Ross Poldark

by Winston Graham

  “I remember the offer well,” he told Zacky. “I’ll see him on Sunday—see if I can get some sense into him. If not I’ll turn him out of his cottage. They’re an unhealthy family, the Clemmows; we should be better without the last of them.”

  2

  Easter Monday came before Ross had faced up to his other promise. But on impulse he had undertaken to be Verity's escort at the ball, and out of affection for her he must go through with it.

  The Assembly Rooms were full of people when Ross and Verity arrived. Many of the elite of Cornish society were present tonight. As Ross and Verity entered, the band was already tuning up for the first dance. The room was lit by scores of candles ranged along the walls. The murmur of voices met them, borne on a wave of warm air in which scents and perfumes were strongly mingled. They threaded their way across the room among talking groups and tapping heels and clicking snuffboxes and the rustle of silk gowns.

  As was his custom when he went among the people of his own class, Ross had dressed with care; and Verity too, a little unexpectedly, had taken pains with herself. The bright colour of her crimson brocade frock lit up and softened the tan of her plain, pleasant face; she was far prettier than he had ever seen her. This was a different Verity from the one who in breeches and a smock ploughed about in the mud of Trenwith indifferent to rain and wind.

  Mrs. Teague and her five daughters were here and were members of a party organized by Joan Pascoe, to which Ross and Verity were expected to attach themselves. While polite greetings were in progress, Ross turned his brooding gaze from one to the other of the five girls and wondered why none of them was married. Faith, the eldest, was fair and pretty, but the other four grew progressively darker and less attractive, as if the virtue and inspiration had gone out of Mrs. Teague as she produced them.

  For once there were enough men, and Mrs. Teague, in a new frizzled wig and gold earrings, gazed over the scene with complacent eyes. There were half a dozen others to the party, and Ross was the senior among them. He felt it: they were so young with their artificial manners and parrot compliments. They called him Captain Poldark and treated him with a respect he did not look for—all, that is, except Whitworth, a swaggering beau who was doing nothing at Oxford with a view to entering the Church, and who was dressed in the extremity of fashion with a cutaway coat embroidered with silk thread flowers. He talked in the loudest voice and clearly wished to take charge of the party, a privilege which Ross allowed him.

  Since he was here to please Verity, he decided to enter into the spirit of the evening as much as possible, and he moved about from one girl to another, offering the expected compliments and receiving the expected replies.

  He found himself talking to Ruth Teague, the youngest and least attractive of Mrs. Teague's quintet. She had been standing a little apart from her sisters and for the moment had drifted out of range of her overpowering mother. It was her first ball and she looked lonely and nervous. With an air of preoccupation Ross raised his head and counted the number of young men the Teagues had brought. There were, after all, only four.

  “May I have the pleasure of the two second dances?” he said.

  She went scarlet. “Thank you, sir. If Mama will permit me—”

  “I shall look forward to it.” He smiled and moved off to pay his respects to Lady Whitworth, the beau's mother. A few moments later he glanced at Ruth and saw she had now gone white. Was he so fearsome with his scarred face? Or was it the reputation of his father which clung to his name like an odour of unsanctity?

  He saw that another man had joined the party and was talking to Verity. There was something familiar in that stocky, quietly dressed figure with the hair done in an unpretentious pigtail. It was Captain Andrew Blamey, the Falmouth packet captain, whom he had met at the wedding.

  “Well, Captain,” said Ross, “a surprise to see you here.”

  “Captain Poldark.” Ross's hand was gripped, but the other man seemed tongue-tied. Eventually he got out: “No dancing man, really.”

  They talked for some moment about ships, Captain Blamey mainly in monosyllables, looking at Verity. Then the band at last struck up and he excused himself. Ross was to partner his cousin. They formed up to begin, the tilted people in some order of precedence.

  “Are you dancing the next with Captain Blamey?” he asked.

  “Yes, Ross. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all. I am promised to Miss Ruth Teague.”

  “What, the littlest of them all? How considerate of you.”

