Sunset

by Christopher Nicole

  At which Meg had scampered off to bed. She just could not imagine what Oriole would be like when she returned from that interview. But Oriole had merely undressed and climbed into bed beside her, and hugged her tight, as she liked doing. 'Were you listening?' she whispered. 'I suppose you heard anyway.' 'Aren't you very angry ?'

  Oriole smiled in her ear. 'Why should I be very angry? Your father merely spends his time confirming the opinion I have always held of men, anyway. No, no. Let him go his own way. We shall go ours. We know he cannot utterly ruin Hilltop. No single man could do that, and he is certainly careful with his money. We must look forward to the day when you are in charge. And prepare ourselves for that day.' But she was preparing herself for a long wait. As a result of a visit to Kingston, another bed was delivered and placed in Meg's room.

  Once again, energy. As Papa refused to spend the money on a dressmaker, Oriole made their clothes herself, working in the afternoons to provide Meg with a variety of gowns, with shifts and petticoats, with stockings and with drawers. She also took over the entire management of the house, to Prudence's disgust. But Prudence was very much relegated to what Oriole considered her proper position. Gone were the chats around the kitchen table while Percy peeled shrimps. Oriole did not even like to see Meg speaking with those niggers, as she called them, much less asking them embarrassing or intimate questions. Not that she would answer such questions herself. Anything she considered improper was dismissed as unladylike, and the subject immediately became closed.

  Nor did she permit Meg to keep any friends amongst the white children on the plantation. 'They are your inferiors,' she said. 'You must never forget that. When you are the Mistress of Hilltop, and one of them proves incompetent, as he is sure to do, how will you dismiss him if he is in a position to recall some childhood escapade? No, no, keep your employees, and their children, at arm's length, my dear. You are a Hilton. They are nothing.'

  Afternoons were to be spent in long, quiet walks, shaded by their parasols, talking about the past. Oriole knew the history of every Hilton off by heart, and certainly every Hilton who had ever amounted to anything. She related magnificent tales of Thomas Warner and his son Edward, and Anthony Hilton, the three men who together had created the British West Indian Empire, of their wars with the Carib Indians and the Spaniards, of the adventures of Kit Hilton, grandson of Anthony - or was he really grandson of Edward Warner? No one knew for sure; the two men had both shared the arms of the tempestuous Irish girl, Susan Deardon. But Kit Hilton had been a man apart. He had sailed with Morgan, taken part in the sack of Panama, and then returned to Antigua to marry the beautiful Meg Warner and found the Hilton Empire. Then there had been Robert Hilton, who had raised the Hilton fortunes to their highest peak, and his cousin Matt, who had been an Abolitionist and had in time become a Member of Parliament, and who had married his own cousin, Robert's sister Suzanne, in a wild love affair which had rocked the entire social fabric of the West Indies. Matt and Suzanne had been the parents of Richard Hilton, General Warner, as he had been known in Haiti. Even for Richard, Oriole had words of praise, and indeed he had been cast in the mould of the great Kit. But he too had been an Abolitionist, and had presided over the Emancipation of the Hilltop slaves even before the law had been passed by the British Parliament.

  'For all his courage, he was a fool,' Oriole said scornfully. 'Emancipation did no one any good. These islands were the most valuable part of the British Empire, not a hundred years ago. Now they are the poorest. The blacks were a healthy and contented lot. Now they are undernourished and in a constant state of simmering revolt. Another example of male stupidity, my dear Margaret. You'll not find the ' name of any female Abolitionists in the history books.'

  And who was to say she was not right? Meg indeed was considerably confused by the storm which seemed to have overtaken her. But it was an exciting, exhilarating confusion.

  Oriole had breathed the existence of a world of which she had not dreamed, a world of sweet-smelling perfume, magnificent clothes, handsome men who were the epitome of gallantry and manners, of the wealth to buy whatever one wished whenever one felt like it, of balls and musical evenings, operas and concerts. These things were there, not just lines in her few story books. And they belonged to her as much as to anyone else. To her more than anyone else, in fact, because she was a Hilton. Hiltons did as they pleased, took what they pleased, said what they pleased, believed what they pleased. Thus Oriole. They owed but a single duty, to be Hilton, never to debase the name in any way. There was a dream. But a dream which would one day come true. If only Papa felt the same way.

