She lay on the ground, surrounded by five men. Memory of the stammered tale Meg had told, of the horror which had imprinted itself on her brain, came rushing back to her, mingling with the pain. She would be raped, by five men, just as Meg had been.
By Father's gamekeepers? Her eyes opened again, and she stared at them in horror.
'Miss Alice?' Peter Wring's voice seemed to come from a far way away.
'Don't touch me,' she said. At least, she meant to speak. But apparently she shouted. His head jerked, and fresh waves of pain crashed through her brain.
'You're hurt, Miss Alice,' another man said. Another rapist. Another of Father's henchmen. 'We must get you back to the Hall.'
'Don't touch me,' she screamed. 'Don't touch me.' What to do? If only the pain would stop. If only she could think. They would rape her. There was an end to the matter. She was too tired, too much in pain to fight them. No doubt Meg had felt the same. Therefore she too would have to be avenged. She felt their hands on her arms and others on her thighs. Oh, God, she thought, it was beginning. 'Don't touch me,' she screamed, and lost them in a wave of blackness.
Seconds, only seconds. Her eyes were opened, and the giant was back, hitting her and hitting her and hitting her. Oh, God, if only he would stop. And there were people all around her. Men, about to rape her. Peter Wring. 'Don't touch me,' she screamed. 'Oh, don't touch me.'
'Alice?' Father's voice, coming from a very long way away. She opened her eyes, and he was there. Father, helping his game keepers rape his own daughter. She had known all along it would come to that.
'Oh, God,' she whispered. 'Oh, God,' she screamed. 'Help me.' Desperately she turned her head, left and right, stared at Roger. Roger too. But that was obvious. Roger was Father's son. Roger was as much Father's creature as Peter Wring. Roger would soon enough be laying his body on top of hers, with Father. 'Don't touch me,' she screamed. 'Oh, leave me alone.'
'A sprained ankle, and a twisted knee,' said Dr. Harrowby. 'Nothing more than that Mr. Haggard. At least, nothing that I can see.'
'You'd best speak plain,' Haggard suggested. 'What of the blow in her head?' Roger demanded. 'Well, sir . . .'
'Oh, sit you down, man, and take a glass. There's port in that decanter. And you can pour me one as well, Roger.'
He waited while the glasses were filled, sipped, sighed. The best part of the day. Ruined.
'Well?'
'Well, sir, Miss Alice undoubtedly took a blow on the head. A severe blow.' 'How severe?'
'It is impossible to say, sir. I examined her skull, as you saw, sir, but apart from the fact that it seemed agony for her to be touched, it is very difficult to say . . . the skull is a very-hard thing, Mr. Haggard. The misfortune is that the brain inside is a very securely anchored, one might say. It is as if, well, sir . . .' He shook his glass, suddenly and violently. Port shot out of the top and landed on his sleeve. 'You'll observe sir, that my glass is unchanged. But the liquid inside . . .'
'But ... my God,' Roger said. 'You mean that is what the brain does when the head receives a blow?'
To a greater or lesser extent, Captain Haggard, according to the force of the blow. Now, none of us knows quite how hard Miss Alice struck her head. She is certainly concussed. If that were all there would be no problem. But . . .'
‘If that were all?' Haggard shouted.
'Well, sir, you'll have observed that she appears to be existing in some sort of nightmare. She does not wish to be touched, and she gazes at everyone with absolute horror on her face. If only we could decide what is going on in her mind . . .'
'She keeps asking for Johnnie,' Roger said.
‘Indeed, sir, it might well be useful to send for Mr. Haggard.'
'Hum,' Haggard said. 'Hum. What can you do for her, Harrowby?'
'Well, sir . . .' Hanowby flushed, drained his glass, gazed into it, hopefully. Roger hastily poured. 'Yes?'
'Rest, of course. There is the physical matter of her legs. And constant attendance, that is essential. For the rest, we must be patient, and hope, and pray. There are, of course, hospitals intended for the treatment of cases such as this . . .'
'Bedlam?' Roger shouted.
‘I’ll not have it,' Haggard snapped. 'My daughter in a lunatic asylum? I'll not have it.'
