Serpents in the Garden (35 page)

“Philip!” Walter screamed, pressing his hand to his bleeding side. Dandelion was back, worrying at Stephen’s leg like a terrier. Philip cursed and hurried to his brothers’ aid. Matthew fired, Stephen howled, his brothers heaved him up and fled, leaving a thick smear of blood in their wake. Dandelion bounded after, barking wildly. Yes, the dog was right: they should probably set off in pursuit and finish the bastards off once and for all, but all Alex could think of was Ian, his hand immobile and pale against the dark mulch of the ground.

Matthew rushed towards Ian. His sleeve was dark with blood, and he grunted as he fell to his knees by his son.

“Are you alright?” Alex knelt beside him.

“Ian,” he said in reply, “oh Lord, Ian!” He made as if to lift Ian up, injured arm or not.

“No, wait. He landed badly on his back.” She placed a hand on Ian’s cheek, keeping her eyes from the spreading dark red stain on his shirt. “Ian?”

Ian’s eyelids fluttered open.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

Ian managed to nod.

“Well, thank heavens for that,” Alex said, making Matthew glare at her.

“Thank heavens?”

“It means he can feel something. If it didn’t hurt, his spine would have been broken.” She didn’t like the way he was lying and to carry him back like this… “Go and get help. We need a door or something to carry him on, and quilts.”

“Go? I can’t leave you here!” He threw a wild look at their surroundings as if expecting the damned Burleys to reappear at any moment.

“Matthew! Go! You can ride much faster than I can, and I’ll be alright. They’re wounded and won’t be coming back. And, if they do, I’ll castrate them for damaging my son.” She put a hand on Dandelion’s collar. “He stays with me but for God’s sake, ride and ride now.”

Matthew stood indecisive for a further few seconds, looked down at his bleeding, very still son, and, with a curt nod, sat up on Ian’s chestnut gelding and spurred it away.

*

Ian lay listening to the receding sounds of horse and rider before opening his eyes.

“Mama…” Ian whispered, trying to blink her into focus. His side was on fire, and he recalled being hit, and then…God! His back!

“Be quiet,” Mama said. “Can you move your toes?”

He made a huge effort, near on swooning with the pain.

She gave him an encouraging nod. “Good. Your fingers?”

He dragged them across the moss. But his whole back throbbed, and he was convinced there was something hard pushing into his spine. Tentatively, he shifted to his right. Pain flew up his side and banded his chest, making him gulp for air. She stopped him from trying again by placing a hand on his arm.

“I don’t dare to move you,” she said, stepping out of her petticoats. She rolled them together and fashioned a pillow for him, lifting his head carefully. Then she squatted down to inspect his side.

Ian lay staring up at the patches of sky visible above the high chestnuts and sycamores. Blue sky, tree crowns silhouetted against it… It was all spinning; slowly but irrevocably, the trees danced around him, and he was aware of a growing nausea. Her hands were soft and competent, so warm against his skin.

“Will I die?” he asked.

“Someday,” she replied with a hitch to her voice, “but not today.”

But mayhap tomorrow, or the day after, unless Mrs Parson was good with gunshot wounds. The ball had lodged itself inside of him; he could feel it when she probed. He gasped, was relieved when she told him it would do for now – at least she had staunched the blood. Instead, she covered him with the blankets that the two horses left behind carried, and then she just sat there and held his hand.

He shivered, having to grit his teeth to stop them from chattering. “So cold,” he said.

“Shock,” she muttered, and, to his consternation, she stood and undressed, calling for Dandelion to come and lie close on his uninjured side.

“What are you doing?” Ian croaked.

“I have to keep you warm.”

It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen her naked before – of course he had, if nothing else during all those baths when he was still a lad – but he was very conscious of the fact that he was a man, and she, for all that she was his mama, was a woman. She piled her discarded clothes on top of the blankets and lay down as close as possible. He was horribly cold and she was wonderfully warm, and her breasts were very soft. Soft and round, he reflected drowsily, and it was nice to have her holding him like this. He closed his eyes, safe in the knowledge that she was here.

*

By the time Matthew made it back with Mark, Alex was stiff with cold, but at least Ian was moderately warm, his breathing regular if shallow. Inch by careful inch, they slid him to lie flat on the door they had brought with them, and Alex packed him in a mountain of quilts, all the while talking soothingly to him.

