The music ballooned the length of the great withdrawing room on Hilltop, escaped the opened windows to cascade across the verandahs, flooded down the hill to the town and the slave village beyond, caressing the logies with its dying cadence. At the bottom of the hill the triple time was almost restful, lulling many a piccaninny to sleep.

Inside the Great House it drowned thought, obscured decency, left manners exposed, without reason, without objective. The ladies whirled, skirts held high in their right hands, left arms tight on their partners' waists, bodices sagging as shoulders and breasts glistened with perspiration, hair rapidly uncoiling itself in the frenzy of the gyrations. Men were no less abandoned, white-gloved fingers biting into taffeta waists, or naked arms, seeking every opportunity to let thigh brush thigh in the frenzy of the dance, smiling their sexual adoration into the equally smiling faces only inches away from their own.

The entire room became a vast emotional storm; it communicated itself even to those not dancing, seated in the chairs which had been pushed against the walls this night, or lounging beside them, the women with heads close together, fans fluttering, destroying reputations with effortless envy, the men, also mouth to ear, shrouded in tobacco smoke, building hopes and creating fantasies, exchanging experiences and perpetuating scandals. Even the servants seemed part of the evening, for the white-gowned girls waited in a cluster in the arch to the hall, trays laden with sangaree, ready to dart forward and refresh the overheated white people the moment the music stopped, conscious always of being under the disapproving scrutiny of Boscawen should they falter or slacken their efforts; his cane waited in the kitchens for any maid who caught his eye, for whatever reason.

'Eighteen thousand pounds?' Phyllis Kendrick gaped at Tony Hilton's smiling face. 'Why, 'tis a fortune.'

'Money, my dear Phyllis.' Tony brought her close to prevent her shoulder cannoning into a fellow dancer, held her there for a moment. 'Money is for spending.'

'But now . . . Toby says cane will never recover.'

'Oh, bah. Prices are affected by the uncertainty. No one knows what that pack of lunatics in Whitehall will do next. But once we have made it perfectly clear that we shall not submit to their blackmail, that we are capable of running our own affairs, that if pushed too far we will seek our own remedies, why, you'll see.'

The music was dying. He had arranged it so that they finished their last rotation in a corner by the doors to the verandah.

'But . . . eighteen thousand pounds,' she said again, allowing herself to be guided into the cool darkness. 'For an old building?'

'Cheaper than rebuilding. Most of the stand was still solid. You'll see tomorrow.'

She stood at the verandah rail, looked out at the darkness, and then at the twinkling lights of the town below them. 'A race meeting, on Hilltop. I attended one as a girl.'

'You told me.' He was behind her, leaning slightly forward so that he touched her. His hands rested on her shoulders, gently kneading the flesh.

Her breathing, which had commenced to settle after the exertions of the dance, began to quicken again. He loved to hear her become excited, to feel her become anxious.

'Do I bore you awfully?'

He smiled, into her ear as he kissed it. 'You entrance me, continuously, Phyllis. But I do not wish to be reminded of my uncle's successes, at least until I have had one of my own. I have dreamed of tomorrow since I first came to Hilltop, and that is better than twenty years ago, you know.'

'I remember.' She turned, in his arms, moved her thighs against his. 'The Hilton boys. Oh, you caused quite a stir.' She smiled at him. 'Everyone was so disappointed when you did not immediately spring to the forefront of Jamaican society.'

He kissed her nose. 'That was my brother's doing. Have I disappointed recently?'

She gazed at him, frowning. 'The music is starting again.'

'Then they are less likely to miss us.'

Her lips parted. She became anxious, so very quickly, and so very anxious, as well. Because he had never actually done anything more than flirt, although he had held her in this very place on the verandah, at least a dozen times in the past. He had always wondered if he would ever do anything more than flirt. She was the elder, if only by a year or two, but age had nothing to do with it. She was not particularly attractive, but looks had very little to do with it either. He enjoyed the sensation of awakening woman, different women, and few of them responded as readily as Phyllis Kendrick. Why, the poor woman must be quite desperate, which was not very surprising, as she was forced to five with that stuffed egg Toby Kendrick, and even worse, was forced to share Rivermouth Great House with Kendrick's mother. A mistake he had not made, once Ellen had agreed to marry him.

Oddly enough, tonight he felt like doing more than flirt. Tonight, this entire weekend, he was celebrating. It had been a dream of his for twenty years to re-establish the Hilltop race meetings. It had taken far longer than he had supposed possible. In the first place, that ghastly prig Reynolds had been against the idea, had successfully resisted the expense as long as there was a legal prospect of Dick still being alive. And even when he had been forced to admit Tony as rightful owner of Hilltop, the work had dragged, while breeding an unbeatable stable—Tony had no intention of not winning his own meetings—had taken even longer. But now, it was done, and tomorrow Hilltop would regain the very last of its former glories.

Why even Mama must surely write to congratulate him, and she had written less and less often these past few years. No doubt his name figured in the newspapers too often for either her or Father. They disliked what the missionaries wrote about him, and they disliked his leadership of those planters who would carry their defiance of the British Government even as far as secession. Well, they could dislike whatever they pleased; they accepted their share of the Hilltop profits without argument.

He squeezed Phyllis Kendrick's elbow, gently turned her away from the rail. 'Shall we walk?'

'Walk? But. . .' She was already allowing herself to be guided along the verandah, gulping as they passed close to another couple, half lost in the shadows, leaning against one another. He could feel her tremble, and desperately seek for conversation. 'Your manager, James Hardy. He is not here tonight.'

'James is on holiday. Nevis. Have you been to the Grand Hotel?'

'Toby says it is far too expensive. He says the prices they charge are simply outrageous, and for what? To be smoked in a sulphur bath?'

'Oh, 'tis worth a visit. You meet all the best people.' He turned her in at the side door, and the servants hastily parted. 'Who'd have thought it, eh? Little Nevis, the poorest place you could ever imagine, suddenly becoming wealthy, because of a sulphur spring.'

'Absurd.' Her voice was trembling now, as well. 'Tony . . . Mr Hilton . . .'

'The painting is in my study,' he explained, to anyone who might be listening, and paused, at the second arch to the ballroom, to smile at the dancers. And then to catch Ellen's eye. She dominated the room, as she was the tallest woman present, and the most expensively dressed; the candlelight flickered from the emeralds of her earrings, the diamond necklace which roamed her breast as she spun in her partner's arms. And because she was Ellen. There were prettier women present. But there was no one with that arrogance, that superb panache.

And there was no one present, either, with quite that glitter in her eye. Dances affected Ellen. But then, a great many things affected Ellen. She would be at her peak tonight. He doubted she would have the time for him, just as he doubted he would have the strength for her. A fact which was known to them both, and accepted by them both. So she smiled as she saw Phyllis Kendrick on his arm. But it was a contemptuous smile.

The door to the study opened, and closed. The sound of the music was slightly reduced. The study was dark, only a faint lighter darkness forming the window. Phyllis Kendrick's thigh touched the desk, and she turned, into his arms. 'Is the painting very striking?'

'I think so. It is of Ellen.'

'Who else. And you keep it in front of you, while you are working.'

He could feel her breath on his face, although he could hardly see her. He smiled, to be sure she felt his breath. 'A man should keep his wife always in mind.'

She touched his face with her tongue, tentatively, exploring, waiting. Ellen had smiled, contemptuously. Ellen even felt contempt for Judith. She feared no rival, because she did not really care. She knew his weaknesses, his inabilities, indeed, and she felt sorry for them. No doubt genuinely. But her pity was contempt. She did not love him. Ellen did not love anyone. Ellen did not even love Ellen.

But Ellen loved the mistress of Hilltop. And the mistress of Hilltop was contemptuous of her husband's weaknesses.

Phyllis Kendrick's hands were inside his coat, sliding round his waist, seeking a way into his pantaloons. 'Oh, Tony,' she whispered. 'I have wanted this, for so long. So very long.'

But he could think only of Ellen's smile. God, how he hated her.

But how he also loved the mistress of Hilltop. 'It does a woman good, to want,' he said. 'We'd best get back to the dance.'

Hooves drummed, dust kicked, the earth trembled. The twelve ponies hurtled round the bend, clinging close to the white palings, the multi-coloured silk jackets of their black riders staining dark with sweat, the horses themselves foaming and baring their teeth as they reached through the heat and the swirling dust and sweat for the front.

The people in the grandstand rose to their feet as if plucked forward by a gigantic string, all together. Hats were waved, along with parasols and kerchiefs and scarves. Screams of pleasure from the women mingled with the bellows from the men. Another noise to shake the plantation, to crowd through the air of the slave village. But this did not lull. Out in the fields the black people crouched over their cutlasses as they weeded the paths, the fields, performing their interminable, back-breaking tasks, and muttered at each other at the white man's conception of enjoyment. Perhaps they too would have enjoyed it, had they been present. The older men and women recalled that in the days of Master Robert—and how good they seemed in retrospect—a race day had meant a slave holiday, and they had all been permitted to crowd the rails of the track, and even to exchange their own bets, certainly to imbibe some of the pleasurable excitement of watching the ponies matched.

But such a relaxation of effort did not appeal to the latest Hilton. He believed slaves should work, and work, and work. Save where they were required for entertainment.

The noise began to die. The ponies were cantering to a stop, before being returned to the unsaddling enclosure. The grandstand began to subside, ladies remembering their coiffures, men wiping sweat from their faces, those who had won hurrying off to collect their bets.

'A good mare,' said the Reverend Patterson. 'Oh, indeed, a good mare. You must have made a fortune this day, Hilton.'

'It'll pay for her keep.' Tony Hilton was one of the few men who had not risen to see the finish. Yet he wiped his brow as hard as anyone, replaced his grey silk hat. 'If Clay will not accommodate us, then we'll go over his head.'

John Tresling frowned at him. 'Jackson?'

'Why not. He is a statesman. Clay is an ignorant Virginian cotton planter.'

'Urn.' Martin Evans, the fourth in the Hilton Box—the ladies were separately accommodated on the upper floor— scratched his nose.

'They say Jackson is a firm upholder of the Monroe Doctrine.'

'Well, then . . .'

'Oh, he accepts that there are colonies, French and British, which have a longer standing than the United States itself. His concept is that there should be no expansion of those colonies, and that there should be no excuse for sending any European armament to the Caribbean, or anywhere else for that matter.'

