But was it truly representative? He could not help but remember the empty beach, the sullen forest, the bestial trio who had sought to murder him, when first he had landed. How far then, did Christophe's magnificence stretch? Dick found himself remarkably anxious to find out.
But leaving Sans Souci demanded the same essential as remaining within its magnificent cloisters; the will of the Emperor Henry Christophe. He had said, on the morning Dick first awoke, that he wished to talk. And this was true. As Dick regained his strength, the Emperor set aside an hour a day, first of all to visit his guest in his bedchamber, and then, when Dick began to be able to move around the palace, to entertain
him
in one of the private rooms, or to walk with him in the gardens. But less to talk, than to listen. He asked questions, concerning Jamaica, concerning Europe, concerning the present state of the Hilton family. As he regularly received embassies, or at least envoys, from various European nations, and as he certainly received overseas news from his own agents, judging by the constant stream of couriers which visited the palace, he was certainly not ill-informed of events outside his own country. Of which he never spoke. Any questions Dick might offer in reply were politely turned aside. It became increasingly difficult for Dick to decide, as he regained his full health and strength, and his brain became correspondingly more alert, exactly what motive Christophe had, in lavishing such care, such attention, on him. He even began to wonder if the repeated questions concerning Suzanne—even if these were equally mingled with questions concerning Matt and the prospects of Abolition in the British colonies—might not be the main reason. Mama had never discussed her months of imprisonment by the Negro army. In circumstances so horrible no one had been disposed to argue about that. But had the circumstances been so horrible?
The thought was itself horrible. But was the thought itself horrible? Or was it just the instinctive reaction of generations of prejudice? What had Mama herself said? The fact of slavery is all the white man has, if he is wealthy, to justify his crime, if he is poor, to justify his pretence at superiority. And every black man in the entire continent of America was a slave, a freed slave, or the son of a slave. And was thus to be doomed to perpetual inferiority? Why, he had recognized the falseness of that in Jamaica, and long before he had known Christophe. Knowing Christophe, seeing what he had achieved, made it even more of a nonsense.
Nor could the idea of love, between white and black, be dismissed out of hand as obscene. He had known the attraction of a black woman, in Jamaica, and rejected it instinctively. Tony had not. And had not Tony, as ever, been right? There came the night, not very long after he was able to take his first steps in the garden, when the door to his bedchamber was opened, and a girl entered. She carried a candle, and wore a deep green negligee, and nothing else. He gazed at her in alarm and she smiled at him.
'I am come to make you happy,' she said, in English.
'I am happy,' he answered, again instinctively. 'You must not stay.'
The girl crossed the room, placed the candle in the holder. She was tall, and slender. She glided rather than moved, and even through the negligee her black flesh seemed to gleam. 'I must stay,' she said. 'It is the will of the Emperor.'
'The Emperor? He has not spoken of it to me.'
'The Emperor knows his own mind,' she removed her negligee. 'My name is Aimee.'
No doubt she had been created especially to be loved. Her slimness was the result of training and exercise, not immaturity. Her breasts filled his hand, and lacked the slightest sag. Her belly was ridged with the muscles of a man. And most remarkable of all to his eyes, her pubes had been shaved, to make her womanhood the more imperious, the more demanding, the more anxious. And now he discovered the reason for the gleam which had surrounded her. She was oiled, from her neck to her toes, with a pleasantly scented unguent, which made her slide over him like a cool breeze. He was inside her before he had properly touched her, his fingers slipping down the powerful arch of her back. And he was spent, it seemed but a single spasm later. No doubt he had wanted a woman, very badly, without even being aware of it.
Aimee kissed him on the nose. 'The Emperor will be pleased. It is a sign of health.'
She made to roll away from him, and he caught her wrist. 'And having done your duty, you will now leave me?'
Her face was expressionless. 'If I remain, Mr Hilton, you will wish to enter me again. And perhaps again.'
'And having done your duty, you no longer wish me inside you.'
'My feelings are of no concern,' she said. 'I am concerned with your strength. It is not yet full.'
'The Emperor's command?'
'The Emperor knows all things.'
'And so he commanded you to love a monster.'
She had been pulling at her wrist, gently. Now her movements relaxed, and she frowned. 'Are you a monster?'
'Have you no eyes in your head, Aimee?'
'You are a man, monsieur.' Almost she smiled. 'A woman should judge a man, not by his appearances, but by his touch. Your fingers are gentle. They seek to give, rather than to take. Your lips are gentle. Your passion is a gentle passion. You are a man to love, because you are a man who seeks to give love.'
No doubt her father had been a slave, and perhaps had torn the flesh from Aunt Georgiana's body while she had screamed and he had laughed. 'Did the Emperor command you to say that?'
'No, monsieur. The Emperor would be displeased with me did he know I was still here. He would have me whipped.' 'But you will come again?' 'Tomorrow night.'
'Then stay this night, Aimee, or do not come tomorrow. I would have you stay, and return, because of me, not because of duty. And if it is because of me, I must be worth at least a whipping.'
She hesitated, and was then in his arms again, and consuming him again, within seconds. And herself? He could swear beads of sweat had appeared on her shoulders, even beneath the oil. And she had sighed.
'And you will not be whipped,' he said. 'I give you my word.'
She smiled. 'I will not be whipped in any event, Mr Hilton. The Emperor left tins night, and will not return for at least a month.'
'Left?' He sat up in dismay.
'He campaigns, monsieur. Against Petion.'
