Haggard (20 page)

'You'll excuse me, Mr. Litteridge,' Haggard said. 'But you'll not refuse a man the right to speak for himself?'

Litteridge blinked at him. Even in the darkness he seemed to turn pale.

'Do you give others that right, Mr. Haggard?' he demanded.

'I've never stopped a man airing his opinions yet,' Haggard said, and mounted the steps to the platform. 'Well, now,' he said, raising his voice. 'Do I have the right to speak?'

'Nah,' someone shouted. 'Tis the parson's platform.'

'Be gone wi' you,' bawled someone else, apparently addressing the last speaker. ' Tis squire's right.'

'Aye,' said someone else. 'Let the squire speak.'

Haggard grinned at them, the widening of his mouth hiding the surging anger in his belly. 'My right,' he said. My right, he thought, to have to wait on the whim of a bunch of stinking coal miners. 'Well then, listen to me,' he said, speaking loudly and clearly, but not shouting. ' Tis true I am a slave owner. And there is the sole reason these men have elected to oppose my taking a seat in the Commons. A slave owner. They have filled your heads with notions about my brutality, about the iniquity of the trade, about the degradation of being a slave. You know my people at the Hall. Are they starving? Are they naked? Answer me that, my friends. Those are slaves. My slaves. Haggard slaves.'

'One ran away from you,' a voice said.

'Aye, so he did,' Haggard said. 'As the prodigal son ran away.' There was a roar of approval.

Haggard raised his hands. 'You want to be represented in Parliament. You want the best for this great country of ours just as you want the best for this village. Now let me ask you this. Who is better qualified to achieve that best, a schoolmaster, or your very own squire? Now Parson Litteridge has just accused me of every vice he can think of. But I accuse him of the greatest vice of all. The vice of being uncharitable. For what is another of the charges he has brought against me? That I keep, as my mistress, a girl from this very village, convicted of theft. Let me tell you about Emma Dearborn, my friends. She was transported, as the vicar says, sold into bondage for ten years. Had I not purchased her, someone else would have done so, and used her hardly, I can promise you that. But in addition, falsely accused of a crime on board the vessel in which she was imprisoned, she would have been sentenced to hang. I could not permit that, my friends. I bought her. And having done that, I fell in love with her. She is a beautiful girl. So I love her. Have none of you fellows ever fallen in love with a beautiful girl?'

There was a bellow of laughter and a chorus of ayes.

'But you ain't married her,' shouted someone from the back.

'No, I have not married her,' Haggard said. 'I have no intention of ever marrying again. I am a widower, and will remain so. And I'd expect every man to respect that decision.'

Another chorus of ayes. But the voice at the back, a vaguely familiar voice, was not to be silenced.

'Fine words, Mr. Haggard. You ain't marrying again because you can't keep your hands off nothing in skirts. That's why he wants us to send him to Westminster, lads. So he can fuck every wench in London.'

Haggard peered into the darkness, could only make out a blur of faces. 'You'll come forward, sir,' he said. 'And repeat those words.'

'Who'll make me?' demanded the voice.

'Why, I will,' Haggard said, and stepped down from the platform. His heart pounded and he could feel the blood surging through his veins, but he was quite cool. He had not fought anyone for too long. Perhaps there was all of his trouble, the sole cause of his uncertainty. And this would be as vital a conflict as that in which he had opposed Malcolm Bolton. This crowd was not altogether against him, but they were not altogether for him, either. Now they parted willingly enough to let him through, while there was a brief scuffle at the rear, and someone shouted, 'Stand up to him, Jemmy, if you're so loud with your voice. He can't hang you for speaking.'

Haggard reached the back of the throng. Jemmy Lacey. He might have known it. He wondered if Margaret was also here. 'Well, Lacey,' he said. 'What do you have to say to me?'

The young man licked his lips, but he was realising that he was surrounded by
his
friends, not the squire's, and that he was at least as big a man.
‘I
said you was a lying lecher, Mr. Haggard. I'll not go back on that.'

'Then back yourself with your fists,' Haggard said, and hit him on the face, not hard, but just sufficient to sting.

Lacey gazed at him in astonishment for some seconds, then gave a grunt, lowered his head, and ran forward. Haggard clasped both hands together to use as a club on the nape of the young man's neck as he came up, but although Lacey gave another grunt he was not stopped. His arms went round Haggard's waist as his head crunched into Haggard's stomach with breathtaking force. The impact carried Haggard back, and he tripped and sat down, Lacey landing on top of him.

'Go it, Jemmy boy,' someone shouted.

'Lay into him,' shouted another.

Haggard struck down again, aware that he had only a few seconds of breath left, as Lacey continued to burrow into his stomach. Again and again he hit the young man, and at last there was a slight slackening of the grip. He rolled to his left, and Lacey went with him. this time underneath. Haggard managed to get a knee up, and the young man grunted and released him. They reached their knees together, Lacey once again grasping at him. but Haggard evaded the clutching hands and gained his feet. Certainly he could not afford again to find himself in that bearhug. He watched Lacey rising, and moved forward, balancing himself, leading a left hand which crunched on Lacey's chin and left a
stain of blood, from his own torn
fingers, Haggard realised. But now was no time to worry about that. While Lacey was off balance he threw his right fist with all his weight behind it. The blow caught the other side of Lacey's chin with a jar which travelled right up Haggard's arm into his shoulder, left his right hand for a moment numb with pain. But Lacey was staggering. Haggard moved forward, hit the young man three times in the stomach, sinking the blows with all his force into the heavy coat. Then he switched back to the face, hurling three more blows, splitting Lacey's cheek and landing another in his eye. The young man gasped, and fell to his knees.

