The Miller's Dance

  ‘Weren’t you a coachman for a time?’

  He looked up. ‘Your father’s been telling you that? Aye, for Sir Edward Hope, near Bristol. But it was no good. Couldn’t settle once I’d seen the sea.’

  ‘Will you ever be able to settle?’

  He smiled and looked at her. ‘Can I ever want to be away from you?’

  ‘It’s easy to say that now!’

  ‘I know. Who can promise anything? Certainly I can’t change me nature. But would you want me to? I certainly wouldn’t want to change yours.’

  He sat beside her and kissed her, let his lips run over her face. ‘You’re a wonder to me every day, Clowance. The more I know of you the more I think this. What a wife you’ll make me!’

  ‘I only love you,’ said Clowance. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘And God’s me life, I dearly care for you—’

  The door burst open and Isabella-Rose projected herself into the room with the speed of a Congreve fire rocket. She stopped short on seeing them, all brakes squeaking.

  ‘Clowance! And Stephen! Ooh . . . I didn’t know. Mama didn’t tell me you was here. Damn me! What a lark, eh? I thought you only kissed at party times!’

  She was in pink dimity, with shiny scarlet ribbons in her black hair. She was the most like Demelza of the three children, with the long legs and the eyes and the quick movements of her mother. But the eyes were not so softly dark and her voice was hoarse. At this stage one could only guess whether she would grow into a raving beauty or miss it all by a mile.

  ‘Damn me!’ she said again. ‘I’m interrupting, ain’t I.’

  ‘Bella, you should not swear,’ Clowance said.

  ‘Well, old Mr Treneglos was here yesterday, talking to Papa and he said “damn me” or “stone me” every time he opened his mouth. If he can, why not me?’

  ‘Because you’re not grown up. And because it’s not ladylike anyhow.’

  ‘Who wants to be a lady?’ asked Isabella-Rose. ‘And I’ll wager Stephen swears, don’t you, Stephen, eh, what?’

  ‘Often,’ said Stephen.

  ‘Did you hear me singing? It was a song I made up all by myself, about a snail. I’ll sing it for you sometime, Stephen!’

  ‘Thank you, me darling.’

  ‘What a lark, kissing in the library!’ said Isabella-Rose. She retreated to the door. ‘Will that happen to me when I grow up?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Stephen. ‘If not before.’

  ‘Stone me,’ said Isabella-Rose. And went out.

  They stared at each other, annoyed at the interruption, then broke out laughing together.

  After a minute Clowance said: ‘Have you never heard of your mother – not ever since you were four?’

  ‘I heard about her once or twice, when I was on the farm. She was with the players. They came twice to Dursley. But Mrs Elwyn thought play-going was sinful.’

  ‘Even to see your own mother?’

  ‘I didn’t tell her.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They thought I was an orphan. Twere better left that way.’

  Clowance looked at his face – so close to her own. She looked at his hair, his eyes, his mouth.

  ‘What are you staring at?’

  She said: ‘You were underground – in those conditions – at eight. I can scarce believe it.’

  ‘It happens all the time. Not many are so lucky as me.’

  ‘It – hasn’t stunted you. You’re big – and strong.’

  ‘Farming did that.’

  ‘The thought of you in the mine scares me.’

  ‘It does me, even now, if I think of it. So I don’t think of it.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘Maybe you should. Maybe it’s better not to pretend.’

  She held his arm. He was frowning. It was the first sign of vulnerability she had seen in him, and it made him more than ever dear to her.

  She said: ‘And before that – to go to prison at seven for stealing an apple!’

  ‘Four apples, to tell the truth. Of course I’d stole before then – all the time I was with Black Moll.’

  ‘And since?’

  ‘Privateering is a sort of stealing, isn’t it. Legalized piracy, some call it.’

  ‘It’s not that sort I mean.’

  ‘I’d steal to get you!’

  ‘You haven’t had to.’

