The Miller's Dance

  ‘Time,’ said Stephen. ‘That’s of it. I’m prepared to wait. With your permission.’

  ‘Why do you need my permission to wait?’

  ‘When we were to be wed you gave us the Gatehouse. This summer I’ve spent much time and some money putting it to rights. But it is still your property. If Clowance is not to have it you may want to take it back.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Ross. ‘Yes, I see.’

  They were coming into the shelter of the hawthorns and nut trees that bordered the lane. Here the misting rain was less thick but the drops when they came were heavier. In returning to Nampara, even if he had only been a few miles, this was the part that Ross loved best. He knew himself to be on his own land; Wheal Grace flickered and steamed on his right, the stream must soon be forded, and then he would be at Nampara, where supper waited, and, in spite of any family problems which might present themselves, he was home. He looked at the heavy young man beside him.

  ‘Do you intend to stay in this area whether or no?’

  ‘Yes. At least for a while. Oh yes.’

  ‘And still work at Jonas’s?’

  ‘It’s a living of a sort.’

  ‘You feel that Clowance will once again change her mind?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘I don’t think you should take that for granted. I’m slightly in a dilemma here, Stephen.’

  ‘What dilemma?’

  ‘Clowance may feel strongly that she may wish you at a greater distance.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘As for myself, I’m trying to be fair. I want Clowance to be under no duress. Nor do I wish to deal unjustly in this matter with you. So may I make a bargain?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Stay at the Gatehouse for three months. At the end of that time come and see me again. The bargain is that in that time you will undertake not to see more of Clowance than chance dictates. Not to call on her specially. Not to write to her. Not to deny her her freedom to live her own life and to make up or remake her own mind as she wishes. More than anything I want her to be happy. Do you?’

  The question at the end came like the sudden production of a pistol after a rational argument. Stephen halted and rubbed the moisture off his face.

  ‘I think she will find her best happiness with me.’

  ‘I’m sure you think so. But if she finally decided not to marry you, would you agree that she had full freedom to choose to marry someone else and seek her happiness elsewhere – without any interference?’

  He was silent again. ‘I couldn’t do any other, could I.’

  ‘And go away then?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose.’

  ‘I do not know whether Clowance will be content with the terms I suggest. But first of all they are there for you to accept or refuse.’

  ‘And if I refuse ’em?’

  ‘I shall want the Gatehouse back. Though I shall certainly pay you for any expenses you have incurred in putting it to rights.’

  They walked a few more paces, their boots squelching in the mud. A bell rang at Wheal Grace. A cricket rubbed his wing covers together in the hedgerow.

  ‘I accept,’ said Stephen.

  BOOK THREE

  Chapter One

  I

  In Trevorgie Mine they found eleven complete ‘rooms’ of various sizes, from which the ore had been worked in a regular manner, pillars of killas and granite being left and the walls squared off. One wondered if anyone had actually lived here, and how long ago. One complete skeleton was found and part of another. No other coin was discovered, but a number of tools and buckets and baskets of which the wooden parts again crumbled to dust when touched. Of course the workings as a whole did not date so far back as Ben and Clowance had supposed: most of them were probably seventeenth-century – or at the earliest Tudor – style of tool, character of excavation showed that; but these themselves were clearly a development and enlargement of much earlier tunnelling, the development largely obscuring what the earlier tunnelling had amounted to.

  The question mark – and the coin – remained. Dwight’s encyclopaedia informed them that Antoninus Pius Titus Aurelius Fulvus had been Emperor of Rome from 138 to 161 AD and had been in Britain about the year 140. He had generally been a just and benign ruler. Who, representing him, what primipilus or centurion had first ordered this mine to be worked – or re-worked? – and who had laboured in it?

  For the Poldarks, however fascinated they might be by the extreme antiquity of the mine, another consideration took precedence. Indeed, Ross put out a request that no one should mention the great age of the discovery because he did not want antiquarians arriving from Truro or Exeter and holding up work. He also issued instructions that an area round the bend in the tunnel where the coin had been found should not be developed or interfered with.

