The Loving Cup

by Winston Graham

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘No matter for the moment. Will anyone have heard?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  They listened. The house was silent. One of the dogs was barking, but it was far away. Jeremy took a deep breath to speak again but Cuby held up her hand.

  There was a tap at the door.

  ‘Yes?’

  There was another tap and then the handle turned and Mrs Bettesworth came in.

  ‘Did I hear you cry out, Cuby?’

  Although seconds only had passed, Jeremy had slid back behind the curtains of the bed.

  Cuby passed a hand over her eyes. ‘Yes, Mama, I’m sorry . . . When – when I came in the room I was thinking of Coad; and the air – the air created by my closing the door made the curtains move. For a moment I thought there was someone in my room!’

  ‘Oh.’ Her mother hesitated. ‘I see. So you are all right? There is nothing amiss?’

  ‘Thank you, Mama, nothing.’

  ‘You are quite sure?’

  ‘Quite sure. Good night again.’

  ‘Good night.’ Mrs Bettesworth took her time about withdrawing.

  Cuby stared at the long-fingered hand that came to hold the curtain, the scarlet sleeve with the gilt cuff, the slowly emerging figure of the young man who for more than three years had loved her devotedly. Lank hair, but curling at the ends and dark, worn long and a little untidy – somehow it was like a soldier’s hair – ; fresh complexion, strong nose, blue-grey eyes with heavy lids, clever mouth, small cleft in the chin. Looking at her. Staring at her. Feasting his eyes on her. She didn’t love him and never had. Hadn’t she realized that only these last few weeks, when she had had time to pause, to reflect, to decide her own life?

  ‘Jeremy, my heart near stopped! . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, there was no other way of breaking my presence to you.’

  ‘I still don’t understand – anything.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘You’re very pale,’ he said.

  ‘I – haven’t yet recovered . . . The shock . . .’

  ‘Sit down. Is this water?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t want it.’ Neither did she sit down.

  He came slowly into the room. ‘Are we likely to be disturbed again?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want to talk to you.’

  ‘Clemency might come. But it’s unlikely.’

  ‘Will anyone hear our voices?’

  ‘Not if we keep them down.’

  Somehow, to her indignation, she found herself a part of his conspiratorial web.

  ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘A ladder to the roof.’

  ‘Have you been here long?’

  ‘An hour perhaps. And an hour or so outside.’

  His eyes were heavy on hers. He had grown up so much this last year; his face was set with resolution.

  He said: ‘Who was this Coad you spoke of?’

  ‘A footman. I had to invent something to explain to my mother.’

  ‘Not a future husband, then?’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘Just as well. For I am your future husband.’

  ‘Oh, Jeremy, please be sensible.’

  ‘I have been sensible – as you call it – too long. I consider it being insensible, what I have been until now.’

  After a moment she said: ‘Why did you come?’

  ‘I’ve told you.’

  ‘Well, you must go immediately! It is not right for you to be here in this way!’

  ‘But you cannot get rid of me before I choose to go. That opportunity passed when your mother came in. Now they will know that you lied about my being here.’

  ‘You are not being very chivalrous.’

  ‘All’s fair in love.’ He came near enough to put a hand very lightly on her arm. ‘Look, my dear. I shall never touch you without your consent, understand that. But I want to talk to you. We have all night. Pray do sit down and listen to what I have to say.’

  With the first glint of a troubled smile she said: ‘Where is your horse?’

  ‘Tethered behind the house. Near the builders’ workings.’

  ‘He will get restive.’

  ‘Not for a while. And it is not horse, Cuby, it is horses.’

  He caught the flicker of her hazel eyes as she turned to look behind her. She took a chair, sat down.

  ‘Very well. I will listen. But have we not said it all before?’

  He perched on the bed, one boot, highly polished but with a few splashes of new mud adhering, slowly swinging with a nonchalance he did not feel.

