Drake, with more subtlety than Demelza had given him credit for, was careful not to crowd her or fuss over her. He never asked her what had taken place at Trenwith. He went on with his work throughout the morning, and cooked them a light meal at ten, and stared up at the cumulus castles over the sea and reckoned it would not rain until nightfall. So time passed, and the frock, a cream grosgrain with a few dashes of crimson ribbon, was somehow made to fasten, and Drake changed into his new jacket and soon after eleven o’clock they all rode to the church. Waiting for them was Ross, and the two children and Mrs Kemp to keep them in order, and Sam, and his mate Peter Hoskin, and Jud and Prudie – uninvited – and Caroline – unexpected – and three or four others who had heard about it and drifted in.
And at eleven twenty-five the Reverend and Mrs Odgers came and the ceremony began, and in what seemed no time at all it was all over and the indissoluble bond was sealed. The married couple signed the register, and a few minutes later they were all standing in the crowded graveyard with its silent stones leaning this way and that, like broken teeth, the names on them erased by the wild weather and the occupants below long since mouldered and forgotten.
Demelza, wearing a new and rare painted cameo on her breast, repeated her invitation to Drake and Morwenna to come to Nampara for tea and cakes, but she knew they would refuse. Ross kissed Morwenna, and then Demelza did, and then Caroline and then Sam; Drake kissed Demelza and then his brother; Caroline also kissed Demelza and left Ross to the last. Much handshaking followed, before Mr and Mrs Drake Carne moved off on their ponies for the short ride home.
‘So it is done,’ Demelza said, holding to her hat, which threatened to take off. ‘It is done, Sam. It is what they have desired most in the world ever since they first set eyes on each other.’
‘God have set them to grow in beauty side by side,’ Sam said.
Demelza watched the two figures dwindling in size as they passed the gates of Trenwith. In ten minutes they would be home, alone, happy in their new-found isolation, sipping tea, talking – or perhaps not talking – wishing only to be together in companionship and trust. She turned to look at her other brother, who was shading his face with his hand, to follow the departing couple. The rest of the group were dispersing. Mr and Mrs Odgers, having taken obsequious leave of Ross, were on their way back to their cottage. Caroline was talking to Ross. Jeremy was picking some moss off a tombstone and trying to read the lettering. Clowance was hopping from one kerb to another. Mrs Kemp was talking to an acquaintance. The sky was streaked as if broom-brushed; the cumulus clouds had faded into the sea, which roared as if it had swallowed them.
Clowance stepped on one kerb near where Jud and Prudie were waddling off.
Jud said: ‘Careful ’ow ee d’walk, my ’andsome. Put yer feet wrong round yur, and a gurt big skeleton’ll jump out an’ bite yer toe!’
‘Big ox!’ said Prudie. ‘Take no ’eed of ’m, my dee-er. Step just wher ee d’wish – there’s naught’ll disturb ee.’
They passed on, growling at each other, leaving Clowance thumb in mouth staring after them. When they had gone a distance she tiptoed carefully to the edge of the path and hurried back to her mother.
Demelza led her to Ross.
‘Where’s Dwight?’ she said to Caroline. ‘I had hoped you would both come to tea.’
Caroline wrinkled her brows. ‘I was telling Ross. Dwight was to have come with me but soon after ten he was summoned to Trenwith, and I have seen nothing of him since.’
‘Probably one of the old people,’ Demelza said. ‘Dr Choake is now so crippled with gout . . .’
‘No,’ Caroline said. ‘It was Elizabeth.’
There was a short silence.
‘Did they say what it was?’
‘No . . . ’
Ross took out his watch. ‘Well, he’s been gone two hours.’
‘It might be to do with her baby,’ said Demelza.
‘I wondered that,’ said Caroline. ‘I hope not, because it would be premature . . . though I understand Valentine was premature.’
There was another silence.
‘Yes,’ said Ross.
