‘Pray, Miss Poldark,’ said Miss Hastings, as she was being helped to wine, ‘what would you be doing at this time of day if you were at home? For myself I swear I should not be enjoying myself one half so much!’
‘On fine days in the summer,’ said Clowance, ‘it is our custom – my mother’s and mine, and sometimes my father and my brother too if they are at home – to take a swim.’
‘In the sea?’ said Miss Fairborne. ‘How quaint! But does it not upset one’s . . . constitution? One’s arrangements for the rest of the day?’
‘I don’t believe so,’ said Clowance. ‘We are usually busy all morning with matters dealing with our household, and, since it is our custom to dine somewhat early – before three – it is quite delightful to plunge into the sea for half an hour first. One comes out – braced up . . . and glowing.’
‘What a delicious picture,’ said Miss Hastings, stifling a yawn. ‘But, faith, I think I should be quite discommoded.’
‘The Prince Regent has made it all the rage in Brighton,’ said Lady Lansdowne. ‘You are fortunate to have bathing huts so close, Miss Poldark.’
‘Oh, we don’t have bathing huts.’
There was a momentary silence.
‘We have bathing huts at Penzance,’ Clowance went on, ‘but that is all of thirty miles away.’
‘Then pray tell us the mystery,’ said Miss Fairborne. ‘Do you use caves?’
‘We can,’ said Clowance, ‘but seldom do, for the house is so close. It is a simple matter to wear a cloak.’
‘But are you not then liable to be observed by the local commoners?’
‘There are few commoners to observe anything, and those that are are our tenants.’
(Well done, thought Demelza; so my daughter is not above making things sound for the best.)
‘How diverting,’ said Miss Hastings. ‘To have a house so near the sea one can use it as a bathing hut! I trust the sea never invades you, does it?’
‘We sometimes have the spray on our windows. But it is not at all dangerous, I assure you.’
‘And when you are bathing,’ said Miss Fairborne, ‘pray what sort of cap do you wear to keep your hair dry?’
‘Oh, we don’t wear caps,’ said Clowance. ‘One’s hair dries very quickly in the sun.’
There was an intake of breath.
‘Ugh! But does it not all become infamously clogged and sticky?’
‘Little enough. It easily washes out later.’
‘Some people drink sea water for their health,’ interposed Lady Lansdowne. ‘It was all the craze a year or so ago.’
Demelza had been nervous lest Clowance should be asked what sort of costume they wore. Not liking personally either to bathe naked or to wear the extraordinary jackets and petticoats illustrated in the fashion papers, she had devised her own costume, which was like a Greek chiton, sleeveless, short, and caught at the waist with a piece of cord. She felt that if the ladies here had seen such a garment they would have been greatly shocked.
After luncheon they all visited the Hermit’s Cave, which was dank and unimposing compared to the various sea-made hermits’ caves which existed at the further end of Hendrawna Beach; and then a splendid Cascade falling in three thunderous tiers – man-made like the lake, but no less beautiful for that. There was also a Lansdowne mausoleum.
In and out of their chaises the ladies stepped with their sweeping frocks and their gaudy parasols, like a flutter of butterflies, laughing and talking and exclaiming at the attractions and peculiarities and beauties of each scene in turn. It was not boring to the Poldarks, for the things to be seen were indeed pretty or odd or interesting; but it was a trifle embarrassing because the other ladies had so much quicker a wit for expressing, however artificially, their pleasure and fascination. Demelza and Clowance seemed always a little to lag behind in finding the words to say so. Once or twice Demelza put in a quick remark ahead of the others, but it was hard work and desperate.
Dinner was the great event of the day and Saturday the first day of their stay when it was to take place with full formality. The ladies were expected to retire at four o’clock to prepare for it and then to come down at six in the utmost finery for polite conversation before ‘the procession’ from library to dining-room. Lady Isabel, in explaining this to Demelza, said that in the old days of not so very long ago the couples had moved simply from the small drawing-room to the dining-room; but this procedure had been abandoned because it wasn’t far enough to walk – it didn’t make enough of a ‘procession’. She added in an aside that there was another advantage: if the men made a lot of noise when left on their own after dinner, the ladies would not be disturbed by it in the more distant library.
