The man was early middle-aged, dressed rough like a miner, but with a short carefully trimmed black beard, no hat, a grim face.
‘No, no,’ the girl cried, ‘you’ll – you’ll kill it!’
‘Mean to,’ the man said. ‘They’re a mortal danger hereabouts. Little boy died last year at Marazanvose.’
Sickened, she turned away as the mongrel’s struggles got weaker.
‘Here’s your purse.’
She took it from him with her left hand.
The children had all disappeared as if they had been spirited away, except for the black head of Lottie Bice peering round a door.
‘Could as lief do with less of them too,’ growled the man. ‘The Bices and the Billings . . . Near as much nuisance as the curs. Ye can look now. Cur’s dead.’
An old man came out of the cottage which had been used as a temporary gibbet, bent on a noisy protest, but when he saw who it was he went indoors again.
‘Thank you,’ said the girl, and coughed. ‘Twas not reelly – I’m strange round here. I was just going . . . I been sent—’
‘Your hand’s bleeding,’ said the man. ‘Best go ’ave it seen to. Can’t be too careful. That young lad at Marazanvose . . .’
‘I was going to Surgeon,’ said the girl. ‘I was – my mistress said I’d best go see him. He lives hereabouts, they say. Kille-something . . .’
‘Killewarren. Yes, not far. I’m going that way meself. I’ll show ee the way.’
She stood looking towards the ruined mine while he cut the dog down. She heard a thud as the body was deposited into a noisome gap between two cottages. He came up beside her.
They began to walk in silence.
In the end she said: ‘That dog took my purse. I should not have had it with me, only mistress give me a shilling to pay Surgeon.’
Another silence. He was not tall, she thought, but he was frightening.
‘You’re a stranger,’ he said at last. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Esther Carne.’
‘And where d’ye live?’
‘Trenwith. I’m new there. They wanted a second nursemaid.’
‘Poldarks, eh? Major Geoffrey Charles. Married a Papist.’
‘That’s naught to do with me.’
They skirted Sawle Church.
‘Is your ’and bleeding?’
‘Nothing to talk about.’
‘You’d best talk to Dr Enys about it whether or no! Cann’t be too sure.’
‘You know Surgeon?’
‘I reckon. He’s been ’ere twenty-odd years. Proper man. None better.’
‘Do you live around ’ere, Mr . . . ?’
‘Carter. Ben Carter.’
Long pause. ‘I oft think tis funny,’ she said, ‘but I’m niece to Lady Poldark. Oft I can’t believe it. But I owe everything to she.’
He frowned at her. ‘How do that come ’bout?’
She did not feel she would like to suffer this man’s displeasure. Nervously anxious to justify what she had told him, she went into detail.
‘Lady Poldark’s mother died young, and her father married ’gain, see. She was called Mary Chegwidden. Luke, the oldest brother, who is near as old as Lady Poldark, is my father: he wed Ann Hoskins, my mother, and I was born soon after. We dwelt in Lanner then but more recent we moved back to Illuggan, where father thought there was more work. But there’s no work anywhere. My Uncle Sam – Sam Carne – is a good man and he come over to see us and he told Lady Poldark about us, and she came over; and after that she recommended me to Lady de Dunstanville at Tehidy, and they took me as a chambermaid.’ Esther paused, short of breath, and coughed.
Ben grunted. ‘How old are you?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘Should’ve thought you was youngerer than that. How come you’re now at Trenwith?’
‘Mistress Geoffrey Poldark, she’s with child again and they needed an extra nurse look after Miss Juana, so Lady Poldark spoke up for me. I only been here four weeks.’
They walked on.
‘That’s Killewarren,’ said Ben, pointing to a few chimneys showing above the laurels.
‘Thanks.’
‘Gates are a bit further on. Nigh unto Goon Prince.’
‘You don’t need come no further, Mr Carter. Thank ee.’
He took no notice until they came to the gates: granite posted, weather worn.
He said: ‘No consarn o’mine, but you was coming see Surgeon anyhow. Someone ill at Trenwith?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘no one ill.’
