The Miller's Dance (38 page)

Old Douro looks Beside himself with anger and frustration.

However, to end this wailing missive on a happier note, I have now with Hamilton - did you ever meet him? - I have now with David Hamilton for the last two weeks been billeted on a charmin
g Spanish family in Ciudad. Sen
or Amador de Bertendona is a member of the Cortes and normally lives in Madrid; but when Wellington left Madrid he decided to leave also and came to his country house in Ciudad with his wife and
family. He has
been an outspoken critic and opponent of the French, and he feared reprisals.

Seno
ra de Bertendona, who is Portuguese, and her three children, are quite charming. The two boys, of eighteen and twelve, are called Martin and Leon, the daughter, aged about nineteen, is Amadora and is considered a Beauty. I would not quarrel with that estimate. All are graciousness itself; and that under stress; for not only do we two English officers share their home but a priest and seven Spanish guerrillas, all for their various reasons fugitives at this time! Fortunately I now speak Portuguese fluently and Spanish a modest second; but all of the Bertendonas except the Senora have a little English.

Although in the Army the death toll from sickness still runs at about 500 a week, those who survive are quickly recovering their spirits and their ardour. Tobacco and such luxuries are cheap, and Senor de Bertendona's port wine is beyond
Praise
!
Soon we shall be fox-hunting and beagling to regain our health and our address, and of course to pass the winter away. I only hope I shall be permitted to stay in my present quarters!

As always, please pass on my love and respects in whatever measure you deem fit to all who know me. -I have a feeling that I shall visit Trenwith soon! Love to you both,

Geoffrey Charles.

I

Being an honest girl - honest with herself as well as with other people - Clowance did not pretend to herself that she was happy or contented during her visit to Verity. But she put on a show and partly deceived the lady who, though actually her father's cousin, had always been regarded as an aunt. And after that last encounter with Stephen, Clowance was specially grateful for the move. Her love for him, which had often warred with her cooler judgments, was now turned inside out and become a sense of se
lf-disgust which for the first ti
me allied itself to reason. This made it no easier to live with. But that the object of so much of her thoughts and wayward sentiments should not be liable to turn up round any unexpected corner like an ogre or a handsome hobgoblin made life more endurable.

After the break-up it seemed she had not slept for a week. Over and over again, in endless repetitive procession, came the events of that day, what he had said, what she had said, what Ben had said, the hideous fight, which perhaps in all could only have lasted three minutes but which spoke for ever of male violence, hatred, rivalry and the utter determination to inflict serious injury. She could still hear the thumps, the muttered curses, the grunting breaths, the scuffling feet, the crash of bodies. In an earlier time she supposed she would have been expected to feel flattered at two men fighting over her. But at least then there would have been an element of chivalry. This encounter was devoid of any such element; it had been vile, sordid, and shocking. In a fairly rough society in a fairly rough age, she had never seen men fight like dogs before.

Over and over again, what he had said, what she had said, what Ben had said, in endless procession; but it was the
same sheep over the same gate, and counting them did not send her to sleep, they made sleep impossible.

It was a fine December, the occasional damp day interspersed with days of slanted sunshine and gentle autumnal airs. The sun lay white upon the front of the Blarneys' house, which drowsed like a square-jawed cat. The river glimmered, and blue shadows and stained-glass reflections were broken only by the passage of a fishing boat on the way to Penryn, a coracle conveying someone across the creek, or a group of swans paddling with the tide. On the other side of the pool Falmouth climbed the hill, grey and hunch-backed and smoking, but at night it looked like a fairy castle lit with lanterns.

Clowance always enjoyed pottering with a boat, though on the north coast the constant surf made launching hazardous. Here one simply walked down to the quay, untied the painter and cast off. So in spite of the month she spent two or three hours most days exploring the Penryn River, or sometimes sailing the other way round Trefusis Point and into Carrick Roads and the Fal. There were seldom less than a dozen Packet boats moored in the area, and Andrew Blarney senior took her with him to visit old friends. There they would climb down into the little cabins and exchange reminiscences and latest news and drink wine. The captains were ever courteous to her - all except one old man, who was afraid that because she was a woman she would bring him ill luck.

