‘Well, go on.’
‘My change of feelings towards him began, I think, over his attitude to Geoffrey Charles. Then when I married you, that was clearly not to his liking, and his arrogance in forcing his way into the house that Christmas and threatening us because his wife had got at cross with your gamekeeper – it seemed to me intolerable.’
‘He did not force his way in,’ George said quietly; ‘he found some way in that we did not know of.’
She shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’
‘I do not know.’
‘What d’you mean?’
They listened to a tapping on the cobbles outside. It was a blind man feeling his way along, his stick like an antenna plotting out the path. The window was an inch open and George shut it, cutting out the sound.
He said: ‘I sometimes think, Elizabeth; I sometimes wonder . . .’
‘What?’
‘Something that you may consider an unsuitable thought for a husband to have of his wife . . .’ He paused. ‘Namely that your new enmity for Ross Poldark is less genuine than your old affection . . .’
‘You are right!’ she said instantly. ‘I do consider it a most unsuitable thought! Are you accusing me of hypocrisy or something worse?’ Her voice was angry. Anger to drive out apprehension.
In their married life they had often had differences of opinion but had never quarrelled. It was not that sort of a relationship. Now on the verge he hesitated, drawing back from a confrontment for which he was not fully prepared.
‘How do I know?’ he said. ‘It may not even be hypocrisy. Perhaps it is self-deception.’
‘Have I ever – have I ever at any time in these two years given you reason to suppose that I have warmer feelings for Ross than my words suggest? Name a single time!’
‘No. I can name none. That’s not what I mean. Listen. You are a woman of enduring loyalties. Confess that. Always you stand by your friends. In those years when you were married to Francis your friendship with Ross Poldark never wavered. If I mentioned his name you froze. But since we married you have become as unfriendly to him, as unwelcoming as I. In all controversy you have taken my side—’
‘Do you complain?’
‘Of course not. This has pleased me. It has gratified me to feel that you have – changed your allegiance. But I’m not sure that it is in your character so to change. It’s more in your character to support me with reluctance against an old friend – because as my wife you feel it your duty to support me. But not with the strong feelings that you appear to show. Therefore at times I suspect them. I say to myself: perhaps they’re not true. Perhaps she is deceiving me because she thinks it pleases me. Or perhaps she is deceiving herself into mistaking her own feelings.’
She got up at last from the table and went towards the fire, which had only recently been lit and was burning low.
‘Have you seen Ross today?’ She tucked a wisp of hair into the comb she was wearing, making the movement as cool as her words.
‘No.’
‘I wonder, then, what makes you bring this charge upon me now?’
‘We were talking of his certain presence at Caroline’s wedding. Is that not enough?’
‘Not enough to justify these . . . imputations. I can only assume you’ve long felt this suspicion of me.’
‘It has crossed my mind from time to time. Not frequently. But, I have to tell you, I have wondered.’
There was a long silence, during which Elizabeth with an effort took control again of her fluctuating emotions. She was learning from George.
She went across and stood beside him like a slim virgin. ‘You are unduly jealous, my dear. Not just of Ross but of all men. D’you know, when we go out to a party I can scarce smile at a man who is under seventy without feeling you are ready to run him through!’ She put her hand on his arm as he was about to speak. ‘As for Ross – you thought I was turning the conversation but you see I am not – as for Ross, I do sincerely care nothing for him. How can I convince you? Look at me. I can only tell you that I once had feeling for him and now have no feeling for him. I do not love him. I would not care if I never saw him again. I scarcely even like him. He has come to seem to me a – a braggart and something of a bully, a middle-aged man trying to assume the attitude of a young one, someone who once had a – a cloak and a sword and does not know they have gone out-of-date.’
If she had had longer to choose her words she probably would never have found any so suitable to convince him. A declaration of hatred or contempt would have carried no conviction at all. But those few cool, destructive sentences which put into words very much his own opinions, though in phrases he would not have been perceptive enough to use himself, these brought a flushing reassurance to his soul.
