Mistress of Darkness (8 page)

'I should like you to.'

Nor did she raise any objection as he drew off the glove, to feel the warm white fingers in his. He could not resist a closer look at her fingernails, and certainly they were slightly more colourful than his own, but the more attractive for that. And did it matter? Did he not know the truth, and love her just the same, and was she not about to confirm the truth, and make him love her the more?

'I must confess I have not done a great deal of sleeping either,' Gislane said. 'Since our chance meeting. Was it a chance meeting?'

He shook his head. 'I had watched for you every day.'

'I suspected as much. And yet you claim your cousin told you that I have African blood.'

'He did. And I told him I cared nothing for it. Why does that so surprise you?'

She shrugged. 'You are the son and grandson and cousin of a planter. Your cousin announced that you would be his heir. You are a white man. My mother was a slave.' She raised her finger when he would have spoken. 'You promised. Mama was not a pure-blooded Negress, obviously. She is what is known in the West Indies as an octoroon. Do you understand what that is?'

He nodded.

'She was the housekeeper of a man named Hodge, on the island of Nevis.'

Matt frowned, and Gislane smiled, a trifle sadly.

'You'll have heard the name. I'm afraid the Hodges have a bad reputation even in the West Indies. Especially my cousin. My father's name was William Hodge, and he owned a plantation just outside Charleston. I don't think Papa was a bad man, as I remember him. He was always very kind to me, because I was his only child. Or at least, I should say I was the only child he cared to recognize, and when Mama died, he took me into the house, gave me a room of my own, and treated me as if I'd been born to his wife. He had in fact never married. Mama Nicholson - Papa Nicholson was Papa Hodge's attorney-at-law - was my own special friend, who looked after me and saw to my education.'

She paused, but once again shook her head as Matt opened his mouth.

'Papa Hodge always intended to give me my freedom, and indeed to make me his heiress, but he hesitated to do so while I was a child, because as I said my cousin, James, who owned a smaller plantation only a few miles away, and who was generally considered Papa's heir, wouldn't have liked that very much, and he was well known as a violent man. I think Papa was afraid of him. In any event, the plan as outlined to me was that when I was sixteen I would be sent to England to complete my schooling, would obviously become free the moment I landed on English soil, and would then also be manumitted in the West Indies. I think it was Papa's hope that I should marry while in England, and thus gain the protection of someone able to oppose anything James might consider doing to regain his inheritance.'

Once again the pause, and the searching look, 'I don't suppose I gave the matter much thought as a child, as I was perfectly happy, on Hodges. But then Papa died. I was twelve, and of course as he died intestate the plantation, with all the slaves, was required by law to pass to James. I really don't know what would have become of me, but Papa and Mama Nicholson were not prepared to contemplate my belonging to James, and Papa Nicholson was not prepared to work for him, either; he had in fact already decided to retire from the West Indies to England, having by his careful habits accumulated sufficient savings to be placed at interest and guarantee his livelihood. Their passages were booked on a ship leaving Nevis the day after Papa was buried, and before James could properly take over the plantation, and on the morning of their departure, when they came to me to say goodbye, they informed me that I was going with them. I left with only the clothes I was wearing, without a single other thing.'

'You mean they absconded with a slave?' Matt cried, his planter's instincts forcing him to break his promise.

Gislane nodded. 'So you see, I am not only of Negro blood, I am also an absconded slave, no doubt with a price upon my head.'

Matt scratched his head. 'But... no one has ever sought you out?' 'Until you.'

‘You don't suppose I ...'

She laughed, a delicious ray of sunshine breaking through her habitual solemnity. 'Of course I don't. But you can understand the reaction of Papa and Mama Nicholson. The first young man who seriously comes courting is himself a West Indian. There was a stroke of bad luck. In their opinion.'

'And in yours?'

'I am surprised to find you still sitting here beside me.'

'That is not an answer to my question, Gislane.'

She was again serious. 'I do not know. You are a handsome man, Mr. Hilton. You are a pleasant one, and I would estimate that you are an honourable one. I am told on all sides that you will one day be an extremely wealthy one.'

'But I am a slave owner, and therefore must be tainted with the same tastes as James Hodge.'

'I did not say so,' she said, quietly. ‘I just find it impossible to believe that you can regard me, especially after what I have just told you, as more than a plaything.' She paused, and the deep red flush spread upwards from her neck. 'Now I have exceeded propriety, and no doubt offended you.' She got up.

'Wait.' Matt caught her hand once more. 'No. You have not offended me. I believe you are justified in everything you say, in everything you believe. I know you are right, and it would be quite impossible for you ever to return to the West Indies. But here in England you have lived in perfect happiness for some years, and could no doubt continue to do so for the rest of your life.'

'Indeed, Mr. Hilton, I hope to accomplish that. At least in contentment.' But she was frowning.

"Then neither will I return to the West Indies, Gislane. I too have grown up here, and Green Grove or Hilltop are no more than memories, and not all of them pleasant,'

'You would renounce your inheritance?'

'If you would marry me.'

The frown deepened for a moment. 'Mr. Hilton. Is this not but the fourth occasion on which we have spoken?'

He scrambled to his own feet. 'Gislane, in our circumstances there can be no normal behaviour. Be sure your foster parents will now be anxious to marry you off to some - some ogre, as rapidly as possible. And if you did not know

I sought your hand why did you humiliate yourself by recounting that tale?'

Again the flush. 'Why, I ... I thought you had a right to know the truth of me, Mr. Hilton. Lest you permitted yourself to engage your affections.'

'My affections, my mind, my heart, my soul, Gislane, were engaged from the moment I saw you.'

She was shaking her head gently. 'It is too hasty, sir. And I could not permit you to sacrifice so much for me.'

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.