A Newfound Land (21 page)

“Oh my God,” Alex groaned, “please don’t let this be true.” She wheeled and rushed in the direction of the carrying voice.

“You could have stopped her,” Alex said to Magnus once he’d stopped laughing.

“I could,” he said, and began to laugh again. “Her face, Alex, you should’ve seen her face!”

“Who? Sarah’s?” Alex asked with irritation.

“No, no. She looked the same angel she always does, no matter what dark thoughts might be lurking in her little devious brain, but Elizabeth… For a moment there, I thought she was going to die of an apoplectic attack.”

“It’s a trifle uncommon,” Matthew interjected, looking flustered. “A lass of four singing songs about virgins and fucking…” He shook his head at Alex. “How could you teach her something like that?”

“Me? I didn’t teach her that!” After all, she’d only sung it to Ian and Mark – well, perhaps to Jacob as well.

Chapter 25

Agnes inspected the curd, looking quite pleased.

“See how it has begun to crumble, mistress? This will make good cheese.”

Alex nipped off a piece. “Doesn’t taste much.”

“Not yet, but it will. My mam was a good cheese maker, and I learnt the making from her as a wee lass.” Agnes patted the two tightly packed wooden moulds and wrapped them in cloth. Alex went back to her churning, bringing the wooden plunger up and down, up and down, in a steady rhythmic movement.

“I can do that.” Jenny appeared in the doorway and smiled carefully at Alex.

“Be my guest.” Alex let go off the long wooden stave. Her hands were reddened and a long, narrow blister had formed along the heel of her left hand. “Well, two’s company, three’s a crowd.” She smiled at the two girls before leaving the dairy shed with a relieved sigh.

Jenny and she weren’t comfortable round one another; the daughter of the house relegated to being a newbie in a world ruled as firmly – but totally differently – by Alex at Graham’s Garden as Leslie’s Crossing was by Elizabeth.

At times, Alex would catch Jenny staring at her with something like awe in her face; at other times the expression was one of incredulity – like the other day, when Jenny realised that late supper was a meal consisting entirely of vegetables and nothing else. She had eyed the boiled new beets, carrots, potatoes and onions with open disappointment, and had watched with amazement when the Graham children ate platefuls, slathering them with butter and salt.

Thankfully, Jenny and Agnes seemed to get on well, even if Jenny found it strange to see Agnes included so naturally as a member of the household, eating all her meals with the family and generally treated as a relative rather than the servant she was.

“It would be a bit more difficult at your home,” Alex had said when Jenny commented on this. “You’re so many, and you have what? Four serving girls?”

“Five,” Jenny said with some pride. “And six field hands and five slaves.”

“Hmm,” Alex replied, non-committal.

“They’re blacks,” Jenny pointed out.

“Hmm,” Alex had repeated, conveying with precision just what a disgusting practice she thought slavery to be.

Alex was feeling cranky. She was tired after several nights of disrupted sleep thanks to David, her back hurt, her hands ached – a consequence of far too many hours in her garden – and, on top of it all, she had a huge pile of unwashed linen to take care of. Not today, she decided, no, today she’d take it easy for once; maybe throw herself on a bed and browse through a book or two, or why not watch something on the telly. She grinned at her own joke and made for the kitchen.

“No, no,” Magnus was saying when she stepped over the threshold, “don’t put it anywhere near your mouth. It burns like hell.” He looked up and smiled at his daughter. “True, right?” He held up a small, circular pepper, the size of a small plum.

“A chilli,” she said. “Well done,
Pappa
, you got it to grow!”

“Of course I did, I’m the botanist,” Magnus retorted, somewhat puffed with pride. For months he’d been pampering his pepper plant, driving Alex nuts by moving it so that it always stood in the window with the best light, and now the scraggly little plant had five undeveloped fruits, all of them still green, plus the three red ones that now lay in Magnus’ palm. “They’re not fully ripe, but at least I stopped little Miss Stickyfingers here from popping them in her mouth.”

“I’m not a Miss Stickyfingers,” Sarah protested.

“Yes, you are,” her grandfather said. “I’d told you not to touch it.”

Sarah turned cornflower blue eyes to her mother. “They fell off.”

“Sure they did,” Magnus snorted.

“Go and wash your hands,” Alex told her daughter before producing a cutting board and a knife, feeling quite reenergised. “Chicken, I think, and we’ll use chillies and garlic, and then we’ll have...” She frowned, trying to recall exactly what they had in their bare storing sheds.

“Rice,” Magnus said. “You still have some left.”

Alex nodded and concentrated on her chopping.

“Hot.” She raised wet eyes to her father. “Very, very hot!”

