The Four Swans

  The wind was fresh, and Elizabeth put up a hand to steady her green tricorn hat.

  ‘I was seldom over even when I was married to Francis. And after Francis died Ross used to come to see me once a week, but I did not ride this way.’

  ‘That was when he cheated Geoffrey Charles out of his rights in this prosperous mine.’

  Elizabeth shrugged. ‘The mine, he thought, was foundering and he bought the share thinking he was helping us by doing so. It was half a year after that that they found tin.’

  George smiled. ‘At last I have provoked you into defending him.’

  Elizabeth looked round, but Geoffrey Charles had moved on with the groom. She was not smiling.

  ‘Your suspicions don’t do you credit, George. Not these nor any others.’

  ‘What others?’

  ‘Whatever others you may entertain. As a distinguished man, as a Member of Parliament, as a magistrate – also as my husband . . . and as Valentine’s father . . . I think you are too big a man now for such small matters.’

  The wind thrust at them, and their horses were restless. A bell rang in the mine, sounding far distant because of the gusty wind.

  She had trailed her coat: it was up to him whether he said more; but she had chosen her moment well; one could not fling black accusations at a woman on horseback on a windy moor while her son and their groom were only twenty yards away and had reined in waiting for them.

  Yet it was a sort of challenge. It was spoken with more firmness than she had ever used before. It alerted him to her awareness of his moods, and possibly the reason for them. And it alerted him to her willingness to fight. It meant that he must take greater care of his moods or that some time in the future it must indeed come to that fight.

  He said: ‘What’s that building among the trees on the rise going towards Choake’s?’

  ‘I believe it’s the new chapel.’

  ‘On Poldark land?’

  ‘I think so. Didn’t they build it out of the stones of the old mine?’

  ‘It looks like a cattle shed.’

  ‘It was all done by the Methodists in their spare time.’

  ‘No doubt initiated by the two Carne brothers.’

  ‘No doubt. I’m sorry we moved them from the meeting house near Trenwith. It can do no good to become unpopular in so small a cause.’

  ‘We do not need to curry favour with such.’

  ‘I never have – curried favour. But we have to spend our lives among these people.’

  ‘Less and less,’ said George.

  ‘Well,’ Elizabeth said. ‘That will please me. I shall look forward to London.’

  George glanced at her. ‘Trevaunance was asking me last night about my position on the bench. I have only made one appearance this year. But I don’t intend to leave this district altogether. After all, it is Geoffrey Charles’s inheritance.’

  Elizabeth nodded but did not speak.

  George said: ‘The last time I met Ross he asked me if I had ever thought of selling Trenwith.’

  ‘He did?’ She was surprised into a flush.

  ‘Perhaps, now that his little mine is prospering, he has the illusion that he could find enough money to buy Trenwith for himself.’

  ‘That could never be! As you say, it belongs to Geoffrey Charles.’

  ‘Well,’ George looked down at Nampara and gathered his reins more tightly, ‘I can understand his ambition. Whatever he may do to that place he can achieve nothing in the end. As well try to make a good shaft out of a pig’s tail.’

  III

  Since the day she had left in Sam’s company Drake had seen nothing of Emma Tregirls. He himself seldom went away from his forge and anvil. This was his work; the craft fascinated him; it was what he had been brought up to do; it was what he could do best; and he owed Ross and Demelza a duty to succeed. In spite of his grief he sometimes looked round his property and found it good. Every hour he worked on it made it better and every hour away from it was a wasted hour because there was nothing outside his work that interested him.

  And if he needed company the company was here. His social life was his customers. A farmer would bring his horse to be shod and would gossip away while the work was being done, or a plough would need a new handle, or the wall of a cottage would need an iron cross for support, or a miner would bring a shovel in need of a new haft. Caroline Enys had taken a fancy to the tall pale youth and sent over any work she could. Sometimes she came herself and strolled about the yard talking to him and tapping her skirt with her riding crop.

  But not Emma Tregirls. Then one Wednesday afternoon in early October, her half day off, she arrived with a kitchen hook used for suspending a kettle over a fire. It was badly bent and needed re-shaping, but Drake wondered that a handyman at Fernmore could not have done the job himself.

