‘Why, did she not want to go?’
‘No, she is crazed – has been for years. It just happened she was in one of her violent moods.’
‘Why,’ said Demelza, ‘why do so many kings – or queens – go insane? Or is it that there is an epidemic at the moment?’
‘You might ask why do so many kings – who are brought up to rule – turn out to be incapable of ruling?’
Demelza returned the letter to Ross. ‘If he goes, it will be left to you to argue for all the things you want . . . reform, help for the poor . . .’
‘No, no – there are others far more ardent than Canning.’
‘But are these “others” members of the government?’
He patted her hand. ‘Not so. There are some who call themselves Radicals. I find much in common with their aims, for they want progress without revolution.’
‘Shall you then become one of them?’
He smiled. ‘I don’t think I wish to become anything. In any case, my race is almost run—’
‘Oh, Ross, do not be so silly! You are so fit and well, and by some standards you are still quite young!’
‘Sorry, I meant really only in a parliamentary sense. I all but resigned at the last election, then stayed on to see the end of the war. Both the Falmouths have been patient with an eccentric like me, but I wouldn’t expect the present Lord Falmouth’s patience to stretch to accepting the views I might voice at any time now. Instead of peace bringing plenty it has brought poverty to many in England. Now no government has any excuse not to try to alleviate it. We cannot suppress for ever.’
‘And do the Whigs think this also?’
‘Some only.’ Ross stuffed the letter in his pocket, got up. ‘Have you seen Caroline today?’
‘No, last eve. Dwight was better but still without appetite. Seriously, Ross.’
‘Yes?’
‘You have seemed more content – this last year or so you have seemed more content than I have known you – I mean for such a long period. It seems almost ever since Harry was born. Of course you have been to London twice, but you have come home more quickly.’
‘Well, I have been little in Parliament. It was chiefly on this Mining Commission, as you know.’
‘At least you have not become restless – not seemed restless. Do you think it will last?’
Ross laughed. ‘Do you want it to last?’
‘Yes, of course. Nothing could be nicer. But what you’ve just said – is it – d’you see it as the beginning of something new?’
Ross was some time in replying. ‘No. I am not really a political animal. I could never attend great meetings and make speeches in favour of reform. If there were action of some sort . . .’
‘Yes,’ said Demelza, ‘that is what I would be afraid of.’
He patted her hand again. ‘I would try to keep it legal.’
‘By the way,’ said Demelza presently, ‘those nice things Mr Canning said about me: “your wife about whose beauty and charm I have heard so much” – that is what they call blarney, I suppose?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘I wonder how he could possibly have “heard so much”.’
‘I have no idea,’ said Ross.
II
Valentine Warleggan returned that day. He had spent a few days in London with a friend, but George’s annoyance at the delay was solved when he learned that the friend was titled.
George said nothing that night, but the following evening before supper he asked Valentine to come to his study to taste a new canary wine he had recently had shipped in. Valentine went along, thin and lean and bony and tall and slightly knocked in one knee but vigorous and handsome and sardonic with it.
He made an educated comment or two upon the wine, knowing this was only a preliminary to whatever it was George wanted to talk to him about.
And sure enough they had hardly finished the second glass before George said:
‘I had hoped you would have returned for your vacation promptly this summer because I wanted to announce the engagement.’
‘The engagement?’ Valentine peered into his glass.
‘Your engagement, of course. Your engagement to marry Miss Cuby Trevanion. I had thought we should give a small engagement party on Midsummer’s Day, the 24th June, when this could be formally announced, with notices in the papers – including The Times – to follow. Unfortunately you have not given us time to arrange this now, so I suggest Sunday the 17th July.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Valentine.
They sipped their wine in silence for a while.
‘With Cuby’s consent?’ Valentine asked.
‘Of course. It was all arranged, as you know, almost twelve months since; but John Trevanion has proved to be such an unreliable fellow, so unscrupulous when he gets his hands on money, that I have twice had to put the date off because I could not be sure he would adhere to his side of the bargain. Of course it would always be possible to invoke the law; but law-suits between the nearest relatives of a newly married couple are distasteful and create a bad impression when they get in the press; so I have bided my time and sought to make the agreement even more watertight. This has now been done, and nothing more can be done. I believe that out of very shame he will not make any serious attempt to evade the conditions of the marriage settlement . . . In any event the delay has been timely. You are now well past your twentieth birthday. Cuby is twenty-two. It has worked out very well.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Valentine.
George turned the two guineas over in his fob pocket. ‘The wedding can be in September. Early September I had thought, so that you can enjoy a full honeymoon before returning to Cambridge. I shall wish you to complete your studies at Cambridge; another year will do that, by which time John Trevanion has agreed to leave Caerhays Castle. You can then enter into residence without the encumbrance of an older brother-in-law.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Valentine.
‘The matter of your mother-in-law I will leave to your own good sense. Personally she strikes me as a sour creature. I suppose she is a disappointed woman – widowed too young. She is reticent, distant, self-contained; but I do not think she will be a serious obstacle to your convenience. If she were to be that I believe you could persuade her to leave.’
