‘He’s overdue now, should be home any day. He wants to get wed – he has no money. I thought to give it to them as a wedding present.’
Their horses separated, and it gave her time to take in what he had said.
‘Stephen, that is generous of you! You are so kind – I’m sure he will be delighted, overwhelmed.’
‘Well, he could feel aggrieved that he did not come on our venture, eh?, feel he had missed a big bonus. He can look on it that this is his share.’
Clowance said: ‘I can’t kiss you, but I will later. Thank you for such a generous thought.’
Stephen laughed heartily. ‘And if he don’t want it, I can sell it again. But I wouldn’t give him the money – he might not keep it for his marriage portion!’
‘I conceit Tamsin will sober him up. He’ll have responsibilities. I’m told his father gambled and drank too much when he was young.’
‘Eh well, ye would not think so to look at him now, would ye.’ Stephen flicked at his horse to quicken its step. ‘This old nag … Next thing is to find me a hunter. I shall wait now till St Erme Cattle Fair in two weeks’ time. They say there’s some good horseflesh coming up.’
‘Let me come with you,’ said Clowance. ‘I haven’t lived on a farm all my life for nothing.’
‘Wouldn’t go without you,’ said Stephen.
They rode on.
IV
Dwight had seen Selina the following day and then called a week later, at her request. No confidences were exchanged, and it would have been against his professional ethics to invite them. Nor, had she told him the facts, would he have been prepared to put Valentine’s point of view. On this third visit, when he found her up and about, she spoke rather sheepishly of her clumsiness in breaking the glasses, and attempted to demonstrate to him how she had fallen forward, cutting both wrists at the same time. The amount of blood she had lost was little, and the dark rings under her eyes were no doubt concerned with the cause of the accident, not the accident itself.
He sat chatting for a few minutes, discussing the arrival off Plymouth of the Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte as a prisoner of the British in HMS Bellerophon. Selina was of the opinion that he was being treated with too great a respect – it was said that every officer, English and French, uncovered when he came on deck and that the harbour was swarming with small boats trying to get a glimpse of him. Dwight said he was not sure as to the amount of respect he deserved. It was true that, but for him, many thousands of good young men – including one very near and dear to them all – would be alive. But it was the custom of the British to show respect for their fallen enemies and, as well as being a terrible scourge, which everyone admitted, Bonaparte was a great man. For instance the Civil Code which he had introduced into France would probably provide a model for future generations.
On this Valentine arrived, having been out riding. Conversation abruptly lagged, and then Selina, smiling too brightly at Dwight, asked to be excused.
After she had gone Valentine said: ‘Not drinking? My wife has caught some of the parsimonious habits of her former husband. I swear you did not like the canary you had before. This is a very good Mountain, shipped direct from Malaga. Try a glass.’
Dwight tried a glass, and for a while talk continued on the subject of the late Emperor.
Then Valentine said: ‘Tell me, Dr Enys. What did my mother die of?’
Dwight thought cautiously round the sudden change of subject: ‘She died in childbirth. Your sister—’
‘Ursula was born on the 10th of December. My mother did not die until the 14th.’
‘It is not uncommon, if something goes amiss, for the mother to survive a few days.’
‘Do you know what went amiss?’
‘She died of blood poisoning,’ said Dwight shortly.
‘Was that why she smelt so bad?’
Dwight looked up, startled.
Valentine said: ‘Well, you see, I was nearly six at the time. They would not let me into her room but the smell escaped into the passage. It is a smell I have never been able to forget.’
There was an uneasy silence. Dwight said: ‘I am sorry you were allowed near. The disagreeable smell was due to a putrid condition of the blood.’
Valentine resumed his ramshackle pacing. You will excuse these questions, Dr Enys, but you have been a friend of the family, and their physician, long before I was born and you must know more about my family than almost anyone alive.’
‘I have known your family for thirty years but I have not been their physician. Your father always had the Truro man, Dr Behenna, and he was engaged to wait on your mother when Ursula was born. I was called in because labour began prematurely while she was still at Trenwith.’
