Because if it was her greatest moment, he realised it was also the most important moment of his own life. They shared a mutual horror, arising out of the mutual desires that were their bodies. If he was exorcising her demons, she was doing no less to him.
He slipped in and in. She was warm, so warm he felt on fire, but perhaps that was his own passion. He surged to and fro, and her hands bit into his back, through his shirt. He felt the material rip and then the pain of the nails driving into his flesh. But now he was kissing her again, her eyes were open, and her hands were sliding up his back to hold his head and bring it ever closer to her. And her body was thumping against his even as he came himself.
He slid half off her, to relieve her of his weight. Her mouth followed his round, although the passion had left her fingers. She kissed his ear. 'Will you give me what I want, Captain Haggard?'
It was utterly unreasonable to be so happy. She was nothing more than a girl. A girl who had been savagely mistreated, who had withdrawn into herself, and had worked out her own salvation. That it was he she had chosen was merely chance. She meant nothing to him, could mean nothing to him. He was Roger Haggard, heir to Derleth and to Haggard's Penn and to the Haggard millions; she was a tinker's daughter. He could certainly set her up as a mistress, the way Father had set up Emma. But would that not be to start another chain of events which might well be tragic?
And yet he was happy. He wanted to sing as he rode down the track from the trees, past the ever humming mill and the clanking wheel of the mine pumps, was even pleased to see Byron sitting on the terrace, reading a book.
The best of the day to you, my lord.'
‘Indeed, Captain, it is a magnificent afternoon. I shall be sorry to leave Derleth.' He smiled. 'Although I suspect your father will not be sorry to have me go.'
Roger dismounted, tossed his reins to a waiting groom, sat beside the poet. 'He is unused to being argued with. It is a fault. I suppose equally of mine. I mean, for not arguing with him more often.'
'Why should you?' Byron asked, seriously enough. 'Do you not agree with everything he stands for?' 'Not everything.' 'You surprise me.'
'And you forget I spent near twenty years as a common soldier.'
'By God, so you did. There is an unusual situation for a future Tory landowner.'
'A confusing one, to be sure. I was interested in your thoughts on a possible reform of Parliament."
'You opposed them.'
‘Instinctively. I have been thinking about them, since. This John Russell fellow. Do you suppose I could meet him?'
Byron stared at him in surprise, it would be my very great pleasure, Captain Haggard.' He wagged his finger. 'But you want to be careful. Should the Tories even suppose you are mingling with Whig principles . . .'
The Tories can think what they like, Lord Byron. My principles are my own.'
'Spoken like a man. I promise you, I shall arrange an introduction. You have made my day. Why, here is Johnnie. And what have you been up to, my pretty boy?'
Johnnie was flushed, as usual. Roger had never met a man who blushed so readily. Or perhaps it is my presence, he thought, after our quarrel of last night. Well, he deserved it, to be sure.
'I've been for a walk,' Johnnie said. 'Down to the village.' He gazed at his brother, uneasily, Roger decided.
'Walking,' Byron said in disgust. 'Captain Roger and I have been discussing politics. You'll not believe this, boy, but we have a possible convert to Whiggism here.'
‘I'd not believe it either,' Roger said.
‘I said possible. And did you have a successful walk, Johnnie, lad?'
Once again the deep flush, ‘I think so.'
They were exchanging a message with their eyes, Roger noted. Johnnie and Byron. Two poets. The one with all the world at his feet, the other with all the world looming over him. But they were friends.
Roger got up. ‘I'm to change my clothes,' he said, and left them.
Haggard stood by the bed, looked down on the sleeping girl. Was she really sleeping? Harrowby had suggested they reduce the laudanum dosage, and according to the maids Alice was awake quite a lot of the time, without, apparently, being in great pain. But now her eyes were shut. I hate you, she had shouted. Just like Alison. Just like Emma, in the beginning. Just like Adelaide Bolton, all those myriad years ago. I hate you. His mouth twisted. Perhaps even Susan had thought, I hate you, Haggard, as she had died. But they were wrong. I am not a hateful man, he thought. I wish only to love. So I have made mistakes. There is no man can claim never to have done that. You cannot hate somebody for his mistakes.
