Warleggan Page 9

  She said: ‘Are you sure Cary will do this, will demand repayment?’

  ‘Would you not if you felt as they do for me?’

  ‘Have I ever seen Cary?’

  ‘At that party. A man of fifty-odd with small eyes and an uncomfortable way of using them. George, though I detest him, has certain principles – at least I think so. Cary has none. He’s the moneylender of the family, the scavenger. George is accepted in most circles of society. Soon he will be in all. That will impose some standards on him. Nicholas, his father, of course, is reputable enough. Uncle Cary is the best hated of them all.’

  She shivered. ‘I wish I could earn money, Ross. I wish I could help you in some way. All I do is – is mend your curtains and bear your child and see after the farm and cook your meals and—’

  ‘I should have thought that one person’s work.’

  ‘But there’s no money in it! Not even a gold piece. One thousand four hundred pounds! I’d steal it if I could, turn highwayman or bank thief! Harris Pascoe would never miss it. Why does he not lend it you?’

  Ross looked at her gravely, wryly. ‘This is a new phase. Always before you’ve been pressing me to keep within the law—’

  He stopped as there was a knock on the door. It was Gimlett to say that Tabb was below and wanted to know if Mr Francis was still here.

  ‘Here? Of course not.’ Ross looked at Demelza. ‘What time did he leave?’

  ‘About an hour after you. He walked up to the mine. At least—’

  ‘His horse is still here, sur,’ said Gimlett. ‘I give him his feed, but didn’t think to tell mistress as I reckoned she’d know about it.’

  Ross pushed past him and went downstairs. Tabb was standing in the hall. Tabb explained that Mrs Poldark had been getting anxious, so she’d sent him over just to make sure Mr Poldark was come to no harm. Usually, now the nights was drawing in, the squire belonged to be home by seven. Ross went round to the stables. Francis’s horse was there right enough and looked up expectantly at the sound of footsteps.

  Demelza had followed. Ross said: ‘Did he not say anything when he left? Perhaps he’s walked over to Mingoose House.’ To Tabb he said: ‘Ride to Mingoose House, will you. In the meantime I’ll go to the mine and see how long he stayed there and in what direction he left.’

  A new moon was out and the misty rain had cleared. Demelza walked with Ross, hopping now and then to keep up, though her own stride was long. The engine house was lit and there were lights in two of the sheds.

  Ross went into the changing-shed, where a lantern burned low. On a peg were Francis’s ordinary clothes.

  Outside, Demelza was thoughtful, waiting.

  ‘I think he may be still here.’

  ‘Here? But, Ross . . .’

  They stared at each other for a moment; neither spoke.

  Below ground eight hours was the usual core, but tending the engine twelve. This change was made at eight, and the elder Curnow was now in charge. His brother, he said, had told him nothing when he went off. As they were asking, Captain Henshawe came in and Ross explained the situation to him.

  ‘Well, sur, he may be down there still, forgetful of the time; but I should not suppose so. Hold hard a minute, and I’ll fetch a couple of men to go down with us.’

  Demelza stood in the engine house. The curious slow, regular sucking motion of the great engine was like an animal gasping, a giant sea mammal newly landed, breathing out its life on the wet sand. A strange conviction of fatality had come on her. She had no reason for knowing, yet felt as if she knew.

  Other men had come in now, and they watched Ross and Henshawe and Jack Carter and young Joe Nanfan climb into the bucket and lurch bumping out of sight. After they had gone, those that were left clustered in a self-conscious group; and she knew they would have been more at home if she had not been there. She, the miner’s daughter become squire’s wife, had more than the disadvantage of womanhood.

  But she forced herself to go towards them and ask if none had seen Mr Francis this afternoon and if someone would go and knock up Daniel Curnow and find out what he knew.

  Then came a long wait. Gimlett had stolen up from the house and stood beside her. ‘The wind’s cold, ma’am, shall I get ee a coat?’ ‘No . . . thank you.’ It was not the cold of the night that she felt but an inner cold that no coat would cure. Tabb came galloping back. They’d not seen Mr Francis at Mingoose. ‘You’d best go tell Mistress Poldark,’ said Demelza. ‘Very good, ma’am.’ ‘No, wait. Wait a little while.’

