Inheritance Feud

Chapter 29

Chapter 29

It was some nights later. Morven was lying with his cousin. The light from a risen, waning moon streamed across the bed; having shown the branches of the tree outside almost as bright as day, they then outlined, with more precision, Morven's breeches, cast arrogantly over a chair. He caught sight of these and thought how, erroneously, he'd grown fam iliar enough, with repetition, to think himself safe in coming here, when in fact it was as dangerous as it ever had been. If that old woman through the wall heard sounds, she'd come in at once; and within the hour the clamour would reach the ears of authority, whether he'd got away meantime with or without his breeches. He smiled. By the dark of the moon, there'd be less danger; but by then, in any case, if all went as it should, he'd be well across to the Ayre of Man with Livia, leaving his plan for Malvie to fulfil itself in natural course. This might, he thought, be his last night here; he'd have to tell Annabel what she must now do, before he left, in case he didn't see her again for some time. The prospect aroused some unwillingness in Morven; he could see she'd take it badly, however he put it to her.

She stirred and sighed, and he let his mind dwell briefly on her, sometimes fingering the bright hair which lay scattered over the pillow. A part of him, he knew, could still feel pity, and the thought of Annabel penned up, perhaps for years, with that grotesque at Malvie roused it in him now. He him self wouldn't abandon her, of course, or the son she should bear him. In fact-his satisfaction deepened as a result of what he himself had, knowingly, taught her it might well be necessary for him to come across and solace Annabel, once or twice a year from Man. Otherwise, if she were compelled to take lovers, the inheritance might again be in doubt... one had to make due provision, foresee everything of that kind. Poor little Annabel, like a little b***h in season. Women 

He caressed her knowledgeably, using certain ways he'd learned from Bart by word of mouth, then proved later for himself. They didn't fail him. Annabel had altered, he knew, from the innocent, unaware little virgin she'd been when he first came here to her, the night of the storm some weeks ago now. He'd been aware, none better, of what he was doing to her, as time went on; destroying, after the beginning, almost like a second stubborn maidenhead, the quality she'd kept of a certain natural delicacy, of innate withdrawal. He hadn't had time for that; and in the determined pursuit of the business he'd made, even Bart couldn't have bettered him, he felt cer tain. By now, the pantings and sighs, the receptive upward thrustings of Miss Annabel proved it. He smiled. Her tail would burn, doubtless, while he was away on Man. The part of Morven that had been savagely resentful of Philip's daugh ter, of the heiress, the prim little person who, last year, wouldn't come to his casual whistle, rejoiced at this achieve ment. A handful for Devenham, perhaps.

Was she pregnant yet? She should be, Morven decided; and watched, in the state which he had now reached of being able to assess Annabel's responses; and his own. It was as though he watched a mime-play, each action of the wordless players significant; impatient as he'd been, early on, he knew, with the green child's womb that refused, time and again, to accept his seed, by now he was considerate. It had been worth it to watch and control the slow, sure ripening of Annabel's inclinations, her awareness, the hot Doon blood coursing in her alongside the pale maternal Melrose. Not, he thought now, that she would ever be Livia; with Livia one didn't ever have to go gently, for fear of hurting her; Livia, who filled a man's hands with all promise, ripe fruit and golden corn!

He must accomplish this present task here in good time to take Livia away to have her baby. They'd both go at the earl iest feasible moment after Annabel should be proved with child.

He returned to Annabel. He was almost sure, by now, that she must have quickened to him; discreet questioning of Livia about the state of the linen had given him the answer he wanted; how she'd sulked at that! She hadn't wanted to tell him anything, hadn't wanted to know. But there were, in any case, other signs. He slid his hands up now under Annabel's shift, and found her breasts, swollen a little and soft, no longer so much like small hard apples. Bart had said-how often he still had recourse to Bart!-that you could tell, almost at once, that way, when a woman was pregnant. At his touch, he heard Annabel moan pleasurably; he hushed her, always rem embering aunt Retford nearby through the wall. Livia said she was taking a d**g to make her sleep, she hadn't been well. Let the old harridan sleep forever. He didn't concern himself with her health.

He served Annabel in course, feeling, again, as the seed left him to enter her, an almost sacramental quality attach ing to the moment and the act. It was as if he himself remem bered the centuries during which his ancestors had, in such a way, perpetuated the blood of their ancient house. Doon seed, garnered and sown again to ensure Malvie for Doons for a generation to come

It was done; he turned again from her, thinking once more of the different way he himself had spent the last four nights. He hadn't been able to come to Annabel, urgent as it had now become to be certain of having impregnated her before he left. He'd been away, some few miles down the rocky coast, seeing about hiring a boat from the Leith fishermen to go across to Man. Aaron, who still had his own boat, had been afraid of the revenue-cutters and said he'd had word they would be sent, next week again, to cruise up and down and eye the near channel. More trouble wouldn't pay. Then there was the money Morven himself had made over the past few months, and Bart's. After that was all stowed, perhaps after three or four days, or a week, he could come for Livia.

Livia! The thought of her again strengthened Morven, rendered him complete; even here, in bed with this narrowly fashioned, immature child with her thin resistant sticks of limbs. Too quick, it had all had to be.

She responded then. Suddenly, she began kissing him; full deep satisfying kisses, a grown woman's, trusting, loving and unafraid. Presently, she herself had already often learned, her body would turn mysteriously to flame; she lay expectant. Presently it came upon her, the sweet inward turbulence, the demanding storm, as always when he'd served her, her hus band, her husband . . .