“I told you,” he said, uncorking the stone bottle that contained their precious olive oil. “You should be wearing gloves or something. These peppers are among the hottest in the world.”

“Too late, and besides, I think it would be difficult to do this with mittens.” But he was right; her skin was tingling, and her lips stung from where she’d inadvertently wiped at them with her hand. She transferred the chopped chillies to the mortar, added garlic, salt and a dollop of oil, and picked up her pestle, pounding it all into a fragrant, extremely spicy oil.

They were concentrated on their cooking when the dogs began to bark.

“What now?” Alex jerked so that the chilli oil ran over her hands.

“Alex! Hold still!” Magnus snapped.

“Sorry, sorry,” she muttered, squinting out of the window. “Bloody hell!” Without bothering to wash her hands, she strode outside. “What do you want?” she asked, planting herself before the rangy roan.

“Mrs Graham, as always a pleasure,” Philip Burley replied, doffing his hat in a courteous gesture.

“Not mutual, and no, don’t bother getting off your horse.”

Philip ignored her, dropping to land beside his mount. “Is Graham not here?”

“As you can see,” Alex replied, made uncomfortable by the way he was staring at her, the children, the buildings – everything. She threw a look at Burley’s companion, a middle-aged man that remained on his horse, returned her eyes to Philip, who was now far too close. Alex backed away. “I don’t want you here, so please leave.”

“I have a letter to deliver,” Philip Burley said, “to Mr Graham.”

“Then deliver it and be gone.” Alex held out her hand. Her cuticles were burning with the chilli, and she had to stop herself from putting her fingers in her mouth to cool them. Philip snickered; took yet another step towards her. This time she stood her ground, staring firmly into eyes that liquefied her guts.

“No dinner?” He handed her a small paper square that she tucked away.

“Nope. I don’t feed rapists – or assaulters.”

Philip laughed, straightened up and let his eyes travel the household. “Quite a few pretty wenches.” He nodded in the direction of Jenny and Agnes. “Maybe we should take them with us,” he commented to his companion, who grunted, eyes never leaving Agnes.

“Get out,” Alex spat. “Leave or—”

“Or what, Mrs Graham? Your husband and sons aren’t here, are they, so what can you do to stop us?” His face was inches from hers, his hand closed on her left arm in a way that had her skin shrinking away. “We could take you along as well.”

“You wish!” She clapped her oily, burning hand to his face and smeared his eyes, his nose, his mouth.

At first Burley just stood there, a sneer on his face. And then his eyes began to tear up; he dropped his hold on Alex’s arm and staggered back, knuckling at his eyes.

“Aagh! What have you done to me?”

“Chilli pepper. Now go, before I kick you in the balls.”

“Burley? Are you alright?” The companion rode his horse closer, his hand closing on the butt of his pistol.

“He will be,” Alex said, “but his eyes will burn like hell for a couple of hours – serve him right!”

“You will pay for this!” Burley scrubbed his sleeve over his face. “I can’t see! And my nose, it’s on fire!”

“What have you done? Have you hexed him?” the unknown man said, watching Burley stagger towards his horse.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a good cook, that’s all. Now, get off my land.”

As if to reinforce the threat, Magnus appeared at the kitchen door, one of Matthew’s cavalry pistols pointing at Burley, who was still cursing as he fumbled with his stirrup leathers.

“What took you so long?” Alex demanded once the two horses had dropped out of sight. She had to sit down, her knees morphing into quivering jelly.

“I couldn’t load it. Ruth here had to help me.” Magnus gave Alex an admiring look. “You were quite impressive.”

“Huh, somehow I don’t think that puts me at the top of Philip Burley’s Most Favourite People list, do you?”

*

Matthew listened in silence as Alex retold the events of the day, brows successively forming one dark line of impressive anger.

“The gall of him!” she finished. “To ride in here cool as a cucumber, and more or less threaten to abduct Agnes and Jenny. Who does he think he is?” She gnawed at her lip. “He scares me, and what if he’d decided to take them with him? What could I have done?”

“You stopped him this time,” Matthew said.

“Pure luck,” she muttered.

“Lass,” Matthew said, drawing her close enough that she could rest her head against his chest. “He wouldn’t do something like that. He was just trying to intimidate you.”

“He did.” She rubbed her cheek against the soft weave of his shirt. He put his arms around her, and they stood like that for some time. “What did the letter say?”

“Summons. I have to ride down to Providence for a meeting regarding a militia company.”

“Militia?” In Alex’s head swam images of men in combat boots and semi-automatics that chose to create enclaves where their word was law. “Why?”

“The Indians; the situation is set to explode, and so—”

“But not here, right?”

