The Stranger From the Sea

  There was one day he seldom missed visiting Trenwith, and that was on the anniversary of his marriage to Elizabeth. Though the wedding had in fact taken place on the other side of the county, he felt it suitable to spend a few hours in her old home, where he had first met her, where he had largely courted her, where they had spent most summers of their married life, and where she had died even though it was a house that had always been inimical to him, the Poldark family home which had never yielded up its identity to the intruder.

  He rode over with a single groom on the morning of June 20, 1810, and was at the church before noon. It was a glittering, sunny day but a sharp draught blew off the land and made the shadows chill. Chill too and dank among the gravestones, the new grass thrusting a foot high through the tangle of last year’s weeds; a giant bramble had grown across Elizabeth’s grave, as thick as a ship’s rope. He kicked at it with his foot but could not break it. ‘Sacred to the memory of Elizabeth Warleggan, who departed this life on the 9th of December, 1799, beloved wife of Sir George Warleggan of Cardew. She died, aged 35, in giving birth to her only daughter.’

  He had brought no flowers. He never did; it would have seemed to him a pandering to some theatricality, an emotional gesture out of keeping with his dignity. One could remember without employing symbols. Besides, they were a waste of money; nobody saw them, and in no time they would be withered and dead.

  He had taken care that she should be buried far from any of the Poldarks, particularly from that festering bitch Agatha who had ill-wished them all. He stood for perhaps five minutes saying nothing, just staring at the tall granite cross, which was already showing signs of the weather. The letters were blurring, in a few more years would become indistinct. That would never do. They would have to be cleaned, re-cut, cut more deeply. The whole churchyard was in a disgraceful state. One would have thought the Poldarks themselves would have spent a little money on it – though certainly their own patch was not as bad as the rest. The Reverend Clarence Odgers was a doddering old man now, so absent-minded that on Sundays his wife or his son had to stand beside him to remind him where he had got to in the service.

  Nankivell, the groom, was waiting with the horses at the lych-gate. George climbed the mounting stone, took the reins, and without speaking led the way to the gates of Trenwith.

  The drive was nearly as overgrown as the churchyard and George resolved to berate the Harry brothers. It was a big place for two men to keep in condition, but he suspected they spent half the time drinking themselves insensible. He would have discharged them both long ago if he had not known how much they were feared and hated in the district.

  Of course they were waiting for him at the house, along with the one Mrs Harry, whom rumour said they shared between them; all smiles today; this was his one expected visit of the year so they had made an effort to get the place clean and tidy. For an hour he went around with them, sometimes snapping at their explanations and complaints and apologies, but more often quite silent, walking with his memories, recollecting the old scenes. He dined alone in the summer parlour; they had prepared him a fair meal, and Lisa Harry served it. She smelt of camphor balls and mice. The whole house stank of decay.

  So what did it matter? It was not his, but belonged to the thin, arrogant, inimical Geoffrey Charles Poldark now fighting with that blundering unsuccessful sepoy general somewhere in Portugal. If, of course, Geoffrey Charles stopped a bullet before the British decided to cut their losses and effect another panic evacuation like Sir John Moore’s, then of course the house would come to him; but even so did it matter what condition it was in? He had no further interest in living here. All he was sure was that he would never sell it to the other Poldarks.

  When the meal was finished he dismissed the Harrys and went over the house room by room, almost every one of which had some special memory for him. Some he thought of with affection, one at least with concentrated hate. When he was done he returned to the great hall and sat before the fire Mrs Harry had prudently lighted. The sunshine had not yet soaked through the thick walls of the old Tudor house. He had not decided whether to stay the night. It was his custom to lie here and return on the morrow. But the bedroom upstairs – his bedroom, next to Elizabeth’s old bedroom – had looked uninviting, and not even the two warming-pans in the bed were likely to guarantee it against damp. The year before last he thought he had caught a chill.

