Sunset

by Christopher Nicole

  'Who else, my dear Lady Claymond?'

  'But...' Vanessa Claymond stared at her daughter as if she had suddenly turned green. 'We are visiting Beltney House this weekend.'

  'What a jolly surprise,' Oriole said. 'Oh, we shall have such fun. Come along, Margaret.'

  Margaret gave a hasty smile to Lady Claymond, decided to ignore Honor, and hurried behind Oriole. 'Are we really going to the Andrews?'

  'Of course. Well, I had to angle for a while. These people have no idea who the Hiltons are. No doubt they have been allowed to forget. We shall remind them, Meg.'

  'But, Lady Claymond didn't look very pleased.'

  'I doubt she is.' Oriole waited while her coachman opened the carriage door, sat down with a sigh. 'She has observed that her Tommy is far too interested in you.'

  Meg sighed. 'I have observed that too. I really think ...'

  'But that is why we are going, my darling. As soon as I heard the Claymonds were invited I really pressed. You could not make a better match.'

  Meg stared at her in consternation. "That man's a total fool.'

  'Of course he is. But quite good looking, and heir to a title. Oh, if one must marry a man, one is sure to marry a fool; and if one must marry a fool, why then, a noble fool is better than a common one.'

  'But ... will he agree to leave England and return to Jamaica? And change his name to Hilton?'

  'Well, as to that, there is no reason at all why we should not treat Hilltop as a holiday home; the plantation can be managed by an attorney. The Claymonds have a castle in Scotland, I believe. As for the name, well...' Oriole smiled. 'I think even a Hilton could bend her principles a little, to become Lady Claymond. Don't you agree?'

  The music ballooned across the great ballroom at Beltney House, reverberated from the high ceiling, echoed around the minstrel gallery where the orchestra was situated, escaped through the half-opened windows to billow across Beltney Park and no doubt scatter the deer which browsed over those endless green pastures.

  Although no doubt, Meg thought, as she was whirled round and round to the strains of the waltz, the deer were by now become used to it. She doubted she ever would. The strange contrast of heat and cold, for example. It was, as usual, drizzling outside, and the slight breeze was chill, as would be the corridors of this very ancient pile; but the ballroom was overheated, at once by the roaring fires at each end and by the hundred or so sweating bodies.

  The contrasts seemed accentuated by her clothes. Oriole had done her really proud for this extra special occasion, and her dress was of cream satin with tinted floral designs, topped by thick deep crimson velvet also at her waist and trimming her hem. Where the sleeves ended at her elbow her white gloves began, leaving not an inch of flesh showing on her arms, and causing her fingers to be bathed in sweat. But the gown ended just above her breasts, exposing her shoulders and neck, and freezing whenever she passed a window. She was not even protected by her chestnut hair, which had been carefully massed on top of her head and held in position, as well as decorated, by an aigrette surrounded by flowers.

  She had, in fact, a mortal fear of incurring another attack of pneumonia; she remembered last winter as quite the most ghastly experience of her life, and from all the signs they would soon be lost in winter again.

  But at least, she reflected, she had the compensation of being by some way the most beautiful girl in the room, her natural voluptuousness and rich colour accentuated by the black velvet band round her neck from which was suspended a gold locket. This was at present empty but it was the first real jewellery she had ever owned. When she had descended the stairs this evening all conversation had stopped as every head had turned to look at her, and the heads were still turning, at least from the male half of every couple who whirled by. While Tommy had a fixed but entirely genuine smile on his face as he danced with her, and she had danced with no one else; he had filled her entire programme.

  The music stopped. 'Champagne?'

  'That sounds delightful. Do you think we could sit down, just for five minutes? My legs are quite dead.'

  He goggled at her for a moment, and too late she remembered Oriole's stricture never to mention legs.

  'Champagne,' he said again. 'And then we shall find you a seat, what?'

  He escorted her from the floor, and then bustled out of the room in the direction of the dining room, where the drinks were being served. She supposed she should wait where she was; tired as she was. There was little risk of having to engage in any more conversation. Moira Andrews might be kindness itself - she was, after all, an American, and was regarded as little better than a colonial herself by such as the Claymonds, although they were happy enough to enjoy her hospitality - but the remainder of her female guests only spoke to 'the Jamaican', as she was called, when they absolutely had to, and the rest of the male guests seemed to regard her as Tommy Claymond's private property, and would not encroach.

