The Black Moon

by Winston Graham

  ‘It has not at all upset me like your going away. He is really alive? You have proof, Ross?’

  ‘Proof enough. No details. Only evidence that he is a prisoner of war at a place called Quimper. I do not think conditions there are good, but he is alive. I must tell Caroline soon.’

  ‘Ross, you must tell her now! If you rode after her you might catch her before ever she reaches home!’

  ‘So I must be turned out of my house again so soon as I have returned, eh? Here I am, with a cavernous belly, weary and saddle sore, and you ask me—’

  ‘I will tell Gimlett to saddle Darkie. She has had little enough of exercise, and while that is done I will cut you a slice of pig and some new baked bread and a pat of butter and you may eat it before you leave! —’

  ‘This is a splendidly generous womanly welcome,’ said Ross. ‘And you’re no fatter for my absence! I hope you have not been starving my child.’

  ‘Yes, I have, and rightly so, and will starve you in an equally good cause. Oh, Ross, I am so glad! It will make Caroline over again.’

  ‘And not displeased for Dwight too,’ said Ross, ‘though as I have said conditions in the camp are bad and must temper our relief.’

  ‘I have a feeling now in my bones that all will be well. Ross, go you and tell Gimlett; I will cut you a plate of food.’

  So then for ten minutes the house was all noise and bustle, and Jeremy came chattering in, and Ross patted him absent-mindedly with one hand while gulping food with the other, and very soon Darkie was at the door and Ross on it, and a touch of Demelza’s hand and he was off in pursuit of Caroline up the valley while the wind ruffled the horse’s tail and the early dusk closed in around them all.

  BOOK TWO

  Chapter One

  Demelza’s child was born on the 20th November and was a girl. This time Dr Thomas Choake contrived to be present and to deliver the child safely. They would have done better without him, but at least he did not kill her or the child or permanently maim either of them with medical refinements. A seven-pound child and very healthy. After five days had gone and there was no sign of the dreaded child-bed fever, Ross began to breathe freely and to take pleasure in this new member of his family.

  They named her Clowance.

  The following week Raymond Richard Eveleigh Penvenen, Esq., of Killewarren, finally gave up the unequal struggle to survive against an opponent who offered him no mercy, no quarter and no hope, and died quietly in his bed with Caroline his niece sitting beside him. There was a considerable turn-out of the county for his funeral on December 1st. His brother William could not get down from Oxford as he was confined to his room with gout, so Ross walked with Caroline behind the bier. Mr Nicholas Warleggan attended, but not his son.

  On the Sunday afternoon, which was the 7th, Drake Carne called at Trenwith House with a bunch of primroses he had picked, and was admitted and spent two hours with Morwenna and Geoffrey Charles.

  This Sunday visit was nothing unusual. The first time he had come at Geoffrey Charles’s command, nervous and expecting to be ordered out by some relative or person in authority. No one had said anything. Except for a couple of servants he had seen no one else. Then he had repeated the visit at Geoffrey Charles’s request. Then he had taken to calling casually every Sunday about teatime and slipping away again just before supper. The friendship had ripened rapidly. It was ‘Geoffrey’ and ‘Drake’ now, though still – just – ‘Miss Morwenna’. Geoffrey Charles had never had a friend like this before and he loved being treated as a grown-up and learning the things Drake taught him. He had even picked up some of Drake’s accent, and Morwenna was constantly correcting him. As for Drake, he had a natural warmth and, being the youngest of five brothers, had never had someone younger than himself to talk to. It was a mutual attraction without ulterior motives, although the ulterior motive was there too.

  Often she took part in the game or the exercise or the talk or whatever happened to spring out of the visit. Sometimes she withdrew and watched the tow-headed handsome boy and the dark-haired handsome young man, as it were from a distance, even if the distance in measurable assessment was only two yards. Sometimes she was unexpectedly drawn in and Geoffrey Charles excluded – though he did not notice it – and she and Drake exchanged glances in which emotion, or something, had unexpectedly gathered, and then she was afraid. At heart she knew that she was behaving in a way Elizabeth would have emphatically condemned, just by admitting this young man, because he was a common carpenter and wheelwright, aside altogether from the added bar of his being Mrs Demelza Poldark’s brother. But something stronger than fear of disapproval prevented her from making the decisive move to break the friendship. She did not examine her motives clearly or her feelings either but drifted on a tide of pleasurable recollection and anticipation between one meeting and the next.

