The Miller's Dance

  ‘Maybe turning it into a playroom. Bella will like that.’

  ‘I do not think Bella is altogether taken with her new brother. She wrinkles her nose at him.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t when she’s been so spoiled?’

  ‘Spoiled?’

  ‘Well, haven’t we all been? What are you going to call him, by the way?’

  ‘We . . . D’you know, Jeremy, we haven’t decided!’

  ‘When is he to be christened?’

  ‘Christmas Eve, we think.’

  ‘Well, that’ll give us a few days to put our heads together. Would suggestions be welcomed?’

  ‘Of course! Dwight has told me I must spend another three or four days in bed, but I’m not at all certain sure I shall obey him, so when I come down—’

  ‘He is satisfied with you?’

  ‘When was Dwight ever satisfied? I believe he is quite pleased. Caroline came this morning and said he was quite pleased, so I take that to be true.’

  Jeremy went and peered in at the cot. A small round head, a wisp of dark hair, and a single fist like a pink walnut were to be seen.

  ‘Stap me,’ he said, ‘I’m old enough to be his father!’

  ‘Stap me, so you are. Now tell me of your visit to Hayle. Was it fruitful?’

  ‘Oh, unimportant.’

  ‘Never mind, I want to know.’

  He told her. For the first time since he entered, his effortful concentration lapsed and she said:

  ‘Was it not all to your liking?’

  ‘Of course. All is going forward splendidly.’

  ‘I did not think you sounded so full of enthusiasm.’

  ‘Oh . . . possibly I allowed my mind to dwell on something else – the fact that the steam carriage has got no further.’

  ‘Perhaps it soon will. And the war . . .’

  ‘Wonderful news. Papa is pleased?’

  ‘We are all pleased! And relieved.’

  ‘Mama,’ he said, ‘I have bought you a little present.’

  She blinked. ‘My dear life. But why?’

  ‘Should I not? You have just most notably added another Poldark to the world’s population. Isn’t that a cause for celebration?’

  ‘I’m not at all sure! But . . .’

  Jeremy fumbled in his pocket and took out the silver locket. She accepted it and unwrapped it from its tissue paper. She turned it over and presently pressed the catch.

  ‘My dear life,’ she said again. ‘Jeremy, my lover, it’s so kind . . . I don’t know what to say . . .’

  ‘Say thank you,’ he suggested.

  ‘That I’ll do double-fold. Jeremy, I can’t just at this very moment . . . think of more . . .’

  She reached up and he kissed her. ‘I was hoping the new boy would be a redhead,’ he said. ‘Add to the colour in the locket. For a change, don’t you think.’

  Her vision was blurred. ‘I don’t want a change, Jeremy. Thank you. It was so thoughtful. Did both girls consent that you should take a clipping?

  ‘Only Clowance. I robbed Bella while she slept.’

  Demelza laughed, her voice husky. ‘I believe I have children’s hair from when you were all babies; but I better prefer what you have put in. I’ll keep it near my heart.’

  ‘That’s of it,’ said Jeremy in his Cornish voice. ‘Proper job.’

  They talked for a few more minutes; then he snuffed the candles, put coal on the fire, took a further peek at his tiny brother, grinned cheerfully at his mother and left.

  III

  He went straight across to his own bedroom but did not bother to take a light. He slumped down in the one easy chair before the undrawn curtains of the window, stared out. There were a few waifs of light left in the sky defying the encroachment of the December evening. It was cold in here after the warmth of the other bedroom.

  Conan Whitworth’s account was spiteful but convincing. He could not have invented it. And it was almost too circumstantial to be exaggerated.

