She had only just turned into the lane from Boscawen Street, and briefly contemplated a hasty turnabout; but he was only three yards from her and there was no escape.
‘Mrs Carrington! What a fortunate meeting. I trust you’re well, ma’am. Though in truth I do not think you can be so well as you look!’
Not used to double meanings, Clowance charitably took this to be a compliment. He was in a dark blue cut-away coat and fawn twill trousers caught under the instep with black elastic. Fortunately he was not wearing his spectacles.
‘I would have called upon you before this, but Lady Harriet seemed uncertain of your exact address. You must give it me, pray, before we separate. I did not think you lived in Truro.’
‘I do not. Now and again I come to shop here.’
He felt in his fob and gave a shilling to a beggar who was importuning him. ‘Last week I met a Major Geoffrey Charles Poldark, who lives on the north coast. It is an unusual name, but I did not at first connect you. He tells me he is your cousin. Is that so?’
‘Oh yes. His father and my father were cousins.’
‘Go away,’ said Mr Prideaux to the beggar who, having bit the coin and found it good, was now being overwhelming in his thanks.
‘We never met because we were in different regiments; but of course there was Waterloo to talk about.’
‘I’m sure.’ Clowance looked after the beggar, who, unable to believe his luck, was cavorting across Boscawen Street. Then he tripped and fell flat on his face in a puddle and had to be helped up. They could still see the shilling he held firmly between finger and thumb.
‘You should not be so generous with your alms,’ said Clowance with a half-smile.
He was affixing his spectacles. ‘Giving a little to a poor creature like that is a form of self-indulgence. Besides, it is nice to be called “Milord” now and again.’
‘Yet you do not wish to be called captain?’
‘It is whatever you please. Captain if you so desire.’
‘But not milord.’
‘Not yet. I am still young.’
She could not tell whether he was joking or serious.
‘Well,’ she said, making a move. ‘I have to do a little more shopping yet—’
‘Please do not go. I have just been taken with a perfectly splendid idea. I have an appointment to take tea in the Red Lion with a friend. The friend, I am sure, is well known to you. Would you do me the honour of taking tea also?’
She hesitated. For the first time he did not seem quite so impossible. ‘Is it Geoffrey Charles?’ she asked.
‘No. But I am sure you will be pleased. It cannot, I think, delay you more than half an hour, and the hotel is but ten paces down the street.’
Hodge was not due until five, and the chances were he would be late.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
There were two dozen inns in the town, but the Red Lion was the largest and the most important. It had a pleasant large room on the first floor, which had become in recent years something of a meeting place for the social minded. As she mounted the stairs Clowance realized she was rather thirsty. But who was this eccentric man taking her to meet?
The room was quite full, it being market day, and at first Clowance did not see anyone she recognized. Then she saw a table by the window with a solitary young woman at it. She was clearly waiting for them. It was Cuby.
‘I knew this would be a present surprise,’ said Philip Prideaux, rubbing his hands together. ‘Mrs Poldark, Mrs Carrington. Eh? Eh? Sisters-in-law!’
Clowance had first met Cuby at Trenwith when she had come with her sister Clemency to Geoffrey Charles’s and Amadora’s big party. She remembered then registering surprise that this idol, this icon of Jeremy’s, was not better looking. Then rather reluctantly she had acknowledged that Cuby had wonderful skin and eyes. They had spoken scarcely at all, for the breach between Cuby and Jeremy seemed then unbridgeable, and Clowance had resented her on sight – as Demelza on the same evening notably had not.
When the plans for Cuby’s marriage to Valentine had fallen through and she and Jeremy had eloped, they had, according to reports, been ‘blissfully happy’ in Brussels, but, while accepting that, Clowance still felt that the tragedy of Jeremy’s death at Waterloo need never have been.
Now they were facing each other across a small tea table, thanks to the blundering good will of the egregious Mr (Captain) Prideaux.
