A bell sounded, and the office staff were issuing from the building to his left, pulling on cloaks and hats.
'Friday, you see Mr. Haggard,' MacGuinness explained. 'We only work half day on Friday.'
Haggard watched the entrance to the shaft. The men came up first. It was hard to decide they weren't Negroes, stripped to the waist, with coal dust clinging to their sweating skins. But they were not Negroes; each splash of rain revealed a trace of pink flesh beneath. And they were not slaves, although their backs were in many cases permanently bent, and they blinked at the daylight as if half blind. But then, what was he to make of the children who straggled behind, and to his horror he saw that these were girls as well as boys; indeed, there were more girls than boys. And these were naked, plastered, like the men, in coal dust, long golden hair stuck to their shoulders and streaked with black. Most of the children were clearly very young, but several were well past puberty, and apparently cared little for that; if they immediately sought threadbare cloaks to wrap around themselves it was because of the rain, not the watching men. In Barbados every field slave had worn at least a pair of drawers.
'Now wait a moment and listen to me,' MacGuinness shouted.
Heads turned, disinterestedly.
This here is the new owner, Mr. John Haggard, of Barbados.' They touched their hats or their foreheads. 'I don't have to speak with them, do I?' Haggard asked, suddenly nervous for the first time in years.
'No, sir, you do not. But it does them good to see the owner, once in a while.' MacGuinness raised his voice again. That will be all good people. Mr. Haggard is very pleased with you.'
They touched their foreheads again and shambled off. Some of the children broke into a run, and began to laugh and play, bare feet splashing through the icy puddles. Haggard shivered.
They seem jolly enough.'
'Oh, indeed, Mr. Haggard, especially on a Friday afternoon.'
'But ..." He chose his words with care. 'Do they not suffer? I was thinking of the girls . . . and the boys, of course. Naked, down there.'
'Well, sir. coal dust is not the healthiest of beverages, to be sure. We've a high incidence of lung complaints here in Derleth.' He dropped his voice and gave a portentous wink. 'There's a saying you can have any girl in the village by offering her a domestic post at the manor instead of sending her down the mine.' He sighed, as once again his attempt at humour seemed to have missed its target. 'You'd like to go down the shaft, sir?"
'Down there? Good heavens, no.' Haggard walked to the edge of the canal, studied the empty barges; the horses had been removed from the traces for the weekend. 'Where do these go?'
This branch canal joins the main one three miles off. Mr. Haggard. Then it's on to the north west. Liverpool and Manchester.'
'And there is truly a demand for coal on this scale?'
'Oh, indeed, Mr. Haggard. Especially with winter coming on. Living in cities, sir, you'll understand, there is not sufficient wood to keep the fires burning. People must have coal, sir.'
Haggard nodded, returned to his horse, mounted, walked it up the slope to the cut through the hills. Here he paused, watched the miners and the children ahead of him, trooping along the road past the manor house and towards the village. He had no desire to overtake them.
'Anywhere else you'd like to visit, Mr. Haggard? The village?' is it customary?'
'Only on special occasions, sir, like the church fete. But you'd always be welcome at the inn, sir. You'd be buying.' 'Yes,' Haggard said. 'Maybe Sunday.' 'Now there is a happy thought, sir. After service.' 'Service?'
'Morning service, sir.'
'Hum,' Haggard said, and walked his horse down the slope. Water gathered on the brim of his tricorne and dripped past his nose. In Barbados it either rained, angrily and violently, for several hours, and then stopped altogether, or the sun shone from a cloudless sky. He had never known anything like this perpetual drip; it had begun the previous evening, and it had not once ceased. 'Who are the electors of this borough?'
'Ah, well, sir, there's Parson Litteridge, and there's Hatchard the publican, and there's the farmers, and Coleman the merchant and Plaidy the blacksmith, and Johnson the schoolmaster, and well, sir, there's me. Fourteen in all.'
'That's all?'
'And yourself, sir, of course.'
