Whither Thou Goest (The Graham Saga Book 7) Page 9

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Betty asked, and Sarah could hear how hurt she was. Because he hates being so dependent on you – on all of us – Sarah thought, stepping inside the dark room.

  “I…” Ian fell silent.

  “Because he’s a stubborn daftie of a man,” Sarah cut in. She plunked down to sit cross-legged on the floor some feet away from her brother. “Do you hate them for it? The Burleys?”

  Ian lifted his head to properly see her and nodded. “Aye, I do. Although, to be fair, this wasn’t their intent, was it?”

  “No, their intent was to kill Da, and you stopped that from happening but damaged your back instead.” She held out her hand to offer him some of her purloined apricots, and Ian took one, popping it in his mouth to chew slowly. Betty shook her head in refusal at the dried fruits, smoothed down Ian’s shirt, and got to her feet.

  “I’ll be back shortly,” she said and left brother and sister alone.

  Sarah swallowed the last of the apricots. “I thought it would be better, now that I know they are dead, but I still hate them, and I still dream.”

  “It takes time,” Ian said.

  “And I hate the wean too,” Sarah went on. “I hated it while it was inside of me, I hate it for how much it hurt to birth it, and I hate it because Mama and Da are sorry for it.”

  “Him,” Ian corrected. “It’s a wee lad, Sarah.”

  “I don’t care! I don’t want to know it exists, and now they’ve given it to Uncle Simon to raise, and I will never, ever get away from it!” She looked at him in despair. “How can I forget, if he’s there? And I want to forget it, all of it, but now I never will.” She clutched at herself and curled together, crying noiselessly.

  “Sarah…” Ian’s hand closed on hers. “Sarah, lassie.” He held her hand and waited until she achieved some control. ”You won’t forget, but you’ll live with it, and hopefully there will be other men and other bairns, and then one day you’ll no longer hate the laddie.” She gave him a very doubtful look, and he smiled. “I promise, little sister, you won’t forget, but it won’t hurt as much.” He turned his head away, muttering that in his case it would always hurt, a constant reminder of what he lost the day he was shot and fell off his horse.

  Sarah sat and held his hand until he fell asleep.

  *

  When the Chisholms and Carlos rode in just before noon, Alex was more than thrilled to interrupt her work in the garden. It was apparent at first glance that the three Chisholm brothers were very unhappy men. On the first leg of the trip down to Providence, the five Maroons had escaped, their ropes neatly cut, and on top of that, they’d made off with a musket and enough powder to blow a barn sky-high.

  “…so there we were,” Robert said, “and we couldn’t set off after them, what with the prisoners. And it’s no comfort to know they’re still in the area.”

  “Oh dear.” Alex tut-tutted and set plates of warm, fragrant bread on the table.

  Carlos sniffed appreciatively at the scent of rosemary while the Chisholms regarded the herb-dotted bread with some misgivings. When dinner was served, they looked positively depressed, stirring the dark green soup with dislike.

  “Nettles?” Martin Chisholm said.

  “All spring,” Adam piped up mournfully from his end of the table. “At least once a week we get it on account of Mama saying it’s full of iron.”

  “Iron?” Robert Chisholm shook his head. “Are you expecting to find nails in the soup, Alex?” He laughed at his own jest. “My mother uses nettle water for her hair.”

  “Aye,” Mrs Parson nodded, “nettles and comfrey together makes a very nice hair wash.”

  “Oh.” Robert sounded uninterested. “They won’t hang the men,” he said, and the whole table looked at him in confusion. “Our prisoners.”

  “Ah.” Matthew nodded. “Why not?”

  “Farrell suggested selling them as indentures instead,” Martin said, “and we had no reason to disagree. Let them be of some use before they die.” He handed a small cloth pouch over to Matthew. “Your share.”

  Over pudding, the mood relaxed, and conversation turned to planting and crops, to the new bull the Chisholms had recently bought, and to the pleasing news that Providence now had its first physician in residence.

