A Newfound Land (16 page)

“Please,” she sobbed, “don’t let them take her. What will happen to her family without her? Look at him! He’s incapable, entirely dependent on her.”

“She killed a man, lass. And, even worse, it is because of her perjury that Lizzie Leslie lies permanently damaged. I don’t want to intercede, because all I can think of is what if it had been our Ruth? Or you?”

“But her boys – and the baby!”

“She won’t hang until the baby is born,” Peter said. “And maybe she won’t hang at all.”

“Don’t lie to me, Peter Leslie,” Alex snivelled. “We both know how this will end.”

*

“What will you do?” Alex asked the stunned Henry Walton once the Leslie brothers had ridden off with a screaming Kristin. The air still reverberated with her panicked cries for Per, Erik, Johan.

“Do?” He laughed hollowly. “I have no idea.” He was holding his youngest boy in his arms and brushed his lips over the sweaty little head. “I’ll never survive here.” Henry threw a look of pure desperation at the surrounding forest. “I have no homesteading skills.” He set his son down on his feet and collapsed to sit on the door stoop.

“So what are your skills?” Alex asked.

“I’m a glazier, not a profession much in demand here.”

“No, not here, but maybe if you go to Boston or to Jamestown?”

“And how am I to get there, Mrs Graham? Beg passage on a ship?” He attempted a slight smile, failing miserably, and instead began to cry, hiding his face in his hands. “Jesus,” he wept, “my Kristin! My sweetest wife...”

Alex had no idea what to do. She placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

“I buried him some way into the woods,” Matthew said to Henry, setting the shovel against the cabin wall. Henry nodded a thank you and went back to studying his hands. Alex tugged at Matthew’s sleeve and pulled him out of earshot.

“We can’t leave him here. I don’t think he’d even manage feeding them tonight.”

Matthew looked over to where Henry was sitting, his three boys hovering around him.

“I suppose they can stay with us until he gets his feet back under him.” He exhaled loudly, sending a plume of steam into the cold December air. “I’ll go and saddle up the horses and feed the other beasts.”

Chapter 18

It had been a strange Christmas, Alex mused as she took a long walk a couple of days before New Year’s Eve, wandering in the woods that surrounded her home. The Waltons had moved in and lived like silent wraiths in the midst of the loud Graham family, both husband and sons numbed by the loss of Kristin.

On Christmas Day itself, Matthew, herself and their family had ridden over to the Leslies, leaving a stubborn Henry and his sons behind. He refused to set foot on Leslie land, and in retrospect that had probably been wise, because the Leslie household was still reeling after the attack on Lizzie. And Lizzie herself... Alex’s heart twisted into a bundle of pain when she recalled the blank look in the young girl’s eyes. According to Mrs Parson, the damage was so severe it was doubtful if she’d ever be able to walk without pain, let alone take a husband to bed.

But foremost in Alex’s mind was the tender scene she had stumbled on by accident late on Christmas Day. Despite the cold and the dark, Alex had chosen to slip out to the privy instead of using the chamber pot, and as she was coming back across the Leslie yard she had heard Ian’s voice, coming from the direction of the dairy shed. She’d been torn between curiosity and the need to respect his privacy – after all, she didn’t want to intrude as he romanced one of the maids – but curiosity had won out, and she’d sneaked closer to where weak candlelight escaped from a crack along the door only to bite back a surprised gasp. There, on the work table, Jenny Leslie had been sitting, her eyes red with crying, and leaning against the table, one hand on her shaking shoulder, was Ian, now talking in a voice so low Alex hadn’t been able to overhear a thing. Since they got home, Alex had been dropping heavy-handed hints to Ian, hoping he would tell her why Jenny had been crying, but so far nothing.

*

She was so deep in her own thoughts she didn’t notice Matthew until he appeared before her, blocking her way.

“Hi.” She smiled, slipping her mittened hand into his.

“Good walk?”

