Ross said: ‘I would willingly not tell him until he came home again, since anything to do with her seems to upset him. But if we do not write someone else will. The last thing I want is to seem to be withholding it.’
II
The following week Stephen Carrington rode into Truro and asked to see Sir George Warleggan. George saw him in the upper chamber above the bank. Stephen was wearing a buff nankeen jacket he had recently had made for him in Falmouth, dove grey breeches and well polished riding boots. His hair had been trimmed and brushed and was tied with a piece of black ribbon into a short cue. Although never quite at home in fine clothes, he looked handsome. Even so short a period of marriage had given him a new stability.
Stephen said he had come to see Sir George about opening an account with his bank. It was, he said, more convenient to keep his money at Carne’s in Falmouth and to deal with them; but in view of Sir George’s gesture of friendship in inviting Clowance and himself to that party at Cardew he felt it would be opportune and timely if he moved his account to Warleggan & Willyams. To have a friend as a banker was a rare privilege that he would very much appreciate, and he hoped that in the years to come the business he would bring to the bank would be of value to them too.
George sat for a long moment on the other side of the desk, fingering his pen. What confounded impertinence, he thought, what typical impertinence from this braggart sailor that when thinking of opening a pettifogging account he should ask to see the owner of the bank. Not content with a clerk, not content even with Lander, the chief clerk, he had to request an interview with Sir George Warleggan. As if he were a substantial landowner proposing some big accommodation. As if he were the chief shareholder in some industrial tramway with a proposal for a company flotation. As if . . .
Stephen’s confidence was becoming threadbare with the long silence. Clowance of course had said, don’t call. If you have to approach him, if you really feel you must, then write to him.
‘What is the nature of your account?’ The words when they came were more mildly spoken than George intended. At the very last moment he had had second thoughts.
‘Oh, small to begin, Sir George. I am trying to run a few vessels, mainly in the coastal trade and with Ireland and France. So that most of me money is tied up. At the moment I have two small vessels, one built special, the other bought as a prize – fishing boats really, but adapted for carrying cargo. And I have hopes of buying a third when the right opportunity comes along. Me account, what I shall have to deposit next week, will be £300, but I shall hope to more than double that before the month be out.’
Through the window behind him George looked out at a mule-drawn cart unloading several glistening blocks of tin for the coinage, which would take place on Thursday of this week. These great blocks, weighing 300 lbs each, would be unguarded until the controller and receiver arrived to determine by assay if they were of a sufficient quality to receive the stamp of the Duchy arms. It was fortunate, George thought, that most of his own mines raised copper, over which this cumbersome and tiresome law did not operate. But the tin coinages were very useful to his bank, obliging as they did the tin mines to borrow money to tide them over from one quarterly coinage to the next.
He said: ‘What shall you ship?’
‘Anything that’s going. We run – we ran the blockade last summer carrying pilchards to Italy, but twill not be the same this year with all the ports open – not the same profit, I mean. I’ve a promised cargo of moor-stone for Morlaix and shall bring salt back – that’s for the Chasse Marée. But I’ll quote for anything: clay, bark, corn; or bring iron from Wales or timber from Norway. There’s cargoes enough at the right price. All I need is more carrying capacity. The lads who’ve crewed with me are keen to go again. There’s much to be done.’
‘Much to be ventured?’
‘Aye.’ Stephen caught George’s look and added: ‘But legal. There’s no cause to break the law when there’s so much chance for honest trading.’
Damned hypocrite, thought George. But was he not also a young man who could be used?
‘Do you have more purchases in mind?’
‘Purchases?’
‘Of vessels. French prizes will soon dry up now.’
‘Aye. That’s true. But . . . there’s a fine American brig, called Adolphus, lying in Falmouth at the moment. She was captured by a British frigate, the Lyre, condemned as a prize and brought in. She’s been lying in the Roads two weeks now while her cargo’s sold: 70 odd bales of deerskins, 50 of bear, 30 bales of cotton, 100 odd barrels of potash, a deal of logwood. The stuff’s been going cheap; I would have bought more if I’d had the money, like.’
‘Does the brig appeal to you?’
‘Oh, she’s handsome! Built in Baltimore. They’re always fine boats from there. Seventy-two feet long, they say, by twenty-three in breadth. I suppose she’d displace about 150 tons. Very good rake to her; she’ll travel fast through the water.’
‘But you are not going to bid for her?’
‘I shall go to the auction; but she’ll be way above my means.’
‘What would she be likely to fetch?’
‘Oh . . . tis difficult to say. But she’s in prime condition – less than two years old.’
‘A thousand pounds?’
‘More than that. She’s been well advertised.’
‘Ah,’ said George, and got up from his desk. He noticed that Stephen did not get up as well. He noticed that Stephen did not call him, sir. He strolled over to the further window, not because he wanted to move but because he wanted to think. Fortunately Cary was in bed today: he had left off his winter vests and caught a chill.
‘Have you tried to raise accommodation money from Carne’s?’
‘What for?’
‘To enable you to bid for this ship?’
Stephen was genuinely startled. ‘No. It is not likely they’d aid me, for I have no security to offer.’
