Bella Poldark

by Winston Graham

  During August there was another sound in Nampara, of a girl singing. Bella was trying out her voice. But for the time being some of the lilt had gone. In earlier days Bella’s voice had come out unforced, rising from naturally good lungs and strong, clear vocal cords. It had been no effort at all to allow it to emerge in all its fullness and glory. Now she was tentative, sure enough of most of the middle register but less secure as she climbed the scales. Once or twice Demelza heard her stop, cough or clear her throat, and resume.

  Once she followed her into her bedroom and found her sitting in front of the mirror, tears streaming. As Demelza came in, Bella turned away from the mirror and grabbed up a handkerchief.

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ said Demelza, sympathetic tears already welling. ‘You must not grieve. It will come. Look how much you can already sing! Far more than I ever could at my best! Your voice is already beautiful again. Uncle Dwight said it was simply a question of healing.’

  ‘It is eight weeks today since I came home. I now – feel well. I eat well, enough to be regaining my weight. I swim when the weather is good. I ride when it is not. When you will let me I am stitching towards Clowance’s trousseau. I read. I play the piano. In most things I am back to normal. But when I try – try what I used to reach on the instrument so easily it – it does not come. I am healed. That is not healed.’

  ‘Let us wait another month. Then I will come with you to London, and we will see all the voice specialists we can find. All singers must have anxieties from time to time. At your age such an injury – if it is an injury – cannot be permanent.’

  Bella sighed, and that too broke halfway. ‘Mama, I am terrified. Truly terrified. Since I tasted of that life – it would be too cruel if I were not able to go back to it. It is strange where I got this passion from. Ever since I first saw a play, when you and Papa took me six years ago, I have wanted nothing but to be – be in the theatre. The candlelights, the smell, the face paint, the wigs, the make-believe, they have entranced me. Do not mistake me, dearest Mama, I love my home. I love you and Papa: you have been wonderful to me in every way. I love the sea and the clank of the mine engines, and the wind and the wildness. I love to talk to the folk on the farm, to the bal maidens – the simplicity and the warmth of it all. But London is like a great magnet. I could not believe my good fortune in getting so far, so quickly. Now it would near break my heart to have it so quickly snatched away—’. She choked and recovered again. ‘You know I have had many letters from Christopher. I have replied to them all, trying to sound in the best of spirits, but have told him he must not come down again until—’

  ‘He is coming for the wedding!’

  ‘Oh, yes, I had all but forgot that . . . And I have heard three times from Maurice. I have replied telling him precisely what is the trouble and telling him – telling him he must not leave his work and come down here until I am quite cured. Neither of them can possibly be expected to marry a croaking wife—’

  ‘You do not croak at all, my lover. And I know either of them would marry you tomorrow if you would agree to it. But probably you are right in wanting to be more sure of yourself – of your returning gifts – before you go further.’

  Bella blew her nose and half-smiled. ‘There, it is all over. Now show me – is that the new wedding hat?’

  Demelza said: ‘I think, I b’lieve you would do better to talk of your worries more – to Papa, to Clowance, to Cuby when she comes. If – if you speak of fears they sometimes grow less the more they are aired. And it may also be better if you was to – to spill more tears.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Bella said. ‘I weep myself to sleep every night.’

  The heat of the summer, the long sunny spell, had come to an end about St Swithin’s Day. The weather had been broken since then: sunshine and showers and gusty winds, mostly from the south-west. Warm in the sun, but generally cool in the wind: chilly for those who came from the inland towns, bracing for those accustomed to it.

