I
Stephen Carrington, on his way back from St Ives, dropped in at the Fox and Grapes to rest his horse and to take a bite of food. The clouds were shredded with a wan light as sunset approached. The inn, being on the coaching road, was more dependent on passing travellers than on the sparse and needy population surrounding Chacewater and St Day. This evening it was quiet, and Stephen went into the dining room, hardly noticing the dark young man in the expensive grey riding suit who was talking to the one pretty barmaid.
Stephen was tired but jubilant, and he ordered curlew pie, expecting it to be old and unsavoury but not really much caring. When, however, the young man came into the dining room, bending his head to avoid the rafters, and walked towards his table, Stephen was immediately on edge and on his guard. The one thing he had come to fear in Cornwall was an unwelcome recognition.
‘Good evening to you,’ said the young man. ‘Are you not Stephen Carrington?’
Stephen stared at the narrow face, the sparkling dark eyes, a shade too close together, the aristocratic nose, the smile.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You’re – er—’
‘Valentine Warleggan. We met at Nampara last year, when that girl died. And then later at Truro races.’
‘Of course,’ said Stephen again, but cautiously. The name alone was dangerous.
Valentine said: ‘The brandy here is not insupportable. Would you care to share this bottle?’
‘Thank ye.’ There wasn’t much else to say. So far as he knew, Stephen could perceive no pitfalls in this meeting.
Valentine pulled a chair out and sat down. It was clear that this was not the first drink he had had. ‘Just been in your district paying calls. It is your district still, I conceit?’
Stephen said: ‘I have been in Bristol for a while, but I believe shall make me permanent home in Cornwall from now on.’
Valentine called for a second glass, and when it came he bobbled some brandy into it and pushed it across the table. ‘Try that. Tell me what you think of it.’
‘Um . . . Very good.’
‘Last time we met you were engaged to my pretty cousin. Then you were no longer engaged. What went amiss? I quizzed Clowance but she was not forthcoming.’
‘Tis a private matter,’ said Stephen.
‘Naturally.’
Silence fell.
Stephen said: ‘Her parents were at her all the time to break it off. She’s very much under their thumb, y’ know.’
‘I would not have thought that. Of all the girls I know I would have given Clowance the most credit for having a mind of her own.’
A worm of dislike for this young man turned in Stephen. ‘Well, it happened.’
The pie was brought. He cut into it, considering the smell of the steam that came out. Valentine’s eyes were following the girl who had brought it in.
‘Attractive little creature. Pretty, don’t you think.’
Stephen grunted. She was quite good looking, true, but he personally would not have given her a second glance.
‘Girls of that sort are generally very simple,’ said Valentine, musing over the rim of his glass. ‘And easy got . . . Easy rid of too. Go a little higher in the scale and they become tenacious. There was a pretty little thing in my first term at St John’s. But by God she was a clinger. Once she had obtained a footing inside my door she took a great dislike to the outside of it, and I had the utmost difficulty in uncolonizing her.’
The pie was eatable. And the brandy warming. Stephen’s spirits rose again. He said: ‘Of course I have not given up Clowance.’
‘Not? Well, perseverance has its merits. Though, as I have said, Clowance has a mind of her own.’
‘Is he your friend, this man Tom Guildford?’
‘I introduced ’em. In all innocence, needless to say.’
‘If he wants her, why is he not down here now?’
‘His mother is gravely ill. I was the bearer of his messages. No doubt he has written too.’
‘I suppose he has money.’
‘His family are comfortably circumstanced.’
‘That makes a difference, don’t it. Never mind, maybe I’ll have money before very long. I’ve just bought a ship.’
Valentine took his eyes reluctantly off the barmaid. ‘Women fascinate me,’ he said. ‘Hypnotize me. They have this secret that I have to discover. That it is always the same secret does not seem to matter – until I have discovered it. When it is gone, then my interest has gone. Very sad. Many of ’em say I am unsatisfactory. That is, when I have given ’em marching orders they say this; not before!’
‘And are you?’
‘Unsatisfactory? Damn me, not at all, I assure you! It is not the act they complain of, but they appear to want something more afterwards. A relationship, so I might describe it. I am not at all interested in a relationship. I only want to rob them of their secret. Perhaps I am like a thief, always wishing to break into a safe.’
