Ross Poldark (4 page)

“Then, my dear sir, why not stay the night with us? My daughter will be home from her praying in time to cook me a bite of supper. We have pork; I know we have pork; and an excellent bed; yes, it would suit me well.”

Ross took out a handkerchief and mopped his face.

“It's very kind of you. I feel that, being so near my home today, I should prefer to reach it.”

Mr. Pearce sighed and struggled into a more upright position. “Then give me a hand, will you? I’ll get you a copy of the will, so's you may take it home and read it at your leisure.”

D
INNER WAS IN PROGRESS AT TRENWITH HOUSE.

It would normally have been over by this time; when Charles Poldark and his family dined alone, the meal seldom took more than two hours, but this was a special occasion. And because of the guests the meal was taking place in the hall in the centre of the house, a room too large and draughty when the family had only itself to victual.

There were ten people sitting at the long narrow oak table. At the head was Charles himself, with his daughter Verity on his left. On his right was Elizabeth Chynoweth and next to her Francis, his son. Beyond them were Mr. and Mrs. Chynoweth, Elizabeth's parents, and at the foot of the table Aunt Agatha crumbled soft food and munched it between her toothless jaws. Up the other side Cousin William-Alfred was in conversation with Dr. and Mrs. Choake.

The fish, the poultry, and the meat dishes were finished, and Charles had just called for the sweets. At all meals he was troubled with wind, which made female guests an embarrassment.

“Damme,” he said, in a silence of repletion which had fallen on the company, “I don’t know why you two doves don’t get married tomorrow instead of waiting for a month for more. Aarf! What d’you lack? Are you afraid you’ll change your minds?”

“For my part I would take your advice,” said Francis. “But it is Elizabeth's day as well as mine.”

“One short month is little enough,” said Mrs. Chynoweth, fumbling at the locket on the handsome encrusted lace of her dress. Her fine looks were marred by a long and acquisitive nose; on first seeing her one felt a sense of shock at so much beauty spoiled.

“How can one expect
me
to prepare, let alone the poor child? In one's daughter one lives one's own wedding day over afresh. I only wish that our preparations could be more extensive.” She glanced at her husband.

“What did she say?” asked Aunt Agatha.

“Well, there it is,” said Charles Poldark. “There it is. I suppose we must be patient since they are. Well, I give you a toast. To the happy pair!”

“You’ve toasted that three times already,” objected Francis.

“No matter. Four is a luckier number.”

“But I cannot drink with you.”

“Hush, boy! That's unimportant.”

Amid some laughter the toast was drunk. As the glasses clattered back upon the table, lights were brought. Then the housekeeper, Mrs. Tabb, arrived with the apple tarts, the plum cake, and the jellies.

“Now,” said Charles, flourishing his knife and fork over the largest apple tart. “I hope this will prove as tasty as it looks. Where's the cream? Oh, there. Put it on for me, Verity, my dear.”

“I’m sorry,” said Elizabeth, breaking her silence. “But I’m quite unable to eat anything more.”

Elizabeth Chynoweth was slighter than her mother had ever been, and there was in her face the beauty which her mother had missed. As the yellow light from the candles pushed the darkness back and up towards the high-raftered ceiling, the fine clear whiteness of her took one's attention among the shadows of the room and against the sombre wood of the high-backed chair.

“Nonsense, child,” said Charles. “You’re thin as a wraith. Must get some blood into you.”

“Indeed, I—”

“Dear Mr. Poldark,” said Mrs. Chynoweth mincingly, “to look at her you would not credit how obstinate she can be. For twenty years I have been trying to make her eat, but she just turns away from the choicest food. Perhaps you’ll be able to coax her, Francis.”

“I am very satisfied with her as she is,” said Francis.

“Yes yes,” said his father. “But a little food… Damme, that does no one any harm. A wife needs to be strong and well.”

“Oh, she is really very strong,” Mrs. Chynoweth hastened on. “You would be surprised at that too. It is the breed, nothing more than the breed. Was I not frail as a girl, Jonathan?”