  ‘No . . . No . . . Glory be. Glory, glory, glory be.’

  ‘Amen.’

  He put his hand over hers. ‘What is going to happen on Sunday?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much. Nothing important. We shall just have supper, just the family, with Dr and Mrs Enys, who are our oldest friends. I have said, no fuss, no toasts, just a friendly meal; thus it will be done.’

  Stephen said again: ‘Let us walk as far as the Gatehouse while the daylight lasts.’

  IV

  Badajoz was invested on March 16. The great fortress had changed hands twice before; this time the British were determined to have it for good, and it was estimated that the siege might take a month. In fact the final assault began – and one which was to be the bloodiest battle of the war – on Easter Sunday. Only an hour after supper finished at Nampara, where the Poldarks rejoiced in, or at least marked and celebrated, the betrothal of their eldest daughter to Stephen Carrington, all hell broke loose around that distant Spanish fortress as the British, starved by their government of proper siege equipment, attempted to force the walls by hand-to-hand assault. Geoffrey Charles Poldark, Captain in the Monmouthshires, was among the leading assault troops to face the mines, the grenades, the powder barrels and the murderous crossfire which was to decimate the attacking army. Five thousand men fell that night. But in Nampara a fire crackled cheerfully in the parlour; well fed, the men comfortably sipped their port and stretched their legs, the ladies chatted and gossiped. Isabella-Rose, up late for the special occasion, was being suitably well-behaved and restrained, though she cast envious eyes at the spinet. Superficially at least one could not have imagined a more homely and restful scene. There was no psychic bond, no spiritual link to span the distance and set up the smallest alarm to tell them that one of their flesh and blood was in direst peril. The bell might toll, but none could hear.

  Demelza thought: he is nice-looking and he will fit in; already he is easier of manner, less tense, since we said yes. They are in love with each other; she knows her own mind; I was two years younger than she is when I knew mine. We must find him something better than Jonas’s Mill soon; but I expect Ross is right, let him begin so; anyway he won’t be easy to fit in, for he has no learning; Judas, I feel queer.

  Dwight and Ross were discussing the changes in medical attitudes that had been taking place. More and more the apothecary had grown in importance these last years, and a two-tier system of service had come into being. The poor and most of the middle-classes now employed the apothecary first. Physicians and surgeons devoted much of their time to the rich, or were consulted or called in by lesser folk if the case were sufficiently grave or sufficiently interesting. Dwight – ‘Naturally!’ interposed Caroline – refused to follow this pattern. He continued to go everywhere in the village, not caring whether he was paid or not, and so had built up a reputation – for which he cared nothing – and a sense of trust – for which he cared a great deal.

  ‘I hear Mr Pope is coming brave again,’ Demelza said. Then she raised an ironical eyebrow. ‘Beg pardon, I know we are not permitted to ask.’

  There was a laugh. Dwight said: ‘When I was there on Thursday who should be calling on them but Unwin Trevaunance.’

  ‘Unwin?’ said his wife. ‘I did not know he was in the county!’

  ‘Staying with the de Dunstanvilles, it seems. Originally, of course, he sat in the Basset interest.’

  ‘You never told me he was here,’ said Caroline. ‘How deceitful of you! Does he have his wife with him? I’ve never yet met her.’

  ‘I would not think so. It seems he is here on business.’
br />   ‘When was Unwin ever not?’ said Caroline. ‘Even when he was courting me!’

  There was another laugh.

  Dwight said: ‘I could start a news sheet with the gossip I hear. The story about Unwin is that when he sold the property to the Popes he did not sell the mining rights.’

  ‘It’s a common practice,’ said Ross.

  ‘Well, some prospectors wish to begin excavations near Place House, I’m told. Chenhalls from Bodmin is behind it and Unwin is putting in money. Mr Pope objects, as it is too near the house and he says it will ruin his property.’

  ‘The old smelting works have long spoiled his view down the cove,’ said Demelza.

