I
On the first of April the Allies entered Paris, led by the Tsar, the King of Prussia and Prince Schwarzenberg of Austria representing his Emperor. Paris, preferring not to suffer like Moscow, had put up a frail resistance. On the eleventh Napoleon abdicated. On the thirteenth he took poison, which did not work. On the fifth of May he entered into possession of his new estate as Emperor and Sovereign of the Isle of Elba, with an annual allowance of a million francs. On his voyage out he designed a new flag for himself and his new possession. He told the sorrowing French that he would return next spring when the violets were in bloom. Lord Byron wrote a poem of grief that the great man had fallen.
At the end of April Viscount Wellington, imminently to become a Duke, but dressed in a plain blue frock coat, white neck-cloth and black top hat, flanked by General Stewart and Lord Castlereagh, made his own triumphant entry into Paris riding a white charger and watched with intense curiosity by the great crowds that lined the route. He had just been offered and had accepted the post of Ambassador to France.
On the 5th May Louis XVIII, swollen with gout and self indulgence, peaceful minded, polite and pathetic, followed, to take his seat on a throne which must have still felt warm from the boiling vitality of his predecessor.
Plans were well ahead for the ruling sovereigns of the alliance to visit England, that country which, through all the bitter disappointments and defeats of two generations, had alone maintained its independence and its resolution. There were to be the greatest of festivities in London and throughout the land. In the meantime Major Geoffrey Charles Poldark remained at Montech, north of Toulouse, living in abundance and being treated by the French with gay hospitality. Ensign Jeremy Poldark on the 9th May moved with his company into quarters in Brussels, away at last from the bitter frosts of the winter and welcomed by food and wine and girls. It was the biggest city he had ever lived in. But the poverty in parts was ghastly and the army discipline sickened him. He heard with fascination that the London Times was shortly to be printed by steam power, and that a north country man called Stephenson was putting Trevithick’s designs into practice and had introduced a colliery railway at Darlington whose steam engine pulled coal wagons as far as Stockton and back. There was also an exciting new engine at Wheal Abraham in Cornwall that he wanted to hear about. Jeremy had written twice to Goldsworthy Gurney, but so far had received no reply.
On the 15th May Major Geoffrey Charles Poldark received a letter from his wife telling him she was happy to say she was with child and that she expected their baby to be born in early or mid December. By the same post he heard from Clowance that she was to marry Stephen Carrington at St Sawle Church, Sawle-with-Grambler, on the last Saturday in May at noon.
All May was a beautiful month. There was a chill in the air if you stood about long in the shade; but the sun rose a little earlier each day to warm the winds and bring out the flowers. The gorse was aflame and almost hurt the eye. Wildflowers in the hedges seemed to bloom as never before. Everything appeared to be contributing to a mood of general rejoicing.
At first Clowance had said she could not wear the same wedding dress; it would be bad luck; but Stephen said he wanted it. There must be nothing different about the wedding, nothing different at all; the last eighteen months had just been a terrible mistake, a black chasm in the thoughts which should henceforward be ignored. It was all beginning again, just as it ought to have happened in October 1812. He said to Demelza: ‘Arrange it as you please, Mrs Poldark. Lots of guests if Clowance wants ’em – or none at all if she don’t. There be only one important thing to me – as there should have been before – so do whatever she wishes.’
An awkward meeting, Stephen’s first visit to Nampara since his quarrel. In fact there had never been any quarrel or even hard words between Stephen and Ross or Stephen and Demelza; so there was nothing to forget, nothing to overlook, nothing to ignore. What stood between them was the knowledge that they wished she had made a better match or at least a securer one. He fell short of their hopes for their future son-in-law by being vaguely unreliable, rash in his decisions, unpredictable, with an exaggerated masculinity, a too easy way of talking. And the gap of eighteen months, because of the way it had happened and what had happened in it, had hardened that feeling instead of alleviating it.
