'By God.' Kit said.
'I'll be waiting in the pantry, Captain.' Barnee sidled round him.
'By God,' Philip Warner declared in turn. 'I think I came at an appropriate moment.'
'Your moments are always appropriate, dear Papa,' Marguerite said. 'Kit. It is good to see you standing up, and looking almost yourself. I met Papa on the drive. He has been spluttering all the way here.' She reached up and kissed him on the cheek.
'You had no right to treat Agrippa so,' Kit said. 'If I am to be here, then my friend must also be here.'
She held his arm, and she still smiled. 'If you wish Agrippa to live on my plantation, Kit, then I shall have a house built for him. You have my word. But he cannot come into this house except as what he is, a black man. I will explain it to you, when I have a moment. For the time being, I think we should entertain Papa. I am sure he would like to apologize to you.'
'Apologize?' Philip Warner shouted. 'Apologize, to that scoundrel? That murderer? That rapist? That nigger lover? Why by God, child, I've a mind to whip him again, here and now. As for having him in this house, I absolutely forbid it.'
Kit tried to move forward, but Marguerite retained her grip on his arm. And still she smiled, but suddenly the smile was the most terrible thing he had ever seen.
'Do be careful, Papa,' she said. 'Or Kit may have you thrown out.'
'Thrown out? That ...'
'The future master of Green Grove,' she said, very softly.
'The ...' for a moment it really seemed possible that Philip Warner would have an apoplectic fit, so purple was his face.
'That is why we have invited you here.' She released Kit's arm, and poured two fresh glasses of sangaree, then held one out to her father. 'To drink our healths on the announcement of our betrothal.'
Warner stared at her in utter perplexity; he did not take the glass. 'I assume this is some sort of ghastly humour, Marguerite.'
'I was never more serious in my life, Papa. I have now managed this plantation for four years. Oh, yes, I was managing it within a week of my marriage to Harry. He was in his dotage and quite incompetent. I have restored it to its once great position, but the work has been hard, and lonely. I need the comfort and protection of a man. And it is the word man I wish to stress. I propose to marry Kit, in my chapel, in three weeks' time. I wish you to be the first to know. I will issue you an invitation in due course. And I would like you to give me away, Papa.'
'To that ... that ...'
'To my chosen husband. You selected my first, very wisely, Papa. Pray allow me the intelligence and experience to choose my second. I shall ride over some time next week to discuss my gown with Aunt Celestine.'
'And you expect to be welcomed?'
She smiled at him. 'Of course, Papa. Am I not your only daughter?'
He stared at her for some seconds, glanced at Kit, and turned and strode from the room.
Marguerite drew a long breath, and slowly released it again. 'Well,' she said. 'A more eventful day than I had expected. Who could have supposed they'd all arrive together?'
'Marguerite,' Kit said. 'I wish you to know that I honour your defence of me to your father, and will always respect you for it.'
'What strange words you use,' she said. 'I do not wish your respect, my darling. I wish your love. Only that. And you were going to continue and mention your friend Agrippa. Well, I honour your friendship for him, Kit, believe me. But as I will not thrust my father down your throat, Kit, so I hope and believe that you will not thrust your black friend down mine.'
She stood next to him. He could inhale her perfume, as he was close enough to touch the damp softness of her shirt. 'I was going to say that I feared you had estranged Mr Warner, on my behalf. He will never consent to attending our wedding. And what of your mother?'
Marguerite frowned, for just a moment. 'My mother is dead.'
'But ...'
'Papa has a wife, of course. Aunt Celestine. She has always treated me as her own.' She laughed, a glorious explosion of confident sound. 'What, did you not know I am a bastard? Does that make me less desirable?'
'Sweetheart ...'
'Then kiss me, and do not worry. Aunt Celestine will support my wish, and Papa will attend our wedding, Kit. Because it will be the social event of the year, no, of the century, in Antigua. Have no fear on that score. Now come, Barnee is waiting to discuss your clothes.'
'And if I say so myself, Captain Hilton, sir,' Barnee said. 'It is a work of art.'
