The Angry Tide by Winston Graham
Dinner was with the ladies: his wife, his daughter, his two sisters, no one else. Ross was thankful he had a son. Small talk was pleasant and not taxing, but Lord de Dunstanville did not join in it. In spite of having been received in a more friendly fashion than he had expected, Ross did not allow himself to be too hopeful. Francis Basset, among many other attributes, was a business man. The wealthiest man in Cornwall – so far as actual money went – did not willingly throw away opportunities of becoming wealthier. And his bank in Truro had just swallowed a rival. Was he going to make it regurgitate its meal on a point of principle? Was he going to recreate a situation in which those of his clients who happened to be dissatisfied with the accommodation they were being offered at Basset’s could turn round and say, ‘Very well, then. I’ll go to Pascoe’s.’ Was it common sense to expect it? Basset disliked the Warleggans, and this event would make him distrust and dislike them more. But he had no deep-rooted, long-standing enmity such as Ross had. He had none of that personal conviction to sustain him.
Yet, from his many visits to friends and old Pascoe clients over the last few days, Ross knew it must all depend on Basset. They wished Pascoe well, as Harris had predicted, but where was the money coming from to set him up again? Humpty Dumpty had had a great fall. If Basset, Rogers & Co. were prepared to back him there would be no shortage of clients willing to return. But the money that Pascoe had personally lost was lost. The nucleus, as Harris had called it. The foundation on which everything else was built.
The ladies left the table early; the day was so mild that they were off to pick bluebells and wild orchids in the woods. The two men were left at the strewn table.
De Dunstanville said: ‘My steward has had this Somerset cheese sent him. It weighs 20 lbs, and he feels it will not endure long enough for him to eat it all, so I am obliging him. Pray help yourself.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And port? How is Mrs Poldark? I do remember her preference for port.’
‘She’s well, thank you. You have a good memory, my lord.’
‘I found her a very taking person, with a wit as sharp as a knife and a warm sense of humour.’
‘Thank you. I trust you will come to visit us again.’
‘No, you must come here first – if we can get this banking matter out of the way without quarrelling.’
‘I should be most grateful if we could.’
‘You mean you would be most grateful if you got your own way. Well . . . that is difficult. Tell me first whom you have seen and what help they promise.’
Ross had been afraid of this question. It was the destructive one – yet he must not answer it too evasively. He gave a list of the names: Lord Devoran, Ralph-Allen Daniell, Henry Prynne Andrew, Henry Trefusis, Alfred Barbary, Sir John Trevaunance, Hector Spry, etc.
‘Not your patron?’ The question was asked with a hint of quiet malice.
‘No, he is still in London.’
‘You’ll get no help from him . . . Well, and what was the outcome?’
A reluctance, a great reluctance, Ross said, to see Pascoe’s Bank go under.
‘Yes, yes, a reluctance no doubt, but what offer of practical help?’
Ross said: ‘The practical help of their complete trust in Harris Pascoe, their willingness to allow balances still in abeyance to remain in his hands, and an eagerness to see him trading again and to entrust him with their deposits.’
Lord de Dunstanville chewed slowly. He was a moderate man in everything and had only allowed himself four glasses of wine.
‘It’s all very well, Captain Poldark. I appreciate precisely your wishes and the wishes of your friends. What they are saying is, put the bank back where it was, set Mr Pascoe in charge of it, open the doors and we shall be happy to trade with it as usual. Exactly. They want a restoration of the status quo ante bellum. They want the clock put back. But who is going to pay for the clock being put back, who is to finance this restoration? They are not.’
‘I have had some offers. They are not enough, but with your co-operation . . .’