  In all probability the original metal mined had been tin; copper a fairly late quest. With all the branches and tunnels leading off the ‘rooms’ and the less developed caves, it would take a month or more to explore the find. Three pairs of tributers at once accepted pitches where a modest amount of copper was indicated. In the shaft that Ben and Clowance had first explored, the tunnels had followed the lode down and water barred their way.

  It looked, from the remains there were of wheels and pipes and rods, as if there had been an attempt to drain it; but those levels had now filled up and offered a daunting prospect to unwater. Just for the moment Ross let this problem lie on the table – with a few others. Wheal Grace was losing money now. Unless some last-minute find reprieved her, she must close within a year.

  Parliament was to reassemble on December the first, but it would have to do without Ross. Demelza was up and down in health – mopish, she called herself – but pooh-poohed it in front of him. Eventually she agreed to see Dwight officially, who prescribed some medicines for her without any great confidence that in so doing he was getting to the root of the trouble. ‘It is a disorder of the blood,’ he said to Ross. ‘And possibly some infection of the kidneys. That will give rise to these mild fevers. The fashionable treatment for this is still leeching, but my practice is to try to build up the patient’s strength rather than to lessen it. After all, she has two lives to sustain.’

  ‘This swelling of the hands and of the face.’

  ‘She’s certainly very much out of sorts.’

  ‘And she drinks too much port.’

  Dwight smiled. ‘I hope that doesn’t give you cause for alarm.’

  ‘Not as such. But . . .’

  ‘She asked me about the port. She complains of giddiness, of faintness. Has she told you?’

  ‘No, not that . . . And what did you say?’

  ‘It is not carried to excess, is it?’

  Ross rubbed at his scar. ‘She’s never drunk, if that’s what you mean. She sometimes becomes a little merry.’

  ‘Let it be for the time. It is only about eight weeks now. I think the wine will be a useful stimulant.’

  In late October Ross saw an advertisement in one of the local newspapers for ‘a fine toned grand Pianoforte, lately the property of a nobleman. Twenty-five guineas.’ It was an address in Truro, so the next time he was in he bought it and left it to be delivered when he sent the word.

  The same newspaper contained more details of the fall of Moscow, which had only just been announced to the Russian people by the Czar. After General Kutusov had abandoned Moscow the Governor, a man called Rostopchin, had ordered the city to be set ablaze and had taken away all the fire-engines. The city had burned for three days and then a great wind – the first violent gale of winter – had arisen and the city had lit up again with even more ghastly fervour. A thousand palaces had been destroyed, it was said, one thousand six hundred churches, thirty thousand sick and wounded burned to death. And with them had gone all the food and victuals to see the province through the winter. Nobles and commoners alike were ruined, as indeed was Russia. Apparently a hundred of the ruffians who fired the city had been captured and shot
; the universally execrated Governor Rostopchin had fled. Some thought him in the pay of the French.

  Jeremy wrote to Cuby but did not receive a reply.

  Stephen, breaking his agreement with Ross, wrote to Clowance but did not receive a reply.

  Demelza, taking things easier than usual, wrote to Geoffrey Charles but did not receive a reply.

  Ben, in spite of Clowance’s requests, did not return to Wheal Leisure as underground captain. Clowance – and Jeremy – were concerned that Ben and Stephen were living too close to each other and that a chance encounter might lead them to conclude their unfinished business.

  Demelza, seeing her daughter’s unease and unhappiness, said to her one day:

  ‘Clowance, I have told you from the beginning I’d better prefer that you and Jeremy should be elsewhere when the baby is born, just as you were ten years ago. Why do you bother to wait until next month? I can write to Aunt Verity and ask that you may go on a visit to her next week. You could stay until nearly Christmas.’

  Clowance went on stroking the cat.

  Demelza said: ‘To speak the truth of it, you have twice before gone away to – to distance yourself, to make up your mind about Stephen. This would be different, for now it seems you have made up your mind. But while he stays so close it must be a sort of embarrassment . . .’