Afterwards, she lay again quiet, obedient and still. It was then Morven saw fit to instruct her further, placing his mouth close against her ear and whispering, so aunt Retford still woldn't hear throuh the wall.

"No. Oh, no, no!" The sound she would have made was almost a scream. He stifled it. "Quiet. Lie quiet, will you, Annabel?"

He glanced round at the door, and listened for some mom ents; it was all right, the old woman's drugs must be strong. But it mustn't happen again. He turned to the crying girl and subtly, carefully, tried to make it clear to her that he himself must go away for a time, the law was still after him and it was better to be, meantime, elsewhere. She would be safer and happier by far at Malvie than the Mains; nobody there would whip or supervise her; Godfrey would be her husband in name only, and would protect her till he himself came. "And I will do so," he said. His voice had a prophetic ring in his own ears. What other outcome could there be than that in some way, sometime, when the affair with the gaugers and poor Bart should be long forgotten, he should return triumphant to Malvie?

"But you promised. You promised we'd go away together. And how can I marry him when, when-" She was sobbing, a child again; a defrauded, deceived, ravished child. "He can't do this, can he?" Morven whispered. "I'll come, and we'll do this together often." But she would listen to nothing; she was his own wife, his handfast-wife, she reminded him piteously; how could she marry Godfrey?

"You'll still be my wife. It's only to ensure Malvie for us. You know I love Malvie, don't you, Annabel? You know it's really mine. Would you refuse it to me?" He tried that, and more; but she was not persuaded, and her crying, if it grew louder, would surely wake someone. In the end he stopped her mouth by taking her again quickly, fiercely, part to console and part to subdue her; almost viciously wreaking on her flesh the anger he felt at further unnatural delay. First so much time lost until she conceived by him, and now ... but she must, should obey him! He would convince her of it in time; this way, he could at least establish mastery over her, leave her lulled and perhaps comforted.

But she still wept, and at first struggled under him; then clung fast to him with her limbs later when he would have risen from her after all, and made him stay; the dawn was at the window, he knew he should be gone long ago. The light had already grown clear enough for him to see her tear stained little face. "Don't go, Morven, Morven, take me with you, take me now, I'll do as you say wherever we go, I'll do anything, anything." She saw herself, he knew, as a smuggler's wife, a mender of hose, a patcher of nets; anything but what he wanted. He told her as much, coldly. "You won't consider my wishes," he said. "It is always only your own." He freed himself from her at last, and went and dressed himself. The tears poured down Annabel's face as she watched him; he'd go soon, and after the horrid, horrid things he'd said ... as

if, after him, she'd go to Godfrey or anyone. Morven turned suddenly and smiled, using all the charm he had. There wasn't any point in frightening her further.

"Give it some thought, chicken," he said, and came and kissed her and tucked the disturbed covers back. "I promise I'll come to you again. We'll talk of it further." He would have, he decided, in any case to come once more; he couldn't leave matters in such a state of uncertainty.

He felt her arms slide around his neck; her cheek was hot with tears. "You promise?" she said, and her voice trembled. "Tomorrow ... you will truly come?" He lied to her, knowing tomorrow was unlikely for several

reasons. He promised everything, in an effort to accustom her, now she was aware of it, to the suitability of his plan for Malvie. Tomorrow, or as soon as he could, he'd come again, make love with her, talk persuasively this time during the act, not later; in that state, he knew, she'd see anything from his view, agree to anything. But there was so little time left for patience; Livia's child was almost due to be born. If he were to tell Annabel of that, or perhaps get Livia to tell her? Surely the quick resentful pride of the Doons would make Annabel do then as he wished, and go straight to that other... if only he could be more certain, meantime, of having got her with his child! If it were a false alarm, it'd be all to do again, somewhat differently; with less ease, no doubt, once she was Godfrey Devenham's official wife at Malvie. Malvie . . . it must not, so nearly regained, be lost now for a child's spoilt whim.

He had left Annabel partly comforted with his kiss, and his promise. It was to be her last comfort for long. Less than a week later, Morven Doon murdered the gauger who had been sent over with others from Grattan.

Godfrey Devenham had been planning his garden at

Malvie. As he made his way down the vistas of newly implanted shrubs and trees, past the lake, and the dug plots where, next year, flowers would grow, and the weeded avenue, he was aware of a sense of inward purpose, of deep and growing pleasure; all this should be a frame for Annabel. Whether she came to fill the frame or not did not perhaps immediately concern Godfrey, or much deter him; he was used to having plans and dreams which failed to reach fruition. He had not, initially, thought of this retreat in the north as anything but a means of escape from wretchedness, and it had brought him love; the love transformed him, making him no longer a creature of a separate dimension, causing him to see her at every turn of the paths, or seated amid summer roses that had not yet bloomed, roses from Persia that the nurserymen had had sent this year from the south. It was as it had been in the days last summer when she was often with him, when he would watch her pick up a shell and bring it to him, and gently follow with his weak forefinger the delicate whorls and spirals she had touched, shading from their peripheral pallor to exquisite inner rose. Holding the perfect shape to their ears, they had used to listen together to the sound, brought home to Malvie walls themselves, of the sea; the imprisoned sea, so that at night, when Godfrey was alone again, he would pick the shell up, and listen to the sea and think again of Annabel. He thought constantly of her, at the same time as he gave his full attention to the grouping of lilacs or the framing of a disposed virgin's-bower. She was his life, and made his heart