Bella Poldark (32 page)

She accepted a big bunch of red roses that was handed to her -- obviously from him. 'I - I do not think Signor Rossini would have approved of me.'

'I had invited him.'

'What? But he--'

'No. At last he sent back word. But perhaps tomorrow.'

'I do not think I would dare to show my face.'

'That you shall! That you shall!'

When the audience had finally trickled out into the summer rain, the cast and all the helpers sat down to a feast on the stage. Armande, Garcia, Lafond congratulated her - and she eagerly congratulated them, for she had merely, in her view, taken a risk and brought it off. To them was the credit of the main singing and the comedy. Onion soup, chicken legs, fish pies, plovers' eggs, red wine, white wine - everyone was laughing and talking, relieving tensions which had built all evening - quails' eggs, bacon pastries, syllabubs, asparagus tips, jam cakes, white wine, red wine-- When this was all over and people were stretching themselves and yawning and belching and noisily taking their leave, Bella could still not unwind. Maurice put his arm round her. 'Come, ma dime, I will take you home.'

Darkness had only just fallen, but there was a half-moon somewhere lightening the mists of rain. They walked arm in arm through the empty streets, through the main square, turned towards the river. They talked about the production, the unexpected twists and turns of a first part-amateur staging when so much, so many little things had gone wrong and so many things had gone beautifully right. Figaro's joyous energy, Don Basilio's comic black hat and strutting walk, Dr Bartolo's agility when it came to making people laugh. They came to her door.

'A last coffee?' he said.

'Yes. I do not think I shall sleep.'

'We all will in the end. Do you know?'

'What?'

'I think this might run to four performances instead of three.'

They had had two coffees and were lying sprawled in chairs, the tension seeping out of them at last. Yet they were still wide awake. It was a contented silence, a satisfied silence, a replete silence. But when she yawned and looked at him he was looking at her, and she knew that for him his long day was not yet complete. She realized that she wanted what he had to offer her. She knew it must not happen, but she knew that she wanted it to happen. Her conscience, her propriety, were fighting a losing battle. He moved slowly out of his chair and dropped on one knee in front of her, then the other knee. She watched him take off her shoes. Neither spoke. He lifted her skirt gently, almost clinically, reached for her garters, pulled them off, then peeled off her stockings. He arranged them in a little pile with the shoes. Then he began to kiss her legs. First left, then right. His strong teeth made little love bites. Then he sat back and stood up and went for a pair of scissors. When he came back he leaned over her and cut the ribbon that held up her petticoat. Then he took her hands and gently pulled until she was leaning forward. He undid the buttons of her dress and kissed the nape of her neck. He lifted her to her feet and slid the dress down, then with his hands round the upper parts of her legs he persuaded her to step out of it. She now had on only a thin white chemise. He kissed her gently all over her face while his hands slipped the straps from her shoulders and she stood before him naked. He did not draw back and look at her body in a way that might have embarrassed her, instead he held her close and cupped each breast in turn and covered them one by one with his mouth. They stepped back gently together almost as if in a dance towards the alcove where the curtained bed lay.

He pulled the curtains back, put his hand round her waist and behind her knees, lifted her in. She lay there, knees drawn up, great eyes fixed on him while he tore off his own clothes as if he hated them. When they were scattered about the floor and he too was naked he climbed in, parted her legs and gazed down upon her like someone who has found buried treasure.

Two days after that, in the late afternoon, Sir Ross Poldark arrived in Rouen.

