‘I hear Valentine and Selina will not be home for Christmas.’
‘Oh?’
‘Ben told me. They are going to spend the Christmas vacation in London with her two daughters. Katie has heard and she told her mother.’
‘No hint of Ben and Katie coming together again?’
‘Not yet. But have you met Music recent? He is quite an improved man.’
‘Some people marry and it changes their personalities, it seems. Others marry and it makes not the slightest difference.’
‘How do you think it affected us?’ Demelza asked.
‘We re-made each other after the other’s image.’
‘That’s a little complicated for my small mind, but I hope I know what you mean.’
They went in. He said: ‘So we shall be a reduced company in this area for Christmas. Geoffrey Charles and Amadora and Joanna are in Paris. Drake and Morwenna and Loveday will, I am sure, return to Looe, for he has problems at the yard. So there will be just Dwight and Caroline and the girls and a smattering of Trenegloses and Kellows.’
‘Perhaps Clowance is right and, just for this year, we should pretend it isn’t happening.’ At the parlour door Demelza exclaimed on seeing a vase of flowers: carnations, picotees and lace pinks. ‘Judas! Where did they come from?’
‘The de Dunstanvilles sent them over. They only came this morning.’
‘That is so kind of them, Ross! That is kind.’ Once in a while Demelza’s eyes would fill with tears unnecessarily.
‘They have been put in water just as they came. Cuby said, should she arrange them, but I said I thought you would want to do it. And hot-house grapes!’
‘I will write. Or you will write. Yes, a bigger vase, don’t you think? And I can gather some ferns and ivy to go with them. There’s time before dark.’
‘Just time.’
At the door she stopped, wiped her eyes with an inelegant hand. ‘We cannot ignore Christmas altogether. There is little Henry. And Bella. And Sophie and Meliora, who will come over. And Cuby – who may be deeply sad but has a child within her. We shall somehow have to make a sort of, what do you call it?’
‘Compromise?’
‘Yes. How you read my thoughts—’
‘Long association—’
‘Compromise, that is what it must be. No big celebration. But quiet celebration. After all it is to commemorate the birth of Christ.’
Ross smiled at her, for her eyes had briefly lit up in a way he had not seen for some time.
‘Just so,’ he said. ‘Just so.’
II
He went to Penryn the following Tuesday, leaving before dawn and arriving at midday. He had a meal with Clowance and then they rowed down the creek to Falmouth and walked up to Pendennis Castle, where many years ago he had stayed with Governor Melville discussing defence matters. Just before the miners’ riots. There had been a number of smaller outbreaks of violence since, but none with that tragic ending.
He did not call this time, but they turned and walked back down the gorse-grown hill towards the town. Clowance remarked that her father’s ankle seemed much better; he replied that if it got bad again he would try three months’ internment to improve it. All through his visit they had talked long and amiably on many subjects, including details of Jeremy’s death and the consequences of Stephen’s. They took supper together and he slept there and left to return home the following morning; he would dine at the Fox & Grapes, near St Day, on the way home.
That night Clowance spent with Verity. Andrew junior was ashore until Christmas Eve when he sailed again for New York, but this evening with Tamsin and her brother was attending a small soirée and dance given by one of the other packet captains. Clowance had been invited but had declined. Andrew senior, having had a minor recurrence of his heart affection, had gone to bed.
Clowance said: ‘D’you know, it is quite unusual, but since I – since I lost Stephen I have had more single conversations with my mother and father than I can ever remember in my life before. Before, of course, I met them constantly in and out of the house. But never in such a concentrated way, if you take my meaning. Most often if it was anything important the three of us would meet together. You must know the – the triviality of daily life. Now we have talked so much, in a different way.’
‘Your father looked better,’ Verity said.
‘Yes, he was, he was. They both looked so dreadful when I saw them first – after Jeremy. But life has to go on.’ Clowance smiled wryly. ‘Even for me.’
‘More than ever for you,’ Verity said.