  ‘It is an embarrassment,’ Clowance said. ‘Of course Papa was trying to be fair, but I wish he had turned Stephen out of the Gatehouse. I wish he could go away so that I shall never see him again.’

  ‘Well, the next best thing is that you should go instead. And you’ll not be too far away. Half a day’s ride . . .’

  ‘But if you have to take things more easy . . .’

  ‘This is all coddling nonsense, my lover. Where I came from when I was young, bal maidens would work at the mine until the day before a baby was born, and not uncommonly were at work again the day after.’

  ‘All the same, that does not follow . . .’ Clowance was about to ask another question but restrained herself. She asked it the next day of Caroline, who had called and found herself cross-examined when she was leaving and waiting for her horse.

  ‘Your grandmother? Your mother’s mother? I don’t know. She was very young: twenty-five or twenty-six. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I think she died in childbirth – when Uncle Drake was born. I think Mama told me once.’

  ‘Maybe. Why do you – oh, Clowance, how silly! You mustn’t think such stupid things!’

  ‘Why are they stupid?’

  ‘Well . . . there is nothing wrong with your mother; nothing serious, that is.’

  ‘Does Uncle Dwight say so?’

  Caroline glanced uneasily round to be sure Demelza was still out of earshot. ‘He thinks she should take care. Just as a precaution – nothing more. In any event, there is no similarity – no comparison. From what your mother has told me, her mother lived in poverty and great squalor and had a drunken husband. You could hardly call the circumstances the same!’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘And she had seven children in about eight years.’

  ‘This is Mama’s fifth. It is not, I suppose—’

  ‘Over about twenty-five years. Besides, do you not have a greater faith than that in your dear Dr Enys?’

  ‘I know he has pulled me through some grave times,’ said Clowance. ‘At least two stomach aches . . . Well, yes, I suppose it is all silly. But this scheme that is now being hatched to ship me away to Falmouth for a month . . .’

  ‘We can send over at the least thing.’

  ‘But will you? Will you promise, Caroline, personally, to send over – not to be swayed by them, to send over at the least thing?’

  ‘If Dwight thinks so, I’ll send right away.’

  ‘Even so,’ said Clowance decisively, ‘it is too soon. Mama will do things if I am not here that she would not do if I were. Do you know, after all this time she has never become used to servants in the way you are, even in the way I am? If she is short of a needle and thread she might ask me to run up to her room for it, if I were immediately about, but she would never, never, never think of ringing for Ena or Betsy Maria.’

  Caroline laughed. ‘Some women are born with great energy. Your mother is one. To her it is easier to move than to wait.’

  ‘That’s why I think I should stay home a little longer.’

  ‘I do not think Dwight supposes she should do nothing for the next month – only that she should be careful. Do you think your personal supervision will make her more careful?’

  ‘It will make her more irritable,’ said Clowance, and they both laughed.

  II

  On November 21 the newspapers carried the announcement that Napoleon had left Moscow. Information as to his reasons was scanty. But having occupied a burnt-out Moscow for five weeks, it seemed likely that his army had become short of provisions. The Russians had made no attempt to re-take their largest city, nor apparently had made any move at all. But neither had the expected surrender come in. There were reports that the French were now making south for Kaluga, no doubt towards warmer climates before the winter set in.

  On the day that this news arrived Clowance had an encounter with Stephen.

  It was almost inevitable sooner or later in so small a community. Rosina Carne, Demelza’s sister-in-law, had been over with some baby clothes she had been making and had stayed for dinner. About three she left for home, and Clowance, feeling the need of exercise, said she would go with her. From Nampara to Pally’s Shop was about four miles and by the time they reached there, there was less than an hour’s daylight left. Clowance refused tea and said she would turn around and start back at once.

  ‘Sam’ll be in any minute,’ said Rosina. ‘He’ll be glad to walk you back so far as his Meeting House.’

  ‘No, thank you. I shall be fine. And his meeting is not till six, is it?’

  ‘Or you could borrow the little pony. Bring him back tomorrer.’

  ‘No, really. I shall enjoy the walk. This month I have been very lazy.’

  ‘Then just let me wrap you up these cakes. I should have brought them except that my hands were full!’

