Sunset

by Christopher Nicole

  'Of course I do.'

  She licked her lips. 'Well, then ...'

  'But this isn't a passenger liner, Meg. Not even a steamer. To use my mate's ticket I have to berth on a windjammer.'

  'Don't you carry any passengers?'

  'Oh, half a dozen. But these are friends of the owners, mostly, or supernumeraries travelling on company business. Not unattached young girls. The captain would never agree.'

  'Don't you like me even a little?' she asked, holding his other sleeve and allowing her body to move against his.

  'Like you, Meg? Like you? Why ...'

  His mouth was open, searching for words. She stood on tiptoe - he had grown - and kissed him, thrusting her tongue inside to find his as Oriole had taught her.

  For a moment he seemed paralysed with surprise, then his hands rested on her shoulders, and his tongue came looking for hers, and she felt his fingers slipping down her back until they encountered her bustle, checking there in dismay. She wriggled her bottom and they slipped over, closing gently on her flesh, and she felt she could stand there for ever.

  His mouth slipped from hers, and he pressed his cheek against her ear. 'Oh, Meg, Meg, how I have dreamed about you.'

  'I have dreamed about you too,' she whispered. 'Take me with you, Alan. If you don't, you'll never see me again, I know it.'

  He squeezed her so tightly her breath was lost. There was so much she must teach him, she thought, about the art of making love. So much there would be a pleasure to teach him.

  And perhaps, after two years at sea, he would have something to teach her as well.

  She got her hands between them, pushed him an inch away. 'Will you, Alan? Will you?'

  'Aye, well ... Margaret Hilton. Play on that. But leave the talking to me. The old man is a sentimental chap, and much overawed by money. Leave the talking to me.' He squeezed her again. 'Anyway, he's sure to fall in love with you himself.'

  'Harrumph,' remarked Captain Weston, glaring the length of the table. 'Harrumph.'

  His four officers and the two other passengers, one a company official and the other an overseer on his way to join a Jamaica plantation, looked suitably respectful. Meg went on smoothing the skirt of her blue gown, beneath the table. She had already formulated a dress plan; she would spend her days in her cabin, and alternate her two gowns at dinner. After all, the voyage should only take about a fortnight, even in this old tub. And it was certainly a tub, a three-masted barquentine already curtsying to the swell, and they had only just cast off their tug, were in fact still in the Thames Estuary. Perhaps, she thought, she would not have to pretend to stay in her cabin; no doubt she would suffer from sea-sickness.

  But the captain was the one to be humoured. He could still change his mind and set her ashore in Southampton or some such place.

  'Believe me, Captain Weston,' she said. 'My father will be eternally grateful to you.'

  'If he's able, eh? If he's able? Sick, you say, eh? Sick? And this tyrant of a cousin would not let you return to his side? By God ... if you'll pardon the expression, Miss Hilton ... I'd not credit there were people that hard in the world. Indeed I would not.' Once again his glare swept the table, daring any man to argue with him. His officers nodded, and murmured their assent. 'And trying to force you into an unwelcome marriage on top, why, Miss Hilton, I declare, 'tis downright indecent. That it is.' 'I was desperate,' Meg confessed. 'And so you should be. Oh, yes, indeed, we'll see you back to your father, safe and sound. But you'll understand there are difficulties. Aye, difficulties. Women, ladies, why, Miss Hilton, this vessel was not built for them. There's not been a lady at this table since the last voyage of my wife, God bless here ...' Once again the glare.

  'God bless her,' agreed the ship's officers. Meg dared not attempt to meet Alan's eye; he had taken enough of a risk in introducing her in the first place, and they'd be sure to laugh.

  'And she,' said Captain Weston, 'was an old hand at roughing it. But a young girl, now, and a Hilton, I can do no more than apologize, Miss Hilton, and there's a fact.'

  'My cabin is perfectly adequate, Captain Weston,' she insisted.

  'Aye, well, there are no facilities, you'll understand.' He flushed, and renewed the glare. 'I shall manage, Captain.'

  'Aye, well, my steward here, Bowman ... Bowman, are you listening?' Bowman was serving wine. 'Yes, sir, Captain Weston.'

  'Aye, well, you'd better. You'll ah... see to Miss Hilton's requirements, as and when she requires them seeing to. You understand me, Bowman?'

