A Newfound Land (19 page)

Mercedes laughed. “I liked that ending,” she said, and faded away.

Chapter 23

“I hear you knew her.”

Alex jumped at the sound of the voice. “I did, and I’m sorry she’s dead.”

Kate Jones looked at the single daisy Alex had placed on the plain headstone just outside the graveyard walls.

“She was a murderess.”

Alex hefted David close. “She was a mother of four, and the man she killed deserved to die.”

Kate made a disinterested gesture. “She died well.”

“Do you know if the baby was a girl or a boy?” Alex asked as they walked towards the meetinghouse.

“No, but the husband left on the first boat out – alone.”

“Alone?” Alex came to a standstill. “But his boys!”

“They’re still here, boarded out with good families.” Kate adjusted her straw hat, tipping the brim so that it left her whole face in shadow. In dark green, the bodice piped with red braid and a shawl as gaudy as a peacock’s tail, Kate looked quite flashy – and rich. “It was for the best. That man had enough problems taking care of himself – he couldn’t have raised those boys on his own.”

Alex agreed, but in her head she could see a weeping Kristin raging at having her precious boys raised by others than her and their father, and she thought with some disdain that Henry had taken the easy way out.

Their conversation was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a young man, who narrowly avoided barging into Alex.

“Mrs Graham.” The man swept off his hat, a lock of long black hair falling forward over his brow.

With an effort, Alex forced a squeak back down her throat. Him! Here!

He smiled, looking quite charming in a rough sort of way – charming and lethal, given the flinty grey of his eyes. He kept on staring, light eyes inspecting her minutely, and Alex was grateful for Kate’s presence beside her.

“Mr Burley, is it not?” she succeeded in saying.

He bowed. “I’m flattered that you remember me, Mrs Graham – and may I say just how becoming that shade of green is on you, Mrs Jones.” With a little nod he hurried off in the general direction of the slave pens.

“You know him?” Kate said.

“Not really,” Alex replied, clearing her throat. “All I know is his name.” And that he was an immoral son of a bitch who thought nothing of enslaving Indian women and raping them. “I’m not sure I want to know him.”

“No, that is for the best. Not a nice man, Philip Burley, and unfortunately he has three brothers just like him. A sword for hire, a slave trader of sorts, and a friend of Dominic’s.”

“Oh.” Alex’s guts griped in warning.

They continued their interrupted walk. Alex wasn’t comfortable walking side by side with Kate, but Kate seemed delighted with this new companion and leeched on, strolling along as Alex did her shopping.

“I can hold him for you if you like,” she offered, indicating David, who lay fast asleep in the shawl.

“I’m fine.” Alex went back to her list: spices, limes, linseed, poppy heads... She heard Kate hiss and turned in time to see Jones’ little piece on the side disappear into an opening between two houses opposite.

“Whore!” Kate said. “Curse him for making a spectacle of us both.”

Alex wasn’t sure as to what the correct reaction to this was: commiserate or pretend she hadn’t heard?

Kate was still staring at the spot where the young woman had ducked out of sight. “It isn’t that he takes her to bed; God knows I have no problem with lying alone and unmolested at night. It’s that he sets her up, flaunts her in front of all his male companions as if saying look at me, still virile enough to satisfy this young, opulent woman. Fool! She laughs behind his back, disparages his performance but allows him to shower her with gifts.”

“A sugar daddy,” Alex said. “You know, an older man who buys the affection of a younger woman.”

Kate gave an abrupt laugh. “Sugar daddy? Yes, that suits.”

“So what will you do?”

“Do? There’s nothing I can do, is there? He’s a man, and his weaknesses must be forgiven him.”

Given her tone, Alex concluded that Dominic Jones would receive a glacial welcome should he find his way back to his marital bed.

Kate went on to change the subject, and over the coming half-hour, Alex found herself beginning to like this woman, who was observant and sharp-tongued and knew more or less everything about everybody. She reduced Alex to helpless fits of laughter when she mimicked Mr Farrell in the pulpit on a Sunday, from the way he would smooth his hand over his head to the way his voice squeaked up into the higher registers every time he said
Our Lord
– which apparently was often.

“He stands there and speak of brotherly love, of how God wishes us to help the weak among us, and come Monday he goes back to ousting people from home and land on account of unpaid rents.” She wrinkled her nose. “A man given to hypocrisy is Mr Farrell, and ruthless where his property is concerned.”