  Alex listened with only half an ear, most of her attention on Carlos and Sarah who were conducting some kind of silent conversation across the expanse of the kitchen table – or rather Carlos seemed to be attempting communication with a very evasive Sarah.

  Abruptly, Sarah stood and, with a mumbled excuse, escaped the room, leaving Carlos to look after her with eyes the size of saucers. He made an effort to return to the conversation, but after a few minutes he too left the room, and Alex watched him go, cassock swinging round his peg.

  *

  Carlos knocked on Sarah’s door. He remained standing by the door once she’d opened it, unwilling to compromise either her or himself by entering further into her room. He swallowed, ran a tongue over his lips and cast about for something to say. Since the birth of her child, Sarah had avoided being alone with him, and where before their conversation flowed as easily as water through a millrace, lately it had become a thing of silences, heavy pauses and desperate attempts from his side to catch her eyes.

  “I just…” He smiled hesitantly. “I wanted to make sure you are alright, hija.”

  “Alright? As well as I can be.” She gave him a shy look, and in his chest his heart did cartwheels of hope. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

  “That’s what I’m here for,” he replied. For you, Sarah, only for you…

  She nodded and just stood there, her hands clasped before her, her head demurely bent. She had taken off her cap, and from where he stood, he could catch the scent of her, clean and somehow sparkling, as if she had dipped herself in a river of icy water. The silence became oppressive, and after a further few minutes, Sarah went over to her bed.

  She slid her hand in under her pillow and pulled out the dark rosary beads he had once given her, and held them out to him.

  “I don’t think I’ll be using these much more,” she said with a small smile.

  Carlos felt as if someone had slammed him with a barrel in the stomach. She was telling him goodbye, shedding him from her life just as she had done with the newborn child. He tried to catch her eyes, but saw only slits of blue in her downturned face.

  “Keep them. They were a gift, not a loan.” He watched her hands caress the beads, long fingers running over them, and every breath was a painful effort. Without really thinking, he had her face between his hands, and then he kissed her.

  “I will always love you, Sarah,” he whispered, and then he fled, thinking that it shouldn’t be possible to live or breathe, not when your heart had just been shattered into thousands upon thousands of painful shards.

  *

  The Chisholms left some time after dinner, rather disgruntled at having to ride off without Carlos, who seemed to have gone up in thin air. No matter that they called for him repeatedly, the little priest did not appear, and while normally Alex would have been worried, this time she wasn’t, having caught a glimpse of Carlos when he stumbled out of the house. The man’s face had been wet with tears, and she assumed he needed time alone.

  Alex was proved right when Carlos reappeared some hours later. He muttered something about not feeling well and escaped to the little room he normally stayed in when visiting the Grahams. Alex shared a look with Matthew and shook her head, before returning to their conversation.

  “What will we do with it?” Alex touched the small pile of guineas reverently.

  “We’ll set it to Sarah’s dowry,” Matthew told her, letting the coins disappear back into their pouch. “She’ll need to come well dowered.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Matthew shrugged, telling her there was no way to keep secrets in a colony like Maryland, and likely any young man of good enough background would have heard of the
misfortunes of the Graham girl.

  “Maybe she doesn’t want to marry anyone of them either. She might prefer to remain single.”

  Matthew raised his brows. “She will want a family of her own.”

  “Who knows? Maybe she decides to become a nun instead.”

  Matthew looked as if he was about to burst. “A nun?”

  Alex hitched one shoulder. “Well, she does that a lot. Tell the rosary in Latin and all that…” Her voice trailed off at his expression.

  “Are you telling me our daughter has taken to papist ways?”

  “Umm,” Alex hedged. “I…well, I’m not sure, but she does have—”

  “How long?” he interrupted. “How long have you known her to be doing this?”

  Alex looked away from his penetrating eyes. “Since last summer.”

  “Dearest, sweetest Lord,” Matthew muttered. “Help me, God, that I don’t lose my temper with my witless wife.”

  “Witless?” Alex glared at him. “Who are you calling witless?”

  “You,” he said, and his hands were hard on her arms. “Don’t you see, Alex? She’s in risk of losing her immortal soul!”

