Demelza slipped past her and ran up the stairs.
She knew where the main bedrooms were, and as she turned the corner of the corridor an elderly black-haired woman came out of one of the rooms carrying a bowl of water. Demelza recognized her as Aunt Sarah Tregeagle, Uncle Ben’s putative wife. She dipped a brief curtsy when she saw Demelza.
“Are they in here?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are you—seeing after them?”
“Well, Dr. Tommy calls me in, ma’am. But ’tis midwifing that belongs to be my proper work, as ye know. I come cos there was no one else. But my proper work be lying-in—laying out, when need be.”
Her hand on the door, Demelza stared after the woman, who was slopping water on the floor in her carelessness. Everyone knew Aunt Sarah. Not the nurse for those gentlefolk. But of course there was no choice. The smell of herbs was much stronger there.
She opened the door gently and slipped in.
• • •
After the meeting of the shareholders, Ross did not go straight back to the Pascoes’. They did not sup till eight, and he did not want to spend an hour making polite conversation with the ladies in the parlor.
So he strolled through the backstreets of the little town. Deliberately he turned his mind away from all the things that had just finished. Instead, he thought about himself and his family, about his rake of a father, who had been in and out of trouble all his life, making love to one woman after another, fighting with this husband and that parent, cynical and disillusioned and sturdy to the end. He thought of Demelza and of how his estrangement from Francis sometimes seemed to come between her and him. It had no business to, but it did—a sort of reservation, a bar sinister on their clear intimacy. He thought of Garrick her dog, of Julia, laughing and self-absorbed and untroubled with the perplexities of the world. He thought of Mark Daniel away in a foreign land, and wondered if he would ever bring himself to settle down there, or whether one day homesickness would lure him back into the shadow of the gibbet. He thought of the sickness at Trenwith and of Verity.
The drift of his steps had taken him out of the town and toward the river, which was full and gleamed with the lights of ships and lanterns moving about the docks. There were three vessels moored alongside the wharves: two small schooners and a ship of some size for the creek, a brigantine Ross saw when he got near enough to make out the yards on her foremast. She was a nice new ship, recently painted, with brass glistening on the poop. She would draw so much water, he thought, as to make it unsafe to put in and out except at the high tides. That was the reason for all the bustle.
He strolled on toward the trees growing low to the riverbank and then turned to come back. From there, although there was no moon, he could make out the wide gleam of the flood tide with the masts like lattices in the foreground and the winking pins of light in the black rim of the town.
As he came near the brigantine again he saw several men going aboard. Two sailors held lanterns at the top of the gangway, and as one of the men reached the deck the lantern light fell clear on his face. Ross made a half movement and then checked himself. There was nothing he could do to the man.
He walked thoughtfully on. He turned back to look once, but the men had gone below. A sailor passed.
“Are you for the Queen Charlotte?” Ross asked on impulse.
The sailor stopped and peered suspiciously. “Me, sur? No, sur. Fairy Vale. Cap’n Hodges.”
“She’s a fine ship, the Queen Charlotte,” Ross said. “Is she new to these parts?”
“Oh, she’s been in three or four times this year, I bla’.”
“Who is her master?”
“Cap’n Bray, sur. She’s just off, I reckon.”
“What is her cargo, do you know?”
“Grain for the most part, an’ pilchards.” The sailor moved on.
Ross stared at the ship a moment longer and then turned and walked back into the town.
• • •
The heavy smell of incense came from a little brazier of disinfectant herbs burning smokily in the center of the bedroom. Demelza had found them all in the one room. Francis lay in the great mahogany bed. Geoffrey Charles was in his own small bed in the alcove. Elizabeth sat beside him.
Any resentment she might once have felt for Demelza was as nothing before relief at her coming.
“Oh, Demelza, how kind of you! I have been in—in despair. We are in—terrible straits. How kind of you. My poor little boy…”
Demelza stared at the child. Geoffrey Charles was struggling for breath, every intake sounded raw and hoarse and painful. His face was flushed and strained and his eyes only half open. There were red spots behind his ears and on the nape of his neck. One hand kept opening and shutting as he breathed.
“He—he has these paroxysms,” Elizabeth muttered. “And then he spits up or vomits. There is relief then, but only for—for a time before it begins all over again.”
Her voice was broken and despairing. Demelza looked at her flushed face, at the piled fair hair, at the great glistening gray eyes.
“You’re ill yourself, Elizabeth. You did ought to be in bed.”
“A slight fever. But not this. I can manage to keep up. Oh, my poor boy. I have prayed—and prayed…”
“And Francis?”
Elizabeth coughed and swallowed with difficulty. “Is…a little…on the mend. There—there, my poor dear…if only I could help him. We paint his throat with this Melrose, but there seems small relief…”
“Who is it?” said Francis from the bed. His voice was almost unrecognizable.
“It is Demelza. She has come to help us.”
There was silence.