The name was familiar enough. 'I had supposed they shared the same dream. Did not Petion fight with Christophe, under Toussaint, against the French?'
'Indeed, monsieur. But he is not black like us. His father was a white man. He is what we call a mulatto. And if he wished to be free of the French, he did not wish to be ruled by a black man. He has declared the south independent, and would make himself master of all Haiti. So the Emperor must defeat him, and this is difficult, where there are so many forests, so many mountains.'
'But the Emperor will defeat him?'
'Of course,' Aimee said.
It was as simple as that, to the residents of Sans Souci.
'You are well, Richard Hilton.' The Emperor stood before his desk, hands clasped behind his back. He wore uniform, and looked tired. As well he might, Dick supposed. He had campaigned for some two months, and had apparently only returned to his palace the previous day. And immediately summoned his guest. Or was it his prisoner?
'I am as well as ever in my life, sire. Or perhaps, better than ever before in my life. No man could have been cared for as I have been these last nine months.' Could it really be nine months? It was July. The sea breeze had warmed, and rain clouds were gathering above the mountains.
'That pleases me,' Christophe said. He walked round the desk, and one of his secretaries hastily pulled back his chair for him. 'Sit.'
Another secretary held a chair for Dick. He sat, carefully, adjusting his white breeches as he felt the shoulders of his blue coat brushing the back of the chair. He wore uniform, for the simple reason that everyone in Sans Souci wore uniform; Christophe's tailors apparently did now know how to cut civilian clothes.
'And do you now look in the mirror without a shudder?'
'No, sire. I doubt I will ever be able to do that.'
Christophe gazed at him for some seconds. And then nodded. 'There is news, from Europe. The French emperor, Napoleon, has escaped from Elba and returned to France.'
'My God,' Dick said. 'It will mean a resumption of the war.'
'And a resumption, perhaps, of Bonaparte's power,' Christophe said, thoughtfully. 'The same ship which brought me that news brought inquiries after Richard Hilton. We have had several such inquiries.'
Dick frowned. 'You never said so.'
'You had sufficient cause for distress, in regaining your health,' Christophe said.
'Then my family know I am here?'
Christophe smiled. 'I have told no one you are here.'
'But
'I supposed it was your wish, Richard Hilton. You have never asked to have your family informed. That is strange. But my agents also tell me that you are disgraced in Jamaica, sought for a crime, perhaps.'
'A crime?'
'An assault upon a young girl. A white man's crime, Richard. I do not inquire. Perhaps it was the cause of your leaving Jamaica, perhaps not. I will inform your family that you are alive and well, should you wish it.'
Dick hesitated. Judith had told her mother, and Harriet, in her anger, had brought a charge. No doubt Richard Hilton, of Hilltop in Jamaica, would survive such a scandal, and even a court case, by payment of a fine. But did he wish to be Richard Hilton of Hilltop? Could he ever be Richard Hilton of Hilltop again? Ellen would never forgive him. Poor Ellen. She had travelled four thousand miles to meet disaster, and must travel four thousand miles back again.
Well, then, what of the plantation? No doubt it would be sold. Or managed by Tony. There was the answer. It would be managed by Tony. But he had ordered Tony from the plantation. Only Josh, and Boscawen knew that. No doubt Tony would be able to come to some arrangement with both Josh and Boscawen. And Tony was much more of a planter, in spirit, than himself.
B
ecause he had never wanted to rule, and even less wanted to rule now. Was even less able to rule, now. Having seen what his slaves could become, were they given the chance.
Christophe was smiling. 'You do not choose to inform them.'
'I have been happy here, these last few months,' Dick confessed. 'Happier than I can recall. I was never happy as a planter. Or even before.'
'Why is that?'
Dick hesitated. 'I think I have always been too aware of my name. I have always felt I was not acting the part. Here, I cannot act the part, and therefore I am not perpetually worried about it.'
'Honestly said,' Christophe remarked. 'But I have no doubt that you are a Hilton. What of your mother? Do you not wish to inform her that you are still alive?'
'Yes. But not now. I would like to wait a while.'
Christophe nodded. 'Yet will there be inquiries about this white man who is my friend, once the fact is widely known. They will ask who you are. What will I tell them?'
'Whatever you like. So long as they do not learn my name.'
'Ah. Yet they will want a name.' Christophe leaned back and gave a bellow of laughter. 'I will tell them you are an English soldier of fortune, by name Matthew Warner. There is a name, Richard Hilton.'
'You know of the Warners?'
'I know a great deal. And you will tell me more.' He got up, and the humour faded from his face. 'But I said the truth, when I described you as a Warner, an English soldier of fortune come to fight at my side. We are going on a journey, you and I. You are well enough to travel, my surgeons tell me. You are as well, or better, than ever in your life.'
'Except for my face.' But his heart was pounding. How long had he waited, to leave Sans Souci?
'Where no one knows you with any other face, Matthew Warner—for your name comes into being as of now—no one will find anything to remark on. Come. Our escort is waiting.'
Dick wondered if he should ask permission to say goodbye to Aimee. The girl had become part of him during the past few weeks. But he did not suppose Christophe would be interested, or appreciative, of such a tender emotion. The Emperor did not delay to say farewell to
hi
s
wife, was already striding through the halls and down the stairs, huge cocked hat on his head, sword slapping his thigh, with all Ins tremendous energy.
And Richard Hilton, alias Matthew Warne
r, followed, a sword slapping hio
s thigh. A sword he did not know how to use. What would Christophe say when he discovered that?