Despite her mother's concern for her daughter's safety when she rode alone - especially while Agneta's murderer remained at large; and there seemed no progress at all in this matter -- Clowance decided to go over to Nampara at once. She knew her mother would insist on nursing Bella herself, and that might mean night work, so she could spell the nursing with her mother. She was not quite sure from the tone of the letter how seriously ill Bella was. But it did not sound promising. It was her mother's way to look on the bright side of life. And Dr Enys's suggestion to get Henry out of the way was not a good sign. Anyway, there was nothing to keep her here. She could have Nero made ready in half an hour and pack an overnight bag. In four hours she would see for herself. She called a boy who was looking over the sea wall and gave him a penny to deliver a note to the stables. She scribbled another note to be sent to Bunt; then she went upstairs and changed into a riding habit. She was just looking around for her hat when there was a knock on the front door. Impatiently she went down, hoping it was not the boy from the stables with some excuse for delaying the delivery of Nero. A man stood there. A big young man. A man whose face she well knew. Her heart missed a beat.
'Edward!' she said.
'Clowance! Did you - have you not been expecting me?'
'I - I wasn't sure. I thought perhaps you would write.'
'I ... At once. I could not wait. Even so it has taken more than two days.'
She stepped back. 'Please. Please come in.'
He entered and stood there awkwardly. Then he took her hand.
'Clowance. Your letter ... I could not wait a moment more to come to see you. Your letter filled me - with joy.'
She smiled uncertainly. 'Oh . . . Do sit down, Edward. It is kind of you to say that.'
He was a stranger. He had only ever touched her once or twice before. His jacket smelt of tweed - Scotch tweed probably. Why had she changed into her oldest riding habit?
'This is the little cottage I have lived in since Stephen died. It must seem like - like squalor to you.'
'Nowhere is squalor where you are, Clowance.'
A pretty speech. But she hardly knew him. Why had she written like that? What had got into her?
'Do sit down,' she said. 'It is such a surprise. Where is your horse? Only two days from London? You must have rid all through the night!'
'I did. But by coach. It is such good weather I thought to ride all the way. But it would have taken twice as long.'
'Private coach?'
Yes.'
'Can I get you something to drink? You must be exhausted!'
'Thank you, no. I am not in the least exhausted at all. I am merely - merely over-joyous to be here.'
He was sitting awkwardly. She wondered if now he had found her he regretted all the rush. She was only an ordinary young woman, poorly dressed, hair not too tidy, a stain on her boot, living in a tiny cottage. To him she must have a Cornish accent. Perhaps already he not only regretted the rush but the long letter proposing marriage which had prompted her incautious reply. She should have invited him down for a visit for two or three weeks so that they could get to know each other, first. He looked at her clothes. 'Were you going riding? Perhaps I have interrupted your day?'
'No! Oh, no, of course not! . . . That is, I was going riding but it was not important. At least--'
He took her hand again and smiled. 'Pray tell me.'
It was probably a way to break the ice, so she told him. 'Isabella-Rose,' he said. 'I first met her about five years ago coming out of Drury Lane with her parents. Are there any more pretty sisters?'
'No, one small brother, that's all ... Do let me get you something to drink. You - you flatter me coming so quickly.'
'I begrudged every mile.'
She poured him a glass of cordial, and nearly dropped the jug. They laughed together, but nervously. She said: 'Where is your coach?'
'I left it at an inn called Selley's at the top corner of the town. From there I walked, asking my way. I did not wish to - to arrive too - too prominently.'
'You have a coachman to guard it? One never knows - '
'Two,' Edward said apologetically. 'But look, I cannot . keep you if you are going to see your family. Pray continue with your plans, and I will find a place to lie tonight and we can meet again whenever you think suitable.'
'Certainly I cannot do that! When you have come so far and so fast. Edward, I have been thinking.'
They sipped together as he waited. She said: 'Is your coach sturdy?'
'It has had to be. The West Country roads are atrocious.'
'Well, I have been thinking . . . You could take me to Nampara. You know both my parents.'
His angular face lit up. 'I was about to suggest it, but thought that might be a liberty.'
'Surely you must be allowed that liberty. But your horses will be tired.'
'How far is it?'
'You cannot go across county with a coach. You would have to return to Truro and then turn north. It might be twenty miles.'
