IV
By the second of the two great chimneys belonging to the derelict Grambler Mine, with the pigeons flapping and fluttering in the sun about the fallen roof of the changing shed, she met Will Nanfan, who told her with great chuckles of Jud’s mishap yesterday. She went along, therefore, knowing the tale of woe that would greet her. What she did not expect when the door was creaked open for her was to see Prudie with a perfect shiner of a black eye. Jud was lying on his face on the bed trying to smoke, but every now and then the smoke got in his eyes and he coughed and swore feebly, like someone who has but a short time to live.
‘Oh, tis you,’ he said. In spite of frequent proddings from Prudie, Jud could never forget that Demelza had first arrived in Nampara as a miserable little scut of a scullery wench, pinched and starving and illiterate and hardly fit to be let in the house – far inferior to him and Prudie, who were the senior servants. She might have changed and grown out of recognition and become mistress of the house all because Cap’n Poldark took pity on her, but that didn’t alter how and where she had begun.
Then he added: ‘Come thee wayst in, mistress,’ remembering just in time not Prudie’s proddings but that Demelza sometimes brought money. ‘Yur I lie creening all day. No doubt ye’ve heard?’
‘Yes,’ said Demelza. ‘I’m sad for you.’
‘There’s naught amiss wi’ him,’ said Prudie. ‘Lazy old gale. Sit down, my dear, an’ I’ll fit a cup o’ tay for ee.’
Demelza perched on a shaky chair. She noticed that the mirror she had given them last year had a crack in it and that one chair lay drunkenly against a wall with two of its legs broken. It looked as if there had been an argument.
‘Curs!’ said Jud, levering himself on to one elbow. ‘I’d ’ang the whole danged blatherin’ boiling lot. Tedn right! With mad curs roaming over my yard, twas a mercy I weren’t ravaged to death!’
‘One nick!’ came Prudie’s booming voice from the other room. In honour of her guest she was trying to find a clean cup. ‘One nick like you might’ve pinched yer bum wi’ a pair of tweezers. Scarce that! Scarce that!’
‘And what did ee do, eh?’ Jud in his annoyance sat up further, and then subsided with a groan. ‘Casterized me wi’ a burning brand! Casterized the wound and made it twice as deep! Grafty old roach!’
The conversation continued on the same lofty plane while Prudie prepared the cup of tea. Demelza would willingly have escaped it, but she had slipped the half guinea to Prudie as soon as she entered, and Prudie would be hurt if she didn’t stay and take a cup. It was a way of saying thank you, and she knew Jud would not hear of the gift today.
‘I’ve been to the church,’ she said, taking a tentative sip at the hot black liquid, ‘to see if Boase had begun his work on Miss Agatha’s grave, but I see he has not. Has he been to take measurements, d’you know?’
‘I not seen sight nor sound of him,’ said Jud. ‘I seen Cap’n Ross once or twiced. Boase – he not been nigh the yard, no, not since he set up that gashly morial to old man Penvenen. Oft I wished twould fall down and crust him when he’m building of ’n. Great gawk of a thing . . . Cap’n Poldark, now, I seen he one even in J’ly—’
‘Jud, ye black worm!’ said Prudie. ‘Yur’s yur tay. Gulge it down and I ’ope it chokes yer!’
Jud accepted the cup and slopped some of it on to his wrist. He cursed weakly and sipped the drink.
‘Cap’n Poldark I seen one eve in J’ly. There was I, been filling in after Betsy Caudle. When I seen Cap’n Poldark waiting neath a tree—’
‘Jud, ye louse-hound!’ said Prudie. ‘Hold yer clack!’
‘What for? What’s amiss? What’s awry? What’s toward? I seen Cap’n Poldark – dedn I say so? What’s amiss wi’ saying that? And I seen this woman quaddling towards he and I thinks twas you, mistress. I thinks, ah, they’ve come to meet each other like two little birds on a tree, and dang me if when she come up if tesn’t Mistress Elizabeth Warleggan – Poldark that was – and they greet each other, and he raises his ’at and they d’walk off towards Trenwith arm in arm!’
