As he climbed the cliff he could hear the engine stirring inside its house with a measured breath and a grunt. It was like a great animal waiting to get out. Even in a stationary engine such as this, Jeremy had the feeling that what he had created had a life and a character of its own. And a temper.
He went in, stood for a while in the warmth watching it all work: the steam rising round the piston, the valve levers clicking up and down, looking like swans’ heads as they automatically opened and shut the valves. Grunt, pause, breath . . . grunt, pause, breath. About three hundred gallons of water was brought up per minute. The engine had thirty tons of rods to lift. Grunt, pause, breath . . . grunt, pause, breath. What a majestic thing.
But imagine, just imagine this same engine, smaller and differently constructed but incorporating the same principles, the piston on its side or offset at an angle, so that the rod instead of animating a giant beam and pump could be connected to the crankshaft of the two back wheels of a road vehicle! It was all there. Somehow it was all there. One only had to adapt and adjust and overcome problems of weight and friction. That genius Trevithick had done it more than once, before he had gone off pursuing other hares . . .
Dan Curnow came trotting down the stairs, oil-can in hand.
‘All right, Dan?’
‘Everything going proper, Mr Poldark. I reckon she’s settling down handsome.’
He set the can aside, wiping his hands on a rag, opened the fire door. Glowing heat came into the room. He riddled at the coal so that ashes fell into the bottom semi-circle of the furnace, added new coal. As he was doing this Ben Carter came down the stairs.
‘Hullo, Ben. Didn’t know you were here still.’
‘Just looking around,’ Ben said. ‘Is it all over?’
‘What?’
‘The dinner.’
‘Yes. Pretty well. You off home now?’
‘I reckon.’
Ben had declined the invitation to dinner on the excuse that it was important the first day to observe the effects below ground. Jeremy was not sure whether this excuse was a valid one, for he had himself been down as far as the sump immediately after the opening to see that everything was working satisfactorily. In fact much of the rest would take several weeks to arrange: the change-over of duties below ground; the intake of the newly engaged tributers who would have to strike bargains over the ground they mined; the allotment of pitches to them as the deeper levels were dug and drained and paying ground, one hoped, uncovered. This last could necessarily only be a gradual process, following blasting and laborious pick and shovel work.
Of course Ben notoriously was not one for the social occasion. And this particular social occasion he might have found particularly trying. He was silent as Jeremy walked part way home with him, but as they reached the ruins of Wheal Maiden he stopped.
‘You’ve come out o’ your way.’
‘I prefer to be out,’ said Jeremy. ‘I can’t settle yet. It’s not every day one sees an engine come to life.’
‘Aye,’ said Ben. ‘Your design too. Tis something to take pride in.’
‘My design, yes. But with a lot of advice from practical men.’
‘Practical men? You’re one yourself!’
‘Practical engineers, then. But yes, it is my over-all plan they’ve built to. As soon as I leave you I think I shall go back yet again just to make sure it is still working!’
Ben laughed but without humour.
There were lights in the Meeting House.
‘Do you ever go in there?’ Jeremy asked, nodding towards it.
‘What, me? No. When I pass, though, as I do each day now, I cann’t help the wondering.’
‘Wondering?’
‘What your uncle d’see in it all.’
‘Oh, Uncle Sam . . . it is his life. You’re not a member of their Society yourself, Ben?’
‘Oh no. I don’t reckon I believe nothing o’ that trade.’
From here you could still see one or two lights at Wheal Leisure, but there were more at Grace, where the changing of the cores was in progress. As they stood there two men came up over the hill, figures moving against the lights, tramping on their way home to Grambler village.
‘Well,’ said Jeremy. ‘See you in the morning.’
‘Jeremy.’ As he half turned.
‘Yes?’
‘Is it true that Clowance is to be betrothed to that man?’
So it was out now. ‘Stephen? Well, yes. That is the arrangement.’ Jeremy kicked at a stone, knowing the hurt he was giving. ‘I believe it will be official next week.’
‘Ah . . . I see.’
Inside the Meeting House they were singing a hymn.
‘Oh Christ, Who art the Light and Day
Thy beams chase night’s dark shades away.’
