'That is immaterial,' Oriole said. 'It matters very little what sort of witchcraft they practised upon you. It matters very little whether or not any ... any foul lust was inflicted upon you. The crime was yours, in behaving as you did. It is still yours, in continuing to behave as you are.' She glared at Tony Hilton. 'Well?'
Strangely, Meg thought, it was her father's turn to lick his lips. 'You must be punished, Meg.' He glanced at Oriole. Almost, Meg thought, as if he had been about to say, Oriole insists upon it.
'She must be whipped,' Oriole said.
'You wouldn't dare,' Meg whispered, stepping backwards, and feeling her legs touch the side of her bed. 'You wouldn't dare.'
'Dare?' Oriole said. 'He is your father.'
'But I... I'm nearly seventeen.'
'And that is important. Here. Put this in your mouth.’
Meg stared at the folded handkerchief. 'Whatever for?'
'To stop anyone hearing you scream. You'd not make more of a spectacle than you already are?'
Meg glared at her in utter horror, then turned to her father. His face was pale, but the lips were firmly compressed, and there was a peculiar throbbing in his throat. Oh my God, she thought; he really is angry.
'I will not scream,' she said. The tears were starting to her eyes. But now they were tears of anger.
"Then kneel,' Oriole commanded. 'Over the bed. Hold out your arms.'
Meg hesitated for the last time, looking at her father. But he was already releasing his heavy leather belt, his breath harsh.
Oh, my God, she thought again. I must be dreaming. I have got to be dreaming. Her knees hit the floor before she had intended them to, and began to hurt. She extended her arms, and had her wrists seized by Oriole, from the far side of the bed, to jerk her so that her stomach rammed against the mattress and her head and shoulders fell forward. Oriole herself leaned forward, pinning the captured wrists to the bed with all her weight, her eyes wide and staring, and triumphant.
Meg felt her skirt being lifted. Oh, my God, she thought again. I am not wearing drawers. She had been going to leave them until after her bath. Oh, my God.
Her shift was folded back to her waist, and she could hear Anthony Hilton breathe. At this moment she could not think of him as her father. She dared not think of him at all. She watched Oriole, and saw the eyes turn upwards, to gaze at the man, and saw too a faint frown appear in that fine white forehead.
The first blow took her breath away, a curling sting which descended on her right buttock and seemed to make its way round the thigh almost to attack the groin. Her mouth flopped open, and she lost her breath. Before she could get it back the second blow descended, more centrally aimed, sending pain streaming down her thighs to her still aching knees. Her mouth closed and then opened again, and she felt the scream rising into her throat, and clamped her mouth closed. The frown had left Oriole's face and she was almost smiling. She must not be given the added pleasure of stuffing her victim's mouth with a handkerchief.
The third blow brought the tears streaming down the cheeks, filling her eyes with water through which Oriole appeared as a misty demon, but bringing also a complete relaxation of her body, so that she wanted to reach sideways with her toes, stretching herself as far as possible in the hopes of abating the agony. The fourth blow caught her before the process was complete, and she drew herself together again, thighs pressed against each other, buttocks clamped tight to resist the fifth blow, which surprisingly never came, and in its place she felt a hand, moving gently over her tortured flesh.
Her head jerked, and Oriole's head jerked as well. The frown was back, and Meg found that her wrists were released. They moved towards her across the bed as she slid down to the side to the floor. Still she gazed at Oriole, at the stark horror in her face, watched her hurry round the bed. She dared not turn herself. She remained, crouching against the mattress, while the door banged, and their feet receded into the distance.
And she stayed there, listening to their voices. But most strange of all the strange things that had happened within the past twenty-four hours, on this occasion, for the first time she could remember, it was Father who was doing the talking, his voice rising and falling. Oriole answered in monosyllables.
'Well, Margaret. Are you ready?' Oriole Paterson wore her grey poplin travelling gown, her best bonnet, and carried her parasol. Underneath, as Meg well knew, she wore six petticoats and her corset.
But then, did she not also wear a corset? And her best blue gown, even if it was nothing like Oriole's ?
