Mistress of Darkness

by Christopher Nicole

  But Matt was entering the archway on his right, which, like its twin farther down the wall, gave access to the with-drawing-room. At least, Coke estimated this was its probable function. It reminded him of a Court reception chamber, for it was as long as the hall, and was at least thirty feet wide. Here were clusters of carved chairs and embroidered hassocks, settees and divans, miniature tables and china statues, a vast example of the musical instrument called the pianoforte of which he had only heard, but which was reputed to be capable of supplying the want of an entire orchestra, and of course a huge green-topped card and dice table, surrounded by leather upholstered chairs, while at the far end waited a billiard table on a scale to match the rest. Yet the note of incongruity remained; there were no carpets and not even a rug on the floor, so that their boots echoed from one end to the next across the magnificent emptiness of the room.

  'My word,' he said. 'My word. I am rendered quite speechless.'

  'Then have something to drink,' Matt recommended, for a maidservant waited at their elbows with a tray on which there were glasses filled with ice and with a delicious-looking pale brown liquid. Nor was the taste less pleasing, although the first sip caused Coke's brain to spin.

  'Rum punch,' Matt explained. 'There is nothing more refreshing after a long ride. Now, Maurice, is Aunt Becky ready to receive me?'

  ‘I finding that out now, Master Matt. But Master Robert is coming.'

  They could hear the hooves, and the barking of dogs. Coke faced the archway and tugged his cravat straight; it had been so drenched by sweat on their ride that it felt sadly delapidated, and he had no idea what to expect. Certainly neither the man who limped into the room, for Robert wore only an open-necked shirt and breeches tucked into black

  boots, nor the pack of terriers who entered with him, making themselves perfectly free with the beautifully polished floor, and bounding across the priceless furniture, while no one, not even the servants who would shortly have to repair the damage, seemed disturbed in the slightest.

  But their scurrying yelps were lost in Robert's booming greeting. 'Matt? I could scarce believe my ears. Matt? Where is Georgiana? And what catastrophe brings you here?'

  'Georgiana is in England, Robert,' Matt said.

  'What? What? By God. You left her there by herself?'

  ‘I had like to leave her in her grave, sir.' Matt declared. And then appeared to remember the presence of Coke. 'Dr. Thomas Coke, Mr. Robert Hilton.'

  'An honour, Mr. Hilton,' Coke said.

  'And mine, sir,' Robert said. 'But you'll excuse me while I try to get some sense out of my cousin here. In her grave? She is ill? Speak up, boy.'

  'I imagine she is as well as ever in her life.' Matt said. 'If she had been in her grave by now I would have sent her there. She caused Gislane Nicholson to be abducted.'

  'Eh? What? Whatever can you be prating about. Abducted? And sent where?'

  'Here. To the West Indies. To Nevis, to be exact. Gislane legally belongs to James Hodge. You know of him?'

  'Indeed I do,' Robert said. 'The sort of fellow who gives planting a bad name. Oh, indeed, that girl is unfortunate should she find herself back there. But Georgiana did this? I wonder why?' He glanced at Coke, as if expecting the missionary to be able to supply the answer.

  'I suspect this business is private,' Coke said. 'Would you prefer me to withdraw?'

  'It means nothing to me what you do, Dr. Coke,' Matt declared. ‘I but came here to get my cousin to horse.'

  'To horse?' Robert demanded in amazement. 'To ride where?'

  'Why to Port Antonio with me. Is that not where you keep your sloops? Then we must sail for Nevis as rapidly as possible. It is possible that we might yet be in time.'

  Robert scratched the back of his head with the end of his riding crop. 'Truly I wonder if sending you to England for an education has not in some way demented you. What is it, girl?'

  One of the maidservants was hovering at his elbow. 'Mistress Rebecca does be wanting to see Master Matt, sir,' she said.

  'What? What? You have not spoken to Aunt Rebecca yet, boy? There's manners for you, in this day and age, Dr. Coke. You'll excuse us, sir. We shall be back in a moment. Maurice. Maurice. Where is that black devil? See to Dr. Coke's requirements, man. Fetch him some more punch. Come along, Matt.' Robert stamped for the stairs.

