He said: ‘So you are not to be rid of me, my love.’ ‘I am not to be rid of you, my love.’
Over in the corner by the door Jeremy thumped down and began methodically to pull off his gloves.
Chapter Six
Verity, Francis’s sister, had written inviting Ross and Demelza to stay with them over Christmas; but with ruin coming apace, there had been no alternative to a refusal. This sudden reprieve changed the situation, and Ross agreed they should go over on Christmas Eve and stay the night. He did not feel he could leave the mine longer than that. Verity, so closely tied always to Francis, had taken his death hard; and as Demelza pointed out, it was their duty to be with her on this first Christmas after. Elizabeth was going with Geoffrey Charles, so that the family could be all together in this way, yet in a house and a locality with no memories.
At the last moment, to everyone’s surprise and to Demelza’s private relief, Elizabeth changed her plans. Her mother had been ill again, and she decided she must spend it at Cusgarne, her old home outside Truro. She told Ross of this when he paid her his weekly visit four days before Christmas.
His call was later than usual and he found her at supper, eating by herself in the winter parlour. He sat at the table talking to her, noticing how scanty the food was, refusing some himself. This room, the most used, was the most shabby. She looked tired and ill tonight, her delicacy suddenly fragile. Aunt Agatha was no better and seemed likely to become bedridden. An added strain of carried meals and all the other sickroom attentions. Tabb worked eighteen hours a day in the fields, and Mrs Tabb looked after the few animals they had retained. Ross could estimate the amount Elizabeth would have to do.
Afterwards he went upstairs, treading the dark corridors to Aunt Agatha’s room. By the light of two candles Aunt Agatha was interviewed, propped up in bed, her bright beady eyes winking in the candlelight, plying him with ceaseless questions whose answers she could not hear, running off into long strings of reminiscence out of a past dead and buried for everyone but herself. She told Ross she was ninety-seven and was determined to live to be a hundred. Whether the age was right or not, he didn’t at all put it past her to have a good try. She might be sinking, as Elizabeth thought, but she still had a long way to sink.
So Christmas came, Christmas Day being on a Tuesday and very windy and cold. In the night there had been flakes of snow, but these cleared before the day came. A fateful season, with Pitt calling out the militia, and associations of yeomen and gentry and shopkeepers everywhere being formed. And the French in Antwerp now, glowering across the Scheldt estuary, held in check only by a British guarantee of the Netherlands.
Ross, eating his Christmas dinner with the Blameys – Andrew, Verity’s husband, on leave from his ship, and the two children of his first marriage, James a midshipman, boisterous and warmhearted, and Esther as reserved as her brother was open – Ross stared across the grey wind-flecked water of Falmouth Harbour, pondered on the prospects of war and whether he should go to France himself to find Mark Daniel while there was still peace; and who his benefactor was; and how he might discharge his own ethical debt to Elizabeth and to Geoffrey Charles.
And fifteen miles away his benefactor was eating an even quieter meal of roast beef and plum pudding in company with her uncle, her crisp auburn hair subdued into a tight coil, as her nature had been subdued these last weeks. When she came back from Truro, Ray Penvenen had told her of his interview with Dwight. They had quarrelled, uncle and niece, as he had expected that they should; but, rather to his own surprise, she had suddenly capitulated and there had been a semi-affectionate reconciliation. No definite undertaking on her part – he did not expect it – but the outcome was as he desired. For a time he was a trifle suspicious of his victory, and he still kept a watch on her movements through one or another of the servants; but he had slowly come to the conclusion that he had stamped on the attachment just in time. He expected to go to London in early February, and he proposed that Caroline should accompany him. She showed no splendid enthusiasm for the idea, but at least she raised no objection; and Mr Penvenen was privately determined that she should not return. He had a sister in London, married to a rich merchant, with seven children of her own. It would do her no harm in the world to have an eighth for a while.
