Meg obediently closed the keyboard; she did not feel in the least like playing, in any event.
Oriole got up, paced the room. It was her favourite occupation, perambulating about the withdrawing room, touching the ornaments, running her fingers over the baize of the billiard table. No dust now. Oriole had cleaned it with her own hands. 'I am really getting a little worried about you,' she remarked. 'I had hoped for a marked improvement in your
...
well, your demeanour, over the past year. Young girls are often unable to see their true place in life. They make odd friends, and such friendships must be discouraged. But you are no longer a young girl, Margaret. You are sixteen, and if in some circles even that might be considered a trifle young, the fact is that physically you are quite mature enough to be married and bear children. I suppose it has something to do with the tropics. Are you listening to me?'
Meg stifled a yawn. 'Of course I am.' But she had no idea what her cousin was leading up to.
'Well, then, I would like, over the next few months, to see a distinct improvement. 1 have not told you before, because
it is still unsettled, but I have almost persuaded your father to permit you to pay a visit to England.' 'England?' Meg cried.
'England. It is certain that we will never find you a suitable husband here in Jamaica. You cannot marry a civil servant, and you cannot possibly marry the son of some estate manager.'
'Marriage?' Meg said. 'Oh. But
...'
She had no desire to get married, especially at this moment, and she suddenly realized that she had no desire to leave Jamaica, either.
'But if we are going to marry the Hilton heiress well,' Oriole pronounced, 'the man she marries is going to expect to be getting the Hilton heiress. Not some half-wild
Creole.'
'I
...
I thought I was doing quite well,' Meg said, pronouncing each word with great care, and getting up to prove just how much she had learned about deportment.
'My dear girl, any slut of an actress can speak well, and walk well. It is what is inside that matters. You are Margaret Hilton. How many times do I have to tell you that? You are heiress to the greatest name in West Indian history. For heaven's sake attempt to act the part. How can I have Prudence address you with proper respect if you allow her to take such liberties with you?'
'Liberties?'
'Coming into your bedroom when you are changing, indeed. She almost did it to me the other day. A black person. Good Lord. I nearly fainted.'
'But Prudence was my nurse. She used to bathe me. She knows what I look like.'
'Not any more,' Oriole pointed out. "That is what I am trying to get through your head. You are no longer a child. You are a woman. You are a Hilton. You are the Mistress of Hilltop. Act the part.' Her tone softened. 'Promise me you will.'
'Oh, of course I will,' Meg cried. 'I'll try.' 'See that you do,' Oriole said
. 'And forget all about that
detestable youth. Now, perhaps we can attempt some piano practise.'
Act the Hilton. No, no. That was quite wrong.
Be
the Hilton. But it was so absurd, really. It was all an accident of birth. Who decided whether you were born white or whether you were born black? Why, she could just as easily have been one of the several children Percy had fathered, who played together down in the Negro village. They were a happy lot. Come to think of it, it would not have been at all bad to have had Percy for a father.
Except that then she would not have fine clothes to wear, or a feather mattress on which to sleep, or the prospect of a visit to England.
Supposing she wanted to go. In search of a husband ? The idea was nauseating. The fact was, Oriole was a relic from the past. It was
her misfortune to have been born
in 1853 instead of 1753; she would have loved flogging slaves to death. Or even better, 1653, about the same time as the first Meg Hilton. According to the history books,
she
on occasion had burned slaves alive for attempting to run away.
And anyway, Meg reflected comfortingly, there would be time enough to play the Hilton when she was Mistress of Hilltop, and that was a very long time in the future. Meanwhile, she supposed she should thank Oriole for completing her education, for broadening her outlook in so many ways, for wanting so much for her. If only Oriole would be prepared to discuss the really important things. She was speaking of marriage for Meg as if it were just around the corner, and yet she would never tell her about her own marriage. Sex was a taboo subject, and when either Meg or herself was menstruating she kept to herself, and the daily lessons were left undone. It was really very odd, Meg thought; she regarded marriage as an essential, and yet the things that apparently went with marriage as beneath discussion. What a contrast to Prudence and Percy, who had lived together as man and wife - Meg was not at all sure whether or not they had ever been wed in a church for some ten years and still seemed to find as much enjoyment in each other as presumably the night they had first slept together. Meg could only hope that her own marriage would be as happy.
