'Good evening, Billy.' She held out the glass.
He pocketed a red, stood straight, drank. 'You look delightful tonight, my darling.'
'Why, thank you.' She sat down. 'You look tired. Been a busy week?'
'Not really. A couple of conveyances. And a divorce.' He glanced at her, and flushed, set the balls up again. And was he waiting too, she wondered? For what? He would never divorce her, no matter what she did. She even, from time to time, allowed him into her bed, for amusement, and certainly for his gratification. And for their mutual security, to bolster the magnet of her money and the position he enjoyed as Master of Hilltop with the magnet of her body, which he still adored. Because, strangely, she no longer wished to be divorced, to be rid of him. He could not be described as a lover, he was hardly a husband, and he was most certainly not a friend. But he provided an element of stability, an anchor, she sometimes thought, as well as a constant spur, to drive her onwards, to be more beautiful, more wealthy, more arrogant, more outrageous, every day. Without Billy, she sometimes thought, she would sink back into quiet domesticity. Without Billy, she might cease to be a Hilton.
So then, what was he waiting for ? Because he was waiting. There was no question about that. For her to grow old and decrepit? He would surely get there first. The same applied to the possibility of her dying, and in any event, that would benefit him nothing, as everything would go to Richard.
'I hear Ann Holroyd is very ill,' she remarked.
'Cancer, so John Phillips says.'
'Ah.' Cancer, she thought. There was the one thing could perhaps bring her down prematurely. Because he way waiting.
He replaced the cue in its holder, sat beside her. 'You do look delightful tonight, my darling.' She smiled at him, sipped her punch. 'That's because it's Friday, and you have not seen me since Monday. I think that is an ideal arrangement for every marriage, don't you ? That a husband should only see his wife at weekends. That keeps him always anxious.'
'And allows his wife ample time to herself during the week,' Billy said.
'Oh, indeed,' she said. 'A woman needs some time to herself.' She wondered if she was afraid of him. If, for all her victory, her flamboyant display of her victory, time and again, she was afraid of him. A relic, perhaps, of that infamous honeymoon.
The remarkable thing was that, when she felt afraid of him, she almost wanted him.
'But when the husband does come home,' he said, 'then he needs all of her time to himself.'
She smiled at him. 'Why, Billy,' she said. 'A wife is always happy to oblige her husband. But shall we wait until after dinner?'
'Then let's have it.' He snapped his fingers. 'Lawrence, as soon as the children are finished we shall eat. And fetch up a bottle of champagne from the cellar. After all, my dear,' he said, 'your Grandstand is all but finished. We should celebrate.'
He smiled at her, but his eyes were cold. Definitely, he was waiting.
With an embracing swoosh of sound, a drumming of hooves lost in a flurry of flying dust and a slither of straining leather, the whole absorbed in a booming roar from the stand and from the paddock, the ponies swept round the last bend and streaked past the winning post.
'Ultimatum,' bayed the crowd. 'Ultimatum.'
'Gad,' cried Roger Piatt. 'Where have you kept him, Billy, where have you kept him, sir? I demand to know.'
'By a length,' shouted Paul Simmonds. 'Did you see it, Bishop? By a length.'
The Bishop settled back in his seat contentedly. He had had inside information, and had backed the Hilltop horse.
'Well,' declared Mrs Mottram. 'Keeping it a secret. They could at least have told Alistair.'
'Absurd,' said Mrs Holroyd. 'Absurd.'
'He was told absolutely certainly that the Rose Hall horse was to win,' Mrs Mottram complained.
'Absurd,' said Mrs Holroyd, fanning herself.
Mrs Mottram glared at her. Was she really dying of cancer? If so she was taking an awfully long time about it. Today she did not even look ill, if one excused her colour, which had lost every trace of pink and was now a gentle golden brown, even in her cheeks.
'He must have lost a fortune,' Mrs Mottram said, and got up. 'I really must go and see how much it was.'
'Absurd,' said Mrs Holroyd. 'Absurd. Absurd that I should be dying, on a sunny afternoon like this, don't you think, Marjorie ? Absurd. But that's what John Phillips says. Absurd.'
Marjorie Mottram sat down again.