Ben said: ‘My mother was attacked by a madman when I were a few months old. That’s where I come by this scar. My father, he died of a gangrened arm when he were put in prison for being after a pheasant on Bodrugan land. He was twenty-four. My grandfather died of miner’s phthisis at twenty-six. Any of these here things I can see as part of God’s pattern more easier’n I can see Clowance Poldark wedding Stephen Carrington.’
Jeremy could think of nothing to say. He knew the depth of Ben’s feelings and related them to his own for Cuby.
‘It is hard for you, Ben. I’m very, very sorry.’
‘Maybe if I speak more you’ll think tis just the jealousy of it; but I suppose you d’know he’s been carrying on wi’ Lottie Kempthorne? And she’s no better ’n she should be and her father betrayed the village to the Gaugers. You know that, don’t you. And there’s Violet Kellow. What do ee think of Violet Kellow? Twas wi’ she that he were first seen when he come back ’ere last Midsummer Eve.’
‘Yes. I know.’
‘Do ee also know he visit her every week even now? Every Friday eve around seven.’
‘She’s sick, Ben.’
‘Aye. But how sick?’
Jeremy was silent, remembering a visit he had paid last week. Violet had been brilliant, thin as a rake, cheeks flushed with fever, blue eyes twinkling, sparklingly witty. How sick? Ben had asked.
‘God knows, Ben. I think we have to give him the benefit of the doubt.’
‘Do we? Do we? Well, twas Lottie in November, I’ll swear. An’ livin wi’ the Nanfans . . .’
‘The Nanfans are honest folk – aside from being relations of yours. They’d not allow him to touch Beth . . .’
‘Not if they know, I’m sure. But who d’know? There’s been rumours.’
‘There’s always rumours, Ben. But don’t think I don’t know how you feel.’
‘Nobody knows how I feel,’ said Ben roughly. ‘Maybe I’m not good ’nough for Clowance. That’s easy to see. But him . . . That’s what grates like a knife on a bone every waking hour. Every waking hour.’
III
Valentine Warleggan, home for the Easter holidays before his last half at Eton, had written to Jeremy and Clowance inviting them to the Great House to spend the day with him on April 14, which was the week after Easter. ‘There are’, he wrote, ‘the Shamrock Players performing each night in the Assembly Rooms and Monday night promises a good programme. Doors open at six but we can get reserved chairs, so there will be time to dine comfortably first, sup after, and lie with us the night. My father’, he added, ‘will unfortunately be here and proposes a small Party for the occasion, but it will be, I believe, mixed young and old, so I think it will not altogether be too dull a Company. Pray do not tell me you cannot come because you are lifting potatoes or carrying corn or something else equally and infinitely rural!’
Jeremy and Clowance had been to Cardew one day just before Christmas. George had been away but they had met his mother and also his daughter, Ursula, and numerous other amusing people Valentine had gathered together. The visit had been a success. Ross and Demelza, naturally enough, were concerned that the friendship between their children and Valentine Warleggan should
not become too close, especially between Valentine and Clowance, who were of an age; but the true reason for this anxiety could not be spoken of to anyone, so their lack of enthusiasm for the friendship was in danger of being misinterpreted by their children as an old-fashioned resentment against an old-fashioned enemy.
Approached on her own while Ross was in Looe, Demelza used his absence to make her point.
‘Lovely. Have you seen the players advertised?’
‘No. Valentine has the knack of discovering these things in advance,’ Jeremy said.
‘Well, it will be some nice for you both. It is years since I was at a play . . . There is just one thing. As you know – though – I am sure you do not approve it – there is this feeling betwixt Sir George and your father. I know it is little to do with you . . . but I think, I believe, that your father would be happier if you did not spend the night with them. I think it should not be difficult to make other arrangements.’
‘Did you not spend the night there once yourself?’ Clowance asked. ‘You told me you did.’
‘Did I? . . . Well, yes, I suppose I did; but that was long ago, before either of you was born. And it was before the feeling between your father and Sir George ran so high. Indeed, what happened that night helped – just helped to begin – to make the breach more serious.’
‘What did happen that night?’ Clowance asked.