'They are being fed. After an hour's rest they will not quibble at a further twenty miles.'
'And you?' She looked at him fully for the first time, meeting his direct gaze with her own. He said: 'This is what I came for.'
There was no point in going in an old riding habit if she were to travel by coach, so she went upstairs to change. In her bedroom she had another onset of panic. She took off her top clothes and stood a moment in front of the slightly mildewed mirror that she was always intending to replace. Her reflection did not please her. Yet by the terms of the agreement she had promised to engage in with this young stranger downstairs, he would be permitted to come into her room whenever, or almost whenever, he wanted, to observe her in undress, to pull all the rest of the clothes off her, to claim his rights as her husband. Was he entitled to the unparalleled liberties that Stephen had taken? In a sense she felt like a virgin on her wedding night, but this was worse because she knew what could happen. Stephen had been gentle but masterful, rousing her and allowing her to relish the sensation that came from preliminary fondling, and carrying her on to an appetite scarcely less than his own. But Stephen she had known half intimately for years before. This was a stranger. Probably, as she had comforted herself, he too was regretting having come. He was essentially a kind and honourable man. Sometime soon, when they had come to understand each other a little better, she would give him the opportunity to withdraw. If he still felt himself bound she would be at pains to release him. And if that failed, and only if that failed, she would steel herself to tell him that she had made a grave mistake. She felt that she could mate with no man but Stephen. Probably he would be delighted, relieved; he came from such a different class. She might be gentle born, but it was a rough Cornish gentility. Never in his life had he ever had to do something for himself that a servant could do for him. He had a valet, she knew, who would help him dress. She, until she was fifteen, and greatly to her mother's disapproval, had gone barefoot all the daylight hours. How could two such disparate people live together as man and wife? His standards - they must be very different from her own. His friends - did she know any of his friends? Very few. She would be a curiosity to them, a West-Country girl whom they would have to be polite to for his sake. And the Lansdownes themselves. They seemed a charming family, but they could hardly help but regret if he married so much beneath him. How unfortunate, they would think, that chance encounter at the Duchess of Gordon's Ball. Nevertheless, when it came to the point, she put on her best day dress, knowing that the apple green suited her hair.
The coach Edward had hired for his journey was quite a curiosity so far west. Four horses instead of the customary two, and painted in a dark reseda green with gold outlines; no name of the carrier or proprietor, which meant that it must be privately owned. A small but respectful crowd had gathered at a distance to watch Mrs Carrington step in, followed by her burly but well-groomed escort. For the first part of the journey the route was quite straightforward, simply a return along the turnpike road by which he had come. The trees were at their heaviest overhanging the road, which after climbing a hill or two began to wind its way beside a glinting stream. It was a commodious coach, and Clowance sat very much in a corner, staring out at the countryside and leaving a twelve-inch space between herself and the man she had agreed to marry. Conversation was polite but sparse, Clowance telling him that the very last part of the journey from just beyond Shortlanesend to Nampara itself would be not nearly as comfortable as this was, not even a turnpike at all, but a well-worn track which could be bumpy and dusty in this dry weather. Edward was courteously concerned about Isabella-Rose's illness, and Clowance courteously told him what little she knew.
Edward said: 'When your letter came the only member of my family in the house was Aunt Isabel, so I hurried to tell her. She was delighted at the good news.'
'How is she?'
'A little more frail. There was only one drawback to her reception of the news.'
Clowance braced herself. 'What was that?'
'She thought I was going to marry your mother.'
Clowance laughed with him. 'And when she knew the truth?'
'She thought I was going to marry a man called Clarence.'
Clowance laughed again. 'I have never met Aunt Isabel. My mother has spoken often of her. Isn't she the deaf lady?'
'She is ... Clowance, are you afraid of me?'
She continued to admire the sunlight on the leaves. 'A little.' 'Well,' said Edward, 'I have to tell you that I am a little afraid of you.'
She looked at him to see if he was serious, then away.
'Whyever?'
'Just the same reason. We have known each other so long, but at vast intervals. I have hardly ever more than touched you!'
'I know.'
'When I took your hand today, it was touching something warm and living but belonging to somebody else.'
'Oh, yes.'
'If I touch your face it will also be warm. The essential person of the - the girl I love.'
'Or think you love.'
'There has been no doubt of that in my mind for many years.'
