Bella Poldark

by Winston Graham

  This information Ross took with him to the Bank meeting, which nowadays was not held at Pearce’s Hotel but in an upper chamber of the Bank at the bottom of Lemon Street.

  It was a long time, Ross thought, since that first meeting in 1799, these partners coming together, reforming the old banks and naming it as a new one, the Cornish Bank. It had prospered, being second only in capital to Warleggan’s, and first in the county’s general esteem. It had prospered and Ross prospered in a small way along with it.

  He found they had all heard the news that he had just come by, and it was discussed at length before the actual meeting began. The gravity of George’s accident and the degree of his injuries was of economic importance, since George’s death, with no apparent heir, even his permanent invalidism, would have a serious effect on the stability of the Cornish Bank’s greatest rival in the county, might even precipitate a run on the funds. Of course it was pointed out by the elderly Mr John Rogers, and agreed, that the Warleggan amalgamation with the Devon & Cornwall Bank of Plymouth some years ago had given them a greater resilience and stability. And yet, and yet, Sir George Warleggan, whose personal fortune, which by now must be in the region of £500,000, was by far the biggest shareholder, and although it had originally been put about as an amalgamation between the two banks, George Warleggan had been so much the most dominant and aggressive partner in Warleggan & Willyams that in effect it had almost amounted to a takeover of the Devon & Cornwall Bank by Warleggan’s.

  Therefore the health and survival of this, one of the most important financiers in the West Country, was of the utmost interest to all in the banking profession.

  After the meeting was over it was the custom to dine together about two, either at Pearce’s or at the Red Lion. This time Ross excused himself, saying he had another appointment.

  He did not have another appointment, but he had come to the conclusion that he would keep one of his own. Throughout the meeting he had been absent-minded, behaving in a rational way to his partners but waging an inward battle with the impulse that had come upon him. After leaving the others he walked slowly to the stables where he had left his horse. He had him saddled, mounted him, clopped slowly along Lemon Street and together they clattered up their first hill on the way to Cardew.

  Cardew looked perfectly beautiful in the spring sunshine. The tree-lined drive was startling, with all the green of the newly opened leaves at their most pristine. The hedges on each side were lemon yellow with primroses, and deeper in the woods the early bluebells flashed their kingfisher blue. As horse and rider emerged from the mass of trees into the open spaces before the house, a herd of deer flaunted their antlers as they grazed the parkland.

  He dismounted at the steps, looped his reins on the tethering post, went up to the front door. Before he could pull on the bell Lady Harriet Warleggan opened it.

  She was wearing a long black skirt over highly polished riding boots, a royal blue tight-fitting jacket, a white muslin blouse, and a jaunty black hat.

  ‘Sir Ross! What a pleasant surprise!’

  ‘A pleasant surprise to me too. To have the door of so splendid a house opened for me by the splendid lady of the house.’

  She gave a low husky laugh. ‘I saw you coming. Through the window. I said to myself hallucination can go no further! Pray come in. Were you calling to see me?’

  Ross went in, bending his head by instinct though this doorway was eight feet high.

  ‘I had thought you might be hunting.’

  ‘Oh, come. Even you rough mining characters from the north coast must know we don’t hunt in May!’

  He smiled back. ‘Riding then. To tell the truth I had forgot it was May.’

  ‘That cannot be the truth either. But let it pass. Riding was correct. I have been out exercising the hounds and had just returned.’

  They were still in the hall. The butler put his head round a door, but silently withdrew.

  ‘I come on another mission,’ Ross said. ‘The fact that you have been out riding suggests that the wild rumours overheard are happily unfounded.’

  ‘You came to ask about George? You came to ask about George! That is the biggest surprise of all! But if it is true I must say it is very genteel of you. I have to tell you, my dear Sir Ross, that had you cracked your skull open falling down a mineshaft I should have had the devil’s own job persuading George to call and ask after you!’

  ‘Has he cracked his skull open?’

  ‘No. Oh, no. A broken rib. A sprained ankle. And noticeably knocked about. He is not dead but sleepeth.’

