The Loving Cup

  It was that accord, with his tall soldier son walking beside him, and perhaps something in the lonely, misty day, that brought Ross to the impulse of broaching the so far forbidden subject.

  ‘I notice you have not yet been to see Valentine.’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘Shall you go?’

  ‘I don’t think so. My leave is so short.’

  Ross transferred the cost book to his other arm.

  ‘Valentine’s marriage has clearly put all George’s plans for him out of joint.’

  ‘Yes, I am sure.’

  ‘So will have clearly upset Cuby’s as well. Whatever happens she will never now become a Warleggan.’

  Jeremy’s face was stiff. ‘As you say.’

  ‘Do you still wish her to become a Poldark?’

  They walked on a few yards.

  ‘My dear Father, what a question! There is little greater prospect of it just because of this. She is determined – and always has been – to marry a rich man. I shall never be that – not to the extent she requires. So there is no more to be said.’

  ‘Jeremy, answer me something.’

  ‘If I can.’

  ‘Do you still love her?’

  The younger man shrugged his shoulders irritably. ‘Love – hate – I no longer know what it is!’

  ‘But you have found no other like her?’

  ‘I have never had her.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Jeremy said: ‘How the seagulls cry! They seem never able to resist a fog.’

  ‘My mother – your grandmother – always used to say they were the souls of drowned seamen crying for what they had lost.’

  ‘You seldom speak of my grandmother.’

  ‘How can I? I have few memories. She died so young.’

  ‘Was she beautiful?’

  ‘I think so. But it is so long ago. There isn’t even a miniature. That is the terrible thing. She is so completely gone.’

  ‘Where did she come from?’

  ‘From St Allen. The Vennors were small landowners. Just off the road from Truro to Bodmin are a number of pleasant small manor houses, hidden away. Theirs was one. But your grandmother was an only child, and I know of no relatives except a cousin, Claude Vennor, who lives at Saltash.’

  After a moment Jeremy said: ‘Cuby isn’t beautiful.’

  ‘Do you think not?’ said Ross judicially. ‘Perhaps not. But I was greatly struck with her elegance and charm at the Trenwith party.’

  ‘Were you?’ Jeremy was pleased. ‘Yes, well.’ They walked on again. ‘On the whole I think it is better to talk about the past, don’t you?’

  ‘No,’ said Ross. ‘The present is what concerns us.’

  They would soon be home. They had left the last of the washing floors behind. The low wall of Demelza’s garden was just ahead.

  ‘Very well,’ said Jeremy violently, ‘if you want me to talk about it! . . . My feeling for Cuby – it is – not a voluntary emotion. I cannot shut it off, the way you can shut off steam from an engine. But I have a young woman in Brussels. I shall have other young women. They – help, even if they do not remove the – the sore place.’

  ‘And Cuby cares for you?’

  ‘Oh, that I doubt! How can she?’

  ‘But she has given you the impression that she cares. Has she not? Quite often.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Quite often.’ Jeremy frowned angrily into the mist. He was not enjoying this, and wondered at his father’s lack of perception in forcing it into the open. ‘I think she likes me. She gives me the impression that what I feel is not unreturned. But rationally she knows I am no good to her, so she – she discards the rest.’

  ‘That I find quite difficult to believe,’ said Ross.

  ‘Why – in God’s name?’

  ‘Why in anyone’s name? Because it is not a feminine reaction! All right – her heart is governed by her head. But perhaps you have not tried hard enough to institute a contrary process.’

  Jeremy stopped. ‘What the blazes do you know about it? In any case, what do you mean?’

  Ross stopped also. His blue-grey eyes were almost hidden by their heavy lids. He stared at the swirling mist.

  ‘I mean, why don’t you take her?’

  Jeremy swallowed. ‘What in hell do you mean?’

  ‘Just what I say. Go over and take her. She owes allegiance to no one now. She cannot have found some new suitor yet. Ride over to Caerhays. She belongs to you more than to anyone else.’

  ‘Are you – joking?’

