The Angry Tide (48 page)

The gale of December the 9th, 1799, was little worse than a half dozen others that might occur most years; but it was distinguished by the great seas it brought in. The worst of the storms had been far out in the Atlantic, and the coast suffered the effects. Nine ships of varying size were wrecked, mainly along the south coast, and particularly in the area of the Manacles, but a few came to
grief along the north coast. He
ndrawna Beach drew a blank.

Various people were converging on the area of Sawle-with-Grambler as the day progressed. Ross and Caroline had caught the new express coach that left Torpoint at seven-thirty and was due in Truro soon after midday. The gale delayed the coach, and two o'clock had gone when, after a brief and early dinner at the Royal, they mounted their hired horses for the last stage.

Demelza and Drake had reached Bodmin in fair time, but the Reverend John Pomeroy, rector of Lesnewth, vicar of Bodmin and the archdeacon's representative, was out and did not return until noon. Although he then raised no obstacles to the issue of a licence, it was time enough when the formalities were completed; and even then Drake had another call to make before they turned for home.

The other notable riding towards the north coast was Mr George Warleggan.

The first to reach his destination, if one excepts Caroline and her maid, whom he left
at
the gates of Killew
arrcn, was Ross. Like his wife a few weeks earlier, his arrival was unannounced and unexpected. The first person who saw him was a thin, long-legged eight-year-old boy staggering across the garden carrying a ball of twine. His scream was lost in the scream of the wind, but soon he was in his father's arms and soon there was all the confusion that had attended Demelza's return. In the midst of it Ross asked where his wife was and was told that Mama had gone off with Uncle Drake early tins morning and had said she would not be back to dinner.

'Daddy!' Jeremy shouted, above the chatter of his sister and
the
welcome of the servants. 'Daddy, come and look at the
seal'

So they all went to look, at least as far as the stile leading down to the beach; further it was unsafe to go. Where the beach would have been at any time except
the highest of tides, was a battl
efield of giant waves. The sea was washing away the lower sandhills and the roots of marram grass. As they stood there a wave came rushing up over the rough stony ground and licked at the foot of the stile, leaving a trail of froth to overflow and smear their boots. Surf in the ordinary sense progresses from deep water to shallow, losing height as it comes. Today waves were hitting the rocks below Wheal Leisure with such weight that they generated a new surf running at right angles to the flow of the sea, with geysers of water spouting high from the collisions. A new and irrational surf broke against the gender rocks below the Long Field. Mountains of spume collected wherever the sea drew breath, and then blew like bursting shells across the land. The sea was so high there was no horizon and the clouds so low that they sagged into the sea.

As he steered his chattering family back into the house Ross tried to discover what their mother was about, being away all day in this fashion, but nobody seemed to know. Then Jane Gimlett drew him aside and whispered in his car. Ross nodded and looked out at the lowering sky. Once again something important had happened in his absence. She should have been home before this, and in less than an hour it would be dark.

Gimlett had taken his horse to the stables, and, after a glass of ale, he patted his children's eager faces and said he was going out and would be back in half an hour and, alas, it was too windy for them to come with him. So he went up to the mine and saw Zacky Martin and some of his other friends, and as he moved to return to the house he saw Drake riding away up the valley. Avoiding a meeting at this stage, he stood behind one of the sheds until he was past and then walked down.

Demelza, having heard of his arrival, had come quick again to the door and was peering into the dark afternoon looking for him. They saw each other, and she came as far as the edge of the garden to meet him; almost breaking into a run but then checking herself.

She stopped, uncertain.

He said: 'Well,
Demelza
...'

'Are you -' she said. 'Did anything happen?'

'When?'

'After I left, of course.' 'No, the incident is dead.'

She
said:'
Oh
...'

'An unfortun
ate choice of words, perhaps.' ‘
No,' she said. 'The incident is - dead.' 'Though it will live a long time in my mind.' There was a pause.

He bent and kissed her. Her hps were cool and tentative. 'Have you been back long?'

'Less than an hour. I came with Caroline. The coach was late.' 'What a day
...'

They stared about them, glad of a subject they could share without emotion. Foam blew in soapsuds about the garden and hung in tattered streaks from brambles and branches like the seeds of wild clematis.

Ross said: 'This is why some of those pretty trees from Strawberry Hill would not grow here.'

'Even those that are growing here look in a poor way.'

'When I g
ot home Jeremy was trying to tie
some of them up.'

'Was he? He loves plants. This morning it was only normal gusty. I have been to Bodmin with Drake.'

'Jane told me.'

'I'll explain it all later. Have you eaten, Ross?'