  ‘Will ye wait?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll wait,’ she said, and took a seat on an upturned box and watched him.

  There was silence while the hook was heated to a proper temperature. She was dressed in her usual scarlet cloak, scarf, blue dress – her Wednesday best – sturdy boots, knees crossed, one ankle, surprisingly slim, swinging free. Drake decided he didn’t dislike her face. Its boldness had a freshness about it, a frankness, unaware or careless of prohibitions. You could see how the men would be attracted to a girl who made no pretence of shyness or dissimulation. Yet in the end they would come to accept the general verdict of other women, or the community in general, and despise her.

  ‘Got a nice place here,’ Emma said.

  ‘Yes, tis looking better now.’

  ‘All tidied up. Cleaned up proper. Done it all yourself, have you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t Brother never come over t’elp?’

  ‘Once in a while. But he’s got his own living to make.’

  ‘And all that praying. Was you ever a praying man yourself, Drake?’

  ‘Yes. Still am betimes.’

  ‘But you keep it in its place, eh? Not like Brother who can scarce open his mouth wi’out calling on God.’

  ‘That’s as maybe. We’re all made different.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Emma, and the conversation lapsed.

  The hook was red hot, and he picked it from the fire, put it on the anvil, and began to tap it back to shape. She watched his long slim arms, sleeves rolled above elbow, his intent face.

  She said: ‘Drake.’

  He looked up.

  ‘Drake, d’you ever laugh, play, enjoy yourself? Specially d’you ever laugh?’

  He thought. ‘I used to – a lot.’

  ‘Before you became a Methody?’

  ‘Oh, after that.’

  ‘And Sam? Do he ever laugh?’

  ‘Yes, sometimes. For joy.’

  ‘But for fun – for good earthy fun. Like most young folk.’

  ‘Not much. Life’s serious for Sam. Not that he didn’t used to.’

  ‘Did he? When?’

  Drake examined the hook, turning it this way and that, gave it a few more taps. Then he plunged it into a bucket of water. The steam rose hissing to the sky. ‘There you are, mistress. That’s done.’

  She did not speak and he considered a moment whether he wanted to say any more to her about Sam. He met her eyes.

  He said: ‘When Father was converted we all had to be converted along of him. I was a little tacker but Sam were fourteen. It never took with him. Always he’d be off away somewhere when twas time for chapel. Many’s the rowings he got. But when Father was converted he gave up the strap so twas all moral suasion. Right till he was nigh twenty Sam were the black sheep. Not real black, mind. Light-hearted, as you say. Always joking. Always up to pranks. A tankard of ale or a tot of rum. Wrestling. Running races. He were the best wrestler in the family after Father. Used to go round competing at fairs. Sonny Carne, they used to call him.’

  ‘Why Sonny?’

  ‘From Samson, I s’pose. Sam-son.’

  The hissing had died away.
>
  She said: ‘What spoiled him?’

  Drake laughed. ‘Sam wouldn’t say that. He’d say what saved him.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘A girl he liked – oh, no more’n liked – and a boy he liked – brother and sister – died of typhus. They’d been converted bare a month and he was there when they died, and he says it all happened from that. Joy was in their faces, he said, ’stead of pain. For weeks after he was in terrible trouble, suffering much and struggling with Satan, until the Evil One was at last vanquished and Sam became a child of God.’

  ‘You’re talking like him now,’ Emma said.

  ‘Should I not?’

  She stood up and went to the tub of water. She took the tongs from him and lifted out the hook and put it on the bench.

  ‘That’ll do well and fine. How much do I pay you?’

  They were standing close together. He had not been so close to a young woman for a long time.

  ‘Why d’you ask ’bout Sam?’

  ‘He troubles me.’

  ‘How? Why?’

  ‘He’s in love with me, Drake.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Oh,’ she shrugged. ‘Tis no matter what I d’feel. I’ve told him no.’

  ‘He wanted to wed you?’