‘Prematurely?’
‘Yes.’
‘I too was a premature baby. Eight months, I understand.’
‘I understand so.’
‘And so became the cause of great dissension between my father and my mother.’
‘I do not know what gave you that impression.’
‘A six-year-old boy is not without perception, especially where his parents are concerned.’
‘No. Maybe not. But…’
‘It is good, this wine, isn’t it,’ said Valentine. ‘My wife’s money enables me to live off the fat of the land, so no doubt a more moral man than I am would feel obliged to adhere more obviously to his marriage vows.’
‘That is for you to decide—’
‘I wonder if my mother adhered to her marriage vows?’
Dwight finished his wine and got up. ‘I don’t think I can help you on this subject, Mr Warleggan.’
‘You cannot have lived in these villages for so long without knowing that nothing is ever kept permanently secret. My problem is remembering what I knew in my heart as a child and what I have heard in sidelong whispers since. What I do know … Pray sit down again.’
Dwight reluctantly sat on the edge of a chair but waved away an attempt to refill his glass. He appreciated that under the surface gloss Valentine was speaking of something that had been gathering a long time in his heart.
‘As a child I soon came to see that I was the bone of contention between my parents. Sometimes all would be apparently well, and then a word would be dropped, a shadow of some sort would be cast – and it always involved me. Sometimes for a month at a time my father would not speak to me, would not even look at me. I might have been some leprous monstrosity which had to be ignored and shunned. Unclean! Unclean! Of course my mother was not like that. Her loving care for me never wavered … Naturally all this did not make for a happy childhood.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Did you know that my parents had a violent quarrel only a day or two before Ursula was born?’
‘No, I did not.’
‘D’ye know, I have a pretty clear memory of the events of December ’99. We had been in London and rather happy there. At least, my mother seemed to be, and that reflected on me. She had got much fatter, and I did not understand that, but my father was in a good mood and I was happy with some new toys. I remember specially a rocking horse. I wonder what happened to that? Suddenly it all changed – as it had done sometimes in the past, but never so badly as this – and I felt I was guilty of some terrible sin. We journeyed back to Cornwall, and I remember I was coachsick most of the way. It is not at all agreeable, my dear Dr Enys, being coachsick at the best of times, but when your father looks his utter disgust – indeed hatred – at every fresh retch …
‘When we reached Truro influenza, scarlet fever and dysenteries were raging, so my mother took me off to Trenwith to see her parents and to keep me out of infection’s way. Smelter George stayed behind. It was a dark month. Do you remember it at all?’
‘Very well.’
‘Trenwith was monstrous dark. It might have been haunted. Do you remember the great storm that blew up during that first week?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was one of the worst storms that had ever
been, but, child-like, I found it vastly exciting. The servants we had, Tom and Bettina – d’you know, I cannot remember their surnames – they took me out to see the sea at Trevaunance; they got a good wigging afterwards for taking me, for roofs were blowing off and branches falling. But suddenly at supper that night my father turned up with a face like fury. I was so excited out of my usual fear of him that I tried to tell him about the storm. He snapped back at me as if I were an evil thing, and I was sent instantly to bed – in something of a temper myself, I may say.’
Valentine picked a piece of ore off the mantelshelf, weighed it appreciatively in his hand. ‘Early assays on Wheal Elizabeth are promising – copper very obvious, but signs also of tin and zinc.’
‘Very promising.’
‘That night,’ said Valentine, ‘after I had been put to bed and the candle blown out, I got up again and padded along to my mother’s bedroom. But I did not go in. My parents were both there and in the midst of one of their bitterest quarrels. I listened to it all, taking in words but not comprehending them. Only since. Only since, remembering the words, have I gathered their meaning. It seemed that George Warleggan thought he was not my father.’
Dwight frowned. ‘Are you sure you remembered the words correctly, that you did not misinterpret the causes of the quarrel? Children can so often mistake these things.’
