The Miller's Dance

  Clowance got up, went to the window, then turned and looked at him from a greater distance. Nearness to him always distorted her judgment.

  ‘And the sailor?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The one you . . .’

  ‘Oh, it was but a light jab. He was already starting to climb upon his feet before I slammed the door in their faces.’

  She said: ‘You should never have gone!’

  ‘To Penzance? To Plymouth? Or to the tavern?’

  ‘What am I to answer to that?’

  ‘Clowance, m’love, it is in me nature to take risks. I was brought up rough – as you know. Life for me has always been – a fight. A sort of a fight. If a cat grows up wild, tis hard to tame it. Do you badly want to tame me?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m not sure.’

  He smiled at her, showing his broken eye tooth. But his look warmed her. There was no fight in him so far as she was concerned.

  ‘Being pressed is always a risk a man runs who lives in a port. Especially a seaman. That I should have thought more closely about. I promise I’ll think more closely next time.’

  ‘Is there to be a next time?’

  ‘Maybe not. Not likely, is it, when I’ve got so much to lose?’

  ‘You did this time.’

  ‘Yes. I confess it. I’m guilty. But I didn’t think so far ahead. I didn’t see the risk. At least . . . all’s well that ends well.’

  She half smiled, not sure. ‘Is it?’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘If you say so, I suppose it is.’

  He got slowly to his feet, took a bag out of the inside pocket of his loose jacket. ‘Here’s your money, m’love. Thirty-six pounds. When we’re wed maybe I’ll take your money; but till then I’ll only borrow it.’

  She looked at the bag but did not put out a hand. He set it down on the table with a clink that clearly gave him satisfaction.

  ‘And best thanks to you for the loan. I sold that lifeboat for eighty pounds. What d’you think of that? Fifty-nine pounds profit. Hoare and Stevens cost me two guineas each; Paul twenty. Then it cost me around five pounds for food and drink and travel. That’s a nett profit of around thirty pounds. And your own money back safe and sound. Now will you give me a kiss for it?’

  Chapter Eight

  I

  George Warleggan and Harriet Carter were united in Holy matrimony at noon on the 1st May, 1812, in the church of Breage, near Helston. Sir Christopher Hawkins gave the bride away. The Reverend Richard Knava, who happened to be Vicar of Luxulyan thirty-five miles away, but held also the benefices of Breage, Germoe, Cury and Gunwalloe, performed the ceremony. He was a portly man and a second cousin of the bride, and did well out of his five livings. A wedding breakfast was held at Godolphin Hall. Harriet’s aunt, Miss Darcy, had been persuaded to relax her disapproval of the marriage for long enough for the guests to be entertained and for the meal to be taken. The Duke and Duchess of Leeds, brother and sister-in-law of the bride, had not travelled from London to attend the nuptials. This would have been a sign of family affection and approval which even George could not have expected.

  All the same there was a fair smattering of distant relatives who appeared to have made their home in the West Country, and they were a formidable group. All seemed excessively tall, long-nosed and arrogant. Although George was a knight and a man of power and distinction both in the county and out, they made him feel uncouth.

  George, who really wished the wedding to be as quiet as possible, and who had by recent bereavement been excused the necessity of inviting his mother, had for obvious reasons made an exception for Major John Trevanion and his two sisters – also for about a half-dozen people with whom he was involved in some business deal or other and who, he knew, would be flattered to be asked. His uncle Cary had been informed of the occasion but not been invited, for the refusal would have been blunt, automatic, and probably not polite. His son Valentine, as planned, was at Eton, and he had written to him to appraise him of the event late enough to be sure that the letter would not arrive until the wedding was over. His daughter, Ursula, was better at home on this occasion, he had decided. Ursula had not taken too well to the idea of having a stepmother to rule over her. But they would all soon, no doubt, settle down together.

  One guest who irritated him by being there was Lady Whitworth, with her big voice, her dewlaps, her button eyes and her powder-crusted skin. She arrogantly presumed on a tenuous relationship with them both. (Being herself a Godolphin she was of course a distant relative of Harriet’s.) But since her large and bumptious son, the Revd Osborne Whitworth, had been killed when his horse bolted, she had striven to maintain this other connection, which existed only on the strength of George’s first wife’s cousinship with Whitworth’s wife, that shy, short-sighted, high-breasted, long-legged girl who had now married into the Poldark family. The marriage between Osborne Whitworth and Morwenna Chynoweth, which George had engineered, had been a disaster from the start, and the sight of Lady Whitworth, booming and blinking and fanning herself and putting on – when she could – a proprietorial air towards him, was a constant annoyance and a reminder of the whole sordid sequence which George would have been glad to forget.

