'Well?' Haggard found he was interested despite himself.
'A week later, he was dead.'
'Dead? She poisoned him? Knifed him?'
'He just took to his bed, Mr. Haggard. Took to his bunk and died.'
'Coincidence.' 'Witchcraft, Mr. Haggard.'
'You'll get no court to convict her of that, Biddies. This is 1780, not 1680.'
'I've an entire crew will swear to it, Mr. Haggard. So will those eleven over there.'
Haggard watched the girl. Despite her determination, her legs would no longer support her. Slowly her knees gave way and she sank into a bundle on the ground. Dust eddied about her shoulders. Haggard walked towards her, slowly. Are you a bad man, John Haggard? Are you everything they say of you?
He stood before her, but she did not seem to notice. Or had she noticed? Her head started to move, then slumped again. Haggard put out his riding crop, tucked the end of the bone handle under her chin, raised her head. Her eyes looked into his. They were pale blue, like his own.
'What's she called?' He walked back to Biddies.
'Emma, Mr. Haggard. Emma Dearborn is what her sheet says.'
'Condemned for stealing from her mistress. You'll not convict her of more than that in Barbados. Biddies.'
'Well, sir, I've a crew . . .'
'You've a magistrate standing here, Biddies. You may take my word for it. But you can make her over to me.'
Oh, indeed, you are a bad man, John Haggard. Those who criticise you, who hate you, do not know the half of it. But how his heart swelled in tune with his penis at the sight of so much feminine beauty, sitting there, waiting to be destroyed.
To you, Mr. Haggard?'
Ten pounds, is it? I'll give you twenty.'
Biddies frowned, and pulled his nose. 'I'm not sure I understand you, Mr. Haggard.'
'She'll wish she could hang, Biddies. Twenty pounds.'
The girl knew they were discussing her even if she could not hear what they were saying. She glanced from one to the other of the men, and a frown was gathering between her eyes.
Twenty pounds,' Biddies murmured. Of which ten would be for his pocket. 'She's yours, Mr. Haggard.'
Haggard nodded, looked into the throng, snapped his fingers. 'You. You belong to Mr. Crippen?'
The big black man hastily touched his forehead. ‘I does, Mr. Haggard, suh.'
Tell him I want the hire of a kittareen. Now. He'll have it back this afternoon.'
'Yes, suh, Mr. Haggard.' The Negro put down his bale of cloth and hurried up Broad Street.
'I thank you. Biddies. Remember, tear up her sheet. She's guilty of murder.'
'Oh, aye, Mr. Haggard.' But Biddies looked worried. 'You'll be careful, Mr. Haggard. Tom just took to his bunk and died.' 'I'll remember that,' Haggard said. 'Stand up. Emma.' The girl gazed at him.
'Stand up,' Haggard said. 'Or you'll be dragged,'
She seemed to consider the threat, then she stood up.
'Walk in front of me,' Haggard said. 'Over there,' He pointed with his crop at the more open space of Broad Street, where the kittareen—a small two-wheeled vehicle, with two seats, beside each other, and a single horse—was already waiting.
Emma Dearborn walked through the crowd. They parted before her, both because they saw Haggard behind her, but also, he thought, because a second glance made them wish to look a third time.
'Are you a lord?' she asked. Haggard was surprised. Her voice was low, with just a trace of a north country accent.
‘I’m better than a lord.' he said. ‘I’m John Haggard. Get up.' ‘I’m to ride beside you?'
Haggard nodded. The girl grasped the side of the equipage, put up one leg. Haggard watched the skirt fall away, watched the muscles ripple in the thigh, watched the veins suddenly stand out on her neck, realised that she was desperately weak with cramp and hunger. He gripped her thighs, lifted her effortlessly from the ground. Her head turned, sharply, then looked away again, and she sat down. Haggard tied the mare's reins to the back of the kittareen, sat down himself, nodded to the Negro who held the bridle. The whip flicked, and the equipage bumped up the street towards the green hills beyond.
