Bella Poldark

by Winston Graham

  ‘Oh?’ She stepped in. ‘Is Mary with you?’

  ‘No, she’s at home and indisposed.’

  The house was dark and psychologically chill. At four o’clock on a midsummer afternoon it still had its own shadows. It smelt of cabbage and cigar smoke and mildew. He was standing close beside her, watching her, an open shirt his only concession to the heat; his hair, worn long, was pomaded back.

  ‘Bella?’

  ‘Much, much better.’

  ‘Good. You would not want her to go the way of Jeremy.’

  ‘Jeremy did not die of a fever. He was killed fighting in a war.’

  ‘I put that badly. I meant that Jeremy’s death would make the loss of another child even harder to bear.’

  ‘She is not going to die, Paul.’

  ‘That’s a relief. D’you know, I still miss him – as you must.’

  ‘As I do.’ She was containing an unreasonable anger. But was it unreasonable to resent an attitude which trampled over half-buried griefs?

  ‘Jeremy was my greatest friend,’ Paul said. ‘He and Stephen Carrington. Strange that I am the only one left.’

  ‘Yes, you were the lucky one.’

  ‘Would you call it lucky? Perhaps so. We avoided the law. Having broken it.’

  ‘I think that is best not brought up now.’

  ‘You know of it? You know what I’m talking about?’

  ‘I know as much as I want to know. So your father and mother are from home? Is it to be a long holiday?’

  ‘You know, Lady Poldark – is that what I must call you? You know, Demelza, mother of my greatest friend, you know I did not fight in any war, not like Jeremy’s father, not like Dr Enys, not like this Philip Prideaux, not like Jeremy . . . yet I seem to have become more accustomed to death than any of them. I have only lost two sisters – and Jeremy – and one or two others, but it makes me feel that life is cheap.’

  ‘That could be a great mistake, Paul.’

  ‘You know the way upstairs? She was up late last night, so is taking a rest before supper. Go up, she’ll not be asleep.’

  Yet when she went upstairs he followed very close behind her, stopped her on the landing.

  ‘Jeremy used to say you had second sight.’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘Well, you have a sort of in-sight that does not come entirely from the reason. I would like to talk to you sometime.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘About life – and death.’

  ‘Is that not what we are talking about now?’

  Through a window the thin sunlight showed up his sallow face.

  He tapped on a door, opened it. ‘Daisy, a friend for you.’ And left her there.

  Daisy said: ‘He’s broken up with Mary. They seemed so fond of each other a few years ago. Of course she has lost all her looks. But it is not just that. The Temples are very upset. But thank you for coming. Tell me all your news. So Clowance has got her man! Will it be a big wedding? I expect you will all go off to Bowood for it.’

  ‘I know nothing yet,’ Demelza said, feeling that the Kellow family had a talent for expressing their thoughts ungracefully. ‘Your father and mother. Isn’t this sudden? I saw your mother last week and she did not say she was going away.’

  ‘They weren’t. But when Paul came last week with the news of the break up of his marriage and said he was coming back home to live for the time being, they seized their opportunity. It should do them a deal of good.’

  Daisy’s bedroom was untidy, and the greying daylight showed the neglect. A white rambling rose had grown from the flowerbed below, and spindly shoots rested against the panes. However infirm, Demelza would not have tolerated this sloppiness. Surely when there was any wind the tendrils would wave about wildly and tap on the glass. An inch of window was open, but the room was stuffy and airless. The whole house was stuffy and airless and depressing. The family of Kellow, she thought, was ingrown, always expecting more of life than it could provide for them and seldom enterprising enough to do anything for themselves. Since the sale of the coaching business Charlie Kellow had done nothing, and Paul, though helping his father-in-law, had made no extra effort to maintain his wife.

  Poor Daisy. She was the only lively one.

  Interrupting Daisy’s light chatter, Demelza said: ‘Does Paul smoke cigars?’

  ‘What? Cigars? Oh yes. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I thought there was a strong smell of cigars downstairs.’

  ‘Oh, all the men were smoking them last night! And Butto!’