  ‘Yes. That’s comic, isn’t it? Him and me. Oil and water. He think to reform me. I’d poison his godly life. Honest I would. Can you see me among the Methodies? That’d duff you, wouldn’t it?’

  Drake looked away. She spoke lightly and there was no hint of trouble in her eyes.

  ‘Why d’you come to me, Emma?’

  ‘To get the hook fixed, what else?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘But I just thought to mention Sam.’

  Drake touched the hook experimentally. It had cooled. ‘That’ll be twopence.’

  She gave him two pennies.

  Drake said: ‘He have asked to wed you and you’ve told him no. Isn’t that an end on it?’

  She picked up the hook and banged it hard on the bench ‘Yes!’

  ‘You’ll do it hurt that way and be coming for another straightening.’

  She said: ‘I come to you because there’s no one other to talk to, and I like your looks. Fact when I come that day with the lifting bar twas out of curiosity to see you and I was vexed to see Preaching Sam here. I still like your looks . . . but Sam d’get into your bones. He’s got into my bones, I tell ee, and tis no pretty way to be!’

  ‘You love him, do you, Emma?’

  She shrugged impatiently. ‘Love? I don’t know what love d’mean. But I can’t be free the way I used to be! I can take my two-three pints with the best, laugh and joke; nobody d’see the difference in Emma. People d’say I’m a whore. What is a whore? A woman that d’sell her body. I never sold nothing to no one! I’m not so loose as folk say but . . . What I done I don’t regret. But since I seen Sam, since we talked, I’ve lost the pleasure of it! I wish to God I never met him!’

  After a moment, Drake said: ‘Is it the conviction of sin that’s growing in you, Emma?’

  Bang went the hook again. ‘No! And to Hell wi’ your damnation preaching! No, I don’t know what tis but I feel no sin. Sin? Sin is doing ill to other folk, not enjoying what you’ve got in the world! Sometimes I think Sam’s not a good man but a rare wicked one. What d’ye think I got to be happy ’bout? Brought up in the poor’s house, lent out, worked to death, never a moment free to call me own, half starved, no chance of betterment, men prying, pawing. Now I’m with the Choakes – tis betterer’n most. Bit of time to meself now and then and a half day a fortnight. So I want to be happy, to enjoy what I got, a tot of rum, flirting wi’ a man, running races at Sawle feast, a bed to sleep in, nigh enough to eat. What for should I feel sin? What sin ever have I done in the world ’cept to try to make a few folk happy! You and your damned brother! I wisht you’d both go jump down a bal!’

  She had worked herself up into a rare anger. Her whole body was trembling with annoyance and she held the hook as if she would swing it at Drake and slay him.

  Drake said: ‘Emma, I cann’t answer all for Sam. But truly if you come to God in the way he has come, you have first to feel the conviction of sin, then you feel the forgiveness, the deliverance, then the joy of Salvation. The joy you d’feel at the end is far in excess of any joy you may have felt afore. That is what he preaches. That is what he tries to bring folk to understand! He wants you to be happy, but happy in the right way, happier than ever you have been in the past!’

  Emma put the hook under her arm. ‘Well, tis all lost on me, I tell ee. Look at ’em, look at the Methodies crawling about, pinched mouths, frowning brows, afraid to say boo to a goose, case the goose is Satan in disguise – are they happy? Cursed if I can see it!’

  Drake sighed. ‘We must do what we think best, sister. The world have gone sour on me, as doubtless you will have heard. It is not in me to give you any answer. I’m that sorry you’ve become taken up with Sam. I’m sorry for your sake and I’m sorry for his. But if you can find nothing in his promises then I b’lieve there’s nothing that’ll help you with him at all.’

  Emma stood there retying the knot in her scarf. ‘Down a mine,’ she said. ‘That’s what did ought to happen to the both of you. Cast down a mine with a lot of water in it so’s you’d both drown.’

  She went off, leaving Drake staring after her. He did not go in until her figure had dwindled away in the distance of the hill.