'So it follows,' Tresling pointed out, 'that he would be averse to any action which might involve the United States and Great Britain in a controversy. There is controversy enough, over the Oregon boundary.'

'Statesmen,' Tony remarked, 'have this habit of assuming that the world will stand still while they form doctrines and make pronunciamentos. Now, then, gentlemen, Jackson, we are told, and I believe, because he is an honest man—my God, an honest politician, there is a contradiction in terms—is utterly opposed to European intervention in American affairs. He will do anything to avoid it, such as not even considering a Jamaican appeal to be included in the United States. Very well, then, what do you think would be his reaction were we to declare independence? But first, what would be the British reaction?'

'You speak treason,' the parson muttered. 'For God's sake keep your voice down.'

'George Washington also spoke treason, until he won,' Tony pointed out.

'He's right, Reverend,' Tresling said. 'Whitehall would never stand for a Jamaica declaration of independence.'

'They'd send a fleet,' Evans said.

'Indeed they would,' Tony agreed. 'And what would your General Jackson do then, do you think?' The two planters looked at each other, and then both looked at the parson.

'A desperate step,' Patterson said.

'Yet one which will, eventually, have to be taken,' Tony said. 'Better in our own time, than in theirs.'

'You cannot know it is inevitable,' Evans objected.

'You have brains in that head of yours, Marty. Why do you think the Government has pulled back from Abolition? For the very reason that they fear an extreme reaction on our part. But all the while British public opinion is being prepared for the ultimate step. Worse, all the while our own public opinion here in Jamaica is being prepared for such a step. Now, seven, eight years ago, when Amelioration was first mentioned, our people dismissed the idea of British interference in our affairs, out of hand. So then Whitehall set to work. There is talk of their being no longer able to support preferential treaties for West Indian sugar. No longer able, by God. It is again, pure blackmail. They will remove the preference, unless we agree to their principles. And this is not being rejected out of hand. We three may be able to weather any economic storm. But there are those of us who cannot, who are already suggesting we had best accommodate Whitehall. And all of this, gentlemen, is under a Tory government. But my latest despatch from England says that the King is ailing. What happens when he dies, and there is an election? Suppose the Whigs gain power? The Whigs, gentlemen. The party of Wilberforce. Of my own father, bless his besotted soul. But not a party elected, or desired, by us. They talk of patriotism. Where, I would like to ask, does patriotism begin, if not in Port Royal?'

' 'Tis a difficult matter,' Evans said. 'With the price of sugar falling . . .'

'Is this a confession?' Tresling inquired.

'It is not,' Evans declared. 'I'll back you, if you'll set to it. But it's not a matter that can be resolved by secret discussions. We've had enough of those.'

'Well, then, let us stop this one.' Tony smiled at them, and got up. 'I shall be in communication with you. And shortly.' He left the box, making his way through the throng, all calling their congratulations on the prowess of his mare, slapping him on the back, shaking his hand, and waited by the steps for the ladies as they left their boxes. 'Why, good afternoon to you, Phyllis. Did you win?'

Phyllis Kendrick turned her head and ignored him, but her cheeks were pink. She would never forgive him for last night. She thought. She would never come to Hilltop again. She was determined. Until her next invitation. Poor Phyllis.

'I think I am to congratulate us.' Ellen came last, shepherding the last of her guests. She wore her favourite pale green, and looked as cool and self-possessed as Phyllis had been hot and bothered.

'Oh, indeed. Although the odds were not very good. Hilltop Dancer's reputation is growing.'

'None the less, I shall give Peter Eleven my personal congratulations.' She smiled at her husband. ‘I even think, as he rides so well, we could grant him the use of a decent name. I shall think of one and let you know.'

He held her arm. 'Shall I come with you?'

A darting look, before she once again studied the stairs they descended. 'I'm sure that will not be necessary, Tony. I was under the impression that blacks bored you. Besides, have you not got dear Phyllis to see to? I trust you spent a pleasant night?'

They had reached the foot of the stairs, and the grooms were lining up as they passed. The slaves feared the mistress more even than the master. No one knew for certain what had happened on that afternoon fifteen years before, but a man had died. While attempting to run away, certainly; that was the official account. But Absolom and Jeremiah had not been able to stop themselves whispering.

Ellen smiled at them, glanced at her husband. Their guests were already strung out across the grass, making their way slowly back towards the house, gossiping and laughing, anticipating another sumptuous meal, another bout of indiscriminate drinking and indiscriminate flirting. Or more. And were Ellen to suspect that he had not bedded Phyllis, last night, her contempt would undoubtedly grow.

'My night was much as I expected,' he said. 'And yours?' 'Oh, the same. The same.' 'His name?'

She stopped, and turned, her fan coming together into a short wand, held with the tips of her fingers, to slap him gently on the chest. 'You would break the rules? And it would merely make you jealous.'

'Of one of the pot-bellied, pasty-faced planters?'

'Your guests,' she gently reproved. 'But then it need not have been one of your guests, need it?' She gave that arch, secret smile he adored.

'I don't believe you. I know you like to look. You'd never stoop so low.'

This time the secret smile became a secret laugh, as she turned away. 'Why do you think Peter Eleven rode so well, today?'

The cavalcade wound its way through the valley. When the first of the carriages was already entering the road through the hills, three miles from the Great House, the last was just rumbling down the slope outside the house itself. Dust hung on the air in a long swathe, travelled with the light breeze, scattered across the town and the village and the factory, coated the cane stalks.

Ellen Hilton held a handkerchief to her lips as she waved. 'Thank God that is over, for another season,' she said. 'Truly, I am ceasing to wonder at your uncle's decision to shut himself away here, and take no part in Jamaican society. It would be difficult to imagine a more boring, a more vulgar and more uninteresting lot.'

Tony lowered his arm. 'But you enjoy playing the queen of that society.'

'I wonder if it is worth it.' She turned, and went into the comparative cool of the house. 'A light breakfast, Boscawen,' she stretched. 'And then a long, long siesta. Will you be going aback?'

He watched her climb the stairs. 'It hardly seems worthwhile.' He climbed behind her.

At the top she seemed to realize for the first time that he was following her, and hesitated, before continuing on to the gallery. Her hand touched the knob of the door to her bedchamber, and again she hesitated, realizing that he stood at her shoulder.

'I really am quite exhausted,' she said. 'I am going to lie down.'

'That will suit me admirably,' he said.

She turned, frowning at him, and he reached past her to open the door, allowing his body to come against hers. The door opened, and he walked forward, using his right hand to hold her round the waist and half lift, half push her in front of him. Bridget, Ellen's personal maid, stared at them in alarm.

'Out,' Tony said.

'Oh, really, Tony,' Ellen complained. 'You are not going to play the fool, I hope.'

'Out,' he said again. 'Your mistress will manage for herself today.'

Bridget gave Ellen a terrified glance, and received a quick nod. She scurried through the door.

Tony kicked it shut behind him, released his wife. 'I don't believe what you said yesterday,' he remarked. 'If I thought it was true, I'd set the dogs on him.'

'Oh, pfft,' she said, and sat at her dressing table. It was huge, with three mirrors, and made out of best Honduras mahogany to her own design.

'So, tell me it is not true.' He sat on the bed.

She watched him in the mirrors. 'We made a bargain, you and I. As mistress of Hilltop, you promised me, I could do what I liked, when I liked, and with whom I liked.'

'As long as you were also my wife.'

She smiled, at herself, and at him, in the mirror. 'I am quite prepared to be your wife, whenever you wish me, Tony. I had supposed you were well suited.'

He sat up. 'You'll not pretend you are jealous of Judith?'

'That creature? No, no. I suspect she can attend to your needs better than I. She was trained to it, by her poor, unlamented mother. I was, unhappily, educated to be a lady.' 'You are a bitch.'

She turned, and stood up. And continued to smile. 'I am speaking with my husband, in the privacy of my bedchamber. Will you assist me?' She crossed the room, stood in front of him, turned her back. She waited, for his fingers to touch the buttons on the neck of her gown. 'We are both perverted, you and I, Tony. In the oddest of ways, I suppose. People imagine us to be far worse than we are. They respect us for it. They would be utterly contemptuous, did they know the truth of us.'

The gown was loose, she shrugged it from her shoulders, past her thighs, stepped out of it. She left it lying on the floor, herself took off her petticoats, but returned to the bedside, and again presented her back to him.

'You are talking rubbish.' His fingers plucked at the ties for her stays. Although she wore a cotton shift under the whalebone, the garment was still soaked with sweat, and the bows rapidly turned into knots.

'Oh, indeed. But look at yourself, Tony. Tony Hilton. The Hilton. You are the wealthiest man in Jamaica, and possibly the most handsome. You have other assets, such as your name and even an understanding wife. You could take your pick, over and over again, of every woman in this island. Of every woman in the West Indies, I would say, should you choose to travel. Yet you find all your comfort at the hands, quite literally, of a little whore whose mother was a whore and whose grandmother, I have no doubt at all, was also a whore.' She spoke perfectly quietly and evenly, allowed herself a faint sigh of relief as her lungs and belly were at last released, reached over her shoulder to take the garment.

'I have always felt responsible for Judith,' Tony pointed out, and lay down again, his hands behind his head. 'You know that. What with her childhood, and then, being raped by Dick . . .'

'Do you really believe that?' Ellen stood in front of her mirror to remove her shift. She did it slowly, raising the garment first of all to her thighs, to expose her legs, long and strong and powerful, and then higher, to allow him to inspect her wide thighs, her pouted belly, and then over her head, slowly, inhaling at the same time to push her somewhat low slung breasts away from her chest.

'And with her mother dead,' Tony muttered. But he was watching her, as she could see in the mirror.

The shift joined the rest of her clothes on the floor. Only her hair remained. Slowly she unfastened the bows, keeping her breathing carefully under control. 'A man should try to be honest with himself,' she said, quietly. 'Judith is the only woman you dare approach. You only lie about the others. As you lied about the night before last.'

He sat up. 'Lie? Me? Why . . .'

'I had Charmian keeping an eye on you.' The chestnut hair fell past her ears, rested on her shoulders.

'Then she saw us go into the study.'

'She also saw dear Phyllis leave again, very briefly, and very angry. And she also saw you sleep in there, later on. All by yourself. My God, how absolutely childish, to be quarrelling about whether you did or whether you did not sleep with that detestable woman.' She crossed the room, slowly, sat on the bed, close enough for him to touch her, if he chose.

