The Devil's Own

by Christopher Nicole

  There was a dream. And now he must awake into reality. He had done the right thing, by Lilian. He was sure of this, as he must be sure of this. But in doing that, he had burned his last bridge. Marguerite had tossed the girl in his face, as a man might toss a glove. And he had picked it up. She would not forgive. And he would not have her forgive, ever, for that would be to betray Lilian, in turn.

  And now, too, his last friends in St John's were his most bitter enemies. When Kit Hilton fell, as fall he must, eventually, with a bullet in his gut or a sword thrust through his heart, there would be only three mourners.

  He slept, uneasily, and awoke with a start, at the touch of a hand on his arm. She stood beside his chair, looking down on him. He gazed at a vision, for now she was rested, and she had washed her face to remove the dust of the journey and the tears of her quarrel with her family. And she had undressed, and waited. How tall she was, and how slender. Her height seemed increased by the long, straight golden hair which drifted past her shoulders almost to her thighs, a finespun web of purest delight.

  It occurred to him with a thrill of surprise that he had never actually looked at her body before. They had shared but one brief hour together, and then it had been in the dark. He had felt, and he had inhaled, her loveliness, but he had not been able to see it, at his leisure. Now she waited, on his leisure; long, long legs, lightly muscled and therefore thin; narrow hips, almost a youth's hips, surely never meant for child-bearing; a flat, scantily forested belly stretching up to a clearly marked rib-cage and narrow shoulders, from which came the small, up-tilted breasts of an utter virgin, in thought and in deed, for twenty-six years.

  And then the face, which matched the body, in its natural solemnity, yet in the suggestion of calm pleasure which lay behind the mask. The face he knew. The face he had always wanted to possess. And the face displayed all the promise of the body.

  'I do believe,' she said softly, 'that you have forgotten how we came to be here.'

  He shook his head. 'I am but marvelling that a man of my character and my past should be so fortunate.'

  'Fortune generally comes to those who deserve it,' she said. 'I would not have had you sleep in a chair.'

  'And I would not have had you disturbed.' His arms went round her waist and he drew her down to his lap. His fingers explored the firm texture of her skin, dry where Marguerite's had ever been damp; cool where Marguerite's had ever been warm. And yet she knew passion. He remembered that she had known passion before, and now she knew it again, anxiously and eagerly. Her lips sought his, and her mouth was wide open. Here were none of the extravagant gestures and movements of Marguerite, and yet because of this the intimacies she sought, the intimacies she permitted, the way she inhaled whenever he would cup her breasts, to grow into his hand, the way she would spread her legs, slowly and yet insistently whenever his fingers slid lower than her ribs, the soft sighs with which she reached orgasm, so contrasted to the tumultuous groans of Marguerite, all filled him with an immense satisfaction, where in Marguerite's arms all had been temporary, a mere passage on the road to the next set to, where morning had been no more than the prelude to lunch, and afternoon no more than the overture to the night, and the night itself no more than the hallway which led to the awakening in the dawn. Marguerite had consumed. Lilian gave only peace. And where even the quiescent moments, with Marguerite, had had their fingers always busy, here there was time to talk, and think.

  'You have not asked me how we shall live.' He lay on his belly, across the bed, chin on his hands, gazing through the window at the brilliant sunlight, hearing the distant rumble of the surf.

  She brushed her hair, standing before the spotted mirror. She used long, slow strokes, turning her head and drooping her shoulder to allow the passage of her hand and her arm. 'I do not care how we shall live.'

  'Yet must it be my care. My credit remains, although I would not impose upon it more than I must.'

  'I do not care how we shall live,' she said again.

  'I will write to Sir William Stapleton, and ask him for a position. It was an idea I had, many years ago, before other events overtook my common sense. I have never been a planter. The sea is my home, as it is in my blood. I will sail with the revenue frigate.'

  The brush slowly travelled to the end of the last strand of hair, and remained there, at the end of her fingers. 'You will go to sea?'

  'Oh, fear not, sweetheart. Only on overnight passages, and Agrippa will remain here always, to guard you and protect you.'

