ALSO BY WINSTON GRAHAM
The Poldark series
Demelza · Jeremy Poldark · Warleggan · The Black Moon ·
The Four Swans · The Angry Tide · The Stranger from the Sea ·
The Miller's Dance · The Loving Cup · The Twisted Sword ·
Bella Poldark
Night Journey · Cordelia · The Forgotten Story ·
The Merciless Ladies · Night Without Stars · Take My Life ·
Fortune Is a Woman · The Little Walls · The Sleeping Partner ·
Greek Fire · The Tumbled House · Mamie · The Grove of Eagles ·
After the Act · The Walking Stick · Angell, Pearl and Little God ·
The Japanese Girl (short stories) · Woman in the Mirror ·
The Green Flash · Cameo · Stephanie · Tremor
The Spanish Armada · Poldark's Cornwall · Memoirs of a Private Man
Copyright © 1945, 2009 by Winston Graham
Cover and internal design © 2009 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Kirk DouPonce/Dog Earred Design
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Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems— except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
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Originally published in London by Werner Laurie Ltd., 1945
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Graham, Winston.
Ross Poldark : a novel of Cornwall, 1783 1787 / Winston Graham.
p. cm.
1. Poldark, Ross (Fictitious character) Fiction. 2. Cornwall (England : County) Fiction. I. Title.
PR6013.R24R67 2009
823’.914 dc22
2009029763
Printed and bound in the United States of America
VP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
BOOK ONE: October 1783–April 1785
BOOK TWO: April–May 1787
BOOK THREE: June–December 1787
About the Author
PROLOGUE
1
JOSHUA POLDARK DIED IN MARCH 1783. IN FEBRUARY OF THAT YEAR, FEELING that his tenure was becoming short, he sent for his brother from Trenwith.
Charles came lolloping over on his great roan horse one cold grey afternoon, and Prudie Paynter, lank-haired and dark-faced and fat, showed him straight into the bedroom where Joshua lay possed up with pillows and cushions in the big box bed. Charles looked askance round the room with his small watery blue eyes at the disorder and the dirt, then lifted his coat-tails and subsided upon a wicker chair, which creaked under his weight.
“Well, Joshua.”
“Well, Charles.”
“This is a bad business.”
“Bad indeed.”
“When will you be about again, d’you think?”
“There's no telling. I fancy the churchyard will have a strong pull.”
Charles thrust out his bottom lip. He would have discounted the remark if he had not had word to the contrary. He hiccupped a little—riding always gave him the wind these days—and was heartily reassuring.
“Nonsense, man. The gout in the legs never killed nobody. It is when it gets up to the head that it is dangerous.”
“Choake tells me different, that there is other cause for the swelling. For once I misdoubt if the old fool is not right. Though in God's truth, by all appearance it is you that should be lying here, since I am but half your size.”
Charles glanced down at the landscape of black embroidered waistcoat spreading away from under his chin.
“Mine is healthy flesh. Every man puts on weight in his middle years. I would not wish to be a yard of pump water like Cousin William-Alfred.”
Joshua lifted an ironical eyebrow but said no more, and there was silence. The brothers had had little to say to each other for many years, and at this, their last meeting, small talk was not easy to find. Charles, the elder and more prosperous, who had come in for the family house and lands and most of the mining interests, head of the family and a respected figure in the county, had never quite been able to get away from a suspicion that his younger brother despised him. Joshua had always been a thorn in his flesh. Joshua had never been content to do the things expected of him: enter the Church or the Army or marry properly and leave Charles to run the district himself.
Not that Charles minded a few lapses, but there were limits and Joshua had overstepped them. The fact that he had been behaving himself for the last few years did not score out old grievances.
As for Joshua, a man with a cynical mind and few illusions, he had no complaint against life or against his brother. He had lived one to the limit and ignored the other. There was some truth in his reply to Charles's next comment of, “Why man, you’re young enough yet. Two years junior to me, and I’m fit and well. Aarf!”
Joshua said: “Two years in age, maybe, but you’ve only lived half as fast.”
Charles sucked the ebony tip of his cane and looked sidelong about the room from under heavy lids. “This damned war not settled yet. Prices soaring. Wheat seven and eight shillings a bushel. Butter ninepence a pound. Wish the copper price was the same. We’re thinking of cutting a new level at Grambler. Eighty fathom. Maybe it will defray the initial outlay, though I doubt it. Been doing much with your fields this year?”
“It was about the war that I wanted to see you,” said Joshua, struggling a little farther up the pillows and gasping for breath. “It must be only a matter of months now before the provisional peace is confirmed. Then Ross will be home and maybe I shall not be here to greet him. You’re me brother, though we’ve never hit it off so well. I want to tell you how things are and to leave you to look after things till he gets back.”
Charles took the cane from his mouth and smiled defensively. He looked as if he had been asked for a loan.
“I’ve not much time, y’ know.”
