Haggard

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘I must leave you now, Mr. Haggard,' she said. 'To greet my other guests. But be sure I shall find you again.'

  'On the contrary, Your Grace,' he said, bowing over her hand, it is I shall find you, as soon as I may.'

  'Why, Mr. Haggard,' she said, ‘I had no idea our colonials were so gallant. I shall look forward to it.'

  She withdrew her hand, and returned towards the head of the staircase. Haggard found himself surrounded by people he had apparently just met, eager to talk about Barbados—which they seemed to confuse with Jamaica or Antigua—about sugar planting, about which they knew even less, and about the new Hall he was building at Derleth, about which they seemed to know more than himself. He smiled at them, and made what he hoped were suitable replies, and was rescued by Addison, who gently eased him from the throng and obtained them each a glass of wine from a passing footman.

  'Well, Haggard, your triumph, what?'

  ‘I confess I do not understand it at all.'

  'Society is like the mob, my dear Haggard. Fickle as a pretty woman. But while you please them, why, it is like living in perpetual sunlight. Miss Brand. How beautiful you look.'

  Thank you, Mr. Addison. The Prince is arriving.'

  They turned, with everyone else, and the ladies curtsied while the gentlemen bowed. Haggard found himself impressed. Prince George was just past thirty. Perhaps he was a trifle overweight, and his cheeks were too flushed as his nose was too large, but he was a splendid figure of a man, with the height to carry any stoutness, and a magnificent air, which quite matched Georgiana's.

  'Does he come down the line?' he muttered.

  'No, no,' Alison said. 'We are presented to him as the evening goes on. Those of us the Duchess chooses.'

  'But you will be amongst them, Haggard,' Addison promised. 'No doubt of that.'

  'The music,' Alison said. 'Will you dance with me, Mr. Haggard?'

  'Wait for the Prince,' Addison warned.

  But the Prince of Wales was already on the floor, the Duchess in his arms. Haggard led Alison out; certainly they made a marvellous couple, and he observed the Prince's head turning as they joined the parade. He had not danced for twelve years, since that disastrous night at the Boltons. But had it been disastrous? That night had set in motion a remarkable series of events. But for those events, would he be here now?

  Alison smiled at him as they parted, and was still smiling as they came together again. Her whole body seemed to be smiling. This was the life she truly appreciated, truly loved. Then he must be sure they enjoyed a great deal of it, at Derleth. The great room at the Hall might have been intended for dancing, indeed, he had created it with that half in mind. Alison would be in her element. And after his triumph tonight, Derleth would be the centre of all that was worthwhile in Midlands society.

  The music had stopped, and he was escorting her back to where Emily sat with her father. 'You dance divinely.'

  'As do you, Mr. Haggard. I am so happy.'

  'Haggard. The moment is here.' Addison, smiling at him.

  'You'll excuse me,' he murmured, gave Alison's hand a hasty-squeeze, followed his friend across the room, aware that he was being watched by everyone present.

  The Prince was surrounded by his gentlemen, none of whom Haggard had met; but also in the group was the Duchess.

  'Ah, Mr. Haggard,' she said, and took his hand. 'Sir, I would so like you to meet Mr. John Haggard, late of Barbados, but now of Derleth Hall, in Derbyshire.'

  Haggard gave a brief bow, straightened, found the Prince staring at him. 'You're the planting fellow.'

  'That is so, sir.'

  'The slave-chasing fellow, what? Dicky Sheridan has been telling me about you.' 'Indeed, sir?'

  'It won't do. Haggard. It won't do. No indeed. This is a free country.'

  Haggard opened his mouth and then shut it again. He had been quite unprepared for such an attack. He could feel his cheeks burning, but it was nothing compared to the sudden burning anger in his belly.

  'And then, this other business,' Prince George said. 'Turning your people out into the snow. Gad, sir, that was barbaric. Barbaric. You'll know one of them died.'

  Haggard took a long breath. 'I did not know that, sir. Nor do I accept it.'

  'You'd call me a liar?'

  'Why, sir . . .' Fingers were closing on his arm.

  'Sharp told me so himself, sir,' the Prince said, also very red in the face. 'One of the women just fell down and died. Gad, sir, it made my blood boil. Called you a damned scoundrel, he did, and I'm not sure I don't agree with him.'

