Haggard (7 page)

'Mark my words. Haggard,' Woodbury said, going to the door. 'You'll be brought down. Oh, aye, you'll be brought down.'

'Should I interpret that as a threat?' Haggard inquired, his voice sinking into that deceptively quiet and even tone which indicated his anger.

'You may interpret it in whatever way you wish, sir.' Woodbury said, and went down the stairs.

‘I
t is true that feelings against you are running high in town, John,' Lucas said.

'And you agree with them.'

‘I
endeavour not to take sides. I would suggest you are careful how you go.'

'May God have mercy on your soul,' the Reverend Paley said.

Emma came back to sit beside him. 'Why do you not help them? They seemed to be talking sense.'

'No doubt they were, from their point of view. I do not need their help.'

'Nor their friendship?'

'I have never had their friendship. I have only been realising that this last fortnight. Tis best it is out in the open, at last. Why, would you have their friendship?'

'Were you not here they'd tear me limb from limb.'

'Something for you to remember.' He held her arms, slid his hands up and down the silky flesh. By God, he thought. Perhaps I
am
bewitched.
^‘
Are
you a witch, Emma?'

‘I
never heard so.'

Then tell me who your father was.'

'A rich man, Mr. Haggard. Squire of the village of Derleth, in Derbyshire. There's coal mines there, and a canal.' 'And your mother?'

'Alice Dearborn was her name, Mr. Haggard. Upstairs maid.'

'Ah. Both in the past tense.'

'Aye, well, while Papa lived—I can remember him, Mr. Haggard, he was old, but jolly with it. Well, while he lived life was good. Then he died, and having no sons the estate passed to his brother. And Mama and me was out on our ears. Well, she died soon after. Starved she did, Mr. Haggard.'

'How old were you?'

Emma shrugged. Twelve, maybe. It was four years ago. But I had friends. I was sent to the next village, and found a position as skivvy. Then, because I'm pretty, I guess, and with some knowledge of what a lady should do, they took me upstairs.'

'And you stole.'

‘I
like pretty things, Mr. Haggard.'

'Pretty things, by God. I'd forgotten what it's like to have a woman about the house. Pull that bell rope, Emma.' 'You'll not send me away?'

'Not I, Emma. But you're to have something to wear. James. James. Come in here, man. Send to town, fetch Mistress Bale out here.'

This time, Mr. Haggard? It going be dark in one hour.'

'Fetch her out, James. Tell her to prepare to stay the night. I want Miss Emma measured for clothes. Everything she can think of. Send for her, James.'

'Ayayay,' Middlesex said, and hurried back down the stairs.

'Mr. Haggard,' Emma said,
‘I
didn't kill that mate. I just said what Mama used to say when she was angry.'

‘I
believe you, Emma,' Haggard said.

‘I
f you're bewitched, Mr. Haggard, you done it yourself.'

'Aye.' He held her arms again, brought her down on to the bed beside him, slipped his hands down the cotton gown to massage her bottom,
‘I
'm bewitched, Emma. But I don't want ever to be normal again.'

'They're coming down.' Willy Ferguson straightened his cravat, took his place beside the other five bookkeepers commanded to dinner. They waited, perspiring, casting anxious glances at the great staircase. Haggard came first, wearing a dinner suit, white cravat gleaming. Only the tightness of the flesh over his cheeks, the slight hesitancy with which he negotiated each step, indicated that he had left his bedchamber for the first time in a fortnight.

Emma followed, equally slowly, matching her time to Haggard's, to be sure, but the men could tell she was no less nervous than they. But having glanced at her once, they could not look away. She wore a pale blue satin gown, with a white underskirt, ballooning away from her hips on the panniers. Her fan was a matching blue and there was a carcanet of pearls at her neck. Only the powdered wig was missing from the ensemble of a lady of fashion; Emma's hair had been left loose to lie in a red stain on her neck and across her shoulders. She was the most beautiful sight any of them had ever seen.

'Gentlemen,' Haggard said. 'Good of you to come. I'd have you meet Miss Emma Dearborn.'

Willie Ferguson took her hand, and she gave him a brief smile. The last time she had seen him he had been rubbing pepper into her nipples. The last time she had seen Jonathan Gleason, immediately behind Ferguson, he had been holding her wrists above her head. But she allowed them each a smile and a squeeze of her hand.

'Champagne, gentlemen.
’
Haggard said, gesturing James Middlesex forward. 'I feel like a new man. Perhaps I am a new man." He raised his glass. To Miss Dearborn, who has nursed me back to health.'

The bookkeepers exchanged glances; after nearly killing you in the first place, their eyes said.

'I shall be resuming the morning briefings, as from tomorrow, Willy,' Haggard said. 'And I shall make a tour of inspection as well. I am sure there is much to be seen. Are we ready for grinding?'

'Indeed, John. You’l
l find everything as you left it.'

'I never doubted that, Willy. Shall we go in?'

He gave Emma his arm, escorted her into the dining room. The overseers followed. Emma was seated at Haggard's right hand, with Willy Ferguson opposite. 'I would also like to propose a toast,
’
Willy said. To our new mistress.'

The other bookkeepers rose, glasses high. Emma watched Haggard, a faint frown marking the white flesh between her eyes. And for a moment Haggard hesitated. Then he too rose. 'And very apt that is, Willy,' he said. To your new mistress, Emma Dearborn.'

They still hate me,' she grumbled.

Haggard held her closer. At last. After a fortnight of watching her and smelling her and touching her, he was well enough to love her. And she was willing.
Her naked body squirmed on his,
his hands were allowed to wander where they chose. But after all she was just humouring him.