‘Cuby is very attached to her family,’ observed Valentine.
‘True. But, once married, you will be the master of the house. As I say, I cannot see if you play your cards aright that you need be concerned about Mrs Bettesworth.’
‘Ah,’ said Valentine.
George was becoming a little restive at this lack of response but he said no more for the moment. Eventually Valentine said:
‘I hear you had a card party while I was at college.’
George grunted. It was a very sore spot.
‘The Trevanions came. It was then that I made final arrangements for the engagement announcement and the wedding date. Since then, when you did not arrive in time, I have had to write postponing the date of the engagement party.’
Valentine said suddenly: ‘Do you think Cuby is happy about it?’
‘Happy? What do you suppose? Women are always glad to marry; and she is doing very fine for herself; for as long as she lives she will be the chatelaine of Caerhays. She is extravagantly proud of her ancestry and of this castle: wed to a handsome and well-circumstanced young man, she will be realizing her dearest dreams!’
‘As a point of interest, Father, how well-circumstanced would that be?’
George picked up the decanter and poured himself another half glass. He didn’t offer his son any more. ‘Well enough. I should see that you have an adequate allowance.’
‘I have heard, sir, that you would expect me to supervise your new interests in the china clay industry.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘I forget. Did you not tell me yourself?’
‘Certainly not . . . Well, you would not wish, I assume, to become nothing more than a country gent
leman at twenty-one. Any responsibilities you undertook for me in eastern and south-eastern Cornwall would be paid for in a way that would supplement your normal income. You could be more affluent or less affluent according to your personal choice.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Valentine, for the fourth time.
George said: ‘It may also interest you to know that I am investing in the manganese production of north Cornwall. Indeed it seems likely that this market could come completely under our control. There are all sorts of interesting – indeed exciting – prospects for the future.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Valentine crossed and uncrossed his legs. ‘Forgive me, Father, if I seem to labour a point, but has Cuby ever said she is in love with me?’
The only sound for a few moments was the buzzing of a bluebottle against the window pane.
‘What d’you mean?’ his father said irritably. ‘In love? Why should she say anything of the sort? In particular, why should she express any such sentiments to me? It is to you that she would address herself!’
‘Well, she has not done so to me.’
‘That in all likelihood is because you have not given her the opportunity! You have a somewhat cynical approach to life which must be vexatious to young ladies who have lived a sheltered existence. But what does all this matter? There is time enough yet for such exchanges. When next you meet you can very easily provoke the conversation into such a channel.’
‘Time enough,’ said Valentine, grasping quickly at the opening he had been looking for. ‘Yes, that is what I was thinking, Father. Time enough . . . We surely have time enough to look on this engagement with a little more care. It has been hanging fire for more than a twelvemonth, and a little longer can do no harm. Being up at Cambridge I have had very little opportunity for conversing with Cuby. I should like to do so with a degree of gradualness. It would be more to the point to announce the engagement about Christmas and arrange a – a marriage for when I come down from Cambridge next year.’
George got up, stoppered the decanter and put it away in a glass cupboard. He locked the cupboard.
‘That the matter has been hanging fire for twelve months is reason enough – and a very cogent reason – why it should be postponed no longer. It is all settled between Trevanion and myself. There can be no possible reason for further delay.’
Valentine said: ‘You have not asked me if I love Cuby.’
George breathed out.
‘Good God, why should I? She is a personable, intelligent, pretty girl! Young and healthy and well bred!’ With a hint of boldness in his voice that could never have been there before his marriage to Harriet, he said: ‘Many men would consider you a lucky dog. Why, if I were in your shoes I should not at all misfancy—’
‘Oh, I fancy her well enough,’ Valentine admitted. ‘If she is untouched, as I suspect, I fancy deflowering her very much indeed. But then I fancy so many women. That’s the fun of it. I’m not sure I wish to be tied to Cuby for life. Of course she is all the things you say, and I grant you that. I grant her that. But for marriage you want something more. I think it would be much better if we had six months longer to make sure.’
George looked at his sprawling son with an impatience that hid a growing anger.
‘I do not agree that it would be better, Valentine. It has been a long and difficult negotiation which further delay might well put out of joint. Once we break or stretch any condition, John Trevanion will feel free to do the same.’ He made a great effort to be reasonable, conciliatory, even fraternal. ‘It cannot have come as much of a surprise to you, my dear boy. You have known it all for over a year! You must have accustomed yourself to the prospect. As I have said, and as you have admitted, it cannot be too disagreeable a prospect. To be master of so fine an estate and so fine a woman at less than twenty-one years old! Do you appreciate how much financially it will cost me, this wedding? I am doing it for you, my only son, to set you up in this splendid style. The home that has been the Trevanion home for five hundred years will become yours. The Warleggan name, through you, may well become established there for another five hundred years to come! It is a great and inspiring thought! But the time for hesitation, for delay, is long over. You must accept my advice on this. The wedding must take place not later than September. I trust you will,’ George swallowed, ‘I trust you will excuse me for being adamant on the point. But I am. The choice is now only yours in the matter of a week or two one way or the other.’
Valentine climbed to his feet, rubbed a hand over his hair.
