Haggard

by Christopher Nicole

  Emma! He wondered what she was doing now, if she lived or died. Certainly the tinker had not attempted to return to Derleth.

  But that was no indication that Emma still lived with him. Undoubtedly she would have further descended the scale of human existence, was now probably an utter whore. Dear Emma. She had come into his life at a most opportune moment, and he had loved her. But she had been setting herself up as a wife, without any of the rights of one. They had parted at the best time. It was a pity it had been so bitter.

  But oh, what a pleasure it would be to have her to confide in, just for a few hours. He was even tempted by Mary Prince, as, with Alison indisposed, he found himself able to humour the girl once again to her gratification. But Mary Prince could not possibly be a confidante. She was a servant. She had to be nothing more than an extension of his personality, there when he wished her to be, out of mind as much as sight when he wished her to be.

  He wondered if Alison was also nothing more than an extension of his personality. But she was his only hope for the future. In time, when she grew older, she would be able to talk with him and understand him, and dissipate his misery.

  There could be no one else. Roger and Charlie had vanished as if they had left the face of the earth, so far as he was concerned. He kept track of them, from Roger's colonel and Charlie's captain. Roger was in barracks with his battery in Kent, as the international situation deteriorated, and was making a fine soldier, so it was said. Charlie had already made one voyage to the West Indies and back, would no doubt be an admiral in due course. But while his ship had been paid off in Portsmouth, and he had been entitled to a month's shore leave, he had remained on board. 'Perhaps,' Captain Trowbridge had written, 'you would care to visit us here in harbour, Mr. Haggard.' What, crawl to his own son? Charlie would discover, eventually, where his bread was buttered.

  But they would never be friends, any more than he could be friends with Alice, who existed in a tightly-knit dream, never smiling, never speaking except when spoken to, often weeping. Marriage was the only solution for her. The very moment she was sixteen, which, he reflected, was not too far distant.

  Nor was it possible to be friends with any of his parliamentary acquaintances. Where had that dream dissipated? In the scene with the Prince which had resulted in the blackballing of White's? In his obvious contempt for them, or in their obvious dislike of him? It would be different, Brand said, when Alison was again out and able to play her part. 'You should take a town house for next season,' he said. 'Entertain. Show them that you are not such a bad fellow after all.' And had flushed as Haggard had stared at him. They don't understand foreigners,' he had mumbled, adding insult to injury.

  They had listened to his speech against the abolition of the Slave Trade. He did not suppose he had ever spoken better or more forcefully, and Pitt had congratulated him afterwards. But he doubted he had convinced many of them. The Bill had been lost, to the discomfort of Wilberforce and his supporters such as Clarkson and Sharp, but it had been lost mainly because the growing excesses of the French democrats were offending all right-thinking opinion in Britain, not because John Haggard had persuaded them that slavery was less morally wrong than economically essential to the well-being of the sugar crop. Once again they did not understand, were too wrapped up in their own affairs to see any importance in the world beyond the white cliffs of Dover.

  And having said his piece, he had not been required to speak again, had been returned to that outer darkness reserved for back-benchers. Well, bugger them, he had thought, and abandoned Parliament altogether. If Haggard was to be ostracised, then there was sufficient for him to do in and about Derleth. As indeed there was, to a man brought up to the intimate details of managing a sugar plantation.

  He at last persuaded himself to descend the mine. If he no longer had any temptation to have coal dust on his penis—or if he was tempted he could exorcise it in the arms of Mary Prince—the economics of mining, the understanding that this wealth did not have to be planted, but was just there, had been there for thousands of years, and would be there for thousands more years, no matter how much of it he took, was remarkably comforting. Of course coal did not produce a tenth of the income of sugar. And he had to pay people to mine it for him. But inexhaustible wealth, even if in a low key, was fascinating.

