Bella Poldark

by Winston Graham

  ‘And will she choose soon?’

  ‘She has already chosen. She told me just before I left home.’

  After a moment Maurice said: ‘I trust Bella will choose me. Merely on practical grounds I have more to offer. Havergal is a former soldier and is now a banker. I am a conductor and producer, I live and breathe music. Bella does likewise.’

  ‘But perhaps,’ Ross said, ‘you – your attachment for my daughter, your love for her, does not go as far as marriage?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘She told me once – some time ago – that you felt it was a mistake to marry because one has to be married to music.’

  Maurice bit his lip. ‘That was certainly my belief – until I met Bella. Now . . . if she continues to favour me, then I will be entirely guided by what she wishes – and what you and Lady Poldark wish.’

  ‘Can you wonder what her parents would wish – even in these dissolute days?’

  ‘Er – no. Well, I should be very happy to accept that decision. Bella and I can very well, I believe, be wedded to music and wedded also to each other.’

  There was just enough air to get out of the port, and midway across the Channel a light south-easterly breeze picked up. All the same, it was going to be a slow crossing, probably eight to nine hours. Surprisingly there was a considerable swell; it was coming from up-Channel, and the little brig lurched disconcertingly. Bella, who was not the best sailor in the world, insisted on staying on deck, where the fresh air saved her from actual sea-sickness.

  Ross sat beside her, dozing a little in the sun while she darned stockings. A pleasant domestic scene. It was quite a while before she said: ‘Did Maurice ask you if you would agree to our getting married?’

  ‘In a roundabout way. Well, yes, towards the end of our little talk he did declare his intentions.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘That you could not marry two men. Any more than Clowance can.’

  ‘Have you seen Christopher?’

  ‘His last letter was – forthright.’

  ‘If we go straight back to London I shall have to meet him.’

  ‘What shall you say?’

  ‘That I am very sorry to have – to have deserted him.’

  ‘Have you – permanently?’

  She stirred restlessly. ‘I don’t know. What is permanent? We have known each other, have had such affection for each other, for so long. Maurice – is new. He is – wonderful, but so wrapped up in his profession. I don’t want to hurt either of them!’

  ‘Are you – committed to them in more than affection and the goodnight kiss?’

  ‘To both for more than that! I am not made of stone, Papa!’

  ‘Are you likely to have a child?’

  There was a long pause. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘But you are not sure?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Papa, you are impossible!’ She stood up indignantly. ‘To ask me such questions!’

  He took her hand. ‘But, Bella, I know it is not impossible that you should return me such answers!’

  ‘You – have no right!’

  ‘Who, then, if not I?’

  ‘And now I have returned you the answer you did not wish to hear! And so it will go to Mama, and thence to all the rest of the family!’

  ‘It shall be kept from Henry.’

  She put her hand to her face and burst into tears.

  ‘It is not a laughing matter,’ she said.

  ‘I am sorry. Believe me, I do not see it as such.’

  ‘You surprised me by asking such a question – the enormity of it! – and then I answered it when I should not have done!’

  ‘But I know you would not have lied to me.’

  ‘That was why it was so unfair to ask!’

  Ross thought a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I suppose it was.’

  She continued to cry, bubbling like a child.

  ‘Let us make a pact, then. We will agree that the question has never been asked nor ever been answered. How about that? I give my word. Will that suffice?’

  She half dried up; he handed her a handkerchief; she glanced around in embarrassment to see if anyone had noticed. She began to wipe her face, though tears were still welling. Then she appeared to choke and cough.

  ‘Come, come.’ He stood up too and put his arm round her shoulders. ‘Do not upset yourself so much.’

  She coughed again. ‘Well, it is not just that. I have had a sore throat since early this morning. It is nothing, but it catches my breath.’

  ‘All this singing,’ he said. ‘Not surprising.’

  ‘But it is surprising. Singing has never been any strain to me before.’