  Ross eyed the tall woman speculatively. There was something about her that greatly appealed to him, something sparky, sophisticated, challenging and downright female attractive. How had she ever allowed herself to be joined in holy matrimony to this dry, vindictive, mean-natured banker? For the same reason possibly as his delicate Elizabeth, his very first love, had agreed to marry George all those years ago – for money, and all that money could buy: security, comfort, freedom from responsibility.

  She was aware of his look and clearly did not resent it. ‘D’you wish to see him?’

  He wanted to say ‘not particularly’ but instead: ‘Not if he is sleeping.’

  ‘That I was about to find out. I have been out about three hours. Ellery!’ She had just caught him: ‘Will you go up and see if Sir George is awake.’

  ‘Yes, m’lady.’

  Harriet took off her hat and shook out her hair. ‘What’s this I hear about your younger daughter?’

  ‘Isabella-Rose? What do you hear?’

  ‘Ursula was saying it is whispered that she has eloped with a Frenchie.’

  ‘Fortunately,’ Ross said, ‘this rumour is as greatly exaggerated as the extent of George’s injuries. With two other girls from her academy she has been chosen to sing in an opera in France. So she has gone there.’

  ‘To Paris?’

  ‘To Rouen.’

  ‘Ah. Never been there. Is this with your approval?’

  ‘I approve of most things Bella does.’

  ‘Indulgent father. I wonder what sort of a husband you would make.’

  ‘Excessively indulgent,’ said Ross.

  ‘Pardon, my lady, Sir George is awake and is taking tea.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Harriet. ‘Then we’ll go up.’

  ‘What brought you here?’ George demanded. ‘Was it to gloat?’

  ‘George,’ Harriet said, ‘you must not be so curmudgeonly. Sir Ross was just passing and thought to call. Is not that so?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Ross.

  George was in bed, propped up by a welter of pillows. His face was puffy and pale. There was a purple bruise on his cheekbone. He looked suddenly old.

  ‘You have a fine place here, George,’ said Ross. ‘I’ve been here only once before. I came with my parents when the Lemons had it. I was about nine at the time, so I do not remember it well. But my memory is of a more untidy place, with the grounds much overgrown.’

  George grunted. He was very angry with his wife for having brought this man up to see him when he was at such a disadvantage. She should have turned him away like a mendicant.

  Harriet said: ‘You’ve finished tea?’ To Ross: ‘You’ll take a glass of wine?’

  ‘I have not come to stay,’ Ross said. ‘I was passing, as you guess, and came in on impulse.’

  ‘Then you’ll take a glass of wine.’ Harriet went to the bell pull.

  ‘I knew I should not be welcome here, George,’ Ross said, ‘at least by you. But I sought to verify . . .’

  ‘If I was dead?’ George said. ‘Well, you may observe that I am not.’

  ‘Brandy or Canary?’ Harriet asked Ross, as the servant appeared.

  ‘Neither, thank you.’

  ‘Brandy,’ Harriet said to the servant, and then when the door had closed, ‘Now don’t, I pray you, become curmudgeonly too. You rode up the drive of your own free will, so you must take the consequences.’

  Ross sm
iled but did not reply. He said to George: ‘I do not know how accurate are the accounts I have heard of your accident, but if they are half correct you are indeed lucky to be alive. I know those drangs. If your horse had not been able to find its way home . . .’

  ‘And d’you know,’ said Harriet, ‘how in fact he was eventually found? My two beautiful hounds! They followed back the way Garry had come, and I believe George, standing shivering in the dark pit, first saw two pairs of eyes he did not recognize, whereupon they set up such a coughing and a howling that the lanterns came nearer and nearer and we peered over too, and a ladder was fetched and my husband was brought up, looking, at that time certainly, more dead than alive. I believe never again will George begrudge the best places before the fire for Castor and Pollux!’

  Ross could not be sure how far the mockery in Harriet’s voice contained a sediment of concern. Possibly George did not see any, for he glared at Harriet, and then grimaced as he moved his injured frame.

  ‘Who is tending on you?’ Ross asked, fingering his scar.