  As were the other occupations of his tenants. He became an active farmer, to his mind a far more rewarding pastime than senselessly chasing foxes round the countryside. Indeed he barred Derleth to both the neighbouring hunts, and made himself as unpopular with the local gentry as with their London betters. Instead, he developed a herd of milch cows on his own estate at the same time as he followed with interest the activities and prosperity of the seven other farms in the valley. Not a week passed but he made a tour of inspection, and was happy to assist with money whenever it was needed. Soon all of Derleth was sporting the new red roofs and the clean white walls which had been his pride at Haggard's Penn. Here at the least he was needed and wanted. His villagers might have regarded him with suspicion at first. They might not have forgotten how he had taken Mary Prince from the mine . . . but then the widow Prince was one of the most prosperous in the entire village, as her store of golden guineas grew. They might not have forgotten how he had thrown his domestics out of doors on a winter's day, never to be heard of again—but they had been black people and not really important. They might not have forgotten how they had been encouraged to oppose him by Parson Litteridge—but neither had they forgotten how he had walked into the midst of them to seek out and defeat Jem Lacey, straight up and man to man. And they knew that in his capacity as magistrate his judgements were given without fear or favour, and strictly according to the rule of law. He had achieved the respect he wanted, at least in Derleth. As he had been respected by his slaves in Barbados. Which did not mean they would ever lift a finger to save him from drowning. But at least it gave him a feeling of belonging in his own valley, which he knew nowhere else in England.

  But if they were friends in their fashion, they were not friends to whom he could speak, in whom he could confide, who could in any way alleviate his lonely bitterness. Which but grew as Alison grew, and became more bitter herself, and more plaintive.

  ‘If only Emily were here,' she moaned. 'You are the hardest man in all the world. Mr. Haggard. What harm could it do, with my belly this hideous size?'

  'You knew I was the hardest man in all the world when you married me,' he pointed out with savage humour. 'And Emily will not enter this house again.'

  'You will drive me insane,' she shouted, throwing her pillows on the floor, insane, do you hear, insane.'

  ' Tis of course a grievous hardship,' Dr. Harrowby explained, on one of his weekly visits from Derby. 'For any woman, but for a young girl who is in all the prime of her beauty, why, I know not how they put up with it. On the other hand, the rewards, the feeling of the babe in their arms, are usually sufficient to compensate for the long months of misery. Usually. We must hope and pray that it will be so in this case.'

  'Hope and pray?' Haggard demanded.

  'Well, Mr. Haggard, there is no question that your wife is taking it harder than most. She tells me she did not wish the child, does not wish it now.'

  'Neither of us had expected a pregnancy so soon,' Haggard said.

  'Of course, sir. But it is the future that must concern us now. Your wife must want to have the child, or the risk, to both mother and babe, will be greatly increased. Mrs. Haggard is in a most unhappy state of mind. She says you do not go near her.'

  To be screamed at?' Haggard demanded.

  'Can you not look on her as unwell, Mr. Haggard? Once the ordeal is over, she will be herself again.'

  Then I will be happy to be with her,' Haggard said.

  Harrowby sighed. 'Well, then, sir, would it not be possible to accede to her request and have her sister to stay, at least until the confinement?'

  'It would not be possible,' Haggard said.

  'As you say,
sir. But I feel I must warn you that it is impossible for me to guarantee a successful delivery unless I am actively assisted by the mother.'

  'You cannot guarantee it even then, Dr. Harrowby,' Haggard pointed out. 'So do you do your best, and leave the rest to God.'

  Did he want her to die, he wondered? Of course he did not. He wanted to hold her in his arms again, even while she seethed with sexual discontent. But he had been speaking the truth; he did not really think it made any difference at all whether or not the mother wanted the child. No one could have wanted Roger more than Susan, and it had done her no good at all. While as for having Emily back in the house . . . that would be to lose Alison altogether.

  Anyway, he reminded himself, it is only for a short while. Then it will be over and forgotten. As indeed it was. Harrowby was in attendance with a midwife, and the birth was amazingly easy. 'A son, Mr. Haggard,' the doctor said. 'You'll not lack for heirs.'

  Haggard held the tiny little boy in his arms. This one,' he said. This is my true heir.' He handed him over to the midwife, sat beside Alison. Her eyes were open, but she scarce looked alive, her hair matted with sweat and sticking to her head and shoulders. 'Happy, my sweet?'