‘It won’t take much of your time. I’ve little or nothing to leave. There's a copy of my will on the table beside you. Read it at your leisure. Pearce has the original.”
Charles groped with his clumsy swollen hand and picked up a piece of parchment from the rickety three-legged table behind him.
“When did you last hear from him?” he asked. “What's to be done if he doesn’t come back?”
“The estate will go to Verity. Sell if there are any purchasers; it will fetch little. That's down in the will. Verity will have my share in Grambler too, since she is the only one of your family who has been over since Ross left.”
Joshua wiped his nose on the soiled sheet. “But Ross will come back. I’ve heard from him since the fighting ceased.”
“There's many hazards yet.”
“I’ve a feeling,” said Joshua. “A conviction. Care to take a wager? Settle when we meet. There’ll be some sort of currency in the next world.”
Charles stared again at the sallow lined face which had once been so handsome. He was a little relieved that Joshua's request was no more than th
is, but slow to relax his caution. And irreverence on a deathbed struck him as reckless and uncalled for.
“Cousin William-Alfred was visiting us the other day. He enquired for you.”
Joshua pulled a face.
“I told him how ill you was,” Charles went on. “He suggested that though you might not wish to call in the Revd. Mr. Odgers, maybe you would like a spiritual consolation from one of your own family.”
“Meaning him.”
“Well, he's the only one in orders now Betty's husband's gone.”
“I want none of them,” said Joshua. “Though no doubt it was kindly meant. But if he thought it would do me good to confess my sins, did he think I should rather tell secrets to one of my own blood? No, I’d rather talk to Odgers, half-starved little hornywink though he is. But I want none of them.”
“If you change your mind,” said Charles, “send Jud over with a message. Aarf!”
Joshua grunted. “I shall know soon enough. But even if there was something in it with all their pomp and praying, should I ask ’em in at this hour? I’ve lived my life, and by God I’ve enjoyed it! There's no merit to go snivelling now.
“I’m not sorry for myself and I don’t want anyone else to be. What's coming I’ll take. That's all.”
There was silence in the room. Outside the wind thrust and stirred about the slate and stone.
“Time I was off,” said Charles. “These Paynters are letting your place get into a rare mess. Why don’t you get someone reliable?”
“I’m too old to swap donkeys. Leave that to Ross. He’ll soon put things to rights.”
Charles belched disbelievingly. He had no high opinion of Ross's abilities.
“He's in New York now,” said Joshua. “Tart of the garrison. He's quite recovered from his wound. It was lucky he escaped the Yorktown siege. A captain now, you know. Still in the 62nd Foot. I’ve mislaid his letter, else I’d show it you.”
“Francis is a great help to me these days,” said Charles. “So would Ross have been to you if he was home instead of coosing around after Frenchmen and Colonials.”
“There was one other thing,” said Joshua. “D’you see or hear anything of Elizabeth Chynoweth these days?”
After a heavy meal questions took time to transmit themselves to Charles's brain, and where his brother was concerned they needed an examination for hidden motives. “Who is that?” he said clumsily.
“Jonathan Chynoweth's daughter. You know her. A thin, fair child.”
“Well, what of it?” said Charles.
“I was asking if you’d seen her. Ross always mentions her. A pretty little thing. He's counting on her being here when he comes back, and I think it a suitable arrangement. An early marriage will steady him down, and she couldn’t find a decenter man, though I say it as shouldn’t, being his sire. Two good old families. If I’d been on my feet I should have gone over to see Jonathan at Christmas to fix it up. We did talk of it before, but he said wait till Ross came back.”
“Time I was going,” said Charles, creaking to his feet. “I hope the boy will settle down when he returns, whether he marries or no. He was keeping bad company that he should never have got into.”
“D’you see the Chynoweths now?” Joshua refused to be side-tracked by references to his own shortcomings. “I’m cut off from the world here, and Prudie has no ear for anything but scandal in Sawle.”
“Oh, we catch sight of ’em from time to time. Verity and Francis saw them at a party in Truro this summer—” Charles peered though the window. “Rot me if it isn’t Choake. Well, now you’ll have more company, and I thought you said no one ever came to see you. I must be on my way.”
“He's only come quizzing to see how much faster his pills are finishing me off. That or his politics. As if I care whether Fox is in his earth or hunting Tory chickens.”
“Have it as you please.” For one of his bulk Charles moved quickly, picking up hat and gauntlet gloves and making ready to be gone. At the last he stood awkwardly by the bed, wondering how best to take his leave, while the clip-clop of a horse's hoofs went past the window.
“Tell him I don’t want to see him,” said Joshua irritably. “Tell him to give his potions to his silly wife.”
“Calm yourself,” said Charles. “Aunt Agatha sent her love, mustn's forget that; and she said you was to take hot beer and sugar and eggs. She says that will cure you.”
Joshua's irritation lifted.
