• • •
Two hours had passed, and the expected had not quite happened.
When she came in, he had been preparing for record a table of the lung cases treated since his arrival, the type of disease so far as he was able to place it, the treatment given, and the results yielded. And for once her interest had held. She had written down the details as he read them out, and as a result he had done the work of three hours in half the time.
She wrote a big unformed hand clearly and well. She seemed to grasp quickly what he said, even when the terms bordered on the medical.
When it was done, he said, “You’ve been a real help today, Keren. I’m grateful for that. It’s good of you to have spent this time and patience on my dull records.”
Again for the first time she did not bridle and respond to his praise. She was reading part of what she had written and her pretty petulant little face was serious and intent.
“This cold water,” she said. “What does it mean, Dwight? Look here: for this man Kempthorne you order nothing but cold water and goat’s milk. How will that aid him? It is hard on the fellow to be given nothing at all.”
“Oh, I made him up some pills,” Dwight said. “Just so that he would feel better, but they were only made of meal, baked hard.”
“Well, why did you not treat him then? Had he done you a bad turn?”
Dwight smiled and came over to her. “Both lungs are affected at the top but not too serious yet. I have put him on a strict regime if he will follow it: four miles’ walking a day, drinking goat’s milk with his meals when he can get it, sleeping in the open when it is fine. I have odd notions about things, Keren, but he is one of the best cases so far and is on the mend. I am sure he is better than if I had given him the leeches and antimony and the rest.”
Her hair was brushing his cheek. She turned her head and looked up at him, her full red lips slightly parted to show the gleam of her teeth. “Oh, Dwight,” she said.
He put his hand on hers on the table. His was a little unsteady.
“Why do you come here?” he said sharply, averting his eyes as if ashamed.
She turned toward him without moving her hand.
“Oh, Dwight, I’m sorry.”
“You’re not. You know you’re not.”
“No,” she said. “I’m not. Nor never could be.”
“Then why say it?”
“I’m only sorry if you dislike me.”
Staring at her as if he had not heard, he said, “No…not that.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and bent his head and kissed her. She leaned a little against him and he kissed her again.
He drew back.
She watched him walk over to the windows. It had been a boy’s kiss, gentle and sincere. What a mixture he was, she thought. A graduate in the physical profession, learned, and full of new ideas; he could go around those homes, speak with authority, operate, mend broken arms, treat fevers, attend women in childbed. But in his very own life, where close things like love were touched, he was inexpert and shy.
The thought pleased her more than the kiss had done—the implications of the kiss more than either.
She hesitated, looking at his back, uncertain what to do. Neither of them had spoken. Everything was new between them from that moment: there were no signposts to follow, no tracks or beaten ways.
Everything was new and everything was changed. But a wrong word or act might set it back again, farther back than ever before. The moment might lead to tremendous things. Or it might lead to the blind alley of a broken friendship. Every normal impulse urged her to go on, to snatch at that thing that might not come again for months, perhaps never at all. Normally Bone was close at hand, whistling or making a noise. She thought that, in the isolation, in the emotion, there was no brake.
But with a queer view into his mind, she saw that if she did that, if everything happened on the leaping tide of the moment, he might come to regret it almost at once, might come to hate her or despise her as a common woman who had led him to that, whereas if he had time to think it over, to come to the desire slowly and on his own, then he would be unable to put the act on her. It would sit squarely on his own shoulders and he might never even wish to throw it off.
Besides, that way, anything might happen.
She went slowly up to him and stood by him at the window. His face was tense as if he was by no means sure of himself.
She touched his hand. “You make me very proud,” she whispered, remembering a line out of Elfrida, and turned and went out of the room and left the house.
Chapter Nineteen
That week another invitation reached the Poldarks. George Warleggan had decided to hold a party on the day of the celebrations. His guests would sup at Warleggan House, then go on to the Assembly Room for the evening, returning to Warleggan House to sleep. He would be glad if Ross and his wife would be of that number.
Ross wanted to refuse. With a rupture certain between himself and George he had no wish to be beholden to him. But for Demelza it was the last step of ambition to see the Warleggans at home, and though she trembled and hesitated after the fiasco of the christening, she would have been desperately disappointed to miss it.
So Ross chose to give way and, once the acceptance had gone, he quietly looked forward to the day, as he always looked forward to taking Demelza out. When Mrs. Kemp came, she was not allowed to go near the spinet but, instead, was pressed into teaching Demelza the steps of the more popular dances and giving her lessons in deportment.
Since Demelza’s good humors were so pervasive as to give a lead to the whole house, the mood at Nampara became one of pleasurable anticipation. Julia, kicking in her cot, crowed and laughed and joined in the fun.
On the sixteenth of April, Ross had gone up to the mine and Demelza and Jinny and Jane were brewing mead.
They were enjoying themselves. They had stirred six pounds of honey into a couple of gallons of warm water and added some dried elder flowers and ginger. It was on the fire to boil in a large pan, and Jane was skimming it with a spoon whenever a frothy scum formed on the surface.