  ‘No. I was never more serious.’

  There was a long pause. Jeremy said: ‘This is the nineteenth century.’

  ‘I know. But people change little whatever century they live in. If you are in any way in awe of the castle, I can assure you it is not built to stand the siege of even one determined man. Its walls are thin. So, you may find, are Cuby’s defences.’

  Jeremy let out a breath. ‘God Almighty, I did not believe! . . . My dear Father, I do not know whether to laugh or cry!’

  ‘Leave either until you have made the attempt. Would you like me to come with you? I can engage John Trevanion and his servants in a degree of intense conversation – or, if necessary, threat.’

  Jeremy thought: God! My father is still living in the dark ages of twenty or thirty years ago when he used to go over and confront George Warleggan, and if necessary fight with him on the stairs of the Red Lion Inn or throw him, or be thrown, through the window of Trenwith! He thinks people can still behave in this way! As a young man he was lawless, and a soldier . . .

  Well, Jeremy thought, he was never so lawless as I have been; and I too am a soldier! Perhaps he is not so far wrong after all. Perhaps it is I who am making the wrong assumptions!

  He said stiffly: ‘I am sorry to have been so much away from you both on this short leave.’

  Ross accepted the rebuff. ‘No matter. There will be others. And there is less risk of your being sent to the Americas.’

  ‘You have not heard from Geoffrey Charles yet?’

  ‘About their baby? No.’

  ‘Goldsworthy Gurney’s wife is expecting a child this month. That is why I have not been to see him. I imagine even he will abate his preoccupations with strong steam for a few weeks.’

  Ross laughed. ‘Would you?’

  Jeremy’s mind roamed at large over the question; and over the people he knew; and over the enormities of life. ‘It depends who the mother was.’

  ‘Yes . . . just so. For you it is Cuby or nothing, isn’t it.’

  ‘Maybe.’ The young man spat it out.

  They reached the gate leading into Demelza’s garden.

  Ross said: ‘My advice embarrasses you.’

  Jeremy snorted. ‘Yes . . . well, not exactly.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘That I shall certainly not do!’

  ‘It was well meant.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure, Father.’

  ‘And sincerely meant, for what that is worth. Only you can judge how it applies – if at all – to your situation.’

  Chapter Eight

  I

  Two days later came a joyful letter from Geoffrey Charles. Amadora was confined of a little girl, and both were well. They had decided to call her Juana. ‘In Cornwall,’ Geoffrey Charles added, ‘this will probably become Joanna, but no matter, who cares?’ They had made no plans yet for returning to England; it was early days. In the meantime how glad he was to have become a half-pay officer and to be with his wife at this happy time. He sent his warmest love and best Christmas wishes to all.

  It was nearly time for Jeremy to return. His parents had of course discussed with him the proposition put to Ross while he was in London.

  Jeremy had said: ‘I don’t see why you should not go. You were promising yourselves a visit to Paris last summer with the Enyses. Of course it would be different.’

  ‘Very different,’ said Demelza. ‘I might see nothing of your father. I cannot imagine mys
elf very happy in an apartment in a strange city where no one speaks my language, and Bella would be at a loose end. To say nothing of Harry.’

  ‘Have you mentioned it to Bella?’

  ‘Heavens, no! You know she would want to go anywhere!’

  ‘And you do not, Mother? It is rather a change of character for you.’

  ‘I did not say I would not wish to go,’ said Demelza. ‘But it would be different from a holiday.’

  Ross squeezed her shoulder. ‘I think you can set your mind at rest. Since Liverpool spoke to me circumstances have so changed that I doubt if the offer will go any further.’

  ‘What circumstances? You mean—’

  ‘Peace with America. There will be simply no point at all in sending Wellington to take command of a returning army, so the chances are he will remain in Paris. In that case I should not be welcome, even if it were still thought necessary to send some officer to establish a relationship with the French army.’

  Jeremy smiled. ‘His Grace does not get on with you?’

  ‘I doubt if there is anything very personal in it. But he does not take to having people about him who come on unspecified missions.’

