The Prodigal Son (6 page)

Mark nodded.

“And why would you do something like that?”

Mark just shook his head.

“Son, I asked you a question.”

Mark squirmed but continued to shake his head, eyeing his cousin from under his hair.

“You know I don’t hold with fighting,” Matthew said. “And even less with not having my questions answered.”

Mark hunched together at the tone, but remained silent.

“So why did he hit you?” Matthew swung so suddenly in the direction of Ian that the lad overbalanced, sitting down in the hay.

“I don’t know,” Ian muttered. “He just did.”

“Ah,” Matthew looked him over. “Do you often hit bairns half your size?”

No, his nephew slash son told him, no he didn’t.

“But now you did. You walloped your wee cousin and you have no idea why he hit you in the first place.”

Ian scrambled to his feet but restricted himself to a slight nod; if Mark wasn’t talking, nor was Ian.

“Well then, it seems you must both be punished.”

Rachel opened her mouth, but Matthew put a firm finger on her lips.

“Nay, Rachel. You say nothing.”

Rachel glowered at her cousin, going over to stand by her brother, her small hand sneaking into his.

“Both of you; go inside and undress, and then you’ll say your prayers and go to bed. No supper.” With an internal sigh he watched them troop off, all three of them, in the direction of the house.

In a gesture of solidarity with her brother, Rachel had also abstained from supper, and after a quiet meal Alex took Jacob upstairs. Given the way her apron pockets bulged she was intending to feed the lads – and Rachel – but Matthew chose to pretend he didn’t notice. Instead he accompanied Joan into the parlour, giving her a brief version of the events in the hayloft.

“What can I say?” Matthew made a helpless gesture. “I can’t refute that I sliced off Luke’s nose, and I can’t explain why without telling him the full sorry tale, can I?”

Joan patted his hand. “No you can’t – not yet. But one day he’ll start thinking for himself and then he’ll come to you with questions.”

“And I won’t be able to reply,” Matthew said. “I’ve promised Alex that I’ll never tell him that he’s my son. I…” he broke off as Alex entered the room, carrying a tray with three steaming mugs.

“You what?” Alex said, setting the tray down on the table and finding herself a stool.

“I was just wondering if Joan will burst apart before the wean shows.” Matthew smiled at his sister.

“Huh,” Joan straightened her back with an audible pop. “It’s already well over a week late. Now it best stay inside until Simon returns.” She patted herself. “You hear? You stay there, aye? One more week.”

“You best do as your mother says,” Matthew said, placing his hand on the bulge. “You don’t want her mad at you from the start.”

“No, time enough for that later,” Alex snorted.

Ian was not overly thrilled when his uncle took to taking him everywhere with him. From early morning to late afternoon, he tagged after his uncle, doing one task after the other as he was bid. At first he went with rancour at being used like a yard boy, but with each passing day he softened towards Uncle Matthew, and found himself talking to him, almost as much as he did with Mam. His uncle was a good listener, interjecting the odd little exclamation, even laughing out loud at some of Ian’s stories from London.

“A monkey?” he chortled. “And it ate at the table like a man?”

Ian grimaced; the visiting young Earl of Rochester’s monkey had eaten on the table, not at it, making Mam look at it as if she considered poisoning it.

“The king says it’s a wee pest. It even bit one of the ladies once.”

“Have you met the king?” Uncle Matthew sounded unimpressed. Ian threw him a cautious look. As he heard it, the king was mightily unpopular here due to religious issues, and from the look on his uncle’s face, Charles Stuart was not one of his personal favourites.

“I see him now and then about court, but I’ve only met him properly once. It was at his coronation and I was not yet seven.”

He remembered that April day for an entirely different reason. It was the day that he had first heard his parents quarrel and he had cowered under his bed as his father broke every piece of china in their home, alternating between calling Mam a whore and a traitor. At one point he had even hit her, but that had made both of them weep, with Father begging Mam to forgive him. Afterwards Ian had puzzled out why; Mam had given money to Aunt Alex, and even now, several years later, there were times when his father would curse Mam for that.

“It’s your fault he didn’t die!” Father had screamed, half-drunk, a few months back. “If it hadn’t been for you and your meddling, Alex would never have been able to buy him free and Matthew would have died over there in Virginia – as I wanted him to.”

