Haggard

by Christopher Nicole

  'Stay for five minutes,' Roger said, ‘I would like to get better acquainted.'

  'Quaint,' Byron agreed. 'Dashed quaint.'

  This is my housekeeper, Mary Prince, my lord,' Haggard said. 'She'll show you to your room.' He looked at Roger, raised his eyebrows, ‘I shall be in the study for a while,' he said, and left the room. Nugent poured two fresh glasses, bowed, and also left.

  Johnnie brought Roger's glass over, ‘I’ll drink to Alice's recovery. But also to your homecoming. You must be very happy.'

  'And you?'

  'Equally so?' He gave a guilty smile, and a secretive one, Roger thought. 'I never supposed I was cut out to be squire.'

  'No doubt there are squires and squires.' Roger sat down, the glass dangled between two of his fingers, watched the liquid sparkle and threaten to slide over the edge. 'Alice has told me a deal about you,' he lied.

  'Alice?' Johnnie flushed, sat opposite. 'She will be all right?'

  'Father thinks so. And Emma thinks he is right.'

  Johnnie's head came up, his flush deepening. But Roger would not spare him.

  'Does Father know what happened?'

  'No. Of course not. He thinks I fell from my horse, that day. But you don't understand . . .'

  'I think I do,' Roger said. 'I've spent a long time in the Army. With the best will in the world, some men just cannot face an enemy.'

  'No.' Johnnie got up. 'You don't understand. You weren't there . . .'

  'And they cannot be criticised for that,' Roger said. 'They're unlucky if it happens in battle because then they are put against a wall and shot. But it is something to be sympathised with. I am trying to understand, you see.'

  'But you can't.' Johnnie wailed, and checked himself. 'You haven't talked with Father?'

  'About that? Obviously not, or I wouldn't have asked you if he knew.'

  'Ah.' Johnnie gave a sigh.

  'What is unforgivable,' Roger said, 'is your refusal ever to visit Meg again.'

  'I ... I couldn't. The shame of it. The way she looked at me . . .'

  'Aye,' Roger agreed. 'But you will visit her again, Johnnie. I will come with you.'

  Johnnie Haggard's shoulders slumped. 'You don't understand,' he said again. 'I behaved badly. I know that. I confessed it to Alice. And she knew 1 had too. But she knew how to have me make it up. She said she'd find the men who were responsible. If it took her the rest of her life, she'd find who were responsible, and then I could avenge Meg. I could avenge myself. You'll see. When she finds out . . .'

  'When she finds out?' Roger shouted in sudden anger. 'Do you not suppose that is what has driven her from her mind? The burden of finding those men? The burden of concealing your cowardice? The burden of knowing what happened to her own sister? You are as guilty as anyone of her illness. And to what end? Do you really suppose, that if Alice were to enter this room now, leading one of those rapists by the hand, you would be able to avenge Meg? Do you really suppose you have the stomach for it, you snivelling little coward?'

  Johnnie Haggard stared at his brother for a moment, then he turned and left the room.

  He ran up the stairs, brushed a maidservant aside. 'Master Johnnie,' she said.

  'Oh, leave me alone,' he snapped. He wanted to weep. He knew he was about to weep. He had no doubt that Roger was right, that it was the weight of everything that had happened which had driven Alice insane. But he was even more concerned with his own position. Roger knew! How could he live, with that hanging over him, for the rest of his life? Whenever he chose, Roger could tell Father . . . Johnnie just could not consider that. And knowing that secret, what of the other? Byron should not have come. Oh God, Byron should not have come, not to Derleth, not into Father's lair.

  'But Master Johnnie,' the girl was hurrying after him. 1 Tis Miss Alice.'

  ‘Eh?' He checked, looked down at her. 'She is asking for you, Master Johnnie.' Johnnie frowned. 'She's asleep.'

  'No, Master Johnnie. She woke up, and when I went to give her the laudanum, she asked me to wait until after I'd seen you. Tis a whipping I'll get, Master Johnnie, if the Master finds out.'

  Then why . .

  She licked her lips. 'Miss Alice said you'd see me right. Master Johnnie.'

  Johnnie gazed at her for a moment. Alice, asking to see him? Alice, who was out of her mind? He chewed his lip in indecision, then nodded. ‘I’ll see you right. We'd best return there before you are missed.'

