“Captain Howard.”
“Mistress.” A curt nod, no more. “Your husband?”
“My husband? What do you want with him this early in the day?”
“Want with him?” The captain raised his brows. “Why, Mistress Graham, we wish to question him.”
“Again? Your major was all over him yesterday.”
“Yes, but that was before someone blew up our munitions building.”
“What?” Alex croaked. Stupid, stupid man! “Was anyone hurt?”
The captain gave her a long look. “None too badly, fortunately. But several of the prisoners escaped.”
“Ah.” She shrugged. “I can’t say I’m sorry.”
“No, I didn’t expect you to be. Now; your husband.”
“He’s in bed,” she said. “He’s sick.”
“Ailing?” The captain shook his head. “Now, now, mistress, you’ll not expect us to believe that, will you? He was hale and hearty yesterday.”
“Some diseases strike like a bolt from heaven,” she said.
“And what is ailing him”
Alex frowned, twisting her hands together. “I’m not sure; I think it may be smallpox.”
“Smallpox?” The captain scratched at his bristling cheeks. Now that she’d noticed, this was not at all the normal, suave captain. No, his eyes were bloodshot, his boots unpolished and his clothes dishevelled. Well, maybe his apparel was the least of his concerns.
“I think so,” she said.
“You’ll not mind me looking?” he asked.
Yes, she bloody well would, but she couldn’t very well say that, could she? She swallowed, but managed to shake her head.
“Mind? Of course not. But it’s very contagious.”
“I’ve had the pox,” he shrugged.
Shit.
She trailed him up the stairs and opened the door to allow him entry to their bedchamber. Matthew was fast asleep, his face and the arm thrown over the pillow covered with angry, red spots, here and there small blisters. The captain took a step back.
“And these appeared overnight?”
Alex went over to smooth out a wrinkle on the sheet and adjust the ridiculous nightcap she’d crammed down on his head.
“Well, no,” she said. “He felt ill last night, complained he had a headache and was cold, but these popped up this morning.” Courtesy of yours truly. She shivered, knotting her hands into her apron. He’d lain perfectly still, eyes locked into hers as she tried to raise one blister after the other, mostly with the red hot muzzle of his pistol, now and then with a thimble or the pistol’s little ramrod. While very few of the burns had blistered, the overall effect was pretty impressive anyway, helped along by her scrubbing at them with a towel until the skin broke.
In the bed Matthew moaned. She’d fed him enough poppy syrup to sink a horse, all to make sure he looked really, really sick – which he did, eyes in bruised hollows, those horrible burns, and all of him pale. The captain stood for a moment longer, and with a muttered apology left the room. Alex sat down on the bed and hid her face in her hands.
Chapter 20
Even if Matthew recuperated from his ordeal in a matter of days, the coming week was sombre. So many men to lose their lives, so many families left destitute now that the man of the house was dead.
Once over her initial fright, Alex was angry with Matthew – no; she was royally pissed off at him – for having been so inconsiderate as to risk his life for something that ended up a gesture, no more. Still; what was the point of being mad at a person who was so sunk in gloom, so devastated by what was happening to people he’d grown up with, had known since he was a boy? He needed her, and anyway, she hated being angry with him, it made her itch all over. So on the fourth night after the explosion she crawled into bed, opened her arms and held him to her chest as he told her exactly what had happened and why he’d been driven to do it. All the same, it was something of a relief when Joan and Simon rode in on an unannounced visit, and then of course, there was Ian’s birthday to plan for.
“Here.” Mark looked embarrassed at the delighted look on Ian’s face and scampered back to where his father stood.
“For me?” Ian looked from the puppy to Matthew.
“Aye, for you. You’re old enough now to have a dog.” Matthew smiled at Ian, slipping an arm round Alex.
Ian touched the soft, folded ears, the coarse brindle coat and laughed when the puppy nibbled his fingers, sinking sharp white teeth into his skin.
“It’s a Deerhound,” Mark said. “Da says they grow to be very large.”
