Sunset

by Christopher Nicole

  'Never,' Meg had said, and that had been that.

  Because Billy loved her. She must always remember that. But what a silly thing, that a single unmemorable ten minutes with Alan McAvoy should have caused so much trouble. She glanced at Helen, acting as matron of honour, just as her husband was giving the bride away; behind them were her bridesmaids, the Simmonds girls. All were waiting patiently for her to resume moving. Thank God it had not occurred to Helen really to sit down and work out that it must have happened during the voyage from England.

  She inhaled, stepped forward, and checked again. 'Prudence.'

  All she had been able to learn about her nurse was that Percy had died and she had left Hilltop and gone to work as a domestic in Kingston. But here she was, enormous as ever, wearing a blue gown and a blue turban, and smiling at her. 'Miss Meg, but you looking just wonderful, child’

  'Why, thank you, Prudence.' Meg looked down at herself. She supposed she did look wonderful; she had not really noticed before, there had been so much on her mind. But the gown was white satin, as her veil was white as her shoes were white as her stockings were white as her underclothes were white. After all, Helen had said, 'No one knows except the immediate family. Why should we make a public confession of it?'

  'Prudence,' she said again, and held out her hand. 'You'll come back to work for me.'

  'Well, Miss Meg, I got for come back if you does want it.'

  'I do. I do. Don't go. I'll talk with you after.'

  'They really are waiting,' Helen said.

  'And I'm coming.' Somehow the sight of Prudence had given her just the courage she needed. She walked up the aisle left in the centre of the carefully arranged chairs, looking neither to left nor right, gazing at the Reverend Keslop with a fixed half-smile on her lips, while the pianist, playing better than she had ever done, burst into the strains of Mendelssohn's Wedding March.

  Billy was still looking at her, and he also had a half-smile on his lips. Of course he would forgive her, had forgiven her. He loved her. It was really no different than if she had come to him a widow. He would have been glad enough to get her then. He was glad enough to get her now.

  His fingers closed on hers, and she squeezed, and received a squeeze back. He loved her. Nothing else mattered.

  'How beautiful you look, Mrs Hilton,' said Mrs Mottram.

  'Charming,' said Mrs Holroyd. 'Absolutely charming.'

  'But then it is traditional, isn't it?' said Mrs Mottram. 'For Hilton women to be beautiful. One has only to look at the paintings in the hall.'

  Meg sipped champagne. It was her fourth glass, and her nerves were at last beginning to settle. 'Don't you think the artists were intent on flattery, rather than truth?'

  'No one could flatter you, my dear,' said Mrs Mottram.

  'Charming,' said Mrs Holroyd. 'All Hilton women were charming.'

  Meg attempted to look around the crowded room, seeking a rescuer. But it was difficult to catch an eye.

  'It is strange, isn't it? said Mrs Mottram. 'You were Miss Margaret Hilton, and now you are Mrs William Hilton.'

  'It was Father's wish,' Meg said severely. If she was going to be involved in a lie she was determined to insist upon it.

  'Charming,' said Mrs Holroyd. 'I find it absolutely charming.'

  'And it must be a great joy to you, once again to be living in the Great House,' said Mrs Mottram.

  'Charming,' said Mrs Holroyd. 'It is a most charming place.'

  'My grandmother always told me what a wonderful house it was,' Mrs Mottram said. 'She always thought it was a terrible shame that it should be so neglected. But my dear, didn't it cost an awful amount to renovate ?'

  'Why, I suppose it did,' Meg said. 'But where else would you have me live?'

  'Charming,' said Mrs Holroyd. 'Such a charming idea.'

  'Why, nowhere else, my dear,' said Mrs Mottram. 'It's merely that your father ...'

  'Father had his own ideas,' Meg pointed out. 'Now if you'll excuse me, Mrs Mottram, Mrs Holroyd, I really see someone with whom I must have a chat.'

  'Charming,' said Mrs Holroyd.

  But Meg was already hurrying across the room. Surely it was time. It was over an hour since the cake had been cut and the speeches had been concluded. The presents, laid out on the huge table in the dining room, had all been inspected a hundred times. The waiters had circulated with their bottles of champagne innumerable times. The guests were all growing steadily redder in their faces and more slurred in their speeches, and the afternoon heat was beginning to fade. As undoubtedly their various drivers would also have been imbibing, the ride back to Kingston, or to the neighbouring plantations, was going to be a very hazardous business once it grew dark.

