The Twisted Sword: A Novel of Cornwall 1815

by Winston Graham

  ‘She’s a keenly mine now,’ he said. ‘Never like Grace – she’ll never pour riches into your pockets the way Grace done – but she’s yielding all the time, and if the copper price will but keep up we shall do nicely.’

  ‘Are doing nicely,’ said Clowance.

  ‘Are doing nicely,’ said Ben, and straightened up sharply.

  Their heads had been close together and her nearness was unsettling. For the first time Clowance felt a stirring of attraction. That night lying in bed – in her own bed – and listening to the hollow jarring of the distant steam engines – she wondered about it. Her sexual feelings had been almost dormant when she was young. Too dormant. She had larked about with Ben and Matthew Mark Martin and never thought of them in any physical way at all. Until Stephen was washed ashore she had hardly known what sexual urges were. Then they had come on her fast enough.

  Now, as an experienced young married woman, she found Ben attractive in a way she had never done before. She could well understand what the girls of the village thought about him. Why didn’t he marry one of them? It was no contribution to her happiness to feel that because she was ineligible he would make do with no one else. It was such a waste. She wondered that her mother, who was so gifted in such matters, had not contrived to find someone for him.

  But tonight she had something else to think about. There had been trouble at Place House.

  ‘’Tis that Saul Grieves,’ said Ben. ‘He’ve been friendly along with Katie, I reckon she thought ’twould be a wedding. She brought him home t’see Mother an’ all. A bit up in the world was Saul Grieves. Was at the King’s Head at R’druth before he come here. Thinks himself up in the world. Never took t’im greatly meself. Now he’s gone.’

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘Gone sacked. When Mr Valentine Warleggan and Mrs went to Cambridge in January they left Saul Grieves in charge of the house. When they come back in March they found ’e’d been thieving things. Lucky he were not sent to gaol.’

  ‘Thieving things? Stealing? From the house?’

  ‘Oh yes. Oh yes. Seems he’ve been gambling, taking time off to go gaming in R’druth, got his self into debt, started taking things, selling ’em, small things, which he thought they mightn’t notice. But the worst thing to befall was that Katie got drawn in.’

  ‘Katie? But she wouldn’t—’

  ‘Not knowing, like. But this Saul Grieves gives her a scarf, a scarf the hue of an orange, says he have bought’n for she at R’druth Fair. Not so. ’Twas one belonging to Mrs Warleggan he’d thieved out of a drawer.’

  ‘Have they accepted her explanation?’

  ‘It seems so. But Katie cann’t forgive herself. She say she should’ve known. An’ she think Mrs Warleggan still d’hold it against her.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ben.’

  ‘Yes. An’ ’tis not just that, y’see. Katie was much taken wi’ Saul Grieves. She d’think she’ve been let down, betrayed both ways. I never seen her like it! She come home last week beside herself wi’ distress and weepin’.’

  He was scowling out at the sea, which was flat and grey today. Only the currents made scrawling patterns on it like a child’s first experiments on a slate.

  ‘There’s no way you can help, Ben. But maybe I could go and see young Mr Warleggan, make sure if I can that Katie isn’t being blamed.’

  Ben did not look at her. ‘That’d be a rare kindness. D’ye mean on this visit?’

  ‘I can call in tomorrow morning on my way home. It is scarcely out of my way, and he is my cousin.’

  ‘If,’ said Ben, ‘if you did so happen to see Katie, ’twould be another kindness just t’ave a word with she. She seem to bamfer herself with vain regrets.’

  II

  Since the Enyses were away she had had it half in mind that she might call and see Valentine and Selina anyway.

  The grey mild moody weather of yesterday had been dismissed by a fresh westerly breeze, hurrying cloud and sun across with an occasional freckle of rain. It was just such a day when Clowance’s mother had ridden this way years before Clowance was born to make the acquaintance of Sir John Trevaunance on behalf of Ross, who was shortly to stand trial for his life.

