HF - 05 - Sunset (23 page)

hundred years, at the thought that they might not be able to continue living like millionaires went fleeing back to England with what they could salvage. Oh, the Hiltons didn't. But that doesn't make them any more noble. They haven't gone yet because they had so much in the first place, they took so much in the first place, that they have a way longer to go before they decide to give it up. But they will I promise you they will. Don't shake your head. I remember a girl telling me that the first thing she would do when she inherited Hilltop would be to sell it.'

'A girl,' she said angrily. ‘I
t may have escaped your notice that I have now become a woman. But I really wonder if you have managed to become a man. You sound like a boy taking his first look at life. But when you learn a little more about it all you'll realize that some people are put on earth to rule, where the majority are put on earth to
be
ruled.'

He stared at her, his frown returning. 'And you honestly believe that the Hiltons were put on earth to rule, until Kingdom Come? No matter what they do, what they think, what they feel?'

'Yes,' she shouted. 'Yes, I do. And if you don't believe that too, if you don't want to be one of us, then I don't care to speak with you again. Ever.'

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE BRIDE

'THERE we are, Miss Hilton.' Captain Weston stood at Meg's side, pointing with his telescope. 'A treat for your eyes, I'd reckon.'

The mountains of Jamaica had actually been in sight the previous evening, distant shadows on the horizon. And the wind had remained fair, so that by dawn they had seemed to loom immediately above the
Wanderer
as she rounded Morant Point. Now the sun was high in the sky, and reflecting from the rooftops of Kingston itself, as sail was shortened for the passage past the tip of the Palisadoes, over the sunken ruins of Port Royal, Henry Morgan's city of sin, which had disappeared in the earthquake of 1692. She was home. Her eyes were filled with tears.

'Harrumph,' Captain Weston remarked. 'We'll be putting you ashore first thing. You'd best get your gear together.' He glanced at her, and flushed. 'Speaking figuratively, of course.'

Her gown was sadly decrepit by now, and the velvet of her jacket was worn thin; only her turban remained reasonably new as she had not worn it on the voyage.

'That would be very kind of you, Captain,' she said. 'You may be sure that I shall attend to the business of my passage money before anything else.'

'Ah, that's a little matter,' he said.
I
am happy to have been of service. And we shall be lying here for a week or so; you'll have time enough. Now, if you'll excuse me.' He bustled away from her side, and she turned from the rail,
watched Alan marshalling the boat's crew while orders were given to hand the sails and bring the barquentine up to anchor.

He had avoided her for the past ten days, as much as was possible in a small vessel. And when they had been forced to encounter each other, at meals and perhaps another three or four times in each day, he had been distantly polite. But how handsome he looked, and how virile, in his tropical kit, for Captain Weston had allowed his officers to doff their jackets and roll their sleeves above the elbow.

'Are you in charge of seeing me ashore, Mr McAvoy ?' she inquired.

'I have been so ordered by the captain, miss.'

'And you would rather remain with your ship ?'

'There is a deal of work to be done,' he said. 'You'll excuse me?' He hurried off.

'He is a very keen young man,' remarked Mr Lamb, the first mate. 'Oh, McAvoy will go far, Miss Hilton. You may mark my words.'

'I shall, Mr Lamb,' Meg promised, and turned back to the rail. So then, what did she think of it all? She had wept herself to sleep that night, after he had stormed out of the cabin. But next morning she had awoken very angry indeed. What right had he to dismiss her ancestors as rogues? Without the Warners and the Hiltons the British West Indies would never have happened at all. And where empires have to be created, blood has to be shed, that others might benefit. That Alan might benefit not less than anyone else.

So perhaps he held that the very fact of empire was wrong. Where then would Britain have found her greatness?

Anyway, it had all been so silly. The labourers on Hilltop were happy enough. Certainly happier than anywhere else in Jamaica. The Hiltons had made them so. Alan's arguments had been entirely dialectic, and bore very little relation to reality.

