A Newfound Land (The Graham Saga) Page 3

  “Alex.” Peter Leslie smiled a bit too widely, making Elizabeth glower.

  “Peter.” Alex twisted her face to receive his kiss on the cheek, not on the mouth as intended.

  “Have you seen the new dairy?” Peter said.

  “Yes, quite impressive, and the cheese is delicious.” She nodded in greeting at Jenny, who had trailed her father into the kitchen, and received a quick curtsey in reply before the girl set down the basket of folded linen on the table.

  “It’s hot,” Jenny said.

  “Yes, most unseasonal.” Peter smiled at his wife, accepting a brimming mug of beer. “Somewhat of a shock for the new men. One of them just sat down and refused to work during the midday hours, complaining that the sun was making him ill.” He shook his head. “I don’t much like it, but I fear that one will need to be punished.”

  “Which one is that?” Jenny asked with a gleam of interest in her pale blue eyes. “The one with the dark hair, the fair one, or the one with no hair at all?”

  “They have names, I assume,” Alex cut in, making all three turn to look at her.

  “They do,” Peter said, “but I won’t have my daughters on first-name basis with them. The less they see of each other the better.”

  Well, that clearly wasn’t working, Alex thought, giving Jenny a curious look. The girl met her eyes for an instant and went over to sit by her mother.

  Jenny was a pretty enough girl, with the complexion of a dewy rose. Her dark hair was mostly covered by her cap, but here and there a strand had escaped to hang in a soft curl. As Alex recalled she was nineteen, two years older than Ian. Maybe that was why she was more interested in her father’s indentures than in Ian. The girl leaned closer to her mother and murmured something which made Elizabeth nod, one capped head very close to the other.

  “So when will you hold the wedding?” Alex asked over supper.

  “The contracts have already been signed, and there will be a wedding at her home when we come for her.” Peter grinned slyly at his son. “And a wedding night.”

  Nathan nodded, looking rather unenthusiastic, and served himself a large helping of stew.

  “And will you live here?” Alex asked Nathan.

  “There’s plenty of room,” Elizabeth said, “so of course they will. And I can do with an extra pair of hands to help in the household now that Amy and Martha have both been wed. Besides, all this will one day come to Nathan. It’s important his wife learns to run it properly.”

  Poor unknown girl; she was going to be at the beck and call of her domineering mother-in-law.

  *

  The evening was spent in the front room. Three times the size of Alex’s own little parlour, it was furnished with an odd assortment of chairs, a desk and a couple of tables. There was a lute that was so dusty Alex concluded it was more for show than use, and a beautiful tapestry that had come from Elizabeth’s mother hung on one of the walls. In pride of place stood Peter’s armchair, a throne-like thing in dark wood, with carved lion paws decorating its feet and armrests. With a happy little grunt, Peter subsided to sit and closed his eyes. Elizabeth worked on her accounts, while Alex and Mary busied themselves with their sewing.

  After a while, Elizabeth closed the heavy ledger and stood up, sauntering over to Alex and Mary.

  “You did this?” Elizabeth inspected the embroidered flowers that decorated the pillowcase.

  “Yes,” Alex said, “to remind me of summer in winter.”

  Elizabeth ran a hand over it. “You should embroider and sell.”

  “Do you think anyone would want to buy?”

  “Oh yes,” Elizabeth said, “there is always a market for frippery.”

  Bitch. Alex met the cool look in Elizabeth’s eyes with a glacial one of her own. Elizabeth broke eye contact first, muttering something about putting more wood on the fire.

  “She’s just jealous,” Mary whispered after ascertaining Elizabeth was out of range. “She can’t do much more than hem herself.”

  “No, I see that,” Alex murmured, holding up a small boy’s shirt. They shared a smile, in Mary’s case quickly suppressed when Elizabeth came over to join them, sinking down with a sigh.

  “Is she pretty?” Alex asked to break the silence.

  “Who?” Elizabeth enquired.

  “The girl – Nathan’s bride-to-be.”

  “I have no idea,” Elizabeth replied. “I haven’t met her. Peter says she’s comely and quiet.”

