Serpents in the Garden (2 page)

Not once did Betty look back. Her spine was stiff with defiant pride, but inside she was crying for her mother.

Chapter 2

Matthew Graham was not given to romantic gestures, but on this, his wife’s birthday, he wandered for some time through the woods surrounding their home to pick her a posy, something he had done but rarely before. Forty-seven… It made him want to shake his head in astonishment because, to his eyes, Alex looked not many years older than when he had first met her, twenty-one years ago.

He stopped to scratch his head, flapping his hat in a feeble attempt to create a cooling breeze. Maryland in the last week of August of 1679 was a hot place, distinctly different from the Scotland they had left behind, and on days like this he longed for the cool of a Scottish glen, the softness of a northern summer, so different from this browbeating, constant heat.

He swore when his thumb caught on a thorn, but gave a determined yank to add a pink briar rose to his little bouquet, and turned at the sound of young voices, one repeating a shrill “wait for me, wait for me”.

A late three clover in sons, he smiled, seeing David and Samuel rush across the yard with Adam tagging at their heels, his smock billowing in the wind. From the stable came Daniel, as always in a heated discussion with Ruth, and where Ruth was, there, inevitably, was Sarah.

He scrutinised his daughters from a distance: one tall and willowy, with hair of such a dark red that it at times looked almost purple and his own hazel eyes to match; the other sturdier and rounder, with inquisitive eyes and fair hair that fell in a thick curtain well down to her waist. Or would have, had their mother allowed the girls to go unbraided. Of all their children, only two had inherited their mother’s blue eyes: Daniel and Sarah. All the rest were clearly stamped with his own hazel green, and, according to Alex, the likeness between him and his sons was at times risible. Matthew didn’t agree; he was secretly proud to have fathered children so unmistakably his.

He took a step back into the shade when his wife appeared at the kitchen door, not wanting her to see him standing like this, more or less spying on them all. She clapped her straw hat onto her head and strode off towards the kitchen garden, her full skirts swaying as she moved. He smiled when he recalled the first time he’d met her: how she had stared at him, not fully comprehending what had happened to her! Well, who would? An undulating crossroad, a rift in the fabric of time, and Alex tumbled from 2002 to land at his feet, badly burnt by lightning and concussed. His wife… Matthew’s chest expanded with warmth. His magical lass, God’s gift to him.

*

God’s gift was in a black mood. It was too hot, far too humid, and why did all the flies within a three-mile radius seem to hover round her hat? She hitched her skirts up and frowned down at her dirty feet. A bath, she decided, a long solitary swim in the river later on, with no children, no sounds but that of her own breathing and pulse. She slapped at a bug on her arm, glared at her empty basket and the overflowing vegetable garden. This was one of those days when she longed for very strange things from her former life, chief among them an ice-cold bottle of Coca-Cola – the retro kind with its bulging shape. Or a 99 flake, with the soft ice swirling round and round inside the little cone… She sighed and went back to her digging.

“For you.”

Alex sat back and raised her face to Matthew, squishing her eyes shut when the sun hit them.

“For me?” The black mood evaporated and she stretched out her hand to the wilting little bouquet. “Thank you.” She stood and smiled at her man. Not exactly ice cream, but still. She studied the little posy and stuck her hand into his. “This needs water, and so do I.” She led the way down to the house, set her flowers in a stone jar, and grabbed her basket. He took her hand, and they strolled off towards the cool of the river.

“Alone!” Alex barked at her children when they seemed to be on the point of joining them. “We want to be alone, okay?” She suppressed the twinge of guilt she felt at the crestfallen expression on Adam’s face – after all, it was her birthday and if she wanted to have quality time with her husband, well then…

“Okay, okay.” Daniel grabbed at his youngest brother to keep him back. “We’ll go down later,” he promised Adam.

“Later.” Adam nodded, eyes hanging off Alex. Nope, she wasn’t about to give in. Beside her, Matthew chuckled, tightened his hold on her hand, and led them in under the trees.

*

A few moments later, they were both in the water. Alex floated on her back, her hair flowing round her head like strands of dark seaweed. Her breasts bobbed in the water, the nipples puckering with the cold. Matthew took hold of her feet and towed her after him towards the deep.

“Eleven years since we came here,” she said.

Matthew didn’t reply. He let go of her feet and dove below her, coming up just beside her head.

