Bella Poldark

by Winston Graham

  ‘Disgrace?’

  ‘A fever is a disgrace if you cannot throw it off.’

  ‘Were you at Waterloo?’

  ‘Yes. It was a great occasion – something to recall all one’s life – though too many good men fell.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Clowance fervently. This was a new view of Waterloo – a great occasion! Merciful God! ‘Do you intend to return to the army when you are better?’

  ‘No. As I mentioned, I find the life very limiting, narrow.’

  ‘How shall you broaden it?’

  ‘I hope—’. He broke off as venison pie was served. Clowance sipped her French wine.

  ‘You hope—’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, putting on his ridiculous glasses. ‘Yes, but I am talking too much about myself. What of your life, Mrs Carrington? Have you children?’

  ‘No. My husband started a small shipping business. Mainly coastal trade. Since he died I have tried to keep it going.’

  ‘Successfully, I’m sure.’

  ‘It is not easy. Trade has been so uncertain since the end of the war. And what do you hope, Mr Prideaux? Or perhaps it’s not Mr Prideaux?’

  ‘I was a captain. But am no longer.’

  ‘Do you not wish to retain your rank?’

  ‘It is immaterial. I told Harriet I would prefer to drop it.’

  ‘That seems strange to me. Is it not something to be proud of?’

  ‘A captaincy. Possibly. I think I struggle with undercurrents in my own nature.’

  ‘Before he was knighted,’ Clowance said, ‘my father was always known as Captain Poldark. But that was not so much because he had been a captain in the Army as because he was captain of a mine. That ranks as more important in Cornish eyes.’

  The young man smiled. ‘I am part Cornish. I have cousins at Padstow. I fancy I should like to stay in the county for a year or two.’

  ‘You are a free agent?’

  ‘I have parents in Devon and two sisters. But I want to make my own way in the world.’

  He had long bony fingers to match his long bony frame. Now and then they trembled.

  ‘But not in the Army?’

  ‘Not in the Army. There are more interesting ways of living one’s life.’

  Clowance’s attention was drawn away by the man on her other side, and for a while no more was said between them.

  Then he said: ‘Your father is a Member of Parliament, Mrs Carrington?’

  ‘Was. He resigned last year.’

  ‘But still, I believe, a man of affairs.’

  ‘I don’t know how you would define a man of affairs. He has certainly led an adventurous life.’

  ‘I should like to meet him sometime.’

  After a moment she said: ‘You spoke of more interesting professions.’

  ‘Er . . . You mean for myself? Well, I have an intense interest in archaeology. Cornwall is full of prehistoric remains. My father has a small property near Penzance. It is at present unoccupied and I thought I might be able to persuade him to rent it to me for a year or two.’

  At the door as she left Harriet patted her arm. ‘I see you found much in common with my young Mr Prideaux.’

  Clowance said: ‘Harriet, you are a monster.’

  ‘Why ever? It is time you found somebody else.’

  ‘Heaven forfend that I should look kindly on Mr Prideaux!’

  ‘He is not at all a disagreeable fellow. He grows on one.’

  ‘I don’t think he would grow on me, dear Harriet.’

  ‘He’s unmarried. He appears to be clean-living and house-trained. He is a cousin of the influential Prideaux-Brune family. My brother, who knows his father, sends a good report of him. I do not find him unattractive.’

  Clowance kissed her hostess. ‘Chacun à son goût.’

  ‘Don’t you like those long limbs?’

  ‘I am not taken by his arrogance. I am not taken by his condescension. And those glasses. Sorry, my dear. Your intentions, I’m sure, were strictly honourable.’

  ‘So would his be, I’ve no doubt, if given the chance. Will you come again next week?’

  ‘Will he be there?’

  ‘I can’t guarantee that he will not be.’

  ‘I’ll think on it. But thank you. You’re so kind.’

  ‘And you are a horrible girl. I don’t know why I bother . . . Seriously, I think good comes of this sort of meeting. It is a challenge, abrasive or seductive. When you get home you will no doubt think of him.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘It’s good to have someone new to think about – if not with loving thoughts, then with irritation.’

