'She's going to burn, anyway, Mr. Haggard,' said one of the bookkeepers. 'Petty treason, it is, to take a knife to a master. She has to burn.'

Haggard thrust one arm under Emma's knees, the other under her shoulders, reached his feet with a gigantic effort. He could feel the blood trickling down his naked leg.

'John . . .'Ferguson reached for him again. This is madness.'

'Away.' Haggard said, and found himself at the foot of the steps, the entire afternoon revolving round and round his head. He gritted his teeth and commenced the ascent, foot in front of foot, step by step. The girl was making a peculiar moaning sound, and she was shivering as if frozen, for all the heat in the afternoon.

Amazingly he was at the top and crossing the hall. But in front of him loomed yet another Bight, an endless accumulation of heights to be mounted. His teeth were clamped so tight he could almost feel the enamel wearing away. But up he went, again and again and again, aware that Middlesex was immediately behind him, waiting to catch him if he fell backwards.

The gallery. And in front of him the opened door to his bedroom. Now the afternoon had turned black, and he could hardly breathe. He fell forwards, keeping his balance by an act of will, hit the bed with his thighs and fell across it, the girl rolling out of his arms to come to rest against the pillows where she had so recently rested her head.

'Help me,' Haggard snarled. .

Middlesex held his legs and got him into the bed. He rolled on his back, stared at the canopy above his head, watched it turn black. And felt the girl beside him.

'Don't die, Mr. Haggard,' she begged. 'Please don't die.'

CHAPTER 2

THE MISTRESS

The flickering light of a candle caught Haggard's attention, and he found he could focus. On Tom Meade's face, examining his wound, bending over him. 'You took your time,' he said.

Meade's head turned. 'Awake, are we? Well, that's something.' He straightened. 'You've lost enough blood to kill most men. There's a trail from here to the front steps and back again. What were you trying to do, commit suicide?'

Haggard tried to sit up, but found he could not move.

'Now you listen to me,' Meade said. The wound itself isn't serious; the blade was deflected by a rib. But you're dangerously weak. A fever now and you wouldn't have a hope in hell of survival. So you just lie in that bed for two weeks. Not a minute less. I'll be out each day. Now let go of that witch and I'll take her into town.'

With an enormous effort Haggard turned his head. Emma Dearborn lay, or rather crouched, beside him; his left hand gripped her right wrist. She gazed at him, with huge, beseeching eyes.

'Come along, girl,' Meade said. 'She stays here,' Haggard said.

'For God's sake, John, have you forgotten? She stuck the knife into you. Don't you suppose she's just waiting for an opportunity to do it again? Hand her over and we'll have her hanging by morning.'

Haggard continued to look at the girl. Her tongue came out and circled her lips. 'She stays here,' he said again. 'But you lot can clear off. I need my sleep.'

Meade drove both hands into his hair. 'Have you lost your senses entirely? She was a condemned felon before you picked her up. Now she's a murderess, all but. What in the name of God has got into you?'

'Out,' Haggard said. 'Out. James, are you there?'

‘Is here, Mr. Haggard."

'Is Mr. Lucas here?’

'I'm waiting, John.'

'You're invited to dinner. Sorry I can't be with you. Serve Mr. Lucas the best wine, James. Dr. Meade as well if he wishes to stay. Willy, are you there?'

'Yes, John.' Another voice from the darkness.

'You're in charge for the next fortnight.'

'Yes, John.'

'But so help me God no one is to attempt to lay a finger on this girl. James, fetch some food for her. Can I eat, Tom?' 'A broth. I've ordered it prepared.'

'Then send it up.' Haggard sighed, and closed his eyes. He was exhausted. Nothing more than that. Just exhausted. It had been a long day.

'Mad,' Meade remarked at large. 'Stark, raving mad.'

But people were filing out of the room. Haggard waited until he could no longer hear their footsteps. Then he released the girl's wrist. She rubbed it with her other hand. 'You asked me not to die,' he said. 'After stabbing me. What changed your mind?'

He could just see her in the semi-darkness; the candle was now in its holder on the far side of the room, ‘I don't want to be burned alive,' she said. "Or to hang.'

He smiled at her. 'Honest enough.'

'But I did stab you, Mr. Haggard. Why didn't you let them take me?'

Haggard raised his arm, and she came closer, allowed him to feel the texture of her hair, run his hand over her shoulder and down on to her breast, still slippery with butter. 'You're mine,' he said. 'I want you here.'

'Do you suppose I could have a bath, Mr. Haggard?' Emma propped herself on her elbow, looked down at him.

'You may have anything you wish,' Haggard said. 'There is a bell pull behind the bed. But have it here, where I can watch you.'

She gazed at him for some seconds, in a peculiarly intense way she had. Then she leaned forward and licked the end of his nose. 'You must not be excited.'

She got out of the bed, pulled the silk cord. She had not left the bedchamber for ten days, had slept snuggled up against him. He had not tired of either watching her or feeling her. She moved with an unconscious grace, full of the most delightful little intimacies, the way she flicked her head to settle her hair on her back, the way her breasts just trembled, the way her belly fluttered, the way the slivers of muscle rippled down her legs. All of these things Susan had possessed, as indeed no doubt all women, but for four years he had seen none of them. No doubt he had been foolish, to turn his back on sex for that long. Or had he merely been fortunate, in that had he sought it earlier, he would never have found it in Emma?

She sat beside him, held a glass of water for him to drink. He took her hand, guided it beneath the sheet to feel him harden.

'No,' she said. 'You are not well yet.' But she left her hand there for a moment. To reassure him? That she would, eventually, give herself to him?

He wondered if he was not, indeed, being a fool. He was John Haggard. He snapped his fingers and people jumped. And he owned this girl. But he knew nothing about her, save that the seamen from Biddies' ship thought of her as a witch. Perhaps she was, and he was bewitched.

'Yes, sir, Mr. John.' Annie Kent stood in the doorway.

'Miss Emma would like a tub, Annie. She'll have it here.'

'Mr. Haggard . . .' Emma began, withdrawing her hand.

'You'll do as you're told,' Haggard said.

‘I going fetch the tub,' Annie said.

'I wish you to be well, and strong,' Emma said. 'And you are still very weak.'

'Why?" Haggard asked, ‘I bought you for my bed. When I am well again, I shall want you twice in every day. Will you fight me twice in every day?'

'No,' she said.

'Why not?'

‘I have nothing left to fight for,' she said. 'And I understand more. Is it true you had just killed a man when you bought me?' 'Yes.'

'I can understand your mood. And you saved me from those men.'

Those men are my bookkeepers. And my friends. You will have to see a lot of them, living here.'

'As long as I am your mistress, Mr. Haggard. I do not have to fear them.'

He held her arms, brought her down on to his chest so he could

kiss her mouth; no strength required here, she seemed to enjoy kissing him. 'You've a very cool and calculating head on those lovely shoulders.'

'When I remember,' she said enigmatically, and pushed herself away as Annie Kent bustled back into the room behind a bevy of girls carrying the tub and buckets of boiling water. Emma gathered her hair on the top of her head, secured it there with a ribbon, sank into the heat. She soaped, gazing at him, her mouth half open and her cheeks pink. Too pink merely for heat. She still felt embarrassed, at performing so intimate a function before him. Yet she had worn not a stitch of clothing for ten days, had used the pot beside him, for ten days, had assisted him in his own necessaries.

But everything about her was surprising. She did not speak like a servant girl, and certainly she did not act like one. Her past was worth investigating. But to do that would allow her a personality of her own, and he was not sure he wanted to risk that.

James Middlesex stood in the doorway. 'Begging your pardon, Mr. Haggard, but some gentlemen are here.'

'Ask them to come up,' Haggard said.

'No,' Emma said, hopping out of the bath.

'Fetch a robe for Miss Emma,' Haggard commanded, 'and come over here to prop me up.' The girls fussed about him, thrusting pillows under his back, while one of their housegowns was found for the girl. Harry Lucas hesitated in the doorway. Behind him were Peter Woodbury and the Reverend Paley.

'Come in,' Haggard said. 'James, chairs for these gentlemen.'

The visitors each glanced at Emma, who had taken up a position by the window, untangling her hair with Haggard's brush.

The matters are confidential, John,' Lucas said.

'She talks to no one save me, Harry, so there's no risk to your confidence.'

Lucas licked his lips.

'Pull the bell, Emma,' Haggard said. 'Our guests will have a glass of sangaree. Come to think of it, so will I. And so may you.' 'It may not be good for you,' Emma said.

'Of course it will be good for me. I feel better today than I have all week. Well, Harry? The inquest?'

'Death by misadventure. The coroner added a corollary deploring duelling in any form, but particularly between gentlemen of unequal skills.'

'Did you come out here to annoy me, Harry? Or on matters of business? Malcolm Bolton would have shot me down had I not hit him first.'

'Aye, well, the fact is, you did hit him first. I'm not here to criticise, John. You asked.'

'So I did,' Haggard agreed. 'Sangaree.' He took the goblet from Middlesex's tray, raised it. ‘I think we should drink to my health.'

Lucas sipped, cautiously, exchanged glances with his two companions. 'John ... I really would like a word in private.'

'Off you go, James,' Haggard told his butler.

‘I did not mean . . .' Lucas bit his lip.

'I've made that position clear. For God's sake, man, unbend a little. Say what you will.'

Lucas sighed. 'Aye, well, you'll have heard the news?' 'What news?'

That the French have taken Brimstone Hill,' Woodbury snapped. 'St. Kitts is theirs. Last year it was Grenada and St. Vincent. Man, things are getting serious.'

'What was Rodney doing while this was happening?'

'Rodney is in England. Hood was in command. But it matters naught. We just do not have the ships to be everywhere at once. It is up to each island to look to its own defence. Now, we, that is the House, would like to know how many people we can call on, from each plantation, and what defensive measures each plantation has already taken.'

They'll not come here,' Haggard said.

'Now, John . . .'

Take my word for it,' Haggard said. 'What, beat a hundred miles to Windward to sack a few sugar plantations? The frogs have more important things to do. If we do not have sufficient ships to guard everywhere, they have even less to attack with, and protect. As you say, they have taken St. Vincent, and Grenada, and now St. Kitts. That is the limit of their ability to hold. They'll not come here.'

Lucas scratched his head. 'You'll not co-operate?'

There is no need. Volunteers? I've my own force.'

They talk of keeping all the sugar to send home in convoy.'

'Stuff and nonsense,' Haggard said. 'I'm grinding next month. My sugar will not rot here until you can accumulate twenty ships, if you ever can.'

Woodbury looked through the windows at the fresh painted houses, the fat cattle in the meadow. 'Your last crop got through, then?'

‘I shipped in four bottoms,' Haggard said. 'Only one was taken.'

'Not that it would have made much difference to you if all had been lost,' Woodbury said.

'Indeed, Peter, it would have meant no profit for the year. I would not have liked that.'

The Reverend Paley cleared his throat. Obviously he was afraid Woodbury would antagonise their host before the real purpose of the visit could be discussed. The fact is, John,' he said, 'you'll agree things are going from bad to worse.'

'I'll agree the Yankees are running wild,' Haggard said.

'Aye. Meanwhile . . .' Paley glanced at Lucas.

'For God's sake, John,' said the lawyer. 'You must be aware of the situation. So three-fourths of your crop got through. Not every planter has been so fortunate. But 'tis the goods coming this way that are most hurt. There is no food reaching us. Bridgetown is on half rations. As for the blacks . . . Peter?'

'Forty of mine have died of starvation over the past year,' Woodbury said. 'And the rest are that emaciated.'

'You'll have some more sangaree, gentlemen,' Haggard said. 'And try some of cook's pasties. Home-ground flour, you understand. Oh, yes, my last shipment is no doubt now on sale in Boston.'

'But you can grow your own?' Lucas inquired.

'I have two hundred and fifty acres under com at present. I am intending to transfer another twelve hundred after my next grinding.'

Twelve . . .' Woodbury seemed to lose the power of speech. 'Where will you gel the grain?' Lucas asked. 'Wherever I can. Wherever I have to.' 'You'll be robbed.'

Times are hard, gentlemen. If I have to pay over the odds, then I shall do so. I have already laid in as large a store of imported foodstuffs as I could. Oh. I go short. I doubt my coffee will last. My only cheese is what we produce here on the plantation. But I still have a dozen cases of best claret left, and even a drop of port. I'll manage until the end of it.'

'You'll manage, by God,' Woodbury grumbled.

The fact is, John,' Lucas said, 'we are well aware of your foresight and self-sufficiency. I only wish others had shown equal wisdom. Although let's face it, there are not many planters so financially viable they can afford to do without a quarter of their acreage. But we are all in this. Barbados stands or falls together.