Since it had never in her life taken Demelza more than half an hour to prepare for the extremest function, she spent the first hour writing to Ross and part of the second hour helping Enid to help Clowance.
So far, she thought, their clothes had passed muster. At the races their attire had been a little more sombre than the others, and today they had lacked ribbons and laces; but no matter. This evening would be far more important. Not again, if one believed Ross, that matching extravagance with extravagance was all. Good breeding was what counted – and looks and wit and elegance, in which, Ross was confident, they could not find themselves at all deficient. It was all very well for Ross. He was born with an absolute knowledge of where he stood in the world; not everyone had that advantage. Why couldn’t he have come, presenting his daughter at such an aristocratic house party as this?
Well . . . Caroline had made them spend money – and when Mistress Trelask had been ignorant of the latest trends, or barren of ideas, Caroline had provided them. So Clowance was going down tonight in a Grecian round robe of fine Indian muslin. It had a demi-train, and robe and train were trimmed with a silver fringe. The sleeves Mistress Trelask had called Circassian, and the bosom was trimmed à la Chemise. Her hair was dressed rather flat but with curls on the forehead and the fullness of it confined behind with a row of twisted pearls. She wore white satin slippers with silver clasps. She looked, Demelza thought, so beautiful she could hardly be true.
As for herself, as befitted a middle-aged matron, her gown was much more sober, being of Scandinavian blue satin, confined with a cord, and silver buttons all the way down the front.
When they eventually went down Demelza was led in by Mr Magnus, the chaplain, and Clowance by Edward. The dinner went well and was followed by music and cards; but on this evening it was the gentlemen who were swallowing their yawns, and again almost everyone retired early.
Sunday was much the same, except that the gentlemen stayed around, and there was a church parade and other religious matters; but on Sunday evening Clowance was led in by Lord Lansdowne himself – a considerable honour – and her mother by an officer called Colonel Powys-Jones, who was on leave from Portugal and recovering from wounds sustained at Barrosa. Demelza, whose hearing was not of the worst, had heard Colonel Powys-Jones ask who she was the evening before, and to comment on her being a damned pretty woman, so it seemed likely that the arrangement was at his request.
Powys-Jones was about forty-five, short, trim and staccato. His hair was cropped close – ‘get used to it; keeps the lice out, ma’am’ – his evening garments shiny with use, his skin was yellow – ‘thank the Indies for that, ma’am’; but he had an eye as sharp as a cockerel’s and with much the same ends in view. (Not that anything scandalous could occur under this so highly respectable roof; but the idea was there.) Demelza with her bright dark eyes, her beautiful mouth and fine skin, was just his cup of tea. That she had a daughter here of nearly eighteen made it all the more interesting. As for Mrs Poldark’s feelings, Mrs Poldark had known a fair number of Joneses in her life, and had tended to look on the name of Jones as rather an ordinary one; but apparently the Powys in front of it invested it with some mystic Celtic significance which she didn’t, although herself a Celt, at first altogether understand. The Powys-Joneses,
it seemed, were in some way descended from the Glendowers and Llewellyns of Welsh regality.
The Colonel told her all about this over dinner while Demelza half listened and half tried to observe how Clowance was faring with their host. Clowance was wearing her second frock tonight, a fine scarlet brocade, which flattered her fair hair and skin. (They had brought only five dinner frocks for Clowance: Caroline had said this was enough, but Demelza was a little concerned about it.)
The Marquess of Lansdowne was a better-looking young man than his brother, perhaps a little too precise, a little too long-necked for perfection; but obviously a very good man, intelligent, serious, and conscious of his position only in so far as it spelled out his responsibilities. Little more than a year ago he had been Lord Henry Petty, Member of Parliament for Camelford, with a distinguished but not necessarily successful parliamentary career ahead of him. Then, because of the death of his half-brother without issue, all this. A marquisate, a large estate and other possessions, three parliamentary seats, an income of twenty-six thousand pounds a year. It took one’s breath away.