Stephen winced. ‘Come, come, drink your brandy.’
‘Or a bee, wishing to steal their honey. I have no lasting interest in the safe, in the flower. The pleasure is in the theft . . .’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Stephen, and continued with his pie. A second glass of brandy went down.
‘So you are not so very poor,’ said Valentine.
‘What?’
‘Buying a ship. You are not so very poor.’
‘My uncle died in Bristol. I heard he was ill, but it was too late. He left me a small amount.’
‘What is your vessel?’
‘A French prize. I shall fit her out for local trading. And I have another building.’
‘Where?’
‘Looe.’
‘What yard?’
‘Blewett & Carne.’
‘Is that not the Carne who is Ross Poldark’s brother-in-law?’
‘Yes. No harm in that, is there?’
‘Nay, nay. So soon you will become a man of substance.’
‘It is a long way off. But it is a beginning.’
The pie was done. Stephen picked his teeth.
Valentine said: ‘You should meet my father. He is a great one for enterprising young men. Unfortunately he does not consider I am enterprising in the right direction!’
‘Your father’s too big a man for the likes of me.’
‘Yes, maybe. Who knows? He told me last week whom I was to marry . . .’ Valentine slopped a little brandy on the table.
Stephen stared at him. ‘Does it please ye?’
‘It pleases me that no instant marriage is suggested – not even a public betrothal. There is still some dotting of the “i”s and crossing of the “t”s to be completed.’
Stephen still stared. ‘D’ye mean a marriage contract?’
‘I believe you could call it that.’
‘Riches marries riches, eh? It was always so. A man without name or money is always lost.’
‘Does not follow, my friend, does not follow.’
‘Who is the fortunate girl?’
Valentine spilled more of the brandy on the table. ‘Have you heard the news from Europe? No sooner do we have cause to rejoice than the Little Corporal pulls some magic out of his bag. After putting Blücher to flight he has, they say, devastated Schwarzenburg at Dresden. The Allies lost 25,000 men taken prisoner, 30 guns, any number of flags. You cannot keep the man down.’
‘That is what I am counting on,’ said Stephen.
‘What?’
‘The war, I think, is not over yet. It will suit me book if it lasts another year or two.’
‘You haven’t told me what your book is.’
‘Oh, this and that about the sea.’
‘What’s your vessel called?’
‘The Chasse Marée. Know you what it means?’
‘Damn me, I’m far from sure. Does it mean a Fish Cart?’
‘A man at St Ives said twas just the French name for a lugger. I shall keep her name for the time being in case we find ourselves in French waters.’
‘Privateering, I see?’
‘Not so. Or it does not have to go that way.’
‘Fighting the French.’ Valentine leaned an elbow on the table. ‘My half brother feels deep about it all. Rot me if I can understand why. I’ve just been visiting them – them among others. He’s brought himself home a delightful little wife. Spanish. Can’t you tell? Her dignity – quite fascinating! Well, by God, he has diced with death for the last six or seven years. Now he has wed a girl with money enough to live on comfortable. They’re working day and night on that derelict old mansion of theirs to bring it back to life again . . . where I was born . . . where my mother lived so long . . . a house I would have been glad to inherit . . .’ Valentine sighed and brought his glance back from the barmaid. ‘Yet all Geoffrey Charles thinks about – I mean as an immediate future – when they have put their house to rights and given it a proper housewarming – is to go back to rejoin Wellington and fight the French! It defeats me . . . I should say enough: we have only one life; let others carry on. How shall you equate glory if it brings with it death or disembowelment? How shall it weigh against the possession of a woman – her naked shoulder, her breasts? . . . No wonder Napoleon is a poor lover. He must be thinking of battle flags all the time.’
Stephen fumbled in his purse and found a coin to pay for the meal.
Valentine said suddenly: ‘Do you play Faro?’
‘What?’
‘Faro, the card game.’
‘I have. It is a while ago.’
‘Being unlucky in love, you must be lucky at cards.’
Stephen stared at him. ‘I am, often as not.’
‘Come and see me at Cardew, then. We often have little gaming parties.’
‘Your stakes will be too high.’
‘We play more for fun than gain.’
‘Is that so?’
