‘Not to mention your animals,’ he commented drily.
‘Which are still out walking. It is time they were home.’ She looked up at the clock. ‘These disagreeable rumours, George, why do you make so much of them? You like to believe you are in good society. Well, I can tell you, in the best society hardly anyone can be certain who their father is. You have the morals of a Wesleyan.’
‘It is not altogether a question of morals!’
‘Well, what is it – possession, jealousy, carrying on the blood? Why do you dislike Valentine so much? Whatever the truth of your suspicion, it is not his fault.’
‘Oh, I cannot explain it all to you! And do not wish to! Suffice to say that he has always challenged me, thwarted me, sneered at my ambitions for him, held everything I wanted to offer him in supreme contempt!’ George scowled out at the bright day, which was beginning to cloud over. ‘Perhaps I was not as considerate towards him as I might have been – when he was a child, that is. Conceivably I allowed my suspicion to show.’
‘Did you confront Elizabeth?’
‘Of course.’
‘And she denied it?’
‘Of course.’ Her memory held his thoughts. ‘Of course. Most vehemently. She swore an oath, once. But afterwards I thought she had phrased it in such a way – in such a way . . .’
Harriet sighed. ‘I am not surprised that you and Valentine did not see eye to eye. But it is a mountain made out of a molehill. You cannot call Elizabeth up out of her grave to swear to you over again! My advice to you—’. She broke off as footsteps were heard in the hall.
Ursula came in with Castor and Pollux following on separate leads.
‘Your pets are growing old, Mama. Pollux could hardly drag his weary legs. It is spitting with rain. Phew, we could do with some! The very fields are dusty. Am I late for tea?’
‘Pull the bell.’
Pollux went up to Harriet and laid his great muzzle in her lap, then raised his bloodshot eyes seeking sympathy. Harriet began to stroke his ears.
It was a domestic scene, and George looked on not entirely dissatisfied with the conversation. Harriet still did not know the whole of it, but her sophisticated, cynical common sense was not without its balm.
Ursula said: ‘Oh, I saw old Mrs Harris. You know, she is the sister of Char Nanfan who lives in Grambler. She had seen her sister yesterday and she tells her Bella Poldark is home and she is mortal sick.’
‘What?’ George said, pricking up his ears at news which did not sound well for the Poldarks. ‘I thought she was in France.’
‘So she was, but her father went after her and brought her back to London. They returned home on Friday.’
‘Is it true,’ George asked, ‘that she eloped with a Frenchman?’
‘I expect so. Though I know no more of that. But they say she is serious sick. They have had Dr Enys to see her three times already.’
That morning Clowance received a letter, hand delivered, from her mother.
Dearest Clowance,
You already know of my delight that you have decided whom you shall marry. I believe and pray that you and Edward will be blissfully happy together; and soon no doubt we shall be discussing Wedding Dresses and the like. Have you heard from Edward yet? I wish the Post was faster.
However this is just to tell you that your Father is home again, and Bella with him. They was to have gone to London for a few days first, but on arriving at Portsmouth Bella developed a Fever. It must have been a very trying journey home, and Bella as yet seems no better. Uncle Dwight has been to see her and prescribed Peruvian bark and Melrose water. She seems particular troubled with a sore throat. This, as you will understand, alarms me, as the sister you never saw died of the morbid throat.
They say that there was an epidemic of Summer Cholera in Rouen. Although Uncle Dwight says this is certainly not Cholera he cannot be sure it is not infectious, so he has advised me to send Henry away. So at his invitation I have packed Henry and Mrs Kemp off to the Enyses for the time being.
I believe Bella is a shade better this morning, but I do not think she has ever been ill in her life before and she does not know quite how to deal with it.
Your father says she was wonderful in the Opera, and if he says that it means a lot. And there was a piece in a French paper that praised her highly.
Ever your loving
Mother
Despite her mother’s concern for her daughter’s saftey when she rode alone – especially while Agneta’s murderer remained at large; and there seemed no progress at all in this matter – Clowance decided to go over to Nampara at once. She knew her mother would insist on nursing Bella herself, and that might mean night work, so she could spell the nursing with her mother. She was not quite sure from the tone of the letter how seriously ill Bella was. But it did not sound promising. It was her mother’s way to look on the bright side of life. And Dr Enys’s suggestion to get Henry out of the way was not a good sign.
Anyway, there was nothing to keep her here. She could have Nero made ready in half an hour and pack an overnight bag. In four hours she would see for herself.
She called a boy who was looking over the sea wall and gave him a penny to deliver a note to the stables. She scribbled another note to be sent to Bunt; then she went upstairs and changed into a riding habit.
She was just looking around for her hat when there was a knock on the front door. Impatiently she went down, hoping it was not the boy from the stables with some excuse for delaying the delivery of Nero.
A man stood there. A big young man. A man whose face she well knew. Her heart missed a beat.
‘Edward!’ she said.
‘Clowance! Did you – have you not been expecting me?’
‘I – I wasn’t sure. I thought perhaps you would write.’
‘I . . . At once. I could not wait. Even so it has taken more than two days.’
