So it had not infrequently occurred to George already that he had made a grave mistake in marrying again. The old life of solitary eminence, with no one daring to cross him and only mercantile problems to concern him, sometimes looked too alluring.
Yet, had he had the chance to return to his old ways, it is probable that he would not have taken it. Harriet was a dynamic woman and had all the faults of her qualities. But her very presence was a constant challenge to his pride and to his manhood. Elizabeth had been essentially a gentlewoman, in the sense of that word when it is made two, and could only be brought to vehemence when deeply stirred. Harriet was anything but gentle: she spat and swore and could be coarse in conversation. On the relatively rare occasions when she admitted him into her bedroom she had no passive thoughts at all, and he came away exhausted and stimulated, with wild passionate memories that kept recurring during the days that followed.
So far they had had arguments but never a downright quarrel. There had never been a test of strength. If there ever were, the probabilities suggested she would come out of it best, assuming she had the intelligence to choose her own ground. Being a woman, it seemed unlikely that she would ram her head against a wall she knew to be there.
‘In any event,’ she said on this occasion, ‘I wanted the horse and we have bought the horse. Is there anything to complain of in that? I know you would have preferred to leave it with your old rival; but had you done so you would have been going back on your bid – which is not too admirable a thing to do – and Poldark would have had the horse, however expensive it might have been to him! We are well out of a vexing situation.’
George grunted.
‘It is the first time,’ Harriet said, ‘that I have seen this gentleman. He has a certain sultry, sallow look which I admit give one curious sensations in the crotch; but I would not have thought him such an ogre as I had been led to believe. Trim his hair a little, give him a new cravat, and he would pass in a drawing-room as well as the next man. Indeed, were you not so daggers-drawn towards each other, I would favour his acquaintance.’
George grunted again like a bull being pricked with the finer end of the goad.
‘Try inviting him,’ he said. ‘See what your response will be!’
‘I might do precisely that! Anyway you permit his gangling son and his bonny daughter to frequent your house. Are we not all too near to each other to brangle like cocks on a dunghill?’
‘They do not frequent my house! You have seen them there once, just once, at Easter, at Valentine’s request . . .’ George stopped and swallowed and carefully adjusted his hat. He fancied that Harriet enjoyed teasing him, and sometimes, when the subject was different, he quite enjoyed it. Not now. But he must not get fussed and angry. He must meet her on her own ground. ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘however much you may fancy this gentleman, with all the unsavoury rumours that surround him, I regret that, now you have chosen me as your permanent companion, you cannot have him too. Ross and I . . . since the days we were at school together we have never found pleasure in each other’s company. There is a saying, isn’t there, about oil and water. We are oil and water. There are few things he and I agree on but I believe we would agree on this. However scornfully you may feel disposed to liken us to cocks on a dunghill, there is no way of avoiding the fact that – even if we no longer quarrel so openly – we cannot mix. You have to choose between us, and – and, as it seems, you have already chosen.’
Harriet’s laugh was so deep as to be half buried, but lazily attractive for all that. George knew it too well. ‘Then let us differ to agree. I have chosen. We have a new horse, Bargrave. I shall ride him tomorrow. You have an expensive wife, George, and pay the penalty. Captain Poldark must be forgot. Do I not see Major Trevanion bearing down upon us once again?’
She did. Trevanion arrived, looking flushed. Both he and George had heavily backed Valentine in the third race and had lost a good deal from the wagers. But a lucky bet on the fifth had restored Trevanion’s fortunes. He was cheerful and sanguine and not a little drunk.
At that moment George’s sharp eyes discerned Trevanion’s sister Cuby returning, it seemed, to the racecourse, her eyes shining suspiciously, from the woodland which led to the river. With her was the young Poldark, streaky and thin and rather stooping. Quite clearly they had been walking together and not disliking the experience.
‘Valentine,’ said Trevanion expansively, as he came up. ‘Where is Valentine?’
‘He was down at the ring,’ said George.