‘Yes, I suppose. But at present I’m in limbo. I don’t really want to make any decisions at all if I haven’t got to.’
‘Give yourself a year, my dear. Stephen has left you money enough.’
‘Do you know I grieve so much that he was not able to enjoy the good fortune. All his life he had been poor – grindingly poor.’ Clowance hesitated. ‘At least, I think so.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that just before he died I discovered an important inaccuracy in something he had told me. And that – and that calls into question some of the other things he told me.’ Clowance got up, picked up a magazine, riffled through the pages. ‘No, I think I am being unfair. What he told me that was untrue was something important to – to our marriage. I do not believe he would have told me circumstantial stories of his poverty if they had not happened.’
Verity looked up at her tall young cousin. Demelza had been right: the ordeal Clowance had been through, her loss of weight, had aged her but improved her looks.
Clowance said: ‘Although I can talk to Papa freely about most things – and I do! – I cannot really talk to him about Stephen, for I do not think he ever altogether cared for Stephen. They were such opposite characters, yet in some ways rather alike.’
‘Alike? I would not – I don’t think I would . . .’
‘Well, they were both very strong, weren’t they – physically strong, masculine, courageous, stop-at-nothing sort of men . . . After that, no . . . they were not really alike. I wonder why I said that? Perhaps I am trying to make reasonable what to some people was unreasonable, which was my love for Stephen.’
Verity got up to put some coal on the fire.
‘Let me do that.’ Clowance moved quickly to the fire. Verily saw a tear drop on the coal.
‘I am sure your father understands what you felt.’
‘Oh, he understands that I loved Stephen. But not why. You see one does not choose. I have said this to Mama – oh a year ago, but it comes home even more truly now. One loves a person – feels deeply drawn to love him, and no one else will do. And because you love him you suppose he has all the virtues which he does not have. So one expects more than one gets, and that is wrong . . . I do not believe I am making sense, Verity. It is just helpful to talk to you.’
‘Is it Jason who is bothering you?’
‘Jason? Oh no. No, not really. You know he is Stephen’s son by an earlier marriage?’
‘I did not know. Your mother wondered.’
‘Did she? Mama has a dangerous intuition. But even her intuition, I believe, will not perceive all that I have in my heart to tell her if I would. But I will not. Nor will I tell you, dear cousin, for I believe it is best buried with Stephen.’
Clowance busied herself with the fire; Verity picked up her embroidery but did not take out the needle.
In a calmer voice Clowance said: ‘There was one thing I did not dare tell Papa. It happened on Monday. I had a visitor. You will never guess. It was Sir George Warleggan.’
Verity stared at her. ‘George?’
‘He came with two grooms. I heard the clattering of horses and looked up the street and saw him just dismounted. As he walked down, with one of the other men – I think his name is Nankivell – I was quite terrified. I thought he was going to arrest me!’
‘What did he want?’
‘Well, when I opened the door he just took off his hat an
d gave me good-day; I could hardly find the words to speak so I stood aside and he came in. He is not nearly so tall as Papa, but he takes up a deal of room in a small parlour! I said would he sit down and he said no doubt I might be a trifle surprised at his visit, but he just was passing through Penryn and it occurred to him to call to see if he could help me in any way. There had been some ill-feeling, he said, between him and my husband, but now that Stephen was so unfortunately gone he would like to remind me of the goodwill that existed between himself and Lady Harriet and me, and if he could be of assistance to me in my widowhood, either in a social or a financial sense, he would ask me to name it!’
Verity did not speak. She had thirty years of memories of George, most of them bad; but she felt she need not add them to Clowance’s own.