'Yet it has only been a - a surface thing. You could not put it to any sort of test!'
'Nor you of inc. You may come to regret that letter you sent me. Perhaps you would like me to forget I have ever received it?'
'Oh, would you? If I asked?'
She thought it strange that his thoughts had seemed in general to parallel her own. Yet somewhere at the back of her mind was a touch of pique.
'No,' he said, 'I would not. Not for everything in this world.'
There was a long silence. He said: 'But now we have time. Time to meet, time to talk, time to come to a loving understanding.'
'Time to put it to the test?' she asked. He said: 'May I hold your hand?'
They stopped and dined at Pearce's Hotel in Truro, arrived at Nampara at five, lurched and wobbled perilously down the sloping valley to the house. They did not risk the bridge and Parkin, who was the man who had come with Edward from the Half Moon stables in Berkeley Street, was reluctant to try the ford fifty yards downstream of the bridge. With the dry weather there was little water to worry about, but the big pebbles were in his view too unstable to risk his horses.
By chance Dwight was visiting Bella when they arrived, and Caroline had come with him bringing a few sweetmeats to tempt the sick girl's appetite, so there was a very friendly welcome. Caroline had known Edward for years and kissed them both in congratulation. She at once invited Edward to stay with her and Dwight at Killewarren for a few days. This he gratefully accepted. Caroline said: 'It's lovely to have people staying. Have you met Sophie and Meliora? They are home from school, and Henry has already assumed full control of them.'
Clowance was shocked at her first sight of Bella. The girl had wasted away, must have lost twenty pounds; her skin was blotchy, she spoke scarcely above a whisper. She smiled brightly enough, but could only raise her head a few inches off the pillow by way of greeting.
'Clowance!' 'Darling.'
'No kissing - 'fraid.'
'Are you any better?'
'Think so.'
Dwight had said: 'I am starting an iron treatment. Her fever is lower than it was, but it will be touch and go for the next few days.'
'Is it the morbid sore throat? The one that my sister Julia had -- died of?'
'Much the same, I'm afraid. The French are beginning to call it diphlheritis because of the rough membrane that forms in the throat. Do not forget many survive it. Your mother did.'
'At least I can take some of the work off her. She did not let me know until this morning.'
'She has good help. But the difficulty is to keep her away.'
'I'll see that she gets more rest'
In the room Clowance said: 'So your opera was a huge success! I'm so very glad!'
Bella's face creased as if a new energy were flooding into it. 'Yes. Oh, yes!' Then the light went out. 'But I cannot sing now!'
'You will - it will come back.'
Bella coughed, and winced with the pain. 'Did Uncle Dwight say that?'
'Yes . . .'
'It has been nearly a week!'
'D'you remember Mrs Kemp's first lessons in French? Avec de la patience on arrive a tout'
'Prendre son mal en patience,' said Bella. 'I fear I have little of it Nor have I any patience to eat food. Nor much appetite for life.'
'A little while, dearest,' said Clowance, choking a sudden impulse to burst into tears. 'Never fear. In a couple more weeks you will be as right as rain.'
'Did Uncle Dwight say that?'
'.. .Yes.'
When she came out of the room, leaving the nursing to one of the Martins, she found Edward talking to her father and mother. They looked at her, and she pulled a grieved face. 'I had no idea. You should have written earlier, Mama.'
'I did not want to trouble you. She has become much worse these last two days.'
Ross said: 'Dwight thinks it is coming to the crisis now. It may be tonight.'
Edward said: 'I have come to Cornwall at the worst possible moment for you all. When I received the letter from Clowance I was so delighted that I lost no time in thinking of anything else.'
'Natural enough,' said Ross.
'Caroline Enys, as I expect you know, has invited me to spend a few days with them. That I should be glad to do, but I feel I am entering on -- on a family crisis here. You cannot want me here at such an anxious time. A stranger -- any stranger -- is de trop. Yet -- I am deeply concerned for Isabella-Rose's recovery. To go back to London would be very hard. If I stay with the Enyses . . .' He paused. 'I thought you had already agreed to,' Demelza said.
'How far is their house from here?'
'About four miles.'
Edward looked at Clowance for guidance. She said: 'I should not wish you to go back to London.'
