HF - 04 - Black Dawn

by Christopher Nicole

  The music was dying. He had arranged it so that they finished their last rotation in a corner by the doors to the verandah.

  'But . . . eighteen thousand pounds,' she said again, allowing herself to be guided into the cool darkness. 'For an old building?'

  'Cheaper than rebuilding. Most of the stand was still solid. You'll see tomorrow.'

  She stood at the verandah rail, looked out at the darkness, and then at the twinkling lights of the town below them. 'A race meeting, on Hilltop. I attended one as a girl.'

  'You told me.' He was behind her, leaning slightly forward so that he touched her. His hands rested on her shoulders, gently kneading the flesh.

  Her breathing, which had commenced to settle after the exertions of the dance, began to quicken again. He loved to hear her become excited, to feel her become anxious.

  'Do I bore you awfully?'

  He smiled, into her ear as he kissed it. 'You entrance me, continuously, Phyllis. But I do not wish to be reminded of my uncle's successes, at least until I have had one of my own. I have dreamed of tomorrow since I first came to Hilltop, and that is better than twenty years ago, you know.'

  'I remember.' She turned, in his arms, moved her thighs against his. 'The Hilton boys. Oh, you caused quite a stir.' She smiled at him. 'Everyone was so disappointed when you did not immediately spring to the forefront of Jamaican society.'

  He kissed her nose. 'That was my brother's doing. Have I disappointed recently?'

  She gazed at him, frowning. 'The music is starting again.'

  'Then they are less likely to miss us.'

  Her lips parted. She became anxious, so very quickly, and so very anxious, as well. Because he had never actually done anything more than flirt, although he had held her in this very place on the verandah, at least a dozen times in the past. He had always wondered if he would ever do anything more than flirt. She was the elder, if only by a year or two, but age had nothing to do with it. She was not particularly attractive, but looks had very little to do with it either. He enjoyed the sensation of awakening woman, different women, and few of them responded as readily as Phyllis Kendrick. Why, the poor woman must be quite desperate, which was not very surprising, as she was forced to five with that stuffed egg Toby Kendrick, and even worse, was forced to share Rivermouth Great House with Kendrick's mother. A mistake he had not made, once Ellen had agreed to marry him.

  Oddly enough, tonight he felt like doing more than flirt. Tonight, this entire weekend, he was celebrating. It had been a dream of his for twenty years to re-establish the Hilltop race meetings. It had taken far longer than he had supposed possible. In the first place, that ghastly prig Reynolds had been against the idea, had successfully resisted the expense as long as there was a legal prospect of Dick still being alive. And even when he had been forced to admit Tony as rightful owner of Hilltop, the work had dragged, while breeding an unbeatable stable—Tony had no intention of not winning his own meetings—had taken even longer. But now, it was done, and tomorrow Hilltop would regain the very last of its former glories.

  Why even Mama must surely write to congratulate him, and she had written less and less often these past few years. No doubt his name figured in the newspapers too often for either her or Father. They disliked what the missionaries wrote about him, and they disliked his leadership of those planters who would carry their defiance of the British Government even as far as secession. Well, they could dislike whatever they pleased; they accepted their share of the Hilltop profits without argument.

  He squeezed Phyllis Kendrick's elbow, gently turned her away from the rail. 'Shall we walk?'

  'Walk? But. . .' She was already allowing herself to be guided along the verandah, gulping as they passed close to another couple, half lost in the shadows, leaning against one another. He could feel her tremble, and desperately seek for conversation. 'Your manager, James Hardy. He is not here tonight.'

  'James is on holiday. Nevis. Have you been to the Grand Hotel?'

  'Toby says it is far too expensive. He says the prices they charge are simply outrageous, and for what? To be smoked in a sulphur bath?'

  'Oh, 'tis worth a visit. You meet all the best people.' He turned her in at the side door, and the servants hastily parted. 'Who'd have thought it, eh? Little Nevis, the poorest place you could ever imagine, suddenly becoming wealthy, because of a sulphur spring.'

  'Absurd.' Her voice was trembling now, as well. 'Tony . . . Mr Hilton . . .'

  'The painting is in my study,' he explained, to anyone who might be listening, and paused, at the second arch to the ballroom, to smile at the dancers. And then to catch Ellen's eye. She dominated the room, as she was the tallest woman present, and the most expensively dressed; the candlelight flickered from the emeralds of her earrings, the diamond necklace which roamed her breast as she spun in her partner's arms. And because she was Ellen. There were prettier women present. But there was no one with that arrogance, that superb panache.

  And there was no one present, either, with quite that glitter in her eye. Dances affected Ellen. But then, a great many things affected Ellen. She would be at her peak tonight. He doubted she would have the time for him, just as he doubted he would have the strength for her. A fact which was known to them both, and accepted by them both. So she smiled as she saw Phyllis Kendrick on his arm. But it was a contemptuous smile.

  The door to the study opened, and closed. The sound of the music was slightly reduced. The study was dark, only a faint lighter darkness forming the window. Phyllis Kendrick's thigh touched the desk, and she turned, into his arms. 'Is the painting very striking?'

