HF - 05 - Sunset (19 page)

But how to refuse him? Far more important, how to convince Oriole that she had done the right thing? Oriole would be
furious.

'Champagne?' Tommy poured industriously, and still managed to slop some on the floor. His fingers brushed her gloves as he handed her the glass. 'Well
...
what, eh? Here's to
...
to
...
well, us ?'

She sipped, then changed her mind and drank the entire glass. She had not been drunk since that night in the mountains. Oh, my God, she thought, that night in the mountains. Suppose she were to tell him about that? But he might become all gallant and insist upon marrying her anyway. And in any event, if she did that, Oriole would
kill
her.

'Shall we sit down ?' He escorted her to the settee, and she fell backwards. 'Oh, I say,' he said. 'Are you all right?'

'I think I'd like another glass of champagne,' she said.

'Oh, I say, would you ?' He bent over the table.

But there were other things to which he could not possibly agree. Oh, Oriole would still be angry
...
but then, Oriole need never know.

'Here we are.' He gave her the glass, sat beside her, and then got up again. The sofa bounced, and Meg found herself rising and falling. 'Oh, do forgive me,' he said. 'The fact is
...
well
...
do you know, you are such a sport, Meg. I mean, you come to all the cricket matches, and you aren't afraid of the weather, and you're from Jamaica, too, such an exciting place. Of course, you know, dear Mums says it's not quite right, but I say, what, a chap has to make up his own mind, what?'

Meg drank champagne. It was necessary to choose her moment with great care.

'So what I mean is,' Tommy said, taking a brief turn up and down the carpet in front of her. 'I mean, what, we haven't known each other all that long, Meg, but I know all about you that I wish to, and me, well, there really isn't much to me. What I mean is, not much to know that you can't see, what? No deep waters and that sort of thing.' He peered at her, and she held up her glass. 'Another? Right ho.' He paused, and as an afterthought refilled his own. The couch resumed its pleasant undulation, which she found strange, because he hadn't sat down recently.

'So you see what I'm driving at,' he said, handing her the glass.

He was obviously never going to say it himself, and she was getting sleepy. 'You wish me to marry you,' she said.

He frowned, and his jaw dropped, and then slowly closed again. 'Well
...
yes, I suppose I do. I say
...'
He sat beside her, and the ensuing upheaval c
aused her to spill her drink. ‘I
say, I'm most awfully sorry. But really, Meg, would you ? I say, I do
...
ah
...
love you most awfully.'

'I don't know,' she said.

'Eh? Oh, of course, if you wish to think it over, of course, take all the time you wish. Oh, yes, indeed.'

'It's not that,' Meg said, speaking very slowly and carefully. 'It's
...
well, you see, I am the very last Hilton.'

'Oh, I say,
are
you? I say, that's dashed awkward.' He hesitated, frowning. 'Is it ?'

'It could be. My family has lived in the West Indies for two hundred and fifty years, and most of that time we have owned and operated our own plantations. There has always been a Hilton on Hilltop.'

'Ah. I see what you mean.'

'When Papa dies,' Meg said, 'it will be up to me.' She gazed at him.

'Oh, I say, how terribly romantic. Oh, indeed, I think that's a marvellous idea. Oh, yes. Do you know, I've always fancied myself as a planter. Riding a horse, what, swishing the old machete.'

'It's the labourers who carry machetes,' Meg said crossly.

'Well, whateve
r it is I would swish. Oh, I th
ink that is a first-rate idea. Yes, indeed.'

'Your parents would never agree,' Meg pointed out. 'Ah
...
another glass ?' She held hers out

'The fact is, Meg, the pater has always said it would do me the world of good to get out in the colonies and try some real work. Why, do you know, he nearly packed me off five years ago. New Zealand, actually, not the West Indies. The mater stopped him.'

'Well, then
...'

He handed her the refilled glass. 'Oh, she'd come round. She always does.' He brushed his glass against hers. 'Here's to the sugar. And the bananas, of course. Your cousin was telling me all about the bananas.'

Meg sucked air into her lungs, noisily. 'It really isn't as simple as that. I said I was the last Hilton. The name is as important as the plantations. There has always been a Hilton in the West Indies. There must always be a Hilton in Jamaica.'

'Ah.' Tommy drank some champagne. 'Bit of a problem, what? I suppose I could change my name.' 'Eh?'

'Simple business, really. Deed poll and that sort of thing, what?' 'But it would mean
...'

'Renouncing the title? Ah, well
...
do you know, I've always wanted to do that. Let's face it, the Claymonds haven't all been saints. No, no. There's bad blood.'

'There is bad blood in the Hiltons.'

'Bad blood everywhere,' he said with a bright smile. 'But, oh yes, it could be done.'

He took their glasses to refill, while Meg stared at him. Oh,
my
God, she thought. Oh, my God. But he
had
to be discouraged.
Any
way. And she was going to hate herself tomorrow, because he was really being an absolute gentleman and a faithful lover. But marriage between Meg Hilton and Tommy Claymond could only be the most utter disaster.

He stood in front of her, held out her glass. 'It
shall
be done, by Jove.'

Meg inhaled. It had to be done now, or she would be lost. But in any event, now the idea had actually entered her mind, she could feel the sex urge swelling in her belly, as it had done during the dance in the mountains, as it did when Oriole's fingers stroked her flesh. My God, she thought, perhaps I
was
bewitched.

'So,' he said. 'Will
...
ah
...
you marry me, Meg?'

Meg's nostrils dilated, and she could hear her breath searing. 'You must undress first.'

He stared at her, his mouth open.