  Which was a pity, because some of them were quite handsome, and she was more lonely than ever, as she and Oriole had naturally been given separate rooms, and indeed on this weekend Oriole had been rather aloof, not wishing to get in the way of the obviously lovesick young man.

  But here she was, looking delightful in pale green, and having just shed her partner, also apparently on the champagne trail.

  'Really, my darling,' she said softly. 'You must not just stand about in doorways. It is terribly gauche. Where is Thomas?'

  'Fetching me something to drink, I believe.'

  'Ah. Well, then, shall we sit down?' Her eagle eye had spotted an empty sofa, and towards this she guided Meg, smiling at everyone they passed, flicking her fan to and fro.

  'What a boring lot,' Meg commented.

  'Oh, do keep your voice down,' Oriole begged, seating herself and arranging her skirts. 'No doubt there is no one here who has seen as much of life as you ...' She shot a sideways glance; she had never entirely forgiven Meg for that night in the mountains. 'But you should be sorry for them, rather than critical. And you will not find better society. No indeed. Why, when you are married to Tommy, these will be all your friends.'

  'When I am ... I have no intention of marrying such a stuffed shirt.'

  'Oh, Meg, you aren't going to be difficult, I hope. You will never find a better match, no matter how hard I try. I really do recommend him. I insist upon it.' She arranged her face into a smile. 'Why, Mr Claymond, how handsome you look tonight.'

  'Do I? Oh, I say, Mrs Paterson.' Tommy Claymond blushed scarlet and obviously was desperate to smooth his moustache, an impossible task as he was carrying a glass of champagne in either hand. 'I say, you have no glass.'

  'Here is mine now,' Oriole said, smiling at her late dancing partner. 'Where are you taking my little cousin?'

  'Ah... ah ...' Claymond flushed some more, and looked at Meg. ‘I thought perhaps a brief stroll. On the terrace. Deuced warm in here, what?'

  'What a splendid idea,' Oriole said. 'And Arthur can sit down and tell me all about his coal mines. I do adore coal mines. It is my greatest ambition to descend one. Margaret?'

  Meg stifled a sigh, and stood up. And drank some champagne, and felt better.

  'What a delightful person is your cousin,' Tommy remarked, as they crossed the floor, followed by every gaze, as Meg could tell without even turning her head. 'So ... so ... well...'

  'Delightful ?' Meg suggested.

  'Oh, quite. Just the word I was thinking of.' He opened the glass doors leading to the terrace. 'It'll be cool out here.'

  'It's raining,' Meg pointed out.

  'Is it? My word, so it is. Ghastly climate, what? Not the least like your Jamaica, I'll wager.' He remained standing just outside the door.

  'You don't really expect me to walk with you in the rain ?' Meg inquired.

  'Oh, no, no, Miss Hilton. But the ah... fact is, I wonder if you would brave the rain to the next doorway ?' 'Whatever for?'

  Tommy finished his champagne and pulled his moustache. 'Well, ah ... you see, we ...
I, I should say, would look such a fool, leading you back across the floor, having led you across the floor in this direction, if you follow me. The fact is ... ah ... my mother and sister consider me a fool in any event.' He paused. Tow don't suppose I'm a fool, Miss Hilton?'

  'Of course I don't, Mr Claymond. And I should be happy to walk with you to the next doorway.' She stepped outside, and the drizzle began to settle on her hair and shoulders.

  'Oh, you are a sport. I knew it the first time I saw you, that you would be a sport, Miss Hilton. So few girls are.' He closed the doors behind them. 'That will give them something to talk about.'

  'I think we should run to the next doorway,' Meg suggested, setting off at a trot, gathering her skirts in one hand and preserving her half-empty glass, precariously, with the other.

  'Oh I say, what fun,' Tommy gasped, running beside her. 'You are a sport, Miss Hilton, I say, do you mind if I call you Margaret?'

  Meg reached the shelter of the little porch over one of the side doors into the house. 'I'd prefer it if you'd call me Meg.'

  'Oh, I say, could I ? That would be smashing.' He reached past her, allowing his arm to brush her shoulder. 'Bother. This is locked.'

  Meg sighed. She was feeling distinctly cold, and she suspected her damp hair was about to come down. 'Isn't there a bell?'