  For her sixteenth birthday party, Oriole decided she should wear a corset. To purchase it necessitated a visit to Kingston, an exciting occasion which in the event depressed her as she gazed at the unpainted buildings, the shoddy clothes, the emaciated black people, the huge harbour in which the wooden jetties seemed to be rotting and there was only a solitary trading schooner waiting at anchor. Somehow Kingston epitomized the depression which had overtaken the island. Only the new railway line, which made its way north to Port Antonio, suggested the slightest faith in the future of the island.

  But the corset was excitement enough. They spent almost the entire afternoon fitting it about her waist, and then she had to hang on to the bedpost while Oriole tugged at the laces, 'I can't breathe,' Meg gasped.

  'You will get used to it.'

  'But... my bubbies are squashed.'

  'Your ... ?' Oriole released the laces. 'Good heavens. You are never to use that word again.'

  'But...'

  'If you must refer to that portion of your anatomy, it is your bosom. As for being squashed, that is no bad thing. For a sixteen-year-old girl you have a quite ridiculously large bosom.'

  'Have I?' Meg cried in delight. 'Oh. I thought...'

  "That I was small? No, no. It is unseemly for a young woman to be overdeveloped in any direction. Why, you would not be pleased did you possess a lantern jaw, would you? Come along now.' She resumed tugging and heaving, and at last seemed satisfied. 'There.'

  '1 feel quite faint,' Meg said. 'I am going to faint, at any moment.'

  'No doubt you will faint, from time to time. That is quite proper and ladylike. Be sure you position yourself always close to a comfortable chair, or better yet, a settee. Oh, you will soon learn to cope with it. Now, the gown.'

  Because that also was new, in pale pink gauze with white stripes, and white ribbon bows as well as white lace ruffles on the sleeves and assisting to minimize the otherwise daring neckline. It was quite the most gorgeous garment Meg had ever seen. She whirled in front of her mirror as Oriole settled it. 'Of course,' Oriole said. 'It should be worn over a crinoline.' But there was no such thing in all Jamaica. 'And I don't suppose it matters. It isn't as if we are entertaining anyone of importance.'

  Oh, shut up, do, Meg wanted to shout, but by now she had learned that it did not pay to be rude to her cousin; she had had so many slaps on the face this last year she felt she had a permanent bruise. And anyway, let her think what she liked; she knew she looked beautiful. And Prudence obviously thought the same.

  'Miss Meg, I ain' never seen anything like that,' she said, when they finally emerged.

  'That will do, my good woman,' Oriole said severely, seizing Meg by the elbow to usher her into the drawing room. 'If only you would overcome this dreadful desire to allow the servants to be familiar. It really is disgusting. Now, smile, girl. These people are your guests.'

  All the book-keepers and their wives were present, as well as several people from town. 'Meg, you look magnificent.' She hadn't seen much of Billy this last year, and he didn't seem to have changed at all. 'May I kiss you?'

  'Certainly not,' Oriole said. 'You may kiss her hand.'

  Meg extended her hand, discovered she still held her fan.

  Billy's lips touched her flesh. 'Oh, Meg,' he said. 'How lovely you are. Meg ...' He was staring at her decolletage, where her breasts were compressed by the corset
to make a deep valley descending into her gown. 'Meg ...'

  'I must see to my other guests,' she said, and turned away. He was quite ridiculous. At once in his absurd adoration, and in his forwardness.

  'Good afternoon, Miss Hilton.'

  She frowned at Alan, who wore what was obviously a new suit. Now, how had the McAvoys afforded that? And he had also allowed himself to grow a little moustache, which was quite becoming. She had only seen him from a distance this last year, as he had left school and undertaken his duties as an overseer, which meant he spent most of his time aback, and on the rare occasion when they might possibly have met he had carefully steered his mule the other way.

  'Miss Hilton?' she inquired.

  'Well, I imagine that is what I should call you. Here you are, a great lady, sixteen years old ... and you look like a great lady, too.'

  'Why, thank you, sir,' she said. 'You are looking very well yourself.'

  '1 am leaving tonight,' he explained.

  'Leaving?' she cried, and heads turned. 'Leaving?' she said, more quietly.

