A last climb, and Washington was drawing the horses to a thankful stop before the lodge. Billy was by now snoring gently; Meg had removed the rum bottle from his fingers, but not before some had spilled over his clothes. She wrinkled her nose distastefully, and leaned out of the window.
'Mistress Hilton. Man, but it good to see you, ma'am.' The watchman's name was Austin, and he was a fair-skinned mulatto.
'It is good to be here, Mr Austin.' Meg allowed herself to be helped to the ground. The sun was gone, and the night was already dark, although clear; the stars seemed just above her head. The lodge consisted of a bungalow, and a smaller, servants' house at some distance, as well as a stable and a chicken run.
'I got everything prepared for you, Mistress Hilton,' Austin said. He peered into the coach. 'But what happen here?'
'My husband has celebrated a little too well,' Meg said. 'Ayayay. But he ain' know he has to carry you across the threshold and thing?' 'I think I will let you and Washington carry him,’ Meg decided, and went inside. The lodge was very small; a living room, with an alcove for dining, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a single bedroom, occupied in the main by a vast four-poster bed. She stood against the wall as the two men lifted the still sleeping Billy into the room, and hesitated.
'You wan' us ...' Austin began uneasily.
'No,' Meg said. 'I will do it.'
'Well, yes'm. That is the thing. Seeing as how he is your husband, eh? Well, now, you wanting food?' Meg shook her head. 'Drink? I got champagne on ice.' 'No more champagne,' she said. 'Well, mistress ...' 'I don't want anything, really.'
‘Yes'm.' Austin brightened. 'Well, mistress, Washington and me going home to bed, then. But if you want anything, I put the bell in there, so you can ring it, eh?'
'Thank you, Austin.'
'I going see you in the morning before I goes back, Miss Meg,' Washington said.
'Thank you, Washington. I will look forward to that.'
She remained standing in the bedroom doorway until the front door had closed. Then she closed the bedroom door in turn, and stood at the foot of the bed, looking at her husband. My wedding night, she thought bitterly. But that was foolish. The one thing she must not do was become bitter. Billy was a man, and Billy loved her. But most important, he was a man. In fact, he was her man. There was quite an exciting thought. She had never owned a man before, however much she had dreamed of doing so. Well, then, that was something to enjoy.
She undressed, laying her clothes on the chair by the bed. When she was naked she loosed her hair, let it settle about her shoulders, opened her suitcase and found her brush, walked slowly up and down the room, brushing. She felt delightfully wicked, and just a little apprehensive, almost hopeful that he would wake up. But he remained fast asleep.
She knelt by the suitcase, took out her nightdress, a daring lace concoction in pale pink. But no nightdress in the world was as daring as nothing at all. She let it lie, and stood up again. There was no mirror. Damnation. She used her hand mirror, held it at arm's length. The Hilton bride. That oval, delicately featured, determined face with its faint smattering of freckles, framed in the mass of wavy chestnut hair. Those surprisingly square shoulders, created to support those heavy, big-nippled breasts. That flat, muscular belly. If not for long. Those wide hips, that curling love forest. Those long, powerful legs. Oh, yes, indeed, the man who could feel angry or even doubtful when confronted with so much womanhood would have to be a pervert.
She smiled at her own choice of words. Or the woman, either.
She crawled onto the bed, knelt beside him, gazing at his face. See a person sleeping, she thought, especially when he or she is also drunk, and you learn a great deal about them. There are no smiling eyes to set expression, no talking lips to create an atmosphere. Here there was only slightly petulant mouth, fat cheeks, thick neck ... it occurred to her that her ghastly attempt to put off Tommy Claymond might really have been a necessity for Billy Reynolds.
But she was here to find out. She discovered her heart was beating quite strongly. It was a delicious sensation of power.
She got off the bed, removed his boots. She climbed back onto the bed, muscles straining as she lifted him, eased his jacket sleeve free of his right arm, rolled him over and had to catch him again to stop him going right across the bed onto the floor. Then when she had him on his face she had to turn his head to make sure he kept on breathing.
