I’ll Bring You Buttercups. Elizabeth Elgin

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СКАЧАТЬ he hadn’t bargained on the contents of her teacup being flung in his face. ‘Get out! Get out of my sight!’

      He had left, then, mopping his stinging cheek, because his mother in a rage was a match for any man, and the lash of her tongue was to be avoided. Mama in a fury harked back to her roots and became the embodiment of Mary Anne, his peasant forebear.

      He walked without direction, his anger increasing. He needed comfort. He had a good mind to go to Creesby, to Maudie who loved him. In his present mood he’d marry her for two pins, then laugh in his mother’s face. But if he married the butcher’s daughter, two pins was all he’d be worth.

      A pheasant rose clucking in his path. He supposed he was on Rowangarth land, now. No use calling, though. Aunt Helen would be at dinner. But dammit, he would go to Creesby, where he’d be welcome. Maudie was always available, always free. He turned about suddenly. He would take the motor and seek Maudie out – and serve his mother right, too. That was when he saw her – one of the Rowangarth servants if he wasn’t mistaken – slim and pretty, her waist a hand-span round. Her breasts reminded him of Maudie, and made him forget her at once. Eyes narrowed, he ran his tongue round his lips with pure pleasure.

      ‘Good evening,’ he murmured.

      ‘Mr Elliot.’ Eyes lowered, Alice moved to pass him, but he sidestepped, and barred her way.

      ‘Please, sir,’ she murmured, all at once uneasy, ‘if I might –’

      ‘No, you might not. You might do nothing that doesn’t please me. Tell me your name, and who you are.’

      ‘It’s Hawthorn, sir; Alice Hawthorn. I’m sewing-maid at Rowangarth and if you’ll excuse me I’m going to meet my friend.’

      Small pulses of fear fluttered in her throat. She tried to call out for Tom, but her throat had gone tight and no sound came.

      ‘Your friend, Alice Hawthorn? What kind of a friend is it that you slink off to meet behind bushes? And he isn’t here, is he, so you’ll have to make do with me!’

      Laughing, he reached for her, pulling her closer. She smelled whisky on his breath and oh, God! where was Tom?

      His mouth groped for hers and she pushed him away. His moustache scrubbed her cheek as he grabbed her hair and held back her head.

      ‘No!’ She brought the heel of her boot down on his foot with all her strength.

      ‘Damn you!’ He gasped with pain, releasing her. She ran, stumbling, but he caught her again, pulling her to the ground, grunting his pleasure as he straddled her, pulling at her blouse, ripping it open.

      ‘No. No. No!’ She clawed at his face; pulled her fingernails down his cheek so hard that she felt pain in them. Blood oozed in tiny droplets, then ran in a little rivulet on to his chin, his stark white collar.

      ‘Leave me be!’ She rolled away from him, over and over, into a bramble bush. Branches lashed her, thorns clawed at her face, her neck, at her uncovered breasts.

      ‘Bitch!’ No more. He’d had enough of her teasing, her refusals. The games were over and he tore at her skirt. ‘Please – don’t!’ He was wild-eyed; a madman. He was drunk; he was going to kill her. Terror gave her sudden strength, gave back her voice. ‘Tom! Reuben!’ she screamed. ‘Help me, Tom! Oh, God – help me!’

      There was a crashing in the undergrowth. Someone, something, was coming. With a howl of rage, a wedge of fury hurled itself at her attacker, snapping, snarling, fangs bared, knocking him to the ground.

      ‘Morgan!’ She pulled herself to her feet, eyes closed against the flailing, whipping branches. Oh, Tom, where are you?

      She began to run; stumbling, sobbing, crying out. There was blood on her face, her hands; her hair fell untidily down her back.

      ‘Lass!’ It was Reuben, running down the path to meet her and oh, God, thank you, thank you!

      Arms folded her, held her. She was safe. He couldn’t hurt her now. Sobs took her, shook her.

      ‘Elliot Sutton! He tried to – oh, Reuben …’

      ‘There now, lovey. It’s all right.’ He was making little hushing sounds, stroking her hair. ‘Tell me. Tell Reuben, then.’

      ‘Down there!’ She pointed along the woodland path. ‘Morgan went for him …’

      ‘Alice!’ It was Tom. Tom running. ‘Alice – was it you I heard?’ One glance told him. ‘Who, girl? Who did that to you?’

      ‘Down yonder,’ Reuben ground. ‘Down t’path. And lad, give that thing to me.’ He reached for Tom’s gun. You didn’t let a man white with hatred go seeking revenge with a shotgun in his hand.

      ‘Tell me!’ Tom spat.

      ‘Elliot Sutton.’ Alice closed her eyes at the shame of it. ‘But he’ll be gone, now. Leave him!’ She needed Tom to hold her, but he was away, hurling curses, murder in his eyes.

      He found them, twenty yards down the path; the man crying out, hands shielding his face, the dog gone berserk, its teeth at Elliot Sutton’s throat.

      ‘Morgan! Stay!’

      The spaniel heard authority in the voice and slunk to do its bidding. Tom reached down to touch its head briefly, then: ‘You! Sutton!’ His eyes blazed contempt. ‘On your feet!’

      ‘Now see here – that animal! If it’s yours, you’re in trouble.’ Bloody, mud-stained, Elliot Sutton rose unsteadily. ‘Damned beast went for me – for my throat. Could have killed me …’

      ‘Could he, now?’ Tom’s voice was soft as the fist of iron slammed into the arrogant face, sending the man sprawling again. Then, taking him by the lapels of his coat, Tom pulled him to his feet. ‘Could he just? Well, listen to me, Mister-fine-bloody-Elliot. If ever you lay so much as a finger on my young lady again; if you even walk on the same side of the street as her, it won’t be a dog you’ll have to contend with – it’ll be me. And I will kill you!’

      He flung him away contemptuously to lie sprawled in the brambles, blubbering, threatening. ‘My aunt – Lady Sutton – she’ll hear about this! And the police! I’ll have you dismissed, run off the place. I’ll see to it you never work again! My mother’ll see to it …’

      ‘Go to hell, Sutton!’

      Reuben had taken Alice inside, sitting her beside the fire, setting the kettle to boil, telling her it was all right, that Tom would see to it.

      She leaned back, eyes closed, moaning softly, her body shaking still. Because it wasn’t all right, and if it hadn’t been for Morgan …

      She began to weep again. Morgan had saved her, had turned into a devil. Lazy, lolloping Morgan had been her salvation.

      The door latch snapped and Tom stood there, the spaniel at his heels.

      ‘Did he, sweetheart? Did he harm you?’ He was at her side, gathering her to him. ‘Tell me, if –’

      ‘No, Tom. He tried, СКАЧАТЬ