Haggard (47 page)

'By Christmas, you mean,' Haggard grumbled. 'And why are there no letters?'

'Now that I couldn't say, Mr. Haggard.'

'Well, then, is there news from Spain at all?'

'Only that the Duke of Wellington continues to retreat, sir. They are saying he intends to pull back all the way to Lisbon.'

'Bah. The fellow does not seem to know what he is about. Unless he means to evacuate the Army to England. Do you suppose he means that, MacGuinness?'

His eagerness was pathetic, MacGuinness thought. 'I doubt that, Mr. Haggard. The country would not stand for it.'

'I suppose you're right.
’
Haggard leaned back. 'What of that other matter?'

'Well, sir . . .' MacGuinness twisted his hat in his hands. 'I've lived fifty-six years, MacGuinness. Don't come over coy with me. It's a girl.'

'Well, yes, sir, I imagine it is. Mr. John has been riding over in the direction of Plowding.' 'Go on.'

'Well, sir, one of my people followed him, as you instructed, on his last visit there, and we discovered that he went visiting at a cottage outside the village.'

'Ha. The young devil. And here was I beginning to wonder if he'd any spunk at all.' Then Haggard frowned. 'A cottage, you say, outside the village proper? Does not sound like a whorehouse to me.'

'It is not a whorehouse, sir.'

'A yeoman? And he'd let his daughter mess with a member of the gentry?'

MacGuinness preferred not to comment, but he was back to twisting his hat again.

'You'll find out his name, MacGuinness. And continue to keep an eye on it, when Mr. John comes back.'

MacGuinness licked his lips. 'I have found out his name, Mr. Haggard. Tis Bold.'

Haggard's frown deepened. 'Bold? Bold. I have heard that before, I'll swear.'

‘I
ndeed you have, Mr. Haggard. It was in support of Harry Bold that Mr. Roger broke my head, on your wedding night.'

'By Christ.' Haggard sat up straight. 'Harry Bold. Great God in Heaven. Sitting on my very doorstep seducing my son. My God. How long?'

'Several years now, sir. He has given up tinkering, and spins cotton instead.'

'He does, does he? We'll soon see about that.' Haggard glanced at his steward, looked down at the desk again, is he
...
I
mean . . .
’

'He is married now, Mr. Haggard. But his wife is Miss Dearborn.'

Haggard leaned back again. 'Hum,' he said. 'Hum. Very good, MacGuinness. You've done well. Oh, aye. Now fetch me those looms.'

Emma. Emma Dearborn. Emma Bold. Emma, of the glowing red hair and the twinkling eyes. Emma of the suspicious look and the sudden warmth. Emma, Emma, Emma. Why, she would be . . . forty-five years old. Emma, at forty-five. And several times a mother. She would be fat and flouncing, and undoubtedly reverted to her common ancestry. He doubted she'd remember which fork to use.

Then why was he here? Why was he behaving like a lovesick boy? Johnnie had apparently at least ridden up to the cottage without hesitation, while his father lurked in the trees and gazed at the little house with a pounding heart. But Emma. After all his years of loneliness, Emma. He had never been lonely with her at his side. He need never be lonely again. Undoubtedly he had made a mistake when he had quarrelled with her. Mistake? It had been a catastrophe. Save for Johnnie. But might not Emma have produced a Johnnie? He could not believe there was a great deal of Alison in the boy. He was too open, too good-humoured. Alison would suggest a frightful flaw, waiting to be exposed, and he had seen none of that. There were no flaws in Emma.

But she was married. Or said she was. To an itinerant named Bold. There was no problem, surely. It really was very doubtful whether it had been a legal marriage. Then
why
was he lurking here in the trees? Well, for one thing, Bold would undoubtedly not have forgotten who had sent the men to expel him from Derleth, eighteen years before. And he had no means of telling whose side Emma would take. But that was stuff and nonsense. Would she seriously side with Harry Bold, when all of her future demanded she return to Derleth?

He watched the door of the cottage open, saw two men come out. A man and a boy, he realised, and the boy had reddish brown hair. Emma's son, just as the bearded man had to be Harry Bold. It was something of a surprise for him to realise that he had never actually seen the fellow before. But they were going out, carrying a fowling piece and a net. Poaching, by God. Not on his land, at the least.

The pair disappeared into the trees behind the house. They'd not be back for some time. It seemed to Haggard that fate was conspiring to make his task easy. But Fate would always have known that he was meant for Emma, as Fate had sent him the girl in the first place. His heart began to pound, and he wiped a trace of sweat from his neck and forehead. John Haggard, Squire of Derleth, nervous at the thought of visiting a tinker's wife. But suppose she was, after all, fat and blowsy? It was most likely.

He kicked his horse, walked it out from the trees, slowly approached the cottage. The sound of the hooves was deadened in the soft earth—there had been recent rain—but his approach had either been heard or overlooked; he watched a window open and then close again. He turned in through the gate, listened to the clucking of chickens from behind the house. There was no dog. He dismounted at the front door, and it opened. His heartbeat quickened still furth
er as he gazed at the girl. Emma
, reborn. Johnnie's doxie. Frowning at him as she took in the richness of his coat and boots, of his horse furniture. 'Sir?'

Haggard raised his beaver. To a tinker's daughter, ye gods; he might as well be in France, is your mother at home?'

'Oh, yes, sir.' Meg backed away from the door, leaving it open. 'Ma,' she cried. 'Ma, there's a gentleman at the door.'