And Dwight Enys dined alone and later than the rest, having been out and making the most of his time while the daylight lasted. Lottie Kempthorne, Charlie’s eldest girl, who was nine, had developed the smallpox and was very ill. An ominous occurrence. This year, except for a high mortality from an outbreak of measles in June, there had been no serious epidemics. A disagreeable way of entering the new year, with one of the worst plagues to combat. While Dwight was in the cottage, he noticed Lottie’s younger sister May playing with a new kind of story book. It was called The History of Primrose Prettyface and was printed on good stiff paper and bound between covers of horn. As he ate his dinner, he tried to remember where he had seen another such book; but his mind soon turned to thoughts of Caroline.
Among presents which had come to him today was one from the Hoblyns: a finely woven scarf. On an old piece of ruled exercise paper was printed: ‘From Rosina, with love.’ He wondered who had done this, for he knew none of them could write. Other gifts had come in kind today: eggs; a piece of bacon; two loaves of bread; a cake; six tallow candles; a woven mat – tokens of gratitude from people from whom each gift meant a real sacrifice.
. . . And Elizabeth. Elizabeth did not spend Christmas Day at Cusgarne after all.
She found her mother less ill than she had expected, but did not on that account feel any less obliged to stay with them as planned.
But at noon a message came from George Warleggan saying he had just heard of her being there and inviting them all to the new Warleggan country house, Cardew, where he was entertaining a few close friends over the week-end. Mrs Chynoweth, reluctant to venture out, pressed acceptance on Elizabeth with glowing descriptions of its magnificence. Elizabeth struggled with her sense of duty and turned the invitation down. At two George himself arrived, having come to fetch her. So, rather to her own surprise, on this gusty cheerless day with a half-gale blowing itself out, she found herself sharing his carriage, having left Geoffrey Charles in the care of her parents.
Cardew, begun to Nicholas Warleggan’s requirements only ten years ago, she found all that it was reputed to be: a house with an enormous Ionic portico, lavishly furnished public rooms with massive fireplaces and moulded ceilings, and thirty-five bedrooms, beside staff quarters, gun rooms, workshops, stillrooms, stables, greenhouses, and walled gardens. In the front of the house the grounds had been laid out to give an uninterrupted view of an artificial lake with a rolling parkland beyond.
The house made Trenwith look like a country cottage and Cusgarne more down-at-heel than ever. And after Cusgarne it was so warm and draughtless. George derived enormous pleasure from showing Elizabeth over it all, a fact not unremarked by the other members of the Warleggan clan. There were about two dozen guests in the house, people carefully chosen by Mr Nicholas Warleggan for their likely value to him in his business or social dealings; and he would have been better pleased if George had not gone off in the middle of the day, to return with this young woman and devote the whole of his attention to her.
Had there been anything ‘in it’ for George, he would have felt differently. It was high time George was married, and the right time. There were three or four young women in their late teens whom Mr Warleggan had picked over, all eligible for one or more reasons but chiefly for title or blood connections – since George could provide the money – and Nicholas would have been pleased to see his son making some recognizable movement towards one of them. This long-standing sentimental infatuation for a delicate uninfluential widow was all wrong – especially for a woman who, even by marriage, bore the name of Poldark.
In any case, even supposing that some sort of a match were made of it – and Nicholas, knowing Elizabeth, thought the chances remote
– and supposing one swallowed the disappointment of such a poor match, Elizabeth, with only one child by her former marriage and he eight years old, was unlikely to be fecund; and above all things Nicholas wanted to see several stout grandchildren about the house. He wished that it had been Elizabeth who had fallen down the mine instead of Francis.
Thought of the Poldarks took his eye round to his brother Cary, talking in a corner to the younger Boscoigne. Cary was becoming a responsibility to the more respectable members of the family. Being closely concerned in much of the Warleggan financial structure, he could not be pushed into the background like Grandfather Warleggan, yet in his dress and in his manners he refused to advance with Nicholas and George. He could not be induced to wear a wig or to discard his skullcap or to keep his old coats free from snuff and ink stains. By his presence he brought one down to his level. Tony Boscoigne must be secretly laughing at him now, perhaps taking note of his peculiarities so that he could ape them afterwards to his friends. It was useless having a fine house and all the splendour that money could buy if one had to countenance such relatives.