His face was red and angry. When he was angry, only the coarseness showed through. The Hilton grandeur quite disappeared.

'Well, then,' he demanded. 'What of you?'

'Ah.' She lay down, beside him, rested her head on his shoulder, placed her left leg carefully across both of his. From where he lay he would look down a long sweep of very white, faintly freckled flesh. 'I am more honest than you.' She exerted all her strength to keep him flat. 'I did try a buck, once.'

'You . . .' He attempted to get up, was held still. She rolled on to his stomach, straddling him with her legs, placing her hands one on each side of his face. She shook her head to tickle him with her hair.

And smiled at him. 'You always knew I wanted to.'

His hands rested on her back, but lightly. 'I knew you wanted to whip a man.'

She nestled her head against his neck. 'It is merely a form of sexual attraction, to wish to whip a man. But as I say, I only tried it once. Oh, it was magnificent. But I felt ashamed afterwards.'

'And where is he now?'

She gave her secret laugh. 'I'll not tell you that, Tony dear. And it was not Peter Eleven, if that is what you are thinking.' She raised her head, smiled at him. 'Does that knowledge repel you, or make you want me?'

'I ought to whip you.⁷

She shook her head. 'I would not enjoy being whipped. But you could make love to me. The amusing thing is, you could have made love to me, last night. I also slept alone.'

His eyes were watchful. 'You?'

'Why not?' She smiled at him. ‘I entertain your friends. I do not accommodate them. When I wish to share my bed I seek a more positive approach. And at this moment that positive approach is absent.'

His brows slowly drew together as a terrible suspicion crystallized in his mind. 'You are lying.'

Ellen kissed him on the nose.

'I'll kill him.'

'You won't. Firstly because I would not let you, secondly because without him you are nothing. And you know that.'

Once again he strained, once again she pressed him flat.

'And anyway, your jealousy is quite absurd. I am not jealous of Judith. And I am your wife, wherever I find my pleasures. I think you ought to make me pregnant.'

'Eh?'

'Well, really, Tony dear, have you no thought of the future? I am thirty-seven years old. I shall shortly be too old for motherhood. I have shared your bed for fifteen years. And we have no children. Worse, there are no Hilton children anywhere. At least, no legitimate ones. You do not even have any distant cousins to inherit. What will happen to the Hilton wealth, the Hilton name? 'Tis a most serious matter.'

Her voice mocked him, her smile mocked him, the faint movements of her body mocked him. She was angry, because she had so deliberately gone about seducing him, and he remained unseduced.

And did he not want to be seduced, by his own wife? Had he not dreamed, for so long, of having this so self-possessed woman in his arms, surrendering to his passion? Or having him surrender to her. But there was the entire cause of the estrangement. She enjoyed mastering men, but not her own husband. His confession, on only the fifth night of their honeymoon, that his secret desire was to be tormented into orgasm had brought contempt, not understanding. The mistake had been his. He had sought more than was perhaps possible from a marriage. Than was perhaps possible from anyone, save Judith.

Then what did she find in Hardy?

Her face twisted. 'Or can you not manage such a thing, Tony dear?' she whispered softly.

'Aaaah,' she gasped. 'Aaagh.' Her body writhed to and fro, but he'd not let her go. His fingers dug deeper and deeper into the taut brown flesh, squeezing tighter and tighter. She had small buttocks, and he had large hands. She lay on her face, on his belly, and tears mingled with the sweat on her cheeks, distorting the handsome, almost beautiful features, making the huge dark eyes expand, the whites show, while that splendid mouth sagged open, to reveal her teeth and her tongue, and saliva dribbled over her lips. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever known, and to turn that beauty into a mask of despair was the greatest pleasure he had ever known.

But today, there was no pleasure. He released her, violently, threw her away from him, watched her scatter across the bed, got up himself, with equal violence, went to the dresser, poured himself a glass of rum.

Judith Gale lay on her side, her head on her arm, and watched him. He had not climaxed, was in fact, still totally aroused, his naked body a quiver of blood-filled veins and arteries. Therefore he was still dangerous. Only she knew how dangerous. On the rare occasions he would play the master and not the victim, his whole being seemed consumed with hate, because it was hate which inspired the passion in the first place.

And she could only wait, for the pain in her back to subside for a new pain to start. When he was ready.

Waves of apprehension drifted up her legs, into her belly. They were thin legs, as it was a thin belly. As they were narrow shoulders and small breasts. She worried about her thinness, but Tony told her it was what he liked about her. When he was in a good mood. He liked to trace the lines of muscle beneath the skin, and he liked to trace the arteries on her neck, and he liked to be able to take an entire breast in his hand, just as he would never permit her to wear her long dark hair other than loose on her back. Whatever her age, she must remain always the child he had first known, and wanted.

A child to be beaten, when he so desired. And what did the child feel about her tormentor, she wondered? It was not a luxury she usually permitted herself, to wonder about her situation, about her love, about her future. Her present was secure, in a purely material sense. Tony Hilton had paid for this house, and he had bought her slaves, and he paid for her clothes and her food. All he wanted in return was her utter obedience to his whims. So sometimes she thought other men would pay as much for Judith Gale. And demand much less. But would other men arouse her passion? Because in a strange, perhaps a horrible, way, this man did.

He turned, his cup in his hand. 'Did I hurt you?' He was beginning to subside.

'Yes,' she said.

'So have a drink.' He held out the cup, and she hesitated, because if he was in one of his moods he would just as readily empty the liquid over her and the bed. Then she sat up, slowly, took the cup, sipped, felt her chest burn, some of the fear leave her mind. 'Why are you angry?'

He took back the cup, sat on the bed. 'I am angry. There is all that need concern you.'

She lay down again, rolling on her belly, propped her chin on her hands, allowed her eyes to gloom at him. She knew her assets. Her eyes counted higher than her hair. 'I thought, if I knew the reason, I could help you.'

'Aye,' he said. 'You will have to. Just now.'

'But what has so upset you?' she asked.

'I am a married man,' he said.

'Ah,' she said. 'Was your entertainment not a success?'

'It was a great success. Too successful, perhaps. She wants a child. Does she want a child? Or does she merely seek to humiliate me?'

'Why do you put up with her at all?'

His head turned, and she realized she had made a mistake. His eyes could also gloom, and when his eyes gloomed, it meant pain. But not for him.

'Would you replace her?'

'No, I . . .'

He turned, quickly and violently, seized her hair as she attempted to roll off the bed. He brought her back, while her eyes seemed to be forced from their sockets, rolled on top of her, bit her shoulder and tore at her flesh, and collapsed in a flood of sudden tears.

Judith lay still, afraid to move. She had known his moods before, but this was more than she remembered.

'You would replace her,' he whispered. 'You would be a superb mistress of Hilltop, Judith. You would be a superb wife to me. Wouldn't you, Judith?'

She gazed at the ceiling, felt his teeth on her ear. If only she could tell when he was baiting her, and when he was serious. She had never been able to tell that.

He raised his head. Tears still stained his cheeks. 'Well?'

She licked her lips. 'I ... I would try, Tony. Would you let go of my hair?'

His fingers relaxed, slowly. 'And you would give me a child.' His frown returned, gathering that high forehead, that slightly receding hairline. 'You have not given me a child.'

She breathed, cautiously, inflating her chest against his. 'I did now know you wished any. I had supposed it would make you angry.'

The frown deepened. 'You can choose, whether or not you have a child?'

'I can make it likely or unlikely.'

'By using a douche? By counting days? None of those are certain.'

‘I did not claim they were. I cannot breathe.'

'So, you could have become pregnant. Were I able.'

'I do not know, Tony. Please.'

For reply he gripped the bed and pressed his body even harder on hers. She gasped, and tried to push against him. 'Ellen has never taken any precautions.'

She gasped again. 'You do not sleep with her very often.'

His weight was gone. Cautiously she opened her eyes. He had rolled away, was sitting up.

'Ellen,' he said. 'If I could treat her as I treat you, just once.'

Judith drew up her knees, slowly and cautiously. 'Is she stronger than you?'

His head turned.

'It is just a matter of will,' she said. 'If it is that important to you.'

'But after,' he said. 'Would she love me, or hate me?'

'I do not know.'

'Do you love me, Judith?'

It was the first time he had ever asked her that question. ‘I . . .' 'The truth.'

'I desire you. Even when you hurt me.'

He stared at her for some seconds, then turned away, got up, went back to the table.

'But you love her,' Judith said. 'After all this time, you love her, and you fear her.'

'How perceptive you are,' Tony remarked. 'She regards me with contempt. She regards you with contempt also.' 'She is entitled to do that.'

He drank, facing the wall. 'To hurt her,' he said. 'To make her beg . . . what the devil is that?' Feet, clattering on the steps. Fingers, rattling on the door. 'Mis' Judith. Mis' Judith.'

'I shall certainly beat her.'' Tony reached for his pants.

'It must be important.' Judith got up, pulled on her undressing robe, turned the key. 'What is it, Melinda? You know I'm not to be disturbed when Mr Hilton is here.'

'Is Mr Hilton he does want, Mis' Judith.'

^‘He?^!

'Who wants me?' Tony went to the door, fastening his belt.

'Is a man from the lawyer, sir. He saying it is very urgent.'

Tony pushed Judith to one side, went down the stairs. He glared at the clerk. 'Hanson? What the devil do you want?'

'There's a ship in, Mr Hilton,' Hanson panted, and had lost his hat. 'The passengers came ashore an hour gone. And two of them went straight to Lawyer Reynolds.'

'Eh? What has that got to do with me?'

Hanson licked his lips, ran his fingers through his hair. ' 'Tis the name he claims, Mr Hilton. He says he is Richard Hilton, sir. Come home.'

14

The Claimant

'Way for the general. Way for the general.' The dragoons rode their horses wide, on either side of the dusty street, scattering passers-by. 'Way for the general.'

Dick came next, sword slapping his thigh, pistols clinging to his horse's neck. Behind him was another file of dragoons. The general, returning from his tour of inspection.

