Mistress of Darkness

by Christopher Nicole

  How could she ever look at herself, again?

  The crisis was closer than she had suspected. Strong white fingers were reaching through the mosquito netting, to gather it into a cloud, and whisk it away from the bed, in the same movement securing it with its cord. The room ceased to be a mist and became startlingly clear, and almost cool. And the mustee stood by her bed, dressed in a blue gown, black hair severely restricted to the top of her head, magnificent face etched across the morning, unbruised and unmarked, black eyes as impassive as ever.

  'Good morning, madame,' she said. 'I am afraid that I quite forgot to ascertain whether you preferred chocolate or coffee, and so I have had both prepared.'

  Georgiana stared at her. Should I then, take your hand, and kiss it, she wondered? Or should I instead kiss your lips, your body, hold you once again in my arms, as you held me last night?

  'Madame?' Gislane repeated, patiently.

  'Coffee,' she said. 'I will have coffee. And a mirror.'

  'Of course, madame.' Gislane fetched the mirror from the dressing-table, handed it to her mistress, then returned to the table for the cup of coffee. Georgiana found her hands trembling; she had to hold the glass in both hands to see herself. Georgiana Hilton. Oh, no, no, no, no. Georgiana Corbeau. Now, and forever more.

  The coffee waited by her shoulder. She laid down the mirror and took the cup, and her fingers brushed the other's. She would not look at them, buried her nose in the cup as she sipped.

  'It is ten o'clock, madame,' Gislane said. 'And your bath is waiting. The master went aback some hours ago, but he invariably returns at eleven, for breakfast. He has invited you to join him there.'

  The master. Oh, God Almighty, the master. She had quite forgotten his existence. Because he had been the least important of the three of them. Until the very end. The very end, when she had been defeated and yet been allowed to possess the fruits of victory.

  'It is her first night,' Corbeau had said, gently, smiling at her. 'We will allow her the honour.'

  And Gislane had also smiled. Contemptuously? But then she had not cared.

  Yet must she now ape the mustee's calm, her self-possession. 'And do you also attend breakfast, Gislane?'

  'No, madame.' Gislane held up the undressing robe, and waited.

  'But you have, before.'

  'Yes, madame. For my first three months on Rio Blanco I was permitted to play the lady of the house. The master found it amusing.'

  'And the master must always be amused. Does he ever punish you?'

  'To punish me would be to destroy me, madame. The master is a very sensible man.'

  'But he knows, your hatred. Does he not fear that you might poison him?'

  'Of course not, madame. Should I poison the master, I would be executed, by the government. Had I not a strong desire to live, I could easily have found many less painful or humiliating ways of dying, during the past five years.'

  Georgiana smiled at her. 'So, you are a coward, and a woman of no moral stature whatsoever. As I always suspected.' She got out of bed, turned her back to allow the undressing robe to be draped around her shoulders, and felt the fingers again. This time they rested on her flesh for a moment. No doubt deliberately.

  'Indeed, madame. It has occurred to me that moral virtues have little to do with survival. The two things are incompatible.'

  'And a philosopher,' Georgiana declared. 'But then, I have observed that philosophers are invariably also cowards. They prefer to meditate than to do. Yes, I am ready for my bath.'

  Was she acting? She could not be sure. She sat in her tub, and this time the girls were allowed to remain, and assist Gislane in her ministrations. Because she was sated? Or because she was afraid that otherwise she might not be able to contain herself? Was she then realizing that her life on Hilltop had been no more than a primitive existence, magnificent as she thought it at the time? How Louis must have smiled, at their simplicity, their inadequacy.

  How he must have wondered, if his chosen bride could possibly rise to the heights of opulent omnipotence, in thought and word and deed, which was his privilege.

  A knock sounded on the door as she was being dried. Gislane glanced at her, and received a nod. The towel was wrapped around her shoulders, to hang down to the floor about her, while one of the maids hurried forward to open the pink and white satin.

  'Madame de Morain, wishes to call upon Madame Corbeau.'

  Gislane's glance was this time surprised. Georgiana smiled. 'Come in, Angelique. Come in.' She crossed the bedchamber, Gislane hurrying behind her to keep the towel in place. 'How good of you to call.'

