‘Yes,’ said Demelza.
‘Thank ee, ma’am.’ She went out.
‘And you,’ said Demelza. ‘How are you, Drake, really, truly? It has been good to be over there?’
‘In Looe? Good in most ways. Though I miss you and Sam – and the north coast. Nothing in the south be quite so vigorous, like.’
‘Would you ever come back?’
‘Geoffrey Charles would like it – would like us to stay now when they d’leave – caretakers, like. His steward, he calls it. It was always what he planned when he was a boy. Of course he says he would not, could not expect us to leave Looe right away. He have offered generous money; it seems that Amadora have money, so he can afford it . . . Of course it is not all money, for we are comfortable enough in Looe. But I see Geoffrey Charles’s feeling: he have already spent so much on this house and now it may be a year before he returns; he will not wish it to go to ruin again while he is away.’
‘How does Morwenna feel?’
‘She have mixed thoughts about Trenwith.’ Drake hurried on as Demelza was going to speak. ‘Oh, she is glad to see Geoffrey Charles, and glad to see him wed to such a good and fine-spirited young woman. We are all well together – and I b’lieve we would remain so. But as you know, Morwenna’s marriage to Whitworth left deep scars. It took long to heal them, and I b’lieve the skin over them is still tender. You sort of wonder if it would be right or wise to have her living here – ’specially after the others have gone.’
Demelza said: ‘But Morwenna is happy with you now?’
The old smile came and went on his face. ‘I b’lieve she’ve been very happy.’
‘You and her?’
He stared down at Henry again. ‘I wonder if it is in your memory to mind what I once said to you – can’t remember just when. It was when I were young and romantic. I said that Morwenna was my night and my day.’
‘Yes,’ said Demelza.
‘Well, it is just the same now.’
Henry grunted and his eyelashes fluttered. Demelza tucked him in.
‘And for her, Drake,’ she persisted.
‘Yes, and for her, I b’lieve, I truly b’lieve.’
Another silence. ‘We have only the one child,’ said Drake, ‘but it is not for lack of the loving.’
Demelza looked out at the bright day. She said: ‘That’s all I wanted to know.’
Chapter Ten
Goldsworthy Gurney had a cottage with a landlady to look after him at Egloshayle, a village about a mile from Wadebridge but on the other bank of the River Camel. Gurney was a busy man, for Dr Avery was now laid up and unable to attend to his patients. Jeremy rode to Padstow where he had never been before, and took tea with Goldsworthy’s parents at Trevorgus.
In the morning and evening he talked and argued with Gurney, who had turned a spare bedroom into a sort of laboratory which was crammed with papers, junk, half-completed experiments, drawings and designs and scribbled speculations. It was hard to keep Gurney on one track for long: with the least encouragement his mind would scuttle off down a side turning.
From considering the question of working a locomotive by ammoniacal gas he would slip away into a discussion with himself as to the value of sea sand as a manure for the fields; and thence suddenly charge Jeremy to note the phenomenon that if you removed a hundred cart-loads of sand from the sea shore, it would all be replaced by tomorrow’s tide; but if you did not cart any away, no extra sand would be deposited! Then back he would come to the theory that a carriage could be constructed with wheels connected by a swinging frame to the crank shaft of a steam engine so that they might rise and fall as required to accommodate themselves to the inequalities of the road surface.
Or did Jeremy know anything about the contrapuntal music of Palestrina. Or the organ fugues of J. S. Bach? When there was time Gurney hoped to build himself an organ, but the rooms in this cottage were so small. Jeremy told him about Ben Carter, who had built his own organ in the loft of his father’s cottage, but Gurney was not interested in that.
They discussed Trevithick’s sketch for the sort of boiler he would design if again attempting a horseless carriage. It was a primitive scrawl, and to anyone not educated in the work the lower half of the sketch looked like an ungifted child’s drawing of a thin cow with three udders, the upper half like a number of bolsters one on top of the other. To help, Trevithick had scribbed over the top half, ‘horizontal tubes here’ and ‘perpendicular tube 8' 6"’ and ‘13 inches in the neck’ and ‘flue place’ and ‘fire door’ and the like.
