HF - 05 - Sunset (36 page)

'Man, mistress, I got for back your horse,' Prudence said. 'This Henry.'

'Good afternoon, Henry.' Meg shook hands with the black man, considerably younger than her old nurse, she suspected, and very well dressed. 'You're not a Hilltop man?'

'No, no, Mrs Hilton. I am from Kingston.' 'Henry is me own cousin,' Prudence explained. 'He does be a clerk.'

'Prudence's cousin? You must come out to see us more often, Henry.'

'I will do that, Mrs Hilton, if you are wishing it.'

Prudence lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper. 'Henry is the one what I got watching for that Mr McAvoy. And you know what he saying? Mr McAvoy's schooner in the harbour this minute.'

Meg's head jerked.

That is quite true, Mrs Hilton,' Henry said. 'He dropped anchor last night.'

Her nostrils flared as she inhaled. 'And how long does he normally stay?'

'Well, about two days. He will likely sail Monday afternoon.'

Meg licked her lips. 'I thank you, Henry. Prudence, you must bring Henry up to the House and give him a glass of wine. You'll excuse me.'

Because she had not yet made up her mind? Because she could not make up her mind? This was Saturday. Billy was home, and she was entertaining. And on Monday, when she would again be free for five days, Alan would be gone again.

And yet, was her mind not already made up? Had it not been made up the day Prudence had first told her of his visits to Kingston? What madness. What utter abysmal madness. But how she wanted, how she craved, the body of a man. Any man, perhaps, so long as his name was not Billy Hilton. But Alan McAvoy more than any.

To hold Alan in her arms again, just once, would be to ensure it had all been worthwhile.

She joined her guests, linked arms with her husband, led the procession, smiling and talking. Margaret Hilton, after a successful race meeting. Old Robert must have walked like this, at the head of his gue
sts, in the great days. And Car
tarette had certainly walked like this, her disfigured hero at her side. Knowing they were Hiltons. Knowing the world, or this corner of it, to be sure, was all theirs.

'Champagne, Lawrence,' she said as they climbed the stairs to the verandah. 'Lots and lots of champagne. We are going to celebrate.' She gave Billy's arm a squeeze. 'Aren't we, my dear?'

There's a happy thought.' He was already lifting his first glass. 'Aren't you going to celebrate?'

She released him. 'In a moment. I must just make sure everything is all right in the kitchen. Do please have a drink, ladies, gentlemen. Enjoy yourselves. I shall be back in a moment.' She hurried along the verandah, heart pounding, legs suddenly feeling weak. She had not
made
the decision; it had been made for her, deep in her mind. It was merely a matter of having Prudence make the necessary arrangements.

By midnight the last of her guests had left, and by midnight Billy was snoring contentedly in his armchair in the far corner of the drawing room. And by midnight, too, Prudence had a horse waiting by the back steps, not Candy tonight, because a lot of hard riding was involved, but a stallion, bred from the same dam as Ultimatum himself. Henry also waited, also mounted.

And by then Meg, who had not actually drunk any champagne all evening - Lawrence had merely pretended to refill her glass - had changed into her riding habit, with her hair tucked up into a broad-brimmed felt secured under her chin with a strap; she would not easily be identified. And she had discarded her rings; she did not even want to identify herself.

'Man, Miss Meg,' Prudence said. 'You knowing what you doing?'

'You know what to tell the master,' she said. Her bedroom door was locked. Well, having got himself drunk he would expect that. And if he rose early, which was again unlikely, he would be informed that she had already left on a tour of the plantation, and would not be back before luncheon. And did it matter, any of it ? She was Meg Hilton, and Billy would not find it easy to forget that.

They walked their horses down the slope and past the sleeping villages. They eased into a trot when they reached the road out of the plantation, and kept that steady, unwearying pace throughout the night. Soon enough they overtook one of the carriages, still rumbling slowly towards town. But there was no moon, and it was Henry who called the greeting to the driver; the people within were probably asleep, and if they were awake they would hardly recognize her, she thought. And then, even if they did, they would suppose themselves dreaming. Meg Hilton, careering about the country in the dead of night, attended only by a black man ? Impossible. Of course, they would reflect, there were all those rumours, but still, it was impossible.

