He smiled at her. 'I would be sacrificing nothing save my whip and my sunburn, Gislane. Oh, Robert would shout and threaten and then he would continue my allowance. Beneath that facade of grimness he is a very pleasant fellow, certainly to those he loves.'
'To those he loves,' she said, half to herself. ‘I doubt that embracing protection could ever extend over a person of colour.'
'But it is not Robert you are marrying, Gislane. It is me.'
She freed her hand. 'You are too sudden, sir.'
'Then will I wait, if you will but consider my proposal,'
'Of course I shall. I am utterly flattered. I wish the ground would stop whirling about my head. Will you allow me to go home now?'
He stepped away from her. 'But you'll come again?'
‘I shall walk on Thursday, Mr. Hilton.'
'And you'll bring with you an answer?'
She could never remember her reply, or indeed if she had i-epfied at all. She could never remember returning home. She ate her dinner in a dream, and Mama Nicholson asked her if something was the matter. To which she replied that she had a headache, and retired immediately after the meal to the privacy of her bedchamber at the back of the little house.
She locked the door and threw herself across the bed, on her face, eyes tight shut. Now for the first time she could think. For the first time she dared think, dared remember, dared contemplate what might happen next. She had sought to turn him away by gratifying herself; for too long had she wanted to confess her background to someone. And yet, how incredibly stupid to confess it to a fellow West Indian. Was it not a recurring nightmare that one day an agent from Hodges would discover her whereabouts? If she could reassure herself with the reminder that in England she could never be reclaimed as a slave, yet was she living proof of Papa Nicholson's crime. As if a man like Matt Hilton could ever be less than honourable. And even as she had found the resolution, she had dreamed of how wonderful it could be if he had refused to be driven away.
So now, for the first time she dared attempt to reason, what she was, what she had been, what she might become. Hodges had faded from her memory. She could recall the warm days, and she could remember exactly the awful night of a hurricane, when the rain had blotted out conversation, and the lightning had struck the heavy wooden shutters with a sound as if a giant had been standing outside wielding a whip, while the wall had turned black. She could remember the day Papa Hodge, she was careful to keep her two fathers separate in her mind, had presented her with a pony and trap.
These were pleasant memories, even the hurricane, because always she had been aware of the web of security which surrounded her. She could remember black people, slaves. There had been women servants who padded barefooted about the Great House, serving and cleaning. And when she had driven her trap into the fields there had been gangs of men weeding and cutting the cane, and she could remember the tremendous hustle and bustle when the grinding season arrived, and her occasional visits to the mill, to stare in horror at the ponderous machinery, creaking round and round, driven mostly by wind power on the exposed Nevis slopes, and the pleasure with which her nostrils had dilated to the overwhelming smell of the fermenting sugar in the great vats.
She could remember other things too, but only vaguely. There had been days when she had not been allowed from the house, and in the distance she had heard men, and women, screaming. Many days? She could not be sure. But Papa Hodge had been a humane man, surely, or Papa Nicholson could never have been his friend.
And she could remember Mama, a tall, handsome woman with long black hair, like hers, who controlled the house and her daughter with a will of iron, but who always spoke to Papa Hodge in hushed tones, and who bowed her head in patient acceptance whenever he gave an order. Then she had not understood. But the fact that Mama had been that white man's plaything had haunted her dreams. So Papa Hodge had valued his particular toy, had perhaps even loved her. She had remained only his toy.
That future would never be hers. Thus Papa Nicholson. It might be possible to find a man who valued his toys. It was far easier to find a man who played until sated, and then threw his toy aside, or worse, deliberately broke it to make it useless for anyone else. Papa Nicholson, when he spoke in such apocryphal tones, had a good deal of the Wesleyan in him. He had, in fact, attended meetings at Smithfield and taken his wife and foster child with him. But Gislane had always been more interested in the thousands of people, all earnestly listening to the tall, spare figure on the dais, all nodding their heads while surreptitiously snatching swigs of gin from their flasks, rather than in what the great man had had to say.
But in this sense, Matthew Hilton was a figure from her past. They would have shared the same warmth, heard the same noises, smelt the same smells. The difference was that Matt's mother would not have lowered her eyes and accepted every dictate of Matt's father. She would have had legal rights. And when Ned Hilton had ridden into town, she would have ridden at his side, not been forced always to wave goodbye from the front verandah.
It had been to avoid that constant humiliation as much as any physical mistreatment that Papa Nicholson had stolen her away. So then, what did the future hold? She sat up, tempestuously, her black hair flying. She left the bed, stood in front of the mirror. She did not doubt her own beauty. Had she been no judge of it herself, she was yet made aware of it every time she left the house, in the men who would stop to stare at her. Some had come calling, and been turned away. They lacked introductions, and no doubt she was apparently young. How young? Her fingers tore at the fastenings to her gown. Mama Nicholson dressed her as fashionably as their meagre income would permit, and she never went abroad without a corset. This pushed up her breasts and made them seem larger than they were, held them close together to compress a deep valley. Yet here were no girl breasts; they overflowed from her hands. She was a woman, and should she not be, at eighteen? She had looked no different two years ago.