  'But do you not understand, sir,' Matt begged. 'Gislane left England but a day or two in front of me. She can only recently have arrived in Nevis. We may be able to save her.'

  'From what?' Robert climbed the stairs.

  'For God's sake,' Matt shouted. 'Must I spell it out for you? Can you imagine a girl like Gislane in the power of a monster like Hodge?'

  Robert chuckled. 'Indeed I am up hard and anxious at the very thought. But if she is his slave, she is his possession in any event.'

  'But she is not his slave any more,' Matt insisted. 'The law proclaimed her free the moment she set foot in England.'

  'Rubbish,' Robert declared. 'English law. West Indian law-proclaims her once again a slave the moment she sets foot in the West Indies. The more fool her for risking such a thing.'

  He had reached the gallery; Matt grasped his shoulder. 'She did not risk it. I told you, she was abducted and placed on board a boat like a common criminal.'

  'By Georgiana? By God, but that girl is a Hilton after all. Although I still fail to understand why.'

  'To stop her marrying me,' Matt shouted. 'We were going to elope when we were attacked. They cracked my skull and left me for dead. There's your sister for you.'

  Robert stopped, and turned slowly, frowning. 'Elope? You? With that nigger girl?'

  'Do you suppose, sir,' Matt said, 'that I am less of a Hilton than you or your sister? I love Gislane.'

  Robert stared at him, his brows drawing even closer together, but before he could speak again he was interrupted by a voice from the nearest bedroom. It quavered, high and thin, but none the less clear. 'Robert? Is that you? Are the servants telling me the truth? Is Matthew come home?'

  'You'd best go in,' Robert said.

  Matt hesitated, then turned through the door. His great-aunt sat in a rocking chair, which was moved for her by one of her maids. Matt could never remember her as less than old, a small, wizened woman, younger child of Kit and Meg Hilton, who could tell magnificent tales of the early planting days, of the buccaneers and the Carib raids, and chill the blood with the relation of how her mother had died of leprosy. Now she was past a hundred, and clung to life with a tenacious determination, hunched, toothless, all but blind, with talon-like fingers which seized his arm as she peered into his face. He knelt, and the fingers stroked his cheek. 'Matt?' she whispered. 'I had not thought to sec you alive again. What brings you home?'

  'You'd best tell her,' Robert said from above him.

  Matt turned his head in surprise.

  'Aye, she can stand it.' Robert said. 'You've stood enough in your time, eh Aunt Becky? The young fool has fallen in love with a nigger girl.'

  Rebecca Hilton's lined face seemed to grow smaller as she smiled. 'Every one of you, one after the other, has fallen in love with a nigger girl,' she said.

  'Aye,' Robert said. 'And been content to bring the wench to bed. He's the first wished to marry one.'

  'You don't understand,' Matt said desperately, as he watched the humour leave his aunt's face. 'This girl is not a Negress. She has only a fraction of black blood in her veins. Were you not prejudiced you'd not notice it should she enter the room this moment, I swear it.'

  'And who in the West Indies is not at once knowledgeable and prejudiced?' Rebecca asked.

  'I have thought of that, Aunt Becky,' Matt said. 'We shall live in England.'

  'In England?' Robert demanded. 'And who will manage the Hilton estates after I am gone?'

  'An attorney can do it, surely,' Matt said. 'Most other planters live in England.'

  'They are not Hiltons,' Rebecca said. 'Bed the girl, Matt, and have done with it. Set her up in a house in
Kingston, if you choose. But let us have no absurdities like marriage.'

  Matt opened his mouth, then changed his mind. There was no time for argument. 'It matters naught at this moment what I would do with her, Aunt Rebecca,' he said. 'She has been sent to Nevis, to Hodge. Her master. Christ, I think I am going mad. Robert, you must come with me to get her away from there.'

  'I?' Robert asked. 'What do you expect of me, may I ask?'

