Margot

Fiction — Short Story

All day it had been hot.

But Lady Walford refused to change any plans she had for the afternoon or evening. There was the lake, deep blue and glazed over with dancing diamonds, tortuously inviting. And in the lake, not too far off, a tiny island of rocks and shady trees that clustered together. Lady Walford’s guests politely turned away from the tempting water, focused with determination on the premeditated events: croquet, badminton, walking about…

Most of them were elder couples. A few children squealed near the badminton net. The ladies carried parasols and sweated underneath whalebone constriction and stifling chemises. Girls, no more than sixteen or seventeen, sat with straight backs and looked on, chatting quietly.

The sun was waning a bit, but the heat remained. Exhaustion permeated flesh like a sizzling monsoon. But who would disrupt this party? The evening to come would be a gem, dancing and flaunting new wives or betrothed or the news of freshly purchased land or the latest conquest at the local club. Best not to upset the lady of the house.

Conversation inevitably turned to the heat. Where had it come from? Unseasonably hot, unbearably stifling, just when will this damned garden party be over? Twitching moustaches. Perspiration dribbling down the darkness between thighs. Sighs accumulated like gnats above a rubbish heap, but they vanished in time for all to see a girl stumble from somewhere…nowhere.

“It’s Margot!”

Indeed it was Margot. Beautiful Margot. At her college she was the brightest and the most exquisite. Intelligent. Kind. Lovey. Seventeen, almost eighteen, in the prime of her season.

If you saw Margot on any old day, you would see her long golden hair pulled back with a ribbon. You would notice her white school dress and black stockings, coffee-colored eyes and perfect creamy teeth. Her thin, elegant body. Legs that went up to her neck (or so many men imagined).

If you saw Margot alone, you would marvel at her hooded eyes, her frustrated groans when reading Chaucer, a scar left from a dog bite on one calf, the way she napped sprawled on her belly at three in the afternoon, the way she licked her lips when she was nervous. They were perpetually chapped.

There were cries of shock, cries of fear. Women ran to their husbands. Girls huddled together.

Margot’s hair twisted wildly, her skin was caked in mud, her dress torn, her face scratched. Without her shoes she looked like a bedlam patient. Her coffee eyes gleamed as she panted. Making her way through the hushed crowd, she met no one’s eyes, and eventually waded into the glistening lake. The water splashed as she trudged through the sucking mud and then finally, she dunked underneath the blue.

No one spoke and all held their breath. Lady Walford clutched Lord Walford’s arm and her throat. When would she surface? What had happened to her? Not a moment ago she’d been chatting away with the Lacy twins…

Lady Walford hoped Margot would be paired with her Burgess, a most profitable match. She knew they liked each other. They often talked. But why would Margot simply jump in the lake? Was it sun stroke?

“There she is!” Indeed, there scrambled the dripping body of Margot as she climbed up the side of the island. Had anybody seen her surface, shattering the blue with her golden head? No. For a while all watched in fear and anguish as she simply stood there, swaying slightly, and then she disappeared into the thick trees.

Immediately the men retrieved oars and took off their coats and hats. Lord Walford pulled away from his wife to join the others.

Burgess’s boat was the first to get there. He slipped on the rocky shore a few times, and then scrambled into the black trees. The island was no more than a hundred feet long, but the trees pushed against Burgess, disorienting him, attacking him. It was alarmingly cool in this sudden blackness. Burgess felt as if he was steaming as he ran past branches and branches. He could hear the other men’s cries from far behind.

And then he found her.

She lay on her stomach, one arm flung across the dirt, the other hand curled around her head. Her hair was dry as day, and so were her clothes. She had her shoes and stockings. She was perfect, as if napping in the boathouse. All was quiet save for her soft, velvet breath. Where were the others?

She couldn’t be dead… Burgess leaned down and placed his head against her heart. Not beat, no pulse, no warmth met his hand. Suddenly livid, he smacked her face. Once, twice, ten times. Blood bloomed in her cheeks and still she breathed, but wouldn’t wake.

It has escaped, she said. But her mouth didn’t move. And her heart didn’t start. Where was he? What was he doing? Where were the others? He was so tired…

Burgess looked at Margot and his lips found hers. It has escaped. It was inside him now, the words were in his body. He closed his eyes, because it was suddenly so very hot…

He remembered when he first kissed her. She as lovely as July, and when she let him feel the wetness, the blue under her skirt, he knew he’d never know, fully understand another woman like her. Burgess squirmed with Margot’s words in his body, squeezing around, being licked by his organs. ‘Escaped’ burned him. And ‘it’ followed with cool touches, like a metal pipe. The trees swayed and somewhere music came. It came. It has escaped. It went through him. He felt for her. But all he felt was cold darkness.

Lord Walford found them. They were in an impossible position, clasped to each other. They were both naked and wet. They were dead.

And finally the evening came and it was cool.