‘I might also introduce you to one or two wenches who would take your mind off your long-lost love.’
‘At Cardew?’
‘No, for that pleasure we should have to go out again.’ Valentine grinned. ‘What of next Monday?’
Stephen thought round it. It was not an idle invitation, then. He was not sure he altogether trusted this young man. It was an odd sort of invitation, out of the blue. But Valentine had a reputation for gregariousness, for being eccentric. People had spoken of him in this way. Would he be shying at bogies if he refused? If sincerely meant, this invitation might lead to more promising things. And was there really any risk, apart from the risk he always ran in Cornwall, of a sudden recognition? And every month that passed, that risk was reduced.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘What time?’
‘About five. Are you your own master now? Have you given up the milling work?’
‘Yes, from the beginning of this year.’
‘When your uncle died?’
‘That’s right,’ said Stephen. ‘When me uncle died.’
II
The following afternoon three people were riding on Hendrawna Beach: Clowance Poldark on Nero, Geoffrey Charles Poldark on Bargrave, Amadora Poldark on Glow. They had been as far as the Dark Cliffs; Clowance had shown them the Holy Well; now they were half way home.
Geoffrey Charles shouted: ‘This is one thing we lack at Trenwith.’
‘Well, it’s near enough. You can ride over any time without consulting me.’
‘When does hunting start?’
‘Oh, not for a month yet.’
‘D’you know, though I followed the hunt as a child, I never can remember when it begins.’
‘Why d’you ask?’
‘Well, Harriet – Lady Harriet – loaned us these horses for the duration of our stay. But she is likely to want them back when the season opens.’
Clowance shouted: ‘I do not think you need be anxious. She has a large enough stable.’ She drew rein slightly to allow Amadora to catch up with them. She said to her: ‘I have scarcely met Lady Harriet – Sir George’s new wife, so I have not really got to know her. Do you like her?’
‘Ya lo creo! She shall be very kind, very generous.’
Geoffrey Charles laughed. ‘I think we both like her – Amadora especially because she speaks Spanish. But then Amadora even likes Step-father George!’
‘Why shall I not? He has done no harm to me.’
Clowance said: ‘Perhaps you feel the appeal of his wickedness. All nice girls, they say, are attracted by wicked men.’ She spoke with a certain inner feeling.
Amadora looked puzzled, and Geoffrey Charles shouted a Spanish translation.
‘Ah, so. But yet I do not see him as wicked – not yet. What Geoffrey Charles has to say to me about him – that is another matter.’
‘When I met him,’ Clowance said, ‘I felt rather sorry for him.’
Geoffrey Charles said: ‘You have never been under his thumb, as I was as a child. That makes a difference to one’s feelings, I assure you.’
The horses had fallen to a walk. All of them were tired after a long gallop in the yielding sand. Their shadows moved with them, a pace or two ahead. The chimney of Wheal Leisure smoked lazily on the cliff. There was another smaller trail of smoke rising from what looked like a bonfire nearer Nampara. The sea was rumbling, far out. A flock of starlings fluttered against the sky.
Geoffrey Charles said: ‘Well, then, we shall be able to keep our horses until we return to Spain. That cannot be far off.’
‘Oh, no!’ said Clowance. ‘You are hardly here! Amadora, you must persuade him otherwise!’
The Spanish girl lifted one gloved hand from her reins. ‘Can I persuade him? I do not know. Should I? He is a soldier.’
Geoffrey Charles said: ‘We shall give our party on Saturday sennight. After that, I think we should soon go. There is much happening. There is much to do.’
After a minute Clowance said: ‘You remind me of my father.’
‘That I look on as a high compliment. Where is he?’
‘Papa? He went in to Redruth this morning. He should be back almost any time. You will sup with us?’
‘Thank you, but Drake and Morwenna were coming to Nampara and should be there by now. We cannot—’
‘Then you shall all surely stay. If my mother has not driven them to a promise by now I shall be surprised.’ Clowance screwed up her eyes. ‘Is that a bonfire? Just in front of our garden . . . Oh, it might be . . .’ She turned in her saddle to Amadora. ‘Today they have been finishing cutting the harvest. It must be the same in your country. I believe they have finished now, and are drinking some of our ale. They will sit a while and maybe sing a little before night falls and they go home.’