And a younger brother? Little perhaps in proportion, but he would scarcely be anything but wealthy. What did one wish for one’s daughter? Certainly not, certainly never, position at the expense of happiness.
But what were the other choices open to her? (Unless she really wanted to, did she have to make any decision so soon, while only rising eighteen?)
Was she in fact going to be asked for any decision? Perhaps Lord Edward brought many such young ladies here. Perhaps the week would end with the announcement of his betrothal to the Hon. Helena Fairborne, daughter of Lord Fairborne of Tewkesbury. (He was being very attentive to her at this moment.) Or to Miss Florence Hastings, a cousin of the Earl of Sussex. Or did one have to think of the house party in matrimonial terms at all? Why should young people not meet without so much absurd speculation?
‘Please?’ she said to Powys-Jones.
‘You’ve got a soldier husband, I’m told. And a nephew, what, in the 43rd? Damn fine lot, Craufurd’s Light Division. Black Bob, they call him. Saved the day at the Coa. Though Wellington was angry with Bob that day. Your husband still abroad?’
‘No, he returned home a few months ago.’
Powys-Jones grunted his disappointment. ‘You must come and visit me after you’ve done here. Tis but a day’s ride west into Radnorshire. Or mayhap in a coach you would be more comfortable with a day and a half.’
‘That’s kind of you, Colonel. But you will observe I am with my daughter.’
‘You must have been a child bride, ma’am, but God damn the world, bring her as well! I have two lazy sons who’d maybe smarten up a bit at the sight of her. Or you. By damn or you ma’am–’
‘My husband is expecting me – ’
‘Oh, fiddle to husbands. After ten years of marriage, what are husbands for? Just to give you a name and a position and a place to live. Pieces of furniture, that’s what husbands are – ’
‘But must you not be one yourself?’
‘Was, ma’am, was. Then the lady took it on herself to fly away with my cousin: stupid young oaf; I hope he’s got what he deserves. As for tomorrow . . .’
‘Tomorrow?’ Demelza raised her eyebrows at him. ‘Who mentioned tomorrow?’
‘I did this minute. You shall come a drive with me.’
‘Is that a command?’
‘Yes.’
‘As one of the 43rd?’
‘By damn, yes, if it pleases you.’
‘Colonel, I could not. Think of my reputation.’
‘Your reputation, ma’am, in the company of an officer and a gentleman, will be in safe hands. Have no fear.’
‘And you think our hostess would approve?’
‘I’ll make damn sure she does.’
‘And my daughter?’
‘What has she to do with it? Don’t say she has such care for her mother. No child is so unnatural.’
‘She’s devoted to her father.’
Colonel Powys-Jones shrugged. ‘Still damned unnatural. Hate family ties. People, in my view, ma’am, should procreate and then separate.’
‘It sounds like making cream.’
‘Cream?’
‘Cornish cream. You heat it up and then you separate it.’
‘I know what it is you want, ma’am.’
‘What?’ Demelza asked provocatively.
The Colonel hesitated and then did not dare say what he was going to say. Instead he looked injured.
‘You don’t trust me. That’s the truth of it. You think I am some blackguard from the Welsh marches with designs on your honour, that you do!’
Demelza took a piece of bread. ‘As to the first, no, sir. As to the second, haven’t you?’
The Colonel sputtered a little food into his napkin trying to conceal a laugh. ‘By God, yes.’
Dinner went elegantly on.
Chapter Nine
I
All through the meal Lord Lansdowne had chatted at intervals with Clowance. He led her on, encouraging her to talk of her likes and dislikes and putting seemingly interested questions about life, and her life, in Cornwall. It was, she told herself, the natural good-mannered exercise of a practised host. Only the peculiar circumstances of their visit suggested to her that – since Edward lacked parents – it might also be the inquiring mind of an elder brother concerned to discover more about this young provincial girl Edward was interesting himself in. Was Lord Lansdowne – like Major Trevanion – in loco parentis? Would she – like Jeremy – presently be shown the door?