‘Do you mean to tell me that you have never heard whispered doubts in these villages about my parentage?’
‘There is always tittle-tattle in villages, Mr Warleggan. Most of it is entirely invented and should be ignored.’
Valentine pushed back his hair. His vivid eccentric manner was at odds with this rather stuffy room, furnished by his elderly predecessor.
‘When Ursula was born George Warleggan came into my bedroom to tell me. I was terrified – he had never been into my room for as long as I could remember. But now – for some reason – it was as if the storm – his storm – had passed. He actually patted my hand, told me about my sister, said that my mother was well but must rest in bed for a few days. He talked to me about going to school, about the recent gale, almost as if no enmity had existed between us. I could make nothing of it, remained frozen to his touch. Children cannot change as quickly as all that. I was relieved when he left. I only wanted to see my mother again. This, of course, I did, and also Ursula, but the day after that my mother was taken ill – and the day after that she died.’
Through the open window you could hear the children calling to their cattle in the fields. A horse whinnied in the nearby stables.
Dwight said: ‘Your mother was delivered prematurely of a perfectly healthy child. I delivered the child. I did not see your mother again for two days, as Dr Behenna arrived and took charge. Then when I was called in again I was appalled at the sight of her illness. Do not misunderstand me, this could not have been the result of any mistaken treatment Dr Behenna prescribed. Had I seen the complaint earlier I would have diagnosed it more quickly, but could not have halted it.’
‘And the complaint was?’
‘I have told you. A form of blood poisoning.’
‘Gangrene, wasn’t it? I have read books.’
‘A form of blood poisoning.’
‘Caused by what?’
Dwight thought: almost certainly by drinking part of the contents of a little bottle I still have in my cupboard at home. He had no means of analysing it, but he had tasted it and could make a reasonable guess at some of the ingredients. But never could he say anything of this to any human being, least of all to Elizabeth’s son.
‘Dr Behenna described it as an acute gouty condition of the abdominal viscera which manifested itself in cramp-like spasms and inhibition of the nerve fluids.’
‘Do you believe all that medical flummery? You are, after all, well known to be the most advanced and knowledgeable physician in the south-west.’
Dwight stared at the tensed-up young man. ‘However knowledgeable any one of us is, we struggle in the dark, Mr Warleggan. We know so little of the human body, even after centuries of practice and experience.’
He might have added: And of the mind, Mr Warleggan, and of the mind.
Chapter Six
I
Ellery and Vigus had dropped hints about it at the changing of the cores, though they hadn’t dared to face him out. But Peter Hoskin was a more substantial character and when he made a sort of side reference to it he tackled him in the changing shed.
‘Well, I dunno narthing ’bout en,’ said Peter. ‘’Tis only what I been telled. Beth Daniel fur one. And others. But it edn naught to do wi’ me, Ben.’
‘If it edn’t naught to do wi’ you,’ said Ben, ‘why don’t ee keep yer big trap shut!’
‘I don’t see as you’ve any call to take on so,’ said Peter testily. ‘Why don’t ee ask her? She’ll soon tell ee nay if tedn truth.’
Katie was normally home on Tuesday afternoon, that being her afternoon off; though she had seen much less of her parents’ shop since her disgrace. Jinny, her mother, being a good and respectable Wesleyan, had not taken kindly to a situation in which her daughter should now be preparing to bear a bastard child without making any attempt to bring the scoundrel to justice who was responsible for her condition.
Ben went along and found Katie at home helping her mother to cut up the rhubarb for jam.
Whitehead Scoble, their step-father, was now very deaf and was dominated by Jinny who, though of a naturally amiable disposition, had hardened and toughened with the years.
‘Well,’ said Katie defiantly, ‘what if ’tis true? ’Tis my consarn, no one’s else.’
‘Lord save us!’ said Ben between his teeth, ‘ye cann’t mean it, Katie. Ye cann’t. Wed to the village idiot! For land’s sake, don’t that beat all!’
