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.
'Seven o'clock,' Haggard said, ‘I'm for bed early tonight.'
He mounted his mule, rode up the slope. So Mistress Prentice and Mistress Allison had let it be known that they would not recognise their master's whore. He wondered if they would have the courage to refuse a dinner invitation. It would be amusing to find out. A thought, as usual followed by another. They were his friends. He had grown up with their husbands. And now he was prepared to throw them over for a chit of a girl, not yet seventeen, whose body excited him. Was he then so much of a fool?
He raised his head, and gazed at the verandah. Emma stood there, auburn hair fluttering in the afternoon breeze, wearing a loose pale green house gown. This was normal, and usual. But her demeanour was not normal. Absent was the habitual quiet suspicion of all those around her. As he came closer she ran down the steps with a girlish energy he had not previously observed. 'Mr. Haggard,' she cried. 'Mr. Haggard.'
He threw the reins to Absolom, stepped down, thrust the dogs out of the way. 'What's amiss?'
'Amiss,' she laughed. 'Naught's amiss, Mr. Haggard. I'm certain sure. I'm with child.'
He frowned at her. 'How can you be certain?'
'Because I have been on the plantation better than two months, Mr. Haggard, that's why. I knew, I was sure, four days ago, but I made myself wait until grinding was done. Until there could be no chance. Until you'd be free to understand.' She put both arms round his neck. 'Your child, Mr. Haggard. Your child.'
He swept her from her feet, tucked his arm under her knees. He had lifted her like this on that first day, when she had twisted and moaned and blood had dripped down his side. He walked towards the verandah steps.
'Are you happy about it?'
'Happy. You'll love me now, Mr. Haggard. Now and always.'
‘I loved you already, now and always, Emma.'
'Aye, maybe you did. But now I'm sure of it too. Love me, Mr. Haggard. Love me now. Please.'
He hesitated at the foot of the steps. 'What of the child?'
‘It cannot be harmed, Mr. Haggard. I know it. Love me now, Mr. Haggard. I beg of you. And let me love you.'
She had never said that before. She had never been so excited before. And he had had no time for her for over a week. He carried her up the stairs and across the hall. Gone was her modesty. She kissed his cheek and bit his ear as they climbed the stairs. She slipped from his arms before they were properly inside the bedroom, threw off her gown, helped him to undress. She knelt to kiss his penis and bring him hard, moaned as he gently kneaded her breasts, lifted her again and laid her on the bed, stooped to kiss her in turn. She spread her legs wide and cried out in delight. To her all-consuming beauty there was added a throbbing passion he had never suspected her to possess.
'Slowly, Mr. Haggard, oh slowly,' she whispered, expelling her breath in a long gasp as he sank into her. Her nostrils dilated, her mouth sagged open, her hair scattered to either side of her head. It was how he liked to see her, the composed loveliness of her face, so watchful, so suspicious, disintegrating into pure womanhood, knowing nothing but desire and delight. But never had he seen it quite so possessed, never had he been so possessed himself. Her legs curled around his thighs and he felt her nails scraping down his back, causing him to jerk with pain even as he climaxed, and her own breath once again hissed into his ear.
'Oh, Mr. Haggard,' she said. 'Does a man feel like a woman?'
'I don't know how a woman feels,' he said. 'Or if she feels at all.'
'She feels, Mr. Haggard. Sometimes. I felt then. I want to feel again, Mr. Haggard. I want to feel always.' Her voice insisted. 'Will I feel always?'
'If you're that passionate, always.'
'I'm passionate now. I'm feeling now, Mr. Haggard. I want it again, now.'
He smiled, and kissed her on the nose. 'You'll have to wait until after dinner.'
'You have hands, Mr. Haggard.'
Bewitched, he thought. Oh, indeed, I am bewitched. That John Haggard should lie here and masturbate a woman, that a woman should wish masturbating, that a woman should be capable of physical feelings as deep as that. And there was no pretence. She came again and again, eyes dilating and mouth sagging, body vibrating with pleasure. He knew of no woman who could possibly behave like this. It was impossible to imagine any woman of his acquaintance, Adelaide Bolton or Annette Manning, knowing such feelings, or being able to express them in words. As for Susan—but there was no room for thoughts of Susan while in Emma's arms.
And incredibly, her passion communicated itself even through his own exhaustion, left him more aware than ever before in his life, had him beaming down the table at Clara Prentice and Lucy Allison. They had not, after all, been able to resist their curiosity, or their desire to sit at Haggard's dinner table, and drink expensive wine from Haggard's crystal goblets. And now too they could inspect Emma, and sneer at her plunging decolletage, and no doubt feel their milk curdling as they estimated the cost of her gown or the value of her pearls, as if they did not already know—Mistress Bale's visit to Haggard's was common gossip all over the island.
And they were helpless before her glowing sexuality, her sparkling wit. They might exchange glances whenever she made a grammatical slip, whenever her laugh was a trifle high for breeding, whenever she revealed her ignorance of literature or politics, but they could do nothing more than sit helpless as their husbands warmed before the fire of her beauty and her personality.
