The Angry Tide (51 page)

Drake was round at Nampara by seven. Having told them
the
time of the wedding, he went off to see Sam.
Demelza
rode to see Caroline and asked her if she could borrow a dress for Morwenna, since Caroline was about the right height. She bore this away to rally's Shop.

Problems here, for Morwenna, although she looked slim enough, was like her sister
Rowella
and fuller in the right places than she appeared, and Caroline's frock would not button. This had
all
happened before, but only Morwenna knew it. Four years ago sew and stitch, sew and stitch - then it was altering Elizabeth's wedding frock for her. So another marriage now, in even greater haste,
same
church,
same
cleric - only the man was different. A tight hold, keep a tight hold on over-strung nerves. But her quarrel with George Warleggan last night - the vile things, the evil insinuations against Drake - somehow it had broken some mental block - not the effect Mr Warleggan intended. She had
defended
Drake - would with her life - and in so doing became clearer in heart and mind. Marriage -this marriage - was still a haven to be sought, where she could at last be at peace. But the conflict last night had emptied her heart of doubt.

Drake, with more subtl
ety than Demelza had given him credit for, was careful not to crowd her or fuss over her. He never asked her what had taken place at Trenwith. He went on with his work throughout the morning, and cooked them a light meal at ten, and
stared up at the cumulus castle
s over the sea and reckoned it would not rain until nightfall. So time passed, and the frock, a cream grosgrain with a few dashes of crimson ribbon, was somehow made to fasten, and Drake changed into his new jacket and soon after eleven o'clock they ah rode to the church. Waiting for them was Ross, and the two children and Mrs Kemp to keep them in order, and Sam, and his mate Peter Hoskin, and Jud and Prudie - uninvited - and Caroline - unexpected - and three or four others who had heard about it and drifted in.

And at eleven twent
y-five the Reverend and Mrs Odge
rs came and the ceremony began, and in what seemed no time at all it was all over and the indissoluble bond was sealed. The married couple signed the register, and a few minutes later they were all standing in the crowded graveyard with its silent stones leaning this way and that, like broken teeth, the names on them erased by the wild weather and the occupants below long since mouldered and forgotten.

Demelza
, wearing a new and rare painted cameo on her breast, repeated her invitation to Drake and Morwenna to come to Nampara for tea and cakes, but she knew they would refuse. Ross kissed Morwenna, and then Demelza did, and then Caroline and then Sam; Drake kissed Demelza and then his brother; Caroline also kissed
Demelza
and left Ross to the last. Much handshaking followed, before Mr and Mrs Drake Carne moved off on their ponies for the short ride home.

'So it is done,' Demelza said, holding to her hat, which threatened to take off. 'It is done, Sam. It is what they have desired most in the world ever since they first set eyes on each other.'

'God have set them to grow in beauty side by side,' Sam said.

Demelza watched the two figures dwindling in size as they passed the gates of Trenwith. In ten minutes they would be home, alone, happy in their new-found isolation, sipping tea, talking - or perhaps not talking - wishing only to be together in companionship and trust. She turned to look up at her other brother, who was shading his face with his hand, to follow the departing couple. The rest of the group were dispersing. Mr and Mrs Odgers, having taken obsequious leave of Ross, were on their way back to their cottage. Caroline was talking to Ross. Jeremy was picking some moss off a tombstone and trying to read the lettering. Clowance was hopping from one kerb to another. Mrs Kemp was talking to an acquaintance. The sky was streaked as if broom-brushed; the cumulus clouds had faded into the sea, which roared as if it had swallowed them.

Clowance stepped on on
e kerb near where Jud and Prudie
were waddling off.

Jud said: 'Ca
reful 'ow ee d'walk, my 'andsome
. Put yer feet wrong round yur, and a gurt big skeleton'll jump out an' bite yer toe!'

'Big ox!' said Pr
udie. 'Take no 'eed of'm, my dee-e
r. Step just wher ee d'wish - there's naught'll disturb ee.'

They passed on, growling
at each other, leaving Clowance
thumb in mouth staring after them. When they had gone a distance she tiptoed carefully to the edge of the path and hurried back to her mother.

Demelza led her to Ross.

'Where's
Dwight?' she said to Caroline. ‘I
had hoped you would both come to tea.'

Caroline wrinkled her brows. 'I was telling Ross. Dwight was to have come with me but soon after ten he was summoned to Trenwith, and I have seen nothing of him since.'

'Probably one of the old people,'
Demelza
said. 'Dr Choake is now so crippled with gout
...'

'No,' Caroline said. 'It was Elizabeth.'

There was a short silence.

'Did they say what it was?'

'No
...'

Ross took out his watch. 'Well, he's been gone two hours.' 'It might be to do with her baby,' said
Demelza
. 'I wondered that,' said Caroline. T hope not, because it would be premature
...
though I understand Valentine was premature.' There was another silence. 'Yes,' said Ross.