Upon the domestic scene fell the shadow of Zacky Martin aslant in the afternoon sun. As soon as she saw him Demelza knew something was wrong. No, Captain Poldark was not here; he would be up at the mine. Zacky thanked her stolidly enough and moved off.
Jinny ran to the door as he went. “Father. What’s amiss? Is it to do wi’ Jim?”
“No, there’s no call for you to worry,” said Zacky. “It was just that I wanted for to see Cap’n Ross on a point or two.”
“Well, I thought—” said Jinny, half reassured. “I thought as…”
“You’ll need to get used to me in and about the house now, Jinny. I’m workin’ for Cap’n Ross, you did ought to know that.”
She watched him move away and then returned to the kitchen with a troubled face.
Zacky found Ross talking to Captain Henshawe among the mine buildings on Leisure Cliff. He gave Zacky an inquiring glance.
“Well, sir, it is about Jim. You mind what that man said at the ticketing about Bodmin Jail being crowded with the rioters who’d be there till next sessions?”
Ross nodded.
“Well, this morning, getting about more, y’understand on business, as I do now, I heard tell that many of the old prisoners had been moved to other jails to make room.”
“Was the word reliable, d’you judge?”
“’Twas, I reckon. Joe Trelask’s brother has been moved, an’ Peter Mawes said as how all our Jim’s cell was to go to Launceston.”
“Launceston.” Ross whistled slightly.
“They say it’s bad there?”
“It has a poor name.” No point in alarming Zacky further. “But this moving of a man almost due for release is monstrous. Who ordered it? I wonder if it is true.”
“I’ll think over it, Zacky. There may be some way of coming at the truth quickly.”
“I thought you should wish to know.” Zacky turned to go. “I’ll be out in the morning, sur, to see ’ee over the wet and waste deduction.”
Ross went back to Henshawe, but he could not bring his mind to what they had been discussing. He had always been perversely attached to Jim, and the thought that he might have been moved twenty miles farther from home to the worst prison in the west—possibly on the decision of some puffed-up jack-in-office—irritated and concerned him.
For the rest of the afternoon he was busy at the mine, but when he had finished, he walked across to see Dwight Enys.
As he came to the Gatehouse he noticed the improvements Enys had made, but passing the windows of Dwight’s own living room, the windows being open, he heard someone singing. To his surprise it was a girl’s voice, not very loud but quite distinct.
He did not pause in his stride, but as he walked around to the front door, the words followed him.
My love is all Madness and Folly.
Alone I lye,
Toss, tumble, and cry,
What a happy creature is Polly!
Was e’er such a Wretch as I!
With rage I redden like Scarlet…
He knocked with the light stick he carried.
The singing ceased. He turned and stood with his back to the door watching a robin searching among the stones for moss for his nest.
Then the door opened. Dwight’s face, already slightly flushed, colored deeper when he saw who it was.
“Why, Captain Poldark, this is a surprise! Will you step inside, please.”
“Thank you.” Ross followed him into the living room, from which three minutes before the song had come. There was no one there.
But perhaps because of his knowledge he seemed to detect a subtle arrangement of the room that spoke of a visitor just gone.
Ross stated his business, the news of Jim Carter, and that he proposed to take the coach the next day and discover the truth. He wondered if Enys would be interested to go with him.
Dwight at once accepted, his eagerness showing through his embarrassment, and they made an arrangement to meet early and ride into Truro.
Ross walked home wondering where he had heard the woman’s voice before.
• • •
To keep Jinny from worrying she was not told, but Demelza was prepared to worry over her own man. She never liked Ross going into the confined atmosphere of a prison, which was poisonous at the best, and a journey as far as Launceston across the dangerous wastes of the Bodmin moors seemed set with every kind of hazard.
They left after an early breakfast, and when they reached Truro, Ross did some shopping.
Mistress Trelask, just taking the sheets off her stock, was fluttered by the arrival of a tall serious-looking man who introduced himself and said he understood Mistress Trelask had been patronized by his wife and knew her measurements. That being so, he had a mind to buy a new evening gown for his wife to be made and delivered for the celebration ball.
Mistress Trelask, like a hen caught in a small shed, fluttered and flapped noisily, bringing down in hasty confusion new silk satins and brocades and velours, before the sting in the end of her visitor’s sentence made her qualify the sale by the grave doubt of her ability to make anything in the time, so much being already on hand. Her visitor, who had shown interest in an expensive silver brocade silk, thereupon took up his hat and wished her good morning.
Mistress Trelask immediately flapped a great deal more and called up her daughter; they chirped together and made little notes and played with pins, while the shopper tapped his boot. Then they said they would see what they could do.
“It is a condition of sale, you understand.”
“Yes,” said Miss Trelask, wiping away a tear, “I take it so, sir.”
“Very well, then; let us have the business in hand. But you must aid me in it, for I have no knowledge of women’s things and want the latest and best.”
