The Loving Cup

by Winston Graham

  Tea came in. The servant poured it out. Ross was offered milk and sugar, both of which he refused.

  When they were alone again Lord Liverpool said: ‘You know of course Canning and I were at Christchurch together. We have been friends ever since. Though with many ups and downs. He is a brilliant fellow.’

  ‘So I think, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Sometimes too clever for his own good. I often think he is his own worst enemy.’

  The last light of day was fading from the sky. Ross had often noted the shortness of the twilight in London compared to Cornwall. People were shouting outside, their voices hollow in the accumulating dusk.

  Lord Liverpool said: ‘I did not offer him Lisbon as a sinecure. He was glad to go for his son’s sake, and also I believe it will do him no harm – no political harm – to be away from the House for a year or so. Castlereagh will have a freer hand in Vienna, and Canning will come back refreshed.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘You have been one of his closest associates, Poldark. He holds a high opinion of you. You were one of his “group”, were you not? Sincere and believing friends who could be relied upon to support him in the House: Leveson-Gower, Huskisson, Boringdon . . . you know their names. Some of them even refused opportunities of preferment out of loyalty for him.’

  ‘I don’t think I did that.’

  ‘No . . . Of course you sought none. But it does not remove the condition of – what? – obligation? Perhaps not so much; but loyalty need not be weighed: it is enough in itself.’

  ‘Loyalty on my part,’ said Ross, ‘was simply a matter of conviction. His views and mine on many subjects were close.’

  ‘Yes . . .’ Liverpool blinked and sipped his tea. He was known as ‘Old Jenky’ to his rivals and a few friends, or sometimes ‘Blinking Jenky’ because of an affection of his right eyelid which caused it to flutter. ‘Before Canning went, he and I talked long on this subject. In going to Lisbon, in leaving the House – at least for a year or so – he was aware that he was leaving his friends. Many of them would miss him.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And he felt that it was his duty and his pleasure to take some regard for their future. I agreed with him. We came to an amicable understanding. As a result of it I have recently offered William Huskisson the position of First Commissioner of Woods and Forests. Leveson-Gower has accepted a viscountcy. Boringdon will become an earl. These peerages will be granted in the New Year. I have not entirely decided yet about Bourne . . . There are, as you will no doubt know, many trials and hazards in the path of a Prime Minister of England; but one of its rewards is that he can dispense patronage where it seems to him it should be good to dispense it. He can reward good, honest, loyal service; and that is what I have done in these cases.’

  After a pause Ross said: ‘I am glad to know it.’

  Lord Liverpool stirred his tea. ‘I have it in my mind to offer you a baronetcy, Captain Poldark.’

  The servant came in again and refilled their cups. He also lit six extra candles on the mantelpiece. He was going to draw the curtains but the Prime Minister stopped him. Presently they were alone again.

  Ross said: ‘You are very kind, my lord. More than kind. But I seek no reward for following my own inclinations. I was an admirer of Pitt. Since he died I have become an admirer of Canning. These loyalties – if that is what you would call them – have cost me nothing. It is not fitting to be rewarded merely for following one’s own inclinations.’

  Liverpool smiled. ‘Oh, come, Poldark, that is not all there is to it. While it is true that your name came before me because you are Canning’s friend, it is not all you have been, is it. Three missions abroad on behalf of the government, and another one with tacit government approval. You have more than once found yourself in situations of personal danger in the course of those missions. Whether they were following your own inclinations or not, they were all of value to the country. Is it not therefore suitable that your country should see fit to reward you?’

  Ross nodded his head. ‘I am greatly obliged for the thought, my lord.’

  Silence fell. A bell rang in the house. Liverpool rose to his feet and went to the window. A light fog was creeping up from the river, resisting the lights.

  ‘If you wish to take time to consider it, you may do so. Give me your answer before you leave London.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord, but I don’t need time. It is a very gracious offer and I am fully sensible to the honour you do me. If I refuse, it is not out of a sense of ingratitude.’

  ‘But you do refuse?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I will not ask why.’

