‘Oh?’ Philip took up the paper. ‘Another? You’re referring to the one last year? Her killer was never found, was he?’
‘This was at Indian Queens. Not so far from Padstow, is it?’
Philip read the newspaper. ‘It says she was stabbed to death. Margaret Jenkins, aged twenty-two. The other, that other, if I remember, was a light woman . . . What, far from Padstow? Oh, ten or twelve miles, I would suppose. I shall pass through it on the way home this afternoon.’
‘Take care how you ride then,’ said Paul. ‘Lest the murderer be still abroad.’
Book Two
AGNETA
Chapter One
The weather that summer was drier than usual over the country as a whole, but especially so in Cornwall, where the most rain was generally expected. The sunshine was often smeared and windy, the land dry, the blown sand prevalent on the north coast, dust in the villages and towns. This year the East India Company under Stamford Raffles established a settlement in Singapore, and liberty of the press was finally permitted in France.
George Canning wrote to Ross from Liverpool in April.
Dear Friend,
I dare to hope that the worst is over in the manufacturing regions of the North. Trade is picking up, prices are stabilizing, and though there is still ‘widespread distress throughout the land’, to quote you in your last letter, it is showing signs of easement, so that you will no longer have reason to reprove me for my government’s hardness of judgement. Reform must come slowly. The heart of the nation is sound.
I have been much concerned recently with our affairs in India, and earlier this month I was asked by Liverpool to move a vote of thanks to the Governor General of India, Lord Hastings (formerly Moira, of course) congratulating him and his army on their successful operations against the Marathas and the Pindaris. But, in case you have not seen the speech, I would point out to you that I began by strongly emphasizing I was offering sincere congratulations on the military conduct of the campaign, not on the disposition of our confrères in Indian to stretch their limits ever farther. I congratulated Parliament too on its efforts to check this ambition. Would to God, I said, that we could long since have discovered a front – a resting place in India – where it was possible to stand without advancing further. From the wildness of Bengal or the Maharashtra it may look different, surrounded as they are by rampaging bandits, and weak and corrupt Principalities crying out for assistance, but from this small island, which only three years ago finished spilling its blood to prevent a tyrant from becoming Emperor of Europe, it does not look to most sensible men – among whom I count the vast majority of my colleagues – that we should be attempting to build a new Empire of our own in the East.
Old friend. When can we next meet?
In August a great protest rally, held in St Peter’s Fields, Manchester, to draw attention to the bitter plight of the poor, ended in the deaths of eleven of the protesters at the hands of a regiment of undisciplined yeomanry sent in by panicking magistrates to disperse the riot. The number involved in this rally was about eighty thousand. They carried banners with their demands: ‘No Corn Laws’, ‘Annual Parliaments’, ‘Universal Suffrage’, ‘Vote by Ballot’. The initiator of the rally, a man called Henry Hunt, was arrested and charged with high treason.
Mary, Paul Kellow’s wife, had greatly improved without the need of the knife. Dwight had been prevailed upon to visit the frightened young woman and had prescribed goat’s milk, Theban opium, fresh air, cold water to drink, hot linseed poultices applied to the tumour, which presently receded and healed. Both Mary and Paul were deeply appreciative. Dwight smiled but warned Paul in private that though over a period of months this might seem a cure, over an extended length of time the lump might return. ‘If there is an infection of the lymphatic glands, this may resurface in the hip – or abdomen. I trust it will not. Your wife seems otherwise a very healthy young woman. So far so good.’
Paul’s thin face had hardened at Dwight’s words.
‘Most of your profession claim too much, Dr Enys. At least you could never be accused of false optimism.’
‘Caroline tells me I see too much of the dark side.’
‘Perhaps the dark side is often all there is to see.’
‘Not in this case. But one thing I am sure of, Paul, is that you must not let her have any inkling of doubt. I speak to you as a friend. In all disease the mind is as important as the body. Be with her a lot. Keep her spirits up.’
They paused at the front door.
‘You should have stayed to sup,’ Paul said.
‘Thank you, Caroline is expecting me, and before dark.’
They waited for Dwight’s horse to be brought round. Paul’s lank hair lifted in the breeze.
‘I don’t know how you have the stamina to follow your trade,’ he said, almost resentfully. ‘That is, with a nature like yours.’
‘One develops a good memory for failures.’
‘And successes?’
‘Oh yes. In making a diagnosis it is good to remember both.’
‘And what diagnosis are you making for the prospects of my – our future married happiness, Dr Enys?’
‘There you should go to the soothsayer. It is not in my field at all.’
The horse’s hooves could be heard outside.
Paul said: ‘I have the oddest premonition.’
‘About your marriage?’
‘About life generally. Its ultimate purpose – insofar as it has a purpose – seems to be evil, not good.’
Isabella-Rose returned at Easter, full of fun, life, talk, music, apparently unchanged. The only difference, Demelza thought, was that the Cornish burr in her voice had lessened.
And her singing voice – her instrument, as she now called it – had improved. It was rounder, much more controlled. Ross confessed that he could now listen to it with real pleasure. ‘But it is still not as sweet as Cuby’s in the middle register,’ he whispered to Demelza, who replied: ‘Cuby has nothing but a middle register. Nor any power.’ ‘I know, my love, I know. Well, Fredericks is working wonders.’
