THE
LOVING CUP
A Novel of Cornwall, 1813–1815
WINSTON GRAHAM
PAN BOOKS
To Max, Dominic and Anthea
Contents
BOOK ONE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
BOOK TWO
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
BOOK THREE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
BOOK ONE
Chapter One
I
On an evening in late June 1813, His Majesty’s Packet Ship Queen Charlotte, Captain Kirkness, master, slid into Falmouth harbour, the long hull scarcely disturbing the water, the evening sun making angular haloes about her lower topsails as they were lifted and furled. She did not immediately make for her anchorage in St Just Pool but stood off at the entrance to Penryn Creek and lowered her jolly boat to transmit passengers and mail ashore at the nearest point to the land. As she came in she had passed and exchanged greetings with one of her sister ships, Queen Adelaide, which was leaving as usual on the Friday evening tide on passage to Lisbon. Charlotte reported an eventless voyage and wished the same to Adelaide. In these days when Biscay was infested with French and American privateers, it was not just a conventional interchange.
Of the six passengers, two climbed down into a smaller boat, which would take them direct to Flushing across the creek. Captain Kirkness, who also lived in Flushing, like many of the other Packet captains, sent word with the travellers to tell his wife he would be home in a couple of hours.
The last of their luggage was settled into the stern, and the sailor began to row them towards the sheltered brick and slate-hung village which unlike Falmouth faced the declining sun. As the boat was rowed over the glassy water it left little spreading goose feathers of motion in its wake. The passengers were a man and a woman. The man, tall and thin and quite young, was wearing the uniform of an officer of the line: it was anything but a parade uniform, being stained and worn, with faded lapels and a repaired sleeve. His blue eyes showed up vividly against his sunburnt face; a thin moustache above a tight mouth, a dent in his lower jaw; as he helped his companion down into the boat it seemed he could not open his right hand to its fullest extent.
The woman was small both in build and in stature, though it was his height which emphasized this. She was wearing a grey travelling cloak of which the hood had fallen back; she had no need of the hood for warmth, and the breeze blew her black hair about her face in graceful wisps. She was good-looking rather than pretty with a rather long pear-pointed face and brilliant young eyes which took in everything about them. As they were rowed ashore the officer was pointing out one landmark after another. He spoke in broken Spanish.
The tide was slip-slopping gently against the quay as the sailor came in and loosed and re-looped another rowing boat so that they could run in alongside the weedy steps. The young officer pointed out to the girl that as the tide was falling the lowest two out of the water would be slippery. She nodded. He added something else, also in Spanish. She laughed and replied in English: ‘I remember.’
Presently they were both on the quay with their luggage, and she was standing looking about, one hand to her hair; he tipped the sailor. There were lobster pots on the quay, a few coiled ropes, a seagull padding in their direction hoping for fish, an upturned cart, two boys of about twelve staring.
‘Byertiful,’ said the girl.
‘Beautiful,’ said the young man smiling at her.
‘Ber-youtiful,’ said the girl, smiling back.
‘Stay here with the cases, my little, just two minutes while I . . . But perhaps these lads . . . Hey, my son, which is Captain Blamey’s house? Know you that?’
The boys stood staring, overcome by the responsibility of speaking to strangers; but just then a small man in a blue jersey and tattered serge trousers insinuated himself from behind a drapery of nets.
‘Cap’n Blamey, sur? Yes, sur. Fifth ’ouse on left, ’e be, sur. You be goin’ thur? I doubt ’e’s ’ome. But Mrs is. I see Mrs go in scarce ’alf an hour gone. Carry your bags, shall I?’
A dozen people were in the street they turned into; horses clattered over cobbles; a girl was selling fish; two puppies rolled in the gutter. The packet had not of course come in unobserved; she had been spotted from Falmouth when miles out at sea, watched all the way in. The only surprise to the watchers was that two of her passengers should choose to land at Flushing instead of at Falmouth. They must have been cleared through Customs and Quarantine while still on board.
A green front door almost as square as tall, with a brass knocker and a glass fanlight; a climbing rose, hipped after its flowering season. Then a fluffy-haired girl in a pink lace cap and apron.
‘Mrs Blamey? Yes, sur, who sh’ll I say ’ave called?’
‘Captain and Mrs Poldark,’ said the young man. ‘Captain and Mrs Poldark junior.’
As they were ushered into the low hall a white-haired fresh-complexioned woman was coming down the pitch-pine staircase. She stopped and stared and gave a whoop of joy.
‘Geoffrey Charles! I – never expected! Tell me I’m not dreaming!’
He was up three steps to embrace her. ‘Aunt Verity! I believe this is part of a special dream we have all had . . . You look well!’
‘How did you? – But this – this is Amadora. My dear . . . What joy this gives me! Welcome, welcome!’
Amadora was similarly embraced, smiling briefly, but did not kiss the lady back, being unsure of the etiquette of the meeting.
