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Authors: Anna Belfrage
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Alex muttered. “At least, not in his present besotted state. But, to be fair, one must remember it can’t exactly be a bed of roses for Constance either.”
Agnes choked and raised grey eyes her way. “Bed of roses? Marriage is a duty.”
“If that’s all it is, let me tell you there would have been no more than one, perhaps two Graham children,” Alex retorted, grinning at the expression of mild shock that flew over Agnes’ face. Seven years living with them, and Agnes still had days when she regarded Alex as a potentially demented woman.
“Anyway,” Naomi went on, “Uncle Peter has stated that he expects a full apology from you before even considering to resume his friendship with you.”
“From me? For what?” Alex said.
Naomi and Mrs Parson just looked at her.
“You told the wife she was simple, and then you told the husband he was even simpler, a pathetic old goat ruled by his cock,” Mrs Parson said.
“Oh, that.” Alex shrugged. “Well, that’s true.” She leaned over and nabbed a carrot from the basket at Agnes’ feet and, with a small wave, stepped outside.
“I reckon that means she won’t apologise,” Mrs Parson stated, her voice carrying through the open door.
“Did you ever consider that a possibility?” Naomi said.
“Poor Mr Graham,” Agnes put in, “to be saddled with such a headstrong wife.”
Mrs Parson laughed. “Poor Mr Graham? I don’t think he sees it quite that way, aye?”
He’d better not, Alex chuckled, and set off in search of her unfortunate husband.
“I think Agnes feels sorry for you,” Alex said, leaning back against the sun-warmed wall of the woodshed.
“She does?” Matthew threw her a look. “Aye well, that’s nice of her. I have a hard life, do I not?”
“You do? How?” She moved that bit closer. Matthew grunted as he brought the axe down, splicing the wood in two.
“You, of course. What was it Peter Leslie said? Oh aye: that a wife as opinionated as you needed regular beating, and that in his experience it helped, mellowing Elizabeth as the years went by.”
“You think he did? Beat her?” Peter sank even lower in Alex’s estimation.
Matthew wiped at his forehead and picked up the next piece of wood. “Aye, I do. But as far as I can make out, it didn’t mellow her much, did it?”
“Not much.”
A couple of chops, a few more pieces of wood, and then he was done, sinking the axe into the chopping block. It quivered, and Alex’s eyes flew automatically to his thigh, since some years back decorated with a scar the size of a kitchen knife. He noticed and gave a little shake of the head. “I know how to wield an axe. I didn’t do myself the damage.”
No, that had been courtesy of Walter Burley, an attempt on Matthew’s life that was foiled at the last moment by their Indian friend – was he a friend? – Qaachow.
“Do you think he’s still alive?” Alex asked.
“Who? Walter? You know he is – however unfortunate.”
“Not him. Qaachow.” Alex willed away the disturbing images of the Burley brothers that flew through her mind.
“I have no idea. The Bacon Rebellion and its subsequent aftermath crushed most of the local Indians, did it not? They even razed the Susquehannock forts, and them good allies all along.”
Alex gave herself a little hug. It had been a fearful time, with Matthew called to serve at times in the militia, but mostly left at home to defend his own as best he could. Ian, Matthew and Mark had spent months on permanent sentry duty as the situation deteriorated all through 1675 to explode in 1676.
The Indians had retaliated as best they could, leaving a bloodied path when they moved south to avenge the Susquehannock chiefs killed in an attempted parley. But for all that they trampled crops both at the Chisholms’ and at Leslie’s Crossing; for all that they stole livestock from all their neighbours, Graham’s Garden was never touched, safe behind an invisible wall of gratitude because Alex had
Agnes choked and raised grey eyes her way. “Bed of roses? Marriage is a duty.”
“If that’s all it is, let me tell you there would have been no more than one, perhaps two Graham children,” Alex retorted, grinning at the expression of mild shock that flew over Agnes’ face. Seven years living with them, and Agnes still had days when she regarded Alex as a potentially demented woman.
“Anyway,” Naomi went on, “Uncle Peter has stated that he expects a full apology from you before even considering to resume his friendship with you.”
“From me? For what?” Alex said.
Naomi and Mrs Parson just looked at her.
“You told the wife she was simple, and then you told the husband he was even simpler, a pathetic old goat ruled by his cock,” Mrs Parson said.
“Oh, that.” Alex shrugged. “Well, that’s true.” She leaned over and nabbed a carrot from the basket at Agnes’ feet and, with a small wave, stepped outside.
“I reckon that means she won’t apologise,” Mrs Parson stated, her voice carrying through the open door.
“Did you ever consider that a possibility?” Naomi said.
“Poor Mr Graham,” Agnes put in, “to be saddled with such a headstrong wife.”
Mrs Parson laughed. “Poor Mr Graham? I don’t think he sees it quite that way, aye?”
He’d better not, Alex chuckled, and set off in search of her unfortunate husband.
“I think Agnes feels sorry for you,” Alex said, leaning back against the sun-warmed wall of the woodshed.
“She does?” Matthew threw her a look. “Aye well, that’s nice of her. I have a hard life, do I not?”
“You do? How?” She moved that bit closer. Matthew grunted as he brought the axe down, splicing the wood in two.
“You, of course. What was it Peter Leslie said? Oh aye: that a wife as opinionated as you needed regular beating, and that in his experience it helped, mellowing Elizabeth as the years went by.”
“You think he did? Beat her?” Peter sank even lower in Alex’s estimation.
Matthew wiped at his forehead and picked up the next piece of wood. “Aye, I do. But as far as I can make out, it didn’t mellow her much, did it?”
“Not much.”
A couple of chops, a few more pieces of wood, and then he was done, sinking the axe into the chopping block. It quivered, and Alex’s eyes flew automatically to his thigh, since some years back decorated with a scar the size of a kitchen knife. He noticed and gave a little shake of the head. “I know how to wield an axe. I didn’t do myself the damage.”
No, that had been courtesy of Walter Burley, an attempt on Matthew’s life that was foiled at the last moment by their Indian friend – was he a friend? – Qaachow.
“Do you think he’s still alive?” Alex asked.
“Who? Walter? You know he is – however unfortunate.”
“Not him. Qaachow.” Alex willed away the disturbing images of the Burley brothers that flew through her mind.
“I have no idea. The Bacon Rebellion and its subsequent aftermath crushed most of the local Indians, did it not? They even razed the Susquehannock forts, and them good allies all along.”
Alex gave herself a little hug. It had been a fearful time, with Matthew called to serve at times in the militia, but mostly left at home to defend his own as best he could. Ian, Matthew and Mark had spent months on permanent sentry duty as the situation deteriorated all through 1675 to explode in 1676.
The Indians had retaliated as best they could, leaving a bloodied path when they moved south to avenge the Susquehannock chiefs killed in an attempted parley. But for all that they trampled crops both at the Chisholms’ and at Leslie’s Crossing; for all that they stole livestock from all their neighbours, Graham’s Garden was never touched, safe behind an invisible wall of gratitude because Alex had
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