So she listened to talk of the swift four-day passages from Lisbon; the narrow escapes of this and that packet; the running fights; the constant double qui-vive against storm and privateer. She listened to a Captain Erskine telling of the loss of his sister ship, the
Princess Amelia,
homeward bound from St Thomas's, taken by the American privateer
Rossi
after an action of two hours, in which the captain, the master and three others were killed and nine wounded, and the loss of the mails.
Rossi
had put the wounded ashore in Gibraltar, and they were just home.)
A week later - the day before Valentine called—another captain, Morrison, came to the house to tell of the capture of a 36-gun naval frigate, HMS
Macedonian,
Captain Carder, with thirty-six killed and seventy wounded, by an American frigate, the
United States.
'A pretty pass,' said Morrison.
'Macedonian
was much out-gunned and did not strike until a mere wreck; but I question what our own navy is about! This
United States
had the scantling of a 74-gun ship; crew of near on
500 and none pressed; 30 long
24-pounders, howitzer guns in her tops and a travelling carronade on her upper deck. She's been well designed. It is doubtful if those who could kill her could catch her or those who could catch her could kill her.'

'It has been a problem in naval warfare,' said Andrew 'Blarney senior, 'ever since the Armada.'

'Nelson solved it,' said Morrison.

'Oh yes. And always would. But you cannot stop the solitary marauder. And you have to admit it: Yankees make fine seamen.'

For the most part Clowance was alone with her uncle and aunt. The days were too short and passed swiftly,
the nights, by candlelight sitt
ing round the fire, too long. So as dusk was falling on the Tuesday, the clatter of horses on the cobbled street was not an unwelcome sound to her. Janet showed two young men into the withdrawing-room.

Verity said:
I
cannot come for a few minutes. Go and greet them for me, will you?'

Valentine was standing with his back to the fire warming his coat-tails. His dark narr
ow face lit up at the sight
of her.

'Cousin Clowance, by the Lord God! This is standing the world on its head! But what a delightful
bouleversement
!
I thought you were wed by now! Or are you passing by after your honeymoon ?'

'No,' said Clowance.

He bent over her hand and then kissed her on the mouth, allowing his lips to linger. 'Have you met Tom Guildford ?' 'No, I haven't.'

This is my cousin, Clowance Poldark. Tom is a nephew of old Lord Devoran and has come down to spend Christmas in Cornwall. We only arrived yesterday. Tom, may I present you to my cousin, Miss Clowance Poldark. Or Mrs Stephen Carrington. Which am I to say?' 'Miss,' said Clowance, 'as yet.'

The y
oung man was shorter than Valenti
ne, but rather the same colouring, sallow, dark. In spite of being thin he was strongly built. Not good-looking but a sweet smile. He bent over her hand.

'So, Miss,' said Valentine, 'pray explain yourself, Miss. Is Stephen here?'

'No.'

'Put off? Postponed? Cancelled?'

'All,' said Clowance, smiling at last.

'
And now their honeymoon that late was clear, Doth pale, obscure and tenebrous appear." How droll! I do take
the
most outrageous pleasure: in inquiring into other people's affairs. Tom, my beautiful cousin was sworn and betrothed to a handsome sailor lad called Carrington; but while I have been away tediously drinking myself into an early grave in Cambridge all has changed! A single term! When I was riding that nag at the races in September, you were there with him, Clowance, and all was well. Now - a bare two months later! But tell me, have all the Blarneys fallen into Gwennap Pit? Janet I recognize, but...'

'My aunt will be down in a moment. My uncle is in Falmouth but should be home within the hour.'

'And Andrew?'

'Still at sea. I believe his vessel is due in on Friday or Saturday.'

'Ah, it was him we called to see, hoping he would be free to play backgammon tonight.'

'What a disappointment for you,' said Clowance.

'On the contrary! Not that I would ask you to game with us. But you must come to Cardew tomorrow! We are giving a party to celebrate the Russian victories.'

'Have there been some?'

'Oh, my little cousin, have there not! Not that anyone is quite sure of the extent as yet. But the country is
rife
with semi-official rumour! In any event, I am seeking an excuse to celebrate something. Could there be a better excuse? I have even prevailed upon Smelter George.'

They went on talking, chattering, with Valentine occupying eighty per cent of the floor. Clowance's common sense remained mildly critical of his flamboyance; but her injured soul leapt in response to such light-hearted charter. It was the first time she had really laughed for weeks.