  The huge room was utterly silent. The men to either side of the Prince seemed paralysed. The fingers remained on Haggard's arm, but they no longer gripped. While Haggard could only stare at the florid face in front of him; the Prince was showing slight signs of embarrassment, as if he had not quite intended to go so far.

  But he was the Prince, ‘I am sure, sir,' Haggard said, 'that you must therefore find my company obnoxious. You'll forgive me if I withdraw.'

  'Of all the damnable things.' Brand paced his own withdrawing room, waving his decanter of port.

  'He was drunk, of course,' Addison pointed out. He was also putting away as much port as he could swallow.

  'Drunk?' Alison cried. 'What does it matter what he was? We walked out of the Duchess of Devonshire's ball. We walked out. It is unbelievable.'

  'We shall never be invited anywhere again.'

  Haggard sighed. Although he had consumed quite as much port as either Brand or Addison, he was perfectly sober, ‘I had not intended you to follow me.'

  'What else was I to do?' Alison demanded, hands on hips. She looked less like a beautiful girl than a reincarnation of Medusa, especially as she had taken off her wig and her undressed hair was scattered.

  'Anyway, I'd not have had us do anything else,' Addison said, ‘I think he used the opportunity for a deliberate attack upon Haggard, and through him on the Tory Party. He more or less admitted he's been put up to it by Sheridan. Tis nothing but a Whig plot. And you gave as good as you got, Haggard. Oh, aye, you met him fair and square, and did not even lose your temper.'

  'We'll never be presented at court,' Emily moaned. 'Never.'

  ‘I should like to know where I stand,' Haggard said. 'It seems that if you marry me, Alison, your social future is dead. Therefore I feel it is only right that you should decide.'

  To . . .' Some of the colour faded from Alison's cheeks, and she glanced at her father.

  'My dear fellow,' the colonel spluttered. 'Of course Alison means to marry you. What, refuse the . . . the best fellow in all the country because our scoundrel of a Prince insulted him?'

  Had he really been going to say the wealthiest man in the country?

  Treason,' Addison grinned.

  'And you, sir?' Haggard demanded.

  'Oh, I am on your side, Haggard. Entirely.'

  'Well, then, the decision must rest with Alison.'

  She stared at him, her cheeks once again pinkening. Then her shoulders rose and fell. 'Of course I wish to marry you, Mr. Haggard. Oh, how I wish it could be today. Thank God it is only a short while.'

  Only a short while. And indeed the summer had passed very quickly, Haggard thought. There had been the Hall to be completed, and there had been the preparations for the wedding, the food and the wine and the lodgings to be prepared. Over the past week there had been the arrival of the guests, the rehearsal, with Emily taking the part of her sister, the meetings with the Reverend Porlock, who was in a state of high excitement, the practices with the children, who were each to have an important part to play, the knowledge that every day Alison was coming closer. Nothing mattered beside that single fact. Not Pitt's refusal to attend—affairs of state, by God—nor indeed the somewhat muted response of London society; the local gentry had been happy enough to have an excuse to end their ostracism of him, to inspect the new Hall, to meet the squire himself. There were guests enough, even without Pitt. It had been quite a revelation to realise
that so many people in this amazing country disliked the Prince, were actually prepared to take his side in the quarrel.

  So London society was apparently closed to him; he was not even prepared to be angry about that any more. Politics were irrelevant, to an impatient groom. How had he contained himself? Indeed he had not, entirely. But the housemaids were nothing more than a panacea. They relieved the pressure on his penis, the demands on his belly. But they did nothing for his mind, left him as anxious to dream of Alison immediately after a tumble as he had been afraid to do so before. And for the last week he had touched none of them.

  And now it was over. All the waiting was behind him. He stood at the head of the aisle, listening to the music, conscious of Henry Addison, acting as best man, at his shoulder, head half turned, so that he would gain an early glimpse of her. Behind him the little church was packed to the door, and filled with a gigantic rustle, which slowly died as everyone stood and the music rose to a climax.