As the three riders approached they saw a group of farm workers sitting on the rough ground that separated the garden of Nampara and the stile from the first sand; it was a rank barren piece with thistles and tree mallows and tufts of marram grass. Driftwood, come in with recent tides, had been pushed into a rough pile in the centre, with gorse used to fire it. Clowance could see her mother there and one or two of the indoor servants.
‘Let us go this way,’ she said to the others, turning her horse inland where the Wheal Leisure cliffs gave way to low sand dunes. She knew that if three people on horses arrived on the scene of the bonfire the workers would stand up and become self-conscious, and much of the fun would go out of it. She and the others, having dismounted at the house, could stroll into the group if they so chose, and no one would be disconcerted.
III
They had grown oats in the Long Field this year. Ross had decided that one smaller field of wheat near Reath Cottage would be sufficient, together with what he had over from last harvest. Demelza had asked for a single row of potatoes along the edge of the Long Field when it was ploughed, and they had cropped well and been drawn at the end of last month. Now the last sheaf of oats was reaped and tied and must dry off for a few days before it was gathered. As usual half a dozen extra hands had been brought in to help with the reaping, and these, with the regular workers on the farm, made up a group of sixteen, who sat around the bonfire and drank the small beer that Demelza had sent – and later taken – out to them. There was no tradition of lighting a bonfire, but the driftwood was there for the taking and it looked more friendly to squat around a flame even on a sunny afternoon. And, as everyone knew, although all the workers were men, women would come over from Mellin Cottages or even one or two from the house to gape and listen and giggle and chat.
‘We’re some late this year,’ said Cal Trevail to Art Thomas, who was one of the casual helpers. ‘Michaelmas but two weeks off and not all the fields in.’
‘Tis like it all round,’ said Art, sipping his ale and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Pilchards in J’ly, then naught for we since – St Ives ’ave ’ad ’em all on this coast. Reckon they catch ’em afore ever they get this far.’
‘Else you’d not be ’ere, I s’pose?’ said Moses Vigus, sidling up and squatting close behind them.
‘No, I’d not, you can rest on that. But you grow tired o’ waiting for the huer. Village ’ll suffer if we don’t get a shoal soon.’
‘I ’spose Brother’s there?’
‘Which brother?’
‘John, o’course.’
‘Oh, ’e’s out most days.’
‘What’s this I ’ear ’bout your other brother, eh? ’Bout Music. There’s whisperings ’bout Mrs Pope. Music told ee any stories, ’ave ee?’
‘Music be very tight-mouth these days.’
Cal Trevail said: ‘I only heard tell something was amiss when the old man died. Thank ee, Ena, that’s uncommon kind of ee.’
Ena Daniel was filling the mugs again. Cal Trevail smiled at her uncertainly through his hair; she bridled and turned away.
‘Got an eye for she, ’ave ee?’ whispered Moses Vigus, who never missed a thing. ‘She’d suit you, Cal. Fit ee like a glove, she would. ’Andy size; not too broad in the beam. Been aboard yet? Get her forced put, then she cann’t refuse ee.’
Cal allowed a wry grin to cross his face, then wiped it off with the back of his hand. ‘Maybe so, maybe not.’
‘Lot of this shilly-shallying,’ said Moses. ‘What ’bout Music, Art?’ he persisted. ‘’Eard tell strange stories ’bout he. They say he have a fancy for Katie Carter. How ’bout that! Dedn know he were fanciful for women – nor fanciful for nothing except screeching tenor in the choir. Tell us, Art, do he ’ave what most men ’ave?’
There was a cackle of laughter.
Art took a good gulp of ale. ‘Moses, me old dear, your ’quiring for this, that and the other. Rumour about Mrs Pope. Rumour about Katie. Rumour about Music. Why don’t ee ask that man over there? Mebbe he’d knaw more of everything you’re ’quiring of. Eh? Do ee go’n ask him, me old dear.’
They looked up and saw Ben Carter, who had walked from Wheal Leisure and had stopped a few moments to talk to Mrs Zacky Martin, no doubt to ask after the health of his grandfather.
‘What’s it to do with he?’ said Cal.