“We live under treaty with the Susquehannock.” Matthew kissed her brow. “It will be no great matter. Now, where’s my supper?”

*

The following morning, Matthew woke to find himself regarded by two light hazel eyes, copies of his own. On the other side of David, Alex slept on her back, snoring loudly. Her shift was damp with milk, their son was damp all over and, from the way he attacked Matthew’s proffered knuckle, very hungry. Matthew hefted him up and padded over to change him.

“He’s very well endowed,” he commented with a grin once he had Alex sitting up in bed nursing the wean.

“Maybe that’s why he eats like a horse.” She yawned, blinking at him from sleep-encrusted eyes. “Look what he’s done to me,” she complained, indicating her swollen breasts.

“Very nice,” Matthew replied, eyeing her bosom. He brushed at her free nipple and it stiffened immediately, a wet spot appearing on her shift. With a little chuckle he settled himself beside her, placing his hand on her thigh. Inch by inch, he moved his hand upwards, fingers caressing her warm, soft skin, while he amused himself by telling her what he was planning to do with her once the wean was fed, starting with a thorough inspection of her bosom.

“Matthew!” Alex nodded at their son.

“Dead to the world.” Matthew lifted David out of her arms. “And even if he weren’t, he doesn’t understand, does he?“ He placed the wean in his cradle and returned to the bed. “So beautiful,” he said, tugging at her hair, her lacings. The shift was discarded, her hair lay unbound, a mass of curls that decorated their pillows. “So pink, so round, so strong,” he went on, inspecting in turn her breasts, her arse, her thighs. She reclined against the pillows, fluttered her lashes at him and coyly crossed her legs. “That doesn’t work,” he laughed, clambering over her to kiss her on the mouth. “We both know you’re quite the wanton.”

“No, I’m not,” she protested, was kissed, and kissed, and kissed. “Well,” she murmured, licking her lips, “maybe I am – a little.”

“A lot,” he whispered in her ear. “And I can prove it to you.”

“Really? I don’t think so.”

“No?”

He began by kissing her ankles. Her knees, her thighs, her pubic mound, her navel, her breasts…

“You’re going the wrong way.” She laughed when he nuzzled her throat. He kissed her silent. Her tongue darted out to meet his; he bit down ever so gently on her lower lip. His fingers threaded their way through her bush, slid in to touch her moist centre.

“Ah,” she groaned, her hips shifting from side to side. “Oh,” she added, and her thighs widened, her hands reached for him, but he took hold of her wrists, shaking his head.

“Lie still,” he murmured.

“Matthew,” she groaned, raising her hips off the bed.

“Lie still, wife.” He stilled his fingers.

“Tease,” she whispered.

“And I haven’t even begun yet,” he said, smiling wickedly.

“You sleep,” he told her a while later. David was fast asleep in his cradle. Matthew was still in only his shirt, and Alex was a jumble of rosy limbs and wild hair. She made a happy sound and burrowed into their pillows. He covered her with a sheet before leaving the room.

*

“Except for the few times when I’ve been ill, maybe four or five times all in all,” Alex replied to Magnus’ question later. She was still in her shift, despite it being almost noon, and David was back in her arms to eat. “There’s too much to do, and with the children and Matthew to feed, the hens and the pigs to tend, the garden to take care of, well, time just flies...”

“So, in fifteen years five lie-ins.“ Magnus shook his head. “What a life of drudgery.”

“At times.” Alex inspected the heel of her stocking; yet another hole to darn. “But now I have a daughter-in-law to help, and Jenny’s a competent young woman.” As if on cue Jenny appeared at the kitchen door.

“You’d best get dressed, Mother Alex. My parents and my uncle have just ridden in.”

“Shit,” Alex muttered and handed David to Magnus. “If she sees me like this, Elizabeth will think me even more of a slothful wife than she already does.”

They were still outside when Alex joined them, the men speaking in low, hushed voices, with Elizabeth making the odd comment.

“What?” Alex went to stand by her husband.

“Indians, my dear.” Peter shook his head so that his fair locks stood in a parody of a lion’s mane around him.

“Oh, that,” Alex sighed, “all that militia nonsense.”

“Nonsense? How nonsense? They’re attacking defenceless settlers in the northern part of Virginia as we speak.” Peter looked quite upset, with Elizabeth nodding vigorously beside him.

“Not our business, is it?” Alex shrugged. “And the question is why the Indians are attacking.”

“Aye,” Matthew put in, “one could argue they are but retaliating.”

“The Powhatan and the Nanticoke have transgressed against us, and then there was that group of Susquehannock who attempted to abduct those two wives last year.” Peter frowned.