But already the magic of Hilltop was reaching out to her, restoring her health and her confidence. A day or two on Hilltop and she'd be right as rain all over again.
She craned her neck as they came down the slope, into the valley. She gazed at the chimney, towering skywards, at the villages, neat and freshly painted, at the banana trees, clustered in immense groves, and at the Great House. Her House. Her bananas. Her plantation. Oh, it was good to be home. So good to be home.
The trap rolled to a halt before the front steps, and she looked up at the verandah, seeking familiar faces amongst the servants, frowning when she recognized no one, seeking her children, frowning when she realized they were not there, and feeling her mouth drop open in utter horror as the servants stepped aside to allow Oriole Paterson to come to the top of the steps.
Washington hurried forward to hand Meg down. She wanted to scream with joy. He at least remained. 'Man, but we is too glad to have you back, mistress,' he said.
'Thank you, Washington.' She kept her gaze fixed on the woman at the top of the steps.
'Meg.' Oriole, although a hasty calculation told Meg she was at least forty-five, hardly seemed to have changed at all. Her clothes were as elegant as ever, her manner as assured. 'Oh, my darling Meg.'
She did not descend the steps, and Meg mounted them, slowly. 'Whatever are you doing here?'
'Why, my dear,' Oriole said. 'When I heard ... we supposed you were dead.'
'So Billy was telling me.' Meg reached the top of the stairs, had her hands seized, and withdrew them again. 'Where are Richard and Aline?'
'Well, my dear ...' Oriole glanced at Billy, who had also climbed the stairs.
'I... I thought it best... well, Meg is feeling very tired.'
'Where are my children?' Meg demanded.
'I think you should come inside, my dear,' Oriole said. 'As Billy says, you must be very tired, and we don't want a fuss in front of the servants. Anyway, I'm sure you want to change your clothes. You do have a weakness for wearing rags, don't you.'
She turned away and went inside, and Meg could do nothing but follow her. 'Fuss?' she shouted. 'Where are my children?'
'You've met Dr Roberts?' Oriole said, brightly. Meg gazed at the young man. 'I have never heard of Dr Roberts.'
'Well, of course, he only came to Jamaica about three years ago. You would hardly have had time. Peter Roberts, Margaret Hilton.'
'Charmed, I'm sure,' said the young man, smoothing his moustache. His face was surprisingly pale for a white man in the tropics, and he wore a heavy gold watch-chain.
Meg decided she didn't like him. 'My pleasure,' she said coldly. 'Now, if you'll excuse us ...'
'Oh, but Peter is here on a professional call.'
'Why, Oriole,' Meg said. 'Don't tell me you are ill?'
'I am never ill,' Oriole said. 'But I had supposed you would wish a medical examination.'
'A medical examination?'
'Well,' Oriole said. 'After being a prisoner of those horrid Spanish for over a year, why, my dear, you have no idea of the tales they tell.'
'All of which are true,' Meg said, walking farther into the room. Her drawing room. It had not changed. She was home.
'Oh, my dear' Oriole cried, running forward.
Meg turned, her back against the piano. Billy had also entered the room, remained standing by the archway into the hall.
'But I already have a doctor,' Meg said. 'John Phillips. As a matter of fact, I would like to see him. Perhaps you would arrange it, Billy.'
'Ah, well, yes ... or rather ...'
'He means, that is quite impossible,' Oriole said. 'John Phillips, well ... he is no longer suitable. Peter Roberts now ...'
'No longer suitable?' Meg came forward again. 'What is happening here ? Where are my children ?'
'Well,' Oriole said. 'I'm afraid, when Billy turned to me for help, and in the circumstances, the best thing I could think of was to send them to school in England.'
'You did what?' Meg shouted.
'Well, you had Richard's name down for Eton, in any event. And I have found a good governess for Aline. Well, she is staying with my sister Hermione. You remember Hermione. She was very fond of you, Meg. And she is attending school. Doing very well, Hermione says, and, well...'
'You bitch,' Meg shouted. 'You utter bitch. You...' She swung her hand and Oriole ducked and retreated.