  'Well, there is, don't you know. But I'd rather not pull it. It would make me ...' 'Look such a fool,' she agreed. 'But if you don't pull it,

  Mr Claymond, we are both going to catch our death of cold.'

  ‘I say, look here, I do wish you'd call me Tommy. I mean, what, if I'm to call you Meg, don't you think ...'

  'I shall be pleased to call you Tommy, Tommy, if you will only pull that bell.'

  'Ah. Yes, I suppose I will... hello, it's opening.'

  One of the butlers peered out. 'Mr Claymond? Miss Hilton? It is raining.'

  'We have discovered that,' Meg said, pushing past him into the warmth of the hallway.

  'Oh, indeed,' Tommy agreed. 'Glad you came along, what ? Or I would have had to pull the jolly old bell, what ? Cause a disturbance, what?'

  'Indeed, sir,' the butler agreed gravely. 'Is there anything I can get you, sir? And the young lady?'

  'Yes,' Meg said. She was suddenly aware of a growing sense of desperation. The past five minutes had been the first time she had ever been utterly alone with Tommy; and it had only been five minutes. 'Another glass of champagne.'

  'I say, what a splendid idea,' Tommy said. 'I'll have one too. No, no. I say, my good fellow, make it a bottle, eh? On a tray.'

  'Yes, sir, Mr Claymond. To the ballroom?'

  'Ah ...' Tommy flushed to his ears. 'To the billiards room, what?'

  'Yes, sir.' The butler gave a shallow bow, and returned along the corridor.

  'The billiards room ?' Meg demanded.

  'Splendid game, what? Have you ever seen it?'

  'We have a billiards table at my home, Hilltop, in Jamaica,' Meg pointed out. She could not honestly claim ever to have seen the game played.

  'Of course you have,' Tommy agreed, touching her elbow to turn her along the hall. 'Big place, Hilltop. So I've been told.'

  'As big as this,' Meg said, not quite truthfully on this occasion. 'But I've never actually played. And listen, the music is starting again.'

  'Oh, you don't really want to do any more dancing, do you, Meg? I mean, dash it all, we've been doing it for hours. And you just said your ... ah ... limbs were very tired.' He entered another of his scarlet flushes. "The fact is, I... ah ... have something I would like to say to you.'

  Oh, my God, she thought. He can't mean it.

  But they were already at the door to the billiards room, and he was pushing it open.

  'Warm in here, what?' he said. 'Cosy.'

  The drapes were drawn and a fire blazed in the hearth. There were actually two billiards tables, occupying the centre of the carpeted room; the only other furniture, apart from the stands for the cues, were two settees against the far wall, with a table between.

  'You will have to show me,' she said.

  'Show you? Ah, I see what you mean. Must be active when that butler fellow comes back, eh?' He felt in the pockets, located three balls. 'It's very simple, really, you just, ah, knock the balls about, don't you know. Put them in the pockets. Oh, they must hit each other, of course. That's called a cannon.'

  'Sounds fascinating,' she said.

  'Oh, it is. It is. I play billiards for hours, sometimes. I say ...' He turned at the knock. 'Yes?'

  The butler arrived with his tray and his bottles, placed them on the table, and withdrew. Tommy Claymond followed him across the room and made sure the door was properly closed; for a terrifying moment she thought he was going to lock it, but he apparently decided against it.

  Not that it mattered, she supposed. He was definitely about to propose. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, she thought. I don't want to many him. I can think of nothing more terrifying. I don't want to be called Lady Claymond. I don't want to live in a great draughty house like this - from all she had heard castles were considerably worse - in such an appalling climate, being forced to spend my entire life either hitting little balls or watching other people hit them.

  But how to refuse him? Far more important, how to convince Oriole that she had done the right thing? Oriole would be furious.

  'Champagne?' Tommy poured industriously, and still managed to slop some on the floor. His fingers brushed her gloves as he handed her the glass. 'Well ... what, eh? Here's to ... to ... well, us ?'

  She sipped, then changed her mind and drank the entire glass. She had not been drunk since that night in the mountains. Oh, my God, she thought, that night in the mountains. Suppose she were to tell him about that? But he might become all gallant and insist upon marrying her anyway. And in any event, if she did that, Oriole would kill her.

  'Shall we sit down ?' He escorted her to the settee, and she fell backwards. 'Oh, I say,' he said. 'Are you all right?'