“Including his slaves?”

“Slaves?” For a moment, Kate looked confused. “Oh, the blacks! I suppose he uses them hard. Tobacco is a harsh crop to raise.”

“Yes, and you’d know – first-hand.”

Kate eyed her cautiously. “No one here knows of my…err…blemished past and I’d like it to remain that way.”

Alex supposed it would be difficult to live down in the hoity-toity society of Providence; three years as an indentured servant on a Virginia plantation, years that ended the day Jones took a fancy to her, bedded her and led her off to marry him when her belly began to expand.

Kate shrugged. She rarely thought about it, she said, having banished the memories of those years to a dark corner of her mind. Hard work, casual abuse, and one day she ended up the property of Mr Fairfax, set to work in the tobacco fields.

“I wasn’t quite as fresh and pretty as when I first landed,” Kate explained wryly. And then Matthew Graham had arrived on the plantation, and long before he’d noticed her, she’d noticed him, how hard he struggled to retain some element of dignity in this new world of his. A beautiful man, she said with a little smile, even damaged and half-starved. Kate sighed, her eyes acquiring a wet sheen.

“He was mine long before he was yours,” Alex said with an edge, recalling just how much she should dislike this woman with her thick, golden hair, her dark eyes and a soft mouth that had far too intimate a knowledge of her Matthew.

“Mine?” Kate shook her head. “He was never mine. He never promised me anything, because all he ever talked about was how you would come; soon you’d come and save him.” She fell silent and looked off in the direction of the sea. “And you did, didn’t you? I stood in the door to the kitchen and saw him stumble towards you, and you picked up your skirts and flew in his direction. It was perhaps the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen...” She wiped at her eyes and gave Alex a watery smile. “It was hope running across that dusty yard; hope and love and faith.”

This was getting far too emotional. With a rueful gesture at David, Alex explained she had to be getting back to the inn to feed him. Kate nodded and fell into step, offering to carry Alex’s overloaded basket. They had to stop, crowded back against a wall, when a slow train of people and horses headed by a team of oxen hitched to a flatbed cart made its way towards the port area.

“Who are they?” Alex stared at the huddled women on the oxcart.

“Refugees,” Kate said. “They’ve been coming for some weeks now from Virginia.”

“Refugees?”

“Yes, there’s unrest there. A treaty line with the Powhatan has been violated, and the settlers are being pushed by force back across the border. So they come back here from where they once started out, and they have nothing but the clothes on their backs. Some return widows – some don’t return at all. There’s angry talk among the men, about how it’s time the Indians be taught a lesson.”

“But if it’s their land…”

To Alex’s surprise, Kate nodded in agreement. “All of it is theirs; all of it we want to take from them.”

“All of it we will take from them,” Alex said in an undertone, studying the blank faces of the white women in front of her.

“It was nice talking to you,” Kate said as they bade each other farewell. “It’s rare to find someone with whom to share your thoughts.”

“Likewise. Not that I want to like you, but it seems I do.”

Kate laughed. “I can assure you that sentiment is mutual, Alex Graham.” She pecked Alex on her cheek and swivelled on her toes, walking off in the direction of the harbour.

*

Matthew sat back. “It’s not our concern.”

“No, not for now,” Mr Farrell said, “but it might be.”

“Why would it? We’re not breaking any treaties with our Indians, are we?” Matthew said.

“Commercial interests,” Dominic Jones drawled, sitting down to join the group of men. He nodded in greeting to all of them but Matthew. “But maybe you wouldn’t understand the concept, Mr Graham, seeing as you don’t have any, do you?”

“Aye, I do, but I keep my business transactions above board, Mr Jones. That might be a novel concept for you.”

Jones flushed, going an unhealthy pink. “What is it you’re insinuating, Mr Graham?”

“You know, Mr Jones, don’t you? And however impolite I might seem in saying so, this is a meeting to which you’re not invited, so I’d appreciate if you left us to it.”

“Really!” Jones glared at them. “I’m a prominent member of this town, am I not?”

“Mayhap,” Matthew said, “but we’re discussing kirk matters, and you’re not an elder.”

“I will be,” Dominic Jones said.

“I think not,” Minister Walker put in. “Not while you’re living with that concubine of yours.”

