Jeremy Poldark

  She went to the front door and looked over her garden. The soft winter had suited it and the flowers were forward. Strange, she thought, if women were like that—brought on by the warm weather, retarded by the cold. The wind was fluffing the tulips about; she picked off the heads of one or two dishevelled ones, then went back through the house to the little dairy where the cheeses were standing to ripen, lifted the cloths to see that no mould was forming, moved through the outbuildings. From there it was a natural progression to the Long Field and the headland beyond.

  A considerable swell on the sea today; the waves ran into Hendrawna Beach like brides to their wedding, a veil of spray blowing round their heads. Near the rocks the swell moved more sleekly, the veils sank as they were left behind, white lace first in the shallower green, then misting to a mottled luminous cloud in the darker depths. Beyond the breakers were two fishing boats from St. Ann’s. She turned and clambered down, treading on the curled fronds of the new bracken, to Nampara Cove.

  In the shelter it was quite warm and quiet and the sea rippled invitingly. She took off her shoes and stockings and let the water lick her feet. Very pleasant and soothing. After a while she went over to the dinghy and found that the last time she had used it—with Gimlett a week ago—they had forgotten to carry the rowlocks up to the house. Ross would have been cross, since anyone could use or even steal the boat if they could row it away. In the bottom of the boat was a tin with some bait in it; it would be smelly by now.

  Within the cove the air was still, and, looking out, the bright day glimmered like a cameo. The waves seemed small enough, and she realized that, so long as she kept within the protection of the cove, they would be innocuous. Of course if anyone knew she had taken the boat out there would be a great to-do; but Ross was miles away, and the others could whistle if they chose.

  She had learned from experience how to drag the light craft over the sand without straining herself; it was a knack; and, taking special care now that it was May, she got the boat to the edge without difficulty. Then she tucked up her skirts and pushed the boat into the water. In a minute she had climbed over the side and a pull or two at the oars straightened her up so that there was no danger of being pushed back broadside on.

  She rowed out until near the mouth of the cove and dropped her anchor overboard. It caught almost at once. There was more swell here than she had expected, but it was a pleasant sensation. In triumph, though with some distasteful wrinkling of her nose, she began to bait her line.

  Chapter Twelve

  The sudden brawl with George Warleggan had left Ross in a ferment of angry thoughts. He didn’t remember in his life having lost his temper in quite that way before. George’s face, George’s sneers, the oppressive influence of the Warleggans over all his life, had suddenly boiled up into a moment of uncontrollable fury. There had been at least one instant in the past when it might have done so with greater reasonableness; but that was the way things happened. Now the murder was out with a vengeance.

  (It was lucky, he realized, that George hadn’t killed himself, that he hadn’t killed him. From the way he was getting up from among the ruins of the table it looked as if he was not even seriously hurt.) But news of the fight would spread like a fire in dead gorse. In an hour it would be on everyone’s lips in Truro; in a day…Not that that mattered—except for the subject of the quarrel. There lay the poison.

  It was a poison not only on people’s lips but in Ross’s mind, and a mere brawl wouldn’t exorcise it. While he washed himself and bought a new shirt he tried to see the thing reasonably.

  That Francis had in some degree let down the copper-smelting venture was a circumstance which Ross had come, in an unspecified way, to accept. Something had happened which must be overlooked and forgotten. That Francis had suffered in his own conscience because of it was plain to anyone who had met him in the last twelve months. Well, it was over and past. It was likely that the company would have crashed just as completely without his help; and if there had been a betrayal it had taken place in sudden anger during the quarrel over Verity’s elopement. It had never once occurred to Ross that Francis could deliberately have “sold” them for money. Even now, out of some knowledge of Francis’s character, he rejected it; it was the impulse to reject it which had led to the fight; it was because the insinuation couldn’t be denied in words that violence had been necessary.

  So the fight had been in defence of Francis’s character, and yet the defendant was unsure of what he defended. An uneasy stand. The grim little confirmatory details gathered themselves and stuck. The Warleggans had certainly paid Francis the money. Was Elizabeth’s explanation—presumably obtained from Francis—a reasonable one? Would the Warleggans part with six hundred pounds on a point of principle? What other reason, except a revulsion of feeling at his own treachery, could Francis have for being reluctant to spend the money on his own comfort and convenience? Why did the great window at Trenwith lack an elementary repair?

  What then if it were true? If it were true, better go across and tell Pearce not to waste his time drawing up a document which never could be implemented. But how be sure? Only by challenging Francis outright. And the very challenge, showing that he considered such a betrayal for money possible, would end their association either way. He understood Francis well enough for that.

  There was trivial shopping to be done in spite of all this upset. Ross went about it in an angry daze which made him a tribulation to the shopkeepers. They stared curiously at his bruised forehead and preoccupied face as they laid out their wares. One moment he would think, George is a liar and got his deserts; the next the poisonous doubts would creep back. Was this enormity what Francis had been about to confess at Trenwith last month?