  'Didn't your father tell you? I suppose he felt it would be of no interest. I have decided that overseeing is not for me.'

  'Oh. But...' She wanted to say, what shall we do without you ? Instead she said 'What will you do ?'

  'I am going to sea. Papa has found me a berth on one of the steamers trading with Kingston, as apprentice. I shall study to be an officer.' He gave a half smile. 'Perhaps one day I shall be a master. And then, perhaps, I may call upon you as an equal.'

  'An equal?' she cried, and again heads turned. 'Why, Alan, how absurd can you be. There can be no inequality between us.'

  'There is already inequality between us, Miss Hilton,' he pointed out. 'We were born unequal, and as there can be no prospect of your lowering yourself to my level, I must endeavour to raise myself to yours. Supposing, of course, that after the passage of time I still wish to do so.'

  'Why, you ...' She felt her cheeks burning with a mixture of misery and anger. 'You are being absolutely absurd. If you are leaving Hilltop because of me, then I do wish you would reconsider. So one day I will be Mistress of Hilltop. We have always known that. But when I am Mistress of Hilltop, I would like to be surrounded by my friends.'

  'Mistress of Hilltop,' he said. 'How easily you say that. And how well it trips off your tongue. The Mistress of Hilltop can have no friends, Miss Hilton, save amongst others of equal rank.'

  'Oh, nonsense,' she insisted. 'I choose my friends where I may.'

  'Then perhaps,' he said, 'as this room is very close, and outside it is a pleasant afternoon, you would walk with me? Perhaps we could walk up to the Grandstand? Perhaps we could even run up to the Grandstand.'

  She flicked her fan shut as Oriole had taught her.

  'Ah,' he said. 'There are limits to your friendship, I see. At least with inferiors.'

  'Of course not,' she said angrily. 'But ... we are older now, Alan. I am the hostess. I cannot abandon my own party.'

  'You would not, even if you could.' He bowed. 'I came to say goodbye, and I now say goodbye. I shall remember my boyhood on Hilltop with much pleasure.' He turned and left the room, which had grown very quiet.

  Meg bit her lip. Oh, Lord, she thought; I am going to cry.

  'Meg.' Oriole took her elbow. 'A very good riddance. Now it is time to cut your cake.'

  'But... I was going to cut it with him,' Meg moaned.

  'Good heavens. Then indeed we have had a happy escape. There is no one here you should cut your cake with, Margaret. Saving your father. And he is waiting for you.'

  'I feel so wretched about it,' Meg confessed, plucking at the keys of the piano.

  'Whatever for? He will be far happier, far better off, attempting something that is within his grasp, than mooning after the unattainable,' Oriole said sharply. 'And if you are not going to concentrate on the piano, then you may as well stop altogether and listen.'

  Meg obediently closed the keyboard; she did not feel in the least like playing, in any event.

  Oriole got up, paced the room. It was her favourite occupation, perambulating about the withdrawing room, touching the ornaments, running her fingers over the baize of the billiard table. No dust now. Oriole had cleaned it with her own hands. 'I am really getting a little worried about you,' she remarked. 'I had hoped for a marked improvement in your ... well, your demeanour, over the past year. Young girls are often unable to see their true place in life. They make odd friends, and such friendships must be discouraged. But you are no longer a young girl, Margaret. You are sixteen, and if in some circles even that might be considered a trifle young, the fact is that physically you are quite mature enough to be married and bear children. I suppose it has something to do with the tropics. Are you listening to me?'

  Meg stifled a yawn. 'Of course I am.' But she had no idea what her cousin was leading up to.

  'Well, then, I would like, over the next few months, to see a distinct improvement. 1 have not told you before, because it is still unsettled, but I have almost persuaded your father to permit you to pay a visit to England.' 'England?' Meg cried.

  'England. It is certain that we will never find you a suitable husband here in Jamaica. You cannot marry a civil servant, and you cannot possibly marry the son of some estate manager.'

  'Marriage?' Meg said. 'Oh. But...' She had no desire to get married, especially at this moment, and she suddenly realized that she had no desire to leave Jamaica, either.

  'But if we are going to marry the Hilton heiress well,' Oriole pronounced, 'the man she marries is going to expect to be getting the Hilton heiress. Not some half-wild Creole.'