He did flush in the face, an exceedingly rare symptom with him, and said: ‘Perhaps I am unduly jealous. I can’t tell, I can’t tell. But you must know why.’
She smiled. ‘You must not be. You have no one to be jealous of. I assure you.’
‘You assure me.’ Doubt flickered across his face again, darkening it, making it ugly. Then he shrugged and smiled. ‘Well . . .’
‘I assure you,’ she said.
Chapter Two
I
Dr Dwight Enys and Miss Caroline Penvenen were married on All Hallows’ Day, which in 1795 came on a Sunday, at St Mary’s Church in Truro. Killewarren, Caroline’s house, was in the parish of Sawle-with-Grambler; but Sawle Church would hardly have been big enough, Truro was more central for most of the guests, and November with its heavy rains was not a time for country travel.
It was a big wedding after all. Dwight had objected from the start but she had over-ridden his protests while he was still too feeble to be emphatic about anything. Indeed his recovery from his long imprisonment was not yet sure. He had long spells of listlessness and inertia and he could not get rid of a troublesome cough and a breathlessness at night. His personal inclination had been to postpone the wedding until the spring, but she had said:
‘Darling, I’ve been an old maid long enough. Besides, you must consider my good name. Already the county is scandalized because we’re living in the same house without the benefit of chaperone during your convalescence. The grannies are insisting that you hasten to make an honest woman of me.’
So the date had been agreed, and then the nature of the wedding. ‘It is no good being ashamed of me,’ Caroline had said. ‘It’s embarrassing that I have so much money, but you knew that all along, and a big wedding is one of the consequences.’
As Elizabeth had predicted, most of the county, or that part of the county within reasonable travelling distance, was there. Heavy rain in the night had been followed by a bright day with the puddles in the streets glinting like eyes where they reflected the sky. Caroline wore a gown of white satin with the petticoat and facings covered with a rich gold net, her hair held with a coronet of seed pearls. Her uncle from Oxfordshire gave her away, and after the wedding a reception was held at the Assembly Rooms in High Cross.
Elizabeth’s persuasions had finally resulted in George’s agreeing to go with her, and he very quickly spied his old enemy standing with his wife near to the bride and groom. In his present mood it was almost more than he could bear to go up and pass close beside them, but only Elizabeth noticed his hesitation as they went on.
Ross Vennor Poldark, owner of 100 acres of rather barren and unproductive farmland on the north coast, sole proprietor of a small but highly profitable tin mine, one-time soldier and perpetual non-conformer, was dressed in a black velvet coat cut away at the front to show the grey suede waistcoat and the tight grey nankeen trousers. The waistcoat and the trousers were new but the coat was the one his father had bought him for his twenty-first birthday and which he refused to replace, even though he could now well afford to. Perhaps there was a subtle pride behind his refusal, pride that in fourteen years he had neither fattened nor grown more lean. Of course the cut was out of date, but those who observed that, Ross though
t, had no claim on his opinion or consideration.
Nevertheless he had insisted that his wife, Demelza, should have a new gown, even though she herself protested it unnecessary. Demelza Poldark was now twenty-five, a young woman who had never been a raving beauty but whose eyes and smile and walk and general exuberance of spirit always drew men’s attention like a magnet among iron filings. Child-bearing had not yet coarsened her figure, so she was still able to wear a tight-waisted frock of green damask embroidered with silver trimmings. It had cost more than she could bear to think, but which she still constantly thought about. In it she looked as slight as Elizabeth, though not as virginal. But then she never had.
The two neighbours and cousins by marriage bowed slightly to each other but did not speak. Then the Warleggans passed on to the bride and groom to shake their hands and wish them a happiness which George at least begrudged. Enys had always been a protégé and a creature of Ross Poldark, and while still a struggling and impecunious mine surgeon had turned away from the rich patronage of the Warleggans and made it plain where his loyalties lay. George observed today how sick Dwight was still looking. He stood beside his tall radiant red-haired wife, who topped him by an inch and who looked the picture of youth and sophisticated happiness, but himself thin and drawn and grey at the temples and seemingly devoid of muscle and flesh within his clothes.