  ‘Yes, but they’re more or less picturesque ruins now, and the vegetation has quite recovered.’

  ‘I remember riding there once to see Sir John Trevaunance,’ Demelza said. ‘It was when you were – at Bodmin. The smelting works had only just been opened, and it straggled all down the side of the cove, with reverbatory furnaces and the like, and great volumes of smoke and heat and the men looking pale and ill from the fumes, and mules carrying ore down to the quay.’

  ‘Was that for refining tin or copper?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘Copper.’

  ‘Why was it abandoned?’

  Ross said: ‘It was begun to smelt copper in Cornwall instead of having it all sent to South Wales, where they had a monopoly. I was one of those along with Sir John who believed it could be done better here. I was wrong.’

  ‘So was George Warleggan,’ said Dwight, ‘when he took it over after you had withdrawn. It must be the only occasion when he has made a bad speculation.’

  ‘Until recently,’ said Ross.

  ‘Indeed, yes,’ said Dwight with an inflexion in his voice which raised eyebrows. He went on: ‘But this projected mine at Trevaunance: they say it would be almost at the front door of Place House.’

  ‘Can Mr Pope do nothing to stop them?’ Jeremy asked his father.

  ‘He might make things difficult – denying them access to water, questioning their right of way. But I don’t think any court in Cornwall would be sympathetic towards a landowner who tried to impede mining ventures. If I were Unwin,’ Ross added, ‘I’d offer Mr Pope a small interest in the mine. It has been done before. It is quite astonishing how a man’s aesthetic senses are dulled by a possibility of profit.’

  Another laugh. Stephen thought: they’re nice enough folk, good folk, good living . . . not one of ’em’s drunk tonight, except Jeremy. But is this the way to live when you have money? It is middle-aged. They’re middle-aged, most of ’em. Yet it’s not all been smooth and easy for them, not always. That man last night in Sally’s telling about when Dr Dwight Enys was held on a smuggling charge. And these two, Clowance’s parents: he with his gaunt, tight-drawn face, she with those eyes. Not always so quiet. Ross Poldark, it was said, had once been nearly hanged for insurrection or some such. And they whispered she was a miner’s brat. That he took leave to doubt. He hadn’t seen any miner’s brats around looking like her. More was the pity.

  Well, it was all over now for all of them anyway. Clowance even said her father intended to resign his seat in Parliament at the next election. Country squire riding to hounds. But he didn’t even ride to hounds. Country squire, gouty and purple. His father-in-law. Dying off in a year or two.

  Four cool fingers in his the only contact tonight. Polite society. Hell and damnation. He wanted this girl beside him with all the adult passion of a male stag in rut. It made it no better that she was now promised to him. Worse, rather. September? . . . Almighty Christ, what was he supposed to do till then – dance attendance on her and eat sweetmeats like a eunuch?’

  They were still talking about illnesses.

  ‘And Violet Kellow?’ he heard himself ask.

  There was a brief pause.

  Dwight said: ‘Violet? Stephen, I’m afraid . . .’

  Caroline finished the sentence. ‘Dr Enys seldom talks about his patients, Stephen, even to me. It is one of his peculiarities, no doubt dictated by Paracelsus or Hippocrates or one of those sages of the past. His predecessor here, Dr Choake, who used to live where the Kellows now live, was quite different. Indeed he made his every visit a cosy chat, in which one learned all about the kidney complaints, gouty humours and bowel movements of one’s neighbours.’

  Another laugh.

  ‘Seriously,’ Caroline said, ‘if I may venture a personal opinion that owes nothing at all to my medical husband, I’m afraid she is not long for this world.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Stephen.

  Conversation continued, but he was aware that the four fingers he had been holding had been withdrawn from his hand.

  Chapter Five

  I

  On Monday the 14th Jeremy and Clowance rode into Truro and met Valentine and his party and went to see the play.