Haggard drew rein, gazed at the manor house. It seemed to have grown darker and more gloomy in the lowering clouds and splashing drizzle, ‘I see what you mean about visiting the inn,' he said. 'MacGuinness, I don't like the house.'
'Sir?' The bailiff hastily rode alongside.
it is damp, and smells. Can you find me an architect? The best in the country.'
'Oh, well, sir, they do say Mr. Nash . . .' 'Fetch him to Derleth.'
'Very good, Mr. Haggard. A new manor house. Well, glory be.'
Haggard could almost see his brain working. There'd be perquisites for the bailiff in that. No problem with his vote, to be sure.
Haggard and Emma dined alone. The room was small, as was the table. And it was gloomy; even for the midday meal the candles were burning. The silver was well worn, and the plates were similarly old, while the roast beef was tough and tasteless.
'Did you see the mine?' Emma said.
'Aye. By God, what a place to have to work.' He frowned at her. 'How is it you were never sent down?' 'I told you, I was squire's bastard.'
'Aye.' She had certainly been a virgin when he had taken her, and anxious to preserve her maidenhead into the bargain. 'And your day?'
'I didn't know where to begin. Oh, and we had a visitor. The Reverend Litteridge.'
'Does he remember you too?'
'No, sir. He has only had the living two years. I asked him to wait, but he said he'd call back this afternoon.'
'Ah,' Haggard said, and drank some mulled wine. He was very tired, and pleasantly inebriated; this was his third glass. It was a good afternoon to go to bed with Emma. Save that Emma's sniff was off-putting.
He tried to imagine a twelve-year-old Emma, naked and stained with coal dust, and found it disturbingly simple to do so. The mental picture made him quite hot; he had had nothing of her during the journey from London or last night—her cold had made her at once easily tired and generally peevish. But suddenly he wanted it. more than at any previous time in his life since the day he had brought Emma herself home. All his life he had been surrounded by willing womanhood. But they had been black women, slaves. Here they were white, and free. And yet, if MacGuinness was to be believed, everyone was as willing to please the squire as any slave her master. Did that go for the house servants as well? Margaret the housekeeper? There was a fine looking woman. 'And have the servants become used to you?'
'I would like to talk about that, Mr. Haggard,' she said seriously. She looked at the footmen, motionless by the sideboard, at old Pretty, hovering in the doorway.
'We'd best go into the parlour.' He walked in front of her, sat down in a comfortable chair, stretched out his legs towards the fire; his boots were wet, and began to steam. Pretty hurried forward with a pipe.
'You'll take some port wine, sir?'
'Yes,' Haggard said. 'Bring the decanter, and then leave us.' 'Of course, sir.' 'Well?' Haggard asked.
Emma sat beside him, blew her nose. 'With the slaves, we do not need all of these servants.'
Haggard nodded. 'We'll still require the maids, but the sooner Annie Kent gets in the kitchen the better.'
'Pretty can go,' Emma said. 'You have Middlesex as your butler. And I will take over the housekeeping duties.' She flushed. 'So we can let Margaret go. And then . . .'
Haggard stroked his chin. 'All those who may remember you.'
'Well . . .' Again the flush.
‘I had supposed, from the way you greeted Pretty, that you were glad to see him.'
‘I acted without thinking. I was glad to see him. But it is embarrassing. You do want me to manage the house for you?'
'Do you wish to?' She had never shown the slightest inclinati
on to manage Haggard's.
'Yes. Really I would.'
'Aye, well, it will give you something to do. When you are feeling better.'
'I am feeling perfectly well, Mr. Haggard.'
'You do not look perfectly well. It is the damp. And you'll have enough to do, settling the children.' He finished his port, got up. ‘I'm for my bed.'
She pushed herself to her feet.
'I've been thinking," he said, it would be best if we had different rooms, for the next few days.'
'Different rooms?' Her expression was utterly bewildered.
'I'd not catch your cold, Emma.' He ran his hand into her hair, disturbing her cap, kissed her on the forehead. 'Have Margaret see to it.'
'Mr. Haggard.'
Haggard, already at the door, paused and turned.