  She scurried in front of him, up the next flight of stairs, and along the corridor, opened the door. Johnnie closed it behind himself, stood by the bed. Alice's eyes were open.

  'Alice? But .'. .'

  'I had to pretend,' she whispered. 'Don't you see, I had to pretend. Father wants me to be mad. That way I can't cause any trouble.'

  He sat beside her. 'But . . . your head?'

  'It hurts. But not so much as before. When I saw you this afternoon I near gave myself away. Listen . . .' Her fingers wrapped themselves about his wrist, ‘I have found the men.'

  'Eh?'

  ‘I know who they are. They are Father's gamekeepers. Peter Wring and his people.'

  'Peter Wring? By God . . .'

  ‘Ssssh, and listen. They don't matter. They were only doing what they were told. It is Father sent them.' 'Father? That's impossible. Why . . .'

  'Why is it impossible?' Alice's voice was suddenly fierce. 'Do you suppose he would ever let a Haggard marry a Bold?'

  'But ... I was there. I might have been beaten up. I might have been killed.'

  'But you weren't,' she said.

  Johnnie gazed at her, his brain tumbling. They had tied him up instead of hitting him on the head. And when he had tried to escape, his wrists had been undone. So he had run away. They had known he would run away. My God, all of these years, with Peter Wring knowing he was a coward. He felt sick.

  'You'll avenge Meg,' Alice said. 'You'll avenge me. You'll avenge yourself.'

  'Against Father. Oh, I . . .'

  The nails were cutting into his flesh. 'You must,' she said. 'You must. Or ... or I'll tell him you ran away.'

  'No,' Johnnie said. 'No, you mustn't do that. Alice . . .'

  'Then kill him,' she said. 'He's not worth keeping alive. He's a bully and a tyrant and a vicious monster.'

  ‘I . . .' Johnnie licked his lips. 'I could take him to court.'

  'For God's sake.' Alice's fingers relaxed, and she lay back. 'You'll take John Haggard to court? Who do you suppose is the magistrate around here? He is. Oh, you are even more of a coward than I supposed. I will tell him. I may as well.'

  'No.' Once again Johnnie licked his lips. 'No. I'll . . .'

  'You'll kill him,' Alice said. 'Execute him. He deserves execution, for all of his crimes. For murdering Charlie. Because he did. For murdering Annie Kent. Because he did. For shooting Rufus. For throwing Mama out. For turning Meg into a cabbage. He deserves to die, Johnnie. Kill him. Kill him.'

  'Talavera,' Byron said. 'My word, were you there, Captain? I was in Spain then too.'

  'Were you?' Roger inquired.

  There's a coincidence,' Haggard agreed.

  'Well, I was in Seville and then in Cadiz, on my travels, don't you know. A charming place, Spain.'

  'Except where the French happen to be,' Roger said.

  'Faults on every side,' Byron pointed out.

  Roger laid down his knife and fork. 'Do you support Bonaparte, my lord?'

  'Would you not agree he is the greatest man of his age?'

  Haggard snapped his fingers, and Nugent hurried forward with more wine. The meal had been difficult from the beginning, with Johnnie just staring at his plate, Roger obviously in an aggressive mood, and Byron eager to accept any verbal challenge. 'You are not eating, my lord. Is the meat not to your taste?'

  The meat is perfection itself, Mr. Haggard. Alas, I have an inclination to grow fat at the slightest opportunity. Why, would you believe it, 1 once tipped the scales at two hundred and forty pounds? When I was at Cambridge, Johnnie. W
ould you believe it?

  'No,' Johnnie Haggard said.

  'You certainly show no evidence of it now,' Haggard agreed. 'And you'll not find my beef fattening, my lord. Tis one of my own cattle. Anyway, here on Derleth there is sufficient to do to keep a figure trim. Tomorrow I'll show you over the mine and the factory.'

  The factory?' Byron inquired.

  'A cotton mill.'

  'Ah. I had no idea you indulged in such misguided ideas.' 'Misguided ideas?' Haggard drank some wine. The young man was his guest.

  'In my own county of Nottinghamshire the people burn such enormities.'

  'By God,' Haggard commented. 'And you support such criminals?'