  Not much had changed in the appearance of the house since then, except that the scars of the long abandoned copper smelting works were almost healed over and a new excavation, only recently begun and nearer the house, showed raw earth in piles, and brick and stone and a dozen men toiling.

  When she reached the pillared porch she was about to slide down from her saddle when the doors opened and Valentine came quickly out to hand her down.

  ‘Well, well, Clowance it is! We saw you coming along the valley. I said to Tom, can it really be, and alone and unescorted, my very own cousin? And look who is here to greet you!’

  In the doorway Tom Guildford was standing. He came forward smiling his sweet smile, and kissed her on the lips in uninhibited fashion. She felt herself flushing.

  ‘Clowance! What a pleasure! And the more joyous for being so unexpected. Have you been visiting your old home?’

  They went in. Selina was not about. Tom, whom Clowance had first met through Valentine, was staying a few days with the young Warleggans, and they exchanged news. They knew nothing of Demelza’s scares and trials or presence in Brussels nor of Ross’s internment. It was a sorry business, said Valentine, but there was a strong peace party in England. ‘I’m told the officers of the 51st at Portsmouth drank a toast to Old Nap last week; and Whitbread in the Commons has said that Bonaparte has been welcomed back to France as a liberator, and that it would be monstrous to declare war on a people in order to impose a government they didn’t want. D’you know, I believe he’s right. They say there’s going to be an entirely new constitution in France which will effectively hobble Old Nap if he becomes too warlike. I wish ’em luck and predict there will be no war.’

  ‘All the nations of Europe’, Tom said, ‘have pledged themselves to depose him. I do not see how they can break such an undertaking.’

  ‘You do not?’ said Valentine, and laughed. ‘Don’t you remember it’s only a couple of years ago since they broke all their previous treaties – with Bonaparte! One fraud is no greater than another. They would change sides and drop their arms tomorrow if it should suit their interests!’

  Selina came downstairs, as willowy and as ash-blonde as ever, with her sleepy Siamese cat’s eyes and contained manner. She insisted Clowance should stay to an early dinner. They talked and laughed until the meal was ready. Clowance thought she detected a coolness between husband and wife. It would not be surprising, she imagined, since Valentine took a delight in teasing people and Selina perceptibly lacked a sense of humour.

  They were starting a new mining venture not far from the house – perhaps she had noticed it? – on the strength of some old maps and some new samples. It was all thought up first by Unwin Trevaunance and a man called Chenhalls, but they’d been sent packing. It was their own venture now and they had high hopes. Copper price was good at present. Wheal Leisure a few miles along the coast was doing very nicely. Wheal Elizabeth, she was to be called.

  After dinner, when the servants were out of the room, Clowance told them she had heard about Saul Grieves. It was easier this way, with Tom Guildford present, rather than mentioning it privately to Selina. Valentine said he wished now he’d brought the lazy rogue up in court; he deserved to be hanged or sent to the hulks; but Selina, who was partial to the man’s good looks, had said just turn him out, get rid of him, the loss is small.

  After Selina had made her ritual indignant protest, Clowance said: ‘And Katie?’

  Selina looked obliquely at her. ‘Oh, the scarf. That was indeed ill done. She should have known better.’

  ‘Perhaps she did know better,’ said Valentine. ‘She was completely under his thumb – and maybe not only his thumb!’

  ‘Ben Carter, her brother, is worried about her,’ said Clowance.

  ‘Rightly so,’ said Valentine. �
�She should have gone too.’

  ‘On the whole I think not,’ said Selina, as if it pleased her to disagree. ‘Katie has been with us since we came here – in 1808. She is a clumsy, simple girl but very loyal. I do not think she would willingly have connived with theft.’

  ‘Is she still with you, then?’ asked Clowance innocently. ‘I have not seen her today.’

  ‘She’s in the kitchen. At the moment I have put her back in the kitchen, just as a punishment. But if all goes well I’ll restore her as a parlourmaid when we return for the summer.’

