The Loving Cup

by Winston Graham

  Feverish activity had been going on since the early hours, in which Demelza, Clowance and Isabella-Rose had reluctantly been allowed to take a hand. No matter how one prepares for a party, some preparations have to wait for the day, and then there is never time enough. About noon Demelza and Geoffrey Charles persuaded Amadora up to her bedroom to lie still for an hour, otherwise, they said, she’d be too tired to enjoy it when it really began.

  Which was at five. Guests were invited for five and to take tea in either of the drawing rooms while they rested after their ride. The gun room had been reserved for men who wished to change, two sewing rooms on the first floor for ladies; but in the main, the day being so fine, the nearby guests had ridden over in their finery and the more distant ones had already changed at the houses where they were to spend the night.

  The great table had been vanquished at last, but as Jeremy had predicted, had proved unremovable from the room, so it stood on its end in a corner propped against the edge of the minstrel gallery. The floor from which it had been uprooted had been hastily filled with sand and cement and new flags laid so that, apart from a difference in colour, one would not have known. A four-piece band played gentle airs from the gallery. The airs would become less gentle after supper when the dancing began.

  By the time the sun had set about fifty guests had arrived and a few late comers were trickling in. The great window in the hall, though its multiple panes were all clear glass, reflected and refracted stains of colour from the sky upon people passing to and fro below it. Among the latest to arrive was the party of six from Killewarren: Dr Dwight Enys, Mrs Caroline Enys, the Misses Sophie and Meliora Enys, and Sir George and Lady Harriet Warleggan.

  They were welcomed at the door by their host and hostess; it was a peculiar confrontation between the two men; Geoffrey Charles extended his hand with a ‘Pray come in Step-father.’ They clasped briefly and Geoffrey Charles wondered if it was the first time they had ever shaken hands. (Yet once as a very little boy he had adored Uncle George, who always brought him presents.) ‘Soldier bright,’ said Lady Harriet, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Pray excuse me,’ said Geoffrey Charles, smiling, ‘I have had no time to renew my uniform.’ ‘But it is better that way. Amadora!’ said Harriet, with another kiss, ‘Como esta usted?’ And they were in.

  Caroline at once spotted Ross and Demelza and would have liked to go over, but with George and Harriet in tow and in a somewhat alien environment she felt she could not instantly desert them.

  The Popes arrived directly after them, that is to say Mrs Selina Pope, brilliant in black lace, and her two daughters whose mourning clothes had a more normal dampening effect on their looks. With them was Valentine Warleggan, and he had brought Conan Whitworth, who could hardly have been invited by Geoffrey Charles. And making up their party were Augustus Bettesworth and Clemency and Cuby Trevanion.

  Spending a night at Nampara – or two if Demelza could persuade them – were the Blameys, Verity and the two Andrews, father and son. Five of the Trenegloses had come from Mingoose House, and all four of the Kellows from Fernmore: Paul, with the darkly saturnine but feminine looks which had enabled him so well to take the part of a clergyman’s wife when a certain stage coach was robbed; his fat ineffectual beery father; Mrs Kellow, downtrodden, with eyes that never focused and a not entirely misplaced conviction that death hovered over her family; and her surviving daughter, Daisy, hectically vivacious and hoping still to marry Jeremy, even if only on the rebound. She, like a number of others here tonight, was anxious to see Cuby for the first time.

  Cuby Trevanion was in a white Indian muslin frock, high at the throat and tight at the waist and wrists. She seemed in the last year or so to have slimmed off and grown taller, neither of which had had the least ill effect on her looks. And the vivacity that was sometimes lacking was not at all lacking tonight.