'Briefly and early. But I can wait till supper.'

At the moment each was content with a neutrality founded on the exchange of commonplaces, the incidence and occurrence of mundane things. If there was to be war between them, love or lost love, agreement or disagreement, affinity or misunderstanding, it must yet wait a while to emerge. The sharp edges could be cushioned for a time by the routine of home.

They turned and went into the house together.

With the licence in his belt Drake was meanwhile making his way towards Sawle.
Demelza
had lent him Judith until tomorrow, so he was in time at Parson Odgers's cottage to catch him and his eldest son hammering at a piece of guttering that had come down in the gale. Drake was feeling so benevolent to the world in general that he said he would come up so soon as ever the gale had abated and replace all that piece over the front door with a piece of new. What they were putting back, he said, had gone poor and would hardly see the winter out.

He did not intend this as an ingratiating gesture, bu
t Parson Odgers did seem to feel
that there might be more in
the
young man than he had previously noted; he peered at the licence through a pair of broken spectacles, said all was in order and when did they now wish to be wed: next Monday? Drake said, could it be earlier than that? Parson Odgers said, well, there was nothing to stipulate that it should
not
be earlier; when did the young man suggest? The young man suggested tomorrow. Odgers winced as if he had been trodden on and said impossible, he was busy tomorrow; he had appointments, all sorts of things to
see
to; couldn't manage that. Perhaps, if he rearranged his timetable he might be able to fit it in on Wednesday morning. Drake, having observed the unintended effect of his offer to replace some of the guttering, said, well, if by some chance Mr Odgers could fit them in any time tomorrow, didn't matter whether twas early or late, he would, could, easily repair the whole of the guttering of the cottage before the end of the winter. He'd got some very suitable iron that could soon be knocked into shape and given a coat of paint before it was put up. Heavy stuff that would last for years. Mr Odgers coughed into his woollen scarf and said: 'Eleven-thirty, then.

'Mind you're not late,' he added, as Drake turned happily away. 'I can't celebrate after noon. It's against the law.'

'Thank you, Mr Odgers. Rest sure we'll not be late. Reckon we shall be in church soon after eleven.'

'Elcvcn-thirt
y, I said! And that, of course, is dependent on
the
gale. In this climate my poor church has so much to stand.'

As he mounted Judith, Drake offered
up
a silent prayer that Sawle's leaning spire should resist at least one more storm. The gal
e was becoming a littl
e less violent with the onset of dusk. That was not saying much; Judith staggered under the constant buffeting, and even here, two hundred feet above the sea, puffs of foam drifted like ghosts, dodging and dipping in the wind.

It had been a long day for Drake following other long days, but there was no fatigue in any of them. He had slept barely three hours any night since Morwenna came but he had felt no sleepiness during the day, nor did now, nor would when he put his head down. If there had been need he would cheerfully have ridden the fifty miles to Bodmin and back all over again. Life was in him like a burning, glowing spark; every moment, every thought added breath to it, fanning it alive. Ross had said to him once: 'Nothing should be able to destroy your life like that.' But it had. Perhaps equally nothing - no one person - should have been able to
make
his life like this - to make it over again, in Sam's terms. But it was so. And if
the
depths were too deep, surely no heights could be too high. There might be a moral law against misery: there was none against happiness.

Nor did he feel any serious doubts about Morwenna's love for him. At the moment he had no thoughts beyond securing her in wedded companionship: let the rest come if or when it would. He was prepared to be as patient as he promised - to wait for months or years. What did it matter if it
was
half a marriage? There was a proverb that among the blind the one-eyed was king. Until a few days ago he had been blind.

At the top of the last long hill he dismounted, for Judith was very tired. He led her down the narrow track, noticing with some surprise that there seemed to be no light in Pally's Shop. Indoors it must surely be dark by now, and Morwenna, if she were sewing, should not be straining her eyes. A worm of alarm moved in him. But then, of course, she might be at the gate waiting for him. She should be the one who might be worried.

But she was not at the gate. Th
e place looked deserted. The Tre
winnard boys normally worked from dawn until dusk, but on a day like this he would have sent them home by three. Had they gone? And had Morwenna gone? He jumped off the pony, looped the reins over the post and ran into the house.

'Morwenna! Morwenna!' Through the kitchen up to the parlour, and then part way up the ladder to the bedrooms. Nobody. The fire was out. Nothing. He was back to what he had been a week ago. He climbed the rest of the way and looked in at the bedroom where she had been sleeping. There was her bag, her nightdress, her slippers, her brush and comb. So at least she could not have -

'If ee plaise, sur.' One of the Trewinnards, he didn't know which. 'Mistress Whitworth, sur, she'm gone out.'