They moved on again and spoke for a while with the Reverend Osborne and Mrs Whitworth. Ossie as usual was dressed in the extremity of fashion, and his bride of last July had got a new outfit of a snuff brown, which did not suit her because it made her dark skin look darker. For the most part she kept her eyes down and did not speak; but when addressed she looked up and smiled and answered politely, and it was really not at all possible from her expression to perceive the misery and revulsion that was burning in her heart, nor the nausea caused by the cellular stirrings of an embryonic Ossie in her womb.
Presently George moved away from them and drew Elizabeth towards a corner where Sir Francis and Lady Basset were talking. So the pleasant conversazione of the wedding reception went on. Two hundred people, the cream of the society of mid-Cornwall, squires, merchants, bankers, soldiers, fox-hunters, the titled and the landed, the untitled and the moneyed, the seekers and the sought. In the mêlée Demelza became separated from Ross, and seeing Mr and Mrs Ralph-Allen Daniell, went to speak to them. They greeted her like an old friend which, considering they had only met her once, was gratifying, and, considering that on that occasion Ross had refused to oblige Mr Daniell by accepting a magistracy, even more pleasing. Standing near them was a sturdy, quietly dressed, reserved man in his late thirties, and presently Mr Daniell said: ‘My Lord, may I present to you Mrs Demelza Poldark, Captain Ross Poldark’s wife: the Viscount Falmouth.’
They bowed to each other. Lord Falmouth said: ‘Your husband has been very much in the news, ma’am. I have yet to have the pleasure of congratulating him on his exploit.’
‘I am only hoping, sir,’ Demelza said, ‘that all the congratulations will not go to his head and induce him to embark on another.’
Falmouth smiled, a very contained smile, carefully poured out, like a half measure of some valuable liquid and not to be wasted.
‘It is a change to find a wife so concerned to keep her husband at home. But we may yet have need of him and others like him.’
‘Then,’ Demelza said, ‘I b’lieve neither of us will be lacking.’
They looked at each other very straightly.
Lord Falmouth said: ‘You must come and visit us some time,’ and passed on.
The Poldarks were staying the night with Harris Pascoe, the banker, and over a late supper in his house in Pydar Street Demelza said:
‘I’m not sure that I’ve done good for you with Lord Falmouth, Ross,’ and told of the interchange.
‘It’s of no moment whether you pleased or displeased him,’ Ross said. ‘We do not need his patronage.’
‘Oh, but that is his way,’ said Pascoe. ‘You should have known his uncle, the second Viscount. He had no appearance but was arrogant withal. This one is more easy to treat with.’
‘He and I fought in the same war,’ said Ross, ‘but did not meet. He being in the King’s Own and a rank superior to me. I confess I do not take greatly to his manner but I’m glad if you made a good impression on him.’
‘I do not at all think I made a good impression,’ said Demelza.
Pascoe said: ‘I suppose you know that Hugh Armitage is a cousin of the Falmouths? His mother is a Boscawen.’
‘Who?’ Ross said.
‘Hugh Armitage. You should know Lieutenant Armitage. You rescued him from Quimper gaol.’
‘The devil! No, I don’t know. I suppose we spoke little on the way across.’
‘It should make the family feel somewhat in your debt.’
‘I don’t really see why. We didn’t at all set out to rescue him. He was one of the lucky few who made use of our entry to escape.’
‘Nevertheless you brought him home.’
‘Yes . . . we brought him home. And useful enough in navigation he was on the way . . .’
‘Then we are in each other’s debt,’ said Demelza.
‘Did you speak with the Whitworths?’ Ross asked her.
‘No. I have never met Morwenna, and I did not ever very much care for Osborne.’
‘At one time he appeared to have a distinct taking for you.’
‘Oh, that,’ said Demelza, wrinkling her nose.