  ‘Nor did it seem so last night. But don’t forget this has been a severe test. So many rehearsals, I’m sure. And the acid test of singing the lead in a full-length opera in an unfamiliar language. No wonder you are over-tired, overstrained. And you have the added complication of having become over-fond of the producer!’

  She half smiled as she handed him back his wet handkerchief. ‘It may be so . . . but I feel so awful. Delighted as I was to see you, you should – you should not have come. I should have had the task of ending this in my own way, of – of finding my own way back to – to England in my own time . . .’

  ‘Instead you return like a recaptured prisoner being taken back by a jailer?’

  ‘That is not it, Papa. You know I do not look on it that way at all.’

  ‘Perhaps you feel, as Jud once said, if you make your own house you have to lie in it?’

  She half giggled – and winced. ‘No . . . I don’t know. Perhaps you are right.’

  ‘Remember, Bella,’ he said, ‘you have been a great success. An outstanding success. Everything else will fall into place with a little patience and a little understanding. I am very proud of you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  They docked soon after nine.

  ‘We’ll lie at the King’s Head,’ Ross said. ‘The coach leaves at seven tomorrow. Will you have a little supper in your room?’

  ‘Very little,’ said Bella. ‘I have been eating altogether too much.’

  They were wakened at five-thirty. As soon as he was roused Ross went along to Bella’s room. She was sitting up. The sun shone in spears across the bedroom floor.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I – slept well.’

  ‘Your throat?’

  ‘Still sore. It is nothing.’ She coughed. ‘Have you broken your fast?’

  ‘Not yet.’ He sat on the bed. ‘Let me see your tongue.’

  ‘Gladly.’ She put it out, pulling a hideous face at him.

  He grunted. Then he felt her arm and her forehead. He stood up.

  ‘Bella, we shall go home.’

  ‘Home? Where, to Cornwall?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, I am that pleased! I can defer all my apologies!’

  ‘You have a fever,’ he said. ‘It is just slight. But I do not trust the sawbones of Portsmouth. Nor even of London. When we get home you will be in the capable hands of Dwight Enys.’

  ‘I’ll take a bet with you, Papa. Sixpence. That I am in the best of health by the time I see Nampara.’

  ‘Done,’ said Ross. ‘I hear there is a coach for Exeter leaving at eight.’

  Chapter Three

  Lord Edward Fitzmaurice’s apartments in Lansdowne House at the south end of Berkeley Square consisted of six spacious rooms, where he was attended by a valet, two maids, a cook and a scullery girl. His windows looked out onto Curzon Street. He had been in London most of the summer Season, but was looking forward to going next week to spend a while with an old schoolfriend, Humphry Astley, in Norfolk. It had been a bright enough early spring and summer, and Edward had dutifully attended the main functions of the Season, taking comfort in the thought that soon he would be breathing the purer air and less ceremonious life of Swaffham.

  He
was a modest young man who had not been brought up to expect great possessions. Unexpectedly a series of deaths had deposited upon his elder brother a marquisate, the huge estate of Bowood, a hunting lodge in Scotland, great wealth, a seat in the Lords and the possession of two other seats in Parliament for his bestowal.

  Edward had officially become his brother Henry’s heir in 1809, a matter of much less importance before that date, and he sometimes reflected whimsically that he was rather like the Duke of Clarence, the younger brother of the King. Henry was now laden not merely with great possessions but with great responsibilities, while Edward, five years younger, had no responsibilities at all. Fortunately Henry had been more sensible and assiduous than George IV by entering into a happy marriage and already having two small sons, so the risk of Edward being called to greater eminence was mercifully remote.

  Edward had a number of interests: the theatre, the furthering of popular education, architecture in general; and when he sat down that morning to break his fast with fresh salmon and poached eggs, he looked at the letters on the silver tray just placed there by Watson, his valet, supposing most of them to be concerning a speech he had made on the Sunday, in which he had spoken in favour of Catholic emancipation. He turned the pile over with a paperknife, and suddenly his heart lurched, for a letter lay there, the address being in a handwriting that he well knew.

