Haggard (18 page)

'I suspect bed is indicated,' Haggard said.

'Bed,' Brand said. 'I've no notion for it.' He poured himself a glass. 'Come wi' me, Haggard. I'll show you the most beautiful sight you've ever seen.'

'Not tonight, Brand. Besides, it's raining. I've had just about all of this dismal weather I can stand.'

'Ah, be off wi' you,' Brand snorted. 'I'm not proposing to go out. I'm proposing to go upstairs and look at my darlings. You'll come with me, Haggard. They're fond of you. Oh, yes, I could tell that at a glance. Fond of you.' He picked up the decanter with his other hand, swayed towards the door, waved away the footman who would have opened it for him, splashing port.

Haggard followed him into the hall. 'I'm not sure I understand you,' he said. But his heart was pounding like a base drum.

'Have you no eyes for a pretty girl?' Brand commenced to climb the stairs. There's a rumour you keep one in Derleth. She'd have to go, of course.'

'Indeed?' Haggard climbed behind him. 'Go where, and when?'

Brand had reached the upper landing, now he poured some more port, set the decanter on an incidental table.
‘I’m
thinking it would be the match of the century, Haggard. You may take your pick. Then you'd really be one of us. There's talk, you know.' He attempted to wag his finger and spilt some more wine. 'You'll not do well, socially, with a thief in your bed.'

'Addison,' Haggard said. 'I ought to wring his neck.'

'Ah, bah, 'tis true. But you're a colonial. People forgive easily. And with a wife on your arm, out of the top drawer, why, you'd be presented at court. I'd see to that.' He waved his arm, and this time port splashed on to Haggard's waistcoat. They're along here.'

Haggard knew where the sisters' bedroom was. Now he was hard as a rod; he had drunk enough himself to have lost just a little control of his wits. Presented at court? Why, of course he had to be presented at court. He was John Haggard.

Drunk as he was, Brand appeared to be a mindreader. 'Because they're a damnably stuffy lot,' he grumbled, fumbling at the doorknob. 'It's the Queen, God bless her. All of her sons are lechers. Every one. Why that Frederick tried to make advances to my Alison. Spurned him, she did. Nothing but debts and worries, she said. She has an old head, she has. But Her Majesty now, she'll receive no one with the slightest blemish on his affairs. No, indeed.'

The room was dark, and filled with the scent which the girls both used. Haggard waited while Brand reached up and took a candle from a holder on the wall, held it above his head as he went inside.

'Aren't thev splendid?' He drew the side drape from around the bed.

Haggard tiptoed forward, stood beside him. The girls wore white linen nightgowns, and as the fire still glowed in the grate and the room was warm, they had half kicked off their covers. They lay facing each other, Alison on the outside, with her back to him, Emily facing him. There arms were stretched towards each other, and their fingers were interwined; the position pushed their breasts together and thrust them out of the tops of the gowns. Their legs were clearly to be delineated beneath the soft material. Haggard licked his lips and found tha
t his throat was dry. How stran
ge, he thought, that they should share a room, and a bed. Or is Brand even more strapped than
I
had imagined?

Ladies. It was remarkable how inadequate that one word made him feel. But since Susan he had only ever bedded serving girls, and thieves. And even Susan had possessed none of Alison Brand's beauty.

Take your pick, Haggard,' Brand said, turning towards him.

'Really, Brand, this is somewhat unseemly. I am a widower, and old enough to be Alison's father.'

'Alison, is it? Thought as much.'

‘I
'd not considered marrying again.'

'Stuff and nonsense. A man must have a wife. Come along and we'll talk about it.' He turned away, and the girls fell back into shadow. Haggard followed reluctantly, watched his host appear to subside forward, losing the candle and hitting the floor with a most tremendous crash.

'For God's sake,' Haggard cried, almost falling over him in turn. But Brand did not reply, and the candle had fallen from his hand and rolled against the wall, going out in the process.

'Papa?' Alison scrambled out of bed.

Haggard stepped over the unconscious man into the gallery, found another candle, held it above his head. Both girls were out of bed now, and kneeling beside their father.

'He just fell over,' Haggard said helplessly.

‘I
don't think he's hurt himself.' Alison opined, 'except perhaps a bruise. We must get him to bed.' She looked up, gave a brief smile. 'He will be all right, Mr. Haggard. Truly.'

'He always is,' Emily explained.

Haggard knelt beside them, got his hands into Brand's armpits. His shoulder brushed Alison's, and her hair flopped against his face. 'You mean this has happened before?'

'Mmm,' Alison said, straining. Slowly they pulled Brand to his feet, and Haggard got one of his arms over his shoulders. Alison went round the other side, took the other arm, and Emily came behind. 'Just along here,' Alison panted.

'Can I assist you. Miss Alison?' asked the butler, coming up the stairs with a footman at his heels.

'No thank you. Partridge,' Alison said. 'I'm sure we can manage. You may retire.'

Partridge disappeared, and Emily was opening the door to Brand's bedroom. Haggard and Alison dragged him across the floor and laid him on the bed.

'You may go back to bed, Emily,
’
Alison said. 'But . .

'Go back to bed.' Alison climbed on to the bed to kneel beside her father, began to loosen his cravat. Haggard stood above her, holding the candle at her shoulder, listened to the soft sound of the door closing as the younger sister withdrew. He looked down on the gently curving sweep of back beneath him, on the upturned bare feet—she was sitting on her heels as she tugged at the cloth—on the golden hair which had fallen forward to each side of her ears to expose her neck. He inhaled her perfume, and felt quite dizzy with desire. She was seventeen years old. Another Emma had come into his life, but this one had no drawbacks at all. So he would have to marry her. The thought was suddenly extremely pleasant.

