The Twisted Sword: A Novel of Cornwall 1815 Read online

  ‘Indeed, sir. And all England was grateful.’

  ‘Except the Whigs, eh? Except the Whigs.’

  The five years, Ross thought, had not dealt too badly with the putative George the Fourth. When he had last seen him he had been stertorous, wobbly on his feet, his face and body swollen with an excess of high living, a gross Hanoverian dedicated to pleasure and self-indulgence. Only once or twice had it been possible to detect a keen brain somewhere surfacing through the blubber. Now he looked no worse – if anything slightly better. Perhaps his later mistresses, with their emphasis on a more restrained way of life, had done him some good – or at least prevented further rapid deterioration. The old man, his father, they said, was now so far gone that he had to be lifted everywhere and was only conscious of touch and smell.

  ‘And now I am told you are off to Paris on some new mission. What is it to be?’

  Confronted with the direct question, Ross hesitated and then said: ‘I believe I am invited to be an observer, sir.’

  ‘As you were in Portugal, eh? Well, there it is. My government – or some group within my government – has its own ideas. I trust your mission of observance will prosper.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  The Prince’s fingers fumbled with the hilt of his sword.

  ‘It’s true, is it not, Poldark, that you have a partiality for duelling.’

  Who had been telling tales now? ‘Very far from it, Your Highness. I have only been involved in one duel in my life, and I derived no satisfaction from the outcome.’

  ‘Well, let me tell you, my friend, let me give you a word of warning. All Parisians at present are duelling mad. Whether it is because they can no longer fight a war and have to express their spirits in some other way I know not. They look for an insult anywhere, and if they detect one you will be out on some draughty heath at six o’clock of the morning with pistols and seconds and the rest of the paraphernalia before you can say knife. Are you a good shot?’

  ‘Fair, I suppose. Not more.’

  ‘Well, step lightly and avoid corns. I have no patience with the custom meself and neither does the law of England, but those Frenchies please themselves.’

  ‘I appreciate your warning, Your Highness.’

  The Prince grunted. ‘French are a strange race, eh? No sense of moderation, no sense of humour. Remember the Gordon riots?’

  ‘I think I was abroad at the time.’

  ‘Maybe. ’Twould be thirty-five years ago, I suppose, give or take a year. A good nine years before the Bastille nonsense. Can’t remember what started it now.’

  The Prince seemed so lost in thought that Ross wondered if he had forgotten what the purpose of the meeting was.

  ‘Must have been something to do with a man called Gordon, I suppose. Anyway all London ran amok. Populace went mad. All the prisons were broke open: the Fleet, the Marshalsea, the King’s Bench. Prisoners were freed, just like at the Bastille. Some distillery – Langdale’s, I think – was set afire and gin was handed out to everyone. They say folk lay in the gutters drinking it as it flowed away. Then looting and burning everywhere. My father – you know he is no tyrant – nor no milksop neither – finally he ordered out the Horse Guards. They charged the crowds with swords and bayonets. Some two hundred and eighty-odd people killed. About thirty hanged. All over in no time. Dead weren’t found – their bodies were dumped in the Fleet. Scarred houses were plastered up before dawn – blood-splashed walls of the Bank of England even whitewashed too. Next morning all peaceful. No inquiry called for, not by MPs, not by the mob. An incident – much more bloody than the Bastille. But did it lead to twenty years of revolution and a war-thirsty dictator? It did not. ’Twas over and done with in a single night. I suppose the English have more sense.’

  ‘It seems so,’ said Ross.

  The Prince weighed the sword in his hands again and yawned.

  ‘Well, I suppose you’d best kneel, sir. That’s the custom, y’know. That’s if your back is not too stiff … Have no fear, I do not intend to decapitate you.’

  II

  When the crowded packet reached Calais all was confusion and bustle. The Poldarks had accommodation reserved at the best-known and largest inn, M Dessein’s famous hostelry, which claimed to have a hundred and thirty beds and sixty servants, and presently, though so late, they assembled in their sitting-room and ate a breakfast of fresh mackerel, roast veal and gulls’ eggs and drank between them a flagon of red wine. Then everyone tumbled into bed and slept heavily but fitfully amid the shouts and the tramp of feet and the movements of other travellers coming and going.

