Ross stretched his other more permanently injured leg. ‘Tell me, d’you think I have shrunk?’
‘Shrunk?’ She looked at his big frame. ‘You? Why do you ask?’
‘It seems to me that George has shrunk somewhat. I noticed it first when I saw him sitting on the wall by himself after Place House had caught fire.’
‘Oh?’
‘I remarked it again when I had to go and see him about Valentine’s death. He was sitting in Cardew more or less hunched up in a chair, and somehow I thought his bulk had grown less.’
‘Why should you think you were likely to have grown less?’
‘He’s only a year older than I am. It crossed my mind.’
‘His accident may have aged him.’
‘I hope my accident doesn’t age me!’
‘In future you would be wiser not to get burned in a fire and hit on the head with a falling beam!’
Ross stared at the rain beating on the window. Once last year he had come on this coach and they had travelled with the hurrying rain clouds all the way to London.
‘I might say, by the way, that whether George has shrunk a little or not, I shall not underestimate his ability to be just as scheming, vindictive and resentful as ever. The leopard will not change its spots.’
‘He is sure to grieve about Valentine’s death?’
‘Oh yes. But he is more concerned for the child.’
‘And in this you have thwarted him.’
‘For the time being. Selina may prove extravagant. Or Wheal Elizabeth may prove less kindly than we hope. Always his money will be there as a threat.’
‘Which you cannot match.’
‘Of course not. Nor would ever try to.’
‘Or she might marry again.’
‘True enough. She has the looks of a frequent marrier.’
They were going through a wooded valley near Probus. All the trees were dripping and dark.
She said: ‘And there is still the mystery of Valentine.’
‘Mystery? D’you mean my hallucination?’
‘In part. Not altogether.’
For a while the noises around the coach, which had stopped to let two outside passengers down, left them unspeaking. Then, as the coach began to move off, Ross said: ‘You know, of course, that my chief reason for going to Place that morning was to pass on Philip Prideaux’s warning that Valentine was likely to be arrested for smuggling tin ore out of the country.’
‘Yes. I understand that now.’
‘Well, at the funeral David Lake told me that Valentine already knew.’
‘What?’
‘A member of the crew of his brig told him he had heard it and that he, the man, was going to leave Cornwall to save his own skin.’
‘But that means . . . What does it mean?’
Ross shook his head. ‘I’ve thought about it and thought about it. No one will ever know.’
She dozed at last, until they reached Bodmin. There was a break here for tea and cakes. The fire in the inn was welcome, and she took off her gloves to warm her hands. The tea when it came was scalding, and a new warmth began to creep through her. It was a long lonely stage ahead, across wild moors to Launceston. They would dine at Launceston and sleep at Honiton.
As if his thoughts had not been interrupted, Ross said: ‘There’s a lot now that will never be known about Valentine.’
‘Do you think he . . .’
‘What?’
‘Well – took his own life?’
Ross shook his head. ‘He wasn’t the kind . . . But under pressure people do the strangest things – God, I don’t know. The knowledge of the complete mess he’d got himself into – the conviction that there was no acceptable way out, it may have made him more obstinately determined to avoid it, so that on impulse he took a risk – an extra risk – for the sake of his beloved ape – a risk that he would not otherwise have taken . . .’
Although they shared a bedroom at home they were surrounded by the breathing of their family and the servants. At home, the intrusion of the commonplace inhibited reference to more emotionally charged subjects. Usually the time for personal exchanges was in bed before they went to sleep or early in the morning; but in the last few weeks – it seemed like months – this had not happened. In this coach they were imprisoned alone for at least another hour, and no one to intrude on them with affairs of the mine or the farm.
Demelza said: ‘D’you know what Henry asked me the other day? He said: “Are you and Papa not in love any more?” ’
Ross smiled, but grimly. ‘What did you say?’
