'That's all?'
'And yourself, sir, of course.'
Haggard drew rein, gazed at the manor house. It seemed to have grown darker and more gloomy in the lowering clouds and splashing drizzle,
‘I
see what you mean about visiting the inn,' he said. 'MacGuinness, I don't like the house.'
'Sir?' The bailiff hastily rode alongside.
it is damp, and smells. Can you find me an architect? The best in the country.'
'Oh, well, sir, they do say Mr. Nash . . .' 'Fetch him to Derleth.'
'Very good, Mr. Haggard. A new manor house. Well, glory be.'
Haggard could almost see his brain working. There'd be perquisites for the bailiff in that. No problem with his vote, to be sure.
Haggard and Emma dined alone. The room was small, as was the table. And it was gloomy; even for the midday meal the candles were burning. The silver was well worn, and the plates were similarly old, while the roast beef was tough and tasteless.
'Did you see the mine?' Emma said.
'Aye. By God, what a place to have to work.' He frowned at her. 'How is it you were never sent down?' 'I told you, I was squire's bastard.'
'Aye.' She had certainly been a virgin when he had taken her, and anxious to preserve her maidenhead into the bargain. 'And your day?'
'I didn't know where to begin. Oh, and we had a visitor. The Reverend Litteridge.'
'Does he remember you too?'
'No, sir. He has only had the living two years. I asked him to wait, but he said he'd call back this afternoon.'
'Ah,' Haggard said, and drank some mulled wine. He was very tired, and pleasantly inebriated; this was his third glass. It was a good afternoon to go to bed with Emma. Save that Emma's sniff was off-putting.
He tried to imagine a twelve-year-old Emma, naked and stained with coal dust, and found it disturbingly simple to do so. The mental picture made him quite hot; he had had nothing of her during the journey from London or last night—her cold had made her at once easily tired and generally peevish. But suddenly he wanted it. more than at any previous time in his life since the day he had brought Emma herself home. All his life he had been surrounded by willing womanhood. But they had been black women, slaves. Here they were white, and free. And yet, if MacGuinness was to be believed, everyone was as willing to please the squire as any slave her master. Did that go for the house servants as well? Margaret the housekeeper? There was a fine looking woman. 'And have the servants become used to you?'
'I would like to talk about that, Mr. Haggard,' she said seriously. She looked at the footmen, motionless by the sideboard, at old Pretty, hovering in the doorway.
'We'd best go into the parlour.' He walked in front of her, sat down in a comfortable chair, stretched out his legs towards the fire; his boots were wet, and began to steam. Pretty hurried forward with a pipe.
'You'll take some port wine, sir?'
'Yes,' Haggard said. 'Bring the decanter, and then leave us.' 'Of course, sir.' 'Well?' Haggard asked.
Emma sat beside him, blew her nose. 'With the slaves, we do not need all of these servants.'
Haggard nodded. 'We'll still require the maids, but the sooner Annie Kent gets in the kitchen the better.'
'Pretty can go,' Emma said. 'You have Middlesex as your butler. And I will take over the housekeeping duties.' She flushed. 'So we can let Margaret go. And then . . .'
Haggard stroked his chin. 'All those who may remember you.'
'Well . . .' Again the flush.
‘I
had supposed, from the way you greeted Pretty, that you were glad to see him.'
‘I
acted without thinking. I
was
glad to see him. But it is embarrassing. You
do
want me to manage the house for you?'
'Do you wish to?' She had never shown the slightest inclination to manage Haggard's.
'Yes. Really I would.'
'Aye, well, it will give you something to do. When you are feeling better.'
'I am feeling perfectly well, Mr. Haggard.'
'You do not look perfectly well. It is the damp. And you'll have enough to do, settling the children.' He finished his port, got up.
‘I
'm for my bed.'
She pushed herself to her feet.
'I've been thinking," he said, it would be best if we had different rooms, for the next few days.'
'Different rooms?' Her expression was utterly bewildered.
'I'd not catch your cold, Emma.' He ran his hand into her hair, disturbing her cap, kissed her on the forehead. 'Have Margaret see to it.'
'Mr. Haggard.'
Haggard, already at the door, paused and turned.
'I'd like Margaret, at the least to go. Annie Kent can be housekeeper until I am able.'
‘I
doubt the maids would take to Annie. And I told you, I want her in the kitchen.'
‘I
would like Margaret to go, Mr. Haggard.' Never had he seen her face so set.
'Why? Because she recognised you?'
'She's familiar, Mr. Haggard.'
'She's confused, you mean. I'll have a word with her.'
'Mr. Haggard . . .' Emma bit her lip. Haggard smiled at her and went into the hall, snapped his fingers. A footman hurried forward. 'Send Margaret to me,' he said, and climbed the stairs. His heart was commencing to pound; the wine had taken hold of his senses as well as his belly; he could hear the rain dripping from the eaves, and as he passed an open window he saw that the entire valley was shrouded in the wet mist. A good afternoon to be in bed.
'Sir?'
She stood in the doorway.
‘I
wish you to have your girls make up a bed for Mistress Emma in the next room. Now. Be sure there is a fire and a warming pan."
'Yes, sir.'. She waited. She knew he was not finished.
