As the three of them later sat down to a quiet supper, Clowance thought to herself that young Tom Guildford had hardly addressed a word to her.
But he had looked a lot.
II
Sir George Warleggan – who would have skinned his son if he had heard his insulting appellation – never intended a large or such an improvised and extended party. His entertaining, like most of his other activities, was usually conducted with the utmost prudence and purpose.
But Lady Harriet, who had not been seen much during the last two months except on the hunting field, or arriving bedraggled and muddy each night at the supper table, emerged now suddenly from the stables to side with her stepson, and before George quite knew it the thing was out of hand. Musicians who sometimes played at the Assembly Rooms were hired from Truro. Grooms and even stable boys were sent flying over a ten-mile radius with invitations for suitable – and in George’s view unsuitable – people, and huge amounts of food were hurriedly got in and cooked and laid out on platters and dishes.
People began to assemble about five, just as it was going dusk, and soon a concourse was moving about the public rooms. Music was already being played in the large drawing-room and a few were dancing. Because it was all such an ad hoc affair there were wide variations in dress from the formal to the casual. Viewing the whole party with an uneasy disfavour, which he did not make a show of because he did not wish to displease Harriet, George felt that the evening would cost him at least as much as a full-scale Ball, and that entertaining the best of the county.
Yet adding to everyone’s delight and underscoring the rumours of the last few days, special editions of the newspapers were circulating this evening giving factual details of Napoleon’s defeat. That he had lost 40,000 men between Moscow and Smolensk. That afterwards the Russians had attacked in a bitter snowstorm near Krasnoi and vast numbers of the enemy had been killed and taken prisoner. 200 guns captured. The pick of what was left of the French cavalry and the Imperial Guard were fighting a rearguard action to prevent total destruction.
It was too much to believe, but it was there in black and white. The dispatches were three weeks – four weeks old, but they were official communiqués not hearsay or rumour any more. Napoleon defeated in battle. Not one of his generals. Napoleon himself: the great marshal, the military genius, the colossus who had bestridden Europe for two decades, the bogey man of children, the hero of the diehard Whigs, the statesman whose word made nations tremble, was fighting a rear-guard action with his decimated and typhus-ridden troops among the driving snows of Russia!
As the evening proceeded the party caught fire: drink had been circulating from the outset, and even those normally circumspect had tossed back an extra glass or two for such a celebration; conversation was overborne by laughter.
Many of the guests Clowance knew, either well or by sight. Major Trevanion, like many others in hunting pink, and Clemency and Cuby Trevanion; old Lady Whitworth with her frost-encrusted face and porker-like grandson; Mr and Mrs Clement Pope – she in ravishing green – with their two pretty but insipid daughters; Paul and Daisy Kellow; John and Ruth Treneglos with their son Horrie and their problem daughter Agneta; Lord Devoran with his lickerish but now somewhat elderly daughter Betty. (Nobody had seen Lady Devoran for years: even when they called at her house she hid in corners.) There was Eric Tweedy, son of a wealthy Falmouth solicitor. And young Robert Fox, the Quaker. And, of course, Mr Tom Guildford.
Many she did not know, and assumed they came mainly from Falmouth and from the handsome small manor houses which sheltered in verdant valleys between the Fal and Helford rivers. The company came to number about sixty, and outside a low moon helped the lanterns to light the big gravel courtyard which was full of carriages and horses and gossiping grooms.
Tom Guildford said: ‘Miss Poldark, would you add to my joy on such a joyous evening?’
Their faces were almost on a level. His eyes were serious.
‘Gladly, Mr Guildford, if it is in my power.’
‘Would you dance with me?’
She smiled at him. ‘Of course I will dance if you will tell me what it is! It is not the dancers but the band which has lost its step! I believe Valentine has been filling their beakers.’
‘He told me he would. But again, does it matter? Cannot we improvise? See – a little step here and a little step there, then one turns and bows and – and . . .’
‘What happens next?’
