HF - 03 - The Devil's Own

by Christopher Nicole

  'Papa. Papa.' Rebecca was at his heels. 'Mama said you would

  not come. But we knew you would.'

  Kit knelt between them, hugged them tight, looked over their heads at Celestine. 'Perhaps you would explain what has happened?'

  'You did not know they were here?'

  'I did not.'

  She sighed. 'Well, then, why did you come?'

  'To speak with your husband. But now I would also like to ask a few questions.'

  Again the sigh. 'Tony and Becky are staying a season with us. No more than that. Off you go, now, children. Your father and Grandpapa have business to discuss.'

  'But we'll see you again before you go, Papa,' Tony said.

  'You will,' Kit promised.

  They ran inside. Celestine Warner glanced at the overseer. 'You'd best leave us.'

  Haley hesitated, and then touched his hat. 'As you wish, Mrs Warner. I'll not be far.'

  'Who is it, Celcstine?' came the voice from inside. But this tone was scarce recognizable, so thin had it become.

  'A guest, Philip,' she said, and lowered her voice. 'You'll understand that he is far from well, Kit. Indeed, I fear for his life. He had a seizure six months ago, and three since. 'Tis all he can do to speak, and movement is next to impossible without assistance.'

  'I understand,' Kit said. 'Believe me, Aunt Celestine, I have come to cause him no hardship. I but wished to beg a favour.'

  Again the long stare. 'You, wish to beg a favour of my husband?" Her mouth flattened in disbelief, but she turned and led him into the great withdrawing-room. 'You'll take a glass of punch?'

  'That would be very kind of you.'

  She rang a little bell which stood on the table by the withdrawing-room door, then led him into the room itself. And here he paused, in surprise and embarrassment.

  Philip Warner sat in a large armchair in the far corner, close to the green baize topped table on which, in happier days, they had dealt their cards and rolled their dice. He seemed to have shrivelled, to occupy only half of the chair. Perhaps because he wore no wig, and what hair of his own he still possessed was quite white. But more, Kit thought, because his shoulders were hunched, and seemed to be drawn together.

  Yet far more alarming was his face, which was mottled purple and white, with no trace of healthy colour remaining, while one side of it seemed to be contracted; when he spoke it was with great difficulty, and from die corner of his mouth.

  But there was nothing the matter with his brain. 'Kit Hilton,' he said. 'By God, sir, you've impudence.'

  Kit glanced at Celestine Warner. She would not speak, but she begged, with her eyes.

  'Indeed, sir,' Kit said. 'You may believe that I would not have intruded upon you had the matter not been sufficiently grave. And I had no concept of how ill you are.'

  'Or you would have come sooner?' Warner asked. 'Drink, man, drink.'

  Kit discovered the Negro butler at his elbow, but to his dismay saw that the silver tray carried but a single glass.

  'We neither of us find any pleasure in drink, these days,' Celestine said. 'But please take yours. And sit down, Kit. Philip has survived sufficient misfortunes in his life to survive a seizure as well, I have no doubt.' But she was speaking for the benefit of her husband. She understood the outcome of this illness.

  Kit sat down, straight, like a schoolboy. But then he would always feel like a schoolboy, where the Warners were concerned. 'Yet am I indeed sorry to see you, or any man, Colonel Warner, brought so low.'

  Philip Warner's brows drew together. 'You rode out here, at this hour to sympathize with me? Speak plain, man. Speak plain. You have come about the children.'

  'Indeed, sir, I had no idea they were here until a few moments ago. I came out to speak about Marguerite.'

  'Ah,' Philip said.

  'You still consider her a responsibility of yours?' Celestine demanded.

  Kit frowned at her. 'I doubt she would allow that, Aunt Celestine. I have not spoken with her this last year.'

  'You have not?' Celestine inquired, genuinely surprised. 'Why ...'

  'No more have we,' Philip muttered.