Harrowby sighed. The place I had in mind is certainly not a bedlam, Mr. Haggard. It is a private sanatorium where she would be treated royally. I do promise you that. But I agree these are early days. That would be a last resort, if her nightmare does not end. We must hope that it will, and shortly.' He stood up.
'But you do not suppose it will,' Roger said. 'Or you'd not have proposed your . . . sanatorium.'
'No, sir. I believe the young lady will recover. It is just that, well . . .'
'Out with it, man,' Haggard said.
'Well, sir, Mr. Haggard, her nightmare is not a nightmare to her, if you follow me. It is very real. Now, sir, it may have been induced by a blow, which has crushed something or dislodged something or just hurt something, but as the state is there, it is the state we must consider. And . . . well, sir . . . you'll have observed as well as I that the state appears to consist of a morbid mistrust, one might almost say hatred, of everything around her. Everyone around her.' He raised his hand. 'Of course this is a delusion, sir. But it is real to her. I only wondered if perhaps, removed to surroundings where all the faces will be unfamiliar, she might not recover the more quickly.' His colour faded as he came under the full force of Haggard's stare, it was only a suggestion, Mr. Haggard. We must discuss it at some other time. Who knows, sir, by this time tomorrow morning the crisis may be over. Miss Alice may awaken her own true self. It will happen that way, when it happens. I'll bid you gentlemen good day.'
Roger went with him into the hall. 'But you'll come back?'
The day after tomorrow, Mr. Haggard, I shall be back. Good day to you.'
The study door closed, and Roger leaned against it. ‘I had hoped my homecoming would bring you nothing but joy. Instead I seem to have brought you nothing but catastrophe.'
'Stuff and nonsense, boy. You did not cause the fall. Pour me another glass.'
Roger obeyed, took one himself. 'What are you going to do?' 'What can I do? Rest, that quack said. Rest.' 'You'll send for Johnnie?' 'I doubt it'll do much good.'
'On the contrary, Father. Not only will it relieve her mind, but it may provide an answer to what is in it." Haggard frowned. 'Explain.'
'Well, sir, I've seen quite a few men hit on the head during my service. In some cases it has appeared to mean nothing, in others it has had a terrible effect, rather like what has happened to Alice. Those fellows have become demented, or reacted in various strange ways. But they have never invented their nightmares. They have invariably reached into their own pasts for some horrible memory, and allowed it to dominate them.'
'Charlantanry,' Haggard grumbled.
'Not really. It is more like logic'
'And you think Alice may be obsessed by something in her past? Ha. I can tell you what has come out of her mind. Her hatred for me. She has always hated me. Well ... I threw Emma out. I was wrong. I admit it freely. I even tried to make amends a couple of years ago. You know Emma lives in Plowding?'
Roger nodded.
'Aye. Well, I went over there to see her. Invited her back. Humbled myself, by God. And she asked me to leave. Oh, Alice hates me alright. I'm only sorry she seems to have extended her hate to you as well.'
'We talked about it,' Roger admitted. 'About you. Perhaps I didn't make sufficient effort to understand. But why does she keep calling for Johnnie?'
'Oh, he's her friend, she supposes. I'm beginning to wonder if Harrowby may not be right, after all.'
'You'd not send Alice to a bedlam. Even a private one.'
'Of course I shall not. But it's a gloomy prospect for her. As Harrowby says, we must be patient, and wait.'
Roger nodded. 'What of that?'
‘It is a bag of coin. Found lying by her. Good to
know one's gamekeepers are honest men, eh?'
'She would have been on her way to Plowding.' 'Oh, aye. I told you, she supports them.' 'I would like to take it.' Haggard leaned back, 'Eh?'
‘It is Alice's money, Father. She has a right to do with it what she pleases. And besides, she is also Emma's daughter. I should like to go over there and tell Emma what has happened.' He smiled. 'Who knows, I may bring her back with me.'
'You'll not do that,' Haggard said.
'But if Alice is truly ill . .’
‘I won't have Emma Bold in this house,' Haggard said. That's her name, Roger. Emma Bold. She's turned her back on us. You'll not forget that.'