  'I think I'd like another glass of champagne,' she said.

  'Oh, I say, would you ?' He bent over the table.

  But there were other things to which he could not possibly agree. Oh, Oriole would still be angry ... but then, Oriole need never know.

  'Here we are.' He gave her the glass, sat beside her, and then got up again. The sofa bounced, and Meg found herself rising and falling. 'Oh, do forgive me,' he said. 'The fact is ... well ... do you know, you are such a sport, Meg. I mean, you come to all the cricket matches, and you aren't afraid of the weather, and you're from Jamaica, too, such an exciting place. Of course, you know, dear Mums says it's not quite right, but I say, what, a chap has to make up his own mind, what?'

  Meg drank champagne. It was necessary to choose her moment with great care.

  'So what I mean is,' Tommy said, taking a brief turn up and down the carpet in front of her. 'I mean, what, we haven't known each other all that long, Meg, but I know all about you that I wish to, and me, well, there really isn't much to me. What I mean is, not much to know that you can't see, what? No deep waters and that sort of thing.' He peered at her, and she held up her glass. 'Another? Right ho.' He paused, and as an afterthought refilled his own. The couch resumed its pleasant undulation, which she found strange, because he hadn't sat down recently.

  'So you see what I'm driving at,' he said, handing her the glass.

  He was obviously never going to say it himself, and she was getting sleepy. 'You wish me to marry you,' she said.

  He frowned, and his jaw dropped, and then slowly closed again. 'Well ... yes, I suppose I do. I say ...' He sat beside her, and the ensuing upheaval caused her to spill her drink. ‘I say, I'm most awfully sorry. But really, Meg, would you ? I say, I do ... ah ... love you most awfully.'

  'I don't know,' she said.

  'Eh? Oh, of course, if you wish to think it over, of course, take all the time you wish. Oh, yes, indeed.'

  'It's not that,' Meg said, speaking very slowly and carefully. 'It's ..
. well, you see, I am the very last Hilton.'

  'Oh, I say, are you? I say, that's dashed awkward.' He hesitated, frowning. 'Is it ?'

  'It could be. My family has lived in the West Indies for two hundred and fifty years, and most of that time we have owned and operated our own plantations. There has always been a Hilton on Hilltop.'

  'Ah. I see what you mean.'

  'When Papa dies,' Meg said, 'it will be up to me.' She gazed at him.

  'Oh, I say, how terribly romantic. Oh, indeed, I think that's a marvellous idea. Oh, yes. Do you know, I've always fancied myself as a planter. Riding a horse, what, swishing the old machete.'

  'It's the labourers who carry machetes,' Meg said crossly.

  'Well, whatever it is I would swish. Oh, I think that is a first-rate idea. Yes, indeed.'

  'Your parents would never agree,' Meg pointed out. 'Ah ... another glass ?' She held hers out

  'The fact is, Meg, the pater has always said it would do me the world of good to get out in the colonies and try some real work. Why, do you know, he nearly packed me off five years ago. New Zealand, actually, not the West Indies. The mater stopped him.'

  'Well, then ...'

  He handed her the refilled glass. 'Oh, she'd come round. She always does.' He brushed his glass against hers. 'Here's to the sugar. And the bananas, of course. Your cousin was telling me all about the bananas.'

  Meg sucked air into her lungs, noisily. 'It really isn't as simple as that. I said I was the last Hilton. The name is as important as the plantations. There has always been a Hilton in the West Indies. There must always be a Hilton in Jamaica.'

  'Ah.' Tommy drank some champagne. 'Bit of a problem, what? I suppose I could change my name.' 'Eh?'

  'Simple business, really. Deed poll and that sort of thing, what?' 'But it would mean ...'

  'Renouncing the title? Ah, well ... do you know, I've always wanted to do that. Let's face it, the Claymonds haven't all been saints. No, no. There's bad blood.'

  'There is bad blood in the Hiltons.'

  'Bad blood everywhere,' he said with a bright smile. 'But, oh yes, it could be done.'

  He took their glasses to refill, while Meg stared at him. Oh, my God, she thought. Oh, my God. But he had to be discouraged. Any way. And she was going to hate herself tomorrow, because he was really being an absolute gentleman and a faithful lover. But marriage between Meg Hilton and Tommy Claymond could only be the most utter disaster.