They reached the end of the field, where the end of the cultivable land was and rock and gorse began. He stopped and looked across at Hendrawna Beach. Ross and Lady de Dunstanville were on ahead, Dwight was picking a thorn out of Caroline’s shoe.
Basset said: ‘Where I live, as you know, we are well guarded by cliffs. But long stretches of sand such as this and at Gwithian offer easy landings for the invader if he chooses his weather right. It makes one apprehensive for the safety of our shores.’
‘If he came,’ Demelza said, ‘I do not believe he would be graciously received.’
He glanced at her. ‘Of that I’m sure. But our casual forces against the war-hardened veterans of Europe . . . Now as to the navies, that is another matter.’
She gazed over the sea. This morning had come another letter from Hugh and another poem. Again she had succeeded in slipping the poem away without Ross noticing it. The letter had been bare, a catalogue of events, and those but few, seeing that they covered four months. The navy’s duties were monotonous and hard, a fight far more often against wind and tide than an enemy ship. Endless patrol, endless vigilance, and then the French navy slipped out unawares. Demelza hoped – or part of her hoped – that the tone of his letter showed he was losing interest. Unfortunately the poem did not confirm this idea. It was longer than the others and less direct, but one could be left in no doubt as to the sentiments. And the last line of his letter said that there might be a chance of his being in Cawsand next month with leave to visit his parents, and possibly his uncle.
‘. . . so possibly his choice was the right one,’ Basset ended.
In panic Demelza licked her lips. ‘Please?’
‘I was saying it is a difficult age for a man in time of war. I think it was that that mainly caused him to refuse. At twenty-seven he would naturally join his regiment. At forty-seven he might more readily have accepted the seat.’
‘Yes, I suspicion he might,’ she said, groping cautiously.
‘His brilliant exploit in France two years ago shows that his preferences are still towards a more active participation in war; yet I think he might have done well in the Commons. But it was not to be.’
‘Our neighbour took his place,’ she said.
‘Indeed. And a very . . . diligent Member he is proving himself.’
Ross and his partner were at the edge of the rock-strewn moorland sloping down into Hendrawna Cove. Frances de Dunstanville looked very small beside him.
Basset stopped again. ‘There is bad blood between your houses. What is the cause of it, Mrs Poldark?’
Demelza put her foot on a stone and looked across the beach. ‘Over there are the Dark Cliffs, my Lord, those you were asking me about.’
‘Yes, I see.’
‘The bad blood lies too far back for me to explain. And even if I could, tis not for me to do it. You must ask Ross.’
‘I do not like it shown in public. One should not wear soiled linen where it may be seen.’
‘One should not wear soiled linen at all, my Lord.’
He smiled. ‘Nor wash it in public, eh? In any event such ill-will between cousins and neighbours is uncalled-for. It should be buried, where all old rivalries belong, especially in time of war when we have a common enemy to fight. Tell Captain Poldark from me, will you?’
‘If you will tell Mr Warleggan . . .’
He looked at her sidelong. ‘I am informed that the fault lies mainly on the Poldark side.’
Demelza’s heart began to thump. Then she met his glance and let out a slow breath. ‘My Lord, I b’lieve you are teasing me.’
‘I would not venture to do that, madam, on so short an acquaintance. What is that mine on the cliffs?’
‘Wheal Leisure. Closed by Mr Warleggan two years ago.’
‘On Poldark land?’
‘Treneglos land. But Ross began it ten years ago.’
‘Old feuds and old rivalries no doubt die hard.’
‘So do old mines.’
‘I conceit that Captain Poldark has a stout defender in you, ma’am.’
‘Would you not have it so?’
‘Indeed. Indeed. I tremble to say more.’
‘My Lord, I do not believe you would tremble at anything. But talking of feuds . . .’
‘Yes? ’
‘No, it was not a proper thought.’
‘Please go on.’