To his city. There was a remarkable thought. Cap Haitien had scarcely changed in appearance in the ten years since Christophe had taken his own life; the country was poor, and money was endlessly needed for the war against those black men who continued to resist the unification of the nation, deep in the mountains of the interior. But the people had changed. No doubt they were even more poor than under their legendary emperor. But they were also more happy. President Boyer might lack the personality of his predecessor, but he was a sensible man who understood the strengths as well as the weaknesses of his people. The strengths he had used to conquer the island, to create a nation. The weaknesses he had indulged to the extent of letting them starve in their own way, if they chose. Which left the armed forces the more attractive to any young man with a belly to fill.

The gates of the barracks swung open, the blue-coated guards presented arms. There were no smarter soldiers in the entire army, and they were General Warner's. Another stroke of Boyer's genius for common sense. He had amnestied all of Christophe's generals, providing they brought their men with them. And in Matt Warner's dragoons he had found an elite.

They had been the van of the 1822 campaign which had finally conquered the old Spanish half of the island.

He returned the salute, and his groom held his bridle. He dismounted, strode up the steps to the commandant's quarters, and again the guards presented arms.

La Chat waited in the doorway. 'There are cases, sir.' For Cap Haitien, as indeed all of Haiti, remained under martial law.

Dick nodded. ‘I will be with you in a moment, La Chat.' The door was being opened by one of the housemaids, and he went inside, and was surrounded by shouting children. Richard was eight, Anne was six, Thomas was four. Perfectly spaced. All healthy, bubbling Hiltons, except where they possessed the softer contours of their mother. He stooped to hug them each, looking all the while to the inner door, where Cartarette waited.

He sometimes supposed he lived his life in a long dream, firstly that the Dick Hilton he had been, and remembered, and still was deep in his heart, should have turned into this big, gaunt, ruthless soldier of fortune, and secondly that he should continue to share his bed with so gorgeous a creature. She had been seventeen years old that terrible day in 1817 when her father had been flogged to death. Now she was thirty, and four times a mother; her first daughter had died within two months of her birth. Yet was she hardly changed. She greeted him with a smile, put up her face to be kissed. She stood by his shoulder now, as she had stood by his shoulder for most of those thirteen years. Gislane's magic had made her his, physically. It had not been able to do more, to his knowledge. She stayed by his side because she had no choice. Her mother had died when she was a girl, her father had died beneath Christophe's whip. Her cousins had returned to France since the Restoration, but she was a poor relation, and she would rather be a general's woman than a case for charity.

Besides, he thought, she would not know how to live without him now—he had offered her freedom more than once. So they worked together, and talked together, and on occasion even laughed together.

But was she happy? He thought of her as he remembered thinking of his mother, years ago. She was his woman—they had never even been legally married—and so she was his support. She slept with her head on his shoulder, when he was in Cap Haitien. And did she weep herself to sleep when he was gone? He had stopped asking. It was a stupid, immature question. She was his. She could belong to no one else, now. Their lives were inextricably bound.

But she had never said that she loved him.

She held him close for a moment. 'Every time you leave,' she whispered, 'I suppose you will not come back.'

He kissed her forehead. 'There is no guerilla left within fifty miles of Cap Haitien.'

At last she released him. 'You have killed them all.'

'Aye.' He rubbed Richard's head; the boy still clung to his left arm. 'And what have you been up to?'

'I have built a fort, Papa. Well, Anne helped me. You must see it.'

'I shall, in a moment. La Chat has some villains for me to judge.'

'And hang?' Cartarette asked.

He sighed. 'If they require hanging, my sweet. I'll not be long. And then, this afternoon, I shall holiday. And look at your fort, Richie.'

He walked along the corridor, boots dull on the wood. Guards presented arms, and he was in his office. General Matthew Warner, military governor of Cap Haitien, taking court. It was the aspect of his life he liked least. But then, he was growing increasingly restless, year by year. There were no more fields to conquer, here in Haiti, and he was forty-five years old. Would he spend the rest of his life being nothing more than a policeman? 'Yes?'

The adjutant stood to attention; Colonel La Chat took his seat on the far side of the room. As provost marshal it was his duty to carry out the sentences.

'Antoine Dugalle, charged with the murder of his wife.'

Dick frowned at the big, sweating black man. 'Are you guilty?'

'Me, General? Man, General, we did fight, and I hit she on the head with she bottle. No more than that, General.' 'Witnesses?' 'Pierre Clousot.'

The other man came forward. 'Is true that she strike he first, General.' 'Whose bottle?'

'Well, she did be the last to drink, General. Is a fact.' 'Acquitted. Next.'

'Johann Misere, charged with stealing one boat.' This was a small man, paler in complexion than the others. But also sweating. 'Are you guilty?'

'Is me crabs, General, sir. Me own boat get holed in that storm last month. Man, General, if I ain't taking in me pots we going starve.'

'So you took someone else's boat.'

'Well, man, General, sir, he ain't going to lend it to me.'

'Twenty lashes. Colonel La Chat, advance this man two pieces of gold to have his own boat repaired. Next case.'

'I thanking you, General, man, sir,' Misere said. 'I thanking you.'

'Aye,' Dick said. 'Next time I'll hang you. Next.'

'James Morrison, charged with smuggling.'

Dick raised his head. 'Guilty?' And frowned.

The white man badly needed a shave, and his face had collapsed in jowls, while his hair was almost entirely white.

'I didn't know I was smuggling, General. 'Tis the truth,' he gabbled. And he also sweated. 'This fellow asked me to bring the wine in, General, last time I was here.'

'When was that?'

'Last year, General. I didn't know there was a duty. And he collected it on board, sir. I didn't bring it ashore.'

Dick leaned back, stared at the man. How memory flooded back. Of everything he had considered, everything he had attempted, everything he had once been. And would be again?

That was impossible. Dick Hilton was dead. Dead, dead, dead. He had never even been able to bring himself to write his mother, in fifteen years. Better that for her, too, he was dead. What, a son who fought for the murderers of her sister? And who had, in any event, changed into a monster.

But Morrison, God, what a memory. And what sudden temptation. Or had the temptation been there, all the time, and Morrison no more than a catalyst?

'Do you come here every year, Captain?'

'Well, sir, General, most years.'

Dick stood up. 'Court is finished for today. I would speak with this man, privately, La Chat.' 'General?'

'He may have news of my home, my people. You understand me, La Chat?'

'Of course, General.' La Chat came to attention, and the guards did likewise. Morrison gaped at them.

'Through that door, Captain Morrison,' Dick said.

The captain glanced around himself fearfully, then walked along the corridor. The children had returned to their fort in the yard. Cartarette stood by the front door, looking pensively at the courtyard, at Misere being placed between the uprights. She turned in surprise.

'Begging your pardon, mistress.' Morrison twisted his hat between his hands.

Cartarette looked at Dick, her eyebrows arched.

'An English sea captain,' Dick said. 'You'll take a glass of wine, Morrison.'

'Eh? Oh, aye, I'd take that very kindly, General Warner, sir.' He continued to stare at Cartarette in total bemusement.

'Accused of smuggling,' Dick said, and filled three glasses. 'Sit down, Captain.'

Morrison licked his lips, sank sideways into a straight chair. 'All I do is trade, General Warner. I'm no smuggler.'

Dick sat opposite him, Cartarette remained standing, but she moved closer to Dick. 'You have heard of me?'

'Everyone has heard of General Warner.' 'Then drink to General Warner. And tell me what they say of me.'

Morrison sipped cautiously. He could not stop his eyes drifting towards the woman. But Cartarette's face was expressionless.

'They say you are a great soldier.' 'I would like the truth, not flattery.'

Morrison shook his head violently. 'That is the truth, General. They say there is no cavalry commander like you. They say you served Christophe, faithfully and well. Now they say you command Cap Haitien.'

'Where do they say these things?'

'Everywhere, sir.'

'In England?'

'Oh, yes sir.'

'In Jamaica?'

'Oh yes, sir.'

'You trade with Jamaica?'

'I am on my way there now, sir.'

'Indeed? And what are things like, in Jamaica, at this moment?'

'Ah, sir,' Morrison said. 'Bad.' 'Bad? What do you mean?'

'Well, sir, there is friction, friction, sir, with the British Government. Over slavery, you'll understand, sir. What happened was, you see, the British gained some colonies from the French, as a result of the war. And these colonies, sir, were organized as possessions of the Crown, rather than as proprietary affairs, as were the old West Indies. Thus in the new colonies, the word of Whitehall is what counts, and Whitehall is for ameliorating the lot of the slaves. Some say they lean towards abolition of slavery, but that I cannot myself believe, sir. Well, as I say, what the British Government decrees is law in Guiana and Trinidad. But in Jamaica and the Leewards, why, sir, the Houses of Assembly there have long had total internal autonomy, and they resent any interference in their affairs from outside. So there is friction, sir, increased because, as you may know, sugar is in decline, sir, and the planters need all the help they can get in the way of tariff relief and open markets. 'Tis not only the state of the world, sir, 'tis also the growth of the beet industry in Europe. Bonaparte's doing.' 'The devil,' Dick said.

'Well, sir, the British Government has offered the colonies, the old colonies that is, all the assistance they require, providing they will adopt the new slave laws. And the colonies, sir, refuse, claiming blackmail.'

'And leading the colonies, as ever, will be Jamaica,' Dick said.

'Oh, indeed. There is talk of secession, sir. Of asking to become a state of the Union.'

'Planter's talk?' Dick asked. 'Who is involved?'

'Well, sir, the leader of the planters, in Jamaica, and indeed in all the West Indies, as he has property in Antigua, is Hilton of Hilltop.'

'Hilton,' Cartarette said. 'Of Hilltop.'

'Oh, a terrible man, mistress. He was a passenger on my ship, once. A long time ago. But even then he was a terrible man. Picked a duel, he did. Oh, a terrible man. A man who, it is said, treats his slaves like animals, and is totally opposed to any amelioration. That name, sir, you have heard it?'

Dick gazed at him, frowning, unimaginable ideas whipping through his mind.

As Cartarette understood. 'You said you would never again deal with a black man, other than as an equal,' she said.

'Nor will I,' he said. 'But those people on Hilltop, they are my responsibility.'

' Your responsibility? After sixteen years?'

He finished his wine. 'I wonder why I stay here. I accomplish nothing now.'

'You are bored, because there is no war left to fight.'

'Have you no wish, ever, to return to a white society?'

She flushed. 'I doubt I would know how to set about it. Besides . . .' She hesitated.

'It will be difficult? Oh, indeed. But interesting. And if there is conflict. . .'

'Ah,' she said. 'Now it comes out.'

'Begging your pardon, sir,' Morrison said.

