I
George’s arrangements were coming along nicely. Mr Trembath had again been to see Mr Arthur Williams Rose of Liskeard, who had said he was by no means well but professed himself honoured at the invitation of so notable a gentleman as Sir George to spend a few days with him discussing legal matters – though, being as smart as the next, he had no doubt at all as to what his real function was likely to be. Just to make sure of him, Mr Trembath was to go to Liskeard again and act as Mr Rose’s escort, bringing him to Cardew on the Monday evening so that he would be here in ample time for Tuesday’s party.
George had been lucky in his choice of dates: Anthony Trefusis was at home and, as always when it was gaming at cards, immediately accepted. Stephen Carrington, just married to the Poldark girl, was sure to be home and certain to come. Andrew Blamey was at sea in one of Carrington’s trumpery vessels, but if winds were favourable he was due back early Tuesday. Michael Smith had already accepted. The only one likely to be missing was George Trevethan, who, his father said, was in Exeter; but as a young man scarcely ever short of money, he was the least likely suspect.
To hide the real purpose of this party even from Harriet, he had invited a round dozen other people which, with family, would raise the numbers to about twenty. Valentine could not be here, but he had invited Cuby Trevanion and her brother and sister just the same.
Although everything had been virtually settled between himself and J. T. B. Trevanion eighteen months ago, the dashing major had never been as good as his word. The joke about the name Bettesworth, which he had changed to Trevanion when he was twenty-one, still persisted. He ‘bet his worth’. And not even the prospect of lifting the load of debt once and for all from round his neck by marrying his younger sister to the son of a rich merchant and banker had been strong enough to keep him away from his horses. Three times George had discovered him in the process of compounding his debts (in the hope, of course, of discharging them) and three times George had found it necessary to inform him that unless this behaviour ceased, their arrangement for the marriage, the whole complicated legal structure they had built up around deeds of gift, trusts, and inheritances of land, would be pulled down and cease to preserve him, merely by the promise of its existence, from the debtor’s prison.
Indeed, had George not himself so set his heart on seeing Valentine master of the splendid Caerhays Castle, he would by now have cast Trevanion off altogether. George had a low tolerance of foolish behaviour, and when that foolish behaviour involved money he was hard put to it to hide his contempt. However, now at last, after more hard bargaining between the sets of lawyers, the matter seemed to be finally, finally settled. Instead of receiving any further interim loans, which he could plunder as he thought fit, John Trevanion had accepted the condition of receiving a monthly payment from George until the wedding took place, whereupon he received a further and final sum of £18,000 and bound himself to vacate the castle within twelve months of the marriage. The castle and its demesnes should pass to his younger sister unencumbered of debt, and no more than personal belongings to the value of £500 should be removed by him when he left.
These were humiliating conditions for a man of ancient lineage who had been Sheriff of Cornwall when he was twenty-five, a member of parliament at twenty-seven and a prominent Whig and a leading figure in the county ever since; but there was no escape, even if he should wish it. He waited on George’s nod. And George had made up his mind that the engagement should be made public at another party as soon as Valentine came home; the wedding could follow in September. There was no further need to wait. Valentine would be twenty-one next February, and would continue his studies for one more year. He could take up his permanent residence in the castle in about September 1815, by which time Major Trevanion would be moving out.
George had spent some time considering his position if Mr Rose, as seemed likely, should recognize one of the card players as one of the robbers of the coach. He had thought of asking a couple of constables from Truro to be present, but they were such rough, uneducated men; they could never understand the situation in time, and their use would hardly be greater than two of his own servants if it actually came to physical force. He was himself a magistrate, and Lord Devoran, who had been invited without his daughter, another. Between them they could surely deal with any situation which arose. Anyway, identification was all. Summary arrest could follow.
Several of his more trustworthy servants must be alerted beforehand; for if the one arrested were kept in close confinement and constantly questioned he might well give away the identity of his companions in crime. It was important that they should not be allowed to bluster their way out of the house. Young Trefusis, if it were he, would certainly try to fly the country – as probably would young Carrington, disturbed in his honeymoon with the Poldark girl – and the Blamey fellow. Michael Smith, so far as he knew, had no connections with the sea, but, obviously, whoever it was would do his utmost to save his neck. A great deal, it seemed to George, depended on the outcome of the night.