Roger picked up the bag. 'But you've no objection to my visiting them?'
Haggard sighed. 'Do what you will, boy.' Roger opened the door, hesitated, ‘I’ll get over there now. And Father, you will send for Johnnie?
Send for Johnnie. Haggard finished his port, slowly pushed himself up. Send for Johnnie. Because some nightmare out of her past had arisen to dominate Alice's brain. A nightmare with which Johnnie was connected.
He climbed the stairs, slowly, opened the bedroom door. One of the maids had been sitting there; now she hastily got to her feet.
'Has she spoken?'
4No, sir, Mr. Haggard.'
He stood by the bed, looked down on the girl. Harrowby had given her laudanum, had prescribed it whenever she started to shout. There was a blessing.
But what of the future? A nightmare from the past, concerning Johnnie. Of course she would have been told what happened to Margaret Bold, by Emma. Perhaps by Johnnie as well. Two years ago. He had supposed that one dead and buried. He should have known better, when his scheme to marry the boy to Catherine Annesley had failed so dismally; Johnnie had just not been interested.
But of course it was no more than a nightmare. Alice had made no accusations. She had allowed her imagination to run wild, and it had finally overtaken her brain. She had no proof. Unless Wring had said something. That could easily be ascertained.
Thus what harm could there be in sending for Johnnie? Everyone knew that the girl was out of her mind, at least for the moment. Why, there was always a chance that when she recovered she might remember nothing of it. How ironical that she should have stumbled on the truth by sheer chance, through a blow on the head.
But Emma would also tell Roger what had happened. Why had he not considered that?
Would she? Did mothers, even Emmas, rush around telling everyone, my daughter was raped, did you know that, my daughter was raped? Except that to Roger she could say, my daughter was raped while walking out with your brother. Nothing more than that, unless she suspected.
And even if she suspected, what could she prove? What could Alice prove? What could anyone prove? And did it matter what could be proved? He was allowing his conscience to play him tricks, and it was a very long time since he had suffered from his conscience. He was Haggard. He had always done what he had decided was right, for the Haggards. Harming Margaret Bold had been no more than commanding a Negro slave to be flogged for insolence. There it was. That must never be forgotten. Perspective. That was the essential to a successful life. The girl had committed a crime in seducing Johnnie, and she had been punished in the most appropriate manner. Because, despite her hatred of him, he loved Alice, he was becoming a weak old man. It had to be combated. It would be combated.
But it would do no harm to make sure. He nodded to the girl, went down the stairs. Nugent waited for him. 'You'll send for Mr. MacGuinness, Nugent,' he said. 'And I want a word with Peter Wring, as well.'
Roger Haggard walked his horse through the trees, looked across the turnpike at the meadow, and then the other trees beyond. So far he was recognising all the landmarks he had been given. Would he also recognise the family?
He kicked his horse, cantered across the road and once more into the trees. Corcoran had wanted to accompany him. 'You cannot ride abroad by yourself, Captain,' he had pleaded. 'Not with that arm. Why, sir, suppose you was to be set upon by footpads?'
'Footpads? In Derbyshire.'
'Oh, aye, Captain. You want to think about that. There's a lot of discontent in these parts. In the whole country, they're saying, but most especially in the north. There's no food, Captain, and no work, neither. Tis an unhappy country, England.'
An unhappy country. Roger found that difficult to believe, as he cantered towards the trees, ducked his head to avoid the low branches, inhaled the smell of the sun-scorched leaves. And if it was, surely the people should be the more grateful to men like Haggard who had provided them with employment and a certain security. Certainly he could not be held responsible for rising food prices.
In any event, it was no problem of his, at the moment. Father might wish to look to the future, but his business was to regain his health and return to his regiment; he could do nothing better for his country, and for its people, than bring Bonaparte to his knees as rapidly as possible. His problem was to deal with the Bolds. And how he wanted to do that, how he wanted to see Emma again, how he wanted . . . the click of the hammer brought his head up, his hand tightening on the rein. He had been so deeply in thought he had not observed the little house. But now he looked from right to left, gazed at the two men, each armed with a fowling piece, each pointing it at him.