  Kit's turn to stare in surprise. 'I do not understand, sir. She is your daughter, and ...' he hesitated.

  'And I am dying. But I have not seen her since the day we placed you in that cell, Kit. Nor has anyone else, save her domestics.'

  'But ... what of Tony and Rebecca?'

  'They were brought here, some weeks ago, by one of Marguerite's overseers.'

  Some weeks. Thus her decision could not have been influenced by the challenge. 'You mean they were delivered like two parcels?'

  'There was a letter,' Celestine said.

  'May I see it?'

  'No, you may not.'

  'But was there a reason given. Is she ill?'

  'It would not appear so,' Celestine said. 'She rides aback. Her crop was shipped with the others. Although it was not so rich a crop as you used to produce.'

  'But ... there was some talk of an ailment of the eyes. Mere gossip, I understood it.'

  'It does not seem to hinder her greatly. Although I believe she docs go veiled much of the time. Believe us, Kit,' Celestine said. 'We are more concerned than you can possibly imagine. I have ridden over there, on several occasions, and been refused admittance.'

  'Could you not speak with Miss Johnson?'

  'Miss Johnson showed no desire to speak with me.'

  'But surely, on her visits to town ...'

  'Like her mistress, Elizabeth Johnson has not been seen in town this last year.'

  'But what is the explanation? Elizabeth is the children's governess. Now you say she remains with Meg?'

  Celestine glanced at her husband. 'There are rumours.'

  'You listen to rumours? Do the women of this island have nothing else to do, but rumour?'

  Celestine sighed. 'There must be a cause, Kit.'

  'Then tell me some of these rumours.'

  She hesitated, and colour flooded her pale cheeks. 'That Marguerite conducts some vast orgy with her blacks of a night, and is too dishevelled and marked by pleasure to appear in the full light of day.'

  'Meg?' Kit cried. 'That is monstrous. Meg? Of all possible women? After what happened to her? She'd as soon hang herself.'

  'You asked for the rumours,' Celestine said, coldly. 'I give them to you. And perhaps ... the human mind on occasion works in a mysterious and unhealthy way. As you say, Kit, she has known a black man's embrace. Who can say what that has done to her mind, in her loneliness? Is she not still a young woman, a beautiful woman, a passionate woman?'

  'Madam, that is the most disgusting suggestion I have ever heard,' Kit declared, getting up. 'And of your own stepchild.'

  'My husband's bastard,' Celestine said softly. 'Oh, I grieve for her, Kit. Yet must there be some explanation of her sudden desire for isolation. And there can be no quarrelling with the fact that Green Grove has come to resemble a prison, where Marguerite glories in being the principal inmate.'

  'If you knew none of this,' Philip said, slowly, 'you have yet to tell us the reason for your visit.'

  The reason. 'By God,' Kit said. 'That I had all but forgotten. Well, you may as well know of it. There is to be a duel.'

  'Called out, by God,' Philip said. The tight face almost relaxed into a smile. 'Now, who has found the courage, after all these years?'

  ‘I am not going to fight a duel,' Kit said. 'None of your friends have discovered that much courage yet, sir. Marguerite proposes to fight one. She has been challenged by Lilian Christianssen. You may believe it was done without my knowledge, but it has been done, and the challenge has been accepted. Which certainly disposes of any suggestion that Meg is ill.'

  'A duel, between two women?' Celestine cried. 'Why, that is absurd.'

  'My own sentiments exactly,' Kit agreed. 'Unfortunately, it appears that there is no legal impediment.'

  'It never occurred to my father to pass a law to prevent women fighting,' Philip said.


  'So it seems,' Kit agreed. 'Yet it is impossible, would you not agree?'

  'Of course,' Celestine said. 'Why, it is indecent, to say the least. Imagine, there will most certainly be spectators, and one of them could be hit ... who can say where? Why, my mind positively stumbles. You will have to forbid it, Kit.'