Then Francis said slowly, “It is good of her to overlook past quarrels…”
Demelza breathed out a slow breath.
“If…the servants had not been ill too,” Elizabeth went on, “we could have made a better shift… But only Mary Bartle… Tom Choake has persuaded Aunt Sarah… It is not a pretty task… He could find no one else.”
“Don’t talk anymore,” Demelza said. “You should be abed. Look, Elizabeth, I—I didn’t know if I came to stay for a long time, for I didn’t know how you was fixed—”
“But—”
“But since you need me I’ll stay—so long as ever I can. But first—soon—soon I must slip home and tell Jane Gimlett and give her word for looking after Julia. Then I’ll be back.”
“Thank you. If only for tonight. It is such a relief to have someone to rely on. Thank you again. Do you hear, Francis, Demelza is going to see us through tonight.”
The door opened and Aunt Sarah Tregeagle hobbled in with a bowl full of clean water.
“Aunt Sarah,” said Demelza, “will you help me with Mrs. Poldark. She must be put to bed.”
• • •
After supper at the Pascoes, when the ladies had left them and they were settling to the port, Harris Pascoe said, “Well, and what is your news today?”
Ross stared at the dark wine in his glass. “We are finished. The company will be wound up tomorrow.”
The banker shook his head.
“I made a last effort to persuade them otherwise,” Ross said. “For the first time in years copper has moved up instead of down. I put that to them and suggested we should try to keep together for another six months. I suggested that the furnace workers should be invited to work on a profit-sharing basis. Every mine does the same thing when it strikes bargains with tributers. I suggested we should make one last effort. A few were willing, but the influential men would have none of it.”
“Especially S-Sir John Trevaunance,” said the banker.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“You are right about the price of copper. I had news today, it has risen another three pounds.”
“That is six pounds in
six weeks.”
“But, mind you, years may pass before the metal reaches an economic level.”
“How did you know Sir John would be opposed to my suggestion?”
Harris Pascoe licked his lips and looked diffident.
“Not so much opposed to your suggestion in p-particular as to a continuance in general. And then I was rather going on hearsay.”
“Which is?”
“Which is that—er—Sir John, after battling against the wind for twelve months, is now preparing to sail with it. He has lost a tidy sum over this project and is anxious to recoup himself. He does not wish to see the smelting works lying idle permanently.”
Ross thought of Sir John’s voice that evening; he remembered Ray Penvenen’s absence.
He got up. “Do you mean he is selling out to the Warleggans?”
The little banker reached for his wine.
“I think he is willing to come to some accommodation with them. Beyond that I know nothing.”
“He and Penvenen are going to make a deal to cover their own losses while the rest of us go to the wall.”
“I imagine it likely,” said Pascoe, “that some sort of a caretaker company will be formed, and that the Warleggans will have a representative on it.”
Ross was silent, staring at the books in the cabinet.
“Tell me,” he said. “This evening I thought I saw Matthew Sanson boarding a ship in the docks. Could that be possible?”
“Yes, he has been back in Truro for several months.”
“He is allowed to come back here and trade as if nothing had happened? Are the Warleggans complete masters of the district?”
“No one cares sufficiently about Sanson to make a fuss. There are only four or five people whom he cheated, and they are not influential.”
“And the ship he sails in?”
“Yes, that is the property of a company controlled by the Warleggans. There’s the Queen Charlotte and the Lady Lyson. No doubt they’re a profitable side line.”
Ross said, “If I were in your shoes I should tremble for my soul. Is there anyone besides you in the town they don’t own from head to toe?”
Pascoe colored. “I like them little more than you. But you’re t-taking an extreme view now. The average man in the district only knows them as rich and influential people. You know them as something more because you chose to challenge them on their own ground. I am only sorry—profoundly sorry—that you have not been more successful. If g-goodwill would have sufficed you would have triumphed without a doubt.”
“Whereas goodwill did not suffice,” Ross said. “What we needed was good gold.”
“It was not my project,” said the banker after a moment. “I did what I could and will be the poorer for it.”
“I know,” Ross said. “Failure puts an edge on one’s tongue.” He sat down again. “Well, now comes the reckoning. Let’s get it over. The company will almost clear itself, so that leaves only our personal ends to be settled. What is my indebtedness to you?”
Harris Pascoe straightened his steel spectacles. “Not a big sum—about n-nine hundred pounds or a little less. That is over and above the mortgage on your property.”
Ross said, “The sale of my Wheal Leisure shares will meet most of that—together with the dividend we have just declared.”
“It will rather more than meet it. By chance I heard of someone inquiring for shares of Wheal Leisure only yesterday. They offered eight hundred and twenty-five pounds for sixty shares.”
“There—is one other small matter,” Ross said. “Harry Blewett of Wheal Maid is worse hit than I am. He fears going to prison and I don’t wonder. The shares and the dividend will come to nearly a thousand and I want the extra to go to him. It’s possible that with it he’ll be able to keep his head up.”