‘I asked him what he meant. He sort of stumbled over what he wanted to say and then dried up. I said then that his Papa was greatly upset by Valentine’s death . . . Of course, I said, we all were, but Papa more so. I tried to explain what was after all the truth, if the part truth, that you had made a special friend of Valentine since Jeremy’s death and you had become more attached to each other. Then when Valentine and Selina separated, you tried to support him and give him advice.’
‘Harry is a perceptive child. But the perception only goes skin deep.’
‘That’s not surprising, is it? He seemed to have heard all about the inquest from Ellen Porter.’
‘We must dispense with that girl, she ain’t reliable. Or maybe we could turn her into a chambermaid, to take some of the work off Betsy Maria.’
‘Then he asked me if I thought he could have a pet like Butto.’
‘I hope you told him he was fairly surrounded by animals that did not set fire to houses?’
‘. . . He is perceptive, though, is he not; for a child of eight?’
Ross said: ‘If you had been compelled to answer that first question of his, what would you have said?’
She bit her lip. ‘I would have said, I suppose, that we still loved each other, but that things had not run too easy between us of late.’
‘As bad as that?’
‘Well, what would you have said?’
‘I would have said – no, I could not have explained anything to an eight-year-old. You are right!’
‘Supposing he was eighteen years old?’
‘That’s unfair. All right. I should have said that in my life I’ve loved only two women. Right? The first married my direst enemy. The second married me. She has been my lover, my companion, my housekeeper, the mother of my children, the – the keeper of my conscience. She is comparable in my eyes to no other woman. I would not be a human being if I had not sometimes developed other sorts of affections, other mild fancies, other but not contrary loyalties. Sometimes they have been unnecessarily strong, especially maybe towards the difficult young man I suspected of being my son. I expect a feeling of guilt came into it too! But following that and building on that supposition I shall continue, whether I wish it or not, to have a strong interest in the fortune of his son. It can be no other way, but unless my wife demands that my every interest shall be exclusive to her, then she has all my steadfast support, interest, concern, sympathy, love and loving kindness. If I have in any way neglected my true family these last few weeks I ask their pardon and will try to do better. That do?’
After a minute she said in a low voice: ‘I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.’
‘Why do you want to laugh?’
‘Because it was a lovely speech which fetched tears to my eyes but spoken in a light tone that made me wonder if you were being – what is the word? – cynical about it. Are you, Ross?’
He stared at her for a long moment, looking straight into her eyes.
‘The answer is no. But you should not need to be told it.’
It was strange, thought Demelza, that while such handsome words should bring a complete reconciliation nearer, a lingering trace of the gap was still there.
McArdle said: ‘They think they will save his sight. But he has to spend at least a week in a darkened room. And then, if all goes well, two to three weeks’ convalescence.’
Joseph Glossop said: ‘
Well, that is it, then, isn’t it. We either cancel outright or postpone the production until the New Year.’
Rory Smith, the production manager, said: ‘We have already sold most of the superior boxes! Curse and damn Flynn to all eternity! He should be barred from the stage!’
‘He is Irish,’ said Glossop, ‘and too excitable. Other producers will take note.’
McArdle was pacing up and down the office. ‘I have gone through the people who might replace him. James, who has been cover for him, is far too ugly. I should have thought of that before, but of course one does not foresee a crisis like this! Pity, because he has a good voice and is a good swordsman – but the public would never like him if they were expecting Arthur Scholes.’
‘No hopes of Kean?’ Smith asked.
‘Impossible! You know he is playing Lear at the Garden.’
‘Davidge is in America. Cooke?’
‘He’s over fifty and looks it. Of course, if it were Kean, the audience would swallow anything.’
McArdle stopped with his back to the window, blocking out much of the winter light. ‘A name is what I want. Or a nobody. If you could invent somebody to provoke the audience so that they would come out of curiosity . . .’
‘Have you thought of Musgrove?’
‘Eric? He is neither a name nor a nobody. He has come down to playing Lord Montague. He’s younger than the rest, I admit. But can you expect Charlotte to pretend she is in love with him? It is better to cancel. And safer. I have my reputation to think of.’
