By the autumn of 1887 she was beginning to feel that only a visit to England would prevent her from going mad with boredom, when on a Saturday afternoon she returned from a ride on her mare, which she was in the habit of undertaking by herself while Oriole dozed, to find her cousin stalking the front porch like an avenging tigress. 'There you are,' she snapped. 'Come here.'
The yardboy waited to hold the stirrup while Meg slid from the saddle, gathered her skirt in one hand, and hurried up the stairs, her boots clumping on the wood. 'Whatever is the matter?'
'Come here,' Oriole said again, leading her through the house and towards the kitchen.
Oh, Lord, Meg thought, knowing what she would find before she got there. And sure enough, Prudence was leaning back in her rocking chair, shelling peas and singing to herself. The floor around her was covered in dropped peas, and her bottle had fallen over at her elbow, but as it had been almost empty this had not mattered very much.
'Have you ever seen anything so disgusting?' Oriole demanded.
'Prudence,' Meg said. 'How could you?'
'I've been observing this for some time,' Oriole said. 'I thought at first, and I hoped, I might be mistaken. But now ...'
Prudence endeavoured to get up. 'Missy Meg, sweet chil',' she said. 'You come to see old Prudence. You want for feel my bubbies, chil’? You want for feel?' She put her hand into the loose blouse she wore and produced an enormous drooping breast, rather as if it was not actually connected to her chest.
'My God!' Oriole shouted. 'Disgusting? I cannot think of a suitable word. I'll not have it. She must go.'
Hannibal heaved himself up from under the table and took refuge in the corner.
'Go?' Meg asked.
'Go?' Prudence asked, sitting down again.
'She must leave this house on the instant,' Oriole said. 'I will not have her under the same roof as myself. As for you, poor child ... Meg, you must do it.'
'Me?'
'I,' Oriole corrected. 'Yes, you must do it. This is your house, on your plantation, and you keep telling me she was your nurse.'
'But... she meant no harm,' Meg said.
'Feelum, feelum,' Prudence said, humming to herself, and herself pulling at the nipple. 'Feelum, feelum.'
'Meg, I command you,' Oriole shouted. 'Send her off, now. Or I'll... I'll tell your father. Oh, I'll have a thing or two to tell him. He'll have you in a convent, I shouldn't wonder.'
Meg licked her lips. She had no idea what to do. Except that she wanted to end the scene as quickly as possible. 'Prudence,' she said. 'Perhaps you should go home.'
'Go home, chil'?' Prudence blinked at her.
'Yes,' Meg said. 'Go home and go to bed. I... we'll look after dinner.'
'We will not,' Oriole declared. 'You can tell that Percy to find us another cook, and immediately, or he will be dismissed as well. Go on, woman, go on. Clear out. You heard what your mistress has told you. Get out of this house.'
Prudence stared at her for a moment, then slowly heaved herself to her feet, swayed, and corrected her balance. With great dignity she put down the half-empty bowl of peas, then walked to the door. There she paused, and turned, to look at Meg.
'Prudence ...' Meg cried.
'Get out,' Oriole snapped. 'Out, out, out. Your mistress has dismissed you. You'll not enter this room again. Out.'
Prudence seemed to sigh, then turned and went down the stairs. Oriole did sigh, loudly. 'Do you know, for a moment I thought she was going to abuse us? They do, you know, when they are dismissed. So Helen McAvoy was telling me. But she knew her place, thank heavens. She knew who was her mistress. You see how easy it is, Margaret? Just a matter of being a Hilton. People know when they are in the presence of a superior.'
Meg stared at her for a moment and then turned and left the pantry. She felt if she stayed she would either shout at Oriole or burst into tears.
She walked through the house, stood on the front porch, looked down the hill. Prudence could just be made out, waddling slowly towards the Negro village. Meg ran down the steps. Pilgrim the yardboy was removing Candy's saddle and bridle, preparatory to leading her down to the stable. 'Put those back on,' Meg snapped.
'Mistress?'
'Saddle up. I'm going out again.'