Haggard looked at the girl. She gazed around her with interest, the more so as windows were opening to allow people, mainly other women, to stare at her. She made several attempts to straighten her gown, to conceal her legs. There was breeding locked away in there. Haggard realised. But it was not a subject to be pursued. She was there to amuse him, to remove the canker gnawing at his mind. He could not permit her to exist, as a person.
The houses thinned, and they were in the open air. Ahead of them lay the sea of waving cane which was the wealth of the island,
'Captain said I'd be hanged,' Emma said. 'I changed his mind for him." Haggard said. They exchanged quick glances, and she looked away again. Haggard realised his entire body was a swollen mass of desire; he could not recall being in such a state before in his life, even on his wedding night. But it was almost a pleasure to feel that way, to feel the passion growing, to know that it was going to be assuaged, the very moment he was ready.
'Sugar cane,' she said. They told me about sugar cane.' She looked up at the sun; it was nearly noon, and she wore no hat. But already Haggard's was in sight. Emma stared around her in wonderment, as they rumbled down the drive, as the mastiffs came out to bark and frolic, as the black men hurried forward to hold the reins, and as she slowly took in the size of the Great House rising above them.
'Mr. John.' James Middlesex hurried down the steps. 'Oh, Mr. John, but we is too glad to have you back.' There were tears in his eyes.
'It's good to be back,' Haggard said, and squeezed the black man's hand. 'Where is Annie Kent?’ 'She there, Mr. John. She there.'
For all the house slaves were gathered on the verandah by the pantry.
'Annie,' Haggard said. This girl needs a bath. And then food. Take her upstairs and get her clean, then allow her to eat with me.'
'Yes, sir. Mr. John.' Annie Kent could size up the situation at a glance. 'You coming, child?'
Emma hesitated, gave Haggard a quick glance, and received a nod. She climbed down, all but fell, then recovered her strength and went up the steps. Haggard got down more slowly, followed. He stood in the hallway, watched the two women disappearing on the gallery above his head, now surrounded by several other upstairs maids. He inhaled. He stood once again in his own house. Had there ever been any doubt? None at all in retrospect.
'Man, Mr. John, this suit finish,' Middlesex observed.
'Burn it,' Haggard said. He did not wish to be reminded of last night in any event. He climbed the stairs, hesitated at the top. He could hear water being emptied into a tin tub, the scurrying of the maids as they ran down the back staircase with empty buckets. He turned to the left, went to the nursery. Amelia sat in a rocking chair, moving slowly to and fro.
'Mr. Haggard, suh.' She hastened to her feet. The boy sleeping, Mr. Haggard. He does be have he breakfast one hour ago, and he sleeping.'
'You didn't tell him where I'd gone?'
'He ain't asking, Mr. Haggard.'
Haggard nodded. He didn't suppose Roger really knew who his father was, or indeed if he had one. He went into his own room, where Henry Suffolk, his valet, waited for him. 'Get rid of all of these, Henry,' he said, as he undressed.
'Yes, sir, Mr. John. Mr. John . . . we is too glad you didn't get hit.'
'So am I, Henry. So am I.' The last of his clothes fell to the floor, and Henry hastily gathered them up, averting his eyes from his master's erection. Now how long was it since Henry had had to do that? And why was he waiting any longer? He was here, she was there . . . but she would be better after she had eaten.
Yet there was no reason not to look. He allowed Henry to wrap him in an undressing robe, left his feel bare, walked along the gallery and opened the door to the spare bedroom where Emma had been taken. The four slave girls who had been scrubbing her hastily stood up. For a moment it seemed Emma did not re
alise what had happened, then she saw Haggard standing in the doorway,-gave a startled half scream, and leapt out of the tub, kneeling on the far side in an attempt to hide herself while her hands closed on her breasts.
Haggard realised that he had done better than he supposed possible. The skin was creamy white, dotted with occasional freckles; the legs were long and slender; the belly was only slightly pouted; the breasts were bigger than he would have dared hope—they overflowed from the small hands attempting to conceal them. While the whole was made utterly entrancing by the wet red hair which seemed to stain her shoulders, by the dark forest at her groin, just visible above the edge of the tub.