‘Lud’s my life, that was an excellent race he rode! Lud’s my life; that other nag should never have overtook him! Had not Carapace fallen at the corner . . . The course was damned badly planned. They should never have had such a slope at the corner. I believe Carapace’s jockey is quite serious hurt.’
‘I believe so,’ said George. ‘By the way—’
He was interrupted. ‘When does Valentine leave for Cambridge?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Ah . . . I had hoped one day next week he might come over. While Augustus is home, twould be suitable for him to call and see—’
‘By the way,’ said George, interrupting in his turn; ‘have you noticed that Miss Cuby has been walking with Mr Jeremy Poldark? And from the look of them, they do not appear to have disliked their stroll.’
Major Trevanion’s face wore a number of expressions as he turned his head and looked across the crowded field, moving from surprise to annoyance to self-satisfaction. They could all plainly see the wagonette to which Cuby and Jeremy were returning.
‘That is a mere trifle,’ said Trevanion heartily. ‘Let them meet. We have a deep understanding, Cuby and I. She has promised me. She will not go back on her promise.’
‘Promised you what?’ Harriet asked.
‘Ah, madam,’ said Trevanion, ‘that is a secret between her and me. But I have the greatest possible trust in her. See if I am not correct in my estimate of my dearest sister!’
Chapter Six
I
Situated near the winning post, between the two open stands, a marquee had been erected where the gentry – but only the gentry – might drink or eat a pie in seclusion and a degree of comfort. The pies were not a notable attraction, since most people had brought their own hampers. The drink was.
Shortly before the start of the last race Ross walked in with Isabella-Rose and Mrs Kemp. They would soon be leaving for home, but Isabella-Rose, who had eaten hugely of the food they had brought, was complaining of being hungry again, so he bought her a pork pie and sat her down at a small folding table with Mrs Kemp and two glasses of lemonade, and went back to the long trestle table to buy himself a last brandy.
Because the final race was imminent, the marquee was unusually empty, with less than a score of patrons. Among them were Lord and Lady Falmouth talking to Lord Devoran and his randy daughter Betty, and Dwight and Caroline in a larger group.
Ross, who knew how little Dwight cared to be in society, suspected the reason why he had become more social over the last couple of years: Dwight wished to see a mental hospital established in the county to stand beside the Cornwall General Infirmary which had been opened in Truro some thirteen years ago, and it was at gatherings where men of influence and affluence talked and drank together that such a project could be furthered. Indeed, there had been a public meeting in February of this year and a subscription list opened, with the Prince Regent donating five hundred guineas, Lord Falmouth two hundred, and Lord de Dunstanville, not to be outdone, three hundred; but while the war continued a beginning was in abeyance – no one had the necessary drive or initiative to take the next steps.
As Ross sipped his brandy, Lady Falmouth walked towards the door of the marquee with the Devorans, leaving Lord Falmouth temporarily alone. It seemed a matter of civility to join him.
‘Ah, Captain Poldark,’ the young man said, ‘I had your letter last week. Thank you. You made your position perfectly plain.’
‘Not discourte
ously so, I trust?’
‘Not at all. Firm. Possibly a trifle misguided.’
‘In what way, my lord?’
‘There seem to be two distinct reasons why you do not wish to stand again in my interest. One, you are tired of the responsibility and wish to opt out of it. Two, you feel we shall quarrel over matters of principle.’
Ross considered. ‘Yes . . . I suppose that is true. Though . . .’
‘Though?’
‘Well, I suppose it is the latter which concerns me most.’
‘Yes. Yes, I see. But I trust I am correct in supposing the former also?’
‘That I am tired of Parliament? I don’t know, my lord. It has been known for a man to groan at some irksome responsibility and then to miss it when it is taken from him. Possibly when this has happened I shall not miss it at all.’
‘Or you may.’