  He grabbed the letter and stood up, pushing his chair back, went to the window, tore at the seal, unfolded the letter and began to read. What he read made his hand shake so much that he dropped the letter and he had to slide it out from under a chair, where it had disobligingly floated.

  He read it carefully, very carefully, a second time, then he let out a great shout.

  Watson, a fat little man, came hastily in. ‘Something wrong, my lord?’

  ‘Wrong?’ said Edward. ‘Wrong? Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong? Heavens above! Oh, my God! I – must think!’

  ‘Your breakfast will be going cold, my lord.’

  ‘Watson, you know that beggar, the one with an arm missing, please take my breakfast down and give it to him. And please give him this guinea.’

  ‘My lord, you know Lady Lansdowne says it is unwise to encourage people to wait at the door—’

  ‘I will explain to Lady Lansdowne. And also I shall need a coach. Oh, my God! Do we have a coach here? If I—. No, that will not do! Our coaches carry a coat of arms. I shall want to hire a plain sturdy coach from the Half Moon stables. And six horses . . . No, one mustn’t be ostentatious! Four horses, for a long trip. Tell them I shall want the carriage for at least two weeks.’

  ‘My lord, you are due to leave for Norfolk on Friday.’

  ‘Yes, well that must go. I will write to Mr Astley. He will understand. Everyone will understand. Oh, my God! Everyone has to! Watson, I shall not need you for at least two weeks. Pray take a holiday and take double pay . . .’

  ‘Thank you, my lord. But does that mean you will be travelling alone? Surely—’

  ‘Yes, surely. Oh God, this is tremendous. Oh God, I think I shall explode. Angels of Grace! Is – is my brother in?’

  ‘No, my lord. He is riding in the Row with her ladyship—’

  ‘Well, is anyone in? Anyone of my family? I must tell someone of this – this letter from Heaven I have received, or I shall burst!’

  ‘I believe Lady Isabel is in her room—’

  Edward took his valet familiarly by the arm. ‘I am going to seek her out. But before I go let me enjoin you to step out into this lovely, lovely morning at once and make all haste to the Half Moon stables, preferably at the double, and request, nay demand, that they should rent me out a stout sturdy four-in-hand with a coachman to drive me down to Cornwall—’

  ‘Where is that, my lord?’

  ‘Never you mind, they will know. And if they do not know they will quickly discover. It is in the far, far west of England, almost toppling over into the Atlantic, and it will take maybe three days of hard driving to get there. Come to think of it, perhaps I shall need another man – I cannot have them going to sleep on the box—’

  ‘Why do you not take Higgins, my lord?’

  ‘Higgins? Higgins?’ Edward stared at the fat little man. ‘What a supremely helpful chap you are! I don’t know how I shall do without you for two weeks. But it shall be two weeks, it may be three, or four, or five, or ten. Higgins is just the man. He understands horses, as you alas do not, and he is cooling his heels all day here. Higgins shall come.’

  ‘Very good, my lord.’

  Five minutes later, in a large bedroom in the east wing of the house overlooking Berkeley Square, Lady Isabel Fitzmaurice, about to begin her breakfast with a tall glass of orange juice laced with rum, was startled to see her maid look in and say that Lord Edward wished to see her. Behind her, his face transformed from its usual polite lineaments, came her nephew, who gently took the diminutive and scandalized maid by the elbows and lifted her out of the way.

  ‘Aunt Isabel. A divine morning. I come to greet you with some news which has just transformed my life. Allow me to tell you.’

  ‘Patsy,’ said Lady Isabel. ‘Pass me my trumpet, if you please. Did you say good news, Edward? Pray impart it. I think we all need good news.’

  When the trumpet was fixed and Patsy had retreated Edward told his aunt the contents of the letter.

  She was silent for a few moments, while he waited to make sure she had heard properly. Her little round face was recollective.