A fierce struggle, and she got his jacket off. She pushed hair from her forehead and started work on his shirt, rolled him on his back when he was stripped to the waist. And was pleasantly surprised. There was not much hair on his chest, but it was a good chest. She realized that his stocky build had not been fat, as everyone supposed, but in reality was hard muscle.
She unfastened his trousers, eased them down, dropped them on the floor, pulled at his drawers. She was panting now, with exertion, certainly, but also with excitement. His legs were proportioned to his body, and were short and heavily muscled, and thereby totally lacking in any suggestion of grace, when she thought of Alan. But his penis was surprisingly large, even when asleep, and unlike Alan, he had not been circumcised. She had not expected that, rocked back on her heels in dismay, and watched it begin to rise.
Her head jerked, and she gazed at him.
'Slut,' he said. 'Whore,' he shouted, and sat up to swing his hand. She jerked backwards again, found herself at the end of the bed, and overbalanced. She put her hand down to stop herself and fell heavily; a thrill of pain shot up her arm.
'Bitch,' Billy snarled, crawling down the bed.
'Oh, my God,' she moaned, attempting to roll away from him, pulling her wrist in against herself. The pain was excruciating, and she thought she had broken it.
Tart,' Billy said, warming to his work. She turned her head, saw his foot coming, and hastily rolled away from him. The kick caught her on the thigh and sent her on an extra gyration; she came to rest against the washstand, on her knees.
'No,' she said. 'You'll hurt the child.' The child,' Billy said, siding above her. 'I should kick it to death.'
Meg bowed her head, the wrist pulled in against her belly, hugging herself with her good arm. She had never been frightened of him; she had never for a moment suspected it would be possible to be frightened of him. Not little Billy Reynolds. Not when she was taller and stronger. She had never doubted that either.
But now she could think only of the babe in her belly, of the swelling pain in her wrist.
'Get up,' Billy commanded.
She shook her head. Anger and frustration, and if she dared admit it, fear, were clawing at her mind and threatening tears. She would not cry in front of him. She would not.
His fingers dug into her hair, pulling her head back. She moaned with this additional pain, and her eyes widened. Before she could stop herself they had filled with tears.
'My wife,' he said. 'Couldn't wait to get your hands on me, eh? Would it have mattered if I'd been someone else?' He bent his head low. 'Would it have mattered if I'd been black?'
My God, she thought; the things that must be stored in his mind. The hate that must be stored in his mind. And I had supposed he loved me. Of that alone I had been sure.
'Get up,' he said. 'Or I'll kick you up.'
She stared at his rod, swollen and hard. He wanted her, however much he hated her. However little, at this moment, she wanted him. At this moment ? At any moment. Now, or ever. But he would kick her again. She held on to the washstand and pulled herself up.
'Slut,' he said again. 'How many men have you known, slut?'
She tossed hair from her eyes. 'Dozens,' she said. 'Hundreds. One every night I was in England.' Wasn't that true, if you accepted Oriole as a man ? For all her pretended contempt of the sex, Oriole would have preferred to be a man. Oriole would have made a magnificent husband.
'Aye,' he said. 'Now you're stuck with just one.' He reached out, seized the wrist she was pressing against her belly.
'Oh, God,' she screamed. 'No'.<
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He pulled, and she seemed to fly across the room. She was aware only of the agony which had gripped her entire arm, even extended to her shoulder and thence down into her chest. 'Oh, God. I've broken my wrist.'
Her knees touched the bed and she fell down. The tears welled out of her eyes like water from an overfilled cup; she was not aware of sobbing.
She discovered she was on her back, and he was lying on her belly, working himself against her as Alan had done when they had been children. His mouth was around hers, although he did not seem to be kissing her, then he lowered his head and began to suck and pick at her breasts. She could not lie still, such was the agony in her arm. She rolled and twisted, and tried to get up, but was pinned by his weight.