George had found Elizabeth lying on the floor of her bedroom about eight o'clock that morning. She had fallen in a faint but not hurt herself. He got her back to bed and was all for summoning a doctor at once, but she assured him she had come to no hurt. Only the fact that Choake was immobile and his dislike of Enys persuaded George to acquiesce.

But an hour and a half later she complained of pain in the back, and he at once sent a man for Dwight. Dwight came and examined her and told him she was in the first stages of childbirth. George sent a man galloping to Truro to fetch Dr Behenna.

This time, however, Dr
Behenna
was going to be far too late. Pains were constant, with scarcely any intervals of any length and contractions were regular and severe. At one o'clock Elizabeth gave birth to a girl, weighing just five pounds, wrinkled and red-faced and tiny, with a mouth that opened to cry but seemed only capable of emitting a faint mew like a new-born kitten. It was hairless, almost nail-less, but very much alive. Elizabeth's wish for a daughter had come true.

There was no proper nurse present, and Dwight had to make
use of Ellen Prowse, Polly Odge
rs and the slovenly Lucy Pipe. But all had gone well, there were no complications, and when he had tidied up a bit he went down to inform the proud father of his fortune.

George had endured horrible conflicting doubts and fears since early this morning, and when Dwight told him he had a daughter and that mother and child were doing well, he went across and poured himself another strong brandy, the decanter clicking on the glass as he did so. For once in his life he had drunk too much.

'May I offer you something, Dr - er - hm - Dr Enys?'

'Thank you, no.' Dwight changed his mind in the interests of neighbourliness. 'Well, yes, a weak one.'

They drank together.

'My wife has come th
rough well?' George asked, steadying himself on a chair.

'Yes. In one sense a premature child is less strain on the mother, being that much smaller. But the spasms were unusually violent, and if this is the result of her fall she will have to take the greatest care over the next few weeks. I would advise a wet nurse.'

'Yes, yes. And the child?'

'The greatest care for a while. There's no reason at all why she should not do perfectly well, but a premature child is always more at risk. I presume you will have your own doctor
...'

'Dr
Behenna
has been sent for.'

'Then I am sure he will be able to prescribe the correct treatment and care.' 'When can I go and
see
them?

'I have given your wife a sleeping draught which will make her drowsy until this evening, and have
left another one with Miss Odge
rs in case she needs it tonight. Look in now if you wish, but don't stay.'

George hesitated. 'The old people
are
just starting dinner. If you would care to join them
...'

'Well, it's time I was home. I have been here all of four hours and my wife will be wondering what has become of me.'

George said: 'They
are
safe to be left now - with
out a doctor, I mean?'

'Oh, yes. I'll call again about nine this evening if you wish it. But I presume Dr
Behenna
will be here before then.'

'If he left promptly when summoned he should be here within the hour. Thank you for your prompt and efficient attention.'

After Dr Enys had been shown out, George hesitated whether to go in and tell the old people that they were grandparents again; but he reasoned that although they knew Elizabeth was in labour they would not expect anything so soon, and Lucy Pipe could be sent down to tell them later. His overmast
ering need was to see Elizabeth.

He put his glass down and went to the mirror, straightened his stock, patted his hair. He wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchief. He would do. He had not felt like this before, so damnably anxious all day, now so damnably relieved. It was not right that one should be subject to this sort of em
otional stress; it made one feel
vulnerable and ashamed.

He went up and tapped on the door. Polly Odgers opened it and he went in.

Elizabeth was very pale, but in some respects looked less exhausted than she had done after the long labour of Valentine's birth. As always her frail beauty was enhanced by recumbency. It seemed natural to her deceptive delicacy to be at rest. Her hair lay gilt—
picture-frame
d about
the
pillow, and when she saw George she took a handkerchief to wipe her dry lips. In a cot before the fire a tiny thing kicked and stirred.

'Well, George,' she said.

George said: 'Leave us, Polly.'

'Yes, sir.'

When she had gone he sat down heavily and stared at her, emotionally tight. 'So
...
all is well.' 'Yes. All is well.' 'Are you in pain?' 'Not now. Dr Enys was very good.'

'It has all happened the second time. Just as before. And so quickly.'

'Yes. But the last time it was eight months. This time it is seven.' 'You
fall,'
he said accusingly, 'always you fall.' 'I
faint.
It is some peculiarity. You remember I even did it this year when the child was first coming.' 'Elizabeth, I
...'

She watched him struggling with
words but did not help. 'Elizabeth. Aunt Agatha's venom
...'
Elizabeth waved a weary hand. 'Let us forget it.' 'Her venom. Her venom has
...
Since she died - as you said yesterday - it has affected half my life.' 'And half mine without knowing the cause.' 'I am a self-sufficient man. Self-contained. As you know. It is very
difficult for me to - to unburden myself to another. In such cases suspicion flourishes. I have given way to suspicion and jealousy.'