  On this Sunday she had to tell Drake that this meeting must be the last for some time. On the fourteenth they were both leaving, along with Mr and Mrs Chynoweth, to spend Christmas in Truro and at Cardew, and it would probably be the end of January before they returned.

  ‘Oh,’ said Drake, all the fun going out of him, ‘that’s a pity, that is. I shall miss ye both. Tis a real pity. All good things d’come to an end, I suppose, but—’

  ‘We shall be back,’ said Geoffrey Charles. ‘It is only for a month or so.’

  ‘But I reckon, then I reckon the others’ll be back too, and that’ll stop us meeting sure enough.’

  It had been a dark afternoon and the candles had been lighted early. The three were in the small room behind the winter parlour, where they often met and where they were unlikely to be disturbed. Morwenna had taken the bunch of primroses and was arranging them in a shallow pewter cup.

  ‘You’re clever to have found so many. This mild weather has encouraged them, but there are none in the garden.’

  ‘These was in the wood where we first met. I’ll mind that day all my life, that day that we first met. Twas like no other I ever known.’

  Morwenna looked up from the flowers. The light from the candles illuminated her short-sighted eyes. ‘I shall remember it too.’

  ‘Come,’ said Geoffrey Charles, ‘let us take him round the house! You have never seen the entire house, have ye, Drake; and since it will be mine some day it is right that I shall be able to show it to you.’

  Drake said: ‘I can just say, Miss Morwenna, I just say as it has been a grand new thing for me. I never known anyone like you – like you before. I give years of my life just – just—’

  ‘It is a good evening to show you,’ said Geoffrey Charles, ‘for my grandfather and grandmother are both confined to their chamber with rheumy chills and there is no one else about. You have not ever been to my bedroom, Drake. There are drawings there that I would like to show you. I did them last year when I was laid up with the measles. And I have some stones from the old mine, Grambler, that closed down years ago . . .’

  Morwenna said: ‘I think we have done wrong to meet as we have, Drake. There cannot be anything but – distress at the end of it for either of us – for any of us.’

  ‘My room is right at the back,’ said Geoffrey Charles, ‘that little turret room that you can see if you look at the house from near the pond. If we go through the hall I can lead you up the spiral staircase to the minstrel gallery and then through to my room.’

  ‘Never wrong, Morwenna,’ Drake said. ‘I’ll never own it said that twas wrong to meet as we have done. Of course I know I have no right, no proper right . . .’

  ‘It is not that, Drake. Of course it is not wrong in that sense, but you know how it is in this world—’

  ‘Must we be of this world?’

  ‘Well, yes, for we cannot escape it. For if we even tried . . .’

  ‘Come along,’ said Geoffrey Charles, tugging his arm. ‘Come, Wenna, I command you.’

  Preoccupied with emotions which were passing over the boy’s head, they allowed him to dictate their next move. At the door Geo
ffrey Charles said: ‘Oh, we had best take a candle, for the upstairs will not be lighted,’ and picked up a bronze candlestick with a wide base to prevent drips from falling.

  They passed through the big parlour, with Elizabeth’s spinning-wheel in the corner and her harp beside her favourite chair. Although for a while they had been taken away she had had them brought back to their old positions. Through into the hall. A sconce of candles had been lit here but only faintly illuminated the great room. The fire had been allowed to die down so that a single log smouldered like a half-extinct volcano. Morwenna pulled her shawl about her shoulders.

