When he was no more to be seen Ross looked round and found Demelza examining the plant.
‘I forgot to ask its name again.’
‘Mag, you said.’
‘Mag something. Mag – was it lina?’
‘Magdalen perhaps.’
‘No. I shall never remember it now.’
‘It looks much like a laurel to me. I wonder if it will flourish on this coast.’
‘I don’t see why not. Against a wall, he said.’
‘Vegetation is different on the south coast. The soil is darker, less sandy.’
‘Oh, well,’ she stood up; ‘we can try.’
As they went into the parlour Ross said: ‘Does he touch you, my love?’
She half glanced up at him, with a glint of embarrassment.
‘Yes . . .’
‘Deeply?’
‘A little. His eyes are so dark and sad.’
‘They light up when they look at you.’
‘I know.’
‘So long as your eyes don’t light up when you look at him.’
She said: ‘Who were those people he mentioned? Heloise, was it? Isolde?’
‘Legendary lovers. Tristan and Isolde I know. I can’t remember who loved Heloise. Was it Abelard? My education was more practical than classical.’
‘He lives in dreams,’ Demelza said. ‘Yet he isn’t a dream. He’s very real.’
‘I rely on your wonderful common sense always to remember that.’
‘Well . . . yes. What I try to remember is that he’s so young.’
‘What? Three, four years younger than you? That at most. I wouldn’t look on it as an unbridgeable gap.’
‘I wish twere more.’
‘You’d like to be old? What an ambition!’ He put his arm round her shoulders, and quickly she leaned against him. ‘I see,’ he commented. ‘A tree in need of support!’
‘Just a small matter shaken,’ she said.
Chapter Eight
I
A week later two gentlemen were pacing slowly up and down the great parlour of Tregothnan House. It was a big room, rather shabby, panelled in cedar, the chairs Jacobean and uncomfortable; the coats of armour needed a polish, the battle flags, hung high up, had been the prey of moths. Four small Elizabeth cannon guarded the high, carved mantelshelf.
The two gentlemen had now been waiting nearly three hours. Regularly at each hourly interval a butler appeared with canary wine and biscuits. The two men were Mr William Hick, the mayor of Truro, and Mr Nicholas Warleggan, the smelter and banker. Both were in a nervous state, though it manifested itself in different ways. Mr Hick sweated, though the night was cool and the room cold. His handkerchief could well have been wrung out; he smelt of unwashed sweat which had been started into life by new excretions. Mr Warleggan preserved an exaggerated calm which was only betrayed by the clicking of his fingers.
‘This is disgraceful,’ said Hick, for the tenth time. He was not a man for original remarks, and the situation had long since exhausted his invention. ‘Quite disgraceful. To be invited here for seven-thirty and him not here at ten! And no word! And the election tomorrow! It is altogether too bad!’
‘It serves to implement and confirm our decision,’ said Warleggan.
‘What? Eh? Oh, yes. To be sure. Our decision.’ Hick sweated afresh. ‘To be sure.’
‘You must calm yourself, my friend,’ Warleggan said. ‘You know what to say. There is nothing to fear. We are all free men.’
‘Free men? Yes. But a person of the Recorder’s stature and influence. This waiting makes it all so much worse.’
‘It is not a question of the Recorder’s stature or influence, Hick. It is a question of your being here to communicate to him a decision arrived at by us all. You are only the mouthpiece, communicating to him – Ah . . . I think perhaps we shall not now have to wait much longer . . .’
There were sounds outside – the neigh of a horse, footsteps, doors opening and shutting, footsteps and more voices. Presently another door slammed and silence fell on the house again.
They waited another quarter of an hour.
Then a footman appeared at the door and said: ‘His Lordship will see you now.’
They were led across a high echoing hall into a smaller parlour where Lord Falmouth, in stained travelling clothes, was eating game pie.
‘Ah, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘you have been kept waiting. Pray sit down. Join me in a glass of wine.’
Hick glanced at his companion, then uneasily took a seat at the far end of the table. Nicholas Warleggan followed suit, but waved away the wine with a polite gesture.