  “The duty of every Englishman,” said Ross. Then as they were about to separate he added in a gruff and very passable imitation: “No dancing man, really.” Verity met his eyes.

  The formal dance went on. The soft yellow candlelight trembled over the colours of the dresses, the gold and cream, the salmon and the mulberry. It made the graceful and the beautiful more charming, the graceless and the ungainly tolerable; it smoothed over the tawdry and cast soft creamy-grey shadows becoming to all. The band scraped away, the figures pirouetted, moving and bowing and stepping, turning on heels, holding hands, pointing toes; the shadows intermingled and changed, forming and reforming intricate designs of light and shade, like some gracious depictment of the warp and woof of life, sun and shadow, birth and death, a slow interweaving of the eternal pattern.

  The time came for his dance with Ruth Teague. He found her hand cold through its pink lace glove; she was still nervous and he wondered how he could put her at her ease. A poor plain little creature, but on examination, for which she gave him every opportunity by keeping her eyes down, she had some features to merit attention, a willful turn to her uplifted chin, a glow of vitality under her sallow skin, an almond shape to the eyes, which gave a hint of the original to her looks. Except for his cousin she was the first woman he had talked with who had not relied on a strong scent to drown the odours of the body. In finding a girl who smelt as clean as Verity he felt an impulse of friendship.

  He summoned such small talk as he had and was successful at once in making her smile; in this newfound interest he forgot the aching of his ankle. They danced the two third together, and Mrs. Teague's eyebrows went up. She had expected Ruth to spend most of the evening beside her, as a dutiful youngest was under every obligation to do.

  “What a genteel assembly,” said Lady Whitworth, sitting beside Mrs. Teague. “I’m sure our dear children must be enjoying themselves. Who is the tall man distinguishing little Ruth? I missed his name.”

  “Captain Poldark. A nephew of Mr. Charles.”

  “What, a son of Mr. Joshua Poldark? And I never recognized him! Not at all like his father, is he? Not as handsome. Still… strikin’ in his way—scar an’ all. Is he taking an interest?”

  “Well, that's how interest begins, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Teague, smiling sweetly at her friend.

  “Of course, my dear. But how embarrassin’ for your two eldest if Ruth were to become attached before them. I always think it such a pity that the etiquette of comin’ out is not more strictly followed in this county. Now in Oxfordshire no girls would be permitted by their parents to make themselves so free as Patience and Joan and Ruth are doin’ until Faith and Hope were happily settled. I do think it makes for bitter feelin’ within the family. Well, imagine that bein’ Mr. Joshua's son and I never recognized him. I wonder if they are alike in their ways. I remember Mr. Joshua well.”

  After this dance Ruth came to sit beside them. Her face, from being so pale, was now flushed. She fanned herself rapidly and her eyes were bright. Mrs. Teague was itching to question her, but so long as Lady Whitworth was irritatingly within hearing, nothing could be said. Mrs. Teague knew Joshua's reputation just as well as Lady Whitworth. Ross would be an excellent catch for little Ruth, but his father had had such a deplorable habit of snapping up the bait without getting caught on the hook.

  “Miss Verity is quite forthcoming tonight,” said Mrs. Teague to distract Lady Whitworth's attention. “I believe she is more vivacious than I have se
en her.”

  “The young company, no doubt,” said her friend drily. “I see Captain Blamey is here also.”

  “A cousin of the Roseland Blameys, I understand.”

  “I have heard it said they prefer it to be known as a second cousinship.”

  “Oh, really?” Mrs. Teague pricked up her ears. “Why is that?”

  “One hears these rumours.” Lady Whitworth waved a gloved hand indifferently. “One does not, of course, repeat them when there are young ears to hear.”

  “What? Er—no, no, of course not.”

  Captain Blamey was bowing to his partner.

  “Warm in here,” he said. “Perhaps—some refreshment?”

  Verity nodded, as tongue-tied as he. During the dancing they hadn’t spoken at all. Now they went into the refreshment room and found a corner sheltered by ferns. In this seclusion she sipped French claret and watched people passing to and fro. He would drink only lemonade.