  Angelique de Morain swept into the room in a flurry of rustling skirts, looked around her for a moment, as if she was a stranger to this part of the chateau - which was something to know, at any rate, Georgiana decided - and then held out her arms to envelop the young woman. And kiss her on the cheek. Now, Georgiana thought, what would she say were I to kiss her on the mouth, seek out her tongue, allow my hands to stray from her shoulders. How long would it take that scandal to travel from one end of St. Domingue to the other.

  'Oh, my dear,' Angelique cried. 'I just had to come and see if you were all right.'

  She stepped back, and seemed to notice Gislane for the first time.

  'But of course I am all right,' Georgiana declared. 'Did you suppose Louis had flogged me? You may see for yourself.' She shrugged herself free of the towel. 'Those marks are several days old.'

  'Oh, my dear,' Angelique cried, and glanced anxiously at the servants.

  'They are about to dress me.' Georgiana walked across the room to stand before the mirror, raising her arms to allow Gislane to spread the powder. 'You'll stay to breakfast, of course.'

  'My dear,' Angelique said. But she advanced farther into the room. 'I should adore it, but I am on my way to Cap Francois. I but stopped ...'

  'To make sure I was all right,' Georgiana said. 'I hope you are reassured.' She bobbed her head as Gislane dropped the shift over her shoulders.

  'Oh, indeed I am reassured.' Angelique was frowning. 'You have not introduced me to your friend.'

  'Friend?' Georgiana stared at them in the mirror, puckering her mouth in delicious bewilderment. 'I have no friends here, Angelique. Saving you, of course, my dear.' Once again she stared at the face behind her. 'Oh, you mean Gislane. Gislane is not a friend, my dear Angelique. She is my maid.'

  'Your ...' Angelique de Morain's mouth made a perfect O.

  'Her name is Gislane Nicholson. Of course, she is not only my maid. She is also Louis's housekeeper.' Angelique's mouth snapped shut.

  'And she is not white, you know,' Georgiana said. 'She only appears to be white. She is ... what are you, exactly. Gislane?'

  Was the girl angry? It was difficult to tell. There was not even colour in her cheeks. No doubt, during her years as a slave, she had heard herself discussed like a cow sufficiently often to become used to it.

  'I am a mustee, madame,' Gislane said, quietly.

  'Who hates me, and would kill me, had she the courage,' Georgiana said happily, nibbling Gislane's ear as her gown was settled in place and her sash secured.

  'Good heavens,' remarked Angelique de Morain. 'I wonder you bear the creature's presence.'

  'I do not know how I could exist without her,' Georgiana remarked, and wondered if she was not, on a sudden, telling the truth. 'Besides, you know, she makes Louis so very happy. Now come, Angelique. You'll at least take a cup of coffee?'

  'No. No, I simply must rush. Isn't the news terrible?'

  'News? What news?' It was Georgiana's turn to frown.

  'The news from Paris, of course. There have been bread riots. Can you believe it? Rioting for bread? And then, that horrible business with the necklace.'

  'What horrible business with the necklace? I must confess that I have never been to Paris.'

  'Never been to Paris?' Angelique de Morain stared at her. 'My God.'

  ‘I have no doubt that Louis and I will be visiting Europe
before very long,' Georgiana remarked. 'And of course then we shall go to Court.'

  ‘If it is still there,' said Angelique de Morain, in sepulchral tones. 'Well, I must be on my way.'

  'Oh, you must at least explain your remark, madame. Tell me about this necklace.'

  'It is obviously nothing you would understand, my dear child,' Angelique said. 'His Majesty, God bless him, was constrained to marry an Austrian woman, a most tactless and thoughtless princess, if I do speak treason. Her extravagance is incalculable, her ability to become involved in scandal limitless. And now, it seems, she has managed to become associated with certain known criminals, in the stealing of a diamond necklace she would wish to possess. Be sure it will but make the task of governing France that much more difficult. Ah, well, we must put our faith in Monsieur de Calonne. I was at school with his daughter, you know. A charming family. And a most competent man. I will bid you good-day, dear Georgiana. I look forward to seeing you at Morains.'