‘Well, don’t forget tell Surgeon of that bite.’
Dwight Enys was tired. Though normally in good health, his constitution still suffered from the extreme privations of his imprisonment in France. His stamina was a finite thing which reluctantly he had had to take into account, though relatively brief spells of rest could restore him.
He had just been called in by an apothecary called Lewis to attend on Elsie Vage, who lived at Chapel Porth beyond St Ann’s. She was in her tenth pregnancy and had now contracted rheumatic fever in the damp hovel in which she lived. Dwight had been called in once before, during her sixth lying in: that child was dead, and later Dwight had seen the mother crawling about the village bent double and leaning on a stick, looking sixty though she was only thirty-two. Today was a hopeless case: Lewis had sent over for him as a last resort. Dwight had stared at the patient, an unwieldy lump of flesh, her pelvis diminished in age, her spine bent so that her head leaned permanently on one shoulder, the child still alive and the mother screaming. Dwight had delivered the child, but was certain it could not live, nor could Elsie. On the way home he had drawn in the fresh air to fill his lungs after the miasma of that filthy hut. These were the depressing cases, those in which there was no hope and no point in his being there. The quean would die anyway, and medical skill was useless. He wished he had been saved the trip.
There were fixed hours when patients could come to the house, and this was not one of them, but he had heard of the Carne girl having come to work at Trenwith and wondered if she had some news about Amadora.
She had not. Thin and blushing, she explained to him that she had been sent here because she had a cough and Mrs Geoffrey Charles was concerned that it might be serious.
‘You’ve cut your hand too,’ said Dwight.
‘Oh, yes, sir.’ Esther explained how it had happened. ‘Tis really nothing.’
‘Let me see . . . I think we should take precautions, though. These stray dogs can be dangerous . . .’ He peeled her sleeve back. ‘There is really only the one toothmark where the skin has broken, and that has bled freely. I’m afraid I may have to hurt you, Esther. But it will be little more than a nip.’
‘Like another dog bite,’ she said.
‘That’s it. That’s exactly it. Come over here and sit down. Do you faint easily?’
‘Never ’ave, sir.’
‘Good.’
She cried out loudly enough when he made the incision, but it was over quickly, and very soon he was bandaging her hand just above the wrist.
‘Good girl. You’ll do well enough now. Would you take a small glass of brandy?’
‘Thank you.’ She coughed.
‘If your skin should become excessively tender or you should lose your appetite, come and see me again; but I assure you that is unlikely.’
‘He killed the dog!’ she said. ‘It hadn’t meant to bite me. I’ve never seen nothing so quick – twas done in a minute.’
‘Mr Carter does not like stray dogs. Nor does anyone who knows the risks attached. Now what did Mrs Geoffrey Charles send you to me about?’
She blinked at him, and pushed a strand of her blonde hair off her forehead. ‘I got this cough, had it almost since I came. I think mebbe Mrs Geoffrey Charles don’t want me to give it to her or her little girl.’
Dwight nodded. Phthisis and scrofula were endemic in these villages. ‘Will you loosen your blouse, please. No, slip it off; I shall want to listen to yo
ur back.’
She did as she was told, eyeing him warily. He sounded her chest, his mind registering the difference between this young flawless skin and the mottled, wrinkled, flabby skin of Elsie Vage.
She said: ‘Do Mr Carter live around ’ere, sur?’
‘What? Yes. Quite near. He is the underground captain of Wheal Leisure. Take a deep breath . . . And again . . . And again.’
‘Wheal Leisure?’
‘The mine on the cliffs. Just beyond Nampara. You can see it from the church. Very good, you may put your blouse on again.’
‘So he be quite an important man?’
‘It is the only mine in all this area which continues in profit. Esther.’
‘Yes, sur?’
‘Tell your mistress your lungs are both perfectly sound. What you have is an infection of the bronchial tubes. I will give you a linctus which you should take after meals three times a day.’
‘Yes, sur.’