Yet it would be sure to come out eventually. Kingston was too small. Jamaica was too small. So this was utter madness. But what magnificent madness. What Hilton madness!

A dog barked as they rode into Kingston and a moment later the first cock flapped its wings and uttered a tentative crow. But it was only three in the morning. They walked their tired horses down King Street, halted them at the docks. The harbour was dark, save for the riding lights nodding on the ships at anchor. Meg dismounted, rubbed her bottom, clapped her hands together, it was chill, close to the water.

'There is a boat here.' Henry had tethered the horses, and was now dragging a dinghy out from beneath the dock. He got in himself, held the craft steady while Meg sat on the edge of the wood and eased herself forward. She sat on the transom, and he unshipped the oars, and pulled slowly across the water.

'You know I am forever in your debt, Henry,' she said. 'I'd not have you forget that.'

'How shall I forget that, Mrs Hilton? I am just happy to help you. Prudence does talk ...' He corrected himself. 'Prudence talks about you all the time.'

'And you won't forget
me?’

'I will have the horses ready at dawn, Mrs Hilton.'

Thank you, Henry.' How her heart pounded. The dinghy was now beneath the shadow of the schooner, riding quietly to her anchor. A man was leaning on the aft gun-whale, watching them, not speaking until he was sure they were coming alongside.

'What you want?'

Of course, Meg realized, for trading, or smuggling within the Caribbean, Alan would certainly have a Negro crew.

'I wish to see your captain.'

The dinghy was against the hull now, and Henry had shipped his oars. The schooner had a low freeboard, and the gunwhale was only a few feet above their heads.

"The captain sleeping. You ain't knowing that?'

'He will be pleased to see me,' Meg said. 'Help me up.'

The sailor peered at her. 'Mistress?' he asked, recognizing her as a white woman. 'You knowing the captain?'

'Yes,' she said, holding on to the rubbing strake to pull herself to her feet. 'Are you going to help me up or not?'

The sailor hesitated, then extended his arms downwards.

'Give me a push, Henry.'

Henry also hesitated, then seized her thighs and pushed her upwards. She went with a rush, and the sailor turned her to allow her to sit on the gunwhale. She swung her legs over - she was not encumbered with petticoats - and her boots hit the deck with a soft thud.

'You all right, Mrs Hilton?' Henry said.

'I am all right, Henry,' she said, and gazed at the sailor, who was scratching his head.

'Mistress Hilton? Well, goddam.'

'Oh, I am sorry,' Henry said, 'I didn't think.'

'I'm sure it's not important,' Meg said, although her brain was tumbling. 'Just be sure you are waiting for me at dawn. She smiled at the sailor. 'Shall I take off my boots?'

'Well, mistress ...' He was scratching his head again.

'I think it is probably best,' she said, looked around her, and found a vacant space on the iron horse surrounding the mainmast, a receptacle for belaying pins and coiled halyards. She sat down cautiously, unlaced her boots. The sailor stared at her, blinking in the darkness.

'You want me call the captain?'

'No. Just tell me where he is.'

'Well, he does be in the aft cabin. But mistress, if I ain' call he, he will be sleeping.' 'You had best give me a lantern,' she decided.

He hesitated, then went aft. Meg drew off her first boot, and then the stocking as well, wriggled her toes. She looked around her, at the masts - the schooner had two - the loosely furled sails, the sweep of sheer deck, from the helm to the bow. Alan's ship. She inhaled the tang of the tar in the seams, the scent of the warps and sheets. A trading schooner, used for smuggling. The summit of Alan's ambitions, to be his own master, no matter how low in the success scale that had to be.

The man who mig
ht
have been Master of Hilltop.