He had been making the movements as he spoke. Now he stopped and laughed. ‘Let us try.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘let’s.’
They proceeded round the floor, laughing as they danced. Luckily at the last moment before leaving Nampara Clowance had packed the scarlet brocade frock she had worn at Bowood, so she was better and more elegantly dressed than most on the floor here tonight. Mr Guildford was in a blue silk coat buttoned to the chin, kerseymere knee-breeches, white stockings and patent shoes. Sir George, on his way to find Major Trevanion with whom he hoped to conclude some business, paused a moment to watch them. He had not known Clowance Poldark would be here tonight; thank God her impudent brother had not turned up. But this woman, this girl, whom he had first encountered stealing foxgloves on his property on the north coast a couple of years ago, continued to trouble him with her looks: the brilliance of her fairness, the frankness and innocence of expression, the freshness of skin. The fact that she was slightly less than slim gave her the look of a ripe peach, slender and yet full, ready for picking. That was Devoran’s nephew with her. Surely the damned girl was engaged or married; if not, she ought to be, take her off the market, out of circulation; was she really as innocent as she looked, dancing like that?
Troubled, he moved away. A hand clawed his arm. ‘Uncle George!’
It was Conan Whitworth, that tall, heavy boy with the beady eyes and the mouse-cropped hair.
‘Yes?’ He hated being addressed as uncle by this youth of sixteen who had no claim so to call him. Conan was dressed in brown corduroy with a shirt of heavy yellow lace and a flowing brown neckcloth. Was he too going to turn into a dude like his father? His present looks did not suggest he would succeed.
‘Grandmother says we may not sup till nine. But we cut our dinner short in order to be here in time and these biscuits are poor sustenance.’
‘Live on your hump, boy,’ George snapped. ‘It is but an hour to wait. Take some healthy exercise to entertain your mind.’ He passed on.
Conan picked at a pimple on his face and gazed at George’s retreating back. A voice behind him mocked:
‘Live on your hump, boy.’
It was little Ursula Warleggan – not so little now, but humpy herself, in dark green velvet.
‘What do you want?’
‘You heard what Papa said! Take some healthy exercise to entertain your mind!’
‘I’d like to take some healthy exercise and beat you with a stick,’ said Conan.
‘You dare,’ said Ursula. ‘You dare lay a finger and I’d scream to stop the band. Go on, I dare you! Lay a finger.’
Conan extended one stubby forefinger. Ursula opened her mouth to scream. ‘I’m not touching you,’ said Conan, grinning. ‘It’s free air. Look, I can put it quite close to your nose!’
Ursula struck at the finger, but Conan was too quick for her and snatched his hand away.
‘Big fat toad!’ said Ursula.
‘Little fat toad,’ said Conan, not to be outdone.
‘If you’re not careful I’ll get Mama to set the dogs on you.’ She ran off.
‘She’s not your mama,’ he called, but she did not seem to hear.
He watched her until she had left the room, hesitated whether to follow, then changed his mind and sauntered after Sir George . . .
Tom Guildford said: ‘How long shall you be staying with Mrs Blamey?’
‘Oh, I may return home any day now,’ Clowance said. ‘It was an arrangement.’
‘But Valentine says your home is not far be
yond St Ann’s on the north coast.’
‘That is true.’
‘May I call, then?’
They tried to take some extra steps in keeping with the beat of the band, and stumbled and laughed.
‘May I call, then?’
‘I expect Valentine will be coming to see us.’
‘But may I call, Miss Poldark, with or without Valentine?’
‘My mother . . . Oh, this music! What will they be like after supper?’
‘Your mother?’
‘She is expecting her fifth child any day. Our household is likely to be a trifle disorganized.’
‘I shall not be calling to see your household.’
‘No, you will not, will you? Then pray come. Always assuming . . . that all is well with my mother.’
‘Should it not be?’