  She turned. 'You spoke of a house.'

  He laughed, and swung his legs from the bed. 'That first. Come, dress yourself, and we shall breakfast, and go forth to inspect our new kingdom.'

  It was no more than a cottage, set somewhat apart from the village itself, and therefore overlooked by the Caribs, nestling amidst the trees and looking down at the beach and the sea beyond. From the bedroom window they could see St Kitts, with the pointed finger of Mount Misery aiming at the sky.

  'But there is only one bedroom,' Lilian wondered.

  'We will build another at the back,' Agrippa said. But he was more interested in the amount of flat land surrounding the building. 'Space for a garden. Flowers, man,' he said to Kit. 'Have you never seen flowers?'

  'There are flowers on Green Grove,' Kit said.

  'We shall outmatch them here.'

  'You, a gardener?'

  'I like to watch things grow,' Agrippa said. 'I like to feel them come to life under my hands.' He slapped Kit on the shoulder. 'Man, for the first time since I was a little boy, I am happy. You can't be happy as a slave. And you shouldn't be happy as a buccaneer. And it is hard to be happy when the only man in all the world you love has got himself into something outside his nature. I can say that now, Kit. That woman was an obsession. She turned you inside out, made you something you were not. Kit Hilton, a planter? Kit Hilton, armed with a whip instead of a sword? That was unnatural. Maybe you didn't treat the Christianssens quite right. But I figure a man is a man and a woman is a woman, and when they want each other, they should take each other, religion or no religion. Be sure now, that you have done the right thing at last, Kit. And going back to sea is the right thing, too. And so I am happy.'

  'To stay here? I cannot leave her alone.' 'To stay here, Kit. I will guard your woman, and I will tend my garden, and I will be happy.'

  'Then it is decided. I'll see the attorney this day.'

  Not that Mr Walker was happy with the situation. He perused the bill for several seconds. ' 'Tis a confused world we live in, Captain.'

  'You'd question my credit?'

  Mr Walker gazed at the big man in front of him, at the cutlass and the bulges in the pockets of the coat which denoted the presence of the pistols. Then he removed his periwig and scratched his bald head. 'I'd not dream of doing so, Captain. I have no doubt at all that if I present this paper at the Ice House, at Christianssen's Warehouse, or at Green Grove itself, it will be exchanged.'

  He was asking a question. 'It will,' Kit promised.

  'Aye,' Mr Walker said. 'And it will be done this day, I do promise you, Captain. As I have said, we live in too confused and uncertain a world for credit.'

  'Meaning that some rogue may seek to strike me down, before I leave town?'

  'I doubt there is a man on this island possesses the courage to risk such an attempt, Captain. No, no, I merely suggest that the island is in such a state of flux, with family divided against family, with our Deputy Governor by now, no doubt, incarcerated in the Tower of London, with the owners of the richest plantation on the island at loggerheads, with the House of Assembly prorogued, why, no man may tell what tomorrow will bring.' He took the conveyance from his clerk; the ink was still wet. 'There is your deed, sir. The house is yours. You at least should be content.'

  'You make me feel a villain,' Kit muttered. 'Who has extracted this document from you by force of arms.'

  Mr Walker permitted himself a dry smile. 'Indeed, sir, were this bill not to be hono
ured, then you would have done nothing less. But we are entering the realms of speculation. That is ever an unsound practice for lawyers, would you not agree? Should I need to contact you about any small matter, no doubt I will know where to find you.'

  'You will.' Kit went outside into the street. Passers-by averted their eyes and hurried on their way. There was no one in St John's would challenge him now. Philip Warner had been gone a fortnight, and memories were short. There was work to be done, and rum to be drunk, and lives to be led. Dominica was a long way away, and England even farther, and the war was done. No doubt there would be a stir, when the outcome of the trial was learned, but even that would cause little of a ripple at this distance, saving in the Warner family.

  His family. He mounted, and rode for Green Grove, following the roads he knew so well. Already the fields were restored, the houses repaired and repainted. Save that the crop had been set back perhaps two months the raid might never have been.