'I'm not going,' she muttered. As if she were not wearing her corset.
'Now, do not let us start that rubbish all over again,' Oriole said, quietly, and with remarkable patience. 'You are going, and you know you are going, even if I have to have you carried on board the ship. You cannot stay here.'
Meg knew that, well enough. Without entirely knowing why. She just knew that something quite terrible had happened, far more terrible than even her night in the mountains, and that was terrible enough. For a while, indeed, she had thought of escaping back to the mountains, and never ever returning. But that had been an impossible dream, in any event, as her bedroom door was locked every night, and she was never allowed from the house except with a servant at her heels. And these servants were all hand-picked by Oriole; she had not seen Prudence since her return to the house.
But the fact was, she could have evaded her watchdogs and made her escape, had she really wanted to. It was the irrevocability of such a step that had made her stay. To return to the mountains for one night, for another night such as the one which was daily becoming more of a dream, remained a tantalizing ambition. But to live for the rest of her life in such squalor and poverty, with only the outlet of the sexually religious fervour - although of course clearly it was only that sexually religious fervour which kept those people from desperation. But that was impossible, too, for her.
'Well?' Oriole demanded. But there was no bite in her voice. There had, indeed, been no bite in her voice on any occasion since that dreadful day, a month ago now; Meg's bottom still occasionally ached.
She got up, picked up her handbag. Her trunk had already been taken out. Only one trunk; she had few enough possessions. 'We shall have your clothes made in England,' Oriole had pronounced.
The servants waited, but she ignored them. Hannibal waited too, and she stooped to hug his head, no doubt for the last time.
'That will do, Margaret,' Oriole said. 'You will have hairs all over your gown.'
Meg straightened, went into the living room. Here Tony Hilton waited; it was even more impossible to think of him as Father. His face was lined with lack of sleep, and he looked older than she would have thought possible.
'You'll like England,' he said. He hesitated, then took her right hand and squeezed it, turned, and went into his study. He had not spoken to Oriole at all.
Meg hesitated, glanced at Oriole, and then ran behind him. 'Papa ...'
Tony Hilton sat behind his desk. 'You'll miss your boat.'
Meg closed the door. 'Papa ... you don't really think those mountain people harmed me, do you?'
Tony Hilton gazed at her.
They looked after me. They were kind. The whole thing was my fault. No, it was Oriole's fault. She... if she hadn't sacked Prudence, if she hadn't talked so much ... please, Papa, you've lived here all your life. You understand black people. Oriole doesn't. She thinks that because their skin is a different colour from ours they must be wicked. Please, Papa ...'
Tony Hilton sighed. 'It does not matter now, Meg.' 'But it does, Papa ..
'I'm sure they did not harm you, Meg. But there are not many people ... white people ... in Jamaica will believe that. Anyway, it doesn't matter now. Not after ...' He hesitated, biting his lip.
'But I don't mind being whipped,' Meg cried. 'Really. I deserved it. I was very rude. I don't mind, Papa. I don't want to go with Oriole. Please. I want to stay here, with you. Please, Papa.'
His head cam
e up. 'That is impossible, Meg. You must see that. Why ...' He drew the back of his hand across his forehead. 'Quite impossible.'
'But you'd like me to stay, Papa. Say you would.'
'Of course I would like you to stay, Meg. You're everything in the world to me. But, well...' Another sigh. 'You cannot. You cannot, you cannot, you cannot.'
Meg stared at him, fighting back the tears, listened to the door opening behind her.
'Come along, Margaret.' Oriole was very brisk. But she was very nervous, too, and there were beads of sweat gathering on her upper lip.
Meg followed her down the stairs. It was very early in the morning. But it had been impossible to keep the news of their departure a secret, and every porch had someone on it. And now Helen McAvoy came across the street. 'God bless you, Meg,' she said. 'Hurry back to us.'
'Margaret will return in good time, Helen,' Oriole said, and held the door open for her. Meg got into the carriage, and Oriole sat beside her. 'You may give one wave,' she said.