But what had she known, two years ago? Had she not always lived in a sort of limbo, a pleasant enough existence, with her music and her needlework to occupy her time, and her walks in the park for fresh air. Yet had she been but waiting, as every girl must wait, for the man to come along who would propose marriage, for the change in her existence which would ordain the rest of her life.
So then, Matthew Hilton. Had she ever considered a man? Not really, save that he should be young, but not too young, and well connected, and handsome, and in good health. Matt filled every one of those requirements, save perhaps the first; he could hardly be more than two years her elder. But he was of planting stock. Did that put him in the same class as a man with a face scarred by smallpox, or with a wooden leg? Because if he was of such a background, he was willing to renounce it, for her. There was actually a cause for fear. He was renouncing wealth and fortune, and a high place in the world, to accomplish what? She touched her cheek, and growing more daring, a nipple, felt the thrill coursing down her body to her groin. She did this, from time to time, titillating her senses, daring herself to do more and always lacking the courage while always promising herself that one day she would be bold, at least with herself. Perhaps the day had come. She released the corset and threw it on the bed, stood before her mirror clad in only her shift. She had never dared consider herself in less than this. Mama Nicholson had always said, time enough for the flesh when the moment came. Your body is but a case for your mind. It is the soul that matters.
But Matt Hilton would know nothing of souls. Of that one fact she could be sure. He wanted her body. There was an uncommonly bold thought. But one which had to be thought. He wanted these legs. Would he love them? She had always worried about their length, and about the gentle ridges of muscle which rippled beneath the smooth white skin as she moved. And what did a man want with a woman's legs, what could he do with them? She had no idea, just as she had no idea what he would want to do with the rest of her. Mama Nicholson had always merely used the word 'belong', and rolled her eyes expressively, but not
informatively. From such a belonging would come children, in some mysterious fashion, but as Mama Nicholson had never had children of her own, perhaps she had never properly 'belonged' to Papa.
But there was the point at issue. Did she want to belong to Matt Hilton? She could not imagine so gentle a man ever harming anyone, even his toy. And she would be his wife, not his plaything. He had offered her all that a man could, and remain honourable. And he was honourable. She had but to look on his face to know that.
How she wanted to rush downstairs again, to tell Mama, to beg for advice, to beg for forgiveness, perhaps, for the rash of thoughts which kept coursing through her mind. But that would be an end to it. To Mama a planter was a planter, and honour did not come into it at all. They might even take her away. They had spoken of that on the day Robert Hilton had called. ‘It might be best for a season,' Papa Nicholson had muttered to himself. 'But the cost...'
Yet if it came to a proposal of marriage they might very well decide the cost was worth it. Not even Betty could help. She was a romantic and delighted with her mistress's secret trysts. But a serving girl could know nothing of belonging.
Her counsel must be her own. And it could be taken at leisure. He could not expect an answer, now. She must decide whether or not she loved him. And if she was not-sure what love was, what it entailed, what it demanded, then he must give her time to consider the matter.
And in that time, how delightful were her walks become. Yet was she suddenly overcome with fear that he might not be there, that he might have realized the enormity of what he was proposing, that he might have been called away.
He was there, his hat in his hand, as she came round the trees, Betty deserted well to the rear. He suddenly seemed so much taller and well-built and handsome, so much more reliable and so much more honourable than she remembered. And so much more happy, as he smiled at her and extended both his hands.
'I feared you might have decided not to come,' he said.
She stopped, discovering she was panting, while her hands were imprisoned. 'I feared the same.' She flushed. 'Of you.'
'And we are both here.'
She freed one of her hands, turned to lead him on their walk, and found herself checked by his gentle strength.
‘I wonder if you have considered soberly what you do, Mr. Hilton?'
The pressure on her fingers increased. 'And if I have, am I not still here? Gislane, I love you. To say more than that would surely be repetition. I love you, I love you, I love you. Marry me, Gislane. Marry me and laugh with me at everyone who would suppose we cannot be happy, who would throw the West Indies in our faces, who would attempt to stand between us. Will you marry me, Gislane?'
Now he was hurting her, so tightly did he clasp her hand. And yet she would not have him let her go, or even relax the pressure for an instant. She turned, to face him, to look at him, while her mind cried out, no, no, I want to, and yet I know it will be wrong for you even more than for me.
She seemed to hear her voice from a tremendous distance, drifting across the morning air, already chill with the coming of autumn. 'It would give me great pleasure to be your wife, Mr. Hilton.'
'Now,' said Mistress Bartholemew. 'Now. Stand well back, my dear. Well back. We want to see the whole picture. And breathe, Miss Hilton. Breathe.'
Georgiana breathed, sucking as much air into her lungs as she could, making her breasts swell so that they surged out of her decolletage.
'Beautiful, Miss Hilton,' Mistress Bartholemew cried. 'Just beautiful. I swear, my dear, that you will be the talk of the town after tomorrow.'
