Bella Poldark

  ‘I think it is over now. I may perhaps need to go to Truro on Wednesday.’

  ‘Have you used your ointment?’

  ‘Not since this morning. It is only this foot that’s a mite troublesome.’

  ‘Let me do it for you now.’

  ‘If you have time.’

  ‘Of course I have time!’

  They went upstairs to their bedroom, and she helped him draw off the boot and stocking.

  ‘It’s swollen,’ she said.

  ‘A little, yes.’

  ‘Has Dwight seen it?’

  ‘Not since Sunday. I don’t think I need to take too much heed of what he says. Medical men always err on the side of caution.’

  She dabbed the swollen foot, and carefully he did not react.

  ‘Lucky it is not your damaged ankle.’

  He gazed at her bent head, thick hair curling, now slightly tinted at his request.

  ‘Come to think of it, I might get Barrington Burdett to come over here instead on Wednesday morning. I saw the Cornish Bank today, so it should be only a few documents to sign.’

  ‘I thought you had been to see Selina again.’

  ‘I have. But I rode on into Truro after.’

  ‘Has she changed her mind at all?’

  ‘D’you know, I think – of course we are all shocked, saddened by Valentine’s useless death, but in the end the one who will sorrow most – and for longest – will be Selina.’

  ‘D’you think—’

  ‘I suspect her bitterness towards Valentine was almost a surface bitterness. Oh, she felt it truly, no doubt of that, but it was a resentment she wanted him to feel, not for him to be lost to her for ever.’

  Demelza said: ‘Some of those that love most can hate most.’

  The ointment was put on. ‘There. Leave the pad be for a few minutes.’

  ‘It is very cooling.’

  She stood up. ‘You need to rest for a few days. You are – we are not so young as we used to be. You would be wiser not to go to London.’

  ‘Oh, I shall go to London if it—’

  ‘If it kills you.’

  He smiled wryly. ‘It will not. I want to see her on the stage again.’

  ‘You have had a bad shock, Ross. A physical shock. And one of bereavement. You have made a quick recovery, but—’

  ‘To tell the truth I would have welcomed a rest these last days, but I was driven on. And you, my dear? You have had a horrible time too.’

  ‘Oh . . . yes. Oh, yes.’

  Later that night, when Harry was abed, she said: ‘You said this afternoon you was driven on. Why?’

  ‘Why? But I have told you why.’

  ‘Tell me again.’

  Ross lit his pipe, his mind listless, unconcentrated. ‘Valentine taught the ape to smoke. David Lake says he thinks the fire was started that way. When Butto’s body was removed he was clutching a cigar in his hand.’

  She stared at his pipe. ‘I shall always hate the smell of cigars after – after Paul Kellow.’

  Ross drew on the pipe, tossed the spill into the fire. ‘I cannot explain more why I have been driven on without touching on painful subjects.’

  ‘Painful who to?’

  ‘To you. The – the parentage of Valentine has been gone into far too often. This tragedy – it has, at least in a sour way – produced a resolution, even though it has all been a sorry, criminally cruel mess. The one remaining source of conflict will be the future of Georgie. Obviously I was as totally opposed as Valentine to his being brought up a Warleggan. So I was prepared to do anything I could to heal the breach between Valentine and Selina. And, if that failed, to support Valentine in his claim to the custody of the boy. When he wrote asking me to go to Place House last Tuesday, you advised me not to go. I could not tell you my extra reason for not taking that advice was because I had promised Philip Prideaux to tell no one that almost any day Valentine might be arrested on a near capital charge. At Philip’s suggestion I was going to warn him. Thanks to the ape I never had the chance.’

  Demelza stared at the great bruise on her husband’s forehead.

  ‘And that is why you have been abroad all these last three days, when you should have been resting?’

  ‘It seemed to me that Valentine’s death had completely destroyed my hope of rescuing Georgie from being brought up under George’s domination.’

  ‘And you have seen Selina?’