Falmouth said: ‘I have come in some haste from Portsmouth. Last night I was with friends near Exeter. Business delayed my departure this morning, and I have had no time to sup on the way.’
‘Well,’ said Hick and cleared his throat noisily. ‘Your Lordship will no doubt wish to discuss—’
‘As you’ve both been kept waiting a considerable time,’ Falmouth said, ‘I need not delay you longer.’ He then kept them waiting while he finished his mouthful of chicken and cut up another. ‘Yow new Member is to be Mr Jeremy Salter of Exeter. He comes of an old and distinguished family and he is the cousin to Sir Basil Salter, the High Sheriff of Somerset. He has some links with my family and was at one time Member for Arundel in Sussex. He is in every way suitable and will make an admirable stable mate for the other, sitting, Member, Captain Gower.’ The next mouthful went in, and, following a gesture to the footman behind his chair, another slice of pie was put on his plate.
‘The burgesses,’ Hick began. ‘The burgesses have been meeting several times during your absence, and—’
‘Yes.’ Falmouth felt in a pocket. ‘Of course they’ll want to know his full name. I have it here. Pray convey it to the burgesses first thing in the morning. They’ll want it in time for the election.’ He handed a sheet of paper to the footman, who passed it to Hick, who picked it up with fumbling fingers.
‘And what of Mr Arthur Carmichael?’ Warleggan said quietly.
‘I saw him in Portsmouth. Yes, he might have been of advantage to Truro in his handling of naval contracts, but he was unsuitable in other ways.’
There was silence. Hick sweated into his wine.
Warleggan said: ‘You may be surprised, Lord Falmouth, at my presence here with Mr Hick. Normally—’
‘Not at all. You are most welcome. Now, gentlemen, I am, as you will understand, very tired, and you both have an hour’s ride home—’
‘Normally,’ said Nicholas Warleggan, his voice persisting; ‘normally Mr Hick would have come alone; but it is necessary to communicate to your Lordship a decision which was reached at a meeting of a group of the capital burgesses last night; and therefore it was felt that at least one other person should accompany the mayor this evening in order to confirm what he has to tell you.’
George Evelyn Boscawen, the third Viscount, poured himself another glass of wine and sipped it. He did not bother to raise his eyes.
‘And what, Mr Hick, do you have to tell me that cannot wait for tomorrow?’
Hick sputtered a moment. ‘A meeting, your Lordship, was convened at my house on Tuesday, and again last night, being attended by a large number of the burgesses of the town. At which, at which meetings considerable, considerable disagreements and dissension were expressed as to the method of choice by which a candidate was – was selected. As your Lordship will know, the corporation of Truro has for a vast number of years placed the most unreserved confidence in the Boscawen family and treated them with – with the highest marks of friendship and esteem. You, my Lord, and your esteemed uncle before you, have been the Recorder for the borough, and two gentlemen of your family were for several parliaments chosen as their representatives – chosen, I may say, in the most noble and disinterested manner, they being elected freely and uncorruptedly in a way which was honourable both to the voters and to themselves. But of late years – during the last parliament and before—
’
‘Come, Mr Hick,’ Falmouth said curtly. ‘What is this you are trying to tell me? I am tired and the hour is late. You have a very good candidate in Mr Jeremy Salter and there can be no conceivable obstacle to his being elected.’
Hick gulped at his wine. ‘Had you – you, my Lord, been content with having two of your own family returned to parliament without expense or trouble, your influence would have remained as great as ever. Nor would it have been in the power of any person to put an end to it—’
‘Who,’ said Lord Falmouth, ‘is suggesting – or indeed daring to suggest – that my influence has abated?’
Hick coughed and struggled with his voice. He preoccupied himself with wiping his face on his sodden handkerchief.
Nicholas Warleggan said: ‘What Mr Hick is trying to say, my Lord, is that the corporation can no longer be treated like a chattel to be disposed of at your Lordship’s will. It was so resolved last night and it will be so confirmed at the election tomorrow.’
There was a moment’s dead silence. Lord Falmouth looked at Warleggan, then at Hick. Then he resumed his meal.
