‘Yes, Father.’
‘And I have always postponed the issue by saying that this was the third item to be considered, and that there was small purpose in discussing it before the other two had been negotiated. Well, now they have been.’
‘Yes, Father.’
Ross eyed his son with a long measuring look of appraisal.
‘I gather you have been undertaking some practical study in engine building as well as theoretical.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘You did. When we discussed it first.’
Jeremy said obliquely: ‘Did I? Oh yes, of course. I had forgot.’
‘On that occasion you remember I said I’d need to be convinced of your ability to design such an engine before we agreed to it. Clearly, a single error might cost us more than what we saved in not employing one of the recognized engineers.’
‘Yes, you said that also.’
‘And?’
‘I quite agree, sir. It is a question of whether, after inquiry, you will feel convinced that it is worth the risk.’
‘Can you convince me that it is?’
‘I can try . . .’ Jeremy hesitated. ‘I think the best thing is if I bring you a plan, a design. Perhaps you will not feel willing to say yes or no without some second opinion. But that I’m quite willing to accept.’
They rode on. Ross said: ‘How have you come to know so much?’
Jeremy hesitated. ‘I have been about mine engines ever since I was old enough to walk.’
‘Oh yes, in a general way. But – ’
‘On this I’ve had Peter Curnow’s advice. Also Aaron Nanfan who, as you know, was twenty years engineer at Wheal Anna. And of course I’ve discussed the proposition with Mr Henry Harvey of Hayle. He has made his own suggestions. It is not just a – a fancy thing.’
‘I didn’t suppose so.’
Jeremy struggled with his reluctance to speak of things which previously had been secret to himself. ‘Dr Enys – Uncle Dwight – has helped as well.’
‘Dwight? How on earth?’
‘He has bought Rees’s Cyclopaedia as it came out. I have borrowed it from him regularly.’
‘I’ve heard of it – no more.’
‘Dr Abraham Rees is publishing it. It is not yet complete, but there are many articles that have been useful.’
‘I never saw you reading them.’
‘I read them upstairs in bed. It was – easier to concentrate there.’
Ross studied his son.
Jeremy said: ‘I’ve read other things as well, of course. ‘A Treatise of Mechanics’. And a separate piece of it, ‘An Account of Steam Engines’ was published independently a couple of years ago. I wrote to Dr Gregory – the author. We have corresponded regularly since. Also I have written to Mr Trevithick a few times.’
‘You’ve been very secretive in all this,’ Ross said.
‘I’m sorry . . .’
‘Have you seen Trevithick since he returned?’
‘No. I rode over twice but unhappily he was from home. I have seen Mr Arthur Woolf, though.’
‘Woolf?’
‘I mentioned him, you remember. I called on him and he was – most helpful. With advice and counsel. I’d originally . . . Shall I go on?’
‘Of course.’
‘A few months ago I would have thought of designing an engine on Mr Trevithick’s plunger pole principle. It seems to simplify construction and to reduce greatly the number of working parts. I still believe it to be a brilliant idea; but Mr Woolf has convinced me – and a Mr Sims of Gwennap, whom I also had the opportunity to call on and who has perhaps the greatest practical experience of them all – they both think it is over-simplified, that there will be excess wear on the piston from its constant exposure to the atmosphere and that there will be too much loss of steam because of the absence of a condenser. Taking into account . . . Do you follow me, Father?’
‘A little way, yes.’
‘Taking into account that they are both rivals of Mr Trevithick, yet I still see too much force in their arguments to ignore them. So I am hoping to design a somewhat more traditional engine, but with high-pressure steam and all the improvements that have been tried and tested.’
‘Did these gentlemen make you altogether free of their own ideas?’
Jeremy laughed shortly. ‘By no means. Both were very close. But both have engines working which may be examined; and I fear I traded on your name as an influential mine owner.’
‘In other words they thought you were going to offer them a commission to design the engine?’
‘I can’t be sure what they thought. I never made any such offer. We parted on good terms.’