“Aunt Agatha's a wise old turnip. Tell her I’ll do as she says. And—and tell her I’ll save her a place beside me.” He began to cough.
“God b’ w’ ye,” said Charles hurriedly, and sidled out of the room.
Joshua was left alone.
He had spent many hours alone since Ross went, but they had not seemed to matter until he took to his bed a month ago. Now they were beginning to depress him and fill his mind with fancies. An out-of-doors man to whom impulse all his days had meant action, this painful, gloomy, bedridden life was no life at all. He had nothing to do with his time except think over the past, and the past was not always the most elegant subject matter.
He kept thinking of Grace, his long-dead wife. She had been his mascot. While she lived all had gone well. The mine he opened and called after her brought rich results; this house, begun in pride and hope, had been built; two strong sons. His own indiscretions behind him, he had settled down, promising to rival Charles in more ways than one; he had built this house with the idea that his own branch of the family of Poldark should become rooted no less securely than the main Trenwith tree.
With Grace had gone all his luck. The house half built, the mine had petered out, and with Grace's death, his incentive to expend money and labour on either. The building had been finished off anyhow, though much remained unrealized. Then Wheal Vanity had closed down also and little Claude Anthony had died.
…He could hear Dr. Choake and his brother talking at the front door: his brother's dusky thickened tenor. Choake's voice, deep and slow and pompous. Anger and impotence welled up in Joshua. What the devil did they mean droning away on his doorstep, no doubt discussing him and nodding their heads together and saying, well, after all, what else could one expect. He tugged at the bell beside his bed and waited, fuming, for the flip-flop of Prudie's slippers.
She came at last, ungainly and indistinct in the door way. Joshua peered at her shortsightedly in the fading light.
“Bring candles, woman. D’you want me to die in the dark? And tell those two old men to be gone.”
Prudie hunched herself like a bird of ill omen. “Dr. Choake and Mister Charles, you’re meaning, an?”
“Who else?”
She went out, and Joshua fumed again, while there was the sound of a muttered conversation not far from his door. He looked around for his stick, determined to make one more effort to get up and walk out to them. But then the voices were raised again in farewells, and a horse could be heard moving away across the cobbles and towards the stream.
That was Charles. Now for Choake…
There was a loud rap of a riding crop on his door and the surgeon came in.
Thomas Choake was a Bodmin man who had practised in London, had married a brewer's daughter, and returned to his native county to buy a small estate near Sawle. He was a tall clumsy man with a booming voice, thatch-grey eyebrows, and an impatient mouth. Among the smaller gentry his London experience stood him in good stead; they felt he was abreast of up-to-date physical ideas. He was surgeon to several of the mines in the district, and with the knife had the same neck-or-nothing approach that he had on the hunting field.
Joshua thought him a humbug and had several times considered calling in Dr. Pryce from Redruth. Only the fact that he had no more faith in Dr. Pryce prevented him.
“Well, well,” said Dr. Choake. “So we’ve been having visitors, eh? We’ll feel better, no doubt, for our brother's visit.”
“I’ve got some business off my hands,” said Joshua. “That was the purpose
of inviting him.”
Dr. Choake felt for the invalid's pulse with heavy fingers. “Cough,” he said.
Joshua grudgingly obeyed.
“Our condition is much the same,” said the surgeon. “The distemper has not increased. Have we been taking the pills?”
“Charles is twice my size. Why don’t you doctor him?”
“You are ill, Mr. Poldark. Your brother is not. I do not prescribe unless called upon to do so.” Choake lifted back the bedclothes and began to prod his patient's swollen leg.
“Great mountain of a fellow,” grumbled Joshua. “He’ll never see his feet again.”
“Oh, come; your brother is not out of the common. I well remember when I was in London—”
“Uff!”
“Did that hurt?”
“No,” said Joshua.
Choake prodded again to make sure. “There is a distinct abatement in the condition of our left leg. There is still too much water in both. If we could get the heart to pump it away. I well remember when I was in London being called in to the victim of a tavern brawl in Westminster. He had quarrelled with an Italian Jew, who drew a dagger and thrust it up to the hilt into my patient's belly. But so thick was the protective fat that I found the knife point had not even pierced the bowel. A sizeable fellow. Let me see, did I bleed you when I was last here?”
“You did.”
“I think we might leave it this time. Our heart is inclined to be excitable. Control the choler, Mr. Poldark. An even temper helps the body to secrete the proper juices.”
“Tell me,” said Joshua. “Do you see anything of the Chynoweths? The Chynoweths of Cusgarne, y’know. I asked my brother, but he returned an evasive answer.”
“The Chynoweths? I see them from time to time. I think they are in health. I am not, of course, their physician and we do not call on each other socially.”
No, thought Joshua. Mrs. Chynoweth will have a care for that. “I smell something shifty in Charles,” he said shrewdly. “Do you see Elizabeth?”
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