The Hanging of Margaret Dickson Read online

  ‘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.

  ‘I want to go to the bath house. I need to go home,’ she sobs. ‘I don’t belong here. This is not the kind of place for me.’

  ‘I beg to differ,’ he remarks before taking her arm.

  ***

  As they walk hand in hand along the mile, Alexander takes her aside. With gentle hands he wipes away her tears before walking to a carriage.

  ‘Remember when you were facing the looking glass earlier?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well I’m holding one up to your face now. Take a look.’ He mimics the act of holding a mirror to her face. ‘You’re a minx, a natural tease,’ he whispers in her ear.

  ‘No I’m not.’

  ‘You can’t help yourself, Maggie. It’s just your nature to be, well, how can I put it? I knew the moment you set eyes on John that I would be a distant memory. You gravitate towards handsome men like a moth to a flame.’

  ‘What I do is my business, sir. And your brother is incredibly rude. He called me a whore.’

  Alexander raises one eyebrow. ‘You met your match in him.’ He stifles a yawn and climbs into the carriage. Before long they arrive at the bath house.

  All is silent as they climb the stairs. He can’t resist one more glance at that rounded bottom as she ascends the steps, and so he deliberately falls behind to enjoy the view. With one hand clutched to his heart, he struggles to keep up with her and she’s already at the top of the staircase. Beyond the changing screen, she disrobes and changes back into her fisherwoman garb; her face turned away from him.

  ‘You may take the clothes and shoes.’

  Maggie shrugs and stuffs the items into her creel, a tense look on her face. ‘Are you vexed with me?’

  ‘Heavens, no. I’m afraid my time in Edinburgh is over. I must return home.’

  ‘Why?’ Maggie whirls around to face him.

  ‘My parents demand it. There is to be no more gambling, drinking or whoring. I am to go to London to find a suitable vocation and a wife.’

  His cool green eyes watch her feign sadness and distress, but he has the measure of her. She’s an utterly selfish being, a woman who cares little for those she hurts, as long as she gets what she desires. ‘Don’t fret,’ he opens his arms and kisses the top of her beautiful head before handing her a bag of coins.

  ‘I’ll miss you, Alexander. Truly – I will.’

  He cringes at the falsehood. ‘I know. You must learn to be happy and accept who you are. You’ve a long hard road to travel; it would have been an easier life for you, Maggie if you’d have been born a man.’ He nods and turns away.

  For just an instant he feels a pang of sorrow as she walks away. And then he laughs to himself and wonders why such a common strumpet could make him feel this way. Nevertheless, he decides to take one last look at her, and as she turns her head to reveal just a hint of
her profile, he catches a glimpse of the black patches still glued to her face.

  ***

  The world had grown two years older since the night Maggie Dickson returned home stinking of whore’s scent, wearing patches and clutching a bag full of coin. Patrick never did ask where the money came from, but like any wronged husband he’d taken a stick no thicker than his thumb and given her such a thrashing that she couldn’t sit down for a week.

  He’s no fool, but she obviously thinks him one, and so he’s taught her a lesson she most richly deserves. After that, she’s dutiful and kind, and eager to please him with hearty food. There are plenty of kisses and praise, and so once again he becomes complacent, at least for a while. Because suspicion is a terrible thing, like wormwood it can eat away at a man, and so in the depth of his heart, doubt and mistrust weaves an intricate web.

  ***

  Maggie exits the bath house with a new man’s arm around her waist. Just like his brother, Alexander – John will return to London soon, back to his ancestral home. But no matter, she thinks, there are plenty of other men to take his place.

  At Dawney Douglas’s John lifts his glass and drinks to their health. After that he gives her a quantity of money. John’s very generous and she’s more than happy to accept his gratitude. Later, when she returns home and there is no one around, she will be sure to hide the money away in the pigsty.

  A string of men come after that, athough none as exciting or handsome as the McGregor brothers. Their company proves lucrative and is preferable to selling fish. She chooses her men carefully; steering clear of the unhealthy ones – Maggie doesn’t want the pox. For the most part the majority are too old and fat for her liking. Worse still, many of them tend to talk politics, their favourite subject the south sea bubble, of which she knows nothing and is the most frightful bore as Alexander would say. By the end of the year Maggie’s with child again.

  This time the potion is unsuccessful. The wise woman complains that she has no ergot and gives her hemlock instead, which has little effect. Maggie’s figure becomes rounded. In a vain attempt to disguise her condition, she ties her stays tighter and always wears her plaid. And all the while she cringes as the older women point and whisper.

  ‘If all else fails use a sharp stick, lassie. It’ll pull the baby out from inside you.’

  ‘Is that safe?’

  ‘Aye, works every time.’

  Maggie shakes her head and winces. ‘Isn’t there any other way?’

  The old woman cackles. ‘You can always drink strong liquor and bleed your feet or better still…’ she pauses for effect. ‘Learn to keep your legs shut.’

  In the end, she obtains some pennyroyal and to her utmost relief it is successful and the gossip is no more.

  ***

  One day, after a long country walk, Maggie, a troubled spirit of late, begins to look into her own heart. What makes me act so wanton? she thinks. And then, Alexander’s words come back to haunt her: ‘If only you had been born a man.’

  This is my curse, she ponders. I am a weak vessel, a mere woman, and a poor one at that. Now if I’d have been born a man, I could do as I please, bed as many women as I like, and to hell with the consequences. Her lips curve at the memory of Alexander and his brother, and their overt masculine prowess; men encourage such conduct and praise virility. But if women act the same way, their sex brings them down through gossip, denouncement, or condemnation.