Christopher did not come down with her. Rothschild’s would not spare him for so long, but by discreet enquiry he was able to discover a Mrs Carne – a banker’s wife and no relative of Demelza’s – who was travelling to Falmouth and was glad of a young lady’s companionship. Bella had a month off.
One tried not to notice, but Nampara was much noisier, more alive when she was home. Henry’s voice went up an octave to make itself heard, and they ran about the beach together like two puppies let out of a kennel.
One minor irritation over the Easter period was the constant visiting of Agneta Treneglos. Whatever had happened between her and Valentine was apparently at an end, and since she had been forbidden by him to visit him at Place House she took to calling at Nampara in the hope of catching him when he was there. She always came alone, but one of her sisters usually arrived to fetch her home, so the inference was that she slipped away from Mingoose when no one was looking.
Demelza had seen Ruth on a few occasions, but Ruth had simply stared at her as at a servant and never uttered a word. John had seen Ross twice more, but the name of Agneta was not mentioned. He too had turned a cold shoulder.
Ross was determined not to send Agneta away, in spite of one or two complaints from Bella that she was cloying. He felt that at least eighty per cent of the blame rested with Valentine, and one could not take it out on a handicapped girl.
He had seen little of Valentine, who appeared to be making himself scarce until Agneta got tired and gave him up. He had been in Padstow for a week or more, staying, he let drop, with the Prideaux-Brunes, but this Ross took with a pinch of salt. When Ross spoke of him to Philip Prideaux at a concert of the Philharmonic Society of Truro, which he had been cozened into attending by his musical daughter, Captain Prideaux looked blank and a mite puzzled.
Ross had been introduced to Prideaux by, of all people, his elder daughter, who apparentl
y was among Philip Prideaux’s guests. Possibly a taste of the gay life in London had unveiled to Clowance what she was missing. The two ex-soldiers had a chat together in the interval, and Ross thought him an agreeable, well-meaning fellow, but taut and over-stretched. In time civilian life might induce him to relax. One certainly hoped so if there was any possibility – and it seemed far from an impossibility, noting the attention that Philip Prideaux was paying Clowance – that he, Ross, might be approached sometime by the other man and asked permission to become his son-in-law.
Geoffrey Charles rearranged his plans to enable him to escort Isabella-Rose back to London. The weather turned bad, and the coach was stuck for six hours in the snow east of Exeter.
Esther Carne had long since lost her cough and so was allowed to take charge of Juana. She began to venture more out of the gates of Trenwith and occupied her time off by visiting her uncle, Sam, who pressed her to go to see Demelza; but she said she did not like to presume. She kept a sharp lookout for Ben Carter, but did not see him. She questioned Sam, and then Sam’s wife, Rosina, and then two of his flock, who were more forthcoming, and so learned more about him. So she was told of the scar on his cheek, which so resembled that on Sir Ross Poldark’s that it had to be hidden by his beard – and all about the bitter fight he had had with Stephen Carrington, Clowance Poldark’s eventual husband, of his being Sir Ross Poldark’s godson, and the brother of Katie, who was wed to Music Thomas, and that only a couple of years ago he had moved out of his mother’s shop – the one that sold the sweets in Stippy-Stappy Lane – and now lived on his own in a tiny cottage near Killewarren.
Just before Whitsun Clowance had sent a letter to Lord Edward Fitzmaurice:
Dear Edward,
It is so kind of you to have written repeating your generous invitation to my Mother and myself to spend a week at Bowood with you and your Family in May or June.
My Mother is not quite the person she was before Jeremy’s death; she does not seem able to summon up the initiative for new scenes and new pleasures. She is not by any means sad all the time – or obviously sad any of the time – but although she went once to London last year, it was under the compulsion to decide my young sister’s musical future, and she was – it seemed – altogether relieved to be Home. She loves her house and her farm and her garden, in which she spends increasing time.
Nevertheless I believe I might have been able to bring extra pressure to bear on her were it not for the unfortunate position I happen to be in myself. As you will recall, I own this small sea-trading company which was begun by my husband. We operate from Penryn and Falmouth, and, since I am a woman, I depend on a Partner – a quite elderly man – who puts into practice the things I want to have done but am not exactly in a position to do myself. Well, Hodge last week slipped and fell down the hold of the Adolphus and broke his leg. There was fear that he would have to lose his leg, but they think now it may be saved.
In the event, he will be laid up for many weeks, and I must try to carry on alone – or look for a replacement. It means I may not stray from Penryn for as long as this situation endures; so I must regretfully write this to say I cannot come to Bowood this early summer.
If Circumstances should suddenly change for the better I will write you more.
Most sincerely yours,
Clowance Carrington
When she posted the letter she wondered why she had not told the entire truth to her old suitor. In the first place she had put the onus of refusal on her mother. Then she had sidled away and attributed the refusal to Tim Hodge’s accident. What was wrong with that? Her mother was reluctant to leave Nampara in a way she had never been before. Hodge had broken his leg, but it was such a perfectly clean break that even Surgeon Charteris, who adored removing injured limbs, was persuaded to agree to splint it up and wait to see if it would set.