‘Well, just as I be Music’s brother, so he be Katie’s brother. Edn that so? And if thur be rumour ’bout Mrs Pope, or if there be rumours ’bout Katie or Music, then Ben be the man to ask! Just go ask ’im, now! See what he d’say.’
Ben was a slightly built man, quiet spoken and reserved. But as underground captain at Wheal Leisure he had gathered a new prestige; also his fight with Stephen Carrington had lost nothing with the telling. So, as he was generally known to be sharp tempered, men did not approach him with impertinent questions.
Just then Clowance came out, and any suggestion of a frown on Ben’s brow instantly cleared. He was introduced to Geoffrey Charles, whom he scarcely knew, and to Amadora. They stood on the edge of the seated group, talking and drinking ale with the rest.
Ben said to Clowance: ‘I come to see Jeremy, as he didn’t walk up this morning. It was not of importance but I thought the whym engine had need of his looking at.’
‘He has gone to Wadebridge, Ben. He left early this morning.’
‘It is not important. She – the engine – she’s not quite right, Peter reckon, but he don’t fancy to stop her without Jeremy’s permission.’
Geoffrey Charles said: ‘D’you know, my knowledge of mining is of the most minimal. Of course I was only four when the great Grambler shut down, and a little over eight when my father died. Since then I have not had much opportunity . . . Jeremy has promised to take me down Leisure sometime. I must remind him.’
‘Any time you d’wish, sir,’ said Ben. ‘It would be my privilege. Don’t often get chances to take an army cap’n down – an officer of the 43rd Monmouthshires at that!’
It was a longer speech than Ben was normally given to. Geoffrey Charles laughed. ‘I did not know my history was so well known.’
‘Cap’n Poldark – the other cap’n, that is to say – sometimes mention it. Besides, who wouldn’t be proud of fighten as you’ve been fighten – all through the Peninsula: under Moore, under Wellington.’
Mrs Zacky, who was standing near, said: ‘Welcome to Nampara, ma’am. Welcome from us all.’
There were murmurs of agreement. Amadora found the Cornish dialect impossible to understand, but she received the message. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I shall be happy to be here.’
‘Comen to live permanent at Trenwith, are ee, Cap’n?’ asked Beth Daniel.
‘Who knows? After the war.’
‘Open Grambler ’gain, sur,’ someone shouted.
‘Didn’ oughter ever’ve been shut reely,’ said Moses Vigus in an aside.
Geoffrey Charles, who had the ears of a dog-fox, said sharply. ‘Who are you? Do I know you?’
‘Oh, tak’ no notice of ’e, sur,’ said Mrs Zacky. ‘That’s Moses Vigus. No one takes the least bit of notice of ’e.’
There was laughter.
‘His father was Nick,’ said Ben Carter, with some malevolence.
‘Oh, I think I do have some recollections. Was Nick not very bald?’
‘Very bald,’ said Beth Daniel, with satisfaction.
‘And a mischief maker,’ said someone in the circle, and there was another laugh.
‘More than a mischief maker,’ said Ben, whose father had been led by Nick into ruin.
‘There’s nicer men than ’e ’round here, Cap’n Geoffrey Charles,’ said an oldish man coming up just then. ‘Paul Daniel. Recollect me, do ee, sur?’
‘Of course, of course, and very good to see you.’
While this conversation was going on Demelza and Drake sat alone in the parlour except for young Henry Poldark who drowsed lightly sucking his thumb and occasionally stirring a fat leg. Isabella-Rose, having found a new cousin scarcely a year older than herself, had at once commandeered her. She had taken Loveday’s hand and led her down to the cave to show her Jeremy’s boat and some shells they had found when last out in it. Morwenna had said she would go with them to see they did not get into trouble.
‘Why did you call him Henry?’ Drake asked, staring down at his tiny nephew.
‘We tried all the names we could think of,’ said Demelza ‘All the family tried. It was quite different from the other children: we knew as soon as ever they were born. Not Henry. We almost called him Claude.’
‘Why?’
‘It was Ross’s brother’s name – who died young. And Ross’s grandfather too.’
‘And who was Henry?’
‘Ross’s grandfather too.’
They both laughed.
‘Claude Henry,’ Demelza explained unnecessarily.
‘I thought I heard Clowance call him Harry.’
‘So you would. Henry. Harry. Hal. That’s what they called the Henrys who were kings.’