  A coughing noise interrupts her thoughts; a chubby-faced Anna holding up her shoes.

  ‘We go to the long water, Mama?’ she asks as her little brother pulls her hair behind her.

  ‘Aye,’ Maggie nods, ‘why not?’

  ***

  They paddle in the sparkling waters of the Esk, and in no time at all their feet become numb from the icy cold water. For a while all three of them sit together at the river’s edge and watch a pearl fisher go about his work. He whistles a merry tune and digs mussels from the river bed, tossing some aside and examining others in his weathered hands.

  ‘He’s looking for a black river pearl.’ Maggie points at the pearl fisher.

  ‘What’s a pearl?’

  Maggie looks to the cloudless sky, thinking best how to describe it. ‘Like a black or white pea, but shinier.’

  Anna throws a small pebble into the water. She’s a bonny child and the image of her mother, according to Johnny Notions that is. In her tiny hand she clutches a wooden doll her father has carved for her and all the while her younger brother tries to wrench it away.

  ‘I want it. I want it,’ he cries.

  Anna slaps him in the face and he responds by kicking her in the shin. ‘It’s mine. Take your hands off her. Mother, tell him to leave me be,’ she sobs and rubs her shin.

  ‘Anna, don’t hit your brother.’

  ‘He kicked me.’

  ‘Yes, but you struck him first.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I won’t do it again,’ Anna pouts.

  As Maggie turns away she catches Anna pinching her brother on the leg. What a little horror, she thinks. The sound of their quarrelling buzzes in her ears as she closes her eyes. Perhaps if I ignore them they will stop, she thinks, but alas the children persist.

  ‘I’ll bang your heads together if you don’t stop.’ She grabs Patrick and Anna’s hands and guides them over to the oak tree, stooping to gather up their stockings.

  Maggie rubs their pink toes with her plaid, listening to their laughter as she tickles their feet. But then something distracts her and she stops what she’s doing. A young man passes by; her eyes glitter as she looks him up and down. It’s the blacksmith’s son, all grown and tall; her gaze lingers on his body, he’s muscular and strong.

  ‘Mother – Mother!’ Anna shrieks and tugs on Maggie’s skirt.

  But Maggie can no longer hear them; she’s deep in thought, thinking up a reason to visit the smithy and his handsome son.

  CHAPTER NINE

  PRESS-GANGED

  There’s a beggar at Canongate, under the arch of Tolbooth Wynd. He has one leg and his eyes are all misted over with white film. On a makeshift cart, he drags himself along the floor, his hair, body, and clouted-up leg crawling with vermin. There’s no shoe upon his one foot and his stocking is torn. He shelters under an arched bridge and every day folk step over him as though he’s not there. But Maggie can see him, she even knows his name – Hoppy Hughie they call him, who lost his leg on a man-o’-war. Maggie greets him like an old friend and places an apple into his filthy hands. ‘God bless you, Hughie.’

  ‘And you too. You’re an angel,’ his bottom lip quivers.

  The narrow twisting wynds that lead to the flesh market are beset with ravenous dogs. The air is heavy here; fleshers, tanners and dyers, each creating a rancid stench that claw at the nostrils and cause even the strongest of stomachs to gag. Rotten carcasses litter the market square, attracting swarms of flies and other insects. Maggie walks faster as the fish market looms ahead; she greets the linkboys and listens to ballad singers singing their bawdy songs. Finally she pushes through a row of blue-gowned beggars and fights for a place beside the other fish hawkers to cry out her wares.

  ***

  The cottage is in darkness, the only light comes from a fading fire. Patrick sits at the table eating cold oats; shoulders slumped as he licks his teeth with his tongue. He is lost in thought; forehead bunched together in a deep frown. The tiniest shimmer catches his eye beneath the table, the children hugging their knees. But Patrick has no time for them. He suddenly has an urge to scream and curse, and so he does, like a wild, injured animal.

  ‘Where is she?’

  The rumours are ripping him apart; he picks up his plate and throws it against the wall, it shatters into a thousand pieces upon the dirt floor. Can they be true? These evil rumours. He shudders, Patrick’s frightened. A queer feeling comes upon him, a tightness that starts at the base of his neck, circling his throat and choking him so that his lungs feel sure to explode. After a while he becomes quiet and
still, his bloodshot eyes glancing warily at two shadows beneath the table.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he croaks, his voice is hoarse from spent tears. ‘I was feeling a wee bit sad, but I’m better now.’ He leans over a bowl of water to splash water upon his face, and all the while his body trembles.

  ***

  The door is ajar; the sound of weeping resonates from within. With a sinking heart Maggie stretches out one trembling hand and pushes on splintered timber. Little by little, step by step, she enters her dwelling, feet crunching upon broken pottery. Maggie peers through the dim light, wondering why Patrick’s let the fire run low. Then she notices the children beneath the table.

  ‘What’s the matter? What are you doing under there?’ Maggie rushes towards Anna and Patrick with open arms. They cling to her like frightened mice, eyes and noses dripping with moisture. Maggie fumes, turning to Anna with flashing eyes. ‘Where is your father?’

  At that moment, Patrick emerges before her, a plaid in his hand dabbing his face. ‘What have you done, Patrick? You’ve frightened them to death.’

  ‘What have I done?’ he hisses, rushing towards her and grabbing her in a vice-like grip.

  ‘Let me go, Patrick. What’s got into you?’ She thrashes in his arms like a slippery eel.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  Maggie cannot meet his gaze, fear pierces her heart. She’s wondering if he knows, if he really knows what she’s been doing. And the very thought causes her knees to shake beneath her. She manages to break apart from him.

  ‘I’ve been selling fish at market, what else?’