Bella Poldark

  The rooms that Maurice showed her into were on the edge of this district, her landlady had a moustache and a dirty apron; but Bella did not concern herself with her lodgings – over the past two months Maurice had sent her several scrawled pieces of sheet music which were particularly appealing. Mrs Pelham had heard her playing them and asked what they were. Bella had explained how she had come by them.

  ‘Play them to me again, will you. Or if you have the words, sing them. They are very taking.’

  ‘I can hum them, if that will do. I do not understand all the words, and the second one is not for me.’

  She played and half sang ‘Una voce poco fa’ and ‘Ecco vidente en cielo’.

  ‘That is really sweet music,’ Mrs Pelham had said. ‘But how do you mean, the second one is not for you?’

  ‘I mean,’ Bella stammered, ‘it – it is really for a tenor to sing.’

  ‘Oh,’ Mrs Pelham had said. ‘They are from a new opera?’

  ‘It has been on in England, a couple of years ago.’

  So far, though, Bella had not read the complete score. On the long, jolting, sickly and again jolting journey from Hatton Garden to Rouen, Maurice had sat beside her, telling her the story of the opera and explaining to her the choices and dilemmas he would encounter with the casting; but she had never seen the music all written down for her to judge and absorb.

  Nor had she quite realized how central the part was that Maurice was assigning to her. They ate together the next day at a little bistro near the cathedral in the company of three youngish Frenchmen. One, Jean-Pierre Armande, was to sing opposite her as Count Almaviva. He was tall, blond, with close-set eyes and a flashing smile. Another, called Etienne Lafond, was the oldest of the group and would ‘probably’ play Don Basilio. He had a thick accent which Bella could hardly understand. In fact, though her French was now fluent – and her Italian coming along – she had to keep her ears at constant stretch to follow the quick patter of the interchange between the four men. The last man was Edmond Largo, the stage manager. They were all courteous to her, and Maurice was careful to bring her into the conversation as often as he could. She caught Jean-Pierre Armande looking at her speculatively during the meal, or more often eyeing her over the rim of his glass; she hoped he was considering her qualities as a singer and not otherwise.

  After it was over and the others had gone, she fingered the score. ‘I did not think you had chosen so big a part for me, Maurice.’

  ‘You are to be the star!’

  ‘But there are no other women singing important parts. I am surrounded by men!’

  ‘There is Berta, your governess. She has an important role. But have no fear you will be alone. There are musicians, soldiers, notaries, dancers.’

  ‘Shall you give Helen or Polly the part of Berta?’

  ‘No, they are too young. And the Mayor’s daughter is playing Berta. It is good to have some local interest!’

  She was thoughtful for a minute. Boys were playing in the square outside, their long bare legs flashing in the sun.

  ‘When are they coming?’

  ‘I have not heard.’

  ‘Will they travel on their own?’

  ‘My cousin is returning from London soon.’ Maurice’s face creased into a wry smile. ‘Though I do not think he would be quite the most suitable chaperone!’ He called for the addition. ‘As I assuredly was for you, my Bella.’

  ‘I am not sure my aunt or my mother would think you a suitable chaperone at all!’

  He spread his hands. ‘What did I do? What have I done except to behave towards you with the utmost respect?’

  ‘Constantly kissing my hands,’ said Bella, ‘stroking my arms, rubbing your head against mine. Well, I suppose that might be looked upon as good behaviour for a Frenchman.’

  ‘Frenchman, ma foi! It is good behaviour of any man companioning a beautiful young girl with a voice like an angel.’

  ‘Please do not forget that this angel can scream.’

  ‘Not in the part,’ Maurice said. ‘I pray you not in the part.’

  He paid the bill.

  Bella said: ‘Oh, there was an argument between you, chiefly between you and Etienne Lafond, and because of his accent – where does he come from?’

  ‘Burgundy.’

  ‘Because of his accent I could not follow what he was saying. It was about me, was it not? You mentioned soprano.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Ah, yes. He was arguing that Il Barbiere was originally written for a soprano, not a mezzo. That is not true: it was originally written for a mezzo, but later I agree it has been keyed higher. Etienne seemed to think that we were playing for a mezzo-soprano out of consideration for you. That is not so – although I do believe you will do better in the lower key. Personally I prefer it.’

  She rose, aware that she had drunk too much red wine. (Must not get like Christopher. Imagine on the stage falling flat on your back!)

  ‘I can manage the soprano, if you wish it.’

  ‘I do not wish it.’

  ‘When is the first rehearsal?’

  ‘Perhaps not till next week. Not full, though we can begin the preliminaries tomorrow. Figaro will be here on Friday, but I have got to find a Dr Bartolo. Arturo Fougasse was to have taken it but he has withdrawn. He decided that the part did not suit him!’

  They left the restaurant, skirted the roistering boys and walked gently on in the afternoon sunshine. The day was warm, early summer was on them. Bella thought of a time not so long ago when she had walked arm in arm with another young man in Burlington Arcade.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Maurice said, ‘we dine with the Mayor. He is not the most intelligent of men, but he is full of good will towards our venture. Think, there has not been an opera put on in Rouen since before the Revolution!’

