The Loving Cup

  ‘Don’t talk of it.’

  ‘But now, Holy Mary, it has slipped back. But I must not talk of it – ye’re right. We are starting afresh – all over again.’ They walked a way in silence. The only sound was the comfortable creak of saddle and stirrup, the clopping of the hooves. ‘I thought Prudie Paynter was a sight, standing there wi’ hair like a donkey’s tail and that great straw hat with holes in it. Twas outrageous the way she hugged and kissed you!’

  Clowance laughed. ‘You should see Jud – but of course you’ve seen him.’

  ‘What is she to you – taking such liberties?’

  ‘She and Jud were servants to my parents, though that was before I was born. I thought you knew it.’

  ‘Jeremy looks brave in his uniform . . . Sooner he’s out of it, the better now. He should attend to his mine, which is bringing in such a steady profit. Glory be! Many’s the time I regretted having sunk so much in a hole in the ground, but I shall get the capital back this year! Had we known . . .’

  After waiting Clowance said: ‘What were you going to say?’

  ‘Nothing. No matter. It was just a thought . . . Clowance . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘When I was lying ill there, watching you move about the room, you tending on me this way and that – like an angel, patient, gentle, kind – did I rave much?’

  ‘A great deal.’

  ‘What did I say?’

  ‘All sorts of things.’

  ‘Did it make sense?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘What did I say?’

  ‘Oh . . . you were trying to open something, could not get it open. Then you mentioned three girls, three girls whose names I knew. One of them was mine.’

  ‘So it should have been!’

  ‘You seemed to want to escape with me on a coach to Liskeard . . . Then you were bargaining about a lifeboat . . . Then you were on that raft in the sea, floating . . .’

  ‘But little of it made real sense?’

  ‘Little indeed.’

  He sighed. ‘When I came round, saw you there, really saw you, knew – or hoped I knew – why you had come . . . I swore that if we should ever marry I would not come to you unshriven.’

  ‘I don’t know quite what you mean.’

  ‘Well . . . you think you know me. You already do better than anyone else in the world. But you don’t know all me past. I have told you some of it – picking and choosing a little too much, I suspect. There are still dark corners.’

  ‘Are they dark corners which will affect the future?’

  ‘I should pray not so. But you are so honest, so straight in everything you do—’

  ‘Ho-ho! Don’t be too sure!’

  ‘Well compared to me. Compared to the most folk. Lying there watching you, I thought, I cannot ask this girl to marry me unless she knows the worst of me. I cannot. And then, when it came to the point, I was that afraid, that much the coward; I thought, first just get her consent. And then, when she had consented I was so full of the pleasure of it all that I could not bear to tarnish it!’

  Clowance brushed away a spider which had swung down from the overhanging trees.

  ‘Well, Stephen,’ she said, ‘if you have left it so long, if you have been unable to bear the thought of telling me before this, if you have wed me under false pretences, then perhaps it is already too late to make amends, to repair the damage, to set it all to rights. You have already committed the unforgivable sin of marrying me – unshriven, as you call it. What good will it do to confess to me now?’

  He coughed with laughter. ‘When I go to Heaven, if so be as I ever get there, I shall want you beside of me at the gate to put my case so well! Serious, though . . .’

  ‘Is this not all serious?’

  ‘All except the Heavenly gates . . . though I now be married to you I’ve not yet – possessed you. That is what marriage means to me – possession. So, in a sort of way, the urge is still there, telling me there’s still time. I feel that I have not been honest enough with you – showing you the faulty person I really am. Maybe tis all a matter of wanting to be honest with meself, see.’

  They rode on. Clowance said: ‘And do you suppose these confessions will make me happier?’

  ‘That I don’t know. I doubt it. But there will be nothing then betwixt us but perfect honesty, like.’

  ‘And if you tell me and I am deeply offended, do you suggest I should turn around and gallop back to Nampara?’