“Morals, Jones,” Matthew sighed. “Now that is an entirely incomprehensible notion, is it not?”

“You shouldn’t goad him like that,” Minister Walker chided once a flustered Jones had left them. “It doesn’t do to have someone like Mr Jones as your enemy.”

“Too late for that, I’m afraid; well over ten years too late.”

“What did you mean, about his commercial interests?” Mr Farrell asked.

“Ah, no, Mr Farrell, it would be indiscreet of me to tell.”

*

Once, very many years ago, Matthew had been taken by surprise in a dark alley. It had cost him several years of his life, months of servitude and chains, so now he went canny, an ear out for anything unusual whenever he walked alone through the night. Which was why Dominic Jones’ fist crashed into a solid wall instead of Matthew’s head, and by the time Jones had stopped cursing and recovered somewhat from the pain of near on crushing his knuckles, he was under violent and relentless attack, Matthew’s fists flying through the air to connect with Dominic’s head, shoulders, gut.

Jones had brawling skills of his own, and after a few minutes he was giving as good as he got, large, meaty hands connecting painfully with Matthew’s body. Matthew hissed when a fist drove into his side, smashed an elbow into Jones’ face, and leapt to the side to avoid the responding kick. They were both panting, Matthew mostly with rage while Jones sounded like a drowning man, air rattling up and down his windpipe. All it would take was a knife in that huge stomach and Jones would die in agony, here in the moonlit alley. Matthew pulled his dirk; Jones backed away fumbling for his own weapon. Matthew prepared to pounce.

“Now!” Jones yelled.

Matthew had no time to react. A kick to the back of his legs made him fall to his knees. Another kick to the small of his back sent him sprawling in the mud, his knife slipping out of his hold. Yet another kick, but Matthew succeeded in grabbing the booted foot, pulled, and sent this new assailant tumbling. Jones; where was Jones? He groped for his dirk. A hand closed on his hair.

“I warned you,” Jones wheezed. “I told you not to slander me!” His hold tightened, forcing Matthew’s head back.

Where was his blade? There! His fingers closed round the familiar handle. Something sharp nicked his neck. Matthew went for Jones’ face with his knife. With a howl, Jones released him, clapping a hand to his eye. Matthew got to his feet. The other man charged; Matthew sidestepped and kneed him in the gut. The man grunted, staggered for a few paces before regaining his balance. He turned, knife in hand. Matthew pulled his sword.

Jones collared his accomplice and dragged him away. Moonlight struck Jones full in the face, revealing a gaping cut that bisected his eyebrow, and a rapidly swelling nose. Blood trickled over his face, dripping onto his collar. Matthew’s back was roaring in protest after the savage kick to his lumbar regions but he managed to remain upright until both men had disappeared, after which he slid down to sit against the wall, legs extended before him.

“Matthew?” Alex’s voice startled him out of an uncomfortable doze. “Matthew, is that you?”

“Here,” he croaked, and there came his wife, lantern aloft and a pistol in her free hand.

She gasped when the light struck his face. “Bloody hell! What happened?” She was on her knees beside him.

“Help me up.” He groaned out loud as he slowly straightened up. “I...” he began but she shushed him.

“Inside, then we’ll talk.”

He recounted the events as she washed his face and helped him out of his clothes.

“Jones?” She dabbed at the shallow cut on his neck.

“Aye, and that misbegotten son of a whore I chased off my land some weeks back – Philip Burley.” He winced when she placed a hand on his back, twisting to study the discolouration that flowed up his left side. “How did you know?”

“Mmm?” She was busy with his face, washing his bruised cheek. “Oh, the maid told me she’d seen Jones and another man staggering out of the alley, and when you didn’t show...” She hitched an expressive shoulder. “They succeeded in giving you quite a bashing.”

“You haven’t seen Jones.” Matthew glowered at nothing in particular. Damnation! Why did Jones have to resurface here, with Burley as his henchman?

“Why?” Alex asked.

“Umm,” Matthew said.

“Why?” Alex insisted.

“We had words,” Matthew muttered.

“Oh, you did, did you? I thought we’d agreed you’d stay well away from him.”

“It wasn’t me; it was him coming to taunt me before the kirk elders.” He sank back against the pillows, turning his head in the direction of Magnus’ empty pallet. “Magnus?”