Dick glanced at him. 'This man who fought the duel on your ship, his name was Anthony Hilton.'

'The very man of whom I speak, sir. The Hilton.'

'But he had a brother, did he not? The real cause of the duel? The real Hilton, in point of fact.'

'Well, yes, sir. There was a brother. But he was lost at sea. Back in 1815.'

'So it is said,' Dick agreed. 'Have you ever met me before, Morrison?'

Morrison frowned at him, glanced at the woman. 'Met you, sir? Why . . .' He flushed.

'You would remember so hideous a countenance? But you will observe that my face is disfigured, so once it must have looked different. What of my voice? Do you remember nothing of my voice?'

Morrison's frown deepened. He finished his wine. 'Truly, sir . . .'

'Because that too has changed,' Dick said. 'Well, then, what of my memory. That duel on your ship. Was it not fought over a lady, called Joan Lanken?'

'You never mentioned her before,' Cartarette remarked.

'It was a botched affair. But I have no doubt the captain remembers it.'

'My God.' Morrison peered even closer. 'My God. It cannot be.'

'You'll remain in Cap Haitien, Morrison, while I write a letter to General Boyer. Then you'll give me passage to Jamaica,' Dick said. 'And on the way I shall refresh your memory.'

'Ratchet,' Morrison said. 'Ah, Harry Ratchet. A good man, Ratchet. You remember Ratchet, Mr Hilton?'

'I remember Ratchet.' Dick leaned back against the bulkhead, watching the wine swaying to and fro in his glass. What memories the movement of the ship brought back. And over the same water, too. But the weather was fine, the wind was where it should be, north east. It was impossible to suppose that brilliantly blue sky ever turning black, this gentle zephyr ever howling, this calm blue water ever rearing above the ship like a snake.

'Who was Ratchet?' Cartarette asked. The children had already been put to bed, and she sat beside him; their shoulders touched. Did she suppose this to be just a holiday, as he had told the President? Or did Boyer also know the truth of his intention. But did he know his intention? Haiti was perhaps the only place he had known happiness. His dragoons were the first men he had ever loved, could ever love. And he had turned his back on them. Because his name was Hilton.

'Mate of this ship, when last I sailed on her,' he said.

'A good man, Ratchet.' Morrison poured more wine. 'He got his own ship, soon after that voyage, Mr Hilton. Did well at it too. But was lost, sir. On the Atlantic crossing, and with all hands. There is sadness.' He smiled at them. 'But not the conversation for a return from the dead, I'll be bound. There'll be some surprised faces when we make Kingston. That Lanken, eh, Mr Hilton? I'll wager you have many a chuckle over that. Only a lad, then, Mistress Hilton. Only a lad. With no knowledge of weapons. I wonder what Lanken would say were he opposed to you now?'

'And this duel was over a woman, you say?' Cartarette inquired.

' 'Tis all in the past, Mistress Hilton. All in the past. We'll be in Port Royal harbour tomorrow morning.' He leaned forward, placed his elbows on the table. 'Oh, there'll be a to-do when you reappear, Mr Hilton. Oh, yes. They'll not believe it.'

'You believe it.'

'Well, you remember things only Richard Hilton could, and there's a fact. Seeing you now . . .' He shook his head. 'There'll be a to-do.'

'Aye.' Dick got up, braced himself against the bulkhead with his hand. 'I am for bed. Cartarette?'

She rose without a word, went into the cabin. Morrison's own cabin, as being the largest and the best. Only the best, for Richard Hilton. How long was it since he had thought that?

Cartarette avoided the swinging lantern, sat on the narrow bunk.

'Thirteen years,' he said. ‘I would like to marry you, as Richard Hilton. Will you?'

She stared at him, tears forming behind her frown. 'Well?'

'It would be best, for the children.' 'But not for you?' Again the long stare.

'Or have you not yet forgiven me for my sins?'

She moved back against the bulkhead. He could not clearly see her eyes in the gloom. 'I would know what you mean to do.'

He sat beside her. 'Why, reclaim my plantations. My name. My place in society.'

'Why?'

He frowned at her.

'Have you not wealth enough?'

'I do not pursue wealth,' he said.

'Would you avenge yourself on your brother?'

'I have nothing to avenge. I disappeared, he assumed my place. That is logical.'

'Well, then, I do not understand. You wish to leave Haiti? I can understand that. In Jamaica we have but to remain on board this ship, and within a week we will be bound for Europe. No one will recognize you, unless you choose to reveal your memory. Morrison will say nothing, should you require him to be close. And the alternative is strife. You do realize that, Mr Hilton? You may feel no animosity towards your brother, but he, if he has enjoyed your prerogatives for this long, will have to be a perfect paragon to welcome you back. Is your brother a paragon?'

Dick smiled at her. 'No, I cannot honestly say that he is. Oh, Tony will not be pleased, I can promise you that. But he is a minor matter. There will hardly be a white face in Jamaica smiling at my return.'

'Yet you wish to return. Is it that you do not know what to do with yourself, now you no longer have a war to fight? So you would oppose an entire country?'

'It is a difficult matter.'

'Beyond my understanding, certainly.'

'Well, try. I have spoken of my father.'

'He is an Abolitionist.'

Dick nodded. 'And brought me up in his beliefs. He was also a pacifist. Then I found myself pitchforked into the ownership of a plantation. Always I felt in a false position, but I was nevertheless happy to enjoy that position. Until all my . . . they were not truly sins. All my weaknesses, perhaps, crept up on me, and I fled, like a frightened child. To a world which made my fears, my uncertainties, truly seem childlike.'

'A world you conquered,' she said. 'You can have no fears of Jamaica, now.'

'I do not have any fears of Jamaica,' he said. 'But it seems to me that fate has been leading me on, perhaps all of my life. I have thought a good deal about it, this past year. I am the heir to a great crime. I was not allowed to survive so much, experience so much, become what I am, to continue condoning that crime.'

'Abolition is best left to missionaries,' she said.

'I do not think missionaries have the strength. I have had little to do with God, these past fifteen years. But I do remember He is a God of wrath. And it must have been His choice that I survived, and became strong.'

'You are starting to talk like a Biblical prophet,' she said. But her tone was soft.

‘I will free my slaves, Cartarette,' he said. 'It is something I have always wanted to do, and lacked the courage.'

'And will they thank you? Can black people organize their lives, to survive, to prosper? Can you really say that, after living in Haiti? After what happened to Christophe?'

'His failure is the proof of his ineptitude.'

'His ... he was your friend.'

'That does not alter the fact of the man. He had vision, and ability. But he knew nothing but slave, and master. When he drove out the white masters, he could think of nothing better than to replace them with black.'

'There must always be masters, and men,' she said.

'There must always be leaders,' he said. 'And followers. You do not lead, with a whip. You inspire men to follow you.'

She began to unfasten her gown. 'I doubt the world is yet ready for such a philosophy.'

'I have thought of that. So perhaps you are right, after all, and I only know how to fight, now, and so I wish to continue fighting. Cartarette . . .' He caught her hands. 'You have fought too long. I would not have you involved in this business.'

'I am your woman.'

'Hardly by choice. Nor do I expect you to defend a black cause. If you would like to remain on board this ship, and take passage to England, I will make sure you are forever wealthy, and respected.' He smiled. 'I may even be able to join you, one day, supposing you wish it.'

'I am your woman,' she said again. 'No doubt I too would be bored to cease fighting. I will stay with you.'

'And support me?'

'Of course.'

'Whether or not you agree with me?' 'Of course,' she said again. 'And will you be happy?'

She gazed at him for some seconds, then gently freed her hands. 'I was made the slave of a man I hated, and whom I came to . . .' her tongue touched her lips thoughtfully, 'to respect. Now it seems that man no longer exists. So now I belong to, and am asked to marry, a stranger. You must give me time to get to know this new man.'

'And when you do get to know him?'

'Then I will know whether or not I am happy, Mr Hilton.'

'My word,' Reynolds said. 'What a to-do. What a to-do, eh?'

He leaned across his desk, frowning. 'Richard Hilton, back from the dead? I cannot believe it.'

Dick sighed. Twenty years had passed since the first time he had sat in this chair—it could very well be the same chair—and nothing had changed at all. The harbour had not changed; there were fewer ships than usual riding to anchor, but the bending palm trees on Los Palisadoes, the rise of mountains behind the town, were the same. The waterfront had not changed, unless the docks had become even more rickety; there had been the same crowd of touts, white and black, to greet Cartarette and himself and the children, as they had stepped ashore. Harbour Street had not changed; the brown paint still peeled from the walls, dust still gathered in the corners of the verandahs, dogs and poultry still scratched in the alleys. And Reynolds had not changed, save perhaps to become even more shrivelled and precise in appearance.

Only one aspect of the situation had changed. The man who now claimed to be Richard Hilton.

'You remember nothing about me?'

Reynolds leaned back, looked at Cartarette, then at Morrison. 'Well, sir, yours is an unusual face, if I may say so. One a man would remember.'

'It is the result of an accident,' Dick said, patiently.

'And he is Mr Richard, Mr Reynolds,' Morrison said. 'Why, he can remember events on the voyage out here, like if they was yesterday.'

'Richard Hilton,' Reynolds said, and suddenly beamed. 'If you knew, sir, how I have dreamed of your return, how I have longed for your return.' He rose, came round the desk, seized Dick's hands. 'Oh, happy, happy, day.' Then his face fell as if someone had jerked a string to take the pleasure away. 'I have sent my boy along to Mr Tony Hilton, to request him to visit me here . . .'

'You have sent to Hilltop?'

'Why, no, sir. This day, Mr Hilton happens to be in town . . . why that must be him now.' Booted feet clattered on the outside staircase. Dick stood up, turning to face the door. Cartarette also turned, still seated, her face seeming to close with tension.

The door opened. 'Reynolds? What farce is this?'

Reynolds mopped his brow. 'No farce, Mr Hilton. Why here is your brother, returned from the grave.'

Tony had not put on his coat, and was bareheaded. He stood in front of the doorway and gazed at Dick for some seconds. Then he burst into laughter.

'That? Is my brother? I have never credited you with so much humour, Reynolds.'

'Why, sir . . .' Reynolds gave Dick an imploring look.

Dick held out his hand. 'You could at least say welcome.'

'To you, sir? Who are these people?'

Reynolds sat down again, heavily. 'Why, sir . . .'

