‘This is not a military matter, my friend, it is a police matter. You have met General Wirion?’
‘When I first came here, yes.’
‘He says he simply obeys orders from Paris. He showed me the order. It is headed “The Minister of General Police to His Majesty the Emperor” and it is signed “The Duke of Otranto”. Formal detention. Not even parole.’
‘It was offered me,’ said Ross. ‘I refused it.’
‘But such a pity! You would have been far freer, more comfortable.’
‘I have hoped to be able to escape. No opportunity has presented itself so far.’
‘I can see they are being very careful . . . But have you not been charged?’
‘Presumably they can find nothing to charge me with.’
‘All this is on the direct orders of Fouché. Have you met him?’
‘I have met him.’
‘He is acknowledged to be the cleverest policeman in Europe. Did you have some quarrel with him?’
‘I did not hide my dislike.’
‘Ah.’ The big Frenchman refilled both glasses. He held the dark amber liquid up to the light. ‘If it is some personal vendetta it will be more difficult, for he is, at present, a very powerful man. If one could get to the Emperor . . .’
‘Gaston,’ Ross said, ‘I am greatly obliged for your interest in my comfort and welfare. But I charge you not to endanger your own position on my behalf. This is a misfortune that has happened to me and is in no way your responsibility. So leave it be; I am sure I shall be freed in due course.’
‘Of course you will. But I am your friend – even though our countries are at loggerheads – and I must do what I can. Do not fear for my position. France has need of her soldiers, particularly her artillery, and no police chief is likely to do me any hurt.’ Rougiet smiled as he sipped. ‘I believe I have frightened the guard into bringing General Wirion’s own brandy.’
They sipped in silence.
Rougiet said: ‘Have you been questioned?’
‘Oh yes. Twice. For six hours at a time.’
‘Was any ill-treatment shown you?’
‘No.’
‘These police. You cannot always be sure. What did they ask you?’
‘While we were in Paris I became friendly with a Mlle de la Blache. I had met her once in England many years ago.’
‘Oh yes, I know her. She was formerly Baroness Ettmayer. For a time she was the mistress of Marshal Ney.’
Ross raised his eyebrows. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘For two or three years at least. Whenever he was in Paris they were seen everywhere together.’
‘They now suspect her of having been a spy working on behalf of the Bourbons. She left Paris just before Napoleon arrived.’
‘In that case I would not blame her! Fouché would have been swooping on her as soon as he had the authority.’
‘Apparently my wife and children left Paris with Mlle de la Blache. This seems to have bred the suspicion that I was in some way involved in her activities.’
‘These police,’ Rougiet said again. ‘They have strange and tortuous minds. If they try they can believe anything. I must somehow get word to the Emperor about this . . .’
‘I saw him arrive in Paris,’ Ross said.
‘Did you? Did you? That must have been a great moment.’ Rougiet passed a hand over his hair. ‘Yet all Europe is against him. Even some parts of France murmur and are disaffected. But if it comes to war Bonaparte will prevail.’
‘I trust it will not come to that.’
‘So do I! So do we all! No one is more ardent for peace than the ordinary Frenchman. But everyone is against us.’
‘Against Bonaparte.’
‘Yes, but he arrived with a few hundred men on the south coast of France and in three weeks totally repossessed the country without a shot being fired! If that is not your democracy I don’t know what is! It was the overwhelming will of the people! And he too now only wants peace. You will have heard, perhaps, that the Empress and his son, the King of Rome, have been forcibly prevented from joining him. It has been a great distress to him. He has left the Tuileries now, except for great occasions, and lives quietly in the Elysée, surrounded by his relations, his friends and his personal advisers.’
‘And Fouché?’ said Ross.
‘Ah, Fouché, no. He keeps to his office and weaves his own spider’s webs. Do you know it is said that when the Emperor arrived on the evening of the 20th and made his appointments, Fouché was at his desk by 2 a.m. the next morning. Your Mlle de la Blache did not leave a moment too soon! . . . Pah, I would not trust him an ell. He would as easily betray the Emperor as he did the King. He should have been guillotined years ago!’