He licked his lips. 'Stand up, girl,' he said, 'I would look at you.’
Her own tongue came out, slowly, anxiously. 'You're a man,' she accused.
'You got a queer one here, Mr. John," Annie remarked.
Haggard gazed at her for a moment longer. Could she really be the innocent she pretended? Or even the half lady she pretended? But to think about her would be to lose his own purpose. Remember only that she should be hanging, and dying. She had no existence, save in his mind and his presence. He walked into the room, stood behind her; she would not tum her head. There were only faint marks on her flesh where she had been flogged. 'Give her something to wear and send her to me,' he said, and was surprised to find his voice was thick.
He went down the stairs and on to the verandah, where Middlesex and his army of footmen had already arranged breakfast. Fresh flying fish, fried in butter, slices of ripe green avocado pear, a plate of soft boiled eggs, and lashings of coffee, imported from England at prohibitive cost, but sweetened with Haggard's own sugar. Haggard sat down, watched the girl descending the stairs. She had been dressed in one of the shapeless gowns the house slaves wore, but her hair had been left loose instead of being bound up in a bandanna. It was still wet, and hardly moved as she came outside.
'Sit down,' Haggard said. 'Eat.'
Emma swallowed, and he realised her mouth must have filled with saliva. She sat opposite him, stared at the food.
'Eat,' Haggard said, and nodded to Middlesex, who hastily loaded the girl's plate. Still she stared at the food, and glanced at Haggard, rather like a kitten, he thought, who is being fed by strangers for the first time. She waited until he had taken his first mouthful, before starting herself. Then not all her attempts at self-control could restrain her. She tore at the food, gulped it into mouth, scarce seemed to swallow before seizing another handful of fish or fruit or another egg. Haggard leaned back to drink coffee and watch her, and she flushed, and took some coffee herself.
That will do,' Haggard said. 'If you eat too much now you will be ill.'
Her tongue came out, stroked egg from the comer of her mouth. Somerset came forward with a finger bowl and a napkin, but for a moment she did not seem to know what to do with it, waited for Haggard to show her.
The bowl was removed, and she drank the last of her coffee. They looked at each other for some seconds. Then she said 'Your wife is not here?'
'My wife is dead,' Haggard said.
Her nostrils dilated as she breathed, and then closed again. 'I am to work in the field?' Haggard shook his head.
'I do not understand,' she said. 'Captain said I would hang.' 'And I thought you too pretty to die,' Haggard said. 'So I bought you. For my bed.'
Once again she did not immediately seem to understand. Then her head jerked and she rose to her feet in the same instant. 'No,' she said.
Haggard gave a quick nod, and Middlesex and Essex came forward, each to grip one of her arms. She turned her head, wildly, at last dislodging her hair. 'Hang me,' she cried.
Haggard got up. 'You'll not pretend never to have had a man?'
'Never,' she said. 'Never,' she gasped, pulling on her arms, without success.
Then it's time you did,' Haggard said. Take her upstairs.’
'No,’ Emma screamed. She attempted to dig her heels into the wooden boards of the floor. 'No. Please. No.'
'Or will you curse me, as you cursed the mate?" Haggard asked.
She stopped struggling, gazed at him, panting.
'But I don't believe in curses,’ he pointed out. 'So you'd best save your wind for screaming.'
Her eyes gloomed at him, her mouth opened as she sought breath.
He could see her nipples rising against the thin cotton as she inhaled.
Take her upstairs," he said. 'To my room."
Middlesex and Essex half carried her through the door. She had stopped screaming, but instead he heard a sob. So then, John Haggard, you are not a bad man, you are a monster. Because he believed her. But if he was acting the monster, he was only becoming what alt Barbados accused him of being, all the time. And however much he might hate himself when he was finished with this girl, he would hate himself more if he did not take her now. Besides, she was a condemned felon. She had no existence, save in him. Remember that, keep remembering that, and he need have no conscience.
He climbed the stairs. Middlesex and Essex stood just inside the bedroom door, still holding the girl. She had entirely stopped attempting to fight, seemed rather to have sagged between them.