  And the sun was just beginning to dominate the sky. She would have returned from aback, and be in her bath.

  Maurice Peter took the bridle. 'Welcome home, Captin.'

  "Tis only a visit, Maurice Peter. Where are the children?'

  'Here I am, Papa.' Tony stood on the verandah, staring at him with solemn eyes. 'Where have you been, Papa?'

  'Away. Here, I've a present for you.'

  It was a short sword, hardly more than a dirk. Tony took it even more solemnly, turned it over.

  'It is very beautiful, Papa. Have you something for

  Rebecca?'

  'Aye.' He kissed the girl, gave her the doll. 'All for you.' 'Oh, Papa,' she squeaked. 'It has eyes, Papa. It has eyes.' None of Rebecca's dolls had eyes, after the first twenty-four hours.

  'All the better to see us.' He entered the drawing-room, and Miss Johnson hastily stood up.

  'We had not expected you, Captain Hilton.'

  'Or you'd have dressed them in their best? Am I that much of a stranger?'

  'Indeed you are,' Marguerite said from the top of the stairs. 'But none the less welcome.'

  She wore her crimson undressing-robe, and her skin glowed; she must just have left the tub. And how beautiful, how arrogant, how confident she was. Because he had come home? But if ever he might have thought of staying, here was reason to leave again.

  'Ellen Jane,' she called. 'Sangaree, for the master and myself. Will you come up, Kit?'

  He slowly climbed the stairs. She did not wait for him, but turned and entered the bedroom. Yet was there still a memory; she did not take off her robe.

  'Do you wish me to apologize?' she asked.

  'Why should you do that?'

  She sat on the bed. 'I lost my temper. I lose my temper too easily.'

  'You had every reason, on that occasion.' He watched the maid bring in the tray, and fill the two glasses. He took his, and raised it. 'I wish good fortune to your father.'

  She smiled. 'Oh, he will have that, never fear. You sailed with Morgan. You no doubt recall the terrible fate which overtook him, and you must also remember that his crime was far greater, in political eyes, at any rate, than Father's.'

  'Indeed it was. Then you imagine that he will be returned here, in triumph.'

  She poured some more sangaree. 'I anticipate that, Kit, certainly. But I do not suppose that you have come here to speak of my father. You have had a honeymoon with your Danish charmer, and you are purchasing her a house down in Falmouth. Capital. It is exactly what I suggested.'

  'I signed the bill for that, and for some other necessaries, this morning,' Kit said.

  'Very good,' she said. 'I am sure you were not robbed. Now, when are you returning here?'

  ' 'Tis that I come to see you about. I shall not be returning here.'

  She set down her glass. 'Do not be a fool, Kit.'

  'I think I have always been a fool, when it comes to expediency,' Kit said. 'Lilian has given up a great deal, for me. I will not have her nothing more than a kept woman.'

  'I do not see how you can change her status,' Marguerite pointed out. 'There can be no question of a divorce between us. I have committed no crime against you.'

  'That I know, and appreciate. I but wished to make my position clear.'

  'Your position,' she said contemptuously. 'You are a man who carries deep grudges, and for a long time. Very well, then. Kit. Go to your blonde bitch. You will soon weary of her. You will soon remember where your rightful place lies. And then you will be back.' She smiled at him, but her mouth was twisted. 'And I shall have the coverlet turned down, for that day.'

  'I shall not trouble you for money, after this bill is settled.'

  'You will seek employment, in St John's?' she inquired. 'I know. You can be foreman of the stevedores. Oh, Kit, Kit, were you not so serious, so determined, so upright, you would be amusing. Your expenses are Green Grove's expenses, for you are master of Green Grove. What, would you suddenly decide not to be a man any more, but instead a dog, because you fancy a dog's life is more acceptable? Are you a magician, that you can throw off your humanity? You are master of Green Grove. I made you that, Kit. And the day you die, regardless of where it may be, in what stinking hole it may be, what stinking disease may be the cause of it, you will still be master of Green Grove.'

  'I wish I could understand you,' Kit said. 'If it is a matter of pride ...'