At the back of all the fluctuating discussions Jeremy detected a solid business instinct in his companion which looked further than his own. Whatever Gurney intended to collaborate in, he intended that it be turned to profitable use. Jeremy was concerned to take one step at a time, and to him the boiler was of absolute and paramount importance. Richard Trevithick with his inspired shorthand had almost designed it for them, but who was to make it, and if it could be made what would it cost?
Just before Jeremy left, Gurney began to talk about the passengers and how they might be attracted to the coach, how best they could be reassured that travelling in it was not dangerous. And what width of tyres to give the better grip, the quieter ride? How many wheels to the carriage, four or eight? What of the idea of two four-wheeled carriages, one drawing the other and thus separating the engine from the passengers and reducing the heat and smell to the traveller and the risk of hurt from an escape of steam? Would they be heavier, harder to control, especially going downhill? And could the levers or legs which were to be designed to provide extra traction also be used in an emergency as extra brakes?
As he rode home Jeremy felt a little as if he were already in such a coach and rolling inexorably downhill. Gurney did advance at a great rate. Last evening they had discussed finance, and Gurney had offered to put up a thousand pounds if Jeremy would do the same. Jeremy had provisionally agreed. But he had made it provisional. Perhaps it was he, he thought, who was sidestepping like a nervous horse at the incline, not Goldsworthy being too impetuous. What was holding him back?
On his journey home he took the main turnpike road to Truro, for his mother had asked him if he could find some more music for Isabella-Rose.
The young Bella was shooting up now, with legs already nearly as long as her mother’s, and she seemed to want to do nothing but dance and sing. Black ringlets bobbing, bright eyes glowing with enthusiasm, she would kick and spring and sing at the top of her voice with the slightest encouragement, and often without it. She also wanted to play the piano. Demelza had done all she could to encourage her to play in a proper way, to study black blobs arranged at varying heights between parallel lines, notes, she explained, which if carefully transposed to the fingers would create far more beautiful sounds and melodies than any vague strumming on one’s own. If she would sit down for an hour with Mrs Kemp, Mrs Kemp would give her some lovely exercises to do, and then teach her the marvellous mysteries of scales and keys and tones and semi-tones. It was a most wonderful world to unlock, she explained to her daughter; she only wished – she only so much wished – she had had time when young to learn properly herself.
‘But you play lovely, Mama! I just want to play just like you – only louder!’
‘But you don’t need to play louder, my lover. Anyway, when you learn to play properly you will see little letters beside the lines saying “f” which means loud or “p” which means soft.’
‘You don’t spell loud with an “f”!’
‘No, but it stands for – what is it? – forty, which is French or Italian for loud.’
Demelza felt hypocritical trying to persuade Bella to subjugate her bubbling love of music in order to study it in an orthodox way. She herself had begun to strum, first on the old spinet, then on a harp, before she began to take lessons from Mrs Kemp. The lessons hadn’t really gone too well. She had come to have a nice, warm, confident touch on the things she knew. When some new tune caught on in the cou
ntryside she could harmonize a simple accompaniment if anyone wanted to sing. She was happy at the piano, loved just the sound of chords, sometimes when alone would play her scales, moving from one key to another and finding as much pleasure in the climbing notes as in playing any sonata. But the sonatas themselves were generally too difficult. She wished there were not two hands to play at the same time and that they were not scored differently, so that ‘a’ in the left hand was not the same note on the music sheet as ‘a’ in the right hand. In the early years of their marriage and then at intervals since she had really tried to master this drawback in her talents, and Ross, strangely enough, never seemed to mind her trying when he was in the room even when she played a wrong chord.
But it hadn’t worked. She had progressed as far as agreeable competence, and beyond that the door was closed. So, as she said to Ross, she felt on false ground trying to persuade Bella. Perhaps Bella would be happier and remain happier just strumming on the piano for pleasure.