  Haggard traced the advance of the white clad figure from the comer of his eye. Only her face was uncovered, as the gown itself was high-necked and her arms and hands were lost in the long lace gloves. Behind her Emily was a splash of blue, and Brand, like himself, wore black. How slowly they moved. But he could wait for ever, now. She was here, and she was about to be his. His entire body was swollen with desire for her. With love for her? Well, love had to be based, first and foremost, on desire. But how could he not love someone as beautiful, as soft spoken, as purposeful, as Alison Brand?

  She smiled at him, and her hand was in his. Porlock was beginning his preamble, and the church had fallen silent. Haggard scarce heard a word that was spoken; Addison had to nudge him to make the correct responses. He thought all of his life might have been a preparation for just this moment; the boy who had stumbled into marriage with Susan Brett; the young husband who had near gone mad with grief at her death; the lonely, savage planter who had nightly drowned his sorrows in a jug of sangaree; the careless marksman who had killed a man for very little reason; the eager lecher who had plucked Emma Dearborn from the noose; the determined individualist who had set all Barbados at defiance; the bewildered colonial who had sought a new life in England; the slave owner who had become the most unpopular man in the land —all of these different facets of his personality had led up to the complete Haggard. They were behind him now, and for the second half of his life he would be content, to be Squire Haggard of Derleth Hall, John Haggard, MP, and above all, Mistress Haggard's husband. So he had often been a bad man. But that was behind him as well. No more outrageous tempers, no more pandering to outrageous desires, no more coal dust on his penis. Only Alison, Alison, Alison, and all the joys that Alison would bring.

  'You may kiss the bride,' Porlock suggested.

  Haggard awoke as from a dream, lowered his head, kissed her on the lips. For just a second she allowed her tongue to rest on his, then she was away, and the parson was waiting to escort them into the vestry to sign the register.

  'My God, but I was nervous as a kitten.' Brand took off his wig to wipe his head. 'And to think I must experience that again with Emily.'

  Haggard beamed at them all, even at Roger, with his solemn, serious face. The two younger children, carrying Alison's train, were wildly overexcited. It would have to be an early night for them; but that could safely be left to nurse Hailing. It was going to be an early night for him as well.

  'Shall we go?' Alison squeezed his arm. Pray to God that she was passionate. It was not a thought that had really troubled him before. But she was a lady. Had Susan been passionate? He could not really remember, but he did not think so, because he had known so little about passion himself. She had been willing, had accepted him, but had she ever responded? Alison was no older. It was he who had changed.

  The organ broke out into the wedding march, the crowded church stood and smiled at them and greeted them and welcomed them. Alison's fingers were tight on his as they emerged into the mid morning sunlight, to blink and wave at the entire population of Derleth, today swelled by many from the neighbouring villages and valleys. A society wedding was not something to be missed by anyone who could find any means of transport. Haggard beamed at them all, looking along the row of faces, Peter Wring, raising his hat. Jemmy Lacey, standing beside his sister—even she was smiling—Hatchard the publican, other faces he recognised without being able to put names to them, Emma Dearborn.

  Haggard stopped, at the foot of the church steps. He felt quite incapable of moving, his belly filled with lead, his heart suddenly pounding.

  'Mr. Haggard?' Alison spoke in an urgent whisper; the two children had nearly bumped into her back.

  Haggard had closed his eyes. He opened them, slowly, looked at Emma again. There could be no mistake. She wore a bonnet which concealed the most part of her hair, and in place of the crimson pelisse she had worn when last he had seen her there was a light brown cloak, of considerably cheaper material. Her face was thinner than he remembered. But it was Emma. And now she had seen him looking at her. He watched her lips move, and not to smile. She was saying something. Pronouncing a curse, by God.

  'Mr. Haggard.' Alison's voice was sharp.

  'MacGuinness,' he said. 'Where is MacGuinness?'

  'Who?'

  He recovered himself, looked away, hurried forward. The open coach was waiting for them, and MacGuinness was himself standing by the door to help them in.

  'MacGuinness,' he said. 'Follow me to the Hall. Quickly.'

  'Sir?' MacGuinness frowned at him.

  To the Hall, MacGuinness.' Haggard sat down beside Alison, and the coachman flicked his whip. They were turned away from where Emma had been standing, and he would not look back.

  'Whatever is the matter, Mr. Haggard?' Alison asked, ‘I had supposed you had had a seizure.'