‘There is one other suggestion which has been put to me,’ said Glossop. ‘It is an eccentric thought. But it was put to me with a degree of pressure.’
They stared at him expectantly. After all, it was his family who had kept the Royal Coburg open, pumping in subsidies to prevent the theatre going dark.
After considering the other two men, Glossop shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. Give me another twenty-four hours. This time tomorrow we’ll come to a decision.’
The coach arrived in London at five p.m. on the Sunday evening. It had been as black as anthracite for an hour, but here there were plenty of lanterns about and many of the streets were newly gas-lit.
Christopher, in his city clothes, met them at the Saracen’s Head with a private coach which was to take them to George Street. He conveyed Bella’s warm love and greetings, also her apologies: there had been a crisis at the theatre and she was wanted there. Much serious thought had been given to a postponement; finally it had been decided to go ahead, but this meant a succession of extra rehearsals. A second dress rehearsal was fixed for Monday, and the first night of the play was to be Tuesday, as arranged. There would probably be four performances, with the possibility, if it were a great success, of its running into the next week.
‘The postponement,’ said Demelza, ‘does it affect Bella?’
‘Yes. Someone was injured in a duel fight, and this has meant a rearrangement of the cast.’
‘Bella is playing another part?’
‘Yes. But I think she might like to tell you all about it herself.’
‘No doubt,’ said Ross.
‘Your letter about Valentine arrived yesterday. We were all very upset. Have you recovered, sir?’
‘Thank you . . . On the whole. Very well.’
‘It was the ape that started it?’
‘Yes. He died too. He has been buried on the cliffs just above the ruins of the house. I believe Dr Enys has retained some parts of the body for research.’
Demelza shivered. ‘I wish he had not done so. I don’t know sometimes how Caroline manages with – with dissection taking place in the house.’
‘Not in the house, my dear. He uses a part of the stables.’
‘And then there was the arrest of Paul Kellow since I was down last? Too much has happened!’
The drive passed quickly, and they were soon unloading at No. 14. Mrs Parkins was there to greet them and help Christopher carry the bags upstairs.
‘Would you care to stay and sup with us?’ Demelza asked.
‘Thank you very kindly, but I want to go back to the theatre, to pick Bella up when they have finished and to take her home.’
‘What time will that be?’
‘She thought eight or nine.’
‘Then we shall not see her until the morning?’
‘I am not at all sure. I am not sure even then, with the full dress rehearsal tomorrow. It all depends on McArdle, who is a perfectionist. I trust you will both be understanding. In the crisis. We, of course, never anticipated anything like this.’
‘We should be more understanding,’ Ross said pleasantly, ‘if we knew what the crisis was.’
Christopher straightened his shoulders. ‘If that is the case I think, sir, that I could take a drink, if you have one.’
Demelza pulled the bell for Mrs Parkins, and presently they were all sipping brandy and nibbling at Madeira cake.
Christopher said: ‘I would very much have preferred that she should explain everything to you personally, but I see now that it is impossible for you to find your daughter too busy to see you this evening without a full explanation. And it seems I am the only one here to give it.’
‘Does this mean it is bad news?’
‘Oh, no! I hope you will be as excited as I am, but – but you may have qualms, have reservations. I don’t know.’
‘Well, tell us what has happened.’
Christopher explained about the grave accident to Arthur Scholes, the search for a replacement, the fine decision that had to be made between cancellation and postponement.
‘In the end,’ he said, ‘in the end it was up to McArdle and Glossop to come to a final decision. Whether there was any artistic solution which would involve them in the least loss. So in the end they came to see Bella and asked if she thought she could play the part.’
Ross said: ‘What?’
Demelza swallowed and said: ‘What part?’
‘That of Romeo.’
Chapter Eleven
Christopher said: ‘I was not there at the time. I was at my office. It seemed they called her into the manager’s room at the theatre and point-blank asked her if she thought she could do it.’
