HF - 05 - Sunset (6 page)

'But what happen with you?' Prudence demanded from the top of the steps.

'I fell over in some sheep shit,' Meg said crossly. 'And am to have a bath. Draw it for me, please.'

'Is that woman, eh ?'

Meg reached the top of the stairs. 'You've seen her?' 'What ? Miss Meg, she come in here like some
mamaloi,
because there weren't nobody in Kingston for to meet she.' 'To meet her? But
...'

'Well, it seems she saying she did write to the master, oh, one time ago, saying she is coming for a visit to he, and he ain't replying. He ain't even remembering. Well, you must know what your daddy is like. He does throw all them letters straight in the trash.' She wrinkled her nose. 'But she right about you smelling, chil'. You would even frighten a sheep.'

'Oh, draw my bath,' Meg shouted. Coming to stay ? That was impossible. She stamped along the corridor to her room. Where would she sleep, for a start? There were only two bedrooms.

She unfastened her gown in such a rage that she popped off two of the buttons. And then nearly tore her drawers. But the bath felt so good. Prudence had placed the huge tub in the very centre of the floor, and filled it with steaming water into which she had scattered some sweet-smelling herbs. Meg sank in with a great sigh, and leaned her head back so that her hair would trail in the water. Hannibal, freed from his chain, also uttered a great sigh, and lay down with a thud. And suddenly Meg began to laugh. It really had been a most amusing afternoon. And what Prudence had told her just capped it. No wonder this Oriole was furious. Left standing all by herself on the Kingston dock
...
her head jerked as the door opened and she gazed at Oriole Paterson. 'You can't come in here,' she screamed, crossing her arms over her breasts and leaning forward.

'Don't be absurd,' Oriole said, entering the room. 'Out,' she commanded. 'You belong in the yard. Out.'

Hannibal heaved himself to his feet, glanced at his mistress, went through the door.

'He's my pet,' Meg protested.

'One doesn't have pets in the bedroom,' Oriole explained, closing the door. 'You and I must have a
...'
She stared at the girl. 'My God. What has happened to your hair?'

'My hair?' Meg started to reach behind her for the hair then hastily closed her arms over her body again.

'It's wet,' Oriole said.

'Well, I am sitting in a bath,' Meg said sarcastically.

Oriole glared at her for a moment, then her hand came out with quite startling speed while her body bent forward like a striking snake. The force of the blow almost knocked Meg out of the tub. Water scattered everywhere, and she fell back, arms and legs flying. For a moment she was too surprised to speak.

'You obviously need to be taught a great deal of manners,' Oriole said.

'You
...'
Meg bit her lip. Now the cheek was starting to sting, and she was so angry she wanted to burst. So she merely began to cry, and became even more angry.

'Oh, stop that,' Oriole said. 'Hiltons don't cry. Not if they
are
Hiltons. Your name is Margaret. You're named after the first great Hilton woman. Do you think
she ever
cried ?' She smiled. 'And she had far more than you to cry about.' When she smiled, and the tightness of her features relaxed, she was utterly lovely. 'Now don't move.'

Meg couldn't have moved if she tried. She merely sat in the slowly cooling water and stared, while Oriole removed her hat, and her gloves, and then unfastened her gown and removed that as well. Slowly the garment settled about her ankles, and she stepped out of it. But she was no nearer being undressed. Underneath she wore a petticoat which was actually fastened at her neck, while when she bent over the bed to smooth the gown Meg could see that there were at least another five skirts. How she stood it in the afternoon heat was impossible to imagine, and indeed her back and under her arms were damp. But as she undressed she exuded a quite marvellous perfume which prevented any suggestion of perspiration.

'Now,' she said, turning. 'Let us do something about you.' She knelt beside the tub, behind Meg, and Meg felt her gathering the hair. 'Such lovely hair. All Hiltons have lovely hair. I have lovely hair, don't you think?'

Meg hesitated. But she
did
have lovely hair. 'Yes,' she muttered.

'Actually, it does need washing,' Oriole said. 'But you cannot wash your hair in your bath, really. We will do it tomorrow. And you must start brushing it I never saw such a mess of tangles. There.'