She nodded. “It’s a relief just to get away. That Johan has the most piercing voice I’ve ever heard. It’s like having a whistle screeching you in the ear all day.” The little boy kept up a constant, plaintive
Mamma
, tearing not only at Alex’s auditory nerves but also at her heart.

“Aye, but they’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

“They will?”

“He has to be in Providence for the trial,” Matthew said. “The summons came today – with an escort. And he has sold the land. He has no plans to return, with or without his wife.”

“Without, in all probability.” Alex sighed deeply. “Has she had the baby, do you think?”

“I don’t know. Henry said it was due in early January, but he’s had no word – well, how could he? I bought the land from him – I gave him a good price for it.” He had used two of the little ingots Magnus had given him, he told her, and now he had a further five hundred acres of land, enough for a separate living for one of their sons.

“Do you think Ian or Mark would want to live there?” Not that she was superstitious, but Lars had the makings of a scary and persistent ghost.

“Why not? I dragged the body a sizeable distance into the woods and buried him deep.”

“Hmm,” Alex said.

*

It was bitterly cold when Henry Walton rode off next morning with his youngest son before him and his two eldest perched atop the pack horse, all four so thickly bundled in shawls that only their noses and eyes were visible. They’d said their goodbyes earlier, and now Henry raised his hand in a salute and clucked his horse into a walk, tugging at the leading rein to start the pack horse. The two escorts fell in behind them, and Matthew stood with his arm around Alex and watched them out of sight before hurrying them both back into the warmth of their home.

“Do you know what he plans to do?” Magnus asked Matthew.

“Nay, not as such, but I reckon he’ll leave the colony.”

“But first he has to stay and witness his wife’s hanging,” Magnus said, sounding disgusted.

Matthew raised his brows. “It’s the least he can do for her. As she steps onto the scaffold, she’ll have him to lock her eyes on.”

“Will it help?” Magnus asked scathingly.

“I think it does,” Alex replied. “That way she doesn’t die alone.”

“Whoopee,” Magnus muttered.

*

Alex had noticed for some days that Mark was preoccupied – ever since their Christmas visit at the Leslies, he’d been a distant version of his normal self – and when he once again shook his head at Jacob’s invitation to join him for a game of chess, Alex decided it was time for a little heart-to-heart.

“What’s the matter?” She sat down beside Mark and gave him a quick hug.

He leaned his head against her. “Naomi says how her father has spoken to her of her future husband, and I don’t want her to leave.”

“But that’s not for years and years. She’s only twelve, right?”

He buried his face against her. “You don’t understand. I want her to be my wife.”

Alex was so astounded she didn’t know what to say. Instead, she just held him, wondering if the bubble of laughter that was crawling up her throat would seriously wound his feelings or not. Probably, she decided, and chucked him under the chin to look him in the eyes.

“You’re children; neither of you should even be thinking of marriage.”

“Naomi’s father does. All his lasses have been contracted for marriage before they were fifteen, and now with Lizzie...” Mark cleared his throat and twisted out of her hold. “Well, now that she can no longer uphold the contract, Mr Leslie is planning on offering Naomi instead.” He made a small, despairing sound. “And he’s already twenty, Mama. He and Lizzie were to wed next autumn.”

“So what do you want us to do?”

He flushed a dark red. “Speak to Mr Leslie. I would that Da speaks on my behalf for Naomi.”

“But you’re too young! You might meet the love of your life five years from now, or in ten years or—”

“Or mayhap I’ve already met her,” he said, looking so much like his father that it made her heart sing inside.

“What does she think?” Alex prevaricated.

In response, Mark opened his fisted hand and showed her a little heart made of braided hair the colour of rich peat. “She gave it to me for Christmas.”

“And what did you give her?” Alex stroked his downy cheek.

“I kissed her,” he whispered, “on the mouth.”

Much too serious, far too soon, Alex thought, but promised she would talk to Matthew about it anyway.

“Naomi, aye?” Matthew laughed. “He has good taste, the lad does. The lass is pretty to look at, taking after her mother more than her father.”

