Bella Poldark (50 page)

'I remember it well. But we are better off now.'

'How much better off, Ross? You never tell me.'

'That's unfair. Sometimes you don't seem interested.'

'I am always interested. But I hear that there has been another lode strike at Leisure -- and if I want a new dress I may have one. We were able to give Clowance a lovely wedding. We could pay Bella's tuition fees and other expenses. For the most part I am content with that, to enjoy my life without worrying. But there was a time, a very long time when I had to worry every day of my life.'

'I know too well. And now you are going to begin worrying again because I make a three-thousand-pound gift of shares to a pretty young woman who flatters me all ends up whenever we meet. Is that it?'

Demelza took a deep breath. 'Maybe it is not the fear of losing three thousand pounds that worries me the most.'

'I have tied it up legally,' Ross said, deliberately misunderstanding. 'Barrington shall come here on Wednesday to ensure the deal is properly struck. You see how much like George I am become!'

McArdle had called an early dress rehearsal. Although the first performance was still ten days off, he wanted to see how the production would look. Between themselves he and Mr Glossop had spent hugely in having new sets painted and built. They had done the same for Macbeth and it had, he believed, doubled the pleasure and size - of the audience. It was an age of display: the new playgoer was not content with actors performing before a drop curtain. Macbeth had been enacted against the impressive mountain ranges of the Highlands. The big scene in Romeo and Juliet was the ballroom of the Capulets, but much attention had been given to the scene in the crypt. The scenery had been delayed from last weekend, when it should have been temporarily tried out on the Sunday. Now it was time to move ahead. Dina Partlett, who played Lady Capulet, boarded just north of Hatton Garden, so she usually called for Bella and they went to the theatre together. This time there was dressing up to do, though most of the costumes had been chosen a week ago. It was a big auditorium (the gallery alone would take eight hundred people) and today it looked even larger with only five men clustered together in the pit. The early part of the rehearsal went pretty well. Standing in the background, occasionally exchanging whispered comments with one or other of the cast, Bella allowed her mind to wander over the traumas and paradoxes of her life during the last year. Prima in the Barber in Rouen to minor part in Romeo six months later. Some loss of vocal agility or laryngeal strength had brought her this low. Yet she was still learning. Dear Maurice had promoted her almost untried to play the lead in an exacting new opera in France. It had been a success. Now, bereft by this complaint of the throat, she was already appearing on the London stage in a Shakespearean role, thanks to Christopher's persistence and Edward's influence. She was starting a second life on the stage. Was the first entirely finished? One morning last week she had slipped away from Mrs Pelham's benevolent custody and called to see Dr Fredericks. She had told him of her new good fortune, and he had been astonished, pleased for her sake, but slightly disapproving that she was appearing on the non-musical stage. Before she left he had tried her again. After she stopped singing he wiped a brief tear from his eye and said: 'My dear, dear Bella, it was such a beautiful voice - and still it is in the lower registers. It is early days yet. Surely God who gave it you will yet give it you back again! Let us hope and pray ... In the meantime you are behaving with splendid courage, and I shall try to come and see you on the eighth.'

She had not heard from her parents this week, and she hoped they would be able to come. They were due on the Sunday if all went well. She had written to Edward, thanking him for using his influence on her behalf. Christopher, of course, she saw every night. He never changed, seemed to have faith in everything she did. He had told her in Cornwall that he had given up his passion for white wine. Could one give up a weakness like that? Certainly he had shown no signs since her illness. Last week she had written to Maurice telling him of her 'change of profession'. In the rehearsal they were coming to the second and more serious bout of swordplay. She edged a foot or two forward; she always enjoyed watching it. Once or twice she had picked up the duelling swords and been allowed to practise with them against Mercutio. They had now reached the main duelling scene in Act 3, Scene 1. Mercutio had fallen to Tybalt and taken his long farewell. Now Tybalt was about to fall to Romeo. Backwards and forwards they went, to the tinny clatter of the blades. This was what the audience would want to see: a battle royal to raise their blood; this must not look like make-believe. After a long bout where Tybalt had seemed to get the upper hand, Romeo drove him into a corner; now would come the long thrust which apparently ran Tybalt through the body. This was fairly easy to pretend, but the flailing swords before the coup de grace always carried an element of real danger. On this occasion, perhaps because of the presence of the convincing scenery and dressed for the first time in their Italianate doublet and hose, Fergus Flynn put in one thrust too many. Romeo gave a cry, dropped his sword and stepped back, his face streaming with blood. Then he staggered and fell; women screamed and milled about over him. The protective gutta-percha button of the sword had seared his cheek and gone into his eye.

