Like Chaff in the Wind (The Graham Saga) Read online

  *

  Christmas that year was the bleakest Matthew had ever lived through. Utterly alone, stranded amongst people he had no ties to or even cared for, he crept out to stand under the dark night skies and stare up at the stars. Like Alex did on Hogmanay, he smiled wryly. She’d go out and face the sky, silently toasting her father. May she be alright, he prayed, wherever she is, may she be safe and may she always know I love her. And in the night he heard her voice, he heard her laugh and tell him that she already knew, but it was nice of him to say so – even if it was only once a year.

  Chapter 14

  2005

  “If she was on a ship in August of 1661, then she must have embarked sometime late spring,” Eva said.

  Magnus made a concurring sound. The information he had so far gleaned was pitiful to say the least; the name of some ships known to have crossed the seas several times – the Regina Anne an impressive thirty times – but there were no other records, no neatly printed passenger lists, no splashy route description along the lines of modern day cruisers.

  “We’ll never find anything here,” he sighed, sending the papers on his desk flying.

  “No, especially if you’re going to be this silly about it. Concentrate instead. Where could she have gone? South America? One of the new Colonies?”

  Magnus had a vague idea that many Scottish immigrants had ended up on Barbados and other such places, rather than in the new Colonies, but he really had no idea. They spent a further two days perusing barely legible documents without finding any trace of someone called Graham, and Magnus got increasingly more frustrated.

  “Diane tried to warn you,” Eva said, “she did try and explain how difficult this would be.”

  “But now I have a year! It’s just that there’s nothing there from that bloody year!”

  “There’s tons of information, but the problem is it isn’t systemised. And also, if we’re going to be quite honest, the only proof we have that she lived in the seventeenth century is that you heard her say so – when you saw her in the sea.”

  “I did see her,” Magnus said through gritted teeth.

  “I know you did, I saw her too, remember? But what we don’t know is if we saw someone who really did live then, in 1661, or if it was just some kind of…I don’t know, holographic imprint?”

  Magnus gave a short laugh. “Holographic imprint? What the hell would that be?”

  “I have no idea, but it has a far better ring to it than ghost.”

  *

  He rang her three days later, buzzing with excitement. “I found her!”

  “You did?” Eva sounded impressed.

  “Well, no, not as such, but I found a court document regarding the guardianship of a boy called Mark Magnus Graham.” He waited for her exclamation of congratulations, but found himself listening to a very silent line.

  “And this has to do with her because…” Eva asked after a while.

  “Magnus of course! Like me!”

  “It’s not an uncommon name in Scotland.”

  “In the Shetlands or the Orkneys, no,” Magnus said, “but here, in southern Scotland…and it’s dated early 1661.” He sighed at her continued silence. “You think I’m building a mountain out of a molehill.”

  “Yes, I do. And I don’t like it that you do, because you’ll never know – not really.”

  “You promised you’d help me,” Magnus said.

  “And I will. But I won’t stand by and cheer if I think you’re barking up the wrong tree. So, yes, this little boy might be her child, but in that case, was he there on the boat with her? Or do you think she would have left him to go to wherever she was going?”

  “I don’t know,” Magnus said, gripping the phone very hard. “I have no fucking idea.”

  “Exactly, and you never will, honey. You might find the odd piece of information here and there, but it will be like holding six pieces of a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle.” He heard her sigh. “It’s a choice you have to make, Magnus, to try and find something but know you’ll never find it all, or to let it go before you drown.”

  He hung up.

  He called her again a few hours later.

  “I’m sorry…” they both said and then laughed.

  “I’m sorry for being so blunt before,” Eva said. “And I know I’ve promised you I’ll help you, but I’m worried this will be more distressing than healing.”

  “You’re right, and I know that at best I’ll only find the odd trace of her. It’s not as if she’s the journal type of girl, leaving behind thick notebooks for us to find. But…” He exhaled, wishing Eva had been here, within touching distance, instead of in London. “…all I want is something, one sign that she lived and lived well.”

