Margaret returned her inspection, eyes travelling down Alex’ body and back up again. The morning light struck Margaret in the face and Alex felt a flash of satisfaction when she saw that the skin was dry and flaky, with a discernible web of shallow wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. The grooves on either side of her mouth would with time give Margaret the depressed expression of a disgruntled pike.
“I’m glad that I have the opportunity to talk to you,” Margaret said, stepping out of the ray of sun.
“I’m afraid the feeling isn’t mutual,” Alex bent down to retrieve some of the spilled leaves.
“Nay, I know that.” Margaret was wearing an embroidered shawl over skirts in deep green, and from below the hem peeked what must be boots in red Moroccan leather. Alex eyed them enviously; her footwear was nowhere near as elegant.
“I don’t like leaving Ian here, but I have no choice. You understand, no?” She looked at Alex with beseeching eyes and Alex gave her a curt nod. Margaret had no other family, Luke definitely didn’t, and so, by default, they were the only kin Ian had – them and Joan.
“What will Luke think?” Alex asked, feeling an uncharitable spurt of glee at the discomfiture on Margaret’s face.
“He won’t like it, but I can’t risk taking him back, not yet.”
“You could stay a bit longer and then go. Last we heard, the number of deaths was sinking rapidly.”
“You don’t understand, I must go. Luke is ill.”
Alex straightened up, further irritated with Matthew for not giving her the full picture.
“With the plague?”
“Nay of course not! Then he’d be dead by now.”
Too bad; the world would be a much fairer place without Luke Graham in it.
Margaret’s lip lifted. “You needn’t worry. He won’t die, I hope, but thank you for your concern.”
“In that case, why not take Ian with you? If there’s no risk…”
“I didn’t say that, did I? Luke has the smallpox.” Margaret slipped her arms tight around herself and closed her eyes briefly. “It seems the worst has passed – the physician no longer fears for his life – but he’s weak, and possibly contagious. I can’t very well leave him to lie alone, can I? So…”
Alex considered this in silence. Luke was in Oxford now that the king had retired out of London to avoid the plague, and Alex suspected that very little TLC would be wasted on a sick man who could infect the court with something as disfiguring and as potentially lethal as smallpox. She almost felt sorry for him, ‘almost’ being the key word.
“What have you told Ian?”
Margaret looked confused. “That his father is ill and he must remain here until we send for him.”
“Not about that. About Matthew.”
“Oh.” Margaret studied the bright red fringe of her shawl intently for some minutes. “He’s ours. Ian is mine and Luke’s – not Matthew’s.” She caught Alex’ eye and her mouth curved into an infinitesimal smile. “You like it that way, don’t you?”
Alex most certainly did. Matthew had other children, her children, to look out for.
“But he must have asked… after what Matthew said.”
“Aye, he did; for months and months he did, and Luke would sit him down and tell him how he was his son, Luke’s lad, and that wasn’t it Luke that had the rearing of him? Matthew had thrown him out, disowned him, so how could Ian possibly think Matthew was his father?”
Once the boy began shaving it would be enough just to see himself in the mirror to think that, Alex reflected.
“Oh, so you painted Matthew as the unfeeling ogre. Did you perhaps include some context as well?”
Margaret obviously didn’t understand the word context, but she got the overall meaning and her face washed bright red.
“Nay we didn’t, and for now it’s best he doesn’t know – it won’t help him, will it?”
Alex totally agreed. What boy of eleven needed to know his mother had been a two-timing bitch, married to one brother while screwing the other?
“Matthew and I are in agreement on this.”
“Oh, you are?” Alex said, cursing Matthew to hell. “And is this something you’ve been discussing a lot?”
“Quite often lately, aye? Just Matthew and me.” It came out in a purr, Margaret’s mouth settling into a pouty smile. It made Alex seethe; damn man!
As Alex turned to leave, Margaret crouched and picked up a rowan frond, extending it to Alex.
“Here; you like bitty leaves.” She hung back, brows pulled together in a frown. “Matthew is playing with fire; aiding the evicted ministers will sooner or later lead to him being hanged or deported.”
Alex didn’t know what to say.
Margaret put a hand on her sleeve. “Luke knows; he has ears and eyes everywhere and if he can, he’ll use it to bring Matthew down.” She sighed and looked away. “He will neither forgive nor forget.”
“Nor will Matthew.” Alex tried to sound calm, but she could feel her lower lip begin to wobble and bit down hard.
“Nay, but it’s Luke that has the ear of the king, and Matthew is a fool if he lets that slip his mind. There is only so much I can do, aye? When it comes to his brother Luke is difficult to reason with. So you must make Matthew see sense – if you can. Stubborn all of them, the Graham men.” Halfway to the cottage Margaret turned once more. “Will you care for my son?”
Alex nodded, shook her apron free of leaves she no longer wanted and turned back home.
Matthew was irked by Alex’ behaviour; run off to the woods like an irresponsible lassie, and not come back in time for the Bible reading. He saw his own irritation mirrored exponentially in her face when he stepped out to block her way as she reappeared from among the trees.
