HF - 04 - Black Dawn

by Christopher Nicole

  He hurried on, his belly rumbling with excitement. Whenever he saw a uniform, his instincts screamed at him to find the nearest colour-sergeant, and surrender his liberty even more definitely; he had neither the money nor the backing to purchase a commission. But he would rise, he had no doubt at all. The Hiltons had always been men of ability, and men of action, too. His earliest remembered ancestor had been an associate of Tom Warner and his son, Edward, who had defended St Kitts against the Indians and the Spaniards, and founded the British West Indian Empire; one of his great-grandfathers had marched with Morgan on Panama; why, Father himself had fought with Rodney at the Saintes. But there was the problem. Father had found himself in the Navy by accident, as a pressed man, and his experiences, both there and elsewhere, had raised within him a seething distaste for all things military, for any possible event where blood could be shed. It was treason, in this spring of 1810, even to hint that Great Britain should not pursue the war against Napoleon, but Father suggested peace whenever it was his turn to speak in the House.

  Another bend, and the trees of the Park came in sight. He could pause, to catch his breath and straighten his cravat. She would be there.

  To join the army would mean a quarrel. And yet, it was not one he would avoid. But for Mama. He often wondered what she thought of it all. Certainly she supported her husband with total loyalty. But in the privacy of her bedchamber, must she not often count the cost? To live with Matt Hilton, her own cousin, she had abandoned her lawful husband and prosperity and respectability; to marry him, in defiance of her brother, had lost her the chance of inheriting the greatest plantations in the West Indies; to follow his point of view had cost her the friendship of every planter, and every planter's wife, and even forced her to watch her own sister being torn to pieces by the very slaves Matt sought to free; and to bring up her two sons she had been obliged to deprive herself of almost everything that a woman could wish from life.

  Now to deprive her of one of those sons would surely be a crime. Besides, to leave Mama? There was an incredible thought. She remained the most magnificent woman he had ever seen, could ever envisage.

  Saving perhaps Ellen Taggart. He paused, and took off his hat, at once to wave it and wipe his brow. Because there she was.

  The gig approached at no more than a walk. On a fine afternoon the park was crowded with ladies and gentlemen strolling, riding, ladies and gentlemen riding, ladies and gentlemen taking the air in their phaetons. And with uniformed nursemaids, wheeling their charges, gossiping and prattling. They could not have asked for a better setting. The huge trees were in leaf, the grass was brilliantly green, and the flowers were coming into bloom, dominated by the stiff rows of tulips, all yellows and reds, almost like a guard of honour drawn up for inspection. Dick Hilton supposed that nowhere more than in Hyde Park of an evening was the prosperity, the confidence, the bursting energy of this nation so amply displayed. Why, old Boney might spend his time rushing about Europe, from Madrid to Vienna to Berlin to Tilsit and thence back to Paris, defeating armies here, executing opponents there, pausing whenever he passed a Channel port to wave his fists at the sea, and the rulers of the sea; the fact was that Great Britain did rule the sea — the men Nelson had led had imbibed the master's beliefs and plans too well to fear any alteration in the strategy and the tactics which had won Trafalgar.

  And behind the Navy, the trade, ballooning year after year. Even old Bridle nowadays smiled, from time to time. But he took care to see that little of his wealth filtered down to his clerks in the forms of an adequate salary.

  'Why, Mr Hilton.' Aunt Julia Taggart had the long face of her family, in her case accompanied by the pop eyes and prominent teeth of her brother, as well as the somewhat braying voice. She was the only senior Taggart who had the least time for Dick, but even she allowed her gaze to sweep over his pants and coat and hat, perhaps estimating their age, before permitting herself to smile at him. He suspected she was less partial to him than to the concept of romance. 'What a pleasant surprise.'

  'Miss Taggart. Ellen.’