  He looked at his watch. There was time enough to be back in Truro, if not Cardew – hours of daylight left. But he was loath to move, to wrench at the ribbon of memories that were running through his brain. He lit a pipe – a rare thing for him for he was not a great smoker – and stabbed at the fire, which broke into a new blaze. It spat at him like Aunt Agatha. This was old fir; there was not much else on the estate except long elms and a few pines; not many trees would stand the wind. It was after all a God-forsaken place ever to have built a house. He supposed Geoffrey de Trenwith had made money out of metals even in those far-off days. Like the Godolphins, the Bassets, the Pendarves. They built near the mines that made them rich.

  The first time he had seen Aunt Agatha was in this room more than thirty-five years ago. Francis had invited him from school to spend a night. Even then the old woman had been immensely old. Difficult to believe that she had survived everybody and lived long enough to poison the first years of his married life. Years later she had been sitting in that chair opposite him now – the very same chair – when he had come into this room to tell his father that Elizabeth had given birth to a son, born, prematurely, on the 14th February and so to be called Valentine. She had hissed at both of them like a snake, malevolent, resenting their presence in her family home, hating him for his satisfaction at being the father of a fine boy, trying even then with every ingenuity of her evil nature to discover a weak spot in their complacency through which she could insert some venom, some note of discord, some shabby, sour prediction. ‘Born under a black moon,’ she had said, because there had been a total eclipse at the time. ‘Born under a black moon, and so he’ll come to no good, this son of yours. They never do. I only knew two and they both came to bad ends!’

  In that chair, opposite him now. Strange how a human envelope collapsed and decayed, yet an inanimate object with four legs carved and fashioned by a carpenter in James II’s day could exist unchanged, untouched by the years. The sun did not get round to the great window for another hour yet, so it was shadowy in here, and the flickering cat-spitting fire created strange illusions. When the flame died one could see Agatha there still. That wreck of an old female, malodorous, the scrawny grey hair escaping from under the ill-adjusted wig, a bead of moisture oozing from eye and mouth, the gravestone teeth, the darting glance, the hand cupped behind the ear. She might be there now. God damn her, she was more real to him at this moment than Elizabeth! But she was dead, had died at ninety-eight, he had at least prevented her from cheating the world about her birthday—

  A footstep sounded, and all the nerves in his body started. Yet he contrived not to move, not to give way, not to accept . . .

  He looked round and saw a fair tall girl standing in the room. She was wearing a white print frock caught at the waist with a scarlet sash, and she was carrying a sheaf of foxgloves. She was clearly as surprised to see him as he was to see her.

  In the silence the fire spat out a burning splinter of wood, but it fell and smoked unheeded on the floor.

  ‘Who are you? What d’you want?’ George spoke in a harsh voice he had seldom cause to use these days; people moved at his bidding quickly enough; but this apparition, this intrusion . . .

  The girl said: ‘I am sorry. I saw the door open and thought perhaps it had blown open.’

  ‘What business is it of yours?’

  She had a stillness about her, a composure that was not like excessive self-confidence – rather an unawareness of anything untoward or wrong.

  ‘Oh, I come here sometimes,’ she said. ‘The foxgloves are handsome on the hedges just now. I’
ve never seen the door open before.’

  He got up. ‘D’you know that you’re trespassing?’

  She came a few paces nearer and laid the flowers on the great dining table, brushed a few leaves and spattering of pollen from her frock.

  ‘Are you Sir George Warleggan?’ she asked.

  Her accent showed she was not a village girl and a terrible suspicion grew in his mind.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Mine?’ She smiled. ‘I’m Clowance Poldark.’

  II

  When Clowance returned to Nampara everyone was out. The front door was open, and, she went in and whistled three clear notes: D, Bb, A, then ran half up the stairs and whistled again. When there was no response she carried her foxgloves through the kitchen into the backyard beyond, filled a pail at the pump where twenty-six years before her mother had been swilled when brought to this house, a starveling brat from Illuggan, and thrust the flowers into the water so that they should not wilt before that same lady came in and had time to arrange them. Then she went in search.

