'Oh, Emily,' he whispered. 'I love you, Emily. Emily, Emily . . .' She closed his mouth with another kiss, and her hands were back at him, stroking and rubbing until suddenly he realised that he would not be able to stop himself. 'Emily,' he gasped. 'Not now. Emily . . .' But it was too late. He lay against her, quite paralysed with alarm, waiting for her disgust, for her to flee him, and instead heard a low gurgle of happy amusement.
'You are a potent fellow,' she whispered, if you will put your hand through the drapes, you will find a towel.'
He obeyed, still feeling her against him, mind utterly confused
‘I
. . . I don't know what to say.'
She took the towel from his fingers, dried herself and himself. Then why say anything? There is naught to be ashamed of. It is what I wanted.'
'Wanted? But . . .'
'You would like to enter me. You cannot do that. But you may use your hands again, and soon you will be hard again, and I will be happy again.'
He rested his head on the pillow, on strands of her hair. His confusion was complete. No one had ever warned him there might be a woman like this. A woman who wanted to touch and to feel and to hold, just like a man, but not necessarily to consummate. Should he be repelled? Should he be disgusted? Should he be angry? What would Father be? Oh, angry, certainly. Father would take her by force, in such a situation.
But was he not having the best of all possible worlds? He loved the feel of her fingers, as they now returned, gently stroking him while she nuzzled his cheek. And he was doing her virginity no harm. Nor was there any risk of a pregnancy. That could wait until after they were married. Because they must marry now. He could not envisage ever loving any woman save for this magnificent creature, who knew so surely the way to his happiness, and had no doubts of her own.
'Emily,' he whispered. 'Oh, Emily, Emily, Emily. Marry me, Emily. Say that you will?'
Once again the gurgle of amusement. 'I can't marry you, silly,' she said. She released him, raised herself on her elbow. 'But if you wish it, we can tumble like this whenever you are at Derleth.'
'Derleth?' He was sliding his hands to and fro between her legs, her thighs clamped on his fingers. 'Do you spend much time in Derleth?'
'I spend all my time in Derleth,' she said. 'And it is a dismal spot, I do promise you, with only your father for amusement. But when you return from the wars, my darling Roger, why then we shall have sport. And it will serve the old monster right.'
He moved his head to stare at her, as realisation burst across his mind like an explosion of gunpowder.
'Well?' Haggard demanded. 'Out with it, man. What have you?'
George Cummings stood first on one foot and then the other. His face was pale, and not entirely with fatigue. He licked his lips and looked longingly at the decanter of port on the table by the desk. There is some news, sir. But . . .'
‘I
am not a boy, Cummings. You do not have to stammer at me. He's dead.'
'No, sir. Well, sir, I cannot say for sure. The news of Master Roger is not so definite. But sir . . . there is a letter.' 'Letter?' Haggard frowned at him.
Cummings took the envelope from his pocket, held it out. Haggard's frown deepened as he saw the black edge. 'Dead,' he said.
'Well, sir . . .'
Haggard slit the envelope with this thumb, took out the single sheet of paper, gazed at the embossment: the Admiralty. Slowly he raised his head to gaze at his agent. And realised that his eyes were filled with tears. It could not be. It was simply not possible. 'What does it say?' He did not recognise his own voice.
Cummings sighed. The frigate
Antiope
was lost at sea, Mr. Haggard. A most gallant action it was, sir, but against a superior French force. And finally a shot in the magazine
...
it is supposed, sir. She blew up. There were no survivors.'
Slowly Haggard leaned back in his chair. The letter fell from his hand and sifted down to the floor. He supposed he was dreaming from the moment the news had been brought to him that Roger had deserted the colours, on the day before his regiment had been due to sail. He had attended a ball at Almack's, and then just disappeared. Roger. A coward. Because there could be no other explanation. Unless he had been set upon by footpads. Either way, Roger, lost. Susan's child. Yet had his grief been assuaged by the memory of their sudden enmity, the fact that Roger had taken Emma's side, had steadfastly opposed him. He had anticipated endless quarrels, endless opposition, as the boy had grown to manhood. He had not anticipated cowardice. And there had always been the others. If Alice seemed determined to be on Roger's side, Charlie, younger and more pliable, would surely be a prop in the years to come.
Charlie. Floating about at the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea. My doing, he thought. I sent him there. Just as I sent Roger into the Army. Just as I elected to come to England at all.
He raised his head. Cummings still stood there. 'You spoke of news.'