  The next morning Valentine Warleggan called to see her. It was a great surprise. She had been about to leave for the little office in the Strand at Falmouth where she conducted most of her business affairs, and Valentine, almost as lean and bony as Philip Prideaux, raised his eyebrows when he saw the case of papers she was carrying.

  He kissed her.

  ‘You are on your way out, Cousin? I am come at the wrong moment.’

  ‘The right moment,’ said Clowance, ‘else I could have missed you. Pray come in.’

  They went in, and she explained her mission to meet Sid Bunt sometime in the forenoon, the Lady Clowance having berthed last night. Valentine answered questions about Selina’s well-being. She thought: perhaps it is because his eyes are just a little too close together that he is less than good-looking. Yet many women found him irresistible.

  He said: ‘You’re sure your business with Bunt can wait an hour? It is in a sense a little business that I have come to see you on, cousin. Or it might be. It concerns a certain vessel called – or potentially called – the Lady Carrington.’

  ‘It is still on the stocks,’ said Clowance.

  ‘I gather so.’

  ‘And a long way from being finished. At least, finished in the way Stephen wanted it finished. The hull is complete, and the cabin and bulwarks, though the cabin is just a shell. Stephen had ordered Canadian red pine for the masts and yards – he said it was the best – they had come before he died, but I don’t think they have ever been raised. Whether Bennett’s still have them or whether they’ve been used for some other vessel I don’t know.’

  ‘Did you pay for them?’

  ‘I – I think so. I haven’t had the will to go down to the yard myself. I’ll ask Bunt to go, if you want to know.’

  ‘I’m sure if you paid for them they will still be there. The Bennetts are Quakers.’

  Clowance stared out at the sunlit day, then turned to look at Valentine sprawled in her best chair.

  ‘Is this of some special interest to you, Valentine?’

  ‘I thought if you were not wishing to proceed with it I might like to buy it.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You’re surprised at this new interest of mine? Well, it is not altogether a new interest. I have had a part share in a vessel for some time. She is called – was called – the Adelaide. A clinker-built lugger, two-masted, smaller than the ship Stephen planned, but sturdy enough for most seas and shallow-drafted for the coastal trade.’

  She still felt it was a new interest for her cousin. His long legs were stretched out and the tight twill trousers he was wearing showed the curvature of the left leg, legacy of the rickets he had had as a child.

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Adelaide. You spoke of her in the past tense.’

  He grimaced. ‘She ran aground on Godrevy and became a total wreck.’

  ‘The crew?’

  Valentine yawned. ‘They got ashore.’

  ‘Were you aboard?’

  ‘Merciful God, no! I don’t sail in these things.’

  Clowance smiled. ‘So you – you want a replacement?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The Lady Carrington is only part-finished. I would not know what to ask for her.’

  ‘Could be settled. If you cannot find the receipted bills among Stephen’s effec
ts, the boatyard will know. Total these up and add twenty per cent for your profit . . .’

  Privately Clowance had been eking out the prize money that Stephen had left, but giving Jason a large part of it had reduced her capital. The house remained unfinished and no one seemed to want to make an offer for it. The boat, which had been half-built, had similarly attracted no interest.

  ‘Are you going to go into competition with me?’

  ‘No, Cousin. I have no such thoughts.’ As she did not speak, he went on: ‘I am a north coast man these days, and landfalls among all those cliffs are hard to find. There is virtually nothing between St Ives and Padstow. Trevaunance Cove, which I look down on, is a death trap, and St Ann’s has its harbour wall breached every second year . . . Basset’s Cove, a little further west, is better than many suppose. Coal has been brought in there from Wales for years without serious mishap.’

  ‘And you wish to go into the coal trade?’

  ‘No.’ Valentine wrinkled his nose at the thought. ‘I want to cut in on the trade with Ireland. At present Padstow has a monopoly.’

  She got up. The room was too small to pace up and down in, but she felt the need for a moment or two to think.

  ‘Stephen said once that there were more Irishmen in Padstow than in Rosslare.’