“Where have you been?”
“Walking.” She attempted to sidestep him, but was snared by his arm.
“I’m talking to you.”
“I’m not talking to you,” she retorted, pulling herself free. “But hey, I have a suggestion, go up and have a cosy little chat with Margaret. You know, you can sit there together and reminiscence about how wonderful life was when you were newlyweds. Especially for her – after all she had variation in her bed. One day you, the other Luke.”
He nearly slapped her. His hand was already flying towards her when he brought himself under control. Instead he shoved her in the direction of the house and stalked off towards the stable.
He should have told her, he knew that, but Alex was oversensitive to the issue of Margaret and so he’d chosen not to. Several times over the last few weeks he had walked with Margaret, talking for hours with her, hours when they had found their way back to some element of respect and basic liking. They had even been able to talk about Luke and his obsessive hatred of Matthew, with Margaret admitting that here, if in nothing else, Luke was somewhat warped.
One afternoon he’d worked up the nerve to ask the one question he had so often wondered about.
“Did you… did you ever love me?”
Margaret had met his eyes and shaken her head. “Not like I love Luke. And that was wrong of me, but I was but a child and you were kind and bonny to look at, and I thought Luke would never come back to me, so…” She had shrugged and smiled at him. “But you’re loved now, aren’t you?”
At the moment he wasn’t so certain, he thought blackly, stamping up the ladder to the hayloft. At the moment he wasn’t all that sure that he loved Alex either and he sank the pitchfork into the hay, working off the dangerous edge of his anger. Another gift from his beloved brother, this rage that he sometimes could barely contain. It bubbled out of him like black tar, smearing itself over his life, a residue of experienced fears and helpless anger during the long hellish months in Virginia, months when he was at times certain he would die without ever seeing either wife or son again.
“I’m sorry.” Alex’ head popped up, hovering above the hayloft floor. She pulled herself up and came over to where he was working. “I can’t hel
p it, just the thought of you spending any time with her makes me sick.”
He threw the pitchfork to clatter against the floor and turned to face her.
“Why? Have I ever let you think she matters to me?”
“Well, yes – quite often actually. And she does, doesn’t she?” She butted him in his chest with her head. “Of course she matters to you. And rationally I don’t feel threatened, but emotionally I do. And before you tell me what a wee daftie I’m being, I know, okay?”
“You are a wee daftie,” he said tenderly, placing his arms around her. “And I’m a big one for not telling you – and for not asking you about the lad beforehand. I know you find it difficult with Ian, but surely we can offer him a home for some weeks?”
“The nursery will be a bit crowded and I hope he doesn’t mind that Jacob farts in his sleep.”
“All lads fart in their sleep,” Matthew laughed, “And by the way, so do you.”
“Huh,” Alex said, “look who’s talking.”
Much later, the house properly locked down and the bairns fast asleep, Matthew undressed and slid into their bed. He yawned and snuggled down beside Alex, thinking that this new concoction of hers had a most pleasing fragrance – roses and mints with a whiff of raspberries.
“Matthew?” She rolled over to face him.
“Mmm?”
“You’re not doing anything stupid, are you?”
“How stupid?” In the weak light all he could see were the whites of her eyes.
“You know.”
“Alex,” Matthew sighed, “you can’t expect me not to help.”
“It might be dangerous – for you, for us.”
“They need me.” If it hadn’t been for him and his fighting skills two preachers would have been dangling in a noose by now, but he decided not to share that with Alex, suspecting she’d be worried rather than impressed if he told her of last week’s little adventure.
“But still…”
“I help them over the moss, I feed them, harbour them for a night or two. And I will continue doing it – it’s the least I can do.”
“And if someone finds them here?”
“They won’t.”
“But if they do, then what?” she insisted.
“Then…” Matthew propped himself up on an elbow and looked down at her. “They won’t.”
“That bad, huh?” she said, her hands closing on the linen of his shirt.
“Alex…” He brushed his nose a couple of times against hers. “I’m careful, very careful.”
“Luke knows,” she said.
“He does?” Matthew tried to sound unconcerned.
“That’s what Margaret said.”
“There’s nothing he can do to harm me – he’s in Oxford.”
“He might tip them off,” Alex said. “Who knows what contacts Luke has in the army?”
“Unless someone finds Sandy or one of the other preachers here, on my land, what can they prove? Nothing.”
“Hmm.” Alex sounded anything but convinced. “I don’t like it.”
“I know you don’t.” He flopped down to lie on his back, eyes on the wall.
“And?” Alex prompted.
“And that doesn’t change a thing, I’ll continue helping my ministers as much as I can.”
Alex rolled over to face the other way.
“Alex,” he tried.
She didn’t reply, stiff as a board under his touch.
Chapter 4
Margaret rode away at dawn next morning and a silent Ian moved in, following Alex when she guided him through the house, showed him the bed where he would be sleeping with Mark and Jacob, and helped him unpack his few bits and pieces.
For the first few days Ian shrank back into the darker corners, speaking only when spoken to. His eyes followed them, seemingly sizing them all up, and at times Matthew would turn only to see Ian avert his face.
