Mistress of Darkness Read online

  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.

  But Matt Hilton would know nothing of souls. Of that one fact she could be sure. He wanted her body. There was an uncommonly bold thought. But one which had to be thought. He wanted these legs. Would he love them? She had always worried about their length, and about the gentle ridges of muscle which rippled beneath the smooth white skin as she moved. And what did a man want with a woman's legs, what could he do with them? She had no idea, just as she had no idea what he would want to do with the rest of her. Mama Nicholson had always merely used the word 'belong', and rolled her eyes expressively, but not informatively. From such a belonging would come children, in some mysterious fashion, but as Mama Nicholson had never had children of her own, perhaps she had never properly 'belonged' to Papa.

  But there was the point at issue. Did she want to belong to Matt Hilton? She could not imagine so gentle a man ever harming anyone, even his toy. And she would be his wife, not his plaything. He had offered her all that a man could, and remain honourable. And he was honourable. She had but to look on his face to know that.

  How she wanted to rush downstairs again, to tell Mama, to beg for advice, to beg for forgiveness, perhaps, for the rash of thoughts which kept coursing through her mind. But that would be an end to it. To Mama a planter was a planter, and honour did not come into it at all. They might even take her away. They had spoken of that on the day Robert Hilton had called. ‘It might be best for a season,' Papa Nicholson had muttered to himself. 'But the cost...'

  Yet if it came to a proposal of marriage they might very well decide the cost was worth it. Not even Betty could help. She was a romantic and delighted with her mistress's secret trysts. But a serving girl could know nothing of belonging.

  Her counsel must be her own. And it could be taken at leisure. He could not expect an answer, now. She must decide whether or not she loved him. And if she was not-sure what love was, what it entailed, what it demanded, then he must give her time to consider the matter.

  And in that time, how delightful were her walks become. Yet was she suddenly overcome with fear that he might not be there, that he might have realized the enormity of what he was proposing, that he might have been called away.

  He was there, his hat in his hand, as she came round the trees, Betty deserted well to the rear. He suddenly seemed so much taller and well-built and handsome, so much more reliable and so much more honourable than she remembered. And so much more happy, as he smiled at her and extended both his hands.

  'I feared you might have decided not to come,' he said.

  She stopped, discovering she was panting, while her hands were imprisoned. 'I feared the same.' She flushed. 'Of you.'

  'And we are both here.'

  She freed one of her hands, turned to lead him on their walk, and found herself checked by his gentle strength.

  ‘I wonder if you have considered soberly what you do, Mr. Hilton?'

  The pressure on her fingers increased. 'And if I have, am I not still here? Gislane, I love you. To say more than that would surely be repetition. I love you, I love you, I love you. Marry me, Gislane. Marry me and laugh with me at everyone who would suppose we cannot be happy, who would throw the West Indies in our faces, who would attempt to stand between us. Will you marry me, Gislane?'

  Now he was hurting her, so tightly did he clasp her hand. And yet she would not have him let her go, or even relax the pressure for an instant. She turned, to face him, to look at him, while her mind cried out, no, no, I want to, and yet I know it will be wrong for you even more than for me.

  She seemed to hear her voice from a tremendous distance, drifting across the morning air, already chill with the coming of autumn. 'It would give me great pleasure to be your wife, Mr. Hilton.'

  'Now,' said Mistress Bartholemew. 'Now. Stand well back, my dear. Well back. We want to see the whole picture. And breathe, Miss Hilton. Breathe.'

  Georgiana breathed, sucking as much air into her lungs as she could, making her breasts swell so that they surged out of her decolletage.

  'Beautiful, Miss Hilton,' Mistress Bartholemew cried. 'Just beautiful. I swear, my dear, that you will be the talk of the town after tomorrow.'