He stood back, and Kit surveyed himself in the full-length mirror. But was this really Christopher Hilton, buccaneer? He wore a black velvet coat, with gold braid and buttons, over a brocade waistcoat. His cravat was white, with fringed rather than laced ends; this had been Marguerite's decision, as so much had been Marguerite's decision. His breeches were also black velvet, as his stockings were black silk, and his shoes were black leather, with red heels and metal buckles. He carried no weapons, as befitted a bridegroom, but rather a cane, lacking a gold top, but embossed with leather from which hung a tassel. For when people are as wealthy as we, Marguerite had pointed out, where is the point in wearing jewellery?
And on his head, specially cropped for the occasion, was a brown periwig. Certainly he did not recognize himself.
'I swear I am a parson,' he declared.
'In velvet, Captain?' Barnee smiled. ''Tis hot, I have no doubt, but the quality ... the quality, Captain Hilton. That sets you apart.' He raised his hand. 'Listen.'
The bell had started its chimes, a cascade of brilliant sound. And the bell, with its tower, had only arrived yesterday, transported bodily from St John's and erected in the yard outside the front verandah. As so many other things had been especially created or constructed for this one day in all their lives. The thought of the expense had him shuddering, but Marguerite apparently gave it not a thought. And now, with the bell, there came the rumbling of the carriages of the arriving guests; for there was not a soul in all Antigua granted an invitation to this event who was not appearing. From all the Leewards, in fact.
'So, now, sir, you must go down,' Barnee said. 'Your future awaits you. And may I offer you the first of the thousands of congratulations you will receive this day, Captain.'
'Be off with you, Barnee,' Kit growled. 'You are looking on me only as a future valuable customer.'
Barnee did not smile. 'You are already a valued customer,
Captain Hilton. More. You are a liked and admired customer, and I will not pretend to feel so for all of my clients. If I had a single bequest to make, on this your wedding day, it would be that nothing, sir, nothing, either good or bad, happy or unhappy, should change the spirit and the demeanour I have grown to admire.'
Kit frowned at him. They had been in daily contact over the past three weeks as suit after suit had been fitted and completed. And in truth the tailor had been uncommonly serious most of the time, for a man who was in the process of making his fortune.
'I think you should explain that remark.'
Barnee flushed. 'I have already spoken too much, sir. It is the excitement of the occasion, if you will believe that. Now look, George Frederick awaits you.'
The footman, resplendent in pale blue and white, with a white powdered wig, was hovering in the doorway.
'Are the guests arrived, then?' Kit asked.
'Most of them, sir. But one uninvited, who asks for a word.'
'Agrippa.' Kit ran outside, hesitated on the gallery, glancing from the closed door behind which Marguerite was also no doubt making ready—he had not been allowed to see her all day—to the people who were stamping into the lobby at the foot of the great staircase, whispering and sweating, for it was only three of the afternoon and the sun was still high in the heavens, and who now looked up at the bridegroom to be, so soberly dressed in contrast to their reds and greens, pinks and whites, while the girls circulated amongst them, carrying trays laden with sangaree.
'The side stairs, sir,' George Frederick whispered, and Kit gave th
e assembly a hasty smile before running down the servants' staircase, which descended from an upstairs lobby between two of the bedrooms, and emerged in the pantry itself. Here was even more crowded, with the housemaids lining up in their best white gowns to be inspected by Maurice Peter the butler, with the tables covered in glasses and jugs of iced sangaree and rum punch, with plates of sweetmeats and cakes.
And here too, was Agrippa.
'I had to offer my congratulations, Kit. And perhaps say goodbye.'
"Goodbye, Agrippa?' Kit squeezed the hand, equally today, for his strength was all but returned. 'You're not leaving the island?'
'No, man,' Agrippa said. 'I work with Mr Christianssen, now. But I doubt we shall see much of each other in the future.'
'What nonsense,' Kit smiled. 'I must honeymoon. But I am well again, and be sure that I will be in town soon enough.'
'Aye, but hardly to the warehouse. That will be left to your overseers, Kit. Do you not understand? You are a planter, now. You belong with your fellows, in the Ice House.'