The lovely spring morning was becoming tarnished by drifting cloud. It reminded Ross of the weather in Cornwall, light, frivolous, changeable. He wondered what Nampara would be like today. An azure sea hemmed in with surf, thundering over the sand? His house, the chimney’s smoke blowing eccentrically in the breeze, grass whispering, a horse neighing in the stables, men working in the fields? And his mine? His two mines? Why had he ever been such a fool as to leave it on this bizarre mission which had served no good purpose and ended in disaster? Was it ambition? But he had no ambition. Was it a sense of duty? But to whom did he owe any duty? Was it something in his perverse nature that hankered after a new and an unusual adventure?
But it had all gone so well for a time; it truly had. He knew that his strange pretty Cornish wife with all her earthiness and all her high-strung perceptions had enormously enjoyed the early weeks in Paris. It had renewed her. The heady entertainment, and the admiration that had come her way had brought her to bloom all over again.
If he had not taken that last trip to Auxerre . . .
Rougiet was eyeing him. You are far away, my friend.’
‘Yes.’
‘I was saying . . . But what does it matter? Maybe it is better unsaid.’
‘Pray tell me.’
‘I was saying to you – and it is a sombre thought – that the arsenals and factories of France are working at high pressure, the armourers have been called up, the National Guard likewise throughout the country, thousands of extra horses commandeered; arms are arriving from across the Rhine smuggled in barges and small boats, the Imperial Guard brought up to full strength. I need not explain to you that these preparations are not being undertaken with peace in mind – but they will only come into operation if the Germans and the English oppose us in Belgium.’
‘Why must you have Belgium?’
‘It has been ours for too long. We are almost the same people.’
Ross said after a moment: ‘I do not feel that England would fight so hard just to replace Louis. But there is strong feeling about the independence of Belgium – even among the Whigs, who generally favour Napoleon.’
‘It is too bad,’ said Rougiet, cracking the knuckles of his big hands. ‘But I have to tell you we shall very shortly have a hundred and fifty thousand picked troops in the Army of the North. There will be no chance for Wellington with the mixed and unreliable army he now commands . . . Still, there may yet be some chance of an accommodation, a compromise. I pray so.’
‘Amen. But if you had to fight such a battle how would you go about it?’
‘Oh . . . At the present we are making a few early concentrations in the area of Philippeville and Beaumont. But I must not disclose more to you. Nor could I, for I am not in the Emperor’s confidence.’
Ross saw that the brandy bottle, half full when it came in, was now empty.
‘There is also in this’, he said, ‘a man called Tallien. He was at that Embassy party where I first met you. Fouché was there too, you will remember.’
‘Tallien, oh yes. Fouché’s jackal.’
‘When I was arrested Tallien accompanied the gendarmes. He may be the cause of my imprisonment. I shook him up on one occasion because he was paying unwelcome attentions to my wife.’
‘So? An odious little lecher. He counts for nothing, of course, compared to Fouché. But Fouché protects him. Long ago the roles were quite reversed. For a time, in those wild days of the nineties, Tallien was President of the Convention. I am told that he protected Fouché then – that he saved him from the guillotine. Fouché, it is said, never forgets a favour and never forgets an injury.’
‘I can believe that.’
‘It is strange to think that Tallien cannot be more than eight or nine years older than I am, yet I was a mere youth at the time. Well . . .’ Rougiet stretched his legs. ‘Let us talk of happier things, eh? Your wife is safe and well? And your children? That is good. That is something . . . But we must spring you from this trap, my friend. Have a little patience and we will get you out.’
Chapter Six
I
On a fine Thursday, a week before Demelza left for Cornwall, Lieutenant Christopher Havergal called on her at Lansdowne House and asked her permission to pay his attentions to Isabella-Rose.
Demelza, who had been trying to concentrate on reading a book – a novel – recommended by Lady Isabel Fitzmaurice, picked the book up again, found a spill to mark her place, and then put it back on the table.
