'Yet is she already exposed,' Agrippa said.
'How can that be?'
'God alone knows, Kit. But it is common knowledge in St John's that she is your mistress.'
Kit frowned at him. 'Dag has heard this?'
'He has said nothing to me. But if he is not stone deaf, he has heard it.'
'By God,' Kit said. 'But no one in the island knew of it, save you, and me, and Marguerite ... by God.' He kicked his horse in the ribs, set it to a gallop. A man, rushing to disaster, with anger in his heart. For did not his strength truly depend upon Marguerite, and the wealth of Green Grove? And he could expect nothing but anger there, at what he had done. That indeed was why he was hurrying home now, to placate her. And how could he do that, with anger colouring his own emotions?
Yet he would not slacken his pace. He felt like a ship caught in the full force of a hurricane wind, blown hither and thither and unable to do more than keep afloat, by doing the correct things, trimming the sails, manning the pumps, shifting the ballast, from hour to hour, intent only upon survival, but without any knowledge of where in the ocean the storm would eventually leave him floating, or if, indeed, he would be left floating at all, and not stranded upon some rocky shore.
He galloped down the last of the road and into the drive. The Negroes stopped work to stare at him. They were busy clearing the burned-out fields, saving which of the plants could be used as ratoons for a fresh crop. Others laboured on the Great House, plugging bullet holes, removing the shattered doors where the Caribs had broken in, standing by with pots of paint to remove the last traces of the conflict, as were still others working down in the overseers' village. But all stopped to stare at their master, flogging his horse into the compound, throwing the reins to Maurice Peter and stamping up the stairs on to the verandah, while Agrippa also reined in beneath him, but remained mounted.
'Father,' Tony came tumbling through the withdrawing-room, starkly empty as most of the furniture had been removed, to be repaired or consigned to the flames. Only the spinet remained, strangely overlooked by the marauding Indians, or untouched because they did not recognize its meaning.
'Boy.' Kit swept him from the floor, hugged him close.
'Did you win, Father? The news from town is that all the Caribs are dead.'
'Not all.' Kit set him back on the floor, stooped to kiss Rebecca on the cheek. 'Where is Miss Johnson?'
'She has not come out today, Father. There is so much tumult and excitement she feared to ride alone.'
'And your mother?'
'Mama is upstairs, in bed.'
Kit frowned at the boy. 'Marguerite, in bed, at this hour?'
'She has been in bed for two days, Captin,' Maurice Peter said. 'Since the fleet sailed, almost.'
'By God,' Kit said, bounding up the stairs. But how his heart overflowed with relief. Because there was surely the reason she had not come to town.
He pulled the door open. She sat up in bed wearing a shawl over her shoulders, but nothing else so far as he could see. Her hair was loose on the pillows propped behind her head. She looked as well, and as beautiful, as ever he had known her, and there was a jug of iced sangaree on the table beside her.
'Meg. They told me you were ill.'
'A slight fever,' she said. 'Nothing more.'
He crossed the room, and noticed the thin lines running away from her eyes, the bunches of muscle at the corners of her mouth. She had been under some strain, and she was nervous. 'Sweetheart.' He held her arms, and kissed her on the mouth.
'I expected you yesterday,' she said. 'Did not the fleet return, yesterday?'
'Indeed we did. There was much to be done.'
Their eyes seemed to lock. 'Indeed,' she said. 'A victory to be celebrated, as I have heard.'
'We were ever straight with each other in the past, sweet Meg.'
'So be straight with me now, Kit. I have heard so much, and all of it garbled and contradictory. I would not injure your projects by appearing in town. I also would believe nothing of what those foul-mouthed gossips brought to me. I would hear it all, from no other lips than yours.'
He got up, and her fingers left his, reluctantly. He paced the room, paused to pour himself a drink. 'You knew my purpose?'
'I doubted it would succeed.'