  Still worse – and certainly uninvited here today – was the solitary outcome of that miscalculated coupling: John Conan Osborne Whitworth – known as Conan after his great-uncle – a burly short-sighted pallid boy who looked as if he hardly ever saw the daylight and whose hair was so close cropped and finely growing as to resemble mouse fur. Shortly to be sixteen, he had put on an inch in height since last year and lost a couple of inches round the waist. His interest in food, however, had not abated. Had he recently been rescued from some desert island on which he had lived for years on a diet of coconuts and lugworms, he could not have been more concerned at the wedding breakfast not to be turned empty away. He gave George an uncomfortable feeling of looking at the Revd Osborne Whitworth all over again – for they now closely resembled each other – but in some ways worse, for Ossie, give him his due, had had manners and a presence. And his brain, when its attention was not turned to lust or preferment, had been a good one. He had enjoyed food and drank well, but neither to excess in a time when excess was the norm. Had he had the good fortune he constantly contrived for, he would have made a tolerable bishop.

  After the breakfast two carriages were waiting for Sir George and Lady Harriet Warleggan. Followed by her maid in a phaeton with luggage and personal belongings, they would bump and lurch over the narrow rutted road to Helston and from there take the new turnpike for Truro. Five or so miles before Truro they would turn off right, over the creek and up the hill to Cardew.

  There there would be no one waiting for them but little Ursula and her governess and an eager, well-drilled and well-paid staff. He meant to impress his bride, even though in the nature of her breed and upbringing she was unimpressionable. For eighteen months he had been waiting for this day. It should not pass unmarked. Great fires would be roaring in the withdrawing-room and in the dining-room. Another in the bedroom. A hundred candles would burn where a dozen were customarily used. A choice meal would be served, light and savoury, with the best French wines. Nothing should be spared. A nuptial fit for a knight bachelor preparing to mate with the sister of a duke.

  All very different from his marriage to Elizabeth. But one must forget that . . .

  He looked at his new bride. There was a hint of hardness in her face, an aristocratic harshness which seemed to have become more perceptible to him since he moved among so many of her tall hatchet-faced kinsmen today. Either their manner had rubbed off on her or it had alerted his perceptions to the similarity. Not that she was not handsome – quite beautiful in some lights. And young. By his standards very young. She had put thirty on the certificate, and he hadn’t the least doubt it was the truth. Mature and yet still fresh. Ideal. They sat opposite each other in the carriage but he began to want to touch her. His possession now. No nonsense abou
t it. He thought of moving over beside her, of stroking her cheek, her neck. Yet it was beneath his dignity to behave like an amorous boy.

  ‘I have brought Philbert,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Who?’ George stared at her. ‘Oh? . . .’ This was her pet, a strange horrid little beast, smaller than a squirrel, which seemed to come alive when night fell. ‘Where?’

  ‘He is with Camilla. In his box. He will not disturb us.’

  George shifted uneasily. ‘Can Camilla deal with him?’

  ‘He is especially attached to me. But I’m sure he will not bother you.’

  ‘I am none too used to having animals roam about the house.’

  ‘Well, I’ll promise not to bring Dundee further than the hall.’

  George stared at her and then laughed. Or it was as near to laughter as he ever came. ‘For a moment I thought you were serious.’

  They jogged along. The countryside was not yet at its best. To a Londoner the trees would have seemed unnaturally late, but in the farthest west, though hedgerow flowers were well in advance of the rest of England, trees held back their leaves as if fearful of the next gale. The day had begun dull but was brightening; glimpses of the sea showed beryl blue between declivities in the low cliffs.

  George began to realize he wanted this woman badly. He had so often successfully subdued his impulses over the past years that it had not occurred to him it would be different now. It was different now. She was sitting there in front of him. Belonging to him. And he knew what was to come.

  She said: ‘The groom will bring over Castor and Pollux tomorrow.’

  He rubbed his chin. He would need shaving again before tonight. They were just about to enter the little town of Helston. From here the road would be better – far less chance of the coach overturning. The horses fell to a walk and began to pull up the cobbled main street, the coachman clucking to them and flicking his whip. Small granite houses watched them pass. A knife-grinder stood in the gutter, one foot carelessly in a trickling rivulet as he worked his machine with the other. Four ragged children fell in beside the coach, two each side, walking with hands extended. Three lads were fighting and a housewife was shouting at them. A stage coach was filling up outside the Angel. Those travelling outside were well muffled.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘About your dogs.’

  ‘They are coming tomorrow.’

  ‘My house will be full when they arrive.’

  ‘I fear they are part of the entourage. That was agreed.’

  ‘Of course.’ But not that they should roam rampant anywhere through Cardew the way they had done at Polwendron.

  ‘After all, my dear George, think how much more agreeable it must be for you that you have to put up only with two boarhounds and a galago when instead I might have come to you trailing a half-dozen whining children such as those we have just passed.’

  She was looking casually out of the window at the last cottages of the town, the chimney of a mine smoking, a train of mules, a great mountain of rubble almost spilling on to the road. The wan sunlight fell on her firm features, fine skin, brilliant jackdaw black hair. What time was it? He did not like to look at his watch but he judged it to be about six-thirty. In two hours it would be dark. They would probably arrive at Cardew about eight. Then it would be at least four hours after that before they had bathed, changed, supped and climbed the stairs again. Roughly, one might estimate, five hours from now! He looked at her and wondered if her legs really were rather thick, as he had long suspected. Not pale and very slim like Elizabeth’s, but probably dark-skinned and over-heavy below the knee. He did not mind. She was a dusky woman and the daughter of a duke, who had this day given him the right to explore.