Presently Verity came in, and they drank wine and joked and made the evening noisy. They refused an invitation to sup, but before leaving they extracted a promise from Clowance to go to Cardew tomorrow and spend the night. Because the elder Andrew disapproved of Valentine's influence on the younger Andrew, it was perhaps fortunate that he was late home and missed them.

As the three of them later sat down to a quiet supper, Clowance thought to herself that young Tom Guildford had hardly addressed a word to her.

But he had looked a lot.

II

Sir George Warleggan - who would have skinned his son if he had heard his insulting appelation - never intended a large or such an improvised and extended party. His entertaining, like most of his other activities, was usually conducted with the utmost prudence and purpose.

But Lady Harriet, who had not been seen much during the last two months except on the hunting field, or arriving bedraggled and muddy each night at the supper table, emerged now suddenly from the stables to side with her stepson, and before George quite knew it the thing was out of hand. Musicians who sometimes played at the Assembly Rooms were hired from Truro. Grooms and even stable boys were sent flying over a ten-mile radius with invitations for suitable—and in George's view unsuitable—people, and' huge amounts of food were hurriedly got in and cooked and laid out on platters and dishes.

People began to assemble about five, just as it was going dusk, and soon a concourse was moving about the public rooms. Music was already being played in the large drawing-room and a few were dancing. Because it was all such an
ad
hoc
affair there were wide variations in dress from the formal to the casual. Viewing the whole party with an uneasy disfavour, which he did not make a show of because he did not wish to displease Harriet, George felt that the evening would cost him at least as much as a full-scale Ball, and that entertaining the best of the county.

Yet adding to everyone's delight and underscoring the rumours of the last few days, special editions of the newspapers were circulating this evening giving factual details of Napoleon's defeat. That he had lost 40,000 men between Moscow and Smolensk. That afterwards the Russians had attacked in a bitter snowstorm near Krasnoi and vast numbers of the enemy had been killed and taken prisoner, zoo guns captured. The pick of what was left of the French cavalry and the Imperial Guard were fighting a rearguard action, to prevent total destruction.

It was too much to believe, but it was there in black and white. The dispatches were three weeks - four weeks old, but they were official communiques not hearsay or rumour any more. Napoleon defeated in battle. Not one of his generals. Napoleon himself: the great marshal, the military genius, the colossus who had bestridden Europe for two decades, the bogey man of children, the hero of the
di
e
-hard Whigs, the statesman whose word made nations tremble, was fighting a rearguard action with his decimated and typhus-ridden troops among the driving snows of Russia!

As the evening proceeded the party caught fire: drink had been circulating from the outset, and even those normally circumspect had tossed back an extra glass or two for such a celebration; conversation was overborne by laughter.

Many of the guests Clowance knew, either well or by sight. Major Trevanion, like many others in hunting pink, and Clemency and Cuby Trevanion; old Lady Whitworth with her frost-encrusted face and porker-like grandson; Mr and Mrs Clement Pope - she in ravishing green - with their two pretty but insipid daughters; Paul and Daisy Kellow;
John and Ruth Treneglos with their son Horrie and their problem daughter Agneta; Lord Devoran with his lickerish but now somewhat elderly daughter Betty. (Nobody had seen Lady Devoran for years: even when they called at her house she hid in corners.) There was Eric Tweedy, son of a wealthy Falmouth solicitor. And young Robert Fox, the Quaker. And, of course, Mr Tom Guildford.

Many she did not know, and assumed they came mainly from Falmouth and from the handsome small manor houses which sheltered in verdant valleys between the Fal and Helford rivers. The company came to number about sixty, and outside a low moon helped the lanterns to light the big gravel courtyard which was full of carriages and horses and gossiping grooms.

Tom Guildford said: 'Miss Poldark, would you
add to my joy on such a joyous
evening?'

Their faces were almost on a level. His eyes were serious.

'Gladly, Mr Guildford, if it is in my power.'

'Would you dance with me?'

She smiled at him. 'Of course I will dance if you will tell me what it is! It is not the dancers but the band which has lost its step! I believe Valentine has been filling their beakers.'

'He told me he would. But again, does it matter? Cannot we improvise? See - a little step here and a little step there, then one turns and bows and - and ...'