Of course from the very beginning she had hated George – before even he had begun to notice or to hate her. As the living embodiment of the four generations of Poldarks she had outlived, she had above all resented the arrival of this upstart – allowed here at first on sufferance because he was a schoolfriend of Francis – she had witnessed his insignificance and gradual growth to significance: she had watched and come to detest his progress until he became first the owner of Francis and then the owner of this house. It had been just as intolerable for Agatha to witness as it had been stimulating and satisfying for George to experience.
Although the edge of pleasure wore blunter with repetition – as all pleasures did – he still knew the satisfaction of coming into this gracious Tudor manor house and gazing round and remembering his visits here as a boy and as a youth, unpolished, unsophisticated, unlearned in the nicer manners. Then the Poldarks had seemed immeasurably superior to him, and immensely secure in their position and their property. Charles William, Francis’s father, fat and impressive in his long vermilion coat, with his belches, his unstable humours, his patronizing friendliness; and Charles William’s widowed sister, Mrs Johns; and her son and daughter-in-law, the Rev and Mrs Alfred Johns; and Francis’s elder sister, Verity; and Ross, Francis’s other cousin, the dark, quiet, difficult one, whom George had also known at school and had already learned to dislike – and the relative who was always absent, Ross’s father, because he had got into so many disreputable scrapes that he was not mentioned in the house. Over them all Aunt Agatha had presided, half doyen, half neglected maiden aunt, but embodying some watchful spirit to which the family paid tribute.
Now all, all had gone. Verity to Falmouth, the Alfred Johns to Plymouth, Ross to his own lair, the rest to the grave. And he, the rough unlearned youth, owned it all. As he now owned so much in Cornwall. But perhaps this estate was the property he valued most highly.
‘Ursula,’ he said, thinking aloud.
‘Eh?’ said Mrs Chynoweth. ‘Who? What do you say?’
‘That is what she is to be called.’
‘The th-child? My granddaughter?’
‘Elizabeth wishes it. And I like it well.’
‘Ursula,’ said Jonathan, raising himself an inch or two from the table. ‘Ursula. The little she-bear. Very good. I call that very good.’ He laid his head peaceably to rest.
Mrs Chynoweth dabbed at her one good eye. ‘Ursula. That was the th-name of Morwenna’s grandmother. She was Elizabeth’s th-godmother. She died th-not so long ago.’
George stiffened but did not say anything.
‘Not that I cared for her so vastly,’ said Mrs Chynoweth. ‘She thought th-too much about the rights of th-women. My – father once th-said – my father once th-said: “If a woman do have blue stockings she must th-contrive that her petticoat shall hide ’em.” She didn’t. She never – never had them.’
‘I’ll trouble you to pass me the mustard sauce,’ said Dr Behenna.
‘Why do you say “the little she-bear”?’ George asked Jonathan, but his father-in-law answered with a snore.
‘I believe that is what the name means,’ said Dr Behenna. ‘Do I understand, Mr Warleggan, that you are offering me hospitality for the night?’
‘The little she-bear,’ said George. ‘Well, I have no objection to that. And the name Ursula Warleggan runs very well.’ He looked coldly at the doctor. ‘What was that you said? Well, yes, of course. Naturally you shall stay the night. It is not a ride you would wish to undertake in the dark, is it?’
Behenna bowed with equal lack of warmth. ‘Very well. But as I have so far been prevented from seeing my patient I wondered whether you wished to avail yourself of my services at all.’
George said impatiently: ‘God’s life, man! The child has been born scarce more than three hours. Dr Enys gave my wife a draught and they are now both sleeping. Of course you may see them when they wake! Until then I would have thought it simple medical sense to allow them to rest.’
‘Indeed,’ said Behenna pettishly. ‘Just so.’
‘Even I have th-not been allowed to see them,’ said Mrs Chynoweth. ‘And after all th-a grandmother should have certain rights. But th-dear Mr Warleggan will decide . . . You decide most things, th-George, and upon my soul, that is the way it should be in a th-properly conducted th-household.’
