Naturally my aunt’s letter will be addressed to your Mother, and will include an invitation to her too, so that you may not feel unchaperoned.
Believe me, my dear Miss Poldark, it would give pleasure, if you were able to come, to
Yours most sincerely,
Edward Petty-Fitzmaurice.
Chapter Two
I
On the last Friday in May Jeremy told his mother he proposed to ride over and call on Miss Trevanion.
Demelza had said: ‘Have you heard from her?’
‘No.’
‘Did you write?’
‘Yes, once. She hasn’t replied.’
Demelza looked at her tall son. His eyes were blank in the way youth can make its eyes blank when it is in trouble.
‘Your father was annoyed at Mrs Bettesworth’s letter.’
‘I know. But I’ve left it nine weeks. I think I have a right to call.’
‘Of course. Shall I tell your father?’
‘When I’m gone.’
‘I don’t think he would object.’
‘Would he have waited nine weeks?’ Jeremy asked.
Demelza smiled obliquely. ‘No.’
They walked to the stables. ‘You had a horse called Caerhays once,’ Jeremy said. ‘That was before I was born, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, and before our – prosperity. We sold him when we needed money.’
‘How did he come by his name? Did you know the Trevanions then?’
‘I think he was so named when we bought him. You must ask your father.’
‘Sometime.’ Jeremy began to saddle his best horse, a strawberry roan called Colley (short for Collingwood). He had been bought for Jeremy as a hunter, but Jeremy’s distaste for the sport had grown with the years and the horse was now used mainly for a fast gallop over the moors. Demelza noticed how well Jeremy was dressed today, more smart than she had ever seen him before.
Jeremy.’
‘Yes?’
She helped tighten one of the girths. ‘I know you have been – greatly upset; and I cannot help you. It grieves me that I cannot help you. I cann’t even give you advice!’
‘Nobody can.’
‘For you would not take it. Quite right. It is hopeless for older people to tell younger ones – particularly their own children – that they have been through the same thing. Such information is no use at all! It bounces off one’s own grief – or jealousy or distress. If we are all born the same we are also all born unique – we all go through torments nobody else has ever had.’
Jeremy patted her hand.
Demelza said: ‘But one thing, Jeremy. Never forget you are a Poldark.’
Colley was becoming restive at the prospect of exercise. Jeremy stroked his nose.
‘Little likelihood of that.’
‘I mean – ’ Demelza hesitated – ‘think of your father’s family in this matter, not of mine. It would be distressful to me if me being a miner’s daughter should hinder your chances.’ So now it was out.
Jeremy looked out of the stables, his eyes still blank. ‘You take me to church now and again. We go as a family half a dozen times a year, don’twe?’
‘Well?’
‘It says there “honour thy father and thy mother.” That’s a commandment I happen to obey. Understand? And no trouble. Not half of it but the whole of it. It gives me no trouble at all. If anyone should think to teach me different, it should not be you.’
‘I only mean . . .’
‘I know what you only mean. Now go about your business, Mama, and leave me to go about mine. No girl . . .’ He stopped.
‘It may not be her. It may be her parents.’
Jeremy looked at his mother and smiled wryly.
‘That us’ll see, shann’t us.’
II
The castle swam in a sea of bluebells. Laced above the bluebells was an embroidery of young beech leaves and silver birch. A limpid sea winked in the bay.
The older footman, who always seemed to have wrinkled stockings, let him in.
‘I’ll go ’n see, sir. I’m not certain sure whereabout Miss Cuby is exactly at this moment, sir. Kindly take a seat, sir.’ Jeremy did not accept the invitation. Instead he walked about the big hall-like drawing-room where they had made music in March. Clemency’s harpsichord was open, with some music splayed on the top. There were shoes in the fireplace, where a fire declared its will to live by sending up thin spirals of smoke. Four shotguns leaned against a wall. Two London newspapers, The Times and the Morning Post, lay open on a settle. Paintings of earlier Trevanions gazed absent-mindedly at each other across the room.