“Thank heavens for that,” Alex muttered, “and, even better, thank heavens Elizabeth isn’t somewhere in her bloodstream. So what will you do?”

“Talk to Thomas, and if he’s willing we’ll draw up contracts.”

“Now?” Alex shook her head. “But they’re still so young! What if they change their minds?”

“We cross one bridge at a time.” Matthew smiled and tweaked her cheek.

“Absolutely incredible,” she said to herself as she made for the kitchen. “He’s not quite thirteen, and already formally betrothed.” Well, not yet, not until the deeds were signed, but still. She came to a halt in the doorway. Magnus was preparing New Year’s dinner, looking harried. His eyes wandered from the baking oven to the pot in which he was reducing cider and broth to a sticky, heavy sauce that had the children wandering in and out of the kitchen with a glazed look of expectation on their faces.

“Need help?” she asked.

“No way.” He threw her a quick look. “All I need is peace and quiet, okay?” He made a shooing motion at Sarah and Ruth. “Master chef at work here, people.” With a stern look Alex emptied the kitchen of her children, promising she’d help him lay the table later.

It was a pleasant evening, culminating around midnight when Magnus and Alex walked out into the yard and stood staring up at the overcast sky.

“Not a single star,” Alex grumbled. “Not fair.”

“Oh, come on, Alex, use your imagination.” Magnus pointed at a grey cloud. “There, see? The North Star, just at the end of the handle on the Ursa Minor.”

“Yes,” Alex said, because suddenly she could see a star that wasn’t there, remembering all those evenings in her modern life when Magnus and she had stood in their garden seeing stars and constellations that were hidden behind veils of clouds.

“
Gott Nytt År,
” she said to her father, and for the first time in fifteen years she could actually hug him and hear him wish her a Happy New Year in return.

*

“You haven’t wished me a proper Happy New Year,” Matthew said once they were in bed. Alex laughed and shifted towards him with the gracefulness of a beached whale.

“Nor have you,” she told him, raising her face with pouting lips to his. He kissed her, tasting her deeply. “More,” she said when he broke off to breathe.

He chuckled and complied, his mouth covering hers in a progression of kisses that went from soft and teasing to urgent and demanding, leaving them both gasping for breath. He undid her shift, helped her out of it and let his hands travel slowly over her skin.

“You too.” Her fingers tugged at his shirt. “All naked before me.”

The shirt came off, and her hands touched him across his scarred back, traced the sword slashes that covered his front and side and slid down to fondle him.

“Hello there,” she murmured. “Long time no see, hey?”

“What do you mean by that?” Matthew sounded affronted. “Last time was at most three days ago.”

“Precisely,” Alex smiled, “ages ago.”

“You’re insatiable, woman,” he sighed, nibbling at her earlobe. “You must take into account my advanced age.”

“Advanced age?” Alex chortled. “Oh yes, I forget; soon forty-three and thereby per definition almost dead.”

“Dead? I think not.” His muscles bunched under her hands, strong arms lifted her this way and that, supple fingers dancing down her side in a way that made her squirm and twist. His mouth; soft and warm, it planted a series of wet love bites along the back of her neck that sent shivers down her spine and made her scalp prickle. She half rose on her knees in invitation, because she wanted him, needed him.

“Not yet,” he murmured against her nape. He rolled her over to lie on her back, his exhalations tickling their way down her front as he shifted to lie between her legs.

“I suppose that’s why older women tend to like younger men,” she said, her hands fluttering around his head. “The stamina thing...” She inhaled noisily when his tongue found her cleft.

“I’ll give you for stamina,” he growled. “I’ll have you taking it back before I’m done with you.”

“Really?”

“Aye, really.”

“I take it back,” she said much later, her fingers playing with his chest hair. “All I ever insinuated about your stamina, I take back.” She yawned and nestled closer.

He chuckled. “I’m not done with you yet.”

“I’m pregnant,” she groaned, “hugely pregnant.”

“And juicy with it.” It was quiet for some time, the bed creaking as they moved together.

“Oh God, I love you, Matthew Graham,” Alex whispered into the predawn grey.