  'Leave me alone,' she said. 'Just leave me alone. Haggard.'

  Haggard looked at the doctor, who shrugged, ‘I imagine Mrs. Haggard wishes to rest, sir,' he explained. 'But I suggest you allow the boy to suck, ma'am, if you will. Your milk will not be in yet, of course. But 'tis best he gets into practice, so to speak.'

  To suck?' She raised her head. 'You expect me to give my breast to that?’

  'Well, ma'am, it is nature's way.'

  'You'll find a wet nurse,' she said.

  'But ma'am ..."

  'Just get out of here,' Alison Haggard commanded. 'All of you. Leave me alone.'

  Leave me alone. Haggard knocked, softly, and then turned the door handle. But the door was locked. As it was locked most of the time, nowadays. He had not slept in his own bed for near a year. She was playing the spoiled brat again. But how did she exist, a woman alone in her bedchamber?

  His bedchamber, and he had been patient long enough. He knocked again.

  'Go away,' she said.

  'Sweetheart,' Haggard said. 'If you do not unlock this door I am going to break it down.' He could feel the anger simmering in his belly. So what would he do to her? He could not throw her out as he had done Emma. Besides, when he saw her again . . .

  The key turned, and the door swung inwards. He stepped into the room, watched her climbing into bed. It was early December, and she wore both a nightgown and a robe; but not even the heavy garments could hide the sliver of figure, the pink soles which he could remember from the night they had put Brand to bed.

  She settled herself beneath the blankets, looked up at him. 'Well?'

  Haggard closed the door behind him, once again turned the key.

  'What do you want?' she asked in some alarm.

  To sleep with you,' he explained, undressing.

  'You can't,' she said. 'I am not yet recovered.'

  ‘It is three months,' he pointed out. 'Harrowby says you will be as well as ever in your life.'

  Her tongue showed for a second, then disappeared again. 'I am still full of milk. Look.' She opened her bodice.

  'What do you do with it?' Haggard asked. His belly was swelling, with a terrifying mixture of desire and anger.

  ‘I squeeze it out. Like this.' She took the nipple between thumb and forefinger,, pressed very gently. The milk trickled on to her stomach.

  'It seems a waste,' he said, keeping his voice even with an effort. 'When the boy could use it.'

  'The boy does not starve,' she said. That girl has more than I could ever produce. And would you have me with sagging tits?'

  He removed the last of his clothing, stood by the bed. it would scarce matter, as I am not allowed to touch them.'

  'Mr. Haggard . . .' She hesitated.

  He sat beside her, took her in his arms. He slid one hand between them to touch her breasts, to feel the sticky wetness crossing his palm as the nipples rose against it. He kissed her eyes and her nose, fastened on her mouth, felt her fingers biting into his back.

  'Mr. Haggard,' she said. 'I'll not be pregnant again.' ' Tis unlikely so soon,' he agreed, reaching down to spread her legs, and finding them tightly clamped together. 'I'll not,' she gasped. 'It will be rape.'

  'A man cannot rape his wife.' Haggard sat up. 'You'll not pretend you don't want it.'

  'Want it?' She raised herself on her elbow. 'Give me your hands, Mr. Haggard. Oh, give me your hands.' She herself pulled the skirt of her nightgown to her waist. 'Please, Mr. Haggard.'

  He moved closer, obliged, had his fingers imprisoned in that warm wonderland, watched her eyes turn up and her tongue loll. He kissed her mouth, very gently extracted his hand.

  'My turn,' he whispered.

  'No,' she gasped. 'No.' Her knees came up and she rolled away from him as he would have come on top. 'For Christ's sake . . .'

  'Let me use my hands, Mr. Haggard. Please. The sensation will be no different. It will be better.' ‘I am not to enter you again?'

  'No,' she said violently. 'No.' She bit her lip. 'Please. Not for a while. I could not endure it, Mr. Haggard. I would go mad. I could not stand it.'

  'My penis?'

