HF - 05 - Sunset (43 page)

'So what it all comes down to,' Billy said, 'is that, well, I have taken advice, legal and medical, and we have discussed the matter, and well, the upshot of the matter is that I have been advised that, in the interests of Hilltop, and of your children, and, I may say, of yourself, Meg, well, that it would be best if I were to take the running of the plantation out of your hands.'

Meg got up again, slowly. 'Are you out of your mind?'

'Now, Meg
...'

'You ? Who did his best to ruin the plantation in the first place? You? What makes you think you could ever take over the operation of my plantation?
If
you don't like the way I do things, the way I live my life, well, you know what you can do. You can get out. You can leave now. And you can take that
...
that creature with you, and your quack doctor.'

'Now, Meg, losing your temper is not going to help. Indeed, it is only going to confirm us in our unhappy conclusions. I have a legal right
...'

'A legal right?' she shouted. 'You? What legal rights can you possibly have on Hilltop?'

Billy looked at Roberts in desperation. The doctor cleared his throat. 'Your husband has the rights that accrue to any husband, Mrs Hilton, when it is discovered that his wife is of well, unsound mind.'

There was a moment of utter silence.

'You,' Meg said, pointing at Oriole. 'This is a scheme from your diseased brain.'

'Well, really, Meg,' Oriole said. 'But I am not going to let you annoy me. I swear it. I feel sorry for you, my dear child. Now, come along, and
...'

'Who is going to declare me of unsound mind?' Meg demanded. 'Who?'

'I am prepared to sign the necessary certificate,' Roberts said.

'You?'

'I would have been, I t
hink, anyway,' Roberts said.

'Having regard to what I have learned about you. But having observed you, my very last reservation has been removed.'

'And you had better remove yourself as well,' Meg said. 'Before I have you thrown off this plantation. I think I will have you thrown off this plantation anyway. Along with your accomplices. Unsound mind ? You have John Phillips out here, and let us see what he has to say.'

'I'm afraid that won't be possible,' Oriole said. 'Dr Roberts is a fully qualified medical practitioner, and he is perfectly capable of deciding whether someone is mad or not.'

'Mad?' Meg whispered. 'Mad?' she shouted.

'Mad,' Oriole said firmly. 'Now of course, we are not proposing to have you certified. I don't think such a scandal would be good for the family name. There has never been a mad Hilton, in the eyes of the world, and praise God, there never will be. But
...'

'Mad?' Meg screamed. 'I demand to see John Phillips. I demand it.'

'I'm afraid, Mrs Hilton, that you are not in a position to demand anything, from anyone,' Roberts pointed out. 'As of this moment, you have no more rights than a three-year-old child. You may be grateful that your family is determined to look after you to the very best of their ability.'

'As I was saying,' Oriole said brightly. 'You will remain on Hilltop, of course. You will have your own room, the use of the house, you may walk in the garden, you may even ride aback, suitably superintended, of course. We can't have you doing yourself a mischief.'

'Oh, God,' Meg whispered. 'Oh, God,' she screamed. 'Help me.'

Oriole smiled at her.
‘I
very much doubt whether He really has any interest in you any more, my dear. But I shall help you. I shall be always at your side. Why,' her smile grew arch. 'It will be just like old times.'

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE MADWOMAN OF HILLTOP

MEG gazed at her for a moment. She could think of nothing to say, nothing to do. She was aware only of a building feeling in her belly, reaching up into her chest to cloud her brain. It was a feeling she had never known before, even in the Cuban cell, but it arose from that experience; it was composed of hate and fear and desperation, but above all of exhaustion. She was so tired. She had been sustained only by the thought that she was coming home. But she was not home yet. She was never going to be home again. She had no home. It had been taken from her.

She gazed at Oriole, saw the expression on her face as she reached for her hand, and screamed. It was all she could do. She screamed, and screamed and screamed. She could feel the sting of her father's belt, the saw of the Cuban rope, the agony of her children seeking a way out of her belly, the pain of her wrist when she had fallen from her bed in front of Billy, all consuming her being. She screamed, and again. She watched their faces, settling into determined patience, but determined satisfaction as well. They had declared her mad, and she was acting the mad woman.

Her knees gave way and she sank to the settee. The screams subsided into tears, but even the tears were subdued by the drumming in her brain. She wanted to sleep. She wanted nothing but to close her eyes and shut out all of their hateful faces, their hateful plans, for as long as possible. For until she felt well and strong again. For until she was Margaret Hilton again. She had not been Margaret Hilton since
the moment, she had stood on the ladder, looking down from the side of the
Margarita
into the clear blue water, seconds before her entire life had fallen apart.

She heard voices mumbling. Presumably they were speaking English, but they sounded as incomprehensible as had the voices in the Cuban gaol. There, she thought, that was the truth. She had never really been rescued from that cell. Well, all the time she had known it was impossible. Why should the Americans involve themselves in someone else's revolt? It had all been her imagination, a long dream. Even the months spent in the hospital, cared for by those exuberantly cheerful young women, had been nothing more than a dream. Much of it had indeed been spent in a dream. She had had malaria, they had said, and a lot of other things besides, and they would not let her go home until she was cured.

If it had not been a dream, Billy would have come to her. Surely. He would have learned that she was still alive, and he would have come to her. She had wondered about that at the time. But of course, then, she had not realized it was a dream. Now, if she were to open her eyes and her brain -if she were to risk that - she would again see Jaime looking through the bars, reaching for her with his fingers, offering her bread, and soup.