II
George had found Elizabeth lying on the floor of her bedroom about eight o’clock that morning. She had fallen in a faint but not hurt herself. He got her back to bed and was all for summoning a doctor at once, but she assured him she had come to no hurt. Only the fact that Choake was immobile and his dislike of Enys persuaded George to acquiesce.
But an hour and a half later she complained of pain in the back, and he at once sent a man for Dwight. Dwight came and examined her and told him she was in the first stages of childbirth. George sent a man galloping to Truro to fetch Dr Behenna.
This time, however, Dr Behenna was going to be far too late. Pains were constant, with scarcely any intervals of any length, and contractions were regular and severe. At one o’clock Elizabeth gave birth to a girl, weighing just five pounds, wrinkled and red-faced and tiny, with a mouth that opened to cry but seemed only capable of emitting a faint mew like a new-born kitten. It was hairless, almost nail-less, but very much alive. Elizabeth’s wish for a daughter had come true.
There was no proper nurse present, and Dwight had to make use of Ellen Prowse, Polly Odgers and the slovenly Lucy Pipe. But all had gone well, there were no complications, and when he had tidied up a bit he went down to inform the proud father of his fortune.
George had endured horrible conflicting doubts and fears since early this morning, and when Dwight told him he had a daughter and that mother and child were doing well, he went across and poured himself another strong brandy, the decanter clicking on the glass as he did so. For once in his life he had drunk too much.
‘May I offer you something, Dr – er – hm – Dr Enys?’
‘Thank you, no.’ Dwight changed his mind in the interests of neighbourliness. ‘Well, yes, a weak one.’
They drank together.
‘My wife has come through well?’ George asked, steadying himself on a chair.
‘Yes. In one sense a premature child is less strain on the mother, being that much smaller. But the spasms were unusually violent, and if this is the result of her fall she will have to take the greatest care over the next few weeks. I would advise a wet nurse.’
‘Yes, yes. And the child?’
‘The greatest care for a while. There’s no reason at all why she should not do perfectly well, but a premature child is always more at risk. I presume you will have your own doctor . . .’
‘Dr Behenna has been sent for.’
‘Then I am sure he will be able to prescribe the correct treatment and care.’
‘When can I go and see them?’
‘I have given your wife a sleeping draught which will make her drowsy until this evening, and have left another one with Miss Odgers in case she needs it tonight. Look in now if you wish, but don’t stay.’
George hesitated. ‘The old people are just starting dinner. If you would care to join them . . .’
‘Well, it’s time I was home. I have been here all of four hours and my wife will be wondering what has become of me.’
George said: ‘They are safe to be left now – without a doctor, I mean?’
‘Oh, yes. I’ll call again about nine this evening if you wish it. But I presume Dr Behenna will be here before then.’
‘If he left promptly when summoned he should be here within the hour. Thank you for your prompt and efficient attention.’
After Dr Enys had been shown out, George hesitated whether to go in and tell the old people that they were grandparents again; but he reasoned that although they knew Elizabeth was in labour they would not expect anything so soon, and Lucy Pipe could be sent down to tell them later. His overmastering need was to see Elizabeth.
He put his glass down and went to the mirror, straightened his stock, patted his hair. He wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchief. He would do. He had not felt like this before, so damnably anxiou
s all day, now so damnably relieved. It was not right that one should be subject to this sort of emotional stress; it made one feel vulnerable and ashamed.
He went up and tapped on the door. Polly Odgers opened it and he went in.
Elizabeth was very pale, but in some respects looked less exhausted then she had done after the long labour of Valentine’s birth. As always her frail beauty was enhanced by recumbency. It seemed natural to her deceptive delicacy to be at rest. Her hair lay gilt-picture-framed about the pillow, and when she saw George she took a handkerchief to wipe her dry lips. In a cot before the fire a tiny thing kicked and stirred.
‘Well, George,’ she said.
George said: ‘Leave us, Polly.’
‘Yes, sir.’
When she had gone he sat down heavily and stared at her, emotionally tight.
‘So . . . all is well.’
‘Yes. All is well.’
‘Are you in pain?’
‘Not now. Dr Enys was very good.’
‘It has all happened the second time. Just as before. And so quickly.’