'Just your pants,' she said. 'I couldn't possibly marry a man until I've seen the size of his rod. After all, it's the most important thing in a marriage, isn't it?' Was it really Meg Hilton speaking? Her voice sounded absolutely normal, quite matter of fact.

Tommy Claymond stared at her for a few seconds longer. I've done it, she thought. He'll never want to speak to me again.

'Do you know,' he said at last, 'that is a quite remarkable idea. But very good sense. You'd never find an English girl to say it, of course. They all pretend it doesn't exist, even after they're married, I believe. But you
...
Meg, my dear girl, I knew you were a sport the moment I saw you. We are going to have such fun together.' He was taking off his jacket and waistcoat, releasing his braces. Meg sat absolutely still, knees clamped together, rigid with horror. It could not be happening.

But it was. The dress trousers settled about his ankles to reveal a ridiculously long pair of white woollen drawers, from beneath which somewhat muscular legs were encased in black suspenders and black silk stockings.

Now he hesitated. ‘I
'm afraid
...
well, have you seen many
...
ah
...
rods?'

Meg licked her lips.

'Because, you see
...
ah
...
I don't suppose mine is very
...
ah
...
large.'

Meg stared at him. His fingers tugged at the waistband, and the drawers settled around his ankles. Meg gasped in horror; she had never actually seen a white penis before; that night in the mountains they had all been black, and hard, and demanding, at once to touch and to be touched. Tommy Claymond was absolutely flaccid. The word rod did not come into it at all.

'It
...
ah
...
I'm trembling like a jelly,' he confessed. 'Nerves, you know, what? It
...
it will do better, I mean, what, perhaps if you were to show me
...
well, I suppose I've a right to ask, what?'

As if she were in a dream, Meg slowly rose to her feet and lifted her skirts.

'You'll have to take my drawers down for me,' she whispered.

'Oh, I say, what? That'll do the trick, what?'

He knelt before her, and she closed her eyes, and opened them again as she heard the door.

Tommy? Whatever are you doing?’

Honor Claymond was accompanied by half a dozen young men and women.

Tommy?' she cried again, her voice rising an octave. For Meg had released her skirts and his head was buried underneath the folds of material.

Meg stared at them in utter horror, her brain seeming to close. And then it opened again, and she was able to see with frightful clarity, to realize just what had happened to her over this last year, just what was going to go on happening to her if she did not end it, now.

'Why, Honor,' she said. 'It's quite all right, really. I asked him to. I mean to say, we had to see what each other looks like before we could possibly consider marrying.'

'I really do not know what to say. I really do
not
know what to say.' Oriole sat up in bed, an ice pack on her head, but she still shouted. She had shouted all the way back from Beltney. 'Are you mad ? Are you just depraved ? Is there some streak of vicious vulgarity in you that makes you act the whore?'

Meg continued to dress, without replying. It was in any event early in the morning - they had regained London the previous night - and the house was cold.

'Ruined,' Oriole said. 'We are quite ruined. I doubt we shall be able to show our faces in polite society again. I doubt we shall ever be invited anywhere again. Doubt? What am I saying? Of course we will not be invited anywhere again.'

Meg smoothed her petticoats, stepped into her favourite crimson gown.

'And do not suppose that young man will come to your rescue.
He
has been packed off to Scotland. Poor boy. He will never be the same again. They are saying he was drunk. What were you?'

Meg put on her green velvet jacket.
‘I
was also drunk, I suppose,' she said. 'I only knew I had to put him off. But he was very difficult.'

'Put him off?' Oriole's voice was slowly rising. 'The most perfect match you could ever dream of making?'

Meg faced the bed. 'I disagree with you entirely. I tried to tell you that before. If you had not pushed the matter so hard it could never have reached such a stage. Oh, he is a pleasant young man and an utter gentleman. But he is not going to be my husband. I propose to marry a
man'

'Meg, my darling.' Oriole's tone softened. 'Forgive me for being angry. Although you deserved it. Of course I know why you didn't wish to marry him. Because of your love for me. But how often have I told you, you have got to marry someone, some time. You have got to have children, to carry on the Hilton name, the Hilton tradition. Don't you understand that? And it will make no difference to you and me. Or very little difference. Really.'

Meg stared at her. But this one came easier; no doubt she was gaining practise at destroying people.

'I did not refuse him because of my love for you, Oriole,' she said, speaking very evenly. 'My love for you is something horrible, something obscene. It is nearly as obscene as your love for me.'

'Meg?' Oriole seemed utterly bewildered.

'You came into my life,' Meg said, 'of your own free will. You elected to see to my upbringing. It was the things you taught me that sent me into the mountains that night. Then you chose to seduce me. Then you chose to inflict upon me some quite unsuitable match. I'll have none of it. I'll have none of you any more. You keep reminding me that I am a Hilton, the last Hilton, that I bear the name of Marguerite Hilton, the greatest Hilton woman. Well, then, you watch me begin to act like her.'

She turned away, checked her reticule; she had secreted a spare pair of drawers and a spare pair of stockings while Oriole was asleep, as well as a spare gown, very crushed.

'Meg? Meg? Where are you going?'

'Out,' Meg said. 'For a walk.'

'Meg. You come back here. Oh, when you come back
...'

Meg closed the bedroom door. Presumably she was being very foolish. But it was the only thing to do. And it was something she should have done very long ago. She should never have left Jamaica at all. But this time last year she had been a child. Now she was a woman.

If only she was a woman in the eyes of the law. Then she need endure none of this subterfuge.

'Is that you, Meg?'

Great Uncle Tom, already awake and downstairs in the parlour with his newspaper, for all his sixty-two years.