The Black Moon

  Of course most of Cornish dancing society was strong in leg and heart; but it did add an extra hazard to the success of such an occasion. The time for country balls was midsummer; winter was the time of the town. Elizabeth had preferred the town, if only because it would enable her to invite a number of her old friends whom she’d seen more of this winter than ever since her first marriage but who lacked transport or the money to hire it or for one reason or another would not get out to Cardew however fine the night. But she had not insisted. On all matters except those on which she felt very strongly she let George have his way. And so it was fixed for Cardew, a band had been engaged, and a number of notables had been invited who had not been present before. In this George was making capital out of Elizabeth’s name and hoping they would come. The Bassets and the St Aubyns – like the Boscawens – though meeting him occasionally in the way of business or at the house of a common friend, had so far avoided accepting his personal hospitality . . .

  The composition of the company, as to age, had to be discussed. George’s main interest was in older people, for social reasons and to show off his house; but it was necessary to leaven this with a sprinkling of the unmarried and the post-adolescent, not only to bear their larger share of the dancing but to give the party a zest that it might otherwise lack. George was against having many of the really young. Never having been young himself, in the sense of being frivolous, scatter-brained, enthusiastic or jolly, he had little patience with such excesses in others, and he felt it a mistake to lower the tone of the evening by encouraging it at Cardew. The young, anyway, unless they were titled or came as the children of older people, lent little distinction in proportion to their noise. Besides, although the older Warleggans and the older Chynoweths would be there to greet people of their own age, no one at Cardew would represent the early twenties or the under-twenties.

  ‘Well,’ said Elizabeth. ‘We are not yet quite old ourselves. Are we? Are we, George?’

  ‘Not old, certainly, but—’

  ‘And Morwenna will be there. Can she not easily look after the girls?’

  There was a thoughtful pause, while they listened to the apprentices who were making a noise putting up the shutters of the saddler’s shop opposite. Elizabeth was still not sure whether George really approved of Morwenna. He was unfailingly polite to her, but Elizabeth, skilled as she was becoming in reading his far from communicative face, thought him extra guarded in Morwenna’s presence. It was as if he thought, here is another of them, another of the Chynoweths, highly bred in spite of her modest looks, listening with sharp ears and downcast eyes for some error of taste that I may make, showing up my vulgar origins. One is enough; one is my wife. Must there be two?

  ‘I have been thinking of Morwenna,’ George said, stretching his strong legs in his fashionable but uncomfortable chair.

  When it was clear that he intended to add nothing more, Elizabeth said: ‘And what have you been thinking of her? Does she not please you?’

  ‘Do you think the experiment has succeeded?’ When he met Elizabeth’s eyes he said: ‘I mean, do you think she has been successful as a governess for Geoffrey Charles?’

  ‘Yes. I think so. Indeed. Do you not?’

  ‘I think she is a woman and would be suitable to teach a girl. A boy needs a man.’

  ‘Well . . . that may be true. In the long run that may be true. But I think he is very happy with her. Indeed sometimes I feel jealous, for I believe he has been happier this last summer than I have ever in my life seen him. He made little demur at being left behind.’

  ‘And his studies?’

  ‘Summer is not the best time for learning. We shall know better when he comes next week. But on the whole I would have thought there was good progress. Perhaps that is saying little, since before he depended on me for what he could learn!’

  ‘No mother could have done more. Few would have done as much. But I think if he is to go away to school he will need a man’s care. In any case, Morwenna’s stay with us was agreed only for a year, wasn’t it?’

  Elizabeth said: ‘I feel sure she would be very upset to be sent home in March.’

  ‘Of course there is no hurry. At least not that sort of hurry. And I was not thinking necessarily that she would need be sent home.’

  ‘Do you mean she would stay with us as an additional companion to me – and you would engage someone else for Geoffrey Charles?’

  ‘That might be so. But my mind was running more on the thought that she is now of marriageable age. She is well-bred, well-mannered, and not at all uncomely. Some useful marriage might be found.’