  ‘Butto? ’

  ‘While the old people were away we invited Valentine and David to sup, and they brought Butto, whom I adore. And we were teaching him to smoke a cigar. When Valentine is there Butto is so good-tempered! He smoked it, copying Valentine in everything until he put the cigar into his mouth the wrong way round! Then it was pandemonium! But even so he only broke two plates and a dish, and that was accidental!’

  At least it was something for Daisy to laugh about, though her laugh was interrupted by a fit of coughing.

  When it was over Demelza said: ‘It must have been jolly. But does cigar smoke not disagree with you?’

  ‘Oh, fiddle, maybe. But many things disagree with me. Including the sight of Dr Enys coming up the path!’

  Demelza said: ‘I suppose Valentine and Paul have something in common now – they are separated from their wives.’

  ‘If you saw them last night you would not have thought of them as grieving!’

  ‘I hear Selina is back in Cornwall. I hope she and Valentine come together again. How long will your mother and father be away?’

  ‘It is a mite indefinite. They have gone to St Ives, where my mother has a cousin.’

  Demelza looked out at the sky. Still darkening, but still no wind. She rubbed her foot along the edge of a rug, then withdrew it as an ant moved rapidly from under the rug and disappeared down a crack in a floorboard.

  Casually she said: ‘Did Valentine bring his own cigars?’

  ‘I have no idea. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I thought I had recognized the smell. Ross, you know, is content with a pipe.’

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning Bella received a letter from Maurice.

  Amoureuse,

  I have been wondering why it is so long and you have not written to me, and now I hear, quelle horreur, that you are ill!!! I hear it only yesterday from Jodie de la Blache, who has been in London and has seen Madame Pelham.

  She say it is your throat. Pray Heaven it is not your beautiful singing voice. Please write to me soon to the above address, or if you are unable pray ask your respected father. If it is only a line or two, to set my mind at rest.

  You will see I am back in Rouen, and not yet hopes for the opera. The bigger houses in Paris are booked up, and M. Leboeuf, who owns the Théâtre Gramont, is afraid to take the risk. I may persuade him later, but his mistress has just left him, having run through most of his money, so he is at present bent on retrenchment, or at least the avoidance of risk. He will bring on some old revival, he says, with a cast of four, then handpick two stars who are sure to draw the public. Next year, he says, he will think again.

  Meanwhile my beautiful cast is all dispersed, and my prima donna assoluta is five hundred kilometres away in her native Cornwall, et tu es malade. I am most anxious.

  Last night at Jodie de la Blache’s house in the rue Gambon I met Signor Rossini! He is very charming and very good-looking and very jolly. And young! I am thirty-one, as you know, and I think he is younger. He had had good reports of my production of Il Barbiere from M. Pinet and I feel sure if I can find the theatre he will help me assemble a cast – or reassemble the cast – and he will find means of helping me to fund it. Meeting him was one of the most happy days of my life – only exceeded, I think, by the day I met you.

  And that first night of the opera in Rouen! That is supreme!

  My darling, please write to me very soon. It will take at least a wee
k to reach me, and until then I shall wait anxiously for news of you. Tu es adorable.

  Ever,

  Maurice

  Bella was now able to walk with a stick, and, after reading the letter three times from end to end, she stowed it away in the top drawer among her stockings, where she was reasonably sure it would not be found. She did not know how much her father had told her mother, but he had given his word not to repeat their talk on the ship. She would like it to stay that way, at least for the time being. Now, if she had the stamina, she must at once reply.

  Three days later Edward Fitzmaurice returned to London in the dark green coach which, during its enforced stay, first at Nampara and then at Killewarren, had drawn so many interested spectators. With Edward went Clowance as far as Penryn, where he left her to put her shipping company up for sale and make arrangements for her move back to Nampara.

  They had agreed to be married in Sawle Church on the first of September. That was in a month, and offered just time – barely but just – to make preparations and for the banns to be called. They would honeymoon at Bowood, where Clowance could meet a selected few of his friends, and then return to Cornwall for a month. Plans beyond that were not yet made. He was beside himself with pleasure and she, early hesitancies nearly gone, had caught the contagion of his excitement.