The funeral of Valentine passed off quietly enough. He had been grudgingly popular in the villages, more so than anyone, certainly the Wesleyans, cared to admit. This was mostly true among the women because he never failed to have a word or a joke for them and to look at all but the ugliest with an acquisitive gaze. He was an eccentric, someone to talk about, gossip over. A few men were glad to be shot of him. As a fisherman from St Ann's said: 'I d'ave more sorrow for Butto than I d'ave for his master.'Harriet and Ursula came to the church. George sent word that he was unwell. Haifa dozen painted ladies arrived in a group from Truro. Andrew Blarney junior, temporarily home from sea, came with his mother, Verity. The Carnes dutifully attended. Ben Carter refused to leave the mine, and Essie went with her motherin-law. Very few of Valentine's gaming companions, who had eaten and drunk so freely at his board, turned up. Philip Prideaux was there, as was Trebethick with three other miners from Wheal Elizabeth. At the last moment Daisy Kellow came with her father. If it was not the end of an era, there was a feeling that some element of enduring conflict had gone. A mischievous, abrasive element was no more. Within a very short time two young men had gone, one to a cell in Bodmin prison, another to his grave. And only five years since the much-loved Jeremy had been lost. The villages were the poorer.

Although Place House was in the parish of St Ann's, the absence of a resident curate there and the fact that Valentine's mother was buried at Sawle Church made it the natural churchyard to choose. Mr Profitt preached a sermon which he must have used several times before because it was based on an all embracing ignorance of the character of the young man whose obsequies he was conducting. It didn't much matter, Ross thought; the only thing that mattered was that he had lost a son. So after twenty-six years and three-hundred-and-one days the child born under a black moon fulfilled a destiny which Aunt Agatha, consumed with spleen, had prophesied at his birth.

They had to leave at six on the Friday morning to catch the Royal London Mail in Truro. This service had been in operation for five years, and they had used it before. It followed the old-established northern route, cutting out Liskeard and Plymouth, and was generally reliable. On an average trip it took thirty-five hours to travel from the Red Lion Hotel in Truro, to the Saracen's Head in London. When they joined the coach they were pleased that for the first part of the journey they were to be the only inside passengers. It was a wet day, and Demelza did not fancy the situation of the seven travellers who were, for economy's sake, sitting outside. At least it was pleasant for Ross to be able to rest his burnt foot. There had been little talk that morning. Perhaps, Demelza thought, it was because of this drying up of normal conversation between them that Henry had asked his perceptive question.

She said: 'I'm sleepy. After all we were up at four. Mind if I doze?'

'Yes. Well, take the opportunity before some stout burghers come to join us.'

There was silence while the coach swayed and jolted along the rutted road towards St Austell. After twenty minutes Demelza opened her eyes and saw Ross staring at her. She gave a little laugh. 'I find I can't now.'

'Nor I.'

This trip was always quite an ordeal. Very soon now, Demelza thought, they would need to go by coach only as far as Bath and then take a steam train to London. Not that she fancied that much either. And she could never think of steam without thinking of Jeremy. Ross stretched his other more permanently injured leg.

'Tell me, d'you think I have shrunk?'

'Shrunk?' She looked at his big frame. 'You? Why do you ask?'

'It seems to me that George has shrunk somewhat I noticed it first when I saw him sitting on the wall by himself after Place House had caught fire.'

'Oh?'

'I remarked it again when I had to go and see him about Valentine's death. He was sitting in Cardew more or less hunched up in a chair, and somehow I thought his bulk had grown less.'

'Why should you think you were likely to have grown less?'

'He's only a year older than I am. It crossed my mind.'

'His accident may have aged him.'

'I hope my accident doesn't age me!'

'In future you would be wiser not to get burned in a fire and hit on the head with a falling beam!'

Ross stared at the rain beating on the window. Once last year he had come on this coach and they had travelled with the hurrying rain clouds all the way to London.

'I might say, by the way, that whether George has shrunk a little or not, I shall not underestimate his ability to be just as scheming, vindictive and resentful as ever. The leopard will not change its spots.'

'He is sure to grieve about Valentine's death?'

'Oh yes. But he is more concerned for the child.'

'And in this you have thwarted him.'

'For the time being. Selina may prove extravagant. Or Wheal Elizabeth may prove less kindly than we hope. Always his money will be there as a threat.'

'Which you cannot match.'

'Of course not. Nor would ever try to.'

'Or she might marry again.'

'True enough. She has the looks of a frequent marrier.'

They were going through a wooded valley near Probus. All the trees were dripping and dark. She said: 'And there is still the mystery of Valentine.'