‘And take this prescription for brimstone and tartar, which Mr Irby will make up for you . . . With or without these medicines you should be better in a couple of weeks. If not, come and see me again. How much do you have to do with Juana?’
‘I take her walking. I tell her stories when she goes bed of nights. Sometimes I see for her food. I be only the second nurse.’
‘Well, tell your mistress not to worry about this; you do not have a serious condition.’
‘Thank ee, sur.’ She got up.
Dwight stared out at the lowering day, then looked at the thin, shabby, erect girl putting on her cloak. More properly Amadora should have sent another maid to accompany so young a woman. Amadora was still genuinely nervous about going out of Trenwith by herself, but probably thought the English girls could manage on their own. So they could if they were local girls. This one was a foreigner, come all the way from Illuggan.
‘I will get one of our maids to walk back with you.’
‘Oh, nay, sur, I’m certain sure I shall be all right.’
He took no notice but pulled the bell, and when Audrey Bone came gave her his instructions. It wanted two hours to dark, and Audrey Bone, daughter of his long-time personal servant, was known to everyone and would be safe as houses.
Chapter Eleven
Ross was as glad to see Demelza back as if she too had been to London. At first he said nothing about John Treneglos’s visit. They had sufficient to talk over, with Clowance’s report of all that had happened in London and incidents to tell about the farm and the mine. He had thought of saying nothing at all, but he had the disagreeable feeling that the unpleasantness would surely out, and it was probably better that the account should come from him.
Cuby was due tomorrow, and for once they were sitting in the library. Without Bella here hovering round the piano the room seemed rather forlorn.
She heard him out and sipped her after-supper port. There was no wind tonight, and accordingly the six candles in the two candelabra burned without so much as a tremble.
‘So it was true.’
‘It appears so. I don’t like to condemn a man in his absence, but I think there is too much evidence against him.’
‘He is impossible, Ross. Imagine him going after Agneta!’
‘It seemed, my dear, that you could imagine such a thing well enough because you alerted me to the risk before Christmas.’
‘Well, I saw him look at her, when the hounds came this way. That was all. Only a glance. Judas, I am getting like the old wives who sit in their doorways and speculate lewdly about their neighbours! What do you think John will do?’
‘Tell Ruth, I suppose. If Agneta hasn’t already told her. Fortunately, I gather from John, that there is no risk of a child.’
‘Ruth will be as unpleasant as she can be. She always wanted to marry you and thought I stole you from her.’
‘So you did. Though I must admit Miss Teague was not high on my list.’
‘List, eh. Have you kept it in some secret drawer out of my reach? There was that Margaret Vosper, I mind. And I suppose many others.’
‘Margaret, I admit. But she was strictly not in the marriage stakes. In all my life I swear I only flirted with Ruth once.’
She sighed. ‘All the same. Seriously, Ross, this is a horrid situation. I wish – I wish Valentine would go away, leave the district.’
‘Little likelihood of that.’ He looked at her. She was arranging some primroses in a dish, propping up their delicate yellow with greeny-yellow sprigs of willow which she had bought from a gypsy in Penryn on her way home. ‘Do you wish Valentine would leave the district for some other reason?’
‘Reason?’
‘That perhaps you feel I am become too friendly with him?’
‘. . . Not that. Not quite that. But I know that you lack Jeremy’s companionship. He was our son, wasn’t he. Our – our most precious son. We have another son – one more – but he is too young. You cannot make that sort of a companionship with Harry – yet. So you have turned a little more towards Valentine, who is Elizabeth’s son. Whatever else, he is her son. Valentine has your look sometimes, hasn’t he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But he’s not really like you at all. Perhaps he is – is a harking back. Verity says he is like your father. But I don’t know. It is something different from that. Elizabeth’s other son, by Francis, is lovable; Geoffrey Charles is normal. Valentine is not normal!’
‘I’ll give you that,’ Ross said. ‘And I ask myself how much I am responsible for it.’
‘D’you mean . . .?’
