The Stranger From the Sea

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ said Mrs Pope. ‘But my accusation was not in jest, it was in earnest!’

  When she smiled the resemblance disappeared. The mouth was more wilful, the eyes a little aslant, the expression less composed.

  ‘Well,’ said Valentine, ‘since I am accused, committed and condemned without a trial, what is my sentence?’

  ‘Oh, sir, I’m not the judge; I’m the victim.’

  ‘Then if I may pass sentence on myself it is to be in constant attendance on you for the rest of the evening.’

  Selina Pope delicately passed the tip of her tongue over her lips. This young man was so mature and so forward of manner that the dozen-odd years that she was his senior hardly seemed to count.

  He said innocently: ‘Is that your father-in-law?’

  ‘No, my husband.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. And the two young ladies?’

  ‘His daughters by a former wife.’

  ‘And do you live in this neighbourhood, Mrs Pope?’

  ‘At Place House. It used to belong to the Trevaunances.’

  ‘Oh, I know it. Do you come into society much?’

  ‘We are seldom invited,’ said Mrs Pope candidly.

  ‘Then should I be permitted to call?’

  ‘On my two stepdaughters?’

  Valentine looked her un-innocently in the eye. ‘Of course . . .’

  The low sun was coming round into the dining-room: motes floated in the sunbeams as the noise of conversation rose and fell . . .

  Lady Harriet said: ‘I do not know whether to take your confession to me as a great compliment, Sir George, or as a greater insult.’

  ‘Insult? How could that be?’

  ‘That your feelings towards me must have been most sincere I fully acknowledge. Since you must be aware of what people say of you, it cannot offend you to know that I am the more impressed that you should risk your fortune for me, having in mind the reputation that you bear. For caution. For mercantile shrewdness. For – even – sometimes – parsimony.’

  George stared at the food put before him but did not touch it.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  ‘Is that reason for insult?’

  ‘No, for an acknowledgment of the compliment. What insults me, dear Sir George, is that you suppose I am like so many other things in your life and may be bought.’

  ‘Not so! That was not my intention at all!’

  ‘Then pray how do you interpret it?’

  Like a goaded bull George glowered round the table, but everyone seemed preoccupied with their own food and conversations.

  ‘I have already explained, Lady Harriet. I did not think your brother, the Duke, approved of my addressing my attentions to you. I felt that with greater wealth I would merit more serious consideration. I have already done my best to explain this . . .’

  ‘Indeed you have. So far as money is concerned, much would have more and lost all. Is that the truth of it?’

  ‘Not all. I am now just solvent; it will be the work of some considerable time before the situation is fully repaired. But I am not better off; I am, I must confess, much worse off; in other words I have not improved my position or circumstances in any way which would stand me in better stead either with you or with your brother, the Duke. Hence my predicament, hence my reluctance to impose myself on you in any way during the last six months . . .’

  ‘Sir George, I wish you would not call him my brother, the Duke. The former is true and has some relevance. The latter, though true, none at all. This is all very interesting . . .’ Lady Harriet went on with her food for a moment. ‘All very interesting. Do you know how old I am?’

  ‘No, madam.’

  ‘I am thirty. And a widow. The widow of a hard-drinking, hard-riding, hard-swearing oaf. Yes, dear Sir George, oaf, even though his pedigree was impeccable. I am not a docile gentle girl, Sir George. I was not to him. I never would be to any man. Still less would I be so to my brother, who has his own life to live, and may good fortune attend on him. For what he believes or thinks I care not a snap of the fingers. If he found me some rich and aristocratic husband I would consider the matter entirely on its merits without regard to my brother’s feelings. Similarly, if I should ever contemplate taking a husband without first informing “my brother the Duke”, it would not matter a curse whether he approved of it or not . . . So, Sir George, if you are at present in straitened circumstances, take heed that you have done yourself no good by speculating in order to impress me, nor special harm by losing a fortune in the attempt to impress me. That is all I can say now. Pray turn to the lady on your left. She is anxious to speak to you about something. No doubt she wants your opinion on her stocks and shares.’