'I'd like Margaret, at the least to go. Annie Kent can be housekeeper until I am able.'
‘I doubt the maids would take to Annie. And I told you, I want her in the kitchen.'
‘I would like Margaret to go, Mr. Haggard.' Never had he seen her face so set.
'Why? Because she recognised you?'
'She's familiar, Mr. Haggard.'
'She's confused, you mean. I'll have a word with her.'
'Mr. Haggard . . .' Emma bit her lip. Haggard smiled at her and went into the hall, snapped his fingers. A footman hurried forward. 'Send Margaret to me,' he said, and climbed the stairs. His heart was commencing to pound; the wine had taken hold of his senses as well as his belly; he could hear the rain dripping from the eaves, and as he passed an open window he saw that the entire valley was shrouded in the wet mist. A good afternoon to be in bed.
'Sir?'
She stood in the doorway.
‘I wish you to have your girls make up a bed for Mistress Emma in the next room. Now. Be sure there is a fire and a warming pan."
'Yes, sir.'. She waited. She knew he was not finished.
'When you have done that, come back to me here. I wish to have a word with you.'
'Yes, sir.'
She was replaced in the doorway by Henry Suffolk. 'Man. this is a place, Mr. John. You ever seen such rain? It going stop?'
'I suppose so,' Haggard said. "I'll undress myself, Henry. Are you settled in?'
'Oh, yes, sir. Mr. John. I got room and all. But is true these white people does be servants just like we?'
'Just like you, Henry. Tell James I want a word with all of you later on.'
Suffolk looked vaguely distressed. 'I going tell he, Mr. John, when I does see he.'
The door closed. Haggard undressed, slowly and thoughtfully, then stood in front of the fire, allowing the heat to chase some of the damp from his bones.
The warmth sent the blood pumping through his veins, brought him up in a massive erection. This time, he knew, there would be no need for ropes or force. So then, after all, John Haggard, you are a monster. Or merely a retarded human being—in all his life, to this moment, save for the odd boyhood fling with Polly Haynes' girls in Bridgetown, he had taken but two women to his bed.
A gentle knock.
'Come,' Haggard said.
The door opened. 'Oh,' Margaret said. 'I'm sorry, sir.' ‘I said come.' He turned to face her.
She hesitated for a moment, then stepped into the room, closed the door behind her. Her gaze dropped to his penis for a moment, then returned to his face. A flush filled her cheeks.
'Have you not seen a man before?' Haggard asked.
Margaret licked her lips. 'Yes, sir.'
'Are you a virgin?'
Again the quick flick of the tongue. 'No, sir.'
'Betrothed?'
'No, sir.'
'Come here,' he said.
She gave a glance to right and left, almost as if she wished to reassure herself that she was actually alone with him, then crossed the room, slowly. He took her face between his hands and kissed her on the mouth. It opened readily for him, and her tongue pressed against his; her breath was clean. And immediately he felt her hands closing on him. He wanted to shout for joy. Here was pure desire.
He took his mouth away. Her eyes had been shut. Now they opened, anxiously; her fingers released him.
'Undress,' he said.
She frowned at him. 'My clothes?'
'I wish to see you naked,' he said.
She gave a quick glance to either side. He realised with a start of surprise that while she would allow him her body without a thought, to be naked in front of him embarrassed her.
But she was his servant. 'Come along," he said.
A last hesitation, then she tore at her clothes, almost desperately. Her gown and her cap and her shift fell to the floor. Her eyes were shut as she stepped out of her shoes.
'The stockings also,' he said.
She opened her eyes, looked around her: her cheeks were red. 'You may sit on the bed."
She sat down, and he stood in front of her. Here was beauty on a scale he had not previously observed. Susan, like Emma, had rather been slender. But this girl was big; five feet six inches in height, he estimated, with square shoulders, and large, high breasts. Her belly was flat—she had clearly never been a mother —and gave into wide thighs and long, powerful legs. Her pubic hair was surprisingly scanty, where Emma's was a magnificent bush, but even this difference was exciting, because he could see more of her, know more of what he was about.
