HF - 05 - Sunset (8 page)

'But he's dead,' Oriole insisted. 'They are both dead. You are in control. There is no one in the entire world can oppose you, Anthony. Whatever you choose to do, you can do.'

There had been a brief silence. Meg could imagine the pair of them, staring at each other. Then Papa had spoken, in a low but very determined tone. 'You are perfectly right, Oriole. I am in charge of Hilltop. There is no one in the world who can tell me what to do, and no one in the world from whom I need accept advice. So I would be very obliged if you would keep your nose entirely out of my affairs. Educate Meg. I believe you are right there. I have neglected the child, and I wouldn't anyway have known how to bring her up. Use the Great House if you choose. But don't expect me to move back up there, don't expect me to waste money renovating that mausoleum, and don't attempt to interfere in the running of this plantation. Because if you do I shall put you on the next boat back to England.'

At which Meg had scampered off to bed. She just could not imagine what Oriole would be like when she returned from that interview. But Oriole had merely undressed and climbed into bed beside her, and hugged her tight, as she liked doing. 'Were you listening?' she whispered. 'I suppose you heard anyway.' 'Aren't you very angry ?'

Oriole smiled in her ear. 'Why should I be very angry? Your father merely spends his time confirming the opinion I have always held of men, anyway. No, no. Let him go his own way. We shall go ours. We know he cannot utterly ruin Hilltop. No single man could do that, and he is certainly careful with his money. We must look forward to the day when
you
are in charge. And prepare ourselves for that day.' But
she
was preparing herself for a long wait. As a result of a visit to Kingston, another bed was delivered and placed in Meg's room.

Once again, energy. As Papa refused to spend the money on a dressmaker, Oriole made their clothes herself, working in the afternoons to provide Meg with a variety of gowns, with shifts and petticoats, with stockings and with drawers. She also took over the entire management of the house, to Prudence's disgust. But Prudence was very much relegated to what Oriole considered her proper position. Gone were the chats around the kitchen table while Percy peeled shrimps. Oriole did not even like to see Meg speaking with those niggers, as she called them, much less asking them embarrassing or intimate questions. Not that she would answer such questions herself. Anything she considered improper was dismissed as unladylike, and the subject immediately became closed.

Nor did she permit Meg to keep any friends amongst the white children on the plantation. 'They are your inferiors,' she said. 'You must never forget that. When you are the Mistress of Hilltop, and one of them proves incompetent, as he is sure to do, how will you dismiss him if he is in a position to recall some childhood escapade? No, no, keep your employees, and their children, at arm's length, my dear. You are a Hilton. They are nothing.'

Afternoons were to be spent in long, quiet walks, shaded by their parasols, talking about the past. Oriole knew the history of every Hilton off by heart, and certainly every Hilton who had ever amounted to anything. She related magnificent tales of Thomas Warner and his son Edward, and Anthony Hilton, the three men who together had created the British West Indian Empire, of their wars with the Carib Indians and the Spaniards, of the adventures of Kit Hilton, grandson of Anthony - or was he really grandson of Edward Warner? No one knew for sure; the two men had both shared the arms of the tempestuous Irish girl, Susan Deardon. But Kit Hilton had been a man apart. He had sailed with Morgan, taken part in the sack of Panama, and then returned to Antigua to marry the beautiful Meg Warner and found the Hilton Empire. Then there had been Robert Hilton, who had raised the Hilton fortunes to their highest peak, and his cousin Matt, who had been an Abolitionist and had in time become a Member of Parliament, and who had married his own cousin, Robert's sister Suzanne, in a wild love affair which had rocked the entire social fabric of the West Indies. Matt and Suzanne had been the parents of Richard Hilton, General Warner, as he had been known in Haiti. Even for Richard, Oriole had words of praise, and indeed he had been cast in the mould of the great Kit. But he too had been an Abolitionist, and had presided over the Emancipation of the Hilltop slaves even before the law had been passed by the British Parliament.