  ‘Have you not had any pressure on you in this town for a French singer to play Rosina?’

  ‘Not in this town,’ said Maurice. ‘There is no one in our choir who would be up to it. No one with your presence. No one who can act! Understand that, apart from Nellie Friedel, the Mayor’s daughter, no one in any of the leading parts will come from Rouen. The choruses will be largely local people, of course. For the main roles I have gone far afield. Witness yourself!’

  ‘Thank you. And there will be no jealousy?’

  ‘There is always jealousy.’

  ‘But being English – when we were in a bitter war only a few years ago?’

  ‘If there is any prejudice it will soon fade. Have you noticed any so far?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Set your mind at rest. The French love opera. And opera is cosmopolitan.’

  ‘I shall look forward to when Helen and Polly arrive. Even if they are only in the chorus they will be from England.’

  Maurice squeezed her arm gently but did not reply.

  Valentine Warleggan had a visitor. He was not exhibited to the muttering Butto but shown into the smaller parlour off the hall, where last year the weeping Agneta had confronted Selina Warleggan.

  While waiting the visitor stared out of the tall sash window at the warm buttery sunshine falling on the green and brown and granite cliffs which sheltered Trevaunance Harbour, or what passed for a harbour on this inhospitable coast. The incoming surf made a ring of fine necklaces round the blue throat of the bay.

  Valentine came in. His face looked bony in the hard light.

  ‘Captain Prideaux, what a surprise! To what do I owe this honour?’

  Philip put on his spectacles. ‘Valentine . . . I come to see you on business.’

  ‘Take a glass.’ Valentine went to the cupboard and poured two drinks out of a brimming decanter. ‘Sit down. I have relatively few guests. And even fewer come uninvited.’ This was meant to be pointed.

  ‘I should have written. But it was difficult to explain myself on paper. It seemed better to call.’

  Valentine looked the other man over insolently. He pushed back the heavy strand of dark hair that always fell over his brow.

&
nbsp; ‘I imagine you would expect me to say this. But I did not do it.’

  Philip peered at him. ‘Do what?’

  ‘Kill Agneta.’

  ‘Kill . . . Did you suppose I thought you did?’

  ‘Possibly so. Possibly not. But I am not really a man for knives, d’you know. If I wanted to get rid of someone I’d rather shoot ’em. Knives, however sharp, are nasty sticky things. To kill they have to cut through sinews, muscles, maybe even bone. Blood spurts, viscera spill, the victim struggles, screams, claws, vomits perhaps or urinates. Disgusting! I should not like it at all.’

  Philip took a sip of wine, then put the glass down. ‘You’re mistaken if you think that’s why I have called.’

  ‘Well, what a relief . . . My only other speculation is that you may have come about Clowance. Have you come to ask my advice?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About wooing her. You must know that I have a way with pretty women. And Clowance – and her baby sister – are a couple of luscious plums. I used to fancy Clowance myself, even though we were – er – related. In those days, of course, she had no eyes for anyone but Stephen Carrington. Now she has no eyes for anyone. Have you tried a little roughness with her? Sometimes girls who spurn gentlemen will respond to the hot breath, the searching hand—’

  Philip struck Valentine across the face, knocking the wineglass out of his hand. They stared at each other. Philip’s face was livid, Valentine’s became red where it had been struck.

  Philip bent and picked up the glass. The old overmastering anger had come on him unawares.

  ‘I should apologize. Your humour doesn’t appeal to me. But it is your house. We have insulted each other. The normal consequences . . .’

  ‘The normal consequences being a duel?’ said Valentine. ‘That’s military poppycock. Fortunate that glass did not break; it belonged to my Grandmother Chynoweth. It’s old. Most of the things they possessed seemed to date from before the Norman Conquest.’

  Philip tried to swallow his anger. ‘I have apologized. I came on business. My feelings for Clowance and the contemptuous way in which you spoke . . . I beg your pardon again.’

  Valentine put the glass back in the cupboard. ‘Well, perhaps you should state your business and go.’

  Some of the wine was on Valentine’s jacket; Philip had only one or two splashes but he was carefully wiping them away.

  ‘Well, yes. I have made a bad beginning, but . . . I don’t suppose you have yet heard that a new mining company has been established calling itself the North Coast Mining Company. I am its chairman.’

  Valentine rubbed his face. ‘What on earth do you know about mining? Next to nothing!’

  ‘I entirely agree. I know only what most sensible people know in this county. In mining you get rich quickly or you get poorer slowly, and the odds are heavily stacked against you. I know next to nothing about mining, but my partners are well informed.’

  ‘Who are they? And what is it you want?’

  ‘I am not in a position to tell you the names of the partners in this company. What does the company want? It is interested in buying the shares in your mine, Wheal Elizabeth.’

  Valentine stirred some of the spilt wine with his foot, rubbing it into the carpet.

  ‘Wheal Elizabeth? You must be mentally retarded! Why should I sell what promises to be a gold mine?’

  ‘That’s not our information. We understand it has failed in three shafts and the remaining two are unsatisfactory.’

  ‘Ah, but your information is wrong. In our last report you will see—’

  ‘A few idle speculations dressed up to look like facts.’

