The Loving Cup (8 page)

It was not usual or proper for a parlourmaid to say so much to a surgeon in a hoarse whisper as she led him up the fine polished staircase, spilling commas of candlegrease as she went, but Ben Carter's sister was one of the village family and took such liberties without knowing she was taking them. Taller than Ben and just as dark in that Cornish way which had given rise mistakenly to stories of shipwrecked sailors from the Armada - though not perhaps mistakenly to a later dash of Spanish blood - she was as unlike Ben in most ways as she could be.
She was altogether a big girl,
clumsy, nervous, and her nervousness made her morose. Her feet were too big, and she often seemed to fall over them. Yet taken in hand, Dwight thought, she need not have been ill looking: she had escaped the pox, her skin was clear; her eyes, under lashes so black they might have been kohled, were large and full.

Mrs Pope was waiting for him at the door of the bedroom; they shook hands gravely and he went to the patient. At first Dwight thought he was dead. His face was the colour of the sheet, his body was cold and there was no perceptible pulse. The pupils were dilated and turned up, the tongue was just showing between the decayed teeth. Dwight took a hand mirror and held it to the man's bluish lips. After a few seconds the mirror became discoloured.

Dwight said: 'Warming pans, if you please.'. He rummaged in his bag and took out a bottle of ethyl oxide, spilled a few drops on a pad and held it to Mr Pope's nose. Over his shoulder he said: 'He has clearly had a severe spasm and has not come out of it yet. Has he been taking some exceptional exercise or been involved in emotional strain?'

'Not at all,' Mrs Pope said. 'He retired at seven. This has been his habit since you first saw him. In that sense he has been a very good patient. I - er-took my supper downstairs and as usual his was sent up. Apparently he ate it. When I have finished my own meal I always come up to make sure that he is comfortable and wants for nothing. I found him like this, where he had fallen, on the threshold of his bedroom. We lifted him onto the bed and sent Thomas in haste to fetch you. I - feared him dead.'

Dwight put a few drops of laudanum in a spoon, dipped his fingers in it and dabbed it on the old man's lips and tongue. 'The bell pull is by his bed. He had no need to get up.'

'None.' She shivered as if cold, pulled her green Chinese-silk morning gown more closely about her. Sometimes her long fair hair was elaborately built up, but this evening it was twisted into a casual pile and pinned in place by an
ebony-coloured Spanish comb. 'He never leaves his room after retiring, Dr Enys. At least I have never known it before. But since he was not bedridden I suppose he could do so if he chose.' 'Are his children here?'

'No. They are spending the night with the Teagues.'

‘I
think they should be summoned.'

'Tonight? They will be returning in the morning.'

'Well, it is for you to choose, Mrs P
ope. But when a man is
in such a condition as
this—which is virtually syncope
'

'Does that
mean?...'
Mrs Pope said. 'Does that mean he is going to die?'

'We cannot tell. But it has certainly been a very close call.'

Mrs Pope began to cry. At least she took out a handkerchief and dabbed her nose, and gave an occasional trembling sigh. Dwight held the mirror up again, and thought the misting came a little more quickly. Presently Katie Carter and another woman came in, each carrying a warming pan.

'Quiet,
Kate,' said Mrs Pope reprovingly, as the pan clattered.

'Sorry, mum. I was in
some
'aste
...'

The warming pans were slid under the sheets at the feet of Mr Clement Pope. Dwight took out a jar and put a leech on each of the man's wrists. Unlike most of his profession, he was disenchanted with the practice of bleeding, but this was a case where it might ease the pressure of bipod to the heart.

Mrs Pope said to the other servant: 'Pray see that Miss Pope and Miss Maud are sent for immediately.'

"S, mum.'

The women went out. It occurred to Dwight to wonder whether Mrs Selina Pope always supped in this elegant deshabille. It was not his business to inquire. It was not even his business to ask whether Mr Clement Pope had altogether obeyed his instructions to lead a quiet, regular and celibate life.

'You will stay, Dr Enys?' Mrs Pope said, looking at him from under damp lashes.

'For the time, certainly. Until he regains consciousness or — there is some other change.'

'Can I - get you something to drink? The maids will
..
'No, thank you.'

Time passes quickly or slowly when waiting, according to how occupied or preoccupied the mind is that waits; so Dwight never knew, perhaps Selina Pope never knew, how long they sat'there, Dwight on a chair by the bed, Mrs Pope on an early Georgian window seat upholstered in yellow silk.