  “That’s two things honey, and while you may find the odd mention of her, you’ll never know what her life was like. You’ll just have to hope that she had the guts and the brains to carve herself a new existence, wherever she ended up.”

  He fell silent, mulling this over. “Alex has guts,” Magnus finally said, “and brains. And in general she’s had good taste in men, so I’ll just have to hope this Graham fellow does right by her. Anyway, you have to get back to your meeting, right? And I have to write an article about the healing properties of the foxglove.”

  “Sounds absolutely riveting,” Eva murmured, making Magnus laugh.

  Chapter 15

  As weeks rolled into months, Alex became increasingly more depressed, spending far too much time alone in their little room. After a hushed little conference, Don Benito and Mrs Gordon sat her down and insisted this nonsense had to stop – it wasn’t doing her any good. She shrugged, not caring one way or the other.

  Yet another little conference, this time anything but hushed, and Alex was browbeaten into accompanying Don Benito on long exploratory walks. The enforced exercise helped – a bit. Now, two days after the most depressing Christmas Alex has ever celebrated, they were standing in a cove on the western side of the island, some miles north of the swampy area where Bridgetown was situated. Alex snapped open her fan and stood looking down at the inviting waves that washed over the sandy bottom.

  “I’ll wait,” Don Benito said, surprising her. “If you want to go into the water, and I know you do, then go ahead.” She gave a doubtful laugh and looked at the sea. The sun was still low in the eastern sky, Don Benito preferring to start just before daybreak, but it was already hot, a humid heat that was made bearable only by the constant wind.

  “Don’t you want to?”

  “God bless you, hija,” he laughed. “I don’t know how to swim.”

  “I do,” Alex said, giving the water a longing look. She took a quick decision and leapt down onto the sand, already undoing her skirts and bodice. There was a muffled exclamation behind her, and when she turned, Don Benito had covered his eyes with his hand.

  “I’ll keep my shift on.”

  “That won’t help. You know as well as I do what happens when you soak a sheet.”

  “You don’t have to sit like that,” Alex said. “It’s not as if you haven’t seen naked women before, is it?”

  “I’ll sit as I choose, and will you please hurry up?”

  Half an hour later, she sat down beside him, damp but happy for the first time in weeks, and shoved at him.

  “Done. All dressed – well, except for my feet.”

  “I’m sure I can survive the sight of them,” Don Benito smiled, uncovering his eyes. “Is that something you do a lot? In your time?”

  Alex nodded. “This whole coast is one long stretch of holiday resorts. People come from all over the world to spend a week here, swimming in the sea, lying in the sun.” Don Benito grimaced at the thought of voluntarily sitting out in the baking heat, and Alex laughed.

  “In this I totally agree.” She indicated her heavy skirts and long-sleeved bodice.

  *

  They were well on their way back when they saw the man, or rather they heard him. A high, yelping sound, a gibbered plead
ing followed by a dull thwack, yet another yelp, and at the next gap in the surrounding shrubs they stopped, struck dumb by the spectacle played out at the further end of the field.

  Cane, Alex thought in an attempt to distract herself, this is sugar cane and it must be some sort of grass, right? Yet another whistling stroke, and the bound man jerked, pulling at the ropes that held him upright against a tree. He was naked, except for a tattered pair of breeches, and even at this distance Alex could see the skin breaking open in pink streaks, blood running down the dark back. The man administering the whipping said something to his companion, they laughed and traded places. Alex was considering just what to do to stop this, when apparently the beating was over, the ropes sliced to release the slave to fall to the ground.

  “Come away,” Don Benito whispered, tugging at Alex. By the tree the slave was hauled to stand, a rope was tied round his neck, and his two tormentors mounted their horses, nudging them first into a walk, then a slow canter, forcing the poor man to run full speed unless he wanted to be dragged over the ground. Inevitably he fell, and the horses cantered on, raising a cloud of dust behind them.