The stockings lay on the floor, and she gazed at him. She did not seem to know what to do with her hands.
He knelt, between her legs. He wanted to explore, to kiss and to suck, as once he had wanted from Emma. Margaret seized his head to hug it against her belly, and moved her bottom on the sheet at his touch. Then she fell back, strong legs closing on his neck, so that he almost lost consciousness, and had to part them with his hands. He rose himself, came up the bed, kissed her, holding her face again and feeling her breasts surging against his chest, stroking her with his penis, before thrusting it in; she closed on him and held him there for a moment, and when he moved his head, surprised at once by her intention and her strength, he found her smiling, her face alive with an expression of incredible lewdness.
'You're hurrying,' she whispered.
She relaxed, and he moved more slowly, withdrawing when he felt about to burst to give himself a fresh lease of life. But the second time there could be no stopping. He surged into her again and again, and she moaned and twisted and snapped at his ear with her teeth, before throwing her arms wide and expelling the breath from her lungs in a long gasp.
Haggard remained lying on her. There was no question that she could bear his weight. There was no need to move. There was no need ever to move again.
'Miss Dearborn said I would have to go,' Margaret said, against his ear.
'Did she now?'
'Will 1 have to go, Mr. Haggard?'
'We shall have to see, Margaret,' Haggard said. 'We shall have to see.'
The Reverend Thomas Litteridge was a tall, thin man with aquiline features and a perpetual frown which indicated that he was shortsighted. He stood uneasily by the fire as Haggard entered the room, carefully arranged his mouth into a smile.
'Mr. Haggard. This is indeed a pleasure.’
Haggard shook hands, glanced at Emma, who had remained seated on the far side of the fireplace.
'You've met Miss Dearborn?'
'Oh, yes, sir. Miss Dearborn has very kindly been entertaining me while you dressed.'
Another glance. Emma was not smiling, and her cheeks were pink. No doubt it had been simple enough for her to discover where Margaret Lacey had spent the afternoon.
Now she stood up. 'I am sure the reverend gentleman wishes to converse with you in private, Mr. Haggard.' she said. 'You'll excuse me. Mr. Litteridge.'
He gave her a brief bow. She went to the door without looking at Haggard, closed it behind her.
'A charming young woman.' Litteridge remarked.
'I find her so, Mr. Litteridge. Sit down, man, sit down. You'll take a glass of wine?'
'Wine, Mr. Haggard? At so early an hour?'
Haggard listened to the clock striking six. It was already dark outside. 'Late enough for me, Mr. Litteridge.' He pulled the bell rope. 'It is good of you to call.’
Litteridge sat down, as carefully as he did every other thing, it is a privilege as well as a pleasure, Mr. Haggard. From Barbados, I have heard.'
'Correctly. Ah, Pretty. Where the devil is Middlesex?'
‘I do not know where he is, Mr. Haggard. He is not in the pantry.'
'Well, find him for me. And bring in some of that mulled wine of yours.' Haggard lit a cheroot.
'And is the young lady also from Barbados?' Litteridge inquired.
'Oh, come now, Litteridge. No dissembling. She is from here and you know it. You will also have been told she was transported for stealing.'
'Well, sir . . .' Litteridge sneezed into his kerchief to hide his embarrassment, remained hidden while Pretty placed the jug of mulled wine on the table next to his master; he at the least was learning fast.
'You were saying, Litteridge? Have a drink, man, have a drink.'
Thank you.' The parson regarded the glowing red liquid with some suspicion. There has been talk, of course.'
‘I have no doubt of it. Well, you may as well know the facts. I bought the girl on indenture. She's a pretty child, you'll agree. And I am well suited by her. She's the mother of my younger children.'
Litteridge drank some wine and seemed to feel better. 'You've no plans for marriage?'
To Emma? I have no plans for marriage to anyone, Litteridge. I had a wife, and she died. I'll not repeat the experience.'
'Oh, dear,' said Mr. Litteridge. 'Oh, dear, dear me.'
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