George’s irritation increased as the evening went on because he became convinced he recognized this young man from some occasion when they had been together and he had not known the other’s name. George prided himself on his memory for faces, but this time the link escaped him.
Jeremy was differently perplexed about Lady Whitworth; he certainly had never seen her before but the name was familiar in the back of his memory. She was a very old woman and very stout, with a curly wig of chocolate-coloured hair, eyes like fire-blackened walnuts, sagging cheeks so crusted in powder that one supposed if she shook her head her gown would be covered in dust; a powerful voice, a fan. The last created difficulty, for she so wielded it throughout the music that John-Evelyn Boscawen had to ask her to stop, for he was losing the beat. Had this request been made by any other than the brother of a viscount, one’s imagination shrank from the thought of what its reception would have been, but in the circumstances she reluctantly lowered her false baton.
As for her grandson, he was big for his age, and thicklipped and clumsy and generally orotund. He had dark brown hair, growing very fine and close to his scalp like mouse fur; his short-sighted hazel eyes were small and made smaller by the fat around them. His whole face was pale and fat as if it had recently been modelled out of pastry and not yet put in the oven. All through the music he bit his nails, possibly because there was nothing else to eat.
However, Jeremy only took all this in absent-mindedly, for he had more disturbing matters to observe. Not only did young Boscawen accompany Cuby when she sang, he accompanied her during the refreshments by sitting beside her on a window-seat not large enough for three. And clearly he was not finding the proximity unpleasing. As for Cuby, she was in pale green tonight, a simple frock of sprig muslin with flat bows of emerald green ribbon on the shoulders, a little circlet of brilliants in her dark straight hair, green velvet shoes. Her face which in repose suggested sulkiness or arrogance was brilliantly illumined when she smiled. It was like a conjuring trick, a miracle; everything about her lit up and sparkled. Once or twice she met Jeremy’s anxious gaze and lifted an amused eyebrow; but whether her amusement was at the attentions of young Boscawen or at Jeremy’s obvious concern he could not tell.
Valentine sauntered up to Jeremy with a pastry cake in one hand and a glass of madeira in the other.
‘Well, Jeremy, not out fighting the Frenchies yet?’
‘No … So far I have left it to Geoffrey Charles.’
‘I conceit he’s still in Portugal or somewhere. More fool he. No one will thank him for it when it’s over.’
‘I don’t suppose he really wants to be thanked … Shouldn’t you be at Eton?’
‘Yes; I’ve been rusticated for a half. Got me tutor’s favourite chambermaid with child. I don’t believe twould have been held so much against me if she had not so obviously preferred me to him.’
‘When d’you go to Cambridge?’
‘Next year. St John’s. I wonder what the chambermaids are like there.’
‘They’re mostly men.’
‘God forbid. Incidentally, that Cuby girl over there is of a very good colour and shape. I wouldn’t at all object to having her after the refreshments.’
‘That I think to be unlikely.’
Valentine squinted across at his cousin. ‘A little feeling there? Have a taking for her yourself, do you?’ Jeremy picked up his glass and sipped it.
‘Watch the way she breathes,’ said Valentine. ‘Doesn’t it give one pretty fancies? Just a pull at that ribbon…’
Cuby was smiling brilliantly at something John-Evelyn had said.
‘Ever read history?’ Valentine asked.
‘Why?’
‘Soon as a prince or princess comes to marriageable age – and often before – the king tries to pair off the son or daughter with some other son or daughter, to cement an alliance, to join land and property, to heal a feud; some such nonsense. Well, my father – that man over there – finding his beloved son already seventeen and ripe for conquest among the women of the world, now begins to calculate how this son may take or be given in marriage with precisely those ends. Too bad if the son has other ideas!’
‘And have you?’