“And I you, my bonny Alex,” he whispered back.

Chapter 19

“Why now? Why dump snow on us now, in February?” Alex sat down as close as she could to the kitchen hearth and looked out at where her children were playing in the snow. “They’re going to come inside in less than an hour, drenched and cold,” she said to Magnus.

He grunted a reply, stirring in the dollop of honey he’d added to his tea – real tea, for a change. His head was aching, an all too familiar throbbing just behind his left eye, and he was trying to pretend he didn’t feel anything, that this was just an ordinary headache that would go away with a mug or two of willow bark tea.

“What’s the matter?” Alex’s voice startled him.

“Just a headache.” He sneezed, sneezed again – violently – and pulled out his handkerchief to blow his nose. A cold, he thought with relief, just an ordinary cold.

It wasn’t just a cold, it was the grandmother of all colds, Magnus grumbled to Mrs Parson a week later. He swallowed tentatively. The acute discomfort was waning, and at least he was no longer feverish.

He sniffed at the steaming mug she extended to him. “What’s this?”

“Ginger and honey.” She shook out his blankets, plumped up his pillows and told him to remain in bed at least one more day.

“And the others?” Magnus asked. The house was eerily quiet.

“Sick, most of them.” Mrs Parson drew her brows together in a frown and shook her head. “The youngest lad’s in a right bad way, and so is Matthew.”

“And Alex?”

“Coping. There’s not much else to do, aye?”

*

“Here.” Alex helped Matthew sit up in bed and handed him a cup of willow bark tea. He looked awful, his normally bright hair dulled into a tangled mess where she saw far more grey than she usually did. His nose was red and chafed after three days of intense nose blowing, and his eyes were irritated slits in his pale, unshaven face. The stubble was also grey, grey with patches of his original dark chestnut.

She set a bowl of hot water on a stool, dipped a cloth in it and washed his face and hands. He shivered when the cool air hit his damp skin, tried to croak a thank you and slid back down into the cover of his quilts. Her hand rested for an instant on his brow. Still hot, as was his cheek, his neck. Hot and yet so cold, constant shivers racking him, no matter that she’d piled their combined bedclothes over him. He hadn’t eaten for days, complaining that his throat hurt when he swallowed, and already flesh was melting off him, leaving him gaunt and hollow-cheeked. She gave him one last pat and made as if to stand.

“Stay,” he whispered, his hand coming up to encircle her wrist. “Please sit with me for a while.” She sat down beside him and held his hand until he was fast asleep.

*

“It’s as if he’s burning up from the inside,” she said some hours later to Mrs Parson. She was torn in two between her man and her son, but at present it was Matthew’s state of health that most worried her. Children were prone to high fevers, but this… She stroked his damp hair and pressed a soft kiss on his forehead.

“Aye,” Mrs Parson sighed, wringing out a cloth and patting at Matthew’s face, his neck and the uppermost part of his chest.

“What…” No. Alex swallowed back on the rest of the words and crossed her fingers. Of course he wouldn’t die; this was just some sort of cold.

Mrs Parson clasped Alex’s hand and gave it a little shake. “He’s a strong man,” she said, picked up the bowl and left.

Strong? At present he looked wasted, and his sleep was anything but restful, him tossing like mad in between shivering like a naked man in an Arctic gale.

For two days straight, Alex sat by Matthew’s bedside, restricting her time away from him to her quick visits to Daniel. She washed his face, she spoon-fed him hot broths, she forced him awake every four hours or so to have him swallow down yet another mug of useless willow bark. She helped him with the chamber pot, she changed his shirt, the sheets, and when his teeth wouldn’t stop chattering no matter how many quilts she covered him with, she undressed and slipped in to lie beside him, trying as well as she could to hold him close.

By the third day she was so tired she couldn’t think straight. Her man continued to sweat and toss, her son was just as ill, a small cocooned bundle that moaned and coughed. She didn’t know what to do. At one point she escaped to the privy and sat there for some minutes and wept, huge loud sobs as she prayed and prayed to God to keep them safe, her man and her son both.