And the odd thing was that he hated nobody. Why should he? He was Haggard.
She sighed, and moved in her sleep. A strand of auburn hair fell across her face. Very gently Haggard lifted it, moved it on to the pillow. And watched her eyes flop open.
'Do you hurt?'
She stared at him, perhaps trying to focus.
'You'll soon be well,' Haggard said. 'Harrowby says your ankle is nearly mended.' He smiled at her. ' Tis only your head we must consider.'
Still she stared at him.
He bent over her. 'Get well, Alice,' he said. 'Get well, girl. There is a lot of living you have to do. Get well.'
He kissed her on the forehead, straightened.
‘I hate you,' she whispered. 'I hate you. Leave me alone.'
Haggard met her gaze for a moment, then turned away. He glanced at the girl, sitting in the comer, pretending not to have heard. Then he stepped outside, closed the door behind him, walked slowly to his room. He never slept in the tower nowadays; it was too lonely, too remote from the rest of the house. He liked to hear the murmur of activity; even in the dead of night, he liked to hear the chiming of the clocks. The tower room was a place of memories.
'How is she?' Roger, standing at the head of the stairs.
Haggard shrugged. 'Her ankle is mended.'
'But not her mind.'
Haggard glanced at him, made no reply.
Roger walked beside him. 'She will be well, Father.'
'Aye,' Haggard agreed. 'She will be well.' He paused at the door to his room, and it was immediately opened by Simpson. ‘I’ll bid you good-night. Lord Byron leaves in the morning.'
'Yes.' Roger hesitated. He wants to say something, Haggard thought. 'I shall have to be leaving soon, as well.' He moved the fingers on his right hand, ‘I can grasp again.'
'Stuff and nonsense, boy. You'll stay here until you are truly well. At least until Alice recovers. I need you, boy. Johnnie is no help in a crisis like this. He never visits her. Where is he now? Drinking with his poet friend?'
‘I have no idea,' Roger said, ‘I think he retired early. Lord Byron is in the library, reading.'
'Reading,' Haggard said disgustedly. 'No doubt that's where he gets so many of his absurd ideas.'
'Are they absurd, Father?'
Haggard frowned. 'You'd give the vote to every Tom, Dick and Harry? You'd give the vote to Simpson here? That would be a fine way to run the country. Eh, Simpson? What would you do with the vote?'
'I don't rightly know, Mr. 'aggard.' Simpson was laying out the nightshirt and cap.
'See what I mean? People like Simpson would have to be told how to vote, and the next thing you'd have a tyranny like Bonaparte's. Don't give me stuff and nonsense like that.' He hesitated, wondering what it was Roger really wanted to discuss. But apparently he was not going to do it tonight. 'I'm for my bed.'
Roger nodded. 'Aye. Good-night, Father.'
The door was closed. Haggard allowed Simpson to undress him, drape the nightshirt over his shoulders. He lay in bed while the valet doused the candles.
'Good-night, Mr. 'aggard, sir.'
'Good-night, Simpson.'
Once again the soft click of the door. He listened to the barking of a dog, drifting up the hill from the village, to the chiming of the clock. It was eleven. On a magnificent summer's night. He had to do no more than sleep.
And think of the fut
ure. Roger's future. That was all that mattered. It was criminal that the heir to a fortune like his had to go off to fight a senseless endless war in a remote part of Europe, to risk his life, in defence of what? No French soldier was ever going to march up Derleth High Street.
My God, he thought, I am thinking like that upstart Byron. But Roger seemed to like the fellow. Or at least, he was willing to listen to him. Because he was Johnnie's friend? There was the true future, and if Roger and Johnnie could be friends, then was it secure. Why, he thought, with me dead, even Alice can be happy, again.
But that was looking too far ahead. He was not going to die. Not for a good many years. And not until Roger was finished with fighting, certainly. Haggard, he thought, and found himself smiling. It was time to shake himself. Why, he realised, he had slipped back into the same even way of life on Derleth that he had had on Haggard's Penn. Haggard's Penn. What memories that brought back. The smell of grinding, the gentle soughing of the wind in the canefields, Emma, running down the front stairs to tell him she was pregnant, with Alice.