‘Do you mind if I take another drink?’
George fumbled in his pocket, handed him the key. ‘Help yourself.’
There was silence for a few minutes except for the squeak of the cupboard door, the clink of decanter on glass. Somewhere downstairs one of Harriet’s dogs was barking: a great gruff sound, hollow and breathy and deep.
‘Tell me, Father. Tell me what you would do if I said no to your proposition?’
‘What on earth do you mean, boy? Said no? You couldn’t say no. This is decided!’
Valentine was sitting straight in his chair now, knees together, moving the glass slowly round in his fingers. ‘But I surely have to be a willing party! Blood and bones, it is my life you are directing!’
‘And I am directing it! Remember that! I am your father. You do as I say. There is no choice for you. You do as I say!’
Valentine gulped his canary.
‘Ah, yes. I see. But if . . .’
‘If nothing!’
Valentine filled his glass again.
‘Don’t make yourself drunk!’ snapped George. ‘That will do you no good.’
‘On the contrary it may. Have you heard of Dutch courage, Father? Perhaps I am seeking Dutch courage.’
George took several deep breaths to steady his temper. This show of reluctance on Valentine’s part, he was convinced, simply grew out of perverseness and a desire to show off, to demonstrate his apparent independence. Valentine depended for his first and last penny on what his father gave him. He was unfitted for any form of work except the most menial, and his whole approach to life was so pleasure-loving that there was virtually no alternative but to obey. This streak of obstinacy, of sophistical wrong-headedness, of cynical rejection of homely virtues, was something George had long ago come to detest in his son. Normally one could make a deliberate effort and ignore the poses and the posturings. But why, over so important and so benevolent an issue as this, where an ordinary son would only, could only, accept and be enormously grateful, did he have to put on this show of reluctance, make this sardonic attempt at rejection? George was convinced that if he were now to say: ‘Very well, Valentine, if that is your decision, the marriage is off, and I will cancel all my arrangements with Trevanion,’ the one who would ultimately feel the bitterest disappointment at having his bluff called would be Valentine himself.
The trouble was George could not bring himself to call the bluff.
Perhaps Valentine’s mind had been running along somewhat parallel lines for he said:
‘What would you do if I said no, then?’
‘Do you need such a detailed answer?’
The Dutch courage was working. ‘Well, Father, yes, I think I do. I suppose I might be permitted to return to Cambridge? . . .’
‘I regret you would not.’
‘Then I would continue to live here as a – as a sort of pensioner?’
‘No, you would not,’ said George.
‘But I am your son,’ said Valentine.
‘Indeed. A son for whom I have the greatest affection and the greatest regard. For whom I have been striving to provide a noble and a settled future. As you must admit.’
‘But does this mean so much to you – this arrangement – that if I wreck it you will attempt to wreck me?’
‘I should not attempt to wreck you,’ said George. ‘But you cannot avoid the consequences of your own acts. And these consequences would be such that I should . . .’ He paused.
‘Disown me?’
‘Come, Valentine, why are we talking like this? I do not know what has got into you to take this perverse and deeply objectionable line. It is all arranged. You have never before raised a single word against it—’
‘I was not consulted!’
‘But you knew of it and tacitly accepted it! This late objection does credit neither to your honour nor your common sense. Come, take another drink and let us go down to supper. Sleep on it. It will look different in the morning.’
Valentine got up and stood very still, the decanter firm in his hand.
‘I do not think it will, Father.’
George stared at his lean, patrician, dark eyed, narrow eyed, long nosed son.
‘Just what does that mean?’
‘It means that I will not marry Cuby Trevanion. Indeed cannot.’
‘Cannot?’ George spoke the word, his jaws opening widely as if about to bite on something. ‘What in God’s name are you talking about?’
‘In God’s name,’ said Valentine. And then sardonically: ‘Yes, I suppose it is in God’s name, if you care to look on it that way. God has forbidden it . . . You see, Father, I am already married.’
Chapter Ten
Ursula had been playing with her mine when she heard the raised voices. At first she thought it was someone calling her for supper; this sometimes happened in spite of her father’s insistence that a servant should be sent up to her room if she did not respond to the gong.
Ursula spent a lot of time alone in her room; more than her step-mother thought healthy, but in spite of her stolid appearance she had a keen imagination and enjoyed little plays and stories that she made up to fit her models.
That, of course, of the mine was the most elaborate. Built by a man called Angove who had lost a leg in an accident at Wheal Spinster, it filled one side of her playroom, being seven feet long and three and a half high, and worked almost to scale and almost exactly like a real mine. Little miners made of tin picked in caverns and stooped in tunnels, with one side of the model cut away so that they could be moved at will. The engine worked, though so far only by turning a handle. Ingenious trays and catchpots had been built at floor level so that real water might be used without damage to the room. For this mine Ursula now had her own cost books and account books and lists of bargains struck by pairs of miners working on tribute. Recently Angove had been brought back to extend the workings round the corner of the room, with overhand stopes and whyms and adits and ladders and planks leading across shafts and genuine bits of ore, tin and copper, let into the tunnels here and there.