Then the weight was gone. She opened her eyes, stared at him, kneeling between her legs. His fingers were busy, but with no thought of pleasing her, seeking only the path to his own satisfaction. She tried to sit up, and he pushed her in the face. She fell back with a thump, and the room went whirling around her head in a mist haze. She felt his fingers on her thighs, and then he was inside her, in a single tremendous, painful thrust, which was repeated three times, seeming to drive right through to her backbone, sending pain racing up from her womb to meet that descending from her shoulder.
Meg fainted.
'Ow,' Meg said. 'Ouch.' The pain had abated during the night, but the twisting was reawakening it.
'Only a sprain.' John Phillips sat on the edge of the bed, his body tense. Perhaps, she thought, he was remembering the last time he had to attend to her. Or perhaps he was embarrassed at being in her bedroom on the first day of her honeymoon; she had not dressed, wore a cream robe over her nightgown.
'It's very painful,' she said.
'I'm sure it is. I'll bind it up, and you'll wear a sling, I'm afraid for a week or two. But it should improve as time goes by.' He released her, opened his bag, began removing bandages. 'Dashed bad luck on your honeymoon. May I ask how it happened ?'
'I fell out of bed.'
'Ah.' He wrapped bandages about her wrist, drew it tight, went round and round. 'Would you like a general examination?'
'Do I need a general examination?'
'Well... ah... it's a high bed. You might have hurt yourself somewhere else.'
'I'm sure I have,' she agreed. 'I know I have a bruise on my left buttock, if you'd like to look at that.'
He ignored her sally, finished binding the wrist, tied his knot. 'You also have a bruise on the throat, Meg.'
She touched it with her fingers; she had not looked in the mirror since last night. She was not sure what she would find. But her throat was certainly painful; she had supposed it had been all that conversation at the reception.
John Phillips stood up. 'Caused by fingers, I would say.'
Meg slowly lowered her hands. So he tried to strangle me, she thought. After I had fainted. There could be no other explanation. She forced a smile. 'Billy is a tempestuous lover.'
Phillips flushed, and shifted his feet uneasily. ‘I should tell you that Washington says he heard screams coming from here last night.'
'They could have been screams of ecstasy, John,' she said.
'They could have been.'
'Oh, very well, they were screams of ecstasy. I'm sorry to have embarrassed Washington. I ... I get very excited about... well, about sex.'
'I believe some women do,' he agreed, and packed his bag. 'Where is Billy, by the way?'
'Walking. He's fond of walking.'
‘Hm.' Phillips closed his bag.
'You'll have a cup of tea? Or a drink?'
'No, thank you,' he said. 'I have to be getting back.'
'But after coming all the way out here,' she said. 'Why, you must have been several hours on the journey. And you'll be a long time going back.'
'All the more reason to get there,' he said. 'Washington must be far more tired than I am.' He went to the bedroom door, hesitated. 'I'll stay, if you wish me to have a word with Billy.'
Oh, would you ? she thought. Oh, please stay. But she was Meg Hilton. She could not confess she was afraid of her husband. 'Now why should I want you to do that?' she asked.
'Ah ... no reason at all that I can think of,' he agreed. 'Well ...' Again the hesitation. 'I think someone, you, I would say, should remind Billy first of all that women are made of flesh and blood, and secondly, that you are carrying a child. I'm all for passionate marriages, but if you suffer a similar catalogue of bruises every night you'll be fit only for a nursing home, and very shortly. And you will lose the babe.' He frowned at her. 'You do wish the child?'
'Of course I do. What a remarkable thing to ask.'
'Then I apologize. I'll say goodbye. But take care, Meg. I'll come see you when you get back to Hilltop. Tell Billy that, when you give him my regards.'
The bedroom door closed, and Meg remained staring at it for some minutes. He knew that she had been beaten. Of course he knew that. Washington and Austin also knew that. All of Jamaica would know that, soon enough. Meg Hilton had been beaten unconscious by her husband on her wedding night. Well, they would say, it was no more than she deserved, the hussy.
She picked up her glass, looked at herself. The face had not changed. It was still lovely, still calm, still determined. But had it also taken on a slight tightness at the lips, a slight watchfulness at the eyes ? Or had those facets of her personality been there before, unnoticed?