I'm sure you agree with that principle.' He paused, gazed at Haggard in the hopes of finding some support, then hurried on. "So it has been decided in the House yesterday, after a long and serious debate, that it is time to introduce an island-wide system of rationing our foodstuffs and indeed everything else that is normally imported. A pooling of resources, is what we have in mind. And of course, we are looking to Haggard's as the fountainhead, so to speak. If you are indeed growing corn on that scale, you will be our granary.'

Haggard's brows drew together. These were the people who hated him and everything he stood for, who had refused to second him, who had willed Malcolm Bolton to shoot him down, ‘I was not present at this debate.'

'You were here in bed,' Woodbury pointed out.

'I was going to say, or I would have opposed it. In effect you are asking me to subsidise a number of planters who through either carelessness or incompetence now find themselves in a difficult position.'

"Subsidise . . . yes, well, I suppose that is right,' Lucas agreed.

‘I see no reason why I should do so.' 'Eh?'

'I don't remember ever hearing that anyone lifted a finger to help Roger Haggard the first when he created this plantation. Rather do I remember hearing that he was opposed at every turn."

That was a hundred and fifty years ago,' Paley objected.

'We Haggards have long memories. I don't remember Father claiming any assistance when we had that smallpox epidemic here in fifty-eight. Half our slaves died. Did you give any assistance then, Peter?'

'Well ... it was a difficult time for all of us. There was a war on then, too.'

There is always a war on, somewhere. No, no, gentlemen, it seems to me that wars, like plagues, are sent along by nature every so often to separate the weak from the strong. That is nature's way, gentlemen. Subsidies, supports, sharing, only prolongs the existence of those unable to survive on their own, and what is the ultimate result of that? Why, the entire breed becomes weaker.'

Lucas frowned at him. 'You are refusing to help us, sir?'

'I am refusing to contemplate the death of one of my people through the carelessness of somebody else. As you say, Harry, foresight. I saw this coming, and I prepared for it. We shall manage, but I have close on two thousand people here on this plantation, and by God not one of them is going to starve.'

'And suppose,' Paley said, 'I told you that there is a risk of white people starving as well? It could well come to that, John Haggard. Would you feed your blacks knowing that was happening?'

'God give me patience,' Haggard said. 'And you a priest. Black or white, what's the difference?'

The one is a slave and the other a free man.'

'Oh, balderdash. They weren't born slaves. At least their ancestors weren't. We went to Africa and got them. I'm no mealy-mouthed Quaker, Paley. I'm a planter. I need slave labour to work my plantation, and I work them hard. But by God when I buy a black I assume full responsibility for him or her, and they'll not starve, even if every goddamned layabout in Bridgetown drops dead.'

'My God,' Paley said. 'My God. To hear such words spoken by a white man . . .'

There is talk of requisitioning, where voluntary co-operation isn't forthcoming,' Lucas said.

'Indeed?' Haggard allowed his mouth to widen in a smile. 'Don't frighten me, gentlemen. You send a single redcoat up that driveway and I'll tum out my slaves, and arm them. This is Haggard land. No one sets foot on it without my permission.'

Lucas sighed, stood up, sat down again. 'I'll speak plain, John Haggard. I was your father's attorney before yours, and I've a right. You must be the best-hated man in all Barbados, at this moment. There's those saying you murdered Malcolm Bolton. And there's others saying you've lost your senses since that.'

'And what do you say, Harry?' Haggard's tone was soft.

‘I . . .' Lucas went very red in the face as he pointed at the girl. 'She's a condemned felon. Worse, there's those say she's a witch. You're bewitched, Haggard. Look at you, wounded half to death, but keeping her here with you, never letting her out of your sight, smiling and laughing . . . 'tis not yourself.'

'Now have I heard it all,' Haggard said. 'A man must be bewitched because he smiles. If I smile, Harry, it is because I am happy. And if I am happy, for the first time in four years, it is because she makes me so. Go and report that to the gossiping ladies of Bridgetown, and come back out here when you are in a better humour.'

The three men exchanged glances, then stood up.

'I had not supposed it would ever come to this,' Lucas said.

'Mad,' Woodbury said. 'You are mad, John Haggard.'

'Bewitched,' Paley muttered. He stared at Emma.

'If you mean to insult my housekeeper, sir, I'll ask you to leave,' Haggard said.

'Oh, we are leaving, Haggard,' Lucas said. 'And we'll not be back. But you, sir, will be condemned by every right-thinking person on this island.'

'Oh, come now,' Haggard said. 'Am I not already? Have I not been, for four years? You should practise more honest thinking, gentlemen, then you wouldn't get yourselves in these scrapes.'

'Mark my words. Haggard,' Woodbury said, going to the door. 'You'll be brought down. Oh, aye, you'll be brought down.'

'Should I interpret that as a threat?' Haggard inquired, his voice sinking into that deceptively quiet and even tone which indicated his anger.

'You may interpret it in whatever way you wish, sir.' Woodbury said, and went down the stairs.

‘It is true that feelings against you are running high in town, John,' Lucas said.

'And you agree with them.'

‘I endeavour not to take sides. I would suggest you are careful how you go.'

'May God have mercy on your soul,' the Reverend Paley said.

Emma came back to sit beside him. 'Why do you not help them? They seemed to be talking sense.'

'No doubt they were, from their point of view. I do not need their help.'

'Nor their friendship?'

'I have never had their friendship. I have only been realising that this last fortnight. Tis best it is out in the open, at last. Why, would you have their friendship?'

'Were you not here they'd tear me limb from limb.'

'Something for you to remember.' He held her arms, slid his hands up and down the silky flesh. By God, he thought. Perhaps I am bewitched. ^‘Are you a witch, Emma?'

‘I never heard so.'

Then tell me who your father was.'

'A rich man, Mr. Haggard. Squire of the village of Derleth, in Derbyshire. There's coal mines there, and a canal.' 'And your mother?'

'Alice Dearborn was her name, Mr. Haggard. Upstairs maid.'

'Ah. Both in the past tense.'

'Aye, well, while Papa lived—I can remember him, Mr. Haggard, he was old, but jolly with it. Well, while he lived life was good. Then he died, and having no sons the estate passed to his brother. And Mama and me was out on our ears. Well, she died soon after. Starved she did, Mr. Haggard.'

'How old were you?'

Emma shrugged. Twelve, maybe. It was four years ago. But I had friends. I was sent to the next village, and found a position as skivvy. Then, because I'm pretty, I guess, and with some knowledge of what a lady should do, they took me upstairs.'

'And you stole.'

‘I like pretty things, Mr. Haggard.'

'Pretty things, by God. I'd forgotten what it's like to have a woman about the house. Pull that bell rope, Emma.' 'You'll not send me away?'

'Not I, Emma. But you're to have something to wear. James. James. Come in here, man. Send to town, fetch Mistress Bale out here.'

This time, Mr. Haggard? It going be dark in one hour.'

'Fetch her out, James. Tell her to prepare to stay the night. I want Miss Emma measured for clothes. Everything she can think of. Send for her, James.'

'Ayayay,' Middlesex said, and hurried back down the stairs.

'Mr. Haggard,' Emma said, ‘I didn't kill that mate. I just said what Mama used to say when she was angry.'

‘I believe you, Emma,' Haggard said.

‘If you're bewitched, Mr. Haggard, you done it yourself.'

'Aye.' He held her arms again, brought her down on to the bed beside him, slipped his hands down the cotton gown to massage her bottom, ‘I'm bewitched, Emma. But I don't want ever to be normal again.'

'They're coming down.' Willy Ferguson straightened his cravat, took his place beside the other five bookkeepers commanded to dinner. They waited, perspiring, casting anxious glances at the great staircase. Haggard came first, wearing a dinner suit, white cravat gleaming. Only the tightness of the flesh over his cheeks, the slight hesitancy with which he negotiated each step, indicated that he had left his bedchamber for the first time in a fortnight.

Emma followed, equally slowly, matching her time to Haggard's, to be sure, but the men could tell she was no less nervous than they. But having glanced at her once, they could not look away. She wore a pale blue satin gown, with a white underskirt, ballooning away from her hips on the panniers. Her fan was a matching blue and there was a carcanet of pearls at her neck. Only the powdered wig was missing from the ensemble of a lady of fashion; Emma's hair had been left loose to lie in a red stain on her neck and across her shoulders. She was the most beautiful sight any of them had ever seen.

'Gentlemen,' Haggard said. 'Good of you to come. I'd have you meet Miss Emma Dearborn.'

Willie Ferguson took her hand, and she gave him a brief smile. The last time she had seen him he had been rubbing pepper into her nipples. The last time she had seen Jonathan Gleason, immediately behind Ferguson, he had been holding her wrists above her head. But she allowed them each a smile and a squeeze of her hand.

'Champagne, gentlemen.’ Haggard said, gesturing James Middlesex forward. 'I feel like a new man. Perhaps I am a new man." He raised his glass. To Miss Dearborn, who has nursed me back to health.'

The bookkeepers exchanged glances; after nearly killing you in the first place, their eyes said.

'I shall be resuming the morning briefings, as from tomorrow, Willy,' Haggard said. 'And I shall make a tour of inspection as well. I am sure there is much to be seen. Are we ready for grinding?'

'Indeed, John. You’ll find everything as you left it.'

'I never doubted that, Willy. Shall we go in?'

He gave Emma his arm, escorted her into the dining room. The overseers followed. Emma was seated at Haggard's right hand, with Willy Ferguson opposite. 'I would also like to propose a toast,’ Willy said. To our new mistress.'

The other bookkeepers rose, glasses high. Emma watched Haggard, a faint frown marking the white flesh between her eyes. And for a moment Haggard hesitated. Then he too rose. 'And very apt that is, Willy,' he said. To your new mistress, Emma Dearborn.'

They still hate me,' she grumbled.

Haggard held her closer. At last. After a fortnight of watching her and smelling her and touching her, he was well enough to love her. And she was willing. Her naked body squirmed on his, his hands were allowed to wander where they chose. But after all she was just humouring him.

They will get used to you. Now forget about them. The only person in the entire world for you to worry about is me, and I am here in your arms.'

He rolled her on her back, peered at her face in the gloom. He wanted to shout with sheer joy, that all this should be his, should be here and now, toes and knees, thighs and cunt, belly and breast, and now lips, pressed against him, his to possess over and over and over again, if he chose, if he was able.

And able to love him back. Her tongue was as eager as his, and her hands sought his own buttocks. To have her touch him was as enjoyable as to touch her. Even Susan had been nothing like this. Susan. Roger. He had not thought of the boy for a fortnight.

Her head moved away. 'What is wrong?'

He rolled on his back. 'You've not yet met my son.'

‘I have,' she said, ‘I went along there while you were asleep, two days ago. He is a fine boy. A fine Haggard.'

'Oh, Emma, Emma.' He brought her back on top of him. 'For a moment I . . .no, there is nothing wrong. Could you love me, Emma? After a beginning such as we have had?'

'Could you love me, Mr. Haggard?'

'I do. I had thought 1 could never love again, but no man could ever have been more wrong. Oh, I love you, Emma. Love you, love you, love you.'

'Because you have not had a woman for too long. Will you love me when you are sated with me, Mr. Haggard?' 'Will you not become sated with me, Emma?' 'You are my life,' she said, seriously.

'And you are mine, Emma. That will not change.' His turn to frown at her as she rolled away from him. 'Do you not believe that?'

'I do not believe it is possible for two people to love each other, physically, the way we do, for a long period. Our fire is burning too brightly, Mr. Haggard. Too brightly to last.'

'And when it is done, you will curse me to my grave?'

She smiled at him. 'And when it is done, you will hand me to the hangman?'

He kissed her on the mouth. 'So you see, my pet, as we can mutually destroy the other, we have no choice but to stay in love, for the rest of our lives.'

'I would like that, Mr. Haggard,' she said. 'I would like that.'

Black smoke belched from the chimney of Haggard's Penn, mingled with the rain clouds which, swept in from the Atlantic by the unchanging trade wind, gathered above Barbados every noonday. The plantation seethed, with labourers in the field, cutting the cane as fast as their machetes would swing, with creaking bullock-drawn carts into which the severed stalks were loaded, with curses and groans and sighs, punctuated by the cracking of the cartwhips, over humans and animals alike as they were driven to the edge of endurance and beyond. But those in the field still did better than those in the factory. Here the slaves were naked as they clung to the treadmill, as they sifted the fresh green stalks into the first massive rollers which crushed them to a pulp, as they added water—macerating it was called—to the remnants of the first crushing to dilute the remaining sugar content and enable it too to be drawn; as they poked the huge vats of liquid, slowly cooling, slowly evaporating to leave the crystalline sugar clinging to the sieved bottoms, while the molasses dripped through into the hogsheads beneath, to be reprocessed and then to be converted into the plantation's principal by-product, rum; as they toiled in the pits beneath the rollers, gathering the bagasse, the shattered and pulped cane stalks from which all juice had been extracted, and which was now to be used as fuel to maintain the enormous fires beneath each of the separation vats—for a grinding sugar plantation was self-perpetuating. Other slaves hammered at the hogsheads in which the crystalline wealth would be stored. These were the lucky ones, as they were somewhat removed from the heat and the sickening stench of the factory. Yet even these sweated and panted and grew weak with exhaustion. Grinding was no time for backsliding. The slightest transgression was rewarded, even on Haggard's, with twenty lashes. On the success of the grinding depended the entire prosperity of the coming year.