‘Well . . . talking of feuds . . . do you not have one yourself with Lord Falmouth?’
He looked at her in surprise and then laughed. ‘ Touché. But it would be more proper to say that he has a feud with me. I feel nothing in the matter at all.’
‘The fault lying mainly on the Boscawen side?’
‘Now, madam, I believe you are teasing me.’
She was not sure whether his smile had a little ice in it now, as if she had gone far enough in reply. But after a moment his face cleared and he put his hand out to help her over a boulder.
‘Doubtless you know, Mrs Poldark, that Lord Falmouth mislikes the way in which I captured the seat from him at Truro; and no doubt when a general election comes he will lose the other one there too. We have, after all, been rivals in this way for years. But for my part I would not object if some sort of an accommodation were now proposed. Now that I have moved to the Upper House the situation has a little changed. I control Penryn. I control or contest several others. But I am beginning to lose a little of the zest for constant battle.’
‘Indeed, sir, I didn’t know.’ She hesitated. ‘So my reply was unseemly after all.’
‘Not at all: you responded very properly with a woman’s wit.’
Where in Heaven Ross was taking Lady de Dunstanville Demelza could only guess. They had disappeared from sight and she could only suppose they were climbing down the rocks to Nampara Cove. Dwight and Caroline had lagged still farther behind, and Caroline now had her shoe off.
‘My Lord,’ Demelza said, fumbling in her pocket, ‘I wonder if I could perhaps ask you over another matter? Ross tells me you are a Latin scholar.’
‘Hardly that. I read Latin and Greek at Cambridge and have pursued some study since . . .’
Demelza took out her piece of paper. ‘Twould oblige me if you could tell me what this means. It is from Sawle churchyard, but for a special reason I would like to know . . .’
He took the paper and frowned at it. The breeze stirred the sharp grasses under their feet.
‘Quidquid . . . oh, it means – er – Whatever – no – it means Whatsoever Love hath ordained it is not fit to despise.’
‘Thank you, my Lord. Whatsoever . . . yes, I will remember that.’
‘What is this on the back?’
‘Nothing, nothing at all.’ Demelza hastily retrieved the piece of paper.
‘I think it is a quotation, that Latin. Where did you see it?’
‘On a gravestone.’
‘A strange thing to put. But a good one.’
‘Yes, a good one,’ Demelza said.
II
They climbed right down into Nampara Cove and then up the valley beside the red-stained stream, across the creaking bridge and back home. By now the afternoon was far advanced, and the de Dunstanvilles took tea and left with their two grooms as dark fell. The Enyses stayed a while longer, and then they too left. The Poldarks returned to their own parlour, where a bright fire was burning and the candles had just been lit. Demelza went into the kitchen to see that everything was well, and all was clamour for a while as Jeremy and Clowance, like water let out of a dam, followed her back into the parlour and took over their role as entertainers and conversationalists.
At last they went to bed, and Demelza stretched her feet towards the fire and put up two hands to thrust through her over-tidy hair. ‘Coh, I’m as tired as if I’d been loustering in the fields all day. Ross, you try me hard.’
‘But it was a great success. No one can deny that.’
‘Did you see Betsy Maria put her thumb in Lord de Dunstanville’s soup? And then
she licked her thumb!’
‘Worse things than that will happen in his own kitchen every day of his life but he won’t see it.’
‘I hope he didn’t see this!’
Ross took out his pipe and began to fill it.
Demelza said: ‘And Ena dropped a mince tart and it rolled right across under Dwight’s chair. And you should have seen the kitchen ten minutes before they came! Twas like a battlefield; everyone falling over everyone else! And I thought the turkey was going to come out half cooked! Mrs Zacky had forgotten the stuffing until—’
‘It was all splendid. A lavish meal would have been pretentious. They could not find better food in the county nor better cooked, and that was what mattered. How did you get on with Francis Basset on our walk?’