  He looked down at her, smiled at her. Emma could not harm him, not even with her curses. She had tried before. Hadn't she?

  He kissed his wife on the forehead, and the crowd cheered. 'Nothing is the matter. No seizure.'

  She leaned back, still clutching his hand tightly. In front of them the new Hall crowned the hill. Haggard's Folly, some unkind wag had called it. But it was a splendid building, dominated by the tower, on the outside, and on the inside by the huge marble ceremonial staircase which curved from the entry hall to debouch into the ballroom. Here the servants were gathered, lining the steps, the maids to one side and the footmen to the other, waiting to throw rose petals at their master and their new mistress, before hurrying off to the mammoth task in front of them, of serving champagne and food to a hundred people.

  Haggard and Alison climbed the stairs, slowly, took their places at the top. 'MacGuinness.' Haggard muttered. 'Where the devil is MacGuinness?'

  But the other guests were already arriving, headed by Emily and her father and Alice and Charlie. Had they looked into the crowd, and seen their mother? They gave no sign of it. Nor did Roger. And MacGuinness was submerged in the mob, streaming by, shaking hands and kissing, according to their sex, showering congratulations, faces he knew, faces which were strange to him, friends and relations of the Brands, every one with gamine-like features, shrouded in a head of waving auburn hair. Christ, the bitch. The utter bitch. Returning after more than six months to make a sport of his wedding. She'd not get away with it. Not so long as his name was John Haggard.

  'MacGuinness.' The crowd had at last departed from the head of the stairs, and Alison had also left, to circulate amongst her guests, to enjoy their amazement at the splendour of the Hall, at the paintings and the drapes and the upholstered furniture and the acres of polished floor, to discuss the architectural splendours of the tower, to bathe in the aura of being Mistress Haggard, of Derleth Hall. 'Did you see her?'

  MacGuinness, his black suit clearly too tight for him, his face crimson with wine and heat, mopped his brow with his handkerchief. 'See whom, Mr. Haggard?'

  'Emma Dearborn. She was in the crowd.'

  'Oh, aye, well, she would be
.'

  'Eh?' '

  'Seems she's taken up with Harry Bold.'

  'Who the devil is Harry Bold?'

  'Well, sir, Mr. Haggard, he's a tinker, who . . .'

  'A tinker?' Haggard shouted. Heads turned, and he lowered his voice. 'A tinker?'

  That he is, sir. Well, he works this neighbourhood, up north a bit, then down a bit. I had heard he was around these parts.'

  'And you never told me?'

  'Well, sir, I didn't suppose you'd want to know. Not right at this moment.'

  'I know now,' Haggard said. 'And I'll not stand for it. I don't want that woman and her . . . her lover on my land. Understood?'

  'Yes, sir, Mr. Haggard. But they'll be moving along anyway, I should think.'

  'And then coming back again? MacGuinness, I want them discouraged.'

  The bailiff frowned at him. 'I'm not sure I understand you, Mr. Haggard.'

  'You understand me very well, MacGuinness. Find out where they are living, take some men, Peter Wring and his friends, and get over there tonight. You'll never have a better opportunity, with this rout going on until near dawn. A tinker, you said. He'll travel by wagon.'

  'Aye, sir, that he does. But . . .'

  'Destroy it,' Haggard said. 'Smash it up. And tell him if he ever sets foot on my land again you'll smash him up as well.'

  'Mr. Haggard, Harry Bold ain't the sort of man to frighten easy.'

  'You'll have my people at your back, MacGuinness. And if he attempts to resist you, beat him up.'

  MacGuinness wiped his brow. 'And the lady?'

  'Emma Dearborn is no lady, MacGuinness. She was transported for theft. You want to remember that. See that it is done, MacGuinness.'

  MacGuinness sighed, and nodded. 'As you wish, Mr. Haggard. I'll discourage them. You'll excuse me.'

  He receded into the crowd, and Haggard took another glass of champagne. Emma, and a tinker. He had not been so angry since Mansfield had given judgement for Middlesex. A tinker, an itinerant who probably never washed and was riddled with the clap. My God, how low, and how quickly, could a woman sink. Had this Bold also been in the crowd? He would have been standing next to Emma, of course. But he had not noticed him.