‘You see him before you.’
‘Don’t prevaricate. I shall call in Dr Choake.’
‘Heaven forbid! You could as well send for Mr Irby.’
‘Him too if you like. Though there are enough drugs and potions in this house to set up a shop of our own, if I knew which to give you.’
‘I don’t need drugs, Caroline. A good night’s rest will work wonders.’
‘Wonders . . . I tell you what a good night’s rest will do. It will return you a small and limited portion of energy which you will dissipate in half a day seeing to your wretched sick people, and then you will be ill again and exhausted and like to take to your bed. Isn’t that so? Tell me if it isn’t so.’
Dwight considered. ‘Work is good for a man, Caroline. It stimulates his mind, and in the end his mind will re-stimulate his body—’
‘And tell me what else is good for a man. Love for his wife?’
He flushed. ‘If sometimes I fail in that it is a failure of body, not of loving intent. You have reassured me—’
‘If failure of the body is the outcome of the prison sickness you still suffer, then loving intent is all I ask. But if all the time, every atom of your regathering strength, you dissipate upon your work – as fast as it is gathered it is given out – then one begins to question the loving intent.’
Horace came waddling through a slit in the door on his fat legs and whined at them, but for once he was ignored. He rolled over on his back and they still took no notice.
‘You question that, Caroline?’ Dwight asked.
‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘what have you done today?’
‘Today? This morning I saw a dozen poor wretches who waited outside the servants’ door for advice or attention; then I went to see Mr Trencrom, whose asthma is bad. Then, as it was my day for riding farther afield, I made a half dozen calls on the way and so reached Truro, where I visited Mrs Whitworth and Mr Polwhele. So I rode home. When I reached home I felt disturbed in my breathing and my stomach, so ate lightly. I am recovered now.’
She got up, as taut as whipcord, went to the window, picked up a book and fingered it without looking at it. ‘And do you know what I have done today? I have spent an hour perfecting my toilet, then an hour with Myners seeing to matters of the estate, then I picked some flowers for my empty parlour, then I changed my attire and rode two hours with Ruth Treneglos. I dined with her and her sweaty husband and her crew of noisy infants and so came home. Do you observe any point at which our paths crossed?’
‘No,’ said Dwight after a moment.
Horace jumped on his knee.
Dwight said: ‘But we have never pretended that our daily life must go side by side.’
‘No, my dear, never side by side. But not the poles apart.’
‘And do you think it is now the poles apart?’
She turned, still light in voice; but that did not deceive him. ‘When I took a fancy to you, my dear, my uncle disapproved because he said you had no name – which was untrue – and no money – which was. Unwin Trevaunance was to be my mate, and all my upbringing had accustomed me to a life which would have matched with his. But I fancied you; and you fancied me; and nothing else would do for the either of us. But even then we quarrelled, or had a disagreement, as to how we were to live after we were wed. Lacking Uncle Ray’s money, I still had enough of my own to set you up in Bath, and so this was agreed. And . . . we were to elope . . . and we did not elope because you preferred – or seemed to my distorted imagination then to prefer – your patients here to marriage and a fashionable practice with me. And we separated – and would have remained separated for good if that interfering fellow Ross Poldark had not forced us to meet again and almost banged our heads together. And . . . so we made it up. But by then you were in the navy, with the results that are still with us . . .’
‘Why are you saying all this, Caroline?’
‘Because I went through agonies waiting for you – and your return brought me new life. And I don’t want it to be said – or rumoured – or even entertained as a passing thought – that all our interests are so different that, in spite of our love, Ross Poldark was wrong.’
He got up, spilling Horace grunting upon the mat.
‘My dear, you can’t mean that.’
‘Of course I mean it, for others will think it if we do not.’
‘What matters it what others have to say?’
‘It only matters if it is reflected in ourselves.’
He was still unsteady standing and sat on the edge of the table. His narrow, thoughtful face was lined this evening. He looked what he was, a sick man with a strong will.
He said: ‘Tell me how I must alter.’
After a moment she shook her hair back and knelt on the rug beside Horace.