  ‘It would be hard to explain, sir. Partly it is a feeling that service to one’s country should not be directly related to some later award. Partly it is a feeling that the Poldarks and the Poldark name have been so long rooted in Western Cornwall that they need no title to distinguish them from their neighbours.’

  His Lordship smiled thinly. ‘This kind of pride is something I have come upon before, particularly in the shires where some men of ancient name consider a title vulgar. I think it is an old-fashioned concept, but naturally I respect it.’

  ‘Thank you. And thank you for the thought.’

  Ross was prepared to rise and leave, but the Prime Minister seemed in no hurry to end the interview. Back at his desk he picked up a pen, ran his finger along the quill, put his empty tea cup back on the silver tray.

  ‘The situation in the world is far from the peaceable one I had hoped for by now. After the splendid celebrations of the summer one had looked forward to a winter of reconciliation; but so far there is little sign of it.’

  ‘Well, in a sense, we are still at war.’

  ‘Oh, yes, but a puny, trivial war – which should be terminated at the earliest possible moment. We want nothing from our ex-colonies except a peace honourable to both sides. Negotiations are going on alongside hostilities, but no one knows how long the negotiations will take. Clearly America can afford to be much less aggressive now that France has collapsed . . . But it was not of that I was thinking so much as the situation in Europe, which still remains potentially explosive.’

  ‘In France?’

  ‘In France.’

  Ross said: ‘I suppose the return of so many dispossessed aristocrats demanding their possessions must have put a strain on King Louis.’

  ‘On everyone. Of course it is an internal problem that time will heal, if time is allowed. France, you know, Poldark, has never been treated as a conquered nation. Napoleon has been treated as a conquered tyrant; but from the moment peace was signed the nation as such has been given every assistance and consideration to help it to its feet again, and every encouragement to take its place in the comity of Europe. The unrest within its own borders at present makes its contribution unsatisfactory and unreliable.’

  Ross nodded.

  Liverpool said: ‘As the goodwill attending on the return of Louis has evaporated before the constant problems he has to face, so the British have become deeply unpopular. There have been threats against the life of Wellington, and unpleasant scenes. Realize that in the House of Peers, the ancient nobles of France number but thirty; the remaining hundred and forty are marshals and generals and the like ennobled by Buonaparte. Realize that the army has been recently swelled by the return of one hundred and fifty thousand prisoners of war, from England, Russia and Prussia, most of them ardent to avenge the dishonour and hardship of their captivity. Realize that the princes of the blood royal have been declared colonels and generals by the King, and many other superior posts have been filled by the emigrant nobility, so that the flower of Napoleon’s fine army of veterans is subject to the command of old men past the age of service or by young men who have never known it. After the calm early months of Louis’ reign, all these discontents and many more have surfaced. And much of the blame – most unfairly – has focused on the British and particularly on their Ambassador. This week I have come to the reluc
tant conclusion that Wellington must be recalled – for his own safety.’

  ‘He will not like that.’

  ‘There are two principal risks: one, that the dissident army may stage a coup and take him prisoner as a hostage; the other, that he may be murdered. Last week I received a message from our most trusted secret agent in Paris.’ Lord Liverpool moved some papers and took out a thin sheet of parchment. ‘The message reads: “Unless Duke of Wellington is instantly recalled from France he will be privately assassinated; a plot is now forming to complete the horrid deed.”’

  Ross eased his aching ankle but did not speak.

  ‘I have twice suggested to Wellington that he should leave Paris,’ the Prime Minister said, ‘but he was never a man to shun danger, and each time he has said he does not wish to. Now I have made it an order. He will leave next month. I have appointed him Commander-in-Chief of the British forces in America.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘We badly lack a man of his genius out there. We have many daring officers but courage – against equal courage – is not enough. Wellington alone has the tactical and strategic grasp to bring the war to a speedy conclusion.’

  ‘By defeating the Americans?’

  ‘By winning a conclusive battle and then making a magnanimous peace. That is all we want.’

  ‘And France?’

  ‘I am glad you see the drift of my remarks. Do you know Lord Fitzroy Somerset?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Moderately so. We met last at Bussaco. But before that in Cornwall when he was a boy. His mother is a Boscawen. They stayed at Tregothnan.’