And what would he have her do? Marry a seaman, and live in a cottage somewhere in England, seeing her husband but once in six months, eking out a miserable existence on his pittance of a pay? She was Margaret Hilton. She could make him wealthy. If he was hell bent on playing the philanthropist she could allow him to do that as well, if he wanted. Perhaps, she had thought in her anger and her misery, Oriole had been right all the while. Men were nothing more than emotional fools.

So the anger had been replaced by cool disdain. If she must marry a fool, as Oriole had again said, then she would at least marry someone who measured up to her requirements as a man. Alan was a childhood sweetheart, nothing more. Perhaps he deserved to be nothing more. So he had taken her virginity. He had not even realized he was doing that, had supposed he was safe enough, because she had already belonged to another. So she felt, she knew, that she could make him happy. That he could make her happy. Surely he was not the only man in the world about whom that could be said.

The anchor chain rasped through the hawsepipe, and the ship came to a gentle rest in the pale green waters. Alan mounted the ladder from the waist, touched his cap. 'The boat is ready to ferry you ashore, Miss Hilton.'

Thank you, sir.' She swung her reticule as she descended the ladder.

Captain Weston waited at the gangway. 'Miss Hilton, it has been a pleasure having you aboard. Now you get ashore and don't worry about a thing. I'll call. Indeed I will.'

'And I will be glad to see you, Captain. So will Papa, I have no doubt at all. And I shall never be able to thank you enough for granting me this passage.'

She climbed down the accommodation ladder to the boat, bobbing on the gentle swell. Already the ship was surrounded by lighters and bumboats, manned by Negroes in broad-brimmed hats, stripped to the waist and ready to dive should any seaman seeking entertainment throw a coin over the side. She was home. The heat settled on her

neck and shoulders like a physical force; the sun hurt her eyes. She was home.

Alan sat beside her on the transom, gripped the tiller. 'Give way.'

The sailors dipped their oars. 'Don't you feel, every time you drop anchor in this place, that you are coming home?' Meg asked.

'My home is the ship, Miss Hilton.'

'But you will be coming out to Hilltop, to see your parents ?'

'No,' he said. ‘I
usually let them know I am in Port Royal, and they come into town to see me.'

'Ah,' she said. 'If you should wish to alter your programme, on this occasion, you would be very welcome.'

He turned his head to look her in the eyes. 'Would I?'

'Of course,' she said. 'I can never forget that had it not been for you, I should not have obtained this passage.'

'Nothing else?'

So he was sorry for their quarrel, and just did not know how to end it. Well, he deserved his misery. And there was no reason for her to end it, until he put his pride behind him and came to call.
‘I
cannot think of one,' she said.
‘I
can merely repeat, I am sure my father would be very glad to see you. And you may be sure of my gratitude.'

'Aye.' He looked away, altered course. 'Ship your oars.'

The crew obeyed, the boat slipped gently alongside the dock. Alan stood up, stepped ashore. 'Will you give me your hand?'

Meg allowed herself to be assisted. How good it felt. Just to be on dry land. But the dry land was also Jamaica. She turned her face towards the town, felt the gentle hot breeze drifting down from the Blue Mountains. It would have passed Hilltop on the way. She could almost smell the sheep, and the molasses.

She could almost hear the drums.

'Will you be all right now?'

'Why, of course I shall,' she
said. 'But will you not walk
me to Mr Reynolds' office? I will have him organize me transport to Hilltop.' 'I have my duties, Miss Hilton.'

'Well, then, will you
not
come to call? With Captain Weston, of course.'

He hesitated, and flushed. 'Perhaps. If the Captain wishes it. Good day to you, Miss Hilton.'

'And to you.' Meg turned away from the sea, surveyed the group of black men who had gathered, as they gathered to greet any new arrival.

'You wanting a coach, miss?' one asked.

'A horse, miss?'