In a different voice, but so subtly different that only he could detect the softening, she said: ‘I know I am a scatterbrained creature—’
‘That is a lie.’
‘—frivolous and—’
‘Only on the surface.’
‘—with no ideas beyond the ideas of a—’
‘You have plenty of ideas.’
‘Dwight,’ she said, ‘I was making an effort to be contrite to you; but I cannot even do that if you interrupt me all the time.’
‘It is I who should be contrite for having grossly neglected you.’
She sat down with her back against a chair, her legs tucked under her. ‘Then I’ll not catalogue my faults. Let’s just agree that I love the country life and riding and hunting, and I like occasional soirées and parties, which you do not. Nor, though I would like to, can I get myself a true interest in medicine. Unless they are worthy people, of whom there are all too few, I don’t see the virtue in curing them. The world is over-populated. People swarm everywhere. It’s very sad, but generally speaking I would say, let ’em die.’
‘I don’t believe that. It’s your uncle’s old belief and not yours at all—’
‘Yes, it is! In this instance it is very much my belief, for it concerns my husband. He is neglecting two things. He is neglecting his wife – which I very much resent. But still more important, he is neglecting himself. It is only one sin on your part, Dwight, but it has two evil consequences; and the second is even worse than the first.’
‘You’re wrong, Caroline, I’m sure you are. If I neglect you, then I’m much to blame and it shall – it shall be changed. But the other is not a consequence at all. I am – not very well; but neither am I very ill. It is a state which I believe a year or two will clear up, but I don’t suppose it depends on the number of patients I see or the efforts I make to cure them—’
‘Well, then,’ she said, ‘if you will not take heed to the second consequence, take heed to the first.’
‘I’ll try to spend more time after dinner with you, limit my work to the mornings—’
‘Oh, you will try . . . You will try to do this and that, but will you succeed? It is – it is like a drug with you, Dwight, like drink with another man. He swears he will give it up, but in a day or two he slides back into his old ways . . .’
He went to kneel beside her on the mat, and she noticed his unsteadiness. He kissed her and squatted beside her. Horace grunted and yapped with a return of his old jealousy. ‘Tomorrow I’ll turn over a new leaf. You see. The drunkard will reform.’
She said: ‘D’you know it’s not very long ago that I was in daily attendance at the bed of a man dying of the sugar sickness. My uncle took a long time dying. Almost all the time you were away it took him to die. And I became disgusted at the sight and smell of illness – of pills and potions and night commodes and food untasted and a body shrivelling away, and – and comas and half-recoveries, only to see him sink again. I’m young, Dwight. Young. And frivolous, though you may pretend not to think so. I love you. I want to be young with you and to enjoy my youth! You came back – almost it seemed from the dead. I don’t want you to go back to the dead. I don’t want to attend on your bed of s
ickness. I’m selfish, you see. Wait, wait, let me finish.’ She paused to brush the tears impatiently from her eyes. ‘I know I have married a surgeon, a doctor. That I knew and that I’m prepared for. That you should continue to practise was part of the bargain. It was never so stated in those words but I understood it as part of the bargain. I do not expect you or wish you to turn into a country bumpkin squire to please me, nor did you expect me to become a downtrodden mouse mixing the potions or writing out the bills for her husband. But you did marry me, and I am your wife for better or worse, and you must take account of that fact! As well as being a doctor’s wife I am a young woman with an estate, and as well as being a doctor you are now a landowner and a man of property. There has to be compromise on both sides, or there will be a risk – there will be a risk of our waking up one day and finding there is nothing left between us at all.’
The little pug now climbed pertinaciously on to the twisted lap she presented to him and tried to lick her hair.
Dwight said: ‘Horace is doing exactly what I ought to be doing.’
‘Ought to be or wish to be?’
‘Wish to be.’
‘But must not, or I shall not want your salute to stay so chaste.’
‘Do you suppose I’d want it so myself?’
‘But I must. You’re unwell, Dwight. You must have felt very unwell today or I shouldn’t have found you in.’