Billy gazed at his wife, who was smiling at him. 'Where did you keep him, all this while?'
'Tucked away. You should take more interest in the plantation.'
'I would, were I permitted.'
Meg's smile widened, and she rose. She wore pale green, which fluttered in the breeze, with a matching hat, its huge brim dipping over her face to shade her from the glare but also assisting to denote her, like a beacon, on the upper tier of the stand. Today was her triumph. Today she had recreated all the splendour that Robert Hilton had known and loved, the splendour that should always surround the name of Hilton. Today Hilltop lived again, properly, for the first time in a hundred years. And as had happened in Robert's day, her colt, secretly trained, had been the victor.
But there was more to it than that. For all the scandal that surrounded her name, the constant whisper which seemed to follow her like a shadow, they had come to look, to criticize, if they dared. And they were enjoying themselves. They had had the best afternoon of their lives, with food and drink, (she had served nothing but champagne), and entertainment on a scale not one of them could remember. More important yet, they had been able to look down on the paddock, filled with her labourers, men and women, and know that they too were enjoying themselves, that they, in fact, had known they were going to enjoy themselves, long before the horse racing had started. Hilltop was a happy place. The Hiltons had made it so and kept it so. Why, even their scandals had been caused by their determined pursuit of happiness.
She thought she could ask for no greater epitaph.
'Shall we go down? I think Absolom deserves a tip. Certainly some congratulations.'
'Of course.' He held the chair for her, hurried at her side. William Hilton, the Hilton, escorting his beautiful, wealthy, talented, and successful wife. She had spent the entire night in his bed, just to be sure that he was as happy as anyone, this day. And he radiated his power, his possession, his happiness.
While she merely radiated the Hilton. She walked through the boxes, smiling at them, pausing as she saw Ann Holroyd.
'Why, Ann, how very good of you to attend. You are well?'
'I am dying,' Ann Holroyd said. 'Did you not know?'
Meg kept her smile fixed. 'We are all dying, my dear, one way or the other. Do come up to the house and have a cup of tea.'
She reached the top of the stairs, filling her lungs with air, losing it again as she was assaulted by the children.
'We won, Mama,' Richard cried. 'Ultimatum won.'
'We won, Mama,' cried Aline, a determined carbon of her brother.
'Did I not tell you we would?' Meg descended the stairs, smiling at her guests, reached the foot, was surrounded by the labourers and their wives, clamouring for her attention. 'We win, mistress.'
'Ayayay, but that is a horse, mistress.' 'Man, mistress, we must be got the best horse in all Jamaica.'
She smiled at them and shook their hands, and a passage was made for her to reach the enclosure, where Ultimatum, still quivering after his run, was being unsaddled.
'Congratulations, Absolom. A superb ride. Your grandfather would have been proud of you.'
The jockey grinned and squeezed her hand. 'Man, Miss Meg, even a big fellow like he would have had an easy ride on this one. He is too good.'
'Give him a rub down.' She turned back into the crowd; the white people had not entered the paddock, but waited by the stairs to follow her up to the Great House, the ceremonial parade Oriole had so often described to her, which always accompanied a Hilltop Race Meeting. 'Why,
Prudence,' she said. 'I hope you backed Ultimatum?'
'Man, mistress, I got for back your horse,' Prudence said. 'This Henry.'
'Good afternoon, Henry.' Meg shook hands with the black man, considerably younger than her old nurse, she suspected, and very well dressed. 'You're not a Hilltop man?'
'No, no, Mrs Hilton. I am from Kingston.' 'Henry is me own cousin,' Prudence explained. 'He does be a clerk.'
'Prudence's cousin? You must come out to see us more often, Henry.'
'I will do that, Mrs Hilton, if you are wishing it.'
Prudence lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper. 'Henry is the one what I got watching for that Mr McAvoy. And you know what he saying? Mr McAvoy's schooner in the harbour this minute.'
Meg's head jerked.
That is quite true, Mrs Hilton,' Henry said. 'He dropped anchor last night.'
Her nostrils flared as she inhaled. 'And how long does he normally stay?'
'Well, about two days. He will likely sail Monday afternoon.'