‘With our finance, and it would cost a mortal lot. The eggs have been scrambled. No doubt we could advance a large loan, and this Pascoe, over a number of years, might be able to repay. It has always been a good little bank. But Pascoe is not a young man, and he has no son ready to succeed him. We could advance a large loan – perhaps twenty thousand pounds – but we could make much better use of the money in other ways. No . . . I’m sorry, Poldark, I know how you must feel, but it seems to me that the amalgamation that is already in process of being achieved is the only common-sense, the only practical solution. But it could be worse. I understand Tresidder King has already offered Mr Pascoe a position in our bank—’
‘As a clerk!’
‘As chief clerk. I appreciate that that is not quite the style to which Mr Pascoe is accustomed, but it would be something. Possibly we shall be able to offer him something better at a short remove. King is a young man, but there could be some other situation available.’
Ross drew breath. It looked as if he were to be defeated in his primary objective. Should he try any further, or now abandon that and go for the secondary one? A difficult decision. So far the interview had been surprisingly equable. It might not remain so if he pressed it the more. And how could you press a man if he were not willing? To make it a challenge to his honour might well be something that Basset would resent as well as reject, and then all would be lost. You could no more demand a reprieve from this man for Harris Pascoe than you could for ‘Wildcat’ Hoskin. Only negotiation, only diplomacy was left.
‘You spoke of amalgamation, my lord.’
‘Yes. Amalgamation and absorption.’
‘You did use the former word first. And if you are willing to give it that name, then surely the proprietor of the second and smaller bank might be offered a partnership in the new concern?’
Basset raised his eyebrows. ‘More cheese? If we were to do that, Mr Pascoe would bring with him the aura of misjudgment and failure that many people will remember.’
‘Most people will remember – all men of good will will remember – that his only real misjudgment was to cross swords with the Warleggans.’
‘Shall we go into the drawing-room? It faces west and the sun is such a shy visitor . . .’
Ross followed his host, who paused to sneeze and dab his nose. Three spaniels who had been sleeping rose to greet him and fell about his feet as he sat down.
Ross said: ‘Not many men of good will, with the interests of the whole community at heart, can view with complacency the idea of the Warleggans completely dominating the commercial affairs of the county.’
‘We are a long way from that situation yet.’
‘Well . . . again, I hate to bring the matter too much to a point of principle, but every victory they gain over a smaller man makes the next small man less willing to fight. They – it is in their nature to eat up what they can and destroy what they can’t. Beginning of course with their enemies. But moving on. And constantly making new enemies as they go.’
‘D’you take snuff? No . . . I’ll give what you say consideration. But it’s only fair to point out to you that, though I am senior partner in the bank, Captain Poldark, I have three partners. There is my brother-in-law, Mr John Rogers, and there is Mr Mackworth Praed and Mr Edward Eliot. They must be consulted on all significant points. I cannot take arbitrary decisions without their consent.’
‘Am I to understand, my lord, that your Mr Tresidder King, who is not a partner, was able to take arbitrary decisions without your consent?’
He thought he had gone too far. Basset flushed and glanced at him with a flicker of anger.
‘King has authority to act as he thinks best when we are not present. May I make a suggestion to you, Poldark? It is a mistake to press too hard from a position of weakness.’
‘That is precisely what I was thinking, myself, my lord.’
Basset looked at him and then laughed. ‘A
‘It’s all I can be. But,’ Ross said, ‘if I may continue in the same vein, although my position is weak, it is not entirely without a negotiating basis. If Mr Pascoe joins your bank as a full partner he will bring all his clients with him. If he does not, then some, many indeed, will be tempted to look elsewhere.’
‘Elsewhere? To Warleggan’s?’ Again the malice.
‘No . . . but there is Carne & Co. of Falmouth. To many people I spoke to Falmouth is little less convenient than Truro. Lord Devoran, Mr Daniell, Mr Trefusis. Even I would go there if Carne & Co. became Carne & Pascoe.’
‘Ah . . . you have been canvassing.’
‘Only opinion. But I think, if I may say so, that if Basset, Rogers became Basset, Rogers & Pascoe it would be a move which would greatly enhance the popularity and prestige of those who made it possible.’
