The Black Moon

  Mr Whitworth spoke to her. He found her – not by chance left alone – in the garden in the late afternoon. She had been a walk with her mother almost as far as the cliffs, when they had carefully avoided the subject and talked about church happenings in the deanery of Bodmin; then when they returned her mother had had to go indoors to rest from the exertion, and Elizabeth, who had come to meet them, was mysteriously called away. So Mr Whitworth, seeing her alone, bore down on her and they walked round the garden together.

  As has been said, Ossie’s dealings with women in the main had been either on the superficial, drawing-room level or on that of passing over a couple of silver coins for an hour in an upstairs room. His courtship with his first wife had been brief and simple, for before their marriage she had adored him, a condition which he had thought very natural in a woman and one which had made formal words unnecessary. This slightly hostile young creature had been approached once and had met him with a half-rejection. It was off-putting, to have to say it all again, especially without the absolute certainty of success.

  Nor was a garden quite the situation he would have chosen, but time pressed and his sense of amour propre would not let him shirk the opportunity.

  He broke off from a remark about the failure of the summer crops and stiffly said:

  ‘Miss Chynoweth – Morwenna . . . You will know of the further discussions which have taken place between your cousin Mr Warleggan and myself regarding our marriage, regarding this proposal of marriage which I have made, regarding this offer I have made for your hand. You may feel that in all this I have addressed myself too much to your guardian and too little to yourself. But when we last spoke I acquainted you with my feelings, and you gave me to understand that you required time to consider my offer, time to prepare yourself for so important a step. In the meantime, therefore, it seemed proper to me not to press my suit personally but to attempt to discover from your guardian from time to time what your sentiments were and how far they had progressed.’

  He stopped and put a hand up to his stock, adjusted it, returned his hand to its customary place with the other behind his back. He flattered himself that so far he had not stammered or hesitated.

  ‘Yes,’ said Morwenna.

  ‘Last night I spoke again to Mr Warleggan, and before dinner today I had some converse with your charming mother. They both told me what I wished to hear.’

  ‘Did they?’

  ‘They did. But . . . in order that my happiness should be complete, I need to receive the same information from your own lips.’

  Morwenna looked down at a bed of Canterbury bells, nodding their heads gently in the breeze. Then she stared across the lawn to the old grey stone of the house. A little to the left of them was the ornamental pond where Drake had had his fun with the frogs. Beyond that and further to the left, just over the fold of the hill, was the coppice where Drake and she had first met. That window up on the first floor of the house was the one from which she had sometimes watched for his coming, and from which she had seen him leave for the last time, walking slowly down the drive, his figure dwindling until it disappeared beyond the gates. So had gone her love and her life.

  ‘Mr Whitworth,’ she said. ‘I—’

  ‘Osborne.’

  ‘Osborne, I do not know what I can say . . .’

  ‘You know what I want you to say.’

  ‘Yes, yes, but . . . You see, forgive me; if you wish me to tell you that I love you, then I cannot do this. If – if that is what you need, what you mean you need to make your happiness complete, then – then I cannot supply it. I am deeply conscious of my failure.’

  Osborne stared at her and swallowed and then stared away.

  ‘I am told,’ Morwenna said, ‘that I . . .’ She stopped.

  ‘Pray go on. Pray speak plainly.’

  ‘What may happen if we should marry I do not know. I am told such feelings grow . . .’

  ‘You have been told aright.’

  ‘But, Mr Whitworth, I would not – could not be honest with you if I pretended to – to feelings, emotions which I do not have. You tell me that you wish to marry me. If knowing what I have now told you, you still wish this, then I will marry you. Even though—’

  ‘That is what I wished to hear! It is all I wished to hear!’

