The Four Swans

  She was silent. Then in a voice somewhat changed, as if his words had at last made a difference. ‘Someone else, then.’

  ‘Who could there be?’

  ‘Demelza?’

  ‘She knew, of course. It nearly broke up our marriage, but now I believe the break is healed. But she would say nothing, nothing ever to anyone. It – it would destroy her to speak of it.’

  They walked on for a few paces.

  ‘Was he – like this when Valentine was born?’

  ‘George? No.’

  ‘He accepted him as a premature child?’

  ‘I am not saying that Valentine was not. I am only speaking of George’s suspicion.’

  ‘Very well. So he must have learned something more recently or have been given reason to suspect since.’

  ‘Oh, what is the use of talking!’ Elizabeth said with great weariness. ‘It’s all – destroyed. If your purpose in what you did was destruction, then you altogether succeeded.’

  But he would not be sidetracked. ‘Who was in the house that night? Geoffrey Charles? He slept soundly in the turret room. Aunt Agatha? But she was almost bedridden. The Tabbs? . . .’

  ‘George saw Tabb a few months ago,’ Elizabeth said reluctantly. ‘He mentioned it to me.’

  Ross shook his head. ‘How could it have been Tabb? You complained to me in those days that he never went to bed sober. And I came through no door – as you know.’

  ‘Like the devil,’ said Elizabeth. ‘With the face and look of the devil.’

  ‘Yet you did not treat me so after the first shock.’ He had not intended to say it but she had provoked him into it.

  ‘Thank you, Ross. That’s the sort of taunt I should have learned to expect.’

  ‘Possibly. Possibly. But this meeting between us – after these years. I can’t see the beginning or end of it.’

  ‘The end of it’s now. Go on your way.’

  They were at the wicket gate. ‘This meeting itself is a shock, Elizabeth – but what you tell me is the greater shock. How can we separate – just at this moment? There must be more said. Stay for five minutes.’

  ‘Five years would make no difference. It’s all finished.’

  ‘I’m not trying to revive something between us. I’m trying to see what you have told me in some believable shape . . . Are you quite certain that George has these suspicions?’

  ‘How else would you explain his attitude towards his son?’

  ‘He’s a strange man – given to moods that might give you the wrong impression. The fact that you have a natural fear . . .’

  ‘A guilty conscience, you mean.’

  ‘Never that, for the guilt was all mine.’

  ‘How generous!’

  With the first hint of impatience he said: ‘Have it how you will. But tell me what makes you so sure.’

  They were so silent for some moments that an owl flew by them, almost between them, and Elizabeth put up a hand to guard her face.

  ‘When Valentine was born George could not make enough of him. He doted on him, spoke constantly of his prospects, his schooling, his inheritance. Since last September he has changed. His mood varies, but at its worst he has not visited the child’s room for days at a time. After your last meeting with him I carried Valentine into his room and he refused to look up from his desk.’

  Ross frowned into the dark, thinking all round what she said.

  ‘God in Heaven, what a pit we’ve dug for ourselves! . . .’

  ‘And what a pit has been dug for Valentine . . . Now if you will let me pass.’

  ‘Elizabeth—’

  ‘Please, Ross. I feel ill.’

  ‘No, wait. Is there nothing we can do?’

  ‘Tell me what.’

  He was silent. ‘At the worst – why don’t you have it out with him?’

  ‘Out with him?’

  ‘Yes. It’s all better to be spoken than unspoken.’

  She gave a hard laugh. ‘What a noble suggestion! Would you not like to have it out with him yourself?’

  ‘No, because I should kill him – or possibly he me – and that would not help your dilemma. I don’t suggest you should tell him the truth. But challenge him – make him say what he suspects and then deny it.’

  ‘Lie to him, you mean.’