'Mystery? D'you mean my hallucination?'

'In part. Not altogether.'

For a while the noises around the coach, which had stopped to let two outside passengers down, left them unspeaking. Then, as the coach began to move off, Ross said: 'You know, of course, that my chief reason for going to Place that morning was to pass on Philip Prideaux's warning that Valentine was likely to be arrested for smuggling tin ore out of the country.'

'Yes. I understand that now.'

'Well, at the funeral David Lake told me that Valentine already knew.' 'What?'

'A member of the crew of his brig told him he had heard it and that he, the man, was going to leave Cornwall to save his own skin.'

'But that means . . . What does it mean?'

Ross shook his head. 'I've thought about it and thought about it. No one will ever know.'

She dozed at last, until they reached Bodmin. There was a break here for tea and cakes. The fire in the inn was welcome, and she took off her gloves to warm her hands. The tea when it came was scalding, and a new warmth began to creep through her. It was a long lonely stage ahead, across wild moors to Launceston. They would dine at Launceston and sleep at Honiton. As if his thoughts had not been interrupted, Ross said:

'There's a lot now that will never be known about Valentine.'

'Do you think he ..."

'What?'

'Well - took his own life?'

Ross shook his head. 'He wasn't the kind . . . But under pressure people do the strangest things - God, I don't know. The knowledge of the complete mess he'd got himself into - the conviction that there was no acceptable way out, it may have made him more obstinately determined to avoid it, so that on impulse he took a risk - an extra risk - for the sake of his beloved ape - a risk that he would not otherwise have taken . . .'

Although they shared a bedroom at home they were surrounded by the breathing of their family and the servants. At home, the intrusion of the commonplace inhibited reference to more emotionally charged subjects. Usually the time for personal exchanges was in bed before they went to sleep or early in the morning; but in the last few weeks - it seemed like months - this had not happened. In this coach they were imprisoned alone for at least another hour, and no one to intrude on them with affairs of the mine or the farm. Demelza said: 'D'you know what Henry asked me the other day? He said: "Are you and Papa not in love any more?"'

Ross smiled, but grimly. 'What did you say?'

'I asked him what he meant. He sort of stumbled over what he wanted to say and then dried up. I said then that his Papa was greatly upset by Valentine's death ... Of course, I said, we all were, but Papa more so. I tried to explain what was after all the truth, if the part truth, that you had made a special friend of Valentine since Jeremy's death and you had become more attached to each other. Then when Valentine and Selina separated, you tried to support him and give him advice.'

'Harry is a perceptive child. But the perception only goes skin deep.'

'That's not surprising, is it? He seemed to have heard all about the inquest from Ellen Porter.'

'We must dispense with that girl, she ain't reliable. Or maybe we could turn her into a chambermaid, to take some of the work off Betsy Maria.'

'Then he asked me if I thought he could have a pet like Butto.'

'I hope you told him he was fairly surrounded by animals that did not set fire to houses?'

'.. . He is perceptive, though, is he not; for a child of eight?'

Ross said: 'If you had been compelled to answer that first question of his, what would you have said?'

She bit her lip. 'I would have said, I suppose, that we still loved each other, but that things had not run too easy between us of late.'

'As bad as that?'

'Well, what would you have said?'

'I would have said - no, I could not have explained anything to an eight-year-old. You are right!'

'Supposing he was eighteen years old?' 'That's unfair. All right. I should have said that in my life I've loved only two women. Right? The first married my direst enemy. The second married me. She has been my lover, my companion, my housekeeper, the mother of my children, the - the keeper of my conscience. She is comparable in my eyes to no other woman. I would not be a human being if I had not sometimes developed other sorts of affections, other mild fancies, other but not contrary loyalties. Sometimes they have been unnecessarily strong, especially maybe towards the difficult young man I suspected of being my son. I expect a feeling of guilt came into it too! But following that and building on that supposition I shall continue, whether I wish it or not, to have a strong interest in the fortune of his son. It can be no other way, but unless my wife demands that my every interest shall be exclusive to her, then she has all my steadfast support, interest, concern, sympathy, love and loving kindness. If I have in any way neglected my true family these last few weeks I ask their pardon and will try to do better. That do?'

After a minute she said in a low voice: 'I don't know whether to laugh or cry.'

'Why do you want to laugh?'

'Because it was a lovely speech which fetched tears to my eyes but spoken in a light tone that made me wonder if you were being - what is the word? -- cynical about it. Are you, Ross?'

He stared at her for a long moment, looking straight into her eyes.

'The answer is no. But you should not need to be told it.'

