‘I know. I know. But it does . . . Makes ye do strange things . . . Did Andrew go for you?’
‘He came over and told me. Otherwise I should not have known.’
‘God bless him. And you for coming.’
The daylight crept in like a thief, picking out the other chair, the home-made wardrobe, the tumbled bed, the soiled linen, the foul bucket and the pitcher and the bottles of medicine, last almost it seemed the colours of her face and hair. Pink was in the sky now, staining the hillside above the trees.
He said: ‘If I die . . . if I live . . . I’ll be happier either way knowing that you care a little.’
He fell into a deep sleep that Clowance was afraid was too much like unconsciousness.
At eight Andrew came and wanted her to leave but she would not. She dozed uncomfortably in the other chair while he brought fresh coal and re-lit the fire, carried out the bucket and the other soiled stuff, made her a cup of tea. She sipped it and they stared together at the man on the bed.
‘It is time for his brandy,’ said Andrew.
‘Let him sleep. I – I think he is sleeping.’
Dwight Enys turned up at eleven, in spite of his having said he would not be able to come until the evening. By then Stephen was just stirring again and beginning to cough.
Dwight felt his pulse, his forehead, looking at his tongue, not very much more.
‘This crisis is past,’ he said. ‘The fever has gone. Now it remains to be seen . . . But with reasonable care. Care such as he has had these last two days . . .’ He smiled at Clowance. ‘With reasonable care he should recover.’
III
Clowance stayed nearly two weeks, having sent Andrew with a long letter to her parents on the third day, and thereafter writing them regularly by the common post.
After the intense fever Stephen was still a very sick man, still plagued with a racking cough and pains in both lungs. Andrew took the third night, and Stephen would not allow Clowance to return on the fourth. Thereafter she spent each day with him, sleeping at Verity’s, and as he recovered taking a little more time off to buy delicacies for him to eat and books and magazines for him to read.
It was a fine month, and the retarded spring was all the more lush for having been kept waiting. There came a day when, walking with a stick, and gingerly like an old man, Stephen took a turn about the town. That really marked the end of his invalidism, though it was four days after that before he risked himself on a horse. It was, he explained apologetically to Clowance, the two fevers, one atop the other, that had brought him so low. Clowance needed no apology; she was only happy to see the life returning to his step.
By the time it came time for her to leave, much had been said between them, much explained. Yet much remained to be said. In all their conversation they had never really got round to the subject of their final quarrel, the cause of their parting. For himself he could still scarcely understand it, for her part she could scarcely explain it. By a common instinct to preserve their newfound accord they sheered away from the danger spot, content that at least for the moment it could be ignored.
A little late in being aware of the proprieties, she now tried each day to leave his lodgings before dark.
He said: ‘M’love, I’m not much of a fatalist. I believe on the whole a man makes his own fate, don’t wait for it to come to him. But I’ve had three great strokes of fortune in me life so far, and they were all nothing to do with me as an active party. First was when I was a starving urchin runaway of eight and I happened upon the Elwyns’ farm, who were a childless couple and Mrs Elwyn just needing me in place of a son. Second was when I was drifting with a dead man on that raft and Jeremy picked me up. Third was when I was near dead with the peripneumonia and you heard and rode over and spent two nights and three days without break nursing me through it. For I should never have recovered wi’out your nursing, you can be sure of that!’
‘Oh, I don’t know—’
‘Oh, I do know. So three times my life has been preserved and two out of the three times it has been a Poldark that has done it. D’you not think there is some fate in that?’
‘Perhaps.’
He was sitting down so she kissed his forehead, now healthily dry with the hair upgrowing again. He quickly put his arms around her knees, half pinioning her.
He said: ‘What will they say when you tell them?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Do you care?’
‘Very much.’
‘Yes.’ He sighed. ‘That’s what I have to get used to.’
‘What?’
‘That you owe them a love and affection that don’t belong to me, that I’m no part of. I think that’s mebbe what I shall get used to now.’
‘I hope so.’
‘D’ye know,’ he said. ‘To tell the sober honest truth, I’m a bit of an egotist. Except for those two times being rescued before this, I’ve always relied on meself and, most times, not been disappointed. So it’s led to me being reliant on meself and confident of what I am and what I think and what I stand for. You’ve taught me a lesson in that.’
‘Believe me, Stephen, that wasn’t what I wanted or intended—’
‘Well, that’s what you got. And if I’m self-sure about anything now, it is that I can learn from experience. Experience has taught me never to take anything about you for granted, f’ instance. And I promise you I never shall.’
‘Not even my legs?’ she said.
He released her instantly, and gave a little gurgle of laughter, which ended in a cough. ‘Oh, Clowance, we’ll make a good pair, I swear it! Promise you will always be like this – loving, warm; but always, always one on your own, quick as me or quicker, and ready to hit back if I take liberties!’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘I’m sure you will. My dear . . .’ He cleared his throat and waited for his breath. ‘Don’t come back again. Send me a letter – quite short – just saying what they say and telling me when I can come to Nampara – or if I can come. Take a week. There’s no hurry now. I’ve business to do with my two vessels – d’ye realize I’m a ship-owner!’