While Haggard sat at the top of the table, and sipped wine, and smiled at them all. He possessed so much, and yet he felt he had never possessed anything in his life before. Even Emma had only truly come into his possession this night. But she was his now, and he could not see that ever changing. And soon she would be the mother of his child. Emma, youthful, magnificent Emma, slowly swelling. Emma, with an infant at her breast. Emma, walking her son, with Roger at her side—for she made a great show, at the least, of loving the boy—Emma.
'You'll raise your glasses,' he said, seizing his opportunity during a brief lull in the conversation. 'And drink to Miss Dearborn and myself. Emma is to become a mother.’
To Emma,' said Arthur Prentice.
To Emma and John,' Willy hastily added.
'And to the fortunate child,' remarked Clara Prentice. 'May I ask, John, if you and Miss Dearborn will now be married?'
There was a moment's silence, then Haggard stood up. 'You'll excuse us, I'm sure,' he said. 'But I for one am exhausted after a fortnight's grinding. I think I shall go to bed.'
He left the room, climbed the stairs, slowly. He was very tired. Behind him he heard the hasty scraping of chairs, the mutter of conversation. And Emma's voice.
'He really wasn't strong enough for it,' she said.
>
Henry Suffolk waited for him in the bedchamber, helped him out of his clothes. Emma stood in the doorway.
'You'll not apologise for me again,' Haggard said. 'Not ever, under any circumstances.'
'I'm sorry. They . . . they were so upset.'
Haggard got into bed. Henry Suffolk released the mosquito netting, allowed it to cloud down outside the bed, shrouding the occupant behind a white gauze curtain.
1 saying good-night, Mr. John,' he said, and left, to be immediately replaced by Elizabeth Lancashire, Emma's maid.
‘I’m sure Mistress Prentice meant no harm.' Emma stood with her arms above her head as Elizabeth released the gown and began to remove the petticoats beneath.
'She's not a fool,' Haggard said.
'Well, if she meant harm, it was directed at me. They hate me. All of them.'
'Do you suppose they'd hate you any less as my wife?'
'Why, no. But . . ." She bit her lip, turned away as Elizabeth began to unfasten her corset.
How lovely she was. How lovely she would become. Sixteen years old, and with all of her life crammed into the past two months. But there was so much more to come. He looked through the netting at the long, slender legs, the absolutely smooth curve of her buttocks, almost brushed by the long red hair, as she tilted her head back to have the carcanet taken from her throat. She faced the mirror on the far wall, and he could at the same time look at the swell of hair which thatched her groin, and the sudden thrust of breasts; these she was gently massaging underneath, where the corset had cut her. And the face, so young, and yet so strong. She would make any man a superb wife.
He rolled away from her, violently, stared out of the window at the night. But he'd not marry again. He had said that, when they had sealed Susan's coffin. Well, no doubt many a man made a similar oath. It was not one he'd be expected to keep. But why-should he marry again? It was not necessary. He owned this girl, far more than he ever could own a wife. And did John Haggard, the Haggard, give a damn for the opinions of anyone in Barbados, even his own employees? Or especially his own employees.
So then, are you a bad man, John Haggard? It was not a question he had asked himself for two months. But it could not be begged. He knew in his heart that no slave owner could honestly be considered a good man. So why pretend? He was John Haggard. He owned, and he bought, and he ruled. This was best for him, and it was best for those with whom he came into contact. But for him, Emma Dearborn would have been a lump of putrefying flesh hanging from the end of a rope, by now. He could not do more for her than that.
Or perhaps, he thought, I am afraid to share, anything more than my body and my lust, with any woman, ever again. Because I shared with you, Susan, and the grief was more than I could bear.
And why had the question arisen at all? Because of those silly hags at dinner. They were married. They had to be, to secure their own futures. Overseers' wives. Did their opinions count? Did the opinions of anyone in Barbados count? He was John Haggard. He had turned his back upon Barbadian society, Barbadian opinion, even at the highest level. Because he was the highest level. It was only necessary for Emma always to remember that, to know that she had but to please him and her future was far more secure than it could ever be for a wife who sought to follow Susan.
A discovery she seemed to make for herself, soon enough. The child gave her a confidence she had never previously possessed. It was an easy pregnancy, a simple delivery. She wished to call the babe Alice, after her own mother, and Haggard was content to please her. Soon enough she was pregnant again; and this time they named the boy Charles, after her father. Then Haggard called a halt, demanded she be careful. Three children were enough for any father, two for any mother. He did not suppose she could be lucky all her life.
Certainly she was busy enough. Apart from the children, and she insisted upon feeding them both herself, without conspicuous detriment to her hard-muscled body, she set to work in her own way to make herself a worthy Haggard woman. She already knew how to read, and now she made a study of every book in his library. She spent hours in the flower garden, to the delight of the yard boys, and other hours closeted with Cook in the kitchen, to no great purpose, as Haggard would no longer even entertain his own staff to dinner.
