‘And the result?’
‘Need you ask? They both missed, honour was satisfied – to some extent – they shook hands stiffly, bowed, and the affair was over. But really the quarrel reflected no credit on either man, and there’s little wonder they’ve tried to hush it up.’
Ross followed his host to the door. ‘Duelling seldom reflects credit on the parties concerned.’
The other looked up. ‘My father told me something of the circumstances of the one in which you were involved. That was quite different surely. An insult offered to your wife . . . Whereas this affray . . .’
‘Yes, there was a difference. But in that case the result was fatal.’
The word fatal moved with them through the hall, their boots echoing on the oak floor, out to the front door and into the wintry sunshine. Without Ross’s having at all intended it, the word seemed to carry with it a hint of the refractory, the transgressive which had always been a part of his nature. The young peer was silent while Ross was being helped on with his cloak, accepted one himself from the footman. The strong bones of Ross’s face had grown a little stronger with the years, a little more grim.
Falmouth said in a lighter tone: ‘How is Mrs Poldark? When we return – it will be late July or August, if all goes well – you must come to the christening. We shall, naturally, be giving a party. And my aunt, Mrs Gower, will be coming for it. I know how fond she is of your wife.’
‘Thank you. We should be very pleased.’
Edward Falmouth looked across his land. ‘From the extension to the house we shall have a better view of the river. But that’s in the future. We shall be several years abuilding. I believe my father had such an idea in his early years, but when my mother died he lost the incentive.’
‘It happened to my father also long ago – of course on a much smaller scale. Nampara – such as it is – was begun in 1765 and never completed until 1797, when my mine was at its most prosperous and I could afford something beyond the ordinary necessities of life.’
A groom had brought Ross’s horse.
Falmouth said: ‘Surely the Cornish Bank prospers?’
‘Oh, yes indeed. But you’ll appreciate that while I am a full partner my actual investment in the bank has been quite small. So naturally and fairly my share in its prosperity is small too.’
‘I hear Warleggan’s Bank is in low water.’
Ross stared at the young man. ‘Can you mean that?’
‘So I’ve been told – though it was not in Cornwall that I heard it.’
‘But they – they are notorious for never going wrong.’
‘I’m told it’s Sir George himself who is in some financial straits. Been speculating heavily in the Midlands anticipating a rise in manufacturing prosperity. Instead, of course, it is further than ever in the doldrums and like to remain so.’
‘It doesn’t sound like George.’
‘Well, the story is he’s very tight stretched. They’re putting a bold front on it in Truro and on the whole people are believing them.’
‘I would in their place.’
‘I gather you know Sir George well.’
‘It could be described so.’
‘I’ve only met him a few times. I thought him a parvenu, and a rather disagreeable one. My father, of course, detested him.’
‘Well, yes. It was partly a consequence of your father’s dislike of George Warleggan that I came to occupy your parliamentary seat.’
‘Oh, come. You do yourself less than justice. But I know what you mean. Unlike many sons . . .’
Ross waited. ‘You were going to say?’
‘I was going to say that, unlike many sons, I listened to my father and talked to him extensively. We were in good accord. He told me a deal about the parliamentary boroughs we control and about the personalities involved. Although often in London, he kept a very keen eye on what happened in Truro. He told me, for instance, about the failure of Pascoe’s Bank.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Yes, indeed. And of the rumours and the broadsheets that were effectively circulated at the time to bring this bank down.’
‘Oh, that is the truth.’
There was a thoughtful pause. Having come with him as far as the door, his Lordship seemed in no hurry to end the meeting.
‘Is your Mr Harris Pascoe dead?’
‘Yes, last year, alas.’
‘A pity.’
‘I agree. But why?’
‘I understand he came to have a position of influence in your bank. Banks – any good bank – can exercise destructive power. Perhaps he would have felt like using it.’
Ross stared across the lawns at the shimmering river.
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Suggesting? I’m suggesting nothing.’
‘Then observing.’
The young Boscawen made a dismissive gesture. ‘Your Mr Pascoe might have felt like settling old accounts. That is all.’
Ross’s horse, seeing his master standing near, whinnied, ready to be gone.
‘And do you, Lord Falmouth?’
‘Do I what?’
‘Feel like settling old accounts.’
‘I have no accounts to settle. I have no idea how my father would have felt. It is all long ago. But in any event the question for me is theoretical. My family’s banking interests in Cornwall are small. And our mercantile interests are not of a nature to exert sufficient influence on the matter did we so choose to exert it.’
‘Such as the Cornish Bank could do.’
‘That is for them to decide, is it not.’
‘Indeed. Yes, indeed.’ Ross mounted his horse. He raised his hat. ‘I wish your Lordship good day. What you have told me will give a new turn to my thoughts on the way home.’