“Then you wish me to sell the shares at that price?”
“If it’s the best you can get.”
“It is better than you would receive if they were thrown on the open market. Thirteen pounds fifteen shillings a share is a good price for these days.”
“Thirteen pounds…” The wineglass suddenly snapped in Ross’s fingers and the red wine splashed over his hand.
Pascoe was standing beside him. “What is wrong? Are you ill?”
“No,” said Ross. “Not at all ill. Your glass has a delicate stem. I hope it was not an heirloom.”
“No. But something…”
Ross said, “I have decided different. I do not sell the shares.”
“It was a m-man named Coke who approached me…”
Ross took out a handkerchief and wiped his hand. “It was a man named Warleggan.”
“Oh, no, I assure you. What makes you—”
“I don’t care what nominee they chose. It is their money and they shall not have the shares.”
Pascoe looked a little put out as he handed Ross another glass. “I had no idea. I s-sympathize with your feeling. But it is a good offer.”
“It will not be taken,” Ross said. “Not if I have to sell the house and the land. I’m sorry, Harris; you’ll wait for your money whether you like it or not. You cannot force me for another month or so. Well, I’ll get it before then—somehow. In the meantime, I’ll keep my own mine smelling sweet if I go to jail for it.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Mr. Notary Pearce was at home playing cribbage with his daughter when Ross was announced. Miss Pearce, a comely young woman of twenty-five who never made enough of her good looks, rose at once and excused herself, and Mr. Pearce, pushing aside the table, poked at the huge fire with his curtain rod and invited Ross to sit down.
“Well, Captain Poldark; I declare this is quite an event. Can you stay for a hand of cribbage? Playing with Grace is always a little dull, for she will not hazard a penny on the outcome.”
Ross moved his chair farther from the fire.
“I need your advice and help.”
“Well, my dear sir, you may have them if they are mine to give.”
“I want a loan of a thousand pounds without security.”
Mr. Pearce’s eyebrows went up. Like the other shareholders of Wheal Leisure, he had stood aloof from the battle of the copper companies. But he know very well which way it had gone.
“Hrr—hm. That is rather a severe proposition. Without security, you said? Yes, I thought so. Dear, dear.”
Ross said, “I should be willing to pay a high rate of interest.”
Mr. Pearce scratched himself. “Without security. Have you tried Cary Warleggan?”
“No,” said Ross. “Nor do I intend to.”
“Just so. Just so. But it will be very difficult. If you have no security, what can you offer?”
“My word.”
“Yes, yes. Yes, yes. But that would really amount to a friendly accommodation. Have you approached any of your friends?”
“No. I want it to be a business arrangement. I will pay for the privilege.”
“You will pay? You mean in interest? Yes… But the lender might be chiefly concerned for his capital. Why do you not sell your shares in Wheal Leisure if you need the money so badly?”
“Because that is what I am trying to avoid.”
“Ah, yes.” Mr. Pearce’s plum-colored face was not encouraging. “And your property?”
“Is already mortgaged.”
“For how much?”
Ross told him.
Mr. Pearce took a pinch of snuff. “I think the Warleggans would raise that figure if you transferred the mortgage to them.”
“Several times in recent years,” Ross said, “the Warleggans have tried to interest themselves in my affairs. I mean to keep them out.”
It was on Mr. Pearce’s tongue to say that beggars could not be choosers, but he changed his mind.
“Have you thought of a secon
d mortgage on the property? There are people—I know one or two who might be willing for the speculative risk.”
“Would that bring in sufficient?”
“It might. But naturally such a risk would be a short-term one, say for twelve or twenty-four months—”
“That would be agreeable.”
“—and would carry a very high interest rate. In the nature of 40 percent.”
For a loan of a thousand pounds he would have to find fourteen hundred by the same time next year, in addition to his other commitments. A hopeless proposition—unless the price of copper continued to rise and Wheal Leisure struck another lode as rich as the present.
“Could you arrange such a loan?”
“I could try. It is a bad time for such things. There is no cheap money about.”
“That is not cheap money.”
“No, no. I quite agree. Well, I could let you know in a day or two.”
“I should want to know tomorrow.”
Mr. Pearce struggled out of his chair. “Dear, dear, how stiff one gets. I have been better, but there is still some gouty humor lurking in my constitution. I could let you know tomorrow possibly, though it might take a week or so to get the money.”
“That will do,” Ross said. “I’ll take that.”
• • •
On Tuesday he delayed leaving the town until five in the afternoon.
He and Johnson and Tonkin and Blewett wound up the Carnmore Copper Company before dinner. Ross did not pass on Harris Pascoe’s hint from the previous day. There was nothing any of them could do to prevent Sir John’s entering into some agreement with the Warleggans if he chose to. There was nothing to prevent the smelting works from coming into the hands of the Warleggans or a new company being formed to exploit their own hard work.