Demelza

  When it was all over, Demelza asked the time. The seamstress went to see, and it was just noon. Well…she’d done her part. She could do no more. No doubt the date was wrong and he was still at sea.

  The little bell in the shop pinged noisily and her heart leaped, but it was only a Negro page boy to ask whether the Honorable Maria Agar’s bonnet was finished.

  Demelza lingered over some silk ribbons, but Verity was anxious to get her own shopping done. They had arranged to take a meal at Joan Pascoe’s, an ordeal Demelza was not looking forward to, and there would be little time for shopping after that.

  There were more people in the narrow street when they left the shop. A cart drawn by oxen was delivering ale at a nearby gin shop. Ten or twelve urchins, undersized, barefoot, and scabby, and wearing men’s discarded coats cut down and tied with string, were rioting among a pile of garbage. At the end of the street by the West Bridge a sober merchant had come to grief in the slippery mud and was being helped to his feet by two beggars. A dozen shopping women were out, most of them in clogs and with loops to their wrists to keep their skirts out of the dirt.

  “Miss Verity,” said a voice behind them.

  Oh God, thought Demelza. It has come at last.

  Verity turned. Riding and shopping brought a delicate flush to her cheeks that they normally lacked. But as she looked into Andrew Blamey’s eyes the color drained away—from her forehead, her lips, her neck—and only her eyes showed their blue grayness in a dead-white face.

  Demelza took her arm.

  “Miss Verity, ma’am.” Blamey glanced for a second at Demelza. His own eyes were a deeper blue, as if the ice had melted. “For years I dared to hope, but no chance came my way. Lately I had begun to lose the belief that someday…”

  “Captain Blamey,” said Verity in a voice that was miles away, “may I introduce you to my cousin, Mistress Demelza Poldark, Ross’s wife.”

  “I’m honored, ma’am.”

  “And I, sir.”

  “You are shopping?” Blamey said. “Have you engagements for an hour? It would give me more pleasure than I can express…”

  Demelza saw the life slowly creeping back into Verity’s face. And with it came all the reservations of the later years.

  “I don’t think,” she said, “that any good can come of our meeting, Captain Blamey. There is no ill thought for you in my heart… But after all this time, we are better to renew nothing, to assume nothing, to—to seek nothing…”

  “That,” said Andrew, “is what I passionately challenge. This meeting is most happy. It brings me the hope of—at least a friendship where hope had—gone out. If you will—”

  Verity shook her head. “It’s over, Andrew. We faced that years ago. Forgive me, but there is much we have to do this morning. We will wish you good day.”

  She moved to go on, but Demelza did not stir. “Pray don’t consider me, Cousin. I can do the shopping on my own, truly I can. If—if your friend wants a word with you, it is only polite to grant it.”

  “No, you must come too, mistress,” said the seaman, “or it would be talked of. Verity, I have a private room as it happens at an inn. We could go there, take coffee or a cordial. For old times’ sake…”

  Verity wrenched her arm away from Demelza. “No,” she said hysterically. “No! I say no.”

  She turned and began to walk quickly down the street toward the West Bridge. Demelza glanced frantically at Blamey, then followed. She was furious with Verity, but as she caught up with her and again took her arm, slowing her footsteps, she realized that Andrew Blamey had been prepared for the meeting while Verity had not. Verity’s feelings were just the same as Blamey’s had been that morning she went to Falmouth, a shying away from an old wound, a sharp-reared hostility to prevent more hurt. She blamed herself for not warning Verity. But how could she have done that when Verity—

  Coming to her ears were all sorts of noises and shouts, and in her present upset and confused state she came to link them with Blamey.

  “You’ve left him far behind,” she said. “There’s no hurry now. Oh, Verity, it would ha’ been fine if you’d given him a hearing. Really it would.”

  Verity kept her face averted. She felt stifled with tears; they were in her throat, everywhere but her eyes, which were quite dry. She had almost reached the West Bridge and tried to push her way toward it, but found herself blocked by a great number of people who seemed to be talking and staring up the way she had come. Demelza too was holding her back.

  It was the miners, Demelza saw. By the West Bridge there was a center block of ancient houses with narrow streets like a collar about them, and in the roundabout the miners who had come down River Street were milling, jostling each other, packed tight together, shouting and shaking their weapons. They had lost direction, being set for the Coinagehall, but the junction of streets and alleys had confused them. Half a dozen of their number and several ordinary people had been pushed into the stream by the pressure from behind, and others were fighting in the mud to avoid following; the old stone bridge was packed with people struggling to get across it. Demelza and Verity were on the very edge of the maelstrom, twigs circling the outer currents and likely at any time to be drawn in. Then Demelza glanced behind her and saw people, miners, gray and dusty and angry, coming in a mass down Kenwyn Street. They were caught between two floods.

  “Verity, look!”

  “In here,” said a voice, and her arm was grasped. Andrew Blamey pulled them across the street to the porch of a house. It was tiny, it would just hold the three of them, but they might be safe.

  Verity, half resisting, went with them. Andrew put Demelza behind him and Verity by his side, protecting her with his arm across the door.