Meg licked her lips. 'I thank you, Henry. Prudence, you must bring Henry up to the House and give him a glass of wine. You'll excuse me.'
Because she had not yet made up her mind? Because she could not make up her mind? This was Saturday. Billy was home, and she was entertaining. And on Monday, when she would again be free for five days, Alan would be gone again.
And yet, was her mind not already made up? Had it not been made up the day Prudence had first told her of his visits to Kingston? What madness. What utter abysmal madness. But how she wanted, how she craved, the body of a man. Any man, perhaps, so long as his name was not Billy Hilton. But Alan McAvoy more than any.
To hold Alan in her arms again, just once, would be to ensure it had all been worthwhile.
She joined her guests, linked arms with her husband, led the procession, smiling and talking. Margaret Hilton, after a successful race meeting. Old Robert must have walked like this, at the head of his guests, in the great days. And Cartarette had certainly walked like this, her disfigured hero at her side. Knowing they were Hiltons. Knowing the world, or this corner of it, to be sure, was all theirs.
'Champagne, Lawrence,' she said as they climbed the stairs to the verandah. 'Lots and lots of champagne. We are going to celebrate.' She gave Billy's arm a squeeze. 'Aren't we, my dear?'
There's a happy thought.' He was already lifting his first glass. 'Aren't you going to celebrate?'
She released him. 'In a moment. I must just make sure everything is all right in the kitchen. Do please have a drink, ladies, gentlemen. Enjoy yourselves. I shall be back in a moment.' She hurried along the verandah, heart pounding, legs suddenly feeling weak. She had not made the decision; it had been made for her, deep in her mind. It was merely a matter of having Prudence make the necessary arrangements.
By midnight the last of her guests had left, and by midnight Billy was snoring contentedly in his armchair in the far corner of the drawing room. And by midnight, too, Prudence had a horse waiting by the back steps, not Candy tonight, because a lot of hard riding was involved, but a stallion, bred from the same dam as Ultimatum himself. Henry also waited, also mounted.
And by then Meg, who had not actually drunk any champagne all evening - Lawrence had merely pretended to refill her glass - had changed into her riding habit, with her hair tucked up into a broad-brimmed felt secured under her chin with a strap; she would not easily be identified. And she had discarded her rings; she did not even want to identify herself.
'Man, Miss Meg,' Prudence said. 'You knowing what you doing?'
'You know what to tell the master,' she said. Her bedroom door was locked. Well, having got himself drunk he would expect that. And if he rose early, which was again unlikely, he would be informed that she had already left on a tour of the plantation, and would not be back before luncheon. And did it matter, any of it ? She was Meg Hilton, and Billy would not find it easy to forget that.
They walked their horses down the slope and past the sleeping villages. They eased into a trot when they reached the road out of the plantation, and kept that steady, unwearying pace throughout the night. Soon enough they overtook one of the carriages, still rumbling slowly towards town. But there was no moon, and it was Henry who called the greeting to the driver; the people within were probably asleep, and if they were awake they would hardly recognize her, she thought. And then, even if they did, they would suppose themselves dreaming. Meg Hilton, careering about the country in the dead of night, attended only by a black man ? Impossible. Of course, they would reflect, there were all those rumours, but still, it was impossible.
Yet it would be sure to come out eventually. Kingston was too small. Jamaica was too small. So this was utter madness. But what magnificent madness. What Hilton madness!
A dog barked as they rode into Kingston and a moment later the first cock flapped its wings and uttered a tentative crow. But it was only three in the morning. They walked their tired horses down King Street, halted them at the docks. The harbour was dark, save for the riding lights nodding on the ships at anchor. Meg dismounted, rubbed her bottom, clapped her hands together, it was chill, close to the water.
'There is a boat here.' Henry had tethered the horses, and was now dragging a dinghy out from beneath the dock. He got in himself, held the craft steady while Meg sat on the edge of the wood and eased herself forward. She sat on the transom, and he unshipped the oars, and pulled slowly across the water.
'You know I am forever in your debt, Henry,' she said. 'I'd not have you forget that.'
'How shall I forget that, Mrs Hilton? I am just happy to help you. Prudence does talk ...' He corrected himself. 'Prudence talks about you all the time.'