It was time when whites worked as hard as blacks. There was no time off for either. In the fields, the bookkeepers ranged their mules to and fro, whips at the ready for any sign of slackening effort. In the factory they were stripped to the waist, bodies gleaming with sweat, hair lank and matted to their scalps as they walked the catwalks and kept their slaves at the highest pitch of endeavour. And no man worked harder than the Master. For seven days Haggard had not taken off his clothes, had slept in a chair on the verandah, cooled by the evening breeze, restored by copious quantities of ice cold rum punch. After his wound he swayed with fatigue, yet would not permit any man to take his place by the great vats, where he himself could test the quality as well as the quantity of the sugar as it came through. He reckoned on turning eight per cent of the gross weight of cane into pure brown sugar, an improvement on his father's seven per cent because of the greater maceration he permitted; induced with sufficient care, and with the cane subjected to an ever more intense crushing, there was no diminution in the quality of the sugar itself.

But now at last the fortnight of hell was all but over. The fields had been devastated, and the ratooning, the transplanting of the green shoots, had been completed. The filled hogsheads were already creaking their way down the road into Bridgetown, where the ships were waiting to load and be on their way to England, hopefully without sight of a Yankee privateer. The plantation chemists were already beginning their tasting and their mixing and their sweetening in the process of manufacturing the rum, much of which would also be finding its way across the sea, and the slaves, and their overseers, could at last begin to think of holidays and nights in their beds.

And Haggard could allow himself to relax. He walked from the factory, and blinked in the afternoon sunlight. 'A good crop.'

The best ever, John,' Willy agreed.

'You'll dine tonight. Bring up Mr. and Mrs. Prentice as well, and the Allisons.'

Willy Ferguson chewed his lip and shifted from one foot to the other. In the past fortnight the crisis which loomed above the plantation had seemed less important; grinding was like a prolonged battle, in which only the good of the cane and personal survival mattered. But now the Penn would be settling into a long quiescent eight months. The ladies would have nothing to do but gossip, and gaze up the hill at the Great House.

'Seven o'clock,' Haggard said, ‘I'm for bed early tonight.'

He mounted his mule, rode up the slope. So Mistress Prentice and Mistress Allison had let it be known that they would not recognise their master's whore. He wondered if they would have the courage to refuse a dinner invitation. It would be amusing to find out. A thought, as usual followed by another. They were his friends. He had grown up with their husbands. And now he was prepared to throw them over for a chit of a girl, not yet seventeen, whose body excited him. Was he then so much of a fool?

He raised his head, and gazed at the verandah. Emma stood there, auburn hair fluttering in the afternoon breeze, wearing a loose pale green house gown. This was normal, and usual. But her demeanour was not normal. Absent was the habitual quiet suspicion of all those around her. As he came closer she ran down the steps with a girlish energy he had not previously observed. 'Mr. Haggard,' she cried. 'Mr. Haggard.'

He threw the reins to Absolom, stepped down, thrust the dogs out of the way. 'What's amiss?'

'Amiss,' she laughed. 'Naught's amiss, Mr. Haggard. I'm certain sure. I'm with child.'

He frowned at her. 'How can you be certain?'

'Because I have been on the plantation better than two months, Mr. Haggard, that's why. I knew, I was sure, four days ago, but I made myself wait until grinding was done. Until there could be no chance. Until you'd be free to understand.' She put both arms round his neck. 'Your child, Mr. Haggard. Your child.'

He swept her from her feet, tucked his arm under her knees. He had lifted her like this on that first day, when she had twisted and moaned and blood had dripped down his side. He walked towards the verandah steps.

'Are you happy about it?'

'Happy. You'll love me now, Mr. Haggard. Now and always.'

‘I loved you already, now and always, Emma.'

'Aye, maybe you did. But now I'm sure of it too. Love me, Mr. Haggard. Love me now. Please.'

He hesitated at the foot of the steps. 'What of the child?'

‘It cannot be harmed, Mr. Haggard. I know it. Love me now, Mr. Haggard. I beg of you. And let me love you.'

She had never said that before. She had never been so excited before. And he had had no time for her for over a week. He carried her up the stairs and across the hall. Gone was her modesty. She kissed his cheek and bit his ear as they climbed the stairs. She slipped from his arms before they were properly inside the bedroom, threw off her gown, helped him to undress. She knelt to kiss his penis and bring him hard, moaned as he gently kneaded her breasts, lifted her again and laid her on the bed, stooped to kiss her in turn. She spread her legs wide and cried out in delight. To her all-consuming beauty there was added a throbbing passion he had never suspected her to possess.

'Slowly, Mr. Haggard, oh slowly,' she whispered, expelling her breath in a long gasp as he sank into her. Her nostrils dilated, her mouth sagged open, her hair scattered to either side of her head. It was how he liked to see her, the composed loveliness of her face, so watchful, so suspicious, disintegrating into pure womanhood, knowing nothing but desire and delight. But never had he seen it quite so possessed, never had he been so possessed himself. Her legs curled around his thighs and he felt her nails scraping down his back, causing him to jerk with pain even as he climaxed, and her own breath once again hissed into his ear.

'Oh, Mr. Haggard,' she said. 'Does a man feel like a woman?'

'I don't know how a woman feels,' he said. 'Or if she feels at all.'

'She feels, Mr. Haggard. Sometimes. I felt then. I want to feel again, Mr. Haggard. I want to feel always.' Her voice insisted. 'Will I feel always?'

'If you're that passionate, always.'

'I'm passionate now. I'm feeling now, Mr. Haggard. I want it again, now.'

He smiled, and kissed her on the nose. 'You'll have to wait until after dinner.'

'You have hands, Mr. Haggard.'

Bewitched, he thought. Oh, indeed, I am bewitched. That John Haggard should lie here and masturbate a woman, that a woman should wish masturbating, that a woman should be capable of physical feelings as deep as that. And there was no pretence. She came again and again, eyes dilating and mouth sagging, body vibrating with pleasure. He knew of no woman who could possibly behave like this. It was impossible to imagine any woman of his acquaintance, Adelaide Bolton or Annette Manning, knowing such feelings, or being able to express them in words. As for Susan—but there was no room for thoughts of Susan while in Emma's arms.

And incredibly, her passion communicated itself even through his own exhaustion, left him more aware than ever before in his life, had him beaming down the table at Clara Prentice and Lucy Allison. They had not, after all, been able to resist their curiosity, or their desire to sit at Haggard's dinner table, and drink expensive wine from Haggard's crystal goblets. And now too they could inspect Emma, and sneer at her plunging decolletage, and no doubt feel their milk curdling as they estimated the cost of her gown or the value of her pearls, as if they did not already know—Mistress Bale's visit to Haggard's was common gossip all over the island.

And they were helpless before her glowing sexuality, her sparkling wit. They might exchange glances whenever she made a grammatical slip, whenever her laugh was a trifle high for breeding, whenever she revealed her ignorance of literature or politics, but they could do nothing more than sit helpless as their husbands warmed before the fire of her beauty and her personality.

While Haggard sat at the top of the table, and sipped wine, and smiled at them all. He possessed so much, and yet he felt he had never possessed anything in his life before. Even Emma had only truly come into his possession this night. But she was his now, and he could not see that ever changing. And soon she would be the mother of his child. Emma, youthful, magnificent Emma, slowly swelling. Emma, with an infant at her breast. Emma, walking her son, with Roger at her side—for she made a great show, at the least, of loving the boy—Emma.

'You'll raise your glasses,' he said, seizing his opportunity during a brief lull in the conversation. 'And drink to Miss Dearborn and myself. Emma is to become a mother.’

To Emma,' said Arthur Prentice.

To Emma and John,' Willy hastily added.

'And to the fortunate child,' remarked Clara Prentice. 'May I ask, John, if you and Miss Dearborn will now be married?'

There was a moment's silence, then Haggard stood up. 'You'll excuse us, I'm sure,' he said. 'But I for one am exhausted after a fortnight's grinding. I think I shall go to bed.'

He left the room, climbed the stairs, slowly. He was very tired. Behind him he heard the hasty scraping of chairs, the mutter of conversation. And Emma's voice.

'He really wasn't strong enough for it,' she said.

Henry Suffolk waited for him in the bedchamber, helped him out of his clothes. Emma stood in the doorway.

'You'll not apologise for me again,' Haggard said. 'Not ever, under any circumstances.'

'I'm sorry. They . . . they were so upset.'

Haggard got into bed. Henry Suffolk released the mosquito netting, allowed it to cloud down outside the bed, shrouding the occupant behind a white gauze curtain.

1 saying good-night, Mr. John,' he said, and left, to be immediately replaced by Elizabeth Lancashire, Emma's maid.

‘I’m sure Mistress Prentice meant no harm.' Emma stood with her arms above her head as Elizabeth released the gown and began to remove the petticoats beneath.

'She's not a fool,' Haggard said.

'Well, if she meant harm, it was directed at me. They hate me. All of them.'

'Do you suppose they'd hate you any less as my wife?'

'Why, no. But . . ." She bit her lip, turned away as Elizabeth began to unfasten her corset.

How lovely she was. How lovely she would become. Sixteen years old, and with all of her life crammed into the past two months. But there was so much more to come. He looked through the netting at the long, slender legs, the absolutely smooth curve of her buttocks, almost brushed by the long red hair, as she tilted her head back to have the carcanet taken from her throat. She faced the mirror on the far wall, and he could at the same time look at the swell of hair which thatched her groin, and the sudden thrust of breasts; these she was gently massaging underneath, where the corset had cut her. And the face, so young, and yet so strong. She would make any man a superb wife.

He rolled away from her, violently, stared out of the window at the night. But he'd not marry again. He had said that, when they had sealed Susan's coffin. Well, no doubt many a man made a similar oath. It was not one he'd be expected to keep. But why-should he marry again? It was not necessary. He owned this girl, far more than he ever could own a wife. And did John Haggard, the Haggard, give a damn for the opinions of anyone in Barbados, even his own employees? Or especially his own employees.

So then, are you a bad man, John Haggard? It was not a question he had asked himself for two months. But it could not be begged. He knew in his heart that no slave owner could honestly be considered a good man. So why pretend? He was John Haggard. He owned, and he bought, and he ruled. This was best for him, and it was best for those with whom he came into contact. But for him, Emma Dearborn would have been a lump of putrefying flesh hanging from the end of a rope, by now. He could not do more for her than that.

Or perhaps, he thought, I am afraid to share, anything more than my body and my lust, with any woman, ever again. Because I shared with you, Susan, and the grief was more than I could bear.

And why had the question arisen at all? Because of those silly hags at dinner. They were married. They had to be, to secure their own futures. Overseers' wives. Did their opinions count? Did the opinions of anyone in Barbados count? He was John Haggard. He had turned his back upon Barbadian society, Barbadian opinion, even at the highest level. Because he was the highest level. It was only necessary for Emma always to remember that, to know that she had but to please him and her future was far more secure than it could ever be for a wife who sought to follow Susan.

A discovery she seemed to make for herself, soon enough. The child gave her a confidence she had never previously possessed. It was an easy pregnancy, a simple delivery. She wished to call the babe Alice, after her own mother, and Haggard was content to please her. Soon enough she was pregnant again; and this time they named the boy Charles, after her father. Then Haggard called a halt, demanded she be careful. Three children were enough for any father, two for any mother. He did not suppose she could be lucky all her life.

Certainly she was busy enough. Apart from the children, and she insisted upon feeding them both herself, without conspicuous detriment to her hard-muscled body, she set to work in her own way to make herself a worthy Haggard woman. She already knew how to read, and now she made a study of every book in his library. She spent hours in the flower garden, to the delight of the yard boys, and other hours closeted with Cook in the kitchen, to no great purpose, as Haggard would no longer even entertain his own staff to dinner.

For in a strange way, as Emma appeared to grow more content with her lot, with a life built entirely around Haggard, so Haggard grew more discontented. Not with Emma. Far from it. But with Barbadian society, and even Barbados itself. The rejection had been mutual, and by the end of the American War was complete. Barbadian society could never forgive him for having killed Malcolm Bolton, for having gone his own way in the crisis of that same year. And Haggard did not wish to be forgiven. But his gnawing distaste for Barbados itself did stem from Emma. From the tales she told of England, of snow on the Derbyshire hills, of long, cosy nights before the fire, of the immensity of London, an impression gained on her brief visit to the metropolis while awaiting transportation. She made England sound so much more interesting, even exciting, than Barbados could ever be. Slowly he began to realise that he wanted to leave, wanted to travel, wanted to remove himself to a society where he would not be hated, and where he would not have to hate, himself.