She stood up, and without thinking Meg put up her hands to feel the coiled mound of hair on the top of her head. She had never had her hair up before.

'You are a quite lovely child,' Oriole said, and Meg hastily lowered her arms again. 'What am I saying. You are a quite lovely young woman. Or you could be. Really, your father ought to be whipped, for just letting you run to ruin like this. Perhaps all men ought to be whipped. They are a worthless crew. My late husband was worst of all. But perhaps I have caught you in time.' She leaned forward, and Meg tensed herself for whatever might be coming. But it was only a kiss on the forehead. 'Now you finish your bath and then go to bed. I must have a talk with your father.'

'I haven't had my supper yet,' Meg said. Oriole smiled at her. 'You are not going to have any supper, my dear.' She resumed her gown. 'No supper? But
...'

'You were very naughty, and must be punished. Bed without supper is better than a whipping. You should be grateful.' She went to the door while Meg stared at her.

There she paused, to smile again. 'Now, do as I say, and I won't have to punish you again. I'm sure we are going to be friends, you and I.'

Meg got out of the bath and dried herself. She dropped her nightgown over her head, and sat down, gazing moodily at the wall. She still seethed with anger. How could she not, as her face still ached from the blow. But she felt curiously excited as well. Oriole Paterson was so
...
so elegant. There was the word. Meg had never known an elegant woman before. Although surely Mother would have been elegant.

But if Mother had been elegant, why had she refused to live in the Great House ? One could hardly be elegant in a small bungalow.

She lay down. She could hear their voices, now. Or rather, Oriole's voice, seeping across the roof to come down into the bedroom. Papa answered briefly. And defensively. Poor Papa. He must be wondering what had hit him.

Her door opened. 'You sleeping, chil' ?'

She sat up. 'Prudence?'

‘
I come for the bath, chil'.' Prudence closed the door behind her. 'But is true you ain' having no supper?'

'I'm being punished,' Meg said bitterly.

'Oh, she does be a one,' Prudence agreed and came closer. 'But we can' have you starving, chil'. Or how your bubbies going grow big like mine?' She held out a plate of biscuits.

'Oh, Prudence, you are a treasure.'

'When you done,' Prudence said, 'put the plate in your drawer.'

'I will. Thank you, Prudence. Thanks ever so much.'

'Yeah. Well, you got for take care while she is here.' Prudence stooped, exerted her enormous strength, lifted the tub, still full of water, from the floor. 'Me too.' She went outside, closed the door. Meg ate the biscuits. Dear Prudence. But for the colour of her skin she would be the best mother anyone could have.

Save that no one could possibly describe Prudence as elegant. She finished her biscuits and fell asleep, and awoke again with a start as the door opened, very quietly, to admit first of all the glow of a candle, then Oriole herself. Instantly she sat up, wondering what new assault, on her person or her way of life, was imminent.

'It's all right,' Oriole said brightly. 'She's awake.' The door opened wider, and Oriole came in. 'Do cover yourself, Margaret,' she said.

Behind her was Percy, carrying two suitcases. Meg slowly lifted the sheet to her neck.

'Just put them down, man,' Oriole said.

'Yes'm,' Percy said, and put them down.

'Madam,' Oriole said. 'You will call me madam. Do you understand?'

'Yes'm,' Percy said. 'Goodnight, Miss Meg.' He closed the door behind him.

'Stupid people,' Oriole complained. 'And far too familiar. Especially with you, Margaret. I will have to speak to them.' She took off her gown.

'But
...
what are you doing?' Meg asked.

'Undressing.' Petticoat began to follow petticoat on to the chair.

'Here?'

'Where else? I am going to share your bed, my dear Margaret. At least until we can make some other arrangements.'

'My bed? Oh, Lord.'

'And do not say Oh Lord. Young ladies do not say Oh Lord.' A last petticoat was removed, and Meg gazed at the corset in utter amazement. Oriole was reaching behind her, fumbling at the ties, sighing as she slowly released them.

