HF - 05 - Sunset (54 page)

And beyond the banana groves were the mountains. Had there been drums last night ? The wind had been from the south, and she had not been sure. But if ever there would be drums again, they would have been last night. Because today would see them avenged. Today would see her justified, in their eyes.

If she could ever be justified in their eyes.

'Meg.' Alan was uneasy. She kissed him on the forehead, and then went to her bath. She soaked in the tub, gazing at the ceiling; one of the skylights overhung the bathroom, and this had been pulled just a little open to allow air into the huge room; it had been a bedroom before Oriole had appropriated it. Muriel waited patiently. But what did
she
think? What did all of the black people think? Or did they prefer not to think at all, just to let their strange, violent, often senseless employers get on with ruining each other's lives, so long as
their
lives were left in comparative peace?

She got out of the bath, allowed herself to be swathed in the huge white towel and gently massaged, and then to be powdered. She wrapped herself in the robe and returned to the bedroom; Alan had left the bed and gone to the master's dressing room. He might look forward to leaving Hilltop, but he could not do otherwise than enjoy it while he was here.

She dressed with great care, wore a mauve poplin skirt with a matching bolero jacket; both bolero and skirt were trimmed with lace, the bodice being a foamy mass, while her blouse was also white lace. Her hat was a white straw with mauve ribbons, and her gloves and parasol were cream.

She gazed at herself in the mirror, allowed those firm lips to widen just a shade into a smile. It was a beautiful face, she thought. A Hilton face. But that was dangerous, on a day like today.

'It got for come forward,' Muriel muttered, perhaps to herself, still fiddling with the hat. But at last it was perched
at
just the right angle, inclining from the mass of her upswept hair, threatening, it seemed, to slide down over her nose at a moment's notice.

'There we are then.' She stood up. 'Tell Lawrence Captain McAvoy and I will be back out for dinner, and we shall need something light. I have no doubt.' She went outside, stood on the gallery. Alan waited for her at the foot of the stairs, Lawrence and Washington in attendance. Washington was in a state of high excitement; he had given his evidence yesterday.

Meg descended the stairs slowly. Never had the portraits to her right seemed so alive, so interested in her progress. She stopped, and looked at Susan Hilton, the first of all the

Hilton women, the Irish girl sent to the West Indies as an indentured servant whom the first Tony Hilton had taken for his own. Susan's portrait had to have been painted from memory; there had been no artists in the St Kitts of 1630 or the Tortuga of a few years later. But her artist, even working from diaries, had managed to capture her magnificent auburn hair, always described as shining, as he had captured the pale skin with the dusting of freckles, the strong, somewhat aquiline features, the wide-set grey eyes, the pointed chin.

So, Susan, what would you have me do this day?

Below Susan there waited Marguerite. This had been painted when she had been a girl, and still a Warner, but from all accounts she had not changed with age, until her beauty had dissolved in horror. Marguerite's eyes were green, and glinted, and her nostrils seemed to flare even in the portrait, as they had been said to do whenever she was emotionally aroused. The rounded features were framed in the deep brown, straight hair, separated, as had been the custom at the time, into four strands, each tied with a blue ribbon, while round her neck, nestling against her half-exposed breasts, was a string of pearls. The whole made a picture of confidence. Confidence had been the first Meg Hilton's greatest characteristic.

So, Meg, what would you have me do ?

Next to Meg was Lilian Hilton, Marguerite's rival, Kit Hilton's second wife. Her Scandinavian blood was revealed in the mass of straight yellow hair, the blue eyes, the long somewhat serious face. No one could have been more of a contrast to the tempestuous Marguerite. But she had been the first Hilton woman to five and rule in this house.

So, Lilian, what would you have me do this day?

She went a few steps farther, stopped in front of the sisters, Georgiana and Suzanne. Georgiana had been the younger, had lived her life with a careless exuberance. Her hair was light brown, and scattered; her features were real Hilton, finely carved, a trifle small; her eyes were a deep blue, and seemed to be summoning the artist, or anyone else who would meet them, to come closer. Had they summoned the men, and the women, who had torn her limb from limb ?

Georgiana at the least would have no doubts as to what she must do. To kill a black man, for Georgiana, would be a sure passport to her version of heaven.

But Suzanne, waiting beside her sister with all the calm dignity which had been her greatest asset, Hilton face relaxed and composed, pale yellow hair worn short, so that it did no more than rest on her shoulders, pale blue eyes gazing at the world with that almost frightening steadiness. Suzanne had stood at Matt Hilton's shoulder through every tribulation, in the cause of freedom and equality. No doubt about Suzanne either, on the opposite side to her sister.

And at the foot of the stairs, close to her own portrait, Carterette, old Richard's wife. Titian hair, thick and long and quite magnificent, enormous blue eyes, surprisingly short nose, her face was a mass of flaws which came together into a perfectly splendid whole. Cartarette had suffered at the hands of Christophe's blacks, but had lived to marry Christophe's general, and to take her place in that brief flowering of Negro culture in the West Indies.

So then, Great-Grandmama, what would you have me do ?

Or you, she thought, staring at herself. The face looking at her matched any of the others in its beauty, in its serene arrogance. But that portrait was of the Mistress of Hilltop. That face had never known the Spanish sailors or the Spanish rope between her legs. That face had never known fear.

Alan took her hands. 'Communing with your ancestors?'

She smiled at him. 'And should I not, as I set out to destroy everything they stood for?'

Courtney was nervous. He was a short slender man, who wore a pince-nez and was very precise in his manner as he was in his habits. Over the previous ten years he had built up a considerable reputation as Attorney General. But he had never had to face Kingston's senior lawyer in court.