‘Or I may. But only, I think, so far as the war is concerned. At the best, even as a member of Parliament, one is little more than a puppet activated by forces so much stronger than oneself. Can one really pretend that by sitting in that chamber one is at all able to influence history? One could be as well ploughing one’s land or digging in the ground for tin.’
Falmouth ordered two more glasses of brandy. For the relatively small number of people in the marquee a lot of noise was being generated. Nobody was drunk, certainly not his Lordship, but everyone was at the end of a day in which an amount of liquor had been consumed.
‘Do you yet know the exact date of the election?’ Ross asked.
‘Between the fourth and the eleventh of October. It’s a good time – the harvest is in and the bustle of the Quarter Sessions will be over.’
‘But in Truro itself.’
‘The ninth. That will be the Friday.’
‘There will be no contest?’
‘Oh no.’
‘Whom have you chosen in my place?’
‘Colonel Lemon will retain his seat. In your place? There are one or two people I have in mind. One is Sir George Warrender.’
Ross took a gulp of brandy. ‘Before God, I thought for a moment your Lordship was going to say Sir George Warleggan!’
They both laughed.
‘No . . . He is my brother-in-law. There is also another brother-in-law, John Bankes, who could be relied upon never to say a word out of turn.’
‘As I could not.’
‘As you could not.’
They drifted towards the opening in the marquee, where the rest were standing. The horses were lining up for the start.
‘Mrs Poldark is well?’
‘Thank you, yes. We are expecting our fifth child in December, and she does not care to come into company at this stage.’
‘I had your daughter pointed out to me just now. The very blonde young lady.’
‘Yes.’
‘Outstanding fairness. Were your parents fair?’
‘Not at all. Nor my wife’s. Clowance is quite an exception.’
‘Like you and your pro-Catholicism in a notably Protestant family.’
Ross smiled grimly.
‘Very true, my lord. Though I do not see myself at all as pro-Catholic. On the contrary, I would that they were all Protestants. But since they do not wish to be, I think they should be allowed to worship as they will and not suffer material disadvantage for it.’
Lord Falmouth stared across at the horses, which would not get into line. ‘Do you have a fancy for this race?’
‘No.’
‘Nor I . . . I suppose you know, Captain Poldark, that this Emancipation business is likely to be a dead issue in the next parliament.’
‘No, I certainly do not.’
‘Well . . . With Liverpool as First Minister you will see nothing under his government.’
‘He left the issue to a free vote in the spring. And later in the Lords, Mr Canning’s motion was defeated by only one vote.’
‘Maybe. But there is strong feeling in the country. And notably in this influential county. The heads of the Sidmouth party in Cornwall are being particularly careful, I notice, to choose candidates for their anti-Catholic views. I think you will find the new House when it assembles distinctly less friendly to Mr Canning’s cause than the present one.’
Ross did not reply. In this respect he knew his Lordship was better informed than he was.
‘So you see,’ said Lord Falmouth with slight malice, ‘you will be needed more than ever at Westminster to support so unpopular a cause.’
‘Are you inviting me to change my mind?’
‘Certainly not. It would be most improper.’
‘It would certainly be improper to accept a seat from a patron and then to act directly contrary to his views.’
‘Which is what you have said before, and I acknowledge the truth of it.’
‘So?’
‘So. You should not put any strain upon your conscience.’
‘They’re off!’ someone shouted, and this was echoed by many voices.
Although Ross and the other man had no interest in any of the horses or in the outcome, they were drawn to the doorway to watch the contest by the magnetism that works in any horse race. The crowd cheered, the horses thudded their hoofs into the scattering mud, jockeys kneed themselves out of their saddles, crouching and urging and using the whip. Two horses came to the finishing post neck and neck, a black and a roan. In the soft going it had been strength and staying power that counted all day. In the end the roan won by a neck and the referee rang his bell to announce the winner. The rest of the group went out into the last sunshine as the losing horses galloped past. The two men remained standing in the doorway.
‘Do you ever read the West Briton, my lord?’