And Cary’s influence on George was constantly a bad one. Neither of them realized as he, Nicholas, did the tremendous importance of personal and commercial probity. Establish that name, that reputation, and within the limitations of ordinary finance you could accomplish anything. Cary’s only concern was to gain his end and let the principles go hang.
Nicholas thought of their recent meeting when Harris Pascoe had called upon them with young Poldark’s draft in settlement of the promissory note. As it happened they had all been in the building, and Cary had stormed in to him with a face so white he had supposed him ill. There and then, with Harris Pascoe waiting in an outer office, they had had a passionate scene. Cary had fairly ranted, and George, though he controlled himself better, had really felt little different. It had taken all his own personal influence to calm Cary down, to persuade them both that this was nothing more than a normal business setback and should be treated as such. Indeed, no money was lost at all; money was made, for Mr Pearce had parted with the bill at a discount; and it would be beneath their dignity as men of affairs to be put out of countenance over some loss of revenge on an impoverished and unimportant country squire. They had long been too big for that. It did not become them.
So far as George was concerned, Nicholas was satisfied he had won his point; but with Cary one could never be certain. One supposed he was conforming to an agreed line, and then suddenly he would do something quite heterodox which showed he had never had any intention of acquiescing at all.
Ross nursed his own special problem through Christmas and nearly into the New Year. Then he went to see Harris Pascoe. He wanted first of all, he said, to sell his remaining thirty shares in Wheal Leisure. He had made six hundred pounds out of the last and expected no less from these. Pascoe grunted and shook sand over a document. ‘I suppose you have to do it? It’s a pity now. War’s almost certain. This bringing of the King to trial will inflame tempers on both sides. Copper will be rising in price all the time.’
‘I am not compelled to do it, I want to do it. Perhaps you can get more than six hundred for the shares.’
‘It’s a tidy price. I s-suppose you will use the money in some way to keep your other mine alive?’
‘No. I’m reconciled to the loss of that. I want the money for a special purpose. I want to leave it in your hands for the moment. Since you consented to act for an anonymous client once, you can hardly refuse to do so again.’
Pascoe stared at his lean visitor, who at times was coming to have a wolfish look.
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘Francis’s widow and his family are in dire poverty. More so now than we are. And she has no man. Two years ago Francis sank his last six hundred pounds in Wheal Grace. I feel a sting of responsibility for the result. I want Elizabeth Poldark to have that six hundred pounds back.’
‘And will she accept it?’
Ross brooded for a moment. ‘No. Or I think not. That’s where I want your help. When my shares in Leisure are sold, I want you to make her an offer for her holding – or her son’s holding – in Wheal Grace, on behalf of an anonymous client you represent. She’s bound to accept that, and the money can then be transferred to her.’
Ross watched the sleet melting and trickling down the windows. The old year was true to its reputation to the last.
He added: ‘It’s not an original idea, being cribbed from your friend who used it on my behalf.’
Mr Pascoe blew the sand away and shook his document backwards and forwards to be sure it was dry. ‘You mean you are offering £600 for a half share in a mine which is about to close?’
‘We are not closed yet, of course. The miracle may always happen.’
‘And do you suppose your cousin-in-law will b-believe some stranger is foolish enough to make such an offer?’
‘Could I believe anyone was foolish enough to accept a renewal of my promissory note?’
Mr Pascoe coughed. ‘No . . .’
There was another silence. Pascoe’s eyes moved to the clock. ‘You’ll take dinner with us?’
‘Thank you.’
They got up. Pascoe said: ‘As your banker and your creditor, I must try to dissuade you from making this quixotic move. F-frankly I consider it ill-advised. You can’t afford it. Indeed you can’t. This is the only money you have.’
‘I can’t afford it,’ said Ross. ‘And – I have my own wife to keep and my own son to care for. But I’m here to look after them myself. Francis is not. If I do this, I shall order my life with a clearer conscience.’