  The party was a little larger than they had expected, but made up, as Valentine had prophesied, of old and young. The ‘old’ were Lady Harriet Carter with her friend the Hon. Maria Agar, Sir Unwin Trevaunance, Major John Trevanion; the young, apart from themselves, were the two Trevanion girls, Miss Clemency and Miss Cuby. It was not the most adroit of groupings, but neither Sir George nor Valentine was to know that Jeremy and John Trevanion had mortally insulted each other at their last meeting.

  They dined at the Great House – which was not nearly so great as its name – and walked across to the theatre a few minutes before seven.

  It was over ten months since Jeremy had seen his love. She was dressed in green velvet tonight with gauzy sleeves, and lace at the throat and wrists. She wasn’t really pretty – he had told himself this over and over again to try to ease his own heart; and the view of her tonight instantly reconfirmed the truth of this. She was not even pretty like Daisy Kellow. Her hair was nearly straight, her skin olive, her face too round. It made not a whit of difference: she turned his heart over. Her every movement and expression was like magic to him, making his blood beat fast, his tongue stumble over the simplest phrase.

  He did not sit next to her at dinner, nor at the theatre. He cursed his ill-luck at meeting her again, but at the same time knew himself newly alive. As for her brother – they had so far successfully avoided each other altogether, even in this small party.

  The Shamrock Players, who may or may not have had some affiliation with Ireland, were performing The Tragedy of the Gamester, or False Friend. They were also to give The Milliners and the farce entitled The Village Lawyer. Sir George had taken one of the two boxes.

  The theatre, which was crowded for the performance, had now been in service for nearly a quarter of a century. It was the only one, it was claimed, in England to have been specially built so that it could be used also as assembly rooms for balls and receptions. It had three small galleries where the noisy rabble congregated and sucked oranges and threw the peel about and sometimes interrupted the actors. Most of the wooden floor which was utilized for balls and dancing was lifted away for the stage performance, and the pit sat on benches arranged on the earth floor underneath. This effectively lowered them about two feet below the level of the performers. The stage consisted of a section of the original wooden floor which had not been removed, and this extended to the right and left to make two boxes, for which the richer gentry were able to pay 3s. each to sit on cane chairs and watch the acting at close quarters.

  The interior of the theatre only measured some sixty-odd feet by half as wide, so intimacy was achieved on all levels. When someone as famous as Mrs Siddons came, even the benches were removed from the pit and people stood shoulder to shoulder for the show.

  Although the ten chairs in their box were set close together Jeremy again had no direct contact with Cuby, being divided from her by Clowance and Valentine. Earlier, in the Warleggans’ home, she had flushed at the sight of him; they had exchanged stiff bows and several times before dinner been drawn into the same conversation. But there had been no personal, private exchange. Hardly an ex
change of glances. Cuby’s eyes seemed able to look anywhere except into Jeremy’s. She moistened her lips and joined casually in the talk, occasionally smiling. Then in the way that Jeremy so heartbreakingly remembered, the sulky mouth broke the barely observable dimples into enchanting crescents, and the whole face lit as if with some electric charge.

  When the first half of the performance ended there was an interval before the farce began, and most of the audience pressed out into the entrance hall to take the air and to buy lemonade and sherbet and a new drink called ginger-beer which was becoming the fashion. Unfortunately this vestibule was tiny, and the movement of many people so overcrowded it that procession either backwards or forwards was minimal. The older members of the party had stayed in the box, where drinks would be taken to them.

  So they came together, almost pressed together, while Valentine was attending to the requirements of Clowance and Clemency.

  Jeremy said: ‘I hope you are enjoying the play.’

  She looked up at him as if he were a clumsy stranger who had trodden on her dress. ‘Not very greatly.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I do not care to be stared at.’

  ‘Who is doing that?’

  ‘You are not watching the play at all! You can hardly know what it is about!’

  ‘I have a fair notion. Is it not . . .’

  ‘Not what?’