George reflected that it had never been so in his mother-in-law’s household, where she had always held the reins over Jonathan. Nevertheless at Trenwith she had a proper view of the importance of her son-in-law in her world today. Without him they would both have long since mouldered away at their old home, Cusgarne; here they lived in comfort and idleness, warmed and fed and waited on, and would do so till they died. Mrs Chynoweth had never been a woman to ignore the practical realities of a situation.
All the same, he well knew that Mrs Chynoweth would once have been horrified at the thought of her beautiful young porcelain daughter forming anything so degrading as a union with the common Warleggan boy.
So time had moved on and values shifted and changed.
Elizabeth slept right through until after supper, when she woke feeling much refreshed, and all the people who were waiting to see her were permitted to see her. Ursula was also inspected and admired. Dr Behenna restricted his examination to the briefest and professed himself satisfied. At midnight they all retired to rest. At three a.m. Dr Behenna was wakened by Ellen Prowse, who told him that her mistress was suffering severe pain in the arms and legs.
Chapter Fifteen
I
It was not until the Thursday morning that George sent for Dwight. Caroline, feeling neighbourly, was at that time just pinning on a hat to call on Elizabeth and admire the baby. She now unpinned it and let Dwight go alone.
Dr Behenna was with George in the hall, but they were not speaking to each other.
George was pale and had not slept. ‘Mrs Warleggan is in great pain and has been now for thirty-six hours. I should be glad if you will go up and see if you can aid her.’
Dwight looked at Behenna, who said stiffly: ‘The premature labour has brought on an acute gouty condition of the abdominal viscera which is manifesting itself in severe cramp-like spasms of the extremities. All that can be done is being done, but Mr Warleggan feels that, since you delivered the child, you should be brought in for further consultation.’
Dwight nodded. ‘What have you prescribed?’
‘Some bleeding. Infusion of the leaves of atropa belladonna. Salt of wormwood and ammoniac. Light purges to reduce the excessive pressure of the nerve fluids.’ Behenna spoke with keen annoyance – one did not usually give away the details of one’s treatments to a rival – and Dwight was surprised that he was being so frank.
An old woman came out of one of the rooms and limped across the hall; Dwight hardly recognized her as Mrs Chynoweth.
He said to Behenna: ‘Would you lead the way, sir?’
When he got in the bedroom Dwight stared at Elizabeth in horror. She had aged ten years, and her face was thin and etched with pain. Dwight sniffed slightly as he came into the room. Then he went to the bed.
‘Mrs Warleggan. This is a sad change. We must get you well soon.’
‘Of course we will get her well soon!’ Behenna was right behind him. He despised doctors who let their patients know how ill they looked. ‘A few days and you will be about again.’
‘Now tell me, what is it? Where is your pain?’
Elizabeth moistened her lips to speak, and could not. She stared up at Dwight. Dwight bent his head close to her mouth. She said: ‘My – my feet. All my body – aches – I have never felt so ill – or felt such pain.’ Her tongue, he saw, was swollen and coated with a dark reddish stain of blood.
‘You have given her opiates?’ Dwight asked Behenna.
‘Some, yes. But it is more important at this stage to increase the elasticity of the veins and to clear the effete matter rioting in the bloodstream.’
‘So cold,’ whispered
Elizabeth.
Dwight glanced at the fire blazing in the hearth. Lucy Pipe was sitting beside it gently stirring the cot. He put his hand on Elizabeth’s brow and then felt her pulse, which was very rapid. The fingers of one hand were blue and swollen.
He said: ‘Perhaps I might examine you, Mrs Warleggan. I will try not to hurt you.’
He pulled the bedclothes gently back and pressed light fingers on her abdomen. She winced and groaned. Then he pulled the sheet further back and looked at her feet. He closed his hand on the right foot. Then he looked at the left foot. Then he stroked each leg up as far as the knee.