And were there not other Emmas? He had but to look, properly. As soon as Roger returned for good, he'd find himself another Emma, and then he'd pay a visit to Barbados. That would shake them up. Why, after all these years Ferguson must suppose he owned the place by now; he was in fact due to be retired.
He slept, deeply, was awakened by a noise. He opened his eyes, discovered that it was already daylight, although very early. And someone was shouting outside his window, waking the whole house, from the buzz of sound.
Haggard got out of bed, strode to the window, looked down on
Toby Doon. Toby had lost his hat, and his white hair was flopping as he ran down the drive. 'Mr. Haggard,' he shouted. 'Mr. Haggard,' he screamed. The mill. The mill.'
'Halt there, Toby Doon.' This was Ned, emerging from his room over the stables, scratching his head. 'You'll wake squire.'
The squire.' Toby Doon fell to his knees at the foot of the steps. 'You must fetch him.'
'I am here, Doon,' Haggard called from the window. 'What's amiss?'
'The mill, Mr. Haggard. Tis burning. And Mr. Haggard, Peter Wring is dead.'
Haggard dismounted, pushed hair from his eyes. He had stuffed his nightshirt into his breeches, forgotten his hat. It was a warm morning in any event, but it was rendered hot by the gigantic glow coming from the burning building. His factory, built like a fort. Well, the walls still stood. But the door had fallen in and the dawn breeze continued to whip the flames within. The mill resembled a gigantic oven. It glowed.
There.' Roger pointed, and he saw the body of a man lying beside the stream. Peter Wring lay on his back, his shotgun beside him. Corcoran dismounted, and ran across. Roger followed more slowly, as did MacGuinness. Byron, who had also tumbled out of bed, remained standing beside Haggard.
"Shot, sir,' Corcoran said. 'At close range.'
'Blown in two, more like,' MacGuinness said.
Haggard slowly walked down the slope. He suddenly felt very old, and very tired. When had he first met Peter Wring? On the night James Middlesex had absconded. And no man could have had a more faithful servant, ever since. The face itself was almost unrecognisable. But Wring's hands were tied behind his back.
'Bound he was,' Corcoran muttered.
'Cold-blooded murder,' MacGuinness said.
'Cold-blooded execution, you mean,' Roger said. This was someone with a grudge.'
'But his piece isn't fired,' MacGuinness said. 'Now there's a strange thing.'
'He was surprised,' Roger suggested.
'Surprised? Not Peter.'
'What, then?'
MacGuinness shrugged. 'I couldn't say, sir. Save that he knew who it was.'
'And didn't know they had come to kill him,' Roger mused.
Haggard gazed at the blazing factory. The flames were beginning to die down, now. But they had spread to the mill wheel, and that was starting to disintegrate, with gigantic hisses.
'Horses,' Corcoran said. There were horses.'
'Can you track them?' Haggard asked. He was amazed at the evenness of his voice.
That I couldn't say, Mr. Haggard. I can try.'
'Then do so. MacGuinness, you'll fetch the rest of the game keepers. I want those men. By God. I want those men.' For the exhaustion was slowly being replaced by a burning anger. The greatest anger he had ever known. He was Haggard. He had spent far more money on this village than he had really got out of it. Because it was his village, just as these were his people. And now one of them had been shot to death. 'You find them, MacGuinness. Don't fail me in this.'
He walked back up the slope, gazed at Byron. These are the people to whom you'd give the vote?'
'I'd like to say I'm sorry, Mr. Haggard,' Byron said, ‘I don't condone murder.'
'Ah,' Haggard said, and mounted.
'But perhaps if they had the vote they'd have less cause for it,' Byron said.
Haggard glanced at him, turned his horse. Roger also mounted, and Byron followed their example.
'You don't suppose they were local people, Father?'
Haggard shook his head. 'Local people would never have killed Wring.' He urged his horse towards the gap.
'And what are you going to do?'
'Do?' Haggard did not turn his head, ‘I'm going to hang them. Every last one of them.' 'And then?'
'Rebuild. Do they really think they can bring down John Haggard?'
He drew rein as they came through the cut. The road was a mass of people, as the rumour had spread. Now they surged forward, to surround their squire.