'It would have. Unfortunately, your ... father did not respect it. I gave Tom Warner my word, Meg. I gave his people my word. And they were shot and stabbed and carved in cold blood. You have mirrors scattered throughout this house, in which we have enjoyed preening ourselves and thinking, and saying to each other, what a splendid pair we make. Had I not accused your father of the crime he committed I should have had to break them all.'
'Then the rumours are true.' She spoke very quietly.
'Philip Warner has been removed from the position of Deputy Governor, and is under arrest. He leaves St John's tomorrow, for London, and his trial.'
Marguerite gazed at him for some seconds, then she threw back the covers and got out of bed. She left the shawl behind her, went to the door, and threw it wide. 'Ellen Jane,' she called, her voice clear and high as a bell.
'Yes, mistress?'
'You'll prepare my bath. And my town clothes. Quickly, girl.'
'You'll go to town?' Kit asked.
Marguerite draped her undressing-robe around her shoulders. 'Should I let my father go to his trial without saying goodbye?'
'No,' Kit agreed. 'I had not expected that. Shall I ride with you?'
'No.' She extended her left hand, looked at the ring which glinted there. 'No. I prefer to go alone. But it would be best for you to return there, before I return here.'
'To be with my mistress, you mean, as you have so carefully put about?'
Her head came up, and her gaze scorched his face. 'You can be with whomsoever you please, Kit. But I do not wish to see you again.'
How quietly she spoke. And how ridiculous her words. 'You, do not wish to see me?'
'You have forced me to understand my own stupidity. You watched me lie on the floor beneath a black man, and then sought to forgive the man who caused it. I do not understand the mind of a man who could do that. I endeavoured to understand. I endeavoured to tell myself that perhaps you have a stature, a breadth of vision, that exceeds mine. I placed you above other men, ten years ago, when I elected to marry you. Father endeavoured to dissuade me, and I would not listen to him. But it would seem he was right. Or I overestimated my own powers. I knew you then for what you are, Kit. At least, I knew your strengths and your weaknesses, your past crimes and your possibilities. I did not understand, alas, that streak of deep wayward revolution that runs through your soul. I should have. Not only did my father warn me of it, but it was there in your own past, in the history of your family. Tony Hilton was ever a rebel. Edward Warner was ever a rebel. Susan Hilton was the daughter of an outlaw and the wife of another. Perhaps it is simply that too much of the wild Irish runs in your veins. I knew all of these things, ten years ago. But I thought I could change you.'
Almost she smiled.
'How many women make that mistake? I thought I could take that strength and that vigour and that demoniac energy and harness it, for the use of Green Grove, for the use of the Warners, for the use of Antigua. And you have proved me wrong, time and again. So leave this place, Kit. I took you from the dust. I'll not return you there. Sign what bills you wish, find what happiness you wish, with your Danish whore. I'll not gainsay you. God knows ...' she hesitated. 'I love you. I have never loved any man but you. I shall never love any man but you. But to have you in my bed now would sicken me no less than the memory of George Frederick.'
The sun dropped into the Caribbean Sea with its invariable suddenness, and darkness swept across Antigua. The two horsemen walked their mounts slowly through the main street of St John's.
They had waited till dusk, deliberately, to avoid the mobs, the risk of giving offence. Out of fear? That at least was not true. Out of a desire to cause no more harm, to bring about no more of a catastrop
he than had already happened.
What was it Jean had said, only a short fortnight ago? He had wanted to turn back the clock a brief half hour. But how far should the clock be turned back now? To the minute before he had accepted Philip Warner's offer of the command of the Bonaventure. Yet would he still have met Marguerite, soon enough. Well, then, to the moment before he had thrown his cutlass to Daniel Parke? He had done then what he had always done since, what he had believed to be right, at the moment, without any thought of the consequences. He had always been proud of that.
And he had left Green Grove this afternoon, in that spirit. It had been the most difficult decision of his life, especially knowing the shortness, as he also knew the vehemence, of her anger. But the plantation was hers, and she was entitled to be bitter, about what had happened to her, about her father, and about Lilian. Nor could he expect her to do anything but hate the Indians. So he had ridden away into the darkness, away from wife and children and wealth and prosperity, as she had commanded, with only his sword and his pistols and his faithful friend at his shoulder. As he had done before.