It was all very confusing to Ian. Father hated his brother, often uttering Matthew’s name as a curse. But Mam didn’t, and when she’d been told by Luke to leave southern England with their son she had ridden all the way up here. “Home,” she’d said, smiling down at him. “Hillview is home.”

While they’d been here Ian had often seen Mam speaking to Uncle Matthew, padding on silent feet after them as they walked through the woods. He had even seen Mam touch his uncle; one part of him was offended on behalf of Father, but the other part was glad because of the pleased and surprised look on Matthew’s face. Ian sneaked a look at his uncle, meeting eyes that were studying him intently. He flushed and looked away.

“Is it true?” Ian blurted one day, making Uncle Matthew loose his grip on the open sack of oats he was lifting.

“Is what true?” Matthew swept up the oats with his hand and refilled the sack.

“That you were sold as a slave.”

Uncle Matthew nodded.

“And was it my father who did that to you? Who had you stolen away, sold like a beast?” He hoped his uncle would laugh and tell him not to be daft – what brother would do such – but instead Matthew sighed.

“Aye, but who told you?”

“Everyone does. They whisper it to me behind your back.” Hushed conversations in which he was told just what a bastard Father was and how grateful he should be that the master could find it in him to take Ian in, given the bad blood between him and his evil brother.

Uncle Matthew set his mouth, muttering something about mean-hearted gossips.

“Why?” Ian asked with his eyes hanging off Matthew. “Why did he do that?”

“That’s a question you must ask him, not me.” Matthew stood and swung the bag onto his shoulder. “Come, you, we have beasts to feed.”

“You do have sons of your own,” Alex reminded Matthew with a nasty edge that evening. “And given that you’re too engrossed with your new family addition to notice, let me inform you that Mark is feeling very excluded by all this male bonding.”

“Male bonding?”

“It’s what men do when they establish they belong together, you know, like slicing your thumb open and mingling your blood, or going off up the mountain to dance naked around a bonfire.”

Matthew shook his head in bemusement and opened his mouth to ask some more, but Alex wasn’t about to be side-tracked.

“So tomorrow you spend the day with Mark. And why not throw in some hours with Rachel and Jacob as well?” She breezed out of the room before he could protest.

He sniffed the air in her wake. She had taken a bath and used one of her scented oils, a clear signal that mayhap she was feeling somewhat ignored of late. Matthew sighed and pulled off his stockings, studying his long toes for some time. Sometimes it was exhausting to be farmer, father and husband. He washed, cleaned his teeth with a twig, masticated a sprig of mint and sank down onto the bed. He hoped she’d hurry back, or else he’d be asleep.

“Matthew!” Alex shook him hard. “The baby, you have to ride for the midwife.”

“The baby?” He’d been well on his way to sleep and was still somewhat befuddled.

“Joan’s!” Alex shook him again. “Hurry, okay?”

By now Matthew was up, throwing on clothes he had only recently discarded and then he was off, promising to be back within the hour.

Three hours later Alex was torn between worrying for Joan and for Matthew. What if he’d been ambushed, thrown in a ditch? The probable explanation was that the nearest midwife had been called away, so Matthew had had to ride for Cumnock. But still…

She gave her sister-in-law a concerned look. Should things be this slow? Joan was the colour of overcooked mutton, a pasty grey, and her stomach clenched and unclenched in short spasms that seemed painful but inefficient.

“We walk, Mrs Melville,” she said when Joan tried to sit down. “We have to shake this baby into place.”

“Into place?” Joan gasped. “It can’t be more into place. Let me tell you, Simon Melville will never, ever, touch me there again.”

“Pfft! All women say that.”

It was well past midnight by the time Matthew returned with Mrs Wilson, who swept the room with a sharp eye, closed the window and ordered Joan to keep on walking.

“I just can’t, I’m too tired.”

“You’ll be far more tired before you’re done,” the midwife said cheerily, “but then you can lie down, aye? Not before.” Alex muffled a laugh at the glare Joan sent Mrs Wilson’s way.

Between them, Alex and Mrs Wilson kept Joan on her feet well into dawn, but somewhere around there she paled even more, and then the waters broke, drenching Joan’s long shift. Alex stared at the pinkish hue that coloured the linen and looked at Mrs Wilson. A quick shake of the head and a slight frown told Alex to shut up.