Having talked considerably about her father – on which they were in splendid accord, since they both thought so well of him – conversation moved to her brother, and Clowance mentioned his interest in steam. Amusement getting the better of her shyness, she told of the fishing trips which had puzzled them all, and what he had been really about.
Henry Lansdowne smiled with her. ‘When he knew the truth, your father was not at all displeased?’
‘I do not know whether he has yet heard! But had my brother asked permission before going I doubt whether my father would have given it. We are all a little nervous as to the risk.’
Lord Lansdowne said: ‘In the winter this house is heated by steam. I have recently had it installed.’
‘Really, sir? I will tell Jeremy. He’ll be excited to know it.’
‘In the morning I will take you into the cellars and show you how it works. Then you may explain to your brother.’
‘Thank you, my lord. That is very kind.’
Lansdowne took a half spoonful of syllabub, savouring it for flavour.
‘When this war is over, Miss Poldark, I believe we shall be on the brink of great new developments. The French have undergone a political revolution. Even if Napoleon falls they will never be able to restore the ancien régime. Or put the clock back. We in this country, partly by our inventiveness, partly as a result of the war, are undergoing a mechanical revolution of which steam is an important part. I believe it will transform England. All Europe is crying out for our manufactured goods. When they are allowed to buy them there will be a great wave of prosperity running through England. Even though times are so bad, so desperate in the Midlands and in the North, it will change. And although there will be many to decry such developments I believe the ordinary man, the working man, the farm boy who has left home to work in the factories – I believe they will all have some share in this prosperity. There will of course still be misery and poverty and injustice, but I believe the level will rise. Not only the level at which people live but the level at which people expect to live. We are on the brink of a new world.’
Clowance smiled at him. ‘I’m sure my brother would be happy to hear what you say, sir. I’m sure he would agree with it all.’
‘Perhaps one day,’ said Lord Lansdowne, ‘we shall meet.’
Which was very gracious of him and suggested that he did not find his dinner companion objectionable to his taste.
II
The following day was wet, but on the Tuesday, with cloud and sun alternating over the great park, Colonel Owen Powys-Jones returned to the attack and had his way by taking Mrs Poldark for an extended drive. But Demelza also had her way and Clowance came with them. Not only Clowance but Lord Edward Fitzmaurice as well.
They went in an open barouche – not at all what Powys-Jones really wanted; he had had ideas of driving Demelza at a cavalry gallop behind a pair of greys in some light curricle or other; but with four of them it was all far too sedate, and a coachman into the bargain. However, he soon recovered his temper.
‘Here, by God,’ he said, ‘here on this hill your Cornish folk under Hopton and Grenville gave as good as they got in a fine stand-up affray against that damned Presbyterian, Waller, but Grenville died and tis doubtful to this day who was the victor – though Waller it was who withdrew. They say both sides was so exhausted twas a matter of chance which retreated first. Now if we get back into that carriage I’ll take you as far as Roundway Down where the Roundheads were really given a beating. Prince Maurice had ridden hard from Oxford and arrived just in time to turn the scales.’
Edward Fitzmaurice said to Clowance: ‘We were not here in those days.’
‘Which days?’
‘Of the Civil War. I think the estate belonged to a man called Bridgeman. Our family has only been here about sixty years. The house was then unfinished. My father really made it what it is today.’
‘Are you Irish?’ she asked.
‘Why?’
‘The name of Fitzmaurice sounds . . .’
‘The Pettys were drapers in Hampshire. But a clever one became a professor at Oxford and he went to Ireland and acquired an estate there. His son married the daughter of the Earl of Kerry and their son inherited, and so the two names became linked and have not since been separated . . . But tell me of your own.’
‘My own name? Poldark? I do not quite know. Someone came over with the Huguenots and married into a Cornish family called Trenwith. And then . . .’