The Twisted Sword

  On Christmas Day Cuby was well again, so the planned programme went ahead. Dawn broke misty wet, but towards midday the lips of the sky opened and a drier breath came. All the same there had just been enough rain in the night to make the cobbles greasy, the yard steamy with animals, the tracks slippery with mud. Both mining engines still worked; it was too expensive to shut them down for a single day. In the quiet air their thump and beat became more noticeable.

  At church Mr Odgers wore his best cassock which he kept for special occasions, it being plum purple with brass buttons, very tight now, for he had worn it first at his marriage fifty-one years ago. It indicated no doctrinal or ecclesiastical order, for he belonged to none. That morning he was at his best and got through the service with only two mistakes.

  The psalm was part of 22, beginning at verse 11. ‘Be not far from me; for trouble is near; for there is none to help.’ When it came to verse 20, ‘Deliver my soul from the sword; my darling from the power of the dog,’ Demelza put her hand quietly into Ross’s. His hand closed on hers.

  After it was over they rode on to Killewarren, a few faint sun-born shadows preceding them on the way.

  They had bought Caroline a piece of fine French lace, Dwight a neckerchief, and silk pinafores for the girls; the Enyses had a pair of wine goblets for Demelza, riding gloves for Ross, a finely crocheted child’s bonnet for Cuby, a book of songs for Bella, a toy horse for Harry that however much you pushed it over would always swing upright again.

  Because of the children they dined early, and laughed a good deal and ate consumedly and drank good wine and generally made merry, though there was ice underneath, ice that clung round the heart. Shut out thoughts of other Christmases, other shadows on the wall. This was an evil year; there would be others that must be better. Life was to be lived – it had to go on. Chiefly for the sake of the young, but even for themselves, it must go on. And the day was fine and mild and the fire crackled, and food and drink and love and companionship were around them. Do not think of Jeremy lying in the cold Flanders clay.

  Darkness fell and candles were brought and the fires remade, and the two Enys girls sang a duet with Cuby at the piano, and Bella gave a little recital of her new nightingale song.

  Sweet, sweet, jug, jug

  Water bubble, pine rattle

  Bell pipe, scroty, skeg, skeg,

  Swat, swaty, whitlow, whitlow, whitlow.

  Her mother did her best to remember the chords she had made up that morning, and somehow it came out as a pleasant little ditty.

  By 6.30 Henry was fretful, so Demelza, arousing huge protests from the girls, said they must go. They were away by seven, a small clip-clopping cavalcade, led by Ross, whose old Colley was as surefooted as they came and knew the way blindfold. Bone accompanied them carrying a lantern, though everyone assured Dwight it was not necessary.

  A very dark night, unlit by moon or stars, and with a faint freckle of rain again borne on the tired breeze. Demelza carried Henry ahead of her, but as his head drooped in sleep he was transferred to Ross who, riding astride, could keep a firmer grip of him. A quiet ride now, everyone silent after the chatter of the day. In the distance the lights of Nampara already showed up, misting, haloed through the dark. As they clopped down the lane, overgrown with wind-crouching trees, Ross thought how little had changed here from the time he had ridden this way in the autumn of 1783 – thirty-two years ago – returning from the American War to find his father dead and Nampara a stinking shambles with Jud and Prudie in a drunken stupor in his father’s old box bed.

  They crossed the bridge and dismounted outside the front door. He took Demelza in his arms, then Cuby.

  As she slipped close to him Cuby whispered: ‘I’m sorry. I think I am beginning my pains.’

  II

  It was ten days earlier than anyone had supposed, but Ross said, as the lantern carrier was about to turn away:

  ‘Bone.’

  ‘Sur?’

  ‘I am very sorry, but I think my daughter-in-law is unwell. If you would trouble your master to come.’

  Cuby went upstairs and undressed at once. It was immediately clear to Demelza that she was not mistaken. Ross went into the kitchen and found less confusion than he had expected. Sephus Billing was under the table and Ern Lobb snoring in his chair, but the rest came to their feet as he walked in.

  He smiled: ‘You have all dined well? I can see you have.’