Demelza hesitated. ‘Well, if you really wish to know, I suppose there is no reason why I should not say . . . Your father and Sir George’s cousin, a man called Sanson, played cards together – long into the night – gambling – we were risking far more than we could afford, almost everything. In the end your father caught Sanson cheating and took him by the coat-tails and threw him in the river.’
To Demelza’s surprise they both laughed hilariously. Jeremy said: ‘You had all the fun!’
‘Well, I can inform you it did not seem all that so very much like fun at the time!’
‘But did you get your money back?’
‘Oh yes. On the spot!’
‘All the same,’ said Jeremy, ‘it doesn’t really affect Valentine, does it, now? Do you really wish us to refuse?’
‘No, no, no! Go by all means. But I think your father would be happier – as I should – if you did not sleep there. I’ll write to Mrs Polwhele. She has always said you may stay with them if you wish.’
‘And Stephen?’ said Clowance.
Demelza hesitated. ‘Have you time to write to Valentine before?’
‘Oh yes . . . But I do not think Stephen has quite the right suit for such an occasion. In fact I have already mentioned it to him.’
‘And what does he say?’
‘He says he will come if I feel he should. But that he will not mind, as our engagement will be so recent, if I leave him behind.’
Demelza would not be drawn. ‘Then you must do as you think best, mustn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Clowance. ‘I think the right thing this time is if I just go with Jeremy. It will avoid complications.’
Stephen was late that evening. He found Clowance in the library.
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I been helping Will Nanfan with his lambing, and the last one was difficult.’
She kissed him. ‘It does not matter.’
‘Strange,’ he said; ‘strange it is to me after all these years to be helping wi’ the ewes again. Long ago when I was a lad of ten I was expected to be there all hours to fetch and carry for Farmer Elwyn when lambing time came round. I used to go to sleep standing up in the middle of the day! . . . I thought to repay Will Nanfan wi’ something besides money for the way his wife have looked after me all these months.’
She said again: ‘It does not matter.’
Stephen looked round the library appreciatively. The last time he was in here – to be examined and questioned by Ross – he had been in no mood to admire the furnishings. And before that scarcely ever properly, for, in spite of their attempt to include it in their everyday life, the Poldarks tended to congregate in the old parlour, or in the dining-room, which had once been Joshua’s ground-floor bedroom. The library, built – or re-built – in the first flush of their prosperity from Wheal Grace, still remained something of a withdrawing-room for special occasions. Though out of style with the rest of the house, the light pine panelling with its fluted cornice and the Grecian motifs on the high plaster ceiling had improved with maturity. Persian rugs bought in London, applewood claw tables, sofa tables, books in shelves going up to elegant arches, heavy damask curtains, the tall Cummings clock, the fine cut-glass vases, the silver candlesticks, all spoke of money and refinement and good taste. The only inevitable concession to the climate was a damp patch in one corner, which Ross was always meaning to get repaired.
‘Handsome room,’ Stephen said.
‘Yes . . . And private, compared to the rest of the house.’
Private, in that they were alone? he thought; but such meetings had to be frustratingly chaste even by Clowance’s subtle standards. Such meetings were a temporary solution which could be permitted to last only a little while. Clowance had passed on what she thought fit of the message, that Trenwith henceforward must be out of bounds, though she pretended to him that the idea was her own.
‘You never talk about your life, Stephen. Your early life, I mean. Don’t you realize I’m anxious to know all I can about you?’
He smiled. ‘Even the bad parts?’
‘Even the bad parts.’
‘There was plenty of bad parts to begin. I was a little raggamuffin, out at elbow – and sometimes backside too! – hungry, always hungry. Me mother was bonny, grey-eyed – a strong woman, but Father left soon after I was born and she’d to fend for herself. D’you know what it’s like to fend for yourself when you’re a woman and penniless, and with a squalling brat to carry around? First thing I remember she was scrubbing woman at the Coat of Arms near Evesham. She gave me no love – I was just a blamed nuisance – but I’ll say this for her, she didn’t give her favours to any man for money, nor easily at any time. When I was four she got this offer: man called Adam wanted her for his stage company in Gloucester. As I say, she was handsome, big, strong. He wanted her – maybe more ways ’n one, I don’t know. But he didn’t want me. What was she to do?’