  ‘All—’

  ‘All for the present. Much will be added in marriage. Feelings that you are not yet aware of. You are too young to understand. You must believe me. I will guide you.’ He took her hand, which was cold. Her hands were always cold. He hated that. ‘I have no doubts at all. You shall be the mother to my daughters and in due course will have children of your own. The vicarage is ready. During the summer the necessary repairs have been completed, for the previous vicar allowed it to become run down. The chimney has been rebuilt and the dry rot taken out. It is a house you may enter into at once.’

  ‘It is not that,’ Morwenna murmured. ‘The house, I am sure—’

  ‘I wish to be back on Sunday, for I have made no arrangements for a locum to read the prayers. Being new in the district and having a number of distinguished parishioners who customarily attend, I would not wish to cancel the ordinary and prescribed Sunday service. We can be married on Friday and return the same day—’

  Morwenna choked. ‘Friday? This Friday? But it is impossible! How can that be? It is impossible, I tell you . . .’ She stopped, realizing that if she were to go through with this and if she were to make any attempt to begin a new life such as had been dictated for her, she must keep the antagonism out of her voice. ‘I’m sorry – but it is impossible isn’t it? Arrangements could not be made in the time!’

  ‘Venturing,’ said Ossie, ‘to build on the information I had received, and on my belief that time and rejection would override your hesitations, I did make some arrangements. Last week I obtained a licence from the bishop in Exeter, and we can be married in your own church before we return to Truro.’

  Morwenna felt as if the last vestiges of hope were being stripped from her, as if every door of retreat, however temporary, was being slammed as she approached it.

  ‘Mr Whitworth, please—’

  ‘Osborne—’

  ‘Osborne . . . I have no clothes, no bridal things! There is nothing ready! You must give me time, give me more time. . . .’

  His face tautened. He was far more sure of himself now. ‘My love, you have had six months to think of this. That is surely time enough. As for clothes . . . who is going to care? Your mother has no money for a bridal outfit,’ he added with some contempt ‘ – she has already told me so – but you have a white frock; Mrs Warleggan will have a veil – it will not be difficult to improvise. Then when we are married there will be provision made for your day and evening clothes. As my wife you will be properly and suitably dressed. A wedding should be a religious ceremony, not an occasion for vulgar display.’

  ‘But Friday is but three days! Could it not be arranged for September? I have promised to stay here for old Miss Poldark’s birthday. That is in two weeks’ time. A little longer—’

  Ossie would not release her hand. An urgency was creeping through him, as if the contact brought him a new contagion. ‘No . . . It must be now. Morwenna, look at me.’

  She glanced up, eyes smeared, looked away again. ‘It must be now,’ he said, and for the first time stumbled over his words. ‘It must be this week. I need you. My – my children need you. Besides, when would there be another time when both your mother and mine were under the same roof? What better church to celebrate it in than the family church of the Warleggans who have so befriended you?’

  So at about the time that Drake Carne was nursing his damaged arm in the wood above Quimper and trying not to ask for more water which he knew his friends must risk discovery to fetch, Morwenna Chynoweth was preparing to abandon her maiden name in the Gothic church of St Sawle. Elizabeth had done more than lend her a veil of old lace: she had produced her first wedding frock, twelve years old and never worn since;
too short for Morwenna and too tight; but in three days of intensive sewing Elizabeth and Mrs Amelia Chynoweth had worked wonders so that on the day it fitted well enough, and no one unable to see beneath the surface could have guessed at the contrivances that had gone on.

  There were only a dozen people in the church, and after it a quiet wedding breakfast at Trenwith; just the family; and Ossie and Morwenna in the centre of it all: Ossie looking at his most extreme in a new coat of ribbed orange velvet with double lapels – the inner ones green striped – and the palest lavender stock, all brought with him specially for the occasion; while Morwenna sat like a shy madonna, the whiteness of her clothes making her skin look dark but silky; smiling when expected to smile but with absent eyes, a shell from which the spirit had tried to fly but found itself chained.