  He said: ‘I have come for you. To take you away. I have money enough for us to live on. The mine we opened is paying higher dividends and should make me moderate independent. I am going back tonight to rejoin my regiment in Brussels. If you come with me we shall ride only to Launceston tonight and stay at the White Hart.’

  ‘Come with you? Jeremy, I am very, very sorry. Have I not tried to explain often and often—’

  ‘Yes, but then Valentine was about—’

  ‘And before. I have tried to explain . . .’

  He took her hand, turned it over, palm up, held it quietly. It lay there like a not-quite-tame animal which any moment might spring away.

  He said: ‘I want to marry you. I – I want you to become a part of me – each to become a part of the other . . . I want to claim the honour of knowing your body intimately – and your mind and your heart. Cuby, I want to take you into the world and to live with you always, to – to experience everything that the world offers, in your company – to talk to you, to listen to you, to face with you all the dangers and the sweets . . . the pains and the pleasures, the – the exhilaration, and the joys of being young – of challenge and fulfilment and happiness.’ He stopped, short of more words with which to break down her defences. She sat head down, but listening.

  He said sombrely: ‘I know I can marry someone else. I know you can. But it would be for us both a retreat into a half life, never breathing deep, never feeling all there is to feel, passing one’s days without the ultimate and – and vital flavour . . .’

  ‘Why are you so sure of all this – for me as well as for yourself?’

  ‘It is in me to be sure,’ he said, stroking her palm. ‘Come away with me now. As I said, we’ll spend the night in Launceston – as cousins or whatever you like to give the journey the necessary respectability. We’ll take the London coach tomorrow, be married in London, then travel straight to Brussels. It may not all be easy, comfortable, safe – in the way that perhaps living here is easy, comfortable, safe; but it will be everything else I can make it for your pleasure and happiness. My beloved, will you come?’

  The spaniel was barking again in the easy, comfortable, safe depths of the house. She sat in the easy, safe, comfort of her bedroom with a red-jacketed young soldier stroking her palm. This room she had only occupied since the new castle was built, but most of the furniture she had known all her young life. She was sitting in one of the green velvet bedroom chairs in which fifteen years ago she had sat to have her first hunting boot laced up by the maid. In the frame of the faded gilt mirror showing damp spots over the mantelshelf were stuck little mementoes she had collected from time to time: a ball programme, a tie-pin which had belonged to her father, a sprig of rosemary from a picnic, a crayon drawing Clemency had made of her. An embroidery workbasket with pieces of silk slipping out of the lid was on another chair; in front of it slippers and a pair of kid gloves. The curtains of the bed were of heavy yellow brocade, the window curtains of a similar material but faded with the sun. Her room. Her privacy. Invaded by a rather formidable young soldier.

  ‘Will you come?’ he said.

  Even if she loved him, which she did not, his proposition was beyond the impractical, bordering on the insane. How to break it to him gently, deflate once again the vain and pitiful hope so that he would go quietly, leave her and go, not too badly hurt, ret
urn to his regiment able and willing to lead and enjoy a life without her? It was such a pity, for, had circumstances been different, he would have made her a better husband than Valentine, and she would have made him a better wife. It was a pity that she was not the sort of girl he imagined her to be. Nor ever had been, nor ever conceivably could be. He imagined her warm, gentle, yielding; but she was cold, hard, firm. Family meant far more than any love-sick young man. Far more. John and Augustus and Clemency and the little boys, and Mama, and the great splendid castle, and the wonderful vistas, and the noble woods and the gentle cliffs and the ever changing yet unchangeable sea. She was a Trevanion of Caerhays and that was all. And that was enough. More than enough.

  For the first time in several minutes she looked up at him, and he was watching her. Something stirred, crawled, came to life within her. Of course it had not been entirely absent in the past, but it should not come up now. Must not come up now. Suddenly, as if aware of the danger, caution, common sense, calculation started screaming at her. She put her free hand up to her mouth.

  ‘Will you come?’ he asked again.

  ‘Yes, please,’ she said.

