The Loving Cup Read Online Free PDF

moon that rode through the hours of darkness, it would have been a perceptive sailor or shepherd who could have foreseen the grey dawn, the steady southwesterly wind and the intermittent rain that came with it.
    In fact Lady Harriet was in one of her customary places - the stables - when a maid arrived to tell her of the visit, and she tramped through the kitchens, kicked off her muddy boots, and, accompanied by her two great hounds, came in stockinged feet into the larger withdrawing room where George, himself disturbed from an interview with Tankard about the rotten borough of St Michael, was sitting opposite the two young people, sipping sherry and looking cold and unwelcoming.
    It was not really surprising, for Geoffrey Charles accepted his allowance of £500 a year without a sign of gratitude or obligation, and never wrote. The only correspondence which took place was with Valentine.
    But the arrival of a step-step-mother, as it were, did help to break the ice. So did the dogs, which, though well behaved, were so enormous that they provided light relief and a topic for conversation.
    Harriet had a talent for taking a situation as it came without regard to history, ancient or modern. She neither knew nor cared what other people were feeling, and every circumstance was treated strictly on its merits. Also, having discovered the nationality of the little dark girl, she immediately began to chat to her in broken Spanish. It seemed that when she was seven years of age she had spent a year in Madrid, in the home of a grandee who was connected by marriage to the Osbornes. Amadora was enchanted, and soon lost that element of defensive shyness with which she was, accustomed to greet new situations or Geoffrey Charles's old friends.
    George said evenly: 'I have no keys. They are with the Harrys. All you have to do is go over and call at the lodge. They will give them to you at once. You will find the place neglected. The Harrys were always rogues.'
    ‘I wonder you kept them on.'
    George shrugged.
    'After your mother died I could find little interest in the place.'
    And little interest in preserving it for Francis's son, thought Geoffrey Charles. 'I have not seen my home since Grandfather died, which must be seven years, or nearly so. Is it still furnished?'
    'Partly. Many of the new pieces I had taken there were later brought here. You'll observe that bureau. Such original furniture as was not disposed of remains. Is that a permanent injury to your hand?'
    Geoffrey Charles looked down. 'Who knows? It only happened in April of last year. So it may yet improve. But in fact, excepting that I find it impossible to open the fingers wide, it is little inconvenience. The trigger finger is not impaired.'
    George eyed his step-son. It was difficult to relate this tall thin tight-faced man with the genteel, delicate, over-plump, over-mothered boy he had disciplined so many years ago. In the early days George had tried. Indeed, before he married Elizabeth, before even Francis died, he had tried hard to please the boy, bought him presents, attempted to please the mother by pleasing the child. Even after their marriage he had done his very best with Geoffrey Charles, wanting to befriend him, until the quarrel over Drake Carne, Demelza Poldark's brother, had written off any friendship between them for ever.
    Now at this meeting after so long a gap, the less said the better. They had nothing more in common, except the old elvan and granite house of Trenwith. The one important interest they had once dee ply shared had died nearly four teen years ago, leaving a five-day-old baby behind.
    George said: 'Well, the war has taken a favourable turn at last. Your Wellington should feel better pleased with himself now.'
    'I believe he is. Though he is never one for self-satisfaction. Is the Armistice still in operation?'
    'Yes. And will be I suspect so long as it suits Napoleon to rebuild his armies after last winter's defeat in Russia.'
    Geoffrey Charles