  'I think so. It is of Ellen.'

  'Who else. And you keep it in front of you, while you are working.'

  He could feel her breath on his face, although he could hardly see her. He smiled, to be sure she felt his breath. 'A man should keep his wife always in mind.'

  She touched his face with her tongue, tentatively, exploring, waiting. Ellen had smiled, contemptuously. Ellen even felt contempt for Judith. She feared no rival, because she did not really care. She knew his weaknesses, his inabilities, indeed, and she felt sorry for them. No doubt genuinely. But her pity was contempt. She did not love him. Ellen did not love anyone. Ellen did not even love Ellen.

  But Ellen loved the mistress of Hilltop. And the mistress of Hilltop was contemptuous of her husband's weaknesses.

  Phyllis Kendrick's hands were inside his coat, sliding round his waist, seeking a way into his pantaloons. 'Oh, Tony,' she whispered. 'I have wanted this, for so long. So very long.'

  But he could think only of Ellen's smile. God, how he hated her.

  But how he also loved the mistress of Hilltop. 'It does a woman good, to want,' he said. 'We'd best get back to the dance.'

  Hooves drummed, dust kicked, the earth trembled. The twelve ponies hurtled round the bend, clinging close to the white palings, the multi-coloured silk jackets of their black riders staining dark with sweat, the horses themselves foaming and baring their teeth as they reached through the heat and the swirling dust and sweat for the front.

  The people in the grandstand rose to their feet as if plucked forward by a gigantic string, all together. Hats were waved, along with parasols and kerchiefs and scarves. Screams of pleasure from the women mingled with the bellows from the men. Another noise to shake the plantation, to crowd through the air of the slave village. But this did not lull. Out in the fields the black people crouched over their cutlasses as they weeded the paths, the fields, performing their interminable, back-breaking tasks, and muttered at each other at the white man's conception of enjoyment. Perhaps they too would have enjoyed it, had they been present. The older men and women recalled that in the days of Master Robert—and how good they seemed in retrospect—a race day had meant a slave holiday, and they had all been permitted to crowd the rails of the track, and even to exchange their own bets, certainly to imbibe some of the pleasurable excitement of watching the ponies matched.

  But such a rel
axation of effort did not appeal to the latest Hilton. He believed slaves should work, and work, and work. Save where they were required for entertainment.

  The noise began to die. The ponies were cantering to a stop, before being returned to the unsaddling enclosure. The grandstand began to subside, ladies remembering their coiffures, men wiping sweat from their faces, those who had won hurrying off to collect their bets.

  'A good mare,' said the Reverend Patterson. 'Oh, indeed, a good mare. You must have made a fortune this day, Hilton.'

  'It'll pay for her keep.' Tony Hilton was one of the few men who had not risen to see the finish. Yet he wiped his brow as hard as anyone, replaced his grey silk hat. 'If Clay will not accommodate us, then we'll go over his head.'

  John Tresling frowned at him. 'Jackson?'

  'Why not. He is a statesman. Clay is an ignorant Virginian cotton planter.'

  'Urn.' Martin Evans, the fourth in the Hilton Box—the ladies were separately accommodated on the upper floor— scratched his nose.

  'They say Jackson is a firm upholder of the Monroe Doctrine.'

  'Well, then . . .'

  'Oh, he accepts that there are colonies, French and British, which have a longer standing than the United States itself. His concept is that there should be no expansion of those colonies, and that there should be no excuse for sending any European armament to the Caribbean, or anywhere else for that matter.'

  'So it follows,' Tresling pointed out, 'that he would be averse to any action which might involve the United States and Great Britain in a controversy. There is controversy enough, over the Oregon boundary.'

  'Statesmen,' Tony remarked, 'have this habit of assuming that the world will stand still while they form doctrines and make pronunciamentos. Now, then, gentlemen, Jackson, we are told, and I believe, because he is an honest man—my God, an honest politician, there is a contradiction in terms—is utterly opposed to European intervention in American affairs. He will do anything to avoid it, such as not even considering a Jamaican appeal to be included in the United States. Very well, then, what do you think would be his reaction were we to declare independence? But first, what would be the British reaction?'

  'You speak treason,' the parson muttered. 'For God's sake keep your voice down.'

  'George Washington also spoke treason, until he won,' Tony pointed out.

  'He's right, Reverend,' Tresling said. 'Whitehall would never stand for a Jamaica declaration of independence.'

  'They'd send a fleet,' Evans said.

  'Indeed they would,' Tony agreed. 'And what would your General Jackson do then, do you think?' The two planters looked at each other, and then both looked at the parson.

  'A desperate step,' Patterson said.

  'Yet one which will, eventually, have to be taken,' Tony said. 'Better in our own time, than in theirs.'

  'You cannot know it is inevitable,' Evans objected.