  But the first of September was worthy of the occasion; none of the heat of June, all the weather changes slowed to a leisurely pace as the wind dropped. Clouds, white-browed and dark-based, decorated the sky, but the sun on its trip across seemed most often to wend its way through them like a ship avoiding rocks, as it looked down at the great family function being enacted at St Sawle with Grambler. The Reverend Henry Profitt officiated; and on this occasion he was assisted by Arthur Skinner, the absentee vicar of St Ann’s, who, chancing to be making his annual visit from Bristol – where he lived more comfortably because of the £240 a year that reached him for St Ann’s when added to the stipend he received from St Vincent’s in Bristol – hearing there was to be a big wedding in the next parish, and that both the bridegroom and the bride’s father were ‘titled personages’, hastily expressed his wish to participate. The bride wore a veil and gown of silver lace, which fluttered becomingly in the gentle breeze, and she carried a bouquet of Harrisii lilies. The three bridesmaids were the Misses Sophie and Meliora Enys and Miss Noelle Poldark, and they were followed by seven ladies in matching dresses: the Hon. Mrs Edwina Hastings, Mrs Patricia Harrison-West, Mrs Jeremy Poldark, Miss Isabella-Rose Poldark, Mrs Geoffrey Charles Poldark, Miss Loveday Carne, and Mrs Ben Carter. (Clowance had specially wanted Ben’s wife to take part. They had also invited Emmeline Treneglos, in the hope of healing the rift, but she had not been permitted to accept.)

  Inside the church was packed, and at least twenty guests volunteered to stay outside for the service, where they were joined by almost all the villagers of Sawle, Grambler and Mellin, come to see one of their favourite ladies, half-genteel herself, though oft you would hardly notice, being joined in holy matrimony to a real titled gent from up-country.

  The problem of where to hold the reception had been difficult to resolve, and in the end, gambling on the weather, they had opted for Nampara. If it had turned wet they might have contrived to feed the guests in the library, with overflows in the parlour and the hall; but after all it was still summer, and it was their daughter, and it would be putting too much on little Amadora, who already had two children and was again with child. Geoffrey Charles and Trenwith were already doing their bit by playing host to all the most important guests.

  Ross knew Henry, the third Marquess of Lansdowne from numerous meetings in parliament, and Demelza, of course, had spent a week at Bowood, so they could meet at least as old acquaintances. And much was helped by the fact that Ross and Henry Lansdowne greatly admired each other.

  The lawn in front of Nampara had been laid for the breakfast feast. It was very perverse of Demelza’s memory to cast itself back to the first-ever outdoor party they had given, soon after they were married, to celebrate the christening of their first child, Julia. Then it had been turned into a fiasco by the mistaken arrival of her father, who, fresh from conversion to the Wesleyan faith, had sought to rebuke and redeem them all. That could not happen, but the weather could turn nasty, as it had then – a strong blustery quarter-gale working itself up into a tantrum – blowing tablecloths about, even relieving Aunt Agatha of her newly curled wig.

  Looking round now, one could see how different it all was then. Many people long dead: chiefly Francis and Elizabeth. Now the sun beamed down, food was consumed, toasts drunk – perhaps the only minor embarrassment coming from Sam, who, uninvited, stood up and said a long-winded grace before the breakfast began.

  Edward and Clowance were travelling only as far as St Austell tonight, where a cousin of Edward’s was going to welcome them, then see them off for Bath next day. When Clowance went up to her bedroom to change, Demelza waited ten minutes, during which time she reckoned that most of the bridesmaids and ladies-in-waiting would have been up there with her, chatting and fussing around her. Then she slipped away for a few minutes to join her. On the way Paul and Daisy Kellow stopped her to say goodbye, since Daisy was now fatigued and needed her bed. Philip Prideaux, who had been invited and had arrived with Cuby and Noelle and Clemency the day before, said he wo
uld walk with the Kellows, helping Daisy. But with Demelza’s permission he would return.

  When Demelza tapped at Clowance’s bedroom and was invited in, only Bella remained with her sister, helping her to button the back of the blue silk tight-fitting dress Clowance had had made for her going away. Clowance was looking out of the window and saying something to Bella, but she stopped on seeing her mother and said: ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you, my dearest. It has all gone like a blissful dream. I hope you are not too exhausted.’

