A Newfound Land (11 page)

“The sentiment is mutual.” Jones twirled the riding crop he was carrying.

“I’m glad we cleared that one up.” Alex turned her attention to the Jones’ children. The twins were ten she knew, having been present at their birth, and then there were five more, the youngest carried in the arms of a maid. “You’ve been busy,” she said with reluctant admiration. Kate grimaced, and between them flew a look of absolute understanding.

Jones looked at his large family and nodded proudly. “There will be more. My wife is not yet thirty-five.”

At this rate his genes would spread alarmingly, Alex reflected, studying Jones’ offspring. Not a good thing, in her book.

“I was hoping for a word with your husband,” Jones said.

“My husband doesn’t want to talk to you.”

Jones’ small eyes glinted strangely. “It would be unwise of him to attempt me any harm – including defaming my good name.”

“Defaming your good name? Why would he want to do that? After all, what have you ever done to him but beat him to an inch of his life and then...oh, yes, then you attempted to pin a murder on him, didn’t you?”

“Shh!” Kate said. “People are looking!”

“You give us a wide berth and we’ll give you the same.” Alex lowered her voice, ignoring Kate. “But if you threaten us or if anything happens to Matthew, I swear I’ll tell the whole town about Fairfax’s death. Might make it a bit uncomfortable for you – as far as I know, there’s no statute of limitation on murder, is there?”

Jones went a sickly white. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“No, of course you don’t. Your conscience is as pure as driven snow.” A quick look down the street showed her Matthew making his way back towards the meetinghouse. Alex hurried off to intercept him. She had no intention of exposing Matthew to his former tormentor. Or pretty Mrs Jones, come to think of it.

In the event it didn’t help, what with Jones following hot on her heels. Matthew stood like a cornered dog. Very briefly, his eyes flitted over to do a quick inspection of Kate, but then he was back to eyeballing Jones. Of a height, the two men overtopped six feet, but where Matthew was wide in shoulder and chest, Jones was massive all over, although the intimidating effect was offset by the fact so much of his bulk lay concentrated round his midriff, muscles converted to fat.

“Matthew? Let’s go.” Alex gripped his arm. He didn’t seem to hear, eyes glittering a dangerous green. Jones smirked and brought the short riding crop down with a dull thwack against his boot. The sound made Matthew jerk, and Jones smiled, a taunting sneer that made Matthew turn to stone under her hand.

“Matthew!” Alex squeezed as hard as she could. The short whip smacked against the leather again, Jones sinking his eyes into Matthew.

“A beast of burden, Graham,” Jones said. “I trust you remember how you bleated to the world that you were nothing but a slave.”

“Dominic!” Kate gasped. “That’s enough!”

“Bastard!” Matthew spat, and for an eternally long second, Alex was convinced this was when her husband would pull his knife and gut his erstwhile tormentor. So, apparently, was Jones, backing away with some haste.

“Go!” Alex barked, hanging on to Matthew. Kate took hold of her man and dragged him away.

Matthew slowly relaxed. He blinked, shook himself, and without a word led the way to the inn.

Chapter 13

A few days later, Matthew stood by the meetinghouse and watched Dominic Jones lord it over his fellow merchants. Resplendent in a pale silk waistcoat, a matching coat, and with Sykes a few paces behind, all that was missing was a slave carrying a parasol to properly underline just how rich and powerful Jones was.

Matthew’s eyes lingered on Sykes. The man was his usual ratty self, armed with both sword and pistol. An idea took shape, and he hastened off to find Peter Leslie.

*

Sykes looked pale. He licked his lips, eyes darting over to Jones as if he were hoping for some reassurance from his employer. Instead, Jones distanced himself from him, leaving Sykes to face Peter Leslie alone.

“Retribution,” Peter said. “I expect compensation for those two girls.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” Sykes said, “and, besides, I have no money.”

“Nay, but your paymaster does.” Matthew jerked his head at Jones, sidling away into the crowd. “Why the hurry, Jones?” he called out. “Afraid, are you?”