  ‘If it’s necessary to lie, yes. If you cannot find some way of denying what you have to deny less directly. But I don’t know what is the truth. Perhaps you do not. Or if you do, only you do. He can have no proof because there is no proof. If anyone knows who is Valentine’s father it can be only you. And as for the rest – what happened between us – that’s known only to us. All else is speculation, suspicion, whispers and rumour. What can he have heard since September to destroy his peace of mind? You say his mood varies. That means he has no certainty – only some evil has been breathed into his ear and he can’t rid himself of it. You are the only one who can free him.’

  ‘How bravely you solve the problem. I should have come to you before!’

  He refused to be provoked. ‘I solve nothing, my dear, but I think it’s what you should do. I’ve known George for twenty-five years. And you fifteen. And I know in this you underrate yourself. Face him with his suspicions. Possibly because of this fear within you, you have come to magnify it all. But you are the one person in his world, perhaps the only one, who has no need, no possible reason to fear him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re still precious in his eyes – as in the eyes of many other men – and he couldn’t bear to lose you. His very passion about this . . . I tell you, I know him, he’d do anything to keep you, to know you love him and to be told you have eyes for no other man. He has wanted you since he first saw you; the very first time I saw him looking at you, I knew. But I never dreamed that he had a chance. Neither did he.’

  ‘Neither did I,’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘No . . .’

  The owl was screeching now in the denser blackness of the trees.

  He was not sure, but some of the bitterest anger seemed to have gone out of her. He said: ‘Can you imagine how I felt when I learned that he was to have you?’

  ‘You left me in no doubt.’

  ‘It was ill done, but until now I have not regretted it.’

  ‘I had supposed that you might have done – almost at once.’

  ‘You supposed wrong. But I could not come to you again – break up everyone’s life afresh.’

  ‘You should have thought of that before.’

  ‘I was mad – mad with jealousy. It’s not easy to reason with a man when he sees the woman he has always loved giving herself to the man he has always hated.’

  She looked at him. Even in this dark he caught some questing look.

  ‘I have thought many ill things of you, Ross, but not that you were – devious.’

  ‘In what respect do you suppose I am now?’

  She sheered away from what had been suddenly growing between them. ‘Is it not devious now to try to save a marriage you did your best to prevent?’

  ‘Not altogether. Because now there is a third person to consider.’

  ‘It would redeem your conscience if—’

  ‘Good God, my conscience is not at issue! What is, is your life and the life of – your son.’ He stopped. ‘In all this I’m assuming that you don’t wish your marriage to George to founder?’

  ‘It is already foundering.’

  ‘But you speak as if you wish to save it.’

  She hesitated. ‘Yes . . . I wish to save it.’

  ‘Most of all you must save Valentine. He above all is worth fighting for.’

  He saw her stiffen. ‘Do you think I’m not prepared to fight?’

  ‘Whatever else,’ he said harshly, ‘he is your son. I hope he is George’s. I want to have produced no cuckoo in the nest who shall inherit all the Warleggan interests. But he is your son, and as such he should grow up free of the taint of suspicion . . . And, Elizabeth . . .’

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; ‘What?’

  ‘If it should happen – if so be that you should ever give George another child . . .’

  ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘If so be that you should, would it not put a seal upon the marriage that no one could dispute?’

  ‘It could not alter anything that had gone before.’

  ‘But it could. If you were to contrive . . .’ He stopped again.

  ‘Well – go on.’

  ‘Women can get confused as to the months of their conception. Perhaps you did with Valentine – perhaps not. But let there be confusion next time, however arranged. Another seven-month child would convince George as nothing else would.’

  She was examining something on her sleeve. ‘I think . . .’ she said: ‘can you get this off me, please?’

  A July-bug, or cockchafer, had landed and attached itself to the lace of her sleeve. They were harmless insects but enormous, and most women were afraid of them getting in their hair. He took her arm and held it; with a sharp sweep he tried to knock it off; it clung, and he had to get hold of the fat yielding body between his fingers and pull it away before it would fall.

  At last it was gone, somewhere in the dark grass where it buzzed helplessly, trying to take to the air again.

  ‘Thank you,’ Elizabeth said. ‘And now goodbye.’

