The Angry Tide by Winston Graham
‘It is the fashion, Ross. Caroline insisted.’
‘I know just how women insist. And you, I’m sure, were protesting loudly and saying, no, no, no!’
‘Well, I did protest, truly. And this is much the most respectable of the gowns I was shown. Some women, Caroline says, damp their frocks when they put them on so that they will cling more.’
‘You damp anything, my dear, and I’ll smack you.’
She paused while he tied his stock. ‘But, Ross, you do like it, don’t you? I still have time to change.’
‘And you’d wear an old frock to please me?’
‘Of course.’
‘And be miserable all night?’
‘I wouldn’t be miserable. I’m so happy.’
‘Yes . . . you look it, I’ll say that. Why are you happy?’
‘Because of you, of course. Because of us. Need I say?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘perhaps not . . .’
Somewhere a clock was striking nine.
He said: ‘The vexing thing is, good-looking women look good in anything. Or should I say almost anything? Well . . .’ He stared at her. ‘On longer inspection I like the frock. I think it has a touch of elegance. I am only a little reluctant that so many men should see so much of you.’
‘They will have many other women to look at. Women who have spent their lives being beautiful.’
‘And men too. These confounded buttons are hard to fasten.’
‘Let me.’ She came up and busied herself at his wrists.
‘I think,’ he said, looking down at her brushed and combed and tidy hair, ‘I think I’ll go in my nightgown. It might provoke a new fashion.’
II
Portland Place was one of the broadest and best lit streets in London, and a line of carriages and chairs waited their turn before a porticoed door with a royal blue carpet laid under a crimson awning. Gowned and beautiful creatures were passing up the steps followed by men scarcely less brilliant. When it came to their turn two white-wigged footmen were there to open the carriage door and to hand Demelza out. It seemed for a moment that they were at the centre of a circle of brilliant light from the periphery of which a sea of faces peered at them greedily as the hundreds of ragged onlookers stared at and assessed them. Then they had passed inside, to leave their cloaks in the care of more footmen, and to climb a short flight of stairs while a man with a rich tenor voice shouted: ‘Captain and Mrs Poldark.’
Caroline greeted them, brilliant in pale green, with jewels at her breast that were never seen in Cornwall, and introduced them to their two hostesses: Mrs Pelham, her aunt, whose escort was a tall man called the Hon. St Andrew St John (the member for Bedfordshire, presumably), and Mrs Tracey, with Lord Onslow. And then there was Dwight in a new suit of black velvet, and presently they moved on and were given glasses of wine and reached an enormous reception room already more than half full of people chatting and drinking and seated and exchanging greetings.
As they went in Dwight had drawn aside and said to Ross: ‘A word of warning. The Warleggans are likely to be here. Mrs Tracey invited them. But they should be easy to avoid.’ Ross had smiled grimly and said: ‘Never fear. We’ll avoid ’em.’
In fact George and Elizabeth arrived soon after them in the company of Monk Adderley and a girl called Andromeda Page, a yawning, semi-nude beauty of seventeen, whom Monk was temporarily escorting round the town. They spotted the Poldarks quickly enough but moved to the opposite side of the room and were soon lost sight of.
The Warleggans had arrived in London only two days before and taken up residence at No. 14 King Street, just near Grosvenor Gate, having brought Valentine with them, since scarlet fever was so rife in Truro that he was unlikely to be at greater hazard in London with the fresh fields of Hyde Park on his doorstep. Theirs had been something of a royal procession from Cornwall, travelling as they did in their own coach and taking twelve days on the journey. In his year as a member of Parliament George had been an assiduous collector of useful friends, and this stood him in good stead. He had written well ahead to various people telling them he would like to call, and few of the country gentry wished to offend a very rich man with a pretty and well-connected wife. As a result, they had only had to spend two nights in inns all the way.
