Inheritance Feud

Chapter 28

Chapter 28

She no longer knew herself. Even the recollection of some of the things that had happened, that she herself had caused to happen, made her blush now hotly, here in the privacy of the dark arbour, remembering. Last time her aunt had whip ped her-it had happened fairly often lately-it had been in the evening; she'd lain in bed afterwards sobbing, and Morven had come; climbing up the tree, vaulting with one leg over the sill into the room, into her bed, without a word, as so often ... and she'd given herself to him like a maenad. She wouldn't have thought any woman, any gently bred correct young woman, could behave so, and he'd laughed. It hadn't seemed to surprise him, he hadn't disliked it, he'd ... he'd taken advantage of it, instead, as though-as though she were an unprincipled woman, a harlot; harlots were spoken of in the Bible. And now her harlot's flesh, longing again, burned for Morven in the way her seat had lately burned under aunt Retford's birch. Why did one never know one's body until some dire thing befell it? What else was there still to know?

Annabel's tongue, tentative, rose-pink and pointed, came out like a little cat's, and wet her lips; her mind glowed with the recollection of Morven. It wasn't clear to her how she'd lived before. Tonight, if he should come again...

They didn't often talk together. It was too dangerous, because of aunt Retford so near. Annabel eased her bruised body on the wooden bench and ceased to wonder when Morven would take her away or where they would go. The movement of her limbs had released new, unfamiliar sensa tions in all of her flesh; the prickling tenderness of her n*****s against the tight bodice, the way they'd grown just lately; the responsive quality, as though she lacked a skin, of all of her body; so that even the rubbing of a leaf against her face gave her pleasure and strange, intimate pain. She was a different person; and, accordingly, angry at the invasion of such privacy by aunt Retford and her birch. If she would marry Godfrey, aunt Retford kept saying; if she would agree to marry Godfrey Devenham, it should stop.

She'd almost forgotten Godfrey. He wasn't a person any more. She could remember him at the end of a long, long tunnel, something of the shape and darkness of an elongated yew-arbour; she was sorry for Godfrey, that was all. But Morven, Morven was real...

She moved again, and eased her hurts a little. The sun shone now and bees buzzed. She was able to spare a thought for Cecily at Maddon, and how they said, Mrs. Betts had told her, that she had already started a baby. Perhaps she... but what did she know about it? Afterwards, when they were abroad, there would be more time to think.

She'd seen Livia Mary going across with the ashes to the heap, and saw her come back again with her bucket empty. She smiled this time, but Livia pretended not to see her. She'd been queerer than ever lately, not so much sullen as showing a gruff kindness, perhaps to make up for aunt Ret ford. If only there could soon be an end to that! Morven didn't perhaps know she was being whipped so often.

A quarter-hour later, Livia came to her down the path; she was carrying Annabel's cloak and bonnet.

"Your aunt says we're to go today to the almshouse, to take quince jelly." She spoke tonelessly, her eyes on the ground.

Annabel felt sudden weariness and pain overcome her. She couldn't walk so far today; aunt Retford should know then she realised that, of course, it was part of the punish ment; aunt Retford was saying, without words, that as she wouldn't go to Godfrey on the pony she could trudge on foot, four miles it was to old Ellen, with the jelly.

Ellen was an old servant, who had somehow stayed with Mrs. Retford since the days of the latter's marriage till she retired; she was one of the few now living who remembered Neil, briefly the master. It might have been hoped that a sum of money would be available to Ellen for her old age after having served so faithfully; perhaps this was the reason for sending a pot of quince jelly once a year. The almshouses they had been founded at about the time of Emmett's-were inhabited by five or six old women; they were beyond the village on the road that ran over the moor.

Annabel put on her cloak and bonnet listlessly; there was no way of evading the journey. Perhaps, if Livia had been more friendly, she'd have asked her if she could sit down for a while, somewhere in the heather, and let the maid walk on by herself with the quince-pot. It was on Livia's arm now, in a flat basket covered by a cloth. It had been made last autumn.

"Shall I carry the quince, Miss Annabel?" She started; had the other known, somehow, what she was

thinking, that she couldn't bear the trouble and weight even of that today? A trifle of haughtiness showed itself in Anna bel; she made herself survey Livia Mary, not giving way toher own confusion. One didn't grow confused before a ser vant. She said, coldly, after a moment. "If you will carry it carefully," and, walking before Livia to the garden-gate, set out, followed by the maid. Neither looked forward to the long walk in one another's company; the sun shone hotly down.

