The Hanging of Margaret Dickson (12 page)

‘Oh!' says Maggie. Her mouth makes the shape of a circle.

Alexander groans. ‘Give me strength.'

Maggie pulls on her clothes. ‘My hair used to be much longer. Passed my waist. I sold it.'

‘You sold your hair?'

‘Aye. But it will grow back; it's already past my shoulders.'

‘Oh, do you have to put on those dreadful garments?'

Maggie shrugs. ‘Aye, can't be walking around naked can I?'

‘More is the pity,' he utters.

***

Before returning home, Maggie rids herself of all feelings of guilt and remorse. And anyway, why should she feel guilty when he's never around? Aye, it's all Patrick's fault, she decides. If he'd been a better husband and provided for them all, she would never have acted in such a way. Or would she? In her heart she knows the answer.

Black clouds linger over the Esk as she nears Musselburgh. And Maggie can swear that St Michaels spire is mocking her in the distance, begging her to confess her sins. She turns her cheek and trudges on. Behind a hedge, she crouches, legs trembling as she takes a handful of soil and grass to wipe between her legs to mask his smell. But she's not ready to go home just yet. She takes another handful of dirt and smothers it over her arms and face. Now she can go home.

***

The children sense all is not well. Anna and Patrick huddle together once the quarrelling begins. As always, one of their parents leaves the cottage, slamming the door behind them. This time it's mother.

‘Why did mother shout and say you are not a man?' Anna screws up her little face and bites her lip, determined not to cry.

‘She's troubled. But it will pass. All will be well come morning.' Patrick strokes his daughter's head.

‘But she hit you and now she's gone.'

‘I know. I know. But she'll be back soon and then I must be off again to catch more fish.' Patrick tickles his daughter's cheek with his beard, and the sound of her giggles warms his heart. But then his eyes cloud over as his thoughts return to Maggie. He's wondering where she might be, because if he knew, he'd be tempted to wring her damned neck.

***

It's a potent thing deceit and treachery. Especially when it involves such savage passion and forbidden pleasures. Addiction can be resisted or gradual, but for the likes of Maggie, the craving is instantaneous. Time after time she entertains him, until the fruits of her labour land at her feet or stomach, so to speak. ‘You reap what you sow.' Wasn't that the saying? And so, if Maggie's to continue this dalliance and pursuit of pleasure, she must play her lover like an angler would a trout, until she became uninterested in him, or him of her?

A savage wind blows from the north and tears at the landscape. Next comes rain and hail, and still she contrives to venture outside. There's no choice. She has to. Maggie leaves the children with the widow. The force of the wind and rain stings her face, and by the time she reaches the wise-woman's cottage at the top of fairy brae, her lips are blue. It's a most pitiful structure; the dwelling's virtually crumbling to the ground. Some cured well-wisher has tried to patch up her roof with a piece of turf, but unfortunately it's become dinner to a multitude of vermin.

Maggie knocks twice. Footsteps shuffle slowly towards her, until at long last the door creaks open and Maggie's confronted with an old woman. Maggie rubs at her eyes, can she be seeing right? Around the old hag's throat is a necklace of dead worms. Without a word she beckons for Maggie to come inside and reaches for a large jug on a nearby shelf. Next, she pours a quantity of liquid into a small cup.

‘But I haven't said what…'

‘I can guess,' replies the wise-woman with a knowing smile. ‘The pains will begin in an hour or maybe less. Be sure to have lots of linen to catch the mess.'

Maggie hands her a coin, sips the mixture and is on her way.

***

The pains come much quicker than she anticipates, so with the wind howling in her ears, Maggie ties her body with a napkin to catch the blood before returning home. A dull light radiates from the cottage. Patrick waits at the door with his arms crossed, a pipe in his mouth.

‘Where have you been, woman? Are you insane?'

‘Nae, we've no food. I went out for eggs.'

‘What do you mean, no food? Never mind, you're soaked through. Get yourself inside.'

Maggie warms herself by the fire hoping he won't ask to see the eggs. A dull pain throbs in her back and groin. With her back turned to him, tears roll down her cheeks, and no matter how much she rubs her stomach, the ache will not go away.

