I’ll Bring You Buttercups. Elizabeth Elgin

Tom had a way with dogs. They liked him. Everyone liked him and she loved him, and maybe around the next turning of the path he would be there and she would run to him and lift her face for his kiss …

      The evening was warm, but so it should be, for it was almost summer. Tomorrow she would awaken to the first day of June, her birthday month. Eighteen. It sounded almost grown up.

      She breathed deeply on air that smelled of honeysuckle and wild, white roses and green things growing. There were no buttercups in the wood. Buttercups grew in meadows, seeking the sun, collecting it, giving it back in a glint of gold. Buttercups were her very own flowers; Tom had said so.

      She looked over to her right, where Reuben’s chimney puffed creamy woodsmoke. He was building up his fire for the night: Reuben was home, so it was Tom who would be doing the night round. Tom was there, somewhere in the deep greenness, and when Morgan found him he would know, whistling softly as he came to look for her, and oh, how was it possible for one person to have such happiness inside her?

      Elliot Sutton walked angrily, head down, hands in pockets. He was wronged, misunderstood. He should have gone to London – anywhere but Leeds. He’d had no luck with the women there and less luck at cards. He’d lost his allowance twice over, paying his hotel bill with the last few sovereigns in his pocket. What was more, his moneygrasping mother had refused to make his losses good, reasoning, he shouldn’t wonder, that the less he had, the less he could spend on things she disapproved of. Women, for one, and wine, and wagers so ridiculously high as to make the game excitingly worth playing. His mother held fast to her money – she always had – pinching every penny, arguing over a shilling she believed overcharged. Nor could she understand that a gentleman always paid his gambling debts – but then, his mother wasn’t a lady.

      ‘Money! You’re always short of money!’ she had shouted. ‘I declare you pour it down the nearest drain the minute you lay hands on it. But you’ll get no more from me!’

      ‘Mama,’ he said softly, deliberately, ‘why must you always share our business with the servants? Your voice could sell fish in Billingsgate!’

      ‘Damn you, boy!’ His remark had struck the raw nerve he’d intended, though 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.