Meg leaned out, looked at Helen McAvoy. 'Keep Hilltop for me,' she said.
Helen smiled even as she began to cry. 'We will do that, Meg, my dear.'
The whip was cracking. 'Now, sit well back,' Oriole commanded. 'We don't want anyone on the road or in Kingston to identify you. Once we're on board, well, then, we shall be all right'
Meg obeyed. She felt utterly exhausted. She could not remember when she had not felt utterly exhausted. And she didn't really want to see anyone, ever again.
Besides, she was about to cry herself. She held her handkerchief to her eyes as she watched the houses go past, the factory - she dared not look out of the other window, at the
Great House, once again closed and shuttered, and gathering dust - at the Negro village and then the canefields, at the mountains which surrounded Hilltop coming closer, as the carriage slowed to take the high road.
Tears are best,' Oriole said, half to herself. But she showed no desire to weep. They drove in silence for more than an hour, and Hilltop had disappeared behind them. Now the road went up and down the sides of the hills, in and out of secret valleys, beneath huge trees still dripping from the night's rain, and through mist patches brought by the rising sun and the growing heat. And now, from time to time, they could see the Caribbean Sea in the distance. Meg had never been to sea. She felt the tears start again.
'Oh, please,' Oriole said. 'Hilltop is behind you, now. When you return, you will be married, and confident, and mistress of everything you see. It is time to start preparing for that great occasion.'
'Who'd marry me?’ Meg muttered.
'No one in Jamaica, and that is perfectly certain. Which is one reason why we are leaving.' She gave Meg a quick glance. 'Do you understand the other?'
Meg stared out of the window. 'I think I do.'
'Ah.' Oriole thought for a while. 'You must never speak of it to a soul,' she said at last. 'Not even your husband. Not even your dearest friend. It will be a secret between you and me, and who knows, it may make us into close friends. That is something I have always wanted.'
Meg turned her head in sheer surprise.
'I have always wanted that,' Oriole said again. 'But my duty came first. To make you into a Hilton.'
'And what would you call me now?' Meg demanded.
Oriole actually smiled. 'Oh, a Hilton, certainly. There was never a Hilton woman not surrounded by the breath of scandal. But few of them were as young as you.' To Meg's amazement, she picked up her hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze. 'So we shall be friends, you and I, and together you and I will plan a future for you which will make these past few days only an unpleasant interlude. First, I would have you forgive your father. You must understand that he has lived quite without female companionship, in a domestic sense, for seventeen years, since your mother died. Such behaviour is apt to make a man irrational. I had half hoped that my coming ...' She sighed. 'Who can tell what goes on inside a man's heart? Anyway, that is over and done with, and you will not see him again until you are happily married.'
'But I don't wish to get married,' Meg said.
'What nonsense. Of course you wish to get married. Every young woman wishes to get married. I know what is bothering you. You are afraid to give up your position. But that will not happen. No, no. I have thought it over very carefully. Whoever marries you is not merely taking a wife. He is taking the whole responsibility, the power and the wealth, of Hilltop ...'
"The wealth?'
'It will come again. I have no doubt at all on that score. You and I will make it come again. And for the meanwhile ...' She smiled, secretly. 'We must be sure no one knows the real state of affairs. Your father has promised me sufficient funds for that, at the least. Oh, he has some money stored away, you may depend upon it.'
'But...'
'You really must give up this habit of interrupting,' Oriole said, with a bright smile. 'It is not very polite. As I was saying, the young man on whom you bestow your wealth and yourself will immediately step into a very responsible position, as the greatest planter in the West Indies. It will therefore be entirely seemly that he should change his name to Hilton.'
'What?' Meg shouted.
'Of course. It is not a difficult matter. And the name cannot be allowed to die. Why, do you realize that my sister Hermione, myself, and you are the only Hiltons left? I very much doubt whether your father will have any more children, at least, any more legitimate children, and my father is far too old. No, no. The name must be preserved.'
'Who on earth would agree to such a preposterous proposal ?' Meg said.