  Looking back, Demelza could see the lights in Nampara, the one in their bedroom that she had left. Beyond it and to the right the sea, with a dagger of moonlight in the black heart of the water. ‘We can none of us separate ourselves from the consequences of our own behaviour,’ Francis had said. ‘I have been trying to for long enough.’

  One of the men returned from Dan Curnow’s cottage. Curnow had seen Mr Francis go down about four but had not seen him come up. He had not thought of mentioning it to his brother. Peter Curnow spat in disgust.

  A few minutes later a miner came running up the ladder. It was Ellery, who was working on the sixty-fathom level. Some of them had been told and were helping with the search. Francis had not been found but his pick had, standing with the handle out of the water near where they had been blasting this morning.

  Demelza looked at Tabb. ‘I think you had best go fetch your mistress.’

  It was Ross, carrying a lantern, who first swung himself up into the tunnel which Francis had followed. Like Francis he was surprised to see that the tunnel went on, and he beckoned Henshawe to follow him.

  They were tired of shouting: their voices only beat back against them from the walls of rock or were thrown away in the echoing darkness. They reached the winze and tried to cross it, but Ross’s foot slipped on the slimy rock and Henshawe had to catch his arm.

  ‘Thanks. It’s a place for—’ Ross stopped and crouched on his heels and turned the light of the horn lantern down the winze. Just within sight was water, and floating on the water was a miner’s hat. And there was something else there besides the hat.

  ‘Have you your rope?’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘Put it round my waist.’

  He went down and found the body floating. Francis had been dead about an hour. In one of his hands, clutched so that they could barely unfasten it, was a rusty nail.

  BOOK TWO

  Chapter One

  On a late afternoon in mid-November 1792 a private coach was making its way at a fair pace along the main highway from Truro to the far west. A fine misty rain was falling, as always in that terrible year, and the woods which ran intermittently beside the road were already dark and vaporous. The road was in bad condition, potholed and rutted deep in mud; but the driver, who had not been this way before, kept his whip constantly flicking across his horses because full darkness was not far away and he did not like the look of the country they were passing through. His mistress had told him that they were nearly home, but women were unreliable in their estimates, as today’s journey had proved; and in this wild county they would be a fat and easy prize for any highwayman who happened to be lurking near.

  They had just emerged from one lowering copse whose branches nearly met overhead when his courage bumped into his boots at the sight of a man standing by a dismounted horse at the roadside. Coming across those wild and boggy moors this morning he had cursed himself for ever having accepted employment under a strong-headed, wrong-headed slip of a woman, and this was the outcome. He rose in his seat and lashed at the horses; but as they lurched forward, the coach splashed into a deep hole and dipped wildly and almost toppled him into the road. By the time they had gained a proper speed again they were past the horseman, who was only sufficiently interested in them to raise his head.

  They were past him by a few dozen yards when a loud rapping caused the coachman to lift the hatch, and he heard his mistress telling him to stop.

  ‘It’s right
enough, ma’am. No ’arm or damage done. The ’orses—’

  ‘Stop, I tell you. That gentleman. I want to speak to him.’ Sulkily the driver brought the coach to a stop. Its back wheels cut and slithered in the mud, and the solitary rider, who had been attending to his own horse, again lifted his head. He was now too far behind to hear any of the conversation, but presently the coachman got down and came splashing gingerly back to him.

  ‘Captain Poldark, sir?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mistress Penvenen, sir. Would like a word with ee.’

  In the coach were two women, one a maid. Ross took off his hat and Caroline extended her green-gloved hand.

  ‘You’re late to be on this road, Captain Poldark. My coachman thought you were a highwayman.’

  ‘If I were, I should choose a more opulent highway. One might wait here six nights in seven and not see a private carriage.’

  ‘Oh, sir, I’m very poor,’ said Caroline. ‘But seriously, I thought you might be in trouble.’

  ‘Thank you, it’s nothing. My mare has cast a shoe.’