But it was safer not to. Dreaming, she could not be hurt. Dreaming, she could reassure herself that she would in time awake, and the nightmare would be over. Dreaming, knowing that she was dreaming, made the pain, made the misery, almost enjoyable, because she could end it when she chose, simply by awakening, simply by walking into the light of day, simply by throwing back her shoulders and saying, 'I am Margaret Hilton'. That simple phrase had saved her from enough disasters in the past. It would again in the future. When she was ready. When she was no longer quite so exhausted.

Besides, she could feel Jaime's fingers, even while dreaming. He seemed to have an awful lot of fingers. He seemed to have an awful lot of hands. They caressed her, gripped her, seemed to be making her walk, in her dream, of course. She climbed stairs, and felt a cool breeze on her face. Definitely a dream; there was seldom a cool breeze in the cell-block. But this breeze was not only cool, it was scented, with the faint tang of bananas for which she had worked so hard, and so successfully. But more than even the bananas, the breeze carried with it the scent of the mountains, of the land where Cleave ruled, the land of the drum.

She could hear the drums from time to time, carried on the sweet-scented breeze, filling her mind as the scent filled her nostrils. She thought that if she could gain the security of the drum, see the smiles of the faces of Jack and Cleave, know the primitive certainty of that mountain society, her brain would clear, and she would be able to think, be able once again to make that essential decision, 'I am Margaret Hilton'.

But just as she raised herself to the required pitch of mental and physical strength, and was ready to throw back the covers, and get out of bed - because she was again in a bed, as she had been in the American hospital - the drums would fade, and stop altogether, and she would be surrounded by voices, strange voices, save for that of Oriole. But Oriole's voice, if familiar enough, was also the voice of an enemy. It was Oriole's voice which was responsible for her being here, and certainly it was Oriole's voice which was keeping her here, keeping her from Cleave, keeping her from the drum.

It was necessary to combat Oriole, by stealth, by keeping her secrets to herself. When she heard Oriole's voice she would turn her face into the pillow, to make sure that she did not speak, because she was not at all sure whether or not she was speaking, sometimes. It did not matter, so long as Oriole was not there. Others, the nameless servants, Peter Roberts, even Billy, were also there from time to time. But they did not matter. Only Oriole mattered. Only Oriole had
had substance in this endless n
ightmare.

Only Oriole had substance in more than that. For the day came when Meg awoke, as if from a very long sleep, her mind absolutely clear, to find Oriole sitting by her bedside, busy with her embroidery.

'Get out,' Meg said. 'Get out of my room.'

Oriole raised her head, gave a patient smile. 'Oh, dear,' she said. 'Are we in one of our bad moods today?'

'You
...'
Meg endeavoured to sit up, found she could hardly move. She sank back on the pillows, exhausted. 'Get out,' she said. 'Get out of my house.' She sensed another presence in the room, turned her head with an effort, saw the black woman standing by the door. 'You,' she said. 'Show Mrs Paterson out.'

The woman gazed at her.

'Now, Meg,' Oriole said. 'You know it isn't good for you to become excited. Dr Roberts will have to give you a potion, and you know how you carry on when he gives you a potion.'

She might have been speaking to a small child, Meg realized. She felt so angry she thought she might explode. Or do something
violent. And she could not even
move.

She raised her arm, looked at it. She could not ever remember having been so thin.

'Send in Prudence,' she said.

'Prudence has been dismissed,' Oriole said.

'Dismissed? Why, you
...'

'I never approved of that wretched woman, as you well know, Meg,' Oriole said. 'The very first thing I did once I was again in charge of Hilltop was to send her packing.'

'In charge?' Meg stared at her in helpless fury. 'What else have you done ?' she asked, keeping her voice even with an effort. 'Where is Bully?'

'That ghastly creature? I had him put down.'

Meg found herself unable to speak for some seconds. She thought,
the
very moment she could find the strength, she would throttle her with her own hands.

'I would like to see my husband,' she said.

'Of course you may. I imagine he will be coming in from the fields about now. Madge, will you ask Mr Hilton to attend Mrs Hilton?'

The Negress bowed, and left the room. Oriole put down her needlework, got up, bent over the bed.

'If you touch me, Oriole, I will kill you,' Meg said. 'I swear it'

Oriole hesitated, but she remained smiling. 'I was going to smooth your pillow. Touch you, Meg? I wouldn't touch your body unless I was wearing gloves.'

'Then why are you here at all ?'

Oriole straightened, listened to the feet on the stairs. 'It is my duty to be here, where the Hilton home is. Besides, I enjoy being here, my dear. I had always intended to be Mistress of Hilltop one day. Didn't you know ?'

Meg watched the door, watched Billy come in. He was wiping sweat from his face and still wore his riding clothes.

'What has happened ?'

'Nothing has happened, darling,' Oriole said. 'Meg asked to see you. I would close the door.' Billy closed the door. Darling? Meg thought. My God. 'Is
...
is she all right?'

'Slightly more lucid than usual,' Oriole said. 'And thus considerably more vituperative.'

Billy stood by the bed. 'Good morning, Meg.'

'What is that woman doing here?' Meg demanded.

'Caring for you, mostly,' Billy said. 'You have been very, very ill, you know.'

'Ill
? What with?'

'Well
...'
Billy glanced at Oriole, then sat down in the chair she had just vacated. 'Roberts calls it a breakdown. You are having a breakdown.'

'I never heard such nonsense in all
my
life,' Meg said. 'Breakdown ? What a totally meaningless phrase. I was very tired. All I wanted was a good night's sleep. And I told you yesterday that I did not wish to be attended by that man. I wish to see John Phillips.'

'Yesterday?' Billy asked, and scratched his head.

Oriole came back from the window to stand beside him. 'Do you know, darling, I am beginning to think that she may have recovered her senses.'

'1 also want
her
sent away from here,' Meg said, determined to keep her temper.