‘It will pass. It has passed.’
‘Maybe. I have my doubts. Give over, Horace; your tongue is rough.’ She pushed her tawny hair back out of his reach. ‘So, my dear, I am prepared to be a demanding wife in some ways but not in others. I demand you cut down your work. I demand that on occasion, just once in a while, you spend a whole day with me, doing what I want you to do. But for the moment I demand nothing more, even though the more to which I refer is what I would wish for most . . .’
‘And I.’
‘Well, prove it.’
‘I will—’
‘No.’ She put her hand against his lips. ‘Not tonight. Fulfil my other demands first. For out of them will come what I believe will be something better for us both.’
They sat there together on the faded Kashan rug. They were holding hands, but somehow Horace had insinuated his obese body between them so that he was wedged into a position where he divided them and could not lightly be moved.
For the moment the tight little storm was over. They were both exhausted by it, Dwight, because it was his nature, much the more so. And because he had so much less nervous energy to begin. Caroline was aware of victory, but of how carefully she must guard it; for she knew the thin streak of determination – or obstinacy – that ran through his character. She was sorry she had not been more downright before. But, because of his narrow return from death and subsequent illness, his preoccupations were hard to combat. It was not going to be an easy marriage. It never had been yet over the few months it had so far run. But she was determined to win it. Her determination – or obstinacy – must be no less than his. Their love was not in question. What was in question was what they would make of it.
Chapter Two
I
So Ossie Whitworth received a letter from Dr Enys telling him that for reasons of indifferent health he was compelled to restrict his practice to areas nearer his home, and therefore he would not be available, unless there were some sudden deterioration in Mrs Whitworth’s health, to be called in for further attendance. He told Mr Whitworth that in his view Mrs Whitworth was now greatly recovered from the illness following her pregnancy. A strengthening rather than a lowering diet was still to be favoured; and everything should be done to ensure that Mrs Whitworth followed a simple and quiet life and avoid shock to her nervous system. If this course were pursued, he felt, there would be nothing further to fear. He was, with respect, their humble and obedient servant, etc.
Ossie grunted when he had read the letter and tossed it across the tea table for Morwenna to read. ‘So you see, his Lordship has tired of us, so now we must go back to Dr Behenna.’
‘Oh, dear!’ Morwenna exclaimed, still reading. ‘What a shame! He was so kind. Like a kind friend. One felt one could talk to him.’
‘As quite obviously you did, my dear. More than would be considered seemly by most women to another man. A man, I mean, other than her husband.’
‘He was my doctor, Ossie. I don’t think I ever discussed anything with him that was not pertinent to my illness.’
‘Opinion will differ on that. Well, now you are well again and putting on weight and looking quite buxom, no doubt you’ll be able to resume your full duties as the vicar’s wife in this parish.’
‘I’m already trying to. I have been busy all day about your affairs. I’m sure you don’t wish me to list them, for you listed them yourself this morning. It has been a happy day for me that I’ve been able to do so much, and although I’m now tired it is a pleasant tiredness, not at all like the old fatigue. I look forward to another such day tomorrow.’
Ossie grunted. ‘I’m playing whist tonight at the Carharracks’, so I shall be late home. Tell Alfred to wait up for me.’ He took his watch out of the pocket of his fancy waistcoat and looked at it. ‘That girl’s late. What is she doing out so long?’
Morwenna took off her spectacles. ‘Rowella? She’s been gone barely an hour and it’s broad daylight. She could scarce come to any harm.’
‘It’s not physical harm I mean so much as moral harm,’ Ossie said. ‘I know she has gone to that library for books. You both spend half your days over them. Too much reading is demoralizing, especially of that kind. It leads to dreams, unworthy dreams. One loses touch with the reality of a godly life. You know I never preach to you, Morwenna. Tain’t in me to be Methody or sanctimonious. We should all do our best in the world as we find it. But we cannot continue to do our best if we try, through books, to lead other people’s lives. It’s enervating, unhealthy – for you both.’ He finished his tea and rose. ‘I’ll be in my study for an hour.’
