While Mr Pope was alive Dwight had been called not infrequently to emergencies in which the old man played the leading role, but since the young Warleggans came to live here there had been no such alarms. He went out to find Music standing on one foot and then on the other and looking anxious. Being an outdoor servant, he had no knowledge of the emergency except that he’d been told Mrs Warleggan had fallen and cut herself.
Since this might be a matter of life and death, Dwight grabbed up his case and swung into the saddle of the horse that had brought Music and galloped off, leaving Music to return as best he could.
He was met by Katie, who, more incoherent than usual, led him upstairs to that bedroom he knew so well, where Valentine was sitting beside Selina, who lay palely in bed, improvised bandages wrapped round both wrists.
‘Ecod, it was in the bathroom,’ said Valentine stiffly. ‘I found her there. She has lost a lot of blood.’
Selina was fainting, but when Dwight touched her arm she opened her Siamese-blue eyes and looked her recognition – then she closed them again.
Her wrists had been thinly cut, just where the veins were most prominent, and blood still welled from the wounds.
Dwight sent for warm water, bathed the cuts, put a healing salve on – at which she winced – and gently bandaged both wrists, then gave her a light draught of Theban opium.
‘I don’t think it is very serious,’ he said reassuringly to Valentine, and to Selina who had sufficiently come round to swallow the draught. ‘Have you hurt yourself in any other way?’
She moved her lips sufficiently to say, ‘No.’
‘Did she fall?’ Dwight asked Valentine, though he had a fairly good idea of the truth.
‘No idea,’ said Valentine. ‘Damn me, she must have. The maid found her – Katie found her.’
Dwight stayed for another ten minutes talking to Valentine and watching his client; then he rose to leave.
‘I’ll come down with you,’ said Valentine. ‘Martha will sit with her.’
They went in to the summer parlour – which also had hardly changed since the tenure of the old man – and drank a glass of canary together. Dwight was anxious to get back to his microscope but he could not leave yet. As Valentine continued a casual conversation about Cambridge he was forced to broach the subject himself.
‘I suppose you know, Mr Warleggan, that the cuts on your wife’s wrists were almost certainly self-inflicted.’
Valentine crossed and uncrossed his long tapering legs. ‘I had that thought,’ he said.
Silence fell. Dwight finished his glass.
‘More canary?’ said Valentine.
‘No, thank you. I should be on my way.’
‘It really is quite outrageous,’ Valentine said. ‘My wife slashed her wrists because she was told I had been with another woman.’ He yawned. ‘What is a man to do?’
‘I take it her information is correct?’
‘Oh yes.’
After a moment Dwight said: ‘Well, I suppose you could refrain in future.’
The young man got up and refilled Dwight’s glass uninvited. Then he drank a second himself and poured out a third. ‘Refrain altogether? My dear Dr Enys! Isn’t that being a trifle naïve?’
‘It depends what you want to make of your marriage.’
‘This is a form of blackmail,’ Valentine said, squinting at his glass. ‘My wife threatens to kill herself in order to enforce my marriage vows! From what I could see, the cuts were not deep, were they?’
‘Not deep. But a woman has to be distraught to attempt such a thing at all. And she might cut deeper next time.’
‘Next time. Exactly! There lies the blackmail. Behave or I will destroy myself!’
‘The matter could be put in a more sympathetic light.’
‘No doubt. No doubt. Isn’t it true, by the way, I think I have read it somewhere, that people who threaten suicide seldom succeed?’
‘It’s been said so. But have you ever tried to open the veins in your own wrists? It requires a deal of resolution to go even as far as she has this time.’
Valentine hunched his shoulders. ‘It is all such a storm in a damned tea-cup. Blood and bones, it is not civilized to behave so!’
Dwight got up. ‘Well, I must be off.’
‘No, wait. Listen. Finish that canary. You are an old friend, by God. You have known my family for thirty years. If anyone has to hear the truth why should it not be you?’