Even Candy turned her head, unused to such a tone from her mistress. But a moment later she was again ready, and Pilgrim was giving Meg a leg-up into the saddle. She nodded at him, flicked the reins, walked the mare out of the yard, then gently urged her into a trot.
Prudence kept on walking. She did not stop even when the mare was immediately behind her.
'Prudence,' Meg called.
'Get away from me, chil',' Prudence said.
'Prudence,' Meg said. 'It will be all right. You'll see. I'll speak with Mistress Oriole, and you can come back up tomorrow.'
'I ain' coming back,' Prudence declared. 'You ain' know that? And what you speaking with me for, Mistress Margaret? You ain' hear what that woman done be telling you all this time? You is Margaret Hilton. You going own all this. You doing what you like and you saying what you like and you being what you like. You ain' got no more time for an old woman like me. Now get a way before I curse you.'
Meg reined Candy to a halt. Prudence never turned her head, but walked on into the village. Oh, my God, she thought, what have you done? What have you become?
She pulled Candy's head round, kicked her in the ribs.
Unused to such treatment, Candy bounded forward, leapt at the slope again. Meg had left her hat behind, and now her hair streamed in the self-created breeze. Become? she thought angrily. Why, perhaps you have at last become Oriole's dream, a true Hilton.
Candy instinctively slowed as they approached the white compound, but Meg kicked her again. She did not wish to see Oriole; she did not wish to see Papa; she did not wish to see the pantry; she did not even wish to see the house. Not for a long time. She wanted to be alone, alone, alone, as she had not had the chance to be these past two years. As she might never have the chance to be again.
The villages were lost to sight, and behind her was only the looming height of the Great House, the Hilton family fortress, or as Papa called it, the Hilton mausoleum. To her left was the bulk of the factory, silent now, although it was again approaching grinding, and in front of her was the cane, already ten feet tall, green stalks close-packed to make an endless protective wall. She turned Candy into the first path between the fields, slowed to a walk. Within seconds the stalks were before her and behind her, and clustering to either side of her, shutting her off from the world, shutting out the breeze, making the evening suddenly close. She heard chattering voices, and a moment later passed a gang of East Indians, on their way home. They carried their machetes on their shoulders, and stared at her in amazement. But they all touched their foreheads. They knew who she was, well enough. And they were a handsome, virile people. They knew nothing of the traditions of the plantocracy, of the ghastly history of sugar planting, of the background of the Hiltons. Their aim was to accumulate enough money to return to Calcutta and Bombay in style.
Lucky them. She turned another bend, and the afternoon was again silent, save for the gentle rustle of the cane-stalks to either side. She felt she could walk Candy through these fields for ever. And why not? As Oriole had told her, time and time again, it was hers. Every last stalk was hers. Every piece of mud which flicked away from the mare's hooves was hers.
And suddenly she heard the drums, seeping through the cane. She had not heard the drums for some time. She had tried to make Oriole listen to them, once, and Oriole had laughed, and said, 'Some people enjoying themselves, no doubt. It is the breeze which makes the sound travel.' And when she had told Oriole that they were sheep stealers and that Harry McAvoy had once shot one of them dead, Oriole had said, 'Good thing, too. Force is the only thing people like that understand.' Oriole did not believe in being afraid of anything.
Oh, damn Oriole.
The path ended with amazing abruptness, at lan
d which sloped upwards, and was covered in trees. She drew rein in surprise. She had not realized she had ridden for so long. But if it was still daylight, the heat was leaving the air as the sun plunged towards the sea. And she had walked Candy clear across the plantation and out the other side.
Then she was still on Hilltop? She had to be. She had been walking north, and the northern boundary of Hilltop was a river, she had always been told. Which she had never even seen. Once again she urged her tired mare forward, aware now of how tired she was herself. Yet she did not wish to go home. Not now.
The upward slope was shallow, although now she was beneath the shadow of the great mountains which made such a backdrop to the plantation. The pounding of the drums seemed much closer. Then she was descending again, picking her way through the trees and avoiding low-hanging branches, and hearing the rustle of water. The river obviously rose in the mountains, and came bubbling down, making for the sea. At this point it still ran surprisingly hard, but was clearly deep in the centre. Too hard for alligators, certainly. The water was brown but clear; she could see the pebbles on the bottom.