  The first wave of the flood went past them, shouting and shaking fists. It went past them at speed. Then came the impact of the crowd at the bridge: the speed slackened as rushing water will slacken and fill up a narrow channel once there is no further escape. The miners became eight, ten, fifteen, twenty abreast in the narrow street and some of the women began to scream. They filled the whole of Kenwyn Street, a gray and haggard horde as far as you could see. Men were being pressed against the walls of the houses as if they would burst them open; glass cracked in the windows. Blamey used all his strength to ease the pressure in the doorway.

  No one could tell what was happening, but the earliest comers must have found their direction, and it began to ease the congestion beyond the bridge. The flood began to move turgidly away across the neck of the bridge. Pressure eased, the crowd ebbed, at first slowly, then more quickly toward the center of the town.

  Soon they were stumbling past in ragged columns and the three in the porch were safe.

  Andrew lowered his arm. “Verity, I beg of you to reconsider…” He caught sight of her face. “Oh, my dear, please…”

  She pushed past him and plunged into the crowd. The movement was so swift and reckless that neither of the others was quick enough to follow.

  Then Blamey went shouting “Verity! Verity!” over the heads of the people who separated them, and Demelza followed.

  But even that second was enough to set people between them, and he with his greater strength, fighting ahead to catch Verity, soon widened the gap until Demelza lost sight of him.

  Demelza was above average height, but they were all tall men ahead of her and she pushed and turned and craned her head to no purpose. Then as they neared the bottleneck of the bridge she had no room or strength to look for the others; she could only fight for herself to avoid being diverted and pushed into the river. Men and women were squeezed upon her from all sides, elbows and staves poking and pressing and jerking; the great crowd animal seized her breath and gave her nothing in return. For moments they were stationary, shouting and sweating and cursing, then, sullenly silent, they would surge one way or another. Several times she lost her foothold altogether, and
went along without using her legs, at others she stumbled and had to clutch at her neighbors to save herself from going under. Quite near her a woman fell and was trampled on by the crowd. Then another fainted, but she was picked up and dragged along by a man beside her. Beyond her sight there were splashings and screamings and the clash of staves.

  Even past the bridge the very narrow street gave no good outlet.

  Near its objective, the crowd was getting angrier, and its anger took more of the air, consuming it in great waves of heat and violence. Lights and spots danced before Demelza’s eyes, and she fought with the others for room to live. At last they were out of the worst press and bearing down Coinagehall Street. The crowd was making for the big corn warehouses that stood beside the creek.

  Captain Blamey was away to her right—she saw him suddenly—and as she began to recover she tried to fight toward him.

  The press grew again, bore her forward and slowly brought her to a standstill, surrounded by angry sweating miners and their women. Her good clothes were too conspicuous.

  Before the big doors of the first warehouse citizens and burghers of the town were gathered to defend the rights of property. A fat, soberly clad man, the Citizen Magistrate, was standing on a wall, and he began to shout soundlessly into the great growling noise of the mob. Behind him was the corn factor who owned the warehouse, a fat man with a habit of blinking, and two or three constables of the town. There were no soldiers about; the justices had been taken by surprise.

  As Demelza pushed her way toward the corner, where Blamey was, she saw Verity. He had found her. They were standing together against a stable door, unable to move farther for the crowd of people about them.

  The magistrate had turned from reason to threat. While all that could be done would be done, that did not mean that those who broke the law would not be punished according to the law. He’d remind them of the trouble at Redruth the previous month when one of the rioters had been sentenced to death and many thrown into prison.

  There were cries of “Shame!” and “Cruel an’ wicked!”

  “But we want no more’n what’s right. We want corn to live by like the beasts o’ the field. Well, then, sell us corn at a fair an’ proper price an’ we’ll go home wi’ it peaceable. Name us a price, mister, a fair an’ proper price for starving men.”

  The magistrate turned and spoke to the corn factor beside him.

  Demelza pushed her way between two miners, who glared at her angrily for the disturbance. She had thought to cry out to catch Verity’s notice but changed her mind.

  The justice said, “Mr. Sanson will sell you the corn at fifteen shillings a bushel as a concession to your poor and needy families. Come, it is a generous offer.”

  There was a growl of anger and dissent, but before he replied the little miner bent to consult with those around him.

  At last Demelza got within speaking distance of her friends, but they were separated from her by a handcart and a group of women sitting on the handcart, and she did not see how she could get nearer. Neither Andrew nor Verity saw her, for their gaze was toward the parley at the doors of the warehouse, although it might never have been happening for all they took in.

  “Eight shillings. We’ll pay ye eight shillings a bushel. ’Tis the very top we can afford, an’ that’ll mean hardship an’ short commons for all.”

  The corn merchant made an expressive gesture with his hands before even the magistrate turned to him. There was a roar of hostility from the crowd, and then suddenly in the silence that followed Demelza heard Andrew’s voice speaking low and quick.

  “…to live, my dear. Have I expiated nothing, learned nothing in these empty years? If there’s blood between us, then it’s old and long dry. Francis is changed, that I can see, though I’ve not spoken to him. But you have not changed, in heart you have not…”

  There was another roar.