Chapter Six
I
A week after this Sir George Warleggan visited his uncle in the counting house behind the Great House in Truro. Cary had changed little in the last decade. Bradypepsia had long since shredded away any flesh to which he had laid claim in middle life, but bone does not deteriorate. Undressed, he looked like a model of a human body used for the demonstration of anatomical structure; but fortunately no one ever saw him in this pristine state. His skullcap hid the shaven white hair; black clothes hung on him so limply that he might just have been dragged from the sea. But the eyes were as alert as ever behind their thickening spectacles, the brain, attuned only to think of figures, continued to function with the emotional instability of an automaton. In the last month he had taken a keen dislike to his distinguished nephew.
George said: ‘Well, have you had your answers?’
‘I’ve had them,’ said Cary, ‘in so far as I put the questions. And they was not favourable.’
‘In so far as you put the questions? What does that mean?’
‘It means that the less people know we need money the safer we are! That’s elementary. A child’s horn book would tell you as much. Writing to other banks, sending to other banks, especially at a time like this when everyone’s short – tis spreading the news. I wrote only in the most general way, and that to three: Carne’s of Falmouth; Robins, Foster and Coode of Liskeard; and Bolitho’s of Penzance. Twas the same sort of answer, the answer you’d expect, all round.’
‘What answer?’
‘Excuses. All round. War with France to continue, ruinous losses to exporters, reduction of private paper, diminution of transactions of credit, policy to narrow one’s commitments. Could you expect any different? What’ve we done over the years to build up goodwill with these fellers? Nothing. Because we reckoned we didn’t need ’em, never should need ’em. Warleggan’s was safe, that’s what we reckoned, what with the smelting works, tin and copper mines, flour mills, schooners, rolling mills! Who was to know that Nicholas Warleggan’s only son – Luke Warleggan’s grandson – would take leave of his senses and spend his fortune buying up bankrupt mills in Manchester!’
‘We’ve been through all that,’ said George tightly.
/>
‘But not through it enough. Not through it enough. When your wife died more ’n a decade ago you was constrained to make one or two unwise speculations – but they was carelessness, and they was understandable; you was upset, you put much store by that woman, you didn’t know what you were doing. But now! At the height of your powers! . . .’
‘Everything I have invested is not lost. In due time there must come an improvement.’
‘What’s this firm of calico printers – whatever that may be – Ormrod’s is it? Bankruptcy! That’s not improvement, that’s one hundred per cent loss, George, one hundred per cent loss! And you’re keeping this Fleming firm alive only by throwing good money after bad. And these commodities you own. You’d as well have invested in attle! There’s no one to buy them! What was amiss with you?’
‘The war was certain to end if the Prince Regent remained loyal to his party . . . Was I to know he’d turn his coat at the last hour!’
Cary flipped over the papers on his desk. They all related to George’s investments in the North – his iniquities, as Cary considered them.
George said: ‘The Prince is nothing more than a vain weathercock. Should the war go badly for us now he might well turn to the Whigs to make peace after all. Then my losses would become the profits they ought to have been. So long, that is, as I am able to hold on to what I have bought.’
Cary’s mouth tightened like a crack in the floorboards. ‘Sometimes people get too big, get too big-headed, go outside the part of the country they understand, the industries they understand, try expanding where they don’t know enough. I’d never have thought it of you, George. Does your mother know?’
‘Naturally not. She’s too unwell to be worried by such matters.’
‘She’ll have to be if things go wrong at this end.’ Cary peered at his nephew over his spectacles. ‘You was never a gambler, George. What caused you to gamble? Was it another woman?’
George took a deep breath. ‘Have a care, Uncle. You can go too far.’
‘I’ve heard rumours. Don’t think I hear nothing because I never go out. Don’t think that. There’s been rumours. And you haven’t answered my question.’
‘Nor will I. You don’t command the world from this office; nor do you command me. Tell me what the situation is now, and then I’ll leave you to your calculations.’
Cary thrust the papers on one side and opened his note-issue book. Since George became a knight bachelor he had been less amenable to correction, and although the two men often saw eye to eye, when there was a difference of opinion it was more often George who got his way. But of course there had never before been anything like this.
Cary said icily: ‘If there came a crisis tomorrow – a run, folk crowding in and banging on the counter and demanding what’s theirs – we could cover twenty per cent of our note issue!’
‘That’s only five per cent more than last week!’
‘It’s not possible to create assets overnight! If we throw things sudden upon the open market we straight off strike down their value.’
George went to a drawer, unlocked it and drew out a file. In it was a summary of all his possessions.
‘Has there been any sign of a run today?’
‘No big depositors have made a move yet. Brewer Michell came in to renew his notes. I had to refuse. That makes a bad impression, for no doubt he can get them discounted across the way. Symons drew more than his custom, more than half his deposit – but he’s small fry.’
‘Well, then . . .’
‘But there’s nervousness about, I can tell you that. I can smell it. I can see it in people’s eyes. Tis like a field of gorse after a dry summer – just lying there, just needing the first spark.’
‘We have some India stock,’ said George, peering at his file. ‘We could dispose of those quickly enough and bear the loss . . . But ideally we still need another bank – one of the bigger ones – to re-discount £20,000 worth of sound short bills. That way we should be safe.’
‘What about the Cornish Bank?’