  Gislane hurried forward to hold the door for her, but she only checked for a moment, to glance at the mustee. 'Have her whipped,' she said, half over her shoulder. 'Believe me, Louis will love you the more for a touch of spirit.'

  The door closed behind her, but Gislane remained standing beside them.

  'Pompous bitch,' Georgiana remarked.

  'You matched her, madame. In spirit.'

  'Yes, I did,' Georgiana agreed. 'Will my husband have returned yet?'

  'No, madame. The clock has not yet struck the hour.'

  Georgiana nodded, and seated herself at her escritoire. 'Did you enjoy last night, Gislane?'

  'I am here to give pleasure, madame. Not receive it.'

  'What nonsense. I have decided to be your friend. I think Louis is probably right, and your repeated avowal of hate is no more than a plan to preserve your identity. You see, I am quite as capable as he of thinking deeply. I think you well know that even had I not sent you back to the West Indies, and instead you had married some humdrum Englishman, or even Matt, indeed, you could never have enjoyed such luxury as you do now. He would certainly have lost his inheritance.'

  Gislane remained standing by the door.

  'So from this moment,' Georgiana said happily, 'you will indeed be my constant companion. My constant support. My constant love. Does that please you?'

  'Of course, madame,' Gislane said.

  'Because you never wish to forget, my sweet, that if Louis will presently not punish you, because, as you say, that would be to destroy you, there will certainly come a time when he will no longer care whether he destroys you or not. Have you thought of that?'

  'Yes, madame.'

  'And who will protect you then, but I, Gislane? All I ask in return is that you transfer your every allegiance, from Louis to me.' Georgiana began to write.

  'Of course, madame.' Gislane left the door, stood by the desk.

  'Good.' Georgiana finished her letter. 'Are you ever allowed to leave the plantation?' 'Of course, madame.'

  Georgiana nodded. 'Then you will deliver this to the captain of a ship trading with Jamaica. Pay him well, and ask him to deliver it in Kingston. It is to my sister. You do not know her.'

  Gislane took the letter. The master would prefer to know what you are writing to your family, madame.'

  'Which is why I am giving the letter to you. Because be sure that if you betray me, he will tell me, and I will have you punished. I think that Madame de Morain is probably quite right, and were I to assert myself in Louis's absence, and have you whipped, he would be less angry with me for marking your skin than proud of me for my spirit. I wonder, indeed, if he does not merely seek to awaken more spirit in me. You would do well to remember that.'

  Gislane gazed at her.

  'Besides, I am inquiring after Matt's health. He was wounded, you know, in a duel, on my wedding day.'

  Gislane's expression did not change.

  'Badly wounded, I imagine,' Georgiana said. ‘I really must discover if he has recovered. So you will not betray me, Gislane. Will you?'

  Gislane took the letter.

  At midnight there was no sound but the whisper of the wind and the unceasing rumble of the surf. Even the mosquitoes were muted, and humanity slept. Where it could. And where it had no more urgent requirement.

  There was no drum. There was never any drum, on Rio Blanco, at least never any drum audible from the house. The plantation was too enormous, the sea-breeze too unchanging. And soon there would be rain, as the clouds were swept out of the Atlantic; the night was already damp.

  Gislane hurried along by the river, lost beneath the swaying shade trees. Behind her the chateau had faded into darkness, denoted by nothing more than the ever guttering lanterns on the verandahs. This night she had not been required. Almost she found it difficult to remember when last she had not been required, at once as a weapon between them and as a plaything for them both. But now at last Georgiana was pregnant, and Louis had taken himself to Cap Francois, in search of other pleasures. And she had been able to call for the drum.

  She could hear it now, as she reached the limits of the canefields themselves. But now it was time to be herself, for a night. She knew where she was, exactly, standing by the last of the trees. She stopped, and waited for her breathing to settle. She had walked through the trees with her skirt held high to avoid the snagging branches. Now she lifted the gown over her head, carefully folded it, and placed it on the ground. She wore no shift, and for some moments stood there in the darkness and the gathering damp, naked, arms spread wide, mouth open and nostrils dilating as she breathed, hair tickling her back in the breeze, feeling the moisture gathering on her skin, raising nipple and pore, accumulating desire in her mind.