  'Surely it's time,' she whispered to Helen McAvoy, deep in conversation with the Bishop.

  'It is, actually. I was waiting for a signal from you. Will you excuse us, Bishop? If we do not call a halt soon, this will turn into a total rout'

  'Four o'clock, is it? My word, but how time flies, when one is enjoying oneself. I was saying to Mrs McAvoy, my dear Mrs Hilton ... my word, how good it is to be inside this house once again, to see it looking so splendid again. My word, how it does bring back memories.'

  He paused, having clearly run out of breath.

  'It is very kind of you to say so, Bishop,' Meg agreed. 'You must come again, soon, I hope. But now we really must be about our honeymoon.'

  'Oh, indeed you must. Charles Landis's country lodge is it? Oh, very nice. You'll be comfortable up there.'

  'We shall be alone, Bishop. That's the important thing. Will you excuse me?'

  Helen McAvoy was already clearing a way through the throng, but to prevent an upheaval Meg made her way out the back of the room to the pantry, where there was the second staircase.

  'Oh, Miss Meg, but it was too sweet, that service,' said Annie the cook.

  'Yes'm, Miss Meg,' Lawrence the head butler said, waiting while one of the underbutlers restocked his tray with full glasses of champagne. 'And you did make the prettiest bride in all the world.'

  ‘I thank you all,' Meg said, and smiled at Prudence, seated in a rocking chair, her pale blue gown stained dark blue with sweat, singing to herself as she rocked slowly back and forth. 'Prudence will be coming out to work, Annie. You'll be nice to her until I get back?'

  'Oh, yes'm, Miss Meg. I must be being nice to old Prudence.'

  'And keep Hilltop safe for me, Lawrence.'

  'Mrs Hilton. Mrs Hilton.' Joan Simmonds, out of breath and red in the face. 'Oh, thank heavens. Mrs McAvoy is quite anxious.'

  'Lots of time,' Meg insisted, climbing the back stairs ahead of her. 'Lots of time.' Because strangely, where she had been so anxious for the reception itself to end, or at least, for her to escape from the noise and the people and the insincere congratulations and the heat, now she had accomplished that she had not the least desire to get changed and ride off into the mountains. Not with Billy Reynolds, at any rate. Oops, she thought. Billy Hilton.

  But how much of that was fear at being alone with him ? And yet, he loved her. Forget that for a moment and she was done. And whether she would or not, the moment was rushing at her. Both Helen and Pansy Simmonds were waiting for her in the bedroom, and her wedding dress and sweat-soaked petticoats were removed, gently but firmly. 'I've ordered the carriage to come round to the front,' Helen panted, face scarlet with exertion, forehead creased with worry. Because she was overseeing the whole event, Meg wondered, or because she too was apprehensive about the coming hours?

  "There we are,' Helen said, and stood back, and Meg realized she was dressed. She stepped away from them, stood in front of the full-length mirror. The Kingston dressmaker had done her best, and the result was really very good, she supposed, however much Oriole might have sniffed at it. She wore a dark brown silk dress, the skirt draped up to reveal and display the lining of pale green on which were brown floral designs; her underskirt was a paler brown, accordion pleated at the hem in the same colour to form a
slightly sombre but distinctly attractive ensemble; there were lace trimmings to her high neck and her sleeves, and Joan Simmonds was carefully pinning a pale green bow in her upswept hair.

  'Ooh, you look delicious,' Pansy cried. 'He'll hardly be able to wait to get them back off you.'

  'Pansy,' Helen admonished. 'What a thing to say.'

  What a thing to say, Meg thought, walking slowly to the door.

  'Your bouquet,' Joan cried, handing it to her. 'But don't throw it until we get there,' Pansy cried, and led her sister in a rush for the back stairs.

  'Give them five minutes,' Helen said.

  Meg hesitated, then sat on the edge of the bed. How tired she had suddenly become. And this would be her bed, no, no, it would be their bed, when they returned from their honeymoon. But by then, the possibility of crisis would be behind her. Why, by this time tomorrow she would have ceased being nervous. And what was there to be nervous about ? He was the one should be nervous she thought; ten to one he was a virgin.

  'Meg ...' Helen hesitated. 'It will be all right. I promise you. Billy is a good boy.'