'When you have done that, come back to me here. I wish to have a word with you.'
'Yes, sir.'
She was replaced in the doorway by Henry Suffolk. 'Man. this is a place, Mr. John. You ever seen such rain? It going stop?'
'I suppose so,' Haggard said. "I'll undress myself, Henry. Are you settled in?'
'Oh, yes, sir. Mr. John. I got room and all. But is true these white people does be servants just like we?'
'Just like you, Henry. Tell James I want a word with all of you later on.'
Suffolk looked vaguely distressed. 'I going tell he, Mr. John, when I does see he.'
The door closed. Haggard undressed, slowly and thoughtfully, then stood in front of the fire, allowing the heat to chase some of the damp from his bones.
The warmth sent the blood pumping through his veins, brought him up in a massive erection. This time, he knew, there would be no need for ropes or force. So then, after all, John Haggard, you are a monster. Or merely a retarded human being—in all his life, to this moment, save for the odd boyhood fling with Polly Haynes' girls in Bridgetown, he had taken but two women to his bed.
A gentle knock.
'Come,' Haggard said.
The door opened. 'Oh,' Margaret said. 'I'm sorry, sir.'
‘I
said come.' He turned to face her.
She hesitated for a moment, then stepped into the room, closed the door behind her. Her gaze dropped to his penis for a moment, then returned to his face. A flush filled her cheeks.
'Have you not seen a man before?' Haggard asked.
Margaret licked her lips. 'Yes, sir.'
'Are you a virgin?'
Again the quick flick of the tongue. 'No, sir.'
'Betrothed?'
'No, sir.'
'Come here,' he said.
She gave a glance to right and left, almost as if she wished to reassure herself that she was actually alone with him, then crossed the room, slowly. He took her face between his hands and kissed her on the m
outh. It opened readily for him,
and her tongue pressed against his; her breath was clean. And immediately he felt her hands closing on him. He wanted to shout for joy. Here was pure desire.
He took his mouth away. Her eyes had been shut. Now they opened, anxiously; her fingers released him.
'Undress,' he said.
She frowned at him. 'My clothes?'
'I wish to see you naked,' he said.
She gave a quick glance to either side. He realised with a start of surprise that while she would allow him her body without a thought, to be naked in front of him embarrassed her.
But she was his servant. 'Come along," he said.
A last hesitation, then she tore at her clothes, almost desperately. Her gown and her cap and her shift fell to the floor. Her eyes were shut as she stepped out of her shoes.
'The stockings also,' he said.
She opened her eyes, looked around her: her cheeks were red. 'You may sit on the bed."
She sat down, and he stood in front of her. Here was beauty on a scale he had not previously observed. Susan, like Emma, had rather been slender. But this girl was big; five feet six inches in height, he estimated, with square shoulders, and large, high breasts. Her belly was flat—she had clearly never been a mother —and gave into wide thighs and long, powerful legs. Her pubic hair was surprisingly scanty, where Emma's was a magnificent bush, but even this difference was exciting, because he could see more of her, know more of what he was about.
The stockings lay on the floor, and she gazed at him. She did not seem to know what to do with her hands.
He knelt, between her legs. He wanted to explore, to kiss and to suck, as once he had wanted from Emma. Margaret seized his head to hug it against her belly, and moved her bottom on the sheet at his touch. Then she fell back, strong legs closing on his neck, so that he almost lost consciousness, and had to part them with his hands. He rose himself, came up the bed, kissed her, holding her face again and feeling her breasts surging against his chest, stroking her with his penis, before thrusting it in; she closed on him and held him there for a moment, and when he moved his head, surprised at once by her intention and her strength, he found her smiling, her face alive with an expression of incredible lewdness.
'You're hurrying,' she whispered.
She relaxed, and he moved more slowly, withdrawing when he felt about to burst to give himself a fresh lease of life. But the second time there could be no stopping. He surged into her again and again, and she moaned and twisted and snapped at his ear with her teeth, before throwing her arms wide and expelling the breath from her lungs in a long gasp.
Haggard remained lying on her. There was no question that she could bear his weight. There was no need to move. There was no need ever to move again.
'Miss Dearborn said I would have to go,' Margaret said, against his ear.
'Did she now?'
'Will 1 have to go, Mr. Haggard?'
'We shall have to see, Margaret,' Haggard said. 'We shall have to see.'
The Reverend Thomas Litteridge was a tall, thin man with aquiline features and a perpetual frown which indicated that he was shortsighted. He stood uneasily by the fire as Haggard entered the room, carefully arranged his mouth into a smile.
'Mr. Haggard. This is indeed a pleasure.
’
Haggard shook hands, glanced at Emma, who had remained seated on the far side of the fireplace.
'You've met Miss Dearborn?'
'Oh, yes, sir. Miss Dearborn has very kindly been entertaining me while you dressed.'
Another glance. Emma was not smiling, and her cheeks were pink. No doubt it had been simple enough for her to discover where Margaret Lacey had spent the afternoon.
Now she stood up. 'I am sure the reverend gentleman wishes to converse with you in private, Mr. Haggard.' she said. 'You'll excuse me. Mr. Litteridge.'
He gave her a brief bow. She went to the door without looking at Haggard, closed it behind her.