He looked at his watch. There was time enough to be back in Truro, if not Cardew - hours of daylight left. But he was loath to move, to wrench at the ribbon of memories that were running through his brain. He lit a pipe - a rare thing for him for he was not a great smoker - and stabbed at the fire, which broke into a new blaze. It spat at him like Aunt Agatha. This was old fir; there was not much else on the estate except long elms and a few pines; not many trees would stand the wind. It was after all a God-forsaken place ever to have built a house. He supposed Geoffrey de Trenwith had made money out of metals even in those far-off days. Like the Godolphins, the Bassets, the Pendarves. They built near the mines that made them rich.
The first time he had seen Aunt Agatha was in this room more than thirty-five years ago. Francis had invited him from school to spend a night. Even then the old woman had been immensely old. Difficult to believe that she had survived everybody and lived long enough to poison the first years of his married life. Years later she had been sitting in that chair opposite him now - the very same chair - when he had come into this room to tell his father that Elizabeth had given birth to a son, born, prematurely, on the 14th February and so to be called Valentine. She had hissed at both of them like a snake, malevolent, resenting their presence in her family home, hating him for his satisfaction at being the father of a fine boy, trying even then with every ingenuity of her evil nature to discover a weak spot in their complacency through which she could insert some venom, some note of discord, some shabby, sour predi
ction. 'Born under a black moon’
she had said, because there had been a total eclipse at the time. 'Born under a black moon, and so he'll come to no good, this son of yours. They never do. I only knew two and they both came to bad ends!'
In that chair, opposite him now. Strange how a human envelope collapsed and decayed, yet an inanimate object with four legs carved and fash
ioned by a carpenter in James II’
s day could exist unchanged, untouched by the years. The sun did not get round to the great window for another hour yet, so it was shadowy in here, and the flickering cat-spitting fire created strange illusions. When the flame died one could see Agatha there still. That wreck of an old female, malodorous, the scrawny grey hair escaping from under the ill-adjusted wig, a bead of moisture oozing from eye and mouth, the gravestone teeth, the darting glance, the hand capped behind the ear. She might be there now. God damn her, she was more real to him at this moment than Elizabeth! But she was dead, had died at ninety-eight, he had at least prevented her from cheatin
g the world about her birthday.
A footstep sounded, and all the nerves in his body started. Yet he contrived not to move, not to give way, not to accept
...
He looked round and saw a fair tall girl standing in the room. She was wearing a white print frock caught at the waist with a scarlet sash, and she was carrying a sheaf of foxgloves. She was clearly as surprised to see him as he was to see her.
In the silence the fire spat out a burning splinter of wood, but it fell and smoked unheeded on the floor.
'Who are you? What d'you
want?
George spoke in a harsh voice he had seldom cause to use these days; people moved at his bidding quickly enough; but this apparition, this intrusion
...
The girl said: 'I am sorry. I saw the door open and thought perhaps it had blown open.'
'What business is it
of yours?’
She had a stillness about her, a composure that was not like excessive self-confidence - rather an unawareness of anything untoward or wrong.
'Oh, I come here sometimes,' she said. 'The foxgloves are handsome on the hedges just now. I've never seen the door open before.'
He got up. 'D'you know that you're
trespassing’
She came a few paces nearer and laid the flowers on the great dining table, brushed a few leaves and spattering of pollen from her frock.
'Are you Sir George Warleggan?' she asked.
Her accent showed she was not a village girl and a terrible suspicion grew in his mind.
'What is your name?'
'Mine?' She smiled. 'I'm Clowance Poldark.'
When Clowance returned to Nampara everyone was out. The front door was
open, and she went in and whistl
ed three clear notes: D, B , A, then
ran half up the stairs and whistl
ed again. When there was no response she carried her foxgloves through the kitchen into the backyard beyond, filled a pail at the pump where twenty-six years before her mother had been swilled when brought to this house, a starveling brat from Illuggan, and thrust the flowers into the water so that they should not wilt before that same lady came in and had time to arrange them. Then she went in search.
