Warleggan Page 6

  ‘Mark Daniel,’ said Mr Trencrom, squeezing his small voice out of his large chest. ‘Let’s see, that was the one that killed his wife, wasn’t it? On account of her going with that Dr Enys. Remember well. Quite a fuss. ’Twould be dangerous still, I conceit, for him to come back. To England. Have you asked any of my men?’

  ‘No. I came first to you.’

  Mr Trencrom acknowledged the courtesy. ‘Might deliver a letter. But Daniel can’t read, eh? I’ll ask Nanfan or Paynter to inquire. Nanfan’s best because he’s a relative. I’ll do that, Captain Poldark. Nights are too light just at present. Can have too much of a full moon, eh?’ He coughed, a weak consumptive paroxysm, as if someone had sat on a rusty spring in his sofa. ‘There’s trouble about. That man Vercoe. And that military fellow up at the Place. Shall be glad to see the back of him. There’s more in it than meets the eye. And look at France. Chaos. I should not fancy to be Mark Daniel. Living there these days.’

  Ross got up to leave. ‘I’ll call and speak to Nanfan. Does he always go?’

  ‘No. Leave arranging to me. Oh, Captain Poldark, as a favour – just one for another, as you might say. I thought of calling to see you. But it’s a long way, and after dark these summer days. Not in my first bloom.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘One drawback to your cove. Frequently thought of it. Must be done in a single night. You’ve always insisted, haven’t you, everything must be carried away. Don’t blame you. But ’tis awkward. If we could store some of the stuff – two, three days. As we used to do in Sawle and places. Ten men do in three nights what thirty do in one. Less chance for the informer. Get the stuff ashore and hide it. The main thing.’ Mr Trencrom tried to push himself out of his chair. ‘See what I mean?’

  ‘You’re suggesting we should hide it for you in our own house?’

  ‘Didn’t say house. Not necessarily. Though even there – if a cache were carefully dug—’

  ‘I’m sorry. That’s putting my neck in a noose. At present I always have the defence that the run is being made without my knowledge. But if one item of your goods is found in my cellar . . .’

  Mr Trencrom clasped and unclasped his fat hands. ‘You ask a favour of me, sir. What’s the difference? Oh, in degree, I suppose, something. But the obligation, the benefit . . .’

  Ross had known Mr Trencrom for some years; it was not the first time he had found him less easygoing than he looked. ‘If you prefer it, I can go to Falmouth and take ship to Cherbourg myself.’

  ‘Have reason to believe Mark Daniel has left Cherbourg.’

  ‘Where is he, then?’

  Mr Trencrom nearly asphyxiated himself with a cough. Coming up purple and panting, he said: ‘Captain Poldark, now. Have no idea. But my men would have a better chance. Your mine is not paying yet, I understand?’

  Ross stared at him grimly. ‘D’you wish me to confirm that or to acknowledge the blackmail?’

  ‘Oh, please. Between friends. We work together, do we not? Profit of both. Have no wish to offend. But we can’t do without each other – just at present. I suggested this – thought you might not object. Would be willing to make some small extra payment for the convenience, small of course; my profits negligible, just as a good-will token. Twenty-five guineas, say . . .’

  ‘For each cargo?’

  ‘Well . . . yes, I suppose.’

  Ross reflectively flapped his gloves. His struggle to remain solvent had distorted his views on money, but not to this extent. He was going to refuse again, but Mr Trencrom said:

  ‘Don’t decide now, sir. Take a little time. If you think more of it, leave me know. In the meanwhile I will see after your friend Daniel.’

  ‘Thank you. Are you any further forward in tracing how the leakage in your arrangements arises?’

  ‘Nothing substantial. So far we have been able to avoid serious trouble this year. But am not happy about it. As you’ll understand. When it began I thought ’twas someone outside our circle. Hard, you know, bringing in goods, using forty or more men – not to let it get about. The village knows. The countryside. But last September, as you’ll remember, we began to run a cargo in at Strand Cove. Most unusual to be able to. Usually the heavy swell. I issued instructions to our riders where to go only six hours before the run was due to begin. But we’d floated no more than a dozen ankers ashore when Vercoe and his men sprang out of ambush. Six of our best men arrested. Only thanks to his shortage of men the rest escaped. It can’t happen again. It mustn’t, Captain Poldark. And the One and All has been gravely imperilled.’