  ‘What do the Enyses say?’

  ‘If we leave earlier they will join us at Easter. If we do not, they suggest we all then go for a few weeks together.’

  ‘I wish I could join you too.’

  ‘Ah, that would be something like!’ Demelza said.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ Ross said, ‘there have been no British troops in Paris since last spring. We have to exert any moral authority we have from Brussels.’

  ‘Still, perhaps I could arrange another leave. It would be considerably closer than coming home to Nampara.’

  Later when Jeremy was alone with his mother he said: ‘Do you think he wants to go?’

  ‘I’m sure he will go if he is asked. It suits his nature to travel on some mission, and then come back to Cornwall. But for several years now he has not seemed to hanker after adventure so much as he did.’

  ‘You do not want to go, Mother?’

  ‘Oh, I would dearly like it for a short while, I’m sure. To go with Dwight and Caroline at Easter would be perfect. But if it were for a long time I think I should grow homesick – for all this.’

  Jeremy looked around. ‘As I am at times.’

  ‘Well, you need not be.’

  He sighed. ‘No.’

  ‘When you are born in a place – at least a place like this – it is very hard to leave it for long. Not that I ever minded leaving where I was born. Nor ever wanted to see it again.’

  Demelza was darning a hole in the heel of one of young Henry’s socks. She was wearing a light green lacy frock, drawn in at the waist and ruched at the neck; it was one of Jeremy’s favourites. He looked down at her fingers on the needle and wondered why it was that his mother, who had so many talents, had never mastered more than the simplest sewing.

  She looked up at him suddenly and smiled. ‘This leave, then, you are not to see Cuby?’

  He turned to poke the fire.

  ‘You know what Father suggested?’

  ‘Yes! At least, he gave me an idea!’

  Jeremy knelt and threw on some wood. In a district with practically no natural timber, these were split fragments of old pit props. He watched them flicker and begin to sputter and burn.

  Demelza said: ‘Of course it isn’t possible.’

  ‘What is not?’

  ‘What your father suggests. You cannot just “help yourself” to a woman. Even your father . . .’ Demelza paused, aware that Ross in fact had once done just that. She pricked her finger. ‘I mean, you cannot take a woman against her consent. You can go and ask. You can go and demand. But – unless you are a – a drunken brigand, it is her decision at the end of it.’

  Jeremy said: ‘I think Father was suggesting a half-way stage.’

  ‘Yes, maybe he was.’

  Jeremy straightened up and sat back in his chair. Demelza sucked her finger.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Jeremy. ‘I shall take his advice.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It must be unusual for a son to take his father’s advice – especially in such matters! – isn’t it? I’d guess so. But I have been considering it carefully for the last few days, and it seems to me it is not unsound.’

  ‘D’you mean . . .’ In alarm Demelza got no further. ‘I don’t think you should—’

  ‘No, I don’t think I should. But there is much to be said for the half-way stage . . . I am answering your question, Mother. You asked me if I should be seeing Cuby on this leave. The answer is probably yes.’

  These are very peculiar conversations I am having with my son, Demelza thought. I never imagined, when I bore him, that time would pass, that so much time could pass, so that one day I should be sitting in front of a crackling fire on a grey January day twenty-three years later and talking in this fashion with him about a woman with whom he is in love. He is a man. And a very strange man. He is older, several years older, than I was then. Now it is his life, his future, his love, his fate in more ways than one . . .

  ‘Have you pricked your finger?’

  ‘Yes. It is nothing.’

  ‘Take my handkerchief.’

  ‘No, thank you. It is very little . . . So . . .’

  ‘Cuby is at home,’ Jeremy said. ‘That much I know. I shall leave for Belgium on Thursday – which is only one day earlier than I would have had to leave in any event. I shall take Colley, and borrow one of the ponies, if I may. Whatever comes, I shall leave them at the White Hart in Launceston with money enough to have them sent home. That way, if the weather is favourable and other things unfavourable I shall be in Brussels from my leave a day or so early.’