‘My God!’
‘And d’you know they said, they told me, that she replied almost without hesitation. “Yes, of course.” ’
There was a stunned silence.
‘But this,’ said Demelza, ‘is the main part.’
‘Yes, along with Juliet.’
‘But she was – what is it? – covering for Juliet! This is the man’s part!’
‘It has sometimes been played by a woman. In fact, I gather, it is one of the great ambitions of our leading actresses to play it. Mrs Acton played it. And Mrs Armitage. I believe Siddons wanted to. She played Hamlet. Bella was to have played a man anyhow, in a small part.’
‘It’s – impossible,’ Ross said.
Christopher said: ‘You are the only one who has seen Bella on the professional stage. And she played the lead. What was your honest opinion of her?’
‘I thought her fine. But she was playing a pretty young heiress . . . She sang beautifully, but this is utterly different! I must say the audience then was enthusiastic, but . . .’
‘And that a foreign audience.’
‘It is a mass of lines to memorize,’ Ross said. ‘She must be word perfect.’
‘She seems to be. Or nearly. Remember she has been soaking up this play for weeks.’
Demelza said: ‘But does not Romeo have to fight a duel? He must, from what you have told us!’
‘Yes. But you may be sure Fergus Flynn, having disabled one Romeo – and in so doing has done his own acting career a grave disservice – he will make doubly sure he does not become over-realistic again . . . And Bella is a quick learner.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Since hearing the news I have been teaching her the basic strokes and lunges. When Wellington spent a wint
er in Lisbon he organized various sports to keep his troops occupied. I won the fencing prize.’
Ross stood up. ‘Were you behind this appointment, Christopher?’
‘If you mean did I try to persuade her in either way, certainly not. I was not there when she agreed to play the role. I – I have not sought to dissuade her because I want her to succeed. This is an astounding chance. Even a noble failure might do her all the good in the world. Perhaps only I know how deeply she has felt about the loss of her singing voice. She said to me last week that she felt like nothing now – as if she did not properly exist. This extraordinary opportunity – to return not as an extra but to the centre of the stage will, I hope and believe, act like a renewal of her life. How could I persuade her not to do this?’
Ross looked at Demelza. ‘What do you think?’
‘I am lost.’
‘There must have been some influence at work. I wonder if Edward Fitzmaurice had a hand in it?’
‘They are in Norfolk,’ Christopher said. ‘Bella heard from Clowance yesterday.’
‘What sort of a number of folk does the Royal Coburg hold?’ Demelza asked.
‘Somewhere around fifteen hundred to eighteen hundred.’
Demelza said nothing more, but looked at Ross almost appealingly.
Christopher intercepted the glance. ‘There was no way of asking for your approval. She had said yes, and I had no authority to say no. I know it is a tremendous undertaking for her, and it may well not come off.’
‘You say a noble failure might do her good all the same,’ said Ross. ‘But what if the failure is not noble? It could be the end of her willingness to appear in public. It might kill her confidence completely. You must know how fierce and harsh a crowd can be. This cannot be the most refined of audiences. It draws on a poor district.’
‘I do not suppose the audiences at Rouen were highly cultivated.’
‘No, they were not. But by the time I saw the production Bella had become their favourite.’
‘Pray God it happens here,’ said Christopher.
It had not all occurred quite like that, but Christopher felt justified for the time being in lying by omission.
Observing the amount of influence Edward Fitzmaurice had wielded by means of an investment of £500 in the theatre, and thereafter being elected a trustee, Christopher had sold the new house (at a substantial profit) and invested £500 in the Royal Coburg. He had reasoned then that if Bella did well in her small speaking part, his influence as a trustee would help Mr Glossop to think favourably of her for some larger part in the near future. He obviously had had no other thought in mind, but he felt it essential to help Bella to go on climbing the new ladder. He could not bear to think of her as destroyed.
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