But what an incredible idea. A Haggard, leaving Haggard's Penn? Father would turn in his grave. But Susan would understand. He stood before the white marble vault, his tricorne in his hand, the trade wind whipping at his hair. Over the last few years he had been able to do this again, where for too long he had shunned the cemetery as if it were haunted. But now it had a special place in his daily routine. It was incredible that Susan had been dead fourteen years, that it was ten years since he had shot down Malcolm Bolton. Ten years in which Haggard's Penn had become as socially isolated as if they all had leprosy, in which all his senior staff, driven by their wives, had gone, to be replaced by young men from England seeking their fortunes. But also ten years in which he had prospered while all others had struggled. Ten years in which Great Britain had lost a war. Ten grindings and ten ratoonings. Ten crops of maize. Ten years of exploring the delight that was Emma, of teaching her to read and write, of sharing the mystery that was her mind. Of making her his?

Ten years, he realised, which had passed before he was aware of it. He was thirty-seven years old. There was a suddenly disturbing thought. And tomorrow she would complete her term of indenture. He wondered if she remembered that. She had not spoken of it.

'Father. Father.' At fourteen, Roger Haggard was already tall and strongly built, his features cast in the distinctive Haggard mould. He really should be at school in England, but Haggard had been reluctant to let him go, had preferred to obtain a tutor from Bridgetown, a clerk from the shipping company which handled his sugar and who possessed a smattering of Latin. Roger was all of Susan that was left, and if he possessed the Haggard nose and chin, he certainly had his mother's eyes, amber and sparkling. As well as his mother's innate gentleness of spirit, which went ill with the tales Haggard had heard of the hardship of life at Eton. And besides, he was already proving a useful and knowledgeable bookkeeper.

Then am I getting set to repeat the mistake of my own father, Haggard wondered? But why suppose it had necessarily been a mistake?

There are visitors, Father.' Roger paused for breath. 'From Bridgetown.'

Sufficient cause for excitement. Who from the outer world that was Barbadian society would visit Haggard's?

Then I'd best attend them.' He slapped his son on the shoulder, began the descent. Emma waited at the foot of the slope, Alice beside her, while Charlie seemed absorbed as ever in his own private thoughts. He was eight and his sister was nine. Two of the strangest Haggards of all, Haggard supposed, both with the red hair of their mother, both with the slightly suspicious expression which haunted her own face. But now suspicion was mixed with disappointment. No doubt in her heart she had hoped, with each child, that she might squeeze a little closer to the strange man who was her master. Now she was resigned.

But had she forgotten that this time tomorrow she would be legally free to leave him? If she wished.

Would he care? Could he possibly live, now, without those long legs and those heavy breasts, slightly drooping now, as she had fed both of her children? Without that throbbing belly, with all its gentle stretch marks, without that wealth of straight aubum hair, without that sudden smile and that continuing shyness whenever he reached for her. Could he possibly?

'You have visitors, Mr. Haggard,' she said as he came towards her.

'So the boy is saying. Now there's a strange circumstance. Can we be at war again?'

‘I hope not, Mr. Haggard. I wish you had more visitors. I wish you would get off the plantation more often. It cannot be good for you to lock yourself away here.'

'I have everything I wish, right here, sweetheart,' he said, and put his arm around her shoulder to kiss her on the cheek. Leave the plantation? Whatever for? To be booed or hissed at? Or just regarded with silent fear and hatred? Haggard the murderer. Haggard the bluebeard. Haggard the man who would not help his fellows. Even, so he had been told by Willy Ferguson, Haggard the madman. Names given him by people who understood none of his strengths or his weaknesses, or his fortune, or his happiness.

Then what of the object who provided that happiness? He looked down at her and she gave a quick smile. Undoubtedly she would stay were he to propose marriage. But he did not want to share. He wanted to own, as he did own. It was a way of life now. There was no one in all the world could question any decision he cared to make. That could not be so were she to be his wife.

But what then did that make him? Why, he supposed, just Haggard. At least he was honest about what made him happy.

But what did she think of it all? She never complained, and that he found disturbing. Was she patiently waiting, believing that she must, in the end, achieve her goal? Or was she as bewildered as he, knowing only the mutual satisfaction of each other's bodies, but in her case accentuated by the sudden wealth and power with which she was surrounded, and to which she had access, providing only she remembered to call him Mr. Haggard? He had suggested, often enough, that she try John, but she had refused.

Or was that her own way of punishing him? She would call him John when he put a ring on her finger.

‘I'd best discover what they have on their minds,' he said, and strode away from her, towards the house. He could see the horses, waiting there, each held by one of the Haggard grooms. Two horses, and two men on the verandah, being served sangaree by James Middlesex. Peter Campkin, and the Reverend Paley. Peter Campkin had married Adelaide Bolton, and since the death of old Papa Bolton was now a planter in his own right.

'Gentlemen.' He climbed the stairs. 'You'll sit down.' He did not offer his hand, nor did they offer theirs in return.

He smiled at them, and waited, while they exchanged glances.

'You'll be acquainted with the news from England,' Campkin said at last.

'What news from England, Peter? Or are the French tearing down more bastilles?'

‘I am not the slightest bit interested in what the French may do or not do, Mr. Haggard,' Campkin said. 'I am talking of this.' He held out a paper.

Haggard glanced at it, made out the names Wilberforce and Clarkson.

'Ah,' he said. 'The do-gooders. What are they at now?'

'A motion, Haggard, to abolish the trade,' Paley said.

Haggard frowned at him. 'A motion? Where?'

'Before Parliament.' Campkin said. 'To abolish the trade. What do you think of that?'

Haggard stroked his chin. He was well aware that over the past half dozen years a small party of British reformers had been steadily sniping away at the entire institution of slavery, that there was actually a Parliamentary Commission sitting to hear evidence regarding the worst excesses of the slave owners and their overseers, but he had not given it much thought. Waves of humanitarian sentiment swept Britain from time to time, like epidemics of the plague. The reformers knew very little about the realities of life on a West Indian plantation. If there were slave owners who were monsters of cruelty, he had no doubt there were squires and shipmasters and industrialists in Bristol and Liverpool and London who were also monsters of cruelty to those in their power. But not very many of them, just as most of the planters, certainly those in Barbados, realising the amount of capital they had tied up in each black man or woman, were unlikely willingly to harm them any more than they would willingly harm one of their horses.

'Well?' Paley demanded.

‘It poses several interesting conundrums,' Haggard admitted. 'Supposing the bill is made law, which is doubtful to say the least.'

'I would not be too sanguine about that,' Campkin said. This French business has set everyone by the ears. What with all the old nobility renouncing their titles and their rights to serfdom, well

'I had supposed you were not interested in the French?'

'Only in so far as they affect us.'

'What interesting conundrums?' Paley asked.

'Well, just for example, should the trade be outlawed, the value of every slave we own must be immediately doubled, as they will become a very scarce commodity.'

'By God,' Paley remarked. 'Trust you to think of that.' He snorted. 'And of course you have sufficient births amongst your thousands to take care of wastage.'

'Of course,' Haggard agreed.

⁴I told you,' Paley said. 'I told you we were wasting our time, Peter. This man is a selfish monster. I have never met anyone like him.'

'Mr. Haggard,' Campkin said. 'I know we have not seen eye to eye over the past ten years, and I further know that you have opted for staying out of Barbadian politics. But ten years is too long to have a feud dividing the very heart of our society, especially when there is a crisis at hand. It is our intention, sir, to place our case before the British Parliament. We have already opened negotiations with certain MPs who are prepared to speak for us on the floor of the Commons. But they must represent a united island. Every planter must subscribe his name to the brief we send them’

'And subscribe his share of the cost, no doubt."

Campkin flushed. 'Well, sir, I will not deny that there is a cost. But nothing the Master of Haggard's Penn would find the slightest heavy, and not a fraction of what we stand to lose should the trade truly be outlawed.'

Haggard pointed his finger at the young man. 'Peter, you are a liar and a hypocrite.'

'Sir?' Campkin sat up very straight.

'Strong words, Haggard,' Paley protested.

'But true enough. You know very well that the last time you attempted to present a remonstrance to the House of Commons, when that fellow Coke was hunting around these islands seeking evidence of mistreatment of slaves, your petition was thrown out because it did not contain my name. You can do nothing without Haggard's support, and you know it. Why not come out and say so?'

Campkin glanced at the parson.

'And suppose we admitted that?' Paley inquired.

‘I'd still have no truck with you.'

'You..’

'Because as usual you are creating fantasies which will probably never come to pass. You are actually encouraging these fellows. Can't you see that? So there are reformers and Quakers and abolitionists in England. Do you seriously suppose that the British Parliament is going to take any steps, any at all, to ruin Britain's most prosperous and wealthiest colonies? Would you seriously cut off your own hand, Paley, because it occasionally touches something of which you disapprove? Absolute nonsense. Unless, as I have said, we planters ourselves leap up in protest, thereby suggesting that we know we are in the wrong, at least morally.'

There,' Paley said. 'As I said. You'll get no help from John Haggard.'

He got up, and after a moment Campkin also rose. 'You will regret that attitude, sir. I am sure of it. Just as you will regret your continued antagonism to your fellow planters. There will come a time, sir, when you will need us and we shall not need you. Just as there will come a time when you will know how shallow and useless has been your life, locked away on this plantation as if it were the entire world.' He paused, and gasped, as if amazed at his own temerity. 'And you may take offence if you wish.'

Haggard waved his hand. Take him away, Paley,' he said, ‘I shall entirely stop receiving delegations from town if their sole purpose is to read me lectures. Take him away.'

The men stamped down the steps, stopped to stare at Emma, who was approaching the house with the children. Then they mounted their horses and galloped down the drive.

'Another quarrel?' she asked as she came closer.

'The quarrel was ten years ago, sweetheart. This is but a further instalment of it.'

"And I am the cause.' She allowed Amelia to replace her with the children, ascended the steps.

'You? No. no. The cause was there before I knew you existed. You are perhaps a continued irritant to the good people of Bridgetown. They are too good, that is their trouble.' He sat down, took a fresh glass of sangaree, gave it to her. drank from his own.

She sat beside him. 'I can feel their hatred, on every puff of breeze.'

He glanced at her, frowning. 'And it frightens you?'

'Yes,' she said fiercely. 'Yes, it frightens me. Should something happen to you. Mr. Haggard . . .'

'Now what is going to happen to me?' But his frown deepened. There were enough layabouts around the Bridgetown docks for an assassin to be found, should one be needed. It had never occurred to him before. Certainly it had never been something to cause him concern. He was John Haggard. Haggards lived, to the limit of their capacity, until they died, whether from old age, or yellow-fever, or a bullet, sure always that there were other Haggards waiting to continue the family, the amassment of wealth, the prosperity of the plantation. Even when he had set out to fight Malcolm Bolton he had not feared the future, for his son, had only sought to improve its security.

But now ... it occurred to him that the hatred he had incurred and was incurring would not easily be assuaged. They would hate Roger Haggard as much as they hated his father. While Emma and her children . . . undoubtedly she was right. They would tear her limb from limb. Nor would Willy Ferguson be any protector. However much he pretended, and she pretended, he was the man who had rubbed pepper on her nipples. She must hate and fear him, and he must hate and fear her.

Then why not co-operate with them? If the idealistic machinations of the British Parliament could not harm him, it was just possible that they could, in the course of time, harm Roger. He had spoken the truth when he had told Campkin and Paley that he thought they were going about defending themselves in the wrong way. That did not mean that the planters should not defend themselves, under his leadership.

Did he still hate them that much?

Or was it more likely that he was afraid of his own reactions, afraid that if he set out to defend slavery, he would find that it was indefensible.

The understanding had been growing on him for ten years.

Something else that was Emma's doing, although she did not know it. He had always been inclined to ask himself questions, always vaguely afraid, and equally uncertain, although he would never admit that to anyone. He wondered, about too much. He wondered who, or what, had made the decision which had caused him to be born in the Great House and James Middlesex, for example, to be born in a slave logie. He wondered who had made the decision that Father and Susan should die, and he should live. And why. And he wondered why someone like Emma Dearborn had been sent to him, so strangely, and at so strange a time. Even more, who had sent him to her, when she had been about to die.

'Mr. Haggard?' She rested her hand on his arm.

'Aye,' he said. 'What would you have me do?'

'Me, Mr. Haggard?' Her surprise was utter.

'Supposing, of this moment, I told you you could have anything you desired in the world, go anywhere, be anything, what would you choose?'

She flushed. 'I have everything I could wish, right here, Mr. Haggard.'

'Save security.'

‘I am secure in your love, and . . .' She bit her lip.