‘And he has another name?’
‘Vennor. I don’t suppose he will wish to be called that, but it all depends how he feels when he grows up.’
Drake rubbed his hair beside his ear and frowned.
‘I’m going grey, Demelza, have you noticed?’
‘So am I.’
They both laughed again. ‘But yours don’t show.’
‘I take care it doesn’t show. It is easier for a woman. It is not considered vanity to touch up one’s hair.’
‘Vanity of vanities, as Sam would say.’ Drake sighed. ‘But it is good to be here again. This is the room where you taught me to read and write. Remember?’
‘Just!’
‘And once did you not say twoud be better if I stopped trying to see Morwenna?’
‘It’s mean of you to recall that,’ said Demelza. ‘I was trying to save you trouble and injury from the Warleggans.’
‘I know, m’dear. It seemed right for you to do so at the time. But in the end – the Good Lord be praised . . .’
‘Sam warned you as well.’
‘I know, I know.’ Drake smiled and looked around ‘You’ve changed some things. New curtains again. That cupboard has gone.’
‘The one I hid myself in once from Father. We kept it for years for old times’ remembrance, but in the end I said to Ross it just has to go.’
‘And Garrick?’
‘Oh, that was awful, Drake. But that’s years ago – did I never write and tell you? . . . We knew he was very old and not well, but maybe I was thoughtful for other things. One morning I was in here adding up my accounts. You know I really have no head for figures. In he came, lolloping as usual – I half expected him to overset some table. But he put his great paw on my arm, and then his head, and I cried, “Oh Garrick, don’t do that!” for he would have made my pen hand all drunken. So he stopped and lay down, and I went on adding up my figures. And when they were done, I put down my pen and looked at him – and he was just lying there . . .’
‘Ah . . . Too bad.’
‘It was too bad,’ said Demelza indistinctly; ‘it was too bad that the last words he ever heard from me were a reprimand, as if he was not wanted . . .’
‘I think he would know better’n that.’
There was a tap on the door.
‘Beg pardon,’ said Jane Gimlett. ‘Ena d’want to know if we should open another cask of ale.’
‘Yes,’ said Demelza.
‘Thank ee, ma’am.’ She went out.
‘And you,’ said Demelza. ‘How are you, Drake, really, truly? It has been good to be over there?’
‘In Looe? Good in most ways. Though I miss you and Sam – and the north coast. Nothing in the south be quite so vigorous, like.’
‘Would you ever come back?’
‘Geoffrey Charles would like it – would like us to stay now when they d’leave – caretakers, like. His steward, he calls it. It was always what he planned when he was a boy. Of course he says he would not, could not expect us to leave Looe right away. He have offered generous money; it seems that Amadora have money, so he can afford it . . . Of course it is not all money, for we are comfortable enough in Looe. But I see Geoffrey Charles’s feeling: he have already spent so much on this house and now it may be a year before he returns; he will not wish it to go to ruin again while he is away.’
‘How does Morwenna feel?’
‘She have mixed thoughts about Trenwith.’ Drake hurried on as Demelza was going to speak. ‘Oh, she is glad to see Geoffrey Charles, and glad to see him wed to such a good and fine-spirited young woman. We are all well together – and I b’lieve we would remain so. But as you know, Morwenna’s marriage to Whitworth left deep scars. It took long to heal them, and I b’lieve the skin over them is still tender. You sort of wonder if it would be right or wise to have her living here – ’specially after the others have gone.’
Demelza said: ‘But Morwenna is happy with you now?’
The old smile came and went on his face. ‘I b’lieve she’ve been very happy.’
‘You and her?’
He stared down at Henry again. ‘I wonder if it is in your memory to mind what I once said to you – can’t remember just when. It was when I were young and romantic. I said that Morwenna was my night and my day.’
‘Yes,’ said Demelza.
‘Well, it is just the same now.’
Henry grunted and his eyelashes fluttered. Demelza tucked him in.
‘And for her, Drake,’ she persisted.
‘Yes, and for her, I b’lieve, I truly b’lieve.’
Another silence. ‘We have only the one child,’ said Drake, ‘but it is not for lack of the loving.’
Demelza looked out at the bright day. She said: ‘That’s all I wanted to know.’