Valentine fingered his stock. ‘I have ideas not to be caught yet for a number of years. However much the gold ring and the marriage bed may be a matter of convention lightly to be set aside, it does cramp one’s best endeavours to have a sour little Mrs Warleggan waiting at home or watching one from across the room. And a good girl – some of them are attractive in spite of being good – will not take so kindly to a little amorous exploration if they know a fellow is married. Don’t you agree?’
‘I agree,’ said Jeremy. ‘It’s a millstone.’
‘And tell me about yourself, cousin. Do you have a woman, and does your father have a beneficial marriage in mind for you too? You’re a pretty fellow, and I should think most of the girls of Sawle and Mellin will willingly fall down on their backs before you.’
‘Haytime is the best,’ said Jeremy. ‘It makes the most comfortable cushion.’
‘Aren’t the local girls a bit short and thick in the leg, eh? I reckon. Well, I suppose you get your oats elsewhere. The Poldarks always were secretive about that kind of thing. Oh God, the music is about to begin again. I wonder if I can devise a seat next to Miss Cuby.’
II
Jeremy left the next day after church but before dinner. In the hour before he left Cuby showed him the rest of the house and grounds. The west wing of the castle was as yet unfinished, and as a contrast with the elegant and dignified lay-out in front, the back was a sea of mud and stone and timber, carts and wheelbarrows and hods and piles of slate. Not only was no one working, which was to be expected on a Sunday, but it did not look as if anyone had been there recently. Nothing looked newly dug or newly deposited, and some of the iron was rusty.
‘Do the workmen come every day?’ Jeremy asked, looking at the pools of yellow water.
‘They have not been this winter. My brother thinks they waste their time in the bad weather. It will start again in May.’
‘How long has the castle been building?’
‘Four years. There was, of course, a house here before.’
‘Your brother was very young to start such a venture.’
‘I believe sometimes he has wished he had not begun! Yet it is an elegant house now.’
‘Magnificent.’
‘Mr Nash has made several mistakes in the design, which have added to the expense. As you will see, the castle was built on a slope, and Mr Nash designed the great wall on which one can stroll in the summer after dinner and survey the lake and the park – and also to act as a retaining wall for the foundations of the house. Alas, in the rains of last spring there were not enough drainage holes, and the pressure of the waterlogged ground caused the whole wall to collapse! I remember waking in the night to such a thunderous sound I thought it had been an earthquake! The very walls of the castle shook, and in the morning we beheld a ruin. Thereafter it has all had to be rebuilt twice as thick as before!’
They finished their walk at the church where they had recently heard prayers read and a short sermon. Now it was empty.
Cuby said: ‘Explain something to me. Last night you spoke ardently of steam.’
‘Did I?’ he said, remembering the laughter.
‘You know you did. You answered most warmly when Augustus challenged you about it.’
‘Well, yes. With the latest developments it is surely one of the most exciting discoveries ever made. Isn’t it.’
‘I don’t know. You tell me so. But what is it to you?’
‘What it will be to all of us! In time it will transform our lives.’
‘In what way?’
He looked at the girl. The dimples beside her mouth were mournful crescents in repose, as now. But give the mouth cause to change, to smile … He lost his mind in looking at her.
‘In what way?’ she said again. ‘I
nstruct me.’
‘Well…’ He swallowed and recollected himself. ‘It is the power that steam will give us. Until now we have had to depend on horses and oxen and wind and water – all things not totally under our control. And not created artificially by us, as steam is. When this power is properly developed we can have steam to heat our houses, to propel carts along the roads, to thresh our corn, perhaps to sail our ships. It may even come to be used in war in place of gunpowder.’
‘But steam has been used for years…’
‘Not strong steam with high pressure boilers. This will make all the difference.’
‘But as Augustus was saying last night, is there not a great danger?’
‘There is risk – as in many new inventions. It has already been almost overcome.’
‘Will all these things happen in our lifetime?’
‘I believe they could. Also I think it will help the poor and needy by assisting in the cheap manufactures of many things they cannot now afford…’
They moved on round the church. Jeremy stopped at one of the monuments.