  He hadn’t released her arm and though she made a movement away from him he did not let go. Quietly he pulled her towards him and covered her face with kisses. Nothing at all violent, this time; five or six brushing kisses, loving, admiring; too sexual to be brotherly yet too affectionate to be altogether resented.

  ‘Goodbye,’ Ross said. ‘My dear.’

  Chapter Twelve

  I

  Dwight and Caroline had been invited to Tregothnan too, so Ross and Demelza called for them at Killewarren on the way. They drank chocolate together before setting out in procession. Ross had recently bought two new horses, called Sheridan and Swift, from Tholly Tregirls, so he and Demelza were not so greatly outshone in the quality of their mounts, and since they had to carry night clothes and evening clothes they had brought John Gimlett with them on old Darkie. It had been a long time since Gimlett had had an outing, and Ross thought it suitable that he should eat and sleep at Boscawen expense. Caroline had brought a maid as well as a footman.

  On the way down into Truro, down the long steep dusty lane, with its sheds and its hovels and its pigs rooting in the road, Dwight said that they must excuse him for half an hour, as he had a patient to visit.

  Caroline said: ‘He is going to call on the vicar’s wife. Dwight can never dissociate his duty from his pleasure. Though I truly believe he makes a pleasure of duty, especially when it is some pretty young woman he has to attend!’

  ‘Caroline, please,’ Dwight said, half smiling.

  ‘No, no, don’t deny it! All the young women adore you. Even, I blush to confess it, your own wife, who takes her place in the crowd humbly hoping for a little attention!’

  ‘Caroline,’ Dwight said, ‘loves to pillory me for neglect because I venture to pursue my own trade. But don’t put on this pretence among your friends, my love. They know how much I neglect you.’

  Ross said: ‘Is it Whitworth’s wife? Morwenna Whitworth? I didn’t know she was ill.’

  ‘Yes . . . ill,’ said Dwight.

  ‘She had a baby some months ago,’ Demelza said. ‘Is all not well because of that?’

  ‘She’s a little on the mend.’

  ‘Dwight,’ said Caroline, ‘will not discuss his patients. It all differs greatly from my uncle’s doctor in Oxford who chatters freely about how this lady has benefited from his grated rhubarb powders and how that gentleman has caught the French pox and is responding to treatment. And always by name, of course, always by name. It makes for an entertaining visit and keeps one abreast of local gossip.’

  ‘Whitworth,’ Ross said. ‘Do you find him an agreeable fellow?’

  ‘He’s seldom about when I call.’

  ‘I have always wanted to throw him in some stinking pond.’

  Caroline said: ‘I admire you for your subtlety, Ross. What has the poor man done to deserve such dislike?’

  ‘Except that he used at one time to come sniffing round Demelza, very little to me personally, but—’

  ‘Well, I trust you don’t dislike every man who takes a fancy to Demelza, or you would be hard pressed to find a friend!’

  ‘No, but Whitworth has such an intolerable, loud conceit of himself. I’m sure Demelza has no fancy for the fellow either.’

  ‘Sniffing,’ said Demelza. ‘I don’t recollect him sniffing. It was the way his tail wagged I didn’t greatly care for.’

  The spire of St Mary’s Church lofted itself above the huddle of the town. Water wrinkled under the crouching clouds. The convoy threaded through the narrow streets, hooves slipping and clattering over the cobbles and the mud. Ragged children ran after them, and Caroline opened her bag and threw some ha’pence in a scattering fan. Immediately the urchins fell on them, but they were beaten away by men and women nearly as ragged who had been sitting in doorways.

  They turned a corner, and the noise of the struggle and of the shouts and cries and the yapping dogs was left behind. They made for Malpas, and here Dwight left them. A drop or two of rain fell. The way was narrow, and they went in single file to avoid the cart ruts.

