Haggard (51 page)

There are other children?'

'Oh, aye, sir, well, there's young Master John. He's at university, he is. Strange boy. Very serious. And then there's Miss Alice . . .'

'Yes?' Roger had to suppress the eagerness in his voice.

'A lovely girl, sir. Lovely. But serious. Oh, aye, they're a serious family. You'll take another pint, sir?'

Roger shook his head. 'We'll be on our way.'

'You'll not find another inn for twenty miles, sir, and 'tis hard on dinner time.'

'Weil manage,' Roger said. 'Come on, private.'

'Right away, Mr. Haggard, sir,' Corcoran said, finishing his pint and bustling for the door, while Hatchard stared after the pair of them.

'Seems like your father has his people well in hand, Captain, sir,' Corcoran observed as they rode up the empty street. 'Like a good officer should.'

'Save that my father was never in the Army,' Roger observed.

'Oh, aye, sir, but a man what would be a good soldier will always be a good soldier, regardless of whether he actually bears a musket. Wouldn't you agree, sir?'

'It's a point of view.' They were out the other side of the houses, now, passing the school, also closed, and the church. Here at the least there were signs of life; Roger saluted the verger sweeping down the path between the gravestones, and received a long stare in reply. Then he was approaching the stand of poplars, through which the sunlight glinted on the white stone of the tomb. He knew whose it was, from Father's letters. He wondered if he should dismount and pay his respects. To her? He rode on.

The new Hall had weathered, the stone turned green and brown by the trees and the wind. He drew rein to gaze at it, and attempt to remember, and found it difficult. Rufus should be sunning himself outside the front door,
but there was only an undergar
dener, turning over a bed. Yet the house was active; most of the windows stood open, and he could hear voices. He turned his horse in at the gate, rode down the short drive, watched the grooms coming from the stable, headed by a man he did not recognise.

'You're expected, Captain?'

Roger dismounted. 'In a manner of speaking. You are?'

The head groom frowned at him. 'Ned's my name, sir.'

Roger nodded. 'Private Corcoran will help you unstrap our gear.' He walked towards the door. — 'You'll pardon me, Captain.' Ned hurried at his heels. 'But the squire likes his guests to be announced.'

'I'll announce myself,' Roger said. Ned hesitated, chewing his lip, and looking relieved as Nugent came down the inner staircase.

'Sir?'

‘I
s the squire at home?'

‘I
ndeed, sir. But I do not think he is expecting a visitor.' indeed he is,' Roger said, and climbed the stairs.

'He cannot be interrupted, sir,' Nugent protest
ed. 'Sir, I must ask you . .'

Roger had reached the first landing, and was opening the door to the office.

'Sir,
1
must protest,' Nugent said in a strangled voice. But Roger was gazing past MacGuinness at his father, slowly rising from his chair.

'What? What
...
my God.'

'Father?' He had not supposed any man could look so old or so tired. Certainly not John Haggard. And he was not yet sixty.

'My God,' John Haggard repeated, and slowly sat down again. MacGuinness hastily got to his feet.

'You'll remember me, .MacGuinness.' Roger held out his left hand, and after a moment MacGuinness took it.

'My head still hurts. Master Roger.'

'I'll apologise for that blow, to be sure.' Roger went round the desk. 'Father?'

John Haggard stood up again, held out his arms. 'My God, boy, but it is good to see you. Good . . .'He held his son close, blinked at MacGuinness, who backed to the door. 'But . . .'He stepped back, stared at the arm.

'A sword thrust.'

'Crippled. My God.'

'Hardly crippled. Father. But temporarily unable to defend myself. Else I would not be here.' 'At Badajoz?' Roger nodded.

'You must tell me of it. Was it as savage as the papers say?' it was savage. Father. Even British soldiers can be savage. But after, the Duke gave me leave of absence. Until my arm is healed.' Haggard frowned. Then you must go back?' 'Tis my profession.'

'But I need you here. My God . . .'He seized Roger's hand. 'I have waited for this moment, boy. You'll not desert me again.'

Roger squeezed the fingers clutching his. 'In a month or two you may tire of me.'

Tire of you, boy? Tire of you . . .' John Haggard slapped his son on the shoulder. Tire of you. Christ, there is so much to say, so much to do . . . your room.' He went to the door. 'Mary Prince,' he bawled. 'Mary Prince. You'll see to Master Roger's room. Quickly now, girl.'

‘I
've a manservant with me,' Roger said. 'He has fought at my side these three years.'

'And will always be welcome at Derleth. You heard Master Roger, Mary Prince.'

'Indeed, sir.' Mary gave a little curtsey. 'Are you really Master Roger?'

'Why so I am,' Roger smiled,
‘I
do not remember you.'

Mary flushed. 'I came to Hall just before your worship left it, sir. But it is so good to have you back.'

'It is good to be back, Mary, I promise you.'

'Ah, begone with you,' Haggard growled. 'She'll stand there all the day when she has work to do. See to it, Mary Prince. See to it. You've seen Alice?'

'Why, no, sir.
1
came straight to you.' How his heart was again pounding at the thought of her.

'She'll know you're here by now,' Haggard said. 'News travels through this house like fire through a canefield. Alice.' He went to the stairs, looked up.

Roger stood at his side, gazed up at the woman. Alice was thirty-one years old, he recalled, only five years younger than himself. But life had passed her by. In the wavy red hair, the slender body, the quiet house gown, she might have been ten years the younger; she reminded him of his last memory of Emma.