After a long wait a door opened and two spaniels came barking and romping round his feet and legs.
‘My dear Poldark!’ It was Major John Trevanion, his tight-lipped face arranged in the lineaments of welcome. ‘Good of you to call. How are you? There’s been a devilish lot of sickness about. Pray come in here. It’s altogether more cosy.’
He led the way back into the study, a smaller, lighter room with a view over the terrace. As usual it was in a considerable litter. In a corner by the fire Mrs Bettesworth sat working at her sampler. She smiled, as tight-lipped as her son, and found time from her work to extend a hand, which Jeremy bowed over.
They exchanged conversation about the weather, about the influenza, about the shortage of horses because of the war, about the difficulty of getting good masons to work on the castle, about the forthcoming Bodmin races, of which the Major seemed to have an extensive knowledge. This was not a field of battle of Jeremy’s choice. Indeed, he could not have devised a worse, but he refused to be either over-awed or talked down.
Eventually he said: ‘In fact I called to see how Miss Cuby was, as it is nine or ten weeks since we met.’
After a brief silence Trevanion said: ‘Cuby’s very well, but just for the moment is away. She’s visiting cousins in Tregony. But I’ll tell her you’ve called. I’ll give her any – er – message you would like to leave.’
‘Tell her,’ said Jeremy, ‘that I was disappointed she was not allowed to visit my family on the north coast at Easter.’
‘Not allowed?’ Major Trevanion blinked in a bloodshot way at his mother, who took no notice at all. ‘I think she had previous engagements. Isn’t that it? Well, well, I’m sorry about that, Poldark. We’re all sorry. In fact, if the truth be known, my mother keeps a very firm hand on her children and does not allow them the freedom many modern girls crave.’
‘Would she have the freedom to come on some other occasion – possibly with Augustus?’
‘Augustus is in London,’ said Major Trevanion. ‘He has found himself a post in the Treasury where I think his talents will be well employed. He writes amusing letters.’
‘Mr Poldark,’ said Mrs Bettesworth. ‘l wonder if you would be so kind as to pass me the green silk?’ Jeremy hastened to oblige.
‘He writes amusing letters,’ said Trevanion, laughing before he had got to the joke. ‘Travelled in a hackney coach, he said, in which there was straw on the floor in place of carpet. Went to service in Westminster Abbey, he said, at which there was only one other worshipper apart from himself. The shops, he says, are full of insulting caricatures of everyone in the public eye. French, English, American . . .’
A brief silence fell.
Jeremy said: ‘I trust Miss Clemency is well?’
‘Very well, thank you. She was in Newton Abbot with me last week when my filly, Roseland, won the Queen Charlotte Stakes . . . Returning, we found the roads around Plymouth crowded with soldiers on foot and in carriages, proceeding for embarkation. These were reinforcements for Portugal and for India. Thank God the war has taken a better turn, for it was time.’
‘Indeed,’ said Jeremy.
‘D’you know, such is the scarcity of men with this endless war that I have to pay £30 a year for a manservant of any quality. And the women are demanding more too. I pay £13 a year for a woman cook. How does your father manage?’
> ‘To tell the truth,’ Jeremy said, ‘I have not bothered to inquire on these points. Most of our servants have been with us for as long as I can remember. We don’t have footmen, but we have chiefly women who help my mother; and two men who are employed about the house in a general way.’
‘How many acres does your estate extend to?’
‘About a hundred, I believe.’
‘We have a thousand here, of which half is farm. Then there is about another five hundred in and around the Roseland peninsula, agricultural land of some richness. But of course the five hundred of the castle and grounds are my principal interest. We are sheltered from many winds, and can grow rare and original shrubs. Had I the time I would show you them.’
‘I believe Miss Cuby showed me some of them when I was last here.’
‘Did she? Ah, did she.’
Mrs Bettesworth looked up. ‘I trust you’ll forgive us if we don’t invite you to dine, Mr Poldark. You’ll appreciate that with so reduced a family our arrangements are necessarily constricted and it would be a thought difficult to instruct the cook at this late hour.’
