The Twisted Sword: A Novel of Cornwall 1815

by Winston Graham

  ‘My dear,’ she said, ‘if Clemency would wish to stay for a few days we should be some pleased to have her. Of course you must use the piano whenever you want. It will, I suspicion, be badly out of tune, for I have not used it since – we came home. And even Bella has not been quite in the mood. But it would be lovely to have the sound in the house again.’

  ‘That is kind of you,’ said Clemency. ‘But Mama will be expecting me home. But if I could come again – and soon…’

  ‘Then let us make the most of today,’ said Bella boisterously.

  They made the most of the day, playing and singing for an hour after dinner, and then, under Bella’s leadership, took a walk on the beach. Though it was one of the least favourable of days to venture on it, Cuby professed herself delighted with the expanse of sand and sea and rocks, and her cheeks were glowing in an uncommon way for her when she took tea with saffron buns and almond cake in the parlour. Ross talked about the problem of blown sand, especially with north-west winds; down towards Gwithian the sandbanks in some places were nearly two hundred feet high and a mile wide. He went on to speak of the plan to extend the pier at St Ives and build a breakwater and the nuisance that town suffered from blown sand. He did not know if his listeners were interested – or indeed if he was very interested himself – but it was something to say and it kept the ball rolling while someone thought up another subject unconnected if possible with the late war.

  So the day passed, pleasantly enough as far as it could, nobody upsetting anyone else, but still inevitably much of a social occasion. Nothing could change that except day to day contact on a basis of ordinary living.

  In the evening after supper the three girls had gone to sing duets at the piano, but presently Cuby slipped away, walked through the drawing-room, across the hall and into the parlour, where she found Demelza sitting alone reading a letter.

  ‘Oh, pray excuse me…’

  ‘No, no, please to come in. You do not disturb me.’

  Cuby moved over to a chair, not sure all the same of her welcome.

  Demelza said: ‘It is a letter from Geoffrey Charles. I am only re-reading it. It came on Saturday.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You met him of course at his party … But not since?’

  ‘Not since.’

  ‘He is now in the Army of Occupation in Paris. His wife and daughter should be with him by now. He fought all through the Peninsular War and was wounded two or three times, but survived Waterloo without a scratch. Could you do something for me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Those other candles. They will make it more cheerful. Bella and Clemency are playing on alone?’

  ‘Bella is practising that song she sang at the party. “Ripe Sparrergrass”. She has a fine voice.’

  ‘Well, an unusual one. And strong. Her father does not much care for it.’

  ‘We all loved it at the party.’

  ‘Yes, it is at times like that it shows at its best.’

  ‘Do you sing, Lady Poldark?’

  ‘Not now … Oh, well, I sang last Christmas – that was the last time. But Bella has quite taken the wind out of my sails!’

  ‘I hope you will sing sometime this Christmas.’ When Demelza did not reply. ‘I’m sorry. I should not have said that.’

  ‘Perhaps we should all sing because the war is over.’

  ‘Yes. I lost my brother at Walcheren.’

  ‘I did not know.’

  Cuby finished lighting the rest of the candles. The old room came into clearer focus, still shabby in spite of new furnishings over the years. It was the room in which all the Poldarks had lived for over three decades. It was the room in which Demelza as a child of fourteen had hidden from her father when he came to take her home to Illuggan.

  Demelza was frowning at the letter. ‘It is strange about Geoffrey Charles that he has made such a fine soldier. He seemed at one time a rather spoilt boy. It was not until he went away to school that he grew up of a sudden, began to change … But then…’

  Cuby sat down and waited. Demelza had been going to say: ‘Jeremy was the same.’ But it was dangerous ground to walk on. It could not safely be explored yet, if ever.

