “I’m riding back, but you go ahead, okay?”

  *

  It was the dog. If it hadn’t been for how Dandelion stiffened, Matthew would have become aware of them too late. A deep rumble emanated from Dandelion, hackles sprouting in a yellow crest along his back and shoulders. Matthew whipped up one pistol in one hand, musket in the other, frowning as he scanned the woods.

  There: silent shapes moving like pack wolves through the undergrowth. He recognised them with a flare of fear. When the four men stepped into sight, one of them a huge man Matthew had never seen before, Matthew leaped for cover.

  Dressed like Indians, hair braided the Indian way, the Burley brothers and their unknown companion could easily been mistaken for natives – at a distance. Close up, those light grey eyes gave them away for what they were: white men with souls the colour and consistency of pitch.

  “Well, well, Mr Graham. Imagine running into you like this.” Philip Burley grinned, eyes never leaving Matthew’s guns.

  “Aye, I imagine it’s a right surprise.”

  “Surprise? No, not really – we’ve been following you since some hours back. However, we didn’t expect to find you alone. Fortunate – for us.” Philip’s voice heaved with threat.

  “Alone?” Matthew held back the snarling dog with a clipped command.

  “Four against one,” Philip said.

  “And two of you at least will die – as you should, outlaws that you are.”

  “Ah, yes. Something else we have to thank you for, isn’t it?” Philip took a step towards him.

  “Thank me? You’ve brought the weight of the law down on yourselves without any help from me.”

  “Is that so? That’s not how I hear it. I hear how a certain Mr Graham has presented evidence that paints the three of us as ogres, men without morals or hearts.”

  “I’ve told nothing but the truth,” Matthew said.

  “Absolutely.” Philip inclined his head in a little bow. “And we will prove you right. Prepare to die, Graham, slowly and painfully.”

  Matthew levelled his pistol and fired. With a little ‘eh’, Stephen clapped his hands to his thigh and sank to the ground.

  *

  The shot almost made Alex fall off her horse.

  “Matthew!” Alex thumped her heels into her surprised mount, leaned forward over the mare’s neck, and yelled her on. Ian thundered by, half standing in the stirrups, musket in one hand, and Alex used the free ends of the reins to whip her mare into galloping even faster.

  Another shot rang out, and now there was the distinctive sound of Dandelion’s barking, threaded through with Matthew’s raised voice. Indians, Alex thought. Oh my God, I’m going to find him dead and scalped.

  The woods thinned as she got closer to the sounds. Light filtered through the foliage, leaves rustled in the wind, and the moss squelched under her mare’s hooves. Ian was by now well ahead. Alex gripped her pistol, trying to remember if it was loaded or not, and tried to make her mare fly.

  She wasn’t quite sure what happened next. Ian barged into a small clearing, and three men in Indian garb turned to see him bearing down on them. Holy Matilda, it was them, the Burleys! One of them was down, lying curled together on the moss.

  A shot rang out. Matthew threw himself to the ground, yelling something unintelligible. The dog lunged, a yellow massive shape that threw itself at the man crawling on the ground. Philip – yes, she was sure it was Philip, his dark hair falling in a signatory lock over one eye – raised his musket at Ian. She heard Matthew scream a warning. Ian rode on, his barrel pointing straight at Philip. A shot – no, two shots – rang out. In slow motion, Ian tumbled from his saddle to land on the ground with a sickening crunch. Matthew screamed his son’s name, and Alex rode straight into the men still standing, shrieking like a Viking berserk.

  She was too frightened to think. With her pistol in one hand, she launched herself off the horse, bringing Philip to the ground. Bloody hell, that hurt! Philip shoved at her and she whacked him over the head with the pistol. She was on her feet, and Matthew was screaming, the dog was barking, one of the horses neighed, while Ian lay still and silent on the moss. Her son! She ran towards him.

  Someone grabbed hold of her skirts. Alex almost fell, but succeeded in remaining on her feet. She pulled free, intent on getting to Ian. So still. Was he dead? Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Walter fire. Matthew stumbled backwards, and Walter cheered. Oh God, was he wounded? But, no, she heard Matthew call her name, there was a whooshing sound behind her, and, at the last moment, she flung herself to the side. Philip cursed and came after, lifting his musket as a club.

  She had no time for this; she had to help Ian. Without really knowing how, she’d bunched her skirts, baring her legs. Philip’s brows rose, eyes nailed to her limbs. Keep on gawking, mister! She rose on her toes, swivelled and slammed her leg into Philip’s side, causing him to double up and gasp.

  Stephen – she assumed it was Stephen, not seeing much more than his bleeding backside – screamed and tried to shield his head from Dandelion. Walter kicked at the dog, yelling for Philip to come and help. Matthew discharged his musket, and Walter staggered. The fourth man was already limping away, and Alex aimed her pistol at Philip.