'Gone out?
Where?' Relief of a sort.

'Gone Trenwith.'

'Tre
nwith?' No relief now.

'Mistress Warleggan came for she this morning. Mistress Whitworth say she will walk her 'ome, as Mistress
Warleggan
be carre
n a baby, and in this gale o' wind.'

'When was this, Jack?'

'Jim, sur. Jack be gone. We tossed a coin to see who'd stay till
one of ee
was 'ome. Oh
...
dunno. Avcn no wa-atch. Twould be afore noon, reckon.'

'Did she say -
anything
more - how long she'd be?'

'Nay, sur, naught more
'n I d'say. She just say she be gwan walk

Mistress Warleggan 'ome.
I
reckoned she'd be no more'n a 'our.' 'Thank ee, Jim. Go home now.' 'Ais, sur.'

Barely stopping to slam the door behind him, Drake ran for the tired pony, clambered on its back, dug his heels in and turned wildly up
the
hill towards Trcnwith.

As soon as she sat down to dinner Morwenna regretted the decision to stay. It had been very hard to refuse and would have seemed like a rebuff to the two old people welcoming her. It would, too, have been a rebuff to Elizabeth who, however misguided earlier, had made what amends she could. Especially she had befriended Drake on an issue of great importance to his survival as a smith. It was good also to
see
that darkly attractive little boy, Valentine
Warleggan
, again. On their visits in Truro Morwenna had seen a good deal of him and become fond of him. He sat beside her at the meal, and plied her with more food and drink than she could eat.

That was all right; but this house was darkly reminiscent of trouble and bitter scenes and heartbreak. Merely being in it put back the clock to the time when she was Geoffrey Charles's governess and an impressionable girl in her teens, likely to be overborne by her ciders. It served to undermine her conviction now. Now that she was here, nothing seemed as definite, nothing as decided. She told herself that this was a weakness within herself, created by the nervous strains of these last years; irresolution was not deep in her temperament. Yet it was deep in her consciousness.

Nor, now that she had stayed, did she feel she had had the need to for fear of offending the old Chynoweths. Though they knew her to be a widow and had had a child of her own, they were not really interested in her or concerned about her affairs. The four years since she left Trenwith as a modest bride might have contained a whole lifetime for Morwenna; to them it was a few months in a repetitive existence whose monotony was only broken by the variety of the ailments they suffered. And their welcome to her was not really based on any personal warmth but on the recognition of a familiar human being who in the past had always been willing to sit and listen sympathetically to their complaints.

They had finished their main course and the heavy dishes were just being borne away when George arrived.

First it was a noise
at
the door and distant voices and the sound of feet. Then voices nearer and the clop of hooves on the gravel near the window. Elizabeth rose, her face flushing, put her hand on the back of her chair. George came in.

He was in tall boots and a snuff-coloured riding suit, and he was handing his cloak and hat to a servant as he entered. His hair was blown about by the wind, and he put up a hand to smooth it. His face was unusually red from its buffeting.

'Well, well,' he said. 'The family at dinner. Am I late?'

'Not in the least,' Elizabeth said. 'It can all be brought back straight away. Stevens, Morrison
..

'Yes'm.'

'And
Morwenna
,' said George, looking across as he greeted his mother-in-law. 'I had not thought to find you here.'

'Just a visit,' said Elizabeth. 'What a day! What brought you in such weather?'

'Impulse. And I felt I should look to my affairs -'

'Papa! Papa! Did you get near blown away?'

'And Valentine,' said George sarcastically. 'What a happy family!'

'Papa
! Did you see the sea? It is e-n
or-mous! Tom and Bettina took me to look down into Trevaunance Cove!'

'It is almost six months since I was here,' George said, 'and sometimes the presence of the owner has a salutary effect on the servants.' He sat opposite
Morwenna
and glanced around him. 'Ah
...
well, no, I think the cod is not for me, Stevens. Nor the fried beef. Was the goose good?'

'I did not eat it,' said Elizabeth. 'Father
...'

'Eh? What? Oh, yes, the goose was fair enough. We'll need bigger than that for Christmas, though. There's few enough of any size about. The bad spring seemed to start 'em off late'

'Papa! They say the roof came right off
Hoskin's cottage! Just like stripping a wi
g off a bald man! That's what Be
ttina said. Just like stripping a wig off a bald man!'

'Are you settling down with Lady Whitworth?' George a
sked Morwenna, ignoring the littl
e boy. 'No doubt you will find the life somewhat constricting.'

