Sunset

by Christopher Nicole

  He stood in front of her, held out her glass. 'It shall be done, by Jove.'

  Meg inhaled. It had to be done now, or she would be lost. But in any event, now the idea had actually entered her mind, she could feel the sex urge swelling in her belly, as it had done during the dance in the mountains, as it did when Oriole's fingers stroked her flesh. My God, she thought, perhaps I was bewitched.

  'So,' he said. 'Will... ah ... you marry me, Meg?'

  Meg's nostrils dilated, and she could hear her breath searing. 'You must undress first.'

  He stared at her, his mouth open.

  'Just your pants,' she said. 'I couldn't possibly marry a man until I've seen the size of his rod. After all, it's the most important thing in a marriage, isn't it?' Was it really Meg Hilton speaking? Her voice sounded absolutely normal, quite matter of fact.

  Tommy Claymond stared at her for a few seconds longer. I've done it, she thought. He'll never want to speak to me again.

  'Do you know,' he said at last, 'that is a quite remarkable idea. But very good sense. You'd never find an English girl to say it, of course. They all pretend it doesn't exist, even after they're married, I believe. But you ... Meg, my dear girl, I knew you were a sport the moment I saw you. We are going to have such fun together.' He was taking off his jacket and waistcoat, releasing his braces. Meg sat absolutely still, knees clamped together, rigid with horror. It could not be happening.

  But it was. The dress trousers settled about his ankles to reveal a ridiculously long pair of white woollen drawers, from beneath which somewhat muscular legs were encased in black suspenders and black silk stockings.

  Now he hesitated. ‘I'm afraid ... well, have you seen many ... ah ... rods?'

  Meg licked her lips.

  'Because, you see ... ah ... I don't suppose mine is very ... ah ... large.'

  Meg stared at him. His fingers tugged at the waistband, and the drawers settled around his ankles. Meg gasped in horror; she had never actually seen a white penis before; that night in the mountains they had all been black, and hard, and demanding, at once to touch and to be touched. Tommy Claymond was absolutely flaccid. The word rod did not come into it at all.

  'It ... ah ... I'm trembling like a jelly,' he confessed. 'Nerves, you know, what? It ... it will do better, I mean, what, perhaps if you were to show me ... well, I suppose I've a right to ask, what?'

  As if she were in a dream, Meg slowly rose to her feet and lifted her skirts.

  'You'll have to take my drawers down for me,' she whispered.

  'Oh, I say, what? That'll do the trick, what?'

  He knelt before her, and she closed her eyes, and opened them again as she heard the door.

  Tommy? Whatever are you doing?’

  Honor Claymond was accompanied by half a dozen young men and women.

  Tommy?' she cried again, her voice rising an octave. For Meg had released her skirts and his head was buried underneath the folds of material.

  Meg stared at them in utter horror, her brain seeming to close. And then it opened again, and she was able to see with frightful clarity, to realize just what had happened to her over this last year, just what was going to go on happening to her if she did not end it, now.

  'Why, Honor,' she said. 'It's quite all right, really. I asked him to. I mean to say, we had to see what each other looks like before we could possibly consider marrying.'

  'I really do not know what to say. I really do not know what to say.' Oriole sat up in bed, an ice pack on her head, but she still shouted. She had shouted all the way back from Beltney. 'Are you mad ? Are you just depraved ? Is there some streak of vicious vulgarity in you that makes you act the whore?'

  Meg continued to dress, without replying. It was in any event early in the morning - they had regained London the previous night - and the house was cold.

  'Ruined,' Oriole said. 'We are quite ruined. I doubt we shall be able to show our faces in polite society again. I doubt we shall ever be invited anywhere again. Doubt? What am I saying? Of course we will not be invited anywhere again.'

  Meg smoothed her petticoats, stepped into her favourite crimson gown.

  'And do not suppose that young man will come to your rescue. He has been packed off to Scotland. Poor boy. He will never be the same again. They are saying he was drunk. What were you?'

  Meg put on her green velvet jacket. ‘I was also drunk, I suppose,' she said. 'I only knew I had to put him off. But he was very difficult.'

  'Put him off?' Oriole's voice was slowly rising. 'The most perfect match you could ever dream of making?'

