Sunset

by Christopher Nicole

  She took Meg's hand, led her away from the rail, the wind whipping the frills to their gowns and threatening instant destruction to their hats and their coiffures, as the ship

  gathered speed. They descended the ladder, one hand holding their skirts, the other cramming their hats on their heads, leaning against the rail, to the obvious amusement of two sailors on the deck below. But at least that was the only ladder they were required to negotiate; their cabin was on the main deck, and was clearly the best in the ship.

  'This must be costing a fortune,' Meg had remarked when she had first seen it

  'Money does not matter to a Hilton,' Oriole had pointed out. 'To the Hilton. Remember that.'

  Now she opened the door, which was secured only on its safety latch, to discover a stewardess, plump and pale-faced, busying herself with sheets and blankets. 'That will do, thank you,' Oriole said. 'My cousin and I would like to rest a while before luncheon.'

  'Of course, ma'am.' The girl gave a little curtsy and backed out of the room.

  'Rest?' Meg inquired.

  'This voyage will provide us with a very good rest,' Oriole said, locking the door. 'They say the Roddam is one of the fastest ships afloat, but even she will not make Southampton in under twelve days.'

  'But I don't feel like a rest,' Meg protested. 'I really would like to have a last look at Jamaica.'

  'Oh, what nonsense, girl. It will be there for hours. I would not be surprised if it is still in sight tomorrow morning. You will have ample time to see it again this afternoon.' Oriole removed her hat, laid it on the table with great care, began unbuttoning her gown. 'Do you know ... this is the first time you and I have ever been alone together?'

  Meg frowned, at once at the unusual hesitancy in her cousin's speech and because she could see her in the mirror; Oriole's cheeks were quite pink. Her whole expression reminded her of something she had seen before, but for the moment she could not think what it was.

  'Oh, really, Oriole,' she said. 'We have spent most of every day alone together for two years.'

  Oriole stepped out of her gown, began removing petticoats. 'On Hilltop? It's not possible to be alone on Hilltop. No ceilings, black people always underfoot ... except in the Great House. But I never felt alone in the Great House. There are too many ghosts. Too many Hiltons walking those parquet floors, ever to be alone.'

  Meg scratched her head, although Oriole had repeatedly told her what an unladylike thing it was to do. But never had she known Oriole in such an introspective mood. Or such a nervous condition. She was tearing at her petticoats, throwing them over her head and letting them he on the floor.

  . 'Will you help me?'

  Meg hurried forward, loosed the ties for the corset. To her utter astonishment, as the last tie was released Oriole turned, virtually in her arms, letting her corset also fall to the deck, forcing Meg's hands to slide under her armpits. Meg stepped back as if burned, but Oriole followed her, holding her shoulders. Her face was crimson. 'Do you hate me so much?'

  'I...' Meg licked her lips, found she was against the bunk. She sat down. 'Of course not.'

  Sitting, she was about the same height as her cousin. Oriole smiled, and took her face between her hands. 'I am glad. I am so glad. God knows, whatever I have done is for the best. You do understand that, Meg?'

  Meg's head flopped up and down helplessly. She supposed the ship had struck a storm, she was so confused.

  'Because I have loved you,' Oriole said. 'From the very moment we met. I loved you, and I knew I would always love you.' Again the quick smile. 'I think I even loved your wickedness. But I ...' She released Meg's cheeks, turned away, to stare out of the porthole at the bubbling sea. 'God knows, I have fought with myself, and tortured myself, and hated myself, for two whole years. Two whole years, of holding you in my arms at night, darling Meg, of sharing a room with you, and of being afraid to ... to touch you.'

  She turned again, cheeks scorching. 'Oh, I am a coward. Because is it wrong? Can it be wrong, when two people love each other? Does their sex come into it?'

  Meg discovered her mouth was open and hastily closed it again. Oriole was taking off her shift.

  'But when you wandered off, into the mountains, with those black people ... you must tell me about that, Meg. All about that. Every single thing that happened. I won't ever repeat it.' She hesitated, gazing at the expression on Meg's face. 'In your own time, of course, my darling. In your own time. But it was that which made me realize I could wait no longer. And then, to see you bent across the bed while that foul brute made at you ...'