‘What about it?’
‘You were friendly enough with de Dunstanville once. Twould be a neighbourly act.’
‘Out of the question.’
‘Why?’
‘We have hardly been on terms for years. And last November I was involved – innocently involved – in a quarrel between him and Sir Christopher Hawkins. It ended in a duel. I was one of Hawkins’s seconds. That would make such an approach now unthinkable.’
‘There’s always something . . .’
‘In any event,’ said George, ‘to approach the Cornish Bank would do what you were at pains to avoid with the others. Our direct competitors in this town . . .’
‘What of Hawkins, then? He’s landlord of the great Hallamannin Mine and of the silver-lead mines of the Chiverton valley.’
‘Oh, he’s a warm man, I’ll grant you that. But you would not expect him to respond to a situation like this.’ There was silence.
George said: ‘How far can I rely on you, Cary?’
‘Rely on me?’
‘You’re a rich man. You are as much involved in the solvency of the bank as I am.’
Cary rubbed his forehead under his skullcap. A white powder of dandruff floated down onto the note-issue book.
‘Most of my money is invested. It couldn’t be realized in a hurry.’
‘You keep a thousand pounds in gold upstairs. My father told me.’
‘He had no business to. And it’s not as much now.’ George stared at his uncle. ‘Suppose the worst happens and somebody puts a spark to the gorse. What should we need?’
‘In a real panic? Not less than thirty thousand.’
‘Of which we can find twelve. Two more perhaps with loose assets, such as personal cash. Is that right?’
‘Near enough.’
George closed his file, carefully locked it away, fingered the key. ‘Well, the bank shall not close its doors if I can help it. The smelting works at Bissoe would give us all the capital we need.’
‘Ye wouldn’t sell that! The foundation on which we’ve built all the rest! I’d remind you I’ve a third share.’
‘And I have fifty-five per cent. It could go if the worst came to the worst.’
‘At a knock-down price for a hasty sale – it would be lunacy!’
‘Bankers can’t always be choosers . . .’
‘There’s always Cardew,’ said Cary.
George looked at Cary with dislike. ‘You’d see your sister-in-law turned out – your nephew – your niece?’ Cary knuckled his hands together, then shrugged his shoulders as if throwing off some nightmare in which family loyalty might become involved in the conservation of his personal fortune.
‘Well, you said yourself, time is of the essence. These assets we have; ye can’t pause to auction a mine or a smelting works – advertised in the newspaper, etcetera – while men are shouting at the counter for their cash! It may not happen, George. The man in the street – spite of the rumours, the whispering, he’ll take a time to believe it: Warleggan’s Bank, he’ll say, but they’re always solid. If we put a bold face on it – show our assets – meet every call willingly. I see now I was wrong not to accommodate Brewer Michell this morning. We got to be expansive, not careful. To liquidate Bissoe or Cardew, to do this would be criminal. My strongest advice to you, George, is to sell your Manchester investments now, at once, for what little ye can get. They must be worth something – a few thousand. Get your money out at once – what ye can – in gold – have it brought down here by post-chaise. If tis an eighty per cent loss, that’s bad, but a few more thousand on hand during the next two weeks – under the counter, ready to use – it might be just enough to save a banking run . . . and then no cause for all this talk of other sacrifices.’
II
Ross had not yet seen Francis Basset, Baron de Dunstanville. He told himself that his home affairs were too pressing; but he had already found time to visit Lord Falmouth.
&
nbsp; The truth was that for the last year or so a coolness had grown up between them, dating from the scandal of the Duke of York’s mistress, Mrs Clarke, and her sale of army commissions. This cause célèbre had occupied parliamentary time for far too long when so many greater issues had to be decided; but a member of the Commons called Colonel Gwyllym Wardle had persisted in his accusations and had linked it with an attack on the corruption implicit in the rotten parliamentary boroughs. On this Ross had sided with him, making one of his rare speeches in the House, and, when the issue flared up locally he had taken the part of the reformers who had held meetings up and down the county demanding change and an end to bribery and venality. Basset had passionately resented this, had indeed spoken at meetings and gone to great pains to spike the guns of the protesters. Although the agitation had now subsided, and although superficially everyone was again the best of friends, he had never quite forgiven Ross for his support of these Jacobin elements.
It was therefore not a particularly propitious time to discuss the county’s affairs and more especially Warleggan’s. Nor did Ross know how far Basset would be concerned to vent his resentment on George and his uncle in the way Falmouth had hinted as a possibility. During the last ten years many changes had taken place in the Cornish Bank, the present directors being Mackworth Praed, Stackhouse, Rogers, Tweedy, Poldark and Nankivell. De Dunstanville had chosen to withdraw his name, though everyone knew that his interest, in terms of money, was still the controlling one. There was to be a meeting of the partners next week at Truro. The Warleggan situation would no doubt all be discussed there, since it was difficult to believe that two banks, operating so close to each other in a small town, would not each be sensitive to fluctuations in the other’s health and credit. If such a discussion took place what was his, Ross’s, attitude to be?