The Black Moon (47 page)

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; lie had already waited too long. So he followed her up the stairs a
nd 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,

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 o
f two or three hours around teatime.

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 Clow
ance Poldark. She had had a new
wig made and fitted, of a specially good hair, a
lmost white but
with a few becoming
streaks of grey, and had bought
a new black, lace cap to top i
t. 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; the
y 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 fut
ile cavalry charge at a place called Fontenoy.
Thirty-five, t
hat 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 reflections, 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.

George came nearer to her than perhaps he had ever been before. He spoke loudly, close to the grey whiskery ear. `Can you, hear me now, old woman?'

'Aye. I can hear ye. And I'll have no more insults; or Elizabeth will learn of it.'

`I have bad news for you, old woman.'

`Eh? What is it? What is it? I knew ye'd not come with aught but bad news. Ye've got it writ all over ye, like blood on a carrion crow. Speak up.'

George looked at her and shook his head. His, brief smile had gone. He was sober now, his manner grave and decisive.

'There will be no party on Monday.'

Agatha felt a surge of blood move through her old body. She must be careful. If he had come to taunt her into illness she must take great care.

`Nonsense. Ye could not stop it, George, though no doubt twould give ye great pleasure.'

`I must stop it, old woman. Otherwise you will be made out to be a liar.'

Agatha looked him up and down. An old adversary, this. She must beware his tricks.

`Leave me be. Leave me in peace.'

'Can you hear me? It is important you should hear me! When Morwenna was married to the Rev. Osborne Whitworth, I observed the church register and saw that its records went back a century and a half. Yesterday, as I was passing, I called on Mr Odgers and spent a half-hour reading through the register. It made interesting reading, for it was a history of the Poldarks and the Trenwiths, all in dry, old ink; nearly as old and faded as you, old woman.'

Agatha did not speak. She watched him out of small venomous eyes.

`I looked to a record of the baptisms, old woman. And I looked for yours in 1695. It was not there. Can you hear me? It was not there! You were baptized, the entry is there, for September 1697. What do you say to that?'

Agatha's heart was pumping. She felt it was pumping in her head, Keep calm. Keep calm. Don't let him triumph,

`Tis a lie
A scabby, lie! There's no such-',

`Hark; old woman. Can you hear me still? I was not quite content with that, for baptisms do not always instantly follow births. So last afternoon and eve and all this morning I have had the servants turning the lumber out of the old room above the kitchens, where everything was thrown when the house was changed and repaired. Can you hear me? Let me come closer. Let me speak right into your ear. We found the old family bible which once used to be downstairs in the hall when Francis's father was alive, and behold I have found an entry in it. Let me read it to you. Or would you prefer to read it yourself? Here!'

He took up the book from the table and opened it. He offered it to her but she shrank away.

`Then
let me read it. I dare suppose it is your father's handwriting; the ink is very faded. But very very clear, old woman. Very clear. It says : "Ye tenth day of August, 1697, born to us this wet summer morn eleven o'clock in ye forenoon, our first child, a daughter, Agatha Mary, Praise be to God." Can you hear me or shall I read it again?'

'I hear.'

`And then in the margin beside in another hand is written: "Christened third September." So you see, old woman, on Monday next you will be but ninety-eight.'

Agatha remained quite rigid. The black cat, unaware of her agitation, looked at her and yawned and tried to settle beside her. George turned and took the, book to a table by the window and then came back and considered his victim. With this old woman he had carried on a bitter vendetta for years. It was too long ago to remember who had begun it, whether it had been a mutual antipathy from the start or had grown from some resented slight. But it was too late to heal it now, too late for half measures or for drawing back the knife.

`Can you hear me? I am going downstairs to instruct that letters shall be sent to all the people of the country who have accepted your invitation. It will inform them that you have made a mistake as to your age and that a new invitation will be issued in two years' time.'

'Ye would not dare! Elizabeth would ne'er
-
ne'er allow it! Nor would she! Nor would she!'

`She cannot stop me. I am the master of this house, and, although I would have permitted this celebration to take place in it, I will not be party to a flagrant deception. You
are ninety-seven, old woman.
On
Monday you will
be ninetyeight.; Live two more years and you may invite your friends all over again.'

You tried to control yourself. All the iron discipline of determined old age told you what to do-close your eyes, breathe deeply, shut out the angry thoughts, remember only survival. It had been pr
actised before in so many every
day affairs. Apparent temper, apparent furious scoldings were surface storms, creating no real disturbances, no disturbance in depth. You grew to know how ... But sometimes the discipline does not, cannot work. The fury, the agony builds up until it bursts all controls, and you are defenceless against all the rushing, blood-surging, damaging emotions which sweep through you and over you and will even
tually destroy you.

God in his heaven has no help.

George was going to the door. `Wait!' she said. He turned politely back. He gave no outward sign of any triumph he might be, feeling. Could she plead? Could she lower herself to plead with this man?

`All this prepared,' she said. `All' me clothes. Things got ready. In the kitchens. Food ordered.' She stopped and tried to get her breath. She could not. It had left her.

He said
: `A pity. It will all do again.'

She gasped, swallowed, took in air just in time. `Send Elizabeth . Ask Elizabeth to come . . . Birthday on Monday whether or no. Party for me whether or no. Ninety
-
eight. Good old age . .. But I'll be a
hundred. I
know. I know. I've counted. How could I be wrong?'

`You're wrong, old woman, and there will be no party. It will be easy to cancel. And open your window more on such
a fine day. This room stinks.'

`S
top!' He was going again. `I'll
not live two year more. Ye know that. Who'd know if ye said naught? I'll ne'er live another two year. I'll not cross ye again, George. I've been looking forward to, this so long. Eh? Eh? I'll not cross ye again, George. Twill do ye no hurt. No harm will come of it. I'll make a new will leave ye the money that I have in Consols. No one'd ever know.'

`I don't want your money, old woman!' George came back, book under his arm. `Nor your goodwill. I'm sorry for you now, but I'll see you rot in this room before I'll be party to such a lie!'