George was in the best of spirits tonight, Monk having just told him of his election to White’s, one of the most exclusive clubs in London. He had also had a conversation with Roger Wilbraham that morning. Wilbraham, unlike Captain Howell, was neither a Cornishman nor in need of money, and his first response to the suggestion that he might resign his seat at St Michael had been unhelpful. Gladly he’d accept money to resign, he said, laughing loudly, if George would provide him with another seat. Not otherwise, since it would cost him as much to procure another seat for himself as he was likely to receive from George, so how did it profit him? An impasse had been prevented by Wilbraham adding: ‘But look, old fellow, I’ve stood for Scawen interests until now. I’ve no strong convictions. I can just as easy be your man as his. You can count on me.’ It seemed the easy way out, and George had accepted the suggestion. If Wilbraham should prove troublesome, there were ways of forcing him out later. The important thing was that, so far as the government was concerned, George now had two seats to bargain with.
Elizabeth, though slightly plumper in face, had not thickened in figure yet, and tonight looked at her most dignified and beautiful, having spent most of the day receiving the attentions of a hairdresser who had brightened up the faded fairness until it shone like a crown. As usual she wore white, this time in a Grecian style, light loose drapery over a tight tunic, decorated with gold chains, sandalled feet and flesh-coloured stockings with toes like gloves, fan in gold belt and tiny gold bag containing scent and a handkerchief. ‘My dear,’ Monk Adderley said, ‘you look like Helen of Troy.’
She smiled at him warmly and looked at the growing company. ‘One day, when the war is over, I hope to travel, if I can persuade George to do so. I should like to see Greece and all the islands. I should like to see Rome . . .’
‘Do take care,’ said Adderley, ‘I cannot bear to hear you say you wish to look at the scenery.’
‘Why ever not?’ Elizabeth smiled. ‘Who is that man over there?’
‘The fat one? The gross one? You don’t know him? That is Dr Franz Anselm, who, my dear, makes more money out of ladies than any other physician in London. Do you wish to conceive? He will see to it. Do you wish not to conceive, or to lose that which you have conceived? He will see to that also. Should you wish to stay young and fascinate your husband – or someone else’s husband – a valuable nostrum is prescribed. Do you have disagreeable warts? He will take them off you. Have you not heard of Dr Anselm’s Balsamic Cordial for Ladies in Nature’s Decay?’
‘A charlatan?’
‘God, who in the physical profession is not? They all have their cure-alls. But his, I believe, are more effective than most.’
‘A pity he cannot prescribe to make himself a thought prettier. Why do you say I should not look at the scenery?’
‘Well, not to admire it. Some of these poets nowadays, my dear, offend me to distraction. They have a romantic view of life. It is so low-class, so mediocre. What are mountains and lakes, to be stared at as if they were of interest? Personally, when I go through the Alps I always draw the blinds of my coach.’
‘And who is that coming in now?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘Like Dr Anselm somewhat, but smaller.’
‘That, my dear, is another man of some import in the world, though no doubt as a high Tory you must disapprove of him as I do. I could spit him on a sword for his wrong assumptions about the war. The Hon. Charles James Fox. And that’s his wife, the former Mrs Armistead, whom he married a mere four years ago.’
The big Dr Anselm waddled past. He had eyebrows like black slugs, mottled black hair which he did not deign to cover with a wig, and a stomach which spread from his chest and preceded him as he walked. Mr and Mrs Fox turned the oth
‘Ah,’ said Monk, ‘this one, this tall feller, is Lord Walsingham, who’s chairman of the committees in the House of Lords. And behind him, the younger one, is George Canning, who’s secretary for foreign affairs. I’m glad to see a few of the government turning up, else we should be swamped with the dissidents. Instruct me, where does George get his shoes?’
‘My George? I don’t know.’
‘Well, it is not the right place. Tell him to go to Rymer’s. Outstanding, my dear. And Wagner’s for hats. One can never afford to have anything but the best.’
‘I’m sure George would entirely agree,’ Elizabeth said with a touch of irony, and, to be polite, spoke to Miss Page. So the group re-formed.
Ross and Demelza were talking to a Mr and Mrs John Bullock. Bullock was the member for Essex, an elderly man and in confirmed opposition to Pitt, but he and Ross liked and respected each other. They were joined by the Baron Duff of Fife and his daughter, who was wearing a startling necklace that seemed to set fire to her throat.