  ‘Well, only Vercoe knows who is at the bottom of it,’ said Ross grimly. ‘And Vercoe won’t tell.’

  Mr Trencrom asphyxiated himself again. ‘Perhaps even Vercoe – does not know. I sometimes – wonder. Perhaps he gets messages – under the door. ’Tis a dangerous game for the informer. There is very bad feeling about.’

  At the moment Mr Trencrom said this the informer was in the Hoblyns’ cottage in Sawle.

  Chapter Five

  Dwight had had a busy week. As well as riding with Caroline, he had had a crop of sudden ailments to face; and it was from the last of these, a case of bilious fever in Sawle, that he was returning when he decided on the impulse of the moment to call in at the Hoblyns’ cottage.

  The evening was well on, and he found all the Hoblyns indoors and with them Charlie Kempthorne, who had got Rosina in a corner and was making up to her under the lowering gaze of Jacka her father. Not that Jacka particularly disapproved of Charlie, except for his age; it was rather that courting in any shape or form was one of the great number of things he didn’t hold with. He couldn’t complain that it was happening under his own nose, because he had refused Charlie permission to take Rosina for a walk.

  Dwight apologized for the intrusion, said he had come to see Rosina; Rosina said hastily her knee was quite better thank you; Dwight ignored this and said would she and Mrs Hoblyn come into the next room. This left the two men alone, for Parthesia was in bed.

  Charlie hadn’t liked the interruption. He fancied he had been making some progress, and now it was all set back. But perhaps this could be turned to account. After a minute he scratched his short-cropped head and said: ‘Reckon Rosina’s coming round t’our way of thinking, Jacka. ’Twill soon be a question of naming the day, like.’

  ‘It isn’t to my way of thinking,’ Jacka said. ‘I’m thinkin’ nothin’ yet awhile.’

  ‘But you’re not saying me nay,’ said Charlie. ‘An’ Rosina’ll see that for herself. She’s always been a good obeying kind of girl—’

  ‘She better be,’ said Jacka.

  ‘An’ ’tis plain to she that with ’er crooked pinbone she’ll be lucky to get a good steady man who’s maybe a bit olderer than she but all the better for that. An’ got a tidy nest egg, what’s more. And adding on every day. You should mind that, Jacka Hoblyn.’

  ‘I’ll mind what I’ve the wish to mind.’

  ‘Let ’er go get forced put by some farmer’s boy, an’ what’s the end to it? A ’ovel no betterer than a pigsty. I can give ’er a home, with cloam cups to drink out of like she was a lady. And I’ll tell ee another thing. That field that’s to rent from Surgeon Choake’s house. Corner of it runs down nigh to the top of the lane, back o’ my yard. Next year I thought to take it. ’Tis just what I d’need to—’

  ‘I can’t conceit where you get all your money,’ said Jacka.

  Charlie looked at him keenly for a moment. ‘Ah, but that’s just it. Money d’add to money all the while. Start with just a little and treat it right, an’ it’ll go on growing while you’re asleep. Mind, it need a steady ’and. But that’s what I got. And sail-making’s different from bal work. There’s more profit to it. Reckon my consumptives was a blessed dressed up, else I’d still have been down mine and no better off at forty than thirty!’

  Jacka knitted his black brows. ‘Wonder what surgeon’s about, coming this time of night. ’Tis no concern of his to visit when he’s not asked.’ />
  ‘D’you pay ’im for every time?’

  ‘Nay, give him his due, he’s no great one for that.’

  Kempthorne spat on the sanded floor. ‘Well, I shouldn’t like it ef ’twas my house. It don’t seem right, ’im coming round any hour of the day, fingering a girl’s knee. That’s ’ow bad things d’start.’

  Jacka stared at Charlie. ‘I thought you was a friend of his. I thought ’twas he cured you of the miner’s cough.’

  ‘So ’twas. I’ve nought against him. I’m only saying as it ’pears to me. When all’s said, he’s only a youngster – and you know what happened with Daniel’s wife.’

  There was a moment’s silence. Jacka’s eyebrows were like a scar. He stared at Charlie without pleasure and then strode into the next room.

  He found Rosina sitting on the end of the bed, and Dwight was putting a bandage round her knee. Mrs Hoblyn glanced up nervously.

