‘Well?’
‘Caroline insisted on sending a message on the following day to the Lansdowne residence in Berkeley Square saying that she would wish to call on Lady Isabel Petty-Fitzmaurice herself, and might she bring Miss Clowance Poldark? The request was acceded to.’
Demelza let out a gentle breath. ‘It’s all a long way from the Clowance we know – galloping across the beach on Nero with her long hair flying . . .’
‘It is.’
‘And did you allow her to be so bullied?’
Ross laughed. ‘I allowed her to be so bullied. Saving yourself, Caroline is the strongest-minded woman I’ve met, and after an initial rejection of the idea, I came to the conclusion that Clowance could come to no harm with such a duenna and that it would broaden her experience to take tea in such refined company.’
‘Which I hope it did. Did you hear what happened?’
‘Tea was taken.’
‘No, Ross, it’s too late to tease.’
‘I think in fact Fitzmaurice was offended by Clowance’s refusal; so honour was satisfied all round. His aunt clearly did not dislike our daughter, and Fitzmaurice suggested that, as they would be spending some weeks at their family seat at Bowood in Wiltshire this summer, perhaps Miss Poldark would care to visit them there – suitably escorted, of course.’
Demelza began to wake up. ‘I hope you wouldn’t want me to escort her! Dear life!’
‘Who better? But from what Clowance said at Marlborough, she is not sufficiently taken with the idea to accept the invitation even if it is remembered and was not a polite expression of the moment.’
Demelza walked around this in her mind.
‘I think if she is asked she should accept . . . Don’t you? Caroline would say so.’
He kissed her shoulder. ‘Sleep now. The cocks are abroad.’
‘Oh, well . . . yes . . .’
Silence fell.
‘And the war?’ she asked after a while.
‘Will continue now – as I said at supper – thanks to the complete turn about of the Prince Regent.’
‘I wonder what made him change at the last minute in such a way?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Do your friends have?’
‘They speculate, of course.’
After a few more moments Demelza said: ‘Were you involved in some way?’
‘What ever makes you ask that?’
‘Just that you kept on putting off coming home – I don’t think you would have stayed up there just to vote and I have a sort of – sort of feeling in my bones that you might have done something. What with your visit to Portugal and . . .’
Ross said: ‘If I know those feelings in your bones they’d probably elevate me to being personal adviser to Wellington.’
‘I’m crushed,’ said Demelza.
‘No, you’re not . . . So far as the Prince’s change of mind is concerned, it was probably because of an accumulation of things – of causes . . . Of course, he might switch back at any time . . . But I have a reasonable hope that he won’t now for a little.’
‘You want the war to go on?’
‘I want peace with honour. But any peace now would be with dishonour.’
‘So Geoffrey Charles cannot come home to his inheritance yet.’
‘He could come any time. He told me he had leave due; but I question that he’ll take, it. The casualties have been heavy.’
‘That is what I am afraid of,’ said Demelza.
Ross lay on his back, hands behind head, looking out at the lightening windows.
III
‘Father,’ Jeremy said, ‘do you know the Trevanions?’ They were walking back from the mine together, Ross having paid his first call at Wheal Grace since his return.
‘Who? Trevanions?’ Ross was preoccupied by what he had seen and heard and by his examination of the cost books.
‘Over at Caerhays.’
‘I have met John Trevanion a few times. Major Trevanion. Why?’
‘When Stephen Carrington put me ashore, it was near their house. They kindly invited me in . . .’
Ross said after a moment: ‘He was Sheriff of Cornwall at some early age – Trevanion, that is; then a member of parliament for Penryn, though he soon gave it up. I came to know him better a couple of years ago. There were meetings at Bodmin and elsewhere in favour of parliamentary reform. He spoke in favour of it. We were in accord in this.’
‘You liked him?’
‘Yes, I liked him. Though he has the high arrogance of many Whigs that make them seem so much haughtier than the Tories.’