'That is really all I want to know. You have asked me to sup here. After it I will leave you until the morning.' 'I think Dwight is coming back here after supper,' said Demelza. 'He may spend the night here. Clowance . . . would you like to go to Killewarren and show his driver the way?'
Clowance said: 'I don't think Edward will mind if I say no. If this is likely to be the crisis I must stay up with her. You may not sleep, Mama, but you must lie down. What is the good of me coming if I cannot be allowed to do that?'
Dwight returned at eleven. He had left a draught of white poppy syrup for Demelza, and Ross had stood over her while she swallowed it. He helped her to bed and sat holding her hand until she went to sleep. After that he took a book and smoked a pipe in the library, where he could not hear Bella coughing. The trouble with many of these old farmhouses was that sound echoed everywhere. In the bedroom Bella was watched over by Dwight Enys, Jane Gimlett and Clowance. Clowance wanted to be more active, where such minor action was possible, in painting Bella's throat or getting her to sip diluted blackcurrant juice; but Dwight had priority and after a while he passed these duties over to Jane. Clowance wondered if he were trying to keep her at a distance from the closest infection. It was near the longest day, so darkness only lasted a few hours. Ross had dozed off, but woke slightly chilled in the first ghostly streaks of dawn. He remembered all too well, even though it was thirty years ago, when the dawn had broken at a late hour in the very depths of winter when a gale was raging, and he had roused himself from a similar troubled doze to learn that his first daughter was dead. The whole picture was abominably reminiscent of that earlier time. The Gimletts were new arrived, young and active; now they were grey-haired and stooping. Dwight Enys was a young doctor, only just qualified. Demelza . . . well, she was older but little changed; and, as then, in the centre of it all. In that earlier time she too was ill and had nearly died. This time not so - or not so yet. (Dwight had urged Ross to keep her out of the sickroom; in his experience, he said, a former attack of this dread disease did not make one less likely to catch it again at a later date.) It was all happening again, Ross told himself, but thirty years later. And then it was black and wild midwinter, now it was high summer and calm seas. And the person at risk was his daughter again, his youngest daughter, and she was seventeen years older than Julia was when she had died in this house, tended by the same doctor and the same maid. It could not be. The repetition was obscene. He got up sharply and went towards the stairs. Slits of grey light coming through curtains warred with the guttering candles, one smoking and another out. Something moved against his legs, Moses wanting to greet the dawn. Ross lifted the latch of the front door and let the cat out, then went up the creaking stairs. Demelza was still asleep. Evidently Dwight had given her a fair dose of laudanum. He retreated, closing the door behind him and holding the latch with his finger so that it should not click. A shadow moved on the landing. It was Dwight, just come out of Bella's room. He put his hand on Ross's arm.
'Well?'
'She's sleeping. It is the first natural sleep for a long time.'
Ross listened. All was quiet. 'Is that. . . ?'
'A good sign, yes. Don't build too much on it. But I think the crisis was between two and three a.m. this morning.'
'So you may not have to use your instrument?'
That meant tracheotomy.
'I pray not. I believe not.'
Tears welled into Ross's throat and he tried to swallow them. 'Thank God for that.'
'Amen. I must go now. I have two other cases I should see. I hope to be with you straight after breakfast.'
'Shall I go in?'
'I think not. Two of the Martins are with her and it's better she should not be disturbed. Is there a spare room in the house?'
'Jeremy's.'
'Lie down yourself for a couple of hours. Tell John Gimlett where you are in case of need.'
'Thank you, Dwight.'
Dwight looked down. 'You're still a strong man, Ross. I shall need that arm again.'
'Apologies.' He released Dwight and they crept down the stairs.
Two days later Ross rode over to Wheal Elizabeth at Trevaunance. It was not that there was any urgent need to go, but while Bella had been so ill he had felt unable to stir from the house. Now that there was just a suggestion of convalescence about her, some action outside the confines of the farm and his own mines was a way of releasing his still current anxieties. The North Coast Mining Company had officially taken possession of Wheal Elizabeth last month, a new mine captain called Trebethick had been appointed, and after a general survey of the present workings three of the current shafts had been abandoned; the other two were to be developed and renamed (for luck) and a third new excavation begun about fifty yards nearer the house. Valentine had been allowed twenty-five per cent of the promised investment, and was the third largest shareholder after Warleggan's Bank and the Cornish Bank. There had been little time yet to make appreciable progress; a small pumping engine had been ordered, costing 600 pounds from Perran Foundry, and when installed would be used chiefly to drain the new shaft, which was further from the cliff and had less natural drainage. Almost at once Trebethick came out of the purser's shed to greet the unexpected visitor, and almost at once he told Ross that Captain Prideaux was below ground in the Margaret shaft and they could quickly send down for him. Ross told him not to bother. He was interested in the other shaft, Sunshine, which had been more recently developed from an early adit dug many years ago to drain some long ignored and forgotten excavation. Ross's instinct, grown from long years of dealing with mines, picked on this one as a more promising spot to prospect. It had been Trebethick's first interest when he came to manage the mine.