She dismounted, let Candy roam to eat grass. Candy immediately went to the water's edge and began to drink, which made Meg realize how thirsty she was herself. She knelt and then lay on the soft grass, scooped water up in her hands, drank and drank and drank, and then lay still. She could lie here for ever. She could he here until they came for her. Because in time they would. There would be a great excitement if she did not return for supper. A white girl, alone somewhere in the Blue Mountains at night. Up there was where the sheep stealers, the snake worshippers, lived. And beyond the mountains was the Cockpit country, the home of the Maroons, those runaway slaves who had made good their escape and banded together to form a society which had defended itself so well it had at last been recognized by the British government. But recognized or not, to the planters the Maroons were still a pack of murdering runaways. And up in the mountains were the drums.
Well, let Oriole and Papa and the McAvoys get worried, and come looking for her. She need make no excuses to anyone. She was Margaret Hilton. She rose to her knees, and sweat trickled down her neck. If she were home, she would be sitting in her tub. That was the only thing she missed.
She stared at the clear brown water. It looked magnificently cool. What was to stop her bathing? Absolutely nothing. According to Oriole, there was nothing to stop her doing anything and everything she chose. And besides ... for how many weeks, perhaps for how many months, had she dreamed of doing something to prove her omnipotence. Something personal. Something ... but there was the realm of words which Oriole considered taboo.
Anyway, the decision was not irrevocable. It could be implemented in stages. For instance, she thought, no one could criticize her for wanting to wash her feet. She sat down, unlaced her boots, and pulled them off. She pulled her skirt to her thighs, rolled down her garters. But to wade, properly, would certainly soak her drawers. A moment later these joined the stockings on the bank, and she was stepping into the water, skirts held high, feeling the water caress her toes and then rise to her knees and above with an almost physical intensity, as if her legs were held in an embrace. She felt quite giddy with desire for that embrace, perhaps for any embrace, ran at the bank to stumble ashore, and before she could stop to think about it, fumbling at the buttons of her habit, throwing it on the grass, adding her petticoats, and standing there for a moment, feeling the evening breeze caressing her flesh, looking down at her body. A Hilton body. Long, strong legs, wide thighs, thick, curling pubic patch, a matching colour to her hair, flat belly, and then the large swelling breasts, strangely white against the tan of her neck and shoulders. Hilton women were beautiful; she grasped her hair, pulled some of the mahogany strands in front of her shoulders to trail across her breasts - and was suddenly embarrassed, and running back into the water with great splashes, crouching almost to her knees as soon as it reached her thighs to allow it to rise over her shoulders, feeling at once the most splendid coolness and relaxation combined with a ballooning awareness of wickedness, but which summoned her to be even more wicked. Still crouching beneath the surface, she crossed her arms on her breasts to finger her nipples, to allow her mind to soar into hitherto unthinkable realms, to feel that, when she was ready, she would go ashore and lie on the grass, naked, and ... and to jerk her head in stark horror at the sound of a voice.
'White girl, you stupid or what?' it asked. 'You ain't know they got fish in that river?'
CHAPTER FOUR
THE COCKPIT
MEG sank lower, until only her head was visible, she hoped; she was terribly aware of how transparent was the water.
'Next thing you know,' said the voice, 'them fish going be nibble at your ass. You come out of there.'
She stared at the bank, her stomach and chest seeming to fill with the strangest mixture of anger and fear, but also with another feeling she could not identify. And now the unseen watcher left the shelter of the bushes, and came down to the water's edge, standing right beside her clothes.
And her immediate reactions were replaced with disappointment. The black man was even older than Percy, she estimated, and not anywhere so tall. A runt of a man, wearing shirt and trousers but with bare feet, coated in dust; his face was wizened, and seemed crushed; his hair was speckled with grey.
A black man watching her bathe. As if she had not known from the start that he was a black man ? And she was Meg Hilton.
