HF - 05 - Sunset (17 page)

Oriole placed her hands on Meg's shoulders, leaned forward, and kissed her on the hps. And then moved her head back, just a few inches. 'Will you not grant me your tongue, dearest?'

And Meg remembered where she had seen that look before; it had been on Oriole's face when her father had finished whipping her.

'Oh, the rain,' complained Lady Claymond. 'It is terrible. I have never known such a summer as this.'

Meg raised her parasol. But the drops were very large, and the entire sky was blanketed with a cold grey. In Jamaica she would have supposed they were about to be hit by a hurricane.

'Of course you have, Mama,' Honor Claymond pointed out. 'It has been like this almost every summer since I can remember. That won't keep it out, you know, Miss Hilton. And your lovely dress will be ruined. I think we should take shelter. The players are doing so.'

Meg supposed she was right. The white-clad cricketers were sprinting from the field towards the pavilion. They were, in the main, Australians, it seemed, and were also, at the moment, the rage of London. But what an odd occupation, for ladies of quality to sit on hard benches in the cold and the drizzle to watch a group of young men, most of whom were bank clerks or of some such undistinguished occupation, knocking a little leather ball to and fro.

She hurried behind her companions for the safety of the carriage. She certainly did not wish her clothes to be ruined; they were the most splendid things she had ever owned. She wore a dark green velvet jacket - known as a
manteau de visite,
according to Oriole - with grey fur trimmings; the outfit also included a grey fur muff, but this she had left behind today. After all, it was July and supposed to be the height of the English summer.

Her dress was scarlet sateen, with white spots and cream lace trimmings at her hem and draping the enormous bustle which sat behind her hips; her hat was a green velvet turban decorated with violets. She knew she looked absolutely splendid; even one of the batsmen walking out after luncheon had turned to look at her.

'Here we are,' Lady Claymond gasped. 'My word, what a crush.'

There was indeed a crush of people, mainly ladies, these, trying to regain the comfort and shelter of their barouches; the men were mostly joining the players in the pavilion. But at last the door was open and they were climbing inside, while the coachman stood to attention and pretended to ignore the rain, which was now coming down extremely hard.

Meg discovered she was panting. 'Wherever can Oriole be?'

'There.' Honor Claymond pointed a g
rey gloved finger
, and Oriole at that moment looked up, and gave them a bright smile. She was seated in a carriage some distance away, talking to a woman whose face Meg could not see, but who was apparently carrying on a most animated conversation.

She felt a surge of dismay. Jealousy? It could not be. She was, in fact, still uncertain of her true feelings as regards Oriole, for all that they had lived together like sisters for so very long now. Like sisters? More, she supposed, like man and wife for the past eight months. It really was a quite incredible thought.

She was not even sure in her own mind how it all happened. In the beginning it had been the ship, that twelve-day voyage. There had been no other passengers of note, at least none that Oriole considered were worthy of the interest of two Hilton women. So there had only been each other, and the passion generated that first morning in the noise-insulated secrecy of their cabin had had nothing to do but grow.

And she had wanted it, so desperately. Th
e desires, pro
voked first of all by Alan, and brought to climatic fruition by Cleave, had not been going to lie down and wait until some other man came along. And Oriole was a fascinating
...
she supposed she might as well be honest with herself and use the word lover. Her hands were so soft, and so instinctively directed to the right place; the mere slide of those fingers down her groin had been able to send Meg into a transport of ecstasy.

As splendid as that indu
ced by Cleave? Of course not. Or
iole was a woman, and Cleave had been a man. Oriole had been very angry when she had said so. 'It was your first orgasm,' she had declared. 'And a man
...
with his fingers. It was quite disgusting. Did he not have a penis ?'

The discussion had taken place in the middle of a steamy afternoon, in the middle of the Atlantic, and they had lain together, naked, on Oriole's bunk, the human smell of their sweat mingling in an incredibly delightful fashion with the heavenly smell of Oriole's perfume.

'Oh, he did,' Meg had said dreamily. 'A magnificent rod. Hard as rock, and yet all velvety.'

'You touched it?' Oriole had raised herself on her elbow in amazement.

‘I
held it until it was wet,' Meg said.

'My God. And
he did not wish to push it in?’

'Why, no.'

'Witchcraft,' Oriole said, and lay down. 'And have you never held a man's rod ?' Meg asked, rising on her elbow in turn. 'Or known his fingers?' 'Of course not,' Oriole said. 'But, you were married.'

'Oh, indeed. And my husband did wish those things, from time to time. Men are the most degenerate of creatures. I pointed out that his duty was to penetrate me, and nothing more, and he came to accept that.' But she had been seething again, at the feel of Meg's breasts resting on her cheek. 'Real intimacy is only possible between women, my darling.'

She had been unable to resist a sally as that small mouth had
closed on her nipple. 'And not
between men as well, my darling?'

Which had earned her a nip. But even nips were enjoyable. She supposed they were being very, very wicked. But she could see no harm in it, and to be as close as she was to Oriole was to live in a dream world even had there been no sex involved. Until her cousin had entered her life she had not truly realized how lonely she had been. That could never happen again. Oriole was there, always, seeking to help, seeking to correct, seeking to direct, seeking to love. She was like having a second soul, as she sought to discover every last recess of Meg's personality.

Meg had supposed, in the beginning, that as Oriole was twice her age, and remarkably beautiful, she might soon tire of her gauche companion. And had been alarmed by that consideration, for she knew enough of her cousin by now to understand that Oriole believed in total commitment, and abandonment would mean just that. Her fears had been set at rest soon after their arrival in England, to take up residence at Great Uncle Tom's house in Chelsea; this had been a Hilton house for a long time, once inhabited by Matt and Sue, two other Hiltons who had been cousins and fallen in love with each other to the scandal of the West Indies. Not, as Oriole pointed out time and again, that there was ever any risk of scandal between two women, because who could ever
know.