  ‘I, sir? I would hardly support crime. But equally I would hardly support this money-grasping Tory administration under which we have suffered for too long. Why, they go from bad to worse. Suspending Habeas Corpus, and now this new law prescribing the death penalty for frame breaking, why, 'tis barbarous. And giving such powers to the local Justices. Why, sir, that is equivalent to placing the entire Midlands under martial law. I spoke against it in the Lords. Caused quite a stir, so I am told. But what would you? The Commons passed the bill just the same. It lowers England to the level of Russia.'

  'And what penalty would you prescribe for the destruction of another man's property?' Haggard inquired, his voice dangerously low.

  'Well ... a fine . . .'

  'Which none of them could possibly pay,' Roger said.

  'Or a brief term of imprisonment. But to take a man's life because he resents your taking his livelihood in the first place, why, 'tis barbarous, as I said.'

  'Aye, well, we have none of that here,' Haggard said. 'Derleth is a happy place. You've seen that, Roger?'

  it seems so, Father. And as my father says, my lord, there has certainly been no frame breaking here.'

  'You should congratulate yourselves.' Byron leaned back to allow his plate to be removed, it does not really alter the situation. The country is being badly run, and there is an end to it.'

  'And how would you change the system, my lord?' Haggard asked.

  'Well . . . you've not met John Russell?' 'No,' Haggard said. 'He has Whiggish sentiments, I have heard.'

  'Oh, indeed, so have I. You'll not object to a Whig sitting at your table, Mr. Haggard?'

  'Of course not. Tell me what your friend Russell would propose.'

  Byron leaned forward, his face suddenly animated. 'A reform of Parliament.' 'Eh?'

  'Parliament, Mr. Haggard, is the most unrepresentative body in this kingdom. You'll not deny that. Great cities like Manchester, with no representation at all, little villages like Derleth returning a member. Why, man, you are a living example of the system. How many electors have you here?'

  'Why . . . twenty odd.'

  'All of whom work for you or are tenants of yours. The seat is therefore yours, and your son's after you, for so long as you care to take it up. Now, sir, do you really represent these people?'

  ‘I do indeed, whenever there is a matter of importance to Derleth.'

  'But do they have any choice?' Byron insisted. 'Why should they require a choice?'

  'Why . . .' Byron leaned back again, looked firstly at Roger and then at Johnnie, who continued to stare at his plate. 'With the best will in the world, Mr. Haggard, you cannot really claim to be one of these people.'

  Haggard was frowning. 'And you would claim to be one, you mean?'

  'By no means. I would never dream of standing for the Commons. I happen to have inherited a barony, and I will take my place in the Lords, to be sure. But in defence of the common man. The man who is being trodden underfoot year after year to pursue this senseless war against Bonaparte.'

  The greatest man of our age,' Roger said drily.

  'Quite.' Byron did not appear to notice the sarcasm.

  'And you consider that if more people had the vote,' Haggard said, leaning forward, 'a different spectrum of the nation might be elected to Parliament, a spectrum which might well choose not to fight the French?'

  'I would consider that a certainty,' Byron said.

  'And I, sir, think that a slander upon the good name of the British people. What, not fight the French? By God, my lord, was there ever an Englishman who did not wish to fight the French?' He pointed at Roger. 'Tell him.'

  Roger considered the matter, remembered the men with whom he had worked and fought for so long, men who only wished to be allowed to go home. Would Corcoran really want to fight a Frenchman, were he not dragooned to it? Come to think of it, he -ealised, do I really wish to fight a Frenchman? Or anyone?

  Byron was smiling, ‘I think perhaps Captain Haggard agrees with me.’

  'Roger?'

  'I suspect Lord Byron may be right. Father,' Roger said. The nation's policies might well undergo a considerable change were he basis of parliamentary election be more widely spread. I would hesitate to say it would necessarily be for the better.'

  'Oh, come now, Captain Haggard. Could you honestly say it would be for the worse?'

  'Stuff and nonsense,' Haggard shouted. This nation is the greatest on earth, and shall I tell you why, sir? It is because for the past thirty years the Tories have held power, undisputed. They lave known what is best for the country, sir, and they have guided it to prosperity. The Whigs, sir, are the party of disgrace. I'll have none of it. I'll have no more of this subject.'

  Byron continued to smile, but now he bowed his head. 'Of course, Mr. Haggard. My apologies for provoking an argument. Believe me, sir, I shall not mention the matter again.'