  “Maybe it would be easier for her if she got to know Nathan before they were wed,” Alex said. “It must be a daunting experience to meet your husband on the day of your wedding and be expected to bed with him that same night.”

  Elizabeth raised her brows. “She might just as well get used to it. I’m sure she’ll do her duty.”

  “Her duty?” Alex gave her a surprised look.

  Elizabeth shrugged. “I’ve taught all my girls that in bed they must be submissive and do as their husband wishes. It’s quicker that way.”

  Alex swallowed down on an urge to guffaw. Elizabeth submissive? It was a mind-boggling concept.

  “So you don’t…err…you don’t like bedding with Peter?”

  Elizabeth looked at her as if she were insane. “I can bide with it. The good Lord has made it that way: that the woman must subject herself and procreate as her husband wishes. It’s not precisely unpleasant, but it’s somewhat of a relief now that I’m of a certain age to have left that part of my life behind.”

  Alex looked over to where Peter was fast asleep in his armchair, snoring loudly.

  “Left that part of your life behind?” she echoed.

  Elizabeth eyed her askance. “It isn’t seemly, for a wife to display inappropriate affection for her husband – particularly after a certain age.”

  “Really? Well, I don’t agree with you,” Alex said, “and my husband rather enjoys my inappropriate affection.”

  Elizabeth acquired the hue of a ripe plum. “Man and woman are made husband and wife to procreate. Anything else is sin.”

  “And your husband?” Alex asked. “What about him? His needs?”

  Elizabeth waved her hand dismissively. “I’m not sure I want to know.”

  But if an indentured maid gets pregnant because your husband has urges, all you do is extend the poor girl’s contract and call her a whore, Alex thought angrily.

  “And you?” Alex said to Mary, who had sat silent throughout the exchange, her concentration on the shirt she was making for her husband.

  “Me what?” Mary dimpled, looking much younger than her fifty-two years. In fact, it was difficult to believe that Mary was the elder of the sisters-in-law, just as Thomas was the eldest of the Leslie brothers, even if only by a year.

  “Do you…you know?”

  Mary blushed a delicate pink and bent her head to her sewing. “On occasion, he still wants to, and so do I.”

  Elizabeth produced a sound that conveyed just how close to the brink of eternal damnation Mary hovered and left the room.

  Chapter 3

  The room was stuffy and dark, inadequately lit by a number of lanterns that hung from the beams. It was also crowded, every table occupied by men who drank and ate – well, mostly drank. The taproom smelled of spilled beer and spicy stews, of lavender perfume and of tobacco.

  Matthew shoved his cleaned plate to the side and burped discreetly into the crook of his arm. The lamb shank had been delicious, cooked to the point where the meat fell off the bone, and a mug or two of beer had him in a mellow enough mood, an interested spectator to the steady flow of business in the little inn. The stairs to his left led to the upper floor and, as the evening progressed, one man after the other trooped off with one of the bonny whores, was gone for a half-hour or so before reappearing at the top of the stairs. The whores rarely lost times between customers; no sooner were
they done with one but they were leading the next one up the stairs.

  Matthew called for some more beer and let his eyes wander the room. Many of the men he knew; a few of them were even elders. The door opened, there was a rush of cold air, and for some moments Matthew was convinced his heart had stopped. He blinked, settled back on the bench and stared at the man who’d just entered the busy room.

  Jones! Dominic Jones, here! Matthew was surprised to hear his own harsh breathing and wiped a sweaty hand down his breeches. He leaned further into the protective shadow of his corner, throwing an irritated look up the stairs. Where was Thomas? How long could it take to conclude his business with the little whore?

  Where before his heart had come to a standstill, now his pulse was thundering, leaving him weak-kneed and covered with a cold sweat. He gripped his dirk, unsheathed it. To sink it into Jones... He snuck another look at the hulk of a man, now standing only some feet away, demanding beer and company. As big as ever, Jones was also very well off, at least to judge from the resplendent coat and matching waistcoat. The hands were as huge as Matthew remembered them, but otherwise Jones had aged badly. The light from one of the lanterns illuminated his face, revealing skin that was criss-crossed by a network of broken veins, and his small, displeased mouth had all but disappeared into his heavy jowls.