  Valentine laughed. ‘Ask your friend Hodge to work it out on your behalf with Bennett’s. I hope it will not come to more than about three hundred guineas because I estimate it will cost me about another two hundred to get her finished and ready for sea.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Clowance thoughtfully.

  Valentine eyed her for a moment or two. ‘I seldom see you at Nampara these days. You seem addicted to your little home in Penryn.’

  ‘Oh, I come sometimes.’

  ‘Tell me, is your reluctance in any way bound up with the possible presence there of Jeremy’s widow?’

  She flushed. ‘I do not think there is any reluctance on my part. It is just that I am very busy looking after the two vessels.’

  Valentine continued to eye her. ‘Cuby is quite an agreeable young woman, you know. Once upon a time I nearly married her.’

  ‘Did you?’ said Clowance, using irony for a change. ‘Well, well.’

  ‘But it’s all so long ago, isn’t it? What, four – five years? It seems much longer. Anyway, all that time is long past. Bygones be bygones etcetera.’

  Clowance said: ‘Valentine, I cannot see any reason why I should not sell the lugger to you if you wish to buy it. The extra money would not be unwelcome.’

  ‘Good.’

  Then she decided to take the attack to him for a change. ‘I confess I am surprised.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well . . . you are married to a lady of means. I did not know you would be interested in owning a vessel. You have your new mine. Have you discussed all this with Selina?’

  ‘So far she knows nothing of it.’ When Clowance raised her eyebrows, ‘Cousin, I have an active mind. And although you say Selina has means, she has two stepdaughters to launch in the world, and her means are not inexhaustible. Anyway I prefer to make my own way in the world.’

  A laudable sentiment which would have carried more conviction if his expression had been less ironical.

  ‘Very well,’ said Clowance. ‘Hodge is at sea, but is due in tomorrow. As soon as I see him I will ask him to go and discuss it with Bennett’s. Will you want to employ them to finish the boat to their specifications?’

  ‘I might want some alterations, but they can do the job if we agree what they would charge me.’

  Clowance rose again, and he got up too and went to the door.

  ‘One thing, Valentine. I do not think Lady Carrington, if you don’t mind. Why not Lady Selina?’

  ‘I’ll think on it,’ said Valentine.

  Chapter Three

  The following week an unexpected visitor arrived at Nampara – that is to say, he was unexpected to everyone except Isabella-Rose.

  By this time Isabella-Rose was sixteen – or nearly seventeen, as she preferred to say. In the three years since Waterloo she had grown taller and come more to resemble her father, with a strong nose and high cheekbones. Yet in general looks and in her person she was as feminine as ever and had a slim sturdiness of figure that was particularly becoming. She had lost some of her girlish habits but none of her enthusiasm or relish in life, and, contrary to general expectation, none of her interest in Christopher Havergal.

  They had seen each other quite rarely since their separation at the end of 1815, but in April of this year she had seen him an additional time when Ross had gone to London on business and taken her with him. Their correspondence had continued almost weekly.

  As the visitor got down from his horse, careful to disentangle his artificial foot from the stirrup before dismounting, Bella came scuttering out of the house and embraced him. Demelza, looking up from talking to Harry, observed through the window that there was no hesitant formality on either side.

  Christopher’s blond moustache was still much in evidence, but he was wearing his hair shorter than he had in the Army. He had found employment in the City with Nathan Rothschild, which suggested he was financially in a comfortable position, but the fact that he was not a Jew would be a likely bar to his promotion.

  Looking at him, Demelza knew she had to keep her maternal instincts in check. In spite of his dashing looks and his sophistication he always seemed to her to be alone in the world. She knew his mother was dead and that he was estranged from his father; he never spoke of his family and, with the handicap of his artificial foot, one had to be careful not to look on him as the little boy lost.