Matthew held out his hand in a rough indication making Ian’s eyes widen in delight, while Alex muffled an unenthusiastic groan.
“It’s not allowed in bed,” she said, intercepting sly looks between Jacob, Mark and Ian. “And if things happen you clean it up.”
Ian promised he would, sinking his face into the dog’s neck.
“What will you call it?” Rachel asked, crouching down to pat the puppy.
“Aragorn,” Ian said, making Alex smile.
“When I get mine I’ll call it Arthur,” Rachel said.
“You? You won’t get one.” Mark sounded scornful. “That’s a man’s dog.”
“I will too get one,” Rachel glared, grabbing her father’s hand. “Tell him, Da. Tell him you’ll give me a bonny dog like that when I’m twelve.”
“We’ll see, lassie. You might want something else.”
“No, I want a dog.”
“Hallelujah moment,” Alex muttered in sotto voce to Matthew. “Imagine the house full of teenagers and huge dogs.” He looked confused. “Teenagers: horrible age between thirteen and nineteen, generally characterised by being obnoxious, growing at a worrying rate, discovering sex, booze and rock and roll.”
“Rock and roll, aye?” Matthew murmured back. “It was a long time since you did any singing for me.” He sharpened his eyes. “And there will be no… err… sex until they are wed. Well, not under my roof,” he qualified, which made her grin.
If the dog had been a success, the letter from Mam was the major surprise of Ian’s day. Alex waited until most of the family had disappeared to do their respective tasks before handing it to him.
“It arrived some days ago, but I thought you’d like it on your birthday.”
Ian had never had a letter addressed to him in person before, and he turned the folded paper square over and over. There was a bright red Bishop’s mark on it, and he squinted down at it, trying to read the date. It was a long letter, telling him how much she missed him, and how she hoped he was fully recuperated from the chickenpox. She informed him they were back in residence in their apartments at Whitehall, and that as always there was an endless stream of gossip, even if at present the mood was anything but merry, what with the aftermath of the great fire and the king’s chronic financial constraints. Nor was the Dutch war any closer to a resolution, and Luke was once again to be sent as one of many negotiators to the Netherlands. Being loath to part with wife and son, Margaret was going with him, assuming Ian would be well content to remain at Hillview for the time being – probably for the best, given his recent illness. The letter ended with her assurances that she loved him very much, as did his father. He held it out to Alex.
“Horrible time of the year for a trip across the North Sea,” Aunt Alex said once she’d finished reading it. “Even worse with a baby.” She looked at Ian. “Do you mind?”
“Nay,” he lied. All of him minded. Not once had Father ever considered it necessary to take him, Ian, along on his trips, but the red haired toad was impossible to be away from. He hoped the wean sickened and died, or perhaps he could accidentally be dropped overboard to drown. And then, well then Father would hurry back to him. Ian fisted the letter into a ball and threw it into the hearth.
Alex watched him rush outside with Aragorn in his arms and went to find Joan. The boy was at times so unhappy it hurt to watch, excluding himself from their family by his silences and tendency
to walk alone through the woods. Alex suspected he cried when no one saw, but at twelve Ian was too conscious of his dignity to allow a motherly aunt to cuddle him too often, retiring into a distant approach that was extremely irritating.
Joan listened to all this in silence and sighed.
“It isn’t easy for the lad, is it?” She bit off the black thread and held out Simon’s enlarged coat, eyeing it critically before she handed it to her husband to try on.
“It isn’t exactly easy for any of us.” Alex bent down to offer Lucy a boiled sweet. “She has the most amazing eyes,” Alex smiled, straightening up.
“Aye, she does. Like her mam,” Simon said, shrugging out of his everyday coat. He slid his arms into the sleeves of his black coat. “I’m surprised Luke allowed him to stay here,” Simon continued.
Joan motioned for him to turn – slowly. “Aye,” she said, “that must have cost Margaret a pretty fight.”
“Well he’s better off with us than with strangers,” Alex said.