  The next morning it was necessary to apply for fresh passports, and by the time this was done and the bill paid it was ten o’clock and the diligence was waiting for them. Two shabby moth-eaten coaches were drawn in tandem by three great carthorses which proceeded at a walking pace over the broken rutted streets. The driver was a dark little man in a ragged army-blue uniform wearing brass earrings and a heavy moustache; the postilion, in a long blue blouse, sheepskin apron and enormous muddy boots, looked as if he had been wading in the harbour. At a lumbering crawl they moved out into the open country with a thin snow still falling. There was no proper stop for several hours except to change horses, and they passed through Boulogne, Samer, Cormont and reached Montreuil where they spent a second night and where both Bella and Henry were bitten by bed bugs.

  Henry – or Harry as he was more frequently called – was the most placid of children, and, to Demelza, most nearly resembled Clowance in babyhood. He had none of the nervous tensions of Jeremy, nor the constant rebellious self-assertion of Bella. But he didn’t like itchy red spots and whimpered through most of the next day’s journey, which began at six in the morning and ended at five in the afternoon at Amiens. Here the hostelry was cleaner and the host offered them some lotion which helped to soothe their wounds.

  Demelza had stayed awake throughout all the bumpy lurching journeys, staring out of the window beside Ross, watching and listening, and occasionally, hands under armpits, shivering with excitement.

  She said: ‘I can’t follow a word, Ross. ’Tis worse than double Dutch. And they are all so shabby! The war must have cost them dear. But the country! It is just like England, is it not! Little difference at all!’

  ‘Did you expect one?’

  ‘Oh yes! This is France. You have been here before and you know what it looks like. But I expected the countryside to be different – like a foreign country.’

  ‘It is a foreign country.’

  ‘But you could close your ears and think this is England – except it is a poor part of England, a shabby part. The trees look the same, except thinner, the cows look the same, except thinner, the dogs look the same.’

  ‘Except thinner?’

  ‘Well yes, I suppose that too. And everywhere more dirt. When shall we reach Paris?’

  ‘About four, I think.’

  They were in Chantilly, a pleasanter village, with tall trees lining the roadside and châteaux visible here and there among the massive darkness of winter woodland. As they rattled and rumbled on they passed between acreages of small stunted shrubs, no more than two feet high, which Ross said were vineyards, came to St Denis and stopped for refreshments and just before dark sighted the formidable gates of Paris.

  Tall wooden palisades flanked the gates, which were guarded by soldiers; urchins and ragged hangers-on stared inquisitively at the newcomers, and dirty women stood and shouted in the doorways of mud huts and wooden shanties.

  Here passports were scrutinized, and they had to change to a smaller private carriage as the diligence was going on to Notre-Dame. So off again and through narrow crowded streets that made London almost spacious by comparison. Traffic confusion and noise and struggling crowds all pressed between crumbling medieval houses which shut out the darkening sky. Children ran begging beside the coach, and horses reared and slithered on the melting snow, and upturned carts and fighting, brawling men and crowded taverns
, open sewers and villainous soldiery and beggars, beggars everywhere, until quite suddenly their coach was through the worst of the old town and rattling out into a great open space which was the Place de la Concorde.

  ‘Bella,’ said Ross, ‘this is where the guillotine was. See that railing, surrounding that small square. That is where the King died – the former king – and all the aristocrats, and Danton and Robespierre in their turn and many thousand more. I am sorry it has been removed, but that at least is one good thing Napoleon did.’

  ‘Oh what a shame!’ said Bella. ‘I’d’ve loved to’ve seen it working.’

  ‘And by God he has done more than one good thing,’ added Ross, looking around him after twelve years. ‘This is almost a new city! All this part. Dwight will be surprised when he sees it.’