  'Aye, aye, Captain. You have but to call, Miss Hilton. I'm just down the companion.'

  'Thank you, Mr Bowman.'

  'But there's more to it than that,' Captain Weston growled, half to himself. 'A seventeen-year-old girl...'

  'I shall be eighteen in less than six months.'

  'No better. No better. Alone, with no other female companionship ...' He glared. 'I'll have no flirtations. Not one.'

  Meg felt her cheeks burning. 'Oh, I ... I'm sure your officers are all perfect gentlemen, Captain.'

  'Aye, well, they'd better be. Because there will be talk, Miss Hilton. Oh, yes, there will be talk. Not to put too fine a point upon it, there will be scandal. Oh, yes, there will be scandal. Your being here at all, is what I'm driving at. So the best we can do is find ourselves able to look any man, or any woman, in the eye and say, lies, lies, all lies. You understand me, Miss Hilton?'

  'Of course, Captain Weston. I think you are absolutely right.'

  'Right. Aye, well. That is what we're after, Miss Hilton. To do the right thing. By you, by us, by everyone. Aye.' He heaved himself to his feet. 'You'll excuse me. These are busy waters and the wind is changing. Mr Colt, you'll accompany me to the bridge. Goodnight, Miss Hilton. Goodnight.'

  'May I take a last look at England, Captain?'

  'Of course you may, Miss Hilton. But my word, it won't be your last. No, sir. England will be there or thereabouts for two or three days as we beat down Channel. Goodnight to you.'

  How memory came flooding back. Oriole had used those very words, about Jamaica, not quite a year ago. And then had taken her down to the privacy of their cabin, and there ... she felt the sex excitement swirling in her belly. It was never very far away, had never been very far away since that night in the mountains, had never needed to be very far away, because Oriole had never been very far away, and once Oriole had succumbed to her secret passion she had clearly felt a similar excitement on a similar continuous scale.

  But Oriole was now gone, for ever, and there could be no more women. She was certain of that. Because, in the deep pit of her belly, it disgusted her? Because of the civilization to which she belonged? Because having known the rod, all other forms of love making could only be pale imitations?

  Or very simply because she had encountered Alan again?

  He was holding her chair for her, while the other officers waited, obviously interested. But they were old friends, who had known each other from birth. Otherwise she had not been here at all. So surely they could exchange a word.

  'Will you walk with me on deck for a moment, Alan?' she asked. 'I have not had an opportunity properly to thank you for acting as my ambassador with your captain.'

  'I... ah . ..' He glanced at his fellow officers. ‘I must get changed, Miss Hilton,' he explained. 'I'm due on watch in an hour.'

  'Perhaps some other time,' she said, getting some chill into her tone. She buttoned her jacket, stepped through the doorway and up the companion ladder, to emerge onto the quarterdeck and hastily reach up to clamp her turban on her head. The wind had indeed freshened, and changed direction, and the Wanderer was lying over and making full speed under all canvas, with spray clouding over the bows, and the waves bubbling away from the quarter. England was a green blaze on the starboard beam, bright in the August evening sunlight.

  And Oriole would be scouring London, calling upon the police to help her discover her disappeared cousin.

  Who was preparing to be miserable? She had nev
er known the rod, there was the trouble. She had only held it, and dreamed of it. And foolishly, over this past twenty-four hours, supposed she was going to have the opportunity again.

  The wind was cold. She crossed the deck, uncertainly, gave a hasty smile to the officer of the watch - the captain was in the chart house - and descended the companion ladder into the comparative warmth of the cabin.

  'Good night for bed, miss.' Bowman held the door for her.

  'I shall sleep sound,' she agreed. He had already lit her lantern and attached it from its hook in the deck beam; from its angle and from its swing she could tell what sea conditions were like; rough and getting rougher.

  And she had no nightdress. That had not occurred to her before. Sleep in her shift? No, no. That had to last her the entire fortnight; she would have to ration her petticoats as it was, but that would at least become a reasonable attitude as they moved south and it became warmer. She began to undress, listened to fingers brushing along her door.

  Meg released the latch, pulled the door open; she did not have to stop to think who it was, who it had to be; her heart was pounding sufficiently to tell her that. She seized Alan's arm, dragged him inside. 'I can't come in,' he whispered.