For in a strange way, as Emma appeared to grow more content with her lot, with a life built entirely around Haggard, so Haggard grew more discontented. Not with Emma. Far from it. But with Barbadian society, and even Barbados itself. The rejection had been mutual, and by the end of the American War was complete. Barbadian society could never forgive him for having killed Malcolm Bolton, for having gone his own way in the crisis of that same year. And Haggard did not wish to be forgiven. But his gnawing distaste for Barbados itself did stem from Emma. From the tales she told of England, of snow on the Derbyshire hills, of long, cosy nights before the fire, of the immensity of London, an impression gained on her brief visit to the metropolis while awaiting transportation. She made England sound so much more interesting, even exciting, than Barbados could ever be. Slowly he began to realise that he wanted to leave, wanted to travel, wanted to remove himself to a society where he would not be hated, and where he would not have to hate, himself.
But what an incredible idea. A Haggard, leaving Haggard's Penn? Father would turn in his grave. But Susan would understand. He stood before the white marble vault, his tricorne in his hand, the trade wind whipping at his hair. Over the last few years he had been able to do this again, where for too long he had shunned the cemetery as if it were haunted. But now it had a special place in his daily routine. It was incredible that Susan had been dead fourteen years, that it was ten years since he had shot down Malcolm Bolton. Ten years in which Haggard's Penn had become as socially isolated as if they all had leprosy, in which all his senior staff, driven by their wives, had gone, to be replaced by young men from England seeking their fortunes. But also ten years in which he had prospered while all others had struggled. Ten years in which Great Britain had lost a war. Ten grindings and ten ratoonings. Ten crops of maize. Ten years of exploring the delight that was Emma, of teaching her to read and write, of sharing the mystery that was her mind. Of making her his?
Ten years, he realised, which had passed before he was aware of it. He was thirty-seven years old. There was a suddenly disturbing thought. And tomorrow she would complete her term of indenture. He wondered if she remembered that. She had not spoken of it.
'Father. Father.' At fourteen, Roger Haggard was already tall and strongly built, his features cast in the distinctive Haggard mould. He really should be at school in England, but Haggard had been reluctant to let him go, had preferred to obtain a tutor from Bridgetown, a clerk from the shipping company which handled his sugar and who possessed a smattering of Latin. Roger was all of Susan that was left, and if he possessed the Haggard nose and chin, he certainly had his mother's eyes, amber and sparkling. As well as his mother's innate gentleness of spirit, which went ill with the tales Haggard had heard of the hardship of life at Eton. And besides, he was already proving a useful and knowledgeable bookkeeper.
Then am I getting set to repeat the mistake of my own father, Haggard wondered? But why suppose it had necessarily been a mistake?
There are visitors, Father.' Roger paused for breath. 'From Bridgetown.'
Sufficient cause for excitement. Who from the outer world that was Barbadian society would visit Haggard's?
Then I'd best attend them.' He slapped his son on the shoulder, began the descent. Emma waited at the foot of the slope, Alice beside her, while Charlie seemed absorbed as ever in his own private thoughts. He was eight and his sister was nine. Two of the strangest Haggards of all, Haggard supposed, both with the red hair of their mother, both with the slightly suspicious expression which haunted her own face. But now suspicion was mixed with disappointment. No doubt in her heart she had hoped, with each child, that she might squeeze a little closer to the strange man who was her master. Now she was resigned.
But had she
forgotten that this time tomorrow she would be legally free to leave him? If she wished.
Would he care? Could he possibly live, now, without those long legs and those heavy breasts, slightly drooping now, as she had fed both of her children? Without that throbbing belly, with all its gentle stretch marks, without that wealth of straight aubum hair, without that sudden smile and that continuing shyness whenever he reached for her. Could he possibly?
'You have visitors, Mr. Haggard,' she said as he came towards her.
'So the boy is saying. Now there's a strange circumstance. Can we be at war again?'
‘I hope not, Mr. Haggard. I wish you had more visitors. I wish you would get off the plantation more often. It cannot be good for you to lock yourself away here.'
'I have everything I wish, right here, sweetheart,' he said, and put his arm around her shoulder to kiss her on the cheek. Leave the plantation? Whatever for? To be booed or hissed at? Or just regarded with silent fear and hatred? Haggard the murderer. Haggard the bluebeard. Haggard the man who would not help his fellows. Even, so he had been told by Willy Ferguson, Haggard the madman. Names given him by people who understood none of his strengths or his weaknesses, or his fortune, or his happiness.
Then what of the object who provided that happiness? He looked down at her and she gave a quick smile. Undoubtedly she would stay were he to propose marriage. But he did not want to share. He wanted to own, as he did own. It was a way of life now. There was no one in all the world could question any decision he cared to make. That could not be so were she to be his wife.
But what then did that make him? Why, he supposed, just Haggard. At least he was honest about what made him happy.
But what did she think of it all? She never complained, and that he found disturbing. Was she patiently waiting, believing that she must, in the end, achieve her goal? Or was she as bewildered as he, knowing only the mutual satisfaction of each other's bodies, but in her case accentuated by the sudden wealth and power with which she was surrounded, and to which she had access, providing only she remembered to call him Mr. Haggard? He had suggested, often enough, that she try John, but she had refused.
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