  Meg faced the bed. 'I disagree with you entirely. I tried to tell you that before. If you had not pushed the matter so hard it could never have reached such a stage. Oh, he is a pleasant young man and an utter gentleman. But he is not going to be my husband. I propose to marry a man'

  'Meg, my darling.' Oriole's tone softened. 'Forgive me for being angry. Although you deserved it. Of course I know why you didn't wish to marry him. Because of your love for me. But how often have I told you, you have got to marry someone, some time. You have got to have children, to carry on the Hilton name, the Hilton tradition. Don't you understand that? And it will make no difference to you and me. Or very little difference. Really.'

  Meg stared at her. But this one came easier; no doubt she was gaining practise at destroying people.

  'I did not refuse him because of my love for you, Oriole,' she said, speaking very evenly. 'My love for you is something horrible, something obscene. It is nearly as obscene as your love for me.'

  'Meg?' Oriole seemed utterly bewildered.

  'You came into my life,' Meg said, 'of your own free will. You elected to see to my upbringing. It was the things you taught me that sent me into the mountains that night. Then you chose to seduce me. Then you chose to inflict upon me some quite unsuitable match. I'll have none of it. I'll have none of you any more. You keep reminding me that I am a Hilton, the last Hilton, that I bear the name of Marguerite Hilton, the greatest Hilton woman. Well, then, you watch me begin to act like her.'

  She turned away, checked her reticule; she had secreted a spare pair of drawers and a spare pair of stockings while Oriole was asleep, as well as a spare gown, very crushed.

  'Meg? Meg? Where are you going?'

  'Out,' Meg said. 'For a walk.'

  'Meg. You come back here. Oh, when you come back...'

  Meg closed the bedroom door. Presumably she was being very foolish. But it was the only thing to do. And it was something she should have done very long ago. She should never have left Jamaica at all. But this time last year she had been a child. Now she was a woman.

  If only she was a woman in the eyes of the law. Then she need endure none of this subterfuge.

  'Is that you, Meg?'

  Great Uncle Tom, already awake and downstairs in the parlour with his newspaper, for all his sixty-two years.

  'Yes, Uncle Tom. Just out for a walk.'

  'Ah, nothing like it, a walk in the early morning. If you'll wait a moment I'll come with you.'

  'No, thank you very much, Uncle Tom,' she said. 'I... I feel like walking alone.'

  He made no reply. But he was at least aware of the crisis, even if he might not yet know the details. Although according to Oriole the details would be known to everyone in London by lunchtime.

  And presumably she would not see him again. But now was no time for sentiment.

  She had sufficient pocket money in her purse to hire a hansom, once she was safely out of sight of the house. 'The docks?' inquired the cabbie, looking her up and down. 'Now, what would a pretty girl like you want with the docks ?'

  She had already decided her best course. 'I'm to meet my father, from Jamaica. He's due in today.'

  'Ah, well, you'll want the West India docks, eh? It's a long drive, mind.'

  'I don't mind,' she said, and settled herself back on the cushions. Her last look at London Town, and surprisingly, in this very wet summer, the sun was shining and it was qui
te warm. Perhaps she would return, one day, when she was the Hilton. Then people could say what they liked, and she would not care.

  Supposing she cared now.

  'Here we are.' The hansom had turned through the gates and she was surrounded by enormous piles of sugar bags emanating a sickly sweet smell, by stevedores, exuding sweat and energy, by seamen leaving their ships for a spell ashore, by small boys looking for tips. 'You've the name of the ship?'

  'I'll find it,' she said, and stepped down.

  The cabbie scratched his head. 'This is a rough crowd, missie. You're sure you'll be all right?'

  'Of course I'll be all right,' she said. 'How much?'

  'Well ... seeing as how it's you, missie, a guinea will cover it'

  'A guinea ?' It seemed an awfully large amount of money, and left her with just three shillings. But that really didn't concern her at this moment. She was Margaret Hilton. She must remember that, now and always. 'Here we are. And thank you.' She adjusted her turban, and made her way through the staring men, trying not to listen to their ribald remarks, reached the dockside itself, stared at the first steamer, towering above her.

  'Looking for someone, miss?' The policeman gave her a benevolent smile.