From the window Dwight saw Music Thomas coming up the track from Trevaunance. It could not have taken him all this time to walk from Killewarren.
‘When I married Selina I took her for better or worse and she took me the same. Eh? Eh? I am fully committed to her, as I have frequently told her. She is mine and I want to live with her for the rest of my life! I truly want that, bubble me if I don’t. Everyone at marriage makes other vows – take unto me only thyself and forsaking all others – whatever the cursed words actually are. How few even keep that vow? How few?’
‘Perhaps not—’
‘My only defect is my honesty. A few months after we was wed I spelt all this out to her. I told her that she was far and above the most important woman in my life but that she could not expect to be the only one. I warned her of it and warned her of it, and damn me if she could bring herself to believe it! But ever since I was breeched I have been interested in girls – can’t resist ’em. At the beginning every one is different, even if at the end every one is the same! I cannot change my nature, not even for the sake of a damned peaceful married life!’
Valentine was pacing slowly about the room, his long narrow face cynically intent. Dwight sipped his wine.
‘After we were married I had a couple of little affairs in Cambridge, nothing more. I imagine she knew about them. But that was over a period of six months! Most of the time I was as pure as a parson … But then when we came home for the summer vacation I met Polly Codrington. Have you met her?’
‘No.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you would have. Handsome creature, married to some dull clod of a squire in Kent – thirty years older than she is. She came to stay with Miss Darcy at Godolphin Hall. We met her, Selina and I, at the Pendarves’. She was only down for a month’s holiday, Polly was, and she had a roving eye. I caught it.’ Valentine sighed. ‘Mind you,’ he said, wishing to be reasonable with himself, ‘nothing blatant. We both tried to cover our tracks. Me for the reasons stated, Polly because Miss Darcy is a trifle strait in her lacing and Polly did not wish to upset the old dear. Well, we had a couple of meetings and then, not content, agreed to spend a night together at the Red Lion in Truro. I made the excuse that I wished to see my bank, she pretended she was staying with Harriet and my father – she is related to Harriet. And all went well. All went very well, I can tell you.’ Valentine licked his lips. ‘I am not known in Truro. She had never been before. And then in the morning, as we were coming down the staircase together, by the worst cursed contriving of Providence, who should be passing through the hallway but that evil foul scum of a boy, Conan Whitworth. You know who I mean?’
Dwight inclined his head.
‘Apparently this odious creature’s school was only breaking up that day, and of course he stopped and tried to talk, but I cut him short and hurried Polly off. By then the damage was done. The fat toad must at once have hurried home and told his equally odious grandmother, who must thereupon and with great relish have proceeded to spread it about the county!’
‘That does make it more difficult.’
‘Very much more, because you see – no doubt you do see – this hit at Selina’s self-esteem. However, there it is and the milk is spilt! A mistake like this could happen to anyone! But, blood and bones, it is no occasion for amateur dramatics, for slashing one’s wrists and pretending that our life together is over! Polly Codrington has now gone home to her stuffy husband in Kent and who knows if she will ever return? I am still Selina’s devoted husband and intend to remain so. When you come next
– you’ll come tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘When you come I wish you will try to bring my wife round to some more reasonable frame of mind – and to understanding my point of view.’
Dwight smiled. ‘You are asking more than I can perform.’
‘Well try, man, try. I know you cannot leech for a wounded amour propre but you can at least advise her how cursed silly it is to resort to such extravagant lengths!’
Chapter Five
I
When he came to leave, Katie was holding his horse. She smiled slyly at him, and he avoided looking at her thickening figure.
‘Where’s Music?’ he asked.
‘I sent him ’bout his business. He be too long coming ’ome. Wandered off, ’e had, to his own cottage I reckon, to feed all his chets.’
‘Don’t you like cats?’
‘Not so many as ’e’s got.’
He led his horse to the mounting stone and climbed into the saddle.
‘You are keeping well, Katie?’
‘Ais. Proper.’
‘Have you thought any more of my suggestion?’
‘’Gestion?’