Dwight thought of his own two daughters, growing away now. Sophie eleven, Meliora nearly ten. Four years after the tragedy of Sarah's death Caroline had found herself pregnant again and had produced these two girls in quite rapid succession. As if to redress the balance after the frailties of their first child, these two had ailed little and given small cause for anxiety even when they caught the childish diseases. Both thin to the point of being bony, they were bundles of vigour and energy, only exceeded in this by Bella Poldark. Sophie
was
going
to be pretty but her looks were taking a long time to develop; Meliora didn't have the features and her mouth was too big, but she would easily make up for this lack by sheer charm of manner. Both were fair but neither, surprisingly, a redhead.

Dwight had wondered once whether to ask Sir Humphry Davy if he might bring his wife at least as far as Paris; but he knew without asking that she would not leave the children for longer than a month at the most. The idea of meeting the French scientists filled-him with excitement; but he knew already that he had no alternative but to refuse.

All this time there had been virtually no change in the patient; Dwight had removed the leeches and occasionally added a drop more ether to the pad he held under the sick man's nose; Selina had crossed and uncrossed her elegant legs a number of times and had lifted her arms to bind in a thick strand of yellow hair. So perhaps it was an hour -during which there had been virtually no conversation between them - before Mr Pope spoke.

Yes, Mr Pope spoke, breaking a silence which for him had endured ever since he fell down with his heart attack.

Quite gradually, and unnoticed by them both he regained
consciousness. His eyes fluttered, staring first up at the ceiling, and then, gaining a degree of focus, at the figure of his wife, silhouetted in graceful green against the darker curtain. He licked his lips and spoke.

'Whore,' he said quite distinctly and with some feeling. And then again: 'Whore.' After which he died.

I

Mr Pope's funeral took place at midnight on the 14th August. He had decreed the time in his Will, made soon after he returned to England, on learning of the vast expense to which many widows were driven when their rich husbands died and it was expected that half the county should be invited to the exequies. A careful man in all things, he was careful not to embarrass his widow by leaving her a choice. Not, of course, that he had supposed he or she would be in such a situation for a very long time to come. People seldom do suppose such dire things, especially perhaps those of middle age returning to England to retire in comfort with daughters still to marry off and pretty young second wives to hold to their bosoms. Whether or not he had changed his opinion in the last few months one could not tell, at least he had not changed his Will.

Whether indeed those strange last words to come from his lips referred to anyone or anything in particular it was also difficult to tell. Dwight discreetly ignored them; he also ignored the hot flush on Selina's face at the time. Eminently correct and in his most detached medical manner, Dwight did all that was required of him - including mixing a soothing draught for Selina, and for both the girls to see them through the night when they returned. Only when he was leaving and once again was being escorted to the front door by Katie Carter, did he ask a question of an unusually silent and tearful parlourmaid who seemed reluctant to let him go.

'Your master is dead, Katie. Nothing more could have been done to save him by you or by anyone else
...
You did say, didn't you, that you found Mr Pope outside his bedroom door?'

'No, sur. Oh, no sur. Twas outside of the bedroom door next but one to 'is own. The blue bedroom they d'call it. There he was when I run up, lying flat on 'is face and Mrs kneeling beside of him.'

'Ah, yes, I see. Well, thank you, Katie.'

She hung at the front door, eyes aslant at another servant who was going past. 'Twasn't my fault, sur. Y'know, sur. Twasn't my fault at all!'

'Fault? How could it be, Katie?'

'Seeing what I seen, Dr Enys. I mean to say, was it now?'

'Of course not,' Dwight said soothingly. But it was simply not in human nature, however constrained by medical etiquette, for him not to go on:
I
'm a little unsure as to what you mean by this, Katie.'

'Oh, sur -' she began, and then Music Thomas came forward with his horse and the chance of further confidences was past.

II

On the morning after Mr Pope's death Music, who had lingered by the still room door where he really had no business, in the hope of seeing Katie again, was rewarded by her sudden appearance in search of a jar of preserves. She still looked distressed by the night's events and was too impatient to speak to him; though she was aware that the sudden emergency of Mr Pope's heart stroke had temporarily brought them to a more confidential association than they had ever had before.

