Ross mused a moment. ‘Yes, perhaps that would have been the straightforward way out of it all. But did it not occur to you that this might be unfair to Sir George? I am distinctly the better shot.’
‘Oh, yes! But then, you never know. Your foot might have slipped on a stone. It’s . . .’
‘It’s what?’ Ross asked, smiling.
‘You – you can’t trust life, can you? The good side does not always win.’
‘A cynical view for one aged ten,’ he observed.
‘Well, there it is. That’s how I used to feel. I don’t suppose, from what you say of him, it can happen now, can it?’
‘I don’t imagine so.’
‘Thank goodness for that.’
The coach rattled on into the darkening afternoon, over the deserted moors.
Ross said: ‘Did you feel real anger once or twice in the play? You seemed to.’
‘What d’you mean, Papa? Real anger?’
‘Well, you had shown much love. In the early scenes. If I had seen you expressing such love in real life I should have readily believed it. But anger. I think specially in – would it be a scene in the third act? – where you were in Friar Laurence’s cell telling of your anger and frustration and despair that all was lost between you and Juliet, you expressed that with such reality that I thought, I have never seen her face like this! I do not think I have ever seen you angry – certainly not with face contorted and pulling at your hair and such distress. Where did it come from?’
She thought for a moment, hand reminiscently touching her hair.
‘I have lost my voice.’
‘Ah. Oh. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Bella. I had not thought.’
‘Oh, I love to act,’ Bella said. ‘It is – enthralling. It is the next best thing. But most of all I want to sing. It comes out of myself. To have a voice and not to be able to use it as one wants to, it – it seems a sort of injustice.’
‘It may yet come back.’
‘I have a feeling . . .’ She stirred in her corner. The afternoon light made her profile look pale. ‘Papa, I am sure you have known injustice and have not felt willing to lie down against it.’
‘Yes,’ said Ross, ‘there have been times.’
‘Many times,’ said Demelza.
‘You are awake?’
‘Yes. I have heard most of your conversation. Please go on. It is so pleasantly cosy sitting here listening to what you say.’
Darkness had almost fallen, but the lamp had not been lit in the interior. The coach smelt of camphor and dust. The air was stale. One of the windows was down by a couple of inches and admitted a thin current of air as refreshing as a tonic. Bella had been dozing again, dreaming again. She drew in a full breath of it, clearing her mind of disturbing fancies.
Then she saw ahead of them a bulk of land with lights twinkling on it. At the top of the rising ground a steep edge of cliff was etched against the sky. Lights showed it to be a building.
‘Where are we?’ she asked.
‘Just coming into Launceston,’ said Ross.
‘No? Is this . . . Have we passed Polson Bridge?’
‘No, just coming to it.’
‘Oh . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Papa, could you, could you ask the coachman to stop the coach after we have gone over the bridge?’
He looked puzzled. ‘Stop the coach? Whatever for?’
‘I – want to get out.’
He said: ‘You will be at the White Hart in ten minutes.’
‘No, it is not for that reason!’
Ross looked at his wife, whose expression he could hardly read in the half-dark. She made a deprecating gesture.
‘I’d like to, Papa. This is the bridge now!’
‘Oh, very well.’ He tapped on the little roof door, and when it opened he conveyed his message.
As he had tipped well, his request was at once obeyed. Four muffled figures travelling on the outside watched with interest as the young lady was helped down by the second coachman and went slipping off into the dusk. They saw her bend down and seem to sniff at her hands. Then she came back. The outside light of the coach showed up her satisfied expression. She was carrying what looked like some crumbled pieces of damp black earth.
As she climbed in, the door was shut behind her and she offered her cupped hands to her parents with one of her brilliant all-embracing smiles that seemed to encompass the whole world.
‘Cornish earth!’ she said. ‘Smell it! It’s quite different! We’re home!’
BELLA POLDARK
The twelfth Poldark novel
Winston Graham was the author of forty novels, including The Walking Stick, Angell, Pearl and Little God, Stephanie and Tremor. His books have been widely translated and his famous Poldark series has been developed into two television series shown in twenty-four countries. A special two-hour television programme has been made of his eighth Poldark novel, The Stranger from the Sea, whilst a five-part television serial of his early novel The Forgotten Story won a silver medal at the New York Film Festival. Six of Winston Graham’s books have been filmed for the big screen, the most notable being Marnie, directed by Alfred Hitchcock. Winston Graham was a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and in 1983 was awarded the OBE. He died in July 2003.
ALSO BY WINSTON GRAHAM
The Poldark series
Ross Poldark • Demelza • Jeremy Poldark • Warleggan • The Black Moon • The Four Swans • The Angry Tide • The Stranger from the Sea • The Miller’s Dance • The Loving Cup • The Twisted Sword •
Night Journey • Cordelia • The Forgotten Story • The Merciless Ladies • Night Without Stars • Take My Life • Fortune Is a Woman • The Little Walls • The Sleeping Partner • Greek Fire • The Tumbled House • Marnie • The Grove of Eagles • After the Act • The Walking Stick • Angell, Pearl and Little God • The Japanese Girl (short stories) • Woman in the Mirror • The Green Flash • Cameo • Stephanie • Tremor
The Spanish Armada • Poldark’s Cornwall • Memoirs of a Private Man
First published 2002 by Macmillan
This edition published 2008 by Pan Books
This electronic edition published 2011 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-0-330-52401-8 EPUB
Copyright © Winston Graham 2002
The right of Winston Graham to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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