But Middlesex was a cautious man. 'You know what I thinking, Mr. John?' he said. 'I thinking this one going scratch you.’
As if, Haggard thought, I have done this sort of thing every day for the past four years.
'Then tie her up,' he said. 'Tie her to the bed.’
'No,' Emma whispered, and kicked Middlesex on the ankle.
'Annie Kent,' Middlesex bawled. 'You helping me.' It was not a question. A moment later Annie bustled into the room together with two of her girls. 'Hold she legs,' Middlesex panted, having been kicked again.
The girls got hold of an ankle each, and Emma was carried across the room to the great fourposter.
'Henry Suffolk,' Middlesex called, making the rafters ring. 'Fetch some cord up here. Stout stuff.'
'Let me go,' Emma screamed. 'Oh, please let me go.' She gasped and panted, and kicked, and was placed on the bed—a tented fourposter, but with mosquito netting presently looped to the tester, instead of drapes—and held there while Annie Kent expertly stripped the gown from her body. By then Suffolk had arrived with the ropes. Haggard watched in fascination as she was spreadeagled, one ankle secured to each of the bottom bedposts, and one wrist to each of the upper. He felt like a man in a dream as he gazed at the heaving white flesh, the straining blue veins, the surging bush of pubic hair; she had ceased begging or crying now, and fought with a deadly determination, but without the slightest hope of success.
James Middlesex stood straight, wiped sweat from his forehead. 'She ready, Mr. John.'
The slaves backed away from the bed. How their minds must be teeming with questions, Haggard thought. Nothing like this had ever happened before. They must wonder if they were not dreaming also.
He nodded. 'Shut the door.'
They filed from the room, and the door closed behind Middlesex. Haggard stood above the bed.
'I curse you,' Emma Dearborn whispered. 'I curse you all the way down to hell.'
Haggard took off his undressing robe, and she gave a gasp, and then shut her eyes.
'I curse you,' she whispered. ‘I curse you, I curse you, I curse you.'
There was so much beauty he hardly knew where to begin. To kiss her would be too dangerous; her teeth were white and obviously in excellent condition. But he could finger the firm textured flesh of her shoulders, slip down to cup and hold her breasts, and kiss the nipples, which came erect despite her unger.
'I curse you,' she whispered. 'Curse you, curse you, curse you.'
There was so much to be done to her, but suddenly he knew he could wait no longer. It seemed he had wanted this all of his life, certainly over the past four years, and her legs were pulled wide, waiting for him. He used his fingers first, sliding them into her slit the way Susan had always liked, waiting for her to come wet.
Despite herself her
bottom moved on his hand, and her breathing quickened. He knelt between, holding himself on his hands, stroked with his penis where his finger had gone before, slipped in and in and in, while she gave a gasp which became a cry, of mingled pain and anger and disgust, fell on her belly and crushed her breasts but retained enough control of himself to lie away from her face, came and came and came as if it was the first ejaculation of his life, so that it was almost painful for him.
And lay still, gasping, and feeling the slow growth of distaste within himself, of self-hatred that he could have done such a thing. 'Oh, Christ,' he said. 'Oh, Christ.’
The girl had ceased moving and ceased speaking. He raised his head in alarm, but her eyes were open, and staring at him. Slowly he pushed himself up, back on to his knees, looked down at her body, more red than white now, at the trickle of blood running down the inside of her thigh.
‘I am not always so,' he said. 'Today is a bad day.'
She made no reply, continued staring at him. He pushed himself off the bed, went to his bureau, found the long bladed knife he always wore on his belt, leaned across her to cut the ropes holding her wrists. 'Free your legs,’ he said, and gave her the knife. He did not wish to look at her any more, at this moment. He went to the stand in the corner, filled the basin, washed himself, dried himself with a towel, and heard a movement behind him. He turned in time to see her, face drawn and hard and pale, hair still moving from the speed with which she had crossed the room, knife-filled hand darting forward as she saw she had been discovered; he realised he had dealt only with slaves for too long—it had never occurred to him she might possibly have the courage to attack him.
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