HF - 05 - Sunset (45 page)

And where would she go, what could she do ? The black faces were the same, but they all now looked to Oriole as the mistress, not her. And the white faces had changed. The last relic of the old Hilltop staff. Paul Simmonds, was gone. These were Billy's people, and Oriole's, who smiled and bowed at her as she passed them, and whispered scornfully behind her back.

Escaping Hilltop would be an immense operation, and what would it avail ? According to Oriole, she was known throughout Jamaica as the Madwoman of Hilltop. It was several years since she had seen even John Phillips, and their's had in any event been a very spiky doctor and patient relationship. For the rest, Walter Reynolds was Kingston's leading lawyer as his son was Jamaica's leading planter as Oriole was Jamaica's leading hostess. There was no one to take the point of view of the ne'er do well. And somehow it did not seem to matter.

Nothing mattered, not the death of the Queen, nor the end of the war with the Boers. Not even the shattering volcanic eruption in the islands south of Jamaica, which within a week devastated both Martinique and St Vincent, and had the superstitious Negroes whispering that the end of the world was nigh. The fact is, she thought, I have lost my interest in living, in owning, in ruling. But perhaps she had never possessed those interests. She had boasted that some people, Hiltons, had been placed on earth to rule. Alan had suggested how wrong she was. And could she argue against that? Had that frightened, tormented creature the Spanish sailors and soldiers had played with truly been a ruler?

She could not even force herself to resent Oriole's parties, for which she was always locked in her room, in the com
p
any of Madge and Lilian, another large Negress, each armed with a sedative drink which she was empowered to use should her mistress - Oriole was very careful to preserve the form - have one of her nervous fits and become recalcitrant. So Meg would lie on her bed and listen to the music, and the faint babble of conversation seeping up the stairwell, and think to herself how excited they must all be, to be dancing only a floor away from the Madwoman, how Ann Holroyd, from her perch in heaven, unless gossips were firmly confined to hell, must be wishing she could have held on just a little while longer. Or from her bedroom window, once the gauze blinds had been drawn, she could watch them playing at tennis, for Oriole had put down a court close to the grandstand. She was grateful that Oriole and Billy had no interest in horseracing; she was at least spared the indignity of having to listen to her stable being exploited.

Before she was properly aware of what was happening, she had been back on Hilltop over two years, which very rapidly became three; after which time became meaningless. She was allowed to read the children's letters home, and could not deny that they both appeared very happy, and very solicitous over her health, which Oriole kept assuring them was slowly but surely mending. But she was not allowed to write herself. Nevertheless, the letters themselves were a joy, and were the principal event in her fife, well worth waiting for.

For the rest, she rode, carefully guarded, and she was allowed downstairs every morning, when Billy was out and she could be looked after. She was allowed to play the piano if she wished, and she could read any of the books in the library. She was allowed to sew, and Oriole was perfectly willing to send into Kingston for the materials she required; she became quite a dressmaker.

And she waited while she hated. She did not know for sure what she was waiting for. She remembered being aware that Billy had spent several years just waiting for his opportunity, for her to kick over the traces, as he had known she

eventually would. So then, she waited
...
for Richard's return? She rather dreaded that, and it was still a long way in the future. For Oriole to drop dead ? But Oriole, even as she sailed past fifty, was obviously as healthy as ever before in her life. For her own lassitude to disappear, for the certainty of her own health to come bubbling back through her veins and her mind like that energy she remembered from her youth? Or had her youth been only a dream?

Only of her hate was she certain. She hated Oriole, and she hated Billy. She would avenge herself on them one day, of that she was absolutely certain, absolutely determined. But she had no idea when.

Until the day when she was not allowed to leave her room at all, nor were the drapes drawn from across her windows.

'The mistress saying you got for spend this day in bed,' Madge said, and she had brought Lilian along to reinforce her decree.

'But I am not ill,' Meg protested. She never did anything more than protest nowadays, where once she would have commanded. 'There is no reason for it.'

'The mistress got reason,' Madge said. "That man coming. You got for stay
in
bed until he gone again, and that is a fact.'

"That man?' Meg asked. 'What man?' 'That nuisance man. That is what the mistress done call he. That Captain McAvoy man.'

Meg sat up as if jerked by a string. 'McAvoy? Alan McAvoy?'

'Now, mistress, the mistress say if you making a noise you got for take your medicine.'

Meg stared at her. Her heart seemed to have doubled in size and was trying to break its way out through her ribs. But it could not be true. 'I won't make a noise,' she promised, lowering her voice. 'Is this man named Alan?'

'Well, I ain't knowing about that, mistress. Now you got for he down.'

She held Meg's shoulders, and Meg allowed herself to be pushed flat on the bed.

'But he's a sailor,' she said. 'You must know that, Madge.'

'Well,' Madge said. 'He got for be a sailor.'

Oh, my God, Meg thought. Oh, my God. She closed her eyes, because she could feel the tears start. How to explain it? Alan had been killed in the jungles of Cuba, fighting the Spaniards. No, he had not been killed. The colonel had asked her questions, about his name and his whereabouts. She had assumed that he must have been killed, because she had heard no word. In all the time she had been in prison, in all the months she had spent in the American hospital, she had heard no word. If Alan had been alive, he would have come looking for her, surely.

But Madge said he was coming looking for her now, and thus she was to be confined here in darkness, unable to communicate with him, until he was gone again. Well, they would see about that. They
...
her door opened, and she sat up again violently.

It was Oriole. 'You may draw the blinds, Madge,' she said. 'And how are you this morning, my dear?'

Madge drew the curtains. Meg stared at her cousin. 'Where is he?' Oriole frowned at her. 'Where is who?'