  Elizabeth’s mind went quickly over this; what he said came as a complete surprise to her; she had had no idea he had ever considered such a thing, or could be bothered to consider such a thing. She looked at him with slight suspicion, but he was idly tapping at his snuffbox.

  ‘I have no doubt she will marry in due course, George. She’s – as you say she is not uncomely, and she has a gentle and sweet nature. But I think you have forgot the big stumbling stone – she has no money.’

  ‘No I had not forgot that. But there are some who would be glad of a young wife. Older men, I mean. Widowers and the like. Or some young men would be glad enough to ally themselves with us if only by marriage.’

  ‘Well . . . no doubt it will happen in due course, and without our assistance.’

  ‘In certain circumstances,’ said George, putting his snuffbox away without having taken any, ‘our assistance could be had. I would be prepared to give her a small marriage dowry – that is if she were to marry someone of our choice.’

  Elizabeth smiled. ‘You surprise me, my dear! I had not thought of you as an arranger of marriages, especially on behalf of my little cousin! In twenty years, perhaps, we shall be considering other and more important marriage prospects – for Valentine; but until—’

  ‘Ah, well, that is a long road ahead. And your cousin is not little, by the way. She is tall and, properly dressed, would draw a few eyes. I see no reason why if a suitable marriage were arranged it would not turn out to everyone’s benefit.’

  The general direction of George’s thinking, instead of being mysterious, was now perfectly plain to Elizabeth.

  ‘Had you a suitable marriage in view?’

  ‘No. Oh, no, I had not got as far as that.’

  ‘But you have thoughts.’

  ‘Well, the choice is not extensive, is it? It is limited, as I said, to an older man seeking a fresh young wife or a younger man of good birth but little fortune.’

  ‘So surely some names will have come to your mind. Should we not make a list?’

  ‘No, we should not. You find this amusing?’

  ‘I do a little. I think Morwenna would be flattered to know you spare her so much attention. And now you cannot leave me in this suspense.’

  He looked at her, not liking to be laughed at. ‘One idly turns thoughts over. No more. One I had considered was John Trevaunance.’

  Elizabeth stared at him. The laughter had quite gone from her eyes. ‘Sir John! But . . . what gave you such an idea? A confirmed bachelor. And he is old. He must be sixty!’

  ‘Fifty-eight. I asked him in September.’

  ‘Do you mean you have discussed this with him?’

  ‘Indeed not,’ said George restively. ‘Of course not. But did you notice the day he came to dinner he appeared to pay special attention to Geoffrey Charles after, while the others were at tea? It occurred to me that it was not likely to be Geoffrey Charles of whom he was taking this sudden notice.’

  ‘Now you mention it . . . But why should it not be Geoffrey Charles?’

  ‘Because they have several times met before without any such interest. This was the first time the boy had a governess.’

  Elizabeth got up and went to the window to give herself time to think. She drew back the lace curtain and looked out at a farmer’s gig lurching over the cobbles below.

  ‘I do not believe Morwenna would tolera
te such an idea.’

  ‘She would if it were put to her as her duty. And to be Lady Trevaunance would be a big enticement. Mind you I know nothing certain of his thoughts; but if at this ball he were to show her some preference I think it would not be unseemly to make him a proposal. He cannot relish leaving his possessions to his spendthrift brother. She could bear him a son. Also, he is a kindly man but acquisitive of money, and his affairs have not been going too well since the failure of the copper smelting scheme. For such a marriage I would be prepared to be exceptionally generous . . . And, of course, the thought of an eighteen-year-old girl can be a considerable attraction to an old man.’

  Elizabeth shivered. ‘And your other thoughts?’

  ‘I did think once of Sir Hugh Bodrugan, who is a year younger than Sir John, but I am not so greatly taken with an alliance between his family and ours, and as he is such a lecher I did not think you would like him for your cousin.’

  ‘I certainly would not!’