'A lodging, miss ?'

'Man,' said a fourth. 'Why you all ain't hush up your mouth. You can' see this is Mistress Hilton?' Meg's head turned, but she could not identify the speaker. 'Miss Hilton? But what is that?'

Meg stepped forward, and they parted before her. Their voices lingered on the air.

'Miss Hilton. But that is a thing, eh, Harry?'

'Man, she must be come back quick. That is what she must do.'

She frowned, and then arranged her features in a fixed smile as she walked up the street. No doubt Oriole had been busy, by means of the Transatlantic Telegraph system, spreading all manner of rumours about her. Well, they would just have to be combated. She was Margaret Hilton. She must never forget that. Oriole had taught her that much.

She hurried up the wooden sidewalk, ignoring the people, some of them white, now, who stopped to stare at her, and exchange whispers. One lady stepped forward.

'Margaret Hilton, you poor dear child
...'

'You'll excuse me,' Meg said. Reynolds and Son's sign was in sight. The office was on the upper storey of a draper's shop, and was reached by means of an outside staircase. Meg gazed up it, at the sloping roof, and the flag, flying at half mast. Her frown deepened, and she gathered her crushed skirts and almost ran up the stairs, thrust open the swing jalousies at the top, half fell into the outer office.

'Madam?' The clerk sprang to his feet. 'Madam? My God. Miss Hilton?'

'Where is Mr Reynolds?'

'Meg.' Billy emerged in the inner doorway, very much the embryo lawyer, with a stiff collar and a black coat. 'Meg.' He ran forward to take her hands.

'Billy. I saw the flag. Your father isn't dead?'

'Papa? Good Lord, no. Meg? Didn't you know?'

She checked, allowing her hands to be taken, staring at his flushed face. 'Know what?'

'Why
...'
He hesitated, then the words came out in a rush. 'It is
your
father who is dead.'

Meg sat down; fortunately the clerk had hurried forward with a chair.

She stared at Billy, and past him at his father, coming out of the inner office. 'Papa?'

'Meg.' Walter Reynolds knelt before her. 'Where have you
been,
Meg?'

'Papa?' she whispered. 'Why wasn't I told?'

'You were. We tried,' Walter Reynolds explained. 'We used the cable service. Six days ago. When it happened.'

'But why wasn't I told he was ill?' she cried.

'No one knew he was ill, Meg,' Billy said. 'He went aback as usual on the morning he
...
well, it happened. And just fell from his horse as he was returning for breakfast.'

'Heart, John Phillips says,' Walter Reynolds said.

'Papa,' she whispered. 'Oh, Papa.' She had pretended he was ill, to gain a place on the
Wanderer.
She had pretended. Oh, God, she thought.

'But Meg,' Walter Reynolds was saying. 'Where have
you
been ? We received an answer to our cable, yesterday, from Mrs Paterson. Shall I read it to you?'

She raised her head. Billy had hurried back into the office, and now returned with the piece of paper.

MEG ABSCONDED STOP BELIEVED JAMAICA STOP ARREST AND HOLD ON ARRIVAL STOP AM FOLLOWING BY FIRST AVAILABLE MEANS STOP PATERSON

'Absconded ?' she asked.

'It means run away. You did run away, Meg?'

'From her. I had to, Uncle Walt. I had to.' She could feel the tears now, lurking behind her eyes, awaiting their moment to come flooding out.

'Now, Meg,' Walter Reynolds said, heaving himself to his feet. 'There is nothing for you to worry about, now.' He rested his hand on her shoulder.

She looked up at him. 'You won't send me back, Uncle Walt. Please. You won't let her near me again. Not ever again. Please, Uncle Walt. Send another cable,
please,
Uncle Walt, telling her not to come.'

'Meg
...'

'Please,' Meg shouted, getting up. And staring at him as a terrible fear crossed her mind. 'She's not
...
Papa didn't make her
...'