And certainly there were bruises on her throat, ugly brown stains on the freckled flesh. The wretch. The criminal, in fact, as John Phillips would surely be willing to testify. Why, if she wished, she could obtain a divorce on such treatment. Or could she? Billy was the one who would know the law.
She laid down the mirror, walked to the window, looked out at the mountains and the trees, at Austin chopping a branch for firewood. The carriage had already left.
But did she want a divorce ? A divorce would accomplish nothing, would indeed make matters far worse. She was only eighteen, and for the next three years she was entirely in the hands of Billy's father. A divorce, for that time, would be unthinkable.
Besides, did she want one ? She was Meg Hilton. There was no need for her to be afraid of Billy. Of any man, but especially of Billy. Even physically. He could never have hurt her last night but for that accident. He would not be able to hurt her again, once she was well. Once she had had the child. But that was seven months off. Her recovery, her victory, for she was determined upon nothing less, would have to be based upon something stronger than physical strength. But she possessed that, too. She was Meg Hilton. His future was her decision.
She watched her husband coming up the path, hands thrust deep in his pockets. She did not remember him going out. According to Austin he had taken a packed lunch, and indeed the haversack hung from his shoulder. Oh, Austin would have a lot to tell after this honeymoon; a wife who screamed when entered, a husband who went for a whole-day walk on the first morning.
She left the window, took off her gown, got into bed, pulled the pillows behind her. She listened to the front door banging, to his feet on the wood of the living room, hesitating as they reached the bedroom door.
'You may come in,' she said.
He stood in the doorway, gazing at her; his face was flushed. And of course, she remembered, he would have a hangover.
'John Phillips has just left,' she said. 'He thinks I'll live. Apart from a sprained wrist...' 'You fell out of bed,' Billy said.
'A bruise on my thigh, and these bruises on my throat.' She touched them with her fingertips. 'Didn't you have the nerve to go through with it?'
'Meg ...' He came forward, stood by the bed. 'I was drunk, Meg. Truly, I was drunk.'
'Oh, you were,' she agreed. 'Well, half a bottle of rum on top of several bottles of champagne, what do you expect?'
'Meg...' He sat on the bed. 'I'm sorry.'
'So say no more about it. Nor will I.'
'Meg...' He reached for her, and she removed her hand from his grasp.
'Meg.'
'But I really do not want another beating. In fact, John Phillips said that on no account must I suffer another beating.'
'You... you didn't tell him?'
'I didn't have to. He's a doctor, remember.'
Billy stood up again. 'And didn't I have a right? You're carrying another man's child, in there. You've slept with God knows how many men. You spent a night in the mountains with niggers. My God, you have no right to preach to me. And John Phillips knows that.'
'You know that, Billy,' Meg pointed out. 'You knew that, when you married me. John Phillips knows that, and so does Helen McAvoy. Having accepted those facts, you have no right to ill-treat me.'
'No right?' he shouted. 'No right. Why...'
'In fact, when you come down to it,' she said, 'you have no rights at all, Billy Reynolds, except where I give them to you.' He must be crushed, she reminded herself. He must be reduced to my husband, or I will always be forced to trail behind him as his wife.
'Why ...' He was purple in the face again, as he was last night.
'So shut up and listen,' she said. 'Unless you really do intend to beat me again. Or perhaps to throttle me again. I should say that John has promised to come and see me whenever I need him, and certainly when I return to Hilltop.'
Billy stared at her, his fists opening and shutting.
'The marriage has been consummated,' she said. 'So far as I am aware. I really do not think I could stand another evening with you now, so I would be obliged if you would make yourself up a bed in the living room. Or perhaps Austin would do it for you.' ‘You...'
'I shall not entirely end your conjugal rights, Billy. As you have seen fit to observe, I am a healthy and passionate woman, even if those are not quite the words you would have chosen, and thus I may need you from time to time. I will tell you when. But so help me God, if you touch me without my invitation I will have you thrown out of the house.'
Sunset Page 20