‘Well enough, I fancy. He provoked me, and then I provoked him, but I believe it was all in very good part. If I did not fear him I think I should like him.’
‘What was all this provoking about?’
‘Well, he told me you ought to heal your break with George Warleggan.’
Ross lit a spill from the fire and put it to his pipe. Brown and blue smoke began to go up towards the ceiling together.
‘At least he has now condescended to notice it. I hope you reminded him that it takes two to make peace, as well as war.’
‘I reminded him of his own feud with Lord Falmouth.’
Ross stared. ‘The devil you did! That was very brave of you.’
‘I had taken three glasses of port.’
‘Four. I saw you sneak another as we were leaving. And how did he answer that?’
‘Very polite. I do not think he took any offence. But he said a strange thing, Ross. He said he would be willing to make it up with Lord Falmouth.’
There was a long silence. A cow was lowing in the yard at the back.
Ross said: ‘From what Falmouth said to me I do not think he is in a mood for making up anything. But it is an interesting thought. I wonder on what terms? As for George and myself, it would be good to have less ill feeling so close at hand; but such attempts as I made to ease things between us, three or four years ago, met with no response; and the trouble over Drake in ’95 started it all off again. Besides . . .’
‘Besides?’
He hesitated, wondering again whether to mention his meeting with Elizabeth, but decided not. ‘Besides, something else rather nasty is occurring. Drake is meeting with little unpleasantnesses at Pally’s Shop.’
Demelza looked up quickly. ‘Drake? He never told me.’
‘Nor me. He is not the sort. But rumours reach me. His new fences have been broken down. Someone has diverted the stream so that he depends for all his water on the well, and that in so dry a winter is running him short. One or two people who have had things repaired by him have had them broken again overnight.’
‘And you think? . . .’
‘Who else?’
‘But why? It is so – petty! Even George, I would have thought! . . .’
‘Even George. Yes.’
‘Having killed Drake’s romance, what more can he want?’
‘I think Geoffrey Charles may have been seeing a lot of Drake again.’
‘Does Drake have the cholera?’
‘No . . . just a blood relationship with you – and therefore at another remove with me.’
‘What can we do about it?’
‘Nothing – yet. It may pass. It is so petty that I feel it must pass. But clearly one cannot see a new accord growing between George and me just yet.’
It was in Demelza’s mind then to ask Ross why he had been seeing Elizabeth and what further horrible enmity and jealousy would result from it among all four of them. Were all the very darkest seeds of hatred to be sown over again? Yet she could not speak of it. She could not force herself to lower herself to ask . . .
Later that evening when she was alone in her bedroom before Ross came up she looked at the Latin inscription with the translation that she had written in crayon underneath. ‘Whatsoever Love hath ordained it is not fit to despise.’
The few words brought Ross’s parents more fully to life than anything Ross had ever said or anything remaining of them in this house. Grace Mary, aged only thirty years, tall and slim and dark, with long dark hair, dying in great pain in this house, with the shadowy figure of Ross’s father sitting beside her. Then, when she had gone, when she could no longer speak to him, touch his hand, smile or be smiled upon, when she was buried deep in the sandy clay and Joshua Poldark was utterly alone, then he had had a stone raised over her grave and those lines inscribed on it. ‘Whatsoever Love hath ordained it is not fit to despise.’ To Demelza they seemed to say more, to express more truly the depth of love of one human being for another than all Hugh Armitage’s poems.
It was not fair to compare them, for Hugh was young and could suffer in a different way. Joshua, or the unknown Latin poet, had expressed a deeper suffering.
Chapter Six
I
‘May I talk to you?’ Rowella said, insinuating herself through a nick in his study door and closing it behind her.
‘What is it? What is it?’ Osborne demanded angrily.