‘She has been ailing, and that most unusual in her . . . You may think it strange that I am not with her; but it is an order of hers . . . she prefers me out of the way, and my brother also.’
‘Would you prefer me to write first, then?’
‘It may not be necessary. I shall know most likely before my return.’
III
Supper had come and gone – literally gone. Harriet had doubled George’s original orders, and she looked with amusement now at the empty dishes, the piles of plates, the occasional corner of a pie left on a platter, the regiments of empty bottles waiting conveyance back to barracks. George made an ill-tempered remark to her and she laughed at him.
‘Breaking eggs, George, breaking eggs. It is the only way to make an omelette. And was there ever a better occasion for an – an omelette than this?’
He didn’t know what she was talking about and doubted very much if she did. He disliked seeing women the worse for drink, and particularly his wife. It could never have happened with Elizabeth. There was not much to show in Harriet’s demeanour; her deep drawling voice had become a little gravelly, her magnificent eyes antic-bound as they sometimes were when she was ready for sex. But there was no opportunity for any such indulgence even had he wished, with the house full of semi-riotous people and likely to remain so far into the night.
Just before supper the band played ‘God Save the King’ and again after, when everyone in every room joined in, with dubious musical effect but to everyone’s total satisfaction. Some of the ladies were in tears. The whole house was full of stupid, sentimental, emotional patriotism, as if it was the British who had gained the victory and not the Russians – as if it were really the end of the war. George very much doubted this: Buonaparte and the French had enormous powers of recuperation; and was this victory so complete as it sounded? Neither the Russians nor the Germans nor the Poles nor the Austrians nor the Spanish had ever done anything worth while before.
From eyeing with resentment the crowds about him, George began to have other thoughts: if by any remote chance it did mean the end of the war, he now stood to gain nothing. How much better to have hung on to his heavy and speculative investments in the North instead of realizing them at a dead loss last year!
At least his business with Trevanion was now complete. All details signed, sealed and settled. It had cost him or would cost him a pretty penny; yet it was a splendid arrangement. The two young people most concerned should be told soon.
Clowance had exchanged a few words with Cuby Trevanion at supper. On principle she detested the girl for making her brother so unhappy, above all for apparently falling in with her brother’s attempts to marry her off to a rich man. If she did not care for Jeremy – and Clowance could not imagine how any girl could not – that was a black mark in the first place. But having, according to Jeremy, some feeling for him – certainty led him to believe she had some feeling for him – then cold-bloodedly to turn him down because he hadn’t the money, was unforgivable, insufferable. But since the races there had been some sort of a reconciliation, however tenuous, however uncertainly based, and Clowance now wanted to do her best to help.
So they smiled at each other and talked about the warmth of the evening and the amazing news. She was pretty, Clowance realized, much more so than she had thought at Easter; she lit up when she was speaking, the sulkiness was gone like a cloud breaking into sunshine, and of course because of the cloud the sun seemed the brighter.
Presently she said quite casually, as if it were the last thing that occurred to her, that she had not seen Jeremy here tonight. No, Clowance agreed, perhaps they had not sent him word. Of course I sent him word, said Valentine, who was beside them helping Mrs Selina Pope to ice-cream, but he was away, in Hayle or somewhere. Hayle? said Clowance. The groom said no more, said Valentine; Mrs Pope, I declare you have become even more slender than your daughters, pray allow me to put this on your plate: waste it if you will, waste it if you will. Can I take something to Mr Pope?
Mr Pope’s decision to come tonight had been a big surprise and a big mistake. It was his first appearance in company for several months; but being in better health than for some time he had decided to accept the invitation for the whole family, supposing, since he knew Sir George as a dignified and sober figure, and one who only mixed in the best company he could find, that this event would be an elegant evening worthy of his attendance. He had reckoned without George’s new wife. He was sitting now in an anteroom, high-collared, black-coated, stiff-necked, looking more than ever like Robespierre, a glass of port untouched at his side and on his face an expression of costive goodwill that was intended to hide the annoyance he was feeling. One or other of his daughters, or his wife, would pop in for a few minutes in turn to keep him company.