“Alex, you need to sleep,” Magnus admonished her when she stumbled back inside.

“Not now. I have to…” She hesitated by the door to the boys’ room where Daniel was presently sleeping alone. From her bedroom came Matthew’s hoarse voice, calling for her, and she stood like the proverbial donkey, not sure who to go to.

“You take care of Matthew,
hjärtat
,” Magnus said. “I’ll be here for Daniel.”

Just before dawn on the fifth day, Alex woke from a heavy if uncomfortable sleep when Matthew stroked her head. She sat up, startled.

“Hi,” he croaked, and his eyes were no longer bright with fever.

“Hi,” she whispered back, lifting two fingers to his cracked lips.

“Thirsty,” he muttered, closing his eyes. “So thirsty…”

Alex rose to her feet and hurried off to fetch him something to drink.

“I’ll do that,” Mrs Parson said. “You’d best go and see to Daniel.” She took the mug from Alex and gave her a gentle shove.

“He’s not better?” Alex asked, feeling the relief she’d felt at Matthew’s lucid look evaporate, leaving her guts as tightly clenched as they’d been for the last week or so.

“Go see your laddie,” was all Mrs Parson said.

*

The door creaked open, and Alex slipped inside, all huge eyes and a gigantic belly. Magnus threw his daughter a concerned look. She should be resting – and eating – instead she was doing 24/7 nurse duty.

“How is he?” she asked, coming over to join him by the bed.

“Bad,” Magnus sighed. “This isn’t just a cold; look at the rash.” Daniel exhaled, sending a gust of putrid air in the direction of Magnus. “Phew,” he said, using both hands to open the boy’s mouth. “Strep throat,” he concluded after his inspection.

“How would you know?”

“I had it one too many times as a boy.” Magnus ran a finger over the exposed, overheated skin of Daniel’s chest. “Scarlet fever, I think. After all, it’s the same bacteria.”

“Scarlet fever?” Alex smoothed Daniel’s hair down to lie flat and drew the blankets high around him. “But that’s not dangerous, is it?”

“I don’t know. How’s Matthew?”

Alex gnawed at her lip and got up from her knees, gripping his arm so as not to overbalance. “Better today.” She made a face at the loud argument erupting from the girls’ room. “Some are much better,” she said, looking down at Daniel. “He’ll be okay, right? You don’t die of something like this, do you?”

Not in our time, you don’t, Magnus thought, but in this day and age… But he chose not to say anything, concerned by her apparent exhaustion, and propelled her in the direction of the door.

“Sleep. I’ll sit with Daniel.”

“Promise?” Her voice wobbled.

“Cross my heart. I won’t move until you’re back.”

“Not good,” Mrs Parson said a few hours later, lifting Daniel’s shirt out of the way. The boy was unresponsive, burning with fever, and every time he swallowed he grimaced in his sleep.

“What do we do?” Magnus felt helpless; no medicine, no doctors.

“Garlic for the throat, willow bark tea for the fever, bee balm for his skin, and then it is best we pray.”

Magnus shook his head at these futile measures.

“Pray?” Matthew sounded horribly hoarse, but waved away Mrs Parson’s concerned exclamations along the lines that he was too ill to be up and about. “Why pray?” He shuffled across the room and sank down on the stool Magnus had vacated. “Measles?” he frowned, squinting down at the bright patches of rash.

“No,” Alex said from the doorway. “They’ve had the measles – all of them.” She coughed, muffling the sound against her sleeve, and shook her head at Magnus when he started towards her. She sank down on Daniel’s bed, one hand resting on the narrow little back.

“You should be in bed,” she said to Matthew. He ignored her, eyes on his fidgeting, burning son.

“How long? How many days has he been this ill?”

“A week?” Magnus said, looking at Mrs Parson for confirmation.

“Something like that,” Mrs Parson said. “It’ll have to break soon,” she added, and Alex uttered a strangled sound that tore at Magnus’ heart.