‘You own the other vessels?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would they not be security?’
‘I suppose. I’m not well used to the ways of finance.’
‘Commerce and enterprise build on credit. Without it much of industry would shut down.’
‘Aye.’ Stephen got up now, for George was talking behind him. ‘I’ve Andrew Blamey as me second man, but I’m taking no nonsense from him: he’s got to toe my line. Then there’s Bert Blount, who’s a first-class seaman: learned his trade the hard way, would navigate anywhere; two or three others you could give a bit of authority to. Course you have to see what they make of it; but I reckon it is a – what do they call it? – nucleus.’ He was pleased with the word; it sounded important, learned, and he repeated it. ‘Nucleus. Three vessels or four wouldn’t be beyond me capacity to manage.’
‘Including the Adolphus?’
‘Oh, she’d be the queen!’
‘King perhaps with such a name.’
Stephen laughed heartily. After a hesitant beginning this meeting was now going better than he had dared to hope. But he was still not sure of himself. Sir George had a fearsome reputation.
‘I’m obliged to ye, Sir George, for giving me so much of your time. Can I take it, then—’
‘Have you books?’
‘Books?’
‘Ledgers. Showing the profitability of your trade.’
‘No. Till now I’ve been well content to keep all such details in me head.’
‘Good enough to begin, but a mistake to continue. Could you produce them?’
‘Well, there’s little to produce so far. The outlay, the profits, the sharing of the profits. I could keep books if twas considered necessary to – to—’
‘If my bank advanced you two thousand pounds to buy the Adolphus, it would be essential that ledgers be kept and that we should have access to them from time to time.’
Stephen took a deep breath. ‘For that, Sir George, I’d be more’n willing to do whatever you say!’
Rain wa
s trickling down the windows now. It was a humid day, with a sky as heavy as a soup tureen. The office was quieter and cooler with the windows and doors tight shut.
George said: ‘When is to be the auction?’
‘Monday week.’
‘We have a little time to draw up an agreement. The conditions will simply be the normal banking conditions on which such a loan can be made. You should have time to study them, and you should be free to accept or reject them as you think best for your own interests. Perhaps you could call in tomorrow and see Mr Lander. He will have the details.’
‘Thank you, Sir George,’ said Stephen, shaking hands. ‘Thank you, Sir George.’ And went out walking on air.
After he had left George went back to his desk and made some notes on the interview. Not that he needed them, but it was a matter of principle. Then he left the room and went into the private part of the house, where once so much had gone on and now so little went on. Elizabeth had lived here almost all the time and only paid the occasional visit to Trenwith – to see her parents – or to Cardew – to see his. With no parental complications, Harriet spent nine-tenths of her time at Cardew, and only came reluctantly to Truro where, unlike Elizabeth, she had few friends. So often the only person in residence was himself, for about three days of the week, and old Cary, who hardly used more than two rooms in all. The full staff was of course kept on for the occasions when George entertained business friends, and the house would be a little more frequently used in September when Ursula began school. Valentine of course would never be allowed to darken its doors again.
Very silent now, and the odour musty and stale. Smells wafted up from the river; there had not been sufficient wind recently to carry them away. Oh for the days of Elizabeth . . .
Sometimes he fancied he saw her still, heard her; she had a particular step, like no one else’s. Doors creaked, floorboards as if some weight had passed over them. It was a long time now; she was long since bones and dust; like his father and mother and hers . . . as he would be soon . . . Morbid thoughts for a heavy afternoon. Must ignore them – brush them away. Cobwebs in the mind . . .
Valentine’s extraordinary marriage and the bitter quarrel following had deeply seared George. Ever since, he had been of raw and uncertain temper. To the frustration and anger of knowing of the failure of all his plans for Valentine’s future was added the knowledge that he had lost his son. For a time his anger had diguised the fact, but in the night he knew it to be true. He had, of course, never really loved Valentine in the way he loved Ursula – not at least since Aunt Agatha had poured her poisonous lies into his ears – but since Elizabeth’s death he had fully accepted Valentine as his true son. He had lavished, if not great affection, then many material benefits upon him. But possibly even by the age of six damage had been done from which their relationship had not recovered. As Valentine grew up he seemed to grow into another Geoffrey Charles – deeply attached to his mother’s memory, and, in thought or by implication, resenting his father. So that once or twice the old worms of doubt had stirred in George.
Now he allowed them a freer reign; though he found himself doubly uncomfortable in doing so, knowing that he was breaking the vow he had made when Elizabeth, having given birth to a second premature child, had unexpectedly died. He had sworn he would never doubt again, and whatever the provocation he must try to keep that oath.
He thought of the young man he had just shown out of his office, and wondered if he could explain to anybody his motives for helping Carrington. They were so contrary, so complex, even running counter to each other, like pleas of not guilty in a court of law. (I wasn’t present at the scene of the crime, but if I was present I didn’t do it.) How list his motives; how explain them without sophistry even to himself?