Cummings licked his lips. His distress had given way to terror. 'We
...
we have traced certain of Master Roger's movements, sir, on the night he disappeared.'
Haggard nodded. 'Go on.'
'Well, sir, in company with several other young men from his regiment, he had attended Almack's . . .'
'I know that, for God's sake,' Haggard snapped.
'Well, sir . . .' Cummings' despair appeared to increase. 'We have ascertained, sir, that he left the ball in the company of Miss Emily Brand.'
Haggard stared at him for some seconds. 'Emily? But
...
he saw her home, of course.'
‘I
ndeed, sir. That is the information I have been given by Miss Brand. That Mr. Haggard accompanied her home, and then left again.'
'Well, at least we may be able to obtain some clue as to his mood.' It was essential to keep living, keep acting, keep searching, for Roger. Charlie was dead, dead, dead. But Roger might be alive. Might not have run away. Might still be his son.
'Yes, sir. Miss Brand did not apparently notice anything unusual about Mr. Haggard.'
But he had not finished. Haggard raised his head again. There is something more?'
Cummings licked his lips. 'Well, sir, Mr. Haggard, you told me to spare no expense and no feelings provided I found Mr. Roger.' 'I'll not deny my own instructions.'
'Well, sir . . . notwithstanding what Miss Brand had to tell me, I spoke with the servants, sir, clandestinely. It was necessary to disburse some currency, you understand . . .'
'Of course,' Haggard said. 'Go on, man.'
'Well, sir, one of the maids confided to me that Mr. Roger did not leave immediately after accompanying Miss Brand home. That he stayed for some time, sir, upstairs, alone with Miss Brand, and that eventually he left in haste, sir, barely half dressed, trailing his clothes behind him.' Cummings paused for breath, and to mop his brow. While Haggard continued to stare at him for some moments. His brain seemed to have atrophied. Charlie was dead, dead, dead. And Roger . . . had raped his own aunt by marriage?
But he had been invited there in the first place. Conspiracy, conspiracy, conspiracy. It was the only sure fact about the Brands. All was conspiracy.
He pushed back his chair and got up. Cummings hastily backed to one side of the room. The girl did not know where he went after that, sir. But my people are still looking.'
Tell them to cease,' Haggard said, and opened the door. Conspiracy. Not on Roger's part alone. Emily Brand. A girl who wanted only the embraces of her own sister. Unless it be the embraces of her nephew by marriage. Emily Brand, a crawling thing, a snake . . . no, it was Alison he had once compared to a snake. A hateful thought, as hastily rejected. But Alison had been in town then, even if she had come hurrying back to Derleth the moment she had learned of Roger's disappearance. Learned of it? She had been there.
He stamped up the stairs. What was he going to do? What
could
he do, about Emily Brand? He could not call her out. He could not have Cummings' people waylay her and slit her nose. By God, he
could
do that. Perhaps he would do that. Emily Brand. To have her here
...
he opened the nursery door, gazed at his wife and son, playing on the floor. My only son, he thought. Of them all, my only son.
'John?' She frowned at him, then scrambled to her feet. She wore only an undressing robe and her hair was tucked out of sight beneath her mob cap. It was far too early for Alison Haggard to dress. 'News of Roger?'
'Aye,' Haggard said. 'And of Charlie.' 'Charlie?' Her frown deepened. 'Is dead.'
She stared at him for some seconds, while her jaw slowly slipped open. 'Oh, my God,' she said.
'Drowned,' Haggard said. 'The entire ship's company.'
'Oh, Mr. Haggard.' She got to her feet, while John Haggard junior lay on his back and stared at his parents with deep, thoughtful eyes,
‘I
am so sorry.'
'Are you, madam? Does it matter to you in the slightest?'
'John,' she protested. 'How can you say that?'
'How can I?' he snapped. 'My entire family has been destroyed. With a single snap of the fingers, your fingers, madam, I have lost both of my sons.'
Suddenly she was watchful, taking a step backwards to find herself against the cot. 'I have no idea of what you are speaking.'
'Have you not? Had I never seen you I had never quarrelled with my sons. Had I never seen your sister I would still have Roger, at the least.'
'Emily?'
'Can you deny it was she left Almack's with Roger? Can you deny it was she seduced him, there in your own house, left him so ashamed he deserted his regiment and his honour? Can you deny it was she destroyed him?' He pointed at her. 'I will tell you this, madam. Should that sister of yours ever set foot in my presence again, I will take my whip to her. There you have a promise. And one I shall keep.'