When they had gone Demelza said: ‘There is so much wealth in London! Did you see that – those diamonds! And yet there’s so little.’
‘Little what?’
‘Wealth. Those faces as we came in! They would fight for a sixpence. Sometimes I think – what little I’ve seen, Ross – it’s as if London’s half at war with itself.’
‘Explain yourself, my love.’
‘Well, isn’t it? All the crime. It’s like a – a volcano. In the streets – those gangs at corners waiting for a victim. All the drunkenness and the quarrelling. The thieves and the prostitutes and the beggars. The stone-throwing. The fighting with clubs. The starvation. And then this. All this luxury. Is this how it was in France?’
‘Yes. But worse.’
‘I see how you must feel sometimes.’
‘I’m glad you feel it too. But don’t let it spoil your evening.’
‘Oh, no. Oh, no.’
He looked at her. ‘Sometimes I think we have as much control of events as straws in a stream.’
A few moments later the Warleggans came into view on the other side of the room.
Demelza said: ‘Is Elizabeth going to have another child?’
‘What?’ Ross stared. ‘How do you know?’
‘I don’t. It’s just a look she has.’
‘You could very well be right,’ he said after a moment. ‘She was indisposed the day of the opening of the hospital. Fortunately for me, she was taken with a fainting fit, or I should have had violent words with George, if not worse, and then I’m sure Francis Basset would not have thought me a suitable partner for his banking concerns.’
‘Straws in a stream,’ said Demelza. ‘How lucky we were!’
On the other side of the room Adderley said to George: ‘Did you actually go and listen to the speech from the throne, my dear?’
‘Yes,’ said George.
‘All this nonsense about militia? I could not bear it. I spent my time at Boodles. You’re down, you know. The election’s in November. I can arrange the necessary support.’
‘I’m obliged, Monk. I see Poldark’s here.’
‘The noble captain. Yes. You don’t like him, do you.’
‘No.’
‘You Cornishmen take yourselves so serious. What’s in a feud? Who’s that with him?’
‘His wife. He married his kitchenmaid.’
‘Well, she’s a good-looker.’
‘Some men have thought so.’
‘With success?’
‘Probably,’ said George, old malice stirring.
Adderley put up his glass to look across the room. ‘Her hair’s provincial. Pity. The rest is good.’
‘Oh, no doubt she’s been dressed in London.’
‘So she should be undressed in London, don’t you think? I cannot bear virtuous countrywomen.’
‘They are fewer than you think.’
‘Oh, yes, I know, my dear. Is there in truth one such in the land? Well, you know my claim.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’ve never turned a woman empty away.’
‘You should try your luck.’
‘I’ll test the water. Drommie!’
‘Yes?’ said the girl.
‘Come with me. There’s a feller I wish you to meet.’
III
‘This is Adderley coming across to us now,’ Ross said in an undertone.
‘Who is he?’
‘Friend of George’s. He was down at Trenwith last summer. A member of Parliament. Ex-captain in a foot regiment, like me. A wild man.’
‘Wilder than you?’
‘Different.’
‘With his wife?’
‘I doubt it.’
Demelza eyed the man as he came towards them, erect, thin as a pole, pale-faced. He was dressed in a dark olive-green spotted silk coat and breeches, the suit embossed with silver.
‘My dear Poldark, I didn’t see you at the opening today! May I present Miss Drommie Page? Captain Poldark. And Mrs Poldark, I presume? Enchanté. I suppose the King didn’t actually read his speech, did he?’
‘No, it was read for him. Were you not there?’
‘No, my dear, that’s why I didn’t see you. How drab it is to be recalled to London so early merely to pass some flatulent bill to do with the militia. The stinks haven’t subsided yet. Do you live distant, Mrs Poldark?’
‘In Cornwall.’
‘But of course. Your husband not only sits in the Boscawen interest but lives there! Greater love hath no man!’