  'You are in,' she pointed out, and turned the key. 'Oh, Alan ... I knew you would come. And yet I was afraid you wouldn't.'

  'But Meg ...'

  Her arms were round his neck, and she was kissing his mouth, and he was responding, embracing her, reaching for her thighs, and as usual seeming to freeze as he realized what he was doing, this time no doubt because he had discovered she was wearing only her shift.

  'Meg ...' he held her arms. 'This is terribly dangerous. There is still time for Captain Weston to put you ashore.'

  'He won't know.'

  'He must. Why, it's only half past seven. It's still daylight out there. I but wanted to tell you that perhaps, when I come off watch, at midnight, I could ...'

  She shook her head. 'Don't you see? It is then, when you come off watch at midnight, that everyone will be supposing you will come to me, if you are coming at all. They will be watching. Whereas, at half past seven, as you say, it is still daylight.'

  'But... I am due on watch in half an hour.'

  'Half an hour is long enough,' she said, and backed towards her bunk, still holding his hands. Because it had to be now, now, now, both to preserve her sanity, to quench her bubbling excitement at having run away, and to expel for ever the memory of Oriole which clouded her senses. And who better than Alan? Why, their strange meeting after two years of never a word must have been an act of God. Why, she realized, as she sat down, I am going to marry him.

  'Meg ...' He stood above her, looking down, face reddened with mingled embarrassment and desire. 'Meg, are you sure?'

  'Sure,' she said. 'I have never been so sure in my life.' She lifted herself far enough from the mattress to ease the skirt of her shift from beneath her, raised the garment over her head, threw it on the floor. 'Don't you want me, Alan? Just a little?'

  'Want you,' he breathed, and dropped to his knees. She spread her legs to allow him between; crushed his head against her breasts, felt his tongue come out to lick her flesh, start her nipples into a harder tumescence than she had known before; hugged him tighter and felt his mouth slipping down her belly, and wanted to scream with joy.

  And yet, this was no more than Oriole had done, save that he was a man. There was more to be done, and so little time. Her fingers tore at his tunic, while his lips caressed her flesh, sucked her hair. His head came up, perhaps to breathe, and she pulled off the jacket, reached for the shirt beneath. 'Quickly, my darling, oh quickly.'

  He stood up, undressed. She stared at his pants, at his drawers, at the towering thrust of flesh which emerged. No more disappointments. Here was magnificent manhood, glowing with pumping blood, and desiring only her.

  'Now,' she said, 'now'. She leaned back on the cushion.

  'You will be dry,' he said, kneeling above her. 'You will be dry and I will hurt you.'

  'I am not dry,' she said fiercely. 'I am not dry'. Now, she thought, it has to be now, before my courage fades and I scream for help.

  She stared into his eyes, watched his body lowering, slowly, felt the caress, braced herself for the coming thrust, told herself that she must relax and relax and relax, and yet only half accomplished that. After the soft touch of the glans the thrust took her by surprise, and the pain also took her by surprise, because she way dry, and because, she supposed as her mind swirled away, of her virginity.

  His body worked on hers. His face was next to hers, his sweat mingled with hers, and the pain eased. But there was no ecstasy. Oh, there had to be ecstasy. There had always been ecstasy. But his movements were quickening, and so was his breathing, and she was filled with heat. And he was lying on her chest and belly, now crushing the breath from her, kissing her ear. He loved, and he had demonstrated his love.

  But there had been no ecstasy.

  Yet there would be ecstasy. It would happen, naturally, between them, as it had happened, naturally, between Oriole and herself, between Cleave and herself. She had to believe that.

  And Alan had accomplished one certain triumph. She was no longer a virgin. Her maidenhead belonged to him, and therefore, by every historical convention, she belonged to him; it was merely a matter of being patient.

  And in the meanwhile, holding him in her arms, tight, as she knew he liked to be held, and feeling the sex excitement, still bubbling unquenched in her belly, start to rise again as she felt his member moving against her thigh. Perhaps it would be possible again, now. Now she felt, even if he hurt her, that she would achieve her goal. Now.... she sat up at the knock on the door, half pushing him to one side.