George had made slow progress after his accident, far slower than he was willing to admit. Dr Daniel Behenna bled him repeatedly and spouted a lot of Latin names at him, the Anglo-Saxon translation of which was that he could find no broken bones, fractured liver or punctured lungs: it came down to the fact that the patient was not as young as he used to be and that his middle-aged system had suffered a profound shock from which it was going to take months rather than weeks to recover. After the first three weeks his carriage took him to the Bank daily, but he did not arrive until eleven and left again at three. Dinner at Cardew was postponed until four p.m., after which he wrote letters in his study and retired about eight, supper being served in his room at nine. He saw little of Harriet, who busied herself about the estate. She was civil and advisory but not noticeably sympathetic. Of course he received many letters of condolence and sympathy, but these were chiefly from men or families or organizations which were in debt to the Bank and whose solvency rested upon his good will. One letter he received had a motive, but there was nothing ulterior about it. This was from Selina Warleggan. She knew nothing of his accident, but asked plaintively for financial help. She pointed out, somewhat unnecessarily, that her husband had taken over the fortune that Mr Pope had left her and spent it in foolish ventures into mining and on profligate living, on gaming, and on pursuing other women. But now, though she owned the house she was living in with her cousin and elder stepdaughter, she was deep in debt. The chief reason for this was the expense she had been put to over the recent marriage of her younger stepdaughter Maud. She had married a Mr David Shah, the son of a well-to-do cotton exporter by his English wife. Although the Shahs were Christians they lived in a rather expensive Oriental style, and when it came to the wedding she had felt obligated to spend substantial sums which she could not afford. So she had gone to the moneylenders and was now in considerable trouble on how to repay. As a family they were almost destitute. She appealed to George for help, not merely for herself but for his grandson, who did not deserve to go hungry.

George threw the letter away. Half an hour later he went to the wastepaper basket, persuading himself that he should have burnt it or torn it across so that none of the servants should read it; but when it was in his hands he read it through again and decided instead to file it away for further consideration. Two days passed. He had another small crisis at the Bank because of Frederick Lander's growing tendency to take substantial decisions on his own judgement. And then Gary died.

After the funeral, which was arranged for a time when Sir George could attend it, he rode back in the open carriage to Cardew, sitting beside the handsome black-eyed woman with whom he had chosen to spend the second half of his life.

Cary's death had shaken him more than he had expected.

He glanced sideways at Harriet, sitting so straight in her mourning clothes. No wonder she had such a good seat in the saddle.

'It was a fair turnout,' he said.

'Yes.'

'Cary would have been pleased to know he was so esteemed.'

'Or feared.'

'You cannot fear a dead man.'

'You can keep in the good graces of a living one. Who, by the way, was that tall young man standing by the gate? It looked like that lawyer fellow, Hector Trembath.'

'It was.'

'Was he a mourner? He seemed to be taking notes.'

'He was - well, yes, he was taking note of those who came.'

'There you are, you see. I have no doubt he will shortly present you with a black book listing those who did not.'

'I was glad to see Trengrouse there. Also Allen Daniel.'

She did not reply. He would have liked to say a lot more, but hesitated to do so. She had never been his confidante. Not as Elizabeth had been. They had never been so close. He and Harriet did talk, but he seldom told her any of his innermost thoughts. Was it true, was it possible, that she knew nothing of the doubts about Valentine's parentage? Surely in the years of their marriage someone, someone, was likely to have whispered the scandal. Who? All along there had been whispers in the district of Nampara. But apart from that, was it widely rumoured? Did he believe the whispers had spread as widely as he imagined? Probably no one in Truro knew. Harriet had never been to Nampara.

'I did not tell you, Harriet, but I had a letter last week from Selina.'

'How is she?'

'In desperate straits. Or so she says. No doubt she puts it all on for my benefit.'

'Does she want money?'

'Naturally.'

'Shall you send her some?'

'Would you advise it?'

She laughed. 'Since when have you consulted me on money matters?'

'Perhaps I should more often.'

'Then by all means send her some. I have always seen her as a likely pensioner. But you have a son and you have a grandson. Dip into your vaults and send her a bag of gold.'

'It would be by banker's draft,' said George automatically. And then: 'This is not a teasing matter.'

'Is money ever that?'

'In your eyes it is never anything else!'

'That is because you are so generous to me.'