'From which I have had small opportunity to defend myself.'

'Yes
...
I know. But you must appreciate that I have suffered too.' He hunched his shoulders and stared broodingly at her. 'And what I said that night two years ago - oh, it's true enough. Love and jealousy
are
part of the same face. Only a saint can enjoy one without enduring the other. And I had good reason for suspicion -'

'Good reason?'

'Thought I had. Helped by that old woman's curse, so it seemed. Now at last I can see I was wrong. Clearly it has done damage - to our marriage. I trust it's not beyond repair.'

She was silent, luxuriating for a moment in the absence of pain, of travail, the laudanum working gently to blur the sharper edges of existence. George had drawn his chair closer and was holding her hand. It was very unusual in him. In fact she bad never known it before. So is the hard man tamed.

She said quietly: 'It is for you to decide,' knowing of course what his decision would be.

He said, with a new note of resolution: 'We have a full life ahead of us, then. Now that we - now that I can put this out of my mind. However much I may regret that it was ever allowed to enter - it
happened.
I cannot - no one ever can - withdraw
the
past. Elizabeth, I have to say that I have been at fault in all this. Perhaps now - from now on
...
some of the unhappiness can be forgiven
...
the disagreeable times forgot.'

She squeezed his hand. 'Go and look at our daughter.'

He got up and moved over to the cot. In the shade of the cot, just out of range of the fight of the fire flames, a small red face blinked its unfringed blue eyes, and the tiny mouth opened and closed. He put down a finger and a hand no bigger than a soft pink walnut closed around it. He noted that she was much smaller than Valentine had been. But then Valentine had been an eight-month child.

He stood a while, swaying a little on the balls of his feet, not so much from inebriety as from the satisfaction that was flooding over him. He was moved. It was something very basic in his nature that resented the emotional strain put on him by marriage and parenthood. A part of his character would have been far more content with figures and commerce all day long, like Uncle Cary, not these terrible tugs-of-war, these battlefields of sensation that plagued him on the level of his personal existence.

Yet because of them he was living more deeply, and when, as now, there was a gratifying outcome to it all
...
He went back to the bed.

'What shall we call her?' Elizabeth opened her eyes. 'Ursula,' she said without hesitation. 'Ursula?'

'Yes. You called him Valentine, so I think it is my turn. My godmother, who was also my great-aunt, was called Ursula. My great-uncle died when she was thirty and she lived as a widow for thirty-eight years.'

'Ursula,' said George, and tried it over on his tongue. 'I would not quibble with that. But was there something especial about your godmother?'

'I th
ink she bro
ught the brains into the Chynowe
th family. That's if you think we have any! Before she married she was a friend of Mary Wollstonecraft, and she translated books from the Greek.'

'Ursula
Warleggan
. Yes, I am not at all impartial to that. Valentine
Warleggan
. Ursula Warleggan. They would make a famous pair.'

Through a haze of sleep Elizabeth noticed the pairing of the names with special satisfacti
on, and silently blessed Dr Anse
lm for his assistance in bringing about such a result,
George knew it was time to go. But he had one more thing to say.

'Elizabeth.'

'Yes?'

'Yesterday when I came, my visit was not without purpose. I had something to tell you.' 'I hope it is good.'

'Yes, it is good. You'll remember I called to see Mr Pitt in the morning of the day before we left London.'

'...
I knew you were going
...
But you did not tell mc afterwards.'

George grunted and turned the money in his fob. 'No. Well, there was that reason. As you know. I trust it will never exist again. It is our duty to see that it never exists again
...
But I have to tell you now that my interview with the Chancellor was very agreeable and very useful. I gave him my promise of full support, and he was gracious enough to accept my expressions of loyalty.'

'...
I'm glad.'

'Well, that was three weeks ago. Yesterday morning I received a letter from John Robinson. He was able to tell mc that Pitt has found it possible to agree to my request - my solitary and only request and will be pleased to recommend to His Majesty that I receive a knighthood in the New Year.'

A faint breath of noise, like a tiny sigh, came from the infant in her cot, registering her first comment upon this strange new world.

Elizabeth opened her own eyes wide, those beautiful grey-bluc eyes that had always fascinated him. 'Oh, George, I am so
very
gratified!'

George smiled freely; a rare occurrence for him. 'I suspected you would be - Lady Warleggan.'

There was a light tap on the door. It was Lucy Pipe. 'If ye plaise, sur, Dr
Behenna
be downstairs. Shell 'e come up?

'No. He shall not come up. First your mistress must sleep.' The head hastily withdrew. George said: 'You must sleep, my dear.' His voice carried more warmth than had ever been heard in it before.

Elizabeth's eyes drooped. 'Yes.'

'Sleep well, Lady Warleggan,' George said, bending and kissing her.

'Thank you, Sir
...
Sir George.'