‘A radical periodical, with very little to recommend it. No.’
‘The first editorial this week asks the question: “Shall we ever see a time when an election will really be An Appeal to the People?”’
Superior members of the public were now coming into the marquee for a final drink. Among them were Major Trevanion and Sir George and Lady Harriet Warleggan.
Ross went on: ‘A friend of mine who as it happens is here today has also said: “When can we have an election like the Americans – no rowdiness or fighting or fuss and all seats contested on the same day?” You see, my lord, how unsuitable I am to continue to represent your interest when both of these must also be my long-term aims?’
Lord Falmouth nodded as he finished his brandy. ‘Have a care for one thing, Captain Poldark. It is a mistake in life and especially in politics, to take so distant a view that one loses sight of the vital thing closest at hand.’
‘Which is?’
‘What you have mentioned yourself a few moments ago! To win the war.’
II
What might be described as the North Coast Convoy left to ride home as the twilight faded and a sliver of moon peered out behind the clouds. There were the two Enyses, four Trenegloses, Paul and Daisy Kellow, the two Pope girls, five Poldarks, Stephen Carrington, Mrs Kemp, John Gimlett with the new pony, and two other grooms. Since the ways were not all that safe for the lonely traveller after dark – especially with so many gypsies and horse traders drawn together for the day – it was common sense to ride together. But inevitably, the tracks being so narrow, the convoy became a crocodile, there never being more room than for two or three.
Stephen said sulkily: ‘There wasn’t no other way – I’ve told you!’
‘Except to tell him the truth.’
‘It wouldn’t have done!’
‘I don’t see. Of course if the sailor did die of his stab wounds . . .’
‘That is not true, as I’ve said to you twice already! If the man died twas not from the pinpricks I gave him. If he did die – which I still doubt – then twas of some colic or other distemper he had picked up elsewhere, and they are trying to lay the blame on a slight wound so as to make it out it was a villainous act!’
Monuments of cloud had climbed up the sky a
gain. The puny moon was obliterated, only the broken roots of one of the clouds being incandescent at the edges.
Stephen said: ‘I ask you. Is there aught villainous in trying to escape being pressed? Everyone does it. Every able man who’s right in the head! Would ye have wished me now at this moment to be a sailor, swinging athwart some lower mizzen tops’l yard and expecting the lash if I was not quick enough about me work? Would ye now? Just tell me that. Would ye?’
‘Of course not!’ said Clowance fiercely but unhappily.
‘But you blame me,’ he said. ‘You blame me, don’t you.’
‘Stephen, no! That is not it at all!’
‘Then what is it?’
‘It is just that I am not sure . . .’
‘Not sure of what?’
She said: ‘That it would not have been better – the best policy even – to have told Andrew the truth. Lies . . . they may be useful sometimes – I cannot say anything about that . . . But this time . . . You see, Andrew is a relative, one of the family. Surely it would have been better to have taken him into your confidence, to have said, look, Andrew, it happened like this. (Just as you have just told me.) You didn’t kill him, you say. Even if the stab wounds had something to do with it, they were unintentional. So what is wrong with that? It was – a nasty fight. You were fighting for your freedom. Anything could have happened. It all sounds worse than it really was. So, Andrew, you could have said, pray keep quiet about it. Nobody else has connected me with the fight. In all likelihood, no one else ever will. So if you keep quiet . . . After all, I am affianced to your cousin, Clowance, and she is shortly to marry me. For everybody’s sake it is better if this recognition goes no further . . .’
‘Go on,’ said Stephen bitterly, ‘it’s a good story.’
‘But now . . . Don’t you think he’ll go on wondering? Wondering if he really did make a mistake. Thinking it over. And . . . if he ever comes to Nampara – as well he could – and sees Paul Kellow, he’ll know you were lying. Then who knows what he will do or say on the spur of the moment?’ Clowance tightened her rein as they came to ford a stream. ‘That’s what I mean, Stephen. That’s really all that worries me.’