I
A cool and unkempt summer, with scarcely enough sun to ripen the hay or enough rain to lengthen the corn. May had expended the benevolence of the year.
The war in America was increasingly bitter, a victory for American forces near Niagara in July, and the capture of a British naval squadron on Lake Champlain in September, being sandwiched between the battle of Bladensberg which the British won and the burning of Washington in retaliation for the burning by the Americans of the capital of upper Canada a few months before. This reprisal was much deplored by the Prince Regent.
Geoffrey Charles’s old regiment, the 43rd Monmouthshires, reached England on the 23rd July, were not disbanded like many of the others but given two months’ leave. On the 10th October they embarked on transports to take part in the new conflict across the Atlantic.
American privateers were active off Bristol, capturing some ships and burning others and generally disrupting trade. The Times thundered against the iniquity and perfidy of the Americans. President Madison thundered against the iniquity and perfidy of those of his own countrymen who ran the British blockade in order to continue traffic with Britain.
It was suggested at the Congress of Ghent that the Russians should mediate between the British and the Americans in an effort to end the war.
In France two attempts on King Louis the Eighteenth’s life were frustrated, and in September the French introduced a budget in which an effort was made to establish a solid public credit against ‘the robberies and gross deceptions of the previous Impostor’. The English flocked to Paris and were generally shocked by its run-down appearance.
In August came the centenary of the accession of the House of Hanover. Although a large part of the population of Great Britain saw nothing about the House of Hanover to admire, everyone seized on the opportunity for another junketing. Indeed, Ross sardonically observed that in Cornwall more celebrations were held to commemorate the perpetration of an unpopular monarchy than there had been over the liberation of Europe and the deposition of a fearsome enemy.
In Truro ornamental arches were erected all the way down Boscawen Street from Coinagehall to King Street, decorated with laurel, fir, oak and red flags. Under these arches two rows of tables 300 feet long were set up for a public open-air dinner with a band of musicians, and sides of beef, legs of mutton, mountains of vegetables and an alpine range of plum puddings. Tea and cakes were distributed to 1700 children, who later took part in a Furry Dance. Among the elders there was a mock Coronation of Louis the Eighteenth, and he was drawn in triumph through the streets on a dray.
There were fireworks and balls at Callington, and at Helston a dinner for 90 at the Angel Inn, followed by a distribution of 15 cwt of beef and mutton and a thousand 4 lb loaves to the poor. Processions, fireworks, dinner parties continued for a week. At United Mines, Chacewater, 1200 people sat down to dinner, and at Fowey, after the fireworks and bonfires, two boats on makeshift wheels were drawn through the streets, one containing musicians, the other a selection of the town beauties handsomely dressed and suitably garnished with flowers.
In London huge set pieces were arranged in the Royal parks: fireworks, processions, brass bands; the celebrations went on for ten days with great drunkenness, much gambling and general immorality. In the end notices had to be posted in the parks to get the populace to move off.
The sensation of Valentine Warleggan’s unexpected marriage swept mid Cornwall for a day or two; but people quickly accepted it. There was nothing particularly unusual about a young man marrying a woman twelve years older than himself, especially when the woman was a rich and pretty widow. That she was non-Cornish and did not come out of the top drawer were small matters, for Valentine’s claim to breeding derived only from his mother’s side. True he was still only an undergraduate, and he had already made for himself a reputation as a rake. Paul Kellow’s comment that, ‘I’ll wager it’ll not be long before he tumbles his step-daughters,’ may have been echoed elsewhere. But Selina Warleggan, they felt, must have known what she was about and was by no means born yesterday. It was going to be a new ménage on the north coast at Trevaunance, and, if and when Geoffrey Charles returned, there would be two half-brothers with their new wives as resident neighbours. But on bad terms if their last meeting was anything to go by.
Some sympathy was felt for Cuby Trevanion, for she had missed a good match, and, although the conditions of her marriage were not known outside a restricted circle, it was generally assumed that the linking of her family with the Warleggans would have put the Trevanions on their feet again. Major Trevanion had never been a popular figure, but the sisters were well liked.
The first meeting between Sir George and the major after Valentine’s marriage was also the last. Shortly after it Major Trevanion left for London, officially to take part in the celebrations, unofficially to try to raise new money to keep him out of a debtor’s court. At the same time Cuby and Clemency left for a prolonged stay with their great aunt Bettesworth, relative of the Trenegloses, at Callington.