Cuby had coloured. One could not be sure how much she knew of the other girl’s enmity, though some of it must have been made reasonably plain by the fact that whenever she went to Nampara Clowance was not there.
Philip ordered tea for himself and Clowance, but Cuby said she would have coffee.
There was one subject which could not add to the chill. ‘How is Noelle?’
‘Passing well, thank you. She has been slow to talk, but now it is beginning.’
‘You do not have her with you in Truro?’
‘No, Clemency is caring for her. They are great friends. It is long since you have seen her, Clowance. I’m sure you would find her engaging.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Clowance.
Mr Prideaux glanced from one to the other, and took off his spectacles.
‘Do you know what I have been doing this week, ladies? I have been to Chysauster.’
Both looked blank.
‘Where is that?’
‘Near Gulval. There are the remains – the very splendid remains – of a “beehive” hut. It is of early date, if not actually prehistoric. And a subterranean passage, part fallen in. Roman-British times. Probably third or fourth century. I believe a man called Borlase has written about it.’
The two ladies listened courteously while Philip told them some of his activities of the week. In friendlier circumstances they might have smiled understandingly at each other, but Clowance did not meet Cuby’s eyes.
Tea was finished, and what little casual conversation there had been dried up. Philip beamed at them both, impervious to mood or atmosphere.
Then suddenly Cuby said: ‘Clowance, I know how busy you are, but would you spare the time to come to Caerhays and spend an afternoon with us? It is, I know, quite a long journey, but if you took the King Harry Ferry it would cut several miles from the trip.’
Clowance hesitated, and to her annoyance knew herself to be colouring.
‘Very kind,’ she said. ‘If you are sure your brother would welcome me?’
‘Why should he not?’ Cuby asked indignantly.
Clowance glanced at Philip Prideaux and wished him far away. Well, he was not, so . . .
‘Before you married him, was not Jeremy several times turned from the door?’
Cuby looked daggers at her sister-in-law.
‘That must have been when I was affianced to Valentine Warleggan. I did not know of this. I suppose John thought he was acting for the best.’
‘I imagine so. All the same, Jeremy was profoundly upset.’
Cuby said: ‘But in the end I married your brother. Do you remember that? I was at fault before it came about. But I had in the end six months of life with him that were so full of happiness that I shall never forget them as long as I live.’ There were tears in her eyes now.
Clowance said: ‘I’m sorry. I should not have said that. If we had not met so unexpectedly perhaps I should have spoken less ill—’
‘It is better you should say what you feel.’
‘I don’t know if I have the right. I don’t know all the circumstances of your refusal of him. My love for Jeremy went so deep that it warps my judgement. I could only see his almost manic distress—’
‘Ladies, ladies,’ said Philip Prideaux, aware at last of the battle that was beginning before him, ‘this is clearly a distressing subject for you both! Could we not discuss something brighter?’
Her eyes full of tears, Clowance turned to him and said: ‘Captain Prideaux, will you please go away.’
Selina was delivered of a male child on the th
irtieth of November 1818. On the third of December Valentine went to see George Warleggan at his bank in Truro.
George could hardly believe his ears when Valentine was announced.
‘Mr Valentine, did you say? . . . Where is he?’
‘Downstairs, sir.’
It was on his tongue to say he was not in, but angry curiosity got the better of him.
‘Show him up.’
When Valentine came in George was studiously writing. After a couple of minutes he lowered his pen and said: ‘Well?’
Valentine was as usual well turned out, but not flamboyantly in the way Ossie Whitworth had once been. George was irritated that he could find no fault in the young man’s attire.
‘Good day to you, Father. Some years since we met. You’re well?’
‘Well enough. What do you want?’
‘What do I want? Well, less than nothing, so far as I know. May I sit down?’
George gave no indication of assent, but Valentine sank into the black-studded leather armchair that Cary occupied when he came into the room. It was the least uncomfortable seat this side of the desk.