CHARLOTTE TREVANION, obit 20
February, 1810, aged 27 years.
To the memory of a beloved wife whose remains are deposited in the family vault; this tribute of a husband’s affection is erected by John Bettesworth Trevanion Esqr. From the protracted sufferings of a lingering disease; from the admiration of all who knew her; from children who loved; from a husband who adored; it pleased the Almighty disposer of events to call her.
Sacred also to the memory of Charlotte Agnes, infant and only daughter of Charlotte and J. B. Trevanion, who died 8 May, 1809; aged 2 years 8 months.
Jeremy said: ‘That was your brother’s wife and child?’
‘Yes.’
‘So young. What did she die of?’
‘The surgeon called it fungus haematoides. It was – not pretty to see her die in that way.’
Cuby moved on as if glad to do so.
‘Little wonder your brother is sad – or sad at times.’
‘Before Charlotte’s death he was always optimistic, ambitious, high-spirited. Now his high spirits – that you saw last night – do not seem to me ever to come from the heart. There is something overwrought, hectic about them. As if he is grasping at that which now always eludes him.’
‘Do you think he will marry again?’
‘No. Never.’
‘With two children to bring up?’
‘We can do it.’
‘You are a close-knit family.’
‘That I cannot say. I suppose it is true … Perhaps in adversity.’
‘You seem very fond of each other.’
‘Oh yes. Oh yes, that, of a certainty.’
They moved a few paces.
‘Cuby…’
‘Yes?’
‘Talking of fondness … What you said to me last evening…’
‘What was that?’
‘You must remember. Or does it mean so little to you?’
‘On the beach?’
‘Yes.’
‘I said, “I think I like you, boy.” Does that mean so much?’
‘It means so much to me.’
‘Oh, tut, boy.’ She glanced up at him and then moved on. He followed.
‘Did you –’
‘You must not take on so.’
‘Did you not mean it?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I meant it.’
‘I do not believe you have said that to many men.’
She laughed lightly. ‘How well you think you know me!’
Jeremy swallowed. ‘How well I think I love you.’ They had stopped in the nave. She looked up towards one of the stained-glass windows.
After a while she said: ‘That would be a dangerous thing to think, Jeremy.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I might be tempted to believe you.’
He touched her hand. ‘Whatever else you doubt – don’t doubt that.’
She withdrew her hand. ‘Look, there are other ancestors over here. Here’s another John Trevanion. And William Trevanion. And Anne Trevanion –’
‘The only Trevanion I’m concerned for is Cuby.’
‘Yes, well. But Jeremy, we – we do not live in isolation … any of us. We are not hermits. Would that we might be!’ She looked at him and then away, but he had caught the glint of emotion in her eyes. ‘No,’ she said. ‘We have said all that can be said – just yet. Yet awhile … Look, the sun is coming out. You will have a pleasant ride home.’
‘I don’t wish to ride home at all. I … have an apprehension.’
‘Tut, there are few footpads these days.’
‘It’s not footpads on the way home I’m afraid of. It is footpads here. And I’m frightened for what they may steal.’
‘What might they steal?’
‘Last night I was in agony half the time because of the greatest of a fuss young Boscawen was making of you! It drove me to a pretty pass of jealousy and despair!’
‘… Would you have him hanged, then, for looking at me?’
‘If his looks meant what I thought they meant. Yes.’
‘Oh, my dear … you confuse me.’ The dimples lost a little of their mournfulness. ‘And flatter me. And we have already met three times! You and I must know each other extremely well, must we not!’
‘Well enough.’
‘You do not know my family nor I yours. Nothing of them. It is not straightforward. Nothing is straightforward. Let us go by little and by little. No more now.’
‘And Boscawen?’
She fingered the silver buckle on her cloak.
‘I do not think you have to fear for him.’
‘Give me some proof.’
‘What can I give you?’