  Ross spent the Wednesday after they left at a meeting of the creditors of John Trevanion, ex-Member of Parliament, ex-High Sheriff of Cornwall; and later he went to inspect the house where temporarily, until the more pressing of the debts had been discharged, Mrs Bettesworth, Miss Clemency Trevanion and Mrs Jeremy Poldark and her daughter could take up residence.

  The weather was still dry but gusty and lowering, and although it would be late when he got home Ross decided not to spend another night away.

  Which was fortunate because, arriving after one a.m. on the Thursday morning, he slept late and, breakfasting on his own, he was the first to spot a horseman riding down the valley, and recognized his way of sitting an inch or so to the left in his saddle. He took a last gulp of coffee before going to the bridge over the stream to intercept him.

  ‘Christopher.’

  The man took off his hat to wipe his brow with the back of his hand. ‘My dear Sir Ross. This is well met.’

  ‘I saw you through the window. You did not tell us you were coming. Let me help.’

  ‘Thanks, no.’ Lieutenant Christopher Havergal slid out of his saddle, landed awkwardly on his artificial foot, and winced slightly, then extended his hand. ‘You live a pesky long way from London, sir. I believe it gets further every time.’

  ‘It does after a certain age, but you are a long way from that. Have you come to see Isabella-Rose?’

  ‘Who else?’

  Bella’s bedroom looked the other way, out to sea. After a brief glance behind him, Ross said: ‘That branch that sticks out; it is left specially for tethering horses. And the grass grows rank round about . . . Come in. Let’s have a word in the library before we go further.’

  Christopher followed him in. Ross poured two glasses of cordial from a pitcher and brought one over. Christopher took a chair.

  ‘One sits endlessly in coaches and on horse, yet at the end of it one’s legs are as tired as if one had walked all the way.’

  He was little altered. He had changed to a shorter hair and moustache trim last year, but they were still much in evidence. His back was still as erect, his manner as pleasantly worldly.

  ‘How is she?’

  Ross told him. It had been a very near thing. She was now much improved and walking about in the house. Now that the summer had turned inclement she only went out, a short trip to the beach, once a day. ‘It is early for her to be down yet. What time did you leave Truro?’

  ‘How is her voice?’

  ‘Not right yet. We daily wait for an improvement.’

  ‘I’m longing to see her.’

  There was a pause.

  Ross said: ‘I am not sure about that, Christopher.’

  The young man looked his surprise. ‘Whyever not? She is surely well enough to receive visitors.’

  ‘Yes, of course. But certain severe illnesses leave the patient in a very taut, high-strung condition. It might be safer to consult her doctor first.’

  ‘But I am engaged to be married to her! But for a hitch at the end I should be married to her already! On what possible grounds . . .’

  ‘Did you not quarrel with her?’

  ‘Not at all! I went to Lisbon on an important mission for Rothschild’s. When I came back she was gone!’

  ‘She wrote to you?’

  ‘Later, yes. She had chosen to go to Rouen with this French impresario. Admittedly, this did not please me. But it was not grounds for breaking my engagement to her! Nor anything like it!’

  Ross had not sat down while they were talking, and he stood with his back to the light looking down at his visitor.

  ‘Christopher; forgive me, but what you are just saying, is that not grounds for us to go carefully about a meeting now? It is essential she shall not be upset. What you are saying to me she might find upsetting. I appreciate how you feel, but we must try to handle this very carefully.’

  ‘Is she in love with Valéry?’

  Ross said: ‘I am not a party to all her feelings. All I know is that she scored a great success in France. And I know that she has been dangerously sick with white throat fever. I am not here to judge you – or her – or him. My only concern, now that she is recovering, is that she should suffer no setback as a result of an emotional scene that I could have prevented, that I could prevent.’

  Christopher stroked his long moustache as if to pacify it.

  ‘Having travelled three hundred miles, am I to be denied a meeting with the young woman I have courted and encouraged for more than five years?’

  ‘No . . . I will have to consult Dr Enys. But you must see my dilemma. We must help each other to think all round this very carefully. I – her mother and I – want only to do what is best for Bella’s happiness. When she marries and whom she marries are entirely for her to choose.’

  ‘Has he asked her to marry him?’

