The Angry Tide (23 page)

The funeral of the Reverend Osborne Whitworth, BA, vicar of St Margaret's,
Truro, and St Sawle-with-Gramble
r, took place at eleven a.m. on Easter Monday. The funeral of Mr Nathaniel
Pearce
, who did not
die
until the Saturday, was postponed until Tuesday. (Possibly there was some premonitory k
nowledge in deaf old Nat
Pearce
's parting wink and leer. Ossie, after all, was to be there before him.)
It was a big funeral, conducted by the elderly Dr Halse and attended by most of the important figures of t
he town. The widow and her mothe
r-in-law were attired in long black dresses and the heavy veils that custom dictated to hide their expressions from the common gaze, though at one stage Lady Whitworth threw back her veil and glared round at the company with her underpouched piercing eyes as if
the
better to see that all who should have been were there. (Mr Odgers was a notable absentee, and the fact would be noted against him.) Mr Arthur Solway came, though not Mrs Solway, which was strange, for Mrs Chynoweth had come from Bodmin accompanied by her daughter Garlanda. It was later understood Mrs Solway was away.

There were some strangers, though not many in a town and district where almost everyone who was anyone knew everyone else worth knowing. But one tall dark rough-clad young man was in the back of the church and at the back of the throng surrounding the grave. Morwenna did not
see
him, for she was so near breakdown that she could not raise her eyes to anyone; but Elizabeth, on George's arm, saw and recognized. She said nothing to George, but she thought to speak to the young man if the opportunity presented itself. However, she looked around at the end of the committal, and it appeared that he was gone.

After the funeral there was a discreet tea, with cakes and scones and jams and jellies and tarts. Over the last few years there had been a reaction in Cornwall, particularly among the upper classes, against the massive funeral celebrations of the last decade or so, with one family vying against another, until some men of property had begun to leave instructions in their wills that they were to be buried at night to prevent such extravagances. Lady Whitworth, totally in command of everything, and grieving for her son, if she grieved at all, so privately that no one noticed, had decreed a morning funeral and a well-furnished but simple tea.

This lasted until two, by which time nearly all had gone, and one by one
the
relatives congregated in the parlour for a discussion about the future. Present were Mr Pardow, the family solicitor from St Austell; Morwenna - with the sturdy Garlanda beside her, ready to help her sister in any physical or moral way she could; Lady Whitworth, square-jawed and square-shouldered and rasping of voice; Mrs Amelia Chynoweth,
Morwenna
's mother, still as pretty as ever in a yielding fragile way - one wondered why she had not re-married -; Elizabeth Warleggan, Morwenna's cousin; and Mr George
Warleggan
, who had been persuaded, greatly against his personal wishes, to stay.

The conversation beat backwards and forwards over the problems that had to be faced. How much money had Mr Whitworth left, how long would Morwenna and the three children be allowed to stay on in the vicarage, was Lady Whitworth prepared to continue her allowance - it was the first Morwenna had heard of it - might
Morwenna
, if pressed for time, live with Lady Whitworth or Mrs Chynowcth until a suitable place could be found? There was a cottage on her property near Goran, Lady Whitworth grudgingly admitted, where a rascally shepherd now lived who had let it fall to ruin, but he could be turned out and with a pound or two spent it might be made into a cosy little home. Unfortunately there was no well water nearer than the main house, and John Conan could not be expected to drink whatever fell into the rain tub. It became fairly clear in the course of the conversation that Lady W. had her priorities firmly fixed. First came John Conan; second, but a poor second, Ossie's two daughters by his first wife; and third, but so far third as to be hardly noticeable, Morwenna.

Every time Amelia Chynowcth said anything Lady Whitworth talked her down; they had met only once before - at Trenwith immediately prior to and during the wedding - and her ladyship had a
poor opinion of all the Chynowe
th family, particularly Amelia, whose voice, she thought, was like fudge and whose opinions had as much backbone in them. The young woman her son had married was a faceless nonentity who'd been no good to anybody, except that by some fortunate chance she had produced a handsome vigorous lusty son to carry on the name.

And that faceless nonentity, that wild-eyed, downcast young woman about whom all this talk swirled and eddied without her ever contributing a useful comment, she was thinking: how Ossie would have enjoyed this meeting; what a pity he can't be here to
join in. But he's dead. Why am I
alive, why
am
I
here? What is
my
purpose? I would be far better dead and buried like him - only in some distant corner of
the
graveyard as far from his resting place as it is possible ever to get. He tried to prove mc insane - he hoped to put me away somewhere. In those days I was as sane as he was. But not so now. In a moment - any moment - my head will burst open and I shall tear my hair and my clothes and
scream
to God and high Heaven! They
are
talking
about mc as if I were a parcel; as if I didn't exist. And really it's true. I
don't
exist any longer. Nothing of me - it's all gone - mind, body - soul, even; I am an envelope, a useless sack of clothes from which has been squeezed all feeling, all reason, all sentiment, all goodness, all faith. I don't
need
to be buried, for I am dead already, there is nothing
left:
ashes, dust, sand, dirt, blood, semen, urine, pus, excrement, ordure -

'Excuse me, Mama,' Garlanda said. 'But Morwenna is feeling faint. If I might take her to her room
...'

'Of course.'

The limping, staggering girl was led out, and a silence fell as they heard her retching in the hall.

'And what d
o you t
hink, Mr
Warleggan
?' asked Lady Whitworth. He was the only person in sight to whom she was prepared to defer.