“We’ll see you get everything after the most fashionable rate,” said Mrs. Trelask. “When could Mrs. Poldark call for a fitting?”
“There will be no fitting unless it is on the day of the Assembly,” Ross said. “I want this as a surprise. If it is not quite right my wife can call in in the afternoon.”
There were more flutterings, but the floodgates of concession were already open and they presently agreed.
Later Ross made for a tiny shop with a creaking sign that read: S. Solomon. Goldsmith and Pewterer.
“I want to see something for a lady,” he said. “Something to wear in her hair or around her neck. I have not the time to examine many pieces.”
The tall old man bent his head to lead Ross into the dark room at the back and brought out a tray with half a dozen necklaces, three cameo brooches, a few pearl bracelets for the wrist, and eight rings. There was nothing that attracted him. The largest of the pearl necklaces was priced at thirty pounds, which seemed more than its value.
“Pearls are so fashionable, sir. We cannot get them. All the smaller ones are used for decorating gowns and hats.”
“Have you nothing else?”
“It does not pay me to have better things, sir. Perhaps I could get you something made?”
“I wanted it for next week.”
The shopkeeper said, “I have one little thing I bought from a seaman. Could that interest you?”
He took out a gold filigree brooch set with a single good ruby and a circlet of small pearls. It was foreign, probably Venetian or Florentine. The man watched Ross’s eyes as he picked it up.
“What is the price?”
“It is worth at least a hundred and twenty pounds, but I might wait long for a sale and I do not fancy to risk it by mail to Plymouth. I will take a hundred guineas.”
“I’ll not pretend to bargain,” Ross said, “but ninety pounds was the amount I had set aside to spend.”
The shopkeeper bowed slightly. “I do not bargain myself. Do you, pardon me, intend to pay cash?”
“By draft on Pascoe’s Bank. I will pay today and call for the brooch this day week.”
“Very good, sir. I will take ninety—ninety guineas.”
Ross rejoined Dwight in time to take the coach, and they were in Bodmin early in the afternoon. There the coach stayed long enough for people to eat a meal and for Ross to discover that the rumor he had come to sound was no rumor at all. Jim had gone.
They missed their meal but caught the coach on its last stage. As it set out for the long lonely trek across the Bodmin moors among the barren hills and the woodless valleys Ross noticed that the driver and his companion each carried a musket on the box beside them.
But the crossing was uneventful and they had leisure to admire the changing colors of the land under a play of blue sky and cloud. They reached Launceston soon after seven and took rooms at the White Hart.
The jail was on the hill within the grounds of the old ruined Norman castle, and they made their way toward it through a narrow tangle of streets and across a rising path between laurels and bramble until they came to the outer wall of what once had been the castle keep. A padlocked iron gateway led through an arch, but no one answered their knocking or shouting. A thrush twittered on a stunted tree and far overhead in the evening a lark sang.
Dwight was admiring the view. On the higher ground, he could see the moors stretching away on all sides, north toward the sea, which gleamed like a bared knife in the setting sun, and east and south across the Tamar into Devon and the wild purples of Dartmoor. No wonder the Conqueror had chosen the place to build his castle to dominate all the approaches from the west. Robert, his half brother, had lived there and
gazed out over all that foreign territory, which had come to him and needed settled and pacified.
Dwight said, “There’s a cowherd by that fallen fence. I’ll ask him.”
While Ross made the gate echo, Dwight went across and spoke to a dark-faced man in the canvas hat and smock of a farm laborer. He was soon back.
“At first I could make no sense of him. They speak quite different in these parts. He says everyone in the prison is ill of fever. It lies over there on the green, just to the right of our gate. He does not think we shall get in tonight.”
Ross stared through the bars. “And the jailer?”
“Lives distant. I have his address. Behind Southgate Street.”
Ross frowned up at the wall. “This could be climbed, Dwight. The spikes are rusty and would pull out of the wall.”
“Yes, but we could do no good if the jail itself were locked.”
“Well, there’s no time to waste, for it will be dark in an hour.”
They turned and went down the hill again.
It took them time to find where the jailer lived and minutes hammering on the door of the cottage before it came open a few inches and a ragged, spotty, bearded man blinked out. His anger wavered a little when he saw the dress of his visitors.
“You are the jailer of the prison?” Ross said.
“Iss.”
“Have you a man in your custody named Carter, new moved from Bodmin?”
The jailer blinked. “Mebbe.”
“We wish to see Carter at once.”
“It bain’t time for visiting.”
Ross put his foot quickly in the jamb of the door. “Get your keys or I’ll have you dismissed for neglecting your duty.”
“Nay,” said the jailer. “It be sundown now. There’s the fever abroad. It bain’t safe to go near—”
Ross had thrust open the door again with his shoulder. A strong smell of cheap spirits was in the air. Dwight followed into the room. An ancient woman, misshapen and tattered, crouched over the hearth.
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