  III

  The British Embassy was in the rue du Faubourg St Honoré. A huge handsome building originally belonging to the Princess Pauline Borghese, it had only recently come into British hands, Wellington having taken it on himself to buy the mansion on behalf of the British Government. It was said he had paid nearly a million old francs for it.

  They turned in through high open portals, the driver spoke to a guard, then they clattered into the courtyard, with stables on the right, and what looked like kitchens on the left, drew up in front of a handsome curved stone staircase leading to the front door.

  Travel-stained and tired, with a maid and two children in attendance, feeling shabby and dirty and uncouth, greeted by a smartly dressed secretary called McKenzie, and with two liveried footmen in scarlet cloaks and white wigs to escort them upstairs to their rooms and to carry their baggage, Demelza felt as out of place as at any time in her life. On the other hand Mrs Kemp, having clearly wished for the last three days that she had never taken a single step beyond the Tamar, was impressed and encouraged by the magnificence. This was what she had hoped for, and perhaps some of the discomforts and fatigues of the last two weeks would eventually be forgotten. Two large rooms had been put at their disposal on the second floor, with an extra dressing-room if needed, and while they were going about the first motions of unpacking valises and boxes and another footman was making up the fires, a slim pretty girl of about twenty-one came in and greeted them. This was Fitzroy’s wife, Emily, who had been a Wellesley-Pole and therefore a niece of the Duke. On her heels came the acting British Ambassador himself. Fitzroy Somerset was young, handsome, fresh-complexioned, with penetrating eyes and the high-beaked nose of his Boscawen mother.

  Later they supped together and met the Duchess of Wellington, a plain, grey-faced, spinster-like lady who was probably no older than Demelza but looked a generation away. It seemed that only yesterday she had received news of the death of her favourite brother in the unnecessary battle for New Orleans, fought after peace had been agreed, and this was reason enough for her to take little part in the conversation. The Minister’s second man, a Mr Charles Bagot, was also at the table.

  Fitzroy Somerset exchanged pleasantries with his guests about Tregothnan and the Falmouths, assured Ross he was quite recovered from his wound at Bussaco, told them he was giving a reception on the following night, at which there would be various people present whom it would be useful to meet; while Lady Fitzroy Somerset advised Demelza that they had taken an apartment for them on the rue de la Ville l’Evêque, which was not very far from the Embassy, but suggested they should spend a second night at the Embassy to give themselves time to settle in.

  The ladies soon left, and the three men took to the port.

  After a few moments Somerset abruptly said: ‘I know roughly the purpose of your visit, Poldark, and I will help in any way I can.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m relieved to know it.’

  ‘Relieved?’

  ‘Yes. If the Government sends over a special envoy to report personally, it might be taken by some ambassadors as a sign of a lack of confidence in their own despatches.’ He thought it better to clear the air.

  Somerset smiled, but rather thinly. ‘Jenky is an old woman and sees bogies round every corner. He does in England, let alone here. Hence his unnecessarily repressive measures where discontent has shown.’

  ‘Oh, agreed. And as for France?’

  ‘As for France, of course the Bourbons rule uneasily. How could it be otherwise? For a country as dynamic as this has been, it must seem a come-down to be ruled by a gouty old man who has been imposed upon them from outside. But my feeling is that the solid middle classes of France, particularly in the provinces, have had enough of war and bloodshed and welcome the peace and the return to a peaceful commerce in which they can settle down to live their lives. It is barely a year yet! Give them time!’

  ‘Was that the Duke’s opinion too?’

  ‘The Duke became very unpopular before he left, and I think his leaving has done nothing but good. Not that much of the unpopularity was his fault – except a certain arrogance, dare I say? – but as the military representative of the victorious powers he was the suitable target for any complaints, any discontent that could be laid, however unreasonably, at his door. I know my own tenure is temporary, but I rather hope he does not return when the Congress is over. I believe someone quite new, without the trappings of being an eminent and victorious general, would be a far more tactful appointment.’

  Ross said: ‘And do you feel the army – the French army – is loyal to the King?’

  Somerset reached over for the port.