  ‘Well, that can be a trifle more than nothing. What shall you do, walk home? It’s a fatiguing long way.’

  ‘I can get her shod in Chasewater. You’re just returning to Cornwall, Miss Penvenen?’

  ‘As you see. Too early to be Santa and too late to be Guy. Why don’t you share the coach to Killewarren and borrow one of my uncle’s horses? We can have yours shod and send her over in the morning.’

  Ross hesitated. He was tired and wet and depressed, and the suggestion was not a bad one. But he was a bit chary of this forward young woman.

  ‘Thank you. Perhaps if I might come as far as you go on the Chasewater road . . .’

  ‘We turn off soon. Baker, will you see that Captain Poldark’s mare is securely tied to the coach. And proceed slowly, please; you need have no fear of highwaymen now that we have captured one of our own.’

  That this was just raillery the maid, Eleanor, seemed slightly to doubt, for when the coach began to move again she stared open-mouthed at the big man opposite, bent uncomfortably on his occasional seat, with his muddied boots and his pale, lidded eyes and the scarred side of his face towards her.

  Caroline, perhaps herself a little surprised at the size of him in a confined space and not as much at ease as she wanted to be, changed her tone.

  ‘I was greatly sorry to hear of your cousin’s death. Uncle Ray is not prolific with his letters, but he wrote about that. It was a very tragical occurrence. It seems no time at all since we all met at the Trevaunance table.’

  ‘It is no time at all. We miss him very much.’

  ‘I hope it has not brought your mining venture to a stop. I – understand you and he were partners.’

  ‘It goes on. We’ve been able to continue it.’

  ‘Profitably?’

  Ross met her candid gaze. ‘Not profitably.’

  ‘As yet, I suppose you would add. Uncle William was saying that if this war spreads it will help the price of metals. Is Francis’s widow intending to live on in that big house alone?’

  ‘Eventually, I think, her mother and father will live with her. But she is not alone. There is her son and her aunt and two servants . . .’

  ‘And how is Dr Enys?’

  Well, at least she was not one to beat about the bush. ‘As diligent as ever.’

  ‘Only diligent?’

  ‘It was not meant as a derogatory term.’

  ‘Of course I should have known that,’ said Caroline. ‘The last time we met it was to form a common front on his behalf.’

  ‘I do not think we shall need to be so ready in his defence now. Everyone then was accusing him of killing off old Ellery. Now they’re loud in wonderment because he has cured a village girl of her lameness.’

  Caroline lifted her face quickly. ‘Rosina Hoblyn?’

  ‘Oh, you know her?’

  ‘By name. Dwight mentioned her. She is cured?’

  ‘Cured. She walks as straight as you or I, and the villagers think he is a miracle worker just for a change.’

  ‘How very diverting! And how did he come to perform it?’

  ‘He has an explanation, but no one listens to it. Last Saturday he had fourteen lame people waiting outside his house.’

  Caroline smiled and pushed away a strand of her hair. The roof lantern, which had been lighted when Ross got in, swayed with the lurches of the coach, and her expression seemed to change among the changing shadows.

  After they had turned off the main road, he said: ‘What time is your uncle expecting you?’

  ‘He’s not expecting me.’

  ‘Oh . . . A sudden decision, I suppose—’

  ‘Not a sudden decision on my part, Captain Poldark. One carefully prepared for. This coach, the coachman engaged, my luggage packed. But Uncle Ray has not invited me; and since we have come down probably faster than the post, I don’t suspect he will have had any letter from Uncle William to warn him.’ Seeing Ross’s expression, she laughed. ‘It’s a way people have when they first become independent. You’ll remember we discussed it at the Trevaunance party.’

  So, thought Ross, she means to have Dwight if she can. Why did I get into this coach and accept a favour of her? To the devil with all women. And instantly, unbidden, his mind flashed away to that other woman, Elizabeth, frail in her grief and her black clothes, still out of his reach yet dangerously closer to him; his first love, and loving him – so she had said – depending on him now in all things; the contacts increased with the impediments half gone; she now half shareholder in the mine on Geoffrey Charles’s, her son’s, behalf; he the only near male relative, head of the Poldarks now and executor with Elizabeth of his cousin’s will.