  'Oh, my God,' he whispered, rising to his knees. 'Awake, Miss Hilton?' It was Bowman. 'Maybe he'll go away?' she asked. 'At a quarter to eight? Not likely. My God, a quarter to eight.'

  'I'll get rid of him. You ...' She bit her lip. 'Stand over there, against the inside of the door.' The cabin was too small for any proper concealment.

  He hesitated, then leapt from the bunk, gathered such of his clothes as he could, and stood against the bulkhead.

  Again the gentle tap. 'Miss Hilton?'

  'Just a moment, Bowman.' She hunted the room, found Alan's shoes and stockings, and his shirt, bundled them beneath her pillow, then pulled on her shift, opened the door. As she had supposed would be the case, Bowman's eyes bulged.

  'Yes?'

  'I... ah... as you were retiring, miss, I wondered if you would like me to empty the pot for you.'

  'How thoughtful of you, Mr Bowman,' she said. 'But I haven't, used it.'

  'Ah,' he said, ‘I beg your pardon.'

  'Not at all, Mr Bowman. Perhaps you could attend me in the morning. Goodnight.'

  She closed the door, leaned against it, had to fight against a tremendous desire to laugh.

  Alan came into the centre of the room, staring. She saw that there was a trace of blood on his penis. 'My God,' he said. 'They told me ...'

  'That I had been raped by a black man?’

  'Meg ...'

  'You should not believe all the gossip you hear.' 'But Meg, what have I done to you?' She kissed him on the mouth. 'You have made me the happiest girl in the world. More than that, you have made me yours, Alan. Only yours, now and always. Now you had best make haste. It is five minutes to the hour.'

  He pulled on his clothes. Think Bowman was suspicious ?'

  'He was too interested in my bubbies.' She held his arm, kissed his cheek. 'You'll come again? Soon?'

  'Whenever I can. Oh, Meg ...' He held her close, massaged her bottom, cupped her breast, kissed her mouth. Hard as a rod, all over again. Oh, if only he could stay. She was sure of it, now. 'I love you,' he said.

  'And I love you. I have never loved anyone but you. I am sure of it.'

  'I'll be back.'

  'Wait.' She held his arm again, unlocked the door, peered into the companionway. But it
was empty. 'All right.'

  He kissed her forehead, stepped outside, climbed the ladder. Meg closed the door again, locked it... she would have to establish that she always did this, and then threw herself on the bunk, clutching the pillows against her belly. And remembered that night, just before her fifteenth birthday, when she had first dreamed of Alan coming to her bed. Why, if only she had known then what she knew now, on their explorations of the Grandstand and the Racecourse, miles away from anyone, in the dry heat of a Jamaican afternoon, what magnificent adventures they would have had.

  But looking over her shoulder was pointless. They would have so many magnificent adventures, with each other's bodies, in the future. Because she had found him again, in time.

  She slept happily, and awoke in the small hours to the whine of the wind and the plunging of the ship, and the thudding of feet above her head. The breeze had freshened yet again, she thought drowsily, and hoped Captain Weston would not find it necessary to take shelter in some bay.

  In fact, the wind was from the east, so that although by morning it had reached a gale, Captain Weston decided to take advantage of it as he steered west across the Atlantic

  Which by morning Meg was prepared to regret. The motion was not so much violent as tremendous. As she was running, the Wanderer did not plunge and heave, but instead soared, up and up and up as she was picked up by the giant waves, until, on reaching the top, by which time Meg's stomach had descended into her pelvis, the ship careered downwards, gathering speed all the while until it seemed likely that she would be unable to stop herself and head straight for the bottom of the ocean. By the time she reached the bottom of the trough, and was prepared to turn for her upwards surge, Meg's stomach had risen into her throat.

  She was not actually sea-sick, but she wished she could be. Eating, in such conditions, was a quite impossible thought. Even leaving her cabin was an impossible thought, and for three days she remained in her bunk, visited once by Captain Weston, who fled in alarm when he discovered she was naked beneath the blankets, and three times a day by the faithful and fascinated Bowman, who brought her dry salt biscuits and cups of water, well laced with brandy, emptied her pot, and would have assisted her to sit on it, she had no doubt at all, with the slightest encouragement. Of Alan she saw not a sign. He was far too busy, in any event, with the constant changing of sails, but she was happy that it should be so, as she did not really wish to see him while in this condition.