  Ross looked at Demelza’s straight back jogging ahead of him. She hadn’t the ‘seat’ of Caroline, but considering how little she rode it was pretty good. He had not told her of his meeting with Elizabeth. However carefully he explained, she would be liable to misunderstand it. Not surprising in view of their history. Yet he would have liked very much to tell her. Elizabeth’s news of George’s suspicions worried and shocked him, and Demelza’s wisdom would have been specially welcome. But this was the one subject on which Demelza’s wisdom could be drawn off course by the lode star of her emotions. You could expect no other. It was a dangerous and nasty situation that he saw ahead, but he had no right to bring Demelza into it further than she already was.

  But more particularly he would have liked to tell her again of his feelings for Elizabeth. He had tried to do this once before and it had nearly led for the second time to a break-up of their marriage. The good news that he then tried to convey to her, namely that his love for Elizabeth was no longer to be compared to his love for her, had somehow in the telling become pompous and condescending, and the terrible quarrel that ensued had led to her saddling her horse and being almost away before a last appeal from him and a bathetic domestic crisis had stopped her.

  So nothing good, certainly, would come of his reopening the wound after it had been healing for three years. Yet, riding towards the ferry on that oppressive July afternoon, with bees buzzing in the hedgerows and butterflies flickering at the water’s edge and thunder spots falling, he would have liked to say: ‘Demelza, I met Elizabeth and we talked for the first time for years. At first she was bitter and hostile. But towards the end she softened and when we parted I kissed her. I’m still fond of her, in the way a man is for a woman he has once loved. I’m grieved for her predicament and would do much to help her. I tried deliberately to show my affection for her because it sears me to find her so hostile. I have an uneasy conscience about her for the two misdeeds I committed against her. One, I took her against her will – though in the end I do not believe it was so much against her will. But, two, I never went to see her thereafter and I believe to the first injury added a much greater injury for which it would be far more injurious to apologize. I would like to be friends with her again – so far as is possible considering whom she has married. The other evening I tried to make her think I still loved her – for in a way I truly do. But not in any way you need fear, my dear. Fifteen years ago I would have given the whole earth for her. And she hasn’t changed much, aged, coarsened, or become less lovely. Only I have changed, Demelza. And it is your fault.’

  He would very much have lik
ed to say all this to Demelza; but one attempt to explain his feelings for Elizabeth was enough. Once bitten twice shy. Somehow in the telling the confidence would have got itself twisted up and turned inside out and become an attempt to reassure his wife of something he didn’t believe himself. His witty, earthy, infinitely charming wife would for once in her life employ her wit and earthiness to unseat his reason and his good-will, and in no time they would be saying things to each other that they neither thought nor meant. And there would be Hell to pay.

  So all must be kept secret. And all must be left unsaid.

  II

  The drive to the house from the entrance gates above Tresillian was four miles, but by crossing at the ferry they cut this out and in a few minutes they were approaching Tregothnan. It was, Demelza found, an older and altogether more shabby house than Tehidy. Nor had it the singular Elizabethan elegance of the far smaller Trenwith. It was built of some sort of white stone with a pale slate roof, and it stood on rising ground looking down the river. Inside the rooms were gaunt and rather gloomy, being hung with flags and war trophies and full of suits of armour and small cannon.

  ‘I had no idea you were such a warlike family,’ she said to Hugh Armitage. ‘It seems—’

  ‘Some of these things belonged to my grandfather, the great admiral,’ Hugh said, ‘whose widow still lives in London. But as for the rest, I suppose they have accumulated. As individuals we take part in most wars, but as a family we have chiefly prospered by minding our own business.’

  He had come down the steps to greet them, and Mrs Gower, a pleasant plump woman in her forties, had been just behind him. Lord Falmouth’s two children were in the hall, as was Colonel Boscawen, an uncle, but of the viscount himself nothing was yet to be seen. Half a dozen other guests had arrived about the same time, and in the bustle Demelza was able to withdraw her hand from Hugh’s without Ross noticing how long he had held it.

  ‘I think I have offended you, Mrs Poldark,’ Armitage said.

  ‘If you have I didn’t know it,’ she replied.

  He smiled. In spite of his tan he still contrived to look pale. ‘I know no woman so witty without any element of malice. Nor one so beautiful without any element of conceit.’