‘That you should marry Music.’
‘Nay,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t do tha-at.’
He smiled at her. ‘You have told me you do not fancy him greatly as a husband, but he might well become an excellent father.’
A breeze was blowing strongly off the land, and she turned towards it so that her heavy black hair was lifted away from her face.
‘’Ow do I know if he d’want to be a father to someone else’s brat or no? ’E haven’t said nothing to me.’
Dwight’s horse stamped the ground, ready to be off.
‘I hear John Thomas has gone to live with Winkey and Peter Mitchell.’
‘Ais. He might just so well’ve gone years ago, mightn’t ’e.’
‘So Music is alone in the cottage.’
‘’Cept for the chets. Tha’s why he’m always shrimping off to feed ’em; there’s no one else now. But ’tesn right, I d’say. Chets is independent. Chets can forage for themselves. Don’t need some poor mazed man stealing time off to feed ’em.’
‘It is not a bad little cottage,’ Dwight said. ‘Of course it has been much neglected.’
‘’Tis a rare old jakes.’
‘But could be done up, put to rights. At present there is no incentive.’
‘Please?’
‘At present there is no one interested in it; no one to work for. Music put up some shelves for me last month. He’s none too bad a man with his hands.’
‘’Tisn’t his hands that are weak,’ said Katie with a short laugh. ‘’Tis his ’ead.’
‘Which is improving all the time. He’s trying very hard, Katie. Talk to him sometime instead of shouting at him. You’d be surprised.’
II
The following evening Katie unexpectedly had to go to the stables, and Music was there alone and put the question.
At least he mouthed something in a sweaty stutter in which the word ‘wed’ recurred too frequently for Katie to misunderstand him.
She stared at him in contempt.
‘’Ave ee been at the bottle, ye great lootal?’
‘N-nay! Not so! I’m so sober as a judge. Honest! God’s honour, Katie!’
‘Then ye did oughter be ’shamed of yourself, thinking such lewd thoughts! Me wed you? Why I’d ’ave as much use for you as a toad for a side pocket!’
Music cringed, his knees shaking. Then with a sudden burst of bravado he said: ‘I dearly love bebbies. Bebbies I d’like. I dearly love the dear sweet sights.’
‘You’ve got plenty of babies,’ said Katie. ‘All them chets. Look to them.’ Then in vexation she added: ‘I d’know who’s been putting you up to this monkery! ’Tis Surgeon Enys. Well, he’m a good man, but ’tis no consarn of ’is what I d’do or don’t do. And ’tis no business of yours neether!’
‘Ais, Katie,’ said Music humbly, and ‘No, Katie.’ And ‘Yes, Katie,’ again. He could not meet her indignant glare.
Katie would have liked at this stage to have flounced out of the stables, but she was not the flouncing sort: her step was too heavy. And, seeing the big young man looking so miserable and sweaty, she said: ‘’Tis all well meant, I dare suppose, on both ’is side and on yourn. Who’m I to be so hoity seeing as to what I’ve done and the trouble that have come ’pon me? Still, there you be. ’Tis no more’n I desarve, and I’ll tek my draught wi’out help from no one.’
‘I be strong,’ said Music, finding his voice again. ‘Strong. All ways. All ways, see. God’s truth. I’d labour for you and the bebby. Tha’s no more’n you desarve.’
Katie continued to stare at him from under black, contracted eyebrows.
‘Giss along wi’ you,’ she said at last. ‘You can’t come mopping wi’ me. You’re ’alf saved. You know you’re ’alf saved. Can’t do nothing ’bout that. Even Surgeon can’t. Look to your chets, Music. I’ll see for myself.’
III
As soon as Clowance heard that her father was home she had to see him. She also felt that Stephen had to go, and Stephen, still in the flush of euphoria, reluctantly agreed. They rode over and stayed two nights.
