Haggard (49 page)

'Why, Mama
...
I would be honoured to be Johnnie's wife.' 'Do you love him?'

'Oh, yes, Mama. I do love him.' Emma sighed. 'Does that mean . . .' 'Oh, no, Mama.'

'I love Margaret, Mistress Bold,' Johnnie protested. 'I would never harm her.'

Emma's gaze turned to him, for some seconds. She seemed able to see past his eyes and into his brain, and he remained looking at her with an effort. 'You will have to ask Mr. Bold,' she said at last.

‘I
intend to. I but wished to secure your permission first.'

Emma drew the back of her hand across her brow,
‘I
will give it, but not at the cost of an estrangement between you and your father. That were to create too many evils.'

'You may leave Father to me,' Johnnie promised,
‘I
but wished to be sure that our proposal met with your approbation. Now you have made me the happiest man in the world. Why, Mistress Bold, I see Father and yourself again being friends, even now.'

'I will say Amen to that, Mr. Haggard. And now . . .' she glanced at her daughter.

'Perhaps you would permit Meg to take a walk with me.'

'Is it not very cold?'

'The sun is shining, and it is all but warm. I do promise you. And besides . . .' He winked at her. 'You may be sure we will not stay out too long.'

‘I’ll
fetch my shawl.' Meg hurried for the inner room.

Emma sighed, got up. 'You do understand what you are about, Mr. Haggard? Meg has had no such advantages as yourself. She knows naught of luxury. Why, the four of us sleep in a single room. As for fine clothes and rich foods . . .'

'Did you know of them when you met my father?'

Emma nodded,
‘I
had observed them, Mr. Haggard, as a ladies' maid.'

'And you will at the least have told Meg that these things exist."
‘I
suppose I have.'

Therefore your positions are analagous. I do not observe that a sudden elevation to prosperity affected your character in any way.'

'I was thinking of your character, Mr. Haggard. Of your friends. Of your position. Your father was ostracised, both in Barbados and here in England, because of me. That is why I can never find it in my heart to hate him, for all the wrong he has since done me. I cannot help but believe that it was those years of isolation embittered his character."

'My friends are not Father's, Mistress Bold. Believe me.' He
smiled at Meg as she came out of the inner room, wearing her shawl. How beautiful she was going to look, he thought, in satins and furs, with rings on her fingers, with her hair properly dressed, and smelling of perfume. How beautiful.

He held her hand as they walked down the path,
‘I
think your mother is happy about it,' he said. 'About us.'

There is Papa to be considered,' she pointed out.

'He will be happy too. I promise you.'

'And are you happy, Mr. Haggard?'

'Is that any way to address your future husband?'

‘
I could not believe it was going to happen. I cannot believe it is ever going to happen.'

Try saying it. Margaret Haggard.'

'Margaret . . . Haggard.'

That was not very difficult. Margaret Haggard, Margaret Haggard, Margaret Haggard. Meg Haggard. It is a good name.'

'Meg Haggard,' she said, and she felt her fingers tighten on his.

'So, are you happy, Meg, soon to be Haggard?'

‘I
think I am dreaming. But it is a happy dream. A very happy dream.'

He stopped, and she stopped also. They had turned the corner and were out of sight of the cottage. To their left was only the wood, and to their right the empty pasture across which he had ridden. Gently he brought her to him, watched her face turn up and her eyes close. She still could not believe it was to happen, could not look him in the face. He brushed her lips with his own, allowed his tongue to push between, touched her own, shyly emerging. Once again he knew a tremendous sense of sexual desire, compounded by the knowledge that she might well consent . . . and once again he rejected it. Sex with Meg could only be enjoyed in their own bed, after they were married. She was no giggling, squealing servant girl to be laid on a table, or on the ground either. She was the future Mrs. John Haggard.

He released her, and her eyes opened.

'I love you, Meg.'

‘I
love you, John Haggard,'
she said. Tell me about Derleth’
Tell me about the Hall. Tell me about Cambridge, and London. Oh, tell me about it.'

They walked hand in hand, while John told her about every aspect of his life he could think of. He told of Byron and Hobhouse, of playing cricket at Harrow, he gave her a minutely detailed description of Derleth Hall, he told her what he could remember of Roger, as told
him
by Alice . . . 'You will adore Roger,' he told her.
‘I
am going to . . .'

‘I
adore you,' she pointed out, and squeezed his fingers. 'I think it is time for us to be going home.'

He hadn't realised they had walked so far. Now he found the afternoon was drawing in. It was going to be a cold ride back to Derleth. They turned, still holding hands, and were alerted by the cracking of a twig in the trees. Meg stopped, glanced from left to right.

'Poachers,' John said.

He released Meg and thrust his hand into his pocket to find his pistol, gazed at five men, roughly dressed but clearly dismounted horsemen, from their boots, and everyone with a handkerchief tied round the lower part of his face, leaving only the narrowest of strips visible beneath the pulled down brims of their flat hats.

'Oh, God,' Meg whispered. 'Oh, Mr. Haggard.'

John Haggard's throat had suddenly gone quite dry, and he was aware of a great void in his belly. Think, he told himself desperately. I am John Haggard. They'll not touch John Haggard. Besides. I have a pistol, and they have only cudgels. But if I draw the pistol, and miss, they will beat me up. Five men. He realised with a start of utter horror that he was afraid of them.

But they'd not dare harm John Haggard.

