On this particular evening, Jamie was finding no joy. He had gone to the house anticipating pleasure, but Maggie was in a foul mood. She lay sprawled across the large bed, her rose-colored dressing gown not quite concealing her ripe breasts or the silky, golden triangle between her thighs. “I’m sick of stayin’ locked up in this damned house,” she said. “It’s like I’m a slave or somethin’! At least at Madam Agnes’s there was somethin’ goin’ on all the time. Why don’t you ever take me with you when you travel?”
“I’ve explained that, Maggie. I can’t—”
She leaped out of bed and stood defiantly before him, her dressing gown wide open. “Horseshit! You take your son everywhere. Ain’t I as good as your son?”
“No,” Jamie said. His voice was dangerously quiet. “You’re not.” He walked over to the bar and poured himself a brandy. It was his fourth—much more than he usually drank.
“I don’t mean a damned thing to you,” Maggie screamed. “I’m just a piece of arse.” She threw her head back and laughed derisively. “Big, moral Scotchman!”
“Scot—not Scotchman.”
“For Christ’s sake, will you stop criticizin’ me? Everythin’ I do ain’t good enough. Who the hell do you think you are, my bloody father?”
Jamie had had enough. “You can go back to Madam Agnes’s tomorrow. I’ll tell her you’re coming.” He picked up his hat and headed for the door.
“You can’t get rid of me like this, you bastard!” She followed him, wild with anger.
Jamie stopped at the door. “I just did.” And he disappeared into the night.
To his surprise, he found he was walking unsteadily. His mind seemed fuzzy. Perhaps he had had more than four brandies. He was not sure. He thought about Maggie’s naked body in bed that evening, and how she had flaunted it, teasing him, then withdrawing. She had played with him, stroking him and running her soft tongue over his body until he was hard and eager for her. And then she had begun the fight, leaving him inflamed and unsatisfied.
When Jamie reached home, he entered the front hall, and as he started toward his room, he passed the closed door of Margaret’s bedroom. There was a light from under the door. She was still awake. Jamie suddenly began to picture Margaret in bed, wearing a thin nightgown. Or perhaps nothing. He remembered how her rich, full body had writhed beneath him under the trees by the Orange River. With the liquor guiding him, he opened Margaret’s bedroom door and entered.
She was in bed reading by the light of a kerosene lamp. She looked up in surprise. “Jamie…is something wrong?”
“’Cause I decide to pay my wife a l’il visit?” His words were slurred.
She was wearing a sheer nightgown, and Jamie could see her ripe breasts straining against the fabric. God, she has a lovely body! He began to take off his clothes.
Margaret leaped out of bed, her eyes very wide. “What are you doing?”
Jamie kicked the door shut behind him and walked over to her. In a moment, he had thrown her onto the bed and he was next to her, naked. “God, I want you, Maggie.”
In his drunken confusion, he was not sure which Maggie he wanted. How she fought him! Yes, this was his little wildcat. He laughed as he finally managed to subdue her flailing arms and legs, and she was suddenly open to him and pulling him close and saying, “Oh, my darling, my darling Jamie. I need you so much,” and he thought, I shouldn’t have been so mean to you. In the morning I’m gonna tell you you don’t have to go back to Madam Agnes’s…
When Margaret awoke the next morning, she was alone in bed. She could still feel Jamie’s strong male body inside hers and she heard him saying, God, I want you, Maggie, and she was filled with a wild, complete joy. She had been right all along. He did love her. It had been worth the wait, worth the years of pain and loneliness and humiliation.
Margaret spent the rest of the day in a state of rapture. She bathed and washed her hair and changed her mind a dozen times about which dress would please Jamie most. She sent the cook away so that she herself could prepare Jamie’s favorite dishes. She set the dining-room table again and again before she was satisfied with the candles and flowers. She wanted this to be a perfect evening.
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