'Get away,' she shouted. 'Clear off.'
'Now, why I am going to do that?'
'You ...' She almost stood up, then hastily crouched again. 'Because I have told you to,' she shouted. 'Because you are trespassing, on my property. Get away. Or I'll have the law on you.'
'Watch out for that fish,' he said.
'Oh ...' She stood up, turning round to gaze at the water, saw nothing. 'You ... you wretch.'
'Chil’, you ain' no chil’, and that is a fact. But the fish going come.'
She faced him again, still standing, water running down her shoulders and dripping from her nipples; the river settled about her navel. So what was she afraid of? He was certainly not a Hilltop man, therefore she need never see him again. Physical assault? She was at once taller and broader. The pure shame of it? But she was Margaret Hilton. Hiltons did what they liked, when they liked. If she was going to be ashamed of being seen then she could never ever go swimming here again.
'I will have the law on you,' she said, and slowly walked towards him, each leg in turn pushing the water aside, feeling it go down, past her thighs, knowing where his eyes were looking, although he did not appear to move his head, feeling it drip from her groin as the level sank to her knees.
'She is one sweet-looking chil' in truth,' the old man said. 'You ever see sweet-looking white girl like this, Cleave?'
Meg gasped, and turned, and stared at the second black man. Or perhaps boy would have been a more accurate description, she thought; he was at once tall and broad, and young. The muscles bulged in his arms and shoulders, for he wore only pants, and his chest seemed to seethe with hard ridges. Such of it as she could see, for he carried a kid in his arms. His face was also a series of ridges, high cheekbones, prominent chin and forehead, wide, flat mouth, big nose, a hard face seemingly made harder by the glowing ebony skin.
But at this moment it was relaxed, and smiling. And they had just stolen one of her father's goats. One of her goats. Therefore this was a man very like the one who had been shot; no doubt they had known each other. She felt like fainting. Oriole had said that was a good thing to do, in times of stress. But she couldn't possibly go unconscious before two black men.
'You is beautiful, Mistress Hilton,' the young man said.
'You ... you know who I am?' she said. 'Go away, and I will not tell the police. You may have the goat. Take it. I will say nothing.'
She paused, and found herself panting, and suddenly could hear the drums, louder than ever, as if she had not been listening to
them all the time. A kid goat, and the drums. Oh, my God, she thought.
'We can' leave you here so,' said the old man. 'How we going say who is going to come along?'
'Who ...' She gaped at them.
'And if you don't get dress, mistress,' said the boy, 'you going be catching cold.'
He stooped, holding the kid in one arm, picked up her petticoat, held it out. She hesitated, then snatched it from him, dropped it over her shoulders, settled it on her thighs. It was immediately wet from her skin.
'I got the thing for you,' said the old man, and dug into his satchel to produce a bottle. The cork popped, and he held it out. 'Drink, nun?'
She gazed at it in horror. Their water bottle. No doubt their lips had touched that neck. 'Oh, I ... thanks all the same.'
'Drink,' commanded the boy, picking up her riding habit.
Meg snatched the bottle, held it to her lips, gulped. And gasped. It was rum, and seemed to explode in her throat and then all the way down to her belly.
'Now you going be all right,' the old man said.
She glanced at the boy, who was still holding her habit. She stretched out her hand, and he gave it to her. She stepped into it, pulled it up, settled it on her shoulders, fumbled for the buttons; she seemed quite unable to find them, and when she had found them she seemed unable to get them in the holes. She gave up when the top three were still loose, leaving her throat exposed.
'You shaking again,' the old man pointed out 'You had best take another drink.'
Once again she hesitated, but her body had suddenly filled with a most tremendous glow; her mind seemed ready to soar away to thoughts she had never dared accept or explore before. She took the bottle, held it to her lips, drank longer this time, waited for the next ripple of heat, and was not disappointed. She held out the bottle, and realized she was smiling at him. The sun had disappeared, and it was suddenly dark; the hum of insects rose to compete with the distant drums. 'You had best be off,' she said.
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