'He'd have the runners after me.'
'Oh, ind
eed he would. But as you would have me securely bedded before they caught up with us
...
'
'Ellen!'
'You are a prig and a hypocrite, Dick. Or perhaps you do not
want
to bed me?'
'Why, of course I do. I. . . ' He felt his cheeks burning.
'You feel it is not a subject for discussion, until we are wed? By then I suspect it will no longer be practical, for either of us.' Her fingers tightened on his, and she leaned slightly forward. 'Listen. You know my inheritance?'
'Now, Ellen, we have discussed this . . .'
'Listen,' she said. 'I have discovered what it is going to be. Four thousand pounds. Can you believe it? Oh, that darling old grandpapa. I used to hate him when he was alive. But four thousand pounds. Mama says I can expect an income of four hundred a year. More then enough to live on.'
'Ellen,' Dick protested patiently. 'What sort of a man would I be if I agreed to live off your income?'
'Oh, bah,' she said. 'What absolute nonsense.'
'Anyway, you are seventeen. We have four years to negotiate.'
She withdrew her hand. 'And you propose to wait four years. You cannot be certain I am as patient.'
'Ellen . . .'
'Why, Mr Hilton. You'll be inside the carriage next.' Julia Taggart's tone suggested there was no worse crime conceivable. 'Lady Beamish sends her best regards, Ellen. And now we really must be getting home. You'll excuse us, I'm sure.'
Dick handed her up, trying to catch Ellen's eye. But she merely flicked the reins. 'Indeed, Auntie, it is extremely late I cannot imagine why we linger so long. Good day to you, Mr Hilton.'
He stepped back to avoid having a wheel run over his toe, watched the gig proceeding slowly down the Row. Perhaps she would look back. But the bonnet never moved. Of course she was not seriously angry. She was punishing him for not being as enthusiastic as she wished. And was she not right? Four thousand pounds. Four hundred a year. His wage was fifty-two. On four hundred a year he could leave the bank, perhaps do something worthwhile with his life. Supposing he could decide what was worth
while. And supposing too he coul
d reconcile himself to being supported by his wife.
He thrust his hands into his pockets, began his walk down to Chelsea Village. And of course she was right in another direction, as well. She was now an heiress. Suitors would no doubt go flocking to her door, once this news got about. Why
should
she wait for a bank clerk? But to challenge the law, to challenge Colonel Taggart, even with Ellen behind him. Why, it was Matt and Robert Hilton all over again, with Ellen playing the part of Mama. Was he then going to admit he lacked the courage of his own father?
But things had been different, thirty years ago. Life had been less ordered, more exciting. And Father and Mother had been living in the West Indies, not in London, in sunshine rather than endless cloud. But the sun was still s
hinin
g, this evening.
'There you are.'
Dick's head jerked. He had strolled down the little street of terraced houses without really being aware of it.
'Been exercising the horse, have you?' Tony Hilton lounged on the step.
'I ought to punch you on the nose for that,' Dick said.
'Ah-ah.' Tony raised his finger. 'Be sure I'd punch you back. And she does look like a horse, you have to agree. A very lovely horse, to be sure. But none the less, a horse.' He laughed as he spoke, and made it difficult to take offence. Tony laughed at everything. He seemed to regard life as a long and endless joke, perpetrated by some omnipotent force—it could hardly be God—on cowering mankind. A joke he somehow managed to turn to his own advantage. He certainly possessed no visible means of support, and yet his trousers were pressed, his jacket neat, his cravat new. And his silk hat gleamed to match the gold head to his cane. His features were perhaps a little coarse, for a Hilton, although the small nose left no doubt that he
was
a Hilton, and his cheeks were flushed—there was wine on his breath.
'And are you waiting to sober up before going in?' Dick inquired.
'Indeed no. I was waiting to have a word with you.' T
ony
Hilton linked arms with his brother. 'I have had a disastrous day.' 'Oh, yes.'
'Not a card would turn for me, at the right time. I could not believe it. Quite incredible.'
'And so you played on. Expecting your luck to change.'
'A gentleman can do no less. I even gave a note. Trouble is, old boy, I gave a note a week ago. You wouldn't happen to have five guineas on you?'
'You must be joking.'
'I only wish I were. For God's sake, Dick, you handle thousands every day. Some of it must stick. Or should. It would, I can tell you, were I behind that desk.'
'You'd go to gaol.'
Tony gave one of his winning smiles. 'I shall, in any event, should they decide so. Ah, well, I will have to touch Mama. She usually has a penny or two to spare.' He opened the door.
Dick caught his arm. 'You are a swine. She has enough to worry about without your debts.'
Tony looked down at him. 'And you are a sanctimonious little prig. You're not even a gentleman by instinct. You're a clerk to the very backbone.' He shrugged himself free, went into the house. Dick hesitated for a moment before following. It was the second time in the space of an hour that he had been called a prig. And by the two people he held most dear in all the world, after Mama. Was it then being a prig to prefer not to worry his father and mother about money he knew they did not have, to prefer not to accept charity from Ellen when he knew it would cause an estrangement between her and her family? There was a topsy-turvy world.
He went inside, hung his hat beside Tony's, knocked and entered the little parlour, discovered his brother standing in the room, gaping at his parents. 'Dick,' he shouted. 'There is some mystery here.'
'Dick.' Suzanne Hilton got up, seized her younger son by the hand. 'Thank God you are here.' He kissed her on the cheek. Incredible to suppose she was fifty-one years old. Incredible to suppose she had also been present at the Saintes, had, if legend could be believed, actually served a gun there. Incredible to suppose she had once spent a month as a prisoner of Henry Christophe's Negro army in the hinterland of St Domingue. There were lines on her neck, and reaching away from her eyes. But the complexion itself was smooth, the sun tan of her youth faded to a rich cream; the grey eyes were as clear as ever, the Hilton beauty as untarnished, and what streaks of white there were seemed no more than an enhancing pattern against the yellow of her hair.