  Rosina began to wrap the cakes. As she did so there was a tap on the door. She opened it and Stephen stood there.

  ‘D’ye do, Mrs Carne. Is Clowance there?’

  ‘Well – er – I’m not quite sure—’

  ‘Of course you’re sure, Mrs Carne. I saw you both just come in. You’ll give me leave to enter? How d’ye do, Clowance. You going home?’

  Clowance found her throat was tight. ‘Presently.’

  ‘Then I’ll wait.’

  It was Saturday, and he was not in his working clothes. In the tiny room he looked too big, as if he could push the walls down. His lip still looked swollen; yet it could hardly be so after all these weeks.

  ‘How’ve you been?’ he asked.

  She felt the colour mounting as he looked her over. ‘Well, thank you.’

  ‘Ah . . . You be home for Christmas?’

  Rosina said nervously: ‘If you want me to leave you alone, Clowance . . . Or I’ll stay if you want me to stay.’

  ‘Leave us alone,’ Stephen said. ‘Eh? Five minutes. That fair? Go wrap your cakes.’

  Rosina looked at Clowance, who made no sort of sign. She might have been a graven image. After hesitation Rosina said: ‘I shall be in the kitchen if you want me.’

  ‘I want you now,’ said Clowance. ‘Here.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Stephen. ‘So that’s how the land lies, is it?’

  ‘That’s how the land lies.’

  ‘You too stiff scared to speak to me alone?’

  ‘What is there to say?’

  ‘What is there to say? That the sun rises and the sun sets. And you belong to me.’

  ‘I belong to nobody!’ she said passionately.

  ‘Oh no? You’ll find you do. In the end you’ll find you do.’

  ‘Well, the end isn’t yet, is it.’


  ‘No, the end isn’t yet. You’ve got to learn a lesson first.’

  ‘I’ve already learned it, Stephen,’ she said.

  ‘May be we’re not talking about the same one. Allow me to tell you—’

  ‘I don’t want to listen,’ she said swiftly. And to Rosina: ‘Isn’t that Sam?’

  ‘Yes . . . I think he’s just stabling his pony.’

  Stephen stooped to look out through the window. ‘She don’t want to listen, Mrs Carne. That’s what she says. Isn’t that strange?’

  Rosina did not reply.

  ‘How’d it be,’ Stephen said, ‘If I told you and then you could tell her?’

  ‘Mr Carrington . . .’

  ‘Mrs Carne. Tell her I’m off in the New Year. Tell her I’m going back to sea – most likely from Bristol. That’ll be the end of it then. It’ll be all over then betwixt her and me. Six or seven weeks and I shall be gone. Till then I’ll be at the Gatehouse. If she want me, tell her to send a note. I’ll come if she want me, Mrs Carne, to talk – no more. I’ll not be coming asking any favours. It’s not in me nature, see.’ He turned. ‘You know that, don’t you, Clowance.’

  Sam Carne walked into the house, stooping to come through the door. ‘Ah, my dear . . . Oh, good day to you, Clowance. And you, friend.’ He smiled his welcoming, forbearing smile. ‘God be with you. Have you taken tea?’

  ‘Never one to ask favours, Clowance,’ Stephen said. ‘I’ll wed you tomorrow, if need be, but not as a favour. You’ll be my wife or nothing . . .’ There was the semblance of a threat in his tone, and he swallowed it down. ‘Afternoon to you, preacher. No, I’ve not taken tea for I’ve not been asked. Not everyone in this room is as full of the Holy Ghost as you are; so I’m just off. Shall I walk you home, Clowance?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Clowance, ‘I’ll wait for Sam.’

  Stephen looked at her with a frown almost of disbelief, loosened his collar.

  ‘Remember, Mrs Carne, to tell her what I said, won’t you. Tell it her just as I said it, Mrs Carne.’

  ‘I don’t understand ee,’ said Sam, looking from one to the other.

  ‘No, tis not in the Prayer Book,’ said Stephen. ‘Nor yet in the Hymn Book. But it’s God’s truth just the same.’