  'I? Forbid it? By God, I wish life were that simple. You must understand, Meg acted most cruelly, most unnaturally, towards Lilian, and Lilian conceives herself to be forever humiliated, doomed to be tracked to her grave by mocking laughter, unless she can prove herself as good a woman as Meg. This is her answer. In all conscience, Aunt Celestine, I cannot demand of her that she withdraw. That would doubly damn her as inferior.'

  'And you came here, wishing that we would intercede with Marguerite?'

  'She is unlikely to listen to me.'

  Celestine sighed. 'I suppose I could ride over there once again. If it is a matter this urgent I could attempt to force an entry. Whether I should be successful, I have no idea. I should imagine that if there is a person in this entire world Marguerite truly hates it would be this Christianssen girl.'

  'You'll not interfere,' Philip said. 'By God, there is a spirit. There can be little enough the matter with Meg if she will react so eagerly to a challenge.'

  'To an invitation to murder, you mean,' Kit said. 'She knows she has nothing to fear from Lilian. The girl has never handled any weapon in her life.'

  'Yet did she challenge,' Philip Warner reminded him. 'And must abide by the consequences. And I will tell you what those consequences will be, Kit. She thought to bring Meg low, no doubt after listening to all these nauseating rumours. She thought Meg would ignore her or decline to fight, and then she could trumpet her vindication abroad. Well, she has failed, by God. I'll wager you a hundred pounds she does not appear at the appointed time.'

  'By God, sir,' Kit said.

  'Kit,' Celestine warned. 'You gave me your word.'

  Kit sucked air into his lungs, slowly. 'Aye, so I did, Aunt Celestine.' He finished his drink. 'I had thought we would work together in this event, at the least, as it touches us all so closely. If that is impossible, then I must see what can be done by myself. I will take my leave. It grieves me to see you so low, Philip. I wish you good fortune.'

  He picked up his hat and went to the verandah. Celestine Warner followed him. 'He hates you too, Kit; nor can he be blamed for that.'

  He hesitated. 'And you?'

  She smiled. 'Hatred is for more active minds than mine. I doubt not that both Philip and I shall be in our graves within a twelvemonth. We would be better off remembering our joys than preserving our sorrows. I hope and trust that you can stop this madness, Kit, even if I feel no confidence in your success. And Kit, if you can learn anything about Marguerite, or better yet, if you can bring her out of herself, pray inform me.'

  He clasped her hand. 'I shall, Aunt Celestine. Be sure of that.'

  She nodded. 'Now come and say farewell to Tony and Becky.'

  By now it was late in the evening; the brief Caribbean twilight had long disappeared behind the sun, and the moon had not yet risen. The last time he had taken this road had also been at night. Then there had been murder in his heart, anger in his mind. Now ... there was more alarm than anything else. Alarm for Lilian, or alarm for Meg? Over this past year he had deliberately shut his mind, to Green Grove, to everything on Green Grove, to his children, to the mistress of Green Grove most of all. He was too conscious of his weakness in that direction, too aware that the thought of Marguerite could bring any man up hard and anxious, while for the man, like himself, who could remember, she was the most exquisite of tortures.

  And then, too, the whole memory of Green Grove, of the wealth and power, the immunity from law or criticism that it had given him, of Tony and Rebecca, all of these things were calculated to bring a man down from any position he sought to establish. As Marguerite was herself certainly aware. Thus had she waited, for his surrender, as she had early declared her intention of doing.

  But he had not surrendered. He could never surrender, for the sake of Lilian. But this, perhaps, had not entered Marguerite's mind. She counted Lilian of no importance. The quarrel was between man and wife, and the other woman was no more than a symptom, not a cause. When he had not returned to his home, she might well have assumed it was because of the unexpected, the arrival of Daniel Parke. There was the rock upon which her plans had foundered, and there was the event which might well have turned her mind with anger and despair.