Annabel achieved her wish without the necessity of saying a single word to Livia; halfway along the moor paths, she began to droop. The heather, with its dark twining stems and little hard bells of unopened flowers, seemed invitingly near; she could see a blue butterfly in it, very small, early, the colour of harebells.

Livia watched, the sullen gleam that had been in her grey eyes changing, swiftly, to pity. If she had hands on Morven now, the devil. "It's all of two miles yet to the almshouses, Miss Annabel," she said gently. "Would you care to rest, and I'll go on? We nee 't say anything."

So Annabel sank down thankfully among the heather, and watched the maid stride off. What a strange girl Livia Mary was! But not unkind.

Livia reached the almshouse, presented Ellen with her year's quince, having found her seated among a row of equally patient, cloaked and capped old women waiting for death; and shortly shook the dust and the smell of institutions off herself again and turned back towards the moor. Her own old age wouldn't be spent in a place like that, she swore; better die in a ditch than eat charity. And that, my girl, she told herself grimly, is where you'll maybe find yourself soon enough, if anything happens to Morven before we can get away. With Miss Annabel perhaps breeding they'd be able to go sooner from what he'd said ... but must she sacrifice Miss Annabel? What was to befall her?

As if to remind her of danger, the gauger, the customs officer who'd come to Mains that time Bart was killed, clat tered past. He rode a weary horse and his cutlass clanked as he rode; there weren't enough gaugers to go round, Betts had already told her. The officer passed her the time of day, and she answered civilly; nothing more was said between them about Morven. Morven was only one more missing man, wanted for handling contraband and being among trouble. Depending on the judge it could mean Botany Bay for Morven, or else hanging. How did he think he'd ever win free, to be lord of Malvie? For she knew now that was his dream. "She shall bear me a son. He will be born at Malvie, and

inherit."

It could have been the angel Gabriel himself talking, Livia thought irreverently. He'd find, maybe, after all that he was mortal flesh, the same Morven Doon. When would he send word to her again to come to the place by the trees, or even, as he'd done lately sometimes, visit her on the way back from Annabel's room? A queer coil, it was ... and she her self queerer still to countenance it. But if Morven Doon came to her now, she knew, she'd receive him gladly, unable to resist any more than at other times. She'd never be able to resist Morven.

A dray moved patiently towards her in the near distance; it was Abel Judd, looking exactly as he'd done that other day, making this same journey. He drew up beside her and offered her a place in the cart. "I'm for the cottage," he said. "Care to come?" Livia saw his dark, shy glance assess her and felt, as one sometimes did with people, that Abel knew or, at least, suspected her state; lucky old mother Retford hadn't. She shook her head over the proffered lift; Miss Annabel was still back up there by herself on the moor; they'd better walk back together, in case there were questions. "How's your father managing for himself?" she asked Abel.

He shook his head. "He shouldn't be there alone," he told her, adding, as she knew already, that he'd asked old Aaron many times to come to him at the Fleece, to make his home. "But he maybe won't feel it's a home, without any woman,' he blurted out, his eyes resting on Livia. She heard him with amusement; Lord, was this another of them? He needn't look at her. She made it manifest to him, in the wordless courtesy which can be used, at such times, by all women; there are ways of leaving it clear when a man can hope, and when he can't. Abel showed neither pique nor dismay at her manner.

"You can always come to me, you know," he said gently, as though they had said more than they had. "Remember that if aught goes wrong, Livia; any time, you can always come to me."

She watched the dray draw off with its humped barrels, like monstrous prehistoric shapes, rocking in the back of the cart, and Abel's hat showing in front, pulled down over his eyes and to cover the bald patch on his scalp. He'd called her Livia, she noticed; everyone did except Mrs. Retford. It was as if they knew, from the start, that she couldn't be Mary.

The two young women returned to the Mains dower house without mishap or further adventures; Annabel was rested after her sojourn in the heather and no one had passed her by on the moor road. Aunt Retford cross-questioned her about the appearance, welfare and thanks of old Ellen; she answered routinely, only half aware of deceit, glad Livia had already briefed her with replies. Going upstairs afterwards to take off her outdoor clothes she was conscious of a growing intimacy with, almost dependence on, Livia. It should be the other way round, and the maid should depend on the mistress. But it didn't matter; she was too tired. Would Morven come tonight?