He had also steeled himself to complete disappointment, if Mr Rose should recognize no one.
Harriet was cynically intrigued by the party; but knowing nothing about the visiting lawyer she could not draw any conclusions from his impending visit. Anyway, lawyers of one sort or another, and their creatures, were always in and out of the house; far too often for her to draw any inferences from their comings and goings. She was intrigued by the party because it was unheard of for George to organize such a thing on his own initiative, without even Valentine to prod him.
‘But you know, my pet,’ she said, ‘cards are not in your line at all. You never really understand the theory, and you hate hazarding money on anything except a near certainty. Besides, is it not unwise to invite John Trevanion on such a night, knowing his weaknesses?’
‘Trevanion is coming simply so that we may agree for a day for the announcement of the engagement and for a day for the wedding.’
‘You mean you will tell him what is most convenient to us, eh? And what day is going to be convenient to us, may I ask? Have you decided?’
‘Valentine will be back in two weeks. I thought Midsummer Day, the 24th of June would be suitable.’
‘But how romantic of you! And the wedding?’
‘The first of September. That will give them – I mean Valentine and Cuby – a time together before he returns to Cambridge. That is, my dear,’ said George, turning the tables with a little of his own irony, ‘unless you wish it otherwise.’
Harriet yawned. ‘Why should I? He’s your son. A lively fellow for all that. I should not be astonished if he leads Miss Cuby a dance. Though, from what little I have seen of her, I should not suppose her easily put on. I admire her for what she’s doing.’
‘What?’ said George. ‘What is she doing?’
‘Marrying money, of course.’
‘Valentine is as personable as she!’ said George shortly.
‘Of course he is. I find him very personable. Possibly she does too. But you cannot pretend other than that this is an arranged marriage. As I say, I admire her for her clear-sightedness in entering into it. A marriage that is based on money is at least based on something stable.’
George got up, went to the window, looked out on his deer. He did not care for venison and therefore regarded them as useless creatures; but to keep them was expected of him, and it gave him pleasure to know that he had more than either the Falmouths or the Dunstanvilles.
He said: ‘The second anniversary of our marriage is scarcely past. On it, as you know, I gave you a new carriage.’
‘Indeed. And I thanked you for it – in the only possible way that a wife can thank a husband.’
‘Yes, you did.’ George passed a finger round his neck-cloth, overwarm at the thought. ‘Yet now you speak of marriage in such derogatory terms it might be some disreputable art you are describing. If there ever is a good motive for marriage, you say . . .’
‘Well, at my time of life,’ said Harriet, ‘thirty-three, that is – which I regard as the extreme old age of youth – you cannot, I trust, expect me to hold to notions of love and romance. I was stupid enough to marry Toby Carter for love. Hot-blooded, we were; by God, we were hot-blooded! Nothing would stop me, not even his reputation. Nor that he was a Catholic. Nor that he had lost two wives already. Nor that at forty he had already run through one fortune and was in process of dissipating another. Nor did he consider that I had only a small personal fortune and precious little hope of inheriting any more, and that I had no intention whatsoever of being the sort of wife he wanted! I swear to you we were in love, dear George, but within three months we were fighting like cats. Physically, often enough. The scars I have on my thighs are not hunting scars; did I tell you? So you see how I regard marriages for love.’
As was often the case, George disliked the tone in which Harriet spoke to him, but did not know what to do about it.
Eventually he said stiffly: ‘You cannot generalize from one person’s experience. Nor do I think our marriage need be stigmatized as—’
‘Oh, our marriage was a convenience, was it not. I was hard drove for money, and very very tired of being so hard drove. You fancied marrying into the Osborne family, and thought I was personable enough to sit at your dinner table . . .’ As he was about to speak she added: ‘Oh, I think you rather fancied me – as a man does a woman. And I was not – not totally indifferent to you. Those were useful ingredients of the marriage brew – a little of the pepper and the mustard, say. They have remained ingredients, as you well know. But let us not talk about love. Fortunately we were both too calculating for that.’