  'I know that, Helen. Or I would not have married him.'

  'Yes.' Helen turned away, peered into the mirror, pretended to be adjusting her hat. 'Meg ... why are you ... I mean, why have you married Billy? I never knew there was anything between you.'

  'There isn't and there wasn't,' Meg confessed, getting up. 'I always rather disliked him. Although I think he has always been fond of me.'

  'Then why on earth ... I mean, Meg Hilton, heiress to all this ... you could have taken your pick of any man in Jamaica.'

  Meg kissed her on the forehead. 'No other man would have been able to grant me Hilltop now, Helen. I'll not wait for three years. I'm Meg Hilton, remember?'

  Something to remember always. She walked on to the gallery, inhaled slowly, filling her lungs to their last millimetre, and gazing down at the sea of upturned faces, smiling at her, laughing and whispering to each other. The Simmonds girls had forced their way to the very front of the throng, and were eagerly waiting.

  'Here you are,' she said, and dropped her bouquet. Joan caught it with a squeal of joy; Pansy gave a squeal of disappointment. Everyone else clapped and cheered and broke into laughter. Meg picked up her skirts and descended the stairs, and discovered Billy waiting for her. He had changed from his frock coat into a light suit, with a pale grey topper clutched under his arm. 'Mrs Hilton,' he said.

  'Mr Hilton,' she smiled. He was a dear. And he loved her.

  The carriage waited at the front stairs. Jimmy Pilling and a gang of the younger overseers had just abandoned it, having tied a collection of old boots and saucepans to the back. Washington the coachman was waiting to hand Meg up, and she paused in the doorway, and turned to wave at them, before sitting down. Billy clambered in, took off his hat; his face was shiny with sweat.

  'Bye, Meg.' Walter Reynolds, leaning in the window, looking for his kiss.

  'You must come to dinner,' she said. 'As soon as I... we get back. There is so much for us to talk about.'

  'Oh, indeed,' he said. 'Take care. Or should I say that to you, young man ?'

  Billy grinned happily, and they heard the crack of Washington's whip. The coach moved away from the steps, down the drive. The overseers had mounted their horses by now, and rode round and round the carriage, shouting and cheering.

  'Silly fools,' Billy said. He rapped on the hatch. 'Faster, Washington. Faster.'

  'Man, Mr Reynolds, sir, I ain' wanting to shake you up,' Washington said.

  'Hilton, you damned fool. My name is Hilton.'

  'They'll get used to it.' Meg caught his arm. 'And we may as well make them jealous.' She pulled him back, and her arms went round his neck.

  'Sweetheart.' Billy's hands were on the bodice of her gown, trapped between them. She remembered he had wanted to touch her breasts the afternoon they had become engaged. Now he squeezed them, not at all gently. And his kiss was wet. So much to teach him, she thought dreamily. Her hands touched behind his back, and stroked the rings; a gold wedding band had been added to the diamond. 'We'll make them more jealous yet,' he decided, releasing her, for the horsemen were cheering even louder. Billy dived under the seat and produced a bottle of champagne. 'Still cold. I had Washington put it here.'

  'What a splendid idea.' She watched him wrestling with the cork, and a moment later there was a pop and it flew out of the window. 'But we've no glasses.'

  'We'll drink from the neck. I've always wanted to drink champagne from a bottle.' He held it out.

  'Wouldn't you prefer to drink it from my slipper?'

  He considered. 'No. I'd rather drink it from the neck. Go on.'

  Meg hesitated, then held the bottle to her lips, and drank; some of the bubbles got up her nose and she wanted to sneeze. But the whole thing reminded her of drinking from the bottle Jack and Cleave had held out to her. They were there, only a few miles away. Perhaps they had sneaked down from the mountains to watch the ceremony. The wedding of Meg Hilton must have been known all over the island.

  Billy took the bottle away, drank himself. 'What on earth is the matter?'

  'Why should anything be the matter?'

  'A shadow crossed your face. Oh, I know what it must be.' He gave her back the bottle. 'I love you, Meg. Nothing else matters, save we love each other.'

  She raised the bottle again, head tilted back, and felt his hands once again fumbling at her gown, pressing her breasts. Then they slipped down to her ribs, for just a moment, before returning. She lowered the bottle. 'It's only a short ride.'