“It seems longer,” she went on. “Much, much longer.”

“You think?” He waded over to fetch the scented soap she bought down in Providence, and settled down to lather both of them thoroughly. “To me, it’s but a blink of the eye.”

“Blink of the eye?” She held her nose and dipped her head under the surface to rinse off. “That just goes to show that you’re not the one who’s been pregnant four times since we got here,” she said when she resurfaced.

He smiled. “Nay, that would have caused a raised eyebrow or two.”

He liked how she got out of the water without self-consciousness, standing for a moment fully revealed. With the exception of her forearms and feet, all of her was a startling pinkish white, her skin glittering with water droplets. A possessive pride surged through him at the sight of his wife, his eyes sliding over the slope of her hips to her bottom. A right bonny sight she was; a sight reserved for his eyes only – as it should be.

She was aging well, her body firm and strong, her skin taut and unmarked by wrinkles, except for those round her eyes and mouth that showed just how often she laughed. He knew that when she turned, he’d see a belly marked by all her pregnancies, and where he found the resulting roundness attractive, she most certainly did not, now and then nipping at the slight excess of flesh with an irritated scowl. Today though, she twirled, a languidness to her movements that had him wading towards the shore. She picked up a linen towel and dried herself with leisurely movements, lifting limbs this way and that.

“I can do that,” he said, coming out of the water.

“Do what? This?” The towel stroked her flank, continued down towards her pubic mound. “Or this?” She dried her breasts, one at a time. Two swift steps, and he was by her side.

“Aye, I dare say I can manage.” He took the towel from her. Her thighs, the cheeks of her bottom, the curve of her back, and she stood stock-still under his touch, eyes never leaving his.

“There,” he murmured, patting at her hair, “all nice and dry.” He drew her into his embrace, scraping his nails ever so lightly down her spine. It made her shiver and lean against him. Her warm body was a perfect fit to his, soft curves against his larger frame.

“And now I’ll have to dry myself all over,” she said, kissing his wet shoulder. He didn’t reply, concentrating on her round arse in his hands. She exhaled, slipping her arms round his waist, and shifted that much closer, her thighs against his, her full breasts squished against his chest. He was considering just how to love her when he felt her tense in his arms.

“What?” He leaned back to see her face.

“Angus. I swear that young man does it on purpose! Sneaking up like that…”

Matthew straightened up and swept the surrounding woods with narrowed eyes. He enjoyed loving his wife outdoors, and resented the intrusion. Angus in general was somewhat of a problem, a taciturn worker that spent far too much of his free time alone, and who, with the exception of his sister, never really spoke to anyone above the age of fourteen.

“Not anymore,” he said.

“No, but it sort of kills the mood to know he might be out there peeking.”

He grunted and hunted about for a towel.

Where she had no self-consciousness, Matthew definitely did. It was only with Alex, and on occasion with his bairns, that he was ever fully naked, far too aware of how scarred he was. His back was a criss-cross of welts, sword slashes had over the years decorated his torso, and the latest addition, a wide puckered scar on his thigh, was due to a blow with an axe. He made a discreet inspection of himself: still tall, still broad in chest and shoulders, and with a full head of wavy dark hair – even if there was some grey in it.

Alex approached him with her flask of oil and stopped for an instant to cock her head at him.

“Gorgeous,” she said, making him laugh. “Eye candy, all of you.”

He liked that, preened under her eyes, and adopted one pose after the other to show off his physique.

“Yes, yes,” she grinned, “you already know I consider you the most beautiful man alive, don’t you?” She patted at her spread petticoats. “Lie down, and I’ll see to your back.”

He did as she said, pillowing his head on his arms. He loved this: the strength and warmth of her hands, the intimacy of her touch, and the relief that flooded through his aching back when she massaged blood back into permanently tensed muscles. He was not as enthused when she went on to dig her fingers into his buttocks, yelping in protest when she found a particularly tender spot.

“No pain, no gain,” she reminded him, and finished up by covering all of him with oil. “There, as good as new,” she said, handing him his shirt.

Matthew decided to remain where he was. The sun warmed his skin, grasses tickled his nose, and he closed his eyes, drifting into an agreeable doze. Alex patted him on the rump and moved off.

*

It was nice down here by the river, a welcome breather after more than a month of strenuous harvest work. Alex reclined against her arms and stuck her nose up towards the sun. Vaguely, she could hear the sounds of her children, the piercing voices of the younger boys carrying through the quarter-mile of distance.