He stepped away from the girl. 'You'll leave,' he said. But his voice trembled. 'I am John Haggard. My Father is Squire of Derleth. He'll hang the lot of you.' But the last sentence barely escaped his lips. He glanced to his left, watched Meg Bold slowly backing away from him, her face a picture of disbelieving consternation.

The men came closer, made no reply. Their silence was the most terrifying thing about them.

'Run, Meg.' John Haggard shouted, and drew his pistol. But before he could level it a cudgel tapped him on the wrist, and he gave a shout of pain and watched the pistol hit the dust. 'Run, Meg,' he shouted again. Desperately he swung his left hand, but that was caught in turn and twisted behind his back to join its fellow; he found himself on his knees, weeping tears of anger and shame. His hat had come off and his hair was flopping across his face." His wrists were being tied together with a length of rope.

He gazed at Meg. She had covered no more than fifty yards, hampered by her gown and her shawl, before the first man had caught up with her. Now she too was on her knees, her red hair tumbling past her shoulders, gasping for breath.

He was forced forward, his feet stumbling over the uneven ground.

'She's a lady.' He gasped. 'She's my fiancee. You'll touch her at your peril.'

Meg had regained her breath. 'Help me, Mr. Haggard. Help me.' Her voice rose to a screech.

Haggard attempted to step forward, had his shoulders grasped by the man behind him, iron fingers biting most painfully into his flesh.

'Help me,' Meg Bold screamed, her voice echoing into the empty trees. For now she was on her back. John Haggard blinked away the tears, saw the men holding her wrists and ankles, the other man kneeling between, turning up her skirt and her shift. He saw the girl's head twisting left and right, grinding her hair into the leaves, saw a leaf getting into her mouth and being expelled again by the rush of air, listened to another terrified scream hurl itself at the sky, watched the long, slender white legs being uncovered, the pale thatched groin, the heaving belly, listened to the laughter of the men, the obscene remarks. He caught a glimpse of white backside as the first man released his breeches, lost sight of Meg save for kicking boots, heard her next scream fade in a gurgle of breathless horror, watched the man humping up and down, hands beneath her now, finger lodged behind her buttocks, felt his own erection mingling with the horror and the fear cascading down from his chest, gasped himself as the man lay still, closed his eyes and opened them again as the man pushed himself up and he could see her again, the white flesh now discoloured red with the weight which had lain on it. He could see no blood as she had sunk even farther into the leaves, but there would be blood.

And now another man had taken the place of the first, and the slender legs were again kicking. But only for a few seconds, then they lay still. She was exhausted, and each man was fresh. He had to stand there and watch while four of them took their turns, while Meg's body became more and more stained with leaves and damp earth, while her very last struggle ebbed and she stared at the trees above her, even her tears dried.

The men were laughing as they came towards him. Once again John Haggard's belly rolled with fear, and he gave a great jerk, and to his utter surprise his hands came free, swinging round to the front as fists. The approaching men seemed to hesitate.

He looked from right to left, at the men, at the girl, still lying motionless on the ground. His stomach rebelled and he wanted to be sick, and to be away, away, anywhere but here, anything but to be beaten by these louts. He gasped for breath, turned, expecting to be caught by the man behind him, but the man had also stepped away from him, pursuing some game of his own, no doubt. There was nothing before him but the tree fringe and then the meadow. He leapt for it, tripped and fell to his knees, regained his feet and rushed madly for the safety of the open spaces. Behind him he heard laughter, but he cared nothing for it, bounded up the slope to the top of the first shallow rise, fell there, panting, made himself get back to his knees and look over his shoulder, saw to his relief that they had stopped following him. They had, indeed, gone back to Meg, were kneeling around her body, and it seemed to him that the fifth man was taking his turn.

He chewed his lip, felt his heartbeat begin to slow. What to do? Somewhere over there in the wood lay his pistol. But they would see him if he attempted to return there. Well, then, what about help? He could call for help. Here? He needed a horse, and his horse was at Harry Bold's cottage. Harry Bold himself might have returned by now. Alice had told him how Harry and Roger had put to flight a dozen men, once upon a time.

So then, he should run to the Bold's house, and say, help me, I have left your daughter in the wood, being raped by five men.

He sobbed, and began to cry again. Life had been so perfect. Now it was too horrible to be considered. If only he could snap his fingers and wake up yesterday morning . . . no, this morning would
do, with today never to happen. What to do? What to do?

He stared at the wood, realised that the men were no longer gathered round Meg. He rose to his knees, then his feet, heart again clanging with alarm. But they were not coming after him, either. They had melted into the wood. They had gone.

But they might not have gone very far. He took a step or two towards the wood, stopped, tried to peer through the trees, thought he could hear distant hoofbeats. Coming towards him? His blood congealed in horror, and he turned to run, before he realised that the sound was in fact fading. Once again he faced the wood. Meg still lay there. Perhaps she was dead. Perhaps they had killed her. Oh, God. But then he was overtaken by the strangest of thoughts, that perhaps that would be for the best, that she should be dead, that she should not have this terrible memory to look back upon . . . that she never be there to accuse him.

His steps quickened. He almost ran into the wood, stopped as he reached the trees, an
d the girl sat up. Slowly she ra
ised her head, gazed at him. There were no tears.

'Meg . . .' He stumbled forward, and she got to her feet.

'Don't touch me,' she said.

He hesitated, chewing his lip. Those men . . . they would have beaten me up. They would have killed me.'

'Well, they didn't,' Meg said, her voice remarkably quiet after the screams of an hour earlier. 'You didn't let them.' Slowly she smoothed her skirt, her fingers making tight patterns on the cloth.