Whither Thou Goest (The Graham Saga Book 7) Read online

  “Please, Da,” she sobbed one evening, “I can’t bear it, aye? Just—” Kill it, she was going to say, but she bit back on that, and, anyway, she didn’t necessarily want the babe dead, just gone. She slid covert glances at Mama, and something black and toothy crawled through her guts at the look in Mama’s eyes when she held the detested bairn. How could she smile and coo at him, bastard son of the Burleys that he was?

  At night, she heard her parents argue as she’d never heard them argue before, and with each day, Mama grew more and more pinched around the mouth, blue eyes sunk to lie like dull pools in dark, bruised hollows. Da looked but little better: sun would strike a tired face, etched with grooves that made Sarah realise that he was, in fact, quite old.

  And then finally, after well over a fortnight, Mama gave up.

  “Fine,” she said one morning, “take him away. But promise me you’ll find him a good home.” She looked utterly dejected, her spine curved into a heavy C. “Poor kid, all alone in the world.” From where she stood, just outside the room, Sarah threw the wean eyebolts. He shouldn’t even exist, should he?

  “I’ll do my best,” Da promised. “Mayhap Julian will know of a family willing to take him.” He went over to where Mama was sitting and crouched down to rest his head against her. “Won’t you please come with me? Help me?” Mama’s hand came up to smooth at his hair, rest on his unshaven cheek.

  “Of course I will.”

  It was a cavalcade that set off in the direction of Providence the next day: not only her parents and the wean, but also Thomas Leslie, one of his men and a nanny goat. The babe was crying, a reedy sound that floated back with the breeze and then abruptly stopped.

  Sarah crossed her trembling arms over her chest. It was gone. The uninvited guest that had lived for months inside of her was borne out of her life, and Sarah slumped into Mrs Parson’s capable arms and cried with relief. Afterwards, she straightened up and gave Mrs Parson a wobbly little smile. “Am I terrible for being so glad to see him go?”

  Mrs Parson stroked her cheek and shook her head. “Nay, you’re not, lassie.”

  To celebrate, Sarah went out into the woods. For the first time in nearly a year, she could move unencumbered, free at last. With Viggo the dog at her side, and her brother’s musket in her hand, she walked for hours among the chestnuts and the maples, running hands down the uneven bark of oaks and the papery stems of birches. She clambered up onto a boulder, filled her lungs with crisp, cold air, and yelled out loud.

  “Sarah!” she cried to the trees, to the sky. “I’m Sarah!” And then she lapsed into a wordless howl that reverberated in the air around her.

  *

  “Where are you going?” Ian’s voice was sharp with irritation.

  “Out,” Sarah replied, grabbing for the musket. She was still cross with him for yesterday – he’d been very upset when she returned after her long walk, yelling at her that she was an irresponsible fool to wander off like that without ensuring someone went with her.

  “I told you,” Ian said, towering over her, “you go nowhere without me or Mark.”

  “Why?” she demanded, stamping her foot. “I can take good care of myself.”

  “Because I say so,” Ian barked back, “and you’ll do as I say.” He pointed in the direction of the stables. “Now that the cows have calved, there’s milking to do.”

  Sarah glared at him, at Mrs Parson, and even at the unfortunate cat before flouncing off.

  She leaned her flushed, angry cheek against the prickly warmth of one cow after the other. Agnes sat some stalls away, and the early evening was filled with the sounds of ruminating cows, the soft whooshing of milk hitting the sides of the buckets, and the occasional scrape of a milking stool against the underlying floor. None of them spoke, except for the odd word as they moved from cow to cow.

  From the yard came a faint wail, and all of Sarah stiffened until she recalled that this was Naomi’s babe, not hers. Hers? Most certainly not hers. She adjusted the damp bands around her chest and forced all thoughts of weans out of her head. Instead, she busied herself analysing Ian’s uncharacteristic irascibility. Something was troubling him, and not only him but Mark as well. With a frown, she went back to her milking, staring without seeing at the milk bucket between her feet.