  “Bullshit,” she snapped, “and let go of me, okay?”

  He did, dropping his hands to his sides. “You should have told me.”

  “And what would you have done? Forced her to turn over the rosary beads?”

  “Aye, and I would have forbidden the priest to come over.”

  “That would really have helped, given that he was the only person she truly spoke to.”

  Matthew exhaled loudly, his eyes tight with anger, and turned for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Alex asked.

  “To see my daughter,” he said and banged the door shut behind him.

  *

  Sarah seemed to have been crying, even if she insisted that she hadn’t, it was just the pillowcase not having been properly rinsed of lye.

  “Hmm,” Matthew said sceptically and sat down on the single stool, waving with a hand to show she could sit on the bed. “Your mama tells me you’ve been saying the rosary.”

  “Aye, I have. It helps, at times.”

  “We don’t hold with such, you know that.”

  Sarah looked away from his eyes. “Do you think it truly matters? The form of the prayers as such? Is it not the sincerity that counts?”

  “Aye, of course it is,” Matthew answered, somewhat taken aback. “But you don’t need popish prayers to talk to God.”

  Sarah hitched her shoulders. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee,” she said, and gave him a very blue look that reminded him of a young Alex. “I had no words, Da. And these words helped, just as it helped to hold the beads in my hands, feel the weight of God’s presence in them.” She hugged herself, her eyes locked on the embroidered sleeve of her chemise, an intricate pattern of daisies and dipping bluebells carefully executed by Alex. “I won’t be doing it anymore. I’ve put them away.”

  “And the priest?”

  “Carlos?” Sarah looked away. “He was my friend, and today I broke his heart.” Her lower lip trembled for an instant before she caught it with her teeth. “I had to. He was in love with me.”

  “And you? Are you in love with him?” Matthew asked as gently as he could.

  Sarah gave him a watery smile but shook her head. “Not as he is in love with me, not enough that he should break his vows for me.”

  *

  “I don’t think I’ll be coming back,” Carlos said with some formality next morning. He looked awful, Alex reflected, his cassock rumpled as if he’d slept in it, but from the state of his hair and the pouches under his eyes, she doubted he’d done any sleeping at all.

  “No, I don’t suppose you will.” Matthew took Carlos’ hand and pressed it. “I can’t thank you for what you did for her.”

  Carlos extricated his hand and stretched his lips into a smile, his eyes black with misery and loss. “I’m glad I could be of help.” He turned towards Alex, and bowed. “Señora Alex.”

  “Padre,” she replied and slipped her hand under his arm to lead him some feet away. “What will you do now?”

  “Santo Domingo, and then we’ll see.” His eyes drifted over to where Sarah was standing halfway up the slope. “No sé que hacer. I have no idea what to do. I love her, and I’m not allowed to. God won’t forgive me, I fear.”

  “Of course He will. If anyone knows about love, it’s Him.” She looked over to her daughter and then back at Carlos. “She loves you too, Carlos. But it’s a fearful thing to tear a man away from his holy vows, a burden far too heavy for a young girl to carry.” A low, pained sound escaped Carlos’ mouth, and Alex squeezed his arm.

  “Vaya con Dios, Padre,” Alex said, “and talk to your confessor. Maybe he can help you find your way.” She reached forward and thumbed a lock of his hair behind his ear. “And for what it’s worth, I love you as well,” she said, and kissed him softly on his cheek.

  Chapter 11

  Mrs Parson made a satisfied sound, and Alex sat back and studied Betty with a smile. “According to our resident expert, everything is okay.”

  Betty smoothed her clothes back into place and came to her feet. “Of course it is, and it’s a girl this time,” she said, making Mrs Parson laugh.

  “A lass? Nay, Betty, I think not. A lad, as lively as his brothers.”

  Betty looked over to where her two small sons were helping their older cousins with the piglets, which involved a lot of running about in the muddy pigpen. Alex smothered a grin. Little Timothy kept on falling over, and as a consequence his smock was muddier than the pigs, streaks of mud adorning his bright red hair.