He bent to kiss her. She turned her cheek to him, and for a moment his lips brushed her sweet-smelling skin. Then, as he was about to lift his head, she turned her head and kissed him on the mouth. A second or two later she was walking away.
He caught her at the door of the church.
‘No more now,’ she said again, brusquely, having flushed in spite of herself.
‘Cuby, Cuby, Cuby, Cuby, Cuby, Cuby…’
‘Soon you will know my name.’
‘It will be the first thing I think of every morning. And the last one at night.’
They went out into the churchyard.
Cuby said: ‘Look how the sun is breaking through. Are we not so much luckier than the people lying here? Spring’s coming and we’re young! Young! Ride home, dear Jeremy, and never think hard of me.’
‘Why should I – how could I ever?’
‘Not ever please. And come again one day.’
III
Some weeks later a group of gentlemen were dining at Pearce’s Hotel in Truro. At the head of the table was Lord de Dunstanville of Tehidy, formerly Sir Francis Basset, one of the richest men in the county – particularly since the reopening of Dolcoath Mine – and also one of the most enlightened. Present also were his brother-in-law, Mr John Rogers, of Penrose, and Mr Mackworth Praed, Mr Ephraim Tweedy, Mr Edward Stackhouse, Mr Arthur Nankivell, Captain Ross Poldark.
The meal was being taken in the upstairs dining-room, which was private and looked out upon the tongue of the Truro river that licked up at high tide past the Town Quay and the backs of the large private houses of Prince’s Street. It was a dusty room and always smelt of camphor. Heavy crimson flock wallpaper was hung with faded watercolours of stag-hunting.
Dinner was over and the port circulating.
Lord de Dunstanville said: ‘Only one matter remains outstanding, gentlemen, as it did at the end of the meeting. I said, let us leave it until dinner is over so that we should all have a little further time for reflection. Well, that time is spent. Shall I go round the table for your thoughts?’
Nobody spoke. Stackhouse, who was holding the roundbased port bottle, filled his glass and passed it on.
‘Don’t look at me, Francis,’ John Rogers sa
id. He was a short fat man with a paunch that made sitting close to the table difficult. He was also deaf and generally spoke loud enough to hear himself. ‘I have nothing to add. I am, as you know, no friend of people like the Warleggans, but fortunately they have never been in a position to hurt me, so I feel possibly less involved in the outcome.’
‘Well, I don’t know that there has been much personal conflict between them and me,’ said Tweedy, a Falmouth solicitor who had become wealthy acting for wealthier clients. ‘But their name is always cropping up. This small business man or that goes to the wall because the Warleggans come to hold too many of his bills and it will advantage them to close him down. And if he says too much against them they’ll see he doesn’t open up again, scarce anywhere else in Cornwall! Also I believe – or it is strongly held – that they have been behind this move of the Cornish Copper Company to block Harvey & Co’s access to the estuary at Hayle. And the litigation betwixt the two mines at Scorrier – United Partners and Wheal Tolgus – is part their doing. I don’t know. There is always something. They seem to have a finger in every pie, and it’s a dirty finger at that!’
A waiter came in to take some of the used plates. After a few moments Lord de Dunstanville waved him away. A squeaky shoe was followed by the click of the closing latch.
‘So you would be in favour of our making some move?’
Tweedy shifted uncomfortably. Largely for business reasons, he had made himself a leader of the church community in the Falmouth district, and a great charity organizer. ‘I – if it may be done honourably, without reflection on our own good name.’
‘It is difficult to determine what may be done “honourably” these days in the mercantile world,’ de Dunstanville said drily. ‘Moral values are sadly changing … And you, Stackhouse?’
‘I don’t like them,’ said Stackhouse. ‘But I don’t like the expedients which might help to get rid of ’em. I would do nothing; allow commercial and financial forces to have their way.’
The Stranger from the Sea: A Novel of Cornwall, 1810-1811 Page 25