There was a pause.
‘You can’t drop a four-year-old down a well like you can a four-week-old. Maybe she wished she had done. It was too late. She knew a woman called Black Moll. Not a savoury name, eh? Moll wasn’t savoury neither. I’ll not forget the smell of her.’ Stephen wiped his hand across his mouth. ‘You’d never believe, she was on the side of the law. She worked at a sponging house in Tewkesbury. Know what that is?’
‘I can guess.’
‘No, you can’t. Not if you don’t know. It is a place where debtors be kept before they go to court and to prison. She had two brats of her own. She said she’d take me. Mother promised to pay. Don’t know if she did. I never knew . . .’
‘What happened?’
‘We-ll . . . I stopped two years. Most times I had to steal to eat. Then I ran away. Nobody cared.’ Stephen peered out at the day. ‘Look, there’s snowflakes, at this time o’ year. Let us go and take a second look at the Gatehouse before dark falls. There’s half an hour.’
‘Tell me the rest. I want to know.’
In the distant parlour – and because the library had been built on it did sound distant – Isabella-Rose was trying to sing. Even from here it was discordant.
‘When you’re barely seven and you’ve no one to answer for you, you’re liable to get picked up, sent to a House of Correction . . . Or maybe sent to prison for stealing an apple. That’s what happened to me.’
‘Sent to prison?’
‘That’s right. Oh yes. Didn’t know you had a gaolbird for a suitor, did you. Only a month, first time, first offender. When I come out – came out – they put me in charge of the Overseers, who sold me to the coal mines in th
e Forest of Dean. I worked there near a year before I ran away. Then I lived wild for a bit—’
‘You worked in the mines?’
‘Yes. Had me eighth birthday down the Avoncroft Coal Mine.’ Stephen paused and rubbed his chin, which rasped. ‘Funny, you’re the first I’ve told. First ever. I tell people I’ve never been down a mine. I told Jeremy that. I went down Wheal Leisure last year, just to see if it was the same. It was. The shivers took me, reminded me of old times. Funny, I always pretend. Pretend to meself often as not. It saves bad dreams.’
‘But at that age . . .’
‘Yes, I’ll say that for Cornish miners, they don’t take children underground, not till they’re ten or eleven and then only as willing learners. I was put to draw a truck. In harness, like a pony – or more like a dog. The tunnel I drew the truck through was often so small a bigger lad could not have done it. The truck runs along iron rails from the place where they hew the coal to the foot of the shaft, just like in a Cornish mine, see, but there they use children to draw it. They put a belt round your waist and this is clamped to a chain betwixt your legs, so as you pull it it chafes your legs and rubs ’em raw. One day when we’re better acquainted I’ll show you marks I’ve got.’
Clowance said: ‘You were like that – a year?’
‘Give or take a month. You lose count of time. But I gave ’em the slip one day and headed into the forest. I was scared to stop running for a long time because if you got caught you not only got beaten, you had chains riveted to your ankles and wrists and you never had ’em taken off, night or day. But I was lucky.’
‘Lucky . . .’
‘Well, yes. Twas summer so I could live wild. It isn’t so hard when there’s fruit growing. I lived well enough till winter came on, then I began to give out. Village called Harfield, not far from Dursley, I went to a farm begging. Last place they’d set the dogs on me. This one, woman came to the door, took pity on me, gave me a crust. Black-eyed, Jewish-looking woman – but she wasn’t Jewish, just Welsh, name of Elwyn. When her husband came in I thought he’d kick me away from his fireside, where I’d wheedled me way; but the woman persuaded him to let me stay the night. I stayed seven years. They were good to me. After their fashion. Mind, I worked from dawn to dusk seven days a week. But after the mines it was heaven. And I got learned to read and write, learned to be a farmer. Or a farmer’s boy. Mebbe I should’ve stayed. They’d no children. Mebbe if I’d stayed I should’ve inherited the farm. But I didn’t. One day I journeyed to Bristol and saw the sea.’
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