'And while I live. But think, Emma. Let your imagination run riot. What would you have, what would you do? Suppose you are the mistress of Haggard's. Not my wife. My daughter, inheriting the plantation and everything that goes with it?'

'Oh, Mr. Haggard . . .'

Think, Emma, and tell me. You have an imagination. Use it.'

'Well . . .' She licked her lips, drank some sangaree, leaned forward, her face suddenly intense, and the more lovely for that. Too much of the time it revealed only suspicion and a smattering of fear. But now she was animated in her thoughts, in her imagination. 'I'd go to England, for a start.'

'Sell Haggard's?' Haggard pulled his nose. ' Tis the ultimate source of our wealth, even if you could find someone to pay the price.'

'I'd not sell Haggard's, Mr. Haggard. Never. But it can be managed by an attorney, surely.'

'Mm. What would you do with your life?'

'I'd go to Derbyshire, Mr. Haggard. I'd buy a manor house there, and live a civilised life.' 'Derleth Hall, I'll wager.'

She leaned back in her chair. That's something personal.'

"And what do you call a civilised life? Balls and hunts and fetes and gossip?'

They help you to understand you're alive.' 'And if you were a man?'

'Well, Mr. Haggard . . . Derleth is a county borough. It carries its own seat, and there are only a few electors. You'd not lack for something to do.'

'Parliament, by God.' He got up, walked to and fro, paused at the verandah rail to stare at his plantation. His plantation. He had never known anything else. But was the girl not right, however much of a private dream she was indulging? Had he not been thinking that very thought, with increasing force, every day for ten years, and rejecting it only because it was too great a step to contemplate? To be born, and live, and die, on Haggard's, surrounded by hatred and by criticism, could he really say, as he breathed his last, that he had lived? He was a slave owner. He had been born a slave owner, and he would die one, but could marshalling gangs of black men and women, ordering their floggings, granting them holidays, really be the beginning and end of his life? Because he hated it. The realisation came to him with a sense of shock. What heresy. But could he not do more for Haggard's, for all the West Indies, by taking his seat in the Commons, than he could ever do by stalking this verandah and defying all of Barbados? It would be an adventure, a great and glorious adventure, and he had never truly adventured. Certainly Willy Ferguson was capable of managing the plantation. And his children would grow up away from the atmosphere of hate. And it would also be a magnificent way of settling his own conscience of helping those people he despised. Let them prepare remonstrances and petitions. He would stand on the floor of the House itself to make the cause for slavery.

'I have angered you,' Emma said, softly.

'You have made me think,' Haggard said. 'I have not thought, except about you or the plantation, for too long.'

'You told me to imagine whatever I chose.'

'So I did. How soon can you undertake a sea voyage?'

'Mr. Haggard?' She scrambled to her feet. 'You wouldn't. Would you?'

'I asked you a question.'

Tomorrow. But Mr. Haggard . . .' She panted with excitement.

They'll call me a coward,' he said, half to himself. 'Who ran away because he could no longer face up to them.' 'Oh, Mr. Haggard.'

'Would you call me a coward, Emma?'

'How could 1, Mr. Haggard? You are the boldest man I have ever known.'

He put his arm round her shoulders. Suddenly he was excited as she. It occurred to him that, even with Emma to love every night, he was becoming bored.

'You aren't really going to do it, Mr. Haggard?' Her voice had sunk to a whisper.

Haggard kissed her on the ear. 'What do they call colonists who make a lot of money and return to England to live a life of ease?'

'Why . . . nabobs, Mr. Haggard.'

'Aye,' he said. 'Nabobs. Well, then, Emma Dearborn, stand back and look at your first nabob.'

CHAPTER 3

THE NABOB

'Man, but you ever see such houses?' demanded James Middlesex.

'Man, but there ain't no sun.' complained John Essex.

'Man. but what is that thing?’ cried Annie Kent.

'Man. that does be a castle,' explained Henry Suffolk.

'Man. but you ever see church like that?' Elizabeth Lancashire inquired, pointing at the dome of St. Paul's.

'Man. but it too cold,' Abraham grumbled, pulling his cloak tighter around his massive chest.

They stood together in the waist of the Yarmouth Lass as she ghosted up the Thames on the rising tide; there was just enough wind to keep her steerage way. They were excited, and happy. In the beginning they had been terrified. Although none of them had ever made the Middle Passage from Africa, they had heard sufficient tales about it from their parents and grandparents. They had been unable to convince themselves that an ocean voyage, even in the company of the Master, could be any different. They had been unable to estimate the length of time required to travel from Barbados, up the arc of islands, using the current and the trade wind, to the Bahama Passage where the westerlies could be found which would drive them across to Europe. But three days ago. when land had finally come in sight through the autumnal mists, their spirits had begun to rise.

And what of my spirits? Haggard wondered. He stood on the poop deck, Emma at his side; her two children hugged against her.

Roger preferred to stand by himself, leaning on the gunwale. He was a silent, introverted boy. On the voyage, for the first time ever. Haggard had attempted to befriend him, as well as he was able—in leaving Barbados he had turned his back on Susan, and all resentment against the child who had caused her death. Besides, the experience had been new to both of them—the handling of the ship, the care of the rigging. Captain Biddies' daily exercise in navigation, as much as the wind and the sea, had been equally fascinating. Yet Roger smiled seldom, regarded his

Besides, the experience had been new to both of them—the handling of the ship, the care of the rigging, Captain Biddies' daily exercise in navigation, as much as the wind and the sea, had been equally fascinating. Yet Roger smiled seldom, regarded his father with watchful suspicion. It would take time. But there would be time, once they got to England.

And at least Emma was happy; no doubt when she had left here, in the hold of this selfsame vessel more than ten years ago, she had supposed she would not see England again. But I have never seen it before. Haggard reminded himself. And he was not impressed at this moment. The sky was grey, as it had been unfailingly grey for the past week, and the city which was opening in front of him, if far larger than anything he had imagined possible, was huddled close together and suggested dirt and disease, while the air, even on the river, was tainted with the nostril-choking stench of coal smoke and wood-smoke. Yet, like his slaves, he was happy enough to come to land. It had been his first ocean voyage as well, and John Haggard could not be allowed to show fear, or apprehension, or even concern at the odd wave slapping the hull.

But at least the heaving sea had precluded thought. Now it returned with redoubled intensity. Barbados had been amazed at the news that he was going. Thus Willy. No one had come to say goodbye, nor had anyone in the crowd gathered on the shore of the Careenage done more than stare. No doubt they thought him a coward, running away from them. Well, was he not a coward? Emma had made him so. Emma and her children and his fears for them. Or was that just male pride bubbling over? On every count this move was at once desirable and sensible. He alone of all the Barbadian planters had never been to England; his father's foolish love had robbed him of that essential youthful broadening of the mind. Certainly, as he was thirty-seven years old, it was time to put right that mistake. And again, he was Haggard. Was it not right that he should take his place upon a larger stage than the Barbadian House of Assembly? Why, who could tell what future lay before him? At the least he did not doubt his brains or his ability. So perhaps Haggard's Penn would not be quite so prosperous under an attorney as under himself. He had every confidence in Willy Ferguson, but the fact was that it was no longer essential to his well-being; to continue to regard the plantation as the fount of his wealth, he recognised, was merely to pander to family pride. The Haggard fortune was too diverse to be confined to sugar. His great grandfather, happening to be in England at the time, had delved into the murky depths of the South Adventure, and had had the sense to take his profit before that Bubble had burst so alarmingly. On such a foundation, added to the growing profits from sugar, had the Haggard millions been based. And they were millions. He kept a million pounds at interest with the Bank, and another million in consols. His plantation pulled in a yearly profit of a hundred thousand, and itself was worth another million, at the least. He had naught to fear from the future. He could be what he was, what he had always been, Haggard, do what he liked, live as he chose, for the rest of his life and still bequeath to Roger a handsome fortune. Fear and uncertainty were really childish emotions.

And Emma? He had not raised the subject of her indenture, still could not believe she was unaware that she was free to walk away from him whenever she chose. He could not help but wonder whether the whole idea of coming to England was not some plot on her part to facilitate her escape. Except that she did not need to escape.

He looked down at her, found her looking up at him. 'Happy?'

'Oh, yes, Mr. Haggard.'

'Does it get much colder than this?'

'Oh, yes, Mr. Haggard. Why, it's just October. Come January there will be snow everywhere. Especially in Derbyshire.'

'Then we must obtain some warmer clothing.' He wore a cloak, as did she, but only cotton underneath. But now even he began to feel some excitement as the last sail was brought in, and the Yarmouth Lass came alongside the quay, where a crowd of men, and even some women, were waiting.

There we are, Mr. Haggard,' Biddies said. 'Safe and sound.'

‘Indeed, Biddies, and I am grateful for it. Would my agent be here, do you suppose?’

'He is, sir. The tall gentleman in the tail coat. He'll be first aboard, you may lay to that.'

Haggard inspected Cummings. How odd, he thought, that I should have corresponded with this man for thirteen years, allowed him the investment of my capital, and yet now be seeing him for the first time? George Cummings was about fifty, he estimated, both tall and thin, with a large nose and a square chin. He wore dark brown, tail coat, waistcoat, breeches and even boots, and looked every inch a solid merchant. But he also wore a small wig, tied in a bow on the nape of his neck, Haggard observed as he raised his hat to the people on the poopdeck. 'John Haggard, I'll be bound.' he shouted, 'I'd have known you anywhere.'

He did not wait for the gangplank to be run out, but leapt over the bulwarks and came up the ladder, hand outstretched. Haggard squeezed the strong fingers, and felt reassured.

'It's good to be here, Mr. Cummings,"

'A safe voyage?"

'Aye. Not a hurricane in sight.'

'And this is Mistress Haggard? Faith, sir, I had no idea you had wed again."

Emma flushed.

"I have not wed again. Mr. Cummings,’ Haggard explained. 'This young lady is my housekeeper.' 'Housekeeper? Ah. And this . . .’

'My son, Roger. My daughter, Alice. My younger son, Charles.'

Cummings shook hands with Roger, patted the children on the head while he clearly endeavoured to collect his thoughts. 'And those blackamoors on the deck . . .'

'Are my domestic slaves.'

'Ah.' A frown flitted across Cummings' features, but disappeared quickly enough. 'I'll arrange transport for them. You'll want to get ashore, Mr. Haggard. I've a hotel rented for you , , .'

'Were for Derbyshire,' Haggard said. 'You did obtain that property ?'

'Oh, indeed, Mr. Haggard. Well, there was no sale in the beginning. It was necessary to buy up the mortgage and threaten to foreclose. And that cost a pretty penny. I doubt you'll see an adequate return."

'I am not concerned with a return on that outlay, Mr. Cummings. It is where I will live. And where I wish to commence living as soon as possible. Is it far?'

'Three days by coach, Mr. Haggard. And will you not like to see something of London Town?’

'Not if all of it stinks like the river.'

Cummings smiled, deprecatingly. 'Your hotel is well removed from the river, Mr. Haggard. And if you do not wish to look at London Town, be sure that London Town wishes to look at you. I will arrange transport to Derleth as soon as can be done, sir, I do promise you that. But you will need time to rest, and establish your gear ashore, and there's business to be attended to, oh, indeed, sir, you'll not be bored." He glanced at Emma, and his ready smile almost faded. 'No, indeed, sir."

‘Isn't it wonderful?' Emma cried, peering out of the window of her carriage. They had left the stench and the grime and the crowds of the docks behind, and after winding their way through narrow and unprepossessing streets had emerged into a broader thoroughfare, with a great park looming on their right, while the buildings to their left each seemed to be as large as Haggard Great House.

'Hyde Park, Miss Dearborn.' Cummings was seated opposite them, Roger beside him. 'Oh, 'tis a lovely spot. And the last of all sights for a great number. Over there is Tyburn Brook, and if you look through the trees you'll see the gallows.'

'Ugh,' Emma said, and leaned back in her seat.

Haggard gazed at the houses, at the great trees, at the ordered gardens. He was, after all, impressed, despite himself. Just as, although he would scarce admit it to himself, he had been impressed by the sheer size of the city, by the number of vessels loading or unloading in the Pool, by the hustle and bustle of the streets through which they had passed, the vast numbers of people, sufficient of them clearly poor and half starving, to be sure, but equally many of them prosperous and busy, by the endless shops and emporiums, by the eager street hawkers, from young girls selling flowers or shell fish to gnarled old men offering to perform any service from catching rats to sharpening knives. The place was alive, in a way Barbados had never been. And not a black face to be seen. He wondered what the slaves, following in another equipage, would think of it all, just as he wondered what they must be thinking at travelling in a coach.

