CHAPTER 62
It was the last straw. The music of a
tin whistle, playing a lively reel, caught Marsmain’s
ear. Below in the stable yard a small figure was dancing, bare feet twinkling, petticoats a-whirl. That dratted girl Maureen! A pretty piece,
he remembered, a rarity at Castle Ballinmore where
his mother had, and not without reason, always engaged plain, mature
women-servants who stayed forever and distracted neither men nor masters. Egad,
what an opportunity to vent his frustration of lust and rage. Swiftly as a cat
stalking prey, he was down the stairs and out into the yard. Unaware of his
approach, Hughy and Maureen were caught. The music
ceased abruptly; Maureen smoothed her petticoats. Two or three figures lurking
in the shadows melted away.
“Is this how you serve your mistress?”
Marsmain enquired of Maureen. “Does it not occur to
you that she may need you? Get inside at once! And you, my bold whistler, could
be better occupied serving his lordship. I think we can find something useful
for you to do.”
Although it was not Hughy’s job to wait on his masters, he was pressed into
bringing up the best brandy to the dining table where they found Lord Ballinmore fast asleep where they had left him. Head on his
arms, he sprawled over the table, mouth open, snoring. Nick shook him awake. It
took some time.
“Gwennie, my
sweet little Gwennie!” he kept muttering. “Say you'll
marry me ..... say you'll come back.”
“That is enough!” Nick remonstrated
sharply. “Wake up and see what a delicious piece I have brought for our
delight. We shall have dancing.”
“Caroline?” Ballinmore
muttered, reminded by the mention of music. “Music.
How sweetly she plays the pianoforte.”
“Caroline has retired to bed. We have
another musician. The tin whistle is better fitted to the reel. You shall see.
Now, drink your brandy.”
It was plain the old man had had
enough strong drink. He was at the stage when enough was only an appetiser. He
gulped a huge mouthful from the too well filled goblet.
“Now my pretty pair, let us see what
you can do,” Nick commanded, “what was that air you were playing?”
The look in his eyes was dangerous. Hughy dared make no demur. He whipped the tin whistle from
his pocket and resumed the reel. Maureen hesitated.
“Dance, damn you, dance wench!” Nick roared.
She began tentatively. There was no
joy in the movement, no swirling petticoats. Her bare feet seemed to tread on
broken glass.
“Dance, trollop!” Nick urged, “dance
the way you were dancing out there. None of your dainty,
mincing steps. Let me see those petticoats fly. I have seen your ankles
already. Let me see more ..... more,
I say. And you, bog trotter, put some life in the music!”
Hughy could see his hand on the butt of his
pistol, the murderous intent in his eye, the devil's lamp lighting in the old
man's eyes. There were two of them, both handy with weapons. They wanted music
and dancing and they wanted it their way. They would not be denied. He knew he
was playing for his life ..... and
for Maureen's life or honour. He played as though it was a life-or-death
matter, louder, faster, more furious and the two men applauded and urged him
on. Not that they were interested in his music. Their eyes were on Maureen,
goading her to greater daring, by gestures forcing her to lift her skirts higher.
A glimpse of shapely calf brought applause, the sight of a dimpled knee, a
hoarse cheer, a swift gleam of pale thigh a guffaw of coarse laughter. Except
for the intervals in which the glasses were replenished, there was no respite
for the entertainers. The tin whistle dripped saliva; sweat rolled down
Maureen’s cheeks damping her curls to draggled tails.
Ballinmore had slithered down in his chair. At
any minute he would fall on the floor. There was an interval during which Hughy had to give a hand in resettling him. The goblets
were replenished. Maureen moved as far back as she could, trying to escape
notice. If only she could get behind the window curtain. But no; Marsmain summoned her again. With a wide sweep of his hands
he cleared the table; there was a crash of glass as the vases of summer posies
which Caroline had so daintily arranged, were flung to the floor. Water seeped
over the carpet unheeded.
“On the table, hussy!” Marsmain
commanded, “on the table, I say ..... at once and let us see your pretty pins.”
Hughy’s face reddened with anger, but what
could he do? Maureen scrambled on the table and when, at a signal, the music
began, she started to dance. Faster and faster went the music, swifter flew her
feet, higher and higher as Marsmain bellowed. The two
men leaned forward; she could feel their lustful eyes on her nakedness. Soon it
was to be absolute. Ballinmore clutched at her red
petticoat, held on till it gave way. Marsmain
snatched her shawl, plucked her bodice strings.
“Now, my dainty, dance!” he shouted, “fling your legs up. You have nothing to hide I have not see before ..... and I'll see again,
for egad, you’ll be mine this night. What say you, bog trotter?”
Hughy had paused, glaring at him with
murder in his eyes. Marsmain’s hand found the pistol
and withdrew it. With the weapon trained on him, Hughy
must obey. Marsmain would shoot him like a rat. What
could a dead rat do to save Maureen? He blushed for her shame. His heart
swelled with rage. He would gladly have strangled Marsmain
and his leering lordship of Ballinmore. He played the
music of the dance and waited. Sooner or later one of these devils must
succumb. They had drunk a great deal of brandy. He put his faith in the strong
spirit, but it seemed to be working against him. Even the older man was
suffused with a maniac strength. Or was it pure lust, for his hands were on
Maureen, touching her at every opportunity. He dared not stop the music; as
long as she danced she could elude the lecher grasp. The devil had taken over;
this devil dance might go on forever. The room rang with the frenzy of music,
the guffaws of ribald mirth, the vile remarks, the pitiful gasps of the
desperate girl. Was there no ending forever and ever?
Crash! A sound of
breaking glass. A heavy thud on the floor. Someone
had hurled a great stone through the window ..... someone who could see only what a narrow slit in the curtain
allowed. The music stopped. Marsmain leapt to his
feet. In a few strides he was out of the room, across the hall, out on the
terrace. Ballinmore grew pale and fell over in his chair, then slithered slowly to the floor and lay still.
Nobody rushed to help him. Grabbing her clothing, Maureen fled and Hughy with her. She paused only long enough to cover
herself decently. Then the two burst, pale-faced and wild-eyed into the random
chatter of the servants' quarters. Nor paused long there to explain, for time
would explain all that was necessary and now help was needed, and lights and
cudgels.
There was a great furore of shouting
and searching and flickering lanterns in the shrubberies that night. But
nothing was found. The bat-like figure of old Ninny had melted into its own
darkness. She had never been known to approach the south front of the house;
she was never suspected. Two menservants carried his lordship up to bed. Poor
man, he had taken too much brandy. It was not like the old days when he could
carry it.
Maureen made a bundle of her spare
clothing. She knew what she had escaped and she must make the best of her
escaping. Weary as she was, she would have walked miles to get away from that
nightmare of angry lust. She did not understand the anger, nor did she know why
her beloved Miss Caroline had failed her when she needed her most. There was
only one thing left of which she could be certain: Hughy
loved her. They would meet again.
She
got off more lightly than she feared. On the morrow Marsmain
sent a message via the butler: her lady no longer required her services; she
must leave at once. Hughy escorted her to the back
entrance. They kissed and said “good-bye”. They had no option.