‘He wasn’t there,’ Jeremy said, ‘but his – his family invited me in – greatly cared for my comfort, and loaned me a horse. Their house is a huge place, isn’t it. A castle!’
‘I’ve never seen it.’
‘D’you remember taking us to Windsor five years ago? Well, this house at Caerhays reminds me of Windsor Castle.’
Ross said: ‘I remember de Dunstanville telling me the young man was building some great pile – with an expensive London architect under the patronage of the Prince of Wales . . . It all seems a little grand for Cornwall.’
‘It is certainly grand.’
Ross stopped and took a breath, looked around. On this grey February day the natural bareness of the land seemed much more barren because nature was at its lowest ebb. He was dizzy from lack of sleep and excess of love. He would have been completely happy today except for what he found at the mine. But that was how life ran. One scarcely ever threw three sixes. And this morning Jeremy did rather go on about things that were of no importance.
‘How often have you been down while I’ve been away, Jeremy?’
‘Grace? Twice a week, as you told me.’
‘The north floor is almost bottomed out.’
‘I know.’
‘The workings are still in ore, but the grade is scarcely worth the lifting.’
‘Well, it’s done us proud, sir.’
‘Oh yes. Thanks to it we’ve lived so well. And because of it I have a variety of small but useful investments in other things . . . If Grace closed we should not starve.’
‘I would not want that to happen,’ said Jeremy.
‘Do you think I would? Apart from ourselves, more than a hundred people depend on it. God forbid I should ever act like the Warleggans; but once a mine begins to lose money it can eat up capital so rapidly.’
‘We need a new engine, Father. Big Beth works well but she is mightily old-fashioned.’
Ross looked at Jeremy. ‘I’ve no doubt there are improvements on her we could still make. Your suggestion that we should steam-jacket the working cylinder by using a worn-out older one of larger size has been a great success. The loss of heat has been dramatically less. But, as an engine, Beth has really no age – twenty years?’
‘We could sell her. This would help defray part of the cost of a new one.’
‘If the prospects at Grace were better I might agree. But as it is there’s nothing to justify the extra outlay.’
‘Not even to justify improvements to Beth?’
‘Oh, it would depend on the cost.’
‘Well, to begin, a new boiler of higher pressure would greatly increase the engine duty.’
‘With extra strain on the engine.’
‘Not with some money spent on improvements there – the whole pump could be made smoother-acting with less consequent strain on the bob wall – and of course far less coal used.’
Ross said: ‘If you could get someone to work the cost out I’d be willing to look at it.’
‘I could work the cost out myself,’ said Jeremy.
Ross raised an eyebrow but did not comment. They walked on.
‘I hear Mr Trevithick is back in Cornwall, Father.’
‘Is he . . . Well, you could ask his advice. Unfortunately he only designs engines, he doesn’t discover lodes.’
‘And there’s another man just come – from London, though I think he??
?s of Cornish birth. Arthur Woolf. He advertised in the Gazette last month. He has a fine reputation and I believe a deal of new ideas.’
They stopped for a few moments to watch two choughs fighting with two crows. In the end, as always, the crows won and the choughs retreated, flapping their wings in defiant frustration.
Ross said: ‘This interest you’re showing in the practical side of the working of engines may well be good. But in this instance, looking at Grace only, it is putting the cart before the horse. The most efficiently worked mine in the world is not successful if there is no ore of a respectable grade to bring up.’
Jeremy gazed across at the sulky sea.
‘Wheal Leisure never had an engine?’
‘No.’
‘Wasn’t it copper?’
‘Red copper mainly. High quality stuff. But it ran thin and the Warleggans closed it to get better prices at their other mines.’
‘Does it still belong to them?’
Ross glanced at the few scarred and ruined buildings on the first headland on Hendrawna Beach.
‘It may do. Though there’s little enough to own.’
Jeremy said: ‘The East India Company have offered to take fifteen hundred tons of copper this year. It’s bound to put the price up.’