  In fact Cuby knew herself on trial. She had come to the north coast, against her brother’s and her mother’s wishes, into the heart of the district and to a house party where too many people were called Poldark or were related to or old friends of the Poldarks; and they were waiting to judge her. She did not know how far her friendship with Jeremy, his courting of her, and her family’s refusal of him was generally known; but she suspected it was not a secret. She had therefore put herself out to wear something of style and to be at her most charming. Like her elder brother, she had changed her name from Bettesworth to Trevanion, and was intensely proud of her Trevanion ancestry. Was she really, she asked herself, a scheming woman, selfish, hard and mercenary? Was marrying someone she did not love – or certainly did not care for as she cared for Jeremy – out of a heartfelt sense of pride and obligation and family duty, was that altogether to be condemned and despised? Did not the royal families of Europe follow this precept all their lives, and were they condemned for it? And if she did not belong to a family of dynastic importance whose couplings might mean the difference between war and peace, yet to her and to her mother and perhaps still more to her loving but culpable brother, the Trevanion family and the Trevanion family home were of deep-rooted importance.

  So she had come tonight, on the defensive but with a burning pride, determined to look her best and be her best, and make it clear to every Poldark there that the Trevanions had something to be proud about.

  The knife that stabbed instantly into Jeremy was that Valentine, by contriving to stay with the Popes, had come as one of Cuby’s party. (Not that he needed any contrivance: clearly he did not. Valentine, by mutual agreement, was the destined suitable bridegroom.)

  Supper was informal, smaller and more removable tables being laid in the hall; but the large parlour was also utilized, and the winter parlour; so people sat where they chose and ate what they chose. Amadora could scarcely be persuaded to sit down or eat anything, so concerned was she that everyone else was doing so; and Geoffrey Charles hardly left her side, watching that nothing that was said to her, or that she said, was misunderstood. Clowance, who was wearing one of her frocks bought for Bowood, an olive green shot sarsenet fastened with brooches at the shoulders, sat for part of the supper between her cousin, young Andrew Blamey, and the eldest surviving Treneglos boy, Jonathan, who finding himself temporarily not overshadowed by more attractive young men, was making a great fuss of her.

  When he could get a word in Andrew said to her: ‘It is provoking I shall have to leave soon after midnight, for we sail with the morning tide.’

  ‘Your packet ship?’

  ‘Er – yes. The Countess of Leicester. A hundred and ninety tons burthen. Crew of twenty-eight. Five officers. Second officer Andrew Blamey. Outward bound for Lisbon.’

  ‘What time is that – about six?’

  ‘What time is what?’ Andrew asked. In spite of his rote-type recitation of details it seemed that he had allowed his attention to wander.

  ‘Full tide, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, full tide’s at five. We shall – we shall leave at dawn, which will be about six. I suppose I should count my luck being home for this at all.’

  Clowance gazed round her. In three months Trenwith had been transformed from the gaunt empty echoing vault in which she had first met Sir George Warleggan and later had had love trysts with Stephen Carrington, into a warm and happy home. The house, even with a mere two people and three guests and five servants living in it, had already come alive: but tonight, as dusk fell, dozens of candles were lit and glimmered over an animated scene. How good that Geoffrey Charles had come back; and with a pretty foreign wife who reminded Clowance of a hedge rose – you had to get through the prickles to reach the flower. But why did they have to go again, putting all this at risk?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to Andrew.

  ‘I was only asking you if everything between you and Stephen Carrington was really over.’

  ‘Why, yes.’

  Andrew rubbed his sandy sidewhiskers in some hesitation. ‘Only I met him again last time I was ashore – at Cardew, you know, the Warlegga
ns’ residence.’

  ‘At Cardew?’ said Clowance in surprise. ‘Stephen there? Are you sure?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Valentine invited him. We all played cards together. I lost too much.’ He laughed self-consciously. ‘Always losing. Left me a bit embarrassed. I’m heavy in debt now, but a lucky streak’ll come along; I know; it always does . . . Stephen lost too. There was eight or nine of us.’

  ‘I didn’t realize they were friends,’ said Clowance. ‘Where did they meet?’

  ‘Don’t know. Wasn’t it at the races last year? Anyway, I’ve met him since, two or three times. He’s a likeable fellow, Stephen is. What made you claw away to windward of him?’

  Clowance wrinkled her brow. ‘What?’

  ‘I mean break off the engagement. Twas not to do with me saying I thought I’d seen him in the Ring O’ Bells in Plymouth Dock when the matelot got stabbed, was it?’