  ‘He has written to us before – since Waterloo, I mean. In this he just says, “I nearly and dearly sympathize with you all in your grief.” It is a long, long letter – I think he has specially tried to make it long and interesting – and begins with his account of his march from Waterloo to Paris. He says they marched thirty miles a day! He describes the French peasant women. “They wore lofty white caps with long flaps hanging down to their shoulders, their exposed stays often not closely laced, bosoms covered with coloured kerchiefs, coarse woollen petticoats striped with pink and reaching only to their calves, with white woollen stockings and sabots. Gold and silver rings in the ears and gold crosses on black ribbons round their necks.” It is a good picture. He says the English troops were welcomed everywhere as a protection against the pillaging of the French soldiers in retreat and the devastation of the brutal Prussians, who tore down doors and windows and burned the furniture in the streets.’

  ‘Lady Poldark,’ Cuby said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘May I come and sit next to you?’

  ‘Of course. Of course.’ Demelza turned over a page. ‘When they reached Paris they were first encamped in the Bois de Boulogne. Mostly the Prussians, Geoffrey Charles says, were allowed into Paris. He says he is now at a village called St Remy, about twenty-five miles from Paris.’ She stopped and looked at Cuby, who had come to sit on a stool next to her chair. ‘But he says he mounted guard in Paris, Geoffrey Charles says, when the Group of Horses which had been stolen from the Venetians were removed from the Arch of Triumph to be returned to their proper owners. Cuby…’

  ‘Yes, Lady Poldark?’

  ‘You cannot go on calling me Lady Poldark. I am Jeremy’s mother.’

  ‘It does not matter. I just want you to know…’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘How much I grieve. Underneath. I put on a pretty show. But underneath.’

  Demelza said: ‘Perhaps without him we are both a little hollow.’

  Cuby put her wet eyes against Demelza’s hand.

  ‘I wish I could die.’

  II

  Harriet had sent over twice to ask after Stephen’s health Now she wrote:

  Dear Clowance,

  I understand Stephen is confined to his bed and therefore not suitably to be visited. When he is, pray leave me know, and I will defy the Wrath of God and come to see him. There was a pretty to-do when it was discovered I had been jumping a ditch or so in my present gravid condition; George could not have been more consumed with anger that Stephen had met with an accident riding in my company had Stephen been his dearest friend – which needless to say we all know he is not. A Council of War was held – hardly less than a Star Chamber – with Drs Behenna and Charteris in attendance, in which it was virtually laid down as a Statute that I should not ride again until after I have foaled – though Lord save us, it is probably two months yet to that dreary event.

  So I send sincerest wishes for your husband’s recovery, and pray let me know at once if there is anything you lack that I may provide.

  Cordially yours,

  Harriet Warleggan

  When Clowance showed it to Stephen he grunted.

  ‘She may keep her charity. We are well enough without it.’

  ‘I do not think she meant charity in any ordinary sense – rather, perhaps, books to read or peaches from their hothouses.’ Stephen grunted again. His face was flushed and his leg painful. ‘I want nothing more of her – or any of ’em. I hope she bears him a horse: that’d suit her, I’ll warrant.’

  Clowance said: ‘Always before you have been kindly disposed towards each other. We know that she helped to deflect George’s intention to bankrupt you. What did she say to you that so upset you?’

  ‘Forget it.’

  She waited. ‘Well,
I must reply, thanking her for her note. When you are better, if you do not wish to see her then, we can always make an excuse.’

  ‘Can you get me more lemonade? I’m that thirsty.’ When she had been for it he said: ‘Where’s young Jason?’

  ‘He went down with Hodge to see the agents. You remember? He should be back soon.’

  ‘Oh, aye, I remember. I’m not going to slip my wind yet. Clowance, I been thinking.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This Truro Shipping Company that opened up last year. The shares were twenty-five pounds when it began. They’re up to thirty-three now. I thought to buy some. Maybe some folk would see them as competitors, but I know the main shareholders and they’re friendly along with me. By buying into their business I help my own!’

  ‘So long as you don’t overstretch.’

  He shifted into a more upright position and winced with the pain. ‘When Swann came up from the Falmouth Naval Bank yesterday he told me what some of the other cargo of the Revenant had fetched. Even with the share-out I shall be a richer man than ever I thought. We shall be richer. Have you been to the house this week?’