‘Yes. But last time it was eight months. This time it is seven.’
‘You fall,’ he said accusingly, ‘always you fall.’
‘I faint. It is some peculiarity. You remember I even did it this year when the child was first coming.’
‘Elizabeth, I . . .’
She watched him struggling with words but did not help.
‘Elizabeth. Aunt Agatha’s venom . . .’
Elizabeth waved a weary hand. ‘Let us forget it.’
‘Her venom. Her venom has . . . Since she died – as you said yesterday – it has affected half my life.’
‘And half mine without knowing the cause.’
‘I am a self-sufficient man. Self-contained. As you know. It is very difficult for me to – to unburden myself to another. In such cases suspicion flourishes. I have given way to suspicion and jealousy.’
‘From which I have had small opportunity to defend myself.’
‘Yes . . . I know. But you must appreciate that I have suffered too.’ He hunched his shoulders and stared broodingly at her. ‘And what I said that night two years ago – oh, it’s true enough. Love and jealousy are part of the same face. Only a saint can enjoy one without enduring the other. And I had good reason for suspicion—’
‘Good reason?’
‘Thought I had. Helped by that old woman’s curse, so it seemed. Now at last I can see I was wrong. Clearly it has done damage – to our marriage. I trust it’s not beyond repair.’
She was silent, luxuriating for a moment in the absence of pain, of travail, the laudanum working gently to blur the sharper edge of existence. George had drawn his chair closer and was holding her hand. It was very unusual in him. In fact she had never known it before. So is the hard man tamed.
She said quietly: ‘It is for you to decide,’ knowing of course what his decision would be.
He said, with a new note of resolution: ‘We have a full life ahead of us, then. Now that we – now that I can put this out of my mind. However much I may regret that it was ever allowed to enter – it happened. I cannot – no one ever can – withdraw the past. Elizabeth, I have to say that I have been at fault in all this. Perhaps now – from now on . . . some of the unhappiness can be forgiven . . . the disagreeable times forgot.’
She squeezed his hand. ‘Go and look at our daughter.’
He got up and moved over to the cot. In the shade of the cot, just out of range of the light of the fire flames, a small red face blinked its unfringed blue eyes, and the tiny mouth opened and closed. He put down a finger and a hand no bigger than a soft pink walnut closed around it. He noted that she was much smaller than Valentine had been. But then Valentine had been an eight-month child.
He stood a while, swaying a little on the balls of his feet, not so much from inebriety as from the satisfaction that was flooding over him. He was moved. It was something very basic in his nature that resented the emotional strain put on him by marriage and parenthood. A part of his character would have been far more content with figures and commerce all day long, like Uncle Cary, not these terrible tugs-of-war, these battlefields of sensation that plagued him on the level of his personal existence.
Yet because of them he was living more deeply, and when, as now, there was a gratifying outcome to it all . . . He went back to the bed.
‘What shall we call her?’
Elizabeth opened her eyes.
‘Ursula,’ she said without hesitation.
‘Ursula?’
‘Yes. You called him Valentine, so I think it is my turn. My godmother, who was also my great-aunt, was called Ursula. My great-uncle died when she was thirty and she lived as a widow for thirty-eight years.’
‘Ursula,’ said George, and tried it over on his tongue. ‘I would not quibble with that. But was there something especial about your godmother?’
‘I think she brought the brains into the Chynoweth family. That’s if you think we have any! She befriended and encouraged Mary Wollstonecraft, and she translated books from the Greek.’
‘Ursula Warleggan. Yes, I am not at all unpartial to that. Valentine Warleggan. Ursula Warleggan. They would make a famous pair.’
Through a haze of sleep Elizabeth noticed the pairing of the names with special satisfaction, and silently blessed Dr Anselm for his assistance in bringing about such a result.
George knew it was time to go. But he had one more thing to say.
‘Elizabeth.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yesterday when I came, my visit was not without purpose. I had something to tell you.’
‘I hope it is good.’
‘Yes, it is good. You’ll remember I called to see Mr Pitt in the morning of the day before we left London.’