Talking, chattering, laughing, the two Poldarks led the Spanish girl into the parlour, and conversation was continuous between them, each wishing to ask as many questions and to make as many answers in the shortest possible time. They had come home unexpectedly, Geoffrey Charles explained, so there was no time to write and give due notice. The battle of Vittoria, when Napoleon’s armies had finally been flung out of Spain, had been about to begin when, annoyingly, he had been wounded yet again: in the chest this time, and not serious, but a fever had set in and he had been laid low all through the stirring events of that glorious victory. Then the surgeon had made matters worse by saying no more active service for at least three months; so, as soon as the injured man was fit to travel, he had returned to Ciudad Rodrigo to rejoin his wife, and as soon as she was ready to leave they had taken the packet from Lisbon. They planned to spend six weeks in Cornwall, perhaps more – it depended how the war progressed – but it seemed the perfect opportunity to show Amadora something of England and at the same time to allow his relatives to meet his wife.
Seeing the girl smiling much but saying nothing, Verity said: ‘Does Amadora speak English?’
‘She understands everything,’ said Geoffrey Charles, ‘so have a care you do not praise her too highl
y. And she speaks to me. Indeed we made a pact that as soon as she stepped on English soil she would speak only English to me. Did we not, querida mia? She is a thought bashful in expressing herself freely to a stranger. Something ties the tongue. But she learned the basic elements at school, and has had a good deal of practice in the six months since we were wed!’
‘Except you will be away so long,’ said Amadora.
‘You see? When I speak Portuguese or Spanish I hesitate and worry about my tenses. But she does not and so becomes ever more fluent.’
‘Tenses?’ said Amadora. ‘Who is she?’
‘No rival, my loved one. Is she not beautiful, Verity? I cannot imagine why she ever consented to be my wife, but so it is, and I have to show her to you first of all.’
‘So you must stay tonight at least. Stay just as long as ever you wish. Young Andrew is at sea. My Andrew will be home within the hour and will be delighted.’ Verity hesitated. ‘Of course . . .’
Geoffrey Charles fingered the crevice in his jaw. ‘Of course my own home is only twenty miles away, and my foster home a bare six. Therefore it is more fitting . . .’ He stopped and smiled. ‘. . . that we should stay with you. What would I find at Cardew? Is Valentine? . . . He won’t be home from Cambridge yet, will he? And I have little fancy for my step-father. Do you know his new wife?’
‘I met her once, quite by accident. She is very distinguished looking.’
Patty brought in canary wine, and a glass was poured for each of them.
‘You will be tired, my dear,’ said Verity to Amadora. ‘You would like to go to your room?’
‘No,’ said Amadora. ‘Not tired. Not so. Have you wish private conversations?’
‘Not at all, my little,’ said Geoffrey Charles, putting an arm round her. ‘Taste this. You will find it good. But not so good as your father’s port. That was – délicieux . . . No, we are not fatigued, Verity. It is splendid just to talk. What time do you sup?’
‘Oh, about nine. Or it will be so tonight. You asked after your step-father’s marriage.’
‘Casually. I fear I am not emotionally involved. I suppose I wish George no great ill. He was faithful to my mother’s memory for twelve years, which is more than can be said of many a worthier man. In some way I was never able to understand, they were – fond of each other. I was never able to comprehend it, I suppose, because I so greatly disliked George. He did not fit into my father’s place. He had no breeding, no instinct of gentility. Money to him has always been the right hand and the left hand of behaviour. I can only be sorry for this – this daughter of a duke if she has allowed herself to become imprisoned in the same cage my mother found herself in.’
Verity sipped her glass. ‘I do not at all know how it has been with them. When Valentine returns you must ask him. Though I do not think Valentine has any great affection for his father.’
‘Ho-hum.’ Geoffrey Charles moved from the stool on which Amadora had been sitting, and stretched up to his full height. ‘Well, before we pass to more pleasant subjects I will tell you what I propose. Tomorrow we shall ride over to Cardew in the forenoon and present ourselves to Sir George and Lady Harriet – and if we are invited we shall take a glass of something with them. Then I shall ask for the keys to Trenwith. It is my house and—’
‘Geoffrey Charles, I think I should warn you—’
‘I know it has been greatly neglected. Ross told me so when we met before the Battle of Bussaco. The two Harry brothers and the wife they have in common have charge of it, and nothing has been done by way of salvage or repair. So I am prepared for an ill-kept and unattended and partly unfurnished house. What is more, I have prepared Amadora for it. She tells me, bless her, that she is looking forward to this. Whether she understands the extent of disrepair, or whether I do, remains to be seen. But tomorrow afternoon, brooking no further delay, we shall ride over there and discover it for ourselves.’
II
Andrew Blamey, now in his late sixties, was slower in speech and in movement than Geoffrey Charles remembered him; but warm in welcome and in pressure on them to stay as long as they possibly could. Over supper they all talked much, all except Amadora, whose eyes went from face to face, following or trying to follow the conversation. Verity could well understand her fascination for Geoffrey Charles. She was so young and fresh; her skin peach-fine, her expressions mobile and fleeting; her face never in repose; her hair, un-luxuriant by some standards, curled and wisped about her forehead and face. But not only was she sensitive, she was touchy; the colour could mount quickly to her face at a temporary misunderstanding.