  If the cause of the fight got about and people believed what George said, Francis’s position would become impossible anyway. Ross had glimpsed Tonkin’s expression. If people believed George, Francis would not be able to show his face in Truro.

  Thank God at least that Trencrom had paid up and that money at this important time was not quite so tight. Four yards of pink ribbon, four yards of blue ribbon, at sixpence a yard. Seven yards of lace edging cost five shillings. It would most likely be the wrong sort when he got home, but Demelza would make the best of it, as she made the best of everything. More huckaback towelling. These were things Demelza herself would have bought while she was still able to ride, but they had simply not had the money. A pair of blankets. There was a pair at sixteen shillings and one at twelve. In a sudden economy he bought the cheaper, and then squandered the difference on some yards of crimson velvet for a sash for Demelza for use when she was again the shape to wear it.

  Her time was likely to be any day now. The sooner the better. A new comb. That was the usual cry. She always broke them pulling them through her hair.

  What would she say about this new development? She had always been for reconciliation—but would she urge him to forgive and forget if this were true? She might say, why let everything be ruined at this late stage by a wild accusation from George? A quarrel between the cousins was exactly what he desired.

  That at least was common sense. And if they quarrelled, who was to finance the mine? His own money wouldn’t go far enough. Was the planning of the last two months to end in futility without even a gambler’s throw? Exactly what George would wish.

  As he finished what he had to buy Ross realized he had arranged to meet Francis at the coaching inn. That could not be now. He was sorry he had pushed the little innkeeper over—somehow the damage and the insult should be made up to him—but he couldn’t go back there today. (There might be formal repercussions from his fight with George but he rather doubted it: George might wish he had met him with bare fists in a place with more room for manoeuvre than a flight of stairs, but it was unlikely that he would risk his skin with weapons against a soldier. All the same, it would be open war in every other way.)

  He went to
the Seven Stars Tavern and sent a potboy who knew Francis by sight to keep watch for him at the entrance to the Red Lion. Then he sat in a dark corner and ordered brandy and tried to force a decision before they came back. On it, on what he decided now, from his reasoning mind’s absolute freedom of choice, would spring the whole pattern of the future. Everything was done or undone, promised or forbidden, fecund or sterile according to the judgment of today. Tomorrow it would have happened. There were two choices open to him, not three. He could not accept George’s word before Francis’s. Either he challenged Francis with the story—with the inevitable result—or he trusted his cousin’s integrity. Even compromise would be fatal. To ignore everything George had said and yet let it fester in his mind would be worse than a clean break.

  The grandfather clock ticked in the corner. Outside in the narrow street the warm gusty wind stirred the dust in sandy whorls; it lifted the coattails and ruffled the wig of a fat old gentleman with a stick and unsteady legs who made his way laboriously past the inn; it pushed a ball of paper delectably nearer the nose of a watching cat; nine miles away the dinghy dragged its anchor an inch or two and Demelza’s hair blew across her face as she pulled in an empty line. In the inn, from the dark corner opposite Ross, a man stood up and came across to him. It was Andrew Blamey, Verity’s husband.

  Ross stared at him, trying to collect his thoughts, then, more from instinct than conscious will, got up and took the extended hand.

  Blamey said gruffly: “Well, sir, it must be more than two years.”

  “I should have said a good deal more.” There was a perceptible hesitation. “Will you join me?”

  “I come seldom to Truro these days, but I brought a schooner up for a friend who is unfamiliar with the river and am waiting now for the five o’clock coach home.”

  They talked for some minutes, though not easefully. Andrew Blamey asked with real concern after Demelza’s health. It was always a surprise to Ross how Demelza seemed to have the respect of so many of these difficult men. Francis would do anything for her. Sir John Trevaunance had sent over some hothouse peaches last week. These men were not in the Bodrugan-Treneglos class who paid her attentions because she was physically exciting and had a sharp wit.

  In return he politely asked about Verity and noticed a little flicker across Andrew’s face.

  “Does that mean she’s not well?”

  “No, she was in excellent health when I left this morning.” He cleared his throat. “There is one small matter—though no doubt to an outsider…My two children will be visiting us for the first time tomorrow, and I shall be at sea.”

  Ross glanced towards the door. As the other dilemma was shifted from the dead centre of his attention he tried to concentrate on what the sailor said.

  “HMS Thunderer is due in Falmouth tonight or early tomorrow. James has been away two years—I fully expected to be ashore all this week, so ordered my daughter, who hitherto has refused to come—purely out of shyness, I imagine—to pay us a visit at the same time. But last night Arwenack fouled an old wreck as she came into the roads and will need repairs to her bows. So Caroline must sail in her place tomorrow.”

  Time was getting ever shorter—and he no nearer the crucial choice. Belatedly, with a quickening of eye and thought, a sharp apprehension of the other issues, he realized that another explosive situation was threatening here. Francis and Blamey had never once met except to quarrel violently in seven years. Blamey must be warned now, got away. And yet…if he was expected to make a gesture of trust and forgiveness and understanding, who else might not be expected to do the same?

