Serpents in the Garden (The Graham Saga) Read online

  “…and Mama will send Agnes or Naomi up for the milk on a regular basis,” Ian went on, oblivious to her agitation. He stood up, grabbed another piece of bread, and told her to hurry; he would be waiting for her by the horses.

  Jenny took several deep breaths to calm her thundering heart, and leaned her head against the smooth timber of the wall. Despite her best intentions, Patrick was still very much a part of her life. A quick look, that smile that made the right corner of his mouth turn upwards, and she’d come running, all of her burning for his touch. Tumbles in the hay, hurried meetings in the forest, his cock inside of her as she leaned over the kitchen table, eyes glued to the yard outside in case Ian should suddenly appear from the stables. Jenny swallowed and clenched her hands. Patrick had to go. Somehow, she had to find the fortitude to wipe him out of her life. She straightened up, grabbed her woollen cloak, and hastened outside to her husband.

  It was very restful to sit in front of Ian on the horse. But when he slipped his hand in under her cloak and splayed his fingers across her midriff, part of her wanted to shy away, because God, what had she done? It might not be his child, and how would he ever forgive her? And then the other, saner part kicked in, and she pressed herself against his touch. No one would ever know, she assured herself, and at least in colouring Patrick and Ian were not dissimilar, except for the eyes.

  Jenny was lulled half to sleep by the time they stopped for a quick break, and it was only as she returned from a visit behind a thicket that she noticed Daniel was looking apprehensive. She paused on her way to find the food and patted him on the cheek.

  “It’ll be alright. I’m sure you’ll love Boston.”

  Daniel made a non-committal sound.

  “And you’ll like Harriet,” Jenny went on, smiling at the thought of her energetic cousin.

  “I hope she’ll like me,” Daniel said in a small voice.

  “Of course she will.” Jenny handed him a huge slice of cake.

  *

  Matthew was still trying to work out what it was that Alex had held back from him. His instincts – and the way Alex had blushed – were telling him it had something to do with Daniel. He was considering how to raise the issue with his son when Ian sat down beside him with a stone bottle of beer in his hand.

  “She’s breeding,” he said in an exultant tone. “But she doesn’t want me to tell you yet.” He handed Matthew the bottle.

  “Then why did you?” Matthew smiled.

  Ian shrugged and took a huge bite out of his cold egg. “I just had to,” he said through his food. “It makes it more real, like. A spring babe, and I’m hoping for a lad.” For an instant, his face softened with yearning, and then he thrust the rest of the egg into his mouth and stood up to go and find something more to eat.

  “So who will you miss the most, then?” Matthew asked Daniel once they were back on their horses. Daniel gave him a look that indicated just how stupid a question that was.

  “Ruth,” he replied, tugging a bit too hard at the leading rein of the mule.

  “Not your wee brothers?” Matthew teased.

  “You mean the scamps who filled my shoes with thistles as a going away gift?” Daniel laughed. “No, not them. Maybe Adam; he’s a sweet laddie.”

  Matthew nodded, smiling fondly at the thought of his youngest lad.

  “Sarah?”

  Daniel gave him a black look. “Sarah is a right tease, she is. And I don’t like it when she says I’ll grow up dull and boring on account of becoming a minister.”

  “She wouldn’t mind being a minister herself.”

  Daniel turned very surprised eyes in his direction. “Sarah? But she can’t! She’s a lass.”

  “She knows that, but she’s a good Bible reader that lass is, and she has a bright head on her shoulders, and a tongue that can charm the squirrels down the trees…”

  “…and scare them back up again,” Daniel muttered, sounding irritated by this description of his youngest sister.

  “Aye, that too.” Matthew laughed. He peeked at his son. “And Angus, will you miss him?”

  The reaction was so immediate Matthew knew he’d hit home, and over the coming minutes he wheedled the whole story out of Daniel, silently cursing Alex for not having told him before.

  “He kissed you?” he asked in a disgusted tone.

  Daniel nodded unhappily. “And he—”

  “What?” Matthew sank his eyes into Daniel’s.