  Francis’s death had left an unexpectedly big gap in the life of the countryside. Duties and responsibilities had been expected of him which now devolved on Ross. Mr Odgers, the curate of Sawle-with-Grambler, came to Ross for everything, even seemed to expect Ross to share the family pew and the weekly victualling of the Odgers family. And another magistrate would have to be found. There had been a Poldark to do the job since the days of William and Mary. Could a man be invited to sit on the bench who before now had expressed his contempt of it? It was all very difficult.

  In the coach silence had fallen. Today Ross felt he had touched rock bottom in his fortunes and in his spirits. Yesterday he had received a formal notice from Cary Warleggan that the accommodations of the bill were to be withdrawn in four weeks’ time, and today he had been making a last effort to find the money. Credit was tight everywhere, but that was not the main difficulty. The greatest obstacle was Wheal Grace. Everyone who knew anything knew that she was failing. You might loan a thousand pounds to a needy squire and take the risk for the sake of the interest. But no one would lend money to a man whose mine was on the point of foundering. If you did, you visualised your capital going down the common drain. That, no doubt, was one of the reasons Nathaniel Pearce had unloaded the bill, glad to be rid of it when its chances of redemption were small.

  Ross would not altogether have blamed him had the thing gone to anyone but the Warleggans. But of course no one but the Warleggans would possibly have taken it. They didn’t want the money, they wanted the man.

  A week or so after Francis’s death a small bunch of good ore had been found in the tunnel he had been exploring at the time, but that had been almost the extent of new discovery since September. Mark Daniel perversely had chosen this time to disappear into the maelstrom of France, and no one so far had traced him. In parts of England the blackened corn still lay in the fields. Miraculously preserved by the sloth of their enemies, the French had found fresh heart and fresh armies and last week had captured Brussels. The shadow of famine and of war lay on all men’s minds.

  The coach at last turned in at the gates of Killewarren, and the coachman steered a cautious way up the shrubby drive towards a welcome light above the front door. He had to ring three times before it was ope
ned by a servant girl who said: ‘Why, Mistress Caroline, good life, an’ we was cleanin’ your room only this morning. Why, ma’am, do ee come in. Is the master expecting you?’

  Ross followed Caroline into the hall: it was a very ordinary house for so warm a man, shabbily genteel but no more; three candles in glass globes thinly lit the black polished oak cupboards, the marble busts at the foot of the narrow stairs. ‘With your consent I’ll not intrude on your uncle this afternoon. I know you’ll be tired from your journey, and his pleasure at seeing you again . . .’

  Caroline smiled at him as she unfastened the strings of her hat.

  ‘Will not be so great as you predict,’ she said quietly. ‘So it would not be an unkind act if you came up while your saddle’s changed. Do not fear you’ll be detained overlong, for a glass of wine is all you’ll get from him, if that. While I am here, he improves; but I’ve been gone some months and I expect he will have slipped back into the old ways.’

  Demelza sent for Dwight about seven and, being free, he came straight over and examined Jeremy.

  ‘It is the usual thing: a sore throat and a touch of fever. He is prone to this overheating.’

  ‘Too prone,’ said Demelza, allowing Jeremy his rather tetchy freedom. ‘Every time it happens, I think of Julia and get in a fever myself. Julia never was like this; at least – not till the last time. . . .’

  ‘It’s a way some children have and some have not. But I’d like you to call me always, just in case. Ross is out?’

  ‘. . . He went to Truro – on business – and then was to have gone on to Redruth to see Trevithick. Something is not quite right with the engine, though I think ’twould be all the same now if no one bothered.’ Demelza swooped quickly to catch Jeremy as he lurched drunkenly across towards her. She looked up sidelong, experimentally, at Dwight, a curl falling across her brow as she did so. ‘Do you think I coddle him, Dwight?’

  Dwight smiled. ‘Yes. But it’s natural – and right. In three or four years it will be different—’