He glanced at her to see if she was still joking. He decided she was not. But he still made no move. Two weeks passed and he did not write. Then he picked up his pen one evening and drafted a letter. Still he did not post it but sent for Hector Trembath. They talked for an hour. Then he redrafted the letter and let it go to the post. Bella was pulling on her stockings when the knock came at her door. She was not expecting a visitor but assumed it was Maurice, who could not keep away. When she saw who it was she gave a crow of delight.

'Papa!' Papa! Ross allowed himself to be embraced, and then gave her a special big bear hug.

'Papa! How lovely. Oh, I am so delighted! But what a surprise! You are here! Are you really here? How is it that you are here? It is so lovely!'

'I was passing,' said Ross, 'and thought I would look you up.'

'Oh, Papa! What a joke! But what a pleasure! How did you know? How did you guess? Where have you come from? It is a dream!'

He said: 'I saw the posters when I came into the town. Am I too late?'

'No, it is tonight! And probably tomorrow.'

'Then I shall hope to get a seat.'

'It is sold out. But Maurice will see to that. Is Mama with you?'

'No, she entrusted me with a mission.'

'Oh, mon Dieu, I shall not be able to sing if you are listening.'

'I might,' said Ross, 'like to believe that, but I cannot.'

She took his hand and pulled him further into the room.

'Oh, Papa, you know me altogether too well. But all the same--'

'I do not think I have ever understood you completely not since you became a woman.'

'When was that?'

'About sixteen years ago.'

She laughed delightedly. He could see there was no trace of reserve in her welcome. She poured him a cordial, apologizing for the untidiness of the room, asked when he left Nampara, where was he staying, how everybody was, and exclaimed that everyone here would be delighted and honoured to meet him. It was five already. In half an hour she would have to leave for the theatre.

'First,' she said, 'I must write a note to Maurice, tell him he must find a seat for you. The little Bourges boy will carry it.'

While she scrawled the message he looked her over. Every time he saw her he saw a change. She wore more make-up than ever before. Her lustrous hair was brushed and tied and pinned, her eyes were bigger, her legs, under a tucked skirt, longer and more to be seen. Her gestures had always been a bit extravagant, now they were a little more elegant, more poised. God's my life, he thought, she is an actress! On the way to becoming a prima donna! When the message had gone, she made him a cheese sandwich and wolfed one herself.

'What do you all think of me? It was the chance of a lifetime and I took it, but clearly it was not quite proper of me to do so. What do you think of me, Papa? And Mama? Was she 'orrible shocked?'

'As parents,' Ross said, after a moment's thought, 'we have always been over-indulgent with all our children. You must know that. You should all have been soundly beaten with a broom handle or worse. But we chose not to and so we reap the whirlwind.'

'You said that Mama had sent you on a mission. Darling Papa, have you come to see me on a mission?'

'Yes. To take you home.'

Bella let out a slow deflated breath. 'Oh. I had thought that.'

'Be of good cheer,' said Ross. 'You are eighteen. My authority is not absolute.'

'But your authority,' Bella said, picking at her finger, 'is not based on - on the broom handle. It is based on love. And that makes it much harder to defy.'

'How long do you have to stay here? When do the performances end?'

'Oh, Thursday. But it has been such a success that Maurice is trying to get a theatre in Paris.'

At that moment the man referred to appeared at the door. He was dressed for the theatre in a black cutaway suit and a black velvet bow tie. He came in uncertainly, smiled briefly at Bella, bowed with the utmost courtesy to Ross, who also rose, took the Frenchman's hand. Maurice's normally fluent English deserted him, and after a few exchanges they began to speak in French. Age had not yet bowed Ross's shoulders, and he towered above the young man. The high cheekbones, the pale eyes, the scar - which had come so much to resemble a duelling scar - made him look more formidable than he wished to appear; but a few smiling remarks from him soon eased the situation. Maurice asked if Ross minded sharing the Mayor's box with one or two other distinguished visitors who would be coming tonight. One of them was M. Auguste Pinet, who was a close friend of Rossini and would report back to Rome, where the composer was at present staying. There was a good chance, Maurice said, that the production would move to the Theatre Gramont in Paris.