  'The pregnancy, Mr. Haggard.' Her legs slowly straightened, and she turned to face him again. 'Not you. The pregnancy. Let me, Mr. Haggard.' She reached for him, but he rose to his knees above her and just out of reach.

  'You are behaving like a silly little girl,' he pointed out, the anger returning. 'For God's sake, you had the easiest of deliveries. You are perfectly healthy in every way. Can't you understand? Tis just in your mind.'

  ‘I won't.' She shut her eyes. 'I won't, I won't, I won't.'-

  'Silly child,' Haggard said, and moved towards her. Her eyes opened, as did her mouth.

  'No,' she shouted, and threw up her hands. He caught her wrists and flattened them on the bed, lay across her, driving her knees flat. He got his toes between her ankles, slowly prised her knees apart, forced his own knee between—but she wriggled her hands free and scratched at his cheek. The pain made him gasp and half rise, and another wriggle sent her on to her face, trying to crawl away from the bed.

  He threw himself on her, pressing down on her shoulders. She gasped and squirmed, attempted to kick. Her legs were spread. Haggard pushed himself between, caring not where he made his entry, his anger and his desire and his frustration mingling together into a tremendous climax which hurled the girl flat to the bed and kept her there, driving the breath from her body, making her bite the sheet, bringing a thin trickle of sound from her mouth.

  'No,' she moaned. 'No, no, no.'

  Haggard gasped, and lay still, his weight pressing her flatter yet.

  'No,' she whispered. 'No, no, no.'

  The self-distaste spread over him. It might have been Mary Prince lying here, with coal dust staining the bedclothes. But it was his wife.

  He pushed himself up, got out of bed, went to the washstand. ‘I apologise,' he said. 'You have kept me waiting for too long.' Alison made no reply.

  Haggard dried himself, went back to the bed. She had not moved. Her feet dangled over the edge, her bare bottom seemed to shiver, but perhaps with cold. He gathered her feet and turned her straight, lifted the sheet and placed it over her, got into bed himself.

  'You'll not sleep here,' Alison whispered, her back to him.

  'It is my bed, my darling,' he said. 'As much as yours.' He attempted a smile. 'At least you'll know you are not pregnant.'

  'You have abused me in a most unnatural fashion,' she said.

  'Oh, come now. It was an accident, brought on by your own stupidity.'

  Alison rolled over and sat up. She gathered her bedjacket over her breasts, got out of bed. 'Where are you going?'

  'As you have pointed out, Mr. Haggard, this is your bed, therefore I must find another.'

  He
felt his anger returning. She really was in the most absurd mood. But it was a mood she had been in for too long. 'You want to remember that the entire house, and every bed in it, is mine.'

  She turned to face him, her arms folded to hold the bedjacket close.

  Haggard pointed. 'As you are my wife.'

  Her chin came up. ‘I wish to visit London. I wish to visit Papa.'

  Haggard frowned. 'You wish to leave Derleth?'

  'Yes.'

  'You wish to leave me?'

  Her tongue came out, went back in again. 'For a season.'

  'Do not suppose your father will be pleased to see you. Who will settle his debts should he quarrel with me? Or will you tell him you have been abused? Even that will hardly equal his desire for money.'

  'My father is no more contemptible than any other man,' she said.

  'Or do you propose to shout from the rooftops that you have been buggered by your husband? Do you suppose even that could possibly make me less popular than I am? You cannot ruin me, socially, Alison. I am ruined, socially, merely by being Haggard. So do not be a fool. Come back to bed.'

  Her eyes gloomed at him. 'I wish to visit London, Mr. Haggard. I have been confined here for upwards of a year. It will be Christmas in a month. I wish to visit London.'

  'You wish to bed your sister, you mean.'

  Once again the tongue, showing for an instant. 'We do not harm each other, Mr. Haggard. Nor do we quarrel. Nor are we cruel to each other. I wish to be away from this . . . this coal dust. Just for a season.' This time she licked her lips. 'If you will let me go, Mr. Haggard, I will be good to you, when I come back. I give you my word.'