‘Would it not be as satisfactory if you made over your income from the Leisure shares, I mean temporarily, until things improve for Mrs Poldark. One never quite knows how circumstances change. It wouldn’t be a lot for her, no big lump sum, but it would mean a regular payment every quarter.’
‘No,’ said Ross. ‘It would not be as satisfactory.’
Harris Pascoe went over to a side cupboard beside the window and took a decanter and two glasses from it. ‘I did not s-suppose that any advice I chose to give you would be heeded.’
Ross rubbed his chin. ‘Your advice is always welcome, Harris. Like your friendship, I know its solid value. But in these matters where blood and sinew come into it and sometimes affection and dislike, we have to behave according to the chemicals in us. This act would give us satisfaction and that would not. So we do things, make moves which can’t seem sensible to an onlooker such as yourself. But always it’s good to have someone by who points steadily to magnetic north. That’s what you do. And we remember it with gratitude, even when we remember it too late.’
Harris Pascoe clinked his glass as he poured out the canary. ‘I will, of course, do what I can to help you, Ross. I cannot withhold that, though I withhold my approval. It is a very honourable gesture you are making. I hope you’ll not come to regret it.’
The Fox and Grapes was a small rather lonely posting inn midway between Killewarren and Redruth. In it, at about this time, two other people were also drinking canary and making plans.
Fifteen minutes before, Caroline Penvenen and her groom had ridden up; and Caroline had said she wanted some refreshment and some shelter from the weather and he must go on ahead of her and assure the Teagues that she would be with them very shortly. The lad looked uncomfortable, hot, and reluctant to go, part betraying his secret instructions from his master; so Caroline impatiently told him to wait outside for her; she would rejoin him when her thirst was quenched.
In the little dark parlour of the inn with its framed needlework pictures, its Indian fern, and its pewter mugs, she peeled off her gloves and stood a moment warming her hands by the fire, uncertain whether the arrangement had worked out as planned. She had seen no horse outside, but it would be a common precaution to tether it out of sight. As the innkeeper’s wife came bustling in with the wine, she drew a breath to ask; and then she saw two glasses on the tray and Dw
ight standing on the threshold of the door.
Very soon they were in each other’s arms. A cynic would have noted the sharp advance in their relationship since Mr Penvenen’s move. Caroline perhaps would have taken the same course in any event, but without opposition she might have been months longer taking it. Instead at the moment she was making the running, and Dwight was giving her her head – willingly and happily as to destination but doubtfully as to course. Perhaps something of the convict in his mind showed in his expression, for abruptly she broke away and said:
‘Do you not feel as I do? I should be sorry to go too fast and too far.’
‘Neither, my darling, for that would be impossible. I – only wonder as to method. By nature I dislike secrecy – as I know you do – if it can be avoided. I should like to go to your uncle now and tell him what we intend . . .’
‘You don’t know Uncle Ray. He has a streak of obstinacy common to all the Penvenens. But is there perhaps some special reason for your disliking the idea of an elopement?’
‘Why d’you ask?’
‘Because I feel there is.’
He came behind her chair, put his hand on her forehead. ‘It’s such a poor reason that I’m ashamed of it. You’ve heard of Keren Daniel?’
‘The girl who . . .’
‘Yes, the girl I fell in love with, though she was a patient of mine – the girl whose husband, Mark Daniel, found her unfaithful . . . and killed her – when he should have come to kill me.’
‘Do you know, I heard a different version – that she threw herself at your head, etc. I can always be sure of one thing, Dwight, that your charity, which covers so much, never extends to yourself.’
‘One version or the other, the facts are not in dispute. A man of my profession who acts as I acted is entitled to consider himself very low.’ Dwight was going to move away, but she caught his hand on her shoulder. ‘People were kind – charitable as you call it. The version that you heard has become the accepted one. Sometimes I accept it myself. But there is a stigma still. Therefore one’s future conduct becomes of the greatest moment . . .’