  It occurred to Georgiana that she might well be right. As the reception was a morning affair, they had decided on a straw-coloured satin gown, with a white fichu and sleeve frills, but the fichu was hardly more than a decoration to the bodice, and hid nothing of her shoulders and the tops of her breasts. She had wondered if this was wise; since arriving in England she had become terribly aware of her freckles. But Mistress Bartholemew had had no doubts. 'Men will wish to look at you twice, my dear Miss Hilton,' she had said. 'Just to decide what the spots are, and having looked at you twice, and you must allow them to do so, of course, they will want to look at no other.' Her smile and her eyebrows had arched together. 'They will want to discover whether the rest of you is so delightfully decorated.’

  She fussed as she carefully placed the huge dark blue velvet hat in place, inclining it slightly to the left to droop over Georgiana's left eye, while she fluffed the ostrich feathers to have them flop carelessly and yet with studied grace, front and back.

  'A puff of breeze and I will fly away,' Georgiana complained.

  'Then will they all come running behind you to rescue you, my dear,' said Mistress Bartholemew. 'Now, you must hold your cane loosely, just below the bow.' She placed the stick in Georgiana's left hand, arranging the blue satin bows to fall down over the fingers.

  'But what do I do with it?' Georgiana inquired. 'Do I lean irpon it?'

  'Good heavens, child, what a suggestion. You stand as straight as you can at all times. No, no. You merely must not be seen without it. That is fashion. Now, I will just remove the hat and try the wig, and then we can have the whole together.'

  , 'But I really cannot see the point,' Georgina grumbled, as the hat was whisked away and her splendid brown tresses were pinned up so that they would be lost to sight beneath the powdered brown tresses of the wig. 'My own hair is much prettier.'

  Mistress Bartholemew settled the wig, making sure none of the cotton wool balls with which it was padded, and which greatly increased its height, could slip. 'But it is not your hair, my dear. You cannot go to a ducal reception wearing your own hair. Besides it will give the men something more to wonder about. Oh, you will soon understand the dictates of fashion. Whatever is that?'

  The door was already bursting open, above the squeaking of the maidservants, and Matt was stamping in, kicking dust from his boots. 'Ladies.'

  'Why, Matt,' Georgiana screamed in delight.

  'Really, Mr. Hilton,' Mistress Bartholemew protested. 'You cannot invade a lady's privacy in this fashion.'

  'Nor am I, Mistress Bartholemew. You'd not confuse Georgiana with a lady, now would you?'

  'Oh, you beast.' But Georgiana was already rotating once again in front of the
mirror. 'Am I not an utterly beautiful creature? All we need is the hat. The hat, Bartholemew. The hat.'

  'Now keep still, my dear, and I wilt just...'

  'I have no time for that,' Matt said. 'Come on, Georgiana. I wish to take you home. I wish to tell you something.'

  She glanced at him, frowned, and turned to face him. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes danced with delight. 'There's been another invitation,' she cried.

  'Better than that. You'll excuse us, Mistress Bartholemew.'

  'But ... you can't wear it on the street, child,' Mistress Bartholemew shouted. 'Someone might see you. You must not put it on until Saturday.'

  'Oh, fiddlesticks, Bartholemew. Matt. Bring the hat. You'll send your account to Mr. Barton.' Georgiana gathered her skirts and ran through the shop outside the fitting room, scattering both the maids and their customers, in an explosion of ribbons and wigs and hats and canes, and scrambled into the phaeton. 'What a fuss. I'd think I was a fancy doll, did I not feel my heart pounding. Matt. Who's it from? Mistress Bartholemew says you are nothing until you've attended the Grenvilles.'

  'No invitation,' Matt said, nicking the reins. 'Something far more important.'

  She squeezed his shoulder. This way he could not avoid looking down her bodice even if he wanted to. 'What? Tell me, Matt.'

  He lowered his voice. ‘I am leaving London, tonight. In a couple of hours, in fact.'

  'Leaving London? You mean there is to be another cricket match?'

  'Cricket? Cricket is for boys. I know now that Robert was right. No, I am going north, to Scotland. To a place called Gretna.'