‘You’ve said so before.’
‘This week I shall take it easy – just going down for a few hours a day – and eating . . . and, when I can, sitting in the sun. Andrew’s been a real help to me, on this voyage and while I been ill. I hope he’ll stay along with me as me second-in-command. Then by the time your summons comes I’ll be total fit and well again and ready to ride over and face the music.’
‘It’s I who will have to face the music first.’
‘I know. But surely by now they will have guessed.’
‘I think Mama did before I left. It is my father I am in doubt of.’ She tied a scarf about her head. ‘But not so much in doubt of. All his life he has been far too indulgent to me.’
‘I don’t blame him. What time will you leave in the morning?’
‘About eight.’
He took her hand. ‘There are some things I reckon I still ought to say to you, me darling. But twill not be easy.’
‘Then don’t try. If we quarrelled—’
‘No, tis not altogether that. There’s things still not quite straight between us, you and me. If I’m to marry you, as I hope and pray, I’d wish you to come to me knowing all me faults, all the things I’ve done in life that don’t lie altogether easy on the conscience.’
‘While you were delirious you were anxious to tell me that you had never been a privateer.’
He sighed. ‘Quite true. I never have. Else I should not ’ve been so scared of the press-gang when I was at sea, as I once told you. Crews of privateers don’t often get pressed – should not at all! I went – adventuring with Captain Fraser, Budi Halim, Stevenson, and one other, Hawker, but we did not have letters of marque. Twas a sordid expedition, I can tell you, to seize what we could find; but all the rest was true – we were cornered by a French sloop, shipwrecked, sunk. From there on, until Jeremy and the others
picked me up, twas all true . . .’
‘And should I be shocked by that?’
‘Nay, there are worse things about me, Clowance, as you may guess. God knows whether I shall gather the courage to tell you it all before we marry. I should. But I couldn’t bear to lose you again.’
‘You’re not married to someone else, are you?’
‘Holy Mary, no! What made you say that?’
‘That’s the only reason I can think of why I shouldn’t marry you.’
He kissed her hand.
‘Ride safe and ride careful. I’ll come for you soon.’
IV
Clowance said: ‘You must think me an impossible daughter.’
‘Not impossible,’ said Ross; ‘people have been known to change their minds. But I am concerned to learn the reasons.’
It had been a frustrating day. She had got home about twelve to find her father gone to Truro for a bank meeting and not expected back till dark. Instead of being able to explain to them both together, so that both had the same information at the same time – and she was not appearing to persuade one in the other’s absence – she had sat down to a noisy dinner at which Isabella-Rose was particularly exasperating by wanting to know all about Clowance’s two weeks away, being relentless in her questions and refusing even to accept her mother’s veto on the subject; while young Henry, newly promoted to a baby chair at the table, syncopated the meal by beating on his table top with a spoon. Eventually about four Clowance had disentangled her mother from the claims of the household and had walked her on the beach for an hour, pouring out her heart.
Now, belatedly, she had to do the same all over again while her father ate his supper. (She had said she would prefer to wait until he finished but he said, no, he’d like to hear at once.) And speaking to her father with her mother listening was, she found, quite different, in spite of all her effort not to let it be so. It seemed to centre on the practical rather than the emotional, even though the latter at the final resort must be the one that counted most.
‘Stephen now owns these two boats and has made money out of the one voyage to Italy and back. He says that, though the outward trip was perfectly legal, he took a deliberate risk bringing home wine and silks. These have all been safely landed – were landed before he was taken ill a second time – and he has been paid for most of them. He says that now the war is over he knows he can never make this sort of money again, so he intends to use the vessels for coastal trading and at pilchard time to take the fish wherever they are most wanted; it might be Italy again; but if so he will probably not go himself. He says that with the end of the war there must be an enormous expansion of trade with Europe, and he is hoping to buy a third vessel to take advantage of this situation.’
Ross thought: these are his words; I can hear him saying them.
‘And the smuggling?’
‘He wants to avoid it if he can. He says that with the end of the war – except the war in America – there will be many more resources available in England to put smuggling down. He believes there is plenty of money to be made out of legitimate trade.’
Ross waved Demelza to stay where she was and took another piece of pigeon pie.
‘And where does he intend to operate this business?’
‘Penryn. It has good facilities for small trading vessels. He also thinks we should live in Penryn, where he can be near all the furnishings of his trade. The Gatehouse . . . would be too far away.’
Ross nodded and ate quietly, reflectively.
‘I should be near Aunt Verity,’ Clowance said quickly.
‘Yes . . . yes. Bear with me if I go back a little, Clowance. Perhaps you have already explained it to your mother . . . But you parted from Stephen eighteen months ago after a – a quarrel, a difference between you that seemed to be final. Do you suppose it is likely to occur again? – for once you are married it is much harder to separate, indeed you are bound irrevocably together. You may separate physically but neither of you may marry anyone else.’
Clowance glanced from one parent to the other. ‘I think we have both learned from that. What I have learned is that there is nobody who can take his place.’
‘And what has he learned?’