‘Your attentions, Lieutenant Havergal? I’m not sure what that . . . It can’t mean what I think it mean.’
‘It means that eventually I wish to ask Isabella-Rose’s hand in marriage.’
‘You – are not serious, Lieutenant?’
He coughed into his hand. ‘Yes, ma’am. Very serious indeed.’
Demelza perceived that he had had his hair cut and his moustache trimmed. His uniform too was new.
‘You are asking . . . my permission to – to – to . . .’ She could not say it.
‘Indeed, Lady Poldark. I am sorry if it comes as such a – a surprise to you.’
Demelza also observed that he was nervous. Nervous! Lieutenant Christopher Havergal, nervous!
‘I still don’t quite understand. Do you know how old my daughter is?’
‘Yes, ma’am. It is quite incredible. Everyone takes her for seventeen. But I do know how old she is. May I sit down and be allowed to explain myself?’
Demelza waved her hand weakly towards a chair.
He sat on the edge of it, coughed again. His moustache was still long enough to quiver when he coughed.
‘I am not suggesting, Lady Poldark, I could not and would not dare to suggest an early marriage. But perhaps in two years, when she is fifteen . . . Until then a betrothal . . . That is what I would like more than anything in the world. What we would like . . .’
‘So Isabella-Rose knows of this – this proposal of yours?’
‘Oh yes, ma’am. We talked of it before she left for Cornwall.’
‘And she would like to marry you?’
‘Yes, ma’am. It seems to be . . . to be her dearest wish.’
No wonder the little monkey had seemed so bouncy when she climbed into the coach with Caroline.
‘I am leaving for Flanders tomorrow,’ said Havergal. ‘Since Bella left I have been trying to summon up the courage to call. You will see I have left it to the last minute. It means so much to me that I have shirked putting my suit to the test.’
‘But Lieutenant Havergal—’
‘Pray call me Christopher if you will, ma’am.’
‘But Christopher, what you ask is impossible! Although in some ways she seem so mature, she is scarce out of childhood! At that age one is – fanciful, light-hearted, just beginning life. To suggest she would know her own mind so soon, on such an important matter as this – oh, I am sure she thinks she does, but in three months she will see some other young man and transfer all her romantic ideals to him! It is – natural! Oh, I am sorry to say this, but may I ask you how often you have been in and out of love with some pretty girl since you were thirteen?’
He had very nice eyes when he looked at you directly; no wonder the naughty Bella had a fancy for him.
‘Often, Lady Poldark. I have met many pretty girls – and – if it does not offend you to say so – have had three of them as my mistresses – one of them Portuguese. Many of them have delighted me, but none before has ever touched my heart.’
Demelza glanced round the enormous room with its high windows and its heavy furnishings. Her visit to Lansdowne House was not a great success. Lady Isabel could not have been sweeter, indeed seemed delighted with her company; but it came as strange at the best of times for Demelza to do nothing but sit and read or take a constitutional round Berkeley Square or make polite conversation at a tea-table; And this was not the best of times. Her whole life was disrupted, and the proper way, the only way, to counter such disruption was in work, sheer physical work such as digging, weeding, beating a carpet; or even milking a cow and carrying the pail back and forth from the dairy. Inaction bred the strangest fancies. She was not happy here but was staying until her allotted time was up.
‘Forgive me, Lady Poldark,’ this handsome elegant droopy young man said, reclaiming her attention; ‘you will think it beyond the world presumptuous in me to say this, but I believe you do not yet quite realize what an extraordinary young woman your daughter is. Have you heard her voice? But of course you have! But perhaps you do not realize what an extraordinary fascination and range it has! She must do something with it! Perhaps she should go on the stage – or into opera. She would be invaluable, unique, in some branch of the world of entertainment, the musical world. She has a great future in front of her!’
‘Married to you?’ Demelza was ashamed of the question but it bubbled up in her.