Jeremy got up. ‘Of course. I understand.’ He looked at his hosts. ‘Or perhaps I don’t altogether understand. You’ll forgive me. I come of a family that – that I believe prides itself on its candour. As a result it may be I do not enough esteem that sort of politeness which barely masks disapproval. To offer the reason for such disapproval would be to me a more admirable courtesy than – than to disguise it in meaningless words. Mrs Bettesworth . . . Major Trevanion: good day to you both.’
He bowed and strode to the door. His hand on the door trembled with anger.
‘Wait, Poldark.’ John Trevanion kicked at one of the spaniels which was fussing round his boots. ‘Mama, these animals need some air. I’ll walk Mr Poldark to his horse.’
‘Of course,’ she said and paused a moment, needle in hand. ‘Good day, Mr Poldark. I wish you well.’
Jeremy did not notice the hall or the porch as he strode through them. Beyond the front door, which was on the sheltered side and away from the sea, was a large open archway. At the mouth of this he had tethered Colley to a convenient post.
Trevanion had not kept pace with him but he caught up with him as he was about to mount. The wind blew Trevanion’s thin brown hair.
He said: ‘Not good enough.’
‘What?’
‘You asked for the reason. Isn’t that plain? We don’t consider you good enough for Cuby. The Trevanions have been in this district, almost on this very spot, for five hundred years. 1313, to be exact. Makes a difference, you know. You’re a pleasant young feller, Poldark, with a taking way about you. As a guest in our house you’d be welcome now an’ then. But as a husband for my sister – which is plainly what you’re about – you just don’t come up to snuff. See? That plain? That clear? We have higher ambitions. Sorry.’
‘And Cuby?’
‘Oh, Cuby . . . She’s a flirt. Didn’t you notice? She likes young men. At her age, who would not? She believes in having many strings to her bow. That we are not averse from. Let her have her little romances. But you were becoming too serious. When her young men become serious then we become serious. See? She’s still very young. In a year or two we shall pick a husband together; she and her mother and I will pick one, and then he will be one suitable to us all.’
The two spaniels, released, were tearing around on the gravel not far from Colley who clapped his foot restively when they approached.
Jeremy said: ‘What danger do you suppose there was in my being serious if your sister was not serious?’
‘My sister,’ said Trevanion, ‘is serious two or three times a year. Eh? Eh? There was a stonemason here last autumn on whom she lavished a schoolgirl affection, but she soon outgrew it when she met another young man.’ He guffawed. ‘That was all quite acceptable because it was outrageous. But you are a gentleman and therefore your attentions must be treated on a different level. If you think us discourteous, pray consider the difficulty we are in.’
‘The difficulty,’ Jeremy said, hardly able to control his voice, ‘the difficulty of telling a fellow Cornishman that he is not good enough, because, apparently, although a gentleman, he is too small a gentleman.’ He mounted. ‘It’s true. Our acres are not so large as yours – or our pedigree quite as long. But reflect. You are a Bettesworth who became a Trevanion. I haven’t had to change my name at all.’
The thin florid man sharply flushed. He had been Sheriff of Cornwall at twenty-four years of age, and no one for long enough had dared to say such a thing to him.
All he said was: ‘I’d advise you to clear off, Mr Poldark.’
III
It was five o’clock in the afternoon and Jeremy had not cleared off. He was on high ground, sitting his horse, on a farm track on rising ground half a mile from the castle. It had taken him some time to find this vantage point. From it he could not see the archway protecting the front door of the house but he could see pretty well all the paths and ways that led from it. He had been there two and a half hours now. Colley had made a reasonable meal off the hedges to the lane, but he had not eaten at all. He was not hungry. He was capable, he felt, of staying there another twenty hours if need be.
Twice surly yokels had passed him by. The sun had gone behind drifting clouds. On the opposite side of the hill they were beginning to cut the hay; just four in a very large field, two women in bonnets, two boys. Soon after he left, Major Trevanion had walked round to the back of the house, to the unfinished part. There were no workmen there and there seemed no evidence of progress since before Easter. Trevanion had soon returned and gone indoors. About three a nursemaid had taken his two little boys for a walk along the seashore. They had been out nearly an hour. Apart from this, no one had entered or left the castle all afternoon.