  Silence fell.

  Valentine said: ‘So why do you want it? If it is of no value to you?’

  ‘We think it has prospects. We think we may be able to develop it.’

  Another silence.

  ‘Who are your partners? I shall know soon enough. It’s not possible to keep such a secret in Cornwall.’

  Philip took his glasses off and put them away. ‘The question is whether you will know soon enough.’

  ‘What’s that intended to mean?’

  ‘You know John Permewan has been arrested in Plymouth.’

  ‘For forgery, I understand.’

  ‘It is strongly supposed that he wrote the latest prospectus on Wheal Elizabeth. In any case your prospectus includes a lot of information that is totally false, and on which you have raised a very substantial sum of money from investors in the north of England. Issuing a false prospectus is fraud. If you were convicted you would go to prison.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Valentine. He looked up, listening. ‘How peaceful it is now in the house! I have just moved Butto to his summer residence and he does not at all like it. You must see him before you go. Hark! I can hear him now!’

  They listened together to a shrill distant screaming and roaring, which went on for a couple of minutes before the sound was blown away by a gust of wind. ‘He thinks he’s being punished. Sometimes it’s hard to reason with one’s pets.’

  ‘Shall I leave you with the proposition to think over for a few days? Though from what I hear there is very little time to lose.’

  ‘Blackmail, in fact. At the risk of provoking you to further violence, I would say I am surprised that Captain Philip Prideaux, an ex-cavalry officer of the highest reputation, should be a party to blackmail!’

  ‘With, I might suggest, a certain amount of benign interest.’

  ‘So-ho. So this – is this some sort of rescue venture that you and your friends are planning?’

  ‘My dear chap, the whole of Truro is buzzing with rumour. We believe it is only days before some of your North Country investors arrive. If a large new mining company has taken the mine over lock, stock and barrel and is ready to repay these investors their investments with some small profit added, they cannot complain. And if they are told that they will receive their money back only if they halt any proceedings they have put in hand . . .’

  ‘Phew! It grows warmer every day. I must go and let Butto out . . .’ Valentine went to the window. ‘This is all very surprising to me, Captain. And the biggest surprise of all is that you have been put in charge of this venture. Are either of our two local knights shareholders in this concern?’

  ‘Knights?’

  ‘Sir George or Sir Ross. If it were only the latter I should suppose that his heart was sounder than his head and that this was a quixotic but foolish attempt on his part to save a close relative from the consequences of his folly. If it were only the former I should suppose he has had investigations made at dead of night as to the future profitability of Wheal Elizabeth – if he were to get it cheap enough.’

  ‘I am not at liberty to say.’

  ‘But you are here to make me an offer for the mine with a pistol at my head!’

  ‘There may be an element of truth in that. The choice is yours, but it is not a wide one.’

  ‘Indeed not. Always assuming that I am not able to convince my North Country partners that I am an honest man losing their money for them in all good faith!’

  ‘And can you?’

  ‘It remains to be seen. It also remains to be seen what your share company is prepared to offer. No doubt they have sent you along with a knock-down price.’

  Philip reached for his glasses and put them on, hooking them carefully behind each ear.

  ‘The figure mentioned to me was seven thousand pounds.’

  Valentine laughed loudly. ‘If I accepted that I should—. By the time I have settled with my partners and accounted for some general expenses I should have nothing!’

  ‘That was what one of my partners thought possible.’

  ‘And no doubt your other partners opined that nothing was all I deserved.’

  ‘Not in those words. No, not in those words.’

  Valentine swung round. ‘Well, mon capitaine, it will not do. If I go to prison, however distasteful that may be, I shall have the satisfaction of knowi
ng that I have not disposed of my birthright to satisfy a group of sanctimonious robbers. For that is what you are, you and your crew. I wish you good day.’

  Philip said: ‘Your objection may be a little abated if you know that they would be willing to allow you to retain a quarter share of the mine if that price were paid. It is the feeling of a lawyer in the group that it might be possible to negotiate a settlement with the men you have cheated on those terms. But we cannot promise that. It very much depends upon how revengeful they may feel towards you.’

  ‘Go now,’ Valentine said, ‘before I set Butto on you.’

  Chapter Eight

  On one of her visits to see her parents Clowance overtook Ben Carter, who was walking over to Trenwith.

  It was the first time they had seen each other since the Christmas party, and Ben flushed slightly and took off his cap.

  ‘Why, Ben, how are you?’

  ‘Nicely, thank ee, Miss Clowance. And how’s yourself?’

  ‘Which way are you going?’

  ‘Past Sawle Church, y’know. Towards Trenwith.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you as far as the church.’ Before he could help her she slid off Nero, looped the reins over one arm and was standing beside him. She smiled as he deferentially stepped back. ‘You’re married, Ben.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true.’

  ‘My mother told me. To that nice girl you were with at the Christmas party.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true.’

  ‘She’s a cousin of mine, you know. I think that’s the relationship. My mother is her aunt.’

  They looked at each other.

  He said: ‘You’ve picked a handsome day this day for your visit.’

  She said: ‘Are you happy, Ben?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Oh, yes.’