HF - 05 - Sunset (15 page)

'And you went with a man who had stolen one of my animals?' Tony demanded.

'Well
...
it was one of mine too, wasn't it?'

'Voodoo,' Oriole whispered again. 'There was a voodoo ceremony.'

"There was
..
Once again Meg bit her lip. "There was a dance. They were happy. They are happy. Happy people,' she shouted. 'Is there something wrong in being happy? They were happy. They made me happy.'

"They debauched you, you mean,' Oriole said. 'There was rum on your breath when you came home. There is still rum on your breath.'

'They made me happy,' Meg insisted. 'And so I slept there, and came down this morning. That is all. They stole a goat. Nothing more. And I gave them permission to do that. Don't you see?'

'They had their way with her,' Oriole whispered. 'Don't you understand, Tony? My God, you must know what happens at those voodoo meetings? It is unbridled lust, from beginning to end. And to think of a white girl, alone with those savages. My blood runs quite cold.'

'They did nothing to me,' Meg cried. But oh yes, Cleave had done something to her. Cleave had made her aware of her body in a way she had not suspected would ever be possible. Yet no one could ever know. Not Oriole and not Papa. They thought black people, enjoying themselves, must necessarily be evil. That secret had to go with her to her grave. 'They did nothing. Dr Phillips examined me, and found nothing.'

'That is immaterial,' Oriole said. 'It matters very little what sort of witchcraft they practised upon you. It matters very little whether or not any
...
any foul lust was inflicted upon you. The crime was yours, in behaving as you did. It is still yours, in continuing to behave as you are.' She glared at Tony Hilton. 'Well?'

Strangely, Meg thought, it was her father's turn to lick his lips. 'You must be punished, Meg.' He glanced at Oriole. Almost, Meg thought, as if he had been about to say, Oriole insists upon it.

'She must be whipped,' Oriole said.

'You wouldn't dare,' Meg whi
spered, stepping backwards,
and
feeling her legs touch the side
of her bed. 'You wouldn't dare.'

'Dare?' Oriole said. 'He is your father.'

'But I
...
I'm nearly seventeen.'

'And that is important
. Here. Put this in your mouth.’

Meg stared at the folded handkerchief. 'Whatever for?'

'To stop anyone hearing you scream. You'd not make more of a spectacle than you already are?'

Meg glared at her in utter horror, then turned to her father. His face was pale, but the lips were firmly compressed, and there was a peculiar throbbing in his throat. Oh my God, she thought; he really is angry.

'I will not scream,' she said. The tears were starting to her eyes. But now they were tears of anger.

"Then kneel,' Oriole commanded. 'Over the bed. Hold out your arms.'

Meg hesitated for the last time, looking at her father. But he was already releasing his heavy leather belt, his breath harsh.

Oh, my God, she thought again. I must be dreaming. I have got to be dreaming. Her knees hit the floor before she had intended them to, and began to hurt. She extended her arms, and had her wrists seized by Oriole, from the far side of the bed, to jerk her so that her stomach rammed against the mattress and her head and shoulders fell forward. Oriole herself leaned forward, pinning the captured wrists to the bed with all her weight, her eyes wide and staring, and triumphant.

Meg felt her skirt being lifted. Oh, my God, she thought again. I am not wearing drawers. She had been going to leave them until after her bath. Oh, my God.

Her shift was folded back to her waist, and she could hear Anthony Hilton breathe. At this moment she could not think of him as her father. She dared not think of him at all. She watched Oriole, and saw the eyes turn upwards, to gaze at the man, and saw too a faint frown appear in that fine white forehead.

The first blow took her breath away, a curling sting which descended on her right buttock and seemed to make its way round the thigh almost to attack the groin. Her mouth flopped open, and she lost her breath. Before she could get it back the second blow descended, more centrally aimed, sending pain streaming down her thighs to her still aching knees. Her mouth closed and then opened again, and she felt the scream rising into her throat, and clamped her mouth closed. The frown had left Oriole's face and she was almost smiling. She must not be given the added pleasure of stuffing her victim's mouth with a handkerchief.

The third blow brought the tears streaming down the cheeks, filling her eyes with water through which Oriole appeared as a misty demon, but bringing also a complete relaxation of her body, so that she wanted to reach sideways with her toes, stretching herself as far as possible in the hopes of abating the agony. The fourth blow caught her before the process was complete, and she drew herself together again, thighs pressed against each other, buttocks clamped tight to resist the fifth blow, which surprisingly never came, and in its place she felt a hand, moving gently over her tortured flesh.

Her head jerked, and Oriole's head jerked as well. The frown was back, and Meg found that her wrists were released. They moved towards her across the bed as she slid down to the side to the floor. Still she gazed at Oriole, at the stark horror in her face, watched her hurry round the bed. She dared not turn herself. She remained, crouching against the mattress, while the door banged, and their feet receded into the distance.

And she stayed there, listening to their voices. But most strange of all the strange things that had happened within the past twenty-four hours, on this occasion, for the first time she could remember, it was Father who was doing the talking, his voice rising and falling. Oriole answered in monosyllables.

'Well, Margaret. Are you ready?' Oriole Paterson wore her grey poplin travelling gown, her best bonnet, and carried her parasol. Underneath, as Meg well knew, she wore six petticoats and her corset.

But then, did she not also wear a corset? And her best blue gown, even if it was nothing like Oriole's ?

'I'm not going,' she muttered. As if she were not wearing her corset.

'Now, do not let us start that rubbish all over again,' Oriole said, quietly, and with remarkable patience. 'You are going, and you know you are going, even if I have to have you carried on board the ship. You cannot stay here.'

Meg knew that, well enough. Without entirely knowing why. She just knew that something quite terrible had happened, far more terrible than even her night in the mountains, and that was terrible enough. For a while, indeed, she had thought of escaping back to the mountains, and never ever returning. But that had been an impossible dream, in any event, as her bedroom door was locked every night, and she was never allowed from the house except with a servant at her heels. And these servants were all hand-picked by Oriole; she had not seen Prudence since her return to the house.

But the fact was, she could have evaded her watchdogs and made her escape, had she really wanted to. It was the irrevocability of such a step that had made her stay. To return to the mountains for one night, for another night such as the one which was daily becoming more of a dream, remained a tantalizing ambition. But to live for the rest of her life in such squalor and poverty, with only the outlet of the sexually religious fervour - although of course clearly it
was
only that sexually religious fervour which kept those people from desperation. But that was impossible, too, for her.

'Well?' Oriole demanded. But there was no bite in her voice. There had, indeed, been no bite in her voice on any occasion since that dreadful day, a month ago now; Meg's bottom still occasionally ached.

She got up, picked up her handbag. Her trunk had already been taken out. Only one trunk; she had few enough possessions. 'We shall have your clothes made in England,' Oriole had pronounced.

The servants waited, but she ignored them. Hannibal waited too, and she stooped to hug his head, no doubt for the last time.

'That will do, Margaret,' Oriole said. 'You will have hairs all over your gown.'

Meg straightened, went into the living room. Here Tony Hilton waited; it was even more impossible to think of him as Father. His face was lined with lack of sleep, and he looked older than she would have thought possible.

'You'll like England,' he said. He hesitated, then took her right hand and squeezed it, turned, and went into his study. He had not spoken to Oriole at all.

Meg hesitated, glanced at Oriole, and then ran behind him. 'Papa
...'

Tony Hilton sat behind his desk. 'You'll miss your boat.'