And yet his instincts had not always led him down the path of right. Else why was he here, seeking once again a girl he had cruelly wronged, and could now wrong only some more.
He dismounted, and knocked on the door. St John's was quiet, save for the occasional burst of laughter from the tavern, where, no doubt, they were consigning Kit Hilton to hell for all eternity.
Astrid Christianssen opened the door. 'Kit?' Almost he could read the dismay in her tone, although her face was indistinct. 'Agrippa? We had feared for you.'
'We are sound enough, in wind and limb,' Kit said. 'May we come in?'
'Come in? Oh ...'
'You may come in, Kit.' Dag came out of the parlour. 'I thank you.' Kit took off his hat and stepped into the hall. Agrippa at his shoulder.
'What has happened?' Dag asked. 'I have left Green Grove.'
Astrid frowned at him. 'You have left your wife? And your children?'
'It was a mutual decision, between Marguerite and myself. She feels that I have betrayed her father. Everyone feels that I have betrayed Philip Warner, by not permitting him to get away with fratricide. I am probably the most unpopular man in Antigua at this moment. Do you share that view?'
Dag shook his head. 'No, no we honour what you did, in that respect. And we grieve for the sorrow it has brought upon you. I grieve even more that we cannot offer you a bed for the night.'
'As you see best, Dag. I would like to speak with Lilian.' 'She has retired.'
'And it is scarce an hour since dusk? You are playing the father.'
'And should I not, as she is my daughter?' He sighed. 'Whom you have outraged.'
'And have you, then, taken your stick to her?' Kit asked softly. 'For be sure that I will see her, Dag, and should she be harmed, then will I harm you.'
The Quaker hesitated, glancing at Agrippa. 'Truly, you revert easily enough to the buccaneer, Kit. You'd see mayhem where we have given you a home, Agrippa?'
'I'll not draw against Kit, Dag,' the Negro said. 'I'd beg you not to force that issue.'
'Good evening, Kit,' Lilian said from the foot of the stairs. Her undressing-robe was pulled close across her nightdress.
'I told you ...' Dag began.
'And I wish differently.'
'You are a common slut,' he shouted. 'Your name is bandied
about in this town like a piece of filth. You fill me with disgust every time I look upon you.'
'Then look upon her no more,' Kit said. 'I have come to take her with me.'
'To ... why, sir ...'
'I am appealing to your common sense, Dag. As you say, her name is being used too freely. That was not my doing. It is Marguerite's. But as it has been done, why, nothing we can do will unsay it, except openly to declare ourselves. I have in mind a house down in Falmouth, somewhat removed from the tumults of St John's, where Lilian may live in peace, with me as her protector.'
'Protector?'
'You are still married to Marguerite Warner,' Astrid said. 'How can you gainsay that?'
'I cannot gainsay that. I know what I am asking of Lilian. I would not have done so, had the event not been made public'
'Aye,' Dag said. 'No doubt you can, as always, explain your motives to your own satisfaction. Well, that is not our way. You were no doubt sent by the Lord to try our patience and our spirit, Kit. I hold nothing against you for that. But now you would compound another moral crime on top of your first, just as you have spent your life compounding crime against crime, always in the hope of expiating the original sin. Crimes are not expiated by other crimes, Kit Hilton, but by prayer and resolution, by patience and by good works. You have dragged our daughter's name through the gutter. It will be her punishment, and ours, to live in the gutter for a while. But in time we shall re-emerge from that filthy place, cleaner and better than before. Sure it is that Lilian will not need to crawl from one gutter to the next.'
Kit stared at him, his brows slowly drawing together. 'I respect your morality, Dag, even if I think you set too much store by it. But then, I have no such advantage of faith, in either people or the hereafter. Morality in my world consists of honour and courage; there has never been room for patient resignation. I ask Lilian to let me honour her, as publicly as I may, and I ask her also to show the courage I know she possesses, the courage to take life and circumstances by the throat and say, I will live, and be happy, no matter what the odds against it. These things I ask of her, not you, Dag. And by God, I'll not leave this house until I hear the answer from her own lips.'