  “A girl,” Betty sighed. “A sweet child who stays clean.”

  In reply, Alex pointed at Lettie, Mark’s soon four-year-old daughter who came crawling out between the slats of the pigpen covered entirely in mud.

  “Lettie doesn’t count,” Betty said.

  Alex was prone to agree: quick-witted, stubborn and scarily inventive, Lettie was a catastrophe waiting to happen no matter where one put her. Little Maggie appeared next, just as dirty, if not more, swinging her six-year-old legs easily over the stile.

  Betty groaned at the sight of her stepdaughter. “A boy,” she sighed in resignation, and went to collect her children and scrub them into some semblance of cleanliness.

  “Will it be alright, you think?” Alex asked, following Mrs Parson into the kitchen.

  “She’s convinced, no?” Mrs Parson said. “In my experience, that helps. She doesn’t seem at all frightened, does she?”

  “No, but Ian is.” Alex bent down to pick up the green leaf that lay on the kitchen floor, rearing back with a loud explosion of expletives when the leaf bounded away.

  “I swear, Adam Graham, the next time I find one of your frogs in my kitchen, I’ll kill it and fry it and make you eat it!” Her youngest son hastily collected his escaped pet and promised it wouldn’t happen again.

  “You said that last week as well. And, you,” she said to Hugin, “how about making yourself useful and eating the pesky things!” From the interested gleam in the raven’s eye, he was all for complying with her suggestion, leaning forward from his perch on Adam’s shoulder to study the frog intently.

  “Mama!” Adam exclaimed, stuffing the frog into the relative safety of his shirt.

  “I told you I wouldn’t stand for any amphibians inside my house.” She shooed at him with a broom. “Take your menagerie with you, and make sure it stays away. God, that boy has a thing about animals,” she complained with a smile once Adam had escaped outside.

  From where she was busy dicing carrots and onions, Agnes laughed. “A veritable Noah, all those wee creatures he collects…” She shook her head in the direction of Adam who dropped to his haunches beside little Judith to show the girl the frog.

  “Maybe he could build an ark to keep them in,” Alex muttered, “instead of littering my house with all those half-dead animals he finds
.”

  Alex went over to inspect Sarah’s cinnamon buns, earning herself a sharp rap over the fingers when she tried to nick a piece of dough. Her daughter was slowly becoming herself again, the constant tension of the last year dripping away by degrees. She worked in the garden and the stables, she spent hours in the woods with Viggo and a musket, she played long, heated chess games with her father and her brothers, and she sulked as much as she always had when Alex set her to mending and sewing.

  It was different when they had visitors: Sarah retreated into a shy, mute person, constantly ducking her head to avoid any kind of eye contact.

  “Why?” Alex had asked her last time the Leslies had come over.

  “I don’t like the look in their eyes,” Sarah had explained. “Half pity, half condemnation.”

  “Huh,” Alex said, “if I see anything like condemnation, they’ll be looking at castration.”

  “The women too?” Sarah had inquired mildly, causing Matthew to give both of them a disapproving eye.

  Alex heard Sarah mutter under her breath, and a quick look out of the window indicated they were about to have visitors – again. Yet another quick look and Alex muttered as viciously as Sarah had just done, wiping her hands on her apron before stepping outside to greet the men making slow progress down the lane, five of them on horseback, four on foot.

  Shit, Alex thought, meeting Leon’s panicked eyes. He and three of his companions were being towed along behind the horses, and from the look of them, it had been a violent fight, covering all of them in bruises and slashes.

  The lead rider held in his horse, small eyes staring at her until she dropped him a minimal curtsey. Alex actively disliked Minister Macpherson, a sentiment returned in full by the minister who now dismounted with ponderous grace, his eyes sweeping the well-tended farm. He gave her the slightest of nods, pursed his mouth into a spout, and just stood there. Alex sent Hannah off to find Matthew, and from the displeased wrinkle that appeared on the minister’s brow when Hannah set off at speed, braids flying and skirts held high, she gathered this was most unseemly behaviour in a little girl.