“It’s disconcerting,” Alex said. “He sort of flits around, like a wraith or something.”
“Aye,” Matthew said, his eyes drifting to the gangly lad who was sitting very much on his own out in the yard.
Despite her initial reluctance, Matthew had to admit Alex did everything she could to welcome Ian into their home. Not that it helped much; the lad escaped from them whenever he could, spending most of his days in the woods.
“It doesn’t help to talk to him, he never joins us in the evening when I tell them stories and it breaks my heart to see him this alone.” Alex sighed and frowned down at her knitting. “Why in the world did Margaret leave him here, with a family he barely knows?”
“She has no one else,” Joan said. “You know that.”
“Whatever; anyhow, after last night he probably thinks I’m the devil himself,” Alex continued, making Matthew smile.
“Aye, even if cleanliness is not something generally associated with the underworld.” He chuckled. “It was right fun to watch.” Alex had chased after a half-naked Ian, threatening him with one dire punishment after the other unless he came back and let her finish washing him.
Alex gave him a faint smile. “What do we do with him?” she said. “How do we help him fit in and become one of us?”
“Give him time,” Matthew said, “it will sort itself.”
Sometimes Matthew wondered if Ian had been regularly whipped, and it was only a week or so later that he understood that the reason for Ian’s shrinking existence was himself.
“Nay, that isn’t true!” Mark’s voice came from above Matthew, from the hayloft. “You must take it back, you mustn’t say things like that about my da.” Matthew smiled at his son’s angry voice.
“Aye,” Rachel piped up, “not about our da.”
“But it’s true. You’re both too small to remember, but I was nine.” Ian’s voice froze Matthew on his way to the ladder.
“Da doesn’t fight,” Mark said. “He says it’s wrong.”
“He did then. He almost killed my father and he sliced off Father’s nose years ago.”
“No he didn’t!” Mark sounded on the verge of tears.
There was a muted yelp and from the scuffing above his head Matthew knew his son had hit his cousin. There was a loud slap, a surprised intake of breath. Matthew stuck his head through the opening. Mark was rubbing at his cheek, and Ian looked so ashamed Matthew felt sorry for him.
“You hit him?” he asked, heaving himself onto the loft.
Ian nodded.
“Why?”
“He hit me,” Ian said.
Matthew raised one brow, he raised two brows and looked from Ian to Mark and back again.
“Mark, did you?” Matthew stopped Rachel as she moved towards her cousin with a look on her face that indicated she intended at the very least to bite him.
Mark nodded.
“And why would you do something like that?”
Mark just shook his head.
“Son, I asked you a question.”
Mark squirmed but continued to shake his head, eyeing his cousin from under his hair.
“You know I don’t hold with fighting,” Matthew said. “And even less with not having my questions answered.”
Mark hunched together at the tone, but remained silent.
“So why did he hit you?” Matthew swung so suddenly in the direction of Ian that the lad overbalanced, sitting down in the hay.
“I don’t know,” Ian muttered. “He just did.”
“Ah,” Matthew looked him over. “Do you often hit bairns half your size?”
No, his nephew slash son told him, no he didn’t.
“But now you did. You walloped your wee cousin and you have no idea why he hit you in the first place.”
Ian scrambled to his feet but restricted himself to a slight nod; if Mark wasn’t talking, nor was Ian.
“Well then, it seems you must both be punished.”
Rachel opened her mouth, but Matthew put a firm finger on her lips.
“Nay, Rachel. You say nothing.”
Rachel glowered at her cousin, going over to stand by her brother, her small hand sneaking into his.
“Both of you; go inside and undress, and then you’ll say your prayers and go to bed. No supper.” With an internal sigh he watched them troop off, all three of them, in the direction of the house.
In a gesture of solidarity with her brother, Rachel had also abstained from supper, and after a quiet meal Alex took Jacob upstairs. Given the way her apron pockets bulged she was intending to feed the lads – and Rachel – but Matthew chose to pretend he didn’t notice. Instead he accompanied Joan into the parlour, giving her a brief version of the events in the hayloft.
“What can I say?” Matthew made a helpless gesture. “I can’t refute that I sliced off Luke’s nose, and I can’t explain why without telling him the full sorry tale, can I?”
Joan patted his hand. “No you can’t – not yet. But one day he’ll start thinking for himself and then he’ll come to you with questions.”
“And I won’t be able to reply,” Matthew said. “I’ve promised Alex that I’ll never tell him that he’s my son. I…” he broke off as Alex entered the room, carrying a tray with three steaming mugs.
“You what?” Alex said, setting the tray down on the table and finding herself a stool.
“I was just wondering if Joan will burst apart before the wean shows.” Matthew smiled at his sister.
“Huh,” Joan straightened her back with an audible pop. “It’s already well over a week late. Now it best stay inside until Simon returns.” She patted herself. “You hear? You stay there, aye? One more week.”
“You best do as your mother says,” Matthew said, placing his hand on the bulge. “You don’t want her mad at you from the start.”
The Prodigal Son Page 4