  ‘Three times. David Lake told me of Selina’s hysterical grief and that gave me a small hope that something else might be arranged.’

  ‘You went on Friday?’

  ‘Yes. She was back at Rayle Farm by then. Her cousin was with her and little Georgie. She was still badly shocked, hardly able to string two words together.’

  Demelza said nothing.

  ‘After dinner she began to calm down, to talk more rationally. You know, she has come to me for advice before.’

  ‘I do. Usually when I was away.’

  ‘One of Selina’s stepdaughters has recently married, married well, to an Indian or a half-Indian. Her husband is the son of a rich cotton broker who comes, I think she said, from Bombay. They were married in August, and Selina nearly bankrupted herself to pay for a splendid wedding. In the New Year the married couple are going to Bombay to live for probably two years, so Letitia has offered her stepmother their London house to live in rent-free until they return. Selina has been unable to make up her mind about anything, even before the tragedy of the fire. Both she and her cousin hate the property George has rented for them, and it could be that now she has little Georgie back they might all return to Lisson Grove, where the house is, and settle in there.’

  Demelza said: ‘I can imagine Selina unable to decide anything, with her son being stolen from her. I can see all that.’

  ‘What can you not see, then?’

  ‘I think you are trying to explain to me, aren’t you?’

  ‘Unfortunately there is in all this a financial dimension, and that is what I have been attempting to sort out. Selina is not penniless, but she is hard pushed to live in the style she has been accustomed to. When she appealed to George for help she said she had got into the hands of moneylenders to pay for the expensive wedding. George, I gather, paid off the moneylenders on condition she should come back to Cornwall to live – with other stipulations you know. This Selina would have to pay back to George if she broke her agreement, but she can do this, Mrs Osworth says, with the proceeds of the house they have just sold in Finchley or wherever. With a rent-free house in London she could therefore be out of debt and have the rest of the proceeds to invest or to live on.’

  ‘Will it be enough?’

  ‘No.’

  Ross’s pipe had gone out while he was talking, but he made no move to relight it.

  ‘You may think I have been too precipitate in trying to come to a set of arrangements before we leave for London; but I was much concerned to build on Selina’s suddenly sharp distaste for the house she was living in and to help to work on that and to put in front of her a course of action which George would not be able to discourage her from.’

  ‘Tis all a small matter complicated, but . . . Your concern is all for Georgie and not at all for Selina?’

  ‘Oh God, of course it is! I care nothing for her. You – you must understand how I feel about Georgie?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do. And what will Valentine have left? It surely cannot all be debts.’

  ‘I asked Selina, and she says that while Mr Pope was alive he paid an insurance against fire at Place House, but she doubts if Valentine bothered to renew the policy. The mine – this new mine – Wheal Elizabeth is the promising source. You know, of course, that when this new company was formed to take over the mine in order to save Valentine from prosecution, Warleggan & Willyams took forty-nine per cent, the Cornish Bank took twenty-six per cent and twenty-five per cent was left in the possession of Valentine. This rescue operation was undertaken as a speculation which might have involved us
in a heavy loss. It now seems more likely to promise a substantial profit. In the exceptional circumstances we are in, I have offered to cede to Selina twenty per cent out of the twenty-six per cent the Cornish Bank now owns, if she will return to London and not accept any money from George. This will mean that she will own forty-five per cent of the venture shares, and if the mine yields as there is hope it will, she should be able to live comfortably on that and maintain her independence.’

  Demelza said: ‘Surely your partners will not be willing to – to cede – to give those extra shares to Selina?’

  ‘No, well, I have to tell you now that they were not too willing to take them up in the first place, so—’

  ‘So—?’

  ‘I took them all myself.’

  ‘You put all . . . you put all your own money in the mine?’

  He looked down. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you might have lost – what – two, three thousand pounds of your own money.’

  ‘But I shall not now.’

  ‘A very long time ago, d’you remember, when Julia was a tiny baby, you almost went bankrupt and might have been put in jail for debt, for the lack of three thousand pounds.’