‘And Ross and Demelza? You say they are well. I was astonished to hear of little Henry. No one told me of it until it was all over. That will delight them. The new mine, you say . . .’
‘It is really the old mine you knew as a child, Wheal Leisure, but reopened under Jeremy’s promptings and supervision. Only last October did there come a good find. Until then it had been losing money. I believe some old workings were discovered which dated back to medieval times.’
‘We are talking of Jeremy Poldark, my love,’ Geoffrey Charles told Amadora. ‘As you know, he is my cousin, Ross and Demelza’s eldest child. Jeremy is twenty-two, Clowance is nineteen; then there is Isabella-Rose, who is about eleven, and now, quite by surprise, Henry, who is only half a year old.’
‘Understood,’ said Amadora. ‘But Valentine. Which is Valentine?’
‘Ah, he is my half-brother. We had the same mother, but my father was Francis Poldark, who was killed in a mine, and Valentine’s father is Sir George Warleggan whom you will meet tomorrow.’
‘Yes, yes, I recall. You shall have told me this in the voyage.’
‘Tenses again. Leave out shall have and you make the perfect sentence.’
She ate like a bird, Verity thought: only half the cod was gone, the veal steak with mushroom sauce was being toyed with. No baby coming yet, it seemed. She must be coaxed to eat more. And Geoffrey Charles’s fascination for her? Not quite so easy to discern. Barely twenty-nine yet, he looked at least thirty-five, with a lean face like his cousin Ross, the thin line of moustache paralleling the thin hard line of the mouth; eyes that had seen ferocious carnage, bitter campaigning; in the constant company of men; the hand that would not properly open, the crevice in the jawbone, the strong yellow teeth, that air of self-possession than can only come to a man who has lived with death and seen it all and come to a confidence in his own sheer physical ability to survive.
And yet with it all a lightness of heart. A marvellous lightness of heart, considering; bred out of who knew what sense of camaraderie, sense of purpose, sense of celebration of the mere miraculous fact of being alive? Perhaps that was what most appealed to Amadora. Or did she also, as one of a proud and martial race, deeply admire those qualities which Verity had listed as likely to put off an elegant and fastidious girl? Certainly, at this present, they were deeply in love with each other. Verity’s heart went out to them. Might it last.
‘What?’ she said, coming out of a reverie.
‘I was saying, so Clowance is not wed. It is difficult at a distance, reading a few crackling letters while the guns are sounding, to judge for oneself, but the impression I had was that her engagement to marry Stephen Something . . . ah, Stephen Carrington – that this engagement was not greatly to the family’s liking.’
Verity took a sip of wine. ‘Neither Ross nor Demelza objected in so many words – they adhere to this unfashionable belief that children should choose for themselves – and, save for money or position, there was little to object to. His intentions seemed to be honourable, and if there were whispers about him . . . Well, as you say, they became engaged. Clowance herself broke it off. No one quite knows why. Now he has left the district. Clowance more recently has been receiving the attentions of a young man called Tom Guildford, a friend of Valentine’s.’
Geoffrey Charles shook his head. ‘Never heard of him. Eligible?’
‘Oh, I believe so.’
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‘Except that he be a friend of Valentine’s,’ said Captain Blamey.
Geoffrey Charles looked at the older man’s grim face. ‘It is so long since I saw my half-brother that I did not know of this fearsome reputation. He was always, of course, a bit of a spark.’
‘Perhaps I should not have said that—’
Verity said: ‘I’m afraid your uncle does not take greatly to Valentine – in part because he has become a close friend of our own son and we think he – no doubt lightheartedly – runs young Andrew into unnecessary debts and other extravagances. But we cannot and must not make such sweeping judgements. Tom Guildford is a nephew of Lord Devoran and his parents are pleasantly monied without being very rich. He is about twenty-four, personable, reading for the Bar.’
A rare silence fell. ‘And what are your plans?’ Andrew Blamey asked. ‘Yours and Amadora’s. I hope you are going to settle here when the war is over.’
‘When. Ah, when. You know I have no money, Uncle, not a bean except an allowance from Step-father George, and my pay, which, to make life endurable, does need a constant supplement. I gamble: with dice, on horses, on donkeys, with cards; and because I am wiser and older and cleverer than most of those I play with, I generally win. Enough, at least, to survive. But now I have married a de Bertendona. Does that mean anything to you?’
‘I fear not.’
‘Amadora, I am about to tell them of your family. Will you permit me?’
‘If you shall have the wish.’
‘I shall have the wish. The de Bertendonas are an old Spanish family – impoverished, they say, by the war, but still the possessors of estates. Amadora’s great – five or six times great grandfather – commanded the vessel that brought Philip the Second, King of Spain, to marry Queen Mary of England in – when was it? I don’t know, about 1554. His son commanded a squadron of the famous Armada, and indeed commanded squadrons in each of the succeeding armadas. Each following son has been a distinguished hidalgo. Amadora’s father is a member of the Cortes and a poet. I have married well, uncle. Can you doubt it? But had Amadora been a serving wench in a tavern I should still consider I had married well. So much do I love and esteem her . . .’