'There again I thought you might not like it. But I'm sure he is well able to see for himself. I gave him money for a bed, and will take care tomorrow that he has better clothes. But I assure you, m'dear, that you need hardly set eyes on him again.'
'But he will exist,' said Clowance. Yes ... he will exist. He will be a constant reminder in my eyes that I have done you wrong.'
It was very quiet outside. A light from somewhere, like a bonfire, reflected briefly flickering on the curtains. Then a gull cried in the night. Clowance thought, he still doesn't quite understand what he has done wrong. If you love someone you love them as they are, totally, virtues and blemishes the same; that's what I learned during my twelve months' separation from him. So if he had told me he had once been married and had a son, would that have been so bad? Would I not have taken it, just as I know he once stabbed a man to death at Plymouth Dock, just as I know that he lied to get himself out of that situation when Andrew Blarney recognized him, just as I know he had girls in Sawle or Grambler before we married, just as I suspect he had an affair with poor Violet Kellow. Being married, as a very young man, hardly more than a boy, was that worse, or even as bad? What was bad was not telling her, lying by omission, reasoning that with luck it would never come to light. What was bad was the lack of confidence in her, the lack of confidentiality. When people were in love they should tell everything to each other. And about other things he had talked so much. Stephen said: 'Are you still awake?'
'Yes.'
'This has come - him coming - has come on a special bad day.'
'Why?'
'Because I had a surprise for ye. A nice surprise. Something that I reckon should make you very happy. Now ... Well, now I don't think anything will make you very happy. Not tonight. Not tomorrow neither, I expect. Yet I feel I must tell ye. For it is something I have been busy about all day. For you. Chiefly for you.'
Clowance said: 'I don't know, Stephen. Happiness -- is not in this. I can't pretend it is. But if there's something good to say--'
'I think there's something good to say. D'ye know Farmer Chudleigh?'
'Only by name. He has the fields above the town, doesn't he?'
'Aye. Well I went to see him this morning and we spent three hours together, and the upshot is that I have been able to buy me a field of three acres where his land abuts upon the bridle path leading to St Gluvias. And there I propose to build us a house!'
She was silent a few moments. 'Stephen, that does surprise me.'
'And please you?'
'It pleases me very much. You told me nothing of this!'
'I wanted it to be a big surprise. I have also been to the mason's yard at Gluvias - Jago's. He tells me he can begin to lay the foundations next month!'
'Have you - decided on the house, what size, what rooms and so on? Because--'
'Of course I have not. That is for you to decide, for us to decide together.'
The excitement of this news was eating at her sickness, but the sickness did not go away. There must be room for half a dozen servants,' said Stephen. 'And there must be stables, ample stabling. Of course we shall not have many servants or many horses to begin, but it is right that we should have the room available for later.'
'And who is to pay for this? Can we afford it?'
'My accommodation at Warleggan's Bank was first fixed for two thousand but has recently been increased to three. The Adolphus was knocked down to me for 1750 guineas, and repaint and refit will not cost above two hundred. The Chasse Maree and the Clowance should turn over a modest profit in the next quarter, so I have money to spend on giving my bride a home - a home not worthy of her, for none could be worthy of her, but a home she'll not be ashamed to call her own!'
Go away sickness, rejoice in a loving husband who will do so much for you, lavishing not only pretty words but loving care. A proud husband and a husband to be proud of. A loving husband and a lying husband. Why did the second matter as much as the first?
'Stephen,' she said, 'this is very good of you. I am delighted. Really. I - can't say more. This - this strange thing that has happened today. I can't just -just swallow it down like some - some dose of snailwater for the anaemia. It has happened and I am sorry.'
The also.'
'But I hope in a day or two it will all look different. As it is, I'll come tomorrow -- or whenever you want - to look at plans for the new house. I'll be happy to do that - delighted.'
They lay there again in silence for a space while the candles burned down. The light from outside was reflecting on the curtains again. Stephen got up and looked out.
'What is it?' she asked.
'Only a bonfire on the quay. Wonder anything'll burn this weather.'
He got into bed and blew out the candles.
'Sleep now?'
'How old are you, Stephen?' she asked.
'Thirty-seven.'
'I see.'
He said: 'I just knocked three years off. I felt too old always I've felt too old for you.'
There was a longer silence. He said: 'Are you asleep?'
'No.'
He said: 'It has all come about, y'know, from wanting you too much. Since I first thought you loved me I've been scared of losing it, of losing you. I'd have done anything to get you. I'd do anything to keep you.'