She stepped back. ‘Please. Please come in.’
He entered and stood there awkwardly. Then he took her hand.
‘Clowance. Your letter . . . I could not wait a moment more to come to see you. Your letter filled me – with joy.’
She smiled uncertainly. ‘Oh . . . Do sit down, Edward. It is kind of you to say that.’
He was a stranger. He had only ever touched her once or twice before. His jacket smelt of tweed – Scotch tweed probably. Why had she changed into her oldest riding habit?
‘This is the little cottage I have lived in since Stephen died. It must seem like – like squalor to you.’
‘Nowhere is squalor where you are, Clowance.’
A pretty speech. But she hardly knew him. Why had she written like that? What had got into her?
‘Do sit down,’ she said. ‘It is such a surprise. Where is your horse? Only two days from London? You must have rid all through the night!’
‘I did. But by coach. It is such good weather I thought to ride all the way. But it would have taken twice as long.’
‘Private coach?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I get you something to drink? You must be exhausted!’
‘Thank you, no. I am not in the least exhausted at all. I am merely – merely over-joyous to be here.’
He was sitting awkwardly. She wondered if now he had found her he regretted all the rush. She was only an ordinary young woman, poorly dressed, hair not too tidy, a stain on her boot, living in a tiny cottage. To him she must have a Cornish accent. Perhaps already he not only regretted the rush but the long letter proposing marriage which had prompted her incautious reply. She should have invited him down for a visit for two or three weeks so that they could get to know each other, first.
He looked at her clothes. ‘Were you going riding? Perhaps I have interrupted your day?’
‘No! Oh, no, of course not! . . . That is, I was going riding but it was not important. At least—’
He took her hand again and smiled. ‘Pray tell me.’
It was probably a way to break the ice, so sh
e told him.
‘Isabella-Rose,’ he said. ‘I first met her about five years ago coming out of Drury Lane with her parents. Are there any more pretty sisters?’
‘No, one small brother, that’s all . . . Do let me get you something to drink. You – you flatter me coming so quickly.’
‘I begrudged every mile.’
She poured him a glass of cordial, and nearly dropped the jug. They laughed together, but nervously.
She said: ‘Where is your coach?’
‘I left it at an inn called Selley’s at the top corner of the town. From there I walked, asking my way. I did not wish to – to arrive too – too prominently.’
‘You have a coachman to guard it? One never knows – ’
‘Two,’ Edward said apologetically. ‘But look, I cannot keep you if you are going to see your family. Pray continue with your plans, and I will find a place to lie tonight and we can meet again whenever you think suitable.’
‘Certainly I cannot do that! When you have come so far and so fast. Edward, I have been thinking.’
They sipped together as he waited. She said: ‘Is your coach sturdy?’
‘It has had to be. The West Country roads are atrocious.’
‘Well, I have been thinking . . . You could take me to Nampara. You know both my parents.’
His angular face lit up. ‘I was about to suggest it, but thought that might be a liberty.’
‘Surely you must be allowed that liberty. But your horses will be tired.’
‘How far is it?’
‘You cannot go across county with a coach. You would have to return to Truro and then turn north. It might be twenty miles.’
‘They are being fed. After an hour’s rest they will not quibble at a further twenty miles.’
‘And you?’ She looked at him fully for the first time, meeting his direct gaze with her own.
He said: ‘This is what I came for.’
There was no point in going in an old riding habit if she were to travel by coach, so she went upstairs to change.
In her bedroom she had another onset of panic. She took off her top clothes and stood a moment in front of the slightly mildewed mirror that she was always intending to replace. Her reflection did not please her. Yet by the terms of the agreement she had promised to engage in with this young stranger downstairs, he would be permitted to come into her room whenever, or almost whenever, he wanted, to observe her in undress, to pull all the rest of the clothes off her, to claim his rights as her husband. Was he entitled to the unparalleled liberties that Stephen had taken? In a sense she felt like a virgin on her wedding night, but this was worse because she knew what could happen. Stephen had been gentle but masterful, rousing her and allowing her to relish the sensation that came from preliminary fondling, and carrying her on to an appetite scarcely less than his own. But Stephen she had known half intimately for years before. This was a stranger.
Probably, as she had comforted herself, he too was regretting having come. He was essentially a kind and honourable man. Sometime soon, when they had come to understand each other a little better, she would give him the opportunity to withdraw. If he still felt himself bound she would be at pains to release him. And if that failed, and only if that failed, she would steel herself to tell him that she had made a grave mistake. She felt that she could mate with no man but Stephen.
Probably he would be delighted, relieved; he came from such a different class. She might be gentle born, but it was a rough Cornish gentility. Never in his life had he ever had to do something for himself that a servant could do for him. He had a valet, she knew, who would help him dress. She, until she was fifteen, and greatly to her mother’s disapproval, had gone barefoot all the daylight hours. How could two such disparate people live together as man and wife? His standards – they must be very different from her own. His friends – did she know any of his friends? Very few. She would be a curiosity to them, a West-Country girl whom they would have to be polite to for his sake.