It was a lovely afternoon and Cl
owance was too young to feel the chill of the wind. Spring had been late and dry, and they were haymaking in the Long Field behind the house. She saw a group standing half way up the field and recognized her mother's dark head and dove-grey frock among them. It was refreshment-time, and Demelza had helped Jane Gimlett carry up the cloam pitcher and the mugs. The workers had downed tools and were gathered round Mistress Poldark while she tipped the pitcher and filled each mug with ale. There were eight of them altogether: Moses Vigus, Dick Trevail (Jack Cobbledick's illegitimate son by Nancy Trevail), Cal Trevail (Nancy's legitimate son), Matthew Martin, Ern Lobb, 'Tiny' Small, Sephus Billing and Nat Triggs. They were all laughing at something Demelza had said as Clowance came up. They smiled and grinned and nodded sweatily at the daughter of the house, who smiled back at them.
'Mug of ale, Miss Cl
owance?' Jane Gimlett asked. 'There's a spare one if you've the mind.'
Clowance
had the mind, and they talked in a group until one after another the men turned reluctantly away to take up their scythes again. Last to move was Matthew Martin, who always lingered when
Clowance
was about. Then mother and daughter began to stroll back towards the house,
Clowance
with the mugs, Jane bringing up the rear at a discreet distance with the empty pitcher.
'No shoes again, I see,' said Demelza.
'No, love. It's summer.'
'You'll get things in your feet.'
'They'll come out. They always do.'
It was a small bone of contention. To Demelza, who had never
had
shoes until she was fourteen, there was some loss of social status in being barefoot. To
Clowance
, born into a gentleman's home, there was a pleasurable freedom in kicking them off, even at sixteen.
'Where is everybody?'
'Jeremy's out with Paul and Ben.'
'Not back yet?'
'I expect the fish are not biting. And if you look over your left shoulder you'll see Mrs Kemp coming off the beach with Bella and Sophie.'
'Ah yes. And Papa?'
'He should be back any time.'
'Was it a bank meeting?'
'Yes.'
They strolled on in silence, and when they reached the gate they leaned over it together waiting for Mrs Kemp and her charges to arrive. The wind ruffled their hair and lifted their frocks.
It was a little surprising that two such dark people as Ross and his wife had bred anyone so unquestionably blonde as
Clowance
. But she had been so born and showed no signs of darkening with maturity. As a child she had always been fat, and it was only during the last year or so since she had left Mrs Gratton's School for Young Ladies that she had begun to fine off and to grow into good looks. Even so, her face was still broad across the forehead. Her mouth was firm and finely shaped and feminine, her eyes grey and frank to a degree that was not totally becoming in a young lady of her time. She could grow quickly bored and as quickly interested. Twice she had run away from boarding-school - not because she particularly disliked it but because there were more engaging things to do at home. She greeted every incident as it came and treated it on its merits, without fear or hesitation. Clowance, Demelza said to Ross, had a face that reminded her of a newly opened ox-eye daisy, and she dearly hoped it would never get spotted with the rain.
As for Demelza herself, her approximate fortieth birthday had just come and gone, and she was trying, so far with some success, to keep her mind off the chimney corner. For a 'vulgar', as the Reverend Osborne Whitworth had called her, she had worn well, better than many of her more high-bred contemporaries. It was partly a matter of bone structure, partly a matter of temperament. There were some fine lines on her face that had not been there fifteen years ago, but as these were mainly smile lines and as her expression tended usually to the amiable they scarcely showed. Her hair wanted to go grey at the temples but, unknown to Ross, who said he detested hair dyes, she had bought a little bottle of something from Mr Irby of St Ann's and surreptitiously touched it up once a week after she washed it.
The only time she looked and felt her age, and more than it, was when she had one of her headaches, which usually occurred monthly just before her menstrual period. During the twenty-six days of good health she steadily put on weight, and during the two days of the megrim she lost it all, so a status quo was preserved.
In the distance Bella recognized her mother and sister and waved, and they waved back.
Clowance said: 'Mama, why do Jeremy and his friends go out fishing so much and never catch any fish?'
'But they do, my handsome. We eat it regularly.'
'But not enough. They go out after breakfast and come back for supper, and their haul is what you or I in a row-boat could cull in a couple of hours!'
'They are not very diligent, any of them. Perhaps they just sit in the sun and dream the day away.'
'Perhaps. I asked him once but he said there was a scarcity round the coast this year.'
'And might that not be true?'
'Only that the Sawle men don't seem to find it so.'
They strolled on a few paces.
'At any rate,' said Clowance, 'I've picked you some handsome foxgloves.'
'Thank you. Did you call at the Enyses?'
'No
...