‘Calculating?’
‘Level-headed, then.’ She gave her low chuckle. ‘But I conceit that it is not working too ill. You are even becoming accustomed to Castor and Pollux!’
Something had startled the deer; or they were off on some sudden impulse of their own, bounding away over the brow of the hill.
Harriet said: ‘If you are making this largely a young people’s party, why do you not invite Jeremy Poldark? He is back from his soldiering; that is if he ever did any.’
‘I don’t care for the fellow,’ said George. ‘A gangling youth. Doesn’t even have the looks of his father . . . How do you know he is home?’
‘My God, do not be so suspicious! I met him in Truro last week. He was hiring a horse, and in great haste to be home for his sister’s wedding. But very handsome, if I may say so, in his regimentals. What a uniform will do for a man!’
‘We have Clowance Carrington coming – that’s one Poldark,’ George said testily. ‘And Andrew Blamey, that’s another—’
‘Both invited by you!’
‘Yes, I know!’ Memory of his last clash with Ross welled up in him like lust. ‘Well let me point out, Harriet, that there is a limit to my tolerance of that clan! I have warned you, and we have agreed. After that overcrowded and noisy party at Trenwith you may feel a greater degree of amity for the Poldarks in general. Let it not go too far! There can never be any form of toleration, let alone friendship, between Ross Poldark and myself. And as for his wife . . .’
Harriet got up. ‘It is of the utmost indifference to me who comes to your tedious little party. Forget my suggestion.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To sit in a corner and acknowledge my place in this household.’
‘What nonsense you do talk at times—’
‘Possibly we both do.’
The door that Harriet had opened was pushed wider and Ursula Warleggan came in. She was in a primrose yellow velvet frock that in the three months since it had been made had tightened across the bust. Her dark hair was in twin pigtails with yellow bows, her feet in yellow moccasins. At fourteen and a half she was large for her age. Next September she was being sent to Mrs Hemple’s school in Truro. George, at first, had been much against it; however, he had come to realize that if she did not go somewhere soon she would get out of hand. She had mastered every governess they had hired. George’s pride in her was intense.
‘Papa,’ she said, directly addressing her father across Lady Harriet, ‘what is the meaning of this, what it says here in the paper? “Even a shopkeeper can begin to be a banker, by accepting deposits and discounting bills of exchange. The one stip-stipulation he makes is that he need not return the deposits immediately.” I do not understand. Can you please explain?’
Naturally nothing more for a while about the coming party, but at supper George said:
‘I have been thinking of your suggestion that we should invite Jeremy Poldark. I will raise no objection if it will please you.’
‘Please me?’ said Harriet, who was not in a good mood. ‘For blood and hounds, I care nothing either way! I had forgot all about it.’
George uneasily sipped his hare soup. ‘Well, it is also a matter of indifference to me. But I thought you wished him to come.’
‘This is your party. Pray suit yourself.’
The soup was finished and taken away. A saddle of spring lamb was brought in, with two chickens and an array of vegetables and sauces.
‘How long is Jeremy Poldark staying? Or is he home for good?’
‘About ten days. His regiment is billeted in Brussels.’
‘Some young men enjoy themselves.’
‘Some young men get killed.’
‘Not now,’ said George. ‘He was – fortunate in the time of his enlistment.’
Supper proceeded.
‘In fact,’ said George, ‘we should all have been prepared for peace far more than we really were. As you know, I hazarded large sums of money in 1810 and 1811 expecting, preparing for peace then – a negotiated peace; as it certainly would have been at that time, had the Prince Regent not betrayed the political party he had belonged to for the whole of his adult life. When peace did not come I lost something like half my fortune.’
Harriet looked round to see that all the servants were temporarily out of the room. ‘All to get me,’ she said harshly. ‘Good God, I have been a constant source of expense to you, even before we were wed!’
‘Never mind about that,’ George said testily. ‘What I am saying is that, had I had the financial backing and stability to hold on to all my purchases then, I should be a much richer man today than I am. Even six months ago, had I read the signs of Napoleon’s imminent collapse aright, I could have recouped most of my losses by buying the same sort of textile and engineering firms all over again. Or even possibly by buying in the metal markets . . . I must confess to you that it scarcely crossed my mind to do so. Having suffered such losses once . . .’