In the meantime, she did her best to humour Oriole by being as distant as she could to the blacks, by deporting herself like a lady on all occasions, by reading the interminably boring books by people like George Eliot and Mrs Gaskell that Oriole produced for her edification, and by preparing herself for the proposed journey, which was intended for as soon as possible after her seventeenth birthday. Presuming Papa would actually agree to spend all that money.
Still, even if she could not make up her mind whether or not she wanted to go, it was something to look forward to, as Hilltop went on its way, a frenzy of activity when the time came for grinding the sugar cane, but that was only once a year, and for the rest it wandered somnolently on: the book-keepers meeting Father every morning at dawn before the Great House; the work gangs filing aback with their machetes and their lunches tied up in little bags on the end of sticks, or singing as they picked the bananas; the weekly service in the church, when Oriole sang loudest of all; the daily piano lesson; the rides in the afternoon, for Oriole was devoting a lot of time to teaching her how to ride like a lady as well as walk like one, which meant side-saddle, something Meg found it very difficult to accustom herself to; the evenings when she was expected to read or recite to Oriole and Papa, following which she was packed off to bed while Oriole stayed up for a nightcap; and to talk, or at least, Oriole talked, and Father answered in monosyllables, a succession of days becoming weeks, and weeks becoming months, which had gone on ever since she could remember, and would no doubt go on for the rest of her life. For now even the occasional excitement provided by Alan was absent; Helen McAvoy never volunteered any information as to his whereabouts or progress, and she wouldn't ask.
By the autumn of 1887 she was beginning to feel that only a visit to England would prevent her from going mad with boredom, when on a Saturday afternoon she returned from a ride on her mare, which she was in the habit of undertaking by herself while Oriole dozed, to find her cousin stalking the front porch like an avenging tigress. 'There you are,' she snapped. 'Come here.'
The yardboy waited to hold the stirrup while Meg slid from the saddle, gathered her skirt in one hand, and hurried up the stairs, her boots clumping on the wood. 'Whatever is the matter?'
'Come here,' Oriole said again, leading her through the house and towards the kitchen.
Oh, Lord, Meg thought, knowing what she would find before she got there. And sure enough, Prudence was leaning back in her rocking chair, shelling peas and singing to herself. The floor around her was covered in dropped peas, and her bottle had fallen over at her elbow, but as it had been almost empty this had not mattered very much.
'Have you ever seen anything so disgusting?' Oriole demanded.
'Prudence,' Meg said. 'How could you?'
'I've been observing this for some time,' Oriole said. 'I thought at first, and I hoped, I might be mistaken. But now
...'
Prudence endeavoured to get up. 'Missy Meg, sweet chil',' she said. 'You come to see old Prudence. You want for feel my bubbies, ch
il’
? You want for feel?' She put her hand into the loose blouse she wore and produced an enormous drooping breast, rather as if it was not actually connected to her chest.
'My God!' Oriole shouted. 'Disgusting? I cannot think of a suitable word. I'll not have it. She must go.'
Hannibal heaved himself up from under the table and took refuge in the corner.
'Go?' Meg asked.
'Go?' Prudence asked, sitting down again.
'She must leave this house on the instant,' Oriole said. 'I will not have her under the same roof as myself. As for you, poor child
...
Meg, you must do it.'
'Me?'
'I,' Oriole corrected. 'Yes, you must do it. This is your house, on your plantation, and you keep telling me she was your nurse.'
'But
...
she meant no harm,' Meg said.
'Feelum, feelum,' Prudence said, humming to herself, and herself pulling at the nipple. 'Feelum, feelum.'
'Meg, I command you,' Oriole shouted. 'Send her off, now. Or I'll... I'll tell your father. Oh, I'll have a thing or two to tell him. He'll have you in a convent, I shouldn't wonder.'
Meg licked her lips. She had no idea what to do. Except that she wanted to end the scene as quickly as possible. 'Prudence,' she said. 'Perhaps you should go home.'