'For all his courage, he was a fool,' Oriole said scornfully. 'Emancipation did no one any good. These islands were the most valuable part of the British Empire, not a hundred years ago. Now they are the poorest. The blacks were a healthy and contented lot. Now they are undernourished and in a constant state of simmering revolt. Another example of male stupidity, my dear Margaret. You'll not find the ' name of any
female
Abolitionists in the history books.'

And who was to say she was not right? Meg indeed was considerably confused by the storm which seemed to have overtaken her. But it was an exciting, exhilarating confusion.

Oriole had breathed the existence of a world of which she had not dreamed, a world of sweet-smelling perfume, magnificent clothes, handsome men who were the epitome of gallantry and manners, of the wealth to buy whatever one wished whenever one felt like it, of balls and musical evenings, operas and concerts. These things were there, not just lines in her few story books. And they belonged to her as much as to anyone else. To her more than anyone else, in fact, because
she
was a Hilton. Hiltons did as they pleased, took what they pleased, said what they pleased, believed what they pleased. Thus Oriole. They owed but a single duty, to
be
Hilton, never to debase the name in any way. There was a dream. But a dream which would one day come true. If only Papa felt the same way.

For her sixteenth birthday party, Oriole decided she should wear a corset. To purchase it necessitated a visit to Kingston, an exciting occasion which in the event depressed her as she gazed at the unpainted buildings, the shoddy clothes, the emaciated black people, the huge harbour in which the wooden jetties seemed to be rotting and there was only a solitary trading schooner waiting at anchor. Somehow Kingston epitomized the depression which had overtaken the island. Only the new railway line, which made its way north to Port Antonio, suggested the slightest faith in the future of the island.

But the corset was excitement enough. They spent almost the entire afternoon fitting it about her waist, and then she had to hang on to the bedpost while Oriole tugged at the laces, 'I can't breathe,' Meg gasped.

'You will get used to it.'

'But
...
my bubbies are squashed.'

'Your
...
?' Oriole released the laces. 'Good heavens. You are
never
to use that word again.'

'But
...'

'If you must refer to that portion of your anatomy, it is your bosom. As for being squashed, that is no bad thing. For a sixteen-year-old girl you have a quite ridiculously large bosom.'

'Have I?' Meg cried in delight. 'Oh. I thought...'

"That I was small? No, no. It is unseemly for a young woman to be overdeveloped in any direction. Why, you would not be pleased did you possess a lantern jaw, would you? Come along now.' She resumed tugging and heaving, and at last seemed satisfied. 'There.'

'1 feel quite faint,' Meg said. 'I am going to faint, at any moment.'

'No doubt you will faint, from time to time. That is quite proper and ladylike. Be sure you position yourself always close to a comfortable chair, or better yet, a settee. Oh, you will soon learn to cope with it. Now, the gown.'

Because that also was new, in pale pink gauze with white stripes, and white ribbon bows as well as white lace ruffles on the sleeves and assisting to minimize the otherwise daring neckline. It was quite the most gorgeous garment Meg had ever seen. She whirled in front of her mirror as Oriole settled it. 'Of course,' Oriole said. 'It should be worn over a crinoline.' But there was no such thing in all Jamaica. 'And I don't suppose it matters. It isn't as if we are entertaining anyone of importance.'

Oh, shut up, do, Meg wanted to shout, but by now she had learned that it did not pay to be rude to her cousin; she had had so many slaps on the face this last year she felt she had a permanent bruise. And anyway, let her think what she liked;
she
knew she looked beautiful. And Prudence obviously thought the same.

'Miss Meg, I ain' never seen anything like that,' she said, when they finally emerged.

'That will do, my good woman,' Oriole said severely, seizing Meg by the elbow to usher her into the drawing room. 'If only you would overcome this dreadful desire to allow the servants to be familiar. It really is disgusting. Now, smile, girl. These people are your guests.'

All the book-keepers and their wives were present, as well as several people from town. 'Meg, you look magnificent.' She hadn't seen much of Billy this last year, and he didn't seem to have changed at all. 'May I kiss you?'