'Isn't it very uncomfortable ?' Meg asked.

'A lady isn't supposed to be comfortable, goose.' A last sigh, and the corset was laid on the chair with the petticoats. Although underneath was yet another garment, over her drawers, to separate the whalebone from the flesh. But Oriole was looking much happier. It occurred to Meg that one reason for her sharpness might have been sheer discomfort. 'We shall have to get you one.' 'Me?'

Oriole removed her shift 'Of course. You look positively indecent as you are.'

Meg's mouth slowly fell open. Oriole's perfection of feature extended to her body, for now she sat on the end of the bed to remove her stockings. It was the first time Meg had ever seen another white woman's body; Negresses were either very large, from too much child-bearing, or very thin, from insufficient food. But while Oriole's shoulder blades, and her ribs,
could
be seen, they were well bedded in that utterly marvellous pink and white flesh, and her breasts, if bigger than they had appeared when hampered by the corset and all of the petticoats, were not even as big as her own, Meg realized, and perfectly rounded, with sharp little pink teats standing out in joy at being released from their earlier heat and confinement. Meg felt quite disappointed when, after rolling down her stockings to reveal feet of a similar delicacy and whiteness, Oriole opened her suitcase and dropped a nightgown over her shoulders before removing her drawers. But what a nightgown, a mass of pink lace at bodice and shoulder, with pink lace frills brushing the floor.

But still she wasn't finished, for now she opened the other suitcase, and removed a variety of bottles and jars which she placed on the table. 'Have you no dressing mirror?'

Meg shook her head. She was too bemused to speak.

'Good Heavens. Well
...'
Oriole delved once again into the case, produced a hand mirror. 'You can hold this for me.'

Meg dutifully held the mirror, while Oriole sat on the bed and applied creams and unguents to her face. 'Why are you doing that?' Meg asked. Oriole glanced at her. 'To keep my skin soft,' she said.

'You will have to start using them as well. I also discovered, on the ship coming over, that I had to use more, and to protect my face from the sun. Your complexion is a disgrace, Margaret. How your father could have permitted you to spend so much time in the sun I shall never know. And it's a shame, because you could be such a pretty girl.' She sighed. 'I will do the best I can
...'
She removed herself and her jars, and instead picked up a hairbrush. By the time she is finished, Meg thought, it will be time to get up all over again.

Oriole walked to and fro, brushing and counting. 'How many strokes do you give it?' Meg asked.

'Forty-three, forty-four, one hundred, and don't talk or I'll lose count, forty-five, forty-six
...'

Meg lay down to watch her. But at last she was finished, and blew out the candle. 'Now move over,' she commanded. 'And don't wriggle.'

Meg opened her mouth to say, it's my bed, and thought better of it. Oriole's feet slid under the sheet, and Meg was enveloped in that delightful perfume. Oriole sighed, and then sat up straight, throwing back the sheet. 'What on earth
...'
She felt beneath herself. 'Crumbs? When last was this bed made?'

'Well
...
today.'

Oriole had hopped out and was brushing away at the bottom sheet. 'You wretched girl. You've been eating biscuits in bed. Where did you get them ?'

'Well
...'

That nigger housekeeper of your father's. My God, I'll have a word with her. She'll have to go.'

Meg sat up. 'Prudence? You couldn't sack Prudence.'

'Don't be absurd.' Oriole seemed satisfied, lay down again. 'You'll be telling me next she's your friend, like those ghastly little boys.'

Meg lay down cautiously. 'She is my friend. She's the oldest friend I have. She's been here ever since I can remember. She and Percy.'

Oriole raised herself on her elbow, looked down. 'You are an unhappy child, aren't you?' 'Unhappy? Why
...'

'Layabouts and niggers for friends, no clothes to speak of, no breeding, I think I got here in the nick of time.' She lay down again, and to Meg's amazement, slid her arm under her neck to hug her close. 'I'm going to be your friend from now on, Meg. I'm going to make you into a lady. Far more important than that, I'm going to make you into a Hilton. Because you are the very last Hilton. Didn't you know that? The very last'