  It seemed that he had approached Sir George Warleggan before the break for supper, and Sir George had rudely rebuffed him, and immediately afterwards had gone upstairs to his study on the first floor in company with Major Trevanion. Conan had opted to sneak after them. They had shut the door of the study behind them and Conan had decided to see what he could hear through the keyhole. ‘It’s always fun,’ he explained to Jeremy, ‘hearing what you’re not supposed to hear.’ Unfortunately Sir George’s voice was too low, but Major Trevanion’s was always loud and what he said came clearly. And from this it seemed they were discussing some document which referred to Valentine Warleggan and Cuby Trevanion. There was to be a sum of money paid on certain conditions; but an argument developed as to the conditions and the date of payment. Then Major Trevanion had made some remark about ‘sharpening this damned pen’. Whereupon Conan had applied his eye to the keyhole and observed Major Trevanion doing just that. There was further murmuring and conversation and the clink of a bottle. Conan had just dodged away from the door in time as they came out and went downstairs. Major Trevanion had been stuffing some papers into his inside pocket.

  At this stage Jeremy was still half for ignoring the boy and leaving, but he could see that Conan had more to tell, and he could not make the decisive move to tear himself away.

  Conan had gone into the study. By the light of the single candle they had left burning he had lifted the lid of Sir George’s desk and found a document lying open inside. ‘It makes it more exciting,’ he said to Jeremy. ‘I often read other people’s letters.’

  This appeared to be a sort of marriage arrangement. Settlement? said Jeremy. Settlement, yes, Conan said, a settlement; a sort of agreement, all done legally and proper, with Sir George undertaking to pay Major Trevanion the sum of £20,000. £2,000, if Conan remembered rightly, within six months of the signature of the document, and the rest – the £18,000, on the day of the marriage of Valentine Warleggan and Cuby Trevanion.

  There didn’t seem to be any mention of the wedding day, Conan said, eyeing Jeremy slyly for signs of shock; maybe it had not yet been appointed. And signed that evening in the middle of a party? Jeremy asked. No, no, said Conan, all done a week or two ago, sometime in early December, couldn’t recall the exact date, and witnessed: Trembath was the name of one witness, he thought; the other, Blencowe. Arthur Something Blencowe, clerk, of 21, River Street. What about that for a good memory? He was always good at school at memory games. Remembering things on a tray – you know – twenty seconds to look and two minutes to write ’em down. Always won, especially if it was food.

  But you said you thought they were signing something then. Ah, said Conan, stuffing in the last mouthful, that was something different, something arranged that evening, lying there freshly sanded; a further letter of agreement, so to say. Or that’s what it looked like to him. It was marked copy, he remembered. No doubt Major Trevanion had the original.

  Another sort of letter of agreement, Conan said. It stated that Major Trevanion was to receive a further £1,000 immediately in return for the undertaking that he would personally vacate Caerhays Castle within one year of the marriage. It sounded all right, said Conan, didn’t it, it promised well for Master Valentine and Miss Cuby after they were wed.

  The story all came out with relish. Conan might have learned it. No doubt he had repeated the details over and over again in the depths of his devious mind before spilling them out with a peculiar sort of pleased rancour in the shadowed cubicle of Blight’s Coffee House over the greasy table and the crumbs of the pigeon pie.

  But rancour towards whom? Sir George, who no doubt often rebuffed him? To Jeremy himself who probably had not disguised his dislike? Or perhaps it was a kind of spite directed at all mankind.

  On the ride home and now in the privacy of his bedroom Jeremy went over the details again and again. It all fitted. Conan Whitworth might be a repulsive youth but his memory was not in question. It all suddenly fitted. George Warleggan’s ambition for his son, which fed his
own ambition. For twenty thousand pounds he established his son as the husband of a girl of ancient family and put him in possession of one of the noblest houses in Cornwall. For a last extra thousand (Trevanion must really be on the edge) he ensured that Valentine should be sole master of that house.

  It seemed likely that the wedding was not to be just yet. Valentine would probably complete his studies at Cambridge. They might marry towards the end of next year or early in 1814. In the meantime John Trevanion received enough to enable him to keep his head above water, and by next May or June a larger sum to see him safely to land.

  Did either of the principals know? Were they party to this agreement? It seemed improbable, at least as recently as September: he could not believe Cuby would have accepted his light-hearted embraces so light-heartedly in return if she had known this then. Whatever her faults, duplicity in that degree was not among them. Did it matter? Did it matter if either of them knew? For each would dance when the strings were pulled. Cuby had already told him so to his face last Easter, and Valentine would always give way to his father where an arrangement of such importance was involved.