The situation was embarrassing to begin with at Place House, since the marriage had been kept as much a secret there as anywhere. Valentine arrived unexpectedly for dinner on the Tuesday, nursing a bruise on his forehead. Selina went scarlet when she heard his news, but after dinner, having recovered her composure, she called together all her indoor servants and announced that two months ago in Cambridge she had married Mr Warleggan. They had kept it secret until Mr Warleggan had had an opportunity to inform his parents, which he had now done. Henceforward they had a new master in the house, and would of course take orders from him in exactly the way they had formerly taken orders from Mr Pope. Selina carefully avoided meeting the eye of her parlourmaid Katie Carter, who rather less than twelve months ago had surprised her in bed with Valentine Warleggan while her husband lay empurpled on the floor of the landing. Katie, on fire with embarrassment and sweating with anxiety, simply did not know where to look. She was afraid that she might now lose her job, since the dread secret was now cloaked with respectability; but she need not have been concerned. So long as she continued to be discreet the new Mrs Warleggan would give her no extra excuse to talk of the past.
When Music was told he put a great hand in front of his mouth to stifle a guffaw; then his eyes grew round with apprehension, rather as Katie’s had. A young master might be none too tolerant of one who was slow to pick up new instructions. And Saul Grieves and all, ready to say or do anything to confuse him the more. He began to fear for his job, with more reason than Katie.
When the news reached Nampara it explained a good deal about Selina Pope’s call on them. Even so, she could hardly claim a relationship – at least so far as the world knew. That Ross and Demelza suspected different was something they could never speak of even between themselves.
Ross said: ‘He’s the strangest young man. There seems no harm in him. Yet there was harm enough in his bringing that boy to confront Morwenna.’
‘I was afraid for a time,’ Demelza said, ‘that he was going to become too fond of Clowance.’
‘At least now he’s free of George,’ said Ross. ‘It will be strange to have another—’ he baulked at the word – ‘to have him so close: but he has bought his freedom with a marriage that he may find constraining in other ways. Of course not only Valentine is affected by this marriage . . .’
‘I was thinking the same thing.’
‘No doubt Miss Cuby will be seeking out some other rich young man to marry. It may not be so easy.’
‘Someone will have to write and tell Jeremy,’ Demelza said. ‘I think perhaps you should, Ross.’
‘Why me?’
‘I think if I wrote it I would make it seem like I was giving him good news. You would be – more detached – as is proper. The fact that she is not going to marry Valentine does not mean she is not going to seek another rich man – as you have just said. In fact when she first refused Jeremy I do not think the Warleggans had come on the scene at all!’
Ross said: ‘I would willingly not tell him until he came home again, since anything to do with her seems to upset him. But if we do not write someone else will. The last thing I want is to seem to be withholding it.’
II
The following week Stephen Carrington rode into Truro and asked to see Sir George Warleggan. George saw him in the upper chamber above the bank. Stephen was wearing a buff nankeen jacket he had recently had made for him in Falmouth, dove grey breeches and well polished riding boots. His hair had been trimmed and brushed and was tied with a piece of black ribbon into a short cue. Although never quite at home in fine clothes, he looked handsome. Even so short a period of marriage had given him a new stability.
Stephen said he had come to see Sir George about opening an account with his bank. It was, he said, more convenient to keep his money at Carne’s in Falmouth and to deal with them; but in view of Sir George’s gesture of friendship in inviting Clowance and himself to that party at Cardew he felt it would be opportune and timely if he moved his account to Warleggan & Willyams. To have a friend as a banker was a rare privilege that he would very much appreciate, and he hoped that in the years to come the business he would bring to the bank would be of value to them too.
George sat for a long moment on the other side of the desk, fingering his pen. What confounded impertinence, he thought, what typical impertinence from this braggart sailor that when thinking of opening a pettifogging account he should ask to see the owner of the bank. Not content with a clerk, not content even with Lander, the chief clerk, he had to request an interview with Sir George Warleggan. As if he were a substantial landowner proposing some big accommodation. As if he were the chief shareholder in some industrial tramway with a proposal for a company flotation. As if . . .
Stephen’s confidence was becoming threadbare with the long silence. Clowance of course had said, don’t call. If you have to approach him, if you really feel you must, then write to him.
‘What is the nature of your account?’ The words when they came were more mildly spoken than George intended. At the very last moment he had had second thoughts.
‘Oh, small to begin, Sir George. I am trying to run a few vessels, mainly in the coastal trade and with Ireland and France. So that most of me money is tied up. At the moment I have two small vessels, one built special, the other bought as a prize – fishing boats really, but adapted for carrying cargo. And I have hopes of buying a third when the right opportunity comes along. Me account, what I shall have to deposit next week, will be £300, but I shall hope to more than double that before the month be out.’