  *

  “We just stood there,” Alex said, still disgusted with herself. “We should have told them to stop or something, right? He must have been terribly hurt when he fell like that behind the horses.”

  Mr Coulter looked at her in surprise. “Why would you interfere, my dear?” he asked, smiling sweetly in the direction of Mrs Gordon.

  “They were hurting him!” Alex turned to Don Benito for support. “They were, weren’t they?”

  “But…” Mr Coulter’s face was a study of incomprehension. “…he was black, wasn’t he?”

  “So?” Alex said, standing up.

  Captain Miles put a hand on her sleeve, coaxing her back into her chair. “Mr Coulter is just making the point that the man is a slave.”

  “Thank you CNN, for that update,” Alex muttered through her teeth. “Yes,” she went on slightly louder. “Even I gathered that. But you can’t just do anything to a man, just because he’s a slave, right? And anyway, how can good Christian men even hold with the concept of slavery as such?”

  “He’s black,” Mr Coulter repeated as if this explained everything. “Black men aren’t like us, they are simple and wild. You cannot consider them the equal of civilised man.”

  “Oh really?” Alex said with deceptive mildness. “Why not?”

  “I just said, did I not? They are barbaric creatures, given to cannibalism and other heathen practises. Africa is a dark and savage place, Mrs Graham.”

  “Ah, so we’re doing them a favour, are we?”

  Mr Coulter beamed at his star pupil, nodding eagerly.

  “Somehow I don’t think they’d agree. Being abducted, torn from your family and friends, carried overseas never, ever to return home doesn’t sound like the most appetising of prospects, does it?” Alex said.

  Mr Coulter’s face acquired an unhealthy pinkish hue. “They’re not Christian, and it is an undisputed truth that they are lesser men than we are, incapable of anything but the most menial of tasks.”

  “They’re just like us!” Alex exploded. “The only difference is one of colour.”

  “They’re slaves. Mrs Graham, chattel property – no more, no less.” Mr Coulter wagged an admonishing finger. “Never meddle, my dear. A slave owner does as he pleases with his property.”

  *

  “Do you think it’s right?” Alex challenged Don Benito next morning. “Does your God allow for people to be treated differently because of the colour of their skin?”

  “They are heathen,” Don Benito tried, making her snort. “And they hold on to their wild ways even when offered to join the church.” He sighed and looked away. “But no, hija, I don’t believe God judges people on the colour of their skins. Unfortunately, not everyone within the Church agrees with me.”

  Alex twisted her hands together, caught sight of her wedding ring, and ran a finger over the dark blue stone.

  “And him, will someone be treating my husband like we saw those men treat the slave yesterday?”

  Don Benito placed her hand in the crook of his arm, patting it fondly. “Of course not, he’s not a slave, is he? And also, he’s a Christian.”

  Alex found that a very doubtful comfort.

  *

  On New Year’s Eve, Alex excused herself from the table and went out into the small yard. Almost a year since she’d seen Matthew last, that early morning when he kissed her and rode off to watch the spectacle of Montrose’s re- interment. She closed her eyes and pretended that he stood behind her, his arms round her waist, his thighs pressing against her skirts. And he would turn her to face him and kiss her, slowly, and she would… She broke off, moaning quietly.

  “I swear God, that if I arrive to find him dead I’ll never forgive You. Never, You hear?” She shook her fist against the sky and stood up straight. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and placed one hand just below her ribcage. He still lives, thudded her heart, he lives and he waits. In the pit of her stomach she felt the flutter that assured her that he did – not as strong now as it had been, but still a steady, drumming beat.

  Before re-joining the supper party she faced the north – or what she thought was the north – and raised an imaginary flute into the air.

  “Skål, Pappa,” she whispered, sending herself whizzing through time to place a kiss on her father’s cheek. As always, he was there in his cold and dark garden. He raised his glass in silent salute and for the briefest of seconds their mental eyes held and met.