  Dwight was cheerful, having at last discovered the cause of their reluctance to let him treat Rosina. ‘Oh, Hoblyn, glad you came in. Mrs Hoblyn has been explaining about Mr Nye.’

  ‘Ah?’ said Jacka.

  ‘Mr Nye said it might be better to amputate the leg. Of course there’s no fear of that. A ridiculous suggestion. I want you to keep your knee bound for a week until I come again.’ He finished his work and stood up.

  ‘Yes, sur,’ said Rosina.

  ‘I don’t see as ’tis necessary for you to be calling, surgeon,’ said Jacka, not quite confident of himself. ‘Rosina d’get along well and fine as she is. She been like it too long now for a cure. When she’s sick, that’s different like.’

  ‘Rosina gets along,’ said Dwight. ‘But it isn’t a happy or a healthy way to live. I can promise no improvement, but I intend to try.’

  ‘Sometimes more ’arm than good comes of probing at things.’

  Dwight flushed. ‘Have no fear: she’ll not die of it.’

  ‘Well, I believe in leaving well alone.’

  ‘But you have hardly the right to deny your daughter the chance of proper treatment.’

  This was treading on Jacka’s corns. ‘Who’s no right?’ he shouted. ‘I’ve a right to do what I will with my own. Don’t forget that, surgeon.’

  ‘Jacka, please!’ said Mrs Hoblyn.

  ‘Hold your clack, woman!’

  ‘I’ll not!’ said Polly, standing up to him for once. ‘Dr Enys is doing his best, and takin’ pains, and that’s more’n have ever been done for my girl before. You ought to be shamed, turning on him like this!’

  Dwight caught sight of Charlie at the door, and some expression on his face made Dwight feel that the little sailmaker was enjoying the scene. For some reason he didn’t want Rosina cured. Was it because his own suit would then be less hopeful?

  Dwight was in time to step in front of Jacka as he made a movement towards his wife. It looked as if there might be a scuffle, but Jacka gave way. As usual his anger was shortlived, and suddenly it changed its direction, towards the man who had primed it.

  ‘Get out of the room,’ he bawled at Charlie. ‘’Twill be time enough to come in ’ere when you’re wed to my daughter and not before!’

  Nevertheless, as Dwight took his leave he knew that his next visit would be very much on sufferance, and he would have to produce some result soon or admit failure.

  The next Tuesday was the first warm day of the delayed summer. The toe of England, eddying along through cold and cheerless days, had suddenly and at last reached warmer water. Even at seven, which was the hour he had agreed to meet Caroline, the air was gentle and mild.

  She always kept him waiting, but this time less long than usual. They cantered away from the gates of Killewarren in the early sun, and she suggested they should turn south, among trees long held in bud but now a sudden full brilliant green. She seemed to know her way.

  When they had gone about four miles, she turned up a lane which petered out into a clearing azure with bluebells and she said: ‘Let’s get down, shall we, Dwight. I want to talk, and it’s not easy on a nag.’

  He dismounted at once and tried to help her, but she slid off as nimbly as a boy and laughed at him.

  ‘Let’s sit over here. It’s good to be idle sometimes. Or I think so. Perhaps you feel always you should be tending someone.’

  ‘Not always. Not now.’

  They sat on a green mound punctured with rabbit holes, and Caroline picked a bluebell and swung it idly to make the bells quiver.

  ‘I’m returning to Oxfordshire, Dwight.’

  Something lurched inside him. ‘When?’

  ‘On Friday’s coach. I shall be in Uncle William’s bosom by Monday.’

  ‘What has made you decide to go?’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t decide. Uncle Ray is very angry with me about my treatment of Unwin, and he thinks I shall be better banished from this place altogether.’

  Dwight looked at her. Her wide eyes were contemplative, narrowed with the sunshine; the bright light brought extra colours to them, greys and flecks of hazel and deeper greens.

  ‘I don’t know what to say. I thought – I hoped you’d be staying.’

  ‘I hoped I’d be staying too.’

  Overhead a blackbird was chattering. ‘When d’you expect to come again?’

  ‘At Uncle Ray’s invitation? Oh, that’s very doubtful. He no longer approves of me or of my doings. And I suspect that someone has told him of my morning rides with his physician.’

  ‘It’s understandable then that he wants to send you away.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked provokingly.