  “Eight shillings or nothing,” shouted a miner. “Speak now, mister, if it’s to be peace, for we can ’old back no longer.”

  Verity put up a gloved hand to her eyes.

  “Oh, Andrew, what can I say? Are we to have all this again…the meeting, the parting, the heartache?”

  “No, my dear, I swear. Never the parting…”

  Then it was all lost in the roar that greeted Sanson’s obstinate refusal. The little miner went from his perch as if a hand had plucked him, and there was a great surge forward. The men on the steps of the granary put up a show of resistance, but they were leaves before a wind. In a few minutes tinners were hacking with their staves at the padlock on the door of the warehouse, and then the doors were open and they surged in.

  Demelza clung to the handcart to stop herself being carried toward the warehouse, but then men seized the handcart to load it up with grain, and she had to give way and press herself against the stable door.

  “Demelza!” Verity had seen her. “Andrew, help her. They will knock her down.”

  Verity clung to Demelza’s arm as if Demelza were the one who had forsaken it. The tears had dried on her face, leaving it streaky and uncomely. Her black fine hair was awry and her skirt torn. She looked unhappy—and painfully alive.

  Those inside the warehouse were passing out sacks of grain to those who were waiting for them, and mules, which had been held in the background, were already coming down the street to be laden with the booty. The warehouse, drawing all toward it as a gutter will draw water, was thinning out the people near Demelza and Verity.

  “This way,” said Blamey, “there is a good chance now. Better than later, for maybe they will start drinking when the corn’s away.”

  He led them back to Coinagehall Street, which was clear of the tinners. But the townsfolk were out in their numbers, talking nervously together and discussing how best to prevent the looting from becoming widespread. The miners had come into town on a fair grievance, but appetite feeds on appetite and they might stay.

  “Where are your horses?” asked Blamey.

  “We were to have eaten with the Pascoes.”

  “I’d advise you to defer it to a later day.”

  “Why?” said Demelza. “Could you not dine there too?”

  Blamey glanced at her as they walked around Middle Row.

  “No, ma’am, I could not, and though no doubt their bank building is strong and you would be safe inside it, you would later face the problem of leaving it to ride home, and the streets may not be safe by then. If you dine with the Pascoes, then be prepared to stay the night.”

  “Oh, I could not do that!” said Demelza. “Julia would need me, an’ Prudie is so wooden.”

  “Andrew,” said Verity, her steps slowing, “won’t you leave us here? If Bartle sees you the news of this meeting may reach Francis, and it may seem to him like a deliberate, a—a…”

  “Let it,” said the seaman. “There may be other rioters about. I have no intention of leaving you until you are safe out of this area.”

  Bartle was in the stables, and while the horses were being saddled they sent a messenger to the Pascoes. Then they were up and away.

  There were no rioters in Pydar Street, but people had come out of their houses and were gazing apprehensively down the hill. Some carried sticks themselves.

  At the top of the hill the way was too narrow to ride three abreast in comfort, so Demelza, taking things into her own hands, first told Bartle to go a little ahead to see if there were any pickets or rioters and then spurred her own horse forward to join him.

  Thus they rode home in silence, two by two, under the lowering sky. Demelza tried to find a little conversation with Bartle, while at the same time straining her ears for sound of talk behind. She did not catch it, but a little took place, a few low words now and then, the first signs of green in a desert after rain.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jud had been fairly behaved for so long that Prudie overlooke
d the signs of a change. The settled domestic life of Nampara—so unlike old Joshua’s regime—had had a pacifying effect on her own impulses and she had come to think that the same was true of him. Ross left early in the morning—he was away three and four days a week—and when Demelza was out of sight, Prudie settled herself in the kitchen to brew a dish of tea and talk over the week’s scandal with Jinny Carter, overlooking the fact that an hour before she had caught Jud taking a sup of gin while he milked the cows.

  Jinny, in an odd way, had come to fulfill for Prudie much the same function that Demelza had done; in short, she did most of the rough work of the house and left Prudie to potter and to brew her tea and gossip and complain of her feet. When Demelza was about, it wasn’t quite as easy as that, but when she went out, things settled into a very comfortable groove.

  Jinny had been talking of Jim, of how thin and ill he had looked, of how she nightly prayed that the next eight months would slip away so that he might be free to come home. Prudie was glad to hear that she had no thought of leaving her work at Nampara. There was to be no more going down the mine for Jim, Jinny said. She had made him promise he would come back and work on the farm. He had never been so well as when he worked there and they never so happy. It wasn’t mining wages, but what did that matter? If she worked they could make do.

  Prudie said, oh, there was no tellin’, things was upsy down, and it might be that them as worked on a farm would soon be earning more than them as went below, if half she’d heard tell of copper and tin was true. Look at Cap’n Ross, galloping about the countryside as if Old Scratch was at his coattails, and what was the use? What was the good of trying to puff life into a cold corpse? Better if he saved his smith’s fees and looked to his own taties.

  During that, Jinny was in and out of the kitchen three or four times, and on her last return wore an anxious look on her thin young face.

  “There’s someone in the cellar, Prudie. Truly. Just now as I were passing the door…”