  Chapter Ten

  I

  Letter from Ensign Jeremy Poldark, Gravesend. Dated 19 January, 1815.

  My dearest Father and Mother,

  The briefest note and in haste – belated but as promised – to give you my News. It is to say that Cuby agreed to come with me, and we were married by special licence at the church of St Clement in the Strand last Tuesday, the seventeenth. I should by rights have obtained the permission of my commanding officer, but it would have meant delaying until we reached Brussels, and I felt that could not be.

  We are here now waiting for suitable transport, which is promised us in a vessel leaving on the noon tide tomorrow. I expect now to have exceeded my leave by about a week, but I don’t in the least care. I don’t care about Anything any more. I am just the happiest of men!

  I cannot thank you both enough for all your help and forbearance and advice over this very long period in which I have been in travail. By the mercy of God, no actual force was necessary when I called on Cuby, for force, at least of that sort, does not seem to be in my nature. It took a deep – and deeply felt – persuasion, and then . . . and then I felt like Joshua before the Walls of Jericho! We stole away hurriedly, she seeing none of her family but leaving letters to explain; we spent that night in Bodmin and caught the mail coach at Launceston. London late on Monday. I trust Colley and Hollyhock are safe back with you: I tipped the ostler an extra guinea so that he should deal gently with them and not ride them too hard. You know what these lads are.

  Cuby left Caerhays with the contents only of two saddlebags, so the one day in London while we were waiting for the licence we spent in a number of shops trying to fit her out in a way more suitable for a junior officer’s wife. I must say that she was very Careful as to the amount I spent on her, and that nothing at all should be unduly extravagant. I do not know what sort of housewife she will make, but the impression is that she will not lead me unnecessarily into debt! Perhaps her brother’s example is too fresh.

  My dear Father and Mother, no man is happier, or could be, than I am at this moment! But I so much regret that it has had to be this sort of wedding – a wedding in flight, almost – that I have had no opportunity of bringing Cuby to meet you and to seek your approval of her. How thankful I am that at least she came to Geoffrey Charles’s party and that you were able to see her there, and she you.

  Instead of all the happy preambles to a son’s wedding, of an occasion for family rejoicing, there has had to be this hole-in-corner elopement. I can only hope and trust that we shall both be able to make it up to you in the future, when my next leave comes or when I resign my commission. I think the latter must be brought nearer by this Event.

  I imagine you will see or hear nothing from the Trevanions. Cuby has told them what is necessary; if they should inquire, pray tell them all you can. She is writing to Clemency from here. Flurries of snow are blowing against our windows as we sit at this writing desk together; I hope it will take off before tomorrow, for the crossing can be unpleasant. Tell Clowance and Stephen, of course, and when you write to Geoffrey Charles please inform him too.

  I hear there was a terrible battle in America, at a place called New Orleans, with heavy British casualties, two weeks after peace was signed. What an appalling waste on both sides! Geoffrey Charles was well out of it.

  Mother, you asked if I wanted the loving cup. I said no, rather edgily, I believe: that it was yours and was of no importance to me. I am not a superstitious person but somehow I felt at the time – as I said then – that if it brought me any luck at all it would be bad luck. Instead I have had the most wonderful luck in the world. So may be I should change my mind and consider it an omen of good fortune after all. And, if I still may, I will have it. Can you keep it for me? Do not leave it on the sideboard but put it in a drawer in my bedroom, and I will collect it when next I am home. Or when we first make a home of our own.

  I hope you will go to France, if only for a holiday. A lieutenant I was talking to this morning says Paris is an experience not to be missed. There are many musical performances available for visitors who do not understand the language, and Bella might well profit from listening to those who can sing in tune. Please do not show her this!

  We are called for dinner, so I must stop. This is not such a short letter after all. Cuby joins me in sending love to you both. Is that correct? It will be correct for the future, for henceforward my only beloved wife will I trust share everything with me. We are man and wife, joyously united. But for this first letter after our wedding perhaps I should continue just this last time to say I send my love to you both, and thank you again for your love, your forbearance and your trust.