But I did meet a friend of yours, Mama.' Demelza smiled. 'That covers a deal of ground. But d'you really mean a friend?' 'Why?'
'Something the way you used the word.'
Clowance brushed a flying ant off her frock. 'It was Sir George Warleggan.'
She carefully did not look at her mother after she had spoken, but she was aware of the stillness beside her.
Demelza said: 'Where?'
'At Trenwith. It was the first time ever I saw the front door open, so in I went to look in - and
there
he was in the big hall, sitting in front of a smoky fire with a pipe in his hand that had gone out and as sour an expression as if he had been eating rigs.'
'Did he see you?'
'Oh
y
es.
We spoke! We talked! We conversed! He asked me what damned business I had there and I told him.' 'Told him what?'
'That he has the best foxgloves in the district, especially the pale pink ones growing on the hedge by the pond.'
Demelza flatte
ned her hair with a hand, but th
e wind quickly clutched it away again. 'And then?'
'Then he was very rude with me. Said I was trespassing and should be prosecuted. That he would call his men and have me taken to the gates. Said this and that, in a rare temper.'
Demelza glanced at her daughter. The girl showed no signs of being upset.
'Why did you
go
there, Clowance? We've told you not to. It is inviting trouble.'
'Well, I didn't
expect
to meet
him.
But it doesn't matter. There's no harm done. I reasoned with him.'
'You mean you answered him back?'
'Not angry, of course. Very dignified, I was. Very proper. I just said it all seemed a pity, him having to be rude to a neighbour — and a sort of cousin.'
'And what did he say to that?'
'He said I was no cousin, no cousin of
his
at all, that I didn't know what I was talking about and I'd better go before he called the Harry brothers to throw me out.'
Mrs Kemp was now approaching. Bella and Sophie were making the better pace on the home stretch and were some fifty yards in front.
Demelza said: 'Don't tell your father you've been to Trenwith. You know what he said last time.'
'Of course not. I wouldn't worry him. But I didn't think it would worry you.'
Demelza said: 'It isn't worry exactly, dear, it is - it is fishing in muddied streams that I hate. I can't begin to explain - to tell you everything that made your father and George Warleggan enemies, nor all that happened to spread it so that the gap between us all became so great. You surely will have heard gossip . . .'
'Oh yes. That Papa and Elizabeth Warleggan were in love when they were young. Is that very terrible?'
Demelza half scowled at her daughter, and then changed her mind and laughed.
'Put that way, no
...
But in a sense it continued all their lives. That - did not help, you'll understand. But -'
'Yet I'm sure it was not like you and Papa at
all.
Yours is something special. I shall never be lucky enough to get a man like him; and of course I shall never be able to be like
you
..
.'
Bella Poldark, slight and dark and pretty, came dancing and prattling up with a story of something, a dead fish or something, large and white and smelly they had found near the Wheal Leisure adit. She had wanted to tug it home but Mrs Kemp would not let her. Sophie Enys, a year younger and outdistanced on the last lap, soon contributed her account. Demelza bent over talking to them, glad of the opportunity to wipe something moist out of her sight. Compliments from one's children were always the most difficult to take unemotionally, and compliments from the
ever candid Clowance were rare enough to be specially noted. When Mrs Kemp joined them they all walked back to the house, Jane Gimlett having preceded them to put on tea and cakes for the little girls.
The eager flood that had caught up with Clowance and her mother now washed past them and left them behind, in the enticing prospect of food, so the two women followed on. They were exactly of a height, and as they walked the wind, blowing from behind them, ruffled their hair like the soft tail feathers of eider ducks.
Demelza said: 'Then you were allowed to leave Trenwith unmolested?'
'Oh yes. We did not part so bad in the end. I left him some of my foxgloves.'
'You - left George? You left George some foxgloves?'
'He didn't want to have them. He said they could wilt on the damned floor of the damned hall, for all he cared, so I found an old vase and filled it with water and put them on that table. What a great table it is! I never remember seeing it before! I believe it will be still there when the house falls down.'
'And did he — allow you to do this?'
'Well, he didn't forcibly stop me. Though he snarled once or twice, like a fradgy dog. But I believe his bark may be worse than his bite.'
'Do not rely on that,' said Demelza.
'So after I had arranged them — though I still cannot do it so well as you - after that I gave him a civil good afternoon.'
'And did you get another snarl?'
'No. He just glowered at me. Then he asked me my name again. So I told him.'