Like Chaff in the Wind (19 page)

Chapter 25

“Here,” Alex dropped the signed deed in front of Matthew, lobbed her pouch into a corner and threw herself on the bed. She yawned, thinking that maybe she should take a long afternoon nap. Undress, get out of these itching stays and let her body relax into the coolness of the sheets. Almost six weeks since she last bled…she considered telling him, but decided it was far too soon. She peeked from under her arm as he unrolled the deed and read it, his throat working. Her heart went out to him, but she remained where she was, waiting for him to do or say something. Matthew got to his feet and left the room without a word.

*

Matthew got back late and after looking for Alex in their room, went over to where James was sitting outside the stable door.

“Have you seen Alex?”

James shook his head; apart from a brief glimpse of her at dinner, he hadn’t. “Is she not down by the tree?” he said, pointing in the direction of the sycamore. “I seem to recall she spends her afternoons there, sewing.”

Matthew strained his eyes in the indicated direction. Dusk was falling, and why would she choose to remain out there without any light to work by? His eyes caught on something pale, a flutter of cloth, and he strode towards it.

She had been weeping. When she heard him approach she started and ducked her head to hide her face, but he gripped her by the chin, forcing her to meet his eyes.

“Why?” he asked, tracing the tear tracks. She tried to twist out of his hold, but he wouldn’t let her. “Why?”

“Because I don’t know how to help.” She stood up, turning away from him to stare at the tangle of undergrowth that bordered the little meadow. Alex brushed at her skirts, flicking a light green caterpillar into the grass.

“The first few days it was like it always used to be, but then with every day you’ve grown more and more distant, excluding me. And I don’t understand; why won’t you talk to me? Allow me to try to help you?” Alex retreated further under the tree, her face hidden in shadow. Matthew came after and took her hand, twisting his fingers into hers. He stood in silence braiding and re-braiding his fingers with hers, trying to find words to explain.

“Those first days…well, I was dazed. I thought I might be dreaming, that you’d soon fade away and I’d be dead. And then, as the days passed and I knew myself safe again, I was taken over by rage. It’s still uppermost in me, an all-consuming rage at the people who did this to me, and it leaves me less human, more beast.” He looked away, tightening his hold on her hand. “The rage is like a barrier. I wake in the night and my cock throbs not with love but with anger, and I won’t…I can’t, because I fear what I might do to you. So I stumble out of bed and I…”

He’d sit and watch her, rubbing himself until he jerked in painful release. Nothing of love or pleasure, just a burning urge to take her, force her to submit as he had been forced by others. And so he retreated from passion to the technicalities of love making, he didn’t dare to let himself go lest he be overwhelmed by all that black inside of him, and God alone knew what he might do then.

“I don’t understand,” Alex said.

Well, no, how could she? Matthew sighed and tried again, attempting to describe just how scared he was of losing control, because once unleashed, how was he to hold back on all that rage and desperation?

“But…” Alex gnawed her lip, flexing her fingers against his hold on her hand. “Is this how it’s going to be? Will you always shut me out? Never trust yourself in bed with me again?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, and the expression in her eyes made him look away.

“I don’t think you would,” she said.

“What?”

“Hurt me. I don’t think you can.”

“Then you have greater faith in me than I do,” he said. “I just can’t risk it.”

He fell silent, his fingers braiding themselves around hers. Around them, the elongated afternoon shadows were morphing into early evening darkness, a blackbird flashed by, a small butterfly soared upwards towards the purple sky. Beside him, she was holding her breath, a sure sign that she was making an effort not to weep. Matthew shifted on his feet and tried to think of something to say.

*

Alex peeked at him from under her lashes. He kept his eyes fixed on something unseen, his jaw clenching and unclenching rhythmically. He shrugged, gave her a lopsided smile and tugged at her hand, his eyes a deep brilliant green in the fading light – green with glints of gold.

“Coming?”

She snatched her hand back, shaking her head.

“Alex—”

“Go,” she said, “go on, hurry off to have your supper so that you can hurry up to bed and pretend you’re asleep when I get there.”

“I don’t —”

“Yes you do! And every time you do, it tears me apart, you hear?” He flinched, tried to take her hand. “No! Leave me alone, just go.” She backed away from him.

“I don’t mean to. Of course I don’t want to hurt you. But I—”

“Coward!”