'Go home, chil'?' Prudence blinked at her.
'Yes,' Meg said. 'Go home and go to bed. I... we'll look after dinner.'
'We will not,' Oriole declared. 'You can tell that Percy to find us another cook, and immediately, or he will be dismissed as well. Go on, woman, go on. Clear out. You heard what your mistress has told you. Get out of this house.'
Prudence stared at her for a moment, then slowly heaved herself to her feet, swayed, and corrected her balance. With great dignity she put down the half-empty bowl of peas, then walked to the door. There she paused, and turned, to look at Meg.
'Prudence
...'
Meg cried.
'Get out,' Oriole snapped. 'Out, out, out. Your mistress has dismissed you. You'll not enter this room again. Out.'
Prudence seemed to sigh, then turned and went down the stairs. Oriole did sigh, loudly. 'Do you know, for a moment I thought she was going to abuse us? They do, you know, when they are dismissed. So Helen McAvoy was telling me. But she knew her place, thank heavens. She knew who was her mistress. You see how easy it is, Margaret? Just a matter of being a Hilton. People know when they are in the presence of a superior.'
Meg stared at her for a moment and then turned and left the pantry. She felt if she stayed she would either shout at Oriole or burst into tears.
She walked through the house, stood on the front porch, looked down the hill. Prudence could just be made out, waddling slowly towards the Negro village. Meg ran down the steps. Pilgrim the yardboy was removing Candy's saddle and bridle, preparatory to leading her down to the stable. 'Put those back on,' Meg snapped.
'Mistress?'
'Saddle up. I'm going out again.'
E
ven Candy turned her head, unus
ed to such a tone from her mistress. But a moment later she was again ready, and Pilgrim was giving Meg a leg-up into the saddle. She nodded at him, flicked the reins, walked the mare out of the yard, then gently urged her into a trot.
Prudence kept on walking. She did not stop even when the mare was immediately behind her.
'Prudence,' Meg called.
'Get away from me, chil',' Prudence said.
'Prudence,' Meg said. 'It will be all right. You'll see. I'll speak with Mistress Oriole, and you can come back up tomorrow.'
'I ain' coming back,' Prudence declared. 'You ain' know that? And what you speaking with me for, Mistress Margaret? You ain' hear what that woman done be telling you all this time? You is Margaret Hilton. You going own all this. You doing what you like and you saying what you like and you being what you like. You ain' got no more time for an old woman like me. Now get a way before I curse you.'
Meg reined Candy to a halt. Prudence never turned her head, but walked on into the village. Oh, my God, she thought, what have you done? What have you become?
She pulled Candy's head round, kicked her in the ribs.
Unused to such treatment, Candy bounded forward, leapt at the slope again. Meg had left her hat behind, and now her hair streamed in the self-created breeze. Become? she thought angrily. Why, perhaps you have at last become Oriole's dream, a true Hilton.
Candy
instinctively
slowed as they approached the white compound, but Meg kicked her again. She did not wish to see Oriole; she did not wish to see Papa; she did not wish to see the pantry; she did not even wish to see the house. Not for a long time. She wanted to be alone, alone, alone, as she had not had the chance to be these past two years. As she might never have the chance to be again.
The villages were lost to sight, and behind her was only the looming height of the Great House, the Hilton family fortress, or as Papa called it, the Hilton mausoleum. To her left was the bulk of the factory, silent now, although it was again approaching grinding, and in front of her was the cane, already ten feet tall, green stalks close-packed to make an endless protective wall. She turned Candy into the first path between the fields, slowed to a walk. Within seconds the stalks were before her and behind her, and clustering to either side of her, shutting her off from the world, shutting out the breeze, making the evening suddenly close. She heard chattering voices, and a moment later passed a gang of East Indians, on their way home. They carried their machetes on their shoulders, and stared at her in amazement. But they all touched their foreheads. They knew who she was, well enough. And they were a handsome, virile people. They knew nothing of the traditions of the plantocracy, of the ghastly history of sugar planting, of the background of the Hiltons. Their aim was to accumulate enough money to return to Calcutta and Bombay in style.