‘Not to them. They’re getting it at lower than market value. But I take your meaning. Yes . . . demand may exceed supply. Copper has a better future than tin.’
Demelza was in her garden and she waved to them. They waved back. After a suitable pause Jeremy reverted to his former topic.
‘This Trevanion family . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Major Trevanion must still be young, I suppose. He has recently lost his wife and there are two young children. Also a brother and – and two sisters. And a mother too. A Mrs Bettesworth. Perhaps she has married again.’
‘No . . . As I remember it, the male side died out. A surviving Trevanion girl married a Bettesworth; but that was a couple or more generations ago. The present owner – the one with such high ideas about his residence – was born a Bettesworth but changed his name to Trevanion when he came of age. I imagine the others will all be called Bettesworth still.’
‘One isn’t,’ said Jeremy. ‘One of his sisters. She’s called Trevanion too. Miss Cuby Trevanion.’
IV
She had said to him: ‘Well, boy,’ and his life had changed.
She scrutinized him, with eyes that were a startling hazel under such coal-dark brows. Her face, round rather than oval and pale like honey, was befringed with darkest brown hair, straight and a little coarse in texture. She was wearing a purple cloak over a plain lavender frock, and the hood of the cloak was thrown back. Her expression was arrogant.
She had said: ‘Well, boy’; and he had climbed quickly to his feet trying to brush some of the wet mud and sand from his clothing.
He stretched to see over the wall but could not. ‘Thank you, miss; that was most kind.’
‘Well, please explain yourself, or my kindness may not last.’
He smiled. ‘Those men. They were after me. I did not wish them to catch me.’
She studied his smile, but did not return it. ‘I trust it doesn’t surprise you to know I’d already come to that conclusion. What is your name?’
Stephen had said not to give it, but this surely was different. ‘Poldark. Jeremy Poldark.’
‘Never heard of you,’ she said.
‘No, I am not from these parts.’
‘Well, what were you doing in these parts, Jeremy Poldark? My brother would not commend me if I were to hide a miscreant – wasn’t that the word Parsons used? – a miscreant who has been brandy-running and assaulting Preventive men in the discharge of their duties. And where are your five fellow miscreants? Would you point out the shrubs that conceal them?’
‘Not five but one. And he’s not here, miss. We parted company among those trees fifteen minutes ago. The men chose to pursue me, so I’d guess he has made his escape.’ She brushed some hair behind her ear. ‘You speak like a gentleman. I guessed as much before you opened your mouth. How did I guess? Perhaps it was the hair. Although most of the gentlemen I know have the good manners to shave.’
‘It’s three days since I left home and we have been at sea most of the time since then. My friend . . . he wished to pick up this lugger in the Scillies.’
Jeremy went on to explain. He was caught anyway if she chose to hand him over to the authorities, so she might as well know the truth. He was aware that he was not making a good job of the explanation, but the reason was every time he glanced at her his tongue stumbled, words not becoming sentences in the easy way they should.
She waited patiently until his voice died away and then said: ‘So now you’ve lost the brandy and the lugger. It’s the result of being too greedy.’
‘Yes, indeed. And but for your extreme kindness I’d now be in custody.’
‘And that’s not pleasant, Jeremy Poldark. The Customs men are a small matter short-handed, which makes them a small matter short-tempered with those they catch. Even magistrates today are not so lenient as they used to be.’
‘Which makes my obligation to you all the greater.’
‘Oh, don’t jump to the conclusion that you are free! You’re in my custody now.’
‘I’m happy,’ said Jeremy, ‘to be at your – your complete disposal.’
The words came out – half joking, meeting her at her own game – but when spoken they took on a serious intent. He felt himself flushing.
She looked away from him, distantly, through the gate. After what seemed a long pause she said: ‘Was your lugger brown with red sails?’
He took a few steps until he could see the beach. The Philippe was sailing close hauled – and close in – along the beach, only just out of reach of the muskets of the two Customs officers who stood staring at it in anger and frustration.