  ‘Then there is his nephew, Robert Bodrugan, who presumably one day will inherit whatever is left of that estate. But at present he is penniless, and one does not know how the money is left. Constance Bodrugan is still a young woman.’

  Elizabeth let the curtain fall. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I think I tire you.’

  ‘On the contrary.’

  ‘Well, who knows what is bred of idle speculation? . . . There is Frederick Treneglos. He is twenty-three and had more than a little time for your cousin at that same party. It’s a good family – nearly as old as yours – but he is a younger son, and the Navy is a dubious paymaster. A few make rich prizes but the most remain poor.’

  ‘I think I would like him better than any of the others so far. He is young – and boisterous – and has enthusiasm.’

  ‘I also noticed at that party,’ said George, ‘that he had more than a little time for you.’

  ‘Well . . . he has manners. Which cannot be said of all the young. Yes, I like him. Are there others on your list?’

  ‘You still find this a jest?’

  ‘Far from it. But I must have some concern for Morwenna’s happiness. That must be of account too.’

  ‘Morwenna’s happiness must be our chief concern. The only other two I have considered are both widowers. One is Ephraim Hick . . .’

  ‘You mean William Hick.’

  ‘No, Ephraim, the father. William is married.’

  ‘But Ephraim is a drunkard! He is never sober after midday any day of his life!’

  ‘But he is rich. And I do not like William Hick. It would be agreeable to see his father spawn another family and deprive William of his expectations. And Ephraim will not live long. As a rich widow Morwenna would be a far more valuable prize than she is today.’

  Elizabeth looked at him. As usual when thinking he sat quite still, his shoulders a little hunched, the big hands clasped together. She wondered why she was not more afraid of him.

  ‘And the last choice?’

  ‘Oh there may be others. You may well think of others. The last I had in mind was Osborne Whitworth. He is young, a cleric, which might please your cousin—’

  ‘He is married, with two young children!’

  ‘His wife died in childbirth last week. You will notice I have added him to our list of guests. By the end of this month he should be sufficiently out of mourning to accompany his mother. I believe he is just thirty, and as you know recently installed at St Margaret’s, Truro. With two young children to manage and considerably in debt, he must seek another marriage soon. One which provided him with a dean’s daughter and at the same time cancelled his debts would I think attract him not a little.’

  ‘But what,’ said Elizabeth curiously, ‘attracts you?’

  George got up and stood a moment, idly turning the money in his fob. ‘The Whitworths were nothing, Sir Augustus a highly ineffectual judge. But Lady Whitworth was a Godolphin.’

  So that was it. An alliance with a family now in decline but itself allied with half a dozen of the great families of England, and in particular the Marlboroughs.

  ‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth presently. ‘Yes.’ She came back from the window and patted George’s shoulder lightly as she passed. ‘It is all a very interesting speculation, my dear, and I am still surprised that your thoughts should have gone so far. For my part I still think of Morwenna as a child hardly old enough for ideas of matrimony. I still think it premature. I am sure she is very happy with us and would like to continue with us for a while. Let us make haste slowly, shall we?’

  ‘There is no haste,’ said George. ‘But I do not think the question should be shelved.’

  Chapter Two

  The great frost came down on Christmas Eve. Before that the month had been mild but very wet. Ceaseless rain had flattened alike the sea and the fields and the smoke from the mine chimneys; rivulets had formed in fields and the Mellingey had been in swollen spate, the roads and tracks were quagmires. George had sent his coach to fetch the two elderly Chynoweths, and five times there and five times on the way back the coach was bogged down in mud and had to be dragged out. In order to lighten the load the day being temporarily dry, Morwenna and Geoffrey Charles followed on horseback.

  Ross and Demelza had intended holding a christening party for Clowance over the Christmas period; but it had failed on a matter of numbers. Verity and Andrew Blamey had been asked, but young Andrew was teething, Verity wrote, and, dearly as she would have loved to see them, she felt she could not risk such a journey. Caroline promised to come and spend a few days, but somehow there was no one else intimate enough to ask. Both of them shied away, and always would again, from the celebrations and the double christening they had given Julia. It had been an ill-omen for her.