  Chapter 6

  Philip Burley remained for a long time in the fringe of trees bordering his brother-in-law’s busy little place on York River. He brushed at the breeches he’d stolen a few days ago, let his hand slide over the worn wood of the musket he’d had off the trapper he’d knifed back in January, and went back to scanning the yard.

  Too many people, and so he settled down to wait, leaning back against a tree trunk. He had to do so gingerly – just as he had to do most things carefully these days, his body a patchwork of scars and chronic pain after the ordeal the damned savages had put him through. His knuckles stood stark against the skin of his hands, an instinctive reaction to the recollection of all that torture. No man should be capable of surviving what had been done to him – Walter hadn’t, dying in his arms some months back – and then to brave that long, endless march towards the east, interminable days and weeks through wintry forests.

  At times, he had even forgotten who he was and why he was walking so determinedly towards the rising sun, sinking down to stare blankly at nothing for hours, days on end. Those had been the dangerous times, stretches of inertia when his weakened body had begged him to give up, lie down and die under the closest pine. But he hadn’t…oh no, he hadn’t, stumbling to his feet with the name Graham ringing in his head. His mouth stretched into a mirthless smile. No doubt Graham thought him well and truly dead, for how was someone to survive disfigurement and pain such as the one he had been subjected to?

  It was late evening before Philip was convinced only his kin remained on the premises, and with the reins of the nag he’d appropriated a few weeks ago in one hand, he took a step into the open. The setting March sun lingered on a haphazard collection of houses and sheds, and to the furthest right stood the cabin set aside for his use, a well-built little house that not only housed his bed and other pieces of furniture, but also the secret place in which he kept his gold, his coins and other valuables. Assuming, of course, that none of his long-fingered nephews had helped themselves in his absence, but Philip was relatively certain they hadn’t, none of them wishing to risk his ire.

  Halfway across the yard, he was hailed, a warning note in the voice of the speaker. Philip turned towards the stables, took in the familiar outline of his favourite nephew, complete with that bristling head of black hair, so like his own. He doffed his hat, his dark hair tumbled as it always did to fall like a curtain over his right eye, and the young man lowered his musket.

  “Uncle Philip?”

  Philip nodded, attempting to enunciate a greeting. It came out as a guttural sound.

  “What…” Joseph Connor stood before him, eyes narrowing to light blue slits as he took in his uncle’s face. “Jesus and all his saints, what happened to you?”

  Philip shrugged. It would keep. Instead, he indicated the tired horse, his dirty self and ragged clothes.

  Joseph nodded that he understood. “Go on, I’ll bring up water and clothes.”

  “Emma?” It actually came out correctly, and Philip looked towards the main house, hoping to see his eldest sister appear in the doorway.

  “Dead,” Joseph said. “Mother died just before Christmas.”

  *

  Michael Connor was, in both his defunct mother’s and his own opinion, by far the brightest of the Connor lads. So when his uncle, looking like a man risen from the grave, began to speak – well, mostly to write, given his lack of a tongue – of vengeance, he listened but said little, watching with amusement how his older brother fawned on Uncle Philip.

  To Michael, Uncle Philip’s sorry tale was full of holes the size of mine pits, painting this unknown man Matthew Graham as the devil himself, a man who without just cause had persecuted Uncle P
hilip and his brothers over very many years, all of it ending when Graham had handed Philip and Walter over into the keeping of the Indians.

  Michael didn’t much like the detailed descriptions of what the Indians had done to his uncles, and it had to be admitted that Philip had accomplished something of a feat in returning alive from his hellish experiences. He listened with half an ear as Philip laboriously recounted yet again what had been done to him, and how he planned to exact his revenge.

  “We don’t know,” Michael said to his brother next morning.

  “Know? What else do we need to know? Our kinsman, our uncle, has been disfigured, and all at the behest of this Matthew Graham.”

  “But why, Joseph?” Michael gave his piebald stallion one last pat over the rump and backed out of its stall. “What man would do something like that without a reason? If the girl went willingly, then why?” This was the major flaw in his uncle’s story. No matter how often he mulled this over, Michael found it incredible that a young girl – and a pretty, marriageable one at that – should gladly go with his outlawed uncles and, after what Philip termed mild convincing, freely give up her body to them.