'Soon?' asked Ross. 'I hope soon. I - I trust you do not want to take Bella home?'

'I want to take her back to London. She has her peace to make with Mrs Pelham, who believes she was gravely remiss in allowing Bella so much freedom. In fact she seems inconsolable. This - Bella making her peace with her - is not so much a filial duty as a moral one.'

There was a short silence.

'If in a few weeks you can see this production set up in Paris we shall not stand in the way of Bella's returning.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Maurice fervently, and glanced at Bella.

It was a glance Ross intercepted. So there is something between them, he thought. Not merely music.

By now Bella's choice of songs in the singing lesson had been wholly accepted and there would have been shouts of complaint if she had not sung the 'Marseillaise'. So they would have to risk the disapproval of M. Auguste Pinet. In fact M. Pinet seemed amused by the idea and smilingly congratulated Bella at the end of the performance. There was no banquet at the end tonight; instead six of them supped at the Couronne. Ross, Bella, Maurice, M. Pinet, Heider Garcia and the Mayor. Ross had a poor accent, but since his sojourn in the country five years before was entirely fluent, so there were no linguistic embarrassments. The newspaper in Rouen was only published weekly, but Maurice had been able to obtain an advance copy of the issue due out the next day, and he read out the review. It spoke of the opera as an outstanding success. It criticized some clumsy phrases in the French translation and thought that the director had over-emphasized the comic scenes. But it had special praise for Heider Garcia as Figaro and Etienne Lafond as Don Basilio. As for Rosina, this had been the debut of a young English girl, not yet twenty, who had impressed everyone not only by her elegant voice - there had been one or two traces of nerves but by her stage presence and sheer acting ability. That seemed a fair enough review, but M. Pinet had brought along two small reviews from the Paris papers, one of which mentioned Bella. 'The soprano part of Rosina was taken by a young British actress who has a remarkable voice, a taking personality and a future, one dares to expect, of exceptional brilliance.'

So they toasted her in good red wine, and when it was over the young couple walked Ross back to his hotel. On the steps he stared after them and saw they were holding hands.

Thursday passed with a trip up the Seine in the morning, local sightseeing in the afternoon, attendance at the theatre in the evening. It was not quite full this time, and this seemed to indicate that the promoters' estimate of potential audiences had been about correct. After all, opera going was an acquired taste, and most of the inhabitants of Rouen had never seen an opera before. Friday Bella had agreed to join Ross on the tedious coach journey to Le Havre, but early that morning Maurice brought news that a small paddle steamer drawing barges, L'Hirondelle, was leaving at dawn for Le Havre and they would arrive in good time to catch the ship that would take them to England. With their permission he would accompany them on the first stage. It was a lovely June morning, with only the slightest of breezes, and sailing at a slow, steady beat down the Seine was a very agreeable way to travel. Sometimes it was as if they were stationary and the land on either side was moving. Single-storey cottages loomed slowly up, women carrying pails of water, cows stood ruminatively in pools and shallows bordered by chestnuts, poplars and aspen, young horses galloped, ducks in a stream, a ruined abbey, a quarry, a church attended by clustered houses on a hill. Bella went below for a few minutes, and Maurice at once took the opportunity of saying: 'Sir, I hold your daughter in the highest esteem.'

Ross inclined his head. 'I'm glad.'

'Indeed, esteem is hardly the word I should use to express my regard for her.'

'Indeed?'

'It is a dual regard, sir. She has, I believe, as he Monde says, a brilliant future as an opera singer. I have seen this almost since the day I met her. Apart from the high quality of her voice, she is musically so good. And dramatically so good. She lives the part she is playing.'