  It was a surprisingly quiet supper, and Demelza with her acute perception was aware of an element of tension. The only talkative person was Harry, who was now nearly six and had been allowed specially to stay up because his friend Christopher had arrived. Ross had just returned from an encounter with Valentine, and tended to be absent-minded. The two young people looked at each other a lot but were unusually unconversational. Then, towards the end of the meal, Demelza’s perceptions were justified. Christopher asked if he might have a serious talk with his hosts – after he had fulfilled his promise to see Henry to bed.

  Demelza glanced at Ross, who said: ‘Of course. Nine o’clock?’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Soon after nine they were in the parlour. Ross poured a glass of brandy for Christopher and himself, a port for Demelza, an orange juice for Bella, who for the last half year had been taking no spirits.

  Christopher sipped his drink then took a large gulp, as if, Demelza thought, he was seeking Dutch courage. His glance as he put the glass down met Demelza’s and he half smiled.

  ‘Sir Ross. Lady Poldark. I do not know how to begin, but it cannot have escaped your notice that for more than three years I have been in love with your daughter.’

  ‘No,’ said Ross. ‘It has not.’

  ‘When she was so very young I knew – Lady Poldark made this clear – that an attachment, a formal engagement was out of the question. I have accepted that. Until now I have accepted that. But I would like to ask now for your daughter’s hand in marriage. I would like you to be so very kind as to consider it. But before you answer,’ he hastened on, ‘I have something else to say. I – I have always had a tremendous admiration for her singing voice. I know she is taking lessons twice a week in Truro. A – a Mrs Hudson, I think—’

  ‘Hodgson,’ said Bella.

  ‘Hodgson. Twice a week. This is probably the best tuition available in Cornwall. But as she approaches seventeen she would greatly benefit from more intensive tuition from a better qualified teacher. Now I have to tell you – with apology – of a little subterfuge that took place when Bella came to London—’

  ‘I must tell this, Christopher,’ said Bella. She turned to her father. ‘Papa, you must not blame Miss Armitage, whom you employed to companion me. I pretended to her that I wanted to go to Oxford Road, so we walked up that way
and by design met Christopher. Miss Armitage was indignant, but when she heard we were only going to Marlborough Street to try out my singing voice she reluctantly came with us . . .’

  Christopher said: ‘I took her to a Dr Fredericks. You may have heard of him? He has coached many of the best singers of the day. He only takes a pupil who, in his view, may become a top singer. He has high charges and he picks and chooses with great care.’

  ‘This was all rather deceitful,’ said Demelza, but interested in spite of herself.

  ‘I know, Lady Poldark. And I ask your pardon again. If – if there is any excuse for the deceit perhaps it lies in Dr Fredericks’s opinion. He says Isabella-Rose has an exceptional voice.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Yes, sir. He says he would accept her as a pupil at any time.’

  ‘But in London?’

  ‘Yes, sir, in London. His school is in London.’

  Ross finished his brandy, poured another, offered the decanter to Christopher, who hesitated, then shook his head. He was susceptible to drink and at the moment needed a very clear head.

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  Christopher coughed into his fist. ‘Bella will be seventeen in February. If she were betrothed to me, it would be a privilege to take care of her in London. I would be happy to pay her fees at the school. Of course you would decide where she would lodge. But I know two highly respectable ladies who keep a lodging house in St Martin’s Lane, and possibly . . .’

  He paused and looked at his listeners.

  ‘Go on,’ said Ross.

  ‘Well, sir, that is my proposal. I shall be happy to elaborate on it, but I did not want you to feel that I was attempting to have everything cut and dried, without first having your permission to discuss it.’

  Demelza glanced at her daughter and knew at once that in Bella’s mind, at least as far as the proposition went, everything was indeed cut and dried.

  Ross finished his second glass of brandy. This man, this Dr Somebody or Other, did he really have such a high opinion of Bella’s voice? It was fine to sing out at a party and have others join in. Even as a small girl she had had this very strong singing voice (sometimes Ross called it privately her shouting voice). Lots of people enjoyed it: they were impressed by its loudness and clarity; but they were friends, it would come natural to praise such a precocious talent. Dear Bella. Such fun. How she sings! ‘Ripe Sparrergras’ and ‘The Barley Mow’. Remarkable.