‘I
. . . I'd have to think,' she said.
'Has Emma never told you about the good things in life?'
Meg shrugged; her shoulders rose and fell in his hands. 'What's good, Captain Haggard? Mama says she's happier now than she ever was at Hall.'
He had made a mistake. He was losing her. She could envisage none of the things he would have chosen, or any lady would have chosen. She was afraid of them. Therefore she would be afraid of him.
But he could not contemplate losing her. It was time to launch all his reserves, in a do or die effort.
'Well then . . . suppose I could put back the clock, Meg? Suppose I could make those men disappear from your life, make you as you were before that night.' Oh, stupid Roger Haggard. He was truly grasping at straws. And he had lost. He watched her face close. Because suppose she said yes? Of course she would say, oh can you? And what would he say then? Then you'd be back with Johnnie,' he said, in another attempt at humour.
Her eyes gloomed at him. 'He'd still be a coward, Captain Haggard.'
Haggard found his jaw slipping, and hastily closed his mouth. But was she not absolutely right? 'But you . . .'
She stepped backwards, and his hands fell to his side. She turned away from him again.
'Do you hate those men, very much?'
He could hear her inhaling,
‘I
would like to see them hang,' she said, her voice quite different to anything he had heard before,
‘I
would like to stand beneath them, and watch them kick their last,' she said,
‘I
would like to drag on their feet.' She fell to her knees, keeping her back to him. 'And I'd like to . . .' Her voice died.
Haggard knelt beside her. That's one dream I will make come true,' he said,
‘I
promise you that, Meg.'
Her head turned, and she looked at him. Roger felt the pounding in his heart increase.
'But you'd not change what happened.' he said.
Still the sidelong glance,
‘I
want everything Ma had,' she said. 'I want it for me, and I want it for Ma. But I don't want it ever to end. I know Johnnie could never give me all those things. He asked me to marry him, Captain Haggard. And I said yes. Even if I knew it would never be. But he
...
he didn't want to touch me. And I didn't know if I wanted him to. Now . . .' Again the little shrug. 'Now I can't marry anyone, Captain. I've had five men inside me. There's no man would take me to his bed as his wife. But that's how it should be, Captain. Isn't that so? Because no man who
would
marry me could give me what I want. Would you give me what I want, Captain?'
Haggard took her shoulders again, and very gently brought her towards him, half expecting her to pull away. But she came, and her eyes stayed open, seeming to grow wider and wider. They had thought her no more stable than Alice. And all the while, for two years, she had been thinking and philosophising to herself, making up her mind what she wanted . . . and what she would have, if not from him, from some other man.
Did that thought disturb him? Her face was against his now. He could kiss her eyes and her forehead and her nose and each cheek, and only slowly allow himself the luxury of her mouth. His hands slid from her shoulders down to the small of her back and then sought the gentle curve of her buttocks. She shuddered against him and moved, freeing one leg; her knuckles brushed his stomach as she lifted her skirt.
Her mouth slid from his. 'Don't hurt me, Captain Haggard,' she said.
Very gently he eased her on to her back. But he wanted to look as well as to touch, himself lifted the skirt of the gown above her knees, slowly uncovered the smoothly muscled flesh of her thighs. She lifted her body to allow him to raise the gown higher; she wore nothing underneath. Meg Bold, a tinker's daughter. His for the taking, really. So why did he tremble, and find it difficult to breathe? Why did he gently lower his head to kiss her pulsing groin, to move the dress higher with his head?
Her hands touched his cheeks, pressing him closer, and her knees came up, hugging him tighter yet. 'Love me, Captain Haggard,' she said. 'Oh, love me.'
He had to release her, kneel away from her, to take off his breeches. He thought, what an absurdity, for Roger Haggard to lie upon a bed of fallen leaves, to listen to the buzzing of the bees and the calls of the birds, when there were so many beds at his command. But this was what she wanted. This was what she must have wanted from the moment the men had left her alone —someone to do what they had done, and in the same place, only with love and with gentleness. He realised it probably did not matter who, save that he had to be a gentleman. But it did not even make him angry.
Her eyes were closed. He knelt between her legs; they parted readily enough at his touch. She breathed evenly, keeping herself under control. He understood that he was sharing the supreme moment of her life, and the most dangerous as well. If he hurt her, or even disgusted her, her life as a woman would be finished. She'd never risk this again. He kept himself back, breached her with only his tip, heard her moan and watched her head turn to and fro on the grass. Was she pretending? He knew nothing save whores, there was his trouble. And Alison had been the greatest whore of all. But Alison had not allowed him to enter.
Because if it was her greatest moment, he realised it was also the most important moment of his own life. They shared a mutual horror, arising out of the mutual desires that were their bodies. If he was exorcising her demons, she was doing no less to him.
He slipped in and in. She was warm, so warm he felt on fire, but perhaps that was his own passion. He surged to and fro, and her hands bit into his back, through his shirt. He felt the material rip and then the pain of the nails driving into his flesh. But now he was kissing her again, her eyes were open, and her hands were sliding up his back to hold his head and bring it ever closer to her. And her body was thumping against his even as he came himself.
He slid half off her, to relieve her of his weight. Her mouth followed his round, although the passion had left her fingers. She kissed his ear. 'Will you give me what I want, Captain Haggard?'