‘I came to tell you, Father, that my wife Selina gave birth to our first child last Thursday. This mayhap you will have heard?’
‘I know nothing of your family, and care less.’
‘A pity. I came to tell you that mother and child are doing well.’
‘Indeed.’
George remembered the insults that had flown between them in their last quarrel. He was not a man who easily forgot. But years had passed since they had spoken or even seen each other. There was little obvious change in the young man. The same narrow good looks, the same arrogance, the same insolent bearing. Rumours had reached George that in the intervening years Valentine had been up to no good in the county. Carrying on with this woman and that. Using his wife’s money in various semi-nefarious ways. But he had spent a lot of money on this young man too, the only one to bear the name of Warleggan. What was this news the young puppy was bringing?
‘So?’
‘I have a son. And you a grandson. I thought you might like to know. Harriet I’m sure will be pleased to know. The christening is to be on Sunday next, just after morning prayers. Very quiet. No fuss.’
‘Indeed,’ said George again, from under lowering brows.
Valentine brushed a dab of mud off his highly polished riding boots. ‘How are the twins?’
‘What? Oh . . . So-so.’
‘I’m sorry, I have temporarily forgot their names.’
‘Rachel and Anne.’
‘Of course . . . Well, yes, on consideration there is one extra point to my coming. The question of a name for my son. Selina and I have given careful thought to the matter. Would you object if we called him George?’
Someone was shouting in the street outside, selling eels. There was a tap on the door, and a clerk put his head in. He recoiled like a wounded snail when George looked at him. The door closed. Valentine looked out of the window. It was streaked with stains of yesterday’s rain, and the iron bar across it did not add to the cosiness of the room.
George said: ‘Is this some attempt to curry favour with me?’
‘Why should it be? I have money of my own.’
‘You mean Selina’s.’
‘Not altogether.’
‘Well, your mine is not paying,’ George said spitefully. ‘I happen to know that.’
‘The Duchy of Cornwall, as I’m sure you know, has leased its duties for collection to Mr Edward Smith. He has been very exacting, as I am sure you also know, and two of the smaller mines in my district have closed this month. Others will follow . . . You’ve closed Wheal Spinster. But I have other sources of income.’
‘I would like to hear them.’
‘I don’t think this a suitable matter to disclose in open court, if you follow me.’
‘Illegal, you mean. I urge you to take care.’
‘I did not say they were illegal, Father. But sometimes I indulge in a little gamble, with satisfactory results.’
‘Have a care that you do not get involved with John Permewan. Or with the United Copper & Zinc Company. Or Wheal Seton. Their investors are up-country people who know nothing of mining and less of finance.’
‘Of course not,’ said Valentine, who in fact was already doing business with two of the names mentioned. ‘But in my view few ventures that make money are made without an element of risk.’ Then, feeling the words hanging in the air, he added: ‘The smaller the risk naturally the better.’
George grunted. ‘If you are bent on having some interest in mining, avoid tin. Copper’s doing well. If you meddle in tin you’ll get into a mess like the Gundry family have at Wheal Vor. Bankrupt after three years!’
Valentine said: ‘I have a notion that was mismanagement, Father. From reports, there is nothing amiss with the mine.’
George looked up. ‘You are well informed.’
‘I do my best. But of course you know so very much more. I doubt if there is anyone who knows more about the mercantile prospects of Cornwall.’
Silence fell.
George said: ‘How d’you get on with your neighbours?’
‘Which neighbours?’
‘The Poldarks, of course.’
Valentine stretched his legs. ‘I see very little of ’em. Geoffrey Charles is up and down to London. It is said he is reading law. His little Spanish wife keeps much to herself. I don’t think she feels quite safe among the Cornish folk when Geoffrey Charles is away.’
‘I was referring to the Ross Poldarks.’
‘You said neighbours, Father. It is at least five miles between us. I see nothing of them. The loss of Jeremy has hit them hard. I prefer more cheerful company.’