' 'Tis Mr Richard, all right, Mr Hilton, sir,' Morrison said.

'And this is my wife, Cartarette,' Dick said. 'My brother, Tony Hilton.'

Cartarette held out her hand. 'Indeed sir, I am so happy to make your acquaintance. To gain some idea of what my husband may once have looked like.'

Tony looked from the woman to the man, frowning. 'The joke grows tiresome. Once looked like, you say? That monster?'

'But it is Mr Richard, sir,' Morrison insisted again. 'Why, Mr Hilton, he can remember all the events of that voyage from England, back in 1810. Mistress Lanken, the duel . . . everything.'

Tony gave him a glance. 'Indeed? Do you still drink, Morrison? There is rum on your breath now. How much did this fellow vouchsafe, and how much did you tell him, in your drunken gibbering?'

'Why, sir . . .' Morrison protested. But he took a step backwards at the same time.

'Your own brother, Mr Hilton,' Reynolds said. 'I'd have thought you'd recognize your own brother, Mr Hilton. His voice . . .'

'Is like the croak of a corpse,' Tony declared, and came closer, carelessly brushing against Cartarette to dislodge her hat. 'I do not know your little game, sir. But I will tell you this. I am Anthony Hilton. The Hilton, of Hilltop. I had a brother once, who died at sea, may God rest his soul. I loved him dearly sir, and will not have him used as a plaything in some attempt at fraud. I tell you this, sir. I will give you twenty-four hours to leave Jamaica, and take your woman with you, or by God I will have you thrown into gaol.'

All of Dick's bubbling anger seemed to well up through his chest to explode in his brain. His two hands, as powerful as steel claws from his long years of campaigning, came up together, to seize the front of Tony's shirt and half lift him from the floor as he brought him close.

Tony gasped in amazement, and for the moment, sheer fright.

'Mr Hilton,' protested Reynolds. It was impossible to decide whom he was addressing.

Morrison clapped his hands in delight. But Cartarette merely moved herself out of the way. She knew no other Richard Hilton.

'You . . . you . . .' Tony gasped, attempting to swing his own fists, but finding himself unable to move, as Dick held him close.

'You, listen to me,' Dick said. 'And look at me, very carefully. My face is changed. My voice has changed. But my eyes have not changed. Look carefully, brother, and you will recognize me.'

'You . . .' Tony continued to struggle to free himself, but from the expression on his face it was clear that he was realizing he had no chance against his strength.

'And then you will understand, brother,' Dick said, still speaking quietly, 'that it is you would practise fraud, and you who will likely wind up in gaol. Think about that.'

He released the shirt front so suddenly that Tony lost his balance, and almost fell over. He braced himself on the desk.

Dick wiped his hands on his kerchief. 'So, I will inform you, brother, that I propose to take up residence on Hilltop, and within the week. I will give you that long to prepare yourself.'

Tony pulled his clothes straight, glanced at Cartarette. His face glowed with anger.

'By God, sir,' he said. 'Did I suppose you to be even half of a gentleman, I'd call you out, sir. Then we'd have you singing a different tune.'

'One week,' Dick repeated.

Tony looked at Reynolds. 'And you, sir, beware you do not yourself fall victim to fraud. My brother? Dick Hilton? You remember Dick Hilton, Reynolds. Can you really suppose this . . . this bully has anything in common with so gentle a soul?' He backed to the door, opened it. 'Be sure the law will attend to you, sir. Be sure of it.' He closed the door and ran down the stairs.

The horse wheezed to a halt before the steps. It had been galloped too far. Foam settled around its lips, and its legs quivered; it could barely stand.

The grooms held the bridle, and exchanged glances. But the master was a law unto himself, and he looked in scarce better shape than the horse.

Tony Hilton stamped up the steps, sat in one of the cane chairs on the verandah. 'Boscawen,' he bawled. 'Boscawen. Bring me a drink. Quickly, man.'

'Yes, sir, Mr Hilton. Sangaree?'

'Rum.' Tony leaned back, looked out across the plantation, down at the town and the slave village, at the factory and the trembling cane stalks. His plantation. It was his. He had made it what it was.

Boscawen set the tray with the bottle and the glasses beside him, straightened in a hurry as Ellen swept through the front door. She wore pale green as usual, a sun bonnet, and carried a parasol.

'Tony? You're back early.'

He frowned at her, drank, frowned some more. 'Where are you going?'

'For a walk. I walk most afternoons, when it gets cool.' Her turn to frown. 'Are you all right? You look as if you've seen a ghost.'

His head jerked. 'A ghost? My God.' He drank some more. His hand shook, and some of the liquid dribbled down his chin.

Ellen's frown deepened. She laid her parasol on the table, sat in the chair next to his. 'You've quarrelled with Judith?'

'Oh, be sensible.' He refilled his glass.

'You are the one who will soon be insensible. Whatever is the matter?'

He glanced at her, peered into the glass. 'We must leave.' He drank, and made an attempt to square his shoulders. 'Aye. There is a ship in the harbour. We must leave. You'll pack, and we'll go into town tonight.'

'Are you utterly mad?' Ellen inquired, her voice assuming that brittle texture he knew, and feared, so well.

'Suppose . . .' He licked his lips. 'Suppose I told you I had seen a ghost?'

'I would repeat, you have gone mad. Or that is not your first bottle.'

'But this ghost,' Tony went on, half to himself, 'fives and breathes and speaks. And acts. Dick.' Ellen's frown returned. 'Whatever are you talking about?' 'Dick. He is in Kingston. I think.'

'Dick? Dick is dead. You told me he was dead. He was drowned.'

'He is in Kingston, I tell you.' 'You saw him?'

'I . . .' He drank some more rum. 'I think so.' She gazed at him for some moments, then got up. 'You had best come with me.' 'Where?'

'Somewhere that scoundrel Boscawen cannot overhear us.' She walked down the steps, waited.

Tony finished his glass, looked at the bottle reluctantly, then rose and followed her. She walked in front of him, away from the house, into the cemetery. Here they would see anyone

approaching them long before they could be heard. 'Now try,' she said, 'to talk some sense.' 'Reynolds sent for me.' 'Reynolds sent for you!’

'Well . . .' Tony flushed. 'He sent a message that the matter was urgent. So I went to his office, and this . . . this man was there.'

'This man? Just now you said it was Dick.' 'Well... he claimed to be Dick.'

'Oh, for God's sake,' she cried, at last revealing her own anxiety. 'Don't you know your own brother?'

'Ah,' he said. 'There's the point. This man has had some sort of an accident. You really should see him. His face is quite disfigured. Hideous.'

'Dick's face?' she asked in a lower tone.

'It could be anyone's face.'

'He spoke to you?'

Tony shrugged. 'It could be anyone's voice.'

'Oh, you really are a fool,' she declared. 'Why did you not just have the scoundrel arrested?'

'Well, he remembers things ... he had Morrison with him, and a woman. A Frenchwoman, who seems to be his wife.'

'His wife?' Ellen inquired, her voice becoming softer still.

'Aye. A pretty woman. Well, striking more than pretty. Aye. But the fact is, Morrison thinks he is Dick.'

'And who,' Ellen asked, with great patience, 'is Morrison?'

'Oh, I'd forgotten ... the captain of the Green Knight. The ship which brought us out here.'

'Twenty years ago?'

'Aye. There is the point. This man remembers much of what happened on that voyage.'

'He remembers the duel, I have no doubt at all,' Ellen said. 'And the name of the woman involved. Joan Lanken. Am I not right?'

'Indeed you are. But. . .'

'I remember them too, you see. And I was not there. But you have told me about it. Once. I think.' 'That thought occurred to me also,' Tony said, 'But. . .' 'Where did this man come from?' 'Well, from Haiti.' 'Haiti?' she cried. 'Cap Haitien, in point of fact.' 'A white man?'

'Well, it seems he has been fighting with the blacks. Oh, he is a right soldier of fortune. Big, and strong, and violent of temper. His manners are as terrible as his looks.'

'And you suppose such a man to be Dick?'

'Aye, well, it is incredible. But yet, the ship was supposed to go down off Haiti.'

'And this proves it did. It may even prove that Dick reached the shore, and may have lived for some time. And no doubt confided much of his past to this fellow. Thus he has waited this long to begin his charade. For as he has begun his charade, you may be sure that Dick is certainly dead.'

'But,' Tony said again.

'And you'd run away from a fraud,' she said scornfully. 'Are you so afraid of your own deception? I supposed I had married a man, not a coward. Or are you afraid of the man himself? Big, you say. Terrible. Strong. And you the most feared duellist in all Jamaica. You must be suffering from the heat. Have the man arrested, and put an end to it.'

Tony chewed his lip. He walked to Robert Hilton's grave, stood above it, looking at the headstone, fists opening and shutting.

Ellen watched him for some moments. 'Or is there something you haven't told me?'

Tony inflated his lungs, let them collapse again. It could hardly be called a sigh; more it was a gesture of despair. 'He assaulted me,' he muttered.

'Assaulted you? This creature dared lay a finger on you? You broke his head, I hope.'

'Just for a moment,' Tony said. 'He held me close. He made me stare into his eyes. My God, Ellen. Those eyes. They belonged to Dick. I swear it. The man had Dick's eyes.'

The dining room of the Park Hotel in Kingston was a quiet place. John Mortlake liked it so. For too long the establishment had been little better than a brothel, but since the end of the war he had worked hard on improving his reputation along with its cuisine and decor. The decor remained a trifle garish; Mr Mortlake had a weakness for red, on walls and ceiling, to which he added gold-coloured curtains. But the waitresses, slave girls dressed in white and with red sashes and caps, were carefully taught to move as silently as their bare feet would permit, and woe betide any young woman who rattled a cup or clattered a fork.

Conversation, too, was encouraged in whispers. Mr Mortlake himself sat at a table in the corner of the room, and was liable to gaze with a forbidding frown at anyone who raised his or her voice so that it could be heard at even the next table. The Park Hotel's reputation had improved. Not only was it the place in town to stay—the number of the rooms having been doubled by the addition of an annexe—but it had also become a place to dine. And on a Saturday night it was invariably full, every table displaying a couple in evening gown and dark broadcloth sack coat, regardless of the heat, and laden with the best food and the best wine Kingston could provide, while in the corner an orchestra, consisting mainly of fiddles, scraped away to make each conversation even more private. Saturday night was an occasion to gladden any hotelier's heart, especially as on this most special night in the week Mr Mortlake felt entirely justified in doubling his prices.