  'Scotland?' she cried. 'But that is a barbarous place. So Mistress Bartholemew says.'

  'I am not going there to live, silly. It is necessary, so there need be no banns.' He paused, staring at the trotting horses. His ears glowed.

  Georgiana gazed at the back of his head. 'An elopement? Oh, Matt, darling. Who is she?'

  'You'll know soon enough, after we return.'

  'But surely I know her already? Matt, you must tell me.'

  'Well, I'm not going to, and there's an end of the matter. Anyway, it would only upset you. Now listen. Mrs. Partridge will look after things here, and ...'

  'Oh, my God,' Georgiana said. 'Not that Nicholson girl.'

  Matt continued to stare after the horses; his ears were redder than ever.

  'Is it?' Georgiana pinched his arm. 'Is it?'

  'Oh, very well,' he said. 'Who did you suppose I'd want to marry? Only her foster parents would refuse their permission, you see. So we must get away together, and when we are returned, why, we shall be married. She can come and live with us, of course. But I had to tell you, Georgiana. I didn't want you to worry or start calling out the Bow Street runners or anything like that.'

  Georgiana frowned at him. Presumably he was indulging himself in some kind of a joke. 'Gislane?'

  'Who did you suppose it would be?'

  'But ...' A nigger? she wanted to shout. Are you out of your mind, you stupid boy? 'What will Robert say?'

  'Well, I know he won't be very pleased, of course. But he'll get over it. He always does.' He grinned at her. 'Maybe he'll flog me every day for a year, too.'

  The phaeton was turning into the drive. Georgiana felt so hot she thought she would faint. Gislane Nicholson? Gislane Hilton? A girl with Negro blood in her veins sitting on the front verandah of Hilltop? Sleeping in Mama's bed? Why, as Mrs. Matthew Hilton, after Robert died she'd be giving orders to her two cousins-in-law.

  'You will help me?' Matt asked.

  The carriage had stopped. 'Oh,' she said. 'Oh, of course I'd help you, Matt, but... it's awfully important, don't you think? I mean, to marry ... and then, you hardly know the girl.'

  'I know her better than anyone in the world. She has told me everything about herself. Did you know she is really a Hodge. There was a Hodge worked for the Hiltons, oncet Certainly an ancestor. And she is actually a slave. Escaped from Hodges on Nevis.'

  'Oh, my God,' Georgiana said.

  'But that makes me love her the more, want her more, care for her the more. I am the happiest man in all the world.' 'Have you slept with her?'

  'Good God. Is that all you think about? You really are nothing more than a slut, you know, Georgy. Of course I haven't slept with her. She's going to be my wife.'

  'I still don't see how you can know she'll make you happy. Have you kissed her?'

  'Her hand, of course.'

  'Not her mouth? Just her hand? I'll wager that is the only part of her you've touched, either. Why, she might be ugly, under her clothes.'

  'How can she be ugly under her clothes? She's beautiful. Anyway, I love her. Can't you understand that? I love her. Everything about her. The way she looks and the way she smiles and the way she talks and the way she laughs, and the way she walks...'

  'You have talked with her, then? I mean, you know she won't bore you, afterwards? You know, with her ... well...'

  'You were going to say being a mustee.'

  I was going to say being a nigger, Georgiana thought. 'I do feel you should think on it a while longer, Matt. Really I do.'

  'Look who is giving advice,' Matt said, contemptuously. 'Anyway, I can't. I have asked her, and she has accepted. She is going to be waiting for me tonight. I'll take the phaeton, of course. Now be a dear and step down. I must go along to the bank and get some coin.'

  'But what about the Duke's reception?' Georgiana wailed.

  'You can go alone. Just be sure to take a maid in the carriage,' Matt said. 'Make my excuses. It is you they want to see, not me. And don't worry. I'll be back in a week or two, after I've honeymooned. I'll have Gislane with me.'