‘Are you to have a big christening?’
‘I told you. Very quiet. Just a few of the household. Would you care to come?’
‘No, thank you.’
Valentine let out a slow breath, which George did not notice.
‘Well, I must not take up more of your time. May we call your first grandson George?’
‘I cannot stop you.’
‘You can deter me.’
George hesitated. ‘Give it him as his second name if you wish.’
‘I could give him a second name so that if he chooses when he grows up he may use it instead. I do not see why he should wish to do that, though. George Warleggan is a name to conjure with.’
George picked up his pen and looked at the quill. Some fool had not sharpened it this morning.
‘I have three daughters. All their dowries must be secured. I have no money to leave to a grandson.’
Valentine got up. ‘I should prefer my son to make his own way.’
‘By marrying money,’ said George, with a slight sneer.
‘Just so, Father. We all have different ways.’
‘Then call him George,’ said George, ‘if it pleases you.’ And be damned, he added, but under his breath.
Chapter Five
It was more than three years since Demelza had been in London, and she had rather hoped she would never see it again. She liked the great city, but twice had been terribly unhappy in it. On her very first visit there had been the enmity and then the duel between Ross and Monk Adderley. Never a more anxious time in her life. Then on her last visit she had had to leave Ross in France, where he was being illegally held as a prisoner-of-war, and no knowing how long before they saw each other again – if ever. Before he came back he had had to send her the news of Jeremy.
This time she had Caroline and Bella for company on the tedious coach trip, and this time, which was to be a short stay, they would stop with Mrs Pelham, Caroline’s aunt, who insisted they should do this.
The little house where Dr Fredericks lived was just off Chancery Lane, three-storeyed, and leaning to one side as if receiving support from the warehouse next door. Christopher Havergal had brought them, and they were ushered by a rather shabby maid into a rather shabby
front room with pot plants in the window and diplomas on the wall. A walnut piano in a corner. The quartet were invited to sit down. They did so, but when the door closed Isabella-Rose was on her feet again studying the diplomas. From upstairs came the sound of another piano striking only one note, a middle C. Then a female voice joined in. Starting quietly, it grew to a crescendo and then faded away to a delicate pianissimo. The piano sounded the next note of the scale, and the exercise was repeated.
‘Look, Mama,’ said Bella. ‘It says here—’
‘Shush,’ said Demelza, who had picked up the sound of footsteps.
A man came in. He was very short, not more than five feet, tubby, with a mass of grey curly hair cut to the shape of his head, clean-shaven, in a loose collar with an untied white cravat half hanging, a stained purple velvet jacket, striped trousers, small feet in patent shoes.
Christopher introduced his guests, though Dr Emanuel Fredericks had met Bella before. He acknowledged this at the end of the introduction by saying, ‘And my little Donna.’ At which she dimpled.
Christopher said: ‘Of course you know the object of our visit, Dr Fredericks. Her mother and Mrs Enys have come to discuss with you her daughter’s talents and future.’
Dr Fredericks nodded. ‘Lady Poldark, I tested Miss Isabella-Rose’s voice in a number of ways at her last visit, and I have to congratulate you on possessing a daughter of remarkable talent.’
‘Thank you,’ said Demelza, wishing almost for the first time that she had lost more of the Cornish accent from her voice. ‘Mr Havergal has told me that you think highly of her. I am not sure what that means in – in terms of her future.’
‘I am the most exclusive teacher in London. That without immodesty I can certainly claim,’ Fredericks said. ‘I assure you, my lady, I can pick and choose whom I have as a pupil. I restrict my numbers to ten. I teach only the essential mechanics of the voice. The words larynx or glottis, or other such technical terms, are used sparingly in this house. I seek a natural voice and to enhance musicality. I divide my instruction into three main areas: rhythm, diction and phrasings, and ornamentation. My tuition involves hard work and the utmost dedication. It will take in all about two years for the basic course.’