Nor had he had to prosecute a Hilton.

He sat at his desk and polished his glasses, raised them to look at Meg, and then lowered them again. 'So there it is,' he said. 'One cannot blame them, of course.'

'I am blaming no one,' Meg said quietly.

'Still, it will be an ordeal. In effect, I fear, it will be you on trial all over again. Oh, they cannot attempt to have you
...
ah
...'

'Certified?'

'Oh, good heavens, no, Mrs Hilton. I really wasn't thinking of that. What I meant was, they cannot hope to impugn your sanity again. Oh, no no, no. But what they will try to do, I have no doubt at all, is prove how your
...
ah
...
well
...
mode of living, your
...
ah
...
adventures, one could say, might over the years have driven your husband to distraction, have perhaps, driven
him
from his mind. After all, no one can argue that your husband did not pull that trigger. Walter Reynolds can only attempt to convince the jury that he was justified in doing so, or that he was driven insane, at least temporarily, by jealousy. I shudder to think what
...
ah
...
secrets of the marriage bed they will attempt to drag out. You do understand this?'

'Yes,' Meg said.

'Normally, of course,' Courtney went on as if she hadn't spoken, 'such a state of affairs is impossible, except in
...
ah, divorce cases. The wife, and the husband, is protected by the very simple, very
...
ah
...
intelligent, ah, civilized law that no man can be forced to testify against his wife, and, ah
...
ah, no wife can be forced to testify against her husband.' He placed his pince-nez on his nose, gazed at her with a startled expression.

'I understand that,' Meg said. Was he trying to tell her something? Of course he was. It was all a conspiracy, the white people closing their ranks against the blacks. Billy Hilton could not be condemned for murder. Billy Hilton, the Hilton, could not possibly be hanged.

'So
...
ah
...
there it is.' Courtney took out his watch and peered at it. 'My word, we should be getting down there
’

'What exactly do I do ?' Meg asked.

'Well, you wait until you are called. We cleared all the routine business out of the way yesterday, the ...
ah, evidence of arrest, evidence of death of the victim, evidence as regards the, ah
...
weapon used. And we also took the evidence of your five drivers. But I must say they were not satisfactory witnesses, from your point of view. Oh, no, no. Yours will be the
...
ah, crucial moment. And we should be ready for you very early. There are just one or two other points to be cleared away. So it will only be a short wait. I have secured you a private room, so you will be quite comfortable. And then, you just answer my questions, and after that, well, you will have to answer Walter Reynolds' questions. And then you, ah
...
just leave the box, don't you know?' He stood up. 'Well, then, Margaret. See you in
...
ah, court.'

'Yes,' she said.

He hurried round the desk to open the door for her, and she was able to squeeze Alan's hand; he had waited outside. 'Well?' he demanded.

'Just a briefing, Captain, just a briefing,' Courtney said, determinedly cheerful.

'Will Alan be able to sit with me while I am waiting?' Meg asked.

'Oh, ah
...
I'm afraid it wouldn't be right, Margaret. Witnesses, well, they should be left to themselves at least
...
ah, by other
...
ah, interested parties, don't you know.'

She nodded. 'Well, then, we must all have a drink when it is over.'

Alan escorted her down the stairs. 'But I shall be in court, my darling,' he said, helping her into the closed cab which would take them to the courthouse. 'You may think of me at your elbow, every second.'

'Yes,' she said, and leaned back on the cushions.

'Meg
...'
He took her hand again. 'You
are
all right?'

'Of course I'm all right,' she said. 'A little nervous, I suppose.'

'Ah, well
...
we'll have that drink, this afternoon.'

She squeezed his hand; the cab was slowing to a halt. They were inside the courthouse yard, and there was only a short way to go. But already a large crowd had assembled, mainly black people, to gaze at her as she was handed down and hurried up the steps. A buzz of excited whispering seemed to circulate around her ears. But a moment later she was in the cool of the porch, and a Negro clerk was waiting for her.

She gave Alan's hand a last squeeze, and followed the young man down a corridor, and into a small antechamber; it contained a table, two chairs, and a window, looking out at the back of the court. Here the ground was empty, save for a white-helmeted policeman, patrolling slowly to and fro.

'You will be all right here, Mrs Hilton,' said the young man. 'And I will come for you when it is time.'

'Thank you,' she said, and sat down. When it is time. Immediately she was on her feet again. What would he look like, standing there in the dock ? Would he be crushed, or defiant? What would Oriole look like? But Oriole was very possibly to be a witness for the defence. To testify to her outrageous behaviour, which drove her husband half out of his mind.

Well, perhaps it had done that. Billy was unlucky, as Oriole had been unlucky, in being bora in the nineteenth century instead of the eighteenth, when he could have killed whoever he wished and merely thumped himself on the chest and said, I am the Hilton.

She was aware of heat. She wished desperately to take off her hat, but she knew she would never get it on properly again. So she
dabbed at her li
ps and her cheeks and her temples with a handkerchief, and felt the moisture gathering under her corset and in her armpits. Oh to be back home, and sitting in her tub. Or better yet, bathing in the river. But would she ever bathe in that river again? Would she ever dare? It seemed her entire life had begun at that river. So then, was she supposing her life was at an end?

How long they were taking. Why, she must have been here hours. She did not carry a watch. She had never done so. She hated to be governed by time. But if only she knew how long she had been here, how much longer she would have to stay. Although she could judge, roughly, by the sun; it was all but overhead, and she had left Courtney's office at eleven. Soon they would be adjourning for luncheon. My God, she might have to see people, talk with them. She did not think she could do that until after she had given evidence.