She hesitated. ‘I think a good deal. So he says. And he has spoken in a way that has made me entirely believe him. I think . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I think, whatever else, that he loves me. He’s not a saint. He has never pretended to be. We quarrelled and separated, and I thought I was right. Now I know I was wrong.’
‘You mean you were in the wrong?’
‘No, no, no. We have not – to be truthful we’ve not gone back over it word for word; but I think he believes he was in the wrong. Where I was wrong was in supposing that such a quarrel was a sufficient reason for parting. If you – love someone – it doesn’t happen – that way.’
‘And you are sure you love him that way now?’
‘Yes, Papa. Quite sure.’
‘Then there is nothing more to be said.’
Silence fell again. Demelza rose and poured out some wine for him, a glass of port for herself. Clowance had already shaken her head.
‘And what part has Andrew played in all this?’ Ross asked.
‘He and Stephen have grown to a firm friendship. He has done well out of the voyage and is now Stephen’s junior partner. He came to tell me about Stephen, as you know. He had been nursing Stephen himself . . . He is living at home, is reconciled with Aunt Verity . . . He has exchanged a few words with his father, but Uncle Andrew finds it hard to forgive him for abandoning his position in the Packet Service.’
‘Well, it’s understandable,’ Ross said. ‘Andrew Blamey made his life in the Packet Service, and he expected his son to do the same. I hope this new venture works.’
‘So do I,’ said Clowance. ‘Oh, one thing I should say. Stephen is trying to persuade Andrew to drink less. He says he is no use to him unless he can hold his drink. That at least should please Uncle Andrew.’
Ross glanced at his wife. ‘And does Stephen believe he can support you?’
‘Oh, yes. This last week, when he was feeling so much better, we looked at one or two places in Penryn. There is a half house to let just outside the town; quite small and it looks towards the river. The rent is not high. We should have to furnish it, of course. But apart from the capital Stephen now has – and a good chance of a reasonable income from his trading vessels – there are his shares in Wheal Leisure, which at present are bringing in an extra income.’
‘And have you talked it over with him or with your mother, when you think of getting married?’
‘We thought the middle of next month, Papa. But that would depend entirely on your approval.’
‘Entirely?’ Ross said with a little smile.
‘Well . . . yes. Or almost entirely. I desperately want – we both want – your approval. And we couldn’t marry if you were in Westminster.’
‘I doubt if you will encounter any obstacle in the latter,’ said Ross. ‘Europe is going mad with joy, and so is London, and I better prefer to sit at home and read about it in comfort.’
‘And the former?’
He looked at her for a long moment. ‘You tell us you’re sure. You told us that two years ago. Do you remember?’
She flushed. ‘Yes, I remember.’
‘But you’re more sure now?’
‘I’m more sure now. I have learned a lot about myself since then.’
‘And about him?’
‘No. Not much more about him. But I have learned to accept him, the way he is, not the way I presumed he ought to be. Whether I shall be happy all the time I am married I don’t know. But I know I don’t want to face my life unmarried to him.’ She got up and put her hand on her father’s arm. ‘I am sorry to give you so much worry, Papa. I am indeed sorry if I disappoint you. But please will you give us your approval?’
He put his hand over hers. ‘Have we ever denied you anything
that you set your heart on?’
V
On the beach Clowance had said: ‘There is all the difference, isn’t there, between friendship and love. I am sure you must know far more about all this than I do, Mama . . . But – but friendship is almost a matter of choice, isn’t it. The other person is nice to you and you like him and you find you have the same tastes in common and you welcome his companionship and you become attached. It is half in the mind – perhaps more than half. It is reasonable, always subject to reason. Almost everything about a friendship you can explain . . . That I can find with Tom Guildford. Perhaps even could have with Lord Edward Fitzmaurice . . .’ She stopped and pushed back her hair. ‘Love is different. Is it not? Love is something that grows in your heart and in your stomach – and lower down – and it is lucky if you find you even have tastes in common with the person, for it makes no manner of difference. If you love, then you’re in deep water, struggling. Perhaps you don’t even struggle – you just go under, drown. You and Papa were wise in insisting that we should wait till the October to marry, for that gave me time to see things in Stephen I didn’t like; and in the end I came to the surface and drew back from where I was going. My mind, my loyalties, my judgements, all told me to draw back and I obeyed them.’ She paused for a long time. ‘And then,’ she added in a small voice, ‘I found it was no good.’
‘I see,’ said Demelza.
‘I believe you have had one or two bitter quarrels with Papa in your earlier life. Did they stop you loving him?’
‘No,’ said Demelza, then corrected herself. ‘Once or twice, yes. For a while. Once at least I hated him.’
‘That’s easier, isn’t it. Love and hate – they aren’t that far apart. I don’t know if I ever hated Stephen, or even thought I did. It was more a terrible indignation! But nothing’s any good, is it, to break the – the tie.’
‘Sometimes it happens,’ said Demelza. ‘It depends.’
‘I don’t think I shall ever be as much in harmony with Stephen as you are with Papa. There will be more quarrels; but the fact that we have already had one – and a bitter one at that – shows that they don’t alter the inner feeling. We’ve both learned from it. I sincerely believe that.’
The Loving Cup Page 26