For two weeks he had not visited her room, had not spoken to her during the day except when compelled for form’s sake. Twice during that period he had intruded upon Morwenna’s blessed privacy, claiming the rights he had for a time seemed ready to abandon. For the rest he had been irritable with everyone; his servants had scattered like surprised insects at the sound of his step; his two little daughters wept at his reprimands; his churchwardens were offended by his brusqueness; Mr Odgers had received a stinging letter because he had not written to say what he was doing to rectify the complaints already laid before him.
The Reverend Mr Whitworth was in a cleft stick, and he was never one to hide any vexation he might be feeling, however much on this occasion he must conceal the cause. Now he stared coldly at this creature disfiguring his vision. Far from showing any evidences of her condition, she looked thinner than ever, her face pinched and wan, her long loose frock hanging from her narrow shoulders as from a clothes horse. He could not imagine what lure she could ever have had for him: an over-grown child with a surly face, pallid, featureless, standing there like a discarded doll. Had it ever happened? Had they ever indulged in such wicked, wanton behaviour: he a young-middle-aged parson of unimpeachable character and she a ridiculous undignified chit of a girl? Or had it all been a strange carnal dream? Seeing her now, he could almost persuade himself of it.
‘What do you want?’ he said.
‘I wanted,’ she said, ‘just a word . . . May I sit down? Sometimes I feel faint.’
He waved her to a chair with a gesture of dismissal rather than invitation. He had stayed awake of nights – an unheard-of occurrence – weighing up the choices before him. He had thought longingly of the nostrums on sale which it was claimed would get rid of an unwanted child. (If sometimes they got rid of the mother as well, this must be for her a happy release from the humiliation and the shame.) But it was difficult to go into one of the hovels and buy such a potion – especially for a clergyman. And it might also be difficult to persuade Rowella herself to go to such a place.
The other choice was to do nothing, say nothing, ignore the girl until she was forced to tell someone else, then, with great dignity, and pity for such a sad little sinner, to deny any involvement or responsibility whatsoever. After all Rowella went out every day. Who was to say what she got up to? Or he might put the blame on Alfred. Though it would be a pity to lose a good manservant.
‘I think,’ Rowella said, ‘I think, Vicar, that there may be – that I may have found a way out.’
He flipped and flapped the pages of his accounts book. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well . . . if I were to marry someone else . . .’
His heart leapt, but he was careful to show no change of expression. ‘How could that be?’
‘I think there is a young man who would marry me.
At least, he has shown a definite interest. Of course I don’t know. It is only a thought, a hope . . .’
‘Who is it?’
‘Of course he knows nothing about us, about my condition. Perhaps he would utterly spurn me and refuse. As most men would . . . I do not know if he would be willing to give his name to – to . . .’ She stopped and took out a handkerchief and dabbed her long nose.
‘Well. Who is it?’
‘Arthur Solway.’
‘Who the devil? . . . Oh, you mean that young fellow – that librarian fellow . . .’
‘Yes.’
Ossie’s mind began to work more quickly than usual. ‘Why? Why should he marry you? Have you been – going with him?’
She looked up at him tearfully. ‘Oh, Vicar, how could you say that?’
‘But I do say it!’ He rose and straightened to his full height, confidence flooding back. ‘This – this child that you are going to have is probably his! Now, tell me! Tell me the truth, Rowella, as your brother-in-law and your friend—’
‘The truth,’ said Rowella, ‘is that I never was with him after dark, nor in any private place where such a thing could have happened. You saw to that! You made sure I was never out alone for long.’
He blustered and they wrangled for a space. He could not help but notice that under her meakness and distress ran a note of determination. The argument ended when she said quietly: ‘I was never with no other man but you, Vicar, and the child I am carrying is your child, and I am prepared to declare that before all the world.’
Silence fell. After pacing the study he thumped down into his chair.
‘How do you know he will marry you?’
‘He asked me last week.’
‘By the living God! . . . And what did you say?’
‘I said I could not answer without your consent – and my mother’s. And – and I said I did not think it would be forthcoming.’
The Four Swans Page 28