None of the Thomas brothers was married. John, by far the eldest, had a woman friend called 'Winky' Mitchell who had a nervous twitch to one of her eyes, and a deaf husband who never rose from his bed; John Thomas visited her every night he was home from the sea. Art, only a year older than Music, was often linked with his younger brother by name -Art and Music seemed to go together - but he was much different in appearance and
temperament; indeed he was
capable of calculations quite outside his brother's comprehension and was at present courting Edie Permewan, a widow old enough to be his mother, in the hope of coming in for the tanner's business left to her by her husband.

Music, generally speaking, worked to short-term ends: he did not go much further at the moment than the hope that Katie should smile at him - or hold him in sufficient esteem to consider him worth speaking to.

'Reckon twill be different wi'out the Master,' he said for the third time, hoping that water would wear away stone.

It did. 'You've no manner of business in 'ere, Music Thomas,' said Katie severely, 'and if the Master were 'live ye'd not come lousterin' in like this!'

'I aren't lousterin',' said Music. 'Twas just I was round in 'ere, see, and
...'
He paused, not able to confess the unconfessable by blurting out that his only real purpose was to see her. 'What you said to me last night
...'

Katie found the jar she was seeking. She wiped it round with her sleeve to take the dust off the top, and almost dropped it.

She glared at him. 'There see what you near made me do! Go on now—off with ee.'

He stepped aside to let her out of the room and glimpsed Ethel, the head parlourmaid at the end of the passage.

Disapproval shining in every pore Ethel said: 'Katie, you're wanted in the music room. Mistress wants you. What be you doin' 'ere, Thomas? Tis no place for you to be, mourning house or no.'

They hurried off in opposite directions. Katie thought: from Music to music room; what can she want? not to talk about last night, I 'ope, for I couldn't bear it. My dear life, I reely couldn't! What will she
say?

The small room that had once been Sir John's study had been turned into a music room for the two girls, but neither was present, only Mrs Pope.

Black suited her. It was only a makeshift attire but the simple frock with the black hair veil was more becoming than the widow's weeds now in process of being made. Even the severity of the hair style did not detract from her good looks. Only the expression of her face did that. Katie supposed it was grief; at least she hoped it was grief.

They had not seen each other since the night before. Katie had busied herself downstairs, as much as possible out of sight.

It was an odd subject for the first day of bereavement, but Mrs Pope opened the conversation by saying that Miss Maud's pianoforte was not being kept clean. The keys were sticking and were turning yellow. Naturally, she said, there would be no playing of the instrument while mourning was being observed; but it was
essential
that the keys should be cleaned weekly with milk and
not
neglected by careless, heedless and untidy servants. Miss Maud had complained about it only yesterday.

It was the beginning of a series of stern complaints about the quality of work in the house. Katie said, yes'm, and no mum, and well, mum, I 'ave tried but they do say as
...
and then kept her head down hoping that in time the bombardment would expend itself. She had always admired her mistress and envied her her feminine allure - the graceful chatelaine with the keys at her waist, keeping a gentle eye on the good order of the house - and what did it matter
etc.
etc.
...
Harshness had been left to Mr Pope; it was his prerogative; Katie sincerely hoped Mrs Pope was not going to adopt this role as her own with Mr Pope hardly yet cold upstairs. It sometimes happened.

Perhaps with Mrs Pope it was just the shock, the grief. She'd get over it, be her own easy self again. Or perhaps it wasn't grief. Perhaps it was anger over last night. Katie could see that she was the object of her mistress's annoyance. Perhaps it was better this way, just to be scolded, if only it could be left at that.

Presently Mrs Pope did stop. She looked at the harp and sat on a low stool and let her fingers tremble on the strings, but so lightly that no one outside the room could have heard.

'Kate,' she said, 'you were first on the scene last night when Mr Pope had his heart attack, were you not?' Oh, Holy Moses, here it came! 'Yes'm.'

'I was grateful for your help. My dear husband was struck so suddenly that I almost fainted at the sight of him lying there so still on the floor.'

'Yes'm. Twas some awful shock, you.'

'It may be,' said Mrs Pope, looking feline, 'that in the confusion of that time you imagine you saw things which did not in fact exist.'

Katie stared and sniffed, resisting a desire to wipe her nose with the back of her hand. 'I don't righdy know, mum. I don't know nothin' 'bout that.'

Selina Pope gravely acknowledged this confession of confusion with a slow nod. 'Exactly. At times like that one often fancies one sees things
...'