‘I think so, ma’am. I think so. Of course we have this little trouble with Boney to settle first. Who knows, I may not survive? And then our betrothal would be irrevocably broken. But if I survive, and when it is over, I have no intention of making the army my permanent career. I shall live in London and pursue some other career.’
‘You have money?’ Dear life, she thought, what’s come over me? ’Tesn’t right, ’tesn’t proper. Shades of Jud!
‘Enough money to live on,’ said Havergal. ‘Some expectations. I read for the bar but did not progress far enough. It could be taken up again. You will see, Lady Poldark, that I do not pretend a special eligibility. But I sincerely believe that if Bella were married to me I could bring her talents to the notice of influential men who would know how to make the best of them.’
Demelza picked up her book. It would soon be four o’clock and Lady Isabel, having taken her rest, would be ready for tea; bright-eyed and chatty and deaf and rather sweet and rather boring.
‘Christopher,’ she said. ‘In the first place I could not possibly let you become betrothed to Isabella-Rose without her father’s consent, and that at present is impossible to obtain. You see. In the second place, although I find you likeable and personable I do not think you have quite played fair with us by engaging the affections of a little girl who is still too impressionable to know her own mind—’
‘Lady Poldark!—’
‘Oh, I know what you are going to say. It was mutual between the both of you. I well can guess how Bella would need no leading on. But you are – twenty-one, is it?, almost twenty-two – you are good-looking, a dashing officer, a – a young man of experience; how could she fail to be swept off her feet? You have not played quite fair with us and you must – must understand the – the consequences. I cannot and will not give permission for any such betrothal like you suggest! It is not possible and pray forget it!’
He sat with his long fair hair falling over his face. Then he looked up and grinned at her – a really wicked grin.
‘So be it, ma’am. Perhaps the permission I sought was too much to expect. Were I in your position I believe I might feel the same. So let us leave it a while. I will go now. But I trust that if, in a year or two years, your daughter and I should meet again and be of the same mind, you would not find me so personally distasteful or dislikeable as to forbid us your approval?’
She looked a
t him, part hostile, part won over.
‘I cannot say, Lieutenant Havergal. Nor can I speak for my husband. I do not suppose he will at all approve. But what may or may not happen in the future I have no idea. I can only ask you pray to forget about anything you have said to me for a long time to come.’
II
The Royal Standard was the principal hotel in Falmouth. It had a billiards room with fine views of the harbour and a large coffee room, also on the first floor, which was the meeting place for the seafaring folk of the town, though generally speaking it was the captains and masters and agents and factors who met there, not the ordinary seamen. Stephen went regularly and had made it his business to be popular; he had an easy friendly manner, didn’t push where he saw he was not wanted, and stood his round. Occasionally he now took Jason with him.
On the Thursday on which Christopher Havergal was putting his proposition to Demelza the room was crowded to its limits, for the weather had turned unfriendly: hazy cloud with a strong south-easterly half gale which was keeping around sixty sail embayed in the Carrick Roads. Chiefly it was a West Indian convoy, and not only were the crews ashore but the passengers, putting up at various lodging houses of doubtful excellence and crowding the narrow streets during the daylight hours as they sought some distraction from the delay.
With only two days to go before the axe Stephen was not the best company, but in Jason’s presence he always put on a show; pride in his son’s admiration for him impelled him to make the effort. He had not told Jason of the impending crash, but during the evening the young man got a fair idea that trouble of some sort was impending.
‘What’s amiss, Fa-Uncle?’ he said in an undertone after Captain Buller had left. ‘Why ask him?’
‘Because the Queen Charlotte’s being refitted for taking on the New York run – now the war’s over. He’ll be signing up crew early next month, and there’ll be plenty applying. He’s got a good reputation and the money’s good.’
‘I don’t want to join the Packet Service,’ said Jason. ‘I don’t want to work for anyone but you. I know I wasn’t needed on the Chasse – or Blamey did not want for me to be mate – but I’m willing enough to sail as an ordinary seaman on the Adolphus.’
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