  She raised her eyes, was surprised at what she saw, and had the grace to lower them again under his hot glance.

  II

  A week or so later Paul Kellow met Jeremy and asked him if he thought Captain Poldark would loan his father five hundred pounds. Jeremy was startled, and looked it.

  Paul said sulkily: ‘You may think it a bit steep, but after all we are neighbours, aren’t we. My father and Captain Poldark have often met socially, and then there’s our friendship: you and Clowance and Daisy and Violet and I. We’ve been together a lot these last few years. There’s the work we’ve done together on this horseless carriage at Hayle . . . And there’s your special friendship with Daisy. Naturally we wouldn’t ask if the situation were not serious.’

  ‘What is wrong? Conditions of the day?’

  ‘We have over-extended. You know how it is with innovators, men with new ideas – ordinary people are so hidebound, can’t see the advantages of new things. It’s a dead county anyway.’

  ‘You mean the routes you have opened—’

  ‘Three new ones in the last year. All needed. All contributing valuably to communications. But people aren’t awake to what they are being offered! Perhaps in another couple of years they might become accustomed to a regular service, a coach leaving at a fixed time once a week. But the poor are used to wagons and contrive so to travel, the rich ride or hire post-chaises. By the time they have changed their habits it will be too late.’ Paul laughed huskily. ‘Or too late for us. No doubt second-class carriers coming along after will reap the benefit of our enterprise.’

  ‘That’s a pity. If—’

  ‘Look at the mail coaches,’ Paul said. ‘Just look at them! They compete on the same main routes but they are exempt from tolls! We on the other hand have to pay dearly at every turnpike gate, which means we must charge more or run at a loss! Not enough people are willing to pay extra for day travel. It is a dire situation, I can tell you!’

  ‘I can only ask my father. But would it not be more proper for Mr Kellow to call?’

  ‘I thought our friendship closer and therefore would make the request justifiable.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I see.’ Jeremy stirred the ground with his foot. He would have appreciated it more if Paul had not made it sound as if the Poldarks were in some way responsible. And it was not true that his father and Paul’s father had often met socially: an occasional handshake when their visits to Sawle Church coincided; passing the time of day if they came upon each other on road or track. He happened to know that his father didn’t care for Mr Kellow. On the whole he took his father’s side.

  Everyone was short of money, it seemed.

  ‘You don’t like my asking,’ Paul said sharply.

  ‘Of course I’ll pass the message on. If anything comes of it, then I’m sure my father will want to talk it all out with yours.’ He added: ‘I wish Wheal Leisure were yielding better – then it would be easier.’

  ‘Nothing yet?’

  ‘Oh, something. It’s all thoroughly cleaned and drained now but the quality of the new ground is poor.’

  ‘Anyway, the Poldarks have done well out of Wheal Grace for years. I should not think such a sum too hard to find.’

  Jeremy did not reply. They were near Sawle Church. Fernmore was close by.

  ‘Why do you not come in?’ Paul said. ‘Daisy is always looking for you and you have been noticeably absent since Easter.’

  He had. During the early months of the year he had kept up his light flirtation with Daisy, skating quite agreeably on thin ice. His re-meeting with Cuby had killed all that stone dead. With Daisy he now felt he could only take her into the nearest hayfield and settle for her and arrange a marriage, or keep out of her sight.

  ‘Thanks, but I . . .’ A friendly excuse escaped him. Anyway, what was there for him at home? What was there for him anywhere? ‘Very well, thank you. How is Violet?’

  ‘She coughed blood again last week but has a remarkable way of coming round. Inspect her for yourself. She will love to see you too.’

  It was nearly dark before he was able to get away. His father had been out but was likely to be back by now. Jeremy wondered whether to bring up Paul’s request tonight. It was an awkward thing to be asked and he was
not sure that Paul and he should have been employed as go-betweens. But when creditors pressed . . .

  He had often noted the shabby comfort of the Kellow home, as Stephen had observed it earlier. Both girls spent money on dressmakers and Paul was always well-clad and well-shod, but Mrs Kellow invariably looked harried and overworked. With the property only rented there would be nothing to offer as surety for loans or to sell if a crisis became too severe. And that startlingly bright invalid; what would happen to her?

  His father and mother were just finishing supper and he slipped into a chair with an apology for being late, telling them where he had been. They talked in a desultory way over the meal. Clowance, it seemed, was out with Stephen at the Trenegloses. Last Saturday’s newspaper had just come with further details of the triumph of Badajoz, but there was still no word from Geoffrey Charles. Friction with the United States was becoming more and more frequent as American ships tried to run the blockade and came into conflict with the British Navy. The paper reported an action which had taken place in the Bay of Biscay, ‘Sparring by accident,’ they called it, between an American frigate and an English brig of war, in which thirty had been killed in the English ship before the action broke off. The paper also carried advertisements for American vessels which had been captured and condemned as prizes, now up for sale together with their cargoes.