'And you won't forget me?’
'I will have the horses ready at dawn, Mrs Hilton.'
Thank you, Henry.' How her heart pounded. The dinghy was now beneath the shadow of the schooner, riding quietly to her anchor. A man was leaning on the aft gun-whale, watching them, not speaking until he was sure they were coming alongside.
'What you want?'
Of course, Meg realized, for trading, or smuggling within the Caribbean, Alan would certainly have a Negro crew.
'I wish to see your captain.'
The dinghy was against the hull now, and Henry had shipped his oars. The schooner had a low freeboard, and the gunwhale was only a few feet above their heads.
"The captain sleeping. You ain't knowing that?'
'He will be pleased to see me,' Meg said. 'Help me up.'
The sailor peered at her. 'Mistress?' he asked, recognizing her as a white woman. 'You knowing the captain?'
'Yes,' she said, holding on to the rubbing strake to pull herself to her feet. 'Are you going to help me up or not?'
The sailor hesitated, then extended his arms downwards.
'Give me a push, Henry.'
Henry also hesitated, then seized her thighs and pushed her upwards. She went with a rush, and the sailor turned her to allow her to sit on the gunwhale. She swung her legs over - she was not encumbered with petticoats - and her boots hit the deck with a soft thud.
'You all right, Mrs Hilton?' Henry said.
'I am all right, Henry,' she said, and gazed at the sailor, who was scratching his head.
'Mistress Hilton? Well, goddam.'
'Oh, I am sorry,' Henry said, 'I didn't think.'
'I'm sure it's not important,' Meg said, although her brain was tumbling. 'Just be sure you are waiting for me at dawn. She smiled at the sailor. 'Shall I take off my boots?'
'Well, mistress ...' He was scratching his head again.
'I think it is probably best,' she said, looked around her, and found a vacant space on the iron horse surrounding the mainmast, a receptacle for belaying pins and coiled halyards. She sat down cautiously, unlaced her boots. The sailor stared at her, blinking in the darkness.
'You want me call the captain?'
'No. Just tell me where he is.'
'Well, he does be in the aft cabin. But m
istress, if I ain' call he, he will be sleeping.' 'You had best give me a lantern,' she decided.
He hesitated, then went aft. Meg drew off her first boot, and then the stocking as well, wriggled her toes. She looked around her, at the masts - the schooner had two - the loosely furled sails, the sweep of sheer deck, from the helm to the bow. Alan's ship. She inhaled the tang of the tar in the seams, the scent of the warps and sheets. A trading schooner, used for smuggling. The summit of Alan's ambitions, to be his own master, no matter how low in the success scale that had to be.
The man who might have been Master of Hilltop.
The sailor was returning slowly, carrying a lantern. 'Man, mistress, you sure the captain ain' going bust me ass for this?'
'I promise you, he won't.' She rolled down her second stocking, thrust it into the boot, stood up. There was a heavy dew, and the deck was damp underneath her feet. 'Down there?'
The curved hatchway was closed.
'Yes'm. But...'
'And who else sleeps down there ?'
'Well, nobody else, mistress. Is the captain own cabin, down there. We got for sleep forward.'
She nodded. 'Hold the lantern for me.
She tiptoed aft, gently eased the hatchcover back, peered into the gloom. Down there smelt even more strongly of tar, with added smells besides, the smell of rum, the smell of food, and the smell of man. So then, she thought. You could turn back now. This fellow would be glad to set you ashore, and Henry would not yet have finished stabling the horses. You would have had your adventure, seen how he now lives, and been sufficiently disappointed.
And you would regret your cowardice all of your life. Perhaps, in fact, she thought, this journey had been undertaken just to compensate for the cowardice she had shown over the years in never returning to the mountains. Besides, she thought, after Henry's careless slip the damage was done. If she would have to live with this midnight escapade, she might as well enjoy it.
She fumbled for the ladder with her toes, found it, and went down, the lantern held level with her face. She found herself in a tiny saloon; the bunks to port and starboard contained mattresses, but nothing else. The table in the centre supported a half-empty bottle, and a single glass. Poor Alan. Reduced to drinking himself to bed.
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