  Demelza shook her head. ‘But I shall miss you, miss you – even though you have been living so long in Penryn. I felt there I could always discover you. Now, gracious knows where you will be!’

  ‘Edward wants to buy a house in Cornwall, but I shall not press him until we are more settled. At present he thinks Cornwall too heavenly to leave for long. I would not disagree with that, but I would not want to take advantage of his first enthusiasms.’

  Clowance had moved away from the window, naturally drawing Bella after her, Bella protesting that there were still some buttons to fasten. But instead of following them, as Clowance clearly intended, Demelza took their place at the window and gazed down. From this window one could see most of the lawn, dotted with guests drinking and talking. It was a lively colourful scene. Just by the door to the library Ross was talking to Lady Harriet, and they were enjoying a joke. For a few moments Demelza watched her servants – her own and those on loan – discreetly dismantling the tables once they had been stripped of the remnants of the feast. Esther was talking to her husband. Ben had played his part today as her escort, and she had played her part as a lady who by good fortune happened to be his wife. Sometimes as they spoke Essie’s eyes strayed to the various servants passing to and fro, as if she felt her proper place was among them, indeed, that she wanted to be among them, putting her energies to some use instead of just being a decorative guest. Demelza remembered when she had felt just like that. It had taken years to grow out of the habit of doing something oneself instead of pulling a bell. But this of course was only a one-off for Esther – who was with child – her life would only be genteel when she was drawn into the life at Nampara. Sam was talking to Geoffrey Charles, both smiling at this unfamiliar meeting. His long ‘grace’ had satisfied Sam. Morwenna was with Loveday, talking to a young guest who had come with the Lansdownes. A perfect mixture of totally different occupations and classes. No ardent, belligerent convert to Wesleyanism in the person of her father (long dead – God rest his soul – she hoped he had found a suitable pulpit in Heaven).

  Clowance, her dress now buttoned, had come up behind Demelza.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mama.’

  ‘What for?’

  She indicated the corner where Ross and Harriet were still in conversation.

  ‘I felt I had to invite her, Mama. I told you, she has always been particularly sweet to me – especially after Stephen’s death.’

  ‘Indeed. Why not? Of course you had to invite her! I wonder why Sir George refused.’

  ‘Harriet says he is still recovering from his accident and goes out little. And then, there is the old feud—’

  ‘The old feud. Your father tells me that Lady Harriet was at the Prideaux-Brunes when he was there a few weeks ago. On her own.’

  ‘Yes, on her own.’

  Demelza ruminated for a few moments. ‘Why did you have to say you were sorry about inviting her?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I thought – I just thought—’

  ‘Because she was enjoying the company of your father? And because he was enjoying hers?’

  ‘Not really. A bit, I suppose.’

  ‘But we have talked already about it after the Trenwith party. Why should he not like her?’

  ‘Oh, no reason at all. Bella, I think I’ll put my shoes on.’

  Demelza continued to watch the couple near the library door. Harriet laughed, showing her brilliant teeth.

  Demelza said to her daughter: ‘Tell me, do you think sometimes that your father has a slight degree of arrogance?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ said Clowance. ‘Indeed yes!’

  ‘And you, Bella?’

  Bella nodded. ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Well,’ Demelza said. ‘Sometimes it seems to me he takes a fancy for a pretty young woman who has – who has his own kind of arrogance. It appeals to him. Like Caroline, for instance. Your Aunt Caroline, as you have been taught to call her, who, I may say, has long had a fancy for him.’

  ‘Aunt Caroline?’

  ‘Who is a very dear woman. Nice. So good-hearted. She is the choicest of my friends, my dearest friends . . . Now Harriet, now Harriet I scarcely know. But from all I learn of her I b’lieve she is a very agreeable person too . . . It does not mean a great deal to your father really . . . The young lady whom he would have married if he had had the chance – for all her faults – and I could not like her, for that would have been unnatural – for all her faults could never be accused of arrogance. Nor can I – though perhaps I do not have anything to be arrogant about—’

  Clowance said: ‘You have the right to be arrogant or anything else you may feel.’