  ‘Behenna. And another sawbones from Falmouth called Mather.’

  ‘Not Enys?’

  ‘I have my own medicals without calling for upstart lackeys like Enys.’

  ‘I cannot,’ said Ross, ‘imagine anyone in their right mind could suppose that Dwight Enys was anyone’s lackey.’

  ‘I see the old sparks beginning to fly,’ said Harriet. ‘Lord have mercy, you are both old men. Ross has much more hair than you have, George, but that is hardly excuse to rekindle a feud.’

  The footman returned with the brandy bottle and three glasses. Harriet talked into the taut silence as the liquor was poured.

  ‘You’ll take some, George?’

  ‘Pour it out. I will take it when I am alone.’

  Ross lifted his glass silently and drank to his hostess.

  ‘Before we quarrel worse, George, there is one other matter which I feel I ought to raise. It concerns Valentine.’

  ‘Valentine is no concern of mine!’

  ‘Of course he is,’ Harriet said sharply. ‘What have you got to tell us, Ross? What has he been up to now?’

  ‘Earlier today,’ Ross said, ‘I met Barrington Burdett, who seems to have taken over Harris Pascoe’s role of knowing all the news. He told me that John Permewan has been arrested.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Harriet asked. ‘A scavenger?’

  ‘No. He was not in Truro at the time but in Plymouth. He has been arrested for forgery and for making out false prospectuses for the copper mines. Particularly the United Copper & Zinc Company. Barrington said there were others mentioned. Valentine was seen much in the company of Permewan towards the end of last year. I trust Wheal Elizabeth is not involved.’

  ‘What is Wheal Elizabeth?’ Harriet asked.

  ‘Valentine’s mine. The one he started some years ago on the cliff edge very near Place House.’

  ‘Damned young fool,’ George said. ‘I warned him about Permewan when he called to see me last – that’s what? Eighteen months ago!’

  ‘Forgery is a capital offence,’ said Harriet thoughtfully.

  ‘Which might persuade Permewan to give away everything and everyone he knows in the hope of having his sentence lightened,’ Ross said.

  ‘Well, let him go down, let him suffer,’ George said. ‘He’s his own master and has always claimed to be. He’s nothing to me. I’ve finished with him!’

  ‘He has your name,’ said Ross. ‘It is an unusual name. You would not want a Warleggan to be in prison, surely?’

  George looked at him suspiciously. ‘What is it to you? Of course you and Valentine are thick as thieves – always have been.’

  ‘I hardly ever see him.’

  Harriet sipped her brandy. ‘Had you something specially in mind?’

  ‘I have had little enough time to think. I heard only this morning. One reason I came to see George was to consult with him.’

  ‘Consult with me. What damned impertinence!’

  ‘Your response, then, seeing him struggling in the water, is to say: it’s his own fault, let him drown.’

  George was about to make a further angry reply, but Harriet silenced him with a gesture. Harriet was the only person on earth who dared to silence George with a gesture. She did it very seldom.

  ‘Ross, contain your own hostility for a moment. If you have any thoughts on this matter, pray let us have them.’

  ‘Last month I was shown a prospectus on Wheal Elizabeth. From my own observations – I’ve passed the mine a couple of times recently – this was clearly a false prospectus. It talks of the erection of a pumping engine. There is no such engine. I spoke to one or two of the miners, and their view of what lodes they have in prospect and those claimed are very different. Even without Permewan’s testimony Valentine is in a very exposed position. Perhaps one may have castles in Spain, but Cornwall is only three or four days’ travel for investors living in Lancashire and Yorkshire.’

  ‘So?’ said George.

  ‘It is difficult to see how Valentine can be helped. I agree with you that this is a mess of his own making. But I was thinking on my way here that Wheal Elizabeth is not without its prospects. Do you remember Hector Chenhalls?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘He was one of the astutest prospectors of our generation. I don’t know what has happened to him.’

  ‘He went to Australia on some mining business. That was four years ago. I do not think he is back in England.’ George had forgotten to snarl.