“Aye.” Joan advanced on her husband, brushed at a lapel and produced a needle, stitching a loose button into place. “But Luke won’t be happy.”
Alex made a concurring sound: Margaret must have played with very high stakes.
“You’ll do,” Joan said to Simon. “Can you move your arms?”
Simon flapped his limbs. “It isn’t the arms; it’s the waist that expands.” He looked down himself and shook his head. “I’m too short.”
“Or too fat,” Alex suggested, dancing away from Simon’s mock punch. “Will both of you be going?” Simon’s Aunt Judith had passed away and Simon was here to oversee both funeral and repartition of assets, having decided he might as well bring his family along for a visit to Hillview.
“Aye,” Joan said, “if you’ll care for Lucy.”
Alex nodded that of course she would
“She’s still too thin,” Alex said to Matthew later. “And she’s looking very pale, don’t you think?” Something of an understatement really; Joan not only was very thin, but she also looked old, skin an unhealthy dull texture, her dark hair streaked with grey. Nor did how she was dressed help – she looked stark in the harsh mourning garb. Joan flushed when she felt their eyes on her, a surprising wave of pink washing across her face.
“Do I look strange? Is there a hairy wart on my chin?”
“Nay,” Matthew said. “But you don’t look well, Joan.”
“It’s nothing,” Joan said. Her long mouth settled into a stubborn line, arms crossed over her chest. Well; if she thought that would stop this little discussion she had another think coming. Alex waited until Matthew left them before continuing with her interrogation.
“What is it?”
Joan looked at her with mild dislike. “I already said; nothing.”
“Yeah; and pigs fly, fishes leap out of the water to land on our plates.”
Joan smiled, ever so slightly. “It’s the pain,” she said. “All the time I am in pain.”
After a long inventory of her herbal sachets, Alex decided that the best she could do for Joan was an infusion of St. John’s wort with lavender, cloves and some valerian. She stood for some time fingering her precious flask of poppy syrup, but returned it to its place. She suspected one could become addicted to it, wasn’t it a bit like heroin?
“You have to eat,” Alex said, serving Joan a second helping.
“I do eat.” Joan pushed the plate away from her. “I’ve always been thin.”
“But not like this.” Alex picked up Joan’s hand, circling the narrow wrist with her thumb and middle finger. “You’re all bones.”
Joan snatched her hand back. “We’re all different. Da was a tall, thin man, and I take after him.”
“You do?” Alex had always assumed Malcolm Graham had looked something like her Matthew.
“He was all long, spindly legs, long thin arms and naught much else. And he had eyes like mine, grey, not hazel green like Matthew and Luke.” She smiled at Matthew, who had lifted Lucy to sit on his arm, with Rachel skipping beside him as they made for the hencoop.
“I was Da’s lass, just like Rachel is Matthew’s .”
“He only has the one girl,” Alex laughed.
“She’s his lass. More his lass than yours.”
Alex followed her husband and daughter out of sight. “Yes, Rachel holds a special place in his heart – and he in hers.”
Ian had initially regarded Lucy with wariness. The baby he recalled as being ugly – although not quite as ugly as Charles – was now a serious toddler with fine, straight hair of a reddish shade far from Father’s deep red. To Ian’s surprise he was singled out by this little girl, her hand slipping into his while her eyes fixed themselves adoringly on him or Aragorn. Occasionally she laughed, a gurgling contagious sound that made Ian laugh as well, but mostly she was a comfortable silent presence, a warm body in his lap to whom he could vent his heart and know she would never, ever tell.
“Do you think she misses it? The hearing?” Ian asked Joan one day.
“Nay, how can she? She’s never heard, has she?” Joan adjusted the woollen cap on her daughter’s head and cross tied the shawl over her small chest before letting her go to run unsteadily with Aragorn. “It must at times be very nice, quiet like. Only your own thoughts.”
Ian considered this for some moments and nodded in agreement.
“Will she ever talk?”