  'It's not, you know. It's way up in the mountains,' he said disconsolately. 'It'll take hours. We won't get there before dark.'

  'Well, then ...' She looked at the seat. It wasn't really long enough, Or wide enough. 'We'll just have to spoon. It's the last time we'll ever have to just spoon.'

  'I've never spooned with you,' Billy said wistfully. He was pulling on her breasts now, and she allowed herself to go to him, kiss him, hold him tight. Did she want to do more? He was a man. He would have a rod, and by now no doubt it was as hard as anything Alan or Cleave had ever produced. Did she want to hold it, and feel it throb? My God, she thought. I must want to hold it.

  'I suppose you've spooned with lots of men,' Billy said into her hair.

  'No, I haven't.'

  'Well, at all those balls you went to in England? Oh, you must have. Anyhow, I know you did. I mean, you must have done more than that. Or you couldn't be ... well, you wouldn't be pregnant. Would you ?'

  'Billy...' she said uneasily, gazing out of the window. The overseers had at last given up the chase and were returning to the champagne. But he still held her close, his hands on the bodice of her gown.

  'Who was he, Meg?'

  'No, Billy,' she said.

  'But, I've a right to know. I'm your husband. I'm Billy Hilton. You don't want to forget that.'

  'William Hilton, please,' she protested. Billy Hilton was just too absurd for words. No one had ever called Richard Hilton, Dickie, or the great Robert, Bobby. It was quite unthinkable. Although they had called Christopher Hilton, the greatest of them all, Kit. But that had been two hundred years before. Things had been different.

  'Oh, very well,' he said. 'William Hilton. I'm master of Hilltop, or I will be, when I'm twenty-one. That's less than four months. I've a right to know.'

  'It's in the past,' Meg said.

  'No, it is not in the past. I have to be a father to that child. Some bastard in your belly.' He hesitated, and flushed.

  'If you weren't prepared to be that,' Meg said, 'then you should not have gone through with the marriage.'

  'I thought of that, believe me.' He upended the champagne bottle over his mouth, threw it out of the window. 'But Father said it was the right thing to do.'

  'Of course it was,' Meg agreed, beginning to get angry. 'You'd never have another opportunity to be the Master of Hilltop.'

  Billy was fumbling beneath the seat. 'There shoul
d be...' he produced a bottle of rum.

  'You're not going to drink that on top of champagne?'

  'Who's going to stop me? Or are you practising to be a nag?'

  'Oh, suit yourself,' she said.

  'I intend to,' Billy agreed, and upended this bottle in turn.

  Meg stared at him for a moment in disgusted annoyance, then turned away to look out of the window. The carriage had left Hilltop itself now, and was following the road leading north of the plantation, into the mountains. The land of the drum. But she was not going to see Jack and Cleave. She was going to spend the next fortnight in the most beautiful surroundings imaginable, in the company of.. .her husband. There it was.

  She turned back to him, attempted to take his hand, and was shrugged aside. He was drinking again. 'Billy,' she said. 'I'm sorry. Really I am. I am most terribly sorry about the whole thing. But I agreed to marry you before I knew I was pregnant, so that had nothing to do with it. I will make you a good wife. I swear it. And my child will be brought up as ours. I swear that too. But you do see I can't tell you the name of the father. Why, you might meet him, at some time in the future, and what would happen then?'

  Billy drank some more rum. 'Bugger off,' he said, and fell asleep.

  It occurred to Meg that that was the best possible solution to her present problem. After all, she reminded herself, she had expected some sort of a crisis, and had allowed herself to be relieved by Billy's behaviour during the ceremony. What she had not realized was the effect alcohol had on him. Well, now she knew, it could be combated. The first essential was obviously to have him sober again.

  They were climbing now, and travelling more slowly as the horses strained and tugged. Then they were descending again, the slopes shallower, Washington dragging on the brake. And all the while the countryside grew more wild and more beautiful. The trees thinned, but when the road took the side of a mountain she could look down on thick forest, and away to her left, the dying sun hovering above the Caribbean Sea. It was a question as to whether they would reach the hill station by dark. She peered into the valleys, trying to discover the fern grove through which she had ridden the previous year, or the stony ravine, but although she could see the river which formed Hilltop's boundary, there seemed to be several fern groves and several bare patches, and it was impossible to decide which was which.