  ‘Well, after Mr Pope died, he and Unwin Trevaunance approached Mrs Selina Pope, as she then was before she married Valentine, with a view to buying the mining rights of Place House, with particular reference to the area that Wheal Elizabeth was opened to exploit. I advised her to say no.’

  George grunted.

  Ross finished his brandy. ‘I know Valentine had his eye on this piece of land from the early days of his marriage. Clearly his efforts so far have been disappointing. They have opened five levels, but only two are yielding, and then it is indifferent stuff. But it is early days. I don’t know how he is operating things, but I imagine his personal knowledge of mining is not great, and, lacking funds to live as extravagantly as he wants to, he is persuading people who know even less of mining than he does that it is the success he would like it to be.’

  ‘By issuing false prospectuses!’ said George.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘For which, if discovered, he will rightly go to prison.’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was silence.

  Ross said: ‘It occurred to me that if someone came along and offered him a fair sum for the mine he would be happy to sell it.’

  ‘No one would be such a fool.’

  ‘Unless they wished to save Valentine from prison. No investor would proceed against him if they received their investment back in full.’

  ‘As I have said, no one would be such a fool.’

  Harriet refilled Ross’s glass with brandy.

  He said: ‘Opening any mine is a gamble. Wheal Leisure, it was officially accepted, was played out twenty years ago. Now it provides me and has provided me, for a decade, with a comfortable income. Of course, it is up and down as all mines are, but it has been very profitable.’

  He wondered if he was wise to mention the mine, which had been a bone of contention between him and George for years. But the years marched on.

  ‘What I mean,’ he said, ‘is that several people, better qualified than Valentine, have fancied that site. Should someone buy the mine and continue to work it, it may well repay him tenfold.’

  George said aggressively: ‘So why do you not do that?’

  ‘I do not have the money.’

  ‘You are a banker like myself,’ George said ironically.

  ‘The investment I was asked to put up when invited to be a partner was minimal. It has not greatly increased since.’

  ‘Your partners are very warm fellows. I know most of ’em. Put
it to them at your next meeting.’

  ‘Which will be in three months’ time. Apart from which, they have not the same interest in Valentine’s fate. You are his father. My concern is that he is Elizabeth’s son.’

  Perhaps that had been even more the wrong thing to say. To mention the unspoken name. There was a cold silence.

  ‘Well, I must be off,’ Ross said. ‘I am glad you are no worse for your accident.’

  ‘Does Valentine know that someone might get him out of trouble by buying his mine?’ asked Harriet.

  ‘I certainly would not think so. I have not seen him for nearly a month, when his ape interfered with a marriage ceremony at the church.’

  ‘Tell me of it.’ He did. She laughed.

  ‘Diverting. So you have no idea whether Valentine would consider selling the mine.’

  ‘I think faced with that or prison he would choose to sell. We could drive a hard bargain.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘As George and I seldom agree about anything it would be well to appoint nominees, who must not be just figureheads.’

  ‘And you would put money up for that?’

  ‘George would have to carry the major part. If it came to negotiation, neither he nor I should play a prominent role. There is no need, I think, to decide anything now, but if anything can be done it must be in the next two to three weeks. I’ll wish you good day.’

  ‘Harriet,’ George said austerely. ‘I’ll take that brandy now.’

  Chapter Seven

  The Théâtre Jeanne d’Arc was near the church of that name in the rue Fontenelle. Its exterior was shabby, the area rundown, the architecture of a type popular before the Revolution. But inside the auditorium was cosily plush and conventional of shape, with boxes arranged in ascending semi-circles looking down on the stage and a pit where many could stand. South and east of the Place du Vieux Marché was a warren of tiny, crowded, dirty streets running down to the river. Most of the buildings were drunk with age, leaning away from or towards each other as if for support. Many of them were wood-framed and gabled, with quaint carvings. Ragged children, women on doorsteps, starving mongrels foraging for scraps, noisy wine taverns, the occasional prie-dieu with or without flower stems at its base, shops selling wine, cheese, fruit, vegetables, candles, fresh bread. The smells were predominantly of garlic and open drains.