After no one had spoken for a while Warleggan went on: ‘With due respect, my Lord, I will venture to affirm that nothing but your own strange, and, I make so bold as to say, improper and ungrateful treatment of the borough has caused this change in our feelings. The borough has always endeavoured to preserve its reputation for openness and independence; how can this be maintained if it is virtually sold by the Recorder to the highest bidder and the borough not informed until the night before the election whom it has to vote for? This is a prostitution of the corporation’s rights and makes us the laughing-stock of the whole country!’
‘You are making laughing-stocks of yourselves coming here in this way.’ Falmouth turned to the footman. ‘Cheese.’
‘M’lord.’
‘Apart from which, you do not, I am sure, represent the whole or a majority of the corporation. A small dissatisfied junta . . .’
‘A majority, my Lord!’ Hick put in.
‘That we shall see. That we shall discover tomorrow. Then we shall know who there are, if any, that, having become burgesses after expressing the profoundest loyalty to the Boscawen family, now turn and for some venal prize dishonour those expressions—’
‘No venal prize,’ said Mr Warleggan warmly. ‘The venality, sir, is all on your Lordship’s side. We learn on the highest authority that in attempting to sell these seats to your friends you constantly complain that it costs you a great deal of money to maintain the borough. It has been said that your Lordship claims he has paid for the new burial ground and the new workhouse. Not so. You contributed not a farthing to the workhouse and gave the ground for the cemetery, of a value of about fifteen pounds, with a subscription of thirty guineas – My own subscription was sixty. Mr Hick’s fifteen. Others gave the like. We are not a venal borough, my Lord. That is why we are determined to reject your candidate tomorrow.’
The table had been cleared of the pie, and cheese had been put before their host, together with a jar of preserved figs. Lord Falmouth took a fig and began to chew it. He said: ‘Do I assume from this that you have some candidate of your own to oppose him?’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ said Hick.
‘May I ask his name?’
There was a pause. Then the bigger man said: ‘My son, Mr George Warleggan, has been asked to stand.’
‘Ah,’ said Falmouth. ‘Now perhaps we detect the worm in the bud.’
At that moment the door opened and a tall good-looking dark-eyed young man half entered. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Uncle. I heard you had returned and did not know you had guests.’
‘These gentlemen are just leaving. Two minutes and I shall be free.’
‘Thank you.’ He withdrew.
Falmouth finished his wine. ‘I think there is nothing more to say after that, gentlemen. All is clearly explained. I will wish you good night.’
Nicholas Warleggan got up. ‘For your information, sir, I did not put my son’s name forward. Nor did he. It was a choice made by others, and I resent your implication.’
‘So I suppose Sir Francis Basset has been flexing his muscles again, eh? Well, we shall see tomorrow. Tomorrow I shall discover who are my friends and who are my enemies. It is a matter I shall take particular note of.’
‘If your Lordship sees the contest on that level we cannot prevent you,’ said Warleggan, preparing to take his leave.
‘As for you, Mr Hick,’ Lord Falmouth said. ‘No doubt you will remember the contract you received for your carpet manufactory for furnishing the naval building in Plymouth. Your letters on this matter, which I have in my desk, will make illuminating reading.’
Hick’s face swelled and he looked as if he was going to burst into tears.
‘Come, Hick,’ said Warleggan, taking the mayor by the arm. ‘We can do no more.’
‘Hawke, show these gentlemen out,’ Falmouth said. He took a slice of cheese.
‘Viscount Falmouth!’ said Hick. ‘I really must protest!—’
‘Come, my friend,’ said Warleggan impatiently. ‘We have done as we were instructed to do and no good can be served by remaining.’
‘Commend me to your friends,’ said Lord Falmouth. ‘Many of them have received favours. I will remind them when I see them in the morning.’
II
News had percolated that there was likely to be a contested election, and the Reverend Osborne Whitworth, as a prominent citizen of Truro, was naturally interested in the outcome. More particularly so when it transpired that his cousin by marriage, Mr George Warleggan, was to be a candidate.