Yet he was not a happy man, this Saturday night. He occupied his usual place in the corner, and looked across the tables and his customers, watched his girls scurrying about their duties, and attempted to listen to as little of the poorly played Mozart as possible. And watched the couple on the far side of the room, aware that every other person in the room was doing the same, equally surreptitiously, but with equal interest.

He had no reason to complain about them, certainly. The man might be as disfigured as a nightmare, but his clothes were good, and he had paid for his room, as he would pay for his dinner, in gold coin. And he was a quiet-spoken, reserved fellow. The woman was quite charming, her colouring a delight to the eye as the candlelight sparkled in her titian hair, her gown, in royal blue silk, the most expensive in the room. She wore no jewellery, not even a wedding ring, but that was her choice, surely her choice. No one could doubt she could afford it if she wished. Her children were noisy, but by eight o'clock on a Saturday night were already in bed.

Looked at in a purely commercial sense, they were the most promising customers the Park Hotel had entertained for some time. But Mr Mortlake worried. Rumours were sweeping the town. They had certainly reached the ears of all of his other guests. As they had reached him. He did not know whether to believe them or not. He only knew, as he dipped his spoon into the soft green flesh of his avocado pear, the most delicate and digestible of vegetables, that his stomach seemed filled with a leaden sense of foreboding.

What did they discuss? For the first time in his life he wished to overhear a customer's conversation. The man smiled, and the woman smiled in return. When she smiled she was beautiful. When he smiled he was the most terrible thing Mortlake had ever seen. But not, apparently, to his wife. And they seemed happy. And confident. Yet they could not be unaware of the rumours, having started them.

He scraped the last of his avocado, raised his head with the spoon, and swallowed before the food actually reached his mouth. The lead in his stomach redoubled its weight, so that he felt quite incapable of rising.

He looked through the opened doors of the dining salon into the hotel lobby, and thus could see anyone who entered the hotel from the street. As Mr and Mrs Anthony Hilton had just done. And as now one, and then another, of his guests, had also just noticed. Heads were beginning to turn, and the whisper of conversation was beginning to become a murmur, rising above even the scrape of the fiddle bows.

Mr and Mrs Hilton had dined elsewhere, it seemed. Mrs Hilton wore a crimson gown beneath a white cape; her hair was up, and there were diamonds at her throat and hanging from her ears. Mr Hilton wore black. Nor were they alone. Two other couples entered the lobby behind them, both also planters, the Treslings of Orange Lodge, and the Evans of Green Acre. They also wore evening dress.

Mortlake put down his spoon, hastily rose to his feet. 'Play,' he growled, as he passed the orchestra. 'Play, damn it.'

The fiddles recommenced their wail. Mortlake reached the doorway. 'Mrs Hilton,' he said. 'What an honour. Mr Hilton, welcome, sir, welcome. Harvey. Harvey. Prepare a table for Mr Hilton and his guests. Why, Mrs Tresling, how good to see you. Mr Tresling, sir, you are looking well. Mrs Evans . . .'

‘I would see the monster,' Ellen Hilton said, speaking in her loudest voice.

'Eh?' Mortlake realized to his horror that the fiddles had again stopped.

Gwynneth Evans gave a high pitched giggle. 'We've come especially, Mortlake. To see the monster.'

'The monster,' Grace Tresling cried. 'The monster.'

Mortlake scrabbled for his handkerchief. Three of the leading planters' wives in all Jamaica, and every one drunk. Well, at least, two were drunk. He did not feel Ellen Hilton was anything less than deadly sober.

'It will be entertainment,' she declared, and swept into the dining room, her husband at her elbow, her friends spreading out to form a flanking movement. The other diners stared at her. Mortlake dared not look across the room, but even from the corner of his eye he observed that the man with the disfigured face had risen.

'My God.' Ellen Hilton pointed, her fan forming an extension of her fingers. 'It is a monster.'

'A monster, a monster,' chanted Gwynneth Evans.

'Gad,' John Tresling remarked. 'What a horrible looking Mow.'

Ellen crossed the room, her skirts swinging, causing the other diners hastily to pull their chairs closer to their tables. One couple got up and left the room. Mortlake wished he could do the same.

'Ellen,' Dick said. 'My God, Ellen Taggart. How simply splendid to see you. Why did not someone tell me you were still in Jamaica?'

'My God,' Ellen said, coming to a halt before them. 'It is a monster.' She glanced at Cartarette. 'Are you the creature's minder?'

Cartarette watched Dick.

'Tony?' he asked. 'What farce is this? When did Ellen return?'

'I'll trouble you to mind your tongue, fellow,' Tony said, also speaking very loudly. 'You are addressing Mistress Hilton, of Hilltop.'

Dick gazed at Ellen for a moment, and then could not stop himself laughing. Once, he remembered, he had feared she would look like her mother, as time went by. He had been pessimistic. Her face had hardened, and become more gaunt, her teeth were prominent. But her wealth, her arrogance, shrouded her in splendour.

'Mistress Hilton, of Hilltop? Well, well. So you achieved your ambition after all. And I must say, my dear Ellen, the position does suit you. What a pity you will have to give it up.'

The forced humour had left her face. The pink spots he remembered so well were gathering in her cheeks. And now she swung her hand.

But he caught her wrist without difficulty. The force of her blow carried her onwards, so that she half fell against him.

'Mr Hilton,' she cried. 'The beast is assaulting me.'

The hubbub became uproar. Women screamed, men scrambled to their feet with a scraping of chairs and a scattering of crystal and crockery. Mr Mortlake stood in the doorway and tore his hair.

'Scoundrel,' Tony bawled, starting forward, supported by Evans and Tresling. 'Wretch, I'll have you whipped, by God.

I'll. . .' He gave a gasp and fell to his hands and knees, Cartarette having allowed one of her feet to creep out from under the table and catch his ankle. ^‘By God, madame,' he spluttered.

Dick had by now completely turned Ellen round, so that her back was to him, while he retained his grip on her wrist.

'I see you, at the least, have not changed at all, Ellen,' he said. 'How is your dear mother?'

'You . . . you . . .' She wriggled and tried to kick backwards, and only succeeded in dislodging her hair, which fell forwards down her face, fluttering as she tried to breathe.

'Why, Ellen,' Gwynneth Evans remarked. 'You are coming undone.'

Tony held on to the table to pull himself to his feet. Cartarette prudently rose as well, backing against the wall.

'John,' Tony bawled, waving at Trcsling, who had stopped and seemed uncertain what next to do. 'Arrest that man.'

'Who, me?'

'You are Chief Custo,' Tony bawled. 'Arrest him. Throw him in gaol.'

'On what charge, would you say?'

'Why, common assault. Look at the way he is manhandling my wife.'

'You may have her back,' Dick said, giving Ellen a gentle push which sent her into the arms of her husband.

'You must call him out,' Evans said. 'Oh, yes. He has insulted you, Tony.'

Tony gazed into his brother's eyes. 'Call him out? Call that . . . that monstrosity out? I fight with gentlemen, Evans. Not renegade nigger lovers.'

'And perhaps not with your brother,' Cartarette said, speaking for the first time.

Tony glared at her, then turned back to his friend. By now the other diners had retreated to the far side of the room, where they clustered around Mortlake as if protecting him, or seeking his protection themselves.

'Arrest him,' he said again. 'I'll prefer the charges. Fraud. Perjury. Oh, I'll prefer the charges.'

Tresling took an uncertain step forward.

Tf you come one step closer without a warrant,' Dick said, speaking quietly, 'I shall break your head.'

'My word,' Tresling said. 'My word.'

'Oh, Ellen,' Gwynneth whispered, loudly. 'You do look a mess.'

'Am I to take it,' Dick remarked, 'that you intend to persist in denying that I am Richard Hilton, that you intend to attempt to hold on to your possession of Hilltop, illegally?'

'Why, you . . .' Tony's face was dark with blood.

Ellen finally gave up trying to blow her hair away and used her hands, scraping it to either side of her face. 'We intend to charge you with attempted fraud, with perjury, and with assault,' she said, also keeping her voice under control. 'We are going to see that you go to prison for the rest of your life. Mr Tresling will obtain a warrant in the morning.'

Dick gave her a slight bow. 'And tomorrow morning, Mr Hilton, I shall file formal claim to Hilltop and Green Grove, as Richard Hilton. I look forward to seeing you ladies and gentlemen again, in court.'

15

The Witness

'His Excellency will see you now, Mr ... ah, Hilton.' The secretary was a small, precise man, with a pince-nez. 'And . . . ah, Mistress Hilton, of course.'

Dick rose, gave his arm to Cartarette. He had abandoned his uniform in favour of a severe black broadcloth coat over white buckskin breeches, to look the perfect picture of a planter. As Cartarette, in dark blue, was also most soberly dressed. There could be no questioning her utter support, her utter loyalty. As if he had ever questioned that.

But it was amazing to consider that this was the first time he had ever set foot in Government House since leaving his card, twenty years before.

The double doors were opened, the long sweep of the Governor's office stretched in front of them; at the rear french windows led to the garden, an expanse of lawn. It was a large, pleasant, cool room. But the floor needed polish as the walls needed paint.

The Earl of Belmore stood behind his desk. He looked tired, and his heavy features had dissolved into jowls. He wore a black band on his arm, as the flag on the staff beyond his window drooped at half mast, as some of the shops on Harbour Street were draped in black crepe. But the news of the King's death had had little impact on Jamaica; George IV had not been the most popular of men. People hoped for more from his brother, who at least had a personal acquaintance with the West Indies.

'Mr Hilton,' he said. 'Madame. You would prefer me to use Hilton?'

'It is my name, your Excellency.'

'Of course. Of course.' Belmore peered at Dick's features. 'Of course,' he said a third time. 'Please be seated. Lomas. Chairs.'

The secretary had already placed two straight chairs before the desk; now he held one for Cartarette.

The earl lowered himself, slowly. His hand flapped on the desk. 'A warrant, for your arrest.'

'I understood there was to be one, your Excellency.'

The earl sighed. His hand flapped on another piece of parchment. 'An affidavit, attested by Mr Reynolds, claiming that you are Richard Hilton, the rightful owner of Hilltop. The warrant alleges intent to defraud, conspiracy, assault. To prove your innocence of that charge, you will have to prove the validity of the affidavit.'