'Is it true, Mr. Haggard?'
The mill's burned, Mr. Haggard?'
'What's happened, Mr. Haggard?'
Haggard held up his hands, and they fell silent.
The mill has been burned,' Haggard said, it is destroyed.' He waited, while a great oh rippled through the crowd. 'And Peter Wring is dead,' Haggard said. 'He was tied up and then shot. It was the most brutal murder I have ever heard of.'
Once again the gasp. Then someone shouted, 'We're with you Mr. Haggard.'
'Oh aye,' shouted another. 'You tell us what to do, Mr. Haggard.'
Haggard held up his hands again. The factory will be rebuilt,' he said. 'As soon as it can be done. But you've no cause to worry. I'll pay your wages, every week, until it is rebuilt, just as if you were working. You've my word on that.'
'Hooray for Mr. Haggard,' someone shouted.
'Hooray for Mr. Haggard,' the cheers were taken up.
Haggard waited for them to finish.
'And who'll avenge Peter Wring?" asked Jemmy Lacey.
‘I will, Jem,' Haggard said. ‘I’ll avenge him. By God I will. I'll find those people, so help me God, and they'll hang for it. You've my word on that as well. They'll hang for it, so help me God.'
Once again the cheers, and he touched his horse with his heels to walk it through the crowd.
'Do you really suppose they'd vote different, my lord?' Roger asked. 'If they could?'
Byron glanced at him. 'Your father knows how to sway a crowd, Captain, and good luck to him. My argument is merely that they should have the opportunity to vote differently. Not that they necessarily would.'
Haggard walked his horse down the drive, dismounted, slowly and stiffly. The servants were all there, waiting for him, Ned to take his bridle, Nugent with a glass of port, Mary Prince fussing about him.
'Look at you, sir,' she said. 'Nothing warm, not even a coat. Mr. Haggard, you'll catch your death of cold.'
'Be off with you, woman,' he growled, and drained the glass. He went inside. He did not wish his anger to fade, not until Peter Wring's murderers stood before him. He wanted to boil and boil and boil inside, so that he could throw the full weight of his hate at them. He climbed the stairs, slowly, aware that all the domestics had remained gathered at the foot, staring after him. And suddenly aware that Alice was standing at the head of the second flight, also staring at him. And this Alice was not half asle
ep. On the contrary her eyes seemed to blaze at him.
'Is it true, then?' she asked.
'You should be in bed.' He climbed towards her.
'Is it true?' she asked again. That the mill is destroyed?'
‘It's true.'
'And Peter Wring is dead?' Haggard nodded. 'He was murdered.' 'But you're alive,' she hissed at him, as he came closer. Haggard frowned at her. is that such an unpleasant thought?' 'You'll always be alive,' she said. 'You're indestructible. You're Haggard.'
Clearly she had not entirely recovered her wits. Haggard nodded. 'I'll always be alive, Alice. I'm Haggard. Now come on back to bed.'
She stared at him for a moment, then turned and limped in front of him. She wore her nightdress. Nothing else. At her door she halted, seemed to be waiting.
'Shall I open it for you?'
He made to reach past her, and she turned suddenly, leaning her back against the panels, covering the handle. 'Leave me alone,' she said. 'Go away. Leave me alone.'
Haggard's frown deepened. If anything she might have suffered a relapse. 'I'll see you to bed,' he said.
'No,' she snapped, ‘I hate you. Go away. Leave me alone.'
She gasped, and Haggard heard the sob, coming from behind her. He seized her shoulder, jerked her forward and to one side, opened the door, gazed at Johnnie. The boy was on his knees by the bed, weeping.
'Get out.' Alice pounded at his shoulders with her fists. 'You've no right to enter my room. You've no right.'
Haggard stared at his son, and Johnnie slowly raised his head. 'I didn't want it,' he whispered. 'Oh, God, please believe me. I didn't want anyone to die.'
Haggard's heart seemed to slow, and yet there was no diminution in the blood pounding through his veins.
'Who didn't you want to die?' he asked, his voice curiously low.
Johnnie reached his feet, licked his lips, ‘I . . .'
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