  Jones turned in the direction of the proprietress and crossed the floor in a couple of strides – still as graceful as a lethal serpent, moving that mountain of flesh effortlessly and swiftly. Matthew shrank back, watching as Jones pulled off his wig, scratched at his bald pate and replaced the curling hairpiece, all the while in an intense discussion with Mrs Malone.

  Matthew was drowning in hatred, in remembered pain and humiliation. Oh God! Their first meeting: him being forced to stand straight while Jones, overseer at the plantation Suffolk Rose, walked round him, using his short riding crop to prod Matthew as he inspected his latest human beast of burden. The beating administered when Matthew refused to take his clothes off, the other time when Jones whipped him until Matthew brokenly admitted he was a slave... He still bore the scars on his skin. Until his dying day, he’d carry the reminders of those terrible months when he was nothing but an expendable resource to be worked until he died.

  Jones laughed, draped an arm around Mrs Malone and inspected the paraded girls. A respected and valuable customer, Matthew concluded, irritated by how the whores were fawning on Jones. The large man had by now made his choice: a pretty lass with red hair and a neckline that left very little to the imagination. Jones patted the girl on her behind and steered her towards the stairs.

  Halfway across the floor, Jones saw Matthew and came to an abrupt standstill. His small eyes narrowed and he stood staring for some moments before he paled, taking a few stumbling steps backwards. After a couple of heartbeats, he nodded, once. Matthew just stared him in the eyes, and then Thomas was there, clapping him on the shoulder and asking him if he wanted yet another beer. Matthew shook his head in a no. All he wanted was to leave Providence – but he couldn’t do that, what with the market tomorrow.

  Matthew was almost at the door when Jones stepped forward to block his path. As if by chance, the meaty hand dropped to rest on the hilt of the dirk he was carrying.

  “Move, Graham,” Jones said.

  “I think not. You stood to block my way; you move.” Matthew met Jones’ eyes and took another step towards him, rising on his feet to stare the somewhat taller man straight in the eyes.

  “Dominic?” The red-headed girl popped up beside them. “Who’s this?” She smiled at Matthew, both arms wound tight round Jones’ arm.

  “No one, a nobody, my dear.” Jones smirked at Matthew and brushed at his waistcoat, straining over an impressive gut. He took a step towards Matthew, stopped when Matthew stood still as a rock, not about to give an inch.

  “Dominic!” The girl pouted, tugging at his arm. With one last look at Matthew, Jones allowed the whore to drag him off.

  “Who’s that?” Thomas asked.

  “An old acquaintance,” Matthew said.

  “Not a cordial relation, I take it,” Thomas said.

  “Nay, rather the reverse.”

  Thomas ran his eyes up and down Jones a couple of times, did the same with Matthew. “My money’s on you should it come to a fight.”

  “Why thank you,” Matthew said, “but I think it best for both of us if it never comes to an open confrontation.”

  *

  Matthew weighed his pouch, thinking that the pelts had brought in much more than he’d expected. He left Ian to oversee the sale of the smoked trout and spent the following hour wandering the market, now and then making a purchase or two. The marketplace was crowded, the stalls set up in makeshift narrow rows that left thoroughfares at most three feet across. People thronged; there was a pleasant smell of barbecued meat and mulled wine, and from the livestock pens came a constant cackling, now and then interspersed with an indignant squeal. In a big stall standing by itself, old Mrs Redit was peddling spices – peppercorn, nutmeg and ginger, cinnamon sticks and cloves. She even had limes, and a few minutes later Matthew had concluded his business with her.

  He was running late for his meeting with the new minister and extended his stride, but when he turned into the alley that led to the main street he came to an abrupt stop. The alley was short, steep and dank. Coming the other way was Jones, accompanied by three men who effectively blocked the whole passage. There was no way round him, and damned if Matthew intended to retreat.