  Georgiana opened her mouth, and then closed it again. She remembered that when they had been children it hadn't done much good to argue with Matt. He could be the most stubborn boy she had ever met. The door was open. She stepped down, and almost before she had reached the gravel the phaeton was whipping away towards the gates. It seemed blurred. She could not believe what he had told her. Robert would put a stop to it, of course. But Robert was probably back in Jamaica by now. It would take weeks to get a letter to him, even supposing the privateers did not capture the ship carrying it.

  But something had to be done. Because of course Matt was just being foolish. Gislane was a beautiful girl. Even she had to admit that. So he wanted to bed her. He wanted to bed her where he would not bed his own cousin, the lout. But having done that, what would there be left? What could there be left, between a white man and a nigger woman? It just didn't make sense.

  Richards was opening the door for her. 'Why, Miss Georgiana, you look quite upset. May I bring you something?'

  Georgiana fanned herself with her hat. 'A glass of wine. No, a botde. Two bottles.' But he had given her an idea.

  'And when you have done that, Richards, I wish you to send for Mr. Barton. Tell him it is most urgent that he attend me immediately.'

  She sipped her wine, and paced the withdrawing-room, and fanned herself, suddenly afraid that Matt might change his mind and come back; she would never be able to dissemble. But the next thud of hooves was a horseman rather than a carriage, and Barton came rushing in, a short, thickset man with a shock of crisp black hair. 'News from Jamaica? The storm was worse than we feared.'

  'Worse than that, Mr. Barton.' She snapped her fingers. 'Richards, a glass for Mr. Barton. And sit down, sir. Sit down. You'll not hear what I have to say standing.'

  Barton frowned at her, slowly sat in the chair by the fireplace, took his glass of wine, looked at it, and sipped. He was not used to being treated as an equal by the Hiltons. Georgiana waited until Richards had retired to his pantry, and then informed him of the situation. He listened, finishing his wine the while, his face drawing into a deep frown which even seemed to affect his nose and mouth. 'My God,' he said. 'Mr. Robert will be furious.' 'There's calmness.' Georgiana had continued to walk up and down while she spoke, but now she stopped in front of him. 'And furious Robe
rt may be, but that is only a fraction of the matter. This nigger girl will be your mistress, Barton. And mine. And Great-aunt Rebecca's. You'd best think on that. Think on Matt addressing Parliament on some great question, with his mulatto in the gallery. Think of Mr. and Mrs. Hilton invited to Court. Robert was invited to Court. Think on that.'

  Barton stared at his empty glass in horror, and Georgiana refilled it, and then poured another for herself. 'You must reason with him, Miss Georgiana.' 'That were quite impossible with so pig-headed a lout. He has been away from Jamaica for too long. He thinks perhaps no one will know, no one will guess. And he is so romantic he supposes that if they do he will be able to brazen it out, thumping himself on the chest and shouting, I am a Hilton, I do as I choose.' 'Well, miss ...'

  'Oh, of course he can do as he chooses, Barton. That is the tragedy of it. But we will all be refused polite society. I'll not have it.'

  Barton gazed at his second empty glass. 'Perhaps if I were to speak with him.. .'

  'Speak,' Georgiana shouted. 'Is that all you can recommend, words? God in Heaven, no wonder the country is in such a sorry state with every rag tag and bobble Yankee backwoodsman defying even the King's soldiers. This is no matter for talk. Listen. The girl must be disposed of. I have thought of nothing else all afternoon, and I know now there can be no other solution.'

  'D ... disposed of?' Barton's colour began to fade. 'You mean...'

  Georgiana filled his glass. 'I'd not have her killed. Although I doubt she deserves anything better. I wish her removed, so that she can never come back. Or at least to somewhere Matt can never find her again.'

  Barton pulled his nose.' 'Tis a tall order, Miss Georgiana. Mr. Matthew is a determined young man.'

  She frowned into the grate. 'Then I wish her so disposed that he will never want to find her again.'