'It is not preposterous at all,' Oriole insisted, her smile beginning to wear a little thin. 'It is entirely customary amongst the aristocracy and the very rich, and what you have got to get through your head is that the Hiltons have always been at the very top of the West Indian aristocracy, and that you are very rich. At least in the eyes of the vulgar horde. No, no, there will be no difficulty at all. What we must find is a young man of good family, good character, and some decision. Not too much, of course. We must see to it that the future of the family, and of Hilltop, remains in the hands of those best suited to control it. Don't you agree ?'
Meg preferred to attempt a smile and say nothing. She supposed that sooner or later she would wake up and understand exactly what was happening, exactly what had happened over the past month, exactly what crime she had committed and what crime Papa had committed, and what exactly Oriole was intending.
Perhaps then, she thought, she would properly understand what she was, Hilton or confused young girl.
The road descended to Kingston. Years of financial stringency had begun to tell upon the city. The streets which had once bustled with planters and agents and their slaves were now pot-holed and half empty; goats browsed from the grass which was thrusting its stalks through the dusty soil, and ignored the dogs who fought and mated in the mud; the verandahed houses, behind whose jalousies great fortunes had been made and lost, sadly lacked paint, and the shingles on their roofs were cracked and obviously leaking; and the great harbour, where Morgan had sheltered his buccaneer fleet, and more recently, Rodney had brought his French captives after the Battle of the Saintes, was empty, save for a couple of trading schooners, and the steamer which was making ready to depart, and on which a cabin was booked for Mrs Paterson and her cousin.
'Desolate place,' Oriole commented, directing the Negro coachman to the docks. 'Oh, bother.'
Because they were not to escape entirely unscathed; it was now mid morning, and there were quite a few people on the dock, conspicuous amongst whom were Walter Reynolds and his son.
'Just give them a smile and board the launch,' Oriole commanded.
Meg arranged her features into what she hoped was a suitable expression and stepped down. To her dismay Billy hurried forward. 'Meg,' he cried.
'Good morning to you, Billy,' she said.
'Come along, Margaret,' Oriole said. 'The launch is waiting.'
'Meg,' Billy said,
holding her arm. 'I must go.'
'Of course. Of course.' He flushed, stood on one foot and then the other, using her to balance on. She wondered if he would fall over were she to wrench herself free. 'Meg, 1 so wanted to see you.'
'Whatever for? Will you let me go?'
His fingers tightened. 'To say that... that whatever has happened, Meg, I shall always ... well, Meg, I shall always love you.'
He stopped, aghast at what he had said, his face crimson. And Meg could not stop herself smiling, although she did manage to stifle the laugh which threatened to escape. 'Why, Billy,' she said. 'How kind of you.' She lowered her voice, and inclined her head towards his. 'But don't you realize, I've been raped by a nigger?'
CHAPTER SIX
THE DEBUTANTE
'WELL,' Oriole declared. 'I can't say I'm sorry to see the back of that. At least under present conditions.'
Meg clung to the rail and watched the great mountains towering above the ship. But already Kingston was fading into the mid-morning haze. Or was it a tear haze? She had never left Jamaica in her life before. She had never considered leaving Jamaica in her life.
But Oriole seemed delighted. If that was the right word. She was strangely agitated, could hardly keep still, constantly clenched and unclenched her gloved fingers. Perhaps she was afraid of the voyage ahead, Meg thought. Presumably she should also be afraid. The fact was, she was too miserable, and she had no idea what to expect. The ship seemed unusually large, and the sea was calm; the sails flapped against their yards, and only the steady puffs of black smoke from the runnel drove them through the water.
'Are you going to spend the day there ?' Oriole demanded.
'Well, I...'
'It really isn't good for you,' Oriole said. 'You must put Jamaica from your mind. At least for the time being. You will love England. It is so huge, so civilized, so ... elegant.'
'So frightening,' Meg suggested.
'What nonsense. You will have me to guide you. Come along now, let us give our cabin a more careful inspection. It wants another two hours to luncheon.'
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