He was therefore most especially irritated when his wife began to experience her first birth pains at about six o’clock in the morning of the day of the election. Mr Whitworth, not being a councillor, would not have been admitted to the chamber where the election was in progress, but he hoped to be one of a number who might collect outside, observe the comings and goings, and be the first to learn the result. But at ten-thirty – half an hour before the election was due to take place – Dr Daniel Behenna, who had been with Morwenna for more than an hour, sent Rowella to call him. They met in the small upstairs sitting-room that the girls had tended to make their own when Ossie was playing cards with his friends below. There was a spinning wheel in the room, work baskets, a frame for a sampler, baby clothes that Morwenna had been making.
Behenna waited until Rowella had left, then he said: ‘Mr Whitworth, I have to inform you that there are complications in this accouchement which no one could have foreseen. I have to inform you that although the presentation was normal in the first stages of labour, your wife has now become gravely ill.’
Ossie stared at the other man. ‘What is it? Tell me. Is the baby dead?’
‘No, but I fear there is serious danger to both.’ Behenna wiped his hands on a dirty cloth he carried. ‘As the child’s head descended Mrs Whitworth fell into a convulsion and although this ceased, as soon as the labour returned so the convulsions have recommenced. I may tell you it is a very rare condition in childbirth. Musculorum convulsio cum sopore. In all my experience I have only met with it three times before.’
Osborne’s feelings were a mixture of anxiety and anger. ‘What is to be done? Eh? Can I go and see her?’
‘I would advise not. I have administered camphor, and also tartaris antimonii, but so far the emetic effect has not reduced the epilepsy.’
‘But now? What is happening now, while you’re here talking to me now? Can you save the child?’
‘Your wife is insensible after the last attack. Mrs Parker by her bed will summon me at any sign—’
‘Why, I can’t understand it at all. Mrs Whitworth kept in goodish fettle right to the end, right until early this morning. A bit low, a bit low, but you told her to keep herself low. Eh? Didn’t you? So what has caused this? She’s had no fever.’
‘On the previous occasions when ladies have suffered this I have observed them
to be of a delicate and emotional nature. The nervous irritability which can give rise to this condition appears to be brought on by an unstable emotional state, or excess of fear, or in one case of grief. Mrs Whitworth must be of a high-strung disposition—’
A choked scream came from the next room, followed by a more high-pitched and gasping sound that made even Ossie’s face blench.
‘I must go to her now,’ said Dr Behenna, pulling a spatulum out of his pocket. ‘Have no fear, we shall do all we can, we shall attempt all that physical and surgical skill and knowledge can achieve. I have sent your maid for Mr Rowe, the apothecary, and when he comes we shall open the jugular vein and draw away a substantial amount of blood. It should help to alleviate the condition. In the meantime – well – perhaps a prayer for your wife and child . . .’
III
So Ossie missed the election. He went down to his study, and then he went out into his garden to get out of earshot of the unpleasant noises that came from upstairs. It was a cheerful day, sunlit and cloud-gloomed by turns, and the tide was full. In this part of the river such water only occurred at full and new moon; for the rest of the time there were greater or lesser mud banks from which terns and lapwings called. There were also some swans that Morwenna and the children fed with scraps. They came towards him now, necks craning, waggling their tails, supposing that he had something for them. He drove them away with a fallen branch and stared across the river at the thick lush trees on the other side, considering his ill-luck.
His first wife had died this way – not in childbed but in the fever which followed. But she had experienced no difficulty, not the slightest, in bringing forth her child. He had not supposed that Morwenna would either. Her hips were of a sensible size. He wanted a boy to carry on the name. Of course death was a hazard any woman faced so soon as she began bearing children; as a vicar officiating at funerals he was very accustomed to the sight of young husbands and tiny children weeping at a graveside. It was not long, not so very long, since he had done this himself.
But there were many women, any number of women – and those he could number all too well – who produced one child after another, year in year out, with no trouble at all. They had ten or fifteen children, more than half of whom survived, and they themselves lived to a good age – often indeed out-lasting their husbands who had worked unceasingly all their lives to maintain the mounting family. It was too bad if Morwenna were going to go the way of Esther, and with a dead child into the bargain. And in that case it was certain to be a boy.
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