  I must think of something to say, thought Verity; why have I no small talk like those girls over there; if I could help him to talk, he would like me more; he's shy like me, and I ought to make things easier, not harder. There's farming but he would not be attracted by my pigs and poultry. Mining I’m no more interested in than he. The sea I know nothing of except cutters and seiners and other small fry. The shipwreck last month… but that might not be a tactful thing to discuss. Why can’t I just say, la, la, la, and giggle and be fanciful. I could say how well he dances, but that isn’t true, for he dances like that big friendly bear I saw last Christmas.

  “Cooler out here,” said Captain Blamey.

  “Yes,” said Verity agreeably.

  “A little overwarm for dancing in there. I don’t believe that a breath or two of night air would do the room any harm.”

  “The weather, of course, is very mild. Quite unseasonable.”

  “How graceful you dance,” said Captain Blamey, sweating. “I’ve never met anyone so, well—er—hm—”

  “I greatly enjoy dancing,” she said. “But I get little opportunity for it at Trenwith. Tonight is a special pleasure.”

  “And for me. And for me. I never remember enjoying anything—”

  In the silence which followed this breakdown they listened to the laughter of the girls and men flirting in the next alcove. They were having a most agreeable time.

  “What foolish things those young people are saying,” Andrew Blamey got out abruptly.

  “Oh, do you think so,” she answered in relief.

  Now I’ve offended her, he thought. It wasn’t well framed. I meant no reflection on her. How pretty her shoulders are. I ought to take this opportunity of telling her everything; but what right have I to imagine she would be interested? Besides, I would tell it so clumsily that she’d be affronted at the first words. How clean her skin looks; she's like a westerly breeze at sunrise, rare and fresh, and good to get into your lungs and your heart.

  “When do you next leave for Lisbon?” she asked.

  “By the afternoon tide on Friday.”

  “I have been to Falmouth three times,” she told him. “A fine harbour.”

  “The finest north of the equator. A farsighted government would convert it to its proper use as a great naval base and depot. Everything is in its favour. We shall need such a harbour yet.”

  “For what?” asked Verity, watching his face. “Aren’t we at peace?”

  “For a little while. A year or two, maybe; but there will be trouble with France again. Nothing is properly settled. And when war comes, sea power will decide it.”

  “Ruth,” said Mrs. Teague in the other room. “I see Faith is sitting out this dance. Why do you not go and keep her company?”

  “Very well, Mama.” The girl rose obediently.

  “What sort of rumours do you mean?” asked her mother when she was out of earshot.

  Lady Whitworth raised her pencilled eyebrows.

  “About whom?”

  “Captain Blamey.”

  “About Captain Blamey? Dear me, I don’t think it kind to lend too much credence to whispered stories, do you?”

  “No, no, certainly not. I make a point of paying no attention to them myself.”

  “Mind you, I heard this on good authority; otherwise, I should not consider repeating it even to you.” Lady Whitworth raised her fan, which was of chicken-skin parchment delicately painted with cherubs. Behind this screen she began to speak in an undertone into Mrs. Teague's pearl earring.

  Mrs. Teague's black button eyes grew smaller and rounded as the tale proceeded; the creases in her eyelids moved down like little Venetian blinds which had come askew. “No!” she exclaimed.

  “Is that so! Why, in that case he should not be allowed in the room. I shall consider it my duty to warn Verity.”

  “If you do so, my dear, pray leave it until another occasion. I have no wish to be drawn into the quarrel that might ensue. Besides, my dear, perhaps she already knows. You know what girls are these days: man mad. And, after all, she's twenty-five—the same as your eldest, my dear. She won’t get many more chances.”

  On her way to join her sister, Ruth was intercepted by Ross. It was to ask her for the dance which was about to begin, a gavotte, that variation on the minuet which was now rivalling the minuet in favour.

  He found this time that she smiled more easily, with less constraint. From being slightly scared by his attentions it had not taken her long to become flattered. A girl with four unmarried sisters does not come to her first ball with overweening expectations. To find herself singled out by a man of some distinction was heady wine, and Ross should have been careful with his doses. But he, in a good-natured way, was only pleased to find pleasure in making someone's evening a success.