  In any case, why should Valentine object? Jeremy’s stomach turned sick. At that music party last year, had not Valentine made some salacious references to Cuby? – how he would like to untie the bow of her bodice. ‘Watch the way she breathes – doesn’t it give one pretty fancies?’

  Well, might Valentine roast in hell! He was going to get his fancies gratified – and a castle to live in too! Object! Object, in God’s name! What was there to object to?

  Might all the Warleggans roast in hell! Had there not been some rumour last year of George Warleggan and his bank being in trouble? He had heard some passing reference to it between his mother and father but had been too preoccupied with other things to take much notice at the time. And had there not been some suggestion of the Cornish Bank, in which his father was a partner, considering whether to exert pressure to bring the Warleggans down? God in hell! if that had happened Sir George would likely have had no money to contrive his vile stinking schemes.

  His father, Ross, had tried to comfort him last year by saying that, much as Major Trevanion might hope for a wealthy marriage for Cuby, and willing as Cuby might be to further this ambition, there were precious few rich men about – though plenty looking for an heiress. And any rich man who was about would be very unlikely to advance huge sums of money to save his brother-in-law from bankruptcy.

  Well, that was true. Broadly that was true. But both of them had overlooked the Warleggans. This evil family had lain like a blight across his father’s and mother’s life; now it was blighting his too. And there was nothing to be done.

  Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. To confront Cuby. To confront Valentine. To confront Valentine’s father. Cuby would be upset but dedicated to her promise. Valentine would joke it off, saying, dear boy, what can I do? Sir George would be grim and coldly polite, but all the time quietly rejoicing that in furthering his own aims and his son’s advancement he had accidentally dealt a mortal wound to the son of his old rival.

  For more than an hour Jeremy sat in the dark. Sometimes his feelings induced a claustrophobia which made him want to burst open the lattice window, shattering the glass into the yard below. He wanted to shout to get out. But it was not the house he wanted to flee from, it was himself. However far he ran over the cliffs or across the beach, his own mind, his knowledge of what was going to happen, his own feelings about it, would dog his footsteps as inescapably as a moon shadow. There was no repeal, no avoidance, no hope.

  The rattle of feet in the passage and the door shivered open. Isabella-Rose.

  ‘Jeremy! I wondered where you was! Why’re you sitting in the dark?’

  ‘I was counting the moths,’ Jeremy said.

  ‘Oh, stupid! Here, you stole my hair! Mama’s just shown me. You long-leggety beastie! Stealing my hair!’

  ‘You’ve got plenty more. Look, what’s all this? And all this? Enough to make a beard for a beggar!’

  She squeaked and slid away from him. ‘Supper’s almost ready! What d’you think of the baby? Isn’t he ugly? Uglier even than you. What are we going to christen him?’

  ‘I’d call him Bellamy,’ said Jeremy. ‘Bella and Bellamy would go well together.’

  ‘Then I’d call him Gerald. Gerald and Jeremy.’

  ‘Or Clarence to go with Clowance. Doesn’t Mama really know?’

  ‘If she knows she’s not telling. Come along, I was sent to fetch you.’

  Jeremy allowed himself to be towed out into the light and jollity of the rooms downstairs.

  Chapter Five

  I

  They called him Henry, after an uncle of Demelza’s. And Vennor, after Ross – and Ross’s mother who had been a Vennor. A tiny baby, five pounds at birth and less than six at the christening. If Henry was tiny Demelza was a waif and reminded Ross, he told her, of the day he had given her a lift back from Redruth Fair.

  She smiled at him. ‘I’m not as scared of you now.’

  ‘More’s the pity. You’d recover your health more quickly if you obeyed me.’

  ‘By eating more? Ross, I’m eating like a horse!’

  ‘More like a bony mare.’

  ‘A bony pony.’ She giggled at her own joke.

  He said: ‘But serious. You do remind me.’

  ‘I wish it was that again. I’d wish for all my life over again from the moment you brought me home here as a dirty urchin!’

  ‘Like to be swilled under the pump?’

  ‘That water was cold. I mind it was cold.’