Ian groped for her hand.

“Will I die, Mama?” he asked again in a trickle of a voice.

“Someday,” she said through tears, “but not today.”

Chapter 39

Jacob sat back on his heels and surveyed the garden. He had done it! Not by himself, of course, but to a very large part the Apothecaries’ Garden was the product of his efforts. He filled his hand with well-turned soil and let it dribble through his fingers. Rich, loamy and dark, the soil brought forth plants of exceptional quality, and in one corner stood Jacob’s own contribution to what, according to Master Castain, was destined to become the foremost herbal garden in the world.

Jacob wandered over to inspect the squash plants and was joined by Master Castain, who was fascinated by these fast-growing new additions to his collection.

“So you eat the fruit?” Master Castain said as he always did.

Jacob nodded. According to Mama, you did.

“Have you found a berth to Maryland?” Master Castain asked as they strolled towards the small cottage the master used as office and summer abode.

“Aye. With Captain Miles. Fitting, isn’t it?” He chuckled at the thought. It was Captain Miles’ generous gift two years ago that would pay his way back home.

“You could stay,” Master Castain said in a light voice.

Jacob shook his head. “I want to go home.”

Ever since that terrible evening at Richard Collin’s, the dazzle had gone out of London for Jacob, and several days of bedridden pain hadn’t much helped. He fingered his nose: would they recognise him when they saw him, or had he changed too much? He frowned down at his hands: still fully functional as was most of him, but the clap to his ear had left him with a recurring ringing, and the broken toes had healed badly, so now Jacob walked with a constant twinge.

Only once since his ordeal had he seen Charlotte. She had come to an abrupt standstill and raised her hand in a tentative wave. Jacob had wheeled and left, his heart hammering against his ribs.

“Why did she lie?” he had asked his uncle repeatedly during the time he spent in bed. “Why fill me with these terrible stories?”

Luke had tilted his head. “And if she had told you she was happy and content?”

Jacob had stared up at the ceiling considering this. “Then I wouldn’t have cared for her,” he finally admitted.

Luke ruffled his hair. “You needed to be the hero, and you cast her as your Dulcinea.”

That had rankled. Jacob had never shared Mark’s or Mama’s fascination with Don Quijote, finding the aged bachelor ludicrous and gullible, and here he was, as gullible himself.

“In one thing, your da and myself have been much alike,” Luke had gone on, “and that’s in our choice of women. Both of us have loved women who have loved us as wholeheartedly back.”

“Choice?” Jacob had said bitterly. “More a question of being fortunate.”

Luke had regarded him for a long time. “Aye, you’re right. It wasn’t choice; it was fate.” His face softened, making him look very young. “I knew it, aye? From the moment I first saw Margaret – and I was only six.”

Jacob found that most incredible, but kept that to himself. He fell asleep while Luke told him of long gone days at Hillview, days spent running through the meadows with Margaret at his side.

*

Over the last few weeks, Jacob had spent what time he could with his uncle and cousins, regaling them with one story after the other about his life and family back home.

“It seems so much more exciting there than here,” Charlie said after Jacob had recounted how narrowly he had escaped being abducted some years back.

“You could come with me.” Jacob looked his cousin up and down with a teasing smile. “Not like that, mind. Velvet doesn’t do very well in the woods.”

Luke squashed that idea in the bud, informing both son and nephew that Charles had obligations and duties here, in England.

“And no,” he added, “neither Marie nor Joan will be going either.” Jacob rolled his eyes at his very bonny girl cousins, making them giggle.

“She looks much like mother,” Charles had informed Jacob the first time he had met Marie. If so, Jacob concluded with a flash of disloyalty, Margaret was much, much more beautiful than Mama. In response to his open admiration, Charles had led him into Luke’s bedroom, and there Jacob had stared at this unknown aunt, exquisitely captured by Peter Lely himself.

“We’ll never find a wife to replace her,” Jacob informed Charles in a reverential voice.

“No,” Charles said, sounding very pleased.