‘But there’s no comparison!’ Ross said.
‘Not yet.’
‘There’s no comparison at all between the noises you got out of the spinet and the harp when you were about seventeen and—’
‘Well, she’s only eleven yet!’
‘Yes, but she thumps! She hits the piano like a bal maiden spalling ore!—’
‘Oh, no!’ said Demelza, laughing.
‘I don’t know how she finds the strength in her fingers. And she doesn’t sing, she shouts!’
‘She enjoys it.’
‘Oh, it may be, it may be. But who else does? I shall buy her another piano and put it somewhere out in the stables. But no, that would be bad for the animals!’
So Demelza had persisted in her blandishments to persuade Isabella-Rose into orthodoxy, and Isabella-Rose had been equally firm in being unwilling or unable to bring herself to read music.
Yet Demelza was surprised to discover that the little girl was not without her admirers. During a visit by Geoffrey Charles and Amadora, Bella was heard in the distance, and a few days later, when making plans for his party at Trenwith, Geoffrey Charles had suggested that at the party Bella might be persuaded to sing.
‘But she can’t sing in tune!’ said Demelza, astonished.
‘Does it matter? She is so young and has such infectious glee. Everyone I believe will be enchanted.’
Amadora said: ‘Do you think she shall be persuaded? Might she perhaps be too – what is the word?—’
‘Shy,’ said Geoffrey Charles.
‘Perhaps she may be,’ said Demelza hopefully; ‘I’ll ask her;’ fearing the answer.
‘Oh, Mama, would that not be glorious!’ said Isabella-Rose. ‘Cousin Geoffrey Charles is the sweetest of men, I’ll be sworn, and also his dear Spanish lady too. But what am I to sing? What could I sing? Would Papa permit it, for I know I try him to distraction? What can be done, and in so short a time?’
Demelza said: ‘There are many simple ditties that you know . . . Or perhaps something fresh could be bought for you. It does not take long to learn a song – if it is suitable. You could do it in two weeks.’
So as Jeremy was leaving for Wadebridge Isabella-Rose wound her arms fiercely round his neck and said: ‘Get me something from Miss Seen, Jo-jo, get me something nice.’
There was no such thing as a music shop in Truro, but a Miss Amelia Heard did business in an upstairs room above a saddler’s in Duke Street, near the church. It was mainly the sale of hymn books, psalters, and sheet music for choirs; but Miss Heard was not above stocking copies of the latest popular ditty, always provided that the words accorded with her sense of propriety. She was a stout little body with stays that creaked and rimless spectacles too big for her face, that made her look like a white owl. When Jeremy visited as a boy with his mother he at once called the lady Miss Seen-but-not, and this had abbreviated itself among the Poldark children to Miss Seen, and one had to be careful to remember not to call her that to her face.
When Jeremy, having left his horse at a tethering post outside the Red Lion, and walked to the saddler’s, climbed the dusty wooden staircase and pushed open the reluctant door, which always opened as if something were pushing against it from the inside, he found that Miss Heard already had a customer. It was Cuby Trevanion.
She was in a walnut brown velvet riding habit, with cream lace at the throat and a darker brown hat. Sometimes, Jeremy thought, she did not seem to know what colours suited her; but this colour suited her; so did the sudden flush coming into her cheeks at the sight of him.
They murmured each other’s name in greeting, made some sort of small conversation which neither was the least interested in. In their last two encounters Jeremy had been politely formal, trying to hide the raging bitterness which had driven him to such despair.
Well, it seemed that he had hidden his bitterness successfully, that she had assumed his cold formality was adopted for the occasions and had perceived nothing deeper in it. Now it was as if nothing had happened between them this year and she was continuing the cheerful truce of last September. She was smiling up at him and telling him that she had come into Truro with Clemency and was trying to buy some new music for Joanna Bird, who was staying with them – ‘you remember her, she is abed with some summer indisposition and we thought to cure her by tempting her down to the music room.’