Mrs Bettesworth’s voice, thought Jeremy, had a Welsh intonation. Had they been lying about Cuby – was she really from home, or locked – he thought dramatically – perhaps locked in a room upstairs? But they could not have seen him coming in time. And Cuby, however much the youngest of the family, did not look the sort who would suffer such an indignity quietly. She would kick at the door. Yet Jeremy knew the discipline that existed in most such families. Cuby had never known her father, who had died while serving in the Dragoon Guards before she was born; her elder brother had taken over that role. Was Mrs Bettesworth as compliant as she appeared, or was she in fact the power behind it all?
Colley was getting restive at last, tired of supporting his master all this time. Yet if one dismounted one could see too little of the scene.
A puff of dust on the hillside. It was at the top of the lane he had himself come down. The hedges were high and powdered with may blossom, but presently he saw horses passing a gateway. Three. He turned Colley round and moved forward a pace or two. Two women and a man. His heart began to thump. He had recognized one of the women, almost certainly the other. The man was in some sort of uniform.
He moved along the lane, dismounted, unlatched a gate, walked his horse across the next field. Another gate and he was out in the lane. He did not bother to remount.
Voices, and a girl laughing. He could not see them, and they would not see him until they rounded the bend twenty yards up the hill.
Even in this dry weather a little rill of water was bubbling down the side of the lane. The hedge here was like a patriotic emblem: red campion, white milkmaids, and the shiny, gauzy bluebells. Giant ferns were sprouting.
They came into view. It was Clemency and Cuby. The man in uniform – thank God – was a footman.
They stopped. There was no room to get past anyhow. Jeremy took off his hat.
‘Good day to you.’
It was Clemency who had been laughing. Unlike Cuby she was a very plain girl, but very amiable. She stopped laughing now, the animation in her face giving way to surprise. Cuby slowly flushed.
‘I have been calling to see you,’ said Jeremy, ‘but alas you wer
e out. I hope you’re both well.’
Clemency gave her horse’s head a tug. ‘Mr Poldark. What a surprise! Isn’t it a surprise, Cuby! I declare it is quite a surprise.’
‘A great surprise,’ said Cuby.
‘I saw your mother and your brother,’ said Jeremy, ‘and we talked of current things for a while. How is Augustus?’
‘In London.’ Clemency glanced at her sister. ‘We are returning for tea. Perhaps . . . you would care to join us now?’
‘Thank you, I’ve already taken my leave. It would seem inappropriate to return.’
The horses were all a little restive, backing and pawing in the narrow lane.
‘Wharton,’ said Clemency, ‘will you ride on with me. I want a word with Mrs Clark at the home farm. Miss Cuby can join us in a few minutes.’
‘Yes, miss.’
Clemency leaned down, extending her hand. ‘Good day, Mr Poldark. I am sorry we were out. Perhaps another time . . .’
Jeremy kissed her glove. ‘Of course.’
He held his horse to one side to allow the others to pass. Cuby remained quite still in her saddle. Her face was at its least animated, most sulky.
When the others had disappeared down the next corner of the lane Jeremy said: ‘So you saved me from the Preventive men and now you don’t want me.’ She looked at him briefly, then out to sea.
Jeremy said: ‘It’s the law that anything washed up on his foreshore is the property of the lord of the manor.’
She pushed a wisp of hair under her tricorn hat, kneed her horse so that he could munch at the grass. Jeremy said: ‘Or lady, as the case may be.’
‘Don’t joke with me, please.’
‘I knew a boy at school who always laughed when it hurt most.’
‘Why did you come today? Wasn’t the letter sufficient?’
‘From your mother? No. Why didn’t you answer mine?’
‘What would have been the good of that?’
‘Do you not think I am owed a little personal explanation? When we last met you kissed me and – ’