  He said abruptly, harshly: “You see something of Europe in your travels. What do you think are the prospects for peace?”

  Blamey stopped at this new tack. “What? Well, I see little of Europe beyond Lisbon. But I hear a good deal. It’s a sounding board. There is nervousness about.”

  “On account of France?”

  “On account of the revolutionary parties. They spring up everywhere, encouraged by the French. I mean the minorities in Germany and Austria and Portugal who really owe allegiance only to Paris, as you might say. That’s the danger, for if war breaks out one feels they will side with the French against their own countryfolk.”

  “There are such parties in England, but I think they make a noise beyond their size.”

  “In England, yes. Elsewhere I’m not so sure.”

  “And the temper of the French?”

  Blamey shrugged. “One hears the side of the emigres, of course. But if conditions inside the country become intolerable, I should be inclined to think—”

  He stopped. Francis had come in.

  It was dark in the low-roomed inn after the brightness outside, and he only saw Ross. So he came up to the table smiling.

  “Well, so I hear you’ve been in parlour games with George! He has marked you. But they tell me he has a sprained shoulder and can hardly stand. What was the spark that—?”

  Francis saw Blamey and came to a stop. Blamey got up bristling like a dog ready for a fight.

  And quite suddenly the situation crystallized itself for Ross. The disorderly segments of his own problem became formalized by this new situation in which he was hardly more than a spectator. With time for thought it might have seemed an oversimplification, but the time for thought was past. Here was the acid test for Francis. Forgive us our trespasses…

  Francis said: “You…”

  Ross did not get up. “Sit down, Francis. I’ll order you drink.”

  All the old arrogance was back in Francis’s face. “Thank you, I’ll not trouble you in this company…”

  Ross said: “This is the last moment to wipe out the past.”

  Something in his voice caught Francis’s attention. He looked at Ross and Ross was looking at him. He flushed and hesitated.

  Uneasily, from under frowning brows, Blamey glanced at Ross too. The special significance of the moment had somehow communicated itself to them both. Neither spoke for a perceptible space while the potboy who had brought Francis hovered near waiting for his tip. Ross gave it him and ordered brandies. The boy went away and the three men were alone again.

  Blamey said: “The quarrel has never been of my seeking.”

  Francis dusted his cuff and swallowed something.

  “My sister seems to find her new life agreeable,” he said bitterly.

  “So she should,” said Ross. “It’s natural for a woman to be married, and we can’t forever be scratching over it like cocks on a dunghill.”

  “In any case she takes no account of my approval or disapproval…”

  “She would be very much happier with a reconciliation,” Blamey said. “That’s why I desire it.”

  It was quite handsomely said. Francis stared across the room at the returning boy, thrust his hands in his pockets as if seeking something.

  “If that is the case…”

  The boy put down the drink and left. Ross glowered up at the other men, the new bruise on his forehead showing red and angry above the white of the scar. He wasn’t saying any more. It was up to them now. If they could not find the formula he was done with them both.

  Appropriately it was Francis who made the decisive move. He sat on the arm of the settle and picked up his glass.

  “The Warleggans’ll be raging mad after this brush, Ross. I’ve come near to laying hands on George myself but never quite found the opportunity.” He glanced at Blamey and seemed to force himself to speak. “You haven’t heard the news perhaps. That Ross and George Warleggan met on the stairs of the Red Lion this afternoon and that Ross took George in as pretty a hug as has been seen in the county for a twelvemonth and threw him from top to bottom. It’s all over the town.” He looked at Ross. “It’s true, I suppose?”

  “A thought exaggerated, but the substance is correct.”

  Blamey had quietly se
ated himself again. He twisted his glass but did not drink.

  “Verity told me of a developing feud. But what was the cause of the quarrel today?”

  Ross looked past them at the old grandfather clock. It was nearly five.

  “I took a dislike to his neckcloth.”

  ***

  Demelza had caught two infant dabs who obviously didn’t know any better, but in the main the fish were not biting. She didn’t blame them. The bait was too smelly even for mackerel. After a time she decided to call the attempt off; and she threw the fish she had caught back into the water, since their food value wouldn’t be worth all the inquiries and concern and the near scolding.

  Looking back for the first time for some minutes, she saw that the anchor must have been dragging a bit, for she was almost out of the mouth of the cove and the land looked farther off than usual. It was a pleasant sight, the low-lying black cliffs, the curve of the sand, the pebbles and scraggy vegetation where the Mellingey ran into the sea. You could feel and see the swell of the waves as they moved past the cliffs on their way to Hendrawna Beach.

  She went to the end of the boat and pulled in the anchor.

  Then she scrambled back and took up the oars and set her face to the sea. A few pulls and she would be home.

  She wondered how Ross’s business in Truro was going. This gamble on Wheal Grace had been taken without her knowledge, and although she would never criticize after the event, it had never quite won her approval. Grace was the shot in the dark, the guess that might go wrong. It was the sort of venture to indulge in when you had a thousand pounds to spare, not when you were living on the precipice of debt.