Jeremy stumbled over his replies, lost as ever merely in looking at her. He explained his own mission, about the coming party at Trenwith, about the difficulty of finding music for his unmusical sister. Cuby was amused by the idea. Had she not seen Isabella-Rose last year, that charming little girl with the dark ringlets, who walked in such a lilting way?
‘That’s exactly right,’ said Jeremy. ‘That’s – how one could describe her.’
Abruptly they remembered the fat little woman who was waiting on the other side of the counter. She had been watching them, listening to the exchange and summing up their manner and their glances. Now, apologizing together, they bent over the various pieces of music she was offering. Cuby advised Jeremy as to what might be most suitable to a little girl singing at her first party, and Jeremy edited and revised this advice in his better knowledge of his sister. They talked a lot of bright brittle talk which was at least partly designed for their only listener, but it did not deceive their only listener at all. Eventually Cuby bought three new pieces for Joanna and Jeremy about a dozen for Bella. He chose them in a haze and hoped one or two might be approved of.
Beaming at them both, Miss Heard accepted their money and rolled up their purchases in thin tissue, tying each roll with pink string as if it were a lawyer’s brief. Together, or as near together as possible, they went down the creaking flight of stairs.
Jeremy said: ‘Can you take tea with me? The Red Lion has a quiet room and it is only a few paces away.’
‘Jeremy, I would like to, but Clemency and the groom will be waiting. Heavens, is it that time? I must hasten!’
‘Let Clemency come too. You know what friends we are.’
A shadow crossed Cuby’s face. ‘Clemency always speaks highly of you . . . She is, you know, an altogether nicer person than I . . .’
‘But it is you I want,’ said Jeremy.
A man in a faded uniform was standing in the gutter begging. He had only one leg.
Cuby said: ‘Augustus is returning from London next week.’
‘It is you I want,’ said Jeremy.
‘You must not say that. It was not in our agreement last September.’
‘Where is Clemency?’
‘At Pearce’s. She will be tired of waiting.’
‘I will walk you there.’
They crossed the newly-laid Boscawen Street by the Coinage Hall. A carriage was forcing its way over the cobbles and through the refuse. A fish jouster was shouting his wares. A group of soldiers and sailors were arguing on the corner, becoming contentious and noisy.
Jeremy took Cuby’s arm. There was a terrible contagion in the touch.
‘What? How could I?’
‘How could you not? If I ask Geoffrey Charles he will invite you. You and Clemency and Joanna – and Augustus, if need be.’
‘Oh . . . I don’t think . . .’
‘You have never been to the north coast. You said so. And when my mother invited you to stay at Nampara, your mother refused!’
‘You know the reason.’
‘Well, it need not obtain so far as Trenwith is concerned. It will be a big party which many of the county will attend. There is little or no risk for you – risk as your mother and brother see it.’
‘Is not your cousin – your second cousin or whatever he may be – is he not also called Poldark?’
‘Yes, indeed. It is where we all come from, Trenwith.’
‘Then I fear my brother will think it is some sort of a contrivance arranged so that you and I may meet.’
‘So it is. I hope. But Geoffrey Charles is something of a war hero. And a married man. And married to a Spaniard. Many will come just to see them before they return. It is patriotic to do so. Why should not you?’
They had turned into Lower Lemon Street. Pearce’s Hotel was on the corner by the new bridge.
‘But we do not know them.’
‘Quite unimportant.’
‘Will you come in now and meet Clemency?’
‘With pleasure. But first . . .’
‘Yes.’ She detached her hand from his arm as they reached the door of the hotel. ‘Dear Jeremy, I do not know how it will be.’
‘Well, let us try.’
She stared at some goats being driven down the street. ‘Where would we lie? It would not be possible for us to—’
‘There will be room at Trenwith – or should be. If not there, then Nampara . . . No, that would not do, would it. Place House. Mrs Pope will put you up.’
‘Mrs Pope?’
‘Yes, she is a new friend of mine. A widow with two grown step-daughters. They have a fair house only a couple of miles from Trenwith. She would be greatly flattered to house the Trevanions.’
The Loving Cup Page 12