‘A burnt child.’
‘What?’
‘Dreads the fire,’ said Harriet.
‘Ah, well, there is an old wives’ saying for almost any situation.’
‘I am indeed an old wife,’ said Harriet. ‘Thank you for the compliment. But in any event, though you may not be nearly as rich as you were before you met me, first, because of your unwise speculation, second, because I cost so much to keep; yet you are in a sound financial position, are you not?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘So does it matter a tinker’s curse that we are not twice as wealthy? If we have an income of X guineas a year and it costs us X guineas a year to live, does it matter that our income is not 2X guineas a year?’
‘With the children growing up there will be increasing costs,’ said George defensively.
‘Such, no doubt, as all these damned arrangements, whatever they may be, with John Trevanion. Oh, pray do not tell me, I am not anxious to know. Well, I shall be happy to see Valentine settled – so long as it does not mean my economizing on the style we maintain and the hunters I keep . . .’
She broke off as a manservant and two maids re-entered the room with the second course. Thereafter there was silence for quite a while on subjects which mattered. Harriet of course had not the least objection to discussing anything in front of the servants; she had been brought up to believe that as human beings they did not count. But she had soon observed that George was abnormally sensitive about such things. If one of the servants was ill, it was another matter; she was far more likely to have concern for the welfare of the sick person than George was; almost as much so as if one of her horses was ailing.
Towards the end of the meal George said: ‘So I shall invite Jeremy Poldark?’
‘If it pleases you.’
‘It pleases me to please you, Harriet. It cannot make any difference to the outcome.’
‘What outcome?’ asked Harriet.
‘Oh . . . the outcome of a pleasant evening.’
II
Jeremy told his mother of the invitation as soon as he received it.
‘And shall you go?’ asked Demelza.
‘I think so. If you will permit it.’
‘I permit it! You are being very gracious.’
‘Well . . . my stay here will be all too short. One day I have promised to spend with Clowance and Stephen. One day I shall see Goldsworthy Gurney. This will take a third – or the half of a day. I can ride back of course the same evening. If I leave them at midnight . . .’
‘Do as you fancy,’ said Demelza. ‘Your ten days will fly anyhow.’
‘Dear Mother, do I try you hard?’
‘All sons do.’
‘And daughters?’
‘And daughters.’
They were standing on the bluff of cliff just below Wheal Leisure. Jeremy had wanted to inspect the small whym engine which drew the kibbles of ore out of the earth and, though it had been installed last year, he had never seemed to find the suitable time when his mother was free as well, to take her over and show her how it worked, detail by detail. This he had now just done.
Demelza drew a deep breath. Even though one lived by the sea all the time, there were periods during a hard winter when one lived just within the near neighbourhood of one’s house, more indoors than out, and forgot – or overlooked – the pleasure of breathing salt air. The distant sea was turning over in a big way this morning, chewing the sand like a coffee grinder, biding its time to come in and rush at its eternal enemy, the cliffs.
She said: ‘I pray it will work out well for her.’
‘Clowance? Yes. I think we’ve all done the right thing.’
‘What do you mean, Jeremy?’
‘Nobody can pretend it’s an ideal match, but this time she has gone into it with her eyes open. You and father also behaved as I hope I shall have the wit to behave if I ever have a daughter and see her in such a difficulty. Never afterwards in all her life will she be able to say, “if they hadn’t stepped in” or “if they had advised me different”. That’s what I mean.’
Demelza inclined her head. ‘I only hope he also knows her faults.’
‘Her faults?’
‘Well, they may rate as faults in a marriage, though many would call them virtues. She is so very clear-sighted, Jeremy, sometimes I tremble for myself . . . And, until recently, she has hardly known what compromise means. I only hope and pray she – when the first passion wears off – she will not be so clear-sighted about Stephen, and willing to go on making the sort of compromise she has done in marrying him.’
Jeremy put his arm round his mother’s shoulders. ‘You married Father for love. Isn’t that so?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Then when did the first passion wear off and you begin to observe his faults?’