  'I ... I thought I was doing quite well,' Meg said, pronouncing each word with great care, and getting up to prove just how much she had learned about deportment.

  'My dear girl, any slut of an actress can speak well, and walk well. It is what is inside that matters. You are Margaret Hilton. How many times do I have to tell you that? You are heiress to the greatest name in West Indian history. For heaven's sake attempt to act the part. How can I have Prudence address you with proper respect if you allow her to take such liberties with you?'

  'Liberties?'

  'Coming into your bedroom when you are changing, indeed. She almost did it to me the other day. A black person. Good Lord. I nearly fainted.'

  'But Prudence was my nurse. She used to bathe me. She knows what I look like.'

  'Not any more,' Oriole pointed out. "That is what I am trying to get through your head. You are no longer a child. You are a woman. You are a Hilton. You are the Mistress of Hilltop. Act the part.' Her tone softened. 'Promise me you will.'

  'Oh, of course I will,' Meg cried. 'I'll try.' 'See that you do,' Oriole said. 'And forget all about that detestable youth. Now, perhaps we can attempt some piano practise.'

  Act the Hilton. No, no. That was quite wrong. Be the Hilton. But it was so absurd, really. It was all an accident of birth. Who decided whether you were born white or whether you were born black? Why, she could just as easily have been one of the several children Percy had fathered, who played together down in the Negro village. They were a happy lot. Come to think of it, it would not have been at all bad to have had Percy for a father.

  Except that then she would not have fine clothes to wear, or a feather mattress on which to sleep, or the prospect of a visit to England.

  Supposing she wanted to go. In search of a husband ? The idea was nauseating. The fact was, Oriole was a relic from the past. It was her misfortune to have been born in 1853 instead of 1753; she would have loved flogging slaves to death. Or even better, 1653, about the same time as the first Meg Hilton. According to the history books, she on occasion had burned slaves alive for attempting to run away.

  And anyway, Meg reflected comfortingly, there would be time enough to play the Hilton when she was Mistress of Hilltop, and that was a very long time in the future. Meanwhile, she supposed she should thank Oriole for completing her education, for broadening her outlo
ok in so many ways, for wanting so much for her. If only Oriole would be prepared to discuss the really important things. She was speaking of marriage for Meg as if it were just around the corner, and yet she would never tell her about her own marriage. Sex was a taboo subject, and when either Meg or herself was menstruating she kept to herself, and the daily lessons were left undone. It was really very odd, Meg thought; she regarded marriage as an essential, and yet the things that apparently went with marriage as beneath discussion. What a contrast to Prudence and Percy, who had lived together as man and wife - Meg was not at all sure whether or not they had ever been wed in a church for some ten years and still seemed to find as much enjoyment in each other as presumably the night they had first slept together. Meg could only hope that her own marriage would be as happy.

  In the meantime, she did her best to humour Oriole by being as distant as she could to the blacks, by deporting herself like a lady on all occasions, by reading the interminably boring books by people like George Eliot and Mrs Gaskell that Oriole produced for her edification, and by preparing herself for the proposed journey, which was intended for as soon as possible after her seventeenth birthday. Presuming Papa would actually agree to spend all that money.

  Still, even if she could not make up her mind whether or not she wanted to go, it was something to look forward to, as Hilltop went on its way, a frenzy of activity when the time came for grinding the sugar cane, but that was only once a year, and for the rest it wandered somnolently on: the book-keepers meeting Father every morning at dawn before the Great House; the work gangs filing aback with their machetes and their lunches tied up in little bags on the end of sticks, or singing as they picked the bananas; the weekly service in the church, when Oriole sang loudest of all; the daily piano lesson; the rides in the afternoon, for Oriole was devoting a lot of time to teaching her how to ride like a lady as well as walk like one, which meant side-saddle, something Meg found it very difficult to accustom herself to; the evenings when she was expected to read or recite to Oriole and Papa, following which she was packed off to bed while Oriole stayed up for a nightcap; and to talk, or at least, Oriole talked, and Father answered in monosyllables, a succession of days becoming weeks, and weeks becoming months, which had gone on ever since she could remember, and would no doubt go on for the rest of her life. For now even the occasional excitement provided by Alan was absent; Helen McAvoy never volunteered any information as to his whereabouts or progress, and she wouldn't ask.