'There,' she said to Dr Roberts. 'What did I tell you?'
'Now, Mrs Hilton,' Roberts said, advancing. 'If you would care to come upstairs ...'
'Come upstairs ?' she demanded, and turned to Billy, who had remained in the archway. 'What is happening here? What has happened while I was away? What is that wretched woman doing here ? Didn't I say I never wanted to see her again ?'
'Now, Meg,' Billy said, also advancing. 'This sort of thing isn't going to help. Really it's not. I do recommend that you do as the doctor says, and remember that we are all simply trying to help you.'
'Help me?' She glared from one to the other. 'Do you suppose I need help?'
Billy exchanged glances with Roberts and with Oriole.
'She is your wife,' Oriole pointed out. 'You have the right.'
'The right?' Meg cried. 'The right to what?'
Billy licked his lips, and then cleared his throat. 'Well, Meg, the fact of the matter is, well... the fact is, you have been acting strangely for a very long time. Longer than you know, perhaps. Many people have mentioned it, talked about it. Well, of course, there are reasons. Your mother dying within minutes of your birth, and then, well ...' He licked his lips.
Meg stared at him. An icy hand seemed to be closing on her brain.
'And then, running off to the black people in the mountains. That really was not a rational act. Many people said so at the time. But quite apart from that, no one knows for sure what happened there. But everyone is sure that something happened, that you returned not the same girl who had set out.'
Meg sat down in a straight chair, close by the piano; her knees seemed to have lost all their strength.
Once again Billy's tongue flicked round his lips. 'And then, your behaviour in England, and running off like that, and coming back here ... I'm afraid you made rather a fool of me. But I was in love. I ignored everything that was whispered.'
'You wanted Hilltop,' Meg said, half to herself.
Billy apparently had not heard. 'And then, since your marriage, well, your behaviour has been the scandal of all Jamaica. I'm not talking about that episode with Lord Claymond, although heaven knows that was bad enough. But everyone knows you go off to the river north of the plantation, and well ... heaven knows what you do there.'
'It has been the scandal of Jamaica,' Oriole said. 'Why it has even made the English newspapers.'
'And then,' Billy said, 'well, going off with that common smuggler, running guns in to the insurgents in Cuba, that surely was not the behaviour of a rational woman.'
'The insurgents in Cuba?' Meg asked, her voice little more than a whisper. 'They have won their war, with the help of the Americans. They are the government now. not the insurgents.'
'You could not possibly have known the Americans were going to become involved,' Oriole said. 'Not two years ago. No one could have foreseen the sinking of the Maine.'
'So what it all comes down to,' Billy said, 'is that, well, I have taken advice, legal and medical, and we have discussed the matter, and well, the upshot of the matter is that I have been advised that, in the interests of Hilltop, and of your children, and, I may say, of yourself, Meg, well, that it would be best if I were to take the running of the plantation out of your hands.'
Meg got up again, slowly. 'Are you out of your mind?'
'Now, Meg ...'
'You ? Who did his best to ruin the plantation in the first place? You? What makes you think you could ever take over the operation of my plantation? If you don't like the way I do things, the way I live my life, well, you know what you can do. You can get out. You can leave now. And y
ou can take that... that creature with you, and your quack doctor.'
'Now, Meg, losing your temper is not going to help. Indeed, it is only going to confirm us in our unhappy conclusions. I have a legal right...'
'A legal right?' she shouted. 'You? What legal rights can you possibly have on Hilltop?'
Billy looked at Roberts in desperation. The doctor cleared his throat. 'Your husband has the rights that accrue to any husband, Mrs Hilton, when it is discovered that his wife is of well, unsound mind.'
There was a moment of utter silence.
'You,' Meg said, pointing at Oriole. 'This is a scheme from your diseased brain.'
'Well, really, Meg,' Oriole said. 'But I am not going to let you annoy me. I swear it. I feel sorry for you, my dear child. Now, come along, and ...'
'Who is going to declare me of unsound mind?' Meg demanded. 'Who?'
'I am prepared to sign the necessary certificate,' Roberts said.