  'I had given you up,' Ellen Taggart held the reins, her gloved fingers tight on the leather. The pony waited docilely enough. The fingers, the hand, were no more than an extension of the determination in her expression. So no doubt, Dick thought, should I ever be able to marry this girl, I will be exchanging one imprisonment for another. But what a delightful gaoler she would make. She was tall, and slim, but her deep green pelisse was suitably full at both breast and thigh; her chestnut hair was almost lost beneath the pale green silk bonnet, leaving her face exposed, but on her the long oval, the straight nose, the wide-set grey eyes and no less wide mouth, the firm lips and the pointed chin, were boldly handsome. And her voice, at least when greeting him, was soft.

  'I was delayed. Our business seems to double every day.'

  'I suppose it is for the good of the country,' Julia Taggart agreed. 'But money ... it is such a dirty thing. Well, Mr Hilton, it has been our pleasure. But we are already late. We must take our leave of you.'

  'Oh, I . . . ' Dick flushed, and glanced at Ellen, who laughed. She had an unusual laugh, surprisingly low, and somehow conspiratorial, although he had always felt that the secret which amused her was private to her alone.

  'You are a tease, Auntie,' she said. 'We have at least half an hour. And look, is that not Lady Beamish, peering out from the window of her carriage like a goldfish?'

  'Oh, really, Ellen. You are too disrespectful.'

  'So will you be, Auntie, if you do not at least pass a moment with her. Dick, will you help Aunt Julia down?'

  Dick offered his arm, and Julia Taggart descended to the turf, somewhat heavily. 'Thank you, young man. I shall not be long.' She made her way across the grass, skirts swinging, prodding the ground with her stick as if suspecting a sudden ravine.

  'Wretched man,' Ellen said. 'Do you place your figures above me?'

  He leaned on the step, his elbow on the door itself; this way his hand could drop inside and find her fingers. 'Do you really believe that?'

  'No.' She sighed. 'But I suspect I am the most unfortunate of women, to love a man who must earn his living. And at what an occupation.' She frowned at him. 'Tony doesn't earn his living.'

  'And sometimes barely lives,' Dick pointed out. 'Besides, he has not marriage in mind. To anyone, much less you.'

  'I have never met two brothers less alike,' she agreed. 'As for your fine words, Master Dick, I wonder I still believe them.'

  Clearly she was in one of her moods. From being kept waiting, no doubt.

  'Can you imagine your father's comments were I to ask for your hand?'

  She gave another of her secret laughs. 'Can you imagine his comments were you to climb up here beside me, whip this horse into a gallop, and not stop before Gretna?'

  'He'd have the runners after me.'

  'Oh, indeed he would. But as you would have me securely bedded before they caught up with us ... ' 'Ellen!'

  'You are a prig and a hypocrite, Dick. Or perhaps you do not want to bed me?'

  'Why, of course I do. I. . . ' He felt his cheeks burning.

  'You feel it is not a subject for discussion, until we are wed? By then I suspect it will no longer be practical, for either of us.' Her fingers tightened on his, and she leaned slightly forward. 'Listen. You know my inheritance?'

  'Now, Ellen, we have discussed this . . .'

  'Listen,' she said. 'I have discovered what it is going to be. Four thousand pounds. Can you believe it? Oh, that darling old grandpapa. I used to hate him when he was alive. But four thousand pounds. Mama says I can expect an income of four hundred a year. More then enough to live on.'

  'Ellen,' Dick protested patiently. 'What sort of a man would I be if I agreed to live off your income?'

  'Oh, bah,' she said. 'What absolute nonsense.'

  'Anyway, you are seventeen. We have four years to negotiate.'

  She withdrew her hand. 'And you propose to wait four years. You cannot be certain
I am as patient.'

  'Ellen . . .'

  'Why, Mr Hilton. You'll be inside the carriage next.' Julia Taggart's tone suggested there was no worse crime conceivable. 'Lady Beamish sends her best regards, Ellen. And now we really must be getting home. You'll excuse us, I'm sure.'