“Yes, my pet,” said Jonathan.

“Hark, how the wind's rising!” said Aunt Agatha, crumbling her cake.

“That is something I cannot understand,” said Dr. Choake. “How your aunt, though deaf, Mr. Poldark, is always sensible to the sounds of nature.”

“I believe she imagines it half the time.”

“That I do not!” said Aunt Agatha. “How dare you, Charles!”

“Was that someone at the door?” Verity interposed.

Tabb was out of the room, but Mrs. Tabb had heard nothing. The candles flickered in the draught, and the red damask curtains over the long windows moved as if a hand were stirring them.

“Expecting someone, my dear?” asked Mrs. Chynoweth.

Verity did not blush. She had little of her brother's good looks, being small and dark and sallow with the large mouth which came to some of the Poldarks.

“I expect it is the cowshed door,” said Charles, taking a swill of port. “Tabb was to have looked to it yesterday but he rode with me into St. Ann's. I’ll thrash young Bartle for not attending to his work.”

“They do thay,” lisped Mrs. Choake to Mrs. Chynoweth, “they do thay as how that the Prince is living at an outrageous wate. I was weading in the
Mercury
as how Mr. Fox had pwomised him an income of one hundred thousand pounds a year, and now that he is in power he is hard put to it to wedeem his pwomith.”

“It would seem unlikely,” said Mr. Chynoweth, “that that would worry Mr. Fox unduly.” A smallish man with a silky white beard, his was a defensive pomposity, adopted to hide the fact that he had never in his life made up his mind about anything. His wife had married him when she was eighteen and he thirty-one. Both Jonathan and his income had lost ground since then.

“And what's wrong with Mr. Fox, I’m asking you?” Dr Choake said deeply from under his eyebrows.

Mr. Chynoweth pursed his lips. “I should have considered that plain.”

“Opinions differ, sir. I may say, that if I—”

The surgeon broke off as his wife took the rare liberty of treading on his toe. Today was the first time the Choakes and the Chynoweths had met socially; to her it seemed folly to begin a political wrangle with these still influential gentlefolk.

Thomas Choake was turning ungratefully to squash Polly with a look, but she was saved the worst of his spleen. This time there could be no mistake that someone was knocking on the outer door. Mrs. Tabb set down the tray of tarts and went to the door.

The wind made the curtains billow, and the candles dripped grease down their silver sconces.

“God help me!” said the housekeeper as if she had seen a ghost.

Ross came into a company quite unprepared for his arrival. When his figure showed in the doorway, one after another of those at the table broke into words of surprise. Elizabeth and Francis and Verity and Dr. Choake were on their feet; Charles lay back grunting and inert from shock. Cousin William-Alfred polished his steel spectacles, while Aunt Agatha plucked at his sleeve mumbling, “What is it? What's to do? The meal isn’t over.”

Ross screwed up his eyes until they grew used to the light. Trenwith House was almost on his way home, and he had not thought to intrude on a party.

First to greet him was Verity. She ran across and put her arms round his neck. “Why, Ross dear! Fancy now!” was all she could find to say.

“Verity!” He gave her a hug. And then he saw Elizabeth.

“Stap me,” said Charles. “So you’re back at last, boy. You’re late for dinner, but we’ve some apple tart left.”

“Did they lame us, Ross?” said Dr. Choake. “A pox on the whole war. It was ill-starred. Thank God it's over.”

Francis, after a short hesitation, came quickly round the table and grasped the other man's hand. “It's good to see you back, Ross! We’ve missed you.”

“It's good to be back,” said Ross. “To see you all and—”

The colour of the eyes under the same heavy lids was the only mark of cousinship. Francis was compact, slim, and neat, with the fresh complexion and clear features of handsome youth. He looked what he was, carefree, easy going, self-confident, a young man who has never known what it was to be in danger or short of money, or to pit his strength against another man's except in games or horse play. Someone at school had christened them “the fair Poldark and the dark Poldark.” They had always been good friends, which was surprising, since their fathers had not.