  Jeremy.

  II

  When he had finished Jeremy sealed the letter and put down the wax, looked across at his wife whose head was still bent over her letter, dark hair hiding her face. She was wearing one of the two frocks she had allowed him to buy her: of fine beige wool with long full sleeves and scarlet collar and cuffs, drawn in at the waist with a knotted cord. At that moment, as if conscious of his gaze, she glanced up at him and smiled, pushed her hair back with two elegant fingers. Beautiful and young. His heart and stomach turned over at the sight of her.

  ‘Have you finished?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’ll finish too. I can seal it later. Have you told them all you can?’

  ‘All I can. Yes. All I can.’

  As they went down the stairs he thought of what he had written to his mother and father, and of all that necessarily must remain unwritten. So many of the essential details which could never be related to anyone. How could he even begin to explain everything that had happened already?

  ‘What I can,’ he said again. ‘What I can.’

  III

  They had left Caerhays that night about eleven, by which time the house had been quiet no more than half an hour. Cuby had scribbled a note to her brother, one to her mother, a third to Clemency. She had not shown Jeremy what she had written, and he had not asked. He had stood there like a man of stone, watching her pack a small valise, turning his back while she changed into a riding habit, then helping her to gather a few more things together in a second bag. He had kissed her just once, but was afraid at this stage to do anything, anything good or bad which might conceivably affect her sudden choice.

  They had stolen down the front stairs but then through the kitchens to the back. The dogs had not barked any more. Once on the horses, they had picked their way up the dark miry lane towards the road which led to St Austell. It was plain by now that Launceston was out of the question, and it would have been more sensible to stop in St Austell, but Jeremy had his own reasons for a distaste for doing so, so they pressed on as far as Bodmin. He had made the excuse to Cuby, which was not an unreasonable one, that if John Trevanion discovere
d her absence in time he might follow them that far.

  It had been two in the morning before they reached Jewell’s Hotel, formerly the old King’s Arms, and it had meant hammering on the door and rousing half the house before they were reluctantly admitted. Jeremy knew John Jewell, but that could not be helped. Indeed it had had its advantages, for once Jewell’s sleep-laden eyes had widened at the sight of Jeremy’s companion, he asked no questions and rapidly had two separate bedrooms prepared. As rapidly they occupied them. It was as if, the decision having been made, they had said all that had to be said, and they must somehow try to sleep and wait for the morning.

  So they tossed and turned in their soft feather beds until, as requested, Jewell woke them at dawn. They breakfasted together, still hardly speaking, but looking a lot at each other. Glints and glances and occasional cautious smiles and just the business of eating and repacking their valises and taking the long ride across the moors for Launceston. They took dinner at the White Hart, left their horses to be returned and caught the afternoon eastward-bound Royal Mail Coach which reached Exeter at ten at night. A very long day. Saddle-sore and coach-jolted, they had slept deeply and were only just abroad in time for a hasty breakfast and a resumed journey.

  The fourth night had spelled a change. They had spent it at Marlborough, where they had arrived earlier than on the other stages of the journey. London would be reached next day, but very late.

  In the last few stages Cuby had become quietly sombre again, mainly watching the tall-treed leafless countryside as it jolted past, exchanging the occasional word but never making or encouraging conversation either with Jeremy or the other passengers, sometimes dozing, sometimes, it seemed, meditating as if lost far away in a distant country of her own, eating her food and drinking her wine dutifully, seldom meeting Jeremy’s eye but then when she did so glancing quickly away. He speculated much on what was going on in her mind but, still uncertain how he had at last persuaded her to come away with him, afraid to probe. Was she thinking of the hunting she had missed? Or some church duty? Or a problem of the estate? Was she wondering what her brother would say and do? Was she regretting the way she had deserted her family? Was she yearning for Clemency’s warm friendship? He did not know.