Kit frowned at him. 'There is something of the censor in your voice, old friend. Was this not always my dream?'
Agrippa sighed. 'A plantation, Kit. To be conducted as you saw fit. Not Green Grove. Now I must take my leave. I hear the music starting.'
For indeed the music of the spinet was beginning to drift up the hill from the chapel, whence it had been removed for this special occasion.
'Yet must you say more,' Kit insisted. 'I am surrounded by these hints and innuendoes. Now come, dear friend, explain your meaning. Be sure that I will not take offence.'
Agrippa hesitated. 'Why, Kit, they are only hints and innuendoes, in St John's. Have you not come to grips with the administration of your plantation?'
'Not mine, yet. Besides, I have scarce left this house, save for a quiet ride in the trap, since arriving. I have been treated as an invalid, royally, and then this last week there have been all the preparations, and the fittings, and the ... you mean my bride is the subject of gossip, in town? Well, so she should be, I suppose. She has an individual cast of mind. But am I not the gainer by that? Be sure that there can be no kinder woman on the face of this earth.'
Agrippa gazed at him for some seconds. 'Aye,' he said at last. 'Of that I have no doubt at all, Kit, where kindness is concerned. Now I will leave. I'd not have you late for your wedding. But be sure my thoughts go with you, now and always.'
He had walked away before Kit could stop him, and a moment later was through the door. Where kindness is concerned. Now there was a strange remark.
Captain Hilton. Captain Hilton, sir.' Passmore, the head overseer, a tall young man whose pretensions to good looks were spoiled by a squint, dressed in his best clothes, perspiring and anxious. 'It is time, sir.'
Kit followed him into the dining-room, and beyond, to the withdrawing-room, crowded with shuffling, whispering, sweating planters and their wives, with the plantation overseers and book-keepers and their wives also, all wearing unaccustomed finery they could ill afford. Everyone in Antigua, Marguerite had promised. No, in the entire Leewards. Providing they possessed wealth or position, or were her employees. He feared for the safety of the floor, and smiled at them as he passed along, while they gazed at him and renewed their chattering; few had met him, but all had heard of him, of what he had been and of how he had come to be here.
'Captain Hilton. My word, sir, but you are looking your best today. As indeed you should be, sir.' The Reverend Spalding, wearing his best black surplice, and with a new wig. And being hypocritically charming, unaware that his conversation of six weeks ago had been overheard.
'Indeed, reverend,' Kit said. 'I also feel at my best.'
'Again as you should be, sir.' Spalding winked. 'I swear there is not a man in this congregation, nay, in the entire island, who is not heartily jealous of you at this moment, and will be more so as the evening goes on. But come, sir, I would have you meet your most important guest. Sir William Stapleton, Captain Christopher Hilton.'
The Governor of the Leeward Islands was a tall man with a red face and a martial air; he wore a red coat and a black periwig, and was one of the few gentlemen present to have retained his sword; but then he was a soldier pure and simple, who had made his reputation in the late war. Rumour had it that he was not popular with the planters; had he a touch of true patriotism in his soul Kit could well understand that.
'The buccaneer.' Stapleton's voice was dry. But he shook hands. 'You are to be congratulated, sir. Alone amongst the people here I claim no acquaintance of your famous grandfather. Had we met I should no doubt have been after hanging him from his own yardarm. But I am most heartily pleased at your own good fortune, sir.'
'My thanks, Your Excellency.' Kit wondered just what yardarm would be made available were the Governor ever to discover he had commanded the Bonaventure in its brush with the warship. Or was he, now being a member of the plantocracy, immune from such proceedings? It was a most delightful feeling.
'Kit, my dear fellow.' Edward Chester, his face as red as his hair. 'How good to see you again. You have not met my wife. Mary, this is the man himself.'
Mary Chester gave a little giggle of embarrassment, and half curtsied. She was hardly more than a girl, and plump and fair. 'You are the sole subject of conversation at our tea parties, Captain.'
'Which means your reputation has been torn to shreds, Kit,' Chester beamed. 'But I doubt that troubles you in the slightest. And dare I hope, once this happy affair is consummated, that we shall once again see darling Marguerite in society? The island has seemed a duller place these past few months.'