He straightened up and the bedclothes were put back. He knew now why Dr Behenna had been so frank about the details of his treatments. They were doing no good.
A faint cry came from the cot.
He snapped: ‘Get that child out of here!’
‘Oh,’ said Elizabeth, suddenly more alert. ‘Oh, why? Why?’
‘Because you must have perfect rest and quiet,’ Dwight said gently. ‘Even the smallest noise must not disturb you.’
George had come into the room and was staring down at his wife with the concentrated frown of one who fears he is being bested at some game of which he does not know the rules.
‘Well?’ he said.
Dwight bit his lip. ‘First I will give you something stronger to ease the pain, Mrs Warleggan. Dr Behenna is correct in supposing it to be a condition of the blood. He and I must work together to help alleviate this condition.’
‘What is the cure for it?’ George demanded.
Dwight said: ‘We must take one step at a time, Mr Warleggan. Let us aim first at the alleviation. Afterwards we can attempt – the rest. I shall give her a strong opiate at once, and then we must try to bring greater warmth to the limbs. But in the gentlest possible way. Are you thirsty?’
‘All . . . all the time.’
‘Then lemonade – as much as she can drink. She must have warm bricks to her feet and her hands rubbed lightly. But only warm bricks, changed hourly. Above all we must try to restore her body heat. It is of the utmost urgency. I want the fire built up and the window a little open. You will be staying, Dr Behenna?’
‘I have patients in town, but they must wait.’
Dwight smiled at Elizabeth. ‘Have patience, ma’am, we will try to help you as quick as possible.’ He turned. ‘Then we must wait, Mr Warleggan. There is nothing more we can do at this stage. Dr Behenna, may I have the favour of a word with you in private?’
Behenna grunted and inclined his head. The two men went off into Elizabeth’s dressing-room, with its pretty pink hangings and elegant lace table covers.
Behenna shut the door. ‘Well?’
Dwight said: ‘I take it you don’t believe this to be a gouty condition?’
Behenna grunted. ‘The excessive excitability of the nerve fluids suggests a severe gouty inflammation which may well predispose towards the symptoms we are now observing.’
Dwight said: ‘You have clearly not ever been in a prisoner-of-war camp, sir.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
Dwight hesitated again. He dreaded even formulating the words. ‘Well, it appears plain to me. Can you not smell anything?’
‘I must agree there is a very slight disturbing odour which I did not notice until this forenoon. But that . . .’
‘Yes, that. Though God in His Heaven only knows what may have brought her to such a condition?’
‘Are you suggesting, sir, that my treatment is in some way responsible?’
‘I am suggesting nothing—’
‘I could as well suggest to you, sir, that had I been here to deliver the child this condition might not have supervened!’
Dwight looked at the other man.
‘We’re both physicians, Dr Behenna, and I believe equally dedicated to the succour and cure of human ills. Our treatments may differ as widely as two languages, but our aims are similar and our integrity, I trust, is not in question. So I’d suggest to you that there is nothing I could have done in delivering a child in an uncomplicated birth, or anything you could have done in prescribing the treatments that you have described to me, which would or could produce the symptoms Mrs Warleggan is now suffering from.’
Behenna paced about.
‘Agreed.’
Dwight said: ‘Contraction of the arteries, restricting and then inhibiting the blood supply. This is what appears to be occurring. Particularly and most dangerously restricting the blood supply to the limbs. There appears to be no reason for it! The birth, as I have told you, was unexceptional: premature but otherwise only distinguished by the fact that the uterine spasms were very rapid and over-emphatic. But I took that to be a characteristic of the patient – after all, a woman I delivered last week gave birth to a child in fifty-five minutes from having complained of the first pains. It was that, I thought, or an outcome of the fall she had had and not indicating any pathological complications. Now this . . . the cause is obscure, the disease hardly so.’
Behenna said: ‘You’re going too fast and too far.’ He glanced at Enys.
‘I pray I am. Indeed I do. We shall know soon enough.’