And the Lansdownes themselves. They seemed a charming family, but they could hardly help but regret if he married so much beneath him. How unfortunate, they would think, that chance encounter at the Duchess of Gordon’s Ball.
Nevertheless, when it came to the point, she put on her best day dress, knowing that the apple green suited her hair.
The coach Edward had hired for his journey was quite a curiosity so far west. Four horses instead of the customary two, and painted in a dark reseda green with gold outlines; no name of the carrier or proprietor, which meant that it must be privately owned. A small but respectful crowd had gathered at a distance to watch Mrs Carrington step in, followed by her burly but well-groomed escort.
For the first part of the journey the route was quite straightforward, simply a return along the turnpike road by which he had come. The trees were at their heaviest overhanging the road, which after climbing a hill or two began to wind its way beside a glinting stream.
It was a commodious coach, and Clowance sat very much in a corner, staring out at the countryside and leaving a twelve-inch space between herself and the man she had agreed to marry. Conversation was polite but sparse, Clowance telling him that the very last part of the journey from just beyond Shortlanesend to Nampara itself would be not nearly as comfortable as this was, not even a turnpike at all, but a well-worn track which could be bumpy and dusty in this dry weather.
Edward was courteously concerned about Isabella-Rose’s illness, and Clowance courteously told him what little she knew.
Edward said: ‘When your letter came the only member of my family in the house was Aunt Isabel, so I hurried to tell her. She was delighted at the good news.’
‘How is she?’
‘A little more frail. There was only one drawback to her reception of the news.’
Clowance braced herself. ‘What was that?’
‘She thought I was going to marry your mother.’
Clowance laughed with him. ‘And when she knew the truth?’
‘She thought I was going to marry a man called Clarence.’
Clowance laughed again. ‘I have never met Aunt Isabel. My mother has spoken often of her. Isn’t she the deaf lady?’
‘She is . . . Clowance, are you afraid of me?’
She continued to admire the sunlight on the leaves. ‘A little.’
‘Well,’ said Edward, ‘I have to tell you that I am a little afraid of you.’
She looked at him to see if he was serious, then away. ‘Whyever?’
‘Just the same reason. We have known each other so long, but at vast intervals. I have hardly ever more than touched you!’
‘I know.’
‘When I took your hand today, it was touching something warm and living but belonging to somebody else.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘If I touch your face it will also be warm. The essential person of the – the girl I love.’
‘Or think you love.’
‘There has been no doubt of that in my mind for many years.’
‘Yet it has only been a – a surface thing. You could not put it to any sort of test!’
‘Nor you of me. You may come to regret that letter you sent me. Perhaps you would like me to forget I have ever received it?’
‘Oh, would you? If I asked?’
She thought it strange that his thoughts had seemed in general to parallel her own. Yet somewhere at the back of her mind was a touch of pique.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I would not. Not for everything in this world.’
There was a long silence.
He said: ‘But now we have time. Time to meet, time to talk, time to come to a loving understanding.’
‘Time to put it to the test?’ she asked.
He said: ‘May I hold your hand?’
Chapter Four
They stopped and dined at Pearce’s Hotel in Truro, arrived at Nampara at five, lurched and wobbled perilously down the sloping valley to the house. They did not risk the br
idge and Parkin, who was the man who had come with Edward from the Half Moon stables in Berkeley Street, was reluctant to try the ford fifty yards downstream of the bridge. With the dry weather there was little water to worry about, but the big pebbles were in his view too unstable to risk his horses.
By chance Dwight was visiting Bella when they arrived, and Caroline had come with him bringing a few sweetmeats to tempt the sick girl’s appetite, so there was a very friendly welcome. Caroline had known Edward for years and kissed them both in congratulation. She at once invited Edward to stay with her and Dwight at Killewarren for a few days. This he gratefully accepted.
Caroline said: ‘It’s lovely to have people staying. Have you met Sophie and Meliora? They are home from school, and Henry has already assumed full control of them.’
Clowance was shocked at her first sight of Bella. The girl had wasted away, must have lost twenty pounds; her skin was blotchy, she spoke scarcely above a whisper.
She smiled brightly enough, but could only raise her head a few inches off the pillow by way of greeting.
‘Clowance!’
‘Darling.’
‘No kissing – ’fraid.’
‘Are you any better?’
‘Think so.’
Dwight had said: ‘I am starting an iron treatment. Her fever is lower than it was, but it will be touch and go for the next few days.’
‘Is it the morbid sore throat? The one that my sister Julia had – died of?’
‘Much the same, I’m afraid. The French are beginning to call it diphtheritis because of the rough membrane that forms in the throat. Do not forget many survive it. Your mother did.’
‘At least I can take some of the work off her. She did not let me know until this morning.’
‘She has good help. But the difficulty is to keep her away.’
‘I’ll see that she gets more rest.’
In the room Clowance said: ‘So your opera was a huge success! I’m so very glad!’
Bella’s face creased as if a new energy were flooding into it. ‘Yes. Oh, yes!’ Then the light went out. ‘But I cannot sing now!’
‘You will – it will come back.’
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