  ‘I remember it well. But we are better off now.’

  ‘How much better off, Ross? You never tell me.’

  ‘That’s unfair. Sometimes you don’t seem interested.’

  ‘I am always interested. But I hear that there has been another lode strike at Leisure – and if I want a new dress I may have one. We were able to give Clowance a lovely wedding. We could pay Bella’s tuition fees and other expenses. For the most part I am content with that, to enjoy my life without worrying. But there was a time, a very long time when I had to worry every day of my life.’

  ‘I know too well. And now you are going to begin worrying again because I make a three-thousand-pound gift of shares to a pretty young woman who flatters me all ends up whenever we meet. Is that it?’

  Demelza took a deep breath. ‘Maybe it is not the fear of losing three thousand pounds that worries me the most.’

  ‘I have tied it up legally,’ Ross said, deliberately misunderstanding. ‘Barrington shall come here on Wednesday to ensure the deal is properly struck. You see how much like George I am become!’

  McArdle had called an early dress rehearsal.

  Although the first performance was still ten days off, he wanted to see how the production would look. Between themselves he and Mr Glossop had spent hugely in having new sets painted and built. They had done the same for Macbeth and it had, he believed, doubled the pleasure – and size – of the audience. It was an age of display: the new playgoer was not content with actors performing before a drop curtain. Macbeth had been enacted against the impressive mountain ranges of the Highlands. The big scene in Romeo and Juliet was the ballroom of the Capulets, but much attention had been given to the scene in the crypt. The scenery had been delayed from last weekend, when it should have been temporarily tried out on the Sunday. Now it was time to move ahead. Dina Partlett, who played Lady Capulet, boarded just north of Hatton Garden, so she usually called for Bella and they went to the theatre together. This time there was dressing up to do, though most of the costumes had been chosen a week ago.

  It was a big auditorium (the gallery alone would take eight hundred people) and today it looked even larger with only five men clustered together in the pit.

  The early part of the rehearsal went pretty well. Standing in the background, occasionally exchanging whispered comments with one or other of the cast, Bella allowed her mind to wander over the traumas and paradoxes of her life during the last year. Prima in the Barber in Rouen to minor part in Romeo six months later. Some loss of vocal agility or laryngeal strength had brought her this low. Yet she was still learning. Dear Maurice had promoted her almost untried to play the lead in an exacting new opera in France. It had been a success. Now, bereft by this complaint of the throat, she was already appearing on the London stage in a Shakespearean role, thanks to Christopher’s persistence and Edward’s influence. She was starting a second life on the stage. Was the first entirely finished? One morning last week she had slipped away from Mrs Pelham’s benevolent custody and called to see Dr Fredericks. She had told him of her new good fortune, and he had been astonished, pleased for her sake, but slightly disapproving that she was appearing on the non-musical stage. Before she left he had tried her again. After she stopped singing he wiped a brief tear from his eye and said: ‘My dear, dear Bella, it was such a beautiful voice – and still it is in the lower registers. It is early days yet. Surely God who gave it you will yet give it you back again! Let us hope and pray . . . In the meantime you are behaving with splendid courage, and I shall try to come and see you on the eighth.’

  She had not heard from her parents this week, and she hoped they would be able to come. They were due on the Sunday if all went well.

  She had written to Edward, thanking him for using his influence on her behalf. Christopher, of course, she saw every night. He never changed, seemed to have faith in everything she did. He had told her in Cornwall that he had given up his passion for white wine. Could one give up a weakness like that? Certainly he had shown no signs since her illness. Last week she had written to Maurice telling him of her ‘change of profession’.

  In the rehearsal they were coming to the second and more serious bout of swordplay. She edged a foot or two forward; she always enjoyed watching it. Once or twice she had picked up the duelling swords and been allowed to practise with them against Mercutio.