  ‘Oh, no. Good gracious, no!’

  ‘Because come to think of it, you understand, it is not uncommon for a man to fight for his freedom – for that is what that man was doing. Maybe he jabbed just too hard with his knife to gain his freedom, but when you’re in a corner it is hard to judge these things to a nicety. Or maybe the matelot was lightly wounded and then died of something else, and the naval folk of Plymouth issued it out that he had been murdered. I’d not put it past them.’

  These had been so much Stephen’s arguments that Clowance looked at her cousin in surprise.

  Andrew said: ‘Resemblances are funny things. I know that day I could easily have been mistaken. And him being your affianced . . . So all I could do was put the helm over and make all sail I could on a different tack. Well, when I saw him at Cardew recently I was more than ever taken by the resemblance . . .’

  Katie Carter, who was waiting at their table, took away their plates and edged towards them a large wooden platter containing damson tarts, raspberry puffs, and Black Caps in custard and blancmange.

  After she had gone, Andrew took a large bite of his tart and said: ‘It was his eyes, you know. Very noticeable colour, his eyes are, such a bright blue with a sort of fleck of tawny in the whites; it is hard to forget.’

  ‘All the same,’ said Clowance, surprised at the apprehension stirring within her, ‘there’s no reason to disbelieve him. You could still easily be mistaken.’

  ‘Well, no, not so, my dear cousin. I have transacted one or two little bits of business with Stephen since we met at Cardew – surprising enough, yes, I have, I have – and to do business with a man you have to have a sense of trust. So I tackled him in a roundabout way; and in a roundabout way he answered. No need to ask more. No need to say more. Understanding both sides . . . But I’m glad it was not for that reason that you broke off from him. For it would hardly have been a fair reason, would it. A man has a right to fight for his freedom.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘I felt I had to. Just to clear up any feeling that I’d done his cause any harm with you that day.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m glad we have come to this understanding, he and I, for tonight I would have been so much surer of my ground.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jonathan Treneglos was trying to draw her attention but she would not turn her head.

  ‘You remember me saying there was another young man with him when the fighting began. Slim young feller with dark eyes and a sallow complexion?’ Andrew Blamey chewed and swallowed and dabbed his mouth with his napkin. ‘He’s here tonight.’

  II

  Ross said to Dwight: ‘Andrew Blamey senior brought news with him that Wellington has just broken through the extended positions along the Bidassoa and has crossed the river into France.’

  They had edged their way together at last, as, similarly, Caroline had found Demelza and was telling her gleefully of a splendid new novel she had just read called Pride and Prejudice; the author was anonymous, but such was its comic insight that Caroline was not surprised to discover it had been written ‘by a lady’.

  ‘I can understand Geoffrey Charles wanting to be back,’ said Dwight. ‘But it depends very much what happens at Leipzig, or thereabouts, does it not? Unless Napoleon can be contained or defeated . . .’

  ‘I’d be happier if it were British soldiers he had to fight. All we shall contribute on that front will be the encouragement and the gold.’

  ‘You knew that Detroit had been re-taken by the Americans?’

  ‘No, I did not. I suppose it was inevitable given the weakness of the British forces.’

  They sipped wine and looked at their respective wives, who were laughing together with Isabella-Rose who was claiming their attention.

  Ross said: ‘That offer Buonaparte made to Humphry Davy, to allow him in to France to meet the French scientists. Did it come to nothing?’

  ‘It came to everything. They are leaving Plymouth this week. They are crossing to Morlaix in Brittany in a cartel-ship and taking their own carriage. From Morlaix it will be at least a week before they reach Paris.’

  ‘You thought no more of Davy’s invitation that you should go with him?’

  ‘I thought a good deal more of it. But there we are . . . it was simply not practical for me.’

  Very soon now the supper would be cleared and it would be time for dancing. The larger parlour would remain with tables and food and wine available for the rest of the night. Ross saw that Jeremy was talking to the Trevanion girl and they were smiling at each other. Valentine had left his party and was making a fuss of Amadora.