‘More tay?’ said Prudie to Demelza, breathing over her. ‘Dear life, you’ve scarce touched’n yet and I’m through with mine. Leave me put a drop more.’
‘Thank you,’ Demelza said. ‘No. It’s real nice but a small matter hot. I mustn’t stay for there’s much to do home. We got all our corn cut but there’s still some to fetch in.’
Prudie smoothed her black frock, which looked as if it had been used for covering potatoes in an outhouse. ‘There, my dear, tis brave of ee to come and see after we, edn it, Jud?’
Jud glanced up sidelong with his bloodshot eyes and received a look from Prudie that seemed to suggest that as soon as their guest had gone she would dash his brains out. Any treatment he had received yesterday would be the balm of angels compared to this. He sat up sharply and winced at his sore seat.
‘I – what’ve I—’ He stopped. ‘When this Boase d’come along I’ll tell him as you’ve been around and you d’want to ’ear sharp when ’e be going to begin, eh? That right, mistress? That what ee d’want?’
‘That’s what I want,’ said Demelza. She sipped the tea again, feeling it hot in her throat. She stood up.
Jud blinked again uneasily at Prudie, and tried to think of something agreeable to say to their guest.
‘’Ow’s your two little grufflers?’ he asked as Demelza got to the door.
‘Brave,’ she said. ‘Clowance is cutting teeth and is a thought fretful in the morning, but most of the time she’s happy and contented.’
‘Like ’er mam,’ Jud said, showing his gums in a weak smile. ‘Like ’er mam.’
‘Not always,’ said Demelza. ‘Not always.’
They went out into the sunlight. Prudie smoothed her dress again and coughed. But she said nothing; for her none too agile mind had come to the conclusion it would be an error to apologize for Jud because it would emphasize the need for apology.
‘I think Jud be going down’ill,’ said Prudie, scowling in the sunshine. ‘Rapid down’ill. Can’t rely on him ’tall. ’Alf the time ’e don’t know where he’s to, and the other ’alf he’s worse. I’ll keep that gold away from ’im else he’ll slop it down ’is throat. Thank you, mistress, for coming to our aid.’
Demelza gazed towards Trenwith. ‘Are the Warleggans at home now? We see nothing of them.’
‘Yes, I b’lave them still there. Seen young Master Geoffrey Charles out on ’is pony last month. But I reckon he’m off back school by now.’
‘I expect he’s grown.’
‘Oh, yes, grown like a beanstalk. Be taller’n ever ’is father was, I suspicion.’
‘Well, I must get home. Goodbye, Prudie.’
‘Goodbye, mistress.’
Prudie stood in the doorway watching Demelza walking off back to Nampara. Then with an apocalyptic face she turned in to the cottage.
Chapter Three
I
George had returned from London in early August but it was not until mid-August that he came to Trenwith. He had been annoyed to learn by letter that Elizabeth had moved to the sea, and his continued absence when he returned to Cornwall was intended to indicate that fact.
Yet when he finally joined her he was a prey to conflicting feelings. His experiences in London had been impressive and exciting. He had met many notable and titled people who apparently took him at his face value; he had seen the Prince Regent and Lady Holland together at a theatre he had shared a box at Ranelagh, where some of the men still wore swords; he had been introduced to the Mother of Parliaments whose occupants one day behaved with the solemnity of a Star Chamber and another with the levity of a bear pit; and he had missed Elizabeth to be by his side, for her inborn knowledge of the proper thing to do on any occasion would have been invaluable.
He realized that this life as a Member of Parliament was one he wanted more than any other. He had not known before he experienced it, but now he knew. Yet on his return home his natur
al pride and tight-held self-possession had prevented him from satisfying the curiosity and answering all the questions of his mother and father. The only person with whom he could converse at all freely was Elizabeth, and she was ten miles away and she had gone there in despite of him.