Firstly, Valentine’s defection had left a larger void than he could have foreseen. That reluctantly one had to admit. The loss of his only son – the only person left to carry on the Warleggan name – lost not in war, not from accident or disease, but by marriage – was a near mortal blow. Of course at some far future date the rift might be partly healed. But not for a very long time. Too many things had been said which could never be unsaid. And George’s anger did not diminish, it grew every time he thought of it. The deliberate duplicity, the cold hostility infuriated him. And it had humiliated him in front of other people. Harriet had not laughed but he had thought he detected amusement in her eyes. Humiliation was something he could never endure.
Well, what had this to do with Stephen? Superficially nothing. But injured pride can sometimes find strange objects to assuage it. Stephen for Valentine? Of course not. But a sort of gap was there and could be filled. Nor was it impossible that Valentine, observing things from afar, would be irritated to see Stephen receiving favours that might have been his.
Secondly, Stephen had married a Poldark, and it might also anger the Nampara Poldarks to see their son-in-law working with and for their old enemy.
Thirdly, Stephen’s wife was Clowance Poldark. George had never touched her, except three times to shake hands, and never expected to do more; but in the event of something coming of this, he would certainly see more of her; might even see more of her than her own family.
Fourthly, if Stephen became difficult, egotistic, tried to push in ways George opposed, or attempted to interfere in matters that did not concern him, it would be not unagreeable to be able to bankrupt him at will.
Fifthly, George’s other great disappointment of the summer – Mr Rose’s death – had left him no less determined to keep the coach robbery in mind; and perversely, because nothing could be proved, he felt an increased conviction that Stephen Carrington had been a part of it. There was something swaggering and blustering about the sailor which fitted well with such an audacious robbery. And there had been a naval lieutenant taking part in it. Was it not typical of him to play such a role? Perhaps there never could be proof now. But a closer association, particularly where it involved money, might still provide evidence, for or against.
On the whole George did not regret his generosity to the young man.
III
And the young man, when he returned home, was full of his success. He told it all to Clowance over hot scones which she had baked for his return.
He ended: ‘So you see I was right, wasn’t I, him inviting us that night was a sign that he wished to be a friend! I’m glad I went to see him now, Clowance, I’m glad I went and didn’t just write; twould not ’ve been the same. By God, it really means I shall be a shipowner! Tis hard to credit. In just the twelvemonth. Three vessels, if not more! We’ll call it the Carrington Line!’
Clowance said: ‘Watch tomorrow, won’t you Stephen? Read very carefully whatever agreement he puts before you. Don’t think I’m not excited for you – for us – ; but you see, though I have never disliked him personally, he has this reputation in Cornwall, always for getting his pound of flesh.’
Stephen stared at her. ‘Maybe it’s a sort of reputation to be proud of! Pound of flesh has a nasty meaning but it may cover no more than being a good business man and expecting others to be the same. There’s too much laziness and slovenliness in the world. Maybe it’s just that George Warleggan has no time for neither; and if that’s so I could scarce blame him. Oh, I know your mother and father think harshly of him – and Jeremy too I believe – but the most of that was no business matter at all. Twas to do with your father and Elizabeth, George’s wife, and your mother and many little quarrels over the years. That is not business, that is – well, jealousy and dislike and personal feuds which have naught to do either with you or with me. Why, if I had to choose . . .’ He broke off.
‘If you had to choose?’
He had been about to say that he would rather be a wealthy merchant and banker like George Warleggan than a small landowner and mine owner like Ross Poldark; but he had the good sense to stop in time.
‘If I had to choose I’d rather be thought a hard man in business sooner than a soft.’
Stephen spread a large pat of butter on his scone, then watched it begin to melt before he took a bite.
‘I don’t think you’d get far in the sailing world if you did that. I know it is only human beings banding together as crews that can make it work . . . But you got to be hard, because that’s the way the world is and that’s the way the sea is . . . All the same – all the same, if you have a rich banker as a friend you don’t have to do everything the way he does. So long as you turn in the profit, that’s all that counts.’
‘D’you prefer these to the usual splits?’ Clowance asked.
‘What?’
‘I thought it would make a change.’
‘Yes . . . yes, I reckon I do. They’re sweeter. But then I like everything you cook, you know that.’
She said: ‘I’m taking care for the time when you will be harder to please, when the glow has gone.’
‘Why should the glow ever go? It is not like you to be misanthropical.’
She smiled. Her eyes were thoughtful.
‘I suppose it is always a mistake to take one’s parents’ view of another person. Handsome is as handsome does . . . After the first meeting I had with Sir George – when I admit I was trespassing and I think I gave him somewhat of a shock, when he was rude and snarly – after that he has always been coldly polite, with a look as if he’d like to like me but mustn’t. Once or twice I’ve surprised looks that I wasn’t supposed to see. I don’t think he’s as cold as he pretends . . . Certainly I do not dislike him. It is only what one hears. And not just from my parents. He is known for his ruthlessness in business. And is really feared for it. There are small business men up and down the county who have gone to the wall because of him. And if a man loses his work and says harsh things about the way he has lost it, then he’ll find no more work in Cornwall – anywhere, because the Warleggans say not.’
The Loving Cup Page 36