  “Skål, lilla hjärtat,” she heard him say, before he went back into the light that spilled from the kitchen door.

  *

  Somehow the fact that it was now 1662 made Alex regain some of her normal buoyancy, and she became a determined nagger, pestering Captain Miles about details of their imminent departure.

  “So, we’re done, right?” She stood on deck and patted the new mast, tilting her head back to squint up its height.

  “Almost,” Captain Miles said. “It will be some weeks yet.”

  “How many?” Alex wanted precise answers; departure then from gate x, arrival then at terminal three.

  “We’ll leave the second week of February.”

  Don Benito was as eager as Alex to be on his way, happy to be leaving this constricting little island.

  “I’m somewhat conspicuous,” he explained to Alex, indicating his clothes. “And it doesn’t help that most we meet consider me a spy, here to wrest some agricultural secret from them.” He raised his elegant brows into a haughty demeanour. “And that is despite the fact that it was the English who stole the secret of the sugar cane from us, not the other way around.”

  “But you have been riding around a lot,” Alex pointed out.

  “En nombre de Dios, hija,” he smiled sadly.

  She could imagine; broken men, torn from family and home and with no possibility of ever making it back. Men that she occasionally caught a glimpse of, stick thin and weaving with exhaustion as they were herded from one endless cane field to the other. Not like Matthew, she comforted herself, no of course not like him. But she didn’t quite believe herself.

  Mrs Gordon just shrugged when Alex shared her concerns with her. The master was strong and healthy to begin with, and no matter how badly treated there was plenty of life in him, no? Alex threw her a black look; not exactly what she needed to hear, was it? She produced her pouch and counted and recounted the shrunken pile of coins.

  “It will be enough, no?” Mrs Gordon sounded worried. Alex hoped so. The captain had told her he had a buyer for the pearl, and had offered to handle the whole transaction for her.

  “It will be tight, but we still have those other bits of jewellery as well.”

  Mrs Gordon nodded and went back to her mending. Alex tied the pouch back where she usually kept it, beneath her petticoats, and resumed her sewing. She shouldn’t have bought all that material, she berated h
erself, but what was she to do? Nine months living in the two skirts she had, was beginning to tell, and she couldn’t very well show up tattered. Now one skirt was mended and patched, and the other had been torn apart, the cloth turned and measured to make Matthew a new pair of breeches. Still, the russet of the new skirt made her smile and even Mrs Gordon admitted that the stitching was very well done.

  “I’ve made him a shirt,” Alex blurted.

  “Aye, I know, and the dark serge is for a new coat, no?”

  Alex smiled happily. Making clothes for him made it so much more certain that he was there, waiting for her.

  “I found these very nice buttons,” she said, spilling a set of pewter buttons into the palm of her hand. “They were a bit expensive, but I thought they would please him.”

  Mrs Gordon chuckled and shook her head. “He won’t notice, lass; they never do.”

  She had a point there, Alex conceded, before going back to doing sums in her head.

  “How much do you think it will cost?” Alex asked Captain Miles after supper.

  “Cost?” The captain sounded very confused.

  “To buy the indenture.”

  Captain Miles sucked at his pipe for a long time. “At least as much as the passage.”

  Alex gripped at the pouch through her skirts and left the room for the silent garden.

  There was not enough; three times she had counted it, and every time her conclusion was the same. Even augmented with the money for the pearl, there was simply not enough to both buy Matthew free and take them home. She leaned her head against her hands and cried.

  “Qué pasa?” Don Benito sat down beside her.

  Alex held out the pouch. “It’s too light, there’s not enough. How could I be so careless!” She pinched at her new skirt with irritation. “Now what do I do?” she asked Don Benito, but how was he supposed to answer that? She stood up and paced the little yard, her brow wrinkled with concentration. “I’m going for a walk,” she announced and moved towards the gate. “Just down to the harbour.”