Dag turned to look at his daughter. 'You'll be a whore, now and for ever.'
'Oh, Lilian,' Astrid cried. 'You cannot. You ...'
'Will you stop me by force, Father?' Lilian asked, very quietly.
He opened his mouth, glanced at Kit, and closed it again. 'You'll do as you see fit, daughter. But once pass through that door in this man's company, do not seek ever to re-enter.'
'Well, then,' she said. 'It seems I must bid you farewell.'
They rode, four mounted figures under a darkening midnight sky, south for Falmouth. Their clothes were tied to the backs of their horses, and the two men possessed their weapons. They said little. They had hardly exchanged a word since leaving the town. There was too much to be thought about. And perhaps even some things to be anticipated. They were four against the world. The thought made Kit's blood tingle.
Lilian yawned, and swayed in the saddle. 'Should we not rest by the roadside, Kit? It wants another six hours to dawn.'
'But only two to Falmouth,' he said. 'There is a tavern, where we shall find ourselves shelter and comfort. Unless you are truly too tired to continue.'
'No. I will ride. I am but ill-prepared.' She smiled at him. 'I have slept little this last week. There has been too much to keep awake for.'
He reached across to squeeze her hand. 'But from henceforth you will sleep sound every night, Lilian. I give you my word for that.'
'Kit Hilton's woman,' she whispered. 'I want no more than that, Kit. I have wanted no more than that, since the day I met you. in the harbour at St Eustatius.'
'And fool that I was, I looked elsewhere, and became involved in events which were too big for me.'
'Too big for you, Kit? That I deny. There is no man will not honour your courage in denouncing Philip Warner's crime, when thev give themselves time to consider the event.'
'Pray God you are right.' Not a man. But what of a woman? And then, what terrible thoughts were those, to have while riding in the company of yet another woman, who, like the first, was giving everything she possessed into his care. But Christ, Marguerite, all the memory of her, that glorious animal sexuality which shrouded so much beauty, that confident laughter, that arrogant awareness of herself as a person and as a power, that aura in which she moved. And she was the mother of his children.
Almost he wanted to weep. And then he whipped their horses into a faster trot. Marg
uerite could only be lost in the softness of Lilian's arms.
And these were not for the taking, that night. She was asleep in the saddle when they rode into Falmouth, and banged on the door of the inn, to get an irate innkeeper out of bed, to watch his anger change to fear as he discovered the identity of his visitor. Beds and rooms were hastily made available, and in one of these Kit placed his mistress. She wore a grey gown, and her hat was tied firmly under her chin. He removed the hat, and took off her boots, to marvel at the straight slender toes, so white, so perfectly shaped. Now she smiled in her sleep, and sighed. She was his. He could undress her completely. Indeed, he should do that, for she did not possess so many clothes that she could afford to sleep in her gown. But he did not dare touch her. To touch her, while she slept, to strip her while she slept, to love her while she slept, was to conjure up too many visions from the past. And here was one vision he did not dare risk losing.
He bade Agrippa and Abigail good night, and slept in the chair, removing only his own boots and weapons and hat. He snuffed the candle, and leaned his head, and stared into the darkness. He felt the emptiness which comes after battle. For ten days he had charged forward at the head of his mental troops, first of all in rising above the catastrophe of the French and Indian invasion, then in recruiting and preparing the expedition, then on his march into the interior of Dominica, and since then in his attack upon Philip Warner. Culminating in his assault upon the Christianssens themselves. Why, Daniel Parke would be proud of him, for that was how that wild-eyed Virginian lived every moment of every day of every year.
And where was he now, Kit wondered. By God, what would he give to have Daniel Parke standing beside him, laughing at opposition, careless of life or fame in the pursuit of his own ambitions.
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