Through the window behind him George looked out at a mule-drawn cart unloading several glistening blocks of tin for the coinage, which would take place on Thursday of this week. These great blocks, weighing 300 lbs each, would be unguarded until the controller and receiver arrived to determine by assay if they were of a sufficient quality to receive the stamp of the Duchy arms. It was fortunate, George thought, that most of his own mines raised copper, over which this cumbersome and tiresome law did not operate. But the tin coinages were very useful to his bank, obliging as they did the tin mines to borrow money to tide them over from one quarterly coinage to the next.
He said: ‘What shall you ship?’
‘Anything that’s going. We run – we ran the blockade last summer carrying pilchards to Italy, but twill not be the same this year with all the ports open – not the same profit, I mean. I’ve a promised cargo of moor-stone for Morlaix and shall bring salt back – that’s for the Chasse Marée. But I’ll quote for anything: clay, bark, corn; or bring iron from Wales or timber from Norway. There’s cargoes enough at the right price. All I need is more carrying capacity. The lads who’ve crewed with me are keen to go again. There’s much to be done.’
‘Much to be ventured?’
‘Aye.’ Stephen caught George’s look and added: ‘But legal. There’s no cause to break the law when there’s so much chance for honest trading.’
Damned hypocrite, thought George. But was he not also a young man who could be used?
‘Do you have more purchases in mind?’
‘Purchases?’
‘Of vessels. French prizes will soon dry up now.’
‘Aye. That’s true. But . . . there’s a fine American brig, called Adolphus, lying in Falmouth at the moment. She was captured by a British frigate, the Lyre, condemned as a prize and brought in. She’s been lying in the Roads two weeks now while her cargo’s sold: 70 odd bales of deerskins, 50 of bear, 30 bales of cotton, 100 odd barrels of potash, a deal of logwood. The stuff’s been going cheap; I would have bought more if I’d had the money, like.’
‘Does the brig appeal to you?’
‘Oh, she’s handsome! Built in Baltimore. They’re always fine boats from there. Seventy-two feet long, they say, by twenty-three in breadth. I suppose she’d displace about 150 tons. Very good rake to her; she’ll travel fast through the water.’
‘But you are not going to bid for her?’
‘I shall go to the auction; but she’ll be way above my means.’
‘What would she be likely to fetch?’
‘Oh . . . tis difficult to say. But she’s in prime condition – less than two years old.’
‘A thousand pounds?’
‘More than that. She’s been well advertised.’
‘Ah,’ said George, and got up from his desk. He noticed that Stephen did not get up as well. He noticed that Stephen did not call him, sir. He strolled over to the further window, not because he wanted to move but because he wanted to think. Fortunately Cary was in bed today: he had left off his winter vests and caught a chill.
‘Have you tried to raise accommodation money from Carne’s?’
‘What for?’
‘To enable you to bid for this ship?’
Stephen was genuinely startled. ‘No. It is not likely they’d aid me, for I have no security to offer.’
‘You own the other vessels?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would they not be security?’
‘I suppose. I’m not well used to the ways of finance.’
‘Commerce and enterprise build on credit. Without it much of industry would shut down.’
‘Aye.’ Stephen got up now, for George was talking behind him. ‘I’ve Andrew Blamey as me second man, but I’m taking no nonsense from him: he’s got to toe my line. Then there’s Bert Blount, who’s a first-class seaman: learned his trade the hard way, would navigate anywhere; two or three others you could give a bit of authority to. Course you have to see what they make of it; but I reckon it is a – what do they call it? – nucleus.’ He was pleased with the word; it sounded important, learned, and he repeated it. ‘Nucleus. Three vessels or four wouldn’t be beyond me capacity to manage.’
‘Including the Adolphus?’
‘Oh, she’d be the queen!’
‘King perhaps with such a name.’
Stephen laughed heartily. After a hesitant beginning this meeting was now going better than he had dared to hope. But he was still not sure of himself. Sir George had a fearsome reputation.
‘I’m obliged to ye, Sir George, for giving me so much of your time. Can I take it, then—’
‘Have you books?’
‘Books?’
‘Ledgers. Showing the profitability of your trade.’
‘No. Till now I’ve been well content to keep all such details in me head.’
‘Good enough to begin, but a mistake to continue. Could you produce them?’
‘Well, there’s little to produce so far. The outlay, the profits, the sharing of the profits. I could keep books if twas considered necessary to – to—’
‘If my bank advanced you two thousand pounds to buy the Adolphus, it would be essential that ledgers be kept and that we should have access to them from time to time.’