  It was a lovely afternoon and Clowance was too young to feel the chill of the wind. Spring had been late and dry, and they were haymaking in the Long Field behind the house. She saw a group standing half way up the field and recognized her mother’s dark head and dove-grey frock among them. It was refreshment-time, and Demelza had helped Jane Gimlett carry up the cloam pitcher and the mugs. The workers had downed tools and were gathered round Mistress Poldark while she tipped the pitcher and filled each mug with ale. There were eight of them altogether: Moses Vigus, Dick Trevail (Jack Cobbledick’s illegitimate son by Nancy Trevail), Cal Trevail (Nancy’s legitimate son), Matthew Martin, Ern Lobb, ‘Tiny’ Small, Sephus Billing and Nat Triggs. They were all laughing at something Demelza had said as Clowance came up. They smiled and grinned and nodded sweatily at the daughter of the house, who smiled back at them.

  ‘Mug of ale, Miss Clowance?’ Jane Gimlett asked. ‘There’s a spare one if you’ve the mind.’

  Clowance had the mind, and they talked in a group until one after another the men turned reluctantly away to take up their scythes again. Last to move was Matthew Martin, who always lingered when Clowance was about. Then mother and daughter began to stroll back towards the house, Clowance with the mugs, Jane bringing up the rear at a discreet distance with the empty pitcher.

  ‘No shoes again, I see,’ said Demelza.

  ‘No, love. It’s summer.’

  ‘You’ll get things in your feet.’

  ‘They’ll come out. They always do.’

  It was a small bone of contention. To Demelza, who had never had shoes until she was fourteen, there was some loss of social status in being barefoot. To Clowance, born into a gentleman’s home, there was a pleasurable freedom in kicking them off, even at sixteen.

  ‘Where is everybody?’

  ‘Jeremy’s out with Paul and Ben.’

  ‘Not back yet?’

  ‘I expect the fish are not biting. And if you look over your left shoulder you’ll see Mrs Kemp coming off the beach with Bella and Sophie.’

  ‘Ah yes. And Papa?’

  ‘He should be back any time.’

  ‘Was it a bank meeting?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They strolled on in silence, and when they reached the gate they leaned over it together waiting for Mrs Kemp and her charges to arrive. The wind ruffled their hair and lifted their frocks.

  It was a little surprising that two such dark people as Ross and his wife had bred anyone so unquestionably blonde as Clowance. But she had been so born and showed no signs of darkening with maturity. As a child she had always been fat, and it was only during the last year or so since she had left Mrs Gratton’s School for Young Ladies that she had begun to fine off and to grow into good looks. Even so, her face was still broad across the forehead. Her mouth was firm and finely shaped and feminine, her eyes grey and frank to a degree that was not totally becoming in a young lady of her time. She could grow quickly bored and as quickly interested. Twice she had run away from boarding-school – not because she particularly disliked it but because there were more engaging things to do at home. She greeted every incident as it came and treated it on its merits, without fear or hesitation. Clowance, Demelza said to Ross, had a face that reminded her of a newly opened ox-eye daisy, and she dearly hoped it would never get spotted with the rain.

  As for Demelza herself, her approximate fortieth birthday had just come and gone, and she was trying, so far with some success, to keep her mind off the chimney corner. For a ‘vulgar’, as the Reverend Osborne Whitworth had called her, she had worn well, better than many of her more high-bred contemporaries. It was partly a matter of bone structure, partly a matter of temperament. There were some fine lines on her face that had not been there fifteen years ago, but as these were mainly smile lines and as her expression tended usually to the amiable they scarcely showed. Her hair wanted to go grey at the temples but, unknown to Ross, who said he detested hair dyes, she had bought a little bottle of something from Mr Irby of St Ann’s and surreptitiously touched it up once a week after she washed it.

  The only time she looked and felt her age, and more than it, was when she had one of her headaches, which usually occurred monthly just before her menstrual period. During the twenty-six days of good health she steadily put on weight, and during the two days of the megrim she lost it all, so a status quo was preserved.

  In the distance Bella recognized her mother and sister and waved, and they waved back.

  Clowance said: ‘Mama, why do Jeremy and his friends go out fishing so much and never catch any fish?’

  ‘But they do, my handsome. We eat it regularly.’