George stared at her unemotionally, taking in the coarse, heavily powdered skin, the button eyes, the dewlaps. 'My interest, Lady Whitworth, is purely a contingent one, deriving as you know from my wife's cousinship. Clearly we shall want to have more details of your son's debts before we can be sure what is left for his widow and children to live on.'

'Debts?' s
aid Lady Whitworth, bristling. ‘I
doubt if Osborne was a man to incur debts.'

'He had a number of substantial ones when his marriage with Morwenna was arranged.'

A litde wrangle broke out, with Mr Pardow and Amelia Chynowcth involved.

George thought: Elizabeth is looking older this year; her hair is losing some of its lustre; yet those few extra lines at the side of the eyes have an attraction, give her face more strength and character; she'll still be beautiful even in ten more years. It's for her that I sit in this stuffy untidy parlour listening to this hard-faced old sow grunting about her lost, dead piglet. As if I cared for any of them. What I care about is that James Scawcn has at last been persuaded to sell me enough of his property in the borough of St Michael, and in measurable months I shall own a controlling interest in t
he borough. Two parliamentary se
ats. I shall get rid of Howell at once and take his seat next autumn; I shall buy Wilbraham out too, install someone who will do my bidding - who? - must look about me - here or in London - someone like Monk Adderley who cares nothing for how his vote shall go so long as he ha
s a se
at and enjoys the privileges. Pity the
Warleggan
family has bred so sparsely. Sanson is dead and his son a drunkard. Cary's never married. All Cary will ever marry is an accommodation bill.

Garlanda returned with
the news that Morwenna was lying down and the children's nurse was with her. She'd go up in a few minutes again. George caught sight of his servant in the doorway and nicked his fingers at him.

'We must go, my dear,' he said to Elizabeth, and rose. 'I have business to attend to.'

The meeting broke up with general expressions of concern and affection. Amelia Chynoweth looked with alarm on the
imminent departure of the Warle
ggans, for she saw herself spending the rest of her time here dominated and almost eaten up by Lady Whitworth. Only George's presence had maintained a sort of balance.

But there was no stopping them. Off they went, clattering on their fine horses up
the
hill towards the main road, followed by their groom.

At the small road—
crossing and clearing Elizabeth
reined in her horse and looked about. 'This is where it happened, I believe. There
are
overhanging branches, but it is strange that so reliable a horse should take fright. I cannot help but feel there was something exceptional.'

George grunted. 'For once in his life, perhaps, he was drunk.'

'Where had he been? To see old Mr Pearce?'

'Miss Pearce said he stayed with the old man but twenty minutes. None of the inns or br
andy shops had seen him. But doe
s it matter? You were never attached to him. And of late nor was I.'

'It is just - very strange,' said Elizabeth. 'I have thought much about it
...
But certainly it was an unhappy marriage ...'

'Of my arranging,' said George. 'Well
...
you could not have known.'

As they went on George thought that one of the great virtues of Elizabeth as a wife was that she never reproached him. She would always close ranks behind him, even if in private she had argued the unwisdom of the course he was taking. He had come more and more to appreciate how unlikely his suspicions had been of her association with Ross Poldark. The poisoned barb inserted by A
unt Agatha with her dying breath
s had at last worked its way out. Or almost. Certainly this was a happier marriage than he had ever believed possible two years ago. He had not told her of all his ambitions yet. But he knew she would welcome the return to London, and he knew this time that his extra ambitions were such as would please her. It might be the sort of prize - if and when achieved - to offer a woman on her birthday
...

As they clattered through the streets of Truro they passed near St Clement Street, and Elizabeth made some remark about 'poor Mr
Pearce
'. George did not reply. Now that Nat
Pearce
was finally dead Cary would be on the move. Cary on the move was not a pretty sight. Elizabeth had never got on with George's uncle. They each thought the other 'a bad influence' on George. George knew that Elizabeth
would disapprove of Gary's mano
euvrings, and wondered whether to put a stop to them before it was too late.
If
he could, which was doubtful. Cary had a lot of money of his own in the bank and would be a hard man to turn off course. George and his father might just
together;
but was it worth
the row to prevent Cary from doing, in a not too respectable way, what all three of them would like to do in their hearts - bring down Pascoe and clip Ross Poldark's wings at the same time?

His manceuvrings, Cary's manoe
uvrings, had nearly achieved the first of these objectives in
the
nationwide crisis of two years ago. Then it had been partly with George's approval, and it had come to nothing because of last-minute support of Pascoe's Bank from Basset, Rogers & Co., the other Truro bank, and as a result of that, of the alienation caused by that, the growing co-operation between Basset's and
Warleggan
's had come to a sharp stop, and the discord between George Warleggan and Lord dc Dunstanvillc had begun, setting in motion eve
nts which had lost George his se
at in Parliament to Ross Poldark.

A long and tortuous chain of cause and effect. But it showed that Cary's behaviour could be harmful to the Warleggan good name, and even to Warleggan
ambitions. The point was, in th
is case, would Cary's manipulations come to light? If they did, they would bring the
Warleggan
name into some disrepute. Need that happen? Could not all the blame be pinned on Mr Pearce and his misappropriations? It was necessary to be sure of this. George resolved to see his uncle that evening. It was short-sighted for a man of his, George's, position and eminence to allow himself to be seen to be connected with the exercise of dubious financial pressures upon a rival bank.

They reached the Great House and were handed down by liveried servants who came running out. George followed Elizabeth into the house, watching her kid shoes under the grey velvet skirt, with the occasional lick of white underskirt showing. He turned before he went in and looked out at the leaning walls and crooked roofs of this small town in which he had made his career and begun his fortune. Life was good.