HF - 05 - Sunset (20 page)

'Yes, Uncle Tom. Just out for a walk.'

'Ah, nothing like it, a walk in the early morning. If you'll wait a moment I'll come with you.'

'No, thank you very much, Uncle Tom,' she said. 'I
...
I
feel like walking alone.'

He made no reply. But he was at least aware of the crisis, even if he might not yet know the details. Although according to Oriole the details would be known to everyone in London by lunchtime.

And presumably she would not see him again. But now was no time for sentiment.

She had sufficient pocket money in her purse to hire a hansom, once she was safely out of sight of the house. 'The docks?' inquired the cabbie, looking her up and down. 'Now, what would a pretty girl like you want with the docks ?'

She had already decided her best course. 'I'm to meet my father, from Jamaica. He's due in today.'

'Ah, well, you'll want the West India docks, eh? It's a long drive, mind.'

'I don't mind,' she said, and settled herself back on the cushions. Her last look at London Town, and surprisingly, in this very wet summer, the sun was shining and it was quite warm. Perhaps she would return, one day, when she was
the
Hilton. Then people could say what they liked, and she would not care.

Supposing she cared now.

'Here we are.' The hansom had turned through the gates and she was surrounded by enormous piles of sugar bags emanating a sickly sweet smell, by stevedores, exuding sweat and energy, by seamen leaving their ships for a spell ashore, by small boys looking for tips. 'You've the name of the ship?'

'I'll find it,' she said, and stepped down.

The cabbie scratched his head. 'This is a rough crowd, missie. You're sure you'll be all right?'

'Of course I'll be all right,' she said. 'How much?'

'Well
...
seeing as how it's you, missie, a guinea will cover it'

'A guinea ?' It seemed an awfully large amount of money, and left her with just three shillings. But that really didn't concern her at this moment. She was Margaret Hilton. She must remember that, now and always. 'Here we are. And thank you.' She adjusted her turban, and made her way through the staring men, trying not to listen to their ribald remarks, reached the dockside itself, stared at the first steamer, towering above her.

'Looking for someone, miss?' The policeman gave her a benevolent smile.

'Oh, yes,' she said, trying to control her breathing. 'There's a ship leaving f
or Jamaica today.' She bit her li
p, to stop herself trembling. 'Isn't there ?'

'That'll be the
Queen Meg,'
he said. 'Just over there.'

The
Queen Meg,'
she cried. What a happy omen. 'Yes, yes, that's the one.'

'Seeing someone off, are you, miss?' The constable fell in at her side.

'Oh, no,' she said. 'I'm sailing in her. My
...
my baggage has already gone on board.'

'Then you'd better hurry,' he recommended. 'She has steam up.'

'Oh, dear.' Meg gathered her skirts, chased along the dock, the policeman clearing people out of the way, arrived at the gangway to which sailors were already attaching lines for taking it up. Here there was quite a crowd, waving scarves and handkerchiefs, and weeping and cheering.

'Way there, make way,' shouted the constable.

Meg clung to the rope rail, climbed the steep accommodation ladder.

'Yes, miss ?' An officer stood at the top.

'I'm Margaret Hilton,' she said. 'Of Hilltop.'

'Yes ?' he inquired politely.

'Well
...'
The policeman had remained at the foot of the gangway, but he was still there. 'May I see the captain, please ?'

'The captain? My dear Miss Hilton, this ship is about to sail. The captain is on the bridge.' 'You don't understand,' she explained desperately. 'I am

Margaret Hilton. Doesn't that name mean anything to you? Of Hilltop?'

'Ah
...
your family plant, I believe.'

'My family plant ?' she cried. 'My family are the biggest planters in the West Indies. Oh, you don't understand. I must see the captain.'

'Now then, Mr Darling, what seems to be the trouble ?'

'This young lady
...'

Meg pushed him aside to gain the obviously senior officer; he had two stripes on his blue sleeve. 'Are you the captain ?'

'No, no, miss. I am the first officer. I'm afraid I must ask you to leave the ship, as we are about to sail.'

'I want to go with you,' Meg said. 'I want a passage to Kingston.'

'My word,' said the officer. 'You mean you're a passenger?'

‘I
want
to be a passenger,' Meg said desperately. 'Listen, I am Margaret Hilton, of Plantation Hilltop in Jamaica. My father is Anthony Hilton. He is a member of the Jamaica House of Assembly.'

'I have heard of Mr Hilton, indeed I have. But do you mean you don't have a cabin booked ?' He looked past her. 'Where is your baggage?'

Meg sighed with impatience. 'I don't have any baggage. I don't have any money. But I must get back to Jamaica. It is terribly important. If you will give me a cabin, my father will pay you when we reach Kingston.'

'My dear young lady,' the mate said, 'that is not the way we do things. Oh, indeed, that is not the way we do things at all. Do you know what I think, I think you are attempting to practise some fraud here. You are absconding from somewhere. Oh, yes, indeed. Ah, constable
...'

The policeman had finally decided to climb the gangway to discover for himself what all the fuss was about.

'This young lady needs to be returned to her home, I suspect,' the first officer said.

Meg glared at him for a moment in impotent rage. But her belly was filling with lead. She was not going to succeed. Once again Oriole had been wrong in her estimation of the magic of the Hilton name. It might have had everyone bowing and scraping in 1788, but not in 1888. And what Oriole would say when she was returned by a policeman, with a tale of how she had attempted to run away
...
what Oriole would
do,
in fact.

'Now then, miss,' the policeman said. 'I think you had better come along with me, back to the station, and there we can talk this whole thing over.'