  ‘But not enough. They go out after breakfast and come back for supper, and their haul is what you or I in a row-boat could cull in a couple of hours!’

  ‘They are not very diligent, any of them. Perhaps they just sit in the sun and dream the day away.’

  ‘Perhaps. I asked him once but he said there was a scarcity round the coast this year.’

  ‘And might that not be true?’

  ‘Only that the Sawle men don’t seem to find it so.’

  They strolled on a few paces.

  ‘At any rate,’ said Clowance, ‘I’ve picked you some handsome foxgloves.’

  ‘Thank you. Did you call at the Enyses?’

  ‘No . . . But I did meet a friend of yours, Mama.’

  Demelza smiled. ‘That covers a deal of ground. But d’you really mean a friend?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Something in the way you used the word.’

  Clowance brushed a flying ant off her frock. ‘It was Sir George Warleggan.’

  She carefully did not look at her mother after she had spoken, but she was aware of the stillness beside her.

  Demelza said: ‘Where?’

  ‘At Trenwith. It was the first time ever I saw the front door open, so in I went to look in – and there he was in the big hall, sitting in front of a smoky fire with a pipe in his hand that had gone out and as sour an expression as if he had been eating rigs.’

  ‘Did he see you?’

  ‘Oh yes. We spoke! We talked! We conversed! He asked me what damned business I had there and I told him.’

  ‘Told him what?’

  ‘That he has the best foxgloves in the district, especially the pale pink ones growing on the hedge by the pond.’

  Demelza flattened her hair with a hand, but the wind quickly clutched it away again. ‘And then?’

  ‘Then he was very rude with me. Said I was trespassing and should be prosecuted. That he would call his men and have me taken to the gates. Said this and that, in a rare temper.’

  Demelza glanced at her daughter. The girl showed no signs of being upset.

  ‘Why did you go there, Clowance? We’ve told you not to. It is inviting trouble.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t expect to meet him! But it doesn’t matter. There’s no harm done. I reasoned with him.’ r />
  ‘You mean you answered him back?’

  ‘Not angry, of course. Very dignified, I was. Very proper. I just said it all seemed a pity, him having to be rude to a neighbour – and a sort of cousin.’

  ‘And what did he say to that?’

  ‘He said I was no cousin, no cousin of his at all, that I didn’t know what I was talking about and I’d better go before he called the Harry brothers to throw me out.’

  Mrs Kemp was now approaching. Bella and Sophie were making the better pace on the home stretch and were some fifty yards in front.

  Demelza said: ‘Don’t tell your father you’ve been to Trenwith. You know what he said last time.’

  ‘Of course not. I wouldn’t worry him. But I didn’t think it would worry you.’

  Demelza said: ‘It isn’t worry exactly, dear, it is – it is fishing in muddied streams that I hate. I can’t begin to explain – to tell you everything that made your father and George Warleggan enemies, nor all that happened to spread it so that the gap between us all became so great. You surely will have heard gossip . . .’

  ‘Oh yes. That Papa and Elizabeth Warleggan were in love when they were young. Is that very terrible?’

  Demelza half scowled at her daughter, and then changed her mind and laughed.

  ‘Put that way, no . . . But in a sense it continued all their lives. That – did not help, you’ll understand. But—’

  ‘Yet I’m sure it was not like you and Papa at all. Yours is something special. I shall never be lucky enough to get a man like him; and of course I shall never be able to be like you. . .’

  Bella Poldark, slight and dark and pretty, came dancing and prattling up with a story of something, a dead fish or something, large and white and smelly they had found near the Wheal Leisure adit. She had wanted to tug it home but Mrs Kemp would not let her. Sophie Enys, a year younger and outdistanced on the last lap, soon contributed her account. Demelza bent over talking to them, glad of the opportunity to wipe something moist out of her sight. Compliments from one’s children were always the most difficult to take unemotionally, and compliments from the ever candid Clowance were rare enough to be specially noted. When Mrs Kemp joined them they all walked back to the house, Jane Gimlett having preceded them to put on tea and cakes for the little girls.