  “He put his hand on my cock and rubbed at it, like,” Daniel said, blood surging through his downy cheeks. “And my cock…”

  “Merciful Christ!” Had he had Alex in front of him, Matthew would have been sorely tempted to belt her for not telling him. And as for Angus… He wanted to wheel Moses round and set off back home immediately, because he had other sons – small, vulnerable lads that wouldn’t understand until it was too late. What was the woman thinking of, leaving a man like that close to their lads?

  When they’d made camp for the night, Matthew found the opportunity to tell Ian what Daniel had told him.

  “Angus?” Ian sounded incredulous. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly, Da.” He scratched Narcissus behind his ear, making the large dog sigh with pleasure.

  “You think?” Matthew stirred forcefully at the fire. “Is it not to hurt someone to make unwelcome advances? And he’s a man – he must have urges to quench like all men do.”

  “But not like that. And as you tell it, Daniel himself says how he was weeping with it.”

  Matthew remained unconvinced. In his head, he saw Angus one summer day by the river with David, and his stomach heaved when the previously so innocent little scene acquired connotations he hadn’t seen at the time. Both had been naked, swimming in the water, and at one point Angus had taken David on his lap, held him close, and an instant later thrown the laddie squealing through the air. And he hadn’t thought more of it, but had strolled down to the water’s edge and watched them play.

  “Sleep,” he said to Ian. “I’ll sit here a while, aye? I’ll wake you some hours from now.”

  Ian nodded and moved over to where Jenny was already sleeping, draped in quilts and blankets.

  Matthew sat and stared into the fire, his hands tight around a piece of wood. He increased the pressure until the branch splintered in his hold. Very rarely did he feel the urge to hurt someone, but right now he did: Angus, for being a sodomite; Alex, for not telling him.

  *

  Matthew hugged his son one last time and shoved him gently in the direction of the gangway. “Go. Make me proud, lad.”

  Once Daniel was safely aboard the sloop, Matthew smiled, receiving a wavering smile in return. The lad hadn’t said much for the last half-hour or so, and Matthew suspected it was due to not wanting to weep – not here, in front of all the people that were always present in the port.

  The sloop was unmoored, it glided off, and Matthew strolled along the waterfront, waving at his son for as long as he could see him. He turned away with a small sigh. It was difficult letting the bairns go, he thought morosely, before squaring his shoulders and setting off to visit William Hancock.

  The shove sent him sprawling. It was only by sheer luck that he didn’t bash his head into the adjacent tree.

  “How unfortunate,” a voice said from behind him. “Here, Mr Graham, allow me to help you back up.” Strong hands closed on Matthew’s arms, closed with far more force than necessary, and Matthew was lifted back on his feet.

  “Take your hands off me,” Matthew snarled, wresting himself free from Philip Burley’s hold.

  “Really, Mr Graham! And here I was but offering you assistance.” Philip Burley took a step back from Matthew’s unsheathed dirk, hands held open and empty in front of him.

  “You pushed me to begin with.” Matthew wiped at his mouth. Three pairs of disturbingly similar light eyes stared at him, eyes that regarded him with the intent interest of wolves circling an injured prey.

  “We did? And how do you know? Eyes in the back of your h
ead?” Walter Burley smirked and, beside him, Stephen Burley laughed.

  “What do you want?” Matthew straightened out of his defensive crouch. At well over six feet, he was taller than any of the brothers, a slight advantage he needed to flaunt. Besides, there were too many people about for the Burleys to try anything, he noted with relief, nodding at an acquaintance.

  “Want? Why, Mr Graham, we’re just passing the time of the day – with a man we will never ever forget, will we?” Philip said, and his brothers laughed again.

  “Not likely.” Stephen’s voice sounded strange, a wheezing reedy sound, until Matthew recalled he’d taken an arrow through his throat.

  “You see, Mr Graham, we don’t take kindly to people killing our brother and scarring us for life.” Philip nodded at Stephen. A badly healed sword-cut bisected Stephen’s destroyed face, giving the impression the nose was on the verge of falling off.

  “That’s what you get. Four against one, trying to murder me, so what did you expect? That I not fight back?” Matthew forced himself not to wipe his damp hand against his breeches, nor avoid those ice-cold eyes.

