few discreet inquiries in train. There certainly could be nothing lost by knowing more on the subject. It could be, he told himself, an interesting inquiry without in any way becoming an interested one.
So came some information and some rumour. She had been born Harriet Osborne and was a sister of the sixth Duke of Leeds. She was about twenty-nine and a widow. Her husband had been Sir Toby Carter, who had estates in Leicestershire and in north Devon. He had been a notorious rake and gambler who had broken his neck in the hunting field and had died hock deep in debt. He had even squandered the money his wife brought him, so the Leicestershire estate had had to be sold and she was now in possession of a part bankrupt property in Devon, her only income coming from an allowance made her by the Duke. There were no children of the marriage.
This far information went. Rumour said that husband and wife had not hit it off, that she was as mad on hunting as he and that he had locked her in her room two days a week to prevent her riding to hounds too often. There were other unsavoury whispers, most, it must be admitted, about Sir Toby.
All this was quite sufficient to put a man like George right off. The last thing he wanted was a turbulent married life; if for one moment he now thought re-marriage an acceptable, or at least contemplatable, estate, there were twenty pretty and docile girls who would fall over themselves for the chance. To take a dark and aristocratic widow with a slightly sinister history .. .
In any case, he told himself, writing the subject out of his own mind, he would never gain the Duke's permission for, or acceptance of, such a marriage. The Warleggan name might make the earth shake in Cornwall, but it counted for little in such company as Lady Harriet frequented. Her father, he discovered, had been Lord Chamberlain of the Queen's Household. It was a dazzling circle to which she belonged. Too dazzling.
But that was half the temptation.
The other half was in the woman herself, and here George found it difficult to understand his own feelings. Once or twice in the night he woke up and blamed his encounter with Clowance Poldark.
By every rightful instinct he should have detested that girl on sight. Indeed he did, formally and overtly. He had been as rude to her as he knew how, and she had taken absolutely no notice. He had glared at this daughter of the two people he disliked most in the world and had vented his spleen on her. But at the same time some more primal and subconscious urge had found her physically, startlingly, sexually, ravishing. This had only made its way through to his conscious mind later, when the image of her plagued him, that image of her standing before him in the gaunt dark hall, barefoot, in her white frock, the sheaf of stolen foxgloves on her arm, the candid grey gaze fixed on him with unoffended, innocent interest. Of course in his wildest moments - if he had any - he had no sort of thought of her for himself, no thought of there ever being anything between them except the bitterest family enmity. Yet the impression of her youth, her freshness, her ripe innocence, her sexual attraction, had wakened something in him that made him think differently from that day on. The years of austerity no longer seemed justifiable. There was something more to life than the scrutiny of balance sheets and the exercise of mercantile and political power. There was a woman - there were women - women everywhere -with all that that meant in terms of instability, unreliability, anxiety, jealousy, conquest, success and failure, and the sheer excitement of being alive. The memories of his life with Elizabeth came seeping back, no longer tainted with the anger and dismay of loss. Unknown to himself he had been lonely. His encounter with Harriet Carter came at an appropriate time.
For a while still, and naturally, as befitted so cautious a man, he did absolutely nothing. He was not quite sure how he should
So came some information and some rumour. She had been born Harriet Osborne and was a sister of the sixth Duke of Leeds. She was about twenty-nine and a widow. Her husband had been Sir Toby Carter, who had estates in Leicestershire and in north Devon. He had been a notorious rake and gambler who had broken his neck in the hunting field and had died hock deep in debt. He had even squandered the money his wife brought him, so the Leicestershire estate had had to be sold and she was now in possession of a part bankrupt property in Devon, her only income coming from an allowance made her by the Duke. There were no children of the marriage.
This far information went. Rumour said that husband and wife had not hit it off, that she was as mad on hunting as he and that he had locked her in her room two days a week to prevent her riding to hounds too often. There were other unsavoury whispers, most, it must be admitted, about Sir Toby.
All this was quite sufficient to put a man like George right off. The last thing he wanted was a turbulent married life; if for one moment he now thought re-marriage an acceptable, or at least contemplatable, estate, there were twenty pretty and docile girls who would fall over themselves for the chance. To take a dark and aristocratic widow with a slightly sinister history .. .
In any case, he told himself, writing the subject out of his own mind, he would never gain the Duke's permission for, or acceptance of, such a marriage. The Warleggan name might make the earth shake in Cornwall, but it counted for little in such company as Lady Harriet frequented. Her father, he discovered, had been Lord Chamberlain of the Queen's Household. It was a dazzling circle to which she belonged. Too dazzling.
But that was half the temptation.
The other half was in the woman herself, and here George found it difficult to understand his own feelings. Once or twice in the night he woke up and blamed his encounter with Clowance Poldark.
By every rightful instinct he should have detested that girl on sight. Indeed he did, formally and overtly. He had been as rude to her as he knew how, and she had taken absolutely no notice. He had glared at this daughter of the two people he disliked most in the world and had vented his spleen on her. But at the same time some more primal and subconscious urge had found her physically, startlingly, sexually, ravishing. This had only made its way through to his conscious mind later, when the image of her plagued him, that image of her standing before him in the gaunt dark hall, barefoot, in her white frock, the sheaf of stolen foxgloves on her arm, the candid grey gaze fixed on him with unoffended, innocent interest. Of course in his wildest moments - if he had any - he had no sort of thought of her for himself, no thought of there ever being anything between them except the bitterest family enmity. Yet the impression of her youth, her freshness, her ripe innocence, her sexual attraction, had wakened something in him that made him think differently from that day on. The years of austerity no longer seemed justifiable. There was something more to life than the scrutiny of balance sheets and the exercise of mercantile and political power. There was a woman - there were women - women everywhere -with all that that meant in terms of instability, unreliability, anxiety, jealousy, conquest, success and failure, and the sheer excitement of being alive. The memories of his life with Elizabeth came seeping back, no longer tainted with the anger and dismay of loss. Unknown to himself he had been lonely. His encounter with Harriet Carter came at an appropriate time.
For a while still, and naturally, as befitted so cautious a man, he did absolutely nothing. He was not quite sure how he should
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