  ‘No, no, no . . . I do not believe me errors are so dreadful that you’d do that! I hope you’d listen with sympathy and understanding like the way you have done to so much in the past.’

  ‘Then do not speak them,’ said Clowance with decision. ‘Leave my sympathy and understanding until another time, Stephen. If I want to know – when I want to know – then I will ask you. To tell me now would be – would be throwing splashes on a clear screen – and to no purpose.’

  The light cool wind was following them at about the pace they made, so it was imperceptible, and the sun beat down. Stephen took out a handkerchief and mopped his face.

  ‘Then there will be no splashes, dear heart. Nor shall I mention it again. Whatever flaws there may be in me, there’s no flaws to what I feel for you, nor ever has been since the day I first set eyes on ye.’

  They stopped and took a breather just before joining the turnpike road from Truro. The sun was slanting by now, and presently they could see the glimmer of Penryn Creek winding silver-grey among the trees. The dark woods around were as if stained with a maiden-green dust, which was not yet more than surface deep.

  Stephen said: ‘Bother, I asked Jeremy for Tuesday next or Wednesday. I had forgot: we have an invitation for Tuesday. The letter came yester morning from Sir George and Lady Warleggan. They send their congratulations on our marriage!’

  ‘Gracious alive!’

  ‘Well, I have been to their house once or twice, you know, last autumn, with Valentine. And you went to that party, you told me, after we had broken up. I suppose Sir George’s quarrel is only with your father.’

  ‘What do they invite us to?’

  ‘An evening party. Supper and cards.’

  ‘Oh . . . I have never gambled properly. Are the stakes high?’

  ‘I don’t think twill matter whether we play or no. It seems to me it would be proper to accept, us now living in this area and me in business here.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Maybe there will be dancing too.’

  They were proceeding so slowly that Nero was showing a tendency to investigate the hedges that he passed. Clowance checked him.

  ‘But Stephen, it is still May!’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Surely Valentine will not be there! His term at Cambridge cannot end until sometime in June. What a strange thing!’

  ‘Maybe he’s come back early for some reason. The invitation did not mention him, but . . . Well, I shall surely consider it even a greater compliment if he’s not there, for it means we have been invited by Sir George and Lady Harriet for our own sakes!’

  ‘And what shall you do about Jeremy?’

  ‘Oh, send a note – there’s just time – asking him to come Wednesday for certain.’

  ‘Perhaps he would like to come to the party too,’ suggested Clowance.

  Chapter Five

  I

  George’s arrangements were coming along nicely. Mr Trembath had again been to see Mr Arthur Williams Rose of Liskeard, who had said he was by no means well but professed himself honoured at the invitation of so notable a gentleman as Sir George to spend a few days with him discussing legal matters – though, being as smart as the next, he had no doubt at all as to what his real function was likely to be. Just to make sure of him, Mr Trembath was to go to Liskeard again and act as Mr Rose’s escort, bringing him to Cardew on the Monday evening so that he would be here in ample time for Tuesday’s party.

  George had been lucky in his choice of dates: Anthony T
refusis was at home and, as always when it was gaming at cards, immediately accepted. Stephen Carrington, just married to the Poldark girl, was sure to be home and certain to come. Andrew Blamey was at sea in one of Carrington’s trumpery vessels, but if winds were favourable he was due back early Tuesday. Michael Smith had already accepted. The only one likely to be missing was George Trevethan, who, his father said, was in Exeter; but as a young man scarcely ever short of money, he was the least likely suspect.

  To hide the real purpose of this party even from Harriet, he had invited a round dozen other people which, with family, would raise the numbers to about twenty. Valentine could not be here, but he had invited Cuby Trevanion and her brother and sister just the same.