'You are being absurd,' Alison said. 'How on earth could Emily destroy Roger? Even supposing she did seduce him?'
'Supposing?' Ha
ggard shouted. 'Can there be any
doubt about it?'
. 'You persist in seeing him as a child,' Alison shouted in turn. 'Well, he is not. He is a man grown, with all the appurtenances of a man. I cannot help it if he is so confused and uncertain that he does not know his own mind. He fled before . . .' She checked, and bit her lip.
Haggard frowned at her. 'You were there?'
‘I
. . .' Again she bit her lip.
'By God,' Haggard said. 'You were there. You are no better than your sister. Well, I have always known that. You are an unnatural whore, at heart. By Christ, a snake. I knew it when first I saw you. A snake.'
'A snake,' she snarled. 'And what are you, John Haggard? A stupid old man. A cuckold in his own home, by his own son.'
Haggard's head jerked. 'By God,' he said.
'Oh, yes,' Alison shouted. 'It was I seduced your precious son. Oh, I destroyed him, all right. I didn't mean to. I meant to use him to destroy you. But what difference does it make? He jumped from my bed and fled the house when he realised it was me. He abandoned his home and his regiment and his honour. Oh, he is destroyed, Haggard.' She paused for breath, and to pant, amazed at her own temerity. 'What are you going to do?'
Haggard stepped round the amazed babe.
'You'll not whip me," Alison said. 'By God, you'll not. I'll walk Piccadilly naked to show the world your stripes, Haggard.'
Haggard reached out, seized her wrist.
'You'll not,' she spat at him.
'I'll not whip you,' Haggard said. There would be a waste.' Slowly he drew her towards him, then thrust down his other arm to encompass her knees and lift her from the floor,
‘I
am going to bed you.'
To . . .' She stared at him.
'As you have robbed me of two of my sons, Mistress Haggard,' he said. 'I am going to make sure you replace them, as soon as possible.'
B
ook The Second
THE
SON
CHAPTER 1
THE INDUSTRIALIST
George Cummings twisted his hat in his hands. He was getting too old for breakneck journeys up and down the London turnpike, especially when they were invariably the result of bad news. Nor was he ever sure of his reception. John Haggard's moods were notoriously unpredictable.
But this morning the squire merely leaned back and frowned. He frowned so often, nowadays, there were permanent grooves between his forehead, just as he drove his hands into the greying dark hair so often that it was receding to extend the forehead itself higher and higher. He was no youngster himself, Cummings remembered. Why, he had to be fifty-six years old. He could hardly believe that it was nineteen years since this man had abandoned his plantation and come here to live. He wondered what Haggard really thought of that decision, in retrospect.
'All gone,' Haggard mused. 'What were the Navy doing?'
'Well, sir, Mr. Haggard, the convoy was first of all scattered by a storm. And then it was just bad luck, I reckon, for them to have fallen in with a line of battle ship. Why I didn't know the frogs had one left.'
'Neither did I,' Haggard said.
But why shouldn't they have a fleet again, he wondered? It was sixteen years since this dreary war had begun, four even from Trafalgar, and there was no prospect of an end in sight. Indeed, with Bonaparte controlling all of Europe west of Russia, and Russia itself his firm ally, with both the men who might have found an acceptable formula for peace, Pitt and Fox, dead, it was difficult to see how it could ever end. Bonaparte could not be beaten, but on the other hand he could not defeat England, at least in the field.
Haggard pulled his chin. But the French might hope to do so by commerce raiding, by the destruction of English trade. It was the fifth crop he had lost since the struggle began. These were absorbable. What was far more serious was the closing of the European markets for West Indian sugar. By Napoleonic decree
the helpless French and Germans and Belgians and Hollanders and even Austrians now sweetened their coffee with sugar obtained from beet. Sugar which he and his father had supplied, twenty years ago, and which represented their true profit.
'What are you going to do, Mr. Haggard?' Cummings asked.
'Do?' Haggard pushed back his chair and stood up. He suffered from rheumatism in the winters, but with the coming of spring his bones and muscles regained a great deal of their former elasticity. In the spring he was as happy as it was possible for him to be. If it was possible for him to be, happy,
‘I
shall have to consider.'
The plantation is now showing a loss, sir. I cannot remember that ever happening before, not even during the American War. And all this Whiggish agitation . . .'