‘I trust you do not intend to publish your suspicion to Mr Warleggan.’
‘Far from it. In the meantime, though you may doubt my diagnosis you do not, I trust, dissociate yourself from my treatment?’
‘No . . . It can do no harm.’
II
Ross was in Truro all day, Friday, the 13th, attending his second meeting at the Cornish Bank as a partner and guarantor. The duel was not mentioned, though everyone must have known about it for the simple reason that no one remarked on the stiffness of his right hand. Movement was returning, but he still had difficulty in signing his name.
For the most part the talk was double Dutch to him, though he maintained a polite attention. On matters of broad policy he found he was of some general use, and, although Lord de Dunstanville must have had many other ears to the ground in London, Ross was the only member of Parliament present and could contribute here and there.
After it was over he supped and slept with Harris Pascoe in Calenick, where for the moment he was continuing to live with his sister. The old premises of Pascoe’s Bank would be sold or pulled down, and Harris was looking for a smaller house in Truro, near the centre, whence he could walk daily to the new bank. He had fitted well into his reorganized life, and although he lacked the prestige of being entirely his own man, he was saved much of the anxiety, and, as he said to Ross in his usual deprecating way, this was no bad thing for someone of his age and disposition.
Ross left on the Saturday morning and was home by midday. It was the darkest day of the year, of the whole winter, for although no rain fell the world was sunk in cloud, and dawn and dusk were nominal terms to indicate grudging changes in visibility.
As soon as he got home Demelza told him she had heard Elizabeth was still gravely ill. They had heard yesterday through Caroline, and Demelza had been to Killewarren this morning to inquire.
‘It was the nearest I could go,’ she said. ‘If we were neighbours in any proper sense . . .’
‘Did she say there was any change at all?’
‘Not for the better. Dwight was at Trenwith then.’
‘Is the child alive?’
‘Oh, yes, and well, I believe. Premature but well.’
They met each other’s eyes but said no more.
Dinner was usually taken with the children, and, now that Mrs Kemp was becoming something of a permanent resident, with her too; so there was no lack of talk. Clowance, from being a silent child, was now vying with Jeremy in an ability to keep up a non-stop conversation whether anyone was listening or not.
Ross did not eat much, and half way through the meal he said in an undertone to Demelza: ‘I think I must go.’
Demelza nodded. ‘I think you should. Only I’m afraid for you.’
‘I can look to myself.’
‘If you were t
o meet Tom Harry in the grounds – and you with your weak arm.’
‘He could not stop me on a horse. And at a time like this George must surely admit me.’
‘I . . . wouldn’t rely on it, Ross.’
‘No.’ Ross bethought himself of their last meeting. ‘I can only try.’
‘Should I come?’
‘No . . . If there have to be insults I can swallow them, on such an occasion as this. But if you were insulted I could not.’
‘Take Gimlett with you.’
‘I don’t think he would terrify a mouse. Tholly Tregirls is the man, but I can hardly draw him out of his kiddley just to accompany me on a social call.’
‘A sick visit,’ said Demelza.
‘Whichever you say . . . I think I’ll go now, while the daylight lasts – such as it is.’
Demelza said: ‘I’ll light the candles.’
To the accompaniment of a dozen questions Ross got up and went for his cloak and hat. As he left he kissed Demelza, which was unusual for him in mid-afternoon.
She said: ‘Don’t stay too long, or I shall worry. For your safety, I mean.’
He smiled. ‘For my safety.’
Outside he cast a glance at the sea, which had now lost all its wildness. It was coming in like an oilcloth that was being lifted by a draught, only the edges frayed with dirty white. Seagulls were celebrating the darkness of the day.
When he turned in at the gates of Trenwith a number of lights already flickered in the building. Few houses, he thought, responded more quickly to mood than Trenwith. When he had been here on that summer evening eighteen months ago it had been pulsating and gay; now it looked still and cold, as cold as the Christmas when he had visited Aunt Agatha.