HF - 03 - The Devil's Own

by Christopher Nicole

  The face which, angry or smiling, had lured him onwards for so long. Marguerite Warner.

  5

  The Devil's Honeymoon

  Now at last did consciousness depart. Or did it? He could never be sure. He seemed to exist in a world of dreams, in which pain dominated, certainly, but in which there was also light and pleasant voices, and occasionally even laughter, and sweet scents and quiet, and acres of softness. He found it confusing, and chose to focus on the essentials, on the pain itself, on one voice more than any other, because of its familiarity, and on one physical object, a vast glow which seemed to hover in the sky, a million miles away.

  The bright object gradually came to replace all else, even the soft voice and the gentle hands. He tried to reach it, and watched it take shape, slowly and indefinitely, but with gradually sharpening edges. It hung, at the foot of the bed. The bed? He turned his head, from side to side, amazed at the effort it cost.

  And amazed, too, at his surroundings. For he lay in the centre of a vast tent-bed, beneath linen sheets of a whiteness he had not suspected to be possible. The mattress scarce seemed to exist below him; it and his pillows were stuffed with feathers.

  The bed occupied the centre of an equally vast room, at once wide and square and high-ceilinged. And the bright object was a chandelier, just visible beneath the roof of the tent, a mass of gleaming facets of light although none of the candles were lit. What miracle was this? But then he saw the windows, huge open doors of glass, through which there drifted at once a cooling breeze and the morning sunlight, playing on the chandelier, having the effect of a flaming signal.

  And through the window there came the smell of sweetness.

  Or was it all around him? Certainly it seemed to soak the bed on which he lay, the nightshirt in which he was dressed ... the nightshirt? Another magnificent cambric garment, as softly limp as the sheet, and as clean.

  The scent made him drowsy. The scent, and the breeze, playing gently on his face, and the silence. A strange silence, because his instincts told him that he was surrounded by sound, that he could even hear it, if he tried hard enough to listen. If he could summon the energy. But why should he do that? Why should he do anything, except lie here, in the softness and the breeze, and the quiet? If he had died, and this was heaven, then he was truly content.

  Except that there was no possibility of Kit Hilton, the man who had been at Panama, ever attaining heaven.

  The door opened, and he turned his head again, more easily this time. A black face stared at him, smiling, and then came across the room to look more closely. She was a young girl and wore a white dress; her hair was concealed beneath a cap.

  'Where am I?' Kit asked. How thin and soft his voice; it seemed no more than a whisper.

  'Well, glory be,' she said. 'You's awake. Now you wait so, Captin. I got food for you.'

  She disappeared. Kit tried to push himself up, and found that he could not. He raised his right hand, with a tremendous effort, gazed at it in horror. That hand, which had grasped a cutlass or a musket to such terrible effect, which had been feared even when he had been beachcombing in Port Royal, was no more than a mass of bones and veins, held together by a bag of thin skin.

  The door was opening again, and now there were several girls, but led on this occasion by a tall and dignified black man, who wore a deep crimson coat over white breeches, and carried himself with an air of authority. The girls each bore a tray, and these in turn were placed on the table next to his bed. Here were morsels of broiled tuna, cups of soft green avocado, broth made from die pulpy okra, and a glowing, dark red liquid in which floated lumps of ice.

  The butler bent over the bed. 'You must allow me, Captin.' He raised Kit's shoulders, and one of the girls pushed a mass of pillows under his back, while another held the cup to his lips. It seemed to him as the liquid reached his parched throat that he was tasting pure nectar. It reminded him of that first gulp from the stream in Hispaniola, how many centuries ago. He swallowed, and smiled at the girl, and sighed. 'What is it called?'

  'Sangaree, Captin,' the butler said. 'Red wine, with some brandy, and fruits, and ice added. Now you must eat. You must put the strength back into those muscles.'

  The food tasted scarcely less pleasant than the drink. But Kit was too tired to consume very much, and after a few mouthfuls he sank back on the pillow.

  'Enough,' said the butler, and the girls hastily carried the trays from the room. There will be more when you are ready.'

  'Where am I?' Kit asked again.

  'Plantation Green Grove, Captin.'

  'Green Grove. Green Grove? Then where is ...'

  'The mistress is aback, Captin. But she will return at eleven of the clock. Now you must rest. I will tell she that you is awake.'

  He withdrew, closing the door, but leaving Kit propped up on the pillows. The mistress. Now memory came flooding back, of the faces standing above him when he had been picked from the ditch. Marguerite? Marguerite Warner? No, Marguerite Templeton, now. Rescuing him from the anger of her father? That was unbelievable. It was also magnificent. It made him tremble, brought tears to his eyes. It made him want to get out of bed, and make his way to the window, and see if he could find her in the canefields. But that was impossible. So he must lie here, and wait. Marguerite. For how long had his life been devoted to just that object? Marguerite.

  He dozed, and the food and the wine stretched out from his belly to dull his brain, to send him back into his dream world. Only this time he did not dream. Now he was to awake, from all the dreams, and from all the nightmares, too. So perhaps buccaneers did, after all, attain heaven.