'A gentleman?' Emma hurried into sight, drying her hands on her apron. Emma. Had she changed at all? She wore a cap and he could not see her hair. She had thickened somewhat at the thigh —but then, so had he. And her face had not changed in the slightest; there had been crowsfeet at the comers of her eyes before they had left Barbados. 'Sir?' she inquired, and frowned as she came closer. He remembered that she had always been a trifle short-sighted. She reached the door, and stopped, and gave a little gasp. The colour drained from her face, and then returned again in a rush.

‘I
happened to be passing,' Haggard lied.

She swallowed. 'You knew where I lived?'

'Of course.' Another lie. But was not the entire purpose of this visit a lie? How lovely she looked. How utterly everything he wanted in a woman.

She looked from right to left, patently uncertain what to do next.

'May I come in?' Haggard asked.

She stood aside. Her hands were back at her apron, twining themselves together. Meg continued to stand at the inner door, looking equally embarrassed. Haggard ducked his head and entered the cottage, closing the door behind him and looking around, at the hand looms, at the four straight chairs and the kitchen table which composed the furniture, at the curtains, worn but clean enough, as indeed were the walls and ceiling, at the glowing fire in the grate, the pot of rabbit stew hanging from the spit, the mushrooms and the turnips placed amongst the coal.

' Tis not what you are used to, Mr. Haggard.' Emma seemed to be recovering.

‘I
t looks comfortable enough. I'd like a word in private.' Emma glanced at the door.

‘I
've work in the yard,' Meg said, and closed it behind her.

'She's a good girl,' Haggard said. 'And a pretty one. She takes after her mother.'

Emma slowly lowered herself into one of the chairs. 'Won't you sit down?'

Haggard sat down. 'You'll have heard about Roger?'

She nodded,
‘I
am very happy for you, Mr. Haggard.'

‘I
did not know Charlie would die. He was a difficult child. Like his sister.' He attempted a smile,
‘I
do not suppose she is difficult, with you.'

'No,' Emma said.

Haggard got up, walked to the window, walked back again to his chair. 'I wronged you, Emma. I wronged you more than any man can ever have wronged a woman. I wronged you from the moment I saw you.' He paused; Emma continued to gaze at him. Her colour had settled down, as had her breathing. He went towards her, picked up her left hand; she wore a thin gold band. 'In a church?'

‘I
n a church, Mr. Haggard.'

He released her hand, sat down again.

'I knew my mistake, almost the moment it happened.' He shrugged. 'But what would you? Pride, I suppose.' His head came up. 'You don't believe me.'

‘I
had never supposed to hear John Haggard apologising to anyone.'

'Hum. Pride seems less important, as one grows older. Emma . . .'

‘I
am married, Mr. Haggard. To a man I respect. A man who loves me.'

'And do you love him?'

‘I
am married to him, Mr. Haggard. He is the father of my children.'

'Am I not the father of Alice? And you could bring your children, Emma. I'd treat them as my own.' 'Bring them where?' 'Emma . . .'

'No.' She shook her head to emphasise her words. 'No, no, no.'

'Emma.' He left his chair, knelt beside hers, took her hands. 'You'll not refuse me.'

'No one ever refuses John Haggard,' she said with an attempt at humour.

True.' He began to draw her forward, slowly. 'I have never knelt to any woman before either.' Not true. He had knelt to
Alison Brand,
‘I
love you, Emma. I have always loved you. Christ, I have realised how much I loved you, day after day after day. Emma . . .' Her face was close enough to reach with his lips. She allowed him that; her own were parted. Then she jerked herself away from him. 'No.'

'Emma.' He'd not release her hands. 'I'd marry you, Emma.'

She pulled her head back, stared at him.

‘I
swear it. Emma Haggard. Isn't that what you've always wanted? Lady of Derleth. Can you do better than that?'

She tugged on her hands. 'You buy, Mr. Haggard. Everything. Just as you bought me, once.'

'I've a mind to make that up to you. I thought you understood that.'

'In your own fashion, Mr. Haggard.' 'And that's not good enough for you.'

Pink spots gathered in her cheeks. She had had enough experience of the suddenness of his anger, could discern the signs easily enough. 'Harry Bold took me in, Mr. Haggard. When I was right to die, just as Annie Kent died, in the cold and the snow, he took me in. He treated me as a woman, where you never treated me as anything save a handful of flesh. I loved you, John Haggard. I loved you because I had never loved anyone else. I loved you because I didn't know how to love. I loved you because you showed me a world I'd only dreamed of, in bed and out of it. I was prepared to love you to the end of my days.'

'And you love as your mind directs,' Haggard said.

' 'Tis better than not to love at all.'

He pushed himself to his feet. 'You'd starve, here in this cottage.'

'We survive, Mr. Haggard’
'For how long, I wonder?'

She smiled. 'You're thinking of your factory? Harry can always go back to tinkering. I enjoyed the life, Mr. Haggard. I like new faces, and new places.'

He stared at her, brow a mass of furrows. Then he pointed at her. 'You'll not forget I'm a magistrate in these parts, Emma. That husband of yours, and that son, are away poaching now. Don't lie to me.'

'I'd not lie to you, Mr. Haggard. I don't know what they're doing at this moment. But my Harry owns this land. He paid for it, and he built this cottage with his own hands.' She stood up in turn. 'You'll leave it, if you please.'

He stared at her in consternation. He had never been so addressed in his life.

'Meg,' Emma called. 'You'll show Mr. Haggard to his horse.'

'You think to defy me?' Haggard demanded.

'No, Mr. Haggard. No one can do that. I am asking you to leave my house, as we have nothing more to say to each other, and I have a deal to do. I must spin all the cotton I can, before you take that right away from us.'

Haggard gazed at her in impotent anger, then at the girl, who had crossed the room and now held the front door for him. He turned and brushed past her, swung into the saddle, kicked his horse towards the meadow. Too late he remembered that he had not discussed Johnnie's visits.