'Well you've got me,' she said. 'For better or worse. There's no way out now.'
'Do you wish there might be?'
'No.'
That makes me the happiest man in the world.'
'Stephen, I'm not the happiest woman, but I can't exactly find the words to say why. Perhaps we should leave it tonight and try to get some sleep.'
"The trouble is', he said, 'that I'm not good enough for you. I've known it since the day we met.'
You mustn't say that too often.'
'Why not?'
'I might come to believe you.'
He chuckled. 'Now you're like your mother.'
'In what way?'
'Witty. Joking. Even when you don't like me very much.'
Like? Love? Yes, there was a difference. By chance or by Perception he had chosen the right word.
'Goodnight, Stephen,' she said.
'Goodnight, dear heart.'
Ill Chapter Four
The following afternoon Cal Trevail came with a letter from her mother saying they were all leaving Nampara for Paris on the following Monday. Because of the pressure of time and the many arrangements to be made, it was not possible for any of them to come over to say goodbye. Could she possibly come to Nampara, perhaps Wednesday or Thursday, stay the night so she could be told all their plans? Naturally if Stephen were free they would be delighted to see him too. Cal was delivering a similar note to Aunt Verity and would call back for his answer in an hour.
Clowance said there was no need for Cal to call back, a scribbled note of acceptance was all that was necessary. A hasty word with Stephen confirmed that he would be unable to come. She left on the Wednesday morning, and by that time had seen no more of Jason Carrington. Belgium was under snow. It had been foul weather ever since Lieutenant Poldark of the 52nd Oxfordshires had brought his young bride from Gravesend to Antwerp and thence to Brussels. The crossing had been none too bad; the sea had been overawed by the chill density of the grey sky; but there had been, it seemed, light snow ever since. They had gone to Jeremy's old quarters, but as soon as possible had moved to a small but pleasant apartment on the rue Namur. Jeremy's duties in time of peace were nominal: a few parades, a few attendances at classes dealing with military strategy, a few duty visits, waiting on senior officers. For the rest they did themselves well, attending the not infrequent balls and soirees, getting to know some of the many other English families which were there because some member of the family was in uniform, riding in the Forest of Soignes a few miles to the south of the city, reading and talking and shopping and making love. They made love with all the ardour of newly weds - with something added. From the moment Jeremy found himself hiding from the gaugers and being sheltered by this imperious young girl nearly four years ago there had been only one woman in the world for him. Unwaveringly he had been devoted to her, like a man possessed, wanting never any other. There is a kind of love so destructive in its preoccupation that it can hardly be borne, and he had borne it, suffered it unrequited for more than four years. Then, lost to all real hope, he had accepted his father's eccentric advice and gone to her for the last time, climbed into the castle where she lived, like a thief in the night, and had persuaded her somehow - by what alchemy he still had no real idea - to come away with him. And she had come away with him. They had run away together, as if in some medieval romance, and she had given herself to him wantonly, even before they were married. To him it was a realized dream; sometimes he still stole a look at her to reassure himself that, in a cold and cynical world, it really was true. As for Cuby, who after the defection of Valentine had reconciled herself readily enough to the prospect of a long period of maidenhood, had even considered that she might be happiest remaining unmarried permanently, living with her mother and sister and brother and his two young children in the fine castle that was still in process of being completed, and who, suddenly confronted with this tall soldier, abruptly grown older and more authoritative, had found herself driven forward by a rush of strong feeling and sexual emotion which she had never felt before and which she scarcely recognized or had time to give a name to ... as for Cuby, she had so far suffered no second thoughts, no sense of anti-climax, no rational awakening. She sometimes thought about her family left behind in Caerhays, but only as if they belonged to a former life. It was as if in her character there had been a log-jam of feeling, of emotion, held up, held back, quite unconsciously, by a cool and rational brain, so that she had remained unstirred at the prospect of marrying Valentine, a charming young man who did not love her - and only marginally stirred by the concentrated devotion of Jeremy who wanted her and no other woman in the world. The jam had been broken, luckily for Jeremy, by Jeremy, just in time. And it was truly broken; once given way, she had given way with it. She had a beautiful body and she seemed to delight in offering it to her husband whenever he had the fancy, chastely, provocatively, wildly, however her mood took her. They made love together until exhaustion overtook them. But there was no satiety. They agreed together too, almost too eagerly, happily, without reserve. Nothing she did was wrong in his eyes, nothing he did in hers. Even the appearance twice of Lisa Dupont, his former mistress, cast no cloud. It was an affair that had taken place when he had given up all hope of Cuby. He had no eyes for Lisa now, and after the second meeting she shrugged her shoulders and drifted away. Cuby said: 'A pretty girl, but I think she will get plump. I'm happy that you prefer me.'