  They had broken up below, Ross to enter the house by the library door, Harriet to stroll elegantly towards Philip Prideaux as he returned.

  Demelza said: ‘Do not, I pray, claim too much for me. I am – just me. I am just happy to be myself . . . and to be your father’s wife. I have no wish to be anywhere else than at his side. I also believe that he has no wish to be anywhere except at my side. That will be the way it will be, until I die – until we die. I have only one regret – and that is that time just goes too fast.’

  Book Five

  BELLA

  Chapter One

  As the summer wore on the endless quarrelling over the Queen’s position and her trial for adultery had gradually ceased to engage the public, and even the government and its opposition began to find it boring. As countless Italian witnesses to her immorality and licentiousness were brought over, the general consensus come to was that she was really no more worthy of admiration than the King. During one of the long sessions in Westminster Hall even the Queen herself was seen to doze, giving rise to Lord Holland’s quip that while in her exile she slept with couriers, now she was in England she slept with the Peers.

  Indeed, as October came, it was remarked that there was a slight swing back of public opinion in George IV’s favour.

  Isabella-Rose, accompanied by both her father and her mother, arrived early in the month and found London a reassuringly peaceable place after the riots and upheavals of the previous year. There seemed to be not only an exhaustion of mob violence but an upturn in general trade. Not only were the nobility and the middle classes growing richer, but the working class and the poor were discovering easier times. More work was available and the price of labour was rising. An attempt in Manchester to organize a great rally to commemorate the Peterloo massacre had fizzled out because most of the operatives were at work.

  They did not stay with Mrs Pelham, though the rift between her and Bella was quickly resolved and Aunt Sarah was soon engaged in offering her advice as to which specialists to see.

  Dr Fredericks was no medical practitioner, but he expressed himself mystified by the failure of his former pupil’s vocal cords. He speculated that undue pressure on a young voice might result in temporary failure. (This was clearly intended as a snipe at Maurice Valéry and Bella’s wilful and wanton incursion into the modern operatic world.) Of course, he said, many pupils went through periods of anxiety because of coughs, colds, catarrh, sore throats. They were the common bugbears of the profession, and he could see no reason why Bella should not regain her normal register in six or nine months. He had naturally several specifics in the form of lozenges and tinctures which he could recommend, and Demelza came away carrying two bottles and a cardboard box.

  Dr Amos Jennings – a medical doctor this time and a throat specialist – made a more professional and, needless to say, painful e
xamination and declared he could detect one or two scars left on her larynx by the ‘white throat’ disease. He explained the morbid nature of the complaint, this being characterized by the formation of a false membrane, yellow or greyish in colour, which spread in patches on an ulcerated base in the pharynx or gullet and often extended into the oesophagus. This, when the disease was on the wane, gradually peeled off and disintegrated, but sometimes left behind minute fragments of scar tissue. This was what Miss Poldark was at present suffering from. Regular gargling and washing out the throat with salt water should improve the condition, together with the pills and the throat wash he would prescribe. (These pills made Bella vomit, and the throat wash looked and smelt suspiciously like the Melrose water Dwight had prescribed at the outset.)

  Dr Ernest Faber, who had inherited some of Dr Fordyce’s practice and had continued his extensive researches into the causes of fevers, detected some muscular failure and was of the opinion that the throat was still infected and might remain chronically so unless heroic treatment were applied. He prescribed aquafortis, to be taken internally three times a day, and a stronger solution of nitric acid to be used twice a day to gargle and wash the throat, in fact to ‘burn’ out the infection.

  They were staying at Ross’s old lodgings in George Street in the Adelphi, and each evening Christopher would come to glean the results of their consultations.

  It was a somewhat gloomy household, for Bella was feeling sick as a result of the medicines she was taking. On the third evening Ross went out to pay an arranged call on George Canning.