Jacob remained in front of the portrait for an extended period of time, staring at this entrancing woman, her perfect skin highlighted by ivory silks, the blue in her eyes underlined by the green of her ribbons. All he could see was Mama: in the shape of the face, and the slant of the eyes, in the way those dark eyebrows arched, and in the slight curl of her mouth. It was most disconcerting, and there was no one he could comment it with. Even more disconcerting was the day the letter arrived.

*

“A letter for you.” Master Castain handed Jacob the thick square. “Read it later,” he said in an irritated voice when it would seem Jacob was going to tear it open immediately. “We have an illustrious visitor to prepare for.”

Jacob made a face. Preparing for an illustrious visitor meant he, Jacob, had to scurry over the exhibition beds and ensure it all looked perfect, while Ned chased the gardening lads to shear the grass of the paths as short as they could get it. Then they were expected to melt into the background as Master Castain in his best velvet coat expounded on the various plants to a patron at best capable of recognising lemon balm, at worst only there because he had to be.

It was evening by the time Jacob remembered he had a letter to read, and eagerly he opened it to find it contained but a short note for him, and a sealed letter to be delivered to Uncle Luke. For all that he was now a man rather than a lad, Jacob was beside himself with curiosity. His mama write to Uncle Luke? He read his own letter twice only to find it contained very little news – except for the fact that the new field hand, John Mason (who, his mother informed him in fact was a mason, from a long line of masons down on the south coast somewhere, and wasn’t that interesting? No, Jacob thought impatiently) was giving Agnes the eye, and about time it was that this nice young woman found herself a man, no matter that she had the intellect of a confused hen.

It wasn’t until the next day that Jacob had the opportunity of delivering the letter to Luke.

“What does she say?” Jacob asked, forcing himself to remain seated when what he wanted to do was rush over and snatch the letter from Luke’s hand.

“I imagine that should she have wanted you to know, she would have told you,” Luke replied in a teasing tone, but a deep crease between his brows indicated he was concerned by what he had just read.

*

Luke folded the letter and stood up, wandering over to stare out at the June twilight. How could Alex know anything at all about a painting he kept hidden from public view? He read the short paragraph again.
Destroy it
, he read,
and never look for too long or too deep into its swirling midst
. Why not? Luke was most intrigued.
Please do not let my son look too close, nor any of your own children unless you wish to see them disappear before your eyes
. Luke felt a ripple of disquiet move up his spine. Black magic… Margaret’s mother… And once again, how did his sister-in-law come to know?

“Uncle Luke?” Jacob’s face was very close to his own.

“I think we need to do some experimenting, dear nephew. Wait here.”

Luke returned a half hour or so later, with the kitchen lad in tow. At their entrance, Jacob rose from the window bench.

“Now,” Luke said to the kitchen lad. “When I tell you to, I want you to look very closely at the painting.”

The laddie blinked. Two large brandies had him somewhat unsteady on his feet, and, in his hand, he clutched the golden guinea Luke had given him. Jacob stood a few feet away, looking green around the gills.

Luke frowned. “Ready? Keep your eye on the lad, and if anything happens to him, grab him.”

“And if something happens to me?” Jacob asked.

“I’m right here.” Luke cocked his head at his nephew. Jacob was not only pale, he was sweating profusely, eyes firmly averted from the wee painting.

“Right then, lad, look and look deep,” Luke said.

The kitchen boy stepped up close to the table, staring down at the painting. At first, nothing happened, and Luke was on the point of discontinuing this disappointing little exercise when the painting began to sing, a hushed humming that made Luke sway where he stood. From a white point at its centre, bright light gushed forth, and the kitchen lad uttered a muted ‘oh’, extending first one, then the other hand towards the dazzling light.

Dear God! Luke’s stomach heaved violently. The lad’s arms were gone, and now his head, his torso were fading as well. The laddie screamed and tried to back away, but it would seem the painting had him in a vice, dragging the hapless bairn into invisibility. Jacob grabbed hold of the lad’s breeches and pulled.

“Help me!”

Luke rushed forward to take hold of a foot. Together, they threw themselves backwards and the lad shrieked like a gutted pig. For a sickening moment, Luke feared they’d not be able to hold him, so strong was the force that was attempting to swallow him.

One concerted heave, and the lad landed on the floor, his eyes squished closed.

“God in heaven…” Jacob was shaking all over, staring from the picture to the lad who was now curled together, holding his head between his hands.