“Afraid?” Jones came to a stop. “Why should I be afraid?”

“Stealing is a serious offence – and stealing lasses in particular.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Dominic eyed Sykes as if the man had the plague. Sykes shrank under the weight of the look.

“My wife saw him.” Matthew ensured his voice carried over the assembled men. He pointed at Sykes. “She saw him make off with Mr Leslie’s property. And…” He paused, swept the small crowd with his eyes. “…Sykes does nothing without Mr Jones’ permission, do you, Sykes?” He turned towards the man so abruptly Sykes near on sat down.

“I have no idea what you’re on about,” Sykes said.

“Very well,” Peter said. “In that case, we will take up the matter before the elders tomorrow. I’m sure Mrs Graham will be willing to testify.”

“A woman,” Jones drawled, “and your neighbour. How are we to know she doesn’t lie?”

“For shame, Jones!” Peter might be thin and wiry, but he was tall enough to meet Jones’ eyes head on. “Tomorrow,” he said to Sykes. “And should you not appear before us, we will hold you guilty and set a price on your head.”

“But...” Sykes threw Jones a desperate look.

Jones shook his head and shouldered his way out of the crowd.

“I wouldn’t set my hope on him,” Matthew said to Sykes. “You’re all alone in this.” He leaned forward. “He’ll see you hang and not lift a finger. So why not tell us the truth? Did you abduct those lasses on his behalf? More money for him, a few coins for you?”

Sykes backed away. “I’ve done nothing, and your wife is a slanderous witch if she says different.” With that parting shot he escaped.

“Well,” Peter said, coming to stand beside Matthew, “it seems you’ve ruffled quite some feathers.”

“Alex doesn’t lie. If she says she saw Sykes there then she did.”

“Ah, yes, but it isn’t Sykes you’re after, is it?” Peter clapped him on the shoulder. “Go carefully, Matthew.”

“I always do. It’s something I learnt under Jones’ tender care.”

*

Alex listened in silence to Matthew’s description of events, sighing inside. This was going to breathe further life into the infected feud with Jones, and not for a second did she believe Sykes would give Jones up.

“He won’t show. Come tomorrow, he’ll be halfway to Barbados or somewhere.”

“Better in Barbados than here.”

“Maybe.” Alex went back to her packing: salt and sugar, spices and candles, a big chunk of scented soap, ribbons for her girls, knife blades that Matthew would work into wooden handles for their younger sons, but best of all were the bolts of cloth.

“I thought you wanted to buy it ready-made.” Matthew fingered the high quality serge and broadcloth. In russet and pewter grey, in a dark blue and a serviceable brown, the various lengths contrasted pleasingly with the pale of the linen lying beside them.

“It made me feel immoral.” Besides, she’d found something else she wanted to spend her money on – a present for him, something to make him forget Dominic Jones and his vitriolic comments. Not that she thought it would work, and in particular not now, after hearing how he’d gone after Sykes. Still, she hugged her secret to her, managing not to break out in a wide smile.

“Elizabeth thinks I’ve lost my mind. She goes on and on about the importance of weaving your own cloth.” Alex made a face. Weaving was a skill that eluded her, just as spinning yarn was.

“Nay, she suspects it is me that’s gone soft in the head. She’s urged me to stop this wastrel behaviour in you; have you produce good homespun for us all.”

“I bartered for some of it.” Most of it, actually. Her embroidered smocks and shifts had been far more appreciated than she’d hoped for, and so her pouch of coins had remained virtually untouched. Once again, she had to stop herself from grinning, her secret bubbling inside of her, making her want to laugh out loud.

“I have the new serving wench below.” Matthew jerked his head in the direction of the door.

Alex got off her knees. “What’s her name?” she said as she followed him down the stairs.

“Agnes, and a sweet, soft-spoken lass she is.”

Agnes stood very alone in the yard, and Alex took a step back at the sight of her. “How old is she? She looks about fifteen.”

“Eighteen, she says, and she both writes and reads.”

“And her family?”

Matthew looked away. “It’s still the same sad story. The lass is from Ayrshire, and her family was fined from hearth and home on account of her father hiding a minister from the soldiers.”