The work at the moment involved renewing the timber setts, which had largely rotted, then shoring up and capping the roof by joining one sett to another. Lagging boards were also being fitted, so that the miners could explore into the chilly, draughty cavern beyond. It was an hour later, when he was about to untether his horse, that he saw Captain Prideaux bearing down on him. They greeted each other cordially and for a few minutes discussed the future welfare of Wheal Elizabeth. Then Philip said: 'I understand your younger daughter has been unwell. I hope it was nothing serious?'
'Afraid it was,' Ross said. 'She is making progress now, but it is not forgone and will take weeks yet.'
'Did she contract this in France?'
'It seems so. But Dr Enys says the infection may have been latent for some time.'
'And Clowance?' Philip asked. Ross stared out at the pellucid sea, which was as flat as a plate.
'She made her own choice. I'm sorry.'
'It destroyed my hopes.'
'I understand how you must feel.'
'I gather she has known this - this Lord Edward Fitzmaurice for several years.'
'Quite a time. I am not sure how long, but it was well before she married Stephen Carrington.'
'But they met infrequently?'
'Yes . . . Philip, I do not think much advantage will be gained by discussing this with me. I am, as it were, on the outside. I could not see, cannot see, into Clowance's heart.'
'Possibly he could offer her more than I could.'
'That was for her to decide. But if you mean more in a material sense, I think I can speak for Clowance with complete authority in saying it would not have made the slightest difference.'
'I'm sorry. That remark was not worthy of me.'
'She wrote you?'
'Most charmingly, and at length. It did not affect the the bitter disappointment to me of the message.'
'Of course not. Have you seen her since?'
'No. I understand she is staying at Nampara looking after her sister.'
'Yes. But Lord Edward is also here, staying with the Enyses. Probably it would be better, when you see her again, if you saw her alone.'
Philip inclined his head. 'I agree, though perhaps it is good for the modesty of one's immortal soul that one should meet the man who has been preferred by the girl one loves.'
Ross looked over the sea again. 'My dear chap, I do not believe virtue enters into it at all. The mysteries of physical attraction are an enigma that no one has ever quite solved.'
Just then another tall thin figure approached them.
'Well, well,' said Valentine. 'I was about to go to bed for a snooze when I was told that Wheal Elizabeth had visitors. So I came to greet you - if briefly - before I retire.'
'Bed,' said Ross, 'on such an afternoon?'
'Am just back from Ireland. We was becalmed in the St George's Channel - becalmed! When the Irish Sea is short of wind one wonders what the world is coming to. And I could not sleep in that pesky cabin for the bugs. I have rid all the way home. They tell me Bella is unwell?'
Ross explained. 'How did you know?'
'I breakfasted at Prideaux Place. Cuby was there with Noelle, stopping a few days. She told me they had been advised not to come to Nampara for fear of the infection.'
'I was at Prideaux Place yesterday,' Philip said.
'Did Cuby tell you about John?'
'Her brother? Yes.'
'What about him?' Ross asked.
'She tells me he has fled abroad.'
'Fled?' 'From his creditors. They have been hunting him for weeks.'
'She said nothing of this when she was over last.'
Philip said: 'Perhaps she did not like to worry you and Lady Poldark, as you might feel some responsibility for her welfare.'
'Of course we do! I wish she had told us.'
Valentine stifled a yawn. 'Maybe the greatest responsibility, if one goes back far enough, is mine. You will remember Smelter George had come to an agreement with John Trevanion that I should marry Cuby and in return Cuby and I should live in the Castle and George would pay all John's debts. I never knew all the details or how many t's had to be crossed and i's dotted, but if I know George he would have had it all writ on paper and legally binding.'