Demelza thought he looked a lot older, but this might have been the effects of his illnesses. Some of the arrogance had gone out of him – temporarily or permanently one did not know. He looked more responsible. He told Ross of his plans to develop the coastal trade, to buy or have built another – a third – vessel. (It was a good mark, Ross thought, that he did not mention having one of them built in their yard in Looe: he sought to make a good impression, not to curry favour.) He was frank about the profit he had made and aware that he was unlikely to repeat it. Nevertheless he had now made a beginning, a firmly based beginning which if followed up intelligently would soon make him a ship owner of some consequence. He thought eventually to offer Andrew Blamey a share of the business. (Always provided he could learn to hold his drink.) Although, he said, he would regret the quarrel with Clowance to his dying day, he did feel that he was now in a much better position financially to marry her. He could offer her a home, small but good enough for a beginning; he would himself limit his trips at sea so that she should not be too much on her own. In any case they were near the Blameys, and after all only about four hours from Nampara. He very much hoped that, even though he might not be a perfect match for Clowance in their eyes, they would give him a full and fair chance to prove himself and not hold back during these weeks and so diminish Clowance’s happiness. He knew now how much she wanted them to be wholehearted in their love and good wishes at the wedding, something he had not understood before. He really understood it now. Could he rely on them?
It was hard to seem grudging after that.
The wedding day was one of the finest of the month, though by a change to a warmer breeze it presaged a change in the weather. They had invited the three Blameys, four Enyses, six Trenegloses, four Kellows, Mrs Selina Pope and her two step-daughters, three Bodrugans, three Teagues, and a round dozen others. Filling the church were the Martins (Zacky looking much better), the Daniels, the Nanfans, the Carters (needless to say, not Ben), Prudie Paynter (but not Jud, who said he was some slight, and who was to deny him the privilege of being ill at his age?), the Scobles, the Curnows, and many others, so that the congregation overflowed into the churchyard and out to the gates beyond.
Demelza had asked Clowance about invitations to such people as the Falmouths and the de Dunstanvilles and the Devorans, but she had said no. Mainly they were Papa’s friends and it was not necessary to invite them to a quiet family wedding.
The wedding procession assembled to leave Nampara. Ross had often thought the rough road down the valley to the house ought to be levelled to permit a carriage to come at least as far as the bridge crossing the stream. The best they had managed so far was the occasional bullock cart, but that did not seem quite suitable to convey a bride to church. Clowance pooh-poohed the whole idea. She could well sit a horse in her bridal dress; who cared about some strains on the stitchings of her fine blue satin? And she was certainly not going to jog to church in some pony cart which would be sure to upset before it even got out of the valley. All she agreed was that she should not ride Nero, who would immediately break into a gallop and have her at the church before the others were mounted. She accepted Ladybird, an elderly mare who could be relied on to follow where she was led. The bridesmaids were Isabella-Rose and Sophie Enys, also both in blue satin, with yellow hats trimmed with trailing blue ribbons. Bella had been dancing about on her toes for twenty minutes before anyone else was ready and earning the reproofs of Mrs Kemp for getting her shoes soiled in the long grass by the library wall, when suddenly she uttered a long piercing scream which was discordant even by her standards.
When all other noise in the neighbourhood had necessarily ceased she stood on tip toe and pointed up the valley and said one wailing word:
‘Jeremy!’
Then she was gone, frock fluttering, hat flying, across the bridge and up the valley. There was a short pause before several of the others made a move to follow. Through the nut trees and the hawthorns, which were still only in their infant green, a tall thin man in a red jacket and a shiny black hat could be seen riding down the lane.
‘I knew he’d come!’ whispered Clowance. ‘I knew he’d come!’
The soldier emerged finally into full view at the bridge, with Bella riding in front of him. He vaulted off his horse, letting his younger sister slide down after him, embraced Demelza, then Clowance, then grasped his father about the shoulders.
‘Is it over? Am I too late?’
‘No, no, no, we are just setting out! Oh, Jeremy—’
‘By God, I thought I should never arrive in time. By God, I had given myself two days’ leeway but, as you see, it was scarce enough! It would have been a damned long way to travel to arrive after the ceremony was over! . . . And where is Stephen, has he run off at the last minute? No, I see, of course, of course. Mama, you look beautiful: it takes absence to appreciate these things. And as for my sister! . . . Well, now?’