Meg turned, kicked him on the ankle. He gave a grunt of pain and stooped, lifting his leg to rub the injured spot, and Meg pushed him while he was off balance. He fell over, cannoning into the young officer by the gangway. The sailor waiting there goggled at her as she gathered her skirts, jumped over the fallen men, and reached the top. Then he made an abortive grab, but Meg swung her reticule and caught him across the face, sending him tripping over the constable who was at that moment attempting to get up.

They went sprawling again, and Meg was running down the gangway.

'Stop her,' bawled the first officer, running to the rail. But the crowd seemed more amused than alarmed.

'Let me through,' Meg screamed, and they willingly parted. She reached open space, looked left and right, and darted behind a pile of sugar bags. But of course they were going to catch her, she supposed. She ran as hard as sh
e could for the next shelter, th
e doors of a warehouse, panting now, boots slipping on the wooden dock, hearing the shouts from behind her, raced into the warehouse and turned blindly to her right, seeking shelter, and ran full tilt into a tall young man.

'Easy now,' he said. 'Easy. Why, my God. Meg Hilton?'

Meg's head went back, and she stared at Alan McAvoy.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE REUNION

'ALAN,' she cried, throwing both arms around his neck. 'Alan?'

Because he had changed. It was hard to reconcile this big,
broad-shouldered
man with the heavy moustache and the mahogany tan and the confident manner and the twinkling eyes with the boy in whose company she had raced to the Grandstand.

'Himself,' he said, apparently remembering their respective positions. His hands, which for a moment had closed on her shoulder blades, now hastily fell to his side.

'Alan,' she said again, and listened to the clamour behind her. 'Oh, my God. Help me, Alan. Hide me.'

He scarcely seemed to hesitate a moment, gathered her in the crook of one powerful arm, carried her a few feet, and deposited her in a narrow space between two enormous piles of sugar bags. 'Don't move,' he said, stepping away from her, and taking a cheroot from his pocket. This he proceeded to light, providing ample reason for him to have stopped.

'You there,' bawled the policeman. 'Have you seen a young woman, in red with a green coat?'

'No,' he said, and puffed smoke.

'She came in this warehouse,' said another voice. 'I'd bet on it.'

'Not within the last five minutes,' Alan said, walking slowly away from Meg's hiding place. 'I would have seen her.'

'Well,' said the policeman, doubtfully. 'If you didn't see her, sir
...'
He had apparently identified Alan as wearing an officer's uniform, a fact which was only just dawning on Meg.

'1 haven't,' Alan said brusquely. 'Now be off with you, and let a fellow smoke in peace. What's the girl done ?'

'Well, sir,' the policeman said, 'I don't rightly know. Trying to stow away, she was, as near as I can see. Well-bred, sir, almost a lady. But acting very strange. And when we tried to question her, why it was up skirts and away.'

'Then you'd better find her,' Alan recommended. 'No doubt she has just murdered her lover.'

'My word, sir, perish the thought. Come on, lads. The gentleman is right. We'd best make haste.'

Meg leaned against the sugar bats; her knees felt they could no longer support her. Was he coming back? She raised her head, and there he was.

'Almost a lady?'

'Well
...'

'Trying to stow away? You'll have to explain.' She grasped his arm, drew him into the recess. 'I will. When I'm safe. Listen, I have got to get back to Jamaica.' 'Don't you like England ?'

'I will explain, Alan. Really and truly. But right now I have got to get on a ship. And
...'
She hesitated. 'I haven't any money. Well, three shillings.'

His forehead creased in a frown.

She chewed her lip. 'It's my cousin, Oriole. She dragged me away
...
well, you heard
...'

'A little,' he said.

Was his voice cold ? She couldn't be
sure. 'She wants to marry me of
f, to some ridiculous Englishman,' she said. 'I don't want to marry an Englishman, Alan. Not one of these, I mean. But it's going to happen. I must get back. And now. If she finds out what I've tried to do
she'll
...
she'll lock me up.'

'I've heard some
strange stories in my time,' Alan said,
slowly disentangling himself. 'But this beats all. You're Meg Hilton. Have you forgotten that?'

'I'm not allowed to forget it in my sleep
,
' she said. 'But I'm Oriole's idea of Meg Hilton. And Papa made her virtually my guardian. She can do what she likes, and I must do what she likes. Alan, I can't stand it any more. I'm going mad.'

'If she
is
your guardian,' he pointed out, 'she'll have the right to send behind you and have you returned no matter where you go.'

'Not if I can get back to Papa.'

'Why don't you write to him ?'

Oh, damn you for a clear-thinking scoundrel, she thought. 'Because
...
because it's a difficult thing to put into letters, especially when he's getting them from her as well. Anyway, you know he never reads letters. But if I could just see him, talk with him
...
Alan.' She seized his arm again. 'You're off a ship. You trade with Jamaica, don't you."

'Of course I do.'

She licked her lips. 'Well, then
...'

'But this isn't a passenger liner, Meg. Not even a steamer. To use my mate's ticket I have to berth on a windjammer.'

'Don't you carry any passengers?'

'Oh, half a dozen. But these are friends of the owners, mostly, or supernumeraries travelling on company business. Not unattached young girls. The captain would never agree.'

'Don't you like me even a little?' she asked, holding his other sleeve and allowing her body to move against his.

'Like you, Meg? Like you? Why
...'

His mouth was open, searching for words. She stood on tiptoe - he
had
grown - and kissed him, thrusting her tongue inside to find his as Oriole had taught her.

For a moment he seemed paralysed with surprise, then his hands rested on her shoulders, and his tongue came looking for hers, and she felt his fingers slipping down her back until they encountered her bustle, checking there in dismay. She wriggled her bottom and they slipped over, closing gently on her flesh, and she felt she could stand there for ever.