Stephen took a deep breath. ‘For that, Sir George, I’d be more’n willing to do whatever you say!’
Rain was trickling down the windows now. It was a humid day, with a sky as heavy as a soup tureen. The office was quieter and cooler with the windows and doors tight shut.
George said: ‘When is to be the auction?’
‘Monday week.’
‘We have a little time to draw up an agreement. The conditions will simply be the normal banking conditions on which such a loan can be made. You should have time to study them, and you should be free to accept or reject them as you think best for your own interests. Perhaps you could call in tomorrow and see Mr Lander. He will have the details.’
‘Thank you, Sir George,’ said Stephen, shaking hands. ‘Thank you, Sir George.’ And went out walking on air.
After he had left George went back to his desk and made some notes on the interview. Not that he needed them, but it was a matter of principle. Then he left the room and went into the private part of the house, where once so much had gone on and now so little went on. Elizabeth had lived here almost all the time and only paid the occasional visit to Trenwith – to see her parents – or to Cardew – to see his. With no parental complications, Harriet spent nine-tenths of her time at Cardew, and only came reluctantly to Truro where, unlike Elizabeth, she had few friends. So often the only person in residence was himself, for about three days of the week, and old Cary, who hardly used more than two rooms in all. The full staff was of course kept on for the occasions when George entertained business friends, and the house would be a little more frequently used in September when Ursula began school. Valentine of course would never be allowed to darken its doors again.
Very silent now, and the odour musty and stale. Smells wafted up from the river; there had not been sufficient wind recently to carry them away. Oh for the days of Elizabeth . . .
Sometimes he fancied he saw her still, heard her; she had a particular step, like no one else’s. Doors creaked, floorboards as if some weight had passed over them. It was a long time now; she was long since bones and dust; like his father and mother and hers . . . as he would be soon . . . Morbid thoughts for a heavy afternoon. Must ignore them – brush them away. Cobwebs in the mind . . .
Valentine’s extraordinary marriage and the bitter quarrel following had deeply seared George. Ever since, he had been of raw and uncertain temper. To the frustration and anger of knowing of the failure of all his plans for Valentine’s future was added the knowledge that he had lost his son. For a time his anger had disguised the fact, but in the night he knew it to be true. He had, of course, never really loved Valentine in the way he loved Ursula – not at least since Aunt Agatha had poured her poisonous lies into his ears – but since Elizabeth’s death he had fully accepted Valentine as his true son. He had lavished, if not great affection, then many material benefits upon him. But possibly even by the age of six damage had been done from which their relationship had not recovered. As Valentine grew up he seemed to grow into another Geoffrey Charles – deeply attached to his mother’s memory, and, in thought or by implication, resenting his father. So that once or twice the old worms of doubt had stirred in George.
Now he allowed them a freer reign; though he found himself doubly uncomfortable in doing so, knowing that he was breaking the vow he had made when Elizabeth, having given birth to a second premature child, had unexpectedly died. He had sworn he would never doubt again, and whatever the provocation he must try to keep that oath.
He thought of the young man he had just shown out of his office, and wondered if he could explain to anybody his motives for helping Carrington. They were so contrary, so complex, even running counter to each other, like pleas of not guilty in a court of law. (I wasn’t present at the scene of the crime, but if I was present I didn’t do it.) How list his motives; how explain them without sophistry even to himself?
Firstly, Valentine’s defection had left a larger void than he could have foreseen. That reluctantly one had to admit. The loss of his only son – the only person left to carry on the Warleggan name – lost not in war, not from accident or disease, but by marriage – was a near mortal blow. Of course at some far future date the rift might be partly healed. But not for a very long time. Too many things had been said which could never be unsaid. And George’s anger did not diminish, it grew every time he thought of it. The deliberate duplicity, the cold hostility infuriated him. And it had humiliated him in front of other people. Harriet had not laughed but he had thought he detected amusement in her eyes. Humiliation was something he could never endure.
Well, what had this to do with Stephen? Superficially nothing. But injured pride can sometimes find strange objects to assuage it. Stephen for Valentine? Of course not. But a sort of gap was there and could be filled. Nor was it impossible that Valentine, observing things from afar, would be irritated to see Stephen receiving favours that might have been his.
Secondly, Stephen had married a Poldark, and it might also anger the Nampara Poldarks to see their son-in-law working with and for their old enemy.
Thirdly, Stephen’s wife was Clowance Poldark. George had never touched her, except three times to shake hands, and never expected to do more; but in the event of something coming of this, he would certainly see more of her; might even see more of her than her own family.