‘Well, that is quite out of the question – the name, I mean. And I don’t like being blackmailed, sir.’
‘Nothing was further from my thoughts. I can only appeal to you and to your generosity.’
A long silence.
‘Have Carne’s invited Pascoe to join them?’
‘They will do so if I offer them the clients that I can.’
‘And you say that is not blackmail?’
‘No, my lord. Only business. And really I am a beginner at it. I only attempt this on behalf of an old friend.’
‘You have a certain aptitude for your new role. Or does that insult you?’
‘I’m greatly flattered.’
Lord de Dunstanville bent to one of his spaniels. ‘Poor Trix has a canker in her ear. I must ask your wife sometime. She has a reputation with animals. Now look you here, Poldark, I can do nothing, I can promise nothing, nothing at all. I’ll think about it, think it all over. I’ll consult with John, my brother-in-law. I’ll consult with the others. Can I keep this – this letter? There’ll be a meeting sometime next week. If it takes place before the hospital opening, and if there is anything useful I can pass on to you, I’ll do so at the ceremony.’
‘I’m greatly obliged, my lord.’
‘Don’t be greatly obliged at all. I have promised you nothing.’
Chapter Thirteen
I
It was on the day of the opening ceremony that Elizabeth Warleggan knew she was with child again. She had wondered yesterday and had not been certain. Now, together with the failure of her period, the sudden faintness, the nausea. For a woman of superficially delicate health she had a strong constitution, and she had only felt like this twice before in her life: early in 1784 and in the midsummer of ’93. After her first child was born she had been subject to fainting fits for a while, but while they might have been similar in appearance they were entirely different to the person suffering them.
She was startled, a little shocked at first, apprehensive, and then pleased. So, if all went well, she would now have three children. When this one was born Geoffrey Charles would be almost grown up, Valentine nearly six. Another boy? She would dearly like a girl. Another child when she was thirty-five, rising thirty-six. His (its) birthday would be likely to be the same month as Valentine’s.
One person who would most certainly be delighted would be George. She knew how much he still prized her, and nowadays it was more as a husband should, not as an object he had unexpectedly won. He confided his plans – some of them – aware that she was his friend. She felt she deserved this. It had been a hard five years.
So, this new child was likely to put the final seal on their marriage as nothing else would. She would tell him this evening. Or perhaps wait a little while until she was even more sure.
But wait a little while? How long? And with what purpose? Suppose this were another boy . . .?
In that terrible time following Aunt Agatha’s death, when George’s suspicions – that Valentine was not a seven- or eight-month baby and therefore not his – had reached explosion point, her oath on the Bible had convinced him – or nearly convinced him. But even then, even after that, his jealous thoughts had taken months to die. Supposing this were another boy? This one must be his. Would any of that old lingering suspicion lead him gradually to withdraw his favour from Valentine and give it more and more to his new son? There would always be more likelihood of an alienation between Valentine and George if there were a younger and undisputed child to take the father’s affections.
Elizabeth was a woman with very strong maternal instincts – her obsessive love for Geoffrey Charles had produced the first breach between herself and Francis long ago – and though Valentine, for various reasons, had taken longer to establish his position in her heart, he was there now, and she was deeply concerned for his future. It was more for his sake than her own that she had fought George and bested him.
She thought about this all morning while she was dressing for the ‘occasion’. So long as George was convinced that Valentine was a premature child the danger could be contained. Ross, in the one strained, emotional meeting she had had with him outside Trenwith three years ago, had suggested something which now might make sense. He had said: if your marriage to George means something to you – or even if not, then for your son’s sake – should you ever give George another child try to contrive a mistake in the month of conception. Let your confusion be deliberate and unconfessed. It shouldn’t be difficult. Another premature child would convince George as nothing else would.