  Two light eyes stared at her. His tongue flickered over his lips, and he took a shuffling step backwards. She came after.

  “Die,” she said and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. Philip sneered and advanced, the steel of his knife glinting in the sun.

  “Philip!” Walter screamed, pressing his hand to his bleeding side. Dandelion was back, worrying at Stephen’s leg like a terrier. Philip cursed and hurried to his brothers’ aid. Matthew fired, Stephen howled, his brothers heaved him up and fled, leaving a thick smear of blood in their wake. Dandelion bounded afte
r, barking wildly. Yes, the dog was right: they should probably set off in pursuit and finish the bastards off once and for all, but all Alex could think of was Ian, his hand immobile and pale against the dark mulch of the ground.

  Matthew rushed towards Ian. His sleeve was dark with blood, and he grunted as he fell to his knees by his son.

  “Are you alright?” Alex knelt beside him.

  “Ian,” he said in reply, “oh Lord, Ian!” He made as if to lift Ian up, injured arm or not.

  “No, wait. He landed badly on his back.” She placed a hand on Ian’s cheek, keeping her eyes from the spreading dark red stain on his shirt. “Ian?”

  Ian’s eyelids fluttered open.

  “Does it hurt?” she asked.

  Ian managed to nod.

  “Well, thank heavens for that,” Alex said, making Matthew glare at her.

  “Thank heavens?”

  “It means he can feel something. If it didn’t hurt, his spine would have been broken.” She didn’t like the way he was lying and to carry him back like this… “Go and get help. We need a door or something to carry him on, and quilts.”

  “Go? I can’t leave you here!” He threw a wild look at their surroundings as if expecting the damned Burleys to reappear at any moment.

  “Matthew! Go! You can ride much faster than I can, and I’ll be alright. They’re wounded and won’t be coming back. And, if they do, I’ll castrate them for damaging my son.” She put a hand on Dandelion’s collar. “He stays with me but for God’s sake, ride and ride now.”

  Matthew stood indecisive for a further few seconds, looked down at his bleeding, very still son, and, with a curt nod, sat up on Ian’s chestnut gelding and spurred it away.

  *

  Ian lay listening to the receding sounds of horse and rider before opening his eyes.

  “Mama…” Ian whispered, trying to blink her into focus. His side was on fire, and he recalled being hit, and then…God! His back!

  “Be quiet,” Mama said. “Can you move your toes?”

  He made a huge effort, near on swooning with the pain.

  She gave him an encouraging nod. “Good. Your fingers?”

  He dragged them across the moss. But his whole back throbbed, and he was convinced there was something hard pushing into his spine. Tentatively, he shifted to his right. Pain flew up his side and banded his chest, making him gulp for air. She stopped him from trying again by placing a hand on his arm.

  “I don’t dare to move you,” she said, stepping out of her petticoats. She rolled them together and fashioned a pillow for him, lifting his head carefully. Then she squatted down to inspect his side.

  Ian lay staring up at the patches of sky visible above the high chestnuts and sycamores. Blue sky, tree crowns silhouetted against it… It was all spinning; slowly but irrevocably, the trees danced around him, and he was aware of a growing nausea. Her hands were soft and competent, so warm against his skin.

  “Will I die?” he asked.

  “Someday,” she replied with a hitch to her voice, “but not today.”

  But mayhap tomorrow, or the day after, unless Mrs Parson was good with gunshot wounds. The ball had lodged itself inside of him; he could feel it when she probed. He gasped, was relieved when she told him it would do for now – at least she had staunched the blood. Instead, she covered him with the blankets that the two horses left behind carried, and then she just sat there and held his hand.

  He shivered, having to grit his teeth to stop them from chattering. “So cold,” he said.

  “Shock,” she muttered, and, to his consternation, she stood and undressed, calling for Dandelion to come and lie close on his uninjured side.

  “What are you doing?” Ian croaked.

  “I have to keep you warm.”

  It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen her naked before – of course he had, if nothing else during all those baths when he was still a lad – but he was very conscious of the fact that he was a man, and she, for all that she was his mama, was a woman. She piled her discarded clothes on top of the blankets and lay down as close as possible. He was horribly cold and she was wonderfully warm, and her breasts were very soft. Soft and round, he reflected drowsily, and it was nice to have her holding him like this. He closed his eyes, safe in the knowledge that she was here.

  *

  By the time Matthew made it back with Mark, Alex was stiff with cold, but at least Ian was moderately warm, his breathing regular if shallow. Inch by careful inch, they slid him to lie flat on the door they had brought with them, and Alex packed him in a mountain of quilts, all the while talking soothingly to him.