  Dick handed her up, trying to catch Ellen's eye. But she merely flicked the reins. 'Indeed, Auntie, it is extremely late I cannot imagine why we linger so long. Good day to you, Mr Hilton.'

  He stepped back to avoid having a wheel run over his toe, watched the gig proceeding slowly down the Row. Perhaps she would look back. But the bonnet never moved. Of course she was not seriously angry. She was punishing him for not being as enthusiastic as she wished. And was she not right? Four thousand pounds. Four hundred a year. His wage was fifty-two. On four hundred a year he could leave the bank, perhaps do something worthwhile with his life. Supposing he could decide what was worthwhile. And supposing too he could reconcile himself to being supported by his wife.

  He thrust his hands into his pockets, began his walk down to Chelsea Village. And of course she was right in another direction, as well. She was now an heiress. Suitors would no doubt go flocking to her door, once this news got about. Why should she wait for a bank clerk? But to challenge the law, to challenge Colonel Taggart, even with Ellen behind him. Why, it was Matt and Robert Hilton all over again, with Ellen playing the part of Mama. Was he then going to admit he lacked the courage of his own father?

  But things had been different, thirty years ago. Life had been less ordered, more exciting. And Father and Mother had been living in the West Indies, not in London, in sunshine rather than endless cloud. But the sun was still shining, this evening.

  'There you are.'

  Dick's head jerked. He had strolled down the little street of terraced houses without really being aware of it.

  'Been exercising the horse, have you?' Tony Hilton lounged on the step.

  'I ought to punch you on the nose for that,' Dick said.

  'Ah-ah.' Tony raised his finger. 'Be sure I'd punch you back. And she does look like a horse, you have to agree. A very lovely horse, to be sure. But none the less, a horse.' He laughed as he spoke, and made it difficult to take offence. Tony laughed at everything. He seemed to regard life as a long and endless joke, perpetrated by some omnipotent force—it could hardly be God—on cowering mankind. A joke he somehow managed to turn to his own advantage. He certainly possessed no visible means of support, and yet his trousers were pressed, his jacket neat, his cravat new. And his silk hat gleamed to match the gold head to his cane. His features were perhaps a little coarse, for a Hilton, although the small nose left no doubt that he was a Hilton, and his cheeks were flushed—there was wine on his breath.

  'And are you waiting to sober up before going in?' Dick inquired.

  'Indeed no. I was waiting to have a word with you.' Tony Hilton linked arms with his brother. 'I have had a disastrous day.' 'Oh, yes.'

  'Not a card would turn for me, at the right time. I could not believe it. Quite incredible.'

  'And so you played on. Expecting your luck to change.'

  'A gentleman can do no less. I even gave a note. Trouble is, old boy, I gave a note a week ago. You wouldn't happen to have five guineas on you?'

  'You must be joking.'

  'I only wish I were. For God's sake, Dick, you handle thousands every day. Some of it must stick. Or should. It would, I can tell you, were I behind that desk.'

  'You'd go to gaol.'

  Tony gave one of his winning smiles. 'I shall, in any event, should they decide so. Ah, well, I will have to touch Mama. She usually has a penny or two to spare.' He opened the door.

  Dick caught his arm. 'You are a swine. She has enough to worry about without your debts.'

  Tony looked down at him. 'And you are a sanctimonious little prig. You're not even a gentleman by instinct. You're a clerk to the very backbone.' He shrugged himself free, went into the house. Dick hesitated for a moment before following. It was the second time in the space of an hour that he had been called a prig. And by the two people he held most dear in all the world, after Mama. Was it then being a prig to prefer not to worry his father and mother about money he knew they did not have, to prefer not to accept charity from Ellen when he knew it would cause an estrangement between her and her family? There was a topsy-turvy world.

  He went inside, hung his hat beside Tony's, knocked and entered the little parlour, discovered his brother standing in the room, gaping at his parents. 'Dick,' he shouted. 'There is some mystery here.'