  'Pride,' she shouted, coming upright on the bed, her eyes molten pits of green hell. 'Pride? Fear? Avarice? Greed? Courage? Anger? Love? What have I to do with words? Do you think I rule the slaves because I am prouder than they? Because I am braver? Because I fear less? Because I love more? Should I ever stop to consider what emotion must govern my power I am lost. As you are continually lost by making just that inquiry. I am here, and they are there, because I accept no limitations, no puerile humanities.'

  'By God,' he said. 'You do see yourself as a demigoddess.'

  'And am I not, to them? To everyone on this island? To everyone in the world who knows of my existence? And I placed you beside me, Kit Hilton. After due consideration. So even I can make a mistake. But there you have it. I cannot make a mistake. Go to your Danish whore. Love her and love her and love her, until she makes you sick, and then come back here and take your place. I will not reproach you. For who should dare to criticize a god? Not even another god. Go. Hurry. The sooner you leave here, the sooner will you be tired of her.'

  Be tired of Lilian. As if such an eventuality could ever be imagined, much less be considered possible. Lilian was not a tiring person. Where Marguerite had always exhausted, she sought only to soothe. Their love play was cool, almost restrained, in its beginning, and yet always with the promise of more, of the sudden overflow of passion which convulsed her as much as him. And yet even the passion contained a different quality. Lilian sought to please him, and in doing that found pleasure herself. She demanded nothing more, nor could he persuade her to accept anything more. But in pleasing him she was anxious to accept his every whim, his every mood, his every desire, and could any man ask for anything more?

  But loving and possessing Lilian's body was no more than a part of it. On Green Grove, he was coming to realize, he had loved Marguerite, physically, or managed the estate, physically. When she had played the spinet it had been to consume the tireless energy of her own fingers; just as when he had opened a book it had inevitably been an account book. There was no stress, no goal in sight, with Lilian. She liked to walk, and they strolled for miles along the foreshore, holding hands. Marguerite had never walked anywhere except up a flight of steps in her life; it would never have occurred to her to do so.

  And when she walked, Lilian talked, about Denmark, about the frost-bitten winters, about the balmy summers, fluctuations of climate which Kit had never known and found it difficult to appreciate. But she could talk of other places too, for her father had wandered for much of his life before coming to rest in Antigua. She spoke of Holland and of France and of England. And she grew excited when he told her of Morgan and
Panama. She was a young girl in her mind, avid for tales of adventure and faraway places, unaware that she had more of a tale to tell than he, that she was in herself a more interesting person.

  And she worked in the garden. This was a continually amazing sight, to watch her kneeling beside Abigail, tending some new plant with the care she might have bestowed upon a dying man, those slender white fingers stained with dirt, that golden glory starting to drop in disorganized wisps about her ears and over her forehead.

  She revealed happiness, in herself, and in her being. To awake in the morning, and to inhale, was happiness, for Lilian Christiansscn. Whatever followed would also be happiness, she had no doubt, but she was content to have it follow in its proper course, at its proper time, and then to enjoy it as fully as she enjoyed merely stretching, and knowing her health, and her immediate comfort. She never spoke of her parents or her religion, beyond a tendency always to place his weapons out of sight when he took them off. When she prayed it was by herself, in a corner of the bedroom, on her knees, her face turned to the wall. He was not invited to join her. So, for what did she pray? For her forgiveness, or for his conversion? And indeed he was tempted, time and again, to kneel beside her. But in no religious spirit. Only to share the one part of her being which was barred to him.

  And she did not speak of the future. The future was perhaps too uncertain even for her. She revealed this in her tears at Abigail's pregnancy. Agrippa was beside himself with joy, and Kit felt vastly complimented. His friends would not bring a child into the world they had known in St John's, but this world, the world he had created for them, was acceptable. But not for Lilian, yet. There was no permanence, in Falmouth, for a fugitive from family and convention. And for all the delights of a continual honeymoon, with nothing to do but eat, sleep, love and laugh, tend the garden and help Agrippa spread the nets for the fish which formed the main part of their diet, they both knew that he could not continue to stagnate for the rest of his life.