  'Oh, yes,' she said, trying to control her breathing. 'There's a ship leaving for Jamaica today.' She bit her lip, to stop herself trembling. 'Isn't there ?'

  'That'll be the Queen Meg,' he said. 'Just over there.'

  The Queen Meg,' she cried. What a happy omen. 'Yes, yes, that's the one.'

  'Seeing someone off, are you, miss?' The constable fell in at her side.

  'Oh, no,' she said. 'I'm sailing in her. My ... my baggage has already gone on board.'

  'Then you'd better hurry,' he recommended. 'She has steam up.'

  'Oh, dear.' Meg gathered her skirts, chased along the dock, the policeman clearing people out of the way, arrived at the gangway to which sailors were already attaching lines for taking it up. Here there was quite a crowd, waving scarves and handkerchiefs, and weeping and cheering.

  'Way there, make way,' shouted the constable.

  Meg clung to the rope rail, climbed the steep accommodation ladder.

  'Yes, miss ?' An officer stood at the top.

  'I'm Margaret Hilton,' she said. 'Of Hilltop.'

  'Yes ?' he inquired politely.

  'Well...' The policeman had remained at the foot of the gangway, but he was still there. 'May I see the captain, please ?'

  'The captain? My dear Miss Hilton, this ship is about to sail. The captain is on the bridge.' 'You don't understand,' she explained desperately. 'I am

  Margaret Hilton. Doesn't that name mean anything to you? Of Hilltop?'

  'Ah ... your family plant, I believe.'

  'My family plant ?' she cried. 'My family are the biggest planters in the West Indies. Oh, you don't understand. I must see the captain.'

  'Now then, Mr Darling, what seems to be the trouble ?'

  'This young lady ...'

  Meg pushed him aside to gain the obviously senior officer; he had two stripes on his blue sleeve. 'Are you the captain ?'

  'No, no, miss. I am the first officer. I'm afraid I must ask you to leave the ship, as we are about to sail.'

  'I want to go with you,' Meg said. 'I want a passage to Kingston.'

  'My word,' said the officer. 'You mean you're a passenger?'

  ‘I want to be a passenger,' Meg said desperately. 'Listen, I am Margaret Hilton, of Plantation Hilltop in Jamaica. My father is Anthony Hilton. He is a member of the Jamaica House of Assembly.'

  'I have heard of Mr Hilton, indeed I have. But do you mean you don't have a cabin booked ?' He looked past her. 'Where is your baggage?'

  Meg sighed with impatience. 'I don't have any baggage. I don't have any money. But I must get back to Jamaica. It is terribly important. If you will give me a cabin, my father will pay you when we reach Kingston.'

  'My dear young lady,' the mate said, 'that is not the way we do things. Oh, indeed, that is not the way we do things at all. Do you know what I think, I think you are attempting to practise some fraud here. You are absconding from somewhere. Oh, yes, indeed. Ah, constable ...'

  The policeman had finally decided to climb the gangway to discover for himself what all the fuss was about.

  'This young lady needs to be returned to her home, I suspect,' the first officer said.

  Meg glared at him for a moment in impotent rage. But her belly was filling with lead. She was not going to succeed. Once again Oriole had been wrong in her estimation of the magic of the Hilton name. It might have had everyone bowing and scraping in 1788, but not in 1888. And what Oriole would say when she was returned by a policeman, with a tale of how she had attempted to run away ... what Oriole would do, in fact.

  'Now then, miss,' the policeman said. 'I think you had better come along with me, back to the station, and there we can talk this whole thing over.'

  Meg turned, kicked him on the ankle. He gave a grunt of pain and stooped, lifting his leg to rub the injured spot, and Meg pushed him while he was off balance. He fell over, cannoning into the young officer by the gangway. The sailor waiting there goggled at her as she gathered her skirts, jumped over the fallen men, and reached the top. Then he made an abortive grab, but Meg swung her reticule and caught him across the face, sending him tripping over the constable who was at that moment attempting to get up.

  They went sprawling again, and Meg was running down the gangway.

  'Stop her,' bawled the first officer, running to the rail. But the crowd seemed more amused than alarmed.