  'You are Robert Milton,' Matt pointed out. 'There is not a man in the West Indies will not bow before that name.'

  'Yet must I always uphold the law,' Robert insisted. 'You say the girl legally belongs to Hodge, at least in the West Indies.'

  'Then buy her,' Matt shouted.

  'With what purpose in mind?' Rebecca Hilton asked.

  'To ... you can give her to me as my mistress,' Matt said. 'There it is. I am to be twenty-one within a year. Give her to me as my birthday present. I'll ask for no more.'

  Robert hesitated, and glanced at his aunt. Rebecca stared at him.

  'You'd swear to keep her as your mistress, always?'

  Matt hesitated. 'If those are your terms, sir. I'd swear. At least for the period of both your lives.'

  But his hesitation had been as fatal as his honesty. 'Aye,' Robert said. 'You are in love with the girl. And you are entirely lacking in experience. You'd best forget her, Matt. Believe me, boy ...'

  'Forget her?' Matt shouted. 'Forget her? I can never do that. I will never do that. Will you not buy her?'

  'It could cause a scandal,' Rebecca said.

  'A scandal,' Matt said. 'Aye. Well, then, have your scandal. You'll not help me? I'll help myself.'

  'You've no credit to pledge, saving mine,' Robert said.

  'Who said anything about credit? I've two good arms here. I'd like to see Hodge stop me.'

  Robert frowned at him. 'You'd attempt to seize the girl? That would be breaking the law.'

  'And that will cost me a fine or a term in gaol. But by God, I'll have Gislane.'

  'That will cost you a bullet through the brain, more like,' Robert said. 'And Hodge will be entirely within his rights.'

  'We shall see about that,' Matt declared. 'I must get back to Kingston and find a ship. Oh, fear not, Robert, I have sufficient funds to get me to Nevis, at the least. Aunt Rebecca,' he dropped to his knees beside the rocking chair. 'I beg your forgiveness.'

  'You are a stupid, wicked young man,' she said.

  'Yet have I my honour. And will act upon it.' He rose, and turned, and discovered Robert had left the room. He ran outside, to the gallery, and saw his cousin, together with Maurice the butler and two footmen, waiting at the foot of the stairs. Coke stood in the background, by the front door, his hat in his hands, his face flushed with embarrassment as much as with heat. 'You'll not try to stop me, Robert.'

  Robert Hilton shrugged. 'If you force me to, Matt, why, I shall do just that, even if it means breaking your head again. You have just reminded me that you need several months to manhood. Several months, I would hope, in which you may come to your senses.'

  Matt turned; there was another staircase at the back of the house. But behind him were four more menservants, and these had ropes in their hands.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE MIDDLE PASSAGE

  GISLANE awoke as from a nightmare, and yet hardly seemed to awake. She had dreamed she was being smothered, and still strands of cloth were blocking her nostrils, and even more unpleasantly, filled her mouth and pushed their way down her throat. The cloying, ill-tasting wool precluded thought, hardly made her aware of the bumping of the vehicle in which she was travelling; she was lying on bare boards and each jolt seemed to lift her from the floor.

  Think, she told herself. Think. There is no reason to lose your head. Raise your hand, and discover what it is in your mouth. She attempted to lift her right arm, and discovered to her horror that she could not; the arm itself seemed to lose all feeling just below the elbow.

  Now memory came flooding back, intruding even on the wool discomfort in her throat. She remembered leaving the house by the side door, a bundle of clothes under her arm, and seeing the phaeton and Matt standing in the shadow of the trees on the far side of the lane. Had it been Matt? Of course it had, because when she had run across the road he had greeted her, and held his arms wide for her, and in that instant, as she reached the grass by the phaeton, someone had stepped round the coach, carrying a length of wood. She had stopped, and cried out a warning, but she had been too late; Matt had gone down without a sound, and she had turned to discover two other men standing behind her, one carrying a blanket. She had raised her hand, the blanket had been thrown over them as well as her head ... and she had fainted. Presumably. She could remember nothing more.