It was strange, thought Demelza, that while such hand some

words should bring a complete reconciliation nearer, a lingering trace of the gap was still there.

McArdle said: 'They think they will save his sight. But he has to spend at least a week in a darkened room. And then, if all goes well, two to three weeks' convalescence.'

Joseph Glossop said: 'Well, that is it, then, isn't it. We either cancel outright or postpone the production until the New Year.'

Rory Smith, the production manager, said: 'We have already sold most of the superior boxes! Curse and damn Flynn to all eternity! He should be barred from the stage!'

'He is Irish,' said Glossop, 'and too excitable. Other producers will take note.'

McArdle was pacing up and down the office. 'I have gone through the people who might replace him. James, who has been cover for him, is far too ugly. I should have thought of that before, but of course one does not foresee a crisis like this! Pity, because he has a good voice and is a good swordsman - but the public would never like him if they were expecting Arthur Scholes.'

'No hopes of Kean?' Smith asked.

'Impossible! You know he is playing Lear at the Garden.'

'Davidge is in America. Cooke?'

'He's over fifty and looks it. Of course, if it were Kean, the audience would swallow anything.'

McArdle stopped with his back to the window, blocking out much of the winter light. 'A name is what I want. Or a nobody. If you could invent somebody to provoke the audience so that they would come out of curiosity . . .'

'Have you thought of Musgrove?' 'Eric? He is neither a name nor a nobody. He has come down to playing Lord Montague. He's younger than the rest, I admit. But can you expect Charlotte to pretend she is in love with him? It is better to cancel. And safer. I have my reputation to think of.'

'There is one other suggestion which has been put to me,' said Glossop. 'It is an eccentric thought. But it was put to me with a degree of pressure.'

They stared at him expectantly. After all, it was his family who had kept the Royal Coburg open, pumping in subsidies to prevent the theatre going dark. After considering the other two men, Glossop shook his head. 'I don't know. I don't think so. Give me another twenty-four hours. This time tomorrow we'll come to a decision.'

The coach arrived in London at five p.m. on the Sunday evening. It had been as black as anthracite for an hour, but here there were plenty of lanterns about and many of the streets were newly gas-lit. Christopher, in his city clothes, met them at the Saracen's Head with a private coach which was to take them to George Street. He conveyed Bella's warm love and greetings, also her apologies: there had been a crisis at the theatre and she was wanted there. Much serious thought had been given to a postponement; finally it had been decided to go ahead, but this meant a succession of extra rehearsals. A second dress rehearsal was fixed for Monday, and the first night of the play was to be Tuesday, as arranged. There would probably be four performances, with the possibility, if it were a great success, of its running into the next week.

'The postponement,' said Demelza, 'does it affect Bella?'

'Yes. Someone was injured in a duel fight, and this has meant a rearrangement of the cast.'

'Bella is playing another part?'

'Yes. But I think she might like to tell you all about it herself.'

'No doubt,' said Ross.

'Your letter about Valentine arrived yesterday. We were all very upset. Have you recovered, sir?'

'Thank you . . . On the whole. Very well.'

'It was the ape that started it?'

'Yes. He died too. He has been buried on the cliffs just above the ruins of the house. I believe Dr Enys has retained some parts of the body for research.'

Demelza shivered. 'I wish he had not done so. I don't know sometimes how Caroline manages with -- with dissection taking place in the house.'

'Not in the house, my dear. He uses a part of the stables.'

'And then there was the arrest of Paul Kellow since I was down last? Too much has happened!'

The drive passed quickly, and they were soon unloading at No. 14. Mrs Parkins was there to greet them and help Christopher carry the bags upstairs.

'Would you care to stay and sup with us?' Demelza asked.

'Thank you very kindly, but I want to go back to the theatre, to pick Bella up when they have finished and to take her home.'

'What time will that be?'

'She thought eight or nine.'

'Then we shall not see her until the morning?'

'I am not at all sure. I am not sure even then, with the full dress rehearsal tomorrow. It all depends on McArdle, who is a perfectionist. I trust you will both be understanding. In the crisis. We, of course, never anticipated anything like this.'

'We should be more understanding,' Ross said pleasantly,

'if we knew what the crisis was.'

Christopher straightened his shoulders. 'If that is the case I think, sir, that I could take a drink, if you have one.'

Demelza pulled the bell for Mrs Parkins, and presently they were all sipping brandy and nibbling at Madeira cake. Christopher said: 'I would very much have preferred that she should explain everything to you personally, but I see now that it is impossible for you to find your daughter too busy to see you this evening without a full explanation. And it seems I am the only one here to give it.'