Bella Poldark (54 page)

Wellington, Palmerston, Hazlitt, Coleridge, Southey, Wordsworth.

She knew nothing of this now. She had been dreaming that Dr Fredericks and Madame Lotti Schneider were giving her a cup of chocolate and persuading her that Romeo and Juliet set to music would be perfect for her to undertake with her new voice. 'It is an entirely different transcription,' Dr Fredericks, his cravat awry as usual, was saying. 'It is only when Romeo dies that Juliet has to sing top C and that can be taken over by the flute! No one will detect anything amiss.' 'But,' she was saying, 'I play Romeo and I cannot sing baritone!'

She woke suddenly at an extra lurch and saw with relief her mother and father in their respective corners and normality holding sway over nightmare. Her mother was asleep, her father fingering the pages of a book but making only a half-hearted attempt to read it.

'Papa,' she said in a low voice. He looked up, smiled, glanced warningly at his wife.

'Do you think it will wake Mama if we talk?'

'I don't think so.'

'How are your injuries after the fire? I know you do not mention them.'

'Very light.'

'That great bruise on your forehead.'

'It has mended much. In another week it will be gone.'

'And the burn on your foot?'

'Seems to be healing in spite of the walking I have done. Give that another week too.'

She looked at him carefully. 'Nothing else?'

'Nothing else.' He did not mention the occasional dizziness.

She settled back. 'It must have been a tragic time. Can you tell me a little more about Valentine's death?'

He told her exactly how it had happened but omitted the hallucination he had suffered. She asked a few questions, but to Ross's relief did not bring up the subject of Valentine's parentage. He hoped to God she was young enough to have escaped the whispers.

'And Sir George?' she presently said. Ross answered this too. She said: 'When I was about ten I was always terrified by

him and by his name, and the awful feud you had. I was always terrified that you and Sir George would come to blows sometime, that maybe you and he would fight out a terrible duel somewhere, perhaps on the cliffs, and only one of you coming back alive. I would picture you both with flailing swords or smoking pistols. I was really affrighted, and used to worry.'

Ross mused a moment. 'Yes, perhaps that would have been the straightforward way out of it all. But did it not occur to you that this might be unfair to Sir George? I am distinctly the better shot.'

'Oh, yes! But then, you never know. Your foot might have slipped on a stone. It's . . .'

'It's what?' Ross asked, smiling.

'You - you can't trust life, can you? The good side does not always win.'

'A cynical view for one aged ten,' he observed.

'Well, there it is. That's how I used to feel. I don't suppose, from what you say of him, it can happen now, can it?'

'I don't imagine so.'

'Thank goodness for that.'

The coach rattled on into the darkening afternoon, over the deserted moors. Ross said: 'Did you feel real anger once or twice in the play? You seemed to.'

'What d'you mean, Papa? Real anger?'

'Well, you had shown much love. In the early scenes. If I had seen you expressing such love in real life I should have readily believed it. But anger. I think specially in - would it be a scene in the third act? - where you were in Friar Laurence's cell telling of your anger and frustration and despair that all was lost between you and Juliet, you expressed that with such reality that I thought, I have never seen her face like this! I do not think I have ever seen you angry - certainly not with face contorted and pulling at your hair and such distress. Where did it come from?'

She thought for a moment, hand reminiscently touching her hair.

'I have lost my voice.'

'Ah. Oh. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Bella. I had not thought.'

'Oh, I love to act,' Bella said. 'It is - enthralling. It is the next best thing. But most of all I want to sing. It comes out of myself. To have a voice and not to be able to use it as one wants to, it - it seems a sort of injustice.'

'It may yet come back.'

'I have a feeling . . .' She stirred in her corner. The afternoon light made her profile look pale. 'Papa, I am sure you have known injustice and have not felt willing to lie down against it.'

'Yes,' said Ross, 'there have been times.'

'Many times,' said Demelza.

'You are awake?'

'Yes. I have heard most of your conversation. Please go on. It is so pleasantly cosy sitting here listening to what you say.'

Darkness had almost fallen, but the lamp had not been lit in the interior. The coach smelt of camphor and dust. The air was stale. One of the windows was down by a couple of inches and admitted a thin current of air as refreshing as a tonic. Bella had been dozing again, dreaming again. She drew in a full breath of it, clearing her mind of disturbing fancies.

Then she saw ahead of them a bulk of land with lights

twinkling on it. At the top of the rising ground a steep edge of cliff was etched against the sky. Lights showed it to be a building.

'Where are we?' she asked.

'Just coming into Launceston,' said Ross.

'No? Is this . .. Have we passed Poison Bridge?'

'No, just coming to it.'

'Oh . . .' She hesitated. 'Papa, could you, could you ask the coachman to stop the coach after we have gone over the bridge?'

He looked puzzled. 'Stop the coach? Whatever for?'

'I -- want to get out.'

He said: 'You will be at the White Hart in ten minutes.'

'No, it is not for that reason!'

Ross looked at his wife, whose expression he could hardly read in the half-dark. She made a deprecating gesture.

'I'd like to, Papa. This is the bridge now!'

'Oh, very well.' He tapped on the little roof door, and when it opened he conveyed his message. As he had tipped well, his request was at once obeyed. Four muffled figures travelling on the outside watched with interest as the young lady was helped down by the second coachman and went slipping off into the dusk. They saw her bend down and seem to sniff at her hands. Then she came back. The outside light of the coach showed up her satisfied expression. She was carrying what looked like some crumbled pieces of damp black earth. As she climbed in, the door was shut behind her and she offered her cupped hands to her parents with one of her brilliant all-embracing smiles that seemed to encompass the whole world.

'Cornish earth!' she said. 'Smell it! It's quite different! We're home!'