  ‘Allow me, sir,’ said Charles Bagot, getting up.

  ‘You will know’, said Somerset, ‘that Liverpool has never relied on Embassy despatches for his information. He has developed an army of informants who add to the confidential reports sent from here. I do not know if one should criticize this. Jenky looks on it as a necessary arm of government; but as a result I have no doubt he already receives too many reports on what the French are thinking. It could not be other, because there are almost as many French opinions as there are Frenchmen! Late last year a Colonel Jenkinson – a brother of the Earl – came to the capital and has visited various parts of France; and, although I have not seen his reports, I believe they have been alarmist.’

  ‘Unduly so?’

  ‘In my opinion, yes. And in the Duke’s opinion too. There is much talk of Bonapartism. But really it is a word used as an instrument of opposition. Many people who use it would not have Napoleon back for the world. But Lord Liverpool, as I have said, sees a revolutionary behind every bush, and I suspect his brother is of the same persuasion.’

  Ross reflected that in London he had drunk brandy from France and in Paris he was drinking port from Portugal. What, he wondered, was Canning drinking in Lisbon?

  ‘This reception you are giving tomorrow night…’

  ‘Ah, yes. I would tell you, my friend, in Paris there is nothing but receptions, dances, operas, theatres, one long round of entertainment, ignoring the poverty that sprawls all around. And this reception tomorrow night is just one of many. But I am holding it chiefly so that you and Lady Poldark may meet a number of people who will be valuable to you socially or for your other objective of seeing and understanding something of the stirrings in the political undergrowth.’

  Bagot said: ‘There is one man who says he knows you, a Colonel de la Blache, who wishes to see you again.’

  Ross looked blank. ‘I don’t think I recollect—’

  ‘I’m not sure if he knows you but I believe you knew his sister – or his sister’s fiancé, the Comte de Sombreuil.’

  ‘Oh yes indeed! I shall be happy to meet him. When I was in Paris last, twelve years ago, I tried to find Mlle de la Blache but could not.’

  ‘What happened to de Sombreuil?’ Fitzroy Somerset asked. ‘I suffer from the disadvantage of being young.’

  ‘De Sombreuil and I and many others took part in an Anglo-French landing on the Brittany coast – near Quiberon – that was in ’95. It was a big affair with a strong escort of British warships and was intended to rouse the Chouans, who had
been carrying on a desultory war against the Jacobins for years. A large party of Frenchmen was landed and the King’s flag raised, but the invasion fell apart from lack of direction and organization. General Lazare Hoche led a Republican army against us and gained a victory. Hoche gave his word that the lives of all those who surrendered should be spared, but the Revolutionary Convention overruled him and about seven hundred men, most of them gentlemen, were shot to death. The leaders, like Charles de Sombreuil, were executed later.’

  There was a brief silence.

  Ross added: ‘It was really the very last hope the Bourbons ever had, until Napoleon abdicated last year. If the invasion had succeeded … Instead we have had to slog it out.’

  Bagot said: ‘I often wonder how the French have the face to speak of “Perfide Albion”. No one could be more perfidious than the French, especially when dealing with each other!’

  IV

  Demelza was not asleep when Ross came in, and they lay a time in bed in desultory talk.

  He told her what had passed downstairs.

  Demelza said: ‘Lady Fitzroy Somerset is a nice, easy person, isn’t she. The Duchess I’m not so sure about. Very tight. She adores the Duke. But of course the loss of her brother … Did you think Harry was a thought feverish this evening?’

  ‘I’d not be surprised after all this travelling. Have you a draught you can give him?’

  ‘I have given him one. Mrs Kemp thinks it may still be his teeth.’

  ‘Bella was very good at supper.’

  ‘Ross, I did not know whether it was proper to bring her in, but she is so grown-up looking – that is when she restrains her high spirits. Lady Fitzroy Somerset thought she was sixteen!’

  ‘So did Edward Fitzmaurice.’

  Demelza yawned and stretched. ‘Well, we are in Paris at last! Amid all these lords and ladies I am quite overcome.’