  Although everything had been virtually settled between himself and J. T. B. Trevanion eighteen months ago, the dashing major had never been as good as his word. The joke about the name Bettesworth, which he had changed to Trevanion when he was twenty-one, still persisted. He ‘bet his worth’. And not even the prospect of lifting the load of debt once and for all from round his neck by marrying his younger sister to the son of a rich merchant and banker had been strong enough to keep him away from his horses. Three times George had discovered him in the process of compounding his debts (in the hope, of course, of discharging them) and three times George had found it necessary to inform him that unless this behaviour ceased, their arrangement for the marriage, the whole complicated legal structure they had built up around deeds of gift, trusts, and inheritances of land, would be pulled down and cease to preserve him, merely by the promise of its existence, from the debtor’s prison.

  Indeed, had George not himself so set his heart on seeing Valentine master of the splendid Caerhays Castle, he would by now have cast Trevanion off altogether. George had a low tolerance of foolish behaviour, and when that foolish behaviour involved money he was hard put to it to hide his contempt. However, now at last, after more hard bargaining between the sets of lawyers, the matter seemed to be finally, finally settled. Instead of receiving any further interim loans, which he could plunder as he thought fit, John Trevanion had accepted the condition of receiving a monthly payment from George until the wedding took place, whereupon he received a further and final sum of £18,000 and bound himself to vacate the castle within twelve months of the marriage. The castle and its demesnes should pass to his younger sister unencumbered of debt, and no more than personal belongings to the value of £500 should be removed by him when he left.

  These were humiliating conditions for a man of ancient lineage who had been Sheriff of Cornwall when he was twenty-five, a member of parliament at twenty-seven and a prominent Whig and a leading figure in the county ever since; but there was no escape, even if he should wish it. He waited on George’s nod. And George had made up his mind that the engagement should be made public at another party as soon as Valentine came home; the wedding could follow in September. There was no further need to wait. Valentine would be twenty-one next February, and would continue his studies for one more year. He could take up his permanent residence in the castle in about September 1815, by which time Major Trevanion would be moving out.

  George had spent some time considering his position if Mr Rose, as seemed likely, should recognize one of the card players as one of the robbers of the coach. He had thought of asking a couple of constables from Truro to be present, but they were such rough, uneducated men; they could never understand the situation in time, and their use would hardly be greater than two of his own servants if it actually came to physical force. He was himself a magistrate, and Lord Devoran, who had been invited without his daughter, another. Between them they could surely deal with any situation which arose. Anyway, identification was all. Summary arrest could follow.

  Several of his more trustworthy servants must be alerted beforehand; for if the one arrested were kept in close confinement and constantly questioned he might well give away the identity of his companions in crime. It was important that they should not be allowed to bluster their way out of the house. Young Trefusis, if it were he, would certainly try to fly the country – as probably would young Carrington, disturbed in his honeymoon with the Poldark girl – and the Blamey fellow. Michael Smith, so far as he knew, had no connections with the sea, but, obviously, whoever it was would do his utmost to save his neck. A great deal, it seemed to George, depended on the outcome of the night.

  He had also steeled himself to complete disappointment, if Mr Rose should recognize no one.

  Harriet was cynically intrigued by the party; but knowing nothing about the visiting lawyer she could not draw any conclusions from his impending visit. Anyway, lawyers of one sort or another, and their creatures, were always in and out of the house; far too often for her to draw any inferences from their comings and goings. She was intrigued by the party because it was unheard of for George to organize such a thing on his own initiative, without even Valentine to prod him.

  ‘But you know, my pet,’ she said, ‘cards are not in your line at all. You never really understand the theory, and you hate hazarding money on anything except a near certainty. Besides, is it not unwise to invite John Trevanion on such a night, knowing his weaknesses?’

  ‘Trevanion is coming simply so that we may agree for a day for the announcement of the engagement and for a day for the wedding.’

  ‘You mean you will tell him what is most convenient to us, eh? And what day is going to be convenient to us, may I ask? Have you decided?’

  ‘Valentine will be back in two weeks. I thought Midsummer Day, the 24th of June would be suitable.’

  ‘But how romantic of you! And the wedding?’