  'Dick.' Suzanne Hilton got up, seized her younger son by the hand. 'Thank God you are here.' He kissed her on the cheek. Incredible to suppose she was fifty-one years old. Incredible to suppose she had also been present at the Saintes, had, if legend could be believed, actually served a gun there. Incredible to suppose she had once spent a month as a prisoner of Henry Christophe's Negro army in the hinterland of St Domingue. There were lines on her neck, and reaching away from her eyes. But the complexion itself was smooth, the sun tan of her youth faded to a rich cream; the grey eyes were as clear as ever, the Hilton beauty as untarnished, and what streaks of white there were seemed no more than an enhancing pattern against the yellow of her hair.

  'I'm sorry to be late. I met Ellen in the park.'

  She kissed him in turn. 'As you should. But poor old Tony has been hopping about like a wild man. I have a secret.' She smiled, archly, and doubled her beauty.

  'Concerning me? Father.' He reached for Matt Hilton's hand, and frowned. His father looked even more ill than usual, his cheeks grey, his mouth turned down. And his hair was as grey as his cheeks. He could still fire himself with enthusiasm, when he would speak on his favourite subject. But too much of the time, as he watched English opinion hardening against all liberalism in the pursuit of victory over the French, he seemed to sink into a trough of depression.

  'Dick. Ill news, boy. Ill news.'

  'Oh, what rubbish,' Suzanne cried. 'We have received a letter from Robert.'

  'Uncle Robert?' Dick asked, stupidly. 'From Jamaica?' They had not heard from Suzanne's brother in ten years; Robert Hilton did not exactly approve of his cousin's continual preaching in favour of Abolition.

  'And that is your secret, Mama?' Tony demanded. 'He is visiting London, no doubt. And expects us to pay homage.'

  She shook her head, sat down again, opening the creased paper. 'He considers himself too old to stand an Atlantic crossing. Indeed, age is all he speaks of. Thus he worries about the future. For the first time, that I can remember.' She raised her head, gazed at her sons. 'He wishes to be sure Hilltop and Green Grove descend to the proper hands. And he wishes those hands to understand planting, and the problems of planting. He would train his nephew.'

  There was a sudden silence, then Tony gave a bellow of joy. 'Good old Uncle Bob. You said he'd never forget us. A planter, by God. Slave girls. All the horses I desire. All the clothes I desire. All the money I desire. Gad, I can scarce believe it.'

  Dick was watching his mother. Some of the animation had left her face.

  As Tony had noticed. 'Well?' he asked. 'Or are there conditions attached?'

  'No conditions,' Suzanne said, very quietly. 'Well, then’

  'Save as regards the nephew he wishes,' she said, even more quietly. 'He asks for Dick.'

  Dick sat down. He was aware of something having happened, but for the moment it was impossible to place it in his mind.

  'It's a mistake, of course,' Tony declared. 'Uncle Robert has got the names mixed up.'

  Suzanne Hilton's face had assumed that frozen expression both her sons, and her husband, knew very well. 'I'm afraid not, Tony. Robert refers to you by name in another part of his letter, and refers to you also as my elder child.'

  'But. . .' Tony's cheeks slowly began to fill with blood.

  'There is always the possibility that your uncle has gone mad, at last,' Matt Hilton remarked. 'He consumes more alcohol than food, rides to the fie
lds in the midday sun, and lives in a state of total omnipotence. And has done all of these things for the past forty years, to my certain knowledge.'

  'Robert is not mad,' Suzanne said, still speaking very quietly. 'At least, there is no indication of it in this letter. And quarrelling about what is a remarkable stroke of fortune seems to me to be the height of absurdity. Dick?'

  Dick slowly focussed on his mother. Jamaica. The West Indies. He had been born in Jamaica, but he could remember nothing of it. Save dark faces. But that had not been in Jamaica. That had been in St Domingue, after the revolt. The faces had leered at him, and grinned at him, and threatened him, and he had clung to his mother, and hid his face in her skirts.