  ‘Will anyone go in your place?’ Ross asked.

  ‘To France? Yes, Humphry is taking a young man he thinks well of. Faraday is his name,’ Dwight said. ‘Michael Faraday. I know no more of him than that.’

  Jeremy was bringing the girl across. It seemed a maladroit thing to do, but there was no way of stopping him now.

  ‘Father, may I present Miss Cuby Trevanion? My father, Cuby. And Dr Dwight Enys.’

  ‘How d’you do, sir . . . Dr Enys.’ She curtsied, they bowed.

  She’d certainly got looks, but of an unusual sort. Teeth and eyes brilliant, a candid glance which never wavered for an instant, an elegant manner; elegantly dressed; a lady. Arrogant, scheming, mercenary creature.

  ‘I knew your father,’ said Ross, ‘and know your elder brother – John I mean – who is not here tonight?’

  ‘No, sir. He is away in Devon.’

  ‘With his horses?’

  She flushed. ‘Yes, Captain Poldark, I believe so.’

  Ross noticed that, as he was speaking to the girl, Clowance got up from the table and walked away. So much for her feelings.

  Jeremy said: ‘It is the first time ever that Miss Trevanion has been on the north coast. I tell her that she must observe the native rituals and dances and then write a paper on them for the Royal Institution.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ross, smiling grimly, ‘we are back in the dark ages here.’

  ‘On the contrary, sir,’ said Cuby, ‘if I may be forgiven for taking a different view, these are the light ages, for I have never been to a more agreeable party. The other Captain Poldark, the younger Captain Poldark, is as charming a gentleman as one could conjure out, and I am much obliged to Jeremy for this invitation.’

  So she had plenty to say for herself.

  ‘You have come with your brother and sister, I understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Augustus has a post in the Treasury in London, but is at present on leave. Clemency, of course, is my constant companion at Caerhays.’

  ‘Some day you must come and see us,’ said Ross. ‘We are but four miles up the coast, largely surrounded by mines and the outcrop of mining, but still civilized in our household ways.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’m sure I should be honoured.’

  Jeremy, who had been listening to the exchange and observing his father’s stiff back with apprehension, encouraged the conversation for a few minutes more and then took Cuby’s arm.

  ‘Come, you must
meet my mother,’ he said, and they passed on.

  ‘Does Jeremy have renewed hopes in that direction?’ Dwight murmured.

  ‘The last time he spoke on the subject – and he rarely speaks of it – he had no hope at all.’

  ‘An engaging young lady.’

  ‘I question what Demelza will make of her.’

  What Demelza made of her was not immediately obvious, for in the noise of general conversation they could not hear what was said; but it seemed to be on an affable plane.

  Later, when they had a moment together, Ross said:

  ‘So Jeremy has at last produced The Cause of all the Trouble.’

  ‘Yes, Ross. She has a strong personality, don’t you think? Not one who would be told what to do by her brother.’

  ‘No, I think she’s just a money-grubbing little she-goat, with no more principles than a high class harlot.’

  ‘Oh, Ross . . . I can see how attractive she would be to a young man.’

  ‘Or to an old one, if he had enough money and she set out to please him.’

  ‘You must not be too hard, Ross, simply because she has refused our son.’

  ‘I am not hard for her refusal but for her brazenly stated reason for the refusal – his lack of ten or twenty thousand pounds. I think she cares nothing for Jeremy.’

  Demelza sipped her port. It was a specially good port which, Geoffrey Charles told her, had spent fifteen years in wood and which, since he had been able only to obtain two bottles from the steward of the packet ship, he was reserving specially for her.

  ‘I don’t think she cares nothing for Jeremy. It is just whether she cares enough.’

  ‘What did you say to her?’

  ‘I asked her if she was enjoying her evening among all Jeremy’s cousins, and she said she was. Then I admired her frock; then she admired mine. Then she asked to meet Isabella-Rose, and then we all talked about music and songs for several minutes, and then Jeremy bore her away.’

  ‘Does this mean you think the girl is going to change her mind about Jeremy?’

  ‘No-o . . . She has a very strong personality.’