The sailor was returning slowly, carrying a lantern. 'Man, mistress, you sure the captain ain' going bust me ass for this?'

'I promise you, he won't.' She rolled down her second stocking, thrust it into the boot, stood up. There was a heavy dew, and the deck was damp underneath her feet. 'Down there?'

The curved hatchway was closed.

'Yes'm. But...'

'And who else sleeps down there ?'

'Well, nobody else, mistress. Is the captain own cabin, down there. We got for sleep forward.'

She nodded. 'Hold the lantern for me.

She tiptoed aft, gently eased the hatchcover back, peered into the gloom. Down there smelt even more strongly of tar, with added smells besides, the smell of rum, the smell of food, and the smell of man. So then, she thought. You could turn back now. This fellow would be glad to set you ashore, and Henry would not yet have finished stabling the horses. You would have had your adventure, seen how he now lives, and been sufficiently disappointed.

And you would regret your cowardice all of your life. Perhaps, in fact, she thought, this journey had been undertaken just to compensate for the cowardice she had shown over the years in never returning to the mountains. Besides, she thought, after Henry's careless slip the damage was done. If she would have to live with this midnight escapade, she might as well enjoy it.

She fumbled for the ladder with her toes, found it, and went down, the lantern held level with her face. She found herself in a tiny saloon; the bunks to port and starboard contained mattresses, but nothing else. The table in the centre supported a half-empty bottle, and a single glass. Poor Alan. Reduced to drinking himself to bed.

The schooner was narrow gutted, and the saloon filled the entire width, while the low deck beams - she had to duck her head - made it seem even narrower than it really was. Forward a door swung open, and she heard a faint snore. She had to sit down to get round the table, then stood in the cabin doorway, the lantern thrust forward. Here again there were two bunks, and nothing else, save a hanging cupboard in which there was a solitary white duck suit, and a matching cap. His shore-going outfit. An unemptied bucket of urine stood beneath it. She wrinkled her nose, lifted it, placed it in the saloon, then closed the cabin door behind her, and suspended the lantern from a hook set in the deck beam.

Alan lay on his back on the starboard bunk, naked; his discarded clothes were on the port bunk, and he had not troubled to remove his shoes. His hair was lank and needed cutting, and he had not shaved in at least three days, she thought. Yet the face, surprisingly, was neither sad nor emaciated, and the body was even more powerfully muscled, more intensely masculine than she remembered, the big chest giving way to narrow thighs before stretching out into long, muscular legs, and between the rod she loved so much, which filled so great a proportion of her dreams, half erected even while he slept. Perhaps, she thought, he dreams of me.

The passion was by now surging in her belly, but with it, even as it reached up to explode in her brain, was an understanding she had not previously known. She loved this man. She had always loved him. The sight of him, drunk and unshaven, made her love him the more. She realized that this was what she truly wanted, man the primeval, man such as
Cleave, but yet, being a woman, being a Hilton, she wanted the savage overlaid with some veneer of civilization.

She unfastened her gown, let it lie on the deck. She took off her hat, threw it on the bunk. Then she slowly removed his shoes, placed them softly on the cabin sole. He stirred and half smiled. Definitely he was dreaming. And for this moment he was all hers.

She felt like a child with a new toy, and in no hurry to wake him. She touched his rod, stroked it, caressed it, felt it rise beneath her fingers as the man sighed, and lowered her head to kiss it, felt his fingers on her hair, fumbling, for a moment uncertain as to what was happening, uncertain which was dream and which was reality.

She raised her head and gazed at him, at the incredulity in his eyes, then she was crawling onto the bunk, on top of him, laying her belly on his, closing her thighs on his now flaming member, allowing her hair to fall beside his face, kissing him on the mouth.

'Meg?' he whispered. 'Meg Hilton?'

'No questions,' she whispered back. 'No questions. And no haste, my darling. Please, no haste.' She slipped off him, lay beside him, one leg still across his thighs. 'Use your hands, first. Please, my darling.'