“They split them up?”

“Her father died on the crossing, and so the rest of the family must work off his passage as well as their own. Her younger brother has been bonded out for fourteen years.”

“Fourteen years? But how old is he?”

“Twelve,” Agnes informed her in a high voice. “Wee Angus is but twelve.” She fretted with the worn fringes of her shawl and curtsied in greeting to Alex. “I don’t know where he is, and he is all I have.”

Alex wanted to tell this waif of a girl that they would somehow help her find her brother, but a look from Matthew silenced her. There were no promises they could make, and both of them knew that.

“They said he was a man, and he was sold off the day we were landed. I didn’t get to tell him goodbye or to remind him to say his prayers at night. He’ll be fine, won’t he?” Agnes asked with a pleading note. “He’s but a wee lad, and surely they will be kind to him.”

“Of course they will.” Alex looked at Matthew for help.

“He was crying when they led him off,” Agnes said. “Crying for me and Mam.”

“Is she here? Your mother?” Alex was willing to take all of their savings and at least reunite this girl with one family member.

“Nay, Mam lies in the kirkyard back home.” Agnes’ grey eyes softened, and she raised a shaking hand to push an escaped lock of fair hair back under her cap. She was quite pretty in an unobtrusive way, with a fair complexion and a full lower lip. A pity she was underweight and so dirty as to be grey, but none of those drawbacks were of a permanent nature.

Somehow Agnes’ sad little tale took a lot of the lustre out of Alex’s gift to Matthew. What had seemed a great idea yesterday seemed ostentatious today, and when a few minutes later a large stallion was led into the yard, Alex watched her husband apprehensively. His eyes flew to the dark bay, a covetous gleam in them as he inspected the deep chest, the white feathered fetlocks and the wide blaze down the horse’s face. He took a step towards it and turned to Alex with an expression on his face that made her insides double flip with happiness.

“It’s yours,” she said. “I thought it was about time you had a horse you want to name something again.”

“Mine?” Matthew was already running a practised hand down the dry legs.

“I saw you, the day before yesterday. You were all over him, and when you walked away I decided to buy him for you.”

His eyes flashed to hers. “That’s why you’ve been so thrifty in your purchases.”

Alex hitched her shoulders. “So what will you call him?” She came over to pat the horse on its withers.

“Moses.”

“Moses?” Alex laughed and took a step back. “Well, now that you mention it, he does look like an abandoned baby in a reed basket.”

*

Next morning, they were woken by Peter at dawn. “Come, you must come quick.”

“Has he been up all night?” Alex whispered to Matthew as they hurried after Peter in the direction of the docks.

“It would seem so.”

“Hmm.” The only 24/7 establishment in town was Mrs Malone’s. Alex sniffed when they caught up with him, and he smelled of smoke and beer and cheap perfume. Well, maybe Elizabeth didn’t mind.

Any further musing on this matter was cut short when they reached their destination: the shoreline of the Severn. There was a small group of men waiting, and Alex recognised three of them as being town elders. Bobbing in the water was a body, and even before they’d turned the corpse over, Alex knew who it was. Sykes streamed water from mouth and nose when they dragged him ashore, and planted in his chest was the handle of a knife.

“Not Barbados.” Alex looked down at the lifeless shape.

“No,” Matthew said, “but I can’t say I feel all that sorry for him, do you?”

“Not really,” Alex said.

“An admission of guilt of sorts,” Peter put in. “He didn’t kill himself, so someone wanted him silenced.”

“Aye well, no proof. And if I know Dominic, he was nowhere close to Sykes last night. Someone else did this at his behest.” Matthew kicked at the ground.

“Jones was at Mrs Malone’s,” Peter said. “All night.”

Matthew cursed, a long string of colourful expletives involving sheep, livers and the devil’s seed. Alex cast a glance at where Sykes was thrown on his back. Having Jones reappear in their lives was like pulling the scab off a healed wound and finding an abscess below, full of putrid flesh and pus. Dear old Sigmund would probably be all for this airing of old hates and remembered wrongs, but Alex wasn’t all that sure she agreed with Freud – some things were better left alone.