  ‘You know I went yesterday.’

  Stephen frowned, then half laughed. ‘Ah, yes. And it is coming along well?’

  ‘Well. Most of the outer structure will be finished by Christmas. We could move in, say, March or April.’

  ‘Sooner’n that. Sooner’n that. When am I going to get the use of this leg back? What did Mather say this morning?’

  ‘Yesterday. He said it was only a matter of time…’

  ‘Ah, but how much time? That’s what I want to know. To come through that privateering venture, wi’ folk exploding their muskets in my face, and a French frigate near capturing us, to be floored by a damned horse is the ultimate. Really it is the ultimate…’

  To calm him Clowance went into details of their house. She had told him them when she came home yesterday, but it lost nothing for him with repetition. Indeed she did not know how much of it he recalled. But when it was over, when she had told him all she could, he was silent for a while. Then he said:

  ‘What’ll we call our house, Clowance? Our big beautiful house where we’re going to live for the rest of our lives. When we’ve got those stables up and planted our garden and, maybe, raised our children.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Clowance. ‘It’s hard to think on a good name.’

  ‘Well,’ Stephen said, ‘I’ve a notion. Maybe ’twill surprise you. But I’ve a notion to call it Tranquillity.’

  Clowance looked at him and half smiled.

  ‘Do you think that’s what we shall find there?’

  Stephen put a hand up to his brow. She came quickly and wiped it for him with a linen towel.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But that’s the name I’ve the fancy to call it.’

  III

  The sudden improvement in Isabella-Rose’s spirits was not without cause. The letter from Geoffrey Charles, which had arrived while Demelza was away, had been accompanied by a second letter addressed to ‘Miss Isabella-Rose Poldark’, and as her father was out of the house at the time she had been able to spirit it upstairs without anyone seeing it. It was from Christopher Havergal. She did not recognize the writing, and after she had opened it and peeped at the signature she held it to her breast in youthful anxiety before she could bring herself to read.

  My dearest, dearest Bella, (it began)

  Since I had the inexpressible pleasure of seeing you last, much has happened – most of it disagreeable. I was devastated to hear of the loss of your dear brother. Do you know, I never met him, much as I should have wished to do so. In a large army I suppose it is not surprising that your brother and I did not meet. He was in the 52nd Oxfordshires and I was drafted late into the 73rd Highlanders. On that fateful Sunday his regiment was holding the ground east of Hougoumont whilst we were defending the Ohain road – a distance perhaps of a mile and a half, but a mile and a half more than a little congested with fighting soldiers! (I was nearer Geoffrey Charles, but never saw him either until the Tuesday after.)

  I have also lost a part of myself – though not so large a part as rumour, I understand, first had it. We of the 73rd had had a real set-to at Quatre Bras on the Friday (to think I once complained that I had missed most of the war!) but it was not until Sunday afternoon that a cannon-ball arrived and carried off my foot at such a rate that I was never able afterwards to find it, diligently though I searched. My life was saved by a Mrs Bridget O’Hare, wife of Rifleman O’Hare who, like others of her sturdy kind, always follow their husbands into battle. Mercifully no surgeon was about, so I did not lose half my leg; she applied a tourniquet and bound the wound up in dirty rags, and by the time I was picked up by a hospital cart I did not merit surgical attention.

  The outcome is that I am minus my left foot, but otherwise intact. I was very soon on crutches, and now, as the breach has healed over, I am beginning to walk with a leather strap and an iron support which I am told will soon be exchanged for an artificial foot. In time maybe even a stick will be superfluous!

  I am writing this, as you see, from lodgings in London, where I have had a wonderous convalescent time being fêted and dined in the best houses as one of the young heroes of Glorious Waterloo. In the last five days I have presented myself at my lodgings punctually for breakfast at 9 a.m. – before I went to bed.

  Dearest Bella, before you cut me out of your life for such incontinence, I beg to assure you that very, very soon I shall become sober-minded again. But for a little while I have just rejoiced at being alive and so much in the swim!