‘Which one?’ said Bella.
‘Both, of course. But more particularly today the one who is shortly to be wed—’
‘I shall be wed soon,’ said Bella. ‘That is if anyone will have me!’
‘I’ll have you!’ said Jeremy. ‘Any day. You would be just my sort of wife . . . You are well, all of you? It is a perfect day. But what a journey! If I am to make my career in the army you must all move to Dover!’
So they chattered like a bunch of starlings, each getting a word in but cut short by another. After ten minutes, when Jeremy was consuming some biscuits and a glass of wine, Mrs Kemp said to Demelza:
‘If you please, ma’am. We shall be late.’
‘It doesn’t matter—’
‘Very good,’ said Jeremy, overhearing and swallowing a last biscuit, ‘this marriage has been delayed before. I shall not be responsible. Mama, I trust you will allow me to partner you into church—’
‘What about me?’ said Bella. ‘I saw him first!’
‘You’re a bridesmaid, my lover,’ Demelza said gently. ‘As you know very well, you will partner Sophie, and follow behind the bride.’
‘Oh, Sophie,’ said Bella. ‘She’s not a man!’
In the laughter that followed Jeremy took his mother’s hand and squeezed it. She was too full to speak, and he knew it. Ross who in his quiet way grieved more about Clowance’s marriage than Demelza, thought, well, he is home. If you have four children it spreads the pleasure and the anxiety but seems to diminish neither. Hostages to fortune, as someone was saying. But Demelza is happy now. It has changed her day. He is home.
II
It was very difficult these days being married by the Rev. Clarence Odgers; his wife as usual had to stand beside him to make sure he remembered the Christian names correctly and did not wander off into the Burial service by mistake. But eventually it was done. Stephen, broad-shouldered but still gaunt, his hair trimmed shorter than usual and smoothed back, in a semi-naval suit that reminded Jeremy uncomfortably of Lieutenant Morgan Lean, RN, passenger on the Elegant Light Post Coach, Self-Defence on Monday 25th January 1813, stood by his blue silk-clad bride, who was at least two shades blonder than he, and swore to love, honour and cherish her in sickness and in health – as she had very recently done to him – and so in a comparatively short time they were married till death them did part, in a bond that no man should put asunder. And they emerged into the sunshine and the rice and the smiling faces of all Clowance’s friends.
A small dinner for all the invited guests in the library; it lasted till four, but the days were stretching ever longer and the ride home would still be all daylight. Clowance went upstairs and changed into a new plum-purple riding habit, a cockade hat with ribbons, and a plum-purple cloak and fine leather gloves.
All Stephen had had time to say to Jeremy so far was, ‘Glad you’re back, boy,’ but now it was time to leave.
‘How long are ye home?’
‘A week. Perhaps a little more. So much of my leave will be taken up with travelling.’
‘D’you have to go back?’
‘Oh, yes!’
‘Maybe next week sometime? Come over. Ye know how your sister has such regard for you.’
‘She has not always said so!’
There was a laugh.
‘Well, tis true, as you very well know. Isn’t it, me love?’
‘Oh, I can suffer him,’ said Clowance.
‘I’ll come,’ said Jeremy, smiling. ‘So long as I am not disturbing the honeymoon.’
‘She will be a-tired of me by then. Come Tuesday or Wednesday. One of my vessels will be in, the Lady Clowance, built in your own shipyard at Looe. I’d like to show you over her.’
‘Then I’ll gladly come.’
Stephen moved on. ‘Captain Poldark.’
‘Well, Stephen.’ Their hands clasped, but it meant nothing.
‘If I ever give your daughter cause for complaint, I hope she’ll send for you.’
Ross smiled. ‘I hope she will.’
‘With a gun,’ said Stephen.
‘Unloaded,’ said Ross. ‘I seldom shoot my relatives.’
‘Nevertheless,’ said Stephen, ‘the sentiment is sincerely meant.’
‘I’m glad.’
And so to Demelza.