'Well, no,' said Morwenna, and stopped.

'Papa - !'

'Valentine,' Elizabeth said, 'please do not talk so much at the table. Allow your father a
littl
e peace.'

'Peac
e,' said George, still not looki
ng at Valentine, 'is something we prize only when it is lost. Like faith, like trust, like confidence.' He began his dinner.

'Talking of peace,' said Mr Chynoweth, pulling at his thin beard. 'I see that fellow George Washington has died. He was a th
orn if ever there was one. Puffe
d-up reputation too. Ah, well, end of an era, I suppose. End of a century too. Gracious knows what the next will bring.' He peered distrustfully into a future that did not belong to him.

Elizabeth motioned to the butl
er to bring in the next course for the rest of them. It consisted of cherry tarts, mince pies, apple fritters, and a plum pudding, with cream and custard and jelly. Dinner went on for a while to the sound of the buffeting wind. George's presence was big and alien and dominant in the room, like that of a king who has just come into a group of his subjects. Everyone strove to behave normally and no one quite did.

Morwenna looked at Elizabeth, caught her eye, and indicated that she would like
to leave. Elizabeth made a littl
e warning negative movement of the head.

'From what I could
see
,' said George, 'the gardens are in poor state. What have the men been doing?'

'It is difficult to keep a place tidy at this time of year. And in this wind. I see a branch of the fir by the gates is hanging.'

'The whole tree should come down. Have the apprentices arrived?'

'Yesterday in the forenoon.'

'They cost me £15 each. It was too much I thought, coming from a poor house, but the overseers said they were apty young boys.'

'They seem so. But one, George, one called Wilkins, I would not allow in the house as he hadn't had the smallpox. He will have to sleep in the village.'

'Oh, George,' said Mrs Chynowcth, digging into her immediate memory and struggling with her unruly tongue. 'Did you th-know that our little Morwenna is to wed again?'

Morwenna stared at the old woman in horror: during the whole of her visit this had not even been mentioned. She had been given no idea that Mrs Chynowcth even knew.

'No,' said George, and laid down his knife to take a sip of wine. 'That might be a way out of your present difficulties. Who is to be the man?'

'Papa,' Valentine said, 'I have been doing some painting in that picture-book you bought me in London. You have to have the book quite flat or the colours run. I'll show you when I get down. Mama, might I get down?' 'No, dear, not yet
...'

'The United States,' said Mr Chynowcth, half waking from a doze. 'That's what they call themselves. A democracy. Hah! But what docs their president say about it, what docs he say? Eh? I'll tell you. He says, "Remember, there never was a democracy that did not commit suicide." That's what he says. What's his name? I forget. Adamson or Adams or some such.'

An accumulation of the gale leaned against the house and seemed about to push it over. A footman came in and took away plates.

Elizabeth said: 'That silver coffee-pot we bought in London: one of the hinges of the lid is defective, I believe. I think we should take it back.'

'I paid £26 for it,' said George.

'Your old horse, Kinsman, has been ill with the
butts,' Elizabeth said. 'A bottl
e of Daffy's Elixir has brought him a little better, but I fear it is partly his age.'

'Let him be put down,' said George.

'Papa,' said Valentine, 'the day we arrived was such fun! We had scarce got into the house when a hawk was chasing a sparrow and the sparrow flew into the big hall through the open door and hid under the sideboard with the hawk following right into the house. Such a commotion! All the servants beating about! And in the end away flew the sparrow with the hawk still after him!'

There was a silence while they listened to the wind.

Elizabeth said: 'Farmer Hancock called yesterday. He was concerned to renew the lease of the 30 acres that you rent him. He says at present he pays £35 a year.'

'Hancock should know better than to call on you with his troubles,' said George. 'Tankard will be here next week.'

'I didn't know that. I didn't know, of course, that you were coming.'

Silence again.

'Who is to be the man?' George asked Morwenna.

Morwenna looked
at
him with sightl
ess eyes.

'Lucy Pipe came back with the th-news from th-church yesterday,' said Mrs Chynowcth. 'Th-somc name. A
carpenter or a smith or th-some
such. Not a good match, I th-should say. I don't know what her mother will think.'

'Is it Carne?' George said, still looking directly at Morwenna.

'Papa,' Valentine said. 'When dinner is over, will you come
up
and let mc show you -'

'Stevens,'
George said, turning to the butl
er, 'please take this child away.'

There was a brief stormy interlude while Valentine, tears in his eyes but not falling, was led away. After the commotion had settled George said: 'Is it
Carne
?' Morwenna continued to look back at him. 'Yes,' she said.