  ‘And if the weather is unfavourable?’

  Jeremy cocked an eyebrow. ‘Or other things favourable? Then I shall be late . . . But be sure of one thing: I will write you from London. Telling you of what has occurred.’

  Sparks fell out on the hearth and Jeremy knelt again to brush them up. He does not look so different now, Demelza thought; the same boy; people don’t change that much; they only change in their relationship to each other.

  On impulse she said: ‘Do you want me to look after the loving cup for you?’

  He looked up sharply. ‘What? What do you mean?’

  ‘I just thought – you had taken a special interest in it.’

  ‘Did I? No, I don’t think so.’ He had flushed.

  ‘Perhaps it will bring you luck.’

  ‘Bad luck?’

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘Do what you please with it! You found it! It’s yours, not mine.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I just thought it was – pretty.’

  After a moment, he said: ‘I did not mean to snap. I have – other things on my mind.’

  They sat quietly staring into the fire. She had stopped sewing.

  ‘Do you want me to tell your father? About Cuby, I mean.’

  ‘What? Well, certainly. I shall say something too. I owe him that. But one thing – did you know? – he offered to come to Caerhays with me.’

  ‘No, I didn’t! Do you mean—’

  ‘I shall tell him no, of course. With appreciation and thanks. There would be no man better than he I would choose to have with me in the ordinary tight corner. But this is a – peculiar tight corner of my own choosing, my own making. And, if I may vary the metaphor, this time I shall sink or swim alone . . .’

  II

  He left at noon on Thursday the twelfth. Demelza, his lips still warming her cheek, watched him go.

  ‘Did he tell you what he intended to try to do?’

  ‘No,’ Ross said. ‘Perhaps it were better I had not spoken. It is so hard to advise other people.’

  ‘Is Major Trevanion a hot-tempered man?’

  ‘Yes. But not a ready fighter, I would judge.’

  ‘What servants do they have?’

  ‘Three oldish men,
Jeremy said, who attended on the family. A number of maids. Some outside staff.’

  ‘Far too much for one young man.’

  ‘If I know Jeremy he will not seek violence if it can be avoided. It all depends really, does it not, on the girl. As you warned him, my ideas of forcible seizure are quite outdated.’

  ‘Oh, Ross, I did not say that! All I said was that in the end it all hinged on her.’

  ‘Which is what I have just said, so we agree. I am simply of the opinion that some girls don’t know their own minds too well, and a little aggression can often help them to decide.’

  ‘I knew my own mind before you did.’

  ‘Well, that was different.’

  ‘But,’ Demelza said, ‘does Cuby give you the impression of a girl who cannot make up her mind?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No. That is what I fear.’

  ‘It is certainly something to be feared. But perhaps we underestimated Jeremy.’

  ‘That,’ said Demelza, ‘is something I shall never do again.’

  III

  Jeremy had dinner in Truro, and remounted soon after dark. He rode cautiously thereafter, first on the turnpike road and then down the narrow rutted tracks towards the south coast. He did not want any plans he had to be encumbered by a horse that had gone lame through stepping in some unseen ditch or hole. Even so he was at Caerhays much too early. A new moon hung over the house, which looked splendidly medieval and romantic silhouetted against the cobalt blue of the sea. Lights were glimmering in a number of rooms.

  Because of his excursions with Cuby, he knew a way into the grounds without having to pass the lodge gates, and presently he reined in behind the house and dismounted and made Colley and Hollyhock comfortable, and settled to wait. Just ahead of him was all the paraphernalia of building; but nothing so far as he could perceive had been recently done. The same overturned wheelbarrows, the same spades, the same hods, the same ladders, the same mound of bricks and stones and window frames and heaps of sand and piles of gravel. Now less than ever would Major Trevanion be able to pay his workforce.

  The moon went down, silver-stitching the sea, glowing a few moments behind the trees on the headland like a prima donna reluctant to leave. Then a less shadowed dark set in, while stars, previously unregarded, began to take the stage.