‘I spoke with Morwenna,’ Ross said. ‘She’s a shy creature and answers yes and no as if she thinks that makes a conversation. It was hard to tell whether she finds herself unhappy.’
‘Unhappy?’ said Harris Pascoe. ‘In a four-month bride? Would you expect it?’
Ross said: ‘My brother-in-law, Demelza’s brother, had a brief and abortive love attachment for Morwenna Whitworth before she married. Drake is still in deep depression over it and we are trying to find some sort of life for him that he will accept. Therefore it is of interest to know whether his loved one has settled comfortably into a marriage Drake says she bitterly opposed.’
‘I only know,’ said Pascoe, ‘that for a cleric he spends f-far too much on this world’s attire. I don’t attend his church but I understand he is careful about his duties. That at least makes a welcome change.’
After Demelza had gone to bed Ross said:
‘And your own affairs, Harris? They prosper?’
‘Thank you, yes. The bank is well enough. Money is still cheap, credit is readily available, new enterprises are growing up everywhere. In the meantime we keep a careful watch on our note issue – and lose trade thereby – but as you are aware I am a cautious man and know that fine weather does not last for ever.’
Ross said: ‘You know I am taking a quarter interest in Ralph-Allen Daniell’s new tin smelting house?’
‘You mentioned it in your letter. A little more port?’
‘Thank you.’
Pascoe poured into each glass, careful not to create bubbles. He held the decanter a moment between his hands.
‘Daniell is a good man of business. It should be a useful investment. Where is it to be built?’
‘A couple of miles out of Truro, on the Falmouth road. It will have ten reverberatory furnaces, each about six feet high by four broad, and will employ a fair number of men.’
‘Daniell cannot have w-wanted for the money himself.’
‘No. But he has little knowledge of mining and offered me a share and a say in the design and management.’
‘Good. Good.’
‘And he does not bank with the Warleggans.’
Harris laughed, and they finished their port and talked of other things.
‘Speaking of the Warleggans,’ Pascoe said presently. ‘Something of an accommodation has been reached between their bank and Basset, Rogers and Co., which will add to the strength of both. It is not of course anything like an amalgamation, but there will be a friendly coord
ination, and that could be of some disadvantage to Pascoe, Tresize, Annery and Spry.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, their capital strength will be five or six times ours. It is always a disadvantage to be much smaller than one’s competitors – especially in times of stress. In banking, size has a curious magic for the depositor. It’s some years now, as you know, since I took my three partners, because of the danger of being overshadowed by the other banks. Now we are a l-little overshadowed again.’
‘You have no one to call in to redress the balance?’
‘Not in the neighbourhood. Outside, of course . . . but the distances are too great between here and, say, Helston or Falmouth for the easy or safe transport of gold or notes.’ Pascoe got up. ‘Oh, we shall stay as we are, and come to no hurt, I am sure. While the wind blows fair there is indeed nothing to hurt anyone.’
II
In another part of the town Elizabeth was combing her hair at her dressing table and George, sitting by the fire in a long lawn robe, was as usual watching her. But now, in this last week or so, since that talk, there seemed to be some easing of the nature of the surveillance. The screws were off. It was as if he had been through some nervous crisis, the character of which she barely dared to guess, and had now emerged from it.
‘Did you notice,’ George said, ‘did you notice how Falmouth avoided us?’
‘Who, George Falmouth? I didn’t. Why should he?’
‘He has always been unwelcoming, cold, grudging.’
‘But that is his nature! Or at least his appearance, for he is not really so in truth. I remember when we were first married I met them at that ball and he looked so cold and forbidding that I wondered what I had done to offend. And all he did was chide me that now we all had the same names – two Georges married to two Elizabeths – and we might become confused as to our bed-mates!’
‘Oh,’ said George, ‘he approves of you; but nothing I or my father may do will gratify him. He is perpetually antagonistic and has become worse of late.’
‘Well, his wife’s death has hit him hard. It is sad to be left with so young a family. And I don’t believe he is the remarrying kind.’