'Certainly not,' Oriole said. 'You may kiss her hand.'

Meg extended her hand, discovered she still held her fan.

Billy's li
ps touched her flesh. 'Oh, Meg,' he said. 'How lovely you are. Meg
...'
He was staring at her de
colletage, where her breasts were compressed by the corset to make a deep valley descending into her gown. 'Meg
...'

'I must see to my other guests,' she said, and turned away. He was quite ridiculous. At once in his absurd adoration, and in his forwardness.

'Good afternoon, Miss Hilton.'

She frowned at Alan, who wore what was obviously a new suit. Now, how had the McAvoys afforded that? And he had also allowed himself to grow a little moustache, which was quite becoming. She had only seen him from a distance this last year, as he had left school and undertaken his duties as an overseer, which meant he spent most of his time aback, and on the rare occasion when they might possibly have met he had carefully steered his mule the other way.

'Miss Hilton?' she inquired.

'Well, I imagine that is what I should call you. Here you are, a great lady, sixteen years old
...
and you look like a great lady, too.'

'Why, thank you, sir,' she said. 'You are looking very well yourself.'

'1 am leaving tonight,' he explained.

'Leaving?' she cried, and heads turned. 'Leaving?' she said, more quietly.

'Didn't your father tell you? I suppose he felt it would be of no interest. I have decided that overseeing is not for me.'

'Oh. But
...'
She wanted to say, what shall we do without you ? Instead she said 'What will you do ?'

'I am going to sea. Papa has found me a berth on one of the steamers trading with Kingston, as apprentice. I shall study to be an officer.' He gave a half smile. 'Perhaps one day I shall be a master. And then, perhaps, I may call upon you as an equal.'

'An equal?' she cried, and again heads turned. 'Why, Alan, how absurd can you be. There can be no inequality between us.'

'There is already inequality between us, Miss Hilton,' he pointed out. 'We were born unequal, and as there can be no prospect of your lowering yourself to my level, I must endeavour to raise myself to yours. Supposing, of course, that after the passage of time I still wish to do so.'

'Why, you
...'
She felt her cheeks burning with a mixture of misery and anger. 'You are being absolutely absurd. If you are leaving Hilltop because of me, then I do wish you would reconsider. So one day I will be Mistress of Hilltop. We have always known that. But when I am Mistress of Hilltop, I would like to be surrounded by my friends.'

'Mistress of Hilltop,' he said. 'How easily you say that. And how well it trips off your tongue. The Mistress of Hilltop can have no friends, Miss Hilton, save amongst others of equal rank.'

'Oh, nonsense,' she insisted. 'I choose my friends where I may.'

'Then perhaps,' he said, 'as this room is very close, and outside it is a pleasant afternoon, you would walk with me? Perhaps we could walk up to the Grandstand? Perhaps we could even run up to the Grandstand.'

She flicked her fan shut as Oriole had taught her.

'Ah,' he said. 'There are limits to your friendship, I see. At least with inferiors.'

'Of course not,' she said angrily. 'But
...
we are older now, Alan. I am the hostess. I cannot abandon my own party.'

'You would not, even if you could.' He bowed. 'I came to say goodbye, and I now say goodbye. I shall remember my boyhood on Hilltop with much pleasure.' He turned and left the room, which had grown very quiet.

Meg bit her lip. Oh, Lord, she thought; I am going to cry.

'Meg.' Oriole took her elbow. 'A very good riddance. Now it is time to cut your cake.'

'But
...
I was going to cut it with him,' Meg moaned.

'Good heavens. Then indeed we have had a happy escape. There is no one here you should cut your cake with, Margaret. Saving your father. And he is waiting for you.'

'I feel so wretched about it,' Meg confessed, plucking at the keys of the piano.

'Whatever for? He will be far happier, far better off, attempting something that is within his grasp, than mooning after the unattainable,' Oriole said sharply. 'And if you are not going to concentrate on the piano, then you may as well stop altogether and listen.'