‘Dear cousin, I was – flabbergasted! I have not seen Harriet since the accident; for Stephen had quarrelled with her for some reason and would speak not a single good word of her. I suppose I too felt that day she had behaved not well, but . . . She wrote to us when Stephen was ill and then again to me after he died, but I had not replied. Now George coming like this . . .’ Clowance wrinkled her forehead. ‘I thanked him and said I thought I was engaging myself well enough. He said he understood Stephen had left a little money, but if I should be in need of legal advice he would be happy to have it provided for me. And when a due time of mourning had been observed I should be welcome again at the hunt or some other occasion if I should feel the want of company. It was all very gracious, I assure you.’
‘George can be gracious enough – and generous enough – when he chooses. But usually with a reason.’
‘Soon after that he left, having refused a glass of canary, which was all I had in the place. I have wondered since why he came. Ever since I met him that first time five years ago I believe he has had a very small taking for me. But still . . .’
‘George has a weak spot for a few women. I remember particularly—’ Verity stopped. ‘For fair women especially . . . Though that is contradicted by his second marriage, is it not.’
‘That is another strange thing!’ Clowance said. ‘I offered my congratulations, saying I knew how happy he must be at the birth of his baby daughters, and he glanced at me as if he thought I was sarcastic, or deriding him in some way.’
‘A daughter for George,’ Verity said, ‘is near to a catastrophe.’
There was silence for a while.
Clowance said: ‘I think I should like a cup of chocolate. Shall I make you some?’
‘It would be nice. But pull the bell. Anna is up till ten.’
Clowance pulled the bell. Thoughtfully she rearranged her hair with both hands.
‘Papa thinks Cuby’s child will be a boy.’
‘Why?’
‘He says something about the law of averages. Geoffrey Charles had a girl. Your step-son has just had a girl. Now George and Harriet’s two! I do not know if averages work in such things.’
‘I do not suppose it matters very much, does it? Either will be welcome.’
‘It matters about Papa’s title, that is all.’
Anna came in and Verity ordered the chocolate.
III
Demelza said: ‘Tell me, Caroline, I have intended to have asked you before; what would you say, how would you feel if either of your daughters wished, wanted to become an actress or a professional singer, like?’
Caroline raised her eyebrows. ‘I do not believe either of ’em has sufficient talent to shine even in amateur theatricals. Why?’
‘I have a special reason for asking, which I suppose you will guess refers to Bella.’
‘She certainly has a remarkable voice – even though her father affects not to appreciate it. But has she shown some sudden ambition?’
‘She was quite overcome with the theatre we took her to in London. I have never seen her so enchanted. But there is another reason. While we were in Paris we met a young English lieutenant who must have put ideas in her head . . . Oh, it is all over and done with now, but it was some startling how it happened – and to a girl as young as she is!’
So it came out: the jolly camaraderie, the avuncular courtship, and then the sudden visit and the serious proposal.
Caroline listened in silence, playing with the ears of Horace the Third.
‘What does Ross think of this?’
‘I haven’t told him. To begin I was too – too desolate to think of anything but Jeremy. And then came the news that Christopher Havergal had been cruelly maimed. Then it was all struck out of my mind when I knew nothing would come of it. But I often thought to ask you . . .’
‘Did Bella know of his proposal?’
‘Oh yes. And of course when news came of his wounding she was even more totally despondent: first for Jeremy and then for Christopher. But now more recently she has recovered much of her bounce and good spirits, so perhaps she will forget all about it. But I only wonder if it has not left an impression on her mind which will show in a year or two. And I wondered . . .’
‘You wondered?’
‘What you would say if you were in my place if next year or the year after Bella said she wished to – to become a singer or an actress for – for money. How would you feel if it were Sophie, for instance?’
Caroline let Horace to the floor with a plop. He grunted a protest.
‘You will have to tell Ross sometime, and it will greatly depend on what he feels, will it not. For my part I would look on the prospect with a degree of doubt. Actors and singers are not of any social standing. Some lead a disorganized life and are thoroughly disreputable. Others are respectable but are not generally respected. A few singers, and great actresses like Siddons, they are different; but it will be very few . . . Of course another way to become highly regarded is to become the mistress of one of the Royal Princes. But even then, from reports, it does not seem to lead to a settled or comfortable life.’