In a corner Betty Devoran was making a set at a tall young Welsh officer of the Brecon militia, disfigured by a birthmark on his forehead and cheek. Betty was not deterred by a little thing like that. She had never married and now probably never would, though it was said on good authority that she had at least three illegitimate children farmed out around the county. She was known never to resist a pair of trousers, but it was all done with such laughing good humour and such obvious enjoyment that polite society turned a blind eye. Everyone knew Betty.
In another corner Horrie Treneglos was laying siege to a dowdy girl called Angela Nankivell, only daughter of Arthur Nankivell, who by his marrying a Scobell had become a rich man. Horrie, aged twenty-four, had a curious fancy for dowdy girls. He had bedded many of them but, except for a couple of paternity suits on which payment was made quarterly to abandoned servant girls, he had so far come out unscathed and unattached. On this particular pursuit on this particular evening, John and Ruth Treneglos watched him from the other side of the room with the very greatest benevolence. He was unlikely to get Angela without marrying her, and even if he did, subsequent marriage would be all they could desire. The Trenegloses were of ancient lineage and landed possession, but never had any – or scarcely any – of that curious thing called money. They never lacked any of the amenities of life but they were always short of coin. Arthur Nankivell, and by association his daughter, was never short of coin.
After supper Tom Guildford danced with Clowance several times more. She told him about herself. He told her that except for his uncle there never was a trace of a title in his family, in spite of the name, but that he was of Cornish descent and related to the Killigrews, now extinct, through a Thomas Guildford Killigrew; and that he often stayed with Lord Devoran, whose estate was near Kea in the neighbourhood of Truro. This was such a free and easy occasion, such a sturdily Bohemian occasion, that it seemed not at all out of line that they should dance together just as often as they wished without regard to propriety. Tom Guildford was very ardent and Clowance could not, or did not, resist him.
As the clocks were striking twelve Betty Devoran performed a solo dance which owed nothing to preparation but much to drunken inspiration. The noise she made and the band made and the watchers made roused the boar hounds, who had suffered so far in silence, and their baying and barking almost stopped the clock. But after it the dancing be
came ever more frenzied until one a.m., when George passed sternly among the sagging band telling them enough was enough. On this came a footman looking for Miss Clowance Poldark. Hot and dishevelled and glowing, she came forward to receive a letter from her father, which Verity had sent on to her in haste.
Dear Clowance [it ran],
You have a brother – another brother – whom we have yet forborne to name. He came at six of the clock this evening, and praise be to God, caused little trouble in his arrival. He seems well and is at this present sleeping peacefully. Your mother has survived but is very weak. We cannot quite understand why she is so ill, but your Uncle Dwight, who has taken a troubled view of her for the last three months, is now more hopeful. Indeed, he is optimistic – which as you know is not the commonest condition in which he passes his days.
So I can tell you I live hopefully – not optimistically, for that would be foreign for me too – but hopefully, that our Christmas will be a happy one after all. Come home soon. We do not need you but we want you. Tear yourself away from Verity and rejoin us.
As ever your loving Father.
‘News?’ said Tom Guildford. ‘Not bad news, I pray?’ Looking at her eyes brimming with tears.
‘No, Tom, thank you. The best! The best!’
‘Then why do you weep?’ His face was close to hers.
‘Pleasure. Happiness. Relief! I could not have borne it!’ ‘What could you not have borne, my angel?’
‘What might have happened. What I feared was going to happen!’ She waved the letter at him. ‘Oh, I had the strangest premonitions! Now they have gone! What a perfect way to end the night!’
With a light hand on her shoulder he kissed her. Her mouth was like half-open petals. The crowd was standing all around them on the ballroom floor but no one seemed to notice. The band had given up. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. He kissed her hand and then her mouth again.
Somebody shouted something, and two or three others took up the cry.