'I know of it.' Haggard stood at the window, looked out at the apple trees. Agitation to oppose which he would make one of his rare treks to Westminster. Since Pitt had resigned over the King's refusal to admit his Irish proposals—how long ago was that night when they had discussed his ambitions over Brand's port—
be
had attended Parliament but once. He loathed and hated the city, as perhaps he feared it. And since his defeat over the Trade, he had loathed it even more. So Wilberforce had finally had his way, and Sharp must have rolled in his grave with glee. Haggard wondered what Middlesex, supposing he still lived, thought of it all. But Wilberforce was like a terrier. Having pushed the abolition of the trade through Parliament, despite a speech which Haggard had been assured was the most b
rilli
ant he had ever made, the mad fool was now seeking to strike at the very institution of slavery itself. For the sake of a principle he would ruin the West Indian plantations, one of the main sources of British wealth, the wealth upon which men like Wilberforce depended to fight the French. He'd not succeed there. Not all the Whigs were that hog-headed. But once again it would
be
a matter of journeying to London, of making speeches, of defending the interest of all those stiff-necked idiots in Barbados because they were his interests as well, and of continuing to be the best-hated man in England, merely because he sought to defend his own property, his own rights.
And for what? If the Whigs had an iota of sense, they'd have realised by now that Bonaparte was winning their battle for them. With the European markets closed, and with his cruisers snipping away at each homeward bound sugar fleet, another five years would see even Haggard's Penn on the verge of bankruptcy.
Cummings shifted his feet. He had ridden all night, and could barely stand.
'You'll spend the night,' Haggard said. 'And dine with me. But get some rest.'
Thank you, Mr. Haggard. If there is anything . . .'
iil tell you,' Haggard said. He went down the stairs and out the side door. It was time to think.
Ned was waiting for him, a horse saddled as ever. 'Morning to you, Mr. Haggard.'
‘I’ll
walk today, Ned,' Haggard said, and strolled down the hill, cutting at the daisies with his stick. Time to think. He stood on the shallow brow of the hill, looked down on what had once been the Hall. He had had the old building pulled down, sixteen years ago. Then it had been a scar on the green face of his valley, but now there was almost no evidence that it had ever been there. He had planted it with poplars, and in the centre he had erected the family vault. Parson Porlock had objected to that, but he had been overruled, had consecrated the ground after all. No one living in Derleth dared object to anything the squire proposed. His money, his willingness to repair their houses and finance their projects and pension their fathers and mothers, in exchange for their unswerving loyalty and obedience, had proved too formidable a weapon. Haggard the slave owner, he thought with a grim smile. He owned these people, by virtue of his purse, as much as he owned the blacks on Haggard's Penn.
But such ownership depended entirely upon his wealth. He thought he would like to see Bonaparte and Wilberforce, together, squirming in hell.
He walked towards the grave, his terriers snapping at his heels. Why? Why torment himself? He could hear her as he approached, as he sometimes heard her at night, wailing around the eaves. 'I hate you Haggard,' she screamed at him. 'God damn you, Haggard. I hate you. May you die in a gutter, Haggard.' She had screamed that every time he had entered her, and she had screamed like that the day she had discovered her second pregnancy, and she had screamed like that seconds before she had given birth, and died. The most beautiful woman in England, lying at his feet, destroyed. Once he had wanted to destroy beauty, and had found he could not. Although, no doubt, he had destroyed Emma Dearborn as much as he had ever destroyed Alison Brand. He had destroyed all the Brands, the colonel through drink, and
Emily, so it was said—and he could believe—from sheer grief at the death of her sister. Haggard the destroyer.
Because he had destroyed more than that. He stood before the white marble, gazed at the door and the inscription. There was only one coffin within that vault; they had buried the babe with its mother. But there should have been at least three. Charlie, mouldering bones at the bottom of the sea; Roger mouldering bones no doubt in some gutter. Haggard the destroyer.
And equally, Haggard the indestructible, he reminded himself fiercely, blinking back the tears. How Alison, from her perch on
a cloud or from her burning furn
ace, must seethe with rage, at the sight of the man she had hated proceeding on his way. His hair was grey, and his waist had thickened. There was no further evidence of age. Not even the maids could discover any lessening of the essential power that had always been his; they weren't to know that he wanted them less and less—they would put that down to increasing preoccupation with other things.
'So hate away, my darling,' he said to the stone. 'You cannot touch me. And I have Johnnie.'