“Coward? For not wishing to harm you?” His hands closed on her arms, pressing her back against the trunk.

“I already said; I don’t think you would.”

“And I told you; I’m not willing to take the risk.” He was getting angry, she could see it in how his mouth pressed together, the soft curve of his bottom lip thinning out into a straight line.

“But I am!” She glared at him, struggled against his hold. “I didn’t travel the world for this…this…gelded stranger.” Oh God, oh God; her heart wrung itself into the shape of a banana at the look of absolute hurt that flashed across his face.

“What?” His fingers dug into her arms, and she hated herself for doing this to him, for taunting him, but somehow she had to breach the goddamn wall he was constructing around his inner core, and the only way she could think of doing that was to spur him into anger. Alex gulped; it frightened her, but she saw no other option. She ignored the way his hands were sinking into her flesh, leaned back provocatively against the tree, and looked him up and down.

“You know what I mean, Matthew Graham. You’ve lost your balls, haven’t you?” He paled at her insulting tone and she cried inside. She took a long shaky breath. “Let me know when you find them again. Until then, let’s put this whole charade on ice, okay?”

She wrenched herself free and made as if to go to the house. Three steps and she was thrown on her back, all air knocked out of her. She fought him, she shoved and clawed at him, she twisted her legs closed, egging him on, very much on purpose.

His breathing was ragged, and in his eyes the golden flecks had vanished, replaced by something far, far colder. He kissed her, furiously, hungrily, and she bit him, attempting to slap his face. He undid her lacings, ignoring her attempts to escape, and she was flat on her back, her shift open to her waist to reveal her breasts to the falling dusk.

“Let me go!” She wasn’t sure she wanted to do this anymore. He scared her, he was hurting her, his hands and mouth punishing her. But it was too late, Matthew spread her legs apart and ploughed inside. He pinned her down with his weight, he came and he went, her wrists held in a painful grip above her head. She pitched and struggled, trying to heave him off. He grunted, he pushed, he drove himself harder and harder inside, and she was being battered by this uncaring stranger, a human
perpetuum mobile
that sent thrust after jarring thrust into her.

He pulled out and sat back, and she took the opportunity to get away, crawling on all fours. His hand closed around her ankle, dragging her back towards him. Alex kicked at him, at this animal that was treating her like this. Ah! She whimpered when he took her from behind, hard hands holding her hips immobile. He groaned and panted, uttered strings of unintelligible sounds, and all the while he came and went, deaf to her protests. She was being ravaged by her own husband – no, not by him, but by the accumulated rage that lived in him, the rage she had purposely goaded into fury.

“Oh, Jesus,” she groaned when he flipped her over. She swiped at him, he slapped her and then he was inside of her again, and all of her shrieked at the ungentle treatment.

“Matthew, please! No, honey, please…” She raised her hands to his face in supplication. He froze at her touch.

“Alex?” He stared down at her, eyes black in the fading light. “My Alex?”

She tightened her arms around him, telling him she loved him, that she would always love him, no matter what. A huge shudder rippled through him, the cheeks of his buttocks clenched spasmodically, and he collapsed on top of her.

*

Matthew felt her shoving at him. He knew he was too heavy, but there was no energy in him, not even to shift to one side. His mouth lay wet against her neck, and he kissed her there, where her pulse leapt erratically against her skin.

“I can’t move,” he croaked. Lord, what had he done to her?

“Then don’t,” she replied just as hoarsely. Her arms came up around him again, fingers drifting over his cropped hair. He buried his nose in her curls, wanted to stay like this forever.

“I think there’s a stone under my behind,” she said after a while. “And I don’t really want another bruise.” Matthew groaned; he suspected he’d marked her with more than the odd bruise or two.

He rolled off and he couldn’t meet her eyes, so ashamed of what he’d done to her. The shift was torn, her skirts were thrown high, baring her indecently. His hands shook as he pulled down first her petticoats and then her skirt. Clumsily he covered her breasts, used his thumb to wipe away her tears and rested his forehead against hers, repeating an agonised ‘forgive me’ over and over again. She shushed him and told him that of course she forgave him. When he made as if to stand, she gripped his hand and coaxed him back down on the grass.

“No, let’s stay here a little while longer. It’s still quite warm.”