  'He is not a foul brute,' Meg shouted. 'And having me whipped was your idea.'

  'Of course it was.' Oriole hurried forward to seize Meg's hands; her nipples were the hardest Meg had ever seen; they seemed to possess a life of their own. 'I hate myself for it. I am a savage beast. But not so savage as your father. As any man. They are all foul. 'Tis a tragedy we need them at all. Oh, Meg, Meg, if you knew how sorry I am.'

  Meg's hands were released and her head was seized instead. Before she could understand what was happening, she was pulled forward, still sitting, so that her face was against Oriole's breasts, smothered in hard pointed softness, her lungs lost in the magnificence of Oriole's scent, while the fingers dug into her hair to stroke her scalp.

  'But I shall make amends, Meg. I swear it. I shall make you the happiest woman in the world, Meg. I will sew for you and I will suffer for you and I will protect you, dearest Meg. And more than anything else I will love you.'

  The pressure relaxed, and Meg was able to raise her head. Now her own cheeks were on fire. But more than just her cheeks. For had she not, more than once, considered what a splendid body Oriole possessed, without ever supposing it could come into her possession. But here it was, being offered to her, it seemed. And was she not still a mass of excited desires, from that unforgettable night in the Blue Mountains?

  Oriole placed her hands on Meg's shoulders, leaned forward, and kissed her on the hps. And then moved her head back, just a few inches. 'Will you not grant me your tongue, dearest?'

  And Meg remembered where she had seen that look before; it had been on Oriole's face when her father had finished whipping her.

  'Oh, the rain,' complained Lady Claymond. 'It is terrible. I have never known such a summer as this.'

  Meg raised her parasol. But the drops were very large, and the entire sky was blanketed with a cold grey. In Jamaica she would have supposed they were about to be hit by a hurricane.

  'Of course you have, Mama,' Honor Claymond pointed out. 'It has been like this almost every summer since I can remember. That won't keep it out, you know, Miss Hilton. And your lovely dress will be ruined. I think we should take shelter. The players are doing so.'

  Meg supposed she was right. The white-clad cricketers were sprinting from the field towards the pavilion. They were, in the main, Australians, it seemed, and were also, at the moment, the rage of London. But what an odd occupation, for ladies of quality to sit on hard benches in the cold and the drizzle to watch a group of young men, most of whom were bank clerks or of some such undistinguished occupation, knocking a little leather ball to and fro.

  She hurried behind her companions for the safety of the carriage. She certainly did not wish her clothes to be ruined; they were the most splendid things she had ever owned. She wore a dark green velvet jacket - known as a manteau de visite, according to Oriole - with grey fur trimmings; the outfit also included a grey fur muff, but this she had left behind today. After all, it was July and supposed to be the height of the English summer.

  Her dress was scarlet sateen, with white spots and cream lace trimmings at her hem and draping the enormous bustle which sat behind her hips; her hat was a green velvet turban decorated with violets. She knew she looked absolutely splendid; even one of the batsmen walking out after luncheon had turned to look at her.

  'Here we are,' Lady Claymond gasped. 'My word, what a crush.'

  There was indeed a crush of people, mai
nly ladies, these, trying to regain the comfort and shelter of their barouches; the men were mostly joining the players in the pavilion. But at last the door was open and they were climbing inside, while the coachman stood to attention and pretended to ignore the rain, which was now coming down extremely hard.

  Meg discovered she was panting. 'Wherever can Oriole be?'

  'There.' Honor Claymond pointed a grey gloved finger, and Oriole at that moment looked up, and gave them a bright smile. She was seated in a carriage some distance away, talking to a woman whose face Meg could not see, but who was apparently carrying on a most animated conversation.

  She felt a surge of dismay. Jealousy? It could not be. She was, in fact, still uncertain of her true feelings as regards Oriole, for all that they had lived together like sisters for so very long now. Like sisters? More, she supposed, like man and wife for the past eight months. It really was a quite incredible thought.