By noon Joan was lying lifeless in the bed, too weak to remain upright on the birthing stool. The midwife looked flustered, her brows frozen into a concerned frown.

“She’s fully open,” she whispered to Alex. “But she has no strength left and the babe needs her to help.” She shook her head at the continued leaking blood. “I fear the afterbirth is letting go, and if it does, God help both mother and child.”

“What can we do? There must be something we can do!” Alex stroked her sister-in-law’s cheek.

“Get her upright,” the midwife said. “Can you hold her, do you think?”

Joan protested, swatting at Alex, and once she was on the stool she began to scream, saying that it hurt and she wanted to go home, she didn’t want to do this anymore.

“You should have thought of that before,” Mrs Wilson snorted, crouching down while she gestured for Alex to straighten Joan up as much as she could. Alex held her braced against the backrest of the stool, the midwife leaned in between her legs, and at the next contraction slipped a finger round the cervix, making Joan scream even more.

“It’s coming,” the midwife said, holding up her bloodied fingers to Alex.

“Right, you,” Alex said to Joan. “We have to get the baby out of you. Now. So at the next contraction you’re going to push as hard as you can, and we’ll push with you. Call for Sarah,” Alex said to Mrs Wilson, “she can help as well.”

It was a race against the clock, with Alex holding and shushing while the midwife and Sarah pushed and heaved at the womb, stimulating more contractions. Finally something changed; the midwife urged Joan to push once more and the floor was filled with blood, blood splattered all over Joan’s legs, and the baby slid out, still and pale with the umbilical cord wrapped twice around its neck. Joan swayed on the stool, gawked at her child and slumped back, unconscious.

“Do something!” Alex looked at the midwife in panic. “Do something before she dies!” The baby was bundled into Sarah’s arms and with concerted efforts Mrs Wilson and Alex half dragged, half lifted Joan to lie flat on the floor.

“There,” the midwife said an hour or so later. She wiped at her face, leaving a garish streak of blood across her cheek.

“Will she be alright?” Joan looked like a waif, a white blob against the white sheets.

The midwife looked away. She had spent more than an hour stitching Joan’s insides together.

“We must pray and hope.”

Alex gripped Joan’s hand. “If you die on me, Joan Melville, I’m going to be really, really pissed off at you.”

There was a slight flutter of the bruised eyelids. “I wouldn’t dare to, but I just…” Joan’s mouth fell open and for a sickening instant Alex thought she had died, until Mrs Wilson pointed out that Joan was snoring.

Chapter 5

“Rachel Graham!”

Alex’ voice froze her daughter for an instant and then the child took off, running like a hare for the safety of the stables.

“Come here, you!” Alex sprinted after her, telling her in no uncertain terms what she would do to her once she’d caught her.

Rachel shrieked, her little feet pounding towards the ladder that led to the hayloft, with her prize held high above her head. Behind her, Alex was closing the gap. One backward glance to check on her mother and Rachel went flying, landing with an audible thud on the straw strewn floor. The cake rolled out of her hands and into the pigpen, and daughter and mother could only watch as the sow devoured the unexpected treat.

“Right,” Alex said, lifting her daughter to stand. “Inside with you. Now.” Alex gave her daughter her most ferocious look, and with a resigned shrug Rachel followed her towards the house.

They were almost there when the sound of many horses carried through the air. Alex picked up her daughter and ran the last few yards.

“Mark! Run! You know what to do.” Mark looked up the lane, back at his mother and set off, sprinting up the hill. Alex shooed Rachel and Jacob upstairs before stepping outside to face the group of dragoons that sat on their horses. All of them were new men, even the officer.

“Mistress,” the officer said, tilting his head in her direction. She half curtsied, trying to remember where Matthew was today; out on the moss, cutting peat with Simon, Ian and Samuel. “Your husband?”

“He’s not at home, it’s just me and my children and my recently delivered sister-in-law.” She couldn’t help it; even in this situation the thought of baby Lucy made her smile. Alive and well, despite her dramatic entry to the world, and even if Alex at times found Joan regarding her daughter with a look of disappointment in her eyes she was sure she would soon get over it.