Clowance was as shocked in the appearance of her father as she had been of her mother, and the visit was a difficult one. Again Stephen was on his best behaviour and did not let his lack of interest in people a generation older than himself show in any discourteous way. He was quite fond of his mother-in-law who had continued until recently to be such a pretty woman and tolerated a father-in-law who was a distinguished man and notable in the county.
Sir Ross, it seemed, had no particular plans for his own future, and intended to live quietly for the next year or two. He had given notice that he would resign his parliamentary seat as soon as Lord Falmouth found it convenient. Lady Poldark spent most of her time in the garden, where the energy she expended was like a counter-irritant to her grief.
Isabella-Rose, fresh-faced from school, was more subdued than anyone had ever known her. Not only was she mourning for her beloved brother with whom she had had a delightful jesting relationship, but she was also deeply upset because her other beloved, Christopher Havergal, had lost a leg. After such cruelty she said she could never sing again.
After dinner on the first day, Stephen and Clowance rode over to Trenwith, but there they found only Drake and Morwenna and Loveday. Mrs Amadora Poldark had just left with her baby daughter for Paris to join her husband, who was to be stationed there as part of the army of occupation. Amadora had been over several times to see the Poldarks and had told them of her summons, but Demelza had mistaken the week she was leaving.
Then they rode on to Place House and drew a second blank. Selina was in bed with a feverish chill and had been told to see no one; Valentine was in Redruth.
In the evening Dwight and Caroline invited them all to supper, which made for a much more cheerful evening than could possibly have taken place at Nampara. Daisy and Paul Kellow had also been invited, and it was a talkative party if not a jolly one.
While carefully avoiding Waterloo, they asked a lot about the months Ross and Demelza had spent in Paris before Napoleon’s escape. Ross was incredulously angry that Fouché should have now been elected President of the Provisional Government and had negotiated with the Allies for the capitulation of Paris. There was talk of his even being reappointed Chief of Police in Louis the Eighteenth’s new government. ‘It cannot be allowed to go on!’ Ross said. ‘This evil creature must be thrown out!’
‘Perhaps Jodie will see to it in due time,’ Demelza said. She had had two letters recently from Mlle de la Blache, the second one from Paris, repeating an invitation that they should visit there again, now the bad time was over. Henri, Jodie thankfully reported, was safe and well. She could never thank Demelza enough for her help on that terrible escape, or be more appreciative of Isabella-Rose’s innocent but vital intervention.
It wa
s a long time since Stephen and Paul had seen each other, and the old conspirators privately exchanged congratulations, Stephen on his successful adventure at sea, Paul on his potentially successful adventure in the marriage market. They spoke of Jeremy with regret, but, being young, the thought of him being dead and dust and corruption did not so greatly worry them. Death to them was something that happened to somebody else.
Daisy, who had always had great hopes of Jeremy until he became besotted with Cuby, did not appear to repine at all. With the dreaded wasting disease having taken off two of her sisters, she lived too close to the tomb to be overawed by it.
The next day Stephen and Clowance rode home together, Stephen feeling the satisfaction of having performed a tedious duty and the pleasure of returning to the town he had made his own and where his livelihood was always going to be. He had avoided meeting Ben, and need not now go back to the north coast for six months or more. The north coast was a backwater, a dead end, and those who lived there were welcome to it. The future lay in the Channel.
‘Look you,’ he said, ‘being around and about the way I am, I hear all sorts of bits of news that don’t become public till they’re stale. Yesterday I heard that Coombes’s cottage in Flushing was for sale. ‘Member him? He worked in the Customs House. Wife died last year; he died Wednesday. Son don’t want the cottage, will put it up for sale next month. Reckon if someone went along, offered seventy-five pound, quick sale, money down, he’d take it.’
‘Is it the one at the end of the row?’
‘Next to the end. The one with the white front door. I have a mind to buy it.’
‘For us?’
‘No, dear heart, not for us. The building of our house restarted last week. I thought to buy it for Andrew.’
Clowance was startled. ‘You mean…’
The Twisted Sword: A Novel of Cornwall 1815 Page 40