Nine children…no, ten, she corrected herself. There was Isaac as well, but he was somewhere in the distant future, by now a man she couldn’t even envision apart from being sure he had dark hair and eyes. She firmly relegated her 21st century son to the outer fringes of her consciousness, turning her thoughts instead to those children she had around her. Children was something of a misnomer when it came to Ian and Mark, both of them married men. Jacob was down in Providence, detained by his work from coming home for the harvest, while the remaining six were most hale and hearty, at least to judge from the noise they were making.

“Peter Leslie’s had yet another son.” Matthew came to sit beside her and rummaged in the basket for something to eat.

“A boy? How do you know?” Alex shook her head at the offered bun and hunted about for her comb.

“Ian told me. Peter sent word to them this morning.”

“I wonder what they talk about,” she mused, tugging the comb through her wet hair. He took it from her, settling down to untangle her curls.

“I imagine they don’t. He hasn’t married Constance for her conversation, has he?”

Too right he hadn’t. Their closest neighbour, Peter, was well over fifty, and his young wife was thirty years younger than him.

“And not because he needs more children either.” After all, Peter already had ten children by his first wife. No, eight, because the youngest boy had died of smallpox together with his wife, Elizabeth, and one of the girls – Amy? – had recently died in childbirth.

“Two lads in two years. I dare say he’s pleased with her fecundity.” Matthew pulled his brows together, and Alex knew exactly what he was thinking: Peter’s daughter, Ian’s wife, had so far presented her husband with only one son in six years’ marriage, and that was not for want of trying – at least not according to Ian.

Alex patted Matthew on the arm. “They have one. In time, they’ll have more.” She had said the same thing repeatedly to Ian, comforting her stepson as well as she could.

“You think?”

“I hope so.” She shared a quick look with him. Both of them had noticed the increased strain in Ian and Jenny’s relationship.

While Ian was a frequent visitor, coming over on a daily basis for a quick word with his father, or to borrow the mules, leave a cheese, collect a ham, Jenny rarely came with him, preferring to remain at home with her cows. It probably didn’t help that Naomi, Mark’s wife, was pregnant with her second child – her firstborn, Hannah, was only a year old. Alex smiled at the thought of her granddaughter. Sturdy and serious, Hannah was a biddable child with hair that grew in interesting wisps, and eyes that clearly marked her as a Graham.

On top of this, there was Adam. From the way Jenny would at times eye Alex’s youngest son, it was obvious she resented Alex for having produced yet another baby when Jenny seemed incapable of conceiving again. Alex blew out her cheeks: she’d been terrified at finding herself pregnant again, Samuel’s protracted birth still too fresh in memory. She glanced at Matthew. If she’d been scared silly, he’d been frantic, berating himself for being an inconsiderate fool until she’d told him to shut up – it wasn’t as if she’d wanted him to be careful at the time, was it?

“Jenny should come over more often,” Alex said. “It does her no good to sit all alone and brood.”

“Aye, and she doesn’t go to Leslie’s Crossing either. The whole place is overrun by weans.”

“Plus there is the matter of Constance. Imagine having a stepmother who is five years your junior. Ugh!”

“Aye, that must be difficult, and wee Constance doesn’t really help, intimidated as she is by all her stepchildren.”

Alex made a disparaging sound: anyone less intimidated than Constance she couldn’t imagine, however frail she looked. Behind those fluttering eyelashes lived a hard-nosed young lady, frustrated by her restricted role in the Leslie household.

“A bed warmer,” Alex muttered. “Poor woman, that’s all she’s there for.”

Matthew rose to his full height, tightened his belt, and waited while Alex pulled on her skirts. They walked barefooted towards their home. Around them stood fields of ripe wheat, fringed by the high trees of the forest, and where ten years ago there had been nothing but a small cabin, there now stood a two-storey building, its roof made out of larch shingles, its outer walls beginning to acquire the soft grey of weathered wood. It snuggled into the hillside behind it, sun glinted off the precious glass windows, and two chimneys protruded from the roof, one at each end. To the side of the main house stood a large barn; opposite to the barn were the elongated stables and a collection of small sheds. Together, the buildings created a haphazard ‘U’ round the central yard which was dominated by an impressive white oak.