He glanced at Emma; had she ever travelled in a coach and four before? But she was staring out of the other window, as the berlin left the road and rumbled through a pair of wrought iron gates before proceeding down a short, winding driveway, bordered with oaks, and coming to a halt before a mansion with a high portico and a display of great mullioned windows. Here there were yard boys and grooms waiting to take the horses' bridles, and footmen lined up to see to the baggage, the whole marshalled by a very dignified gentleman in a black tail coat. And everyone with a white face.

'We're to stay here?’ Emma whispered.

"Tis not very large, 1 agree,' Cummngs apologised. "But as it is only for a few days . . . will it suffice. Mr. Haggard?'

The door was swinging open and the steps were being unfolded, ‘I'm sure it will do very well," Haggard said, and stepped down.

'Good afternoon, sir,' said the dignified gentleman.

Haggard glanced at Cummings, unsure of his response.

'Hardy will be your butler, Mr. Haggard.'

'Ah,' Haggard said. 'And good afternoon to you, Hardy. But I have brought my own people.'

'For Derleth, sir. You may be sure it will take them some time to find their feet.'

Haggard supposed he was right. It would take some time for any of them to find their feet. He walked through the open door and stopped at the sight of the half dozen maids, all starched white aprons and caps, hastily bowing to their master. White girls, who in the West Indies would not lift a finger to help themselves. Marshalling them was an elderly woman in blue, every bit as dignified as Hardy.

'Mistress Broughton, Mr. Haggard,' Cummings explained. 'She will be your . . . ah, housekeeper.'

Haggard half turned, to look over his shoulder at Emma.

'The word has a different connotation, in England, sir,' Cummings whispered, somewhat urgently, for Mistress Broughton was frowning.

'My pleasure, Mistress Broughton,' Haggard said, and stared at the marble floor, the oak-panelled walls, the paintings, mainly of race horses and their riders; through the door to his right at a small withdrawing room, down the hall to another doorway, and up the curving stairway in front of him to the first floor gallery.

'I'm sure 'tis not so elegant as your own house, Mr. Haggard,' Mistress Broughton said. 'But we do our best. Ma'am.' She gave Emma a brief curtsey, at the same time glancing at Cummings in turn for information.

'Ah, yes,' Cummings said, suddenly very businesslike. 'You'll wish to inspect upstairs, Mr. Haggard, and decide upon bedrooms.'

Haggard nodded, and climbed the stairs, Mistress Broughton at his elbow, Emma and Cummings behind. 'Come along, children,' Emma said.

'My dear Mistress Haggard,' Mistress Broughton said. 'One of the girls will see to them. Margery,' she commanded, 'show the children the garden.'

'Oh,' Emma said, ‘I'm not . . .' She bit her lip.

Mistress Broughton turned her frown on Cummings, who gazed at Haggard in a helpless fashion, and waggled his eyebrows.

Clearly it was time to take charge. 'Miss Dearborn is my companion,' Haggard said.

Mistress Broughton's mouth opened, and then shut again.

'But I am sure one of the girls can see to the children, at least until Amelia arrives, Emma,' Haggard said. 'Now, Mistress Broughton, you were to show me the bedchambers.'

'Of course, Mr. Haggard.' Mistress Broughton hurried in front of him, up another flight of stairs, along another gallery, and opened a pair of double doors. This is the master suite.'

Haggard stepped into a small withdrawing room, furnished with well-upholstered chairs and settees, in a generally rose pink motif, which also applied to the walls; beyond another pair of double doors led to the bedchamber itself, where the great tester as well as the hangings were once again in rose pink.

'The previous tenant was a lady,' Mistress Broughton explained. 'Through here, sir, you will find the privy and bath chamber . . .'

'Bath chamber?'

'Of course, sir, Her Grace insists upon them in all of her houses.'

Haggard stood in the smaller doorway, gazed at the large tin tub. 'Her Grace?'

The house is part of the property of the Duchess of Devonshire, sir. Now, then, sir, if this is suitable, we shall find a room for the, ah . . . the young lady.'

The young lady will share this room,' Haggard said.

Mistress Broughton again frowned. 'Oh, well, sir, I am afraid that Her Grace . .

'Have I, or have I not, paid rent for this building, Cummings?' Haggard demanded.

'Well, of course you have, Mr. Haggard. For one month.'

Therefore for one month, Mistress Broughton, the building belongs to me, saving only I do not attempt to burn it down or damage the furnishings. I have no intention of doing either of those things. For the rest, you will be pleased to humour me.'

Mistress Broughton's mouth opened and closed again. She looked at Cummings.

'Yes, well, a nursery. That is what we need,' Cummings decided. 'A room to use as a nursery. Close by. Come along young fellow, let us find you a nice room.' He grasped Roger's hand and hurried off.

Mistress Broughton remained standing in the centre of the floor for a few moments longer, then she also turned and left. Emma licked her lips. 'Mr. Haggard . . .' 'Would you have a room of your own?'

'By no means, sir. But I'd not antagonise the servants, either. Mistress Broughton now . . . she is very angry.'

'But she is a servant, Emma. I am really not going to be put out by her anger.'

Emma bit her lip, but thought better of whatever she had been going to say. Haggard threw back the curtains at the windows, looked down at the lawn and the rose garden, where Alice and Charlie were already running up and down in delight at having been let off the ship.

' 'This is actually a very pleasant place,' he said. 'Is Derleth Hall anything like it?'

'Well . . . it is a little older,' Emma said, cautiously.

'And larger?'

'Oh, yes, Mr. Haggard, much larger.'

'I look forward to seeing it.' He drew the drapes from around the bed, sat on it. 'Soft enough. Come here.' She crossed the floor, hesitantly. 'Are you happy to be here?' She sat beside him. 'Oh, yes, Mr. Haggard.' 'Then undress and love me.' 'But Mr. Haggard, the doors are open. 'We never closed any doors at Haggard's Penn.' 'Yes. But Mr. Haggard . . .'

'Come along, sweetheart. Don't change on me. Or we'll catch the next packet back to Bridgetown.' -

Emma stood up, took off her hat and cloak, turned at a soft sound. Someone had closed the outer door.

The dining table was no more than a quarter of the size of that at Haggard's, and their places had been set, one at each end. Hardy the butler took up his position by the doorway, the footmen brought in the consomme and the saddle of lamb, the pork chops and the apple tarts, the roasted venison and the mulled red wine.

'Are we supposed to eat all of this?' Haggard demanded.

'Only what you feel like, Mr. Haggard,' Emma explained. . 'And what will happen to the rest?'

‘It will go to the servants.'

Haggard drank some wine. Hardy had been scandalised when he had ordered supper for eight o'clock. The more normal hour, Mr. Haggard,' he had explained, "is ten.'

‘I had a light dinner,' Haggard told him. 'And Hardy, I like to eat when I am hungry.'

'Of course, sir,' Hardy had agreed, suppressing a sigh. No doubt he and Mistress Broughton had spent a profitable afternoon gossiping, but in any event they had had enough on their plate finding rooms for the slaves, and indeed in gazing at the black people with mingled distaste and alarm.

'Slaves, indeed,' Mistress Broughton had commented. 'We don't hold with such things in England, that we don't.'

While the Negroes had gazed around themselves in amazement, and huddled close to the great fire blazing in the pantry.

They'll get used to it,' Haggard said. 'As no doubt will I.' He raised his glass. 'A toast, my darling. To us. I can hardly believe we are here. And I will tell you this, it is a deal stranger than I had suspected.'

He was feeling pleasantly relaxed, after a long afternoon closeted with Cummings, who had been anxious to discuss the state of consols, the average price per ton of sugar, the details of the property transaction in Derbyshire, and the fitting out of Roger for attendance at Eton—he was due there in the New Year. There was far greater feeling of control over his money here in England than there had ever been in the West Indies. Now he just wanted to enjoy his evening. Emma had never looked more lovely, as she had never been more loving—there could be absolutely no doubt now that she had not realised her term of indenture was completed.

She wore her best gown and her pearls, because he had asked her to, as he had himself put on his black tail suit with the white pique waistcoat. 'For as we are here,' he said, 'we may as well see something of the place. Hardy, what can a man do with his evenings in London Town?'

'Well, sir . . .' Hardy stood stiffly to attention. 'An unattached gentleman might go to White's or Boodles.'

'What in the name of God are those?'

They are gentlemen's clubs, Mr. Haggard. But you would have to be a member.'

'And I am not yet one,' Haggard pointed out.

‘Indeed, sir. Not yet,' Hardy said, his tone suggesting he would be very surprised if Haggard ever achieved such eminence.

'Nor am I unattached,' Haggard pointed out.

'Indeed, sir. Well, of course, the season is over, and most of the gentlemen are away shooting, to be sure, with their ladies.'

'Shooting? There are wild beasts in England?'

'Birds, Mr. Haggard. Game birds. Pheasant and ah . . . partridge. But for those confined to town, sir, by the calls of business or political matters, well, there is the theatre.'

'Oh, Mr. Haggard,' Emma said. 'I have never been to a theatre.'

'Neither have I,' Haggard said. 'And I did not travel four thousand miles to be bored.'

'Well, sir,' Hardy ventured. There is always Almack's.'

'Which is?'

'Reception rooms, sir. But . . .' 'Yes?'

'Well, sir, you would have to be introduced. By another gentleman, you understand, or a lady.'

'What nonsense. I am John Haggard. Have my carriage prepared. Miss Dearborn and I will have a look at this place. Shall we not, Emma?’

That would be splendid, Mr. Haggard. I have heard of Almack's. It is the place to be seen.'

'And that can be no bad thing. Well, Hardy?'

Hardy raised his eyes in despair, if I may advise, Mr. Haggard . . .'

'Hardy, one of my rules is, never to take advice, and certainly not from my butler. Prepare the carriage.'

'Yes, sir, Mr. Haggard.' Hardy snapped his fingers, and a footman sprang forward, ‘I had merely supposed Miss Dearborn might be tired,' he said, changing his tactics.

'Miss Dearborn has spent the past two months cooped up on board a small vessel, like myself, and is as anxious as I am for some exercise.'

Hardy looked scandalised. 'Of course, sir,' he said, and withdrew.

‘I can't dance,' Emma said. 'I don't know how.' 'I'll teach you,' Haggard said. 'And we'll let the nobs have a look at us.'

'Your card, sir?' requested the major-domo. He wore a green jacket decorated with gold braid and made a very splendid figure. Behind him were a dozen footmen, similarly dressed, with white wigs and highly polished leather shoes, knee breeches and white stockings. The lobby in which they stood was floored in marble on which their heels clicked disconcertingly, while the ceiling rose a good thirty feet above their heads; it served also as a ceiling for the first floor, which loomed above them behind marble balustrades, and was reached by a ceremonial staircase.

‘I have no card,' Haggard said, refusing to allow himself to be overawed. 'You may announce me. John Haggard, of Barbados, and Miss Emma Dearborn.'

'No card, sir?' The major-domo's face froze. 'Have you attended Almack's before, sir?'

'Of course I have not,' Haggard said. 'I only landed in this confounded country this afternoon. Nor am I used to being kept waiting in antechambers. You'll step aside.'

He moved towards the great staircase, but the major-domo stepped in front of him. ‘I am afraid, sir, that it is impossible to admit you.'

'Eh?'

'I have my instructions, sir, from the Duchess of Devonshire.'

The Duchess of Devonshire? Why, you dolt, I am a tenant of hers. If you will be good enough to inform her that I am here . . .'

'Her Grace is not attending this evening, sir. No doubt, when you return, you will bring an invitation from her, and then I may admit you. I should also point out, sir, that you are improperly dressed. Gentlemen are not admitted unless they are wearing wigs.'

'By God,' Haggard shouted. 'You impudent rogue. I've a mind to slit your nose for you, sir. By God, sir . . .'

'Mr. Haggard, I beg of you,' Emma whispered, clutching his arm. 'Let us begone.'

'Begone?' Haggard demanded. 'Begone. Why, I'll . . .'He stared at the young man just descending the stairs toward them.

'My cloak, Martin,' said the man. 'Is my gig waiting?'

'Of course, Mr. Addison.' Martin gave a shallow bow, and accepted a folded piece of paper.

Mr. Addison gave Haggard and Emma a brief glance, went to the door.

'Mr. Haggard,' Emma begged, still dragging on his arm.

'You, sir,' Haggard said, pointing with his stick.

Addison half turned, looked at the stick, rather than the man. 'Are you addressing me. sir?'

There is no one else present,' Haggard pointed out. 'I have just been refused admittance to this rout.'

'Indeed, sir? Now there is a surprise.'

The sarcasm was lost on Haggard's anger. 'And I am about to pull this fellow's ears for him. Can you give me a reason why I should not?'

'Because he would very likely break your head for you, sir,' Addison suggested.

'By God,' Haggard said. 'Does all London seek to provoke me?"

Addison allowed himself a smile, and this time he inspected Emma, to his obvious satisfaction, indeed, sir, I am sure the city does not. Especially as I can perceive, both from your complexion and your speech, that you are a stranger to our fair land. You'll take a glass sir, with your charming companion."