‘What ails you, wife?'

‘Ague I think.'

‘I'm not surprised if you're going out in weather like that.'

With the back of her hand she wipes away tears and turns to her husband. He's holding out a warm blanket to her, a doubtful expression on his face. Maggie averts her eyes, damnation she cannot meet his gaze and so she turns away again, shuddering as he places a blanket over her.

Near the hearth Maggie slumbers, hugging her knees to her chest. Face streaked with tears, eyes red and swollen, she thinks to die will be a blessing. For only a wicked and selfish woman could act as she does, indifferent to her husband and children.

***

A week later, all is forgotten. With her husband at sea, Maggie's up to no good again, and one thing's for sure, she no longer cares when her husband returns home. Maggie cares even less about keeping a tidy cottage; nothing is in its place. Dirty pots and clothes are scattered everywhere, the pigsty is a mess, and she's let the fire burn out. But no matter – Maggie has only one thing on her mind.

With haste, she washes the children's faces, sticks a bannock in Anna's hand and trudges off to old Widow Arrock's. Anna runs ahead, Patrick's still unsteady on his feet, so she carries him in the crook of her arm. A tight smile masks her impatience as she chats to the widow; Maggie's not listening to a single word that she says. Nevertheless, all the while she nods and pretends that she's all ears, but in truth in her mind she's already in Alexander's bed.

‘Won't be long, children.' Maggie avoids her son's eyes.

‘Don't go. Please mother stay,' little Patrick cries and tugs at his mother's skirts.

Maggie turns to leave, a sudden attack of guilt surfaces and disappears as quickly as it appears, but niggles and festers inside of her. The ground crunches beneath her feet as she drops to her knees to clasp her son to her. ‘I'll bring you and Anna a mutton pie, how's that?'

Anna smiles and rubs her belly.

***

A sense of exhilaration courses through her veins as she approaches Queen Mary bath house. Every time she visits him he introduces her to more decadent desires. She wonders what he has in store for her today, more acts of domination or perhaps some play-acting. His favourite is for her to touch herself while he watches from a secret place, whipping him up into frenzy, until he can bear it no more. The list's endless, and Maggie's an avid pupil, and more than eager to please.

***

To George's mind, it's like any other Sabbath, until his son walks in. The sermon drags on and on, prompting many a woman and child to pee where they stand. Like all kirks of Scotland, St Michaels congregation demands diligence and punctuality, and so when Maggie, Patrick and the children walk in long after the doors have closed, fingers point. Once or twice they receive a dagger-like stare. George winces as Barbara nudges him in the ribs and whispers to him. ‘Look at the state of them, George. I knew he shouldn't have married that one.'

‘Shush,' he silences her with flashing eyes. ‘I'll speak to him, mark my word.'

After the sermon, he takes his son to a quiet corner.

‘You've lost weight, son.' He tugs at his son's shirt. ‘Doesn't your wife feed you?'

Patrick laughs. ‘Have you tasted her cooking?'

George Spence glances at his son's gaunt face. ‘It's that bad? Your mother's worried about you. It wouldn't do any harm to call around to see her once in a while. Eat a decent meal …'

‘I'm fine. Tell mother all is well. I'll see you next Sabbath.'

George nods and returns to Barbara, he places a hand around her shoulder and whispers in her ear. ‘Your son is fine; nothing ails him, except his wife's cooking.'

But Barbara's not listening to him. Something else holds her attention. The minister and Maggie stand barely a whisker apart. Her manner towards him is familiar, enticing even.

‘What did I tell you, George? She's a jezebel.'

***

Patrick looks around the cottage with weary eyes and to his consternation he can't find anything. The place no longer resembles a home. All around him is chaos, dirty pots, clothes, a half-eaten bannock, and for the life of him he cannot find his sea boots.

‘Get your boots on, lass.'

His wife shakes her head.

‘Aren't you coming to the burning of the boat? The children have been looking forward to it.'

‘Nae, Patrick. I'll give it a miss. I said I would visit Jean Ramsay; she needs my help spinning. She's hurt her arm.'

‘Can't it wait until tomorrow? The women are playing football and golf. I thought you liked the games?'

Maggie ignores him.