  “Who cares about the why? He’ll pay us, Michael, and handsomely at that.”

  “I don’t know,” Michael muttered, throwing a look through the open stable door to where his father was talking to his uncle.

  “A lot of gold, Michael, a sizeable chunk towards that printing press you so dream about.” Joseph gave his brother a brief, one-armed hug. “Mother would have wanted that for you, that you could break away from this, set up on your own.”

  “Umm,” Michael replied, not at all convinced that Mother would have wanted him to achieve his dreams by murdering this unknown Graham.

  “Family,” Joseph said, “our uncle needs us, little brother. And who was it that paid for your years in London?”

  Michael squirmed, threw yet another look at his uncle. Propitiously, Philip chose this exact moment to take off his hat, thereby baring his destroyed countenance to the sun.

  “And it’s only this one man, Matthew Graham, right?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Joseph said. Michael wasn’t quite sure he believed him – but it was a lot of gold.

  *

  “If you ride with him, don’t bother coming back,” Paul Connor told his two youngest sons. “And don’t expect me to intercede for you should you be arrested.” He shook his head at them. “Your uncle is a violent man, as were his brothers, and I myself find it doubtful he didn’t bring all this upon himself, a just retribution for wrongs done.”

  “That’s not what he says,” Joseph said, “and all he wants is revenge.”

  “Hmph!” Paul Connor said. “You’re too old not to know what kind of man he is. A rogue, an unscrupulous man that trades in whatever will further line his pouch, no matter the cost to his victims.”

  “He’ll pay us,” Michael said, “and God knows we both need the money.”

  “Blood money,” Paul said, shaking his head.

  Michael looked away from the disappointed look in his father’s eye.

  “Gold is always gold,” Joseph said, “and it isn’t as if you have any to spare, is it?”

  “That’s how it has to be,” Paul Connor said defensively. “What we earn has to be reinvested in the business.”

  Joseph raised his brows, looked over the ramshackle sheds and the stacked, finished barrels. “That’s how it is because you’re a dismal businessman, and if it hadn’t been for Mother and her brothers, we’d all have starved to death.”

  “Hold your tongue, lad. Be grateful for what we’ve given you.”

  “For what? For this? A little cooperage in the middle of nowhere?” Joseph sneered.

  “Go then! Go and never come back.”

  Michael flushed at his father’s tone. “Now that Mother isn’t here, there’s no reason to return here anyway.”

  “Ingrate! We sent you overseas, we did, we’ve had you educated, and this is how—”

  “You didn’t. Mother did, with money Uncle Philip gave her.”

  “Ill-gotten gains,” Paul spluttered, “gold soiled with the blood of innocents, with—”

  “You don’t know that!” Joseph retorted.

  “Of course, I do, and so do you.” With that, Paul swivelled on his toes and stalked off.

  “He’s right, you know,” Michael told his brother.

  “Maybe.” Joseph shrugged. “But I don’t care. This time, he has a legitimate reason, and that’s all that matters.”

  “Hmm,” Michael said. But he knew he’d ride with them anyway, if nothing else for the promised gold.

  *

  Two days later, Philip Burley sat up on his horse and scanned his new companions. Wolves, the lot of them – his wolves, and at their head rode his nephews. Philip Burley made a sound that nowadays passed for a chuckle, and with his hand motioned for them to fall in line behind him. He settled his broad-brimmed hat on his head, and his ravaged face was hidden in its shadow. The horses raised a cloud of dust behind them as he set a steady pace due north. It was a long ride from the warmth of the Virginia coastlands to the north of Maryland, and he itched with suppressed expectations. This time, he would kill them all, every single Graham male, and Matthew he would save for last.

  Chapter 7

  Alex looked doubtfully at her brother-in-law. “You?” she said, unable to keep the incredulity out of her voice.