‘He must have doubled back!’ Jeremy said. ‘Given them the slip and got aboard! Thank Heaven the wind is dropping. But he’s looking for me!’
‘If you show yourself,’ said Miss Trevanion curtly, ‘there is nothing more I can do to save you from your just deserts.’
The lugger went about and came back along the beach. Though single-handed, Stephen was managing well. A puff and a crack announced that one of the Customs men had fired. As the lugger reached the eastern end of the beach Stephen changed course again, heading out to sea. It must have been plain to him that even if Jeremy could see him there was no way of his getting aboard without the unfriendly attention of the gaugers.
The sea crinkled like silver paper under the winter sun. The lugger receded.
Jeremy turned. ‘Miss Trevanion, my home, as I explained, is on the north coast. There’s no coaching road nearer to it than seven miles. But if you could give me my liberty, to walk the total distance from coast to coast can hardly be greater than twenty-five miles and I could do this easily in a day . . .’
‘Mr Poldark, my name is Cuby Trevanion. Having gone so far in frustrating the law, I feel I can deserve no worse by helping you a little more. My brother is away, so I may do this with less risk of his displeasure. In our kitchens there should be food – are you hungry? you look it! – and no doubt in the stables I can find you a nag of sorts. Would you follow me?’
‘Certainly. And thank you.’
As she went ahead she added: ‘My other brother is away also. We even might be able to lend you a razor.’
Up rising ground by a gravel path he followed her, cutting through part of a wood which had recently been felled and the ground excavated. ‘To give us a view of the sea,’ she explained.
As they approached, the house took on more and more the appearance of a fairy-tale castle, with turrets and bastions and serrated parapets and rounded towers. Jeremy would have been impressed but for the fact that he had really no time for or interest in anything but the scuffing of a skirt in front of him and the appearance and disappearance of a pair of muddy yello
w kid ankle boots. Totally lost, like someone hypnotized, he would have followed those boots to the end of the earth.
Chapter Five
I
Between Stippy-Stappy Lane, where the cottages, if poor, were respectable, and the squalor of the Guernseys, where derelict shacks clustered around the beach and the harbour wall, was the one shop of the village of Sawle. No bigger than a cottage, it was distinguished by a small bow window and a painted front door. Aunt Mary Rogers’s. Or so it was still known to many people who refused to rethink their ideas even though Aunt Mary had been in Sawle Churchyard for upwards of thirteen years. Since then it had been occupied by the Scobles.
Twenty years ago a man called Whitehead Scoble had married Jinny Carter. He was a miner working at that time at Wheal Leisure, a widower, childless, plump, pink-faced and snowy-haired though only just thirty. She was Zacky Martin’s eldest daughter, twenty-three, a widow with three young children whose husband had died of blood poisoning in Launceston gaol. Scoble was much in love with Jinny, she not at all with him; but she had yielded to the advice of her elders, the need for a father for her children, and her own wish to get away from Nampara and Mellin. Scoble had his own cottage at Grambler with a ten-year lease still to run and the marriage had worked well enough until Leisure closed. Then Scoble had gone off on casual work and taken to the bottle. Ross had tried to help them but, for special reasons of her own Jinny had refused. But in ’97 when Aunt Mary Rogers had reluctantly sold her last quarter of hardbake and been carried up the hill to Sawle Church, Ross had deviously persuaded Zacky Martin to put in an offer for the shop and its sparse contents; and Zacky with a good deal of bland-faced lying had convinced his daughter that he had made enough money out of his employment as factor to the Poldark estate to be able to finance her to take it over.
Soon after this Whitehead Scoble had returned to his wife, suitably chastened after a spell in gaol himself, and since then they had worked together amicably and made a quiet but comfortable living. The lime-ash floor had been replaced with planking, wooden shelves put up, a clean lace curtain to the window, a bell to ring when you came in, scales renewed telling the correct weight, and the shop restocked with better goods. Now sometimes people even walked over from St Ann’s because their own shop was not so well supplied.