  Ian groped for her hand.

  “Will I die, Mama?” he asked again in a trickle of a voice.

  “Someday,” she said through tears, “but not today.”

  Chapter 39

  Jacob sat back on his heels and surveyed the garden. He had done it! Not by himself, of course, but to a very large part the Apothecaries’ Garden was the product of his efforts. He filled his hand with well-turned soil and let it dribble through his fingers. Rich, loamy and dark, the soil brought forth plants of exceptional quality, and in one corner stood Jacob’s own contribution to what, according to Master Castain, was destined to become the foremost herbal garden in the world.

  Jacob wandered over to inspect the squash plants and was joined by Master Castain, who was fascinated by these fast-growing new additions to his collection.

  “So you eat the fruit?” Master Castain said as he always did.

  Jacob nodded. According to Mama, you did.

  “Have you found a berth to Maryland?” Master Castain asked as they strolled towards the small cottage the master used as office and summer abode.

  “Aye. With Captain Miles. Fitting, isn’t it?” He chuckled at the thought. It was Captain Miles’ generous gift two years ago that would pay his way back home.

  “You could stay,” Master Castain said in a light voice.

  Jacob shook his head. “I want to go home.”

  Ever since that terrible evening at Richard Collin’s, the dazzle had gone out of London for Jacob, and several days of bedridden pain hadn’t much helped. He fingered his nose: would they recognise him when they saw him, or had he changed too much? He frowned down at his hands: still fully functional as was most of him, but the clap to his ear had left him with a recurring ringing, and the broken toes had healed badly, so now Jacob walked with a constant twinge.

  Only once since his ordeal had he seen Charlotte. She had come to an abrupt standstill and raised her hand in a tentative wave. Jacob had wheeled and left, his heart hammering against his ribs.

  “Why did she lie?” he had asked his uncle repeatedly during the time he spent in bed. “Why fill me with these terrible stories?”

  Luke had tilted his head. “And if she had told you she was happy and content?”

  Jacob had stared up at the ceiling considering this. “Then I wouldn’t have cared for her,” he finally admitted.

  Luke ruffled his hair. “You needed to be the hero, and you cast her as your Dulcinea.”

  That had rankled. Jacob had never shared Mark’s or Mama’s fascination with Don Quijote, finding the aged bachelor ludicrous and gullible, and here he was, as gullible himself.

  “In one thing, your da and myself have been much alike,” Luke had gone on, “and that’s in our choice of women. Both of us have loved women who have loved us as wholeheartedly back.”

  “Choice?” Jacob had said bitterly. “More a question of being fortunate.”

  Luke had regarded him for a long time. “Aye, you’re right. It wasn’t choice; it was fate.” His face softened, making him look very young. “I knew it, aye? From the moment I first saw Margaret – and I was only six.”

  Jacob found that most incredible, but kept that to himself. He fell asleep while Luke told him of long gone days at Hillview, days spent running through the meadows with Margaret at his side.

  *

  Over the last few week
s, Jacob had spent what time he could with his uncle and cousins, regaling them with one story after the other about his life and family back home.

  “It seems so much more exciting there than here,” Charlie said after Jacob had recounted how narrowly he had escaped being abducted some years back.

  “You could come with me.” Jacob looked his cousin up and down with a teasing smile. “Not like that, mind. Velvet doesn’t do very well in the woods.”

  Luke squashed that idea in the bud, informing both son and nephew that Charles had obligations and duties here, in England.

  “And no,” he added, “neither Marie nor Joan will be going either.” Jacob rolled his eyes at his very bonny girl cousins, making them giggle.

  “She looks much like mother,” Charles had informed Jacob the first time he had met Marie. If so, Jacob concluded with a flash of disloyalty, Margaret was much, much more beautiful than Mama. In response to his open admiration, Charles had led him into Luke’s bedroom, and there Jacob had stared at this unknown aunt, exquisitely captured by Peter Lely himself.

  “We’ll never find a wife to replace her,” Jacob informed Charles in a reverential voice.

  “No,” Charles said, sounding very pleased.

  Jacob remained in front of the portrait for an extended period of time, staring at this entrancing woman, her perfect skin highlighted by ivory silks, the blue in her eyes underlined by the green of her ribbons. All he could see was Mama: in the shape of the face, and the slant of the eyes, in the way those dark eyebrows arched, and in the slight curl of her mouth. It was most disconcerting, and there was no one he could comment it with. Even more disconcerting was the day the letter arrived.

  *

  “A letter for you.” Master Castain handed Jacob the thick square. “Read it later,” he said in an irritated voice when it would seem Jacob was going to tear it open immediately. “We have an illustrious visitor to prepare for.”