  'Let me through,' Meg screamed, and they willingly parted. She reached open space, looked left and right, and darted behind a pile of sugar bags. But of course they were going to catch her, she supposed. She ran as hard as she could for the next shelter, the doors of a warehouse, panting now, boots slipping on the wooden dock, hearing the shouts from behind her, raced into the warehouse and turned blindly to her right, seeking shelter, and ran full tilt into a tall young man.

  'Easy now,' he said. 'Easy. Why, my God. Meg Hilton?'

  Meg's head went back, and she stared at Alan McAvoy.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE REUNION

  'ALAN,' she cried, throwing both arms around his neck. 'Alan?'

  Because he had changed. It was hard to reconcile this big, broad-shouldered man with the heavy moustache and the mahogany tan and the confident manner and the twinkling eyes with the boy in whose company she had raced to the Grandstand.

  'Himself,' he said, apparently remembering their respective positions. His hands, which for a moment had closed on her shoulder blades, now hastily fell to his side.

  'Alan,' she said again, and listened to the clamour behind her. 'Oh, my God. Help me, Alan. Hide me.'

  He scarcely seemed to hesitate a moment, gathered her in the crook of one powerful arm, carried her a few feet, and deposited her in a narrow space between two enormous piles of sugar bags. 'Don't move,' he said, stepping away from her, and taking a cheroot from his pocket. This he proceeded to light, providing ample reason for him to have stopped.

  'You there,' bawled the policeman. 'Have you seen a young woman, in red with a green coat?'

  'No,' he said, and puffed smoke.

  'She came in this warehouse,' said another voice. 'I'd bet on it.'

  'Not within the last five minutes,' Alan said, walking slowly away from Meg's hiding place. 'I would have seen her.'

  'Well,' said the policeman, doubtfully. 'If you didn't see her, sir ...' He had apparently identified Alan as wearing an officer's uniform, a fact which was only just dawning on Meg.

  '1 haven't,' Alan said brusquely. 'Now be off with you, and let a fellow smoke in peace. What's the girl done ?'

  'Well, sir,' the policeman said, 'I don't rightly know. Trying to stow away, she was, as near as I can see. Well-bred, sir, almost a lady. But acting very strange. And when we tried to question her, why it was up skirts and away.'

  'Then you'd
better find her,' Alan recommended. 'No doubt she has just murdered her lover.'

  'My word, sir, perish the thought. Come on, lads. The gentleman is right. We'd best make haste.'

  Meg leaned against the sugar bats; her knees felt they could no longer support her. Was he coming back? She raised her head, and there he was.

  'Almost a lady?'

  'Well...'

  'Trying to stow away? You'll have to explain.' She grasped his arm, drew him into the recess. 'I will. When I'm safe. Listen, I have got to get back to Jamaica.' 'Don't you like England ?'

  'I will explain, Alan. Really and truly. But right now I have got to get on a ship. And...' She hesitated. 'I haven't any money. Well, three shillings.'

  His forehead creased in a frown.

  She chewed her lip. 'It's my cousin, Oriole. She dragged me away ... well, you heard ...'

  'A little,' he said.

  Was his voice cold ? She couldn't be sure. 'She wants to marry me off, to some ridiculous Englishman,' she said. 'I don't want to marry an Englishman, Alan. Not one of these, I mean. But it's going to happen. I must get back. And now. If she finds out what I've tried to do she'll... she'll lock me up.'

  'I've heard some strange stories in my time,' Alan said, slowly disentangling himself. 'But this beats all. You're Meg Hilton. Have you forgotten that?'

  'I'm not allowed to forget it in my sleep,' she said. 'But I'm Oriole's idea of Meg Hilton. And Papa made her virtually my guardian. She can do what she likes, and I must do what she likes. Alan, I can't stand it any more. I'm going mad.'

  'If she is your guardian,' he pointed out, 'she'll have the right to send behind you and have you returned no matter where you go.'

  'Not if I can get back to Papa.'

  'Why don't you write to him ?'

  Oh, damn you for a clear-thinking scoundrel, she thought. 'Because ... because it's a difficult thing to put into letters, especially when he's getting them from her as well. Anyway, you know he never reads letters. But if I could just see him, talk with him ... Alan.' She seized his arm again. 'You're off a ship. You trade with Jamaica, don't you."