Because there was the greatest irony of all. Alison, by merely living, had robbed him of Charlie as much as by her very hate she had robbed him of Roger. Had she planned it she could not have more securely established her own son as the Haggard heir. What a triumph that had been for her, and she recognised none of it. She was dead, and Johnnie lived, and as he remembered nothing of his mother, nothing of the hate, he could love his father. Why, Johnnie Haggard was Roger all over again, but with a vital difference: he had not been neglected. No father could ever have lavished more love on a child. No father could ever have educated a son more carefully. And no father could ever have been better rewarded. Johnnie Haggard might be only seventeen, but he had already completed his schooling at Harrow, and was in his first year at Cambridge. So he possessed certain traits unique for a Haggard and not altogether welcome; poetry was a form of expression Haggard had never ever been able to understand, much less appreciate. But for Johnnie to scribble verses was better than for him to be riddled with the clap all the time.
'So hate away,' he said again. 'You'll not harm me, my darling.'
He left the tomb, slowly continued on his way down the hill. He did this often, took a constitutional to the church and the village. The people liked to see their squire, and he liked to see them. However hard times might have become, as prices rose and the government tried to hold wages steady, there was a certain security in Derleth. Haggard regarded them all as his family. Even the Laceys, even Margaret, unmarried and her beauty fading into wrinkles. He had seen them die, and he had see
n them born
, and he had seen them wed, every birth and every wedding attended by a handsome present from the squire. He had bought their affection. And not even the combination of Wilberforce and Bonaparte could change that. The Haggard millions might be dwindling, but they were good for his lifetime. He had merely been feeling pessimistic, earlier.
He stopped, frowning down the main street.
His
lifetime. He had never considered very deeply what might ha
ppen after that. He had been born
Haggard, and he would die Haggard. That single goal had stretched before him. when all the other, ephemeral goals—the ministry he had dreamed of, the social lion he had once thought of becoming, even the presentation at court which had never happened—had fallen by the wayside, regretted only for a passing moment. And that goal would be achieved. There was no force on earth could prevent it being achieved, unless he renounced his birthright, and he could perceive no signs of dementia in himself.
But what of after? What of Johnnie? Poetry or no, the boy was a Haggard through and through. He had been brought up to that, would undoubtedly fulfil every ideal necessary to the name, certainly once he had rid himself of the Whiggish notions common to every young man. But his future must be equally safeguarded. It was not enough to reflect that
his
fortune would see him out, it had to stretch into the distance, for the support of Johnnie and of Johnnie's children, until the end of time. If for no other reason than that to allow the family to decline would mean that Alison, from her gutter in hell, would have gained a victory. Or worse, that Emma's curses—for if she was still alive she was undoubtedly still cursing him—would have been successful.
He walked down the street, the dogs continuing to frisk at his heels. People touched their hats and the women curtsied. If they feared him they also loved him, in their own way! Many stopped, for occasionally the squire himself stopped for a chat. But today he did not wish to speak with any of them. Today he wished to think.
What was the answer to his problem? Why, to pick up Haggard's Penn, bodily, and transport it to somewhere beyond the reach of Napoleon's cruisers, and to replace his sugar with something less perishable, something which could be stored and sold whenever the continental markets opened again, or whenever new markets were discovered. There were no new markets for sugar. However much the world was opening for western trade, the Indians of the Americas or the Negroes of Africa or even the Chinese of Asia, did not put sugar in their coffee, because they did not drink coffee at all.
So there it was, a simple solution really, were he a god. But he was Haggard.
He opened the door to the inn. It was still early in the morning, and taproom was empty, save for old Hatchard, polishing glasses behind his bar.
'Mr. Haggard? Good morning, sir, good morning. You'll take a glass of ale? Martha? Martha? Bring some bones for the dogs, there's a good lass.'
Haggard sat down, took the foaming tankard, sipped. He had developed quite a taste for ale, however unsophisticated a drink it might be when compared with sangaree. The dogs deserted his boots for the mutton bones of Martha Hatchard.
'A fine day, Mr. Haggard, sir,' Hatchard commented, it'll be a good summer, I reckon.'
Haggard drank some more beer. Haggard's Penn could not be transported, but a new factory could be built. There was answer number one. But who would do the field work? No slaves were permitted in England. He would have to pay wages to a vast labour force. And where would he get the acreage, save by ploughing up all his farmland, and all his tenants' farmland as well. And what could he grow? Sugar needed heat.