‘. . . I knew you were going . . . But you did not tell me afterwards.’
George grunted and turned the money in his fob. ‘No. Well, there was that reason. As you know. I trust it will never exist again. It is our duty to see that it never exists again . . . But I have to tell you now that my interview with the Chancellor was very agreeable and very useful. I gave him my promise of full support, and he was gracious enough to accept my expressions of loyalty.’
‘. . . I’m glad.’
‘Well, that was three weeks ago. Yesterday morning I received a letter from John Robinson. He was able to tell me that Pitt has found it possible to agree to my request – my solitary and only request – and will be pleased to recommend to His Majesty that I receive a knighthood in the New Year.’
A faint breath of noise, like a tiny sigh, came from the infant in her cot, registering her first comment upon this strange new world.
Elizabeth opened her own eyes wide, those beautiful grey-blue eyes that had always fascinated him. ‘Oh, George, I am so very gratified!’
George smiled freely; a rare occurrence for him. ‘I suspected you would be – Lady Warleggan.’
There was a light tap on the door. It was Lucy Pipe. ‘If ye plaise, sur, Dr Behenna be downstairs. Shall ’e come up?’
‘No. He shall not come up. First your mistress must sleep.’ The head hastily withdrew. George said: ‘You must sleep, my dear.’ His voice carried more warmth than had ever been heard in it before.
Elizabeth’s eyes drooped. ‘Yes.’
‘Sleep well, Lady Warleggan,’ George said, bending and kissing her.
‘Thank you, Sir . . . Sir George.’
III
Dr Behenna was not a little put out after his long and tiresome journey to be told that the child was already safely delivered and that mother and child were doing well. He was still more put out by George’s refusal to allow him to see the patient. In most households he would of course have tramped straight up and into the bedroom; but with the Warleggans and their nouveau riche insistence on their own importance in the world he had to go more carefully.
And when Mr Warleggan eventually condescended to come down Mr Warle
ggan was adamant. His wife had successfully borne her child and now must sleep. Miss Odgers was with her and would summon them if the need arose. George knew that Behenna was one of those men mentally incapable of tiptoeing into a bedroom, so for the time being he must be confined to the ground floor.
To assuage him he led him into the dining-room where the old Chynoweths were dozing over their brandy and port, and the kitchens were alerted to serve a late dinner for two hungry men.
Mrs Chynoweth was naturally delighted to learn that she had a granddaughter, and like Dr Behenna took umbrage that she was not immediately allowed upstairs. Mr Chynoweth was too far gone to rejoice, and presently laid his head on the table and snored through the rest of the meal. It was a large table and they were able to eat at the other end.
George was never a great talker, and Dr Behenna was still nursing his grievance, so the dominating voice at the table, often the only one, was the aristocratic but thick-tongued and slurred voice of the grandmother, Mrs Joan Chynoweth – née Le Grice, as she pointed out – one of the oldest and most distinguished families in England.
‘Rubbish,’ Jonathan Chynoweth was heard to exclaim under his breath, having caught enough of this through his drunken doze. ‘Very or-ordinary sort of family. Came from Normandy only a couple of centuries ago. Very ordinary.’
His wife went into lengthy speculations as to a suitable name for the child. George ate on, remembering the previous occasion, after Valentine was born, when there had been a similar conversation as to what he should be called. Only then it had been his own father who had been here; and curled in an armchair like an ancient crone, putting in her asp-like suggestions from time to time, had been that evil, festering harridan, Agatha Poldark.
George was not a superstitious man, but he recalled his mother’s dread of the old woman; in an earlier age Agatha would have been one of the first to face the ducking-stool and the fire. Well deserved, for no black succubus could have done more to harm him. Even his father’s bronchitis had seemed to stem from that night when the fire had smoked as if the draught had been supernaturally reversed. He had been a cursed fool himself to have taken heed of the vile old woman. Even on the day of Valentine’s birth she had pointed out that he had been born at a moon’s eclipse and therefore would be unlucky all his life.