‘Well don't expect me to take the children.'

‘Do as you please, Patrick. I really don't care.'

***

At the bath house, she bathes and gives herself to Alexander. There's nothing she won't do for him. Maggie's more than happy to satisfy his every need. Naked, half dressed, on her knees, sat up, stood up, bent over with red painted lips.

Today he requires that she wear a fine dress. A low-cut velvet one with a ribbon trimmed smock. The short tight boned corset forces her breasts high and squeezes her waist so tiny that it accentuated her generous hips. He demands that she wear a black beaded choker, high heeled satin shoes, no shift and no stockings.

Maggie feels his gaze as she admires herself in the looking glass. She could gaze at herself all day. Alexander's hands encircle her waist; she slaps them away and smooths out a wrinkle on the bodice. But he will not be deterred and presses himself against her, grabbing her corset laces with both hands.

‘You are quite lovely.'

‘You haven't fastened it properly,' she scolds.

‘It doesn't matter. It'll be on the floor in a moment,' he replies, kissing her neck. ‘You look absolutely ravishing.'

At that moment, for whatsoever reason, he changes his mind and proceeds to fasten her up extra tight till her ribs feel like they might break and her lungs explode.

Maggie's face turns crimson. ‘Damn. I can hardly breathe. What are you doing now?'

‘Putting patches on your face.' He places one black crescent high on her right cheek and another on her chin.

‘What do I want these on for?'

‘Put this cape on. We're going out.'

***

Dawney Douglas's has all manner of clientele. A motley crew of gentry, peasants, artisans, poets and libertines frequent the inn. Aldermen talk treason, smugglers talk wine and brandy, and gamesters of faro and hazard. It doesn't matter whether it is night or day, the inn-keeper and his wife are open all hours, and for the most part the atmosphere's always merry.

With his arm wrapped around her, Alexander guides Maggie through a long narrow hall. Several rooms jut off it and in one a fiddler plays an Irish jig while a semi-naked girl dances on top of a looking-glass. In another, a pinching fight entertains the crowd and all the while Maggie keeps her head high and contrives to look neither left nor right. Maggie's hand clutches Alexander's arm, her heart pounds so hard she's breathless. The majority of men, young, old, rich and poor look about in surprise and sudden interest at the beautiful woman on the gentleman's arm.

‘Here we are, darling,' Alexander prompts Maggie to sit near a group of rowdy men playing cards on a green table. ‘Allow me to introduce my dear friend, Cecil.'

Maggie nods at the bald and warty man. Alexander cannot help but notice her displeasure as he takes her hand to kiss it.

‘And this is my younger brother, John.'

A broad-backed man sits with his back half turned from them; he does not glance around but continues with his game. Maggie thinks him quite ill-mannered and rude.

‘John,' Alexander taps him on the shoulder and then again.

‘Not now,' says John.

‘But I want to introduce you to a friend of mine.'

John curses and turns around. The colour drains from his face and his eyes widen.

‘This is Maggie.'

Maggie bows her head. Meanwhile, with a flick of the wrist, John tosses his hand of cards aside. Next he embraces his brother, his eyes meeting Maggie's as they draw apart. There's a likeness between the brothers, accept that once they stand side to side, every flaw of Alexander's is magnified. John's younger, taller, his jaw more square.

‘Sit with me, Maggie,' John beckons.

***

The brother is persistent. Maggie obliges without a thought for Alexander. John sits close beside her, so much so that she feels herself edging backwards as blood rises to her neck and face. His eyes dip to the swelling peaks at the top of her dress. Damn, he is a bold one.

‘Where's Alexander?' Maggie's eyes scan the room.

John looks into her eyes, a half-smile on his lips, one eyebrow lifting as his hand caresses her knee, and then her thigh. ‘Oh, forget him,' John says. ‘He doesn't mind sharing his whores.'

‘How dare you!' Maggie springs up to face him, almost bursting into wild helpless angry tears. Without thinking she raises her hand to slap him and then remembers herself, a lowly fisherwoman facing an aristocrat. A blur of tears obscure her vision as she searches for Alexander, but he's nowhere to be seen. In the end she finds him near the tavern entrance taking some air.