‘And there is no patent being infringed?’
‘No . . . I have agreed to pay Mr Woolf a consultancy fee. But that is not likely to be large.’
They jogged on. The rain was setting in.
Jeremy said sharply: ‘But when it comes time to place the order, I’ll agree not to press my own designs, if when you’ve given them full consideration you don’t think well of them – or prefer to play safe. I’m as much concerned for the success of the venture as anyone.’
Ross said: ‘Who is that coming across from Wheal Grace?’
‘Lord . . . it’s Stephen Carrington! You remember I told you he turned up last night.’
‘I remember very well.’
‘I wonder if he’s coming from Nampara.’
The weather did not appear to have subdued Stephen’s spirits as he trotted towards them. He smiled and waved and leapt a gate to come up with the horses.
‘Jeremy! This is properly met! I’d hoped you might be at the mine.’
‘Stephen. I’m glad to see you.’ They shook hands. Jeremy would have dismounted but Stephen was beside him too soon. ‘No, we have been to Truro. Father, may I introduce Stephen Carrington to you. This is my father, Captain Poldark.’
They too shook hands. Stephen had a firm grip – almost too firm.
Ross said pleasantly: ‘I have heard much about you from my family.’
‘Which you would not have,’ said Stephen, ‘if it had not been for your son.’ When Ross looked questioning he added: ‘I was pulled out of the water like a hooked herring. Jeremy saved me life.’
‘Dramatic but not wholly accurate,’ Jeremy said. ‘You were in a bad way, but lying on a half-submerged raft. All we did was transfer you to a sounder vessel and bring you ashore.’
‘Whereupon the ladies of Nampara cared for me so well until I could care for meself. Sir, however you may look at it, I am still much in your debt.’
‘Well, no doubt you’ll find some way to discharge it,’ said Ross. ‘You’re visiting the district again?’
‘I promised to come back, sir. I promised meself – as well as others. But whether it be for long or short depends.’
‘Have you just come from Nampara?’ Jeremy asked.
‘No. I thought twould be more seemly, seeing as the head of the household was home and as I didn’t know him, if I was to ask his permission first.’
‘Good God, that’s a thought delicate,’ said Ross. ‘Of course you may call at Nampara when you wish. But I appreciate the courtesy.’ Did he? Well, it was graciously meant. Or was the young man in fact obliquely asking permission to pay court to Clowance?
‘Thank you, sir. I hear you’ve another mine a-growing, Jeremy. If I came over tomorrow in the forenoon, could you show it me?’
‘You can see it from here. So far we have done little more than clear out the old workings and sink a few experimental shafts at a greater depth. The next step is to build an engine.’
Stephen stared across through the rain. His thick mane was collecting beads of water, but for the most part it seemed to run off him as if there were a natural oil in the hair similar to that in a duck’s feathers.
‘The amount I know of mining would not commend me as an adviser, but I’ve a fancy to take an interest in anything new.’
‘Com
e at eleven,’ said Jeremy, ‘and take a bite to eat with us afterwards.’
Stephen looked up expectantly at Ross, who smiled and tapped his horse and rode on.
‘Then I’ll be glad to come,’ said Stephen.
III
At about this time Demelza came on Clowance as she was repairing a rent in her underskirt where it had caught on a bramble the night before. They talked for a few minutes about the Midsummer Eve feast, each carefully avoiding mention of Stephen Carrington’s return. Eventually Demelza said:
‘Clowance, I have to answer this letter to Lady Isabel Petty-Fitzmaurice. To leave it even another week would be impolite . . .’
Her daughter went on with her stitching.
‘Clowance . . .’
‘I heard you, Mama, but what are you to reply?’
‘Only you can say that.’
‘At least you might help me. What does acceptance mean – that I am taking Lord Edward’s approaches seriously? In that case . . .’