  ‘The first of September. That will give them – I mean Valentine and Cuby – a time together before he returns to Cambridge. That is, my dear,’ said George, turning the tables with a little of his own irony, ‘unless you wish it otherwise.’

  Harriet yawned. ‘Why should I? He’s your son. A lively fellow for all that. I should not be astonished if he leads Miss Cuby a dance. Though, from what little I have seen of her, I should not suppose her easily put on. I admire her for what she’s doing.’

  ‘What?’ said George. ‘What is she doing?’

  ‘Marrying money, of course.’

  ‘Valentine is as personable as she!’ said George shortly.

  ‘Of course he is. I find him very personable. Possibly she does too. But you cannot pretend other than that this is an arranged marriage. As I say, I admire her for her clear-sightedness in entering into it. A marriage that is based on money is at least based on something stable.’

  George got up, went to the window, looked out on his deer. He did not care for venison and therefore regarded them as useless creatures; but to keep them was expected of him, and it gave him pleasure to know that he had more than either the Falmouths or the Dunstanvilles.

  He said: ‘The second anniversary of our marriage is scarcely past. On it, as you know, I gave you a new carriage.’

  ‘Indeed. And I thanked you for it – in the only possible way that a wife can thank a husband.’

  ‘Yes, you did.’ George passed a finger round his neck-cloth, overwarm at the thought. ‘Yet now you speak of marriage in such derogatory terms it might be some disreputable art you are describing. If there ever is a good motive for marriage, you say . . .’

  ‘Well, at my time of life,’ said Harriet, ‘thirty-three, that is – which I regard as the extreme old age of youth – you cannot, I trust, expect me to hold to notions of love and romance. I was stupid enough to marry Toby Carter for love. Hot-blooded, we were; by God, we were hot-blooded! Nothing would stop me, not even his reputation. Nor that he was a Catholic. Nor that he had lost two wives already. Nor that at forty he had already run through one fortune and was in process of dissipating another. Nor did he consider that I had only a small personal fortune and precious little hope of inheriting any more, and that I had no intention whatsoever of being the sort of wife he wanted! I swear to you we were in love, dear Ge
orge, but within three months we were fighting like cats. Physically, often enough. The scars I have on my thighs are not hunting scars; did I tell you? So you see how I regard marriages for love.’

  As was often the case, George disliked the tone in which Harriet spoke to him, but did not know what to do about it.

  Eventually he said stiffly: ‘You cannot generalize from one person’s experience. Nor do I think our marriage need be stigmatized as—’

  ‘Oh, our marriage was a convenience, was it not. I was hard drove for money, and very very tired of being so hard drove. You fancied marrying into the Osborne family, and thought I was personable enough to sit at your dinner table . . .’ As he was about to speak she added: ‘Oh, I think you rather fancied me – as a man does a woman. And I was not – not totally indifferent to you. Those were useful ingredients of the marriage brew – a little of the pepper and the mustard, say. They have remained ingredients, as you well know. But let us not talk about love. Fortunately we were both too calculating for that.’

  ‘Calculating?’

  ‘Level-headed, then.’ She gave her low chuckle. ‘But I conceit that it is not working too ill. You are even becoming accustomed to Castor and Pollux!’

  Something had startled the deer; or they were off on some sudden impulse of their own, bounding away over the brow of the hill.

  Harriet said: ‘If you are making this largely a young people’s party, why do you not invite Jeremy Poldark? He is back from his soldiering; that is if he ever did any.’

  ‘I don’t care for the fellow,’ said George. ‘A gangling youth. Doesn’t even have the looks of his father . . . How do you know he is home?’

  ‘My God, do not be so suspicious! I met him in Truro last week. He was hiring a horse, and in great haste to be home for his sister’s wedding. But very handsome, if I may say so, in his regimentals. What a uniform will do for a man!’

  ‘We have Clowance Carrington coming – that’s one Poldark,’ George said testily. ‘And Andrew Blamey, that’s another—’