Katie said: 'Well, mum, all I d'know I seen was-'

⁴
Enough,'
Mrs Pope said. 'Whatever you
think
you saw is quite beside the point. As I have
told
you, in moments of
shock
and
stress
one fancies one sees all sorts of imaginary things which just do not exist in the world of reality at all.
’

'Do you, mum? I dunno, mum. Tedn for the likes of me -'

'What I am concerned to know is whether you have passed on these fancies of yours to anyone else.'

Katie stared. 'Please?'

Mrs Pope repeated her question.

Katie tried to push some loose strands of hair under her cap. 'Fancies? Fancies, mum? Oh, no mum. I 'aven't mentioned no fancies.' She tried again.

'Leave your cap alone.'

'Yes'm. Last night, just as he were leaving Dr Enys were saying -' 'What? What about Dr Enys?'

'About it being an 'eart attack and 'e couldn't think why Mr Pope'd been mazing 'bout the landing like that.' 'And what did you say?'

'Didn't say nothing, mum. Tweren't for me to say nothing, was it.'

Mrs Pope allowed her fingers to produce the faintest ripple of sound. She knew these Cornish girls, who would lie themselves out of anything. But Kate was a simple girl - not simple in the sense of being half witted, but credulous, uneducated, gullible. She seemed to have hardly any friends. A little dissimulation, a little feminine subtlety would have helped her a lot. It seemed improbable that she was employing any subterfuge now.

'Kate, do you remember breaking that Japanese teapot last-year?'

‘
Oh, yes'm. Don't I just!'

'Mr Pope was very angry, very distressed at the loss. And do you remember those two gold-rimmed Staffordshire plates you broke in January?'

Kate hung her head.'Yes'm.'

'When that happened Mr Pope was for discharging you: he felt all our fine china was in danger.'

'You stopped it all out of my wages, 'm. Twill take till November to pay 'n off, you.'

'That may be. But I assume you would wish to stay on as parlourmaid;'

'Oh, yes'm! Don't rightl
y know what I could do, where I should go, if you sent me away!'

'Well
...
now that I am a widow I may well be reducing the number of servants I employ: It is early days yet, but one will soon have to begin to think of these things. I may have no alternative but to live in a more restricted style.'

Mrs Pope stopped and allowed that much to sink in. This was a horribly embarrassing interview, but so far she felt it had gone well.

‘
Whatever happened upstairs last night,' she said, resolving to be a little more frank, 'whatever happened, or whatever you may think happened, was witnessed and imagined only by you. No one else, Kate. No one else at all. Do you understand?'

'Oh, yes
'm!'

'Naturally, I wish anything that happened between my husband and me to be kept private. I do not wish the old women of the village to be rabid with ill-informed gossip. So if such gossip should begin, who would be responsible?'

- 'Please?' Katie frowned at this difficult problem of ethics and logic.

'Who would be
responsible?
Selina said, losing patience. ‘
Why
you,
of course! Who
else? Only you
.'

'But, mum, I never uttered a word! Tedn me! I d'say nothing! Twas some other gullymouth as 'as been geeking around, I tell ee. Why,'ow could it be me-'

'I didn't
say
it was you! I didn't say
anyone
had so far been guilty of spreading tales! What I am trying to
tell
you is that if any such tales
did
spread they could only come from you because only you
know.'
Mrs Pope hastily corrected herself. 'Because only you can
wrongly interpret
what happened last night. No one else can, for no one eke was there. Don't you see that? So if lying rumours and tittle-tattle get around I shall know such lying rumours come from
you,
shall I not?'

Katie's eyes had ruled with tears. 'I 'aven't said nothin', mum. I swear to God I 'aven't said nothin' to a living soul. I don't disknowledge I were there, but I never spoke to a living soul bout 'n.'

'Nor will speak?'

'Please?
’

'So you promise you will not speak?'

‘
Oh
, yes. Tedn nothing to do wi' me
-Tedn nothing 'tall!' (My dear life, she thought, I must tell Music Thomas t'keep 'is big trap shut!)
Mrs Pope got up from the harp, came slowly over to her parlourmaid. 'There,-there, dry your tears
...
I only wished to make it all very plain to you. I
want
you to stay on here as parlourmaid. Although you are sometimes clumsy and careless I believe you have the makings of a good servant, and I wish to retain you. But you do understand, don't you, Kate, that it will depend on whether disagreeable rumours spread about the village.'