‘Well, yes. Whatever the truth of it all, my continuing – affection, call it what you will – for Elizabeth and however the suspicion first came to George – I told you about Aunt Agatha – that suspicion has poisoned Valentine’s early life. To have a father who sometimes treated him with generous affection, and then within a few days treated him as beneath contempt, even with hatred . . . Valentine has told me this, and I know from other sources that is the plain truth, it is enough to warp any child’s emotional upbringing, his very nature. So that now, admidst all the charm and courtesy of his manner there is malice, wickedness, mischief-making and a perverse wish to shock, to hurt, to break anything within his reach. I don’t think this is always a conscious desire – it rises from impulses he can’t, or won’t, control.’
‘Verity said to me once – I don’t think I ever told you – she said that Valentine would lend anyone a smiling hand on the way to perdition.’
‘Demelza.’
‘Yes?’
‘Come away from those flowers. You can’t improve on the arrangement. Come and sit down opposite me, so that I can see you – we’ve suddenly gone into very deep waters. And we have no beer cask to foment tonight.’
She half smiled at a very old remembrance between them, sat on the chair he indicated, put a finger on the piano behind her. ‘And we can’t set it to music.’
‘I wonder how Bella—. Well, no matter. I think we ought to have this out, so far as we can.’
‘I doubt we can, for Valentine will not go away.’
He took a deep breath. ‘It is true that I am drawn to Valentine. I like him in spite of his perverseness, and feel – at least hope – that he will grow out of his worst faults. He is young enough yet. You’re right about how much I miss Jeremy. Even though upon times we were edgy together, this was but a surface spat, meant nothing at all. I miss him every day, as you do. It is intolerable. But you are wrong in thinking I overlook Harry—’
‘Not overlook, but—’
‘Of course he is so young – he cannot replace Jeremy. I talk to him and he talks to me, but the gap is so wide – yet. But if you think I care too little for him, you are utterly wrong.’
‘I should not need to be told, Ross, but it is good to tell me. Indeed – on the other side – I like Valentine at times. And feel sorry for him. But I am always a small matter uneasy with him. I never really d’know what he is thinking, what he feels for this family, apar
t from you. For the rest of the people in this house. I cannot rid myself of the feeling that he thinks you belong to him, and that the rest of your family, while acceptable enough in their way, are a little bit – what is the word? – super something—’
‘Superior?’
‘No, no, far from it. Superfluous, that is the word! That we are – are on the side, so to say; that he is devoted to you and that we, the rest of us – are no part of your relationship with him.’
He mused for a moment or two, eased his painful ankle. ‘Jealousy is a very strange thing, is it not? I—’
‘Ross, how dare you!’
‘Wait a moment: do not jump on me like that! I was not referring specially to any one of us. Certainly not to you. I was only saying that jealousy – or in its lesser form possessiveness – inhabits us all. It is like a microbe that lives within any family, touches all human relations. Perhaps it is the least admirable of feelings, but we all have these and . . .’
He tailed off, and she bit at her handkerchief to keep the words back. She wanted to say that she did not wish to possess him, not, that was, more than she had always done for so many years. She had not advised him to give up his parliamentary seat. He chose his own life and always had done. She did not wish to possess him more deeply. It was only a tragedy of the war that resulted in him paying more attention to Elizabeth’s child than he did to the last of her own – the last male – because he was too young.
He said, as if half-reading her silence: ‘I should much dislike it if I thought that your bereavement – our bereavement – should in any way lead to a difference of view between us over—’
‘It is not just possessiveness, Ross,’ she interrupted.
‘I did not say that was what you were feeling!’
‘Well . . . if I can explain. It is not because Valentine is inside or outside my family that I have this feeling. I am uneasy for you.’
‘For me?’ He half laughed in genuine surprise. ‘For God’s sake! Do you think he is a bad influence?’
‘Yes!’
‘On me? Do you suppose that a young man in his early twenties should influence a man of my age? Shall I take to drink? – or gambling? – or smuggling? I’ve done ’em all. Or is it wenching you fear?’
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