Combating the worm within himself, the worm of suspicion, hatred and jealousy, was the awareness that he wanted to see her again. If the evil suspicion was wholly without foundation, then he was ruining his life – and hers and the child’s – for nothing, at this time in his affairs when all else was prospering. On the other hand, if the evil suspicion were wholly true, what had he left? A child that was not his and a woman whom he still consummately desired. If there had been a betrayal it had been before their marriage – she had postponed the marriage by a month: did that signify guilt or innocence? Either might be the case, but surely a scheming woman would not have delayed. The betrayal, if it had happened, had been before their marriage, and if he had known of it before their marriage it would not have altered by a degree his need to possess her. The prize was too great. The prize he had always wanted and never really believed possible of attainment was within his grasp – whatever his anger and bitterness then he would still have grasped it.
And that had not altered. The familiarity of marriage and the satisfaction of possession lessened his sensations when they were together; when they had been apart for several weeks he knew he was still their captive.
It was the two levels which made her irresistible. The poised wife, bred of countless generations of gentlefolk, always perfectly if quietly dressed, equable, kind, dignified, beautiful, young, thoughtful, at ease. But the other level was the unpoised wife, whom he might create whenever she chose to let him. The wife become a woman, bereft of her clothes, her long fair hair falling across naked shoulders and breasts, his, his and no other’s. Of whom, in these moments, he was the complete master and possessor. George was not a carnal man; his needs seemed so often to sublimate themselves in the conflicts of commerce, in the pursuit of power. During his weeks in London he had found no difficulty at all in remaining faithful to his wife. Two women of rank had made suggestions to him and he had chosen to ignore them without a pang of regret.
But his wife he sometimes did need, and he needed her now.
So the coldness of his departure in June was not matched by a similar coldness of return, much as one side of his nature would have liked it to be so. Amid the scurrying servants he kissed Elizabeth on the mouth and shook Geoffrey Charles by the hand (carefully overlooking the stiff formality of the boy’s manner) and actually lifted Valentine from his chair and kissed him and remarked on how heavy he had become, and even had a good word for Elizabeth’s father and mother (who by an unfortunate coincidence were both suffering from summer colds) and opened some French champagne for supper.
And so presently at the end of the evening when the long twilight had faded and the candles were lit, he claimed his rights as a husband and she did not deny him. Afterwards they talked for a while, and in his new relaxed mood he told her much of his time in London and of his intention to take a house up there next year and have her with him.
During the next weeks things altogether went pretty well. Elizabeth had lectured Geoffrey Charles as to his behaviour.
‘Remember, my dearest, that Uncle George is a kind generous man who only wishes to be a good father to you. You may greatly have resented what he did last year, but do not forget that you are still young and sometimes you must allow your elders to be the judge. Don’t look like that, or I shall become angry . . . Of course it was Morwenna’s failure of duty that brought it all to pass; had she not been so careless and forgetful it would never have been necessary to do what we did. And if you think we were angry at your part you are mistaken. Our annoyance was directed entirely at her, and, as you observe, I have raised no objections to your meeting Drake Carne again – though I still think you spend too long with him. Wait! Let that pass. You have been always, as you know, my dearest child, and I think, I believe, you are fond of me. If that is so, then let your love for me govern your behaviour in this house. Uncle George, as you still may call him, is nevertheless your stepfather and my husband. If you and he quarrel, if I find your manner to him hostile and disobedient, it will not only grieve him, it will hurt me. It will damage my happiness. It will ruin a part of my life that I hold most dear.’
So Geoffrey Charles behaved. On the third day of his stay George came to her with a cold face and said Tom Harry had told him that Geoffrey Charles spent every spare moment of his holidays with that insolent young puppy who had forced his way into this house last year in pursuit of Morwenna. So Elizabeth had to reverse her persuasions.
George said: ‘Oh, there may be no harm in it, except for this young oaf’s connections. I am surprised that you of all people should encourage a friendship with one of Demelza Poldark’s brothers.’