  ‘Well, you’d have to take the rough with the smooth.’

  ‘Yes, yes. And find Jud scratching his bald head and predicting doom. And Prudie and her feet. And my father coming to take me home . . . But there was lots of smooth too, wasn’t there. You must admit there was lots of smooth, Ross.’ She drawled the word.

  She was in one of her provocative moods this afternoon. She looked about twenty-five and interested in men. It boded ill for their own relationship, if their intention was to keep that relationship chaste.

  He said abruptly: ‘It’s time I went away.’

  ‘Are you tired of us?’

  ‘Of course. Cannot endure you any longer.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously, my reasons are more self-sacrificing.’

  ‘That would be a sad mistake, now that I am coming brave.’

  ‘You must be left alone to come brave.’

  ‘Who said so?’

  ‘I say so. Look at you now, like a skittish colt! By all rights you should be fat and sitting in a big armchair in front of the fire with a shawl round your shoulders, smelling of milk and babies’ clouts.’

  ‘Would you like me like that?’

  ‘Never mind what I would like. It would be a safer situation. Safer for you.’

  She stared out at the slanting sunshine falling across her garden. It was in fairly good trim, but small things had been neglected during the last two months when she had felt too listless to work in it herself. Even the withered brown relics of the lilac flowers on the old tree by the parlour window had not been cut off.

  She said: ‘You don’t live to be safe, Ross. You live to be alive, to take a deep breath of the air and to know your heart is beating! After Isabella-Rose was born I did not conceive for nearly ten years. There is no reason why I should conceive again for another ten years; and by then twill be too late.’

  ‘Come along,’ he said roughly. ‘The others are waiting.’

  ‘If you desert me now,’ she said, ‘for some fancy guineahen in London I shall think very hard on you.’

  ‘Damn you,’ he said. ‘In another two weeks I will ask Dwight—’

  ‘Oh, fiddle to Dwight. It is not any business of his.’

  He put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Well, maybe I will consider you suitable when I can no longer discern that bone so plain.’

  ‘D’you think I’m a goose hangi
ng in a poulterer’s?’ she said. ‘Because if I were ever to buy a goose, that’s not the part I would feel.’

  His sudden explosion of laughter brought the children hurrying in, but neither of the elders would explain what the fun was about. A few minutes later they were all riding decorously off to church.

  II

  The church and churchyard were crowded. Everyone, it seemed, in the district of Sawle and Grambler and Mellin and Marasanvose had heard of the birth of a second son to the Poldarks and everyone wished to be there for the christening. There was simply no room for all who wanted to get into the church, and to make things worse Jud Paynter arrived at the last moment on a sort of throne-litter borne by four of his young neighbours, the two in the van being Art and Music Thomas. It was a lark, of course, but they had promised there should be no fooling, and Prudie followed behind them carrying a stick to crack over their heads if they did not behave. Jud sat on the top of it all like a careworn and unspiritual Buddha, staring gloomily at the too-distant ground and trying to keep his old felt hat in place. Everything about him looked rusty, from his eyes and his nose to the blanket stained with iron-mould that someone at the last minute had thrown over his shoulders.

  ‘Could as well be carred to me buryin’,’ he said. ‘Twill be me next journey this way, and good shut to the world, I d’say. Poor little meader up thur,’ he added in a loud voice, as soon as he got in church, pointing towards the font, ‘’e don’t know what ’e’s in fur, that’e don’t, else ’e’d be turning tail and going backsyfore the way ’e come. To save his self from the fires of ’Ell and damnation, like all you folk ’ere. ’Ell and damnation to all of ye what ’aven’t repented!’

  ‘Hist your noise!’ whispered Prudie. ‘Ye promised ye’d be quiet, ye old gale.’

  ‘Gale yerself!’ said Jud. ‘Hey up, men! Load me if I didn’t think ye was a-going to drop me like a basket of eggs! Easy thur!’

  He was slowly brought to ground, his carriers, sweating freely, having apologized for stepping on the toes of, and elbowing, the people around them. Prudie, to his intense annoyance, whipped off his hat.