'I intend to do so, your Excellency.'

'Exactly. There have been representations. By the planters, to ignore the affidavit until the criminal charges have been proven.'

Dick waited. He would not have been invited here had the Governor intended to take notice of the planters.

'That of course, would be a grave injustice, if you are Richard Hilton,' Belmore said. 'So I will hold the warrant, for the time being. Or perhaps I should say, I am inclined to do so.' He sighed again, and looked at Cartarette. His features relaxed just a little before once more tightening. 'If I am persuaded.'

'By my proof?'

The Governor's head turned, slowly, back towards Dick. 'That in a moment. Are you familiar with events in Jamaica? Present events?'

'I am rapidly becoming so.'

'Matters are rushing to a crisis,' Belmore said. 'Between Great Britain and the planters here. Depending upon what happens in the general election in England, now King William is on the throne, the crisis may already be upon us. There is a spirit of rebellion abroad. And the planters' leader is Hilton of Hilltop.'

'So I have heard.'

'I never knew Richard Hilton,' Belmore said, half to himself. 'I have heard he became involved in scandal, and social ostracism, almost immediately upon his arrival in Jamaica. But I have also heard his reputation, as a man who looked after his people, brooked no unnecessary ill-treatment. I have heard that he dismissed his entire bookkeeping staff for brutality, within twenty-four hours of his arrival on Hilltop.'

'That is incorrect, your Excellency. The bookkeeping staff left Hilltop because of that very scandal you have just mentioned.'

The Governor gazed at him for some seconds. 'Do you know,' he said at last, 'I am beginning to believe in you, Mr Hilton.' He picked up the warrant, folded it into two halves, and then tore it across, dropping the pieces daintily into the wastepaper basket beside his desk. 'I am assuming you have not changed your point of view.'

'I have not, your Excellency.'

'Yet you will understand my personal belief in your ability to recall one or two things which Richard Hilton may be expected to remember will not win you your suit. When I sit in judgment, I must be entirely impartial. Have you any plan of offence, or defence for that matter?'

'I have written to my mother,' Dick said.

'A good beginning. She knows your handwriting, no doubt?'

'Unfortunately, that too has changed,' Dick said. 'Slightly, but enough to remove the difference between the real thing and a skilful forgery. At least according to Mr Reynolds.'

'Hm,' said the Governor. 'Hm.'

‘I must also tell you that this is the first letter I have written my mother for sixteen years.' 'Why?'

'Well. . .' Dick bit his lip. 'I was very ill, following my shipwreck, and when I recovered my senses, it was to discover myself as you see me now. I doubt my own mother would have recognized me then. And I was myself upset by my appearance. I put off writing to my family, until I felt more familiar with my new self, but then I became enrolled as an officer in Christophe's army, and in the midst of that brutal war I could no longer bring myself to believe in Richard Hilton, or that my mother would wish to recognize me.'

'Hm,' the Governor said again. And looked at Cartarette. 'But you know the truth, madame?'

She flushed. 'I know nothing that will be of value to a court, your Excellency. I met my husband as Matthew Warner. But I believe in the truth of what he says, as I know the man.'

'As you say, hardly proof,' the Governor mused. 'What do you hope of your mother, Mr Hilton?'

'That she will write back and acknowledge me,' Dick said. 'I have fisted in my letter certain events which happened in my youth, which she should remember.'

The Governor sighed. 'I should say that in the application for your arrest as a fraud, Mr Hilton, your . . . ah . . . brother dismisses your claim to remember certain events on board the Green Knight twenty years ago, as being possibly told to you by the real Richard Hilton, his words, before his decease. The same stricture could be made with regard to boyhood incidents. Nonetheless, I agree that acknowledgement by Mistress Hilton of you as her son, would be of the greatest value to your case. Obviously we must put back the court hearing until such word is received. And just as obviously your opponents will wish it held as soon as possible. You may leave that in my charge. It is a civil case, and these matters always take a great deal of time. However, I do feel that you would be well to attempt to obtain some additional proof of your identity.'

Dick frowned at him. Then slapped his hand on the desk. 'There are a great many people who knew me when I lived here sixteen years ago. My manager, James Hardy . . .'

'Hm,' said the Governor. 'Hardy is very much an adherent of his employer, the Hilton. He is indeed a rabid anti-Abolitionist.'

'Well, then, my slaves. What of Joshua Merriman, my field manager?'

'Ah. When I realized that this case was coming before me, I looked up the files on that event. Joshua Merriman ran away from Hilltop, about a year after Richard Hilton's disappearance. Frankly, there were disquieting suggestions about the whole affair. As you say, Richard Hilton had employed him as a field manager, whereas Anthony Hilton promptly demoted him to being a field slave, and I believe inflicted a merciless flogging as well. Alas, whatever the truth of the matter, Merriman certainly ran away, and was never heard of again. Nor did he seek refuge in the Cockpit Country, for we had the matter investigated. I am afraid he very likely died, from exposure or starvation.'

'My God,' Dick said. 'Josh? He was my truest friend.'

'An honourable sentiment, Mr Hilton. But one which cannot help your case.'

'Mr Boscawen?'

'Anthony Hilton's butler? I would remind you that he has been the butler on Hilltop for the last sixteen years, at the least. What does that suggest to you?'

'I would not have expected my brother to do less than reinforce his position to the utmost.'

'In every way,' the Governor pointed out. 'Marrying your erstwhile fiancee, for example. Were Ellen Hilton to identify you, and who better? You must have been . . . ah . . . intimate with her during your betrothal, so presumably she would be capable of identifying you. But she has added her denunciation to that of your brother.'

'For an obvious reason,' Dick said. 'As she has tied her fortune to his.'

'Oh, quite,' said the Governor. 'Yet the fact is there.'

'You spoke of Harriet Gale,' Cartarette said, quietly.

'My God,' Dick cried. 'Fool that I am. Harriet Gale. She will certainly be able to identify me.'

'Harriet Gale?' The Governor frowned. 'Mistress Gale died, three years ago.'

'Died? She was not very old.'

'She drank, Mr Hilton. As you no doubt remember. And she lived a most scandalous life, as you also no doubt recall. My apologies, Mistress Hilton. But you seem to be aware of the woman's part in your husband's life.' Again the heavy sigh. 'The situation is not so easy as might be supposed. But at least now you know the odds which oppose you. Be sure you take steps to counter them, Air Hilton. I have torn up your warrant, which will not please the plantocracy. Yet must they abide by my decision, until I have been proved to have erred in my judgement. They cannot harm me. But they will certainly wish to harm you. Your suit against your brother will be to all intents and purposes a criminal trial, and should you fail to make good your claim in law, there will be another warrant which I will not be able to destroy, and concerning which the evidence will have already been heard, and the judgement already given, at least as regards any jury you may discover in this island. Bear that in mind, for God's sake, Air Hilton.' He rose. 'I bid you good day. Madame, this has been a very great pleasure. I would hope when next we meet it may be in happier circumstances.'

'Do you suppose,' Dick mused, 'that the good Governor was attempting to hint that it would be best for me to drop my case, and leave Jamaica?'

They walked down the street, arm in arm, Cartarette's right hand holding her parasol. And were the principal source of interest in Kingston, clearly. Passers-by gave them a hasty nod, and then stopped to look back, curtains were surreptitiously moved aside to permit them to be overlooked from the houses. The fracas in the Park Hotel was common knowledge by now.

'He was certainly making sure you understood at once the dangers and difficulties of your position.' Cartarette ignored the searching glances, the stifled whispers which swirled around her, proceeded on her way with a serene determination. In his more confident moments he presumed that she possessed a serene trust in her husband. But was she happy? She loved him physically, with a desperation which precluded doubt. But was that mere witchcraft, Gislane's powers stretching out from beyond the grave to suggest to her that only his touch, his body could ever drive her to ecstasy? Or even worse, was it merely, as he was the only man she had ever known, that she was by now used to him?

But for the rest, did she hate him?

'I am aware of them,' he said. They had reached the Park Hotel, and Harvey the waiter was opening the door for them. 'What will you do, if I fail, and am sent to prison?'

'Visit you,' she said. 'But you will not fail. Merriman has disappeared, no doubt dead. Your old mistress has drunk herself to death. Your domestics have been suborned. Your mother may not reply. But you lived in Jamaica for four years, Mr Hilton. Surely there is someone who can make a positive identification of you, who would know you even wearing a mask and disguising your voice, because that is all it amounts to.'

'My God,' he said. 'Of course. Judith.'

'Judith?'

'Judith Gale. Harriet's daughter. She was only fourteen when I left Jamaica, but. . .'

'But she knew you as well as her mother?'

He flushed. 'She lived in my house for four years, and . . . she will know me. Presuming she is still in Jamaica. Will you excuse me?'

She inclined her head. 'I will expect you for luncheon, Mr Hilton. And good fortune.'

He squeezed her hand, hurried round the corner to Harbour Street. Harriet dead. His last memory of her was a bitter one, of a naked woman rising from her bed in angry contempt. Yet had she made him happy, for four years. Had she been fortunate enough to know Christophe's general instead of Robert Hilton's heir—but Christophe's general would have known her, immediately, for what she really was.

And Josh. He had not properly considered Josh, not properly considered his grief, and his guilt. Because Josh would have died from loyalty to him. No question about that.

And now Judith. Why, Judith would be ... past thirty certainly. He wondered what she looked like, and felt his heart beat pleasantly at the thought; she had been a quite lovely child. Whom he had raped. His stride slowed. How long ago that seemed. But would it be long ago to her? It would have changed her entire life. She would hate him, now, as she must have hated him then.

But she was his only hope.

He climbed the stairs to the lawyer's office. 'Reynolds?' He pushed open the door.

The clerk sprang to his feet. 'Mr Reynolds has a client, sir.'

'I will not take a moment of his time.' Dick pushed open the inner door. 'My apologies, Reynolds. The matter is urgent.'

Reynolds stood up. 'Really, Mr . . . ah . . . Hilton, you cannot burst in on a man so.' He flushed. 'You'll not have met Mr Kendrick.'

Dick gazed at the short, stout planter in delight.

'Toby Kendrick, as I live and breathe.' He thrust out his hand. 'How are you?'

Kendrick ignored the hand. 'I am very well, sir. But I have not had the pleasure of meeting you.'