  Rather to his own surprise he found he was enjoying the dance; there was a pleasure in mixing with people although he had tried to despise it. As they separated and came together again, he continued without break his whispered conversation with her, and she giggled abruptly, earning a glance of reproof from her second sister who was in the next square and dancing with two elderly men and a titled lady.

  In the refreshment room Captain Blamey had produced a sketch.

  “Now, you see, this is the foremast, mainmast, and mizzenmast. On the foremast is the mains’l, the—”

  “Did you draw that?” Verity asked.

  “Yes. It is a sketch of my father's ship. She was a ship o’ the line. He died six years back. If—”

  “It's uncommonly well drawn.”

  “Oh, that. One gets used to the pencil. You see, the foremast and the mainmast are square-rigged; that is to say they carry yards at—um—across the run of the ship. The mizzenmast is part square-rigged, but she carries a gaff and a spanker boom, and the sail is called the spanker. It was called a lateen in the olden days. Now this is the bowsprit. It is not shown in this sketch, but a sprits’l is set beneath it, so… Miss Verity, when can I see you again after tonight?”

  Their heads were close together and she glanced up briefly into his intent brown eyes.

  “That I couldn’t say, Captain Blamey.”

  “It is all that I plan for.”

  “Oh,” said Verity.

  “… On the foremast, this is the mains’l. Then comes the lower tops’l and then the upper tops’l. This attachment to the bowsprit is called the jackstaff, and—and—”

  “What is the jackstaff for?” Verity asked, short of breath.

  “It is the—er— Dare I hope that—if I could hope that my interest was in the smallest way returned— If that were possible—”

  “I think that is possible, Captain Blamey.”

  He touched her fingers for a moment. “Miss Verity, you give me a hope, a prospect which would inspire any man. I feel—I feel—But before I see your father, I must tell you something that only your encouragement would give me strength to venture—”

  Five people entered the refreshment room, and Verity hastily straightened up, for she saw it was the W
arleggans—with Francis and Elizabeth. Elizabeth saw her at once and smiled and waved and came across.

  She was wearing a dress of peach-coloured muslin, with a white crepe turban close-fitting about her head.

  “We’d no intention of coming, my dear,” she said in amusement at Verity's surprise. “How pretty you’re looking. How do you do, Captain Blamey.”

  “Your servant, ma’am.”

  “It was really George's fault,” Elizabeth went on, excited and therefore radiantly beautiful. “We were supping with him and I believe he found our entertainment difficult.”

  “Cruel words from kind lips,” said George Warleggan. “The fault is with your husband for wishing to dance this barbarous ecossaise.”

  Francis came across to them. His face was flushed with drink, and the effect also with him was a heightening of his good looks. “We’ve missed nothing that matters,” he said. “All the fun's to come. I could not be sedate tonight if all England depended on it.”

  “Nor I,” said Elizabeth. She smiled at Captain Blamey. “I hope our boisterous spirits don’t jar on you, sir.”

  The sailor took a deep breath. “Not in the very least, ma’am. I have every reason to be happy myself.”

  In the ballroom Ruth Teague had returned and Lady Whitworth had gone.

  “So Captain Poldark has left you at last, child!” said Mrs. Teague. “What explanation did he offer you for such conduct?”

  “None, Mama,” said Ruth, fanning herself brightly.

  “Well, it is gratifying to be distinguished by such a genteel man, but there is reason in all things. You should know your manners if he does not. People are talking already.”

  “Are they? Oh, dear. I cannot refuse to dance with him; he is most polite and agreeable.”

  “No doubt, no doubt. But it is not becoming to make oneself too cheap. And you should think also of your sisters.”

  “He has asked me for the next dance after this.”

  “What? And what did you say?”

  “I promised it for him.”

  “Uff!” Mrs. Teague shuddered fastidiously, but she was not as displeased as she sounded. “Well, a promise is a promise; you may dance it now. But you must not go into supper with him and leave Joan to her own devices.”