  ‘Oh . . . I see. Do you find him a likeable young man?’

  ‘Oh, yes. After Bussaco he was more than helpful in toning down Wellington’s impatience at my being there.’

  Lord Liverpool smiled and blinked. ‘Did you know that Wellington wrote to his brother, the Foreign Secretary, complaining angrily of your visit? What was the difference, he asked, between a “neutral observer” and a “government spy”?’

  ‘I thought this sometimes myself. But you do me more than justice in supposing I see the drift of your remarks.’

  ‘Ah, well. I was about to add, as I am sure you know, that Fitzroy Somerset has been Wellington’s aide at the British Embassy in Paris. It is my intention to leave him in sole charge when Wellington leaves.’

  ‘He is young.’

  ‘He is very young, of course, for such a post, though he will have the support of Sir Charles Bagot, who is a few years his senior in age. It will be a testing appointment. Fitzroy Somerset has more than proved himself in battle; it will remain to be seen if he can prove himself equal in diplomacy.’

  ‘I wish him well.’

  Lord Liverpool reached forward and snuffed one of the desk candles which was smoking.

  ‘From here forwards perhaps you will have no difficulty in following the purpose of my remarks. It is my intention, it is my Cabinet’s intention, to watch events very closely in France over the next few months. It may be that events will stabilize themselves, that the removal of Wellington, who has been, I fear, distinctly arrogant – a living symbol of the conquering armies – will take away one of the main causes of French hostility; it may be that the good sense of the average Frenchman – who has seen so much distress and devastation over the last twenty years – will help him to draw back from any form of civil war, that by the spring the worst discontent will be over and we can settle down to an era of genuine peace.’

  ‘I trust so.’

  ‘But if it does not, if discontent in the army generally continues to grow, it is in my mind to send a special envoy to Paris, a man of some experience both in government and in military matters who would report daily direct to me on anything he saw, so that we should not be caught unawares by any revolt, whether it was Buonapartist or on behalf of one of the other royal pretenders. He would be closely attached to the Embassy, and able to draw on them for any assistance he needed, but his real mission would be kept secret. For that reason it would have to be a man of some eminence but one not internationally known, a name not known to the French, for instance, a man who could be visiting Paris – and France generally – and combining a holiday, perhaps with his wife and family, with a lively interest in his old gallant adversaries, the French army.’

  Ross saw exactly where it was all pointed now.

  Chapter Five

  I

  Stephen was away for two weeks at the end of November, having sailed with the Chasse Marée as far as Bristol. Left much on her own, Clowance accepted an invitation to ride over and dine with Mr and Mrs Valentine Warleggan.

  A brooding, gloomy day, mercifully dry and without appreciable wind, but sunless and lifeless. This being only her second visit to the north coast since she was married, Clowance had hoped for brilliance of sky and mountainous seas. (Living in an estuary seemed scarcely to be by the sea at all.) But when she dismounted at the front door of Place House it was as if someone had drawn a grey screen across the view, leaving no lineal mark to distinguish the horizon.

  Valentine came instantly out, ran down the steps to meet her.

  ‘Cousin Clowance, my only little cousin. You rode over alone? You should not! We would have sent a groom.’ He helped her down and kissed her as if she was the first woman he had seen for a month. Selina Warleggan was smiling from the doorway.

  The young women greeted each other, kissing warily; a new life had begun for them both since they last met.

  In a flurry of idle conversation they went in, Clowance was helped off with her cloak, her new frock much admired; two blondes together, Selina the more ashen, certainly the more willowy, yet perceptibly the older against Clowance’s abounding youth.

  ‘What are you doing home so early?’ Clowance asked. ‘Surely it is not yet time. Or have you given up your studies?’

  ‘On the contrary. In spite of the fascination of my life here I returned promptly to Cambridge, and took Selina with me, of course. My studies were at least as diligent as usual until she tired of the Cambridge air, whereupon I decided that my father was grievous ill and we left two weeks before the end of term.’

  ‘I trust he is not!’