‘I imagine it means that you will spend two weeks in the Lansdowne household. I imagine it means no more’n that. If Lord Edward has some slight fancy for you, no doubt it will help him to decide the degree of it. It might help you too to consider how much or how little you like him. As you know, I was never ever in my life in this situation before, so I can hardly properly advise. But it is – a friendly visit. You may read no more into it than that.’
Clowance turned the skirt over. ‘D’you know I hardly ever use any of that fancy work I learned at Mrs Gratton’s? Herringbone, cross-stitch, back-stitch. I could well have done without it.’ She looked up. ‘Will that do?’
‘Proper. But you have another snag in the other hem.’
‘Damnation,’ said Clowance.
‘Not,’ said her mother, ‘an expression that’d be expected of you in Bowood.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of! Mama, I think it would be all wrong for me to go. Lord Edward is an agreeable young man. Not good-looking exactly, but most agreeable. Kind, I’d think. And very honourable. Papa has a high opinion of the family, and you know Papa does not have a high opinion of too many families of his own kind. But there are two things against my going; and you must know them both! First, what would the younger brother of a marquis be doing paying attentions to an unknown young woman from the farthest depths of a county like Cornwall, and she without money or land or position? His whole family would be totally against it! I would be likely to come in for some sizing up, some cold glances, some sneering asides, if I went up to Wiltshire! Secondly, I do not know if he appeals to me that way . . .’
Demelza went to the window of the bedroom and watched the beads of rain accumulating on the gutter. They formed up, edging towards each other like soldiers in line abreast, then one by one dropping off like soldiers under fire.
‘I think you should forget all the first. All of it. As for our position, remember your father has become known in the world. It may well be he is better esteemed in London or the London of parliamentary life – even more than he is here.’ Demelza’s mind ran sulphurously for a few moments over the insufferable arrogance of Major John Trevanion. ‘Your father has been close to Mr Canning, to Mr Perceval, lots of others. He is not a nobody, and because he is not, you are not. And, look at it, who sent the invitation? We didn’t ask for it. It was sent by his aunt, who because of his mother’s death, has been in place of his mother. You told me this. So I think you should forget all those first thoughts completely. As for not knowing if you feel “that way” about Lord Edward, you could argue all manner of ways around it. It could be said that because nothing is at stake for you, you would enjoy a visit far more than if there was. Or of course you could feel that – being so honest as you are – you would not be able to hide any feelings you had and would have to make it clear to him soon enough that he didn’t appeal to you. If you feel this, then you shouldn’t go – indeed, you must not go, for twould be uncivil and unmannerly so to behave.’
Clowance said: ‘Would you like to go?’
‘No!’
‘But you would go to companion me?’
‘. . . Yes.’
‘We should be a pretty pair.’
‘I tried to persuade Caroline last night that if you went she should go in my place.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘That only I was the right one.’
Clowance bit the cotton between her teeth.
‘It would cost a great deal. It would cost too much, for we could not go barefoot.’
‘I’m glad to see for once you are stockinged today . . . Clowance, do not consider the smaller things. Whether I want to go; or what we should wear. You must decide only on what matters.’
Clowance sighed. ‘Yes. I suppose. Well, Mama . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Give me until tomorrow. One more day. I promise faithfully to say yea or nay in four and twenty hours from now.’
‘Very well.’
‘And, Mama.’
Demelza had turned to go.
Clowance smiled for the first time that day. ‘Thank you.’
IV
Stephen called at the house next day and he and Jeremy walked over to Wheal Leisure. The drizzle had gone again, and it was warm and sultry, with the sun falling in shafts through clouds as white and curly as a full-bottomed wig. The sea cracked and mumbled as they crossed the beach.
It was, Stephen said, his first ever time down a mine, and he had soon had enough.
‘Christmas, I’d not be a miner, not for all the gold in the East Indies! When you get down tis as if the rocks be pressing on ye from all sides. And ready to fall! That’s what affrights me. It is as if the earth only has to breathe once too often and you’re squeezed down for ever – under tons of dripping rock!’
‘It’s only what happens when you’re dead,’ said Jeremy, whose thoughts had temporarily strayed to a girl he had been kissing two nights ago in a churchyard.