  ‘These are all my ancestors,’ said Geoffrey Charles. ‘See this one, this is Anna-Maria Trenwith, who married the first Poldark. And this is my great-uncle Joshua as a boy, and that is his favourite dog. And this is my grandmother, who died when she was thirty-three. My Aunt Verity was named after her. It is a shame my Aunt Verity never had her portrait done. And this is my great-grandfather, my great-aunt Agatha’s father. Oh, there were lots more here until two years ago, but when Mama married Uncle George he had many of them taken away. Uncle George is always for tidying up.’

  ‘Like clearing the toads out of the pond,’ said Drake.

  Geoffrey Charles giggled. ‘Oh, he hated them. But I don’t think he hates my ancestors. It is just that he has left only the best.’

  They went round the room, looking at the things the boy was pointing out. Then he led them to the narrow door in the panelling and they followed him up the spiral stony staircase to the minstrel gallery. They stood, hands on the stone balustrade, looking down into the shadowy hall.

  ‘It has never been used since I was born,’ said Geoffrey Charles, ‘nor before, for years and years. My grandfather didn’t like music. But when I grow up and get rich I shall have a ball here and the musicians will sit up here playing for the dancers.’

  Drake said to the girl: ‘Will ye write?’

  ‘But we are only to be away for a short time.’

  ‘Tisn’t that. It is like the end. You’ve said so yourself . . .’

  ‘We shall be back,’ said Geoffrey Charles. ‘So don’t worry about that. Now, follow me.’

  He opened another scarcely visible door and they squeezed through and came out on to a narrow landing.

  ‘Geoffrey,’ said Morwenna. ‘I think we should go down. Drake will play that game—’

  ‘You go if you wish to. I want him to see my drawings, and they’re all pinned up on the walls. This way. Quiet now, for my old aunt is in the next room, and although she is very deaf she can always hear a loose floorboard.’

  The boy’s room was up three steps at the end of the corridor. Elizabeth had given him this after George had complained that his old room was too close to theirs. It was a turret room with stone mullioned windows looking three ways and therefore exciting for a boy. It also had the largest fireplace on the first floor, and this fire was kept in constantly from October to May, so that Geoffrey Charles could occupy himself in comfort. Tacked to the walls were a number of bold drawings of horses and dogs and cats which he had done over the last two years.

  When they got in they found that the fire was out, and Morwenna exclaimed at the slackness of the servants. George and Elizabeth had taken half the staff with them to Truro, and those left were trading on the lack of personal control. Morwenna bent over the dead embers and drew them together and tried to blow some life in them, while Geoffrey Charles showed off his pictures. Then suddenly the room was in darkness as Geoffrey Charles knocked over his candle.

  ‘Oh, God’s life!’ said the boy. ‘Now we are in trouble. Mon Dieu, Drake! Sorry, Wenna. Is there a light from the fire? There’s no tinder, I know, for I took it downstairs.’

  He came to crouch beside Morwenna, but there was hardly a spark. ‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘I’ll rush down to the hall. It will take no more than a minute.’

  ‘Geoffrey, I’ll go,’ said Morwenna standing up, but by then he was out of the door and pattering off down the passage.

  They stood in silence listening to him until his footsteps died. Morwenna put her hand on the mantelpiece.

  ‘He’s very wilful. I have tried to discipline him but he has been spoiled so long.’

  ‘Not spoiled,’ said Drake. ‘Betterer that way than cowed and timid. He’s a real boy. I’m dearly fond of’n.’

  ‘I know you are.’

  ‘Nor not just of him neither.’

  She did not speak.

  ‘Are ee cold, Morwenna?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I thought you shrimmed.’

  He put his hand on hers. Until now it had been their only contact, rarely made even then, and then in the most apparently accidental way. Never before deliberate like this. She tried to withdraw her hand, but his hold was firm. It was quite dark, and darkness and desperation gave him courage. He lifted the hand and kissed it. The fingers stirred and then were still. Then with his heart thumping as if it would burst he turned her hand up and kissed the inside of each finger in turn. It was an unusual gesture for a rough young man, but again the dark, in which he could only see the silhouette of her hair and face, salved embarrassment and released him from ordinary prohibitions.

  She said: ‘Don’t, Drake.’