‘I don’t see you need to get in such a niff,’ said Katie. ‘He’s not such a noodle as he belonged to be. Ye give a man a name and it d’hang round his neck like a dog collar all ’is life. Besides…’
‘Besides what?’
‘I’ve the child to think on.’
‘’E’ll thank ye, sure ’nough, ’e truly will – or she – to be give a father that don’t know the time o’ day or whether ’tis Christmas or Easter! If you wed a pattick like Music ye’ll have to keep three ‘stead of two—’
‘He’ve got a cottage.’
‘Oh, so you’re wedden the cottage, are ee—’
‘I never said that! I never said nothing o’ the sort … Anyway, ’tis my life and I shall lead it as I think fit—’
‘But ’tis not fitty. Wi’ all the village a-sniggering to bust. They’re whispering and sniggering at the mine already. Why, folk’ll jeer at you not at him—’
‘Oh, leave the maid alone,’ said Jinny. ‘She’ve dug her own pit – let her lie in it!’
‘What’s that?’ said Whitehead. ‘What’s that you say?’ He began to light his nose warmer from a spill thrust between the bars of the fire. A cloud of smoke from the shag drifted across the room.
‘You mean t’say you don’t mind?’ Ben turned on his mother.
‘Course I mind! But I mind the disgrace the more. If I had my way I’d have that Saul Grieves fetched back from wherever he be skulking and forced into church. What he did with his self after that would be his consarn. But this way he d’get off fine and free and leave Katie to bear the consequences!’
‘I’ve told ee,’ Katie said, near to tears but not giving way. ‘I’d never marry Saul Grieves, not if he was to come on bended knee. Music’s just a makeshift. But ’twill make the child legal and give him a name.’
‘Well, don’t expect me to acknowledge Music as me brother-in-law! You must be half saved yerself, Katie, to think on such a thing. What do Grandfather and Grandmother say? They’ll spit. I reckon they’ll spit.’
Jinny came across to him. ‘Don’t you go upsetting Granfer and Gran, else I’ll give you something to think ’bout, Ben! They’re old, and when the time d’come I’ll go and tell ’em
what I think best they should know. But until then, you keep your spleen to yourself!’
‘They’ll know about it soon enough,’ said Ben. ‘You’ll find some kind friend’ll be along any day, if mebbe they don’t already know. Anyway, I’d not like to be there when you d’tell ’em!’
He left the room, and they heard the shop door slam as he went out.
‘What was amiss with him?’ asked Whitehead. ‘He was in a rare taking. I suppose he don’t like the idea of Katie wedding Music?’
II
Andrew Blamey returned in the Queen Charlotte after a stormy voyage which had taken twice as long as expected and in which they had been attacked by, and driven off, a big American privateer that had not yet apparently become aware of the Peace Treaty of Ghent. He accepted Stephen’s gift of the cottage with uproarious pleasure, and they celebrated it at a little supper-party in the Carringtons’ cottage, Tamsin being there chaperoned by her brother George. Consent to the marriage by her parents had not yet been given, but everyone at the supper assumed it would only be a matter of time.
Grown expansive on the Rhenish wine, Stephen went into more details of his privateering escapade than Clowance had heard before. In particular when the French soldier had fired point blank at him and the cap had failed to detonate. Stephen now treated it as a great joke, but it had been the luckiest escape from certain death. Clowance could not help but think of another and longer conflict, and wish that the rain had continued at Waterloo.
It seemed that Andrew had enjoyed his trip in the Queen Charlotte. In spite of his joviality, Andrew was not the easiest of men to get on with, and so it was notable that he had found an accord with the grumpy Captain Buller. Something in Andrew’s character had responded to the stern discipline of his captain, and something in the way he had responded had pleased and satisfied Buller. The success of the voyage radiated through Andrew’s spirits, and though he drank plenty he did not become noticeably drunk. They made gay plans for a day next week when they would visit the new cottage together.
The Twisted Sword: A Novel of Cornwall 1815 Page 41