Demelza shifted in her chair. ‘Christopher was a very taking young man; but in truth it was perhaps all too trivial, too light-hearted to be taken serious. It was unthinkable anyway. But I am greatly relieved that Bella appears to have recovered from it altogether.’
Caroline said: ‘It shows how easily the young forget.’
Chapter Four
I
‘Sweet, sweet, jug, jug, water bubble, pipe rattle,’ sang Isabella-Rose. ‘Bell pipe, scroty, skeg, skeg, swat, swaty, whitlow, whitlow, whitlow . . . Mama, do you hear me? That is what the nightingale sings. If we could but put it to music!’
Demelza had come into the library. Cuby was at the piano, Bella half dancing beside it.
Cuby said: ‘It is almost nice enough as you say it.’
‘But Mama is good at finding little tunes; she does not play so well but she has a knack of finding funny little tunes!’
It was Christmas Eve; outside a mild grey day, inside more fires than were strictly necessary, lit to enliven the house. The church choir were coming tonight; tomorrow they were all summoned to Killewarren, where the Enyses had ordered a boar’s head for dinner. Aside from the Poldarks, the servants in Nampara had worked their way into a festive mood. Mr Jeremy had been lost, and everyone grieved for him and for Miss Clowance, also widowed. But it did not prevent jollity sneaking in, a condition that Christmas traditionally induced. There were sniggers and flutters and cat-calls. While the Poldarks were out tomorrow there would be a feast in the old kitchen – where Jud and Prudie had once reigned – and gracious knew what noise there would be. Ross wondered how many of his helpers he would find sober when they returned. And little cared.
Demelza was induced to sit at the piano in Cuby’s place and Bella intoned over and over the jingle she had garnered from some old woman. ‘Sweet, sweet, jug, jug, water bubble, pipe rattle.’ So it went on while Demelza tried to find chords to fit it. ‘Bell pipe, scroty, skeg, skeg, swat, swaty, whitlow, whitlow, whitlow.’ Slowly a little tune came out. Bella crowed with delight, and Cuby and Demelza laughed together.
/> On this scene came Henry, and Bella gathered him up while Demelza played some of the old carols she knew so well.
The library was decorated with holly and ivy and ferns and a few early primroses, as was the parlour. Yesterday they had all been over to Sawle Church helping to decorate that too. Although flowers were scarce, some had come from Place House and from Killewarren. Neither Nampara nor Trenwith had a conservatory, and the Trenegloses were committed to St Ermyn’s, Marasanvose. Before going to Killewarren tomorrow they would all go to Sawle Church, where Mr Clarence Odgers would read prayers and preach. For this great occasion of Christmas all the servants from Nampara would attend as well.
Dwight and Caroline had promised to be there, even though Dwight pointed out that the 25th December had been a day of festival in England long before its conversion to Christianity.
Christmas Eve passed peacefully enough, the dark coming early because of the gloom of cloud. At seven Cuby said she did not feel well and retired to bed early. But she heard the choir come, and got up and sat by the window listening. The choir, fourteen strong, sang the Dilly Song.
Come and I will sing you.
What will you sing O?
I will sing One O.
What is your One O?
Twelve are the Twelve Aposdes
’Leven are the ’leven will go to Heaven
Ten are the Ten Commandments
Nine is the moonshine bright and clear
Eight are the Eight Archangels
Seven are the Seven Stars in the sky
Six the Cheerful Waiter
Five is the Ferryman in the boat
Four are the Gospel Praychers
Three of them are strangers
Two of them are Lilly-white babes
Clothed all in green-o
One of them is all alone and ever shall remain so.
They also sang ‘Noël’ and ‘Joseph Was An Old Man’.
Afterwards they trooped into the parlour and took mince tarts and ginger wine. Music and Katie were of the party, though Music would now only sing tenor and Katie could hardly sing at all. They stood together through it all with an air of indestructibility.
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