  ‘I remember,’ she said. ‘An entirely charming young lady. She stayed here for a week or so. She used to read to me. Edward, I am so pleased for you.’

  ‘That was not the lady I am going to marry,’ he shouted. ‘That was her mother.’

  ‘If you speak clearly into the trumpet,’ Lady Isabel said, in gentle reproof, ‘I can hear perfectly well. There is no need to shout.’

  ‘I am so pleased for myself,’ he said. ‘I have read her letter six times, and it turns my heart over and over.’

  ‘I do not think I have met her then. But if she is like her mother I know I shall immediately take to her. I remember her telling me about her daughter now. It is very fortunate, a happy stroke, a lovely coincidence that she should have the same name as myself.’ She chuckled. ‘I trust you will not mistake one of us for the other.’

  ‘Dear aunt.’ He patted the hump where her knees raised themselves in the bed. ‘The Poldarks have two daughters. Isabella-Rose is, I believe, not yet twenty, and is making a name for herself in the opera world. This is Clowance I am going to marry.’

  ‘Clarence?’ asked his aunt, making Jud’s old mistake. ‘Is that not a man’s name?’

  Long ago Harriet had advised George to put Selina in some house in Cornwall where he could keep an eye on her and his grandson. This advice he had now taken, though he would not give Harriet the satisfaction of telling her so. The guarded invitation – it was almost a direction – was hedged about with stringent conditions; but it seemed that Selina had not hesitated to accept.

  It all happened very quickly. He had talked about the prospect to Hector Trembath before he wrote the letter, and unexpectedly a small house belonging to Lord de Dunstanville and almost in the shadow of Tehidy had come vacant. It was a little more on the north coast than George would have chosen, but the rental was low and the place, Trembath reported, was in excellent condition following the sudden death of the tenant, a retired major in the artillery. George told his henchman to close the deal.

  By the time he decided to tell Harriet, Selina was already on the way down.

  Harriet said: ‘Well, why not? So long as she does not hang around Cardew. She has been badly treated by that son of yours, and for one so rich as you it can be no hardship to make amends.’

  ‘I am not making amends,’ George said pettishly. ‘She comes only on the understanding that she abides by my conditions.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘That I should pay off half her debts, the other half to b
e found from the sale of her house in Finsbury or wherever it is. That she should live rent-free in the house I provide her with, and that she should subsist on the allowance I shall give her, without plunging into further debt. That her cousin and her unmarried stepdaughter can live with her if they choose. But that she shall not let any of this monthly payment find its way into her husband’s hands. That the education of her son shall be entirely at my discretion and under my control.’

  ‘And she has accepted all this?’

  ‘Yes. She is on her way down with her cousin, a Mrs Osworth. The elder stepdaughter is abroad somewhere. (She must have money enough to pay for that!) I expect it is all partly a device to enlist my sympathy. Anyway, we shall see . . .’

  She thought this over. ‘You do dislike Valentine, don’t you. I wonder why.’

  He hesitated. ‘You do not know?’

  ‘I have heard a few scurrilous rumours. Is there any truth in them?’

  ‘I do not know. No one will ever know.’

  ‘But I suppose that poisons your mind against him?’

  ‘It is part of the equation.’

  ‘But if Valentine is . . . suspect, how is little George free of the suspicion?’

  George shrugged. ‘He is not. But I lack heirs, male heirs, as you have been at pains to point out. I lack relatives bearing the name of Warleggan. You yourself have expressly told me that you will bear me no more children.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ she said easily. One set of twins is quite enough for me. So? . . .’

  He said, broodingly: ‘Of one thing I can be sure: Valentine was Elizabeth’s son.’

  ‘And that is a consolation? I understand. She was your first love. Your first possession.’

  ‘It makes up a little.’

  ‘And I am here merely to annoy you and to spend your money?’

  ‘If you wish to put that interpretation upon it, you are at liberty to do so.’

  She yawned. ‘Well, no. Not altogether. Do not forget that I led the rescue party that saved your life.’