'A glass? Upstairs?'

'Ah, no. I'm afraid that will not be possible. At my rooms, perhaps.' He held out his hand. 'Henry Addison, at your service.' 'John Haggard. And this is . . .'

'Haggard?' Addison's brows drew together in a frown, and then as hastily cleared, while his smile broadened. 'Of Barbados.'

That is so, sir. I have not had the pleasure, I am sure.'

The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Haggard.' Addison seized Haggard's hand between both of his. 'We had heard, sir, oh indeed, Cummings spread it about, that you were returning to take your place in the forefront of affairs. Derleth, is it?'

‘I have purchased the manor, yes,' Haggard said. 'But I am not sure I understand ..."

'Forgive me,' Addison said. 'Madam?'

'Miss Dearborn.'

'Dear Miss Dearborn.' He seized Emma's hand in tum and kissed it. 'You will sup with me. I insist. We have much to discuss. Much.'

'Sup?' Haggard inquired. 'But we have already . . .'

Emma pinched his arm. 'We should very much like to sup with you, Mr. Addison.'

'You'll excuse old Martin, of course.' Henry Addison leaned back and lit a cheroot, smiling at Emma. The fact is, he is completely under the thumb of dear Georgiana.'

'Georgiana?' Haggard inquired.

The Duchess of Devonshire, don't you know?'

'My landlady.'

'Indeed? We shall have to obtain you an invitation to one of her soirees, as soon as she returns to town, and then all doors will be open to you.'

'Yet you say everyone knew of my coming.'

'Well, perhaps not everyone. But to anyone with a political bent it was important. Why, John Haggard, of Haggard's Penn, we'll have had no more illustrious West Indian, if you'll pardon the expression, in recent times. The fact is, Haggard, 'tis the colour of your politics that interests me. You'll know Derleth carries a seat?'

'That is why I chose it.'

'Aha. We had supposed as much. And you'll know further that Billy Pitt plans to go to the country before the end of the year?'

'You will have to instruct me in English politics.'

'Aye, well, it is necessary to increase our majority. There are great things afoot. Oh, aye, great things.' Addison leaned forward. 'So how now. Haggard? Do you vote Whig or Tory?'

'I doubt I understand the difference,' Haggard confessed. 'But I will tell you this, Addison, I am a slave owner. I do not hold with ill treatment of the unhappy devils. But I understand that my prosperity is based upon them. Now you tell me straight, with all this talk in the air, with the names of Wilberforce and Clarkson echoing from one end of the West Indies to the next, how stands the Tory party?'

That is simple. To us a man's property is inviolable, and slavery, however undesirable in the principle, is, as you say, an essential part of the economy of the wealthiest part of the British Empire, sir, to wit your own sunlit islands. Nor can we believe that such prosperity can be other than impaired by outlawing the trade.'

'Well said, sir,' Haggard agreed. Then I am your man.'

Then, sir, as time is pressing, as I have said, the sooner you are to Derbyshire and in possession of your seat the better. For depend upon it, there will have to be an election, and by Christmas. We wish you to be returned for Derleth, sir. None other.'

'Here is my hand and my promise,' Haggard said.

'And I will see to the matter of some proper introductions for yourself and Miss Dearborn. Oh, dear me, the poor young lady appears to be asleep."

‘It has been an exhausting day,' Haggard agreed. 'And for me also. I must away to my bed.'

'Perhaps you'll permit me to escort Miss Dearborn to her lodging?'

Haggard gave a short laugh. 'Away with you. She lodges with me.'

Addison frowned at him. 'Here? In London?' 'Until we can move ourselves to Derby.'

'But . . .' His frown deepened. 'Dearborn. Dearborn. There is a family of that name in Devon.'

'She has no family, Addison. She was, and I will tell you this in confidence, indentured labour. But the mother of my younger children. I am a lucky man.'

Addison slowly subsided back into his chair, produced a silk handkerchief, and wiped his brow, indentured labour? And you sought to introduce her to Almack's?'

Haggard's turn to frown. Tis but a dance hall, is it not?'

'A dance hall. Ye gods. It is the very centre of London society. What Georgiana would say . . .' He leaned forward again, lowered his voice. 'You have no intention of marrying the young woman?'

'None at all.'

Thank God for that. But you are deeply enamoured of her.'

‘I'm damned if I see where you have the right to ask me such impertinent questions.'

'Believe me. Haggard, I'd not give offence. But 'tis important. London is not Barbados. No, indeed. I perceive in you a man of talent, sir. I already know you to be a man of wealth. And I can also discern in you a man of character, a man of determination, a man of decision. Why, sir, to such a paragon the world itself is almost too small a field for conquest. I would wager all London will lie at your feet, sir. But not if you insult the sensibilities of the ladies who rule us.'

'By God, sir, I've a mind to take offence, at that,' Haggard said. 'Will you pretend to me that no man in London keeps a mistress?'

Then they would hardly be men,' Addison pointed out. 'But they are discreet, sir. Discreet. And should they desire to make a display of it, they choose their mistresses from their own society. Now, sir, hear me out. We of the Tory Party need you, and we will honour you, and promote you, should you only make it possible for us to do so. Love your delightful indenture, by all means. But do so at Derleth. I beg of you. And leave her there when you come to town.' He threw himself back in his chair and mopped his brow.

'Do you know,' Haggard confessed. 'I had thought to have left such backbiting behind me? I had supposed London society as free as air.'

'I wish it were, Haggard. I wish it were.'

'Aye, well, no doubt you have given me good advice. And to say the truth, I have not been greatly impressed by what I have seen of this city of yours. It was Cummings' idea that I should spend some time here. I will leave for Derleth in the morning.'

'And when you come back, you will be one of us.'

'Oh, indeed,' Haggard said. 'When I come back I will know more of this land, you may be sure of that.'

There.' Emma said, rolling down the window of the berlin to point. If she had guessed the reason for their abrupt departure from town she had not revealed it, had bubbled with enthusiastic gaiety all the three days they had spent on the road, despite the fact that the previous morning she had begun sneezing and was now suffering from a streaming cold.

'A pretty picture, Mr. Haggard,' Cummings said. And if he had certainly guessed the reason behind Haggard's decision to abandon the city, he had been wise enough to keep it to himself.

Haggard decided he could not be referring to the gallows, fortunately vacant, which loomed beside his window. The berlin had halted on a shallow hill, and below him the valley was delineated. The road led down and through a small village, rather reminiscent of the bookkeepers’ village on Haggard's, save that there was more than one street, and the houses were not quite so orderly and by no means similar in size or shape; vines grew up the walls, smoke drifted from the chimneys, and at the far end waited an inn, fronting on to the village green beyond which there was a sizeable pond, the home, it appeared, of a flock of ducks.

Behind the village, to either side, there was open pasture, grazed by sheep, and at a distance of perhaps a half a mile, reached by a winding lane between the gravestones, was the grey stone church; close by were the vicarage and then the village school.

'Old, that is,' Cummings said, indicating the church. 'Twelfth century. There are some houses in the village date back that far too.'

'And the manor,' Emma said. 'Do you like the look of it, Mr. Haggard?'

The somewhat rambling building was in the far distance, and the afternoon was well advanced. 'I shall reserve judgement until we get closer. I was told there are coal mines.'

'In those hills beyond the manor house, Mr. Haggard,' Cummings said. 'Oh, a goodly return is to be obtained from them.'

'But no farms?'

'Seven farms, sir. Also beyond the hills, but all paying rent to the manor, to be sure.'

'Then what do the people of the village work at?'

'Why, sir, they are mainly miners. But there's a deal of home work, as well. They spin cotton in those cottages. Or they did before the American colonies revolted. But the cotton trade is picking up again, sir. You've a prosperous community down there, Mr. Haggard. No backslidings on the rent roll. I'll promise you that.'

There's no water.'

'Indeed there is, sir. The Derleth River comes down from the hills over there, and runs hard by the Manor House. Good fishing, too. You'll not see it from here. But it traverses your park.'

Then let's to it,' Haggard said, and rubbed Roger's head.

The cavalcade, for there were two other carriages behind, containing the slaves and the baggage, rumbled down the hill and along the main street. Doors and windows opened, people looked out to oversee the arrival of their new squire. Many waved, and Emma waved enthusiastically back.

'Do you recognise any of them?' Haggard asked.

'One or two. But they'll not know me.' She was wearing her new deep crimson pelisse, lined with ermine, and a matching velvet hat.

Haggard watched the Manor House approaching. It formed one arm of a U-shaped series of buildings, outhouses, stables. It was three storeys high, with somewhat small windows and a sloping roof. Unpainted, the stone was weathered a deep green where it could be seen beneath the ever-present ivy.

Waiting in the courtyard were a score of people. But he had anticipated this, after his London experience. And at least here, he reflected as he climbed down, there was no Hardy and no Mistress Broughton. The butler was a very old fellow, who found it hard to stand straight.

'Welcome to you, Mr. Haggard, sir,' he said. 'Pretty is the name.'

'Good evening to you. Pretty.'

'John MacGuinness, at your service, Mr. Haggard.' This was a big, bluff fellow with a red face.'

'Mr. MacGuinness is your bailiff, Mr. Haggard,' Cummings explained. 'Anything you desire, just mention it to him.'

'Oh, aye, Mr. Haggard, anything you desire.'

Haggard nodded, walked down the row of gamekeepers and grooms and yardboys and footmen and women. Once again all the housemaids were young girls, all white, and one at least definitely pretty. And if they were not slaves, they were most definitely his servants, and as they lived in his village, his tenants as well. He was aware of a most peculiar sensation, which he could not identify.

And was distracted by a shout behind him. 'Tom Pretty. Well, glory be. I'd have thought you dead by now.'

Haggard turned, watched Emma embracing the butler, who was blinking at her uncertainly. 'Miss ... not Emmy Dearborn?'

'The same. Tom. The same.'

'But . . .'He scratched his head and displaced his wig. 'We heard . . .'He glanced at Haggard. 'What did you hear. Pretty?'

That . . . well, sir, that she'd been sent overseas.' 'Which is where I have come from, Pretty. Shall we go inside, Emma?'

She flushed. 'Of course, Mr. Haggard,' hurried in front of him into the somewhat low hallway.

Haggard sniffed as he climbed the stairs. 'Damp.'

'Aye, well, 'tis an old building,' MacGuinness explained. 'But we've a fire in here.' He opened the door to the winter parlour, which was certainly cosy enough.

Haggard nodded. 'You've made arrangements for my people?'

‘Indeed, sir, their rooms are all prepared. Will you come upstairs?'

He climbed the next flight, and Haggard waited for Emma to precede him. ‘I'm sorry, Mr. Haggard,' she whispered. Truly I am. It was just that, well, I knew him as a girl.'

There'll be many people here you knew as a girl,' Haggard pointed out. 'But you'll bear in mind that you have risen above them.'

'Of course, Mr. Haggard.' She paused on the landing, blew her nose. 'This house is just as I remember it.'

MacGuinness had opened the door of the main bedroom. Here too a fire blazed in the grate, but nothing could expel the lingering smell of damp.

This house, Mr. MacGuinness, is a recipe for rheumatism,' Haggard said.

Tis a damp neighbourhood, sir, what with the river and the canal. But no one ever died of rheumatism.' His attempted smile died as he saw Haggard was not amused.

There's a housekeeper?'

'Oh, indeed, sir. Margaret. Come along, girl.'

She had followed them up the stairs, and Haggard saw to his surprise that she was the pretty one. Indeed, now he could look closer, he could see that she was somewhat older than the other girls, although clearly still in her early twenties. She was tall and solidly built, with a mass of curly dark hair, at present carefully pinned beneath her cap, but yet attempting to escape in every direction. Her features were regular, and dominated by her large brown eyes. Now she gave a brief curtsey.

'Margaret, is it?' Haggard said. 'You'll have fires on, day and night in the bedrooms.'

'Of course, sir.'

'Show me,' Emma decided.

'Yes . . . mum,' Margaret agreed. The two women left the room, but did not close the door behind them. Haggard heard Margaret's voice . . . 'Are you really Emmy Dearborn? Well, what a . . .' They were beyond earshot."

'Well, sir,' MacGuinness said. 'I hope you are satisfied?'

'Hum,' Haggard said. 'You'll stay to dine.'

Thank you, sir.'

'And tomorrow you can show me the coal mines.'

Haggard stood on the raised platform and gazed at the entrance to the mini-shaft. It was a dull day with a smattering of drizzle in the air; his tricorne was pulled low over his forehead and his cloak was gathered tightly around his shoulders. But the entire scene would have been gloomy even had the sun been shining, he thought. The greenness of the hills behind, and they were far more green than in Barbados, was quite offset by the huge mound of slag on the far side of the pit itself, by the discolouration of the grass, and even of the water; the canal which ran straight as a rule into the distance was muddy brown in colour.