  Voices, outside his bedroom door, and one raised in protest. Now he must strain his ears to hear the muted sounds of the house. It was nearly noon. He could tell that because the sun no longer played on the chandelier, and the very breeze, which had not abated, was hot as it stroked his face and arms.

  Ridiculous, Mrs Templeton?' demanded the man. 'When I heard, why ...'

  'Tell me, Mr Spalding, when last did you visit me?' Marguerite. He would have remembered that quiet tone anywhere.

  'Why, I ... I had gained the impression I was not welcome here.'

  'Oh, indeed you were right, Mr Spalding. I detest criticism in any form. Of myself, of my plantation, of the way I operate my plantation, or of my habits, which seem to be your present occupation.'

  'Why ... why ... really, Mrs Templeton.' Spalding would be going red in the face. Kit remembered he was the vicar of the St John's Anglican Church, a man who avoided him; Spalding always crossed the street to walk on the other side when he saw Kit Hilton coming. 'I felt it my duty. This man is a pirate, madam. He has murdered people with his own hands. Far worse. He was at Panama. Can you imagine what he must have done there? Women, girls, why, madam, the imagination boggles.'

  'And your voice sounds positively envious,' Marguerite said.

  'He is also known as a friend of black people and Quakers,' the parson said, dropping his voice so that Kit could hardly hear it.

  Marguerite laughed, a sound as softly contemptuous as her voice. 'A far more serious crime, I do agree, reverend. Would you like to leave now, or will you attend me in my bath?'

  'You ... you astound me, madam. Be sure that I shall be to Colonel Warner this morning, with this sad news.'

  'Then I should certainly hurry, if I were you. Maurice Peter, will you show Mr Spalding to his horse?'

  There was a short silence, while Kit stared at the door, and then at last it opened. She had removed her hat, and was untying her hair, so that it fell straight to her shoulders. She wore a pale green riding habit, but had unbuttoned the long, masculine coat to reveal the cambric shirt beneath, tucked into the divided green skirt. And beneath that? His eyes were too weak to be sure, but he would have said nothing. Christ, what a thought for an invalid with too many crimes of lust already on his shoulders.

  She moved quietly; she had taken off her boots and thrust her bare feet into slippers. She loo
ked as far removed from the splendid lady who had climbed the hill in Tortuga as it was possible to imagine. And now she paused, six feet from the bed, and gazed at him, her face breaking into a smile. She had not smiled in Tortuga, and he had found her entrancing. But entrancing was nothing, when considered against the context of her face smiling. The small mouth became large, and the firm chin softened, and the green eyes glowed with little facets of light, almost like her chandelier. 'Kit Hilton,' she said. 'There were times when I thought I would have to bury you. And then I remembered, he has crossed Panama. He will survive a beating.'

  She came closer. Her hair was free, and now she took off the coat. The sweat-wet cambric clung to her shoulders, as it stuck itself to the high breasts and outlined the dark aureoles. A lady, sweating. That surely reduced her to no more than a woman. There was sweat on her face, beading her forehead and her upper lip. And surely, therefore, there was sweat in other places as well.

  'They told me you were able to speak,' she said, standing beside him.

  'How long have I been here?'

  'You are at least direct, Kit. A week. Do you remember what happened?'

  'I quarrelled with your father.'

  She nodded. 'And he set his slaves on you. Do you hate him?' 'Perhaps I was hasty.'

  Her eyebrows raised. 'Hardly a piratical sentiment. You'd do well to hate him. You may be sure he hates you. And will hate you more when Spalding reaches Goodwood.'

  'Then why did you bring me here?' His hand moved, and touched hers as it lay on the coverlet. 'You refused me admittance, but a week gone.'

  'It had taken you three weeks to call upon me,' she reminded him. 'Besides, should a lady succumb to the first advance made by a gentleman?' Her smile was back. 'And you are not even a gentleman, as I am reminded time and again.' She half turned her head as there came a gentle knock on the door. 'My bath is ready. Now you must lie there, quietly, until I return.'

  She moved to the door.

  'I thought you hated me,' he said to her back. She paused, but did not turn her head, then continued through the doorway.

  Christ, how slowly the afternoon passed. How frustrating to lie in bed, unable to move, to know that that beauty, that smile, that confidence, was in the house with him. Being bathed. His brain was filled with the sweat-soaked shirt, with the beads of sweat on her lips—he had wanted to kiss them all away, one after the other. And for all the sweat, she had moved in the middle of that aura of sweet-scented perfume.

  Marguerite Warner. Marguerite Templeton. By Christ, he had to be dreaming, after all.

  She wore a crimson undressing-robe, secured at her waist by a wide pink sash. She filled the room like an explosion. And she no longer sweated. Her skin glowed, from the bath, and she looked rested. Her hair had been piled on top of her head, to leave her face exposed, and beautiful.

  'They hanged your grandmother,' she said, looking down at him. 'I doubt I could ever have liked her, but it was not the fate for a woman. And so you took to piracy, so unsuccessfully that you finished working for my father.' She smiled, and shook her head. 'You will have to practise success, if you are to remain at Green Grove.'