It was in a somewhat dampened mood that they made their way back to the inn. Halfway there, Matthew ran into an acquaintance, so Alex strolled the last hundred yards or so on her own. She nearly jumped out of her skin when someone grabbed her sleeve, and wheeled to stare into a pair of peppercorn eyes she had never thought to see again.

For a moment she stood there, dumbfounded. Mrs Parson, here! Still those exceptionally white teeth set in a face that was a wrinkled pink, still a plump and inviting chest covered by a pristine white collar over a dark bodice. In fact, she looked not a day older, despite it being almost ten years since Alex had seen her last.

With a shriek of joy, Alex hugged the older woman, dancing them round and round until Mrs Parson recovered sufficiently to dig her heels in, thereby bringing them to an abrupt stop.

“What are you doing here?” Alex couldn’t let go of Mrs Parson, had to keep hold of her hand. Shit, she was about to start crying.

“I could ask you the same, and here I was thinking you were back in Scotland.”

“But...” Alex looked at her. “I wrote you several letters, telling you the whole story.”

“You did? I didn’t get them.” Her eyes locked down on Alex’s belly and she grinned. “Breeding again?”

“No, just some excessive flatulence,” Alex said, making Mrs Parson laugh. “So why here?”

Mrs Parson shrugged. “Mr Parson passed away last summer.”

Alex waited for more, but apparently Mrs Parson considered that this one-liner clarified everything.

“And?” Alex prompted.

“I couldn’t stay in Virginia without him, no? On account of me not being Anglican.”

Alex sighed. How could religion cause such rifts?

“Anyhow, it wasn’t as if I wanted to stay, not when my sweet man was dead.” Mrs Parson threw Alex a brooding look, surprisingly sad for her. “I miss him, and it was hard to stay in a place where I always expected him to walk in through the door.” She slipped her arm in under Alex’s and rearranged her face into a smile. “And you? Why are you here?”

“We couldn’t stay, on account of us not being Anglican.”

“Aye?” Mrs Parson came to a standstill. “Nay, you’re jesting. Not in Scotland!”

“Well, that is something of an exaggeration, but it’s pretty tough to be an outspoken Presbyterian at present. The ministers have been thrown out of their livings; it’s forbidden to meet and hold services outside the approved church; and men are jailed and fined and even hanged for aiding and abetting an outlawed man of the kirk.“

“And yon Matthew would be one of those aiding and abetting, no?” Mrs Parson nodded sagely.

“Yes, he was.” And had they stayed, it would have been their family that was torn apart, the children sold into servitude, she no doubt as well, and her Matthew would have been hanged from the neck until he swung dead.

“Well, it didn’t happen, did it?“ Mrs Parson pointed out and went on to bombard Alex with questions, ten years of life recapitulated in five minutes.

“Do you have any reason to stay here in Providence?” Alex asked once she’d brought Mrs Parson up to date. She’d even told her about Magnus, receiving nothing but a mild headshake in response – it helped that Mrs Parson already knew the truth about Alex.

“Not really; very full of upright men with inflated views of themselves,” Mrs Parson muttered, making Alex burst out in laughter.

“So then you’ll come back with us,” Alex stated.

“With you? To where?”

“To Graham’s Garden, our home.”

“Graham’s Garden?” Mrs Parson chortled. “And what do you grow there, pray?”

“Oh, you know, silver bells and cockle shells.”

Mrs Parson gave her a sharp look. “You’re somewhat strange at times, Alex Graham.”

“Well, that’s nothing new, is it?“ Alex grinned and hugged her yet again.

Matthew was as delighted as Alex was, even if he refrained from hugging Mrs Parson, and he definitely didn’t break out in a spontaneous dance. But he beamed at her and supported Alex’s suggestion that Mrs Parson come home with them, overruling her weak objections by saying she was nearly family – had she not accompanied Alex over the seas all those years ago to buy him free from his unrighteous slavery?