And even these evidences of the contamination caused by the coal were pleasant to look upon compared with the yawning black pit in front of him.

'Men work down there?'

'Oh, indeed, Mr. Haggard,' said the manager. 'Well, we employ all sorts. Men to do the hard work, you understand. But we have the kiddies doing the drawing.'

'Kiddies?'

'Well, they're small see, and able to get through the passages easier than grown men, who have to crawl. And we don't have to pay them no more than a quarter of a man's wage. They'll be up, now.'

A bell sounded, and the office staff were issuing from the building to his left, pulling on cloaks and hats.

'Friday, you see Mr. Haggard,' MacGuinness explained. 'We only work half day on Friday.'

Haggard watched the entrance to the shaft. The men came up first. It was hard to decide they weren't Negroes, stripped to the waist, with coal dust clinging to their sweating skins. But they were not Negroes; each splash of rain revealed a trace of pink flesh beneath. And they were not slaves, although their backs were in many cases permanently bent, and they blinked at the daylight as if half blind. But then, what was he to make of the children who straggled behind, and to his horror he saw that these were girls as well as boys; indeed, there were more girls than boys. And these were naked, plastered, like the men, in coal dust, long golden hair stuck to their shoulders and streaked with black. Most of the children were clearly very young, but several were well past puberty, and apparently cared little for that; if they immediately sought threadbare cloaks to wrap around themselves it was because of the rain, not the watching men. In Barbados every field slave had worn at least a pair of drawers.

'Now wait a moment and listen to me,' MacGuinness shouted.

Heads turned, disinterestedly.

This here is the new owner, Mr. John Haggard, of Barbados.' They touched their hats or their foreheads. 'I don't have to speak with them, do I?' Haggard asked, suddenly nervous for the first time in years.

'No, sir, you do not. But it does them good to see the owner, once in a while.' MacGuinness raised his voice again. That will be all good people. Mr. Haggard is very pleased with you.'

They touched their foreheads again and shambled off. Some of the children broke into a run, and began to laugh and play, bare feet splashing through the icy puddles. Haggard shivered.

They seem jolly enough.'

'Oh, indeed, Mr. Haggard, especially on a Friday afternoon.'

'But ..." He chose his words with care. 'Do they not suffer? I was thinking of the girls . . . and the boys, of course. Naked, down there.'

'Well, sir. coal dust is not the healthiest of beverages, to be sure. We've a high incidence of lung complaints here in Derleth.' He dropped his voice and gave a portentous wink. 'There's a saying you can have any girl in the village by offering her a domestic post at the manor instead of sending her down the mine.' He sighed, as once again his attempt at humour seemed to have missed its target. 'You'd like to go down the shaft, sir?"

'Down there? Good heavens, no.' Haggard walked to the edge of the canal, studied the empty barges; the horses had been removed from the traces for the weekend. 'Where do these go?'

This branch canal joins the main one three miles off. Mr. Haggard. Then it's on to the north west. Liverpool and Manchester.'

'And there is truly a demand for coal on this scale?'

'Oh, indeed, Mr. Haggard. Especially with winter coming on. Living in cities, sir, you'll understand, there is not sufficient wood to keep the fires burning. People must have coal, sir.'

Haggard nodded, returned to his horse, mounted, walked it up the slope to the cut through the hills. Here he paused, watched the miners and the children ahead of him, trooping along the road past the manor house and towards the village. He had no desire to overtake them.

'Anywhere else you'd like to visit, Mr. Haggard? The village?' is it customary?'

'Only on special occasions, sir, like the church fete. But you'd always be welcome at the inn, sir. You'd be buying.' 'Yes,' Haggard said. 'Maybe Sunday.' 'Now there is a happy thought, sir. After service.' 'Service?'

'Morning service, sir.'

'Hum,' Haggard said, and walked his horse down the slope. Water gathered on the brim of his tricorne and dripped past his nose. In Barbados it either rained, angrily and violently, for several hours, and then stopped altogether, or the sun shone from a cloudless sky. He had never known anything like this perpetual drip; it had begun the previous evening, and it had not once ceased. 'Who are the electors of this borough?'

'Ah, well, sir, there's Parson Litteridge, and there's Hatchard the publican, and there's the farmers, and Coleman the merchant and Plaidy the blacksmith, and Johnson the schoolmaster, and well, sir, there's me. Fourteen in all.'

'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 mouth. 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.

'A charming young woman.' Litteridge remarked.

'I find her so, Mr. Litteridge. Sit down, man, sit down. You'll take a glass of wine?'

'Wine, Mr. Haggard? At so early an hour?'

Haggard listened to the clock striking six. It was already dark outside. 'Late enough for me, Mr. Litteridge.' He pulled the bell rope. 'It is good of you to call.’

Litteridge sat down, as carefully as he did every other thing, it is a privilege as well as a pleasure, Mr. Haggard. From Barbados, I have heard.'

'Correctly. Ah, Pretty. Where the devil is Middlesex?'

‘I do not know where he is, Mr. Haggard. He is not in the pantry.'

'Well, find him for me. And bring in some of that mulled wine of yours.' Haggard lit a cheroot.

'And is the young lady also from Barbados?' Litteridge inquired.

'Oh, come now, Litteridge. No dissembling. She is from here and you know it. You will also have been told she was transported for stealing.'

'Well, sir . . .' Litteridge sneezed into his kerchief to hide his embarrassment, remained hidden while Pretty placed the jug of mulled wine on the table next to his master; he at the least was learning fast.

'You were saying, Litteridge? Have a drink, man, have a drink.'

Thank you.' The parson regarded the glowing red liquid with some suspicion. There has been talk, of course.'

‘I have no doubt of it. Well, you may as well know the facts. I bought the girl on indenture. She's a pretty child, you'll agree. And I am well suited by her. She's the mother of my younger children.'

Litteridge drank some wine and seemed to feel better. 'You've no plans for marriage?'

To Emma? I have no plans for marriage to anyone, Litteridge. I had a wife, and she died. I'll not repeat the experience.'

'Oh, dear,' said Mr. Litteridge. 'Oh, dear, dear me.'

'But I want it clearly understood that Miss Dearborn is no serving girl, and no criminal either, in my eyes.'

'Oh, dear,' said Mr. Litteridge.

'Once that fact is accepted, well, then, I should think I will get on famously with everyone in Derleth. And I think we had best start being social, don't you? I'd like you and Mrs. Litteridge . . . there is a Mistress Litteridge?'

'Oh, indeed,' the parson agreed, wiping his brow with his handkerchief.

'Well, I'd like you to come to supper on Monday night. I shall have MacGuinness as well, and we can all have a chat about the future of Derleth.'

'Oh, dear,' Litteridge said. 'Oh, dear, dear me. I'm afraid that won't be possible, Mr. Haggard.'

'Why not? Ah, you have some church function. Then Tuesday will do."

'Not Tuesday, Mr. Haggard. The fact is . . .'

'You won't sit down to supper with Miss Dearborn.'

'Why, sir, I personally . . . well, sir, the fact is, Mrs. Litteridge is a Cobham. Oh. distant cousin to be sure, but none the less . . .'

'The decision is yours, of course,' Haggard said, keeping his temper under control with an effort; this man was one of his electors. 'I assume you have no objection to my bringing Miss Dearborn to church with me?'

'Of course not, Mr. Haggard. It will be our great pleasure.'

'Good. Well, then . . .' Haggard rose, and the parson followed, ‘I am sure you have a great deal to do. I would like to have a closer look at your church, after Sunday's service, if I may.'

'Why, Mr. Haggard, it would be a privilege to show you the church.'

Haggard walked him to the door. 'I understand it is several hundred years old.'

'Oh, indeed, sir, indeed. It was built by the Normans.'

'And must require a great deal of upkeep, I should think.'

'Ah, well, sir, old buildings, they do cost money to maintain. But your predecessor here was very generous. Oh, indeed, very generous.'

'As shall I be. Would five hundred pounds be of any use to you, Mr. Litteridge?'

'Five hundred pounds? Why, Mr. Haggard, I don't know what to say. Five hundred pounds? Why, it is a princely sum.'

'I'd not have your church, our church, Mr. Litteridge, falling down,' Haggard said. 'My agent will give you a cheque on Monday morning.' They had reached the stairs leading down to the lower hall, and a footman was waiting for them. 'Where is Middlesex?'

‘I do not know, Mr. Haggard.'

'Well, you go and find him, as soon as you have shown Mr. Litteridge out. And tell him I wish a word with him.' 'Yes, sir, Mr. Haggard.'

‘I will say goodbye, Mr. Haggard,' Litteridge said. 'And again, many thanks.'

Haggard nodded, watched him go down the stairs, turned and saw Emma at the top of the second flight. Slowly she came down. Her face was still frozen.

'Well, Mr. Haggard?'

'They'll not come to supper. It seems that Mistress Litteridge would not approve. She is a Cobham. What is a Cobham?'

Emma led him into the withdrawing room. 'Worcestershire gentry. Are you angry?'

‘I am amused, by their little prejudices. Although I had thought to leave those things behind in Barbados.'

Emma stood before the fire. 'Perhaps we should have stayed there.'

'Now sweetheart, it is your idea that we came home. Your triumph.' He sat down, poured two glasses of mulled wine, leaned back and crossed his legs. 'No doubt I shall get used to England, and English weather.'

'And English ways?'

'They will have to get used to me.'

Emma remained standing, nor did she take her glass. 'I disagree, Mr. Haggard. It is you must get used to them. To having white servants instead of black, for example. Have you come to a decision on Margaret Lacey?'

'Ah . . . no. I do not want to burden you with housekeeping duties, Emma. I wish you to get well as soon as possible. I really think we should have a doctor in to see to you. And Annie Kent, well, it will take time for her to understand the supervision of a house like this.'

'While you can sleep with that girl to your heart's content.' Emma produced a large handkerchief and blew her nose, loudly and vehemently.

'My dear Emma, surely who I sleep with is no concern of yours? Providing I also sleep with you, regularly. And this I shall do the moment you get rid of that cold. But I'll confess I'm mortally afraid of catching it from you, with the climate so dismal.'

She sat down. Her knees seemed to give way and she collapsed into a chair. 'You'd not treat me so if I were your wife.'

'I'd certainly sleep with more serving girls if you were my wife.'

She sniffed. 'But they'd not be able to sneer at me, and suggest they'd be taking my place, next.'

'Now, who would do something like that?' 'Margaret.' 'Oh, come now.' 'It's true.'

‘I’ll speak with her.'

'And fuck her while doing it. I won't have it, Mr. Haggard.' Her chin came up; there were tears in her eyes, but her mouth was set in a determined line. 'I won't have it.'

'Oh, really, Emma. No crisis tonight, I beg of you. I have had a wearying day, with everyone doing their damnest to irritate me. Middlesex, now, was not even in the hall to show Mr. Litteridge out.'

'He wasn't there when the parson arrived, either,' Emma remarked.

'Wasn't he, by God? I shall have to have a word with him. Now, Emma, sweetheart, why don't you go and have a rest, and then change your clothes. MacGuinness is certainly coming to supper.'

Emma stood up. 'But I shall not, Mr. Haggard.'

He raised his head. 'Oh, really Emma, whatever is the matter?'

‘I shall not sit down at your table while that girl remains in the house. If we are to be treated as equals, then we are both servants. I will take my meals downstairs.'

'In the name of God,' Haggard shouted, the anger which had been simmering in his belly since the visit to the coal mine suddenly bursting forth. 'Do what the devil you like. Get out. Get out of my sight.' He glared at the door. 'What do you want?'

Henry Suffolk stood there, shifting nervously from foot to foot. 'Well, Mr. Haggard, sir, it is a fact that James can't be found nowhere.'

Haggard frowned at him. 'What the devil are you talking about?'

'Well, sir, Mr. Haggard, he gone. And he take his things with him. And that boy John Essex say he see he riding a horse down the road this time in the morning.'

'Gone? To the village?'

'Well, that I ain't knowing, Mr. Haggard, sir. But he take all he belonging with he.'

What he was being told only slowly penetrated Haggard's understanding. Emma gave a little gasp as he slowly rose to his feet.

'You are saying that Middlesex has absconded?'

'Well, sir, Mr. Haggard . . .'

This morning?'

'Well, sir, Mr. John . . .'

'And nobody told me up to now?'‘

'Well, sir, Mr. John

‘I’ll have you whipped. By God, I'll flog the lot of you myself. Now you get out of here, and saddle me a horse. Emma, my coat and boots. Henry. Tell John Essex to prime my pistols.'

'Yes, sir, Mr. John.' Suffolk ran from the room. 'What are you going to do?' Emma asked. 'Do?' Haggard said. 'I'm going to bring him back. By God, I'm going to bring him back, tied to my horse's tail.'