  On the 23rd the rain stopped, and Caroline arrived in bright afternoon sunshine. But it was a curious sunshine, with something aged and sinister about it, as if it belonged to a world which was slipping away, was leaving them behind. As the day waned the light lost its last warmth and the sun became a disc of brass, contaminating the sea with its base metal light and flinging shadows of cobalt grey among the cliffs and the sandhills. The ceaseless wind had dropped: boughs and twig and every blade of grass were still.

  ‘I believe we are in for a change,’ Caroline said as she dismounted. She kissed Demelza, and then turned her cheek expectantly for Ross to kiss. ‘It is time. We have been hock deep in mud at Killewarren ever since the funeral.’

  ‘It is a change,’ said Ross, having liked the taste of her skin. ‘But I think it will be a cold change.’

  ‘But you are slim, Demelza! I thought one stayed plump for months after bearing a child!’

  ‘I was a podge. It has not all gone, I believe.’

  ‘Enough has gone,’ Ross said. ‘It does not suit – you – to be thin.’ He had been going to say, it does not suit a woman, but stopped in time.

  As they went in the manservant who had come with Caroline untied the valise strapped to his horse and Gimlett took her cloak and fur and crop. Soon she was inside and sipping tea while Ross stabbed at the fire to make it blaze and Demelza tied a bib under Jeremy’s chin and Ena Daniell brought in the hot scones.

  ‘When am I to be allowed to see my new goddaughter? It is not seemly to have me here without her knowing of it. Has she been warned?’

  ‘Soon,’ said Demelza. ‘Soon. You will see her when she wakes. Which usually is regular at seven. How well you look, Caroline!’

  ‘Thank you. I’m better. Thanks to this man . . . Not that I do not wake up in the nights and wonder about my erring fiancé, wonder what he sleeps on and if he has any comforts in his internment and if he ever thinks of me and if and when he will be released . . . But I am – no longer alone in the world – you know? you know how it is? – even now that my uncle has gone I am yet no longer alone.’

  ‘We know how it is,’ Demelza said.

  ‘Since Uncle Ray died I have hardly had a minute; I have been striving to get some order in his e
state; but as soon as Christmas is over I shall go to London and see the Admiralty and ask what chances there are of a ransom. If the French no longer exchange prisoners they will surely take notice of money.’

  They supped late, Demelza played a little, cool airs stole in the parlour and they all went early to bed. The next morning was fine and equally still but now cold. There had been no frost in the night, but each hour that passed saw a slow ebbing of the temperature. By midday the grass was crunching underfoot, and Drake and the other two men working on the library were blowing their hands with smoky breath. At three o’clock Ross sent them home. Then he walked up to the mine. Night cloud was drifting up from the north. All was quiet in the engine house except for the regular clank of the pump rods, the clicking of the valve gear, the hiss of steam. It was warm inside after the cold of the evening; two lanterns reflected light off the great brass cylinder, the shining piston rod. Ross had a few words with the younger Curnow before he left. A sudden glare lit the darkening scene as the firedoor of the boiler was opened for two men to shovel in coal – everything glowed, brittle and orange and etched sharp; then it shut again and the cold dark of the afternoon had crept closer in the interval.

  In the house an enormous fire had been built to ward off the draughts. It was the customary night for the choir of Sawle Church to come carol singing. Demelza remembered when they had come on the Christmas before Julia’s death; she had been alone and Ross had returned later to tell her of the failure of the copper smelting venture. Tonight she had mince tarts and ginger wine all ready in the kitchen but they did not come. About nine, which was their usual time, she looked out to see if she could see anything of them, and what she saw made her call Ross and Caroline to the window. The ground outside was being covered, very quietly but very efficiently, with enormous feathers of snow.