  There was a relieved laugh. ‘Ais, sur.’

  ‘Sure ’nough.’

  ‘’Andsome, ’andsome, sur.’

  He looked at Matthew Mark Martin. ‘I must ask a service of you. Mrs Jeremy is taken with her pains. It is a little premature, but I have sent for Dr Enys. Will you ride to The Bounders’ Arms and fetch Mrs Hartnell?’

  ‘Right away, sur.’

  Since Emma had moved into The Bounders’ Arms with her husband and two children, she had been encouraged by Dr Enys to take over from the elderly Mrs Higgins as midwife to the more respectable houses. It was not unremarked that this ‘light’ girl (daughter of the rascally Tholly Tregirls), who had at one time been considered to have too blemished a reputation to wed the Wesleyan, Sam Carne, should now in early middle life be looked on as reputable and reliable.

  Demelza sat with Cuby to begin, regretting that, not expecting the baby until January, they had let Mrs Kemp take a holiday now, and that Clemency was not expected for another week. She felt nervous and ill-at-ease with this pretty, small, elegant young woman who was about to bring forth Jeremy’s child.

  Dwight arrived first, but not long behind him came Emma, riding pillion behind Matthew Mark. Demelza kissed Cuby and left the room. She wanted no part in it. She did not want to see her daughter-in-law in pain. Over the months the rapport between the two women had grown; Cuby told her sister she had never met a woman who understood her one half so well as Lady Poldark did; this understanding was almost though not entirely friendly and full of guarded but sincere affection. Perhaps in Demelza’s reluctance to be near her daughter-in-law in childbirth lay the seeds of a fear that the hated sensations she had felt once were even yet not altogether vanquished.

  Dwight was upstairs half an hour and then came into the parlour where Ross and Bella were playing a card game. Demelza was putting Henry to bed.

  ‘All is very well,’ he said. ‘I see no complications.’

  ‘Perhaps we brought you out unduly,’ Ross said. ‘After leaving you so recent.’

  ‘No, no, it was the right thing to do. The contractions are mild and regular. I would think sometime tomorrow morning. Perhaps early.’

  ‘Your lead, Papa,’ said Bella.

  ‘In the meantime?’

  ‘In the meantime get a good night’s sleep, as I propose to. I have given her a mild sedative, which should help, and Emma is now making her a cup of tea. Give my love to Demelza again.’

  ‘Of course.’ Ross led the ace of hearts.

  ‘Emma will stay with her all night,’ Dwight said. ‘And have one of your boys close at hand and ready to come for me if there is any need.’

  ‘Your trick, Daddy,’ said Bella.

  III

  At five o’clock in the morning of St Stephen’s Day Cuby Poldark was delivered of a healthy six-pound child. There were no complications, and, aware that she was in a strange house in spite of all the warmth and affection shown her, she gritted her teeth and bore the pain almost without a sound. Contrary to Ross’s predictions, it was a girl. Dwight patted Cuby’s hand and said she was very brave. The man who should have sat beside her bed and held her hand at this time was not there, and never would be. Through a mist of tears, part of happiness but more of sorrow, she was kissed and petted by each one of the family in turn. Henry laughed when he saw the baby. ‘Smaller’n me,’ he said. Despite Mrs Kemp’s efforts, he affected a strong Cornish accent.

  So there was another child in the house, another Poldark, even if a girl; their first grandchild, Jeremy’s daughter; another generation. A Christmas
baby, a Christ child, all that was left of their soldier son.

  About twelve Demelza said to Ross she would like to walk to the end of the beach, would he come with her?

  ‘It’s a long way for me,’ said Ross. ‘All that sand. Before I get home I shall be limping like Jago’s donkey.’

  ‘Why don’t we take our horses, then? Not for a gallop, just an amble.’

  ‘If you’ve the fancy I’ll come.’

  ‘I’ve the fancy.’

  Colley and Marigold were both elderly and would not be restive at the thought of walking at a sedentary pace.