Equally breathless. Haggard waited, each fist a mass of seething pain, heart throbbing, and head too, listening to the silence around him, 'Up, Jemmy,' he said. 'Up.'

Lacey remained on his knees, spitting blood. Haggard turned away, walked towards the trees; MacGuinness waited with his horse.

There cheers for the squire,' someone called. 'Who'll give three cheers for the squire? Hip hip . . .' There was a surprisingly loud response.

'Fighting,' Emma said. 'Brawling, and with a man as far beneath you as the mud beneath your feet. Your clothes are ruined, and your hands . . .' She was extending them as she spoke, over a bowl of warm water held by Annie Kent, while Elizabeth Lancashire and Amelia hovered, armed with cotton wool and lint. 'Are they very painful?'

They ache,' Haggard said, removing one from her grasp to take a drink of mulled wine. 'What do you reckon, MacGuinness?'

'You did well, Mr. Haggard. Well. There's not a man in the village won't respect you now.'

'You have to fight people to gain their respect?' Emma demanded, opening the remains of Haggard's shirt. 'My God.'

There was a great red bruise on his belly where Lacey's head had ground into his ribs.

These are Englishmen, Miss Dearbon,' MacGuinness explained. 'Fisticuffs is their natural way of expression, and
they love to see a nob, if you'll
pardon the expression, Mr. Haggard, who can handle himself. Oh, aye, I reckon you did yourself a power of good tonight, Mr. Haggard. And the schoolmaster a power of harm. Well, I'll be away home.'

'Fisticuffs,' Emma growled, and glanced at Roger, standing beside the maids, staring at his father with rapt attention. 'A fine example for the boy.'

'Did you really beat him to a pulp, Father?'

‘I
beat him, boy,' Haggard said, 'and there's an end to it. You'd have done as much.'

‘
I should hope not,' Emma said, carefully washing the last of the blood from the cuts on Haggard's hands.

'He will,' Haggard said. 'You'll remember you're Roger Haggard, boy, when you get to Eton. You'll never lie, and you'll never turn your back on any man.'

'No, sir,' Roger promised.

'And when you know you're right, boy, you'll fight, no matter however many are against you.' 'Yes, sir.'

'Men,' Emma grumbled. But she nestled against him that night in bed. 'Did you really fight him because he insulted me?'

'He insulted me,' Haggard pointed out. 'But I fought him because the vicar insulted you. I couldn't very well fight Litteridge.'

'Will he leave here?'

Haggard smiled. 'Not before the election, I'll wager. After that, well, we'll have to see. I've more important things on my mind. MacGuinness tells me this Nash fellow arrives tomorrow.'

'What I have in mind,' Haggard explained, 'is a tower. A crenellated tower, high—I want to see over the trees—with a building attached.'

The three men, MacGuinness and Haggard and the architect, stood on a knoll about a mile away from the manor, and on the far side from the village. The hills which separated them from the coal mine were close behind them, and the trees clustered thickly to either side. It was, to Haggard's mind, the prettiest spot in the valley, and the most secluded; before them stretched his own deer park. Now he watched the architect, pulling at his chin. John

Nash was a short, spare man, only a few years older than Haggard himself, with thoughtful brown eyes and a disarming smile.

Which he now put to use. 'You're expecting to stand a siege, Mr. Haggard?'

'I want it to look as if it might
once
have stood a siege.' Haggard said. And smiled himself. 'I'm a romantic, Mr. Nash.'

'I can see that,' Nash agreed, and led them forward over the sloping ground, it would be cheaper over there.'

The cost does not concern me.'

Nash nodded. There is good news for an architect. You'll want your own accommodation in the tower?' That's right.' 'Water closets?' 'What are they?'

'Privies, Mr. Haggard. But much more hygienic, as they can be plumbed in to give you a constant flow of water, as you require.'

'Of course,' Haggard said. 'And a bathroom attached to every bedroom.'

Nash frowned at him. 'Now there will be a real expense, Mr. Haggard. And why?' 'Just do it, Mr. Nash.' 'Of course, sir.
’

'And a staircase,' Haggard added.

Nash nodded,
‘I
will let you have a complete plan in due course, Mr. Haggard. I will delineate all the staircases.'
‘I
mean a grand staircase,' Haggard said. Nash frowned. 'How grand?' 'You've been to Almack's?'

indeed I have, sir. A facsimile of the main staircase.' 'Not a facsimile, Mr. Nash. I wish an exact replica, in every way.'

Nash sighed. 'May I point out, sir, that it will take up a great deal of room? I presume you are thinking of the entrance to the main withdrawing room.'

"Which will be in the tower.'

'Quite impossible. You'd not have a tower, Mr. Haggard. You'd have a citadel.'

Haggard pulled his nose, then snapped his fingers. 'I have it. The grand staircase will lead from the entry hall into the main withdrawing room, which will be partly situated in the lower building, to be sure. But that room will extend into the tower. In other words, the tower will grow out of the main building.'

Nash scratched his head. 'Which will make it entirely useless for defence.'

Haggard smiled at him. 'Who am I going to defend it against, Mr. Nash? My own people here in Derleth? No, no. The exterior of the tower must appear as if it might once have been used for defence. But inside I wish it to be the most comfortable place you can imagine. And the master bedroom, which is to be on the top floor immediately beneath the roof, must be the most comfortable of the lot. Now, other things. I want a private pistol range in the basement. And I want a flower garden. Roses. Masses and masses of roses.'

Nash regarded his notebook as if frightened of it. 'With water closets in every room.'

'Of course. And a bathroom.'

Nash nodded. 'I will prepare plans. But I am bound to say, Mr. Haggard, that this project will cost not a penny less than a hundred thousand.' He peered at Haggard.