'I'm sorry to be late. I met Ellen in the park.'
She kissed him in turn. 'As you should. But poor old Tony has been hopping about like a wild man. I have a secret.' She smiled, archly, and doubled her beauty.
'Concerning me? Father.' He reached for Matt Hilton's hand, and frowned. His father looked even more ill than usual, his cheeks grey, his mouth turned down. And his hair was as grey as his cheeks. He could still fire himself with enthusiasm, when he would speak on his favourite subject. But too much of the time, as he watched English opinion hardening against all liberalism in the pursuit of victory over the French, he seemed to sink into a trough of depression.
'Dick. Ill news, boy. Ill news.'
'Oh, what rubbish,' Suzanne cried. 'We have received a letter from Robert.'
'Uncle Robert?' Dick asked, stupidly. 'From Jamaica?' They had not heard from Suzanne's brother in ten years; Robert Hilton did not exactly approve of his cousin's continual preaching in favour of Abolition.
'And that is your secret, Mama?' Tony demanded. 'He is visiting London, no doubt. And expects us to pay homage.'
She shook her head, sat down again, opening the creased paper. 'He considers himself too old to stand an Atlantic crossing. Indeed, age is all he speaks of. Thus he worries about the future. For the first time, that I can remember.' She raised her head, gazed at her sons. 'He wishes to be sure Hilltop and Green Grove descend to the proper hands. And he wishes those hands to understand planting, and the problems of planting. He would train his nephew.'
There was a sudden silence, then Tony gave a bellow of joy. 'Good old Uncle Bob. You said he'd never forget us. A planter, by God. Slave girls. All the horses I desire. All the clothes I desire. All the money I desire. Gad, I can scarce believe it.'
Dick was watching his mother. Some of the animation had left her face.
As Tony had noticed. 'Well?' he asked. 'Or are there conditions attached?'
'No conditions,' Suzanne said, very quietly. 'Well, then
’
'Save as regards the nephew he wishes,' she said, even more quietly. 'He asks for Dick.'
Dick sat down. He was aware of something having happened, but for the moment it was impossible to place it in his mind.
'It's a mistake, of course,' Tony declared. 'Uncle Robert has got the names mixed up.'
Suzanne Hilton's face had assumed that frozen expression both her sons, and her husband, knew very well. 'I'm afraid not, Tony. Robert refers to you by name in another part of his letter, and refers to you also as my elder child.'
'But. . .' Tony's cheeks slowly began to fill with blood.
'There is always the possibility that your uncle has gone mad, at last,' Matt Hilton remarked. 'He consumes more alcohol than food, rides to the fields in the midday sun, and lives in a state of total omnipotence. And has done all of these things for the past forty years, to my certain knowledge.'
'Robert is not mad,' Suzanne said, still speaking very quietly. 'At least, there is no indication of it in this letter. And quarrelling about what is a remarkable stroke of fortune seems to me to be the height of absurdity. Dick?'
Dick slowly focussed on his mother. Jamaica. The West Indies. He had been born in Jamaica, but he could remember nothing of it. Save dark faces. But that had not been in Jamaica. That had been in St Domingue, after the revolt. The faces had leered at him, and grinned at him, and threatened him, and he had clung to his mother, and hid his face in her skirts.
'He's speechless,' Tony said, contemptuously. 'Try to imagine, Dickie boy, what you will feel like when you flog your first Negress. They strip them, you know, and then they . . .'
'Be quiet,' Suzanne commanded.
'Yet it is something that has to be considered,' Matt Hilton said. 'I had supposed I had brought up my sons to regard all human beings as God's creation. No West Indian planter can hold that point of view.'
It will mean leaving England, Richard thought. Why, he had always dreamed of leaving England, of going out into the world, of earning himself fame and fortune.
But it would also mean leaving Ellen. And Mother. That was quite impossible. Except that Mother clearly wished him to go.
'Whenever he eventually wakes up,' Tony said, 'be sure to let me know. In the meanwhile, Mama, can you possibly lend me five guineas? I'm terribly short, and now that Richard is to be heir to a fortune . . .'
Suzanne sighed. 'You shall have the money, Tony. But Richard is not necessarily heir to a fortune. No doubt your uncle has some such idea at the back of his mind, but obviously he wishes to see Richard, to have him on the plantation, to discover if he is the right sort of person to own a sugar estate . . .'
'In other words, to corrupt him,' Matt remarked.
A fortune, Richard thought. Four thousand pounds. There was a fortune, to Ellen. And to Ellen's parents. But Robert Hilton was worth four hundred thousand pounds. No, four million pounds would probably be nearer the mark. That figure would make old Taggart's eyes bulge. He'd be happy to have Richard Hilton as a son-in-law then. Even if it meant a brief separation.
He suddenly realized that it was probably the only way in which he would ever be acceptable to the Taggarts.
He raised his head, met his mother's gaze. She was staring at him, willing him to accept, obviously, but not to hurt his father at the same time.
He crossed the room, knelt beside Matt Hilton's chair. 'But don't you see, Father, that this could be the chance we have all waited for. I don't speak of the money, although heaven knows we can do with it. ..'
'Blood money,' Matt growled.
'That can be changed,' Dick insisted. 'That is what I mean. Supposing I do inherit, well then, can we not practise all the beliefs you have ever held?'
'Oh, yes,' Tony said. 'Free the slaves. Go bankrupt. Get stoned in the street. And don't suppose the blacks will ever thank you. They'll be throwing stones as hard as anyone. You remember St Domingue. I can remember St Domingue. I remember Aunt Georgiana screaming. I . ..'