  . . . Colonel Webb was telling Caroline that in spite of the cheerful newspapers he was of the opinion that the Peninsular Army was bogged down and deadlocked in front of Badajoz and the River Guadiana. Wellington could not move safely fore or back. Neither indeed could Marmont. Personally he felt sorry for troops pinned down in such a pestilential part of the world.

  ‘God help them all,’ said Webb, wiping his moustache. ‘What with the heat and the flies and the fevers – not to mention the snakes – there’ll be no need for fighting to fill the hospitals and the graves.’

  ‘So long as the French are in like position . . .’

  ‘Oh, worse, for they are subject always to those cutthroat brigands who infest every inaccessible corner of the countryside and, calling themselves the Spanish army, descend on any French outpost with the utmost ferocity. They say the French lose on average a couple of hundred men a week – and have done so for years – by these tactics. There is one man, I forget his name – nay, it’s Sanchez – who whenever he catches a courier sends his head and his dispatches to Wellington by special messenger.’

  ‘I have never met a Spaniard. No doubt they are a cruel race.’

  ‘Alas, they have good reason, ma’am. The atrocities of the French upon them shall be nameless. Sometimes one thinks God sleeps.’

  Colonel Webb was addressed across the table by Dwight, and Caroline turned again to Jeremy.

  ‘Has Clowance seen much of Stephen Carrington, do you know?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. Only twice when I have been there, and I have seen a lot of Stephen . . .’

  ‘You like him?’

  Jeremy wrinkled his eyebrows. ‘Yes. But my parents have also asked me this. That it should be necessary to ask seems to put the answer in doubt.’

  ‘What do you like about him?’

  ‘Oh, pooh, what does one like about a man? His company. One doesn’t fall asleep when he’s about.’

  Caroline forked at a piece of flimsy-light pastry. ‘D’you know there’s an old Cornish saying; Dwight was reminding me of it yesterday on another matter. It goes:

  “Save a stranger from the sea

  And he will turn your enemee.”

  Jeremy said: ‘I can’t imagine that ever happening with Stephen. He’s a warm-hearted fellow, and I think he would do a lot not to become my enemy.’

  ‘Does Clowance like him?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘A little bit more than that?’

  ‘You must ask her yourself, Aunt Caroline.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare!’

  Jeremy laughed, and Clowance, as if sensing some mention of herself, looked up the table at them.

  ‘What a very handsome woman Mrs Enys is,’ said Valentine to her. ‘Thin for my preference, but I fancy her colouring. And of course her arrogance. Are you arrogant, Clowance? It gives a girl an added sparkle.’

  ‘I’ll remember.’

  ‘But don’t approve?’

  ‘Oh, it is not for me to say . . .’

  ‘You think my tastes too catholic?’

  ‘I have not thought about it.’

  ‘Well, it is such a pleasure to come to a dinner-party at which there are so many good-looking women. I seldom remember a better. Not counting Mrs P
elham because she is elderly, there are: one, two, three, four, five! Do you realize how many thousands of depressingly plain women there are in the world? And hundreds downright ugly. Pretty ones stand out like – like beacons . . .’ Valentine waved his fork extravagantly and then said in a newer, quieter voice: ‘Your mother is pretty, isn’t she.’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘I remember, though it’s years since I saw her. There was some duel fought over her in London, wasn’t there.’

  ‘That was a long time ago.’

  ‘1799. The year my mother died.’

  ‘Was it? I didn’t remember. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I was only five then – same as you.’ Valentine screwed up his eyes as if in some effort of recollection. ‘I think my mother was something more. I think she was beautiful. I remember her quite well. There are of course two portraits of her that hang at Cardew to remind me. Why do you not come and see them?’

  ‘I’d like to,’ said Clowance. ‘In September, perhaps, before you go back to Eton?’

  ‘And we’ll have a Christmas party,’ said Valentine. ‘Will you also come to that?’

  Just before the ladies rose George said: ‘When may I call on you, ma’am?’