For all that both Magnus and Mrs Parson tried to wheedle Matthew and Alex to bed, neither of them budged, sitting beside their son through the afternoon and evening. Finally, Magnus gave up and, after a mumbled goodnight, went in search of his bed.

*

“Go to bed, lass,” Matthew said. It was midnight or thereabouts, he reckoned.

“I can’t. How can I, if he suddenly calls for me?” They were sitting close together on the floor, leaning back against the wall.

“You’ve been on your feet constantly for the last weeks, minding us.” Matthew raised his hand to caress her cheek. So wan, he noted, so totally bleached of colour.

“What if he dies,” she groaned, turning to hide her face against his shirt.

“There’s not much we can do,” Matthew said, pressing her head to him. “All we can do is put our trust in God.”

She began to cry. “Please don’t let him die, God, please don’t! He’s going to be a minister when he grows up, and you must like that.”

Aye, Matthew prayed silently, please let him live – dear Lord, please accept him as yours and spare my lad.

Somewhere in the wee hours they must have fallen asleep, because Matthew woke with a start when Mrs Parson entered the room, bringing bright daylight in her wake. Alex was reclining against his chest, a damp, heavy warmth that grumbled when he shifted under her. Matthew coughed, tried to pull in some air through his congested nose, and coughed some more. By the bed, Mrs Parson had folded back the sheet and was studying Daniel who, to Matthew’s worried eyes, lay very still.

“Is he…?” A wave of ice washed through him.

Mrs Parson threw him an encouraging smile. “The fever is down, and the rash is fading. The laddie will be fine.”

Matthew slumped against the wall, closed his eyes and silently thanked the Lord.

Mrs Parson nodded in the direction of Alex. “But you must get her to bed and stay there with her.” She put the back of her hand against his cheek and nodded. “You’re still feverish.”

“So is she,” Matthew croaked, trying to lubricate his dry mouth.

Mrs Parson moved her hand and frowned. “Aye, she is. Let us hope the wean stays where it is for now.”

“Where he is,” Matthew corrected, caressing Alex’s belly. “And he will; he’s a good lad.” The responding kick was impressive.

“Sure he is,” Alex mumbled without opening her eyes. “If you ask me it’s a mule in there, not a child.” She struggled to her knees. “Daniel?”

“Asleep.” Mrs Parson smiled. Alex clasped her hands together and uttered a string of thank yous.

“Bed.” Matthew heaved Alex off her knees.

She tottered against him. “Yes,” she yawned, “I’m so tired, and…” She gasped, clutching at her belly. “Not yet. Be a good lad and mind your father, okay?”

*

“All of them have biblical names.” Magnus drew the blanket up around his latest grandson’s head and handed him back to his mother. “David...”He rolled the name over his tongue. “David Andrew Graham, born on the last day of February in Our Lord’s year 1673.” Three hundred years before his mother was born, Magnus shuddered inside. He saw the same thought flash through Alex’s eyes and smiled slightly. “So why all these Bible names?”

“Ask their father,” Alex replied, nuzzling her baby boy. “He names them.”

She coughed and grimaced. She was still not fully recovered from her own bout of whatever it was they’d had, and to Magnus’ amusement, Matthew was like a protective hawk, flying in her direction if she as much as cleared her throat.

“They’re fortunate in each other,” Mrs Parson said to Magnus as they watched Matthew crouch by Alex’s chair.

“Yes.” Magnus batted down the spikes of jealousy he always felt when he watched his daughter with her husband. Instead, he beckoned Daniel over and lifted the boy onto his lap. “How’s my Viking today?”

“Tired.” Daniel yawned. “And my head hurts something frightful.”

So does mine, Magnus thought, God help me, so does mine. He clutched the skinny boy to his chest and buried his nose in the thick, dark hair. It was back: deep in the labyrinth swirls of his brain, the cancer was back. For now it was just flexing itself, sending splinters of pain from behind his left ear towards his frontal lobes, but soon... Magnus swallowed and closed his eyes.