'You?'
'I would have been, I think, anyway,' Roberts said.
'Having regard to what I have learned about you. But having observed you, my very last reservation has been removed.'
'And you had better remove yourself as well,' Meg said. 'Before I have you thrown off this plantation. I think I will have you thrown off this plantation anyway. Along with your accomplices. Unsound mind ? You have John Phillips out here, and let us see what he has to say.'
'I'm afraid that won't be possible,' Oriole said. 'Dr Roberts is a fully qualified medical practitioner, and he is perfectly capable of deciding whether someone is mad or not.'
'Mad?' Meg whispered. 'Mad?' she shouted.
'Mad,' Oriole said firmly. 'Now of course, we are not proposing to have you certified. I don't think such a scandal would be good for the family name. There has never been a mad Hilton, in the eyes of the world, and praise God, there never will be. But...'
'Mad?' Meg screamed. 'I demand to see John Phillips. I demand it.'
'I'm afraid, Mrs Hilton, that you are not in a position to demand anything, from anyone,' Roberts pointed out. 'As of this moment, you have no more rights than a three-year-old child. You may be grateful that your family is determined to look after you to the very best of their ability.'
'As I was saying,' Oriole said brightly. 'You will remain on Hilltop, of course. You will have your own room, the use of the house, you may walk in the garden, you may even ride aback, suitably superintended, of course. We can't have you doing yourself a mischief.'
'Oh, God,' Meg whispered. 'Oh, God,' she screamed. 'Help me.'
Oriole smiled at her. ‘I very much doubt whether He really has any interest in you any more, my dear. But I shall help you. I shall be always at your side. Why,' her smile grew arch. 'It will be just like old times.'
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE MADWOMAN OF HILLTOP
MEG gazed at her for a moment. She could think of nothing to say, nothing to do. She was aware only of a building feeling in her belly, reaching up into her chest to cloud her brain. It was a feeling she had never known before, even in the Cuban cell, but it arose from that experience; it was composed of hate and fear and desperation, but above all of exhaustion. She was so tired. She had been sustained only by the thought that she was coming home. But she was not home yet. She was never going to be home again. She had no home. It had been taken from her.
She gazed at Oriole, saw the expression on her face as she reached for her hand, and screamed. It was all she could do. She screamed, and screamed and screamed. She could feel the sting of her father's belt, the saw of the Cuban rope, the agony of her children seeking a way out of her belly, the pain of her wrist when she had fallen from her bed in front of Billy, all consuming her being. She screamed, and again. She watched their faces, settling into determined patience, but determined satisfaction as well. They had declared her mad, and she was acting the mad woman.
Her knees gave way and she sank to the settee. The screams subsided into tears, but even the tears were subdued by the drumming in her brain. She wanted to sleep. She wanted nothing but to close her eyes and shut out all of their hateful faces, their hateful plans, for as long as possible. For until she felt well and strong again. For until she was Margaret Hilton again. She had not been Margaret Hilton since the moment, she had stood on the ladder, looking down from the side of the Margarita into the clear blue water, seconds before her entire life had fallen apart.
She heard voices mumbling. Presumably they were speaking English, but they sounded as incomprehensible as had the voices in the Cuban gaol. There, she thought, that was the truth. She had never really been rescued from that cell. Well, all the time she had known it was impossible. Why should the Americans involve themselves in someone else's revolt? It had all been her imagination, a long dream. Even the months spent in the hospital, cared for by those exuberantly cheerful young women, had been nothing more than a dream. Much of it had indeed been spent in a dream. She had had malaria, they had said, and a lot of other things besides, and they would not let her go home until she was cured.
If it had not been a dream, Billy would have come to her. Surely. He would have learned that she was still alive, and he would have come to her. She had wondered about that at the time. But of course, then, she had not realized it was a dream. Now, if she were to open her eyes and her brain -if she were to risk that - she would again see Jaime looking through the bars, reaching for her with his fingers, offering her bread, and soup.