‘I do not encourage it, George. Far from it. But Geoffrey Charles is at a difficult age. You may crush him now, quite easily, but if you do he’ll remember it against you – against us – and in a few years he’ll not be so easy to control. And the surest way of encouraging this friendship is to forbid it. You know that. If you leave it alone, if we don’t interfere, it will likely burn itself out in the course of another holiday or two. Don’t forget that Geoffrey Charles is very impressionable, and the strongest impression he is receiving now is from his schoolfriends at Harrow. The contrast between their conversation, their view of life, and this young blacksmith’s will soon make itself felt. If Geoffrey Charles finds there’s nothing to defy he will soon find there’s nothing to attract him.’
George turned the money in his fob. ‘Yours may be the greater wisdom, Elizabeth; but it angers me afresh that the Poldarks should have seen fit to set this fellow up, as if in defiance of us, practically on our doorstep! There could be—’
‘Oh, George, our doorstep! . . . it is two miles if it’s an inch.’
‘Well, near our mines. I’ll see he gets none of our custom . . . And two miles is nothing. It’s as if they were deliberately taunting us with this young man. I regret now I did not send him to prison when I had the chance.’
‘It would only have made matters worse.’
‘Have you seen anything of them since you came here?’
‘Nothing,’ said Elizabeth; her first lie. ‘They never come to church.’
George went off to his study and said no more. So Geoffrey Charles, while limiting his visits to Drake, found no obstacles put in his way. George did not, however, forget the matter. The conviction had grown on him that Drake Carne had been responsible for the episodes of the toads. No one else, so far as he could see, could have had the necessary knowledge of his own movements, no one else would have wished to make him look a fool. Since then little bits of evidence had dropped into place.
So one day when Tankard was there he said to him: ‘Pally’s Shop. This property now belonging to young Carne. Do we own the adjacent land?’
‘No, sir. I think not, sir. It belongs to farmers. Trevethan, I believe. And Hancock. I can find out for sure if you want me to.’
‘Do. Find out anything you can about the place. See if Carne owns the mineral rights. Check wells and streams. Find out who Carne mainly does work for. Apart from our mines there is only Wheal Kitty and Wheal Dream within easy distance. And the odd job for the farmers or the gentry . . . See what we can do to discourage him.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But nothing without my prior permission. Suggestions may come from you but decisions from me.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘There’s no hurry, but report to me by the end of the month.’
II
George went over to see Basset three or four times, and they all dined together at Tehidy, with Geoffrey Charles at his liveliest and best with little Miss Frances Basset. Then the Bassets came to dine at Trenwith. For this George asked Sir John Trevaunance and his brother Unwin, John and Ruth Treneglos a
nd Dwight and Caroline Enys. Taking no great part in the conversation at the dinner table, Dwight thought that once or twice George slightly irritated the new Baron de Dunstanville. It was far from being a difference of opinion; rather that George sometimes seemed to take up Basset’s views and carry them to ends more forthright than their originator cared. Knowing George to be a man whose principles were often shaped by self-interest, Dwight thought he detected occasional false notes, and wondered if Basset did the same.
The following day the Warleggans were dining with the Trenegloses, and this meant a detour round the property of that other and unmentionable Poldark. Tankard went with them, for George wanted to look at Wheal Leisure, the mine he had recently closed, and decide whether any more use could be made of it. He had had full reports, but, like all good men of business, he made a point of seeing things for himself.
On high ground near the now empty Gatehouse where Dwight had once lived he reined in his horse and peered down at the straggle of Wheal Grace mine and Nampara House lying at the end of the narrow valley with its feet almost in the sea. He studied it for a few minutes.
Wheal Grace looked busy. Although it was not time for the changing of the cores, the engine had just been coaled and thick smoke issued from the chimney. The great arm of the pump moved up and down, the tin stamps turned and rattled, bonneted women worked on the washing floors, a train of mules with panniers filled was about to move off, carrying their ore to be stamped in Sawle Combe.
George said: ‘I see the addition is complete.’
Elizabeth moved her horse nearer to him. ‘What is that?’
‘The addition to the house. You knew about it, of course.’
‘Not until this moment . . . It looks the same to me. Oh, you mean this end.’
‘They’ve added a storey and rebuilt the library. Basset was telling me last night – they had his plasterer from Bath.’
‘Has he been over?’
‘Basset? I don’t think so. I don’t think he has been invited.’
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