  Because only a turned mind could possibly justify the suggestion put forward by Aunt Celestine. It was quite incredible. It would be incredible, in any circumstances, about a planter's wife. But about Meg Hilton ... yet why had she sent away her children? Surely there was the most unnatural act of all.

  He reined his horse, looked down the hill, frowned at the sound. It rose from the slave compound, where there was a great bonfire, and where the slaves danced and sang. On Green Grove? Or was this some celebration, some anniversary, of which he knew nothing?

  Certainly there did not appear to be any overseers in charge.

  He touched his horse with his heels. There were no dogs, either. There was a surprise; it was difficult to imagine a sugar estate without dogs. Nor did the dancing Negroes pay any attention to the lone horseman who walked his mount up the drive to the house.

  But the house was also filled with light. And with people, he was astonished to discover. Half a dozen overseers, with their wives, lounged on the verandah, drinking sangaree and smoking cigars. They glanced at the intruder, carelessly at first, unable to identify him in the darkness. One of them got up and stood at the top of the steps. 'Who goes there?'

  Kit dismounted.

  'By God,' the man said. 'Captain Hilton?'

  Chairs scraped, and the rest of the party hastily got up. 'No ghost, Hodge, you may be sure of that,' Kit said. 'I seem to have lost track of the date. What are we celebrating?'

  'No celebration, Captain.' Hodge licked his lips. 'We are but taking our ease after a long day in the fields.' Kit looked along the verandah, at the suddenly anxious men, at the women clutching their sleeves.

  'No doubt the blacks, also, have had a tiring day,' he remarked.

  'Ah, it does them no harm to dance and sing a little, Captain,' Hodge said.

  'And have you no homes of your own?'

  'Why, it is the mistress's own wish that we come up here of an evening,' Hodge explained. 'She likes to hear the sound of pleasure.'

  'But she does not sit with you?'

  'No, sir, she does not.'

  'Then may I ask where she is?'

  'Why, sir, she has retired, I would say. She is usually early to bed.'

  'Then you'll excuse me. Ladies.' Kit went inside. The men exchanged glances, but no move was made to stop him. Then he stopped himself. The huge withdrawing-room, which he had never seen with other than polished floor and gleaming furniture, was scuffed and shabby, and there was dust everywhere. He took off his hat, and heard a sound. Maurice Peter stood at the foot of the stairs.

  Maurice Peter. Marguerite's closest confidant. Should he then be slaughtered on the spot? Yet the old man looked happy enough to see him. Happy? He looked overjoyed.

  'Captin, suh,' he cried. 'Oh, God, Captin, but it is good to see you.'

  'Indeed?' Kit demanded. 'Would you explain to me what is happening?'

  'Happening, Captin?'

  'I wish to know why the overseers are making free with my wine and my cigars, and why the slaves are being allowed so much noise.'

  'Well, Captin, suh, it is Mr Hodge what says what must be done. And he says ...'

  'Hodge? Where is the mistress?' 'She is upstairs, Captin.'

  'And you have just come from there? By God ...' 'I come from the kitchen, Captin.' Maurice Peter was now looking frightened. Well, that was as it should be. 'Captain Hilton? Oh, thank God you are here.' Kit raised his head, gazed at the woman who stood at the top of the stairs. Elizabeth Jo
hnson? She wore an undressing-robe over her nightdress, and her hair was loose. It was thin hair, pale brown, and it straggled. Her face was no less thin and pale; the primly tight features had dissolved into a permanent look of misery.

  'Elizabeth? Where is my wife?'

  Miss Johnson licked her lips.

  Kit ran up the stairs. 'You'll explain this mystery, Elizabeth. What is happening here?'

  She hesitated, and then glanced at her bedroom. 'If we could speak privily ...'

  'Nothing is happening, Kit,' Marguerite Hilton said, her voice penetratingly quiet, as ever.

  As ever. Kit turned, faced the bedroom door, reached for the handle and twisted it, without success.