  ‘Alas, no. But—’

  ‘Val, you must not say such things!’ exclaimed Selina. ‘The time for bitterness is over. What harm has he ever done you? Serious!’

  Valentine rubbed his nose. ‘I suppose the greatest harm is that he ever sired me. And yet—’

  ‘My dearest, I hold him in the highest favour for that! Just because—’

  ‘Wait until you have been wed to me for a year or two.’ Valentine looked Selina assessingly up and down. ‘Or twenty year or two. Come to consider it, I think I shall be able to bear you for a long time.’

  Selina coloured becomingly. ‘We are talking in the presence of another newlywed. How is dear Stephen? It was quite by chance Valentine heard he was away, and thought to ask you over. What do you do with yourself while he is away? And does he prosper? I understand he owns several vessels now and will soon be looked on as a big shipowner.’

  ‘Scarcely that,’ said Clowance, smiling, ‘but he prospers. So far.’

  Over dinner Clowance let out inadvertently that they had been seeing something of Sir George and Lady Harriet, and then that Sir George had financed Stephen’s latest purchase, of the Adolphus.

  Valentine said: ‘My father is a useful man to have on board – always so long as you steer in the direction he considers appropriate. Once get at cross with him and he’ll have you on the rocks in no time.’

  ‘Well, thank you,’ said Clowance drily.

  ‘Oh, it may not come to that, little cousin! Though I feel some responsibility in having introduced them to each other. Never mind, I believe Stephen to be a man of determined character, and that will stand him in good stead . . . And how is that rapscallion Andrew Blamey behaving himself?’

  ‘Very well so far. He lacks your influence . . .’
Clowance paused, anxious not to say more in front of Selina.

  Valentine laughed. ‘You see, Selina, my influence is always bad! What have I been telling you? Live with me and I will corrupt you in no time!’

  Selina lowered her eyes and smiled as if to herself privately, nurturing what had been said, her own feelings, her assessment of Valentine’s feelings, her own secret conclusions.

  It was not in Clowance’s character to see deeply below the surface of an enjoyable first visit to Place House; she took people as they came, reacting with the natural warmth of her own uncomplex nature. But being entertained by this ill-assorted pair stirred her curiosity and her observancy beyond its usual limits.

  She had first seen Mrs Pope as the slim, secretive, blonde young wife of the ailing old man, and then later as the pretty, nearly-demure widow in becoming black. Once or twice, chiefly at Geoffrey Charles’s party, she had come out of her shell; but even at such times she had seemed on her guard, a little unable to relax her dignity in case someone took advantage of her. Jeremy had told Clowance that Mrs Pope had had an eye for him, and clearly she had not been above a flirtation here and there. When her ‘flirtation’ had begun with Valentine Clowance had no idea – perhaps even as early as the Enyses’ dinner party in July of three years ago – before Mr Clement Pope was even ill: she remembered them sitting all together at the dinner table, and Valentine had asked her who his other neighbour was before he spoke to Mrs Pope. Thereafter that evening, Clowance remembered, he had had no attention for anyone else.

  ‘My charming step-daughters,’ Valentine said taking Clowance by the arm as they left the dining room, ‘are with a Mrs Osworth in Finsbury. We visited them on the way to Cambridge and again on the way home. Mrs Osworth is a well-connected widow who will do her best to further their education and their entry into society. But I have been telling Selina, once I am free of Cambridge, that we would do well to take a house in London for a season to see them properly launched. And for that purpose I shall have no hesitation in calling in my stepmother’s connections. Let it be said that I hope never to have to exchange another word with my father as long as he lives; but Lady Harriet is another matter. I fancy Lady Harriet – decorously, of course, in her case – but still I fancy her; and would feel sorry for her at the outlandish marriage she has made, were it possible to feel sorry for Lady Harriet. Happily it is not. She is far too strong, too much mistress of her own soul to allow one terrible mistake to jeopardize it. So I shall solicit her assistance on behalf of Letitia and Maud. And although no doubt she will call scorn on me for having such petty ambitions for them, I believe secretly she will be amused to help.’