Fourthly, if Stephen became difficult, egotistic, tried to push in ways George opposed, or attempted to interfere in matters that did not concern him, it would be not unagreeable to be able to bankrupt him at will.
Fifthly, George’s other great disappointment of the summer – Mr Rose’s death – had left him no less determined to keep the coach robbery in mind; and perversely, because nothing could be proved, he felt an increased conviction that Stephen Carrington had been a part of it. There was something swaggering and blustering about the sailor which fitted well with such an audacious robbery. And there had been a naval lieutenant taking part in it. Was it not typical of him to play such a role? Perhaps there never could be proof now. But a closer association, particularly where it involved money, might still provide evidence, for or against.
On the whole George did not regret his generosity to the young man.
III
And the young man, when he returned home, was full of his success. He told it all to Clowance over hot scones which she had baked for his return.
He ended: ‘So you see I was right, wasn’t I, him inviting us that night was a sign that he wished to be a friend! I’m glad I went to see him now, Clowance, I’m glad I went and didn’t just write; twould not ’ve been the same. By God, it really means I shall be a shipowner! Tis hard to credit. In just the twelvemonth. Three vessels, if not more! We’ll call it the Carrington Line!’
Clowance said: ‘Watch tomorrow, won’t you Stephen? Read very carefully whatever agreement he puts before you. Don’t think I’m not excited for you – for us – ; but you see, though I have never disliked him personally, he has this reputation in Cornwall, always for getting his pound of flesh.’
Stephen stared at her. ‘Maybe it’s a sort of reputation to be proud of! Pound of flesh has a nasty meaning but it may cover no more than being a good business man and expecting others to be the same. There’s too much laziness and slovenliness in the world. Maybe it’s just that George Warleggan has no time for neither; and if that’s so I could scarce blame him. Oh, I know your mother and father think harshly of him – and Jeremy too I believe – but the most of that was no business matter at all. Twas to do with your father and Elizabeth, George’s wife, and your mother and many little quarrels over the years. That is not business, that is – well, jealousy and dislike and personal feuds which have naught to do either with you or with me. Why, if I had to choose . . .’ He broke off.
‘If you had to choose?’
He had been about to say that he would rather be a wealthy merchant and banker like George Warleggan than a small landowner and mine owner like Ross Poldark; but he had the good sense to stop in time.
‘If I had to choose I’d rather be thought a hard man in business sooner than a soft.’
‘But fair. Looking at other people as human beings not as cogs. My father says that is George’s wrong way.’
Stephen spread a large pat of butter on his scone, then watched it begin to melt before he took a bite.
‘I don’t think you’d get far in the sailing world if you did that. I know it is only human beings banding together as crews that can make it work . . . But you got to be hard, because that’s the way the world is and that’s the way the sea is . . . All the same – all the same, if you have a rich banker as a friend you don’t have to do everything the way he does. So long as you turn in the profit, that’s all that counts.’
‘D’you prefer these to the usual splits?’ Clowance asked.
‘What?’
‘I thought it would make a change.’
‘Yes . . . yes, I reckon I do. They’re sweeter. But then I like everything you cook, you know that.’
She said: ‘I’m taking care for the time when you will be harder to please, when the glow has gone.’
‘Why should the glow ever go? It is not like you to be misanthropical.’
She smiled. Her eyes were thoughtful.
‘I suppose it is always a mistake to take one’s parents’ view of another person. Handsome is as handsome does . . . After the first meeting I had with Sir George – when I admit I was trespassing and I think I gave him somewhat of a shock, when he was rude and snarly – after that he has always been coldly polite, with a look as if he’d like to like me but mustn’t. Once or twice I’ve surprised looks that I wasn’t supposed to see. I don’t think he’s as cold as he pretends . . . Certainly I do not dislike him. It is only what one hears. And not just from my parents. He is known for his ruthlessness in business. And is really feared for it. There are small business men up and down the county who have gone to the wall because of him. And if a man loses his work and says harsh things about the way he has lost it, then he’ll find no more work in Cornwall – anywhere, because the Warleggans say not.’
Stephen fingered a few crumbs from his missing eye tooth. ‘Where d’you learn all this if not from your parents?’
‘Stephen,’ she said, ‘I’m twenty years of age and have spent all my life in Cornwall. Even living a sheltered life, one hears a great deal about the important people of the county.’
After a few moments he said a bit sulkily: ‘And you do not trust me to be able to accept help from this man without becoming ruled by him?’
‘No, I didn’t say that. But I said, be careful.’
‘Oh,’ said Stephen, well aware that the ice he was treading on was far thinner than Clowance knew. ‘I’ll be that sure enough.’