  Demelza went upstairs for something, so Ross, while waiting for the horses to be brought round, went to his front door and stared over his land. This was where he belonged. The trees edged his view on the right, with the thin stream, copper stained and running under the bridge on its way towards Nampara Cove. The engine house and sheds of Wheal Grace half-way up the rising ground ahead of him; the piled attle spilling down towards the house, with rough weeds already growing over part of it (the two stamps had been gone some years, at Demelza’s request – there were plenty in Sawle); his fields, mostly fallow, waited ploughing in February, speckled with crows seeking any scrap they could find; Demelza’s walled garden with the gate leading to the beach, and the rough ground between the garden and the sand. Half a mile distant, on the first cliffs, the engine house and other buildings of Wheal Leisure.

  And at his back the house, of nondescript architectural design, with its grey Delabole slate roof, except for a patch of thatch at the rear, its disparate chimneys, its thick granite walls, a house that had been put up by rough hands to meet the needs of the family it had sheltered for sixty years.

  ‘I am ready,’ said Demelza as the horses came round.

  They set off at a slow pace, the horses as companionable as the riders. Demelza carried a small canvas bag.

  ‘What’s in that?’ Ross asked.

  ‘Oh, something I just brought along with me.’

  It was half-tide, going out, and although there was no wind the sea was showing teeth at its edges. For a while they splashed through the surf, the horses relishing the water. Although the distant cliffs were black, those around Wheal Leisure had head cloths of green and feet of black and brown and purple seaweed. Over all was sky and cloud, ever changing. The scene-shifters were seldom idle in Cornwall.

  ‘So we have a granddaughter,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does that please you?’

  ‘Yes, Ross. It pleases me.’

  ‘And Cuby?’

  ‘And Cuby. I’m sure it pleases her too.’

  They rode on for a while.

  Demelza said: ‘When she first came to Nampara – that first time – she seemed so composed, so assured, that I almost found it in me to mislike her. But very soon, within a day, I saw ’twas only a sort of shell. Under it she was soft, vulnerable, damaged, like a hurt animal with bloody and twisted paws . . . Can you imagine what it must be like to have your first child without a husband and among strangers?’

  ‘Loving strangers.’

  ‘Oh yes. But if Jeremy had been here the sun would have lit the sky. She said to me the other day, she said, “No one ever said my name like Jeremy. He has a special way of saying Cuby that was all his own ..” ’

  Tears were near, and there had been enough for Christmas. Ross said roughly: ‘And so this trumpery title I was so misguided as to accept will descend upon poor Henry.’

  ‘That pleases me too, Ross, except for your way of describing it. I believe it is more fitty that the honour should come to your own son.’

  They reached the drier sand.

  ‘Has she given you any idea as to a name she may have in mind?’

  ‘She thinks to call her Noelle. It seems that Jeremy suggested that. And Frances after her mother.’

  ‘Noelle Frances Poldark. It runs well enough. I’m glad she does not think of following the example of the Hornblower family.’

  ‘Hornblower?’

  ‘Jonathan Hornblower, the man who invented the compound engine; he died in March. His father had thirteen children and gave them all names beginning with J. Jeckolia, Jedediah, Jerusha, Josiah, Jabey, Jonathan. I have forgotten them. I used to know them all.’

  ‘You must tell Cuby. She may change her mind before christening day.’

  ‘On consideration,’ Ross said, ‘it is a pity that George did not have twin boys. Then he could have called them Castor and Pollux.’

  Demelza laughed. It was good to hear that sound again.

  ‘Clowance would agree.’

  Ross looked over towards the land. ‘You see that sandhill? You remember how you and I and Jeremy and Clowance used to roll down it? It was a special treat when they were small.’

  ‘Too well,’ said Demelza. ‘It was a lovely time.’

  ‘I cannot imagine myself rolling down it with Harry.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Noelle will.’

  Ross looped over his rein. ‘It is a strange feeling, but I do not think I shall ever know Harry the way I knew Jeremy. I am not likely to see so much of his life. The gap of the years between us . . . Sometimes I feel like his grandfather!’

  ‘That is nonsense.’

  There wasn’t another person to be seen; only the occasional congregation of gulls or sanderlings or plovers were disturbed by their approach, waddling out of their way, or flapping a lazy wing to increase the safe distance.