‘I wished some time,’ Morwenna said, ‘to discuss Sarah and Anne’s schooling. While I’ve been ill Rowella has had her hands full and has not been able to devote as much time to them as we wished. I think they’ve come to no hurt, but Sarah is a trifle saucy. Rowella has been such a help to me, and with the baby, that I would gladly enlist her in those duties only.’
‘Another time,’ he said restively. ‘We’ll discuss it some other time.’
When he had left the room Morwenna reflected idly that her sister’s name had a peculiar effect on Ossie. Sometimes he seemed actively hostile towards her and referred to her as ‘that girl’, so that Morwenna feared he might decide she was not fulfilling her duties and send her home. At others he seemed jocular and friendly, and he was polite enough on the rare occasions when he directly addressed her. But they hadn’t ever quite settled down together as a brother-in-law and a young sister-in-law should. Morwenna put on her glasses again and read Dwight’s letter. His withdrawal was a great loss to her, the loss of a real friend, and somehow there were few enough about.
She wandered out into the garden and down to her favourite place by the river, but the river was out, the mud smelt dank and stale, and Leda and her three friends were not there. Morwenna dropped the pieces of bread and cake on the bank where they could reach them, if the water-hens and the other birds had not grabbed them up before the swans returned. This was where she had once thought to plunge and suffocate in the mud to avoid the obligations of married life. It was still a possibility, but a brief message Geoffrey Charles had recently brought her, though without hope, had given her a new heart.
As for Rowella, Morwenna valued her company and help, but they too hardly ever got to talk in the intimate casual way of sisters in daily contact about a house. Had it been Garlanda, Morwenna knew there would have been constant warm unrestrained chatter to help the day along. Whatever happened, Rowella was always herself, dry and cool of speech, critical of eye, able and willing but never ‘warm’.
Perhaps it was something lacking in her nature.
As he sat in his study, drafting out yet another letter to Conan Godolphin about the still-vacant living of Sawle-with-Grambler, Ossie Whitworth could have given his wife some interesting sidelights on Rowella Chynoweth’s nature. Indeed, at this moment he could not quite bring his whole concentration to the letter because he was waiting to hear Rowella Chynoweth’s footstep. Her footstep.
It was all very disturbing to him. He was not by choice a praying man – except, that is, for public prayers, a commission for which he had been sensibly ordained. He did not pray a lot in private; but over the matter of his sister-in-law he had once or twice asked for guidance. And noticeably had not received it.
He sometimes thought himself in a very poor way, as for instance now, and as for instance often when he knew the girl was about and listened for her footstep. It was a very peculiar thing. No other woman had affected him so before. Not even his wife when he lusted after her so earnestly before the wedding. When Rowella was in the house it was as if he could hear her breathing. Perhaps it was only that he knew what happened when she breathed that so occupied his mind. At times, at the most disconcerting times, his visual memory of her swam before his eyes and made him hesitate and stumble in his thoughts.
In her long slim ill-fitting gowns she padded about the house, and her body, now that he knew what was there, flaunted itself at him through the flimsy disguising material. And of course her feet, which were so marvellously cool and slim in his hands, the skin so fine, the shape and bones so slender, so marvellously, seductively slender. Her manner about the house was impeccable; never by any flicker of her sly, close-set eyes did she betray anything in public of what might have happened the night before when they were alone.
Sometimes he wondered if she were a witch, a witch sent specially into the world fully fledged in all things evil while still a child. For she understood more about captivating a man, of inflaming a man, than either his first or second wife had ever dreamed of. She seemed to know more even than the light women of Oxford or those by the quay of this little town. She was of course so much fresher than they were and so damnably more provocative. The attitudes she took up on the bed when he had clumsily half undressed her were wildly wicked. She would spit at him, contorting her face and arching her body like a cat, she would offer herself and her startling breasts and then refuse him, she would sulk or bite or grin or scowl and, when at last she let him take her, all the elements that preceded the possession became a part of it, so that he discovered sensations he had never known before.
The Four Swans Page 23