“Most fortuitous that you grabbed him when you did.” Luke attempted to sound calm.

“Aye, there was very little left of him.” Jacob sank down to sit against the wall. “Please…” he said, indicating the painting. “Please cover it.”

Luke did, and Jacob slumped, breathing heavily.

The lad struggled to sit. “Me head,” he groaned, “it hurts fair to kill me.” His face, his neck, what was visible of his hands and arms – all of him was covered in large, black bruises.

“More brandy.” Luke rang for one of the footmen and instructed him to ply the lad with brandy until he fell asleep.

“He…” Jacob coughed. “Did you see? He…Oh Lord, what is this?”

“I’m not sure.” Luke wrapped the painting in an old shawl and returned it to its drawer. The canvas hummed with life, and Luke slammed the drawer closed. This was witchcraft: black, dangerous magic. He made a note to himself to ensure the lad was kept well and truly drunk for a couple of days before being sent off to the Oxford house.

“Burn it!” Jacob whispered. “You can’t keep something like that!”

“I won’t, of course I won’t. Dear Lord, what if one of my children were to come upon it?”

Jacob nodded, reclining against the wall with his eyes closed. “How could Mama know?”

“That, I fear, is something you must ask your mother.”

“Aye, I suppose it is,” Jacob said.

They never spoke of it again.

*

The day Jacob did his final examinations, Luke presented him with a new set of clothes. In sober, well-cut broadcloth, new silk stockings, new shirt and a cravat to match, Jacob felt most conspicuous. In particular, it was the shoes with their two-inch heels and impressive rosettes that had him moving with exaggerated caution, very aware that he overtopped every single man around him – including his uncle.

Afterwards, as a newly confirmed apothecary, Jacob invited Master Castain to supper, and, by the time they returned home, the short summer night was nearly over, the sky a delicate shade of pink. They stood for a long time by the river, watching the anchored ships.

“I’ll miss you,” Master Castain said.

“And I you,” Jacob replied.

“If…” Master Castain coughed a couple of times, found a handkerchief to wipe himself fastidiously around the nose and mouth, and cleared his throat. “If you ever need it, there’s a place for you here, with us.” His only child was not yet twelve, he added, but with time she would inherit a profitable business.

Jacob laughed. “Wed little Isabelle? I think not, master. She scares me as it is.”

Master Castain joined in his laughter. Isabelle was a headstrong child, he admitted with quite some pride.

“I must go home,” Jacob continued, watching as one of the ships on the river unfurled its sails.

“And it helps, of course, to return an educated man,” Master Castain said with a hint of bitterness.

Jacob clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll plant a herbal garden of my own one day, and I’ll name it after you.”

“Me?” Master Castain flushed with pleasure.

*

Jacob wasn’t quite sure what to say, but Helen looked at him with such open pleading in her eyes that he finally gave a small nod.

“Not much of a godfather,” he said. “It’s not as if I’ll be able to contribute to her upkeep or such.”

“Keep her we can do ourselves.” Helen smiled at the babe in her arms. “Here.” She handed him the child.

Jacob had held weans most of his life, and automatically he adjusted his hold so that the head was supported by his arm. A pretty enough child, he supposed, with fair, long lashes and a generous mouth. “What will you name her?”

“Rachel.” Helen met his surprised look calmly. “For her father’s sister.”

“Oh.” Had he ever told her of his dead sister? He suspected he had. Still, Rachel was a common enough name, wasn’t it? A mere coincidence, no more. He stared down at the sleeping wean, quelling an urge to undo the laced cap and see if she had any hair.

“I’ll never forget you, Jacob Graham.” Helen smiled, reclaiming her daughter.

“I don’t think I’ll forget you either.”

She laughed and ducked her head. “No,” she said in a sultry voice. “I don’t think you will.”

As he stood to leave, she took hold of his coat lapel, and stood on her toes to give him a kiss. “Thank you,” she said, “for everything.”

*

Luke insisted on accompanying Jacob down to the docks, standing to the side as the man Jacob told him was the captain greeted Jacob with a hug.

“You’ve grown,” the captain said, craning back to meet Jacob’s eyes.

“Nay, I haven’t.” Jacob grinned. “You’ve shrunk.” He beckoned for Luke to join them, so he did, noting how the captain’s face tightened as he approached.