  He licked his lips. 'And am I, to remain at Green Grove?'

  'Perhaps you would rather be handed over to the Quakers?'

  So she was, after all, no more than a woman, and given to jealousy. But, Marguerite Templeton, jealous of Lilian Christianssen? Over Kit Hilton? That seemed incredible.

  'I had supposed you hated me,' he said.

  Marguerite moved away from the bed, and four maidservants entered. Two carried enormous towels, a third a huge basin, and a fourth a pitcher of steaming water. The butler came behind, and he placed the rocking chair for Marguerite to sit down, close to the bed, but far enough away so as not to interfere with the girls.

  'What is to happen?' Kit asked.

  'You are going to be bathed. I demand cleanliness, at Green Grove.'

  'To be bathed? But…’

  'These same girls have bathed you every day since your arrival,' she pointed out. 'And I have sat here and watched them do it. They are slaves, and of no account; I am a widow, and perfectly accustomed to the male body. So pray stop twitching and rolling your eyes. Although,' she added with a smile, 'it is a relief to find that you are rediscovering your manhood.'

  For the sheet was already removed and so was his nightshirt, all by the softest and most gentle hands he had ever felt.

  Marguerite rocked, gently, to and fro. Her gaze never left his body. But how thin and pitiful he was, with bones jutting out from every pouch of skin.

  'You'll fill out,' she told him. 'It will be my charge. I did hate you, Kit. When I got out of that water butt. I hated you all the way back to the ship. In many ways you owe a great deal to my father. For when I continued to curse you as I changed my clothes, he interrupted me to point out that you had acted as you did because you had fallen in love with me at first sight. And when I looked back upon it, it seemed obvious.'

  The towels were spread under his raised body, to protect the sheets, and now the hands were gently washing him, while the water itself seemed filled with Marguerite's perfume.

  'But you did not come back,' he said. Dreaming. There could be no other answer, for him to be lying here, in the midst of five women, one of whom had filled every dream for five years.

  'Why should I?' she asked. 'You certainly deserved to be punished. Besides, I had more important things on my mind. My marriage. It took place almost as soon as I returned to Antigua. I was seventeen. It took five months to consummate the event. Harry was seventy-two. Believe me, Kit, in producing in him a condition which would make me a woman, I learned more about male anatomy than you know, I'd wager.'

  'You've an uncommonly vulgar tongue.' He was surprised by his own anger.

  'Which you must learn to live with. Everyone else has had to do so.' She ceased rocking and got up, to stand next to the bed as the towels were folded over him and the soft fingers gently dried him. 'I only say what I wish to say, and hide nothing. It is the only way to live.'

  'And you care not whom you offend.'

  'That will do,' she told the girls. A clean nightshirt was produced and dropped over his shoulders, and she herself saw that it was neatly settled. Then she lifted the sheets over his body. By now the last of the girls had left, and the door was closed. 'I care not whom I offend,' she said. 'Harry did me but one honest service in his entire life. He managed to remain alive until my twenty-first birthday. So now, you see, I am at once the most beautiful and the most wealthy woman in all the Leeward Islands. That combination also makes me the most powerful and the most independent.' She smoothed the sheet, and then sat beside him. 'I made but one resolution, which I propose to keep; that when I married again it would be to a man who not only would warm my bed, successfully, but would also be fit to stand beside me on all other occasions.'

  She was no longer smiling; her eyes seemed possessed of a life of their own, separated from her body, shrouding him.

  'You are too straight for me,' Kit confessed. 'You have my brain in a whirl. And I doubt you know what you do. I marched with Morgan, on Panama.'

  'So I have been reminded, endlessly. I would have thought that proved you at least a man.'

  'Have you any idea what can happen, when a town is sacked, and when there is as much hatred as hangs on the very air in these West Indies? How can you, living in this wealth and splendour and security of which you boast.'

  'You have been delirious, from time to time, this last week,' she said softly. 'What was her name? Isabella? I sometimes feel I know the child.' She picked up his hand and turned it over, looked at the palm. 'Perhaps hands that are guilty are those I seek.' She smiled at him. 'Am I not a shameless hussy? Oh, I had all but forgot you, Kit Hilton. Until the day you reappeared in St John's with that detestable Parke. So he was your friend. But he was none the less detestable. He called here with my father, and had the nerve to make advances to me.'

  'He told me
none of this.'

  She got up, restlessly, her robe swirling to give a hint of bare shoulder underneath. 'Why should he, and arouse your jealousy? But he told me much of you, Kit. Or of your desire for me. He found it amusing. As well bring the earth and the sun into a common field, he said.'

  'Like you,' Kit said, 'he is uncommonly straight. You'd have made a good pair.'

  She stood before the window, gazing at her fields. 'I understood him to be speaking the truth. But come. You have been considered missing for a week. Now that Spalding has found you out, the news will be shouted from one end of the island to the other by nightfall. Is there anyone you wish informed of your whereabouts?'