But it was safer not to. Dreaming, she could not be hurt. Dreaming, she could reassure herself that she would in time awake, and the nightmare would be over. Dreaming, knowing that she was dreaming, made the pain, made the misery, almost enjoyable, because she could end it when she chose, simply by awakening, simply by walking into the light of day, simply by throwing back her shoulders and saying, 'I am Margaret Hilton'. That simple phrase had saved her from enough disasters in the past. It would again in the future. When she was ready. When she was no longer quite so exhausted.
Besides, she could feel Jaime's fingers, even while dreaming. He seemed to have an awful lot of fingers. He seemed to have an awful lot of hands. They caressed her, gripped her, seemed to be making her walk, in her dream, of course. She climbed stairs, and felt a cool breeze on her face. Definitely a dream; there was seldom a cool breeze in the cell-block. But this breeze was not only cool, it was scented, with the faint tang of bananas for which she had worked so hard, and so successfully. But more than even the bananas, the breeze carried with it the scent of the mountains, of the land where Cleave ruled, the land of the drum.
She could hear the drums from time to time, carried on the sweet-scented breeze, filling her mind as the scent filled her nostrils. She thought that if she could gain the security of the drum, see the smiles of the faces of Jack and Cleave, know the primitive certainty of that mountain society, her brain would clear, and she would be able to think, be able once again to make that essential decision, 'I am Margaret Hilton'.
But just as she raised herself to the required pitch of mental and physical strength, and was ready to throw back the covers, and get out of bed - because she was again in a bed, as she had been in the American hospital - the drums would fade, and stop altogether, and she would be surrounded by voices, strange voices, save for that of Oriole. But Oriole's voice, if familiar enough, was also the voice of an enemy. It was Oriole's voice which was responsible for her being here, and certainly it was Oriole's voice which was keeping her here, keeping her from Cleave, keeping her from the drum.
It was necessary to combat Oriole, by stealth, by keeping her secrets to herself. When she heard Oriole's voice she would turn her face into the pillow, to make sure that she did not speak, because she was not at all sure whether or not she was speaking, sometimes. It did not matter, so long as Oriole was not there. Others, the nameless servants, Peter Roberts, even Billy, were also there from time to time. But they did not matter. Only Oriole mattered. Only Oriole had had substance in this endless nightmare.
Only Oriole had substance in more than that. For the day came when Meg awoke, as if from a very long sleep, her mind absolutely clear, to find Oriole sitting by her bedside, busy with her embroidery.
'Get out,' Meg said. 'Get out of my room.'
Oriole raised her head, gave a patient smile. 'Oh, dear,' she said. 'Are we in one of our bad moods today?'
'You ...' Meg endeavoured to sit up, found she could hardly move. She sank back on the pillows, exhausted. 'Get out,' she said. 'Get out of my house.' She sensed another presence in the room, turned her head with an effort, saw the black woman standing by the door. 'You,' she said. 'Show Mrs Paterson out.'
The woman gazed at her.
'Now, Meg,' Oriole said. 'You know it isn't good for you to become excited. Dr Roberts will have to give you a potion, and you know how you carry on when he gives you a potion.'
She might have been speaking to a small child, Meg realized. She felt so angry she thought she might explode. Or do something violent. And she could not even move.
She raised her arm, looked at it. She could not ever remember having been so thin.
'Send in Prudence,' she said.
'Prudence has been dismissed,' Oriole said.
'Dismissed? Why, you ...'
'I never approved of that wretched woman, as you well know, Meg,' Oriole said. 'The very first thing I did once I was again in charge of Hilltop was to send her packing.'
'In charge?' Meg stared at her in helpless fury. 'What else have you done ?' she asked, keeping her voice even with an effort. 'Where is Bully?'
'That ghastly creature? I had him put down.'
Meg found herself unable to speak for some seconds. She thought, the very moment she could find the strength, she would throttle her with her own hands.
'I would like to see my husband,' she said.
'Of course you may. I imagine he will be coming in from the fields about now. Madge, will you ask Mr Hilton to attend Mrs Hilton?'
The Negress bowed, and left the room. Oriole put down her needlework, got up, bent over the bed.
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