  Demelza said: ‘I must send word to Clowance and Verity. I am sure they will be anxious to know.’

  ‘I’m sure they will.’

  ‘Ross, I have been wondering about Valentine and Selina in London.’

  ‘What could you be wondering about them?’

  ‘Whether they may see Tom Guildford.’

  ‘You mean? . . . Oh my dear, it is too early to think of anything like that . . .’

  ‘I do not think of anything like that! But Tom is a good kind friend of Clowance’s. If he came down I am sure he would be good for Clowance, good for her spirits, good for her – her health generally. And do not forget, he is a lawyer. He could be a great business help to her too.’

  Ross said: ‘In that case perhaps we should send a note to Edward Fitzmaurice so the two gentlemen may start from scratch.’

  ‘Ross, you are so vexatious! Why do I bear with you?’

  ‘Well, you said she told you that if she ever married again it would not be for love, it would be for money or position. That would bring Edward strongly into the reckoning.’

  ‘I do not know how you can be so cynical about your own daughter.’

  ‘Is it cynical to face the facts? If Cuby is damaged, so in a similar but different way is Clowance. So we should do nothing, should we, and allow events to take their course?’

  They were half-way along the beach by now, past the old Wheal Vlow adit. The Dark Cliffs at the end were coming into perspective; you could see the deep crevices in them, the isolated rocks.

  Demelza said: ‘And for yourself, Ross. Are you content?’

  He was some seconds answering, his face devoid of readable expression.

  ‘What is content? Something more than resignation? I eat and sleep well. I take interest in my affairs. I am content, more than content, with my wife.’

  ‘Thank you, Ross. I did not ask for a compliment.’

  ‘You did not get one. But – I have been home five months – you more. These have been months of grieving. But there is some slow adjustment. Do you not find it so?’

  ‘Yes. And when Mr Canning calls to see us – if he calls to see us – what shall be your answer?’

  ‘My answer to what? He has put no question.’

  ‘But he may do so. He is sure to try to persuade you back into public life.’

  ‘Then I shall not go.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. I shall continue to look after my own property and my own still considerable family. And my wife, who is not quite considerable eno
ugh to please me.’

  ‘Oh, I am putting on weight, little by little. I am having to let out again some of the skirts that I took in.’

  ‘So you too are content?’

  ‘Resigned? – that was the word you used. That is nearer. But you are right: in time it will move by little stages farther away from grief.’

  ‘Perhaps even to happiness?’

  ‘Ah that . . .’

  ‘It is not in your nature, my dear, to be unhappy. You are in fine counterbalance with my natural mopishness.’

  ‘’Tis harder now,’ Demelza said.

  They splashed through a pool of shallow water lying among corrugated ridges of sand.

  ‘Old Tholly Tregirls,’ Ross said. You know I went to see him just before he died? He said two things I have remembered. He quoted something my father said to him. My father said to him: “Tholly, the longer I live, the more certain sure I am that the Wise Men never came from the East.” ’

  ‘I think he may be right.’

  ‘But something Old Tholly said himself made the deepest impression. It was only in passing. He did not mean it as a pronouncement. He said: “A man is better off to be a squire in Cornwall than to be a king in England.” ’

  She looked across and he smiled back at her. He said: ‘Perhaps I have not always appreciated my good fortune.’

  IV

  Towards the end of the beach they dismounted and climbed up to the wishing well. It was really just a small natural circular pool at the entrance to a cave, with water dripping in plops from the moss-grown roof. It was a place where long ago Drake and Morwenna had come with Geoffrey Charles and silently plighted their troth.

  Ross had no idea why Demelza wanted to go there today, picking her way up with greater agility than he could muster among the pools and the sea-weedy rocks. But he went along, content to humour her. When they got to the well they stood for a moment in silence. The cave was in semi-darkness, though the day was bright around the well.

  Demelza opened the canvas bag she carried, and took a small silver object out of it. It was the loving cup, bearing the Latin inscription, ‘Amor gignit amorem’, ‘Love creates love’.