  Philip took a step forward. “Next time, we won’t just try. We’ll tear the heart out of your living body and send it to your wife – as a keepsake.” It sounded like a certainty, and Matthew’s right knee buckled, causing the leg to fold before he got it back under control.

  Philip snickered softly and stood out of Matthew’s way. Beside him, Stephen Burley fingered his puckering scar and looked at Matthew with open dislike.

  Matthew hawked, spat, and, with a huge effort, turned his back on all three. He walked away as fast as he could without appearing craven. As he left the port behind, the narrow streets grew increasingly empty. Matthew could hear his pulse thudding through his head, an irritating whooshing that made it difficult to concentrate on whatever sounds he heard behind him. Footsteps echoed on the cobbles to his left. Matthew wheeled, hand on his dirk. Ian came to a halt, skidding on the wet stones.

  “Are you alright?” he asked.

  “Aye,” Matthew said, but was very relieved to see his tall, strong son. He was still weak at the knees; there was sweat congealing on his back, and he stopped, inhaling repeatedly in an effort to bring his thumping pulse back under control. They frightened the daylights out of him, those three brothers with their inhumanly pale eyes. One on one, they didn’t worry him – he was quite confident he could defend himself against any of them – but together there was something of a pack of rabid dogs to them, an insane light in their eyes that had his whole body going into flight mode.

  “I saw the Burley brothers,” Ian said, “and I felt it best to ensure you were hale. Vermin!”

  Matthew nodded. Definitely vermin, but dangerous vermin. “I don’t think they plan on staying, they’re not welcome here.” The Burleys had collected quite a number of enemies among the worthies of Providence, in particular after Stephen Burley had knifed Minister Walker’s nephew a year or so ago.

  “Nay, I dare say not. I’ll drop by Mr Farrell; have him set the constables on them,” Ian said.

  “Aye, do that.” Matthew resolutely shoved any further thoughts about the Burleys to the back of his head, adjusted his hat, and smiled wryly. “Don’t wait up for me. I fear the discussion with William will take a long time.”

  *

  Esther Hancock let him in and, with a tentative smile, ushered him in the direction of William’s study. He noted with interest how her hand came down to rest on her belly, had his suspicions confirmed when she blushed at his questioning glance.

  “Are you well?” He liked Esther, and to his eye she looked peaked, dark smudges under her eyes. She just smiled and opened the door for him.

  The interview with William did not go well, at least not at first, but once Esther interrupted their loud quarrel by inviting them to supper, they settled down to attempting to find a solution rather than apportioning blame.

  “How is Betty?” Esther asked once supper had been cleared away.

  “Well enough. She’s an easy lass to like.”

  Esther nodded, and, for an instant, her face fell apart into an expression of utter misery before she collected herself. The mother was pining for her daughter – far more than the daughter was pining for the mother. Mayhap to be expected; in particular given Esther’s pregnant state. Esther ducked her head, thereby avoiding Matthew’s eyes, and scraped at a non-existent stain on the tabletop.

  “Is she…?” she asked.

  Matthew shook his head. “Nay, she isn’t with child.”

  “Thank the Lord for small mercies.” William stood and disappeared into his office, returning with a small flask of brandy.

  “It will be relatively simple,” William explained, topping up two glasses. “The vows can be annulled, and if we ensure Betty is married at some distance from here, no one need ever know.”

  “She doesn’t want to annul the marriage.” Matthew twirled his glass. He raised his eyes to meet William’s irritated glare. “And if she doesn’t want to then I won’t see it done. My lad will stand by her and, until he’s back, I’ll care for her as my own.”

  “And how long do you propose she wait?” William sat back and regarded Matthew in silence. “When does she give Jacob up as lost?”

  Matthew’s throat constricted at the thought. “He isn’t lost,” he said, setting the glass back untouched on the table. “It’s an unkindness to insinuate he might be.”

  William made a small sound. “It’s not my intent to hurt you, Brother Matthew. I know the pain of losing a son…five we’ve lost.” His eyes flew to his wife for an instant before returning to Matthew. “My intention is rather to protect my daughter. Is she to live forever in hope? See the years go by, let her life slip through her fingers as she waits for one who may be dead – who may have found himself a new life far from here?”