‘Ma’am,’ he said. ‘I’ll take care of your daughter. I promise. God’s honour. I’ll do me best.’
‘I hope you will, Stephen. She will not be a meek wife.’
‘Meek compared to Isabella-Rose,’ said Stephen.
There was a general laugh.
‘Hey, hey!’ said Bella. ‘What is this you’re saying ’bout me?’
‘Nothing, old dear . . .’ Stephen kissed Demelza. ‘Ma’am, I cannot regard you as my mother-in-law. You’re too pretty. Yet I have to, I s’pose.’
‘I s’pose yes,’ said Demelza. ‘It is a hazard you must face.’
‘Gladly, m’dear.’ He paused. ‘And seriously . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘Seriously.’ He kissed her again.
So very soon they were ready for off, Clowance this time on Nero, who was already snorting and showing the whites of his eyes, ready for a wild gallop. Stephen’s horse was the best he could hire for the day, but it was not of the same quality. Then a clucking to the horses and they clattered across the bridge, waved and began the uneven trek up the lane to the top of the hill. Bal-girls and surface workers at Wheal Grace stood and waved and watched them go.
Clowance carried only a light bag. Those belongings she had wished to take with her had been conveyed over to Penryn yesterday by Matthew Mark Martin.
Clowance restrained Nero as best she could, and they kept pace with each other until they were well past Killewarren. Thereafter, even Nero being temporarily blown, they slowed to a walk at which they could converse. Stephen was himself out of breath, a sign that he was still not fit.
He said: ‘Well – it has happened – m’dear.’
‘Yes . . . it has.’
‘I can still scarce believe it. I’ve thought on ye so often . . . but these last months I’ve been in a turmoil. Me being ill – it has been a blessing in disguise. If I had not been – if we had not met this way – would you have married that Tom Guildford?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘We were meant for each other, ever since those meetings in old empty Trenwith . . . well I surely thought so, for I could never get you out of my head. When we were engaged before, I was always counting me luck. Then it suddenly slipped away . . .’
‘Don’t talk of it.’
‘But now, Holy Mary, it has slipped back. But I must not talk of it – ye’re right. We are starting afresh – all over again.’ They walked a way in silence. The only sound was the comfortable creak of saddle and stirrup, the clopping of the hooves. ‘I thought Prudie Paynter was a sight, standing there wi’ hair like a donkey’s tail and that great straw hat with holes in it. Twas outrageous the way she hugged and kissed you!’
Clowance laughed. ‘You should see Jud – but of course you’ve seen him.’
‘What is she to you – taking such liberties?’
‘She and Jud were servants to my parents, though that was before I was born. I thought you knew it.’
‘Jeremy looks brave in his uniform . . . Sooner he’s out of it, the better now. He should attend to his mine, which is bringing in such a steady profit. Glory be! Many’s the time I regretted having sunk so much in a hole in the ground, but I shall get the capital back this year! Had we known . . .’
After waiting Clowance said: ‘What were you going to say?’
‘Nothing. No matter. It was just a thought . . . Clowance . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘When I was lying ill there, watching you move about the room, you tending on me this way and that – like an angel, patient, gentle, kind – did I rave much?’
‘A great deal.’
‘What did I say?’
‘All sorts of things.’
‘Did it make sense?’
‘Not much.’
‘What did I say?’
‘Oh . . . you were trying to open something, could not get it open. Then you mentioned three girls, three girls whose names I knew. One of them was mine.’
‘So it should have been!’
‘You seemed to want to escape with me on a coach to Liskeard . . . Then you were bargaining about a lifeboat . . . Then you were on that raft in the sea, floating . . .’
‘But little of it made real sense?’
‘Little indeed.’
He sighed. ‘When I came round, saw you there, really saw you, knew – or hoped I knew – why you had come . . . I swore that if we should ever marry I would not come to you unshriven.’
‘I don’t know quite what you mean.’
‘Well . . . you think you know me. You already do better than anyone else in the world. But you don’t know all me past. I have told you some of it – picking and choosing a little too much, I suspect. There are still dark corners.’