  Chapter Four

  I

  Except for a short spell around Christmas, it was a beautiful winter. Compared to that of two years ago England was a different island set in a friendlier sea. All through the worst months frosty nights were followed by days of hazy sunshine; and in Cornwall there was not even frost. Primroses bloomed all winter, birds sang, winds were mainly easterly and light.

  Ross and Demelza and both children bathed on the 21st December. The water was icy to get in but the air delicious to come out into, and while they rubbed themselves with towels the low sun peered over the sea, casting long cadaverous shadows of themselves across the silent beach. Then indoors, giggling and still damp, to stand before the fire and sup bowls of steaming soup and sip toddy. It was Jeremy’s first taste of spirituous liquor and it went to his head and he lay on the settle shrieking with laughter while Clowance gazed gravely at her brother thinking he had gone off his head.

  The one break in the good weather came at Christmas with snowflakes and a howling easterly gale, and Ross had visions of another such year’s beginning as January ’95, but in less than a week the storm was over and the sun came out again.

  Save for the mildness of the weather there was little to rejoice in. Lord Malmesbury, sent to Paris to discuss French terms for a European peace settlement, was kept on a string until mid-December and then summarily dismissed. The Directory did not want peace. Spain had at last declared war on their side. Corsica had been taken, the French landing at one end of the island as the British left it at the other. Catherine of Russia was dead and her successor, Tsar Paul, a neurotic and a tyrant, had no interest in pulling English irons out of the fire. The day before Malmesbury was sent home a French fleet of forty-three ships, with sixteen thousand troops aboard under the redoubtable young Hoche, slipped out of Brest, dodged the British fleet and sailed to invade an Ireland waiting to be liberated.

  Only Captain Sir Edward Pellew, the hero of the fight in which Dwight was captured, was once again in the right place at the right time and drove his solitary frigate into the heart of the French fleet during the night, blazing off with everything he’d got and causing confusion, panic, and three enemy ships to run on the rocks. But most of the invading armada reached Bantry Bay and while Ross and Demelza were enjoying their bathe were assembling to proceed up the bay to land their troops. Thereupon came the Christmas gale, more valuable to England than all her blockading squadrons; and blew for a week, making any sort of landing impossible; and in disappointment the French fleet turned for h
ome.

  Yet when the escape became known, there was despondency in England, not relief. If such an occurrence could happen once, when might it not happen again? Belief in the blockade was shaken. Belief in the omniscience of the British navy was lost. More banks suspended payment and Consols fell to 53.

  Nothing more was heard at Nampara of Hugh Armitage, and his name seldom came up in conversation. But Ross wondered if his shadow had come between them. It never had, while he was here; they had talked once or twice about him, about his infatuation for Demelza, about her feeling of vulnerability, like true lovers discussing something which had arisen and needed to be considered, yet without any feeling of there being a real menace in it towards their own love. That was while he was here. After he was gone it had at first been just the same; but it seemed to Ross that something in that last letter of Hugh’s in September had unsettled Demelza and she had slightly withdrawn from the frank companionship of most times.

  He had asked her twice if anything was amiss, not of course mentioning Hugh’s name, and each time she had said no. The change in her indeed was so slight that someone less close to her would have noticed nothing. She went about in the same way as ever, cheerful, lively, talkative, witty, enjoying life and enjoying her children. The furnishings for the new library were coming on well, and she took interest in seeing everything was right. Twice she rode to Truro with him about the chairs. Other times they shopped together in Padstow and Penryn. They had the Enyses to dinner. She was always busy. Twice in love-making she turned her mouth away from him.

  In January to his very considerable annoyance Ross learned that the Reverend Osborne Whitworth had been appointed to the living of Sawle-with-Grambler. The following week, the weather being so open, Mr Whitworth rode over with his wife and sister-in-law, slept with the elderly Chynoweths at Trenwith, and duly read himself in. It was learned that he had decided to increase the Odgers’s stipend to £45 a year.

  ‘It shows,’ Ross said, ‘what value can be placed on Lord Falmouth’s promise of assistance.’

  ‘Why? Did you ask him?’

  ‘Yes. When we were there in July. He said he would make a note of it.’