  And George watched it all with a composed, quietly satisfied manner. Defeat to him did not mean what it meant for most people: to him it was only an occasion for regrouping his pieces and shifting his ground. He had accepted and given way to Ross’s threats after careful deliberation, having weighed the risks of defiance and calculated the advantages of a civilized, tactical withdrawal. He had not allowed hot blood to sway him. He had observed that by withdrawing the charge he could move back to his original position and bring the marriage with Osborne Whitworth into being after all. It had been a considerable gain for a small loss of face. On the whole he was content with the exchange.

  After the breakfast a hurried farewell – with Agatha protesting like a wounded bat in the background and the rest of the family coming to the door to see them off in the coach that George had lent them. Thereafter three hours of lurching and bumping, during which Osborne never seemed for a second to cease to be touching her: her arm, her knee, her shoulder, her hand or her face; until at last they were descending the steep rutted hill into Truro. Then jogging over the cobbles, through the town to St Margaret’s church on the other side, through gates and up a short muddy drive and they were entering the house; two servants bobbing curtsies and two tiny girls in the charge of a nursemaid, staring, staring, fingers in mouths, and up into a bedroom smelling of old wood and fresh paint. And after that one hour to herself and then supper, just the two of them waited on by a manservant, and some good food which she toyed with and some canary wine of which she drank enough to subdue the fit of shivering that had threatened to overtake her.

  And all the time Osborne talking in a loud voice – a voice just like his mother’s. All day he had been jolly, but it was as if his jollity were put on to hide his true feelings not to express them. Several times he rose from the table during supper to kiss her hand and once he kissed her neck, but a shrinking movement, however nearly controlled, prevented him from doing that again. But all the time his eyes were heavy on her. She looked for love in them but saw only lust, and a small measure of resentment. It was as if she had only just failed to escape him and he still bore a grudge against her for having tried.

  So supper ended, and in a panic she complained of sickness after the ride and asked if tonight she might go early to bed. But the time of waiting, the time of delay was over; he had already waited too long. So he followed her up the stairs and into the bedroom smelling of old wood and new paint and there, after a few perfunctory caresses, he began carefully to undress her, discovering and removing each garment with the greatest of interest. Once she resisted and once he hit her, but after that she made no protest. So eventually he laid her naked on the bed, where she curled up like a frightened snail.

  Then he knelt at the side of the bed and said a short prayer before he got up and began to tickle her bare feet before he raped her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The fifth of August, which was a Wednesday, was an exceptional day in that cold and fitful summer. The sun rose in a sky barred with cloud like a Venetian blind, the wind dropped and the land drowsed under its first real heat.

  With five days to go to her party Agatha was awake early and would have risen, tempted by the soft airs coming through her window and the drowsy twittering of birds; but, conscious always of the need to conserve her strength, she felt she would keep to her normal routine of the morning in bed, a light dinner at two, and then a forage downstairs of two or three hours around tea time.

  The loss of Morwenna, gone now nearly two weeks had been a great disappointment to the old lady, for before she left she had become a tower of strength. Now it was back to dependence on Lucy Pipe and the fitful visits of Elizabeth. But somehow almost all was ready. Mrs Trelask had made the frock, of black Flemish lace with two white satin flowers at the bosom and a cape of black satin falling just to the waist. It was not at all to Agatha’s liking, but the other women all thought it uncommon smart and quite the thing; and at least it was new and uncreased and had cost a fancy price, so she had reluctantly agreed it would do.

  She had had her topaz ring stretched so that it would go over her knuckle, and in a wavering hand on the back of an old bill had written directions that after her death it was to go to Clowance Poldark. She had had a new wig made and fitted, of a specially good hair, almost white but with a few becoming streaks of grey, and had bought a new black lace cap to top it. She had ordered and had only received yesterday a new jet choker. She was angry about this because it had been made too big and fell round her tiny throat like a necklace, but she hoped Elizabeth would be able to shorten it in time.