‘Well, not while I’m alive, thank you kindly. Give me the sea and the wind and the rain. I’d sooner face a full gale in a leaky schooner!’
‘What happened to Philippe? In the end.’
‘I had to split the proceeds with the widow of Captain Fraser. She was an old bitch. Tried to bring proceedings against me for robbery. If she’d had the chance she’d have accused me of killing the old man – not the French! But in the end I did come away with a little store in me purse. I have hid it away temporary under the planchin in Will Nanfan’s bedroom. Now I’m looking for some useful investment that’ll double me capital.’
‘And coming back here to look for it?’ Jeremy asked.
Stephen laughed. ‘Well, yes, maybe. Know you any such investment?’
‘Not of this moment.’
‘In truth, Jeremy, I came back here because I wanted to come back. It has a great attraction. All you Cornish folk are very kind and friendly. I’ve scarce known such friendliness ever before. Your own family in particular . . .’
They sat on the edge of the cliffs, which were not high here. A path wound its way among the sand and the rock down to the beach. Although a still day, the sea was majestic, tumbling over itself in ever re-created mountains of white surf.
Stephen said: ‘The open air’s for me, no doubt about that. Look at that sea! Isn’t it noble! . . . You know the sort of investment I want?’
‘Another boat?’
‘You’ve guessed. But not just a lugger like Philippe. Something the size of the schooner I was in when we ran foul of the French.’
‘That’d cost a lot.’
‘I know. Far more than I have up to now. But you’re telling me about this mine, this Wheal Leisure we’ve been crawling through like blind moles. You all take shares. Your father, you, these Trenegloses – and others. What I’d like is to buy a ship that way. Shares. Me a quarter, you a quarter; Paul, if he has any money – ’
‘He hasn’t. Neither have I!’
‘Ah . . . pity. But you wouldn’t ob
ject to some?’
‘Assuredly not.’
‘I tell you, Jeremy, that’s the way many privateers operate. Respectable merchants put up the money; hire a captain; he hires the crew. Off they go looking for adventure. Anything foreign’s fair game. Then if you get a big prize the crew gets a share and the merchants pocket the rest. I knew a captain who in the end made enough to buy his investors out.’
‘Privateering. Hmm.’
‘All’s fair in war. You know that. Anyway, it’s what I’d like to do. Failing that, maybe I’ll become a miner!’
Jeremy laughed. ‘Seriously . . . If you’re looking for investors, had you not a better chance of finding them in Bristol?’
‘I tried. But it was not to be. That bitch, Captain Fraser’s widow . . . She’d poisoned folks’ minds. Spreading stories. Lying rumours about me. Some folk believed her, thought I was not to be trusted. So I bethought meself of me Cornish friends and tried no more.’
‘Falmouth would be your place in Cornwall, not here. Here there is nothing. We do not even have a harbour.’
Stephen said: ‘There’s real money to be made, Jeremy. Big money. Prize money. While the war’s on. It won’t last for ever.’
‘I hope not.’
‘I hope not too. But you have to admit it: war’s a nasty thing but it is a time of opportunity – for men to climb, make money, make the best of themselves. Things you do in peacetime they’d hang you for. In wartime they call you a hero . . .’
Jeremy did not reply, thinking of his own causes for bitter dissatisfaction. In the last few weeks he had dreamed of achieving some sudden distinction – raiding a fort in France, as his father had done – or joining the army and achieving rapid promotion; or becoming vastly rich through Wheal Leisure and able to buy himself a title. Then he would call at Caerhays one day and ask to see Cuby . . .
He said: ‘Stephen.’
‘Yes?’
‘That day we were being chased by the gaugers. Did you go lame on purpose?’
Stephen hesitated, then grinned. ‘In a sort of way, Jeremy. Though I did twist me ankle. I thought twas the only way of maybe saving the lugger.’
‘Ah . . .’
‘I did come to look for you along the coast.’