He smiled at that, and patted at his chest. With the back of his hand he located her heartbeat just below her jaw. In his ears rang his own pulse, and he tried to separate one beat from the other, isolate his sound from hers, but they were perfectly blended, two halves making a whole. High above stood a sliver of new moon, and as dusk shifted into night, stars winked into existence beside it, one by one.

“You hold my heart, Alex,” he whispered. She shifted even closer, one hand sliding into his breeches to cup him, her hand warm and exploring.

“Well, I definitely have a good grip on your balls,” she replied, and he broke out in relieved laughter.

Chapter 26

2006

Magnus almost fainted when he stepped into the studio. On the easel was a painting of a sea, wild waves of water crashing into each other. In blues and greens, it reminded him of Mercedes’ time portals, all those little canvases that he’d burnt almost four years ago.

“What’s that?” he asked, attempting to keep his voice neutral.

Over his shoulder, Isaac threw him a look. “It’s a pirate ship.”

Magnus’ back softened, shoulders slumping. Atop the cresting waves Isaac had painted a lopsided thing with bulging sails and a Jolly Roger flag.

“And where is Jack Sparrow?” he asked, tousling Isaac’s hair.

“It’s not his ship,” Isaac leaned forward to add some dashes of white to his waves. “Did my grandmother – Mercedes – paint the sea?” he said, turning to face Magnus.

“Why do you ask?”

Isaac hitched narrow bony shoulders and tilted his head to one side. For an instant it was like seeing Mercedes standing before him, down to the curve of the mouth and the dark lines of the brows, pulled down over eyes the colour of cocoa beans.

“I just think she did.” Isaac rubbed a finger over the stained table. “See? So much blue paint. But maybe she painted skies.”

Magnus smiled crookedly. The only skies his wife had ever painted had been blood red, patterned with dark smoke from the pyres burning at the painting’s centre.

“I’m not sure,” he said, “she painted a lot of stuff that was just colours.”

Isaac nodded, apparently satisfied with this reply. He went back to his painted ship and Magnus returned to his kitchen and a fortifying cup of coffee.

*

“Why did you burn them?” Isaac asked over dinner.

“Hmm?” Magnus served Isaac some more mash.

“The paintings – the ones Mercedes made.”

“How do you know we burnt them?” Magnus said.

Isaac speared a meatball with his fork. “Die, vile foe.” He giggled and stuffed the meatball into his mouth. “Dad said so,” he said through his food.

“He did? And don’t talk while you’re chewing.”

“To Diane,” Isaac said once his mouth was empty. “They were talking about all the paintings they burnt.”

“Ah.” Magnus shoved his plate away.

“So why? Weren’t they any good?” Isaac asked. Two parallel creases appeared between his brows. “You always say I paint like her, and…”

“They were very good,” Magnus interrupted. “I told you. She had exhibitions, made tons of money.” He sighed. “But…well, once she was gone I didn’t feel like keeping them. They reminded me too much of her.” They scared the daylights out of him, those squares of twisting colour, but he had no intention of telling Isaac that.

“Sometimes…” Isaac began. He shut his mouth.

“Sometimes what?”

“I hear her. When I paint, sometimes I hear her – or Mama.”

“Oh come on, Isaac! How could you possibly do that?” Magnus attempted a little laugh, rolling his eyes.

“I do,” Isaac said, lower lip jutting.

“And what do they say? Brush your teeth, eat your greens?”

Isaac shook his head. “Not like that! I just…it’s like someone singing far, far away.”

“The radio,” Magnus nodded, “or one of Eva’s operas.” He hummed a couple of bars from Carmen, making Isaac grin. The boy slid off his chair and came to sit in Magnus’ lap, thin arms hugging him hard.

“Yeah; it’s the radio,” he yawned.

I bloody well hope so, Magnus thought.

*

For the coming weeks, Magnus hovered round the studio whenever Isaac was there, finding one pretext after the other to walk in on his artist grandson. Either it was a batch of cookies that needed tasting, or did Isaac want hollandaise or plain butter with the asparagus, or had Isaac done his homework.

But no matter how often he came into the studio, no matter how hard he strained his ears, not once did he hear anything resembling song – except for when Eva had on the downstairs radio. He smiled at his grandson, for the day engrossed in depicting a volcanic eruption, all the while talking to the little stick figures that were attempting to flee the oncoming lava. The boy had a vivid imagination, that’s all.