  “If he does, he’ll write. My lad wouldn’t want his mother to spend her remaining years wondering where he may have ended up.”

  “If he can,” William said, “but sometimes life happens.”

  “William!” Esther hissed. Matthew closed his eyes for instant, seconds in which his brain was taken over by graphic images of what fates might befall his son.

  *

  Well over an hour later, Matthew shouldered his way into Mrs Malone’s. As always, the inn was full of male patrons, some like him there for the beer, others for the lasses. From the kitchen came enticing smells of baked onions and sausages, the whores smelled abundantly of perfume, and the men reeked of lust and grime. Matthew made his way over the floor, ducking here and there to avoid the lanterns that suffused the room in a hazy golden light – most becoming to the whores, some of whom were getting on a bit. One of the wenches came dancing towards him, her cleavage so generous he could see most of her heavy breasts. She simpered at him, but Matthew waved her away and ordered a beer.

  Matthew sat down in a dark corner to nurse his drink and his foul mood. These last few days hadn’t been good days, what with Alex holding back on him, wee Daniel setting sail, the damned Burleys, and then this long conversation with Hancock. In the end, they’d decided that, for now, nothing would be done, but that should Betty reach eighteen with Jacob still not back, well then…

  Matthew drained his beer and beckoned for another one. And another, and another. He sat sunk into black gloom and regarded the bustle around him; the lasses that flirted and laughed; the men that panted with expectation.

  Mrs Malone herself appeared for an instant, a statuesque woman with the most magnificent red hair Matthew had ever seen, even if Alex had drily informed him that it was dyed – anyone could see that. The madam let her eye rove her small kingdom to ensure her girls were working diligently, and after satisfying herself that all the private rooms were in use, she nodded at her barman and disappeared up the stairs – in all probability to count up her profits.

  There was something of a commotion by the door, and Matthew looked up blearily to where a group of men we
re exclaiming in anger and disgust, glaring at a black stranger. Black? Matthew knuckled his eyes. Aye, black, or at least a deep brown. One man, whom Matthew recognised as Mr Farrell, was waving his arms around in agitation, pointing at the dark man and repeatedly slurring an angry “slave”. And then Mr Farrell wasn’t standing up anymore, but was flying in a neat arc through the air to crash against the counter.

  Women shrieked; men screamed and raged. Matthew ducked instinctively when a bottle came flying through the air towards him. The barman was attempting to regain control when Mrs Malone reappeared with a musket. The roar was deafening, and for a split second everyone in the establishment stood frozen to the spot. That was all Mrs Malone needed. Using her musket as a club, she made her way through the crowd until she reached the door where she pointed at the black man and told him to get out – now.

  Matthew was impressed. In dishabille, with her hair hanging undone down her back and her heaving bosom very much on display, Mrs Malone looked verily like an Amazon, and the way she wielded her musket only served to further strengthen that opinion. She stood panting by the counter, resting back on her arms in a way that had the gawking men drooling over all that exposed flesh.

  “How is he?” she asked, indicating Mr Farrell who lay groaning on the floor.

  “The effrontery,” Mr Farrell managed, sitting up with his hairpiece in his hand. “A black man to bear hand on such as me. I’ll see him punished, I will.” He got to his feet, one arm hanging awkwardly by his side. “What say you? An escaped slave is on the loose, and you’ve all seen how wildly he attacked me.” An assenting rumble rose around him.

  “I say we go a-hunting!” one man called out, and several men hooted their agreement.

  Mrs Malone frowned and murmured something to the barman.

  “Before you do,” she interrupted, “let me offer you something to drink – on the house.”

  Not only an Amazon, but an Athena as well, Matthew concluded, throwing the madam an admiring look.

  Chapter 10

  Matthew woke very late next morning with uncomfortably indistinct memories of the remainder of last night. A very pretty lass…Henriette? Caroline? Matthew groaned and hid his face in his pillow. What had he done? His head throbbed, but a careful inspection assured him all of him was whole. He sniffed at his torn shirt and grimaced. He smelled like a bawdy house! Oh God; Alex would flay him alive.