They talked for a few minutes, Adderley’s snake-grey eyes travelling assessingly over Demelza’s face and figure, Demelza smiling up at him from time to time and then glancing away, taking in the colour and the lights and the strolling, chatting figures and the palm trees and the music from a further room.
‘Rot me,’ said Monk, dabbing his nose with a lace handkerchief, ‘I’m as hungry as a cannibal. Shall we go in to supper, Mistress Poldark?’
‘Rot me too,’ said Demelza, and took a further look around the room.
‘Well, then?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I am engaged.’
‘By whom?’
‘My husband.’
‘Your husband! My dear, it is simply not done! It is not permitted for married people to eat together! Not in London society.’
‘I’m sorry. I thought it was . . . But if you feel like a cannibal, might you not mistake what you were eating?’
Adderley’s eyes crinkled. ‘That I might, ma’am. You, for instance. I have a catholic taste. Look . . . Poldark is busy with Drommie. He can lead her in. I promise we’ll sit at the same table.’
Swift thoughts: this man George’s friend: Ross doesn’t like him: but this an evening out: how to refuse? . . . needless offence . . .
She said: ‘Then let us all go in together! Ross . . . Captain Adderley is becoming ferocious for food. Shall we all eat now?’
She saw a mild glint on Ross’s face when he turned, though it would have been imperceptible to anyone less attuned to his feelings.
He said: ‘By all means,’ though the words lacked enthusiasm.
On Adderley’s arm Demelza walked to the supper room, followed by Ross and Andromeda.
‘So you find me ferocious,’ Monk said. ‘I would not have thought you a woman easily intimidated, Mistress Poldark.’
‘Oh, very easily, Captain Adderley.’
‘Is it my reputation that frightens you?’
‘I don’t know your reputation, sir.’
‘Two things I like best of all: to fight and to make love.’
‘With the same person?’
‘No, but on the same day. One whets the appetite for the other, ma’am.’
In the next room a great table was heavy with food prepared in the most extravagant and artistic fashion. According to your tastes a white-hatted servant behind the table would cut you a piece of Windsor Castle, Buckingham House, St Paul’s, Westminster
‘It looks,’ said George, ‘as if we have lost our friends.’
‘Yes,’ Elizabeth said; ‘I am somewhat surprised at Monk’s taste.’
‘Oh, I set him after them. There’s nothing Monk rises to so quickly as a challenge.’
‘I didn’t mean the Poldarks,’ Elizabeth replied a little acidly. ‘I meant the young lady he has chosen to bring with him.’
‘Oh, Miss Page. They say she’s the natural daughter of Lord Keppel. Pretty but penniless and vicious: it’s a common tale. Oh, your lordship . . .’
‘Sir?’
‘Warleggan. You remember at Ranelagh. May I introduce you to my wife. Viscount Calthorp; Elizabeth.’
In the outer hall nearly all the guests had arrived. The Prince of Wales had sent a late message regretting that he would be unable to be present.
‘Well,’ said Caroline to her husband, ‘the worst is nearly over. I trust you’re not wishing yourself back with your patients.’
‘No,’ said Dwight, smiling. In fact he had that moment been reflecting that Mrs Coad, in extremis when he last called, would be dead before the end of the month. And Char Nanfan struck with an inexplicable sickness. And Ed Bartle’s children, three down with a pulmonary infection following the scarlet fever . . .
‘Come, let us go and eat,’ Caroline said, linking her arms in his. ‘Some of the tabbies up here have been doubting that I really have a husband. I must display you all I can!’
‘Where are Ross and Demelza?’
‘I don’t know. I saw them just now . . . Oh, with Monk Adderley and his pretty piece! That is a surprise. Well, then, we must eat with someone else.’
‘I imagine they must have been invited, for I don’t believe they would ever have chosen that company,’ said Dwight. ‘Was that Lord Falmouth who came in just now? With the old lady?’
‘Yes. His mother. We’re honoured, since he is very little more sociable in London than in Cornwall.’
They moved back into the reception room, where servants were discreetly rearranging the chairs so that later in the evening there would be room to dance.