  ‘Do you think’, Clowance said, ‘I might have a word with her before I leave?’ At Selina’s surprised look she added: ‘Ben asked me to see her. I am told she is taking this very much to heart.’

  Selina glanced at Valentine, who looked down his long thin nose and said: ‘Little cousin, you may do so if it pleases you. I beg you not to remove altogether her sense of guilt.’

  Tom said: ‘When you leave, Clowance, I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Oh, Tom, no, please! There is no danger in riding alone.’

  ‘No danger, but is there pleasure? At least afford me the pleasure. I shall come with you to the verges of Penryn and leave before your husband sees me … Is he at home or sailing the seas?’

  ‘He’s at home.’

  ‘Anyway, I have to visit my uncle, and today would be exactly right, in the middle of my stay. If you don’t want to talk to me I promise to follow behind.’

  ‘Oh Tom,’ said Clowance, laughing, ‘of course you may come if you wish. So long as you are not coming out of your way.’

  ‘I assure you, I am not coming out of my way.’

  Chapter Two

  I

  They left just before three. The wind had slackened and backed, and thin cloud like a gauze scarf had drifted up to wreathe the sun. But it did not indicate real rain until tomorrow. As they left, as they reached the top of the rise before they turned inland, Clowance cast a backward glance.

  ‘Do you miss it?’ Tom asked.

  ‘What? The sea? No, I have it on my own doorstep! But yes, well, it is a somewhat different sea – by no means docile but – different. I suppose I miss the cliffs and the surf and something of the wildness.’

  ‘But you are happy?’

  ‘Yes. Oh yes. And we are building a house!’

  She told him of it as they jogged along, horses at walking pace, all the afternoon to spend. He told her of an offer he had had from the East India Company, to go out to Bengal as a legal adviser.

  ‘Shall you take it?’

  ‘It’s the place to make money. I should probably come back at forty a nabob. And I have no family ties, as you know.’

  ‘Then?’

  He checked his horse, which, encouraged by the slow progress, had wanted to stop and tear off some grass.

  ‘I have a fancy for the English bar. And if mere vulgar money were being considered, that is not an ill-paid profession – for the successful!’

  ‘How long have you to decide?’

  ‘Some months. The man I would be replacing is not due to leave Calcutta until September. They would probably need an answer by July.’

  ‘And what shall decide you?’

  ‘Probably my feelings for a young lady called Parthesia. Better known as Patty.’

  Clowance also checked her horse. ‘Oh? Oh…’ She looked across at a smoking mine chimney. ‘Do you love her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does she love you?’

  ‘She affects to. It would suit her to marry me. And we like each other. I think it would be an agreeable match.’

  ‘Is she pretty?’

  ‘Not as pretty as you.’

  By accident or design Nero moved ahead of the other horse so that there was no conversation for a minute or two.

  Then Clowance said: ‘I’m sorry, Tom. I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘Perhaps I should not have said that either. But surely what has long been acknowledged between us need not be hidden for the sake of circumspection because you are now married. We are both grown up enough to see facts as they are, without embarrassment.’

  They rode on a while in silence.

  Clowance said: ‘So that is another decision you will have to make shortly.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Tom added with a glint of humour: ‘Probably by the beginning of the Michaelmas term.’

  Later he told her of the riots there had been in London last month, as a result of the proposed Corn Bill. There had been sixty thousand signatories against it and a mob had gained entrance to the house of F. J. Robinson, in Burlington Street, the mover of the Bill, and systematically wrecked it. The Earl of Pembroke, on his way to the Lords, had had his carriage broken to pieces. Lord Darnley’s house in Berkeley Square and Mr Wellesley-Pole’s in Savile Row had been severely damaged and the military had had to be called out.

  ‘Your father should have been there,’ said Tom. ‘He was telling me that day when I called to see you that his Radical friends trusted above all in peaceful reform; but I suppose they can be goaded beyond the breaking point.’

  ‘The crowd can,’ said Clowance.