  ‘If you lower yourself by being seen about with Dr Enys, and not even a groom in attendance, it will be Mr Penve-nen’s first duty to come between you and your indiscretion.’

  Caroline threw away her bluebells. ‘So you agree with Uncle Ray. You think I should better be kept out of harm’s way until I am safely married.’

  ‘If I were your uncle . . .’

  ‘But since you’re not my uncle?’

  Dwight got up. ‘What do you expect me to say?’

  She leaned back on her elbows. ‘I should have expected you to say no.’

  ‘And so should I like to. You know, Caroline, without the need of words to colour it or make it more explicit, that I – that I . . .’

  After a minute Caroline said: ‘Sit down, Dwight. We can’t talk if you stride about.’

  He stopped and sat again, his knees in his hands, a little away from her, frowning, ill at ease, deliberately not looking at her.

  She said: ‘Tell me, Dwight, I never know; there are two men in you: the strong, confident, impatient one, that so often goes with you in a sick-room; and the oh-so-much younger, nervous, susceptible one that often rides with me. Which of them is it, do you suppose, that cares for Caroline Penvenen and grieves she goes and thinks of her in her absence?’

  A rabbit scampered across the greensward and ducked quickly into a hole. Dwight said: ‘Questions are always directed at me. Perhaps I’ll face yours if you face mine. How much are you concerned for the answer?’

  ‘You ask a great deal.’

  ‘No more than you ask of me.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I think it is.’

  Dwight watched her fingers stroking the fold of her skirt. ‘Very well, then. I’ll answer yours first. There are no two men in me but only one – and that one thinks of you continuously so that the image of you is never absent. But . . . what you complain of is not to be wondered at. Money was never plentiful for me, and studying took all I had. There was no time for drawing-rooms or polite talk. I was not brought up to know the right addresses to pay beautiful women. I hardly ever met women – except as cases. As cases I know them well. So when I have dealings with people now, I differ with the dealings. If you come to me with a sore throat or a bad knee, you are a patient and I know you well. I know what to do and I do it. And you think, that man has confidence. But if I meet you in a drawing-room, you’re not a patient but a woman, someone whose moods and manners I’ve ne
ver learned to understand. I don’t know the right prescription for gallantry: I never had leisure to learn it. I don’t know how to flatter you, and if you laugh at me – as you not seldom do – I grow more tongue-tied each minute; and when you sharpen your wits on me, I feel a dullard and a clod. There’s the explanation of it all. What I feel for you as a person doesn’t waver between strength and weakness, it only wavers between hope and despair!’

  She had stopped looking at him and was staring across at the other edge of the glade. The curve of her throat gave him pleasure and pain. As he explained himself he had gained in confidence.

  He said at last: ‘And you?’

  She smiled a little and shrugged. ‘You want me to answer your question now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Perhaps this is our last meeting, so perhaps I can. Poor Dwight, have I laughed at you so often? Have I shown such perfect confidence and poise? You flatter me, you truly do. What elegance I must display! How graciously I’ve been taught . . .’

  ‘I wasn’t criticizing you.’

  ‘I’m sure you would not dare. But let me explain myself. You say you spent all your time learning to be a physician, and so had no time for the formal courtesies. I’m sorry for you. Dear, dear, I am. But do you know what I have spent my time learning to be? Why, an heiress, of course.’

  She leaned over on her elbow and looked at him. Her auburn hair, tied with a ribbon at the back, lay on her shoulder.

  ‘An heiress must learn all the courtesies. She must learn to draw and paint and play a musical instrument even if she’s tone-deaf and only makes horrid noises. She must know French and perhaps a little Latin; she must understand how to carry herself and how to dress and how to ride and how to receive the compliments of her suitors. The one thing she never learns is anything about the successful marriage she is being prepared for. So you see, dear Dr Enys, it would not be surprising if she also gave the impression of being two persons and with some higher justification than you. You say you don’t know how to pay compliments to women or how to behave in the best manner. But at heart you must know women very well. How different in my case. I don’t know men at all. I’m expected to be in love at the touch of a hand or at a prettily turned compliment. But until I marry – if my dear uncles have their way – I shall know nothing of what a man is really like.’ She paused and straightened up. ‘From hearsay, I know what happens when people sleep together. It does not sound excessively genteel. One can take a risk in the gavotte and come to no harm. One should be a little more careful, I fancy, before choosing a bed partner for the rest of one’s days.’