  I have to confess to you also, dearest Bella, that I am at present living with a lady! …

  But she is my landlady – forty years old if she is a day, with bad teeth and a stooping posture – a truly curvilinear old maid, who feeds me well when I am there to be fed and who in all other ways is mercifully unobtrusive. I have seen many charming and pretty and taking young persons since I returned to England, but none has engaged my fancy because in front of them all as I look at them is imposed the utterly enchanting face of my beloved Bella, whose like in the world there is not.

  Isabella-Rose Poldark. It reads and speaks most excellently. Isabella-Rose Havergal. That in due course of time, if you will have me, it shall be changed to. But Bella Poldark will always be your stage name. It runs on the tongue. It runs in the mind. As the owner of it will run on the tongue and in the mind of those who eventually see her.

  Three months more I shall spend perfecting my New Foot. Riding shall, I swear, be no obstacle. Dancing may prove a trifle more perverse for a while. Aside from that, and a somewhat loping walk, I swear to you I am a whole man – and wholly yours. In three or four months – perhaps in the spring when your flowers are out – I shall come and sample the salutiferous air of Cornwall. Then, my lovely poppet, I shall hope to see you again!

  Your devoted friend – who wishes in due time to be more,

  Christopher Havergal

  Chapter Eleven

  I

  It was Music Thomas’s wedding day.

  Or rather it was the day on which it had been proposed he should be joined in holy matrimony to his dearly loved and admired Katie Carter, when they would cleave together and be of one flesh – or at least live together and be of one cottage – until death did them part. Now, alas, not a death but the failure of an expected birth had prevented the union being proceeded with. Katie had let him down, as no doubt she’d the right to do, or so Surgeon Enys said, and he did ought to know. But the rights or wrongs of the situation helped Music not at all. The desire of his life – although it had seemed far out of his reach – had suddenly been promised him. Now it was as suddenly withdrawn. And he had become the laughing stock of the village.

  At twelve noon on his wedding day Music stood in his cottage staring round it, all so clean and so tidy and lovingly repaired. Night after night, and whenever he could get away, he had worked to make the place sui
table for his queen. Now it was empty except for his four cats.

  It was worse being so clean, so tidy; and his brothers would be sneering. The sun was falling through the new windows he had put in. Good glass had been hard to come by, so he had puttied in a piece of bottle-green glass for the lower panes; with the sun shining through it it looked the colour of sea water with bubbles. (Upstairs in the bedroom he had had to make do with oiled paper.)

  And the privy was clean and the steps to it new laid, and the back plot was as tidy as could be expected with three hens roaming it, and beyond that Will Nanfan’s field and then the moors leading to the cliffs with the Queen Rock looming out at sea.

  He knew he should be at Place House, for it was not his official time off, but he did not stir. If he was sacked he didn’t any longer care. He’d get a job, some sort of a job, to keep himself fed – if there was any purpose now in staying fed. Many folk, of course, had been against the idea of his wedding Katie; her mother had and her brother had and her grandfolk had; they’d all thought he wasn’t good enough. There was a time when he had greatly admired Ben Carter – still did in some ways: that there organ he’d built all by his self in his own bedroom. They was clever folk, the Carters, not like him, the village fool, singing alto and walking spring-heeled and anyone could make a butt of him.

  Yet she’d promised. She’d scat her promise. She said she’d wed him and now would not. The Carters were no betterer than the Thomases. In fact worse, for he’d never gone back on no promise to no one.

  He’d helped Ben Carter when he’d been in trouble that time, when he’d met him coming out of The Bounders’ Arms, with Emma Hartnell propping him up and him as drunk as a newt; he’d helped him back to his mother’s shop and helped him upstairs, and Katie had come upon them and had given Music a rare old talking to for helping himself to the asparagus in the walled garden of Place House to take as a present to Dr Enys. But it had all ended beautiful. It had all ended with Katie giving him a kiss – the only one ever, and he had galloped back to Place House like a man who’d found a gold mine.