They lived well. Jeremy had money in the bank in Brussels - product of an escapade he preferred not to think about - and when that was gone he borrowed more. Cuby, reared on a spendthrift brother, was for making economies, but Jeremy said there was money coming to him at home from the profits of Wheal Leisure, and they could run up bills here in the expectation of settling them when he left the army. When would that be? Fairly soon, he thought. With all Europe at peace the regiment was likely soon to be disbanded; though he had heard rumours that the Allies were not agreeing well at the Congress in Vienna, and it was likely that the British Government would choose to keep some troops in Europe for the time being. For preference he would like to stay on until October, which would mean he would have served two years. Then, if all went well, he might be able to sell his commission, though it was not a fashionable regiment, and return home to Cornwall for Christmas. In the meantime, life in Brussels was very good. In spite of the little thought she gave to what she had left behind, a slight shadow on Cuby's life was that she had heard nothing from Caerhays at all - not a word - so when a letter did eventually come she broke the seal nervously and took the letter to the window to read. It was from her mother.
My dearest daughter, I do not know what senses you took leave of to induce you to run away in the deceitful and secretive way you did. Your brother and I - not to mention Clemency - were deeply upset, indeed deeply grieved at the circumstances of your Elopement. The letter you left behind really explained nothing indeed you have expressly said you cannot explain it yourself. And your later letters, though more detailed, have really added little to the first. I do not believe by anything we did or said that we might suppose we had forfeited your confidence. You gave us all the impression that you were happy at home and contented at the prospect of marriage to Valentine Warleggan. When that fell through, through no fault of ours, it seemed that you were quite content - as we were - until some other equally suitable match presented itself. Instead you have chosen Mr Jeremy Poldark. A pleasant young man and a Gentleman. He has made himself very agreeable on his visits here, and Clemency, I know, speaks highly of him. I cannot - we cannot any of us - wish you anything but the utmost Happiness. Shall you make your home in Brussels? We have, as you know, sad memories of Walcheren, where your brother was lost. It is a great cause for relief that the war is over at last, and so long as the Victors do not fall out we may look forward to a period of prolonged Peace. Augustus is in London still at the Treasury, and I have written to tell him of your marriage. I believe John is to go to London this month, as there are trusts and other business matters to attend to. It has been very wet here almost since Christmas, mild and gloomy with the primroses out and some camellias too.
Your loving Mother, Frances Bettesworth
After she had read it twice Cuby passed it to Jeremy. He pored over it for a couple of minutes and then handed it back with a smile.
'I think you are already half-way to forgiveness.'
'This came also,' said Cuby, handing him a thin slip of paper.
It read:
Dearest darling Cuby, Sweet Jeremy, how I envy you both.
Love, Clemency
Henrietta Kemp had apparently overcome her lifelong distrust of the French and her disapproval of the degeneracy of their capital city, for she accepted Ross's invitation within the twenty-four hours, and at dawn on the following Monday they left as a family of five and made the disagreeable muddy jolting journey to London. They put up at Ross's usual lodgings in George Street in the Adelphi. Ross sent word to the Prime Minister that he had arrived, and was invited to call on him at Fife House on Saturday morning at ten o'clock. On the Friday evening Ross took Demelza and IsabellaRose through a light sprinkling of snow to the theatre in Drury Lane. They saw Morton's comedy Town and Country, with Mr Kean playing Reuben, and after it a musical piece called Rubies and Diamonds. Ross privately thought it all rather poor stuff but Demelza enjoyed it, and they were both diverted by IsabellaRose's enchantment. Her eyes sparkled like the diamonds in the title. She sat rapt, with clasped hands, and came out flushed with a rare joy. She might, like Joan of Arc, have seen a vision, but it was not a holy vision, it was an artificial tinsel-deep theatrical interpretation of life. It served for her. She was lost in the glitter, the candle-lit glamour, the powder, the paint, the perfume, the lines declaimed in unnatural voices, the sheer glorious make-believe of it all. Just at the end, as they were leaving, a man said: 'Captain Poldark.'
A sturdily built well-dressed young man with a craggy face. Smiling. Then looking at Demelza.
'Mrs Poldark. What an unexpected pleasure. Edward Fitzmaurice. You'll remember..."
'Of course,' said Demelza. 'How are you, Lord Edward? I think you don't know our younger daughter, Isabella Rose?'