  She was not even sure in her own mind how it all happened. In the beginning it had been the ship, that twelve-day voyage. There had been no other passengers of note, at least none that Oriole considered were worthy of the interest of two Hilton women. So there had only been each other, and the passion generated that first morning in the noise-insulated secrecy of their cabin had had nothing to do but grow.

  And she had wanted it, so desperately. The desires, provoked first of all by Alan, and brought to climatic fruition by Cleave, had not been going to lie down and wait until some other man came along. And Oriole was a fascinating ... she supposed she might as well be honest with herself and use the word lover. Her hands were so soft, and so instinctively directed to the right place; the mere slide of those fingers down her groin had been able to send Meg into a transport of ecstasy.

  As splendid as that induced by Cleave? Of course not. Oriole was a woman, and Cleave had been a man. Oriole had been very angry when she had said so. 'It was your first orgasm,' she had declared. 'And a man ... with his fingers. It was quite disgusting. Did he not have a penis ?'

  The discussion had taken place in the middle of a steamy afternoon, in the middle of the Atlantic, and they had lain together, naked, on Oriole's bunk, the human smell of their sweat mingling in an incredibly delightful fashion with the heavenly smell of Oriole's perfume.

  'Oh, he did,' Meg had said dreamily. 'A magnificent rod. Hard as rock, and yet all velvety.'

  'You touched it?' Oriole had raised herself on her elbow in amazement.

  ‘I held it until it was wet,' Meg said.

  'My God. And he did not wish to push it in?’

  'Why, no.'

  'Witchcraft,' Oriole said, and lay down. 'And have you never held a man's rod ?' Meg asked, rising on her elbow in turn. 'Or known his fingers?' 'Of course not,' Oriole said. 'But, you were married.'

  'Oh, indeed. And my husband did wish those things, from time to time. Men are the most degenerate of creatures. I pointed out that his duty was to penetrate me, and nothing more, and he came to accept that.' But she had been seething again, at the feel of Meg's breasts resting on her cheek. 'Real intimacy is only possible between women, my darling.'

  She had been unable to resist a sally as that small mouth had closed on her nipple. 'And not between men as well, my darling?'

  Which had earned her a nip. But even nips were enjoyable. She supposed they were being very, very wicked. But she could see no harm in it, and to be as close as she was to Oriole was to live in a dream world even had there been no sex involved. Until her cousin had entered her life she had not truly realized how lonely she had been. That could never happen again. Oriole was there, always, seeking to help, seeking to correct, seeking to direct, seeking to love. She was like having a second soul, as she sought to discover every last recess of Meg's personality.

  Meg had supposed, in the beginning, that as Oriole was twice her age, and remarkably beautiful, she might soon tire of her gauche companion. And had been alarmed by that consideration, for she knew enough of her cousin by now to understand that Oriole believed in total commitment, and abandonment would mean just that. Her fears had been set at rest soon after their arrival in England, to take up residence at Great Uncle Tom's house in Chelsea; this had been a Hilton house for a long time, once inhabited by Matt and Sue, two other Hiltons who had been cousins and fallen in love with each other to the scandal of the West Indies. Not, as Oriole pointed out time and again, that there was ever any risk of scandal between two women, because who could ever know.

  Meg had been fascinated at this step back into Hilton history, but it had been very cold by now - they had arrived only a few days before her seventeenth birthday -and within a week she had come down with a cold in the head, which had rapidly developed into a pleurisy on the lung, which had equally rapidly developed into pneumonia. She had supposed herself about to die, and been so exhausted and dispirited it had not seemed very important.

  But Oriole had not been prepared to accept such a possibility. She had hardly left Meg's bedside for a moment - they were sharing a room in any event - had nursed her with a devoted care which a mother could not have exceeded, and had finally seen her back to health, although it had been a long process; the English Christmas of which she had been promised so much was an unremembered blur of sad faces peering over the end of her bed, and it had been March before she had once again been able to venture out of doors.