  After some minutes she knelt by the tree and located the box, hidden beneath the great roots. No doubt many people knew it was there, but no one would tamper with the wardrobe of a mamaloi, and especially such a mamaloi. She opened the box, took out the blood-red robe, the blood-red turban for her head. The clothes smelt of damp and of earth, and of blood, too. It was an odour winch, inhaled in the refinement of her drawing-room in the chateau, would have made her retch. But it was an odour which belonged here in the darkness and the damp, which seemed to seep down her nostrils and into the very pit of her lungs, which alerted her every sense.

  And now the drum was approaching, but a single beat, this, an almost military cadence, thrilling across the night. Gislane settled the robe on her shoulders, gathered her hair in a series of thick black coils on top of her head, concealed it with the turban. In the box she placed her gown, and then restored the box itself beneath the tree. Then she stepped away from the shade, and took her place in the centre of the path.

  For the drum was close, and with it the people. They came up to her, and they bowed, and then reared upright again, and clapped their hands, once, twice as they passed her, and then went on their way, behind the drummer. All save one, who walked erect in their midst, lungs swelling as he breathed, height enhanced by the posturing about him, head turning neither to left nor right, drawn onwards by the throb of the drum, by the embracing power of the drug he had been fed.

  There were no other animals, this night.

  But now the column was all but past her, saving only those who walked behind. Here were two men, much of a size, tall and strong, so similar in build and in demeanour they might have been brothers. Gislane frowned at them, and stepped between them, joining in the chant as she did so, arching her back to bring her body forward, then rearing back and throwing her arms high into the air above her, joining their movements exactly.

  'Do they come?' she whispered, even as she chanted.

  'They say the time is not yet,' Boukman replied.

  'Then who is this one?'

  'His name is Henry. He comes from Toussaint. He bids us be patient.'

  'Henri?' Gislane said.

  'Henry,' said the tall young man. 'The name was given to me by my first master, in St. Kitts.'

  Gislane looked at
him more closely. Here was power, only thinly disguised beneath his so obvious youth; she doubted he was any older than she. And he was also English?

  'Our people will not wait,' she said. 'You have heard?'

  'Of your master's sport,' Henry said. 'We have heard. But the time is not yet. The prophecy has not yet been fulfilled.'

  'Prophecy?' she asked.

  'It was given on this very plantation,' Henry said.

  'By Celeste,' Gislane said. 'But Celeste is dead. How may a mamaloi truly die? Where is the value of this prophecy?'

  'Yet will our friends wait upon it,' Henry insisted.

  'And our people?' Gislane demanded. They will not wait forever, while they are slaughtered to suit the whim of a madman. Nor will they listen to an Englishman.'

  'Then call me Christophe,' Henry said. 'It is the name given to me by my new master. Yet must it be your responsibility to have them wait. If they do not, they will have us all slaughtered, and by the soldiers.'

  The drummer had reached the appointed place, a clearing in the canefield, and here he halted, without ceasing his rhythmical beat. The devotees, every man and every woman a person of note in the Negro community, walked round the clearing, to form a wall of humanity, much as the Negroes in Nevis had formed a wall around the clearing on the first occasion she had attended a voodoo ceremony, and thought that she had discovered the secret of all secrets, without understanding that the slaves of Nevis, in their poverty of mind no less than imagination, had no more than aped a memory. But that was an eternity ago, and now she must persuade these people that they obeyed the dictates of their god, by patiently waiting for the day of blood. She knew how she would do this, as she had arranged this evening, the moment she had learned of Corbeau's determination to visit Cap Francois. She knew, but she was not sure she believed.

  And the moment was at hand. The drugged Negro had taken his place in the centre of the clearing, sitting cross-legged immediately in the centre of a shaft of moonlight, shoulders square and head erect, body a gleaming testimony to the magnificence that can be man. On either side of him waited a young woman, each holding a palm leaf, bodies rigid with tense expectation. And the drum-beat had altered, perhaps insensibly, reaching ever deeper into the senses, summoning all the powers of belief it possessed.