'I'm sure you should ask that question of Marguerite,' Kit said, and could not help but add, 'dear Edward,' just to watch the planter's eyes flicker. What a horde of hypocrites they were, to be sure.
A fan tapped him on the shoulder, and he hastily turned. This woman was almost as tall as himself, and middle-aged; her face was sun-browned and long, and unhappy, and her body angular. 'I think it is time,' she said, 'for you to take your place, and for us to meet. I am Celestine Warner.'
'Madam,' Kit said in confusion. 'Forgive my manners. I should have sought you out immediately. But I was not sure ...'
'If we would attend? The marriage of our own ...' she sighed, 'daughter? Who else do you think would give the bride away? Now come, I am sure these good people will have as much time as they need to gawp at you and pick your brains and whisper behind your back. For the moment, let us have you married.'
A woman to be liked. Because she alone was honest? Or because he could see the misery in her eyes; the strain of being Philip Warner's wife?
Passmore was waiting to escort him from the house, into the suddenly brilliant sunshine, and into, too, the cheers of the slaves, assembled in a vast mass half-way down the hill to applaud their master and mistress; for this day there had been no field labour. And how hot it was. As he smiled and waved at the Negroes he could feel sweat trickling down his arms. But he at least was fortunate; he was entering the chapel. How unlucky were those guests forced to remain outside; there was room within for only the twenty most distinguished.
The Reverend Spalding was already in place before the altar, almost obscured by the masses of flowers, and the spinet was gaining in volume. Kit heard the whisperings behind him, and the restless turning of heads and craning of necks. But he would not turn himself. He waited, until the soft footfalls sounded beside him, and then he allowed himself to smile at her, and was dazzled in return. She had elected to indulge her taste for colour, and wore a pink taffeta gown with gold stripes and a red lining, pulled back from a white silk underskirt which was edged with silver; her bows were of green velvet to complete a kaleidoscope of colour, magnificently set off by her hair, which was loose and brushed forward over her shoulders to lie against the brilliance of her gown, and was in turn illuminated by the high, white lace head-dress, which matched the white lace ruffles on her sleeves, while over her underskirt she wore a white linen apron, ed
ged with lace. Her only jewellery was her pearl necklace, but her fan was ivory, and the whole was shrouded in the richness of her scent and illuminated by the splendour of her personality. She filled even the crowded chapel, and left it empty of competitors. Kit did not even notice Philip Warner, at his most resplendent, standing at her left shoulder.
And now her hand was in his, soft and damp, and the priest was beginning to speak.
'Gad, sir, but were I at sea on this night, and looking towards this shore, I would suppose this island to have suddenly discovered for itself a volcano such as St Lucia or Martinique.' Stapleton swayed, and tugged his cravat somewhat looser. The Governor had consumed a great deal of liquor. But then, who had not? And his observation was accurate enough, Kit thought, as he leaned against one of the verandah uprights, and looked out at the yard. There a gigantic bonfire had been
lit, safe enough from the house for what breeze there was blew the sparks towards the canefields. And here the Negroes danced. And what a dance, for they had decked themselves out in a variety of fantastic garments and head-dresses, feathers and the masks of weird beasts, huge jaws and snapping teeth, great rolling eyes and long waving stalks of arms, some reaching as high as the second storey of the house itself, and they stamped and shuffled and swayed, brought their bodies close together, men and women, and separated again in long snaking lines. They had been given rum to drink on this most special occasion in their lives and they were celebrating the marriage of their mistress.
Johnny Canoe,' George Frederick had said. 'They dance to the memory of Johnny Canoe.'
So then, was there nothing but pleasure in their sinuous movements? For Johnny Canoe was the English corruption of the name of the chieftain who had held his court in the Bight of Benin, and who had rounded up these unfortunates for sale to the Dutch slave traders. And if they were dancing to pull down a curse on his unhappy memory, might they not also, locked away in the secrets of their obeah, or magical religion, be bringing down curses on their mistress and their new master?
The Devil's Own Page 17