'Alan,' Meg shouted. 'Alan McAvoy.'

Oriole looked at Madge.

'Ow me God,' Madge said. 'But she asking why she locked up in here
...'

'And so you told her, you stupid nigger.' Oriole came closer.

'Was it Alan?' Meg begged. 'Was
it?’
Oriole's face twisted, then she smiled. 'Yes, it was your lover.'

'But
...
I had thought him dead.'

'He is dead, so far as you are concerned.'

'But tell me what happened. Please, Oriole. Please.'

Oriole hesitated, then shrugged and sighed. 'It appears he was very badly hurt in that battle you seem to have had with the Spanish authorities. Do you remember anything of that?'

'Yes,' Meg said. 'Yes. Please go on.'

'Well, his friends, if you can call them that, apparently took him away to a place of safety
...
I am merely recounting what he has told me, you understand; I have no idea of how true it is.'

'Yes,' Meg said. 'Please go on.'

‘
Well, after some time they managed to nurse him back to health. And then, he claims, he tried to find you, and was told that the Spaniards had sunk his schooner, and that you had gone down with it. He
says
he nearly went mad with despair, abandoned Cuba, and sailed away in some American ship. He spent several years trading in the South Seas, would you believe it, hobnobbing with cannibals, and then returned here, just on passage to England, oh, six years ago. And discovered you were still alive. Well, it was during your breakdown, you know. He came rushing out here. But of course Billy and I had him sent off the plantation. I mean, the idea of it, your lover trying to see you in your husband's home.'

Meg bit her lip. My home, she wanted to say. My home, she wanted to shriek. My home, she wanted to yell, as she tore Oriole's face to shreds. Why, she had not felt like doing that in six years. Her hate had been too deep-seated.

'And then would you believe it,' Oriole said, 'he wrote you a letter. Quite the most disgusting thing I have ever read.'

'Oh, please, may I have it ?'

'Good heavens, no, I burned it. Obscene it was. I thought then we had seen the last of him. But here he is back again. Well, I have convinced him that you have no desire ever to see him again. And of course that it is doubtful you will ever fully recover your senses. For which misfortune he must accept a large measure of responsibility. Oh, indeed, he may come to Kingston as regularly as he likes; I imagine we have seen the last of him at Hilltop.'

Meg stared at her, her entire brain seeming to have frozen into hate.

'So now, you had better spend the rest of the day in bed,' Oriole decided. 'You are looking quite pale. You'll keep an eye on Mistress Meg, Madge. And don't hesitate to giv
e her
the potion should she begin to be restless.'

The door closed behind her, and the two black women came to stand by the bed. Meg shut her eyes. She did not wish to look at them, and she did not wish to have the potion inflicted upon her. She wanted to think, as she had never thought before, as she had never had reason to think before.

First of all, to understand. Alan was alive, and well, and still in love with her. Else why come out here twice?

But he supposed her mad, and beyond his reach.

Therefore it was up to her, to find him again, to convince him that she was nothing more than a prisoner. Alan would know how to help her free herself, how to help her regain control of Hilltop.

But how to reach him? She had no hope of escaping Madge and Lilian at this moment. And they were with her every moment of the day.

Well, then, at night. But soon Alan would have left, and she did not know when he was coming back to Jamaica, or indeed if he was coming back to Jamaica. But oh yes, he was coming back. Oriole had suggested that. He was coming back. Oriole had suggested that. He was coming back. Well, then, escape when he returned. Except that she might never know when he returned.

So, then, escape as soon as it was possible, and
...
how? The stables were patrolled by watchmen all night, as was the main road leading to Kingston. And even if she tried to go on foot, and evaded the watchmen, it was better than twenty miles. She would be missed and overtaken long before she could gain the town. And supposing she did gain the town ? Who would help her? They all believed her mad. They would be eager to return her to the loving care of her cousin.

She felt so despairing she wanted to shriek her agony. But she kept her eyes closed, made herself lie still. There was no such thing as an insoluble problem. Not for Margaret Hilton. How many years was it since she had thought that?

Be rational, she told herself. Escape Hilltop Great House. There was the first priority. That could be done, at night. She was sure of it.

Escape the plantation itself? That could be done, on foot. But then what? And supposing that was accomplished, somewhere to live until Alan returned. Somewhere safe, where she could never be found.

In Jamaica?

The tears were starting to come again, seeping out from under her closed eyes, dribbling down her cheeks. Madge grunted, perhaps in sympathy, and moved away from the bedside. It was close now, and the maid threw open the windows. Faintly filling the room, drifting down from the mountains. Meg heard the beat of the drums.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE
MAMALOI

HOW they filled her head, all night, rhythmic beats of hope. If she dared.

But did she dare? Throughout the great days, when she had followed her own whims, her own decisions, her own impulses, with a total disregard for anyone else's feelings, she had yet never really contemplated crossing the river and making for the mountains. She had feared the implicit surrender in such an act, and then she surely could have feared no surrender.

This trembling creature feared everything.

But there was even more. When last Cleave had seen her, she had been a girl of sixteen. Now she was thirty-five, and perhaps older than that. She remembered the ceremony with a continuing thrill of pleasure, because it was a memory. How could she be sure she would not be disgusted by the eroticism of the dance, by the primitivity of her surroundings ? And what of Cleave himself, when he came to touch her? The last man to touch her, sexually, had been the twelfth sailor on board the Spanish
guardacostas;
Jaime's rumblings had been no more than fumblings. But the sailor had not been the last
thing.
That had been the seething rope, the feel of which still had her awake in the small hours, often enough. Could she stand the touch of man's hand? Or would she immediately break into an uncontrollable screaming?