They will get used to you. Now forget about them. The only person in the entire world for you to worry about is me, and I am here in your arms.'

He rolled her on her back, peered at her face in the gloom. He wanted to shout with sheer joy, that all this should be his, should be here and now, toes and knees, thighs and cunt, belly and breast, and now lips, pressed against him, his to possess over and over and over again, if he chose, if he was able.

And able to love him back. Her tongue was as eager as his, and her hands sought his own buttocks. To have her touch him was as enjoyable as to touch her. Even Susan had been nothing like this. Susan. Roger. He had not thought of the boy for a fortnight.

Her head moved away. 'What is wrong?'

He rolled on his back. 'You've not yet met my son.'

‘I
have,' she said,
‘I
went along there while you were asleep, two days ago. He is a fine boy. A fine Haggard.'

'Oh, Emma, Emma.' He brought her back on top of him. 'For a moment I . .
.no,
there is nothing wrong. Could you love me, Emma? After a beginning such as we have had?'

'Could you love
me,
Mr. Haggard?'

'I do. I had thought
1
could never love again, but no man could ever have been more wrong. Oh, I love you, Emma. Love you, love you, love you.'

'Because you have not had a woman for too long. Will you love me when you are sated with me, Mr. Haggard?' 'Will you not become sated with
me,
Emma?' 'You are my life,' she said, seriously.

'And you are mine, Emma. That will not change.' His turn to frown at her as she rolled away from him. 'Do you not believe that?'

'I do not believe it is possible for two people to love each other, physically, the way we do, for a long period. Our fire is burning too brightly, Mr. Haggard. Too brightly to last.'

'And when it is done, you will curse me to my grave?'

She smiled at him. 'And when it is done, you will hand me to the hangman?'

He kissed her on the mouth. 'So you see, my pet, as we can mutually destroy the other, we have no choice but to stay in love, for the rest of our lives.'

'I would like that, Mr. Haggard,' she said. 'I would like that.'

Black smoke belched from the chimney of Haggard's Penn, mingled with the rain clouds which, swept in from the Atlantic by the unchanging trade wind, gathered above Barbados every noonday. The plantation seethed, with labourers in the field, cutting the cane as fast as their machetes would swing, with creaking bullock-drawn carts into which the severed stalks were loaded, with curses and groans and sighs, punctuated by the cracking of the cartwhips, over humans and animals alike as they were driven to the edge of endurance and beyond. But those in the field still did better than those in the factory. Here the slaves were naked as they clung to the treadmill, as they sifted the fresh green stalks into the first massive rollers which crushed them to a pulp, as they added water—macerating it was called—to the remnants of the first crushing to dilute the remaining
sugar content and enable it too
to be drawn; as they poked the huge vats of liquid, slowly cooling, slowly evaporating to leave the crystalline sugar clinging to the sieved bottoms, while the molasses dripped through into the hogsheads beneath, to be reprocessed and then to be converted into the plantation's principal by-product, rum; as they toiled in the pits beneath the rollers, gathering the bagasse, the shattered and pulped cane stalks from which all juice had been extracted, and which was now to be used as fuel to maintain the enormous fires beneath each of the separation vats—for a grinding sugar plantation was self-perpetuating. Other slaves hammered at the hogsheads in which the crystalline wealth would be stored. These were the lucky ones, as they were somewhat removed from the heat and the sickening stench of the factory. Yet even these sweated and panted and grew weak with exhaustion. Grinding was no time for backsliding. The slightest transgression was rewarded, even on Haggard's, with twenty lashes. On the success of the grinding depended the entire prosperity of the coming year.

It was time when whites worked as hard as blacks. There was no time off for either. In the fields, the bookkeepers ranged their mules to and fro, whips at the ready for any sign of slackening effort. In the factory they were stripped to the waist, bodies gleaming with sweat, hair lank and matted to their scalps as they walked the catwalks and kept their slaves at the highest pitch of endeavour. And no man worked harder than the Master. For seven days Haggard had not taken off his clothes, had slept in a chair on the verandah, cooled by the evening breeze, restored by copious quantities of ice cold rum punch. After his wound he swayed with fatigue, yet would not permit any man to take his place by the great vats, where he himself could test the quality as well as the quantity of the sugar as it came through. He reckoned on turning eight per cent of the gross weight of cane into pure brown sugar, an improvement on his father's seven per cent because of the greater maceration he permitted; induced with sufficient care, and with the cane subjected to an ever more intense crushing, there was no diminution in the quality of the sugar itself.

But now at last the fortnight of hell was all but over. The fields had been devastated, and the ratooning, the transplanting of the green shoots, had been completed. The filled hogsheads were already creaking their way down the road into Bridgetown, where the ships were waiting to load and be on their way to England, hopefully without sight of a Yankee privateer. The plantation chemists were already beginning their tasting and their mixing and their sweetening in the process of manufacturing the rum, much of which would also be finding its way across the sea, and the slaves, and their overseers, could at last begin to think of holidays and nights in their beds.

And Haggard could allow himself to relax. He walked from the factory, and blinked in the afternoon sunlight. 'A good crop.'

The best ever, John,' Willy agreed.

'You'll dine tonight. Bring up Mr. and Mrs. Prentice as well, and the Allisons.'

Willy Ferguson chewed his lip and shifted from one foot to the other. In the past fortnight the crisis which loomed above the plantation had seemed less important; grinding was like a prolonged battle, in which only the good of the cane and personal survival mattered. But now the Penn would be settling into a long quiescent eight months. The ladies would have nothing to do but gossip, and gaze up the hill at the Great House.