  Harriet held a wine glass to her lips, letting the glass gently touch her teeth. ‘I am busy this month.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Yes, it is a surprisingly busy time. Even though there is no hunting there is much to do. I lead a social life, Sir George.’

  ‘I’m sure you do.’

  ‘In the close-knit Cornish world one becomes too well known in too short a time.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said George again, more coldly.

  After an appropriate pause, Harriet put down her glass.

  ‘But August is easier. I could be free in August.’

  ‘Then . . .’

  ‘Is Saturday a suitable day?’

  ‘I will make it so.’

  ‘Come to tea on the second Saturday in August.’

  ‘It will be a party?’

  ‘If you wish it.’

  ‘No, I do not wish it.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Harriet. ‘Pray come at five. I shall be alone and will call in Dundee to act as chaperone.’

  II

  Ben Carter had been offered the post of underground captain at Wheal Leisure, to take effect as soon as there was anything substantial underground to supervise. He had always been one on his own, a solitary, and it was against his instincts to accept. But his grandfather added his persuasion to Jeremy’s.

  ‘Tedn’t just any old job,’ Zacky had said. ‘I’ve worked for the Poldarks most all my life, an’ shall be purser to this new venture if my health permits. I know your mother better prefers to keep her distance, but that be because of strange-fangled notions she have of her own and is no reflection. Indeed if you but ask her she’d tell ee the same. Captain Poldark put his health and position at risk trying to save your father.’

  ‘Tedn that ’tall,’ said Ben. ‘There’s no one in the land I’d sooner prefer to work for if I’m to work for anyone. Tis just that I’ve grown up to be my own man.’

  ‘That I well d’know. An’ it suits you, Ben. But if you live on your own an’ work on your own all your life, like as not you’ll end up not knowing where you’re to. Half saved. Egg-centric. So my advice is, take this and see how you d’get on. Your fishing, your own mine – they won’t run away. If things build up wrong you can always leave.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ben thoughtfully. ‘Reckon that’s true.’

  So for the time being he worked with the others in building the mine house and sinking the shaft. With 40s. a month coming in he was better off than he had ever been in his life. Not that he needed the money. He had a contempt for money and could have lived off the land.

  One of the unspoken inducements to his working there was his chance of seeing more of Clowance. One of the dampening surprises was the discovery that Stephen Carrington was to work there also. There had never actually been words between them, but all Ben’s hackles were raised when he saw Stephen assembling with the others one morning to begin digging the shaft. There was something about him he couldn’t stand. Stephen was too big in his manner, too open-handed, too easy and too confident on nothing. What was he, for God’s sake? An out-of-work sailor. Yet he might have been the youngest captain in His Majesty’s navy the way he bore himself. And – the unforgivable sin – he had an eye for Clowance; and, horror of horrors, she seemed as if she might have an eye for him. Was it credible that she should be attracted by his big bold face and curly blond hair and expansive manner? Was it credible that Clowance, the clear-sighted, the candid, the down-to-earth and totally honest girl whom Ben revered, should be taken in by such a man?

  To sink an engine shaft nine feet by nine feet required eight men in relays of four working six hours each. It was calculated that in the hard ground they were in it would take about a month to sink five fathoms. This meant that by the time the house was finished they would be down sixty feet, and if it took a further month to install the engine they would by then be below the lowest levels so far. It then remained only to link up by means of an underground tunnel.

  Ben watched jealously how Stephen worked but could find no cause for complaint. Unfortunately for Ben the other young man was strong and willing and capable. Furthermore, Ben saw little of Clowance, for she was still avoiding Stephen. She took care to make her appearances when he was not at the mine or when there were others about.

  Of course she knew she would have to confront him sometime . . . unless he should eventually get tired and clear off again. Did she want that? It certainly seemed that she wanted it. But, she asked herself, might it not be better to send him away, having confronted him, than just see him become discouraged and go of his own accord? There was anyway, in Jeremy’s conversation, no hint of his thinking of going. Did she not perhaps, in her belief that she could dismiss him, send him away in disgrace, presuppose her having a greater importance in his life than she really had?