  “Mr Graham.” Jones inclined his head. He was as resplendent as yesterday, his linen newly changed, his black broadcloth breeches and matching coat of an elegant cut.

  “Mr Jones.”

  They both fell silent. Jones regarded Matthew, eyes resting for an instant on Matthew’s various parcels.

  “I must be on my way.” Matthew tried to sidle past one of Jones’ men. An arm shot out, hindering him.

  “Now, now, Mr Graham, why the hurry?” Jones nodded at his men, and in a matter of seconds Matthew was surrounded. Matthew wet his lips. He was only yards away from the main street, bustling with people, and should he need to he’d yell.

  “It’s a pity you didn’t die back in Virginia,” Jones said. “As it is, I am not much pleased to find you here, in my new home.”

  “Mine before it was yours,” Matthew said. “And I had hoped that by now someone would have rid the world of you, scavenging bastard that you are.”

  “Tut-tut, Graham, I am not impervious to insult. You’d best be careful; I might feel obliged to defend my honour.”

  “Honour? You?” Matthew took a step towards him, having the distinct pleasure of seeing Jones back off. “I could beat you with one hand tied behind my back.”

  Jones chuckled. “Maybe you could, Mr Graham. But I would never be fool enough to challenge you outright, would I?” He leaned forward. “I rid my life of enemies discreetly – best you remember that.”

  “A threat, Mr Jones? I wonder what the elders will say when I recount this to them.”

  “I will deny it.” Jones tugged at his waistcoat, his fat hand caressing the wooden butt of the pistol that he carried stuck in his belt. “Stay away from me and mine, Graham. Let things lie, as they say, and I will do the same for you.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  Jones smiled – a nasty, cold grimace. “You have sons. Who knows what might happen to them, eh?”

  Matthew dropped his purchases, grabbed Jones by the collar and shoved him back against the nearby wooden wall. “How dare you,“ he hissed.

  “Take your hands off me,” Jones said. “Do it now, or I swear I’ll have my men gut you like a fish.”

  Something prodded Matthew’s side and, reluctantly, he released his hold. Jones smoothed his collar back into place and bent to retrieve his hat.

  “This is my town now.” Jones straightened
up. “Keep that in mind, Graham.”

  *

  For the few remaining days in Providence, Matthew was constantly on his guard. Twice he saw Jones, twice he turned and hurried away, sons in tow.

  “Da?” Ian said. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” Matthew replied, yet again casting a look in the direction of where Dominic was standing, surrounded by a group of other merchants.

  Ian followed his eyes. “Is it that man?”

  “Aye.” Matthew did not want to discuss this.

  “Why?”

  “It’s just...” Matthew shook his head. “Salt,” he said instead, “we must buy salt, aye? And if they have it, buy a half-pound of tea – that will make your mama happy.”

  It was drizzling the day they were to set off for home, but no matter that Thomas suggested they remain one more day, hoping for better weather, Matthew refused. He was leaving now, his horses were saddled, the panniers packed, and he had no intention of biding one more night here. Ian gave him an odd look, Mark grimaced at the rain but said nothing, and Thomas sighed, muttering something about the stubbornness of Scotsmen.

  Matthew was astride the ugly gelding, leading the cavalcade out of town, when someone hailed him in a loud voice that even now, a decade and more since his days as indentured labour, made his insides clench. Out of the rain loomed Jones, four men at his heels. One of them Matthew recognised as Sykes – a much older Sykes, but unmistakeably him, narrow-faced like a horse and with dark, sunken eyes. Sykes smirked and sketched Matthew a bow. Matthew suppressed the urge to spit this constant shadow to Jones in the face.

  “Leaving?” Jones asked.

  Matthew saw no reason to reply, or even halt his horse.

  Jones laughed. “Please convey my regards to Mrs Graham. Is she still as...?“ He mimed a swelling chest.

  Matthew wheeled his mount, sword at the ready.

  “No, he’s just trying to provoke you.” Thomas spurred his horse forward, blocking Matthew. “Ride on.”

  Matthew sheathed his sword and kicked his horse into a gallop, leaving sons and friend to follow as best they could.