  ‘Yes, and with a pretty good reason. The price of a quartern-loaf in London is already three times what it is in Paris. Mr Baring made a splendid remark in the Commons against the Bill, which as you know would prohibit imported corn. He said – if I can remember it, he said – that the theory behind the Bill was that you must cut your population to suit your supplies of home-grown corn, instead of regulating the supply of corn by the needs of the population. This, he said, is not lengthening the bed to fit the man but shortening the man to fit the bed!’

  The sun was fading altogether now and the backing wind was bringing up its own supplies of herringbone cloud.

  ‘Perhaps you will go into Parliament, Tom.’

  ‘The law is often a way in. But the difficulty I have is that I sway between one view and another. I should not know whom to attach myself to.’

  Just before they separated Clowance told him of Katie. It was in strict confidence, she said.

  ‘You may wonder why I concern myself so much, but Ben and Katie’s mother used to work for us at one time. And before that their father, Jim Carter, worked for my father, and he was caught poaching and went to prison, and my father heard he was ill and went to Launceston prison and got him out. But Jim was too ill with fever and died. My father was godfather to Ben – or Benjy Ross, as he was called then. Jinny remarried – a man called Scoble. But these two, Ben and Katie, seem to have been a part of the Poldark family. I know my mother would be concerned.’

  ‘But in what way concerned?’ asked Tom. ‘From what I heard it sounded as if it was all over.’

  ‘Not quite, alas. I went to see Katie, as you know, to tell her that she was forgiven and that she’d be put back on her parlourmaid duties in a few months. But she tells me she’s with child.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Tom and flicked at the tall grass on the hedge. ‘More or less inevitable, isn’t it? Do Valentine and Selina know?’

  ‘No one knows yet. I am the first person she’s told. She has only become sure this week.’

  ‘And Grieves is the father?’

  ‘Oh yes. She is not a light girl. Indeed strictly brought up. I was quite astonished. Jinny is a stern Methodist. Katie told me in February that – does this weary you?’

  ‘Not in the least.’

  ‘She told me that she and Grieves were alone in the house one evening and he teased her into taking a glass of wine. Like her brother, she had never tasted liquor. One glass led to another, I suppose, and then…’

  ‘It does,’ agreed Tom. ‘So where is Grieves?’

  ‘Gone near a month. No one knows where. Perhaps he could be found, but she swears she would not marry him at any price. She hates that he cheated her over the scarf and is a proven thief. She says she hates him now for having seduced her.’

  ‘What will happen when the Warleggans find out? I’m sure Valent
ine wouldn’t flicker an eyelid.’

  ‘Selina is rather strait-laced, but perhaps I can get round her … Katie feels the personal disgrace.’

  ‘She cannot be the first in your village.’

  ‘Oh no! Near half, I’d guess, become pregnant before they marry. But they do marry, that’s the difference. I hope she will not do anything silly.’

  ‘You told her not to.’

  ‘I told her not to.’

  They had come to the parting of the ways.

  ‘How is Betty?’ Clowance asked. Betty was Lord Devoran’s wayward randy daughter. It was curious that one never asked about Lady Devoran, who still lived, but in complete seclusion; if you called you might see her peering round a corner at you.

  ‘I’ve yet to find out. I chose to stay with Valentine this time because the company is better. I’m not sure how my uncle will regard this neglect.’

  ‘Ask him,’ said Clowance, ‘if he ever sets mantraps on his property.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No matter. It was just a thought.’

  To separate they did not dismount, but Tom somehow manoeuvred his horse into a proximity that enabled him to give Clowance a smacking kiss.

  Clowance nearly lost her hat. She said: ‘Tom, you are nice. It has been good to meet you again.’

  ‘Let us make this a twice yearly assignation. It will keep our friendship warm.’

  II

  Going home in a degree of personal contentment only discomfortable because of concern for her father, Clowance was surprised to find Andrew Blamey waiting on her doorstep. She kissed him and welcomed him in and made him a pot of tea and they drank it in friendly talk together.