'You've business here?' demanded the elder man with the beard.
'And you've forgotten me, Harry Bold?'
'I remember you well enough, Captain Haggard.'
'But you've forgotten we once stood shoulder to shoulder.'
'A long time ago, Captain Haggard. Now you're not welcome here. This is my land.'
'Bought with my sister's money,' Haggard said, beginning to grow angry.
'My land,' Bold said again, it's legal. Captain Haggard. You'll leave it when I say so.'
'Alice sent me.'
Harry Bold glanced at his son.
' Tis a fact she did not come yesterday, Pa.'
'What's happened to her?' Bold demanded.
'A fall from her horse. Nothing more serious than a sprain. But she knows you're waiting for this.' He slapped the bag at his belt; the jingle was loud enough in the stillness of the morning.
Then give it to me,' Harry Bold said, coming closer.
Roger shook his head, ‘I'm not likely to hand over money at gun point, Harry Bold. Besides, the money's for Emma. No doubt you'll follow me to the house.'
He touched his horse with his heels, walked it past the two men. He could feel the sweat on his shoulders, but he did not suppose they'd do anything violent. He had not harmed them, yet. But the Haggards had. Were memories really that long?
He turned in at the gate, walked his horse towards the front door, watched it open. Slowly he dismounted, tethered the reins to the ring. 'Have you no words for me?'
'Roger? Can it really be you?' Emma had lines on her forehead, and running away from the corners of her eyes and her mouth. Somehow he was disappointed; he had not expected Emma ever to age.
The bad penny.' He went towards her, watched her eyes drift away to the meadow behind him. They let me through.'
They'd not stop Roger Haggard.' Her tone was suddenly breathless, and now her gaze was shrouding him. 'Your arm?'
‘Is useless, at the moment. But useful, in another fashion. But for it I'd not be home.'
'But you are home.' She clutched his left arm. 'Oh, Roger, my darling, darling Roger.'
He held her close, 'kissed her cheek. 'And finding a great deal to puzzle over.'
'Nothing for you to puzzle over, Roger. But . . . does your father know you are here?' 'Of course.'
She frowned. 'Did he not try to stop you?'
‘I’m not a man to be stopped."
She moved her head back the better to look at him. She is thinking he is as arrogant as his father, he realised. But only someone as arrogant as John Haggard could possibly deal with John Haggard as an equal. That was where all the others, Emma herself, had made their mistakes. 'Wil
l you not ask me in?' He allowed the bag to jingle, ‘I have something for you, from Alice.'
Emma released him. 'She'll have told you that we exist on her charity.'
'She has told me very little.' He drew a long breath. 'She has had an accident.'
'She's hurt?' Emma's voice rose.
Roger had already determined on his approach. If Emma could not visit Alice at the Hall, then she must not be unduly alarmed. 'A fall from her horse. She has sprained an ankle and twisted a knee. She will be in bed for a few days.'
'Nothing more serious than that?'
'Of course not.'
Emma peered at him; he realised that she was short-sighted. 'You'd not lie to me, Roger.'
'I'd not lie to anyone, Emma.' When was a lie not a lie? Whenever it was necessary?
'It was an insulting question.' She smiled at her husband and son as they came up. 'Here's Captain Roger Haggard of the 29th Foot. You remember Roger, Harry?'
'Aye.'
'Roger and your father once put the bailiffs to flight,' Emma told Tim. 'It was a rare sight. Twelve of them.'
'We'd not have done it without the dog,' Harry Bold said.
That's true." Roger said. 'Father had him put down.'
Emma glanced at him again, then at her husband. 'You'll come inside, Roger, and take a glass of cider.'
'No,' Harry Bold said. 'I'll have no Haggard inside my house.'
'He'll come inside,' Emma said, her voice quiet. 'I'd have him meet the rest of my family.'
'She screamed, Mr. Haggard,' Peter Wring said. 'Kept shouting don't touch me. Things like that.'
'And what did you say to her?' Haggard asked.
'Well, sir, I don't rightly remember. I tried to calm her, sir.'
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