So where was the deception? It lay in the knowledge that if she went to Bowood Edward would resume his suit; and even though she could always have said no, her own feelings were in such confusion that while she had no intention whatever of saying yes, she sheered away from an outright decision. It could be no next year . . .
The letter posted, she would have liked to take it back and redraft it.
Ross had a further letter from George Canning.
Dear Friend
The catastrophe of St Peter’s Fields offends us all. I was travelling in Italy when this tragedy happened. Liverpool sent for me in great distress, which I can well understand.
Sometimes I am frustrate with man’s attempts to impose order, fairness, justice, decency upon the world, when a few evil men, or simple angry men, or hot-headed fools, can overturn the good intentions, the sincerity, the honesty of the great majority, and undo all the work of a well-meaning government.
Now we must build again. I don’t know if you know that the charge of treason has been dropped against Hunt and the other men arrested. The trial is not yet, but I expect they will get a year or two in jail to cool their hot heads. The alarm of the nation is understandable. It has been rumoured with some authority – can rumour ever have authority, I wonder? – that behind the moderate demands put forward on the banners of the mob were far more sinister and revolutionary ideas – the destruction of the Bank of England, the equalization of all classes by an agrarian division of the landed property of the country, the removal of the Hanoverian dynasty from the throne and the election of a President, the abolition of all titles, and so on.
Whether these are the true beliefs of the majority of the protesters, or are only the hot-headed fantasies of a few evil, covetous men, I know not. I strongly suspect the latter. But no man can forget what happened in France less than three decades ago. It is only twenty-five years since their king went to the guillotine. Outbursts like the one in Manchester could very easily lead to a full-scale revolution in England. Do not forget that Robert Liverpool claims he witnessed the storming of the Bastille. Is Wellington to feel that the great victory he gained only three and a half years ago is to be dissipated by the collapse of a stable England into fratricidal chaos and revolution?
These must be the thoughts of any true Englishman on hearing the bad news from Manchester. That cooler reflection may suggest these thoughts are an over-response to the news does not and will not prevent many in authority from taking repressive action. And at least for the time being I must side with them.
You may well argue that had the reforms you urged have come more quickly no such riot might have taken place. I half agree. But it has.
I envy you for getting out of the political scene when you did. Westminster is a muddy place in which to spend one’s life. I may yet take some other post abroad.
Believe me, most cordially and sadly yours,
George Canning.
Bella was home for a month in the summer. She did not need any subtle tactical questioning from her parents: she told it all. Mrs Pelham (Aunt Sarah) was sweetness itself and never allowed her to feel a burden or a trouble. (Ross had written to Caroline’s aunt in April offering, indeed almost demanding, to be able to pay towards Bella’s keep, and Mrs Pelham had replied to Caroline, asking her to tell her distinguished friend not to be so silly.)
Dr Fredericks was a tyrant, Bella said, but a good teacher; and her friendship with two of the other girls had flowered and strengthened. Christopher was Christopher; need one say more?
Christopher was Christopher, and arrived at the end of her holiday to take her back to London. While she was singing a lullaby for Henry and Demelza on the last night, and singing it with a singular sweetness that brought tears to Demelza’s eyes, Christopher was sitting smoking with Ross in the old living room of the house, to which the music floated in only as the lightest of airs.
Presently he said: ‘Sir, forgive me for raising this matter, but I am trying to bide my time with what patience I can summon, and I have not mentioned the subject of marriage – not, that is, since last year, neither to you nor your wife, nor indeed to Bella, exc
ept that between her and me it is a wish that is so obvious that it need not be spoken.’ He stopped and relit his pipe from a spill, taking its flame from the fire. (Bella on such occasions was always afraid he would set light to his moustache.) ‘You, sir, and her mother are still legally in charge of your daughter, and I am eternally grateful that you agreed to my suggestion that she come to London to get the best teaching. Therefore – therefore I would like to put forward a suggestion about our marriage. I would request that you would give us permission to marry this time next year.’
Ross’s long pipe was drawing well, but he took it from his mouth and inspected it to give himself time to think. He had rather anticipated that Christopher would want the marriage earlier, but he was not going to say so.
‘Assuming that your feelings for each other remain the same then?’
‘Certainly.’ Christopher smiled mischievously.
‘Do you have any special reason to pick this time next year?’
‘I have, sir. Isabella-Rose will have had fifteen months under Dr Fredericks, and you will observe how much her voice has improved in two terms. It could be that by the end of next year she may feel she has learned enough and will have the ambition to give some public recitals.’
‘Bella tells me that she already sings at small parties Mrs Pelham arranges from time to time.’
‘Yes, sir. And these will be invaluable to her in the struggle to become known. These little soirées are giving her confidence and poise.’
‘Since when did Bella need confidence?’
Christopher laughed. ‘Indeed. Then poise, projection, the faculty to adjust one’s voice to the occasion. Above all, presence.’
They could just hear her from the library on a high note. No hint of strain.
‘You will have thought of the problems of marriage, Christopher?’