  Her sudden terror of what might have happened to Matt for a moment subdued even her surging fear of what might be going to happen to herself. She found she could move her legs, although they were bound together by a rope passed several times round her ankles. She drummed them on the floor of the wagon, for it could hardly be a coach, she thought; she could feel no seats by her shoulders on either side, and there was a total absence of springing. The attempted exercise made her gasp, and once again she was in danger of choking.

  But now there were people, close by her in the darkness. Yet she could not see them, such was the intensity around her. For the first time she realized she was blindfolded.

  'She's awake,' a man said.

  A hand touched her cheek. The flesh was rough, and it stank. 'And like to suffocate, you've the gag that tight. Take off the sack.'

  Fingers dug into her hair, and she discovered that she had lost her hat. But a moment later she could blink her eyes into the gloom. She was indeed in a wagon, which contained some barrels and boxes besides herself; she was lying just behind the driver's seat, and apart from the man handling the reins, who had not turned round, there were two others kneeling beside her. She did not recognize either of them; nor did she much care for their looks. Fear began to surge back into her chest again, making her feel physically sick. Fear of what? She had no idea what to expect, why they should seize her.

  'Aye, you're a lively one,' said the man who had first spoken. 'Intelligent, they say, for a nigger. So study this.'

  A naked knife blade appeared immediately in front of her face, but she hardly saw it. A nigger, the man had said. Oh God, she thought. Oh, God. She had lived with the nightmare of discovery for so long it did not seem possible it could really have happened.

  'Now we're kindly folk,' said the man. 'And we can see you've difficulty breathing. So I'm going to take away the gag. You'll like that, eh, nigger girl? But mark me well, one sound out of you, excepting as we tell you to, and I'll carve you good and proper. It wouldn't do you much good, anyhow. There ain't a house for ten miles. Nod if you understand me.'

  Gislane nodded, without thinking. She wanted only to be able to breathe. Her head was jerked forward, and once again the fingers fumbled around her neck. Then the cloth was pulled out, slowly, allowing her first uninterrupted breath, it seemed for all of her life, leaving her throat like a desert. Cautiously she licked her lips. 'A drink,' she whispered.

  The man grinned at her. 'Why not, darling. It might cheer you up.' He held her shoulders, pulled her upright, and set her back against the heaving, shuddering wall of the wagon; her hands were bound behind her, she discovered, and they had indeed lost all feeling.

  'Head back.' He arranged her to his satisfaction by the simple expedient of dragging on her hair, while his friend pulled the cork from a bottle.

  'Not wine,' she begged. 'Water.'

  'Water'll do nothing for you, darling.' The liquid was poured into her mouth. She closed her teeth, and it dribbled over her chin and into her gown. Hastily she opened her mouth again, and swallowed. It removed some of the roughness of her throat, at the least.

  'Now you've made a mess,' said the man holding her hair. 'But you can give us a thank you kiss.'

  Foul breath sh
rouded her face, and she attempted to close her mouth, but too late. Then she wanted to bite the tongue which came questing between her teeth, but she was too afraid of what he might do to her, and so she submitted to having her mouth and even her throat explored, while his hands slid over the front of her gown and down to squeeze her thighs.

  'Ah, you're a darling all right,' he said at last, releasing her. 'Jimmy Hodge'll be that happy to see you again.'

  She felt sick again; she had never been kissed like that before - Matt's shy embrace when she had consented to elope with him had been no more than a reassuring suggestion that they would explore each other's desires in mutual uncertainty. Matt. Oh, God, Matt.

  'Please,' she said. ‘Did my cousin send you?'

  The man's teeth flashed in the darkness. 'Now that would be telling, darling.'

  'Please listen,' she said. 'That man who was waiting for me. His name is Matthew Hilton. If you know the West Indies at all you'll know that name. His cousin is Robert Hilton of Hilltop in Jamaica. Please, if you'll take me back to London, Mr. Hilton will reward you well. He'll protect you from Hodge. Please.'