‘Are they dark corners which will affect the future?’
‘I should pray not so. But you are so honest, so straight in everything you do—’
‘Ho-ho! Don’t be too sure!’
‘Well compared to me. Compared to the most folk. Lying there watching you, I thought, I cannot ask this girl to marry me unless she knows the worst of me. I cannot. And then, when it came to the point, I was that afraid, that much the coward; I thought, first just get her consent. And then, when she had consented I was so full of the pleasure of it all that I could not bear to tarnish it!’
Clowance brushed away a spider which had swung down from the overhanging trees.
‘Well, Stephen,’ she said, ‘if you have left it so long, if you have been unable to bear the thought of telling me before this, if you have wed me under false pretences, then perhaps it is already too late to make amends, to repair the damage, to set it all to rights. You have already committed the unforgivable sin of marrying me – unshriven, as you call it. What good will it do to confess to me now?’
He coughed with laughter. ‘When I go to Heaven, if so be as I ever get there, I shall want you beside of me at the gate to put my case so well! Serious, though . . .’
‘Is this not all serious?’
‘All except the Heavenly gates . . . though I now be married to you I’ve not yet – possessed you. That is what marriage means to me – possession. So, in a sort of way, the urge is still there, telling me there’s still time. I feel that I have not been honest enough with you – showing you the faulty person I really am. Maybe tis all a matter of wanting to be honest with meself, see.’
They rode on. Clowance said: ‘And do you suppose these confessions will make me happier?’
‘That I don’t know. I doubt it. But there will be nothing then betwixt us but perfect honesty, like.’
‘And if you tell me and I am deeply offended, do you suggest I should turn around and gallop back to Nampara?’
‘No, no, no . . . I do not believe me errors are so dreadful that you’d do that! I hope you’d listen with sympathy and understanding like the way you have done to so much in the past.’
‘Then do not speak them,’ said Clowance with decision. ‘Leave my sympathy and understanding until another time, Stephen. If I want to know – when I want to know – then I will ask you. To tell me now would be – would be throwing splashes on a clear screen – and to no purpose.’
The light cool wind was following them at about the pace they made, so it was imperceptible, and the sun beat down. Stephen took out a handkerchief and mopped his face.
‘Then there will be no splashes, dear heart. Nor shall I mention it again. Whatever flaws there may be in me, there’s no flaws to what I feel for you, nor ever has been since the day I first set eyes on ye.’
They stopped and took a breather just before joining the turnpike road from Truro. The sun was slanting by now, and presently they could see the glimmer of Penryn Creek winding silver-grey among the trees. The dark woods around were as if stained with a maiden-green dust, which was not yet more than surface deep.
Stephen said: ‘Bother, I asked Jeremy for Tuesday next or Wednesday. I had forgot: we have an invitation for Tuesday. The letter came yester morning from Sir George and Lady Warleggan. They send their congratulations on our marriage!’
‘Gracious alive!’
‘Well, I have been to their house once or twice, you know, last autumn, with Valentine. And you went to that party, you told me, after we had broken up. I suppose Sir George’s quarrel is only with your father.’
‘What do they invite us to?’
‘An evening party. Supper and cards.’
‘Oh . . . I have never gambled properly. Are the stakes high?’
‘I don’t think twill matter whether we play or no. It seems to me it would be proper to accept, us now living in this area and me in business here.’
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Maybe there will be dancing too.’
They were proceeding so slowly that Nero was showing a tendency to investigate the hedges that he passed. Clowance checked him.
‘But Stephen, it is still May!’
‘Yes?’
‘Surely Valentine will not be there! His term at Cambridge cannot end until sometime in June. What a strange thing!’
‘Maybe he’s come back early for some reason. The invitation did not mention him, but . . . Well, I shall surely consider it even a greater compliment if he’s not there, for it means we have been invited by Sir George and Lady Harriet for our own sakes!’
‘And what shall you do about Jeremy?’
‘Oh, send a note – there’s just time – asking him to come Wednesday for certain.’
‘Perhaps he would like to come to the party too,’ suggested Clowance.