Demelza laughed. ‘We’re talking close home now, Jeremy, but, since you ask me, I suppose twould be true to say that it never has worn off – or not yet anyway.’
‘That, from close observation of the objects under review, is what I thought. So when did you begin to observe his faults?’
‘Well, he hasn’t any really bad ones! And those he has – they are part of him and therefore mean nothing to me.’
‘Which is why you do not bicker?’
‘I suppose. There is a way that you come to love a person when blemishes are part of him and therefore don’t count for much in the whole picture.’
‘If you could find the recipe for that and could put it on sale like a tincture or a bolus, you would make a fortune! . . . But tell me, Mother mine, if you have achieved a rare kind of union with Father, why do you suppose that your elder son and daughter, being of the same blood, should not be able to make an equal success of their marriages?’
‘I hope to believe it. I pray it may be so.’
‘So do I,’ he said. ‘So do I. Stephen had a rough start in life. It could hardly have been rougher. Maybe marriage to Clowance will set him up.’ After a moment he added: ‘Ben, of course, is greatly upset.’
‘. . . I saw him in the distance on Monday but I think he tried to avoid me.’
‘He’s asked for a week’s leave. He says it’s while I am home, but in the ordinary way he would never take time off. It isn’t in his nature.’
‘I’m very sorry for him, Jeremy. We’re all that sorry for him. But it was Clowance’s choice. What could anybody do?’
Jeremy cocked an eye – or more properly an ear – back at the larger engine whose suck and beat he had thought hesitated for a moment in sympathy. But it was a false alarm. Girls were working in the washing sheds. The water gushed continuously from the main adit at the foot of the cliffs.
‘There is another reason why I think I shall go to the Warleggans,’ Jeremy said. ‘Cuby may be there.’
He said it so openly and so lightly that for a moment Demelza was deceived and supposed him over it.
‘Have you been writing to her?’
‘No.’
‘Valentine . . .’
‘Should not be home, it being term time, but I would not put it past him to take French leave. Perhaps he will be there to announce their engagement.’
‘But if you believe this even to be likely, why do you wish to meet her again?’
‘I have a fancy,’ said Jeremy. He did not, or could not, explain to his mother that he was sleeping with a Belgian girl in Brussels and felt the stronger to resist Cuby for it.
‘A fancy for someone else?’ Demelza asked.
He laughed. ‘Dear mother, you should not ask these things! It makes me suspect you of second sight.’
‘Maybe I have a sort of second sight where my children are concerned. For instance, I know you have had a special unhappiness, an unease, since January of last year. Is this explained because of what you have told me of Cuby and Valentine? It was then that you learned of it, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. Oh yes. That and other things. I rather fancy I lost my sense of proportion. That’s all I can say, even to you.’
She waited but nothing more came; so she turned to lead the way down the cliff path. He insisted on trying to help her, though she was as sure footed as he. At the bottom she jumped into his arms, and he regarded her gravely for a second or two before he released her.
She said: ‘Shall you stay in the Army?’
‘God forbid. There are so many things that offend me. It is a brutal life, for all its comradeship. The floggings sicken me.’
‘Are they frequent?’
‘In my regiment, no, thank God. The Fifty-second, though I did not know it when I joined them, was one of the elite regiments trained as part of the Light Brigade by Sir John Moore. But in many of the other regiments flogging is as common an event as sunrise. The very bones of their back are laid bare! It is brutalizing and outrageous.’
Demelza shivered.
He said: ‘You are cold?’
‘Yes. With what you tell me. So how long shall you stay away from Nampara?’
They began to plough their way across the soft sand towards the house.
‘Perhaps until some murky cobwebs have been blown out of my mind.’
‘And the steam engines?’
‘As I said, I shall see Gurney. There are movements afoot in the north of England. When I am free again I shall go up to Darlington, where an experimental railway is operating.’
‘Where is Darlington?’
‘I haven’t the least idea! Except that it is in the far north. Anyway, I cannot go there so long as I remain in the army. And out of decency I must stay in the army for another six months.’
‘What has decency got to do with it? Would they say you could not if you asked to leave?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Now that peace has come there will be many an old soldier begging in the streets before long.’