HF - 03 - Mistress of Darkness

by Christopher Nicole

  And as Gislane slowly undressed, kneeling at the foot of the bed.

  ‘It occurred to me, this morning,' Corbeau said, 'that you had taken quite a liking to Gislane, Georgy. Or did you merely seek to humiliate her?'

  'Bastard,' she shouted again. 'Wretch. Foul thing from the pit of hell.'

  'But even wishing to humiliate someone reveals a considerable feeling for them,' he pointed out. 'Had that not been so, I would hardly be wishing to humiliate you now. And I do not, really mean to humiliate you, Georgy. Only the part of you that does not yet recognize that you are a Corbeau, and not a Hilton. Georgiana Hilton must be buried forever, together with her Hilton arrogance and her Hilton dignity and her Hilton prurience. I wish to replace all of those things with a Corbeau arrogance, with a Corbeau dignity, with a Corbeau ability to understand pleasure, and to take it. Only thus can we truly be man and wife. Only thus can you truly hope to attain, and hold my love.'

  Georgiana panted, and heaved her body a last time, for Gislane was naked and kneeling beside her.

  'You may kiss madame,' Corbeau said.

  Gislane hesitated. 'Will she not bite me?'

  Georgiana heaved and kicked; her legs were free. But they could not reach anyone.

  'No.' Corbeau's face came lower, hovered over his wife's. 'You will not harm Gislane, Georgy. I made that plain earlier today. Do you remember?'

  Georgiana sucked saliva into her mouth, pursed her lips to spit at him, and had her throat seized. She nearly choked.

  'You will submit,' Corbeau said. 'To her, and to me. As we shall no doubt submit to you, my sweet. And besides, you do not want to fail yourself, do you? The ultimate reward, of possessing me, will go to the one of you who pleases me best. It would be a sad thing if, on your first night in your new home, you were bested by a cafe-au-lait:

  Georgiana discovered that her arms were free. Slowly, painfully, she brought them down from above her head, and found them around Gislane's shoulders.

  Dawn, and the sounds of an awakening sugar estate. For a moment Georgiana supposed that she was still on Hilltop. There was the same stealthy rustle throughout the house, the same muted bustle from the distance, where the slave gangs were beginning their task of weeding the fields, the same distant clangs from the blacksmith's shop and from the factory.

  But there were other sounds as well, and these were unfamiliar to her: the constant rustle of trees by the river, the constant low rumble of surf, only a mile away on the beach where the Atlantic rollers came to a throbbing rest, and with these unfamiliar sounds, unfamiliar smells; where Jamaica had smelt hot, and at times even parched, here the sea-breeze wafted gently through the bedchamber, and carried with it the accumulated moisture of the ocean. It was a clean smell, a healthy smell; it made her awake with a curiously clear head, a feeling that this day much could be accomplished.

  And in a few moments it also brought memory. She sat up, her entire body clammy with sweat, her heart pounding, her cheeks burning. But she was alone in the bed. Although there could be no doubt, from these tumbled sheets, these body-scented pillows, that this bed had been shared, and shared, and shared.

  Cautiously she stroked her lips, which were sore, and felt slightly swollen. Thoughtfully she pulled her fingers through her hair, which was tangled, and lay in a mass on her shoulders. Tentatively she rolled the sheet back from her waist, and the flesh on her left thigh seemed to turn blue as she looked at it. She could not remember receiving the bruise. But it could have been caused by any one of a number of embraces, of sudden movements, of passion-filled undulations. Because in time she had been as passion-filled as they. 'Oh, God,' she whispered. How could she ever look at them again? How could she ever look at anyone, again?

  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.