It was utterly unreasonable to be so happy. She was nothing more than a girl. A girl who had been savagely mistreated, who had withdrawn into herself, and had worked out her own salvation. That it was he she had chosen was merely chance. She meant nothing to him, could mean nothing to him. He was Roger Haggard, heir to Derleth and to Haggard's Penn and to the Haggard millions; she was a tinker's daughter. He could certainly set her up as a mistress, the way Father had set up Emma. But would that not be to start another chain of events which might well be tragic?
And yet he was happy. He wanted to sing as he rode down the track from the trees, past the ever humming mill and the clanking wheel of the mine pumps, was even pleased to see Byron sitting on the terrace, reading a book.
The best of the day to you, my lord.'
‘I
ndeed, Captain, it is a magnificent afternoon. I shall be sorry to leave Derleth.' He smiled. 'Although I suspect your father will not be sorry to have me go.'
Roger dismounted, tossed his reins to a waiting groom, sat beside the poet. 'He is unused to being argued with. It is a fault. I suppose equally of mine. I mean, for not arguing with him more often.'
'Why should you?' Byron asked, seriously enough. 'Do you not agree with everything he stands for?' 'Not everything.' 'You surprise me.'
'And you forget I spent near twenty years as a common soldier.'
'By God, so you did. There is an unusual situation for a future Tory landowner.'
'A confusing one, to be sure. I was interested in your thoughts on a possible reform of Parliament."
'You opposed them.'
‘I
nstinctively. I have been thinking about them, since. This John Russell fellow. Do you suppose I could meet him?'
Byron stared at him in surprise, it would be my very great pleasure, Captain Haggard.' He wagged his finger. 'But you want to be careful. Should the Tories even suppose you are mingling with Whig principles . . .'
The Tories can think what they like, Lord Byron. My principles are my own.'
'Spok
en like a man. I promise you,
I shall arrange an introduction. You have made my day. Why, here is Johnnie. And what have you been up to, my pretty boy?'
Johnnie was flushed, as usual. Roger had never met a man who blushed so readily. Or perhaps it is my presence, he thought, after our quarrel of last night. Well, he deserved it, to be sure.
'I've been for a walk,' Johnnie said. 'Down to the village.' He gazed at his brother, uneasily, Roger decided.
'Walking,' Byron said in disgust. 'Captain Roger and I have been discussing politics. You'll not believe this, boy, but we have a possible convert to Whiggism here.'
‘I
'd not believe it either,' Roger said.
‘I
said possible. And did you have a successful walk, Johnnie, lad?'
Once again the deep flush,
‘I
think so.'
They were exchanging a message with their eyes, Roger noted. Johnnie and Byron. Two poets. The one with all the world at his feet, the other with all the world looming over him. But they were friends.
Roger got up.
‘I
'm to change my clothes,' he said, and left them.
Haggard stood by the bed, looked down
on
the sleeping girl. Was she really sleeping? Harrowby had suggested they reduce the laudanum dosage, and according to the maids Alice was awake quite a lot of the time, without, apparently, being in great pain. But now her eyes were shut. I hate you, she had shouted. Just like Alison. Just like Emma, in the beginning. Just like Adelaide Bolton, all those myriad years ago. I hate you. His mouth twisted. Perhaps even Susan had thought, I hate you, Haggard, as she had died. But they were wrong. I am not a hateful man, he thought. I wish only to love. So I have made mistakes. There is no man can claim never to have done that. You cannot hate somebody for his mistakes.
And the odd thing was that
he
hated nobody. Why should he? He was Haggard.
She sighed, and moved in her sleep. A strand of auburn hair fell across her face. Very gently Haggard lifted it, moved it on to the pillow. And watched her eyes flop open.
'Do you hurt?'
She stared at him, perhaps trying to focus.
'You'll soon be well,' Haggard said. 'Harrowby says your ankle is nearly mended.' He smiled at her. ' Tis only your head we must consider.'
Still she stared at him.
He bent over her. 'Get well, Alice,' he said. 'Get well, girl. There is a lot of living you have to do. Get well.'
He kissed her on the forehead, straightened.
‘I
hate you,' she whispered. 'I hate you. Leave me alone.'
Haggard met her gaze for
a moment, then turned away. He
glanced at the girl, sitting in th
e comer, pretending not to have
heard. Then he stepped outside
, closed the door behind him,
walked slowly to his room. He nev
er slept in the tower nowadays;
it was too lonely, too remote from the
rest of the house. He liked to
hear the murmur of activity; even in
the dead of night, he liked to
hear the chiming of the clocks
. The tower room was a place of
memories.
'How is she?' Roger, standing at the head of the stairs.
Haggard shrugged. 'Her ankle is mended.'
'But not her mind.'
Haggard glanced at him, made no reply.
Roger walked beside him. 'She will be well, Father.'
'Aye,' Haggard agreed. 'She will be well.' He paused at the door to his room, and it was immediately opened by Simpson.
‘I’ll
bid you good-night. Lord Byron leaves in the morning.'
'Yes.' Roger hesitated. He wants to say something, Haggard thought. 'I shall have to be leaving soon, as well.' He moved the fingers on his right hand,
‘I
can grasp again.'
'Stuff and nonsense, boy. You'll stay here until you are truly well. At least until Alice recovers. I need you, boy. Johnnie is no help in a crisis like this. He never visits her. Where is he now? Drinking with his poet friend?'
‘I
have no idea,' Roger said,
‘I
think he retired early. Lord Byron is in the library, reading.'
'Reading,' Haggard said disgustedly. 'No doubt that's where he gets so many of his absurd ideas.'