But how could he even think like that, with Emma waiting, warm and loving, for him at Derleth? And sniffing and sneezing? But that could only be a brief misfortune.

'Now his boots,' Alison panted, sliding down the bed. She undid the laces, and began to pull.

'Can I help you?' Haggard asked.

She shook her head, got the first boot off, cheeks pink with effort, turned her attention to the other.

'I should apologise for being in your room.' Haggard said. 'The fact is, your father . .

'Wished you to see us, sleeping,' she said without raising her head. 'I hope we were decent.'

'You were entrancing,' Haggard said without meaning to.

The second boot fell on to the floor, and Alison's head at last came up to allow her to look at him. Was she smiling? He could not be sure in the flickering candlelight.

'Well, you were,' he said defensively.

'I think we can leave him like this,' Alison decided. 'He'll be all right.' She uncoiled herself, got off the bed, waited.

For him to do what? He stood beside her, and with sudden decision put his arm round her shoulders, at the same time moving forward as if escorting her to the door. She half turned, into him, then gave a little sigh and rested her head on his shoulder.

'Alison.' He snuffed the candle with his free hand, dropped it to the floor, lifted her into his arms, kissed her on the mouth. Her tongue was shy, and almost attempted to escape his, before she hugged him as tightly, and as passionately. His arms were round her shoulders, and the nightdress was slipping. He drove his hands downwards, found her buttocks, gave them a squeeze and attempted to move between, carrying the cloth with him, but she gave a little wriggle and slipped away altogether.

'Alison.' He reached for her, and she stepped back and opened the door.

'You must speak with Papa.' she said. Tomorrow.'

'But you." She left her hand on the doorknob, and he caught it, allowed himself to be drawn outside into the comparative light of the gallery.

‘I
will do whatever Papa tells me to do,' she said. 'But I know he likes you, Mr. Haggard.' 'Do
you
like me. Alison?' 'I will like you, Mr. Haggard.'

He brought her closer, but she was shaking her head, slowly. 'You must speak with Papa.'

'Before
1
can kiss you? I have already kissed you.'

'Do you just wish to kiss me, Mr. Haggard?'

His fingers relaxed in surprise at the directness of her question, and she freed her hand. 'After you've spoken with Papa.'

After I have spoken to Papa. Haggard pulled rein, sat his horse on the hilltop looking down into Derleth Valley. For a moment there he had nearly lost his senses. He was John Haggard. He had no need, and certainly no desire, ever to marry again. He had his son and heir, and two other children besides. He had Emma. Pray to God she had got over her cold by now. And besides, the Brands were clearly after his wealth as much as his obvious ability to rise in the ranks of the Tory hierarchy. It was a trap well avoided.

But how splendid it would be if Alison could be at his side, looking down at his valley. His to possess, with none of the drawbacks of marriage. There was a dream.

And had he not acted too hastily? He had fled the Brand house as if it had contained the devil, whereas it might well have contained his future social standing. However much Pitt appeared to like him, he was only of interest as a parliamentary candidate. Friendship and political advancement would depend upon his acceptance by the great London hostesses. That had been made painfully clear. And he had fled, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, who wanted only to be his wife.

Because of Emma? She was his conscience. But more than that, he knew. She was his halter, the one force on earth which restrained him from descending into the pit of angry profligacy which was so much more attractive in England than ever in Barbados. Are you a bad man, John Haggard? Oh, indeed. But here at the least, acting an honourable role.

He walked his horse down the road and into the village street. It was late afternoon, and the miners were already home. Several were outside the inn, and Haggard nodded to them as he passed. They hastily raised their hats, but there were no smiles and no greetings. The last time he had seen them they had been drinking at his expense, and had been happy enough to smile then. Surly lot. They compared very badly with the happy black people of Haggard's Penn.

The village fell behind and he passed the church and the vicarage, where candles already glowed at the windows, before approaching the manor house, and a much warmer welcome. There were no dogs to gallop out and greet him—he must put that right, immediately—but the grooms waited to take his bridle, and John Essex opened the door for him.

'Man, Mr. John, sir, but is good to have you back.' John Essex took his hat and cloak. 'But you didn't catch that stupid black man?'

Haggard frowned at him. Was it possible that Essex did not sympathise with Middlesex? 'If I had, he'd be with me now,' he said, and went to the foot of the stairs.

'Father.' Roger came out of the pantry, arms outstretched. Haggard gave him a hug. Even in ten days he seemed to have grown some more.

'Papa.' Charlie was tugging at his hand, with Alice jumping up and down behind him.

'Here I am, safe and sound,' he said, squeezing them each in turn. How febrile the world of London seemed beside this domestic bliss.

'Mr. Haggard.'

Emma stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at him. She wore a blue gown, high necked and prim. Her hair was loose and was the autumn stain he had always loved. And the glowing red was gone from her nose, as the thickness had disappeared from her voice. Haggard released the children, ran up the stairs. 'Emma. Oh, my darling Emma.'

She was in his arms, and he was kissing her mouth. Here was no shyness, only desire. Here was what he had always wanted, and it was the only thing he would ever want. He swept her from her feet, hurried along the corridor, the children running behind.

Annie Kent and Amelia emerged to clap their hands at the fun. The door of the bedchamber was open, and he carried Emma through. Her arms were tight around his neck, her cheek pressed against his. But her scent was absent from the room.