  A gentle tap on the door, and Johnnie Haggard's head jerked, he knew who it was, of course. Who it had to be. But would he dare come here, in the middle of the night?

  Byron closed the door behind him. 'Your father is every bit as fierce, and as reactionary, as you painted him.'

  'Byron . . . can you imagine what he would say should you be discovered in my room at midnight?'

  'He should be grateful. I see you, sitting on the edge of your bed, your head in your hands, as you sat throughout dinner, with 'our head in your hands, at least metaphorically speaking. Whatever is the matter? Or do the ghosts of your ancestors rise up o strangle your desires whenever you enter your own home?'

  'No jests, I beg.'

  Byron sat beside the boy, threw his arm around his shoulders, gave him a gentle hug. ‘I was not jesting. I offered to ride home with you, and you accepted with joy. Now you act as if I am a drag. I shall leave tomorrow.'

  'No.' Johnnie turned, violently.

  'Aha.' Byron kissed him on the nose. 'Things are not so bad as I supposed. Yet shall I leave, anyway. You'd not have me quarrel with your father?'

  'Father.' Johnnie pulled away, paced the floor. 'If you knew.'

  Tell me. Else why am I here at all?'

  Johnnie stopped, faced the bed. That business I told you of.' Byron nodded.

  'I spoke with Alice tonight. She's not as demented as they suppose. She has proof that it was Father commanded the attack on Meg Bold.'

  ‘I had never doubted it for a moment.'

  Johnnie Haggard frowned at him. 'You never said so.'

  'Would you not have punched me in the eye?'

  'Well . . .' Johnnie's shoulders slumped. 'Father. I can hardly believe it. And yet . . .'

  'It makes sense on every count. It is the sort of thing your father would do. Instinctively. Not that you didn't deserve it. Taking up with a serving girl. My dear Johnnie . . .'

  'Don't start that again,' Johnnie said. 'I'm in no mood for it. It was a beastly thing to do. If it hadn't happened . . .’

  'You might well have married the wench, and regretted it every minute of your life.'

  'Oh . . .' Johnnie's shoulders rose and fell. 'Alice says I should kill him.'

  'Who?'

  'Why, Father.'

  'Kill your own father? Fratricide, amongst the English landed gentry? There would be a tale. Your trial will attract everyone in the land. Standing room only, for twent
y miles each side of Derby. I promise you I shall write such an elegy as shall never have been heard before.'

  'Must you jest about everything?' Johnnie shouted.

  'You'd best lower your voice, or I shall have to compose some more jests, and in haste. If I amuse myself, my darling Johnnie, it is because I never heard anything more silly in my life. You, kill your own father? You, kill John Haggard even if he were not your own father? Do you suppose, Johnnie, that if you held a loaded pistol and that redoubtable old man pointed at you and said, drop it, you would not obey him?'

  'Oh, Christ.' Johnnie Haggard sat on the bed, then slipped from it and knelt, his head on Byron's knees. 'What am I to do? To live here, knowing what he has done, knowing . . . what am I to do?'

  Byron stroked the boy's hair, it's an unjust business, living. So let us see. Your dad has been an utter scoundrel. But you'll not bring him down by legitimate methods. Not while he backs the Tories and they control the country. Revolution? There would be fun, eh, Johnnie lad? Rape and pillage and murder. Your father hanged in his own porch. Oh, what fantasies it conjures up. The trouble with revolutions is that you never can tell where they will end, who will eventually be cut down. I'll wager Desmoulins never supposed he'd lay his head on the block. But still, the old monster should be punished . . .'He snapped his fingers. 'Hit him where it will hurt most.'

  'Eh?' Johnnie raised his head.

  'Money. Your father worships only money, so you have told me, and so I have heard from other sources. Why, it is said he only reigns supreme in this valley because everyone is in his pay, in some form or other. So there is how you can hurt him, with no risk to yourself.'

  'How?' Johnnie was frowning with bewilderment.

  'Smash his frames.'

  'Eh?'

  'Oh, go the whole hog. Burn his mill.' 'You're joking.'

  'I'm not. What could be better? He prides himself on having his people well in hand. Why, you yourself say he manages Derleth as if it were Haggard's Penn in Barbados. Believe me, to have his factory destroyed would shake him up. He'd never be the same again. That would be a punishment.'