  So Oriole loved her. She could no longer doubt that. Well, then, did she love Oriole? She really did not know. She did not think so, if love meant an emotion which excluded all others. She would dream of being shipwrecked upon a desert island, with only Oriole, Alan and Cleave as her companions, and then decide which of them she would go to. It gave her a delightful sensation of power. But the fact was, it was seldom Oriole, and it was seldom even Cleave, much as she enjoyed remembering his ministrations. But then, she wondered, was it not Alan because he had never properly made love to her? Often enough, when she lay in Oriole's arms, she would pretend she was in Alan's. It was not difficult. Save for the absence of the rod, and that had been a problem from her very earliest dreams.

  Yet, it seemed that however much Oriole did love her, she was still intent upon marrying her off. March had seen a great improvement in the weather, for a brief period, and they had been able to go riding in Hyde Park, while soon enough the young men began to take out their cricket bags and the 'thock' of a bat hitting a ball could be heard even in central London.

  'Cricket,' Oriole had proclaimed. 'Why, there is not a gentleman in the country does not play at cricket, if he would be a gentleman, and play at it every day, at least until it is time to shoot grouse. And this year, my darling, the Colonials are coming over. They come every second year, you know. Oh, they are all the rage. Not,' she hastily added, 'that I would have you marry some wild Australian boy, to be carried off to the outback of New South Wales. But all the gentry will be anxious to play against them, you may be sure of that. We shall find you a perfect match by August.'

  'But Oriole,' Meg had protested, more out of curiosity than concern, 'what will happen to us?'

  'Silly goose,' Oriole had said happily. 'You know my terms. We shall all return to Hilltop together, and he will spend his days learning how to be a planter, and you and I will spend our days living as Hiltons were meant to live, in the Great House.'

  A fascinating thought, except that Meg had suddenly realized, after only a week or two of attending Lord's Cricket Ground, that she had absolutely no desire to marry any one of these young men, all carefully trimmed moustaches and sweaty white flannels, all outrageously bright jackets, which they called blazers, and inane remarks, from what-hos to maiden overs, a term she had never been able to understand.

  But how to make Oriole understand that. What Oriole would say were she to discover that Meg would still rather marry someone like Alan McAvoy did not bear consideration.

  'Why, Tommy,' Honor Claymond exclaimed. 'You're all wet.'

  Meg awoke from her reverie, to discover two young men leaning throug
h the window of the carriage, despite the rain, and one of them was the Honourable Thomas Claymond, a young man she had seen far too much of during the past month; he was a very keen cricketer.

  'Had to come across, what?' He pulled his moustache, took off his cap, striped in black and red and gold, and hastily replaced it again. 'Why, how good to see you, Miss Hilton. Thought you'd like to meet the Terror, eh?'

  Meg smiled at the second young man. Anyone less like a Terror would have been hard to imagine. His face was calm, almost vacant in its dreamy expression, which was accentuated by the rather thick, untrimmed moustache which threatened to edge down beside his mouth. 'Are you so terrible, sir?'

  He also wore a striped cap, mainly in green, which he now hastily raised. 'Charles Turner, Miss Hilton. I persuaded Tommy to introduce me to the most beautiful young woman in England, so they say.'

  'Well,' Honor remarked, and her mother raised her eyes to heaven.

  'You are a flatterer, Mr Turner,' Meg declared. 'And are you also a cricketer?'

  'Also a cricketer,' Tommy Claymond shouted. 'Also a cricketer? Haven't you been watching the game?'

  'I don't think Miss Hilton is really very interested in cricket,' Honor remarked. 'Mr Turner, my dear Miss Hilton, is the finest bowler in all Australia. I suspect in all the world.'

  'Well, now,' Turner objected. 'I'd guess George Lohmann would have something to say about that. Oops, the rain's stopping. We'd better be getting back, Tommy boy.'

  'Ah. Yes. You'll excuse us, Mother, Miss Hilton.'

  Lady Claymond sniffed as they took their departure. 'Australians. Good heavens, what an uncouth lot. I really do not understand what Tommy sees in them.'

  'Margaret.' Oriole stood outside the coach, her parasol held aloft like a banner, smiling at them. 'There you are. We really must be getting home. There is packing to be done. Mrs Andrews has invited us down for the weekend.'

  'Moira Andrews?' Lady Claymond inquired, flushing.