  They had now reached the main duelling scene in Act 3, Scene 1. Mercutio had fallen to Tybalt and taken his long farewell. Now Tybalt was about to fall to Romeo. Backwards and forwards they went, to the tinny clatter of the blades. This was what the audience would want to see: a battle royal to raise their blood; this must not look like make-believe.

  After a long bout where Tybalt had seemed to get the upper hand, Romeo drove him into a corner; now would come the long thrust which apparently ran Tybalt through the body. This was fairly easy to pretend, but the flailing swords before the coup de grâce always carried an element of real danger. On this occasion, perhaps because of the presence of the convincing scenery and dressed for the first time in their Italianate doublet and hose, Fergus Flynn put in one thrust too many. Romeo gave a cry, dropped his sword and stepped back, his face streaming with blood. Then he staggered and fell; women screamed and milled about over him. The protective gutta-percha button of the sword had seared his cheek and gone into his eye.

  The funeral of Valentine passed off quietly enough. He had been grudgingly popular in the villages, more so than anyone, certainly the Wesleyans, cared to admit. This was mostly true among the women because he never failed to have a word or a joke for them and to look at all but the ugliest with an acquisitive gaze. He was an eccentric, someone to talk about, gossip over. A few men were glad to be shot of him. As a fisherman from St Ann’s said: ‘I d’ave more sorrow for Butto than I d’ave for his master.’

  Harriet and Ursula came to the church. George sent word that he was unwell. Half a dozen painted ladies arrived in a group from Truro. Andrew Blamey junior, temporarily home from sea, came with his mother, Verity. The Carnes dutifully attended. Ben Carter refused to leave the mine, and Essie went with her mother-in-law. Very few of Valentine’s gaming companions, who had eaten and drunk so freely at his board, turned up. Philip Prideaux was there, as was Trebethick with three other miners from Wheal Elizabeth. At the last moment Daisy Kellow came with her father.

  If it was not the end of an era, there was a feeling that some element of enduring conflict had gone. A mischievous, abrasive element was no more. Within a very short time two young men had gone, one to a cell in Bodmin prison, another to his grave. And only five years since the much-loved Jeremy had been lost. The villages were the poorer.

  Although Place House was in the parish of St Ann’s, the absence of a resident curate there and the fact that Valentine’s mo
ther was buried at Sawle Church made it the natural churchyard to choose.

  Mr Profitt preached a sermon which he must have used several times before because it was based on an all-embracing ignorance of the character of the young man whose obsequies he was conducting. It didn’t much matter, Ross thought; the only thing that mattered was that he had lost a son.

  So after twenty-six years and three-hundred-and-one days the child born under a black moon fulfilled a destiny which Aunt Agatha, consumed with spleen, had prophesied at his birth.

  Chapter Ten

  They had to leave at six on the Friday morning to catch the Royal London Mail in Truro. This service had been in operation for five years, and they had used it before. It followed the old-established northern route, cutting out Liskeard and Plymouth, and was generally reliable. On an average trip it took thirty-five hours to travel from the Red Lion Hotel in Truro, to the Saracen’s Head in London. When they joined the coach they were pleased that for the first part of the journey they were to be the only inside passengers. It was a wet day, and Demelza did not fancy the situation of the seven travellers who were, for economy’s sake, sitting outside. At least it was pleasant for Ross to be able to rest his burnt foot.

  There had been little talk that morning. Perhaps, Demelza thought, it was because of this drying up of normal conversation between them that Henry had asked his perceptive question.

  She said: ‘I’m sleepy. After all we were up at four. Mind if I doze?’

  ‘Yes. Well, take the opportunity before some stout burghers come to join us.’

  There was silence while the coach swayed and jolted along the rutted road towards St Austell. After twenty minutes Demelza opened her eyes and saw Ross staring at her. She gave a little laugh.

  ‘I find I can’t now.’

  ‘Nor I.’

  This trip was always quite an ordeal. Very soon now, Demelza thought, they would need to go by coach only as far as Bath and then take a steam train to London. Not that she fancied that much either. And she could never think of steam without thinking of Jeremy.