It occurred to Georgiana that she might well be right. As the reception was a morning affair, they had decided on a straw-coloured satin gown, with a white fichu and sleeve frills, but the fichu was hardly more than a decoration to the bodice, and hid nothing of her shoulders and the tops of her breasts. She had wondered if this was wise; since arriving in England she had become terribly aware of her freckles. But Mistress Bartholemew had had no doubts. 'Men will wish to look at you twice, my dear Miss Hilton,' she had said. 'Just to decide what the spots are, and having looked at you twice, and you must allow them to do so, of course, they will want to look at no other.' Her smile and her eyebrows had arched together. 'They will want to discover whether the rest of you is so delightfully decorated.’
She fussed as she carefully placed the huge dark blue velvet hat in place, inclining it slightly to the left to droop over Georgiana's left eye, while she fluffed the ostrich feathers to have them flop carelessly and yet with studied grace, front and back.
'A puff of breeze and I will fly away,' Georgiana complained.
'Then will they all come running behind you to rescue you, my dear,' said Mistress Bartholemew. 'Now, you must hold your cane loosely, just below the bow.' She placed the stick in Georgiana's left hand, arranging the blue satin bows to fall down over the fingers.
'But what do I do with it?' Georgiana inquired. 'Do I lean irpon it?'
'Good heavens, child, what a suggestion. You stand as straight as you can at all times. No, no. You merely must not be seen without it. That is fashion. Now, I will just remove the hat and try the wig, and then we can have the whole together.'
, 'But I really cannot see the point,' Georgina grumbled, as the hat was whisked away and her splendid brown tresses were pinned up so that they would be lost to sight beneath the powdered brown tresses of the wig. 'My own hair is much prettier.'
Mistress Bartholemew settled the wig, making sure none of the cotton wool balls with which it was padded, and which greatly increased its height, could slip. 'But it is not your hair, my dear. You cannot go to a ducal reception wearing your own hair. Besides it will give the men something more to wonder about. Oh, you will soon understand the dictates of fashion. Whatever is that?'
The door was already bursting open, above the squeaking of the maidservants, and Matt was stamping in, kicking dust from his boots. 'Ladies.'
'Why, Matt,' Georgiana screamed in delight.
'Really, Mr. Hilton,' Mistress Bartholemew protested. 'You cannot invade a lady's privacy in this fashion.'
'Nor am I, Mistress Bartholemew. You'd not confuse Georgiana with a lady, now would you?'
'Oh, you beast.' But Georgiana was already rotating once again in front of the mirror. 'Am I not an utterly beautiful creature? All we need is the hat. The hat, Bartholemew. The hat.'
'Now keep still, my dear, and I wilt just...'
'I have no time for that,' Matt said. 'Come on, Georgiana. I wish to take you home. I wish to tell you something.'
She glanced at him, frowned, and turned to face him. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes danced with delight. 'There's been another invitation,' she cried.
'Better than that. You'll excuse us, Mistress Bartholemew.'
'But ... you can't wear it on the street, child,' Mistress Bartholemew shouted. 'Someone might see you. You must not put it on until Saturday.'
'Oh, fiddlesticks, Bartholemew. Matt. Bring the hat. You'll send your account to Mr. Barton.' Georgiana gathered her skirts and ran through the shop outside the fitting room, scattering both the maids and their customers, in an explosion of ribbons and wigs and hats and canes, and scrambled into the phaeton. 'What a fuss. I'd think I was a fancy doll, did I not feel my heart pounding. Matt. Who's it from? Mistress Bartholemew says you are nothing until you've attended the Grenvilles.'
'No invitation,' Matt said, nicking the reins. 'Something far more important.'
She squeezed his shoulder. This way he could not avoid looking down her bodice even if he wanted to. 'What? Tell me, Matt.'
He lowered his voice. ‘I am leaving London, tonight. In a couple of hours, in fact.'
'Leaving London? You mean there is to be another cricket match?'
'Cricket? Cricket is for boys. I know now that Robert was right. No, I am going north, to Scotland. To a place called Gretna.'
'Scotland?' she cried. 'But that is a barbarous place. So Mistress Bartholemew says.'
'I am not going there to live, silly. It is necessary, so there need be no banns.' He paused, staring at the trotting horses. His ears glowed.
Georgiana gazed at the back of his head. 'An elopement? Oh, Matt, darling. Who is she?'
'You'll know soon enough, after we return.'
'But surely I know her already? Matt, you must tell me.'
'Well, I'm not going to, and there's an end of the matter. Anyway, it would only upset you. Now listen. Mrs. Partridge will look after things here, and ...'
'Oh, my God,' Georgiana said. 'Not that Nicholson girl.'
Matt continued to stare after the horses; his ears were redder than ever.
'Is it?' Georgiana pinched his arm. 'Is it?'
'Oh, very well,' he said. 'Who did you suppose I'd want to marry? Only her foster parents would refuse their permission, you see. So we must get away together, and when we are returned, why, we shall be married. She can come and live with us, of course. But I had to tell you, Georgiana. I didn't want you to worry or start calling out the Bow Street runners or anything like that.'
HF - 03 - Mistress of Darkness Page 7