  ‘That you must ask her, but not until she is entirely well again—’

  ‘Impresarios like Maurice Valéry do not believe in marriage. And as for those performances in Rouen, I could have got the same sort of engagement for her in England, where she would not have caught this pernicious disease.’

  ‘Dwight – that’s our doctor, Dwight Enys – whom I’m sure you have met – will probably call in to see her this afternoon. I would like to get his opinion above any other. But I don’t want you to confront Bella before I hear his opinion. Christopher, may I make a suggestion? . . . That you go at once to call on my cousin, Geoffrey Charles Poldark, at Trenwith, which is only, as you know, four miles away. Call on him and explain the position and ask if you may spend the night there. I am sure he will be delighted to have you. Later today, I will come over and see you, at Trenwith. If he has time I will bring Dwight Enys, and we can discuss it together. I haven’t seen Demelza this morning, but I will tell her, and maybe she will come with me to see you as well. She has always been very fond of you – as I have. In my mind it is absolutely vital that Bella is not suddenly confronted. We must find a way to break it gently.’

  Christopher gave an unamused laugh. ‘Very well. Let us break it gently, this unexpected arrival of her promised husband.’

  Demelza said: ‘Christopher, you say you did not quarrel with Bella before you left for Lisbon. What did you talk about the last time you went out with her? Can you remember?’

  ‘Yes. We went to sup at a coffee house in Jermyn Street. Mrs Pelham’s coachman, I may say, played the part of a distant chaperone! On the way home we talked about a certain lady whom I knew and she did not know. It was all quite agreeable.’

  ‘Can you please tell me more about this?’

  He hesitated, and then told her.

  ‘And you do not t
hink that this may be partly the cause of Bella’s feeling of estrangement?’

  ‘I do, and lately I have kicked myself for having been so frank with her. To me it seemed just a simple fact of life. Bella felt different. But it hardly explains what has happened!’

  They were sitting in the handsome upstairs drawing room with its panelled walls and big oriel window. Amadora had excused herself, sensing that they wanted to be alone. Ross was coming over with Dwight in a few minutes.

  Christopher said: ‘It seems to me, if that is the cause, or partly the cause, there is a tremendous disproportion – of reason – of emotion, on Bella’s part. I am very sorry it happened and wish to explain myself to her. I tried to that evening, and I thought she understood. I have never been a saint, Lady Poldark, and I never pretended to be to Bella. Indeed, it seemed sometimes as if she rather enjoyed my occasional raffish ways. I fell in love with her when she was fourteen; and she, I believe, fell in love with me. Of course, as you felt at the time, Bella was far too young for a formal engagement. But we never lost touch with each other. We wrote, and now and then by luck or contrivance we were able to meet.’

  He got up and began to limp about the room.

  ‘From the first I was convinced she was an exceptional person with a quite exceptional talent. As you know, it was only as a result of my persuasions that it was agreed she should go to London to train. I went with you to make the choice of school, and when she came to London I was always at hand to visit her and advise her if I could. I contrived most of her early concerts; and it became a generally understood thing that we were committed to each other. Then you agreed that she should engage herself to marry me. In all this I think I behaved as a gentleman should.’

  He waited. Demelza said: ‘Yes, that is true.’

  ‘I was her “sweetheart” in the romantic nature of the word. I kissed her frequently, encouraged her when, as rarely I admit, she became discouraged. But I never took advantage of her eager, romantic, loving personality to be more than a model suitor. Quite so. So I have never been a saint. My life as a soldier made quite sure of that. In the Peninsular campaign I had a Portuguese mistress, who travelled with me everywhere. Bella knew this, and was amused by it. It added a certain flavour to our relatively chaste relationship. You may understand the physical makeup of an impulsive vigorous man better than your daughter. While helping Bella in every way I could, and while continuing to treat her with the respect due to a young lady, I continued to belong to a club called Mme Cono’s, where women of a different calibre were always available. Sometimes I availed myself of what they had to offer. It was a life – or recreation, if you will – that was entirely separate from the life I led with Bella, and it was very unfortunate that the two should have crossed. But this does not mean that when I marry Bella the secondary life I have been leading at the club will continue. On the contrary!’