  He released her hand and she let it fall to her side, but still she did not move away. So they stood facing each other in the complete silence of the old house. There were ten people in it besides themselves, but there might have been no one. She stood there slim and taut and tall like a wand. And like a wand she seemed to sway slightly in the dark.

  He committed the offence of touching her, of putting his hands on her shoulders. It was the first woman he had touched in that way, and his emotion was too pure for desire, too reverent for possession, but each was implicit at a further remove.

  ‘Morwenna,’ he said, the words coming through lips hardly able to form them.

  ‘Don’t, Drake,’ she said, and might have been drowning. And in fact, emotionally, was.

  He said: ‘You are going away from me. Ye cann’t go away from me like this.’

  He bent his head and put his lips against hers. Her lips were cool and a little dry, like petals just unfurling from the bud. Complete chastity and complete sexuality coexisted in them.

  When they separated it was with a sense of a return to self-consciousness after an experience that transcended self. She moved back, gripped the mantelshelf, lowered her head; he made no overt move at all, stood there rock-like, rooted in his own emotions. So a relationship was sealed that had no business to begin and no authority to continue; and silence lay between them until the padding of feet outside told them that Geoffrey Charles was returning with a light.

  By a coincidence of time Morwenna Chynoweth’s future was just then under discussion at another and altogether different place. In the Great House in Truro supper was taken later than in the country, and the interval between six and nine, on the rare occasions when there was no tea party or card party or conversazione to attend, was when George and Elizabeth sat together in the large drawing-room upstairs and talked of their everyday affairs. George had completed his business for the day, Elizabeth had long since finished her few household duties, and the nurse, Polly Odgers, was in charge of Valentine; so they were quite alone. George’s business affairs ran smoothly, the house almost ordered itself, so there was less for each to do than in the country: more time for social occasions, and more need of them.

  When they were alone and unoccupied long silences were apt to fall which, while being in no sense inimical, were not entirely restful. Elizabeth found that George did not read much, while Francis had always been reading. Although her married life with Francis had not been a happy one – certainly not as successful as her life with George – it had been more relaxed. When they had been sitting together in a room alone she could forget Francis’s presence. She could never altogether forget George’s. He often watched her, and when she glanced up and did not catch his eyes she fan
cied he had that moment looked away. She could not make out whether he was still in that condition of savouring a pride of possession – it seemed like it; had she been a more conceited woman she would have been satisfied it was that. But sometimes, when she did catch his glance, there seemed to be an element of suspicion in it.

  She was sure it was not a suspicion of real ill – but rather of something to do with her happiness, her contentment, particularly as to her contentment with him. He knew that, for all her modesty, she had a kind of assurance he could never equal, because never since she was a child had her confidence in herself been questioned in this respect. If she met a duke he would instantly recognize her for what she was, and in a few moments they would be chatting together as equals. Therefore, could she be happy with a rich parvenu? Did she not resent a connection with trade which advertised itself by having part of the ground floor of their house used as an office and a bank? Was she not bored with his company? Did she not find his manners lacking, his conversation banal, his clothes wrongly worn, his relatives uncongenial? This feeling did not make for repose, for ease of manner, for complete relaxation. Elizabeth had not been married to him long before she realized how very jealous he was – not merely of Ross, though of him most of all, but of any personable man. So she watched her behaviour with other men – who not unnaturally, because of her looks, made much of her – and she watched, slightly, her tongue lest she should give him unwitting offence.

  This evening George had been out for a while, and when he came back they talked of a reception and ball they were planning for New Year’s Eve. This was impracticable at the Great House which, in spite of its pretentious name, was only so called in comparison with its neighbours. The Assembly Rooms, where all dances in Truro were held, was the obvious place; but George hankered to hold it at Cardew, where there was room enough and of course all the added prestige of such an event being held in one’s own home – or one’s father’s home. But there was clearly a risk. Winter in Cornwall seldom struck before mid-January, but rain was the perpetual hazard of the autumn months, and although Cardew was only five miles, and only just off the turnpike road to Falmouth, rain could turn the rutted road into a quagmire of mud which on the night might deter any but the strongest in leg and heart.