Meg had been fascinated at this step back into Hilton history, but it had been very cold by now - they had arrived only a few days before her seventeenth birthday -and within a week she had come down with a cold in the head, which had rapidly developed into a pleurisy on the lung, which had equally rapidly developed into pneumonia. She had supposed herself about to die, and been so exhausted and dispirited it had not seemed very important.

But Oriole had not been prepared to accept such a possibility. She had hardly left Meg's bedside for a moment -
they were sharing a room in any event - had nursed her with a devoted care which a mother could not have exceeded, and had finally seen her back to health, although it had been a long process; the English Christmas of which she had been promised so much was an unremembered blur of sad faces peering over the end of her bed, and it had been March before she had once again been able to venture out of doors.

So Oriole loved her. She could no longer doubt that. Well, then, did she love Oriole? She really did not know. She did not think so, if love meant an emotion which excluded all others. She would dream of being shipwrecked upon a desert island, with only Oriole, Alan and Cleave as her companions, and then decide which of them sh
e would go to. It gave her a deli
ghtful sensation of power. But the fact was, it was seldom Oriole, and it was seldom even Cleave, much as she enjoyed remembering his ministrations. But then, she wondered, was it not Alan because he had never properly made love to her? Often enough, when she lay in Oriole's arms, she would pretend she was in Alan's. It was not difficult. Save for the absence of the rod, and that had been a problem from her very earliest dreams.

Yet, it seemed that however much Oriole did love her, she was still intent upon marrying her off. March had seen a great improvement in the weather, for a brief period, and they had been able to go riding in Hyde Park, while soon enough the young men began to take out their cricket bags and the 'thock' of a bat hitting a ball could be heard even in central London.

'Cricket,' Oriole had proclaimed. 'Why, there is not a gentleman in the country does not play at cricket, if he would be a gentleman, and play at it every day, at least until it is time to shoot grouse. And this year, my darling, the Colonials are coming over. They come every second year, you know. Oh, they are all the rage. Not,' she hastily added, 'that I would have you marry some wild Australian boy, to be carried off to the outback of New South Wales. But all the gentry will be anxious to play against them, you may be sure of that. We shall find you a perfect match by August.'

'But Oriole,' Meg had protested, more out of curiosity than concern, 'what will happen to us?'

'Silly goose,' Oriole had said happily. 'You know my terms. We shall all return to Hilltop together, and he will spend his days learning how to be a planter, and you and I will spend our days living as Hiltons were meant to live, in the Great House.'

A fascinating thought, except that Meg had suddenly realized, after only a week or two of attending Lord's Cricket Ground, that she had absolutely no desire to marry any one of these young men, all carefully trimmed moustaches and sweaty white flannels, all outrageously bright jackets, which they called blazers, and inane remarks, from what-hos to maiden overs, a term she had never been able to understand.

But how to make Oriole understand
that.
What Oriole would say were she to discover that Meg would still rather marry someone like Alan McAvoy did not bear consideration.

'Why, Tommy,' Honor Claymond exclaimed. 'You're all wet.'

Meg awoke from her reverie, to discover two young men leaning through the window of the carriage, despite the rain, and one of them was the Honourable Thomas Claymond, a young man she had seen far too much of during the past month; he was a very keen cricketer.

'Had to come across, what?' He pulled his moustache, took off his cap, striped in black and red and gold, and hastily replaced it again. 'Why, how good to see you, Miss Hilton. Thought you'd like to meet the Terror, eh?'

Meg smiled at the second young man. Anyone less like a Terror would have been hard to imagine. His face was calm, almost vacant in its dreamy expression, which was accen
tuated by the rather thick, unt
rimmed moustache which threatened to edge down beside his mouth. 'Are you so terrible, sir?'

He also wore a striped cap, mainly in green, which he now hastily raised. 'Charles Turner, Miss Hilton. I persuaded Tommy to introduce me to the most beautiful young woman in England, so they say.'

'Well,' Honor remarked, and her mother raised her eyes to heaven.

'You are a flatterer, Mr Turner,' Meg declared. 'And are you also a cricketer?'

'Also a cricketer,' Tommy Claymond shouted. 'Also a cricketer? Haven't you been watching the game?'

'I don't think Miss Hilton is really very interested in cricket,' Honor remarked. 'Mr Turner, my dear Miss Hilton, is the finest bowler in all Australia. I suspect in all the world.'

'Well, now,' Turner
objected. 'I'd guess George Loh
mann would have something to say about that. Oops, the rain's stopping. We'd better be getting back, Tommy boy.'

'Ah. Yes. You'll excuse us, Mother, Miss Hilton.'

Lady Claymond sniffed as they took their departure. 'Australians. Good heavens, what an uncouth lot. I really do not understand what Tommy sees in them.'

'Margaret.' Oriole stood outside the coach, her parasol held aloft like a banner, smiling at them. 'There you are. We really must be getting home. There is packing to be done. Mrs Andrews has invited us down for the weekend.'

'Moira Andrews?' Lady Claymond inquired, flushing.

'Who else, my dear Lady Claymond?'

'But
...'
Vanessa Claymond stared at her daughter as if she had suddenly turned green.
'We
are visiting Beltney House this weekend.'

'What
a jolly surprise,' Oriole said. 'Oh, we shall have such fun. Come along, Margaret.'

Margaret gave a hasty smile to Lady Claymond, decided to ignore Honor, and hurried behind Oriole. 'Are we really going to the Andrews?'

'Of course. Well, I had to angle for a while. These people have no idea who the Hiltons are. No doubt they have been allowed to forget. We shall remind them, Meg.'

'But, Lady Claymond didn't look very pleased.'