“Nay. But she can make herself understood in other ways and Simon says he’ll start her on her letters as soon as she can handle a quill.” She walked in silence beside him for a while, twisting her head now and then to ensure Lucy was trundling along behind them.
“What’s he like? Your brother?”
Ian stiffened and whistled for Aragorn, crouching down to busy himself with the dog.
“He’s small and fat and has hair just like Father, and Father loves him so much more than he loves me.” He raised his eyes to her. “And so does Mam,” he added in an agonised whisper. “She doesn’t love me anymore.”
“Aye she does,” Joan told him with conviction. “Margaret may have her faults, but she loves you very much. ” She took his hand and pulled him to his feet. “Mothers always love their bairns. Always, you hear?”
She tilted her head in the direction of the ear splitting yell that floated up from the farm behind them, rolling her eyes when Alex loudly swore that the moment she got hold of him, Jacob Graham was going to find himself hanging on to life by a very thin thread.
“We always love you, but we don’t always like you,” she said.
Ian laughed, comforted by her quiet assurance.
“Explain it to me again,” Alex said, sitting down beside Simon. They’d taken their conversation outdoors, walking in a desultory fashion through the woods before reaching the spot where the river ran into the millpond. There was a primitive bench there, and now they were seated with the pond in front of them.
“Even if he wants to, it would be difficult for Luke to renounce the lad. He has, in front of witnesses, sworn that the lad is his. It’s difficult to come back nigh on twelve years later with a change of heart. The lad has rights as well.”
Alex slid her hands under her skirts to adjust her escaping stocking, pulled it tight over her calf and retied her bright red garter. Simon averted his eyes, bending down for a stick that he threw into the middle of the pond.
“Had Luke not done that, Matthew wouldn’t have been able to disown the lad,” Simon went on. “After all, Ian was born in wedlock, and Matthew never denied having carnal knowledge of his wife.”
Eeew; just the idea of Matthew and Margaret physically exploring each other made her sick.
“So in conclusion, Luke’s stuck with Ian, and Ian has rights that are protected by the law,” Alex said, relieved.
“Aye, Ian has rights, but so does Luke. Luke can, should he wish it, buy Ian a commission with the army and send him off to the wars. Or he can decide his son’s education is best forwarded by
dispatching him to the colonies. In short, Luke decides everything in Ian’s life until he reaches his majority, and he can make it most uncomfortable for the lad, should he wish to.”
Alex stared at him. “But… no, Margaret wouldn’t let him.” Hell; she wouldn’t let him! Let Luke try something like that and she’d personally disembowel him. Simon threw another stick after the first, sending it to land with a splash on the flat surface of the pool.
“Ian has some rights, but Margaret has none. She’s Luke’s wife, and he can do as he wishes with her and any bairns she gives him – short of killing her of course.” He patted Alex’ hand. “Luke’s fond of the lad. He’s been a good father for all the years he’s had Ian, and the question of Ian’s actual paternity is as unclear now as before – or perhaps even more, now that Luke has proven himself capable of siring a son.” There was a slight yearning tone in his voice, a restless shift across the bench. “Luke will come for Ian, if nothing else because Margaret wants the lad back and Luke greatly loves her. He always has.”
“His one saving grace,” Alex nodded.
“What if…” Alex broke off. “What if Luke were to say that he’s no longer sure Ian is his, and Matthew decides that he wants to recognise Ian?” But he wouldn’t do that to her, not to her or to Mark – not if Ian was protected by law. He might, a small voice whispered, look at how he studies Ian, how his eyes lighten with pride when Ian walks by. In his heart Ian is his, just as much his son as Mark, Jacob and Daniel.
Simon looked at her thoughtfully. “That would complicate things, and it would require unprecedented legal work. Most complex, quite a challenge.” His eyes gleamed, mouth setting in an expectant line. He shook himself, giving her a quick smile. “But this is nothing but a theoretical discussion, it’ll never happen.”
“No, of course not,” Alex agreed, injecting her voice with as much conviction as she could muster.
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