“This is a solemn occasion,” said Cousin William-Alfred, his bony hands grasping the back of his chair. “A family reunion in more than name. I trust you’re not seriously wounded, Ross. That scar is a considerable disfigurement.”

“Oh, that,” said Ross. “That would be of no moment if I didn’t limp like Jago's donkey.”

He went round the table greeting the others. Mrs. Chynoweth welcomed him coldly, extending a hand from a distance.

“Do tell us,” lisped Polly Choake, “do tell us thome of your experwiences, Captain Poldark, how we lost the war, what these Amewicans are like, and —”

“Very like us, ma’am. That's why we lost it.” He had reached Elizabeth.

“Well, Ross,” she said softly.

His eyes feasted on her face. “This is most opportune. I couldn’t have wished it different.”

“I could,” she said. “Oh, Ross, I could.”

“And what are you going to do now, my lad?” asked Charles. “It's high time you settled down. Property don’t look after itself, and you can’t trust hirelings. Your father could have done with you this last year and more—”

“I almost called to see you tonight,” Ross said to Elizabeth, “but left it for tomorrow. Self-restraint is rewarded.”

“I must explain. I wrote you, but—”

“Why,” said Aunt Agatha, “Lord damn me if it isn’t Ross! Come here, boy! I thought you was gone to make one of the blest above.”

Reluctantly Ross walked down the table to greet his great-aunt. Elizabeth stayed where she was, holding the back of her chair so that her knuckles were whiter even than her face.

Ross kissed Aunt Agatha's whiskery cheek. Into her ear he said: “I’m glad to see, Aunt, that you’re still one of the blest below.”

She chuckled with delight, showing her pale brownish-pink gums. “Not so blest, maybe. But I wouldn’t want to be changing just yet.”

The conversation became general, everyone questioning Ross as to when he had landed, what he had done and seen while away.

“Elizabeth,” said Mrs. Chynoweth, “fetch me my wrap from upstairs, will you? I am a little chilly.”

“Yes, Mother.” She turned and walked away, tall and virginal, groped with her hand for the oak banister.

“That fellow Paynter is a rogue,” said Charles, wiping his hands down the sides of his breeches. “If I was you I should throw him out and get a reliable man.”

Ross was watching Elizabeth going up the stairs. “He was my father's friend.”

Charles shrugged in some annoyance. “You won’t find the house in a good state of repair.”

“It wasn’t when I left.”

“Well, it's worse now. I haven’t been over for some time. You know what your father used to say about coming in the other direction: ‘It is too far to walk and not far enough to ride.’”

“Eat this, Ross,” said Verity, bringing a piled plate to him. “And sit here.”

Ross thanked her and took the seat offered him between Aunt Agatha and Mr. Chynoweth. He would have preferred to be beside Elizabeth, but that would have to wait. He was surprised to find Elizabeth here. She and her mother and father had never once been to Nampara in the two years he had known her. Two or three times he glanced up as he ate to see if she was returning.

Verity was helping Mrs. Tabb to carry out some of the used dishes; Francis stood plucking at his lip by the front door; the others were back in their chairs. A silence had fallen on the company.

“It is no easy countryside to which you return,” said Mr. Chynoweth, pulling at his beard.

“Discontent is rife. Taxes are high, wages have fallen. The country is exhausted from its many wars; and now the Whigs are in. I can think of no worse a prospect.”

“Had the Whigs been in before,” said Dr. Choake, refusing to be tactful, “none of this need have happened.”

Ross looked across at Francis. “I’ve interrupted a party. Is it in celebration of the peace or in honour of the next war?”

Thus he forced the explanation they had hesitated to give.

“No,” said Francis. “I—er—The position is—”

“We are celebrating something far different,” said Charles, motioning for his glass to be filled again. “Francis is to be married. That is what we’re celebrating.”

“To be married,” said Ross, slicing his food. “Well, well; and who—”

“To Elizabeth,” said Mrs. Chynoweth.

There was silence.

Ross put down his knife. “To—”

“To my daughter.”