  'You have brains in that head of yours, Marty. Why do you think the Government has pulled back from Abolition? For the very reason that they fear an extreme reaction on our part. But all the while British public opinion is being prepared for the ultimate step. Worse, all the while our own public opinion here in Jamaica is being prepared for such a step. Now, seven, eight years ago, when Amelioration was first mentioned, our people dismissed the idea of British interference in our affairs, out of hand. So then Whitehall set to work. There is talk of their being no longer able to support preferential treaties for West Indian sugar. No longer able, by God. It is again, pure blackmail. They will remove the preference, unless we agree to their principles. And this is not being rejected out of hand. We three may be able to weather any economic storm. But there are those of us who cannot, who are already suggesting we had best accommodate Whitehall. And all of this, gentlemen, is under a Tory government. But my latest despatch from England says that the King is ailing. What happens when he dies, and there is an election? Suppose the Whigs gain power? The Whigs, gentlemen. The party of Wilberforce. Of my own father, bless his besotted soul. But not a party elected, or desired, by us. They talk of patriotism. Where, I would like to ask, does patriotism begin, if not in Port Royal?'

  ' 'Tis a difficult matter,' Evans said. 'With the price of sugar falling . . .'

  'Is this a confession?' Tresling inquired.

  'It is not,' Evans declared. 'I'll back you, if you'll set to it. But it's not a matter that can be resolved by secret discussions. We've had enough of those.'

  'Well, then, let us stop this one.' Tony smiled at them, and got up. 'I shall be in communication with you. And shortly.' He left the box, making his way through the throng, all calling their congratulations on the prowess of his mare, slapping him on the back, shaking his hand, and waited by the steps for the ladies as they left their boxes. 'Why, good afternoon to you, Phyllis. Did you win?'

  Phyllis Kendrick turned her head and ignored him, but her cheeks were pink. She would never forgive him for last night. She thought. She would never come to Hilltop again. She was determined. Until her next invitation. Poor Phyllis.

  'I think I am to congratulate us.' Ellen came last, shepherding the last of her guests. She wore her favourite pale green, and looked as cool and self-possessed as Phyllis had been hot and bothered.

  'Oh, indeed. Although the odds were not very good. Hilltop Dancer's reputation is growing.'

  'None the less, I shall give Peter Eleven my personal congratulations.' She smiled at her husband. ‘I even think, as he rides so well, we could grant him the use of a decent name. I shall think of one and let you know.'

  He held her arm. 'Shall I come with you?'

  A darting look, before she once again studied the stairs they descended. 'I'm sure that will not be necessary, Tony. I was under the impression that blacks bored you. Besides, have you not got dear Phyllis to see to? I trust you spent a pleasant night?'

  They had reached the foot of the stairs, and the grooms were lining up as they passed. The slaves feared the mistress more even than the master. No one knew for certain what had happened on that afternoon fifteen years before, but a man had died. While attempting to run away, certainly; that was the official account. But Absolom and Jeremiah had not been able to stop themselves whispering.

  Ellen smiled at them, glanced at her husband. Their guests were already strung out across the grass, making their way slowly back towards the house, gossiping and laughing, anticipating another sumptuous meal, another bout of indiscriminate drinking and indiscriminate flirting. Or more. And were Ellen to suspect that he had not bedded Phyllis, last night, her contempt would undoubtedly grow.

  'My night was much as I expected,' he said. 'And yours?' 'Oh, the same. The same.' 'His name?'

  She stopped, and turned, her fan coming together into a short wand, held with the tips of her fingers, to slap him gently on the chest. 'You would break the rules? And it would merely make you jealous.'

  'Of one of the pot-bellied, pasty-faced planters?'

  'Your guests,' she gently reproved. 'But then it need not have been one of your guests, need it?' She gave that arch, secret smile he adored.

  'I don't believe you. I know you like to look. You'd never stoop so low.'

  This time the secret smile became a secret laugh, as she turned away. 'Why do you think Peter Eleven rode so well, today?'

  The cavalcade wound its way through the valley. When the first of the carriages was already entering the road through the hills, three miles from the Great House, the last was just rumbling down the slope outside the house itself. Dust hung on the air in a long swathe, travelled with the light breeze, scattered across the town and the village and the factory, coated the cane stalks.

  Ellen Hilton held a handkerchief to her lips as she waved. 'Thank God that is over, for another season,' she said. 'Truly, I am ceasing to wonder at your uncle's decision to shut himself away here, and take no part in Jamaican society. It would be difficult to imagine a more boring, a more vulgar and more uninteresting lot.'

  Tony lowe
red his arm. 'But you enjoy playing the queen of that society.'

  'I wonder if it is worth it.' She turned, and went into the comparative cool of the house. 'A light breakfast, Boscawen,' she stretched. 'And then a long, long siesta. Will you be going aback?'

  He watched her climb the stairs. 'It hardly seems worthwhile.' He climbed behind her.

  At the top she seemed to realize for the first time that he was following her, and hesitated, before continuing on to the gallery. Her hand touched the knob of the door to her bedchamber, and again she hesitated, realizing that he stood at her shoulder.

  'I really am quite exhausted,' she said. 'I am going to lie down.'

  'That will suit me admirably,' he said.

  She turned, frowning at him, and he reached past her to open the door, allowing his body to come against hers. The door opened, and he walked forward, using his right hand to hold her round the waist and half lift, half push her in front of him. Bridget, Ellen's personal maid, stared at them in alarm.