'Alice,' he said, and climbed the stairs.

She made no reply at all, but as he reached her he saw the tears rolling down the cheeks. Then she was in his arms, hugged close, and crying unashamedly.

'You'll want to be careful of her,' Haggard remarked. 'She'll be enlisting your help.'

Roger released her, held her away from him to smile at her. 'And I shall give it, freely,' he said. 'You have but to name the cause.'

Haggard gave a shout of laughter. 'Against me.' 'Father?' Roger frowned, looked from one to the other, it is Father's joke,' Alice Haggard said quietly. 'He is a great one for humour.'

'No joke,' Haggard said. 'God, I wish it were. She opposes me in everything. But mainly it is the factory.' He drew rein, and pointed.

They sat their horses in the cut through the hills, with the mine close to their right, and to their left the great rectangular bulk of the mill. It reminded Roger of an immense tomb, something created by the Pharaohs. Save that this was alive. The clanking of the huge wheel, the rushing of the water, filled the morning.

'I'm not sure I understand the situation,' he said. 'You say it provides work for two hundred people.'

That it does,' Haggard agreed. 'We bring in labour from several of the surrounding villages.'

'And Alice objects to this?
’

'Ah, well, you see, in the old days, these people spun cotton by themselves. In their houses, you understand. A precarious living it was, and the profits were low. But it made them independent. As if that were a good thing. There's those born
to be independent, and those born
to be dependent. You agree with that?'

‘I
had never considered it,' Roger said. But he
had
considered it, he supposed. There could be no clearer example of that philosophy tha
n the Army. There were those born
to be officers, and there were those bom to be private soldiers. He supposed his own career p
roved the point. He had been born
to be an officer, had thrown away his birthright, and still had risen to the very top of the non-commissioned tree, without a favour from a soul. While Corcoran was a private and would remain one for all his life.

'But you're thinking of it now,' Haggard said, and urged his horse forward.

'Indeed I was. I imagine you're right. Haven't you explained things to Alice?'

'Explained things? You cannot explain things to Alice. To any woman, by my way of thinking. Women feel, they do not reason. But Alice is more unreasonable than most. Tis a personal matter. You'd not know Emma Dearborn is still alive.'

'Emma?' Now why did his heart start pounding all over again?

'She was a witch all right. Still is a witch. She has a witch's power of survival. But she's alive, and lives just beyond the borders of Derleth.' He gestured at the hills. 'Just over there. Alice visits her regularly.'

'And you permit this?'

'How would I stop her, without using force? I permit more than that, by God. How do you suppose Emma has lived, these past years? There's no money in witchcraft. Only satisfaction. She spun cotton with the rest of them. A regular spider's web of a community we had here. And she'd not come to the factory looking for work. But she'd not move on, either. She's still there, waiting for me to die, I'd wager. Alice supports her.'

'Alice?'

'She has an allowance of two hundred a month, and nothing to spend it on. She must have accumulated a tidy sum. And she gave it all to Emma. Truly, boy, I am glad to have you back.'

'Well . . . Emma
is
her mother.' Roger said cautiously.

'So she is.' Haggard dismounted before the huge door. 'You'll come inside.'

Roger felt strangely embarrassed. He also dismounted, gazed up at the wall and the roof, was again reminded of something prehistoric, or more likely, he supposed, something out of the future, some monolithic society where only a few people were ever allowed to see the light of day.

But the doors were being opened, and Haggard was being welcomed. A bell was ringing, and the gigantic hum was slowly dying, to be followed by an equally gigantic scraping. Roger realised that the looms had come to a halt and everyone was getting to their feet. Because the squire had decided to visit them.

He stood just inside the doorway, stared at the machines, arranged in orderly rows, at the men and women who stood there, gazing at their employer, at the better dressed men, obviously foremen, who were gathered round his father, explaining and pointing
...
it reminded him of the West Indies, save that the labourers there had been black, and that they had been slaves —and that it had been in the open air with a cooling breeze playing over them.

'My son,' Haggard was saying. 'Captain Roger Haggard. Lately back from Spain.'

Their names swirled about Roger's head as he shook hands. 'You'll explain all this to me, I have no doubt,' he said.

'Aye,
’ ‘
well, 'tis simple enough, Captain Haggard. Tis the water supplies the power, you'll understand. That keeps the jennies and the mules moving at speed, and the cloth is turned out far quicker than ever before. Oh, 'tis a simple operation.'

'I shall study it,' Roger said, and glanced at his father, who was wiping sweat from his forehead. Now he nodded, and they stepped back outside. The noise became almost pleasant.

'By God, 'tis hot in there,' Haggard said.

'I wonder those poor people survive.'

'People can survive anything they get used to.'

'But would it not be possible to install fans? They could be worked by block and pulley, or even by the water power.'

'Fans? You'll be sounding like Alice, next. Those people are there to work, not to enjoy themselves. I pay them enough, by God.' He mounted, walked his horse away from the noise, drew rein again, gazed at the barges being loaded with coal. 'You'll inherit this. Roger.'

‘I
doubt I have the right, sir. What of Johnnie?'

'Johnnie?' An expression Roger could never remember having seen before crossed his father's face. 'You're the eldest. You were always my heir. He gets his allowance, and that should be sufficient. But this wealth, the factory here and in Barbados, these mines, these will be yours to handle, soon enough.'