Was it difficult? Hardly, at this time. Nothing was lost by her withholding her news until next month, or even the month after. This faintness usually passed quickly enough, and she was hardly ever sick in the mornings. Nor, as the months progressed, did she ever get very big, in spite of her slight frame. She carried her children high, and was agile to the last. It would be easy to deceive George. She would tell him she was expecting a child in April. Then if she had it in February, as before . . .
Nor should the doctor be an unsurmountable difficulty. She would call him in on some trifling ailment in July, and in the course of his visit tell him she believed herself pregnant. Her last period, she would say, had been in June. He would have no reason to disbelieve her, for she had nothing to gain. George would accept her statement for the same reason. When the child was born in February, it might look like a full-term child – as Valentine had – but they would both be likely to jump to the conclusion that this was a repetition of the peculiarity of last time. And in no way to be questioned.
The hospital was due to be opened at ten. George, to please her, had subscribed a hundred guineas in her name, so she would be one of the few women present. At nine forty-five the Warleggan coach arrived outside the house, rattling over the cobbles, with four greys tossing their small heads and the postilions looking spruce and fresh in their yellow jackets. It was a very short distance to go, but George had insisted they should ride. Elizabeth was wearing a full white satin skirt with a pad at the back to expand it and make the waist look smaller, a tight bodice of azure satin and a paler blue toque. George, elegant in a new black coat much cut away, with wide revers on both coat and waistcoat and two rows of silver buttons, handed her into the coach, and they lurched up the hill to where many other carriages were arriving.
The Cornwall General Infirmary was an oblong building of a grey stone well suited to the exposed position it occupied. As guests arrived they were shown over it; the two long wards one above the other, each containing ten beds placed end to end parallel with the walls, the lower ward for men, the upper for women; the small side rooms leading off, for the occupancy of the nurses; the dispensary, the mortuary, the kitchen, the living-rooms for the house surgeon and his wife. Friends greeted each other as they walked around, for many of the best of the county were here: the Earl of Mount Edgcumbe, Lord and Lady de Dunstanville, Mr Ralph-Allen Daniell, Mr and Mrs George Warleggan, Mr Trefusis, Mr Andrew, Mr Mackworth Praed, Mr Rogers, Captain Poldark, Mr Molesworth, Mr Stackhouse. Dr Enys was there, reluctantly representing his wife, who was a notable subscrib
It was not quite a large enough gathering to be able to avoid those one wished to avoid, and Elizabeth’s heart thumped as she twice came near enough to Ross Poldark to speak to him. Of course she did not, and of course he did not, since George was not far away. Happy with the discovery she had made about herself, Elizabeth had no wish at all to mar the day. George, though ignorant of her news, was also well satisfied with the way things were going – especially with the complete success of Uncle Cary’s schemes, since the objective seemed to have been attained without loss of reputation on their side – and he had no desire to cross swords with his rival in public. As for Ross, his feelings were so explosive that if something started he had no idea where it would end. But he was still playing for high stakes, and his cause with Francis Basset would not be advanced if he became involved in a brawl – even of words – at the official opening of Basset’s hospital.
So the meeting was held, addressed by the Earl of Mount Edgcumbe, by Lord de Dunstanville and by Dr Hector Bull, and the infirmary was declared open. That done, they all trooped out into the warm sunshine and got into their carriages to rattle down the hill again for the service at St Mary’s church. It was a brightly coloured group, and the townsfolk stood agape to watch them pass.
Dwight said cheerfully to Ross: ‘Well, it’s a beginning. We could do with a hundred beds, but twenty is better than nothing. Dr Bull seems a likely man. I hope admission will be by need and not by patronage . . .’
He was looking much older, Ross thought. He had suffered in fact two losses – of his child and his wife; and though the latter might be temporary it hit him nearly as hard. He was a dedicated man, one not given to wearing his heart on his sleeve; but his sympathy for the plight of others did not detract from his personal affections, and Ross wondered if Caroline realized what her leaving him so long was doing to him.