  “Why not?” Simon Melville challenged, smiling at the baby he was clutching to his chest. Matthew and Alex shared a look. This they had never considered an option, and when Julian had suggested that maybe Simon would make a good father to the boy, both of them had just stared at him. Simon let his eyes flit from one to the other and tightened his hold on poor Jerome who let out a displeased squawk.

  “Sorry,” Simon cooed, and hefted the boy against his shoulder instead.

  “But…” Alex cleared her throat. “You’re too old!”

  “Too old? I’m not too old!” Simon stood to show off his physique. “Not yet sixty, and as healthy as a frolicking bull calf in spring.”

  “Hmm,” Alex replied, not at all impressed. Simon had always been round, but since Joan’s death some years ago, his girth had expanded worryingly, giving him an unflattering similarity to a spinning top. Simon followed her glance and made a futile effort to pull in his stomach.

  “Most of it is brawn,” he tried, and Alex burst out laughing. Simon gave her a hurt look, and turned his attention instead to Matthew. “I would make him a good father, you know I would. The lad would be well raised and schooled.”

  Undoubtedly, Alex smiled, seeing as Simon himself was an educated man, a lawyer no less.

  “But why?” Matthew asked. “A wean is a lot of effort.”

  Simon looked away, a shadow crossing his face. “I have nothing. My dearest Joan, my daughter, both gone from me, and my wee grandchildren…well, it isn’t the same, is it?” He sighed and kissed the dark head of the child he was still holding. “I’ll love him for who he is, not blame him for who his father was.”

  “You know nothing of taking care of children,” Alex protested, more out of rote than anything.

  Simon beamed at her. “Esther has promised to help.”

  Esther Hancock confirmed that this was the case, and even her husband, William, assured them that the baby would be welcome in their home.

  “What’s his name?” Esther asked, folding back the shawl to get a proper look at the baby. Wide open eyes met hers.

  “Err…” Alex shifted from foot to foot.

  “Carlos named him Jerome,” Matthew broke in, “but I can’t say I much like the name.”

  “Carlos?” Simon gave him a curious look. “The wee priest?”

  Esther was frowning down at the wooden cross around the baby’s neck. “Is he baptised a papist?” she asked, her voice heavy with censure.

  “He gave him a name and a cross to keep him safe,” Alex said. “I’m not sure that co
unts as being baptised into anything.”

  “It sounds like a baptism to me.” William eyed the baby as if he expected him to sprout horns at any moment.

  Alex stifled a sigh. She liked Betty’s parents, and for the most part, William was a reasonable man, open to rational argument – except when it came to his faith. His wife was just the same: devout well beyond what Alex considered normal, with hours spent each day on her knees with her nose in the Bible.

  At times, Alex suspected William considered her flighty, eyes wandering over her, all the way from her head to her toes, before flitting over to his own wife, always most modestly dressed. At other times, like now, she suspected the man had the hots for her, his gaze locking down on her breasts. It made her smile, rather pleased that she could still entice a man into gawking, so she straightened her back ever so slightly and leaned towards him – by chance, like.

  “We’ll have him baptised into the kirk, and I’ll name him Duncan, after my Da.” Simon clapped himself on the knees and straightened up. “Are we in agreement then?”

  “I’m not sure how Sarah will react.” Alex adjusted the baby’s coif.

  “She won’t need to see him,” Simon said. “It isn’t as if we run into each other often, is it?” And so the matter was concluded, and Simon Melville became a father again, proudly carrying the basket up to the room he rented from the Hancocks. In celebration, a toast to Duncan was drunk in good Scots whisky.

  *

  “You flaunt yourself,” Matthew said with some asperity when Alex and he made their way back through the gathering March dusk to Julian’s house and the little attic room there.

  “I do what?” Alex dragged back against his hand.

  “He drools, William, and you sit back and raise your breasts even higher in his direction.”

  “I do no such thing!” Alex was very affronted. Was it her fault that William gawked at her? Besides, the man was about as exciting as a doornail.

  “Aye, you do, and I don’t like it. Not one bit do I like it.” He yanked her close and surprised her by kissing her, hard. “He devours you with his eyes,” Matthew went on when he let her go, “and you preen.”