  But a week before the dinner-party there was a meeting.

  Daisy Kellow had called at Nampara in the evening and, hearing that all the men were at Wheal Leisure, had suggested to Clowance they should walk up. But when Daisy got there she found the dust from the work getting on her chest and retreated with Paul who had returned early from two days attending to his father’s coaching work in Truro and had strolled up on his own. Clowance decided it was too early to go home, and the fact that Stephen was there wielding a pick could be no bar to her staying. So she stayed, rather obviously talking to Ben, and, when he was busy, to Jeremy, not totally ignoring Stephen but generally hovering out of speaking distance. They were building the second of the low walls to carry the cylinder beams. The ends of these beams would be lodged in the walls; but the platform would not be built on them until the house was otherwise finished. She expected Jeremy would walk home with her to supper but he said:

  ‘Tell Mama I shall be another half-hour. I want to use the last daylight. D’you mind? Or stay if you like.’

  ‘No, I’d better go. Otherwise they will be wondering.’

  Ben came up to her shoulder. ‘Come with you, shall I?’

  ‘No, Ben, I wouldn’t drag you away.’

  ‘Twouldn’t be dragging no one away. He’s near complete.’

  ‘No,’ she laughed. ‘See you in the morning.’

  ‘Aye. I hope so.’

  She slipped and slithered down the cliff path to the beach. The twilight stretched emptily over the wide sands. The sea was half-tide and quiet. A few pools reflected the sky’s evening frown.

  ‘Can I walk with you?’ said a voice behind her as she was about to jump on to the sand.

  Her nerves lurched. He must have seen her leave and at once downed tools. Or perhaps he had been leaving anyhow.

  She said: ‘I’m just going home.’

  She jumped and he jumped after her. ‘I know,’ he said.

  He fe
ll into step beside her. She had tried to make her voice noncommittal, neither friendly nor cold.

  He said: ‘I’ve seen little of you, Miss Clowance.’

  ‘Really? Oh . . .’

  There was one light showing in Nampara, in her parents’ bedroom. But lights in the parlour would not show from here; they were blocked off by a shoulder of grass-covered rock.

  ‘I think you’ve been shunning me,’ he said.

  ‘Why should you think that?’

  ‘In near on three weeks we’ve not seen each other once. Properly, that is. You did not come down to dinner when your folk invited me in. You’re indoors so much, all this fine weather.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘You know you are. And – and when you come out you’re always with someone.’

  He had grown his hair longer since last year and it now touched his shoulders so that he looked more leonine than ever. But there was no surplus flesh – his face was quite thin.

  He said: ‘Did you get my letter?’

  ‘What letter was that?’

  ‘The one I wrote. Telling you I was coming back.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘And when I came back it was a mite misfortunate, wasn’t it, that you should see me first with Miss Violet Kellow.’

  ‘Why should it be misfortunate?’

  He stopped, but as she did not stop he had to take some quick paces to catch up with her.

  ‘I explained to Jeremy. Didn’t he explain to you?’

  ‘What was there to explain?’

  ‘You know what there was to explain. Look, Clowance, I thought you were an honest girl . . .’

  The sand here was pitted, ridged and corrugated just below the afternoon high-tide mark. Clowance frowned and patted some of the ridges flat with her foot, then went on.

  He said: ‘I explained to Jeremy. I didn’t like to break in on you that night, that first night I came back, with me not knowing your father. And when I came to the bonfire you were chatting and laughing all the time with that fellow Carter. And looking at him. And looking at him . . . So I went to go home, back to Will Nanfan’s to get an early night, and I just met Violet Kellow. She was mad to see the bonfire, though she’d got a fever and a cough on her that would have affrighted most girls. She was gay, hectic-like, headstrong. I felt sorry for her. I went along with her. She’s a lively girl and pretty in her way. But she means naught to me. No more that that stone, there! You’re the one I care about!’