  The one thing she was still short of was new buckles for her slippers. Her feet were so shrunken and lumpy that it had been impossible to order new shoes, but her best slippers would have done well enough if they could have been brightened by two silver buckles. They had not come. Elizabeth swore that she had twice sent in to the silversmith’s in Truro, and that they were promised faithfully before Monday – but time was so short now. After all this waiting, all these months and months, all this preparation, time was now so short. In five days’ time only. In five days’ time.

  Smollett stirred on the bed and stretched, so she leaned over to the side table and lifted his saucer of milk on the bed for him to take a lazy lick or two.

  Thirty-eight guests had accepted – or was it forty-eight? Agatha could not quite remember. Once or twice she wondered why George Venables had not replied. He had been perhaps the nicest man she had ever known; they said he was too old for her, but he could not have been more than forty at the time. (Forty, a child, a veritable child!) But he had lost all his money in the South Sea Bubble and had gone abroad with the Duke of Portland (was it?) and she had never heard from him again. (But she had kept his address and had specially instructed that an invitation be sent. You couldn’t trust the people in this house. They might well have lost the invitation or forgotten to post it.)

  Then there was Laurence Trevemper. Gay and handsome. Captain (was he?) in one of the good regiments. How they had danced together! He had said: ‘Miss Poldark, when I am on the floor with you, God’s life, you give me wings!’ Killed in some rash brave futile cavalry charge at a place called Pontenoy. ’Thirty-five, that would be. (Or was it ’forty-five?) His wife had been a prodigious nuisance.

  Before that there had been Randolph Pentire. A bit of a rascal, always fumbling at one’s blouse. Eventually he had married that Kitty Something – Kitty Hawes – and had never had any children. After all that lubricity. She had not sent invitations to them.

  Then there had been, oh, five or six others. She had not been wanting in suitors. Only, for one reason or another, none had ever quite suited. Or they had gone off like dear George. To hear the young talk today you would think no one had had any excitement in the past, any heartaches, any problems, any bitter frustrations or heady fulfilment. The young of today were more than a shade tedious; pompous, self-centred, so sure that their concerns were the first important ones that had ever happened. They had no perspective. no sense of proportion. Perhaps it was necessary to be old to acquire a true sense of proportion. It was small consolation but it was something.

  On these quiet dreamy re
flections, between one doze and the next, came another George than the one she was dreaming about – the one that she disliked so much.

  One moment she had been gazing across at Lucy Pipe folding up her night shawl, then she opened her eyes and George Warleggan was there and Lucy Pipe was retreating through the door.

  It was a rare event – a unique event – for him to come here. If he had ever been in this room before she could not recollect it. She did not like this: it disturbed her. She shrank more into herself and pulled her day shawl about her shoulders as if his presence were a cold draught she must guard against. Smollet, thus disturbed, arched his back and spat. It was a great satisfaction to Agatha that George was now the only person Smollett ever spat at.

  Mr Warleggan was dressed as if for visitors, in a tight, buttoned, high-collared coat, cut away to show the tight breeches. The short double-breasted waistcoat was of crimson silk, with brass buttons. Her sharp, critical eyes noted his carefully controlled paunch, the cheeks and the shoulders growing heavier each year. Then they noticed he was smiling. It was unheard of. He was smiling at her. It was not a nice smile; but then no movement of his features would have been pleasant to her – unless they expressed pain. He was saying something. He had set down a book on the table beside her and was speaking to her in a voice he well knew she could not hear. Venom curled on her damp grey lips.

  ‘Speak up! What is it you want?’

  He came nearer to her and then raised his handkerchief fastidiously to his nose. It was a deliberate insult.

  She said again: ‘Speak up, George! Ye know I’m hard of hearing. To what do I owe this honour, eh? Eh? It’s not me birthday till Monday.’

  Smollett had upset some of the milk from his saucer and two white blobs like two white eyes stood on the counterpane. She brushed them away.