Chapter Text
The night was dark, almost moonless, and utterly hostile.
A cold, chilling wind held everything in an iron grip. It whipped angrily against the few large rocks scattered across the plain, flat landscape; sending crumbled leaves and dirt soaring through the air wherever it was met with resistance. Clouds of fog rose from the ground like fingers from a grave, limiting sight to less than a yard ahead. A lone rider on a stalwart horse made his way through this unpleasant night, silent, neither neigh nor whistle nor a hummed song breaking the wind’s ghastly howls. The earth was already showing signs of the coming of winter: a thin coat of frosty spikes that proved treacherous to hooves and boots alike. The animal’s head was bowed low to defy the freezing broadsides that swept over its sturdy body; the rider’s face tucked deeply into the folds of his cloak.
The wind bit at his skin, at the few patches that were left exposed: forehead, nose, cheeks. Even his fingers felt frozen despite the gloves he was wearing, and if he hadn’t resorted to moving his toes inside the heavy boots every once in a while, they would surely have fallen victim to the chill. And yet he was lucky. He had a stormlight, a thick beeswax candle encased in an iron box with a glass lid, attached to the saddle of his horse. The small bubble of light helped greatly to mark out the way. He was also wearing several layers of warm clothes, something not everyone could afford these days. In wise anticipation of a change of weather, Ross Poldark had also packed the army cloak. He wore it over his greatcoat, thankful for the additional protection it offered.
What a night to be outside! Briefly, Ross mourned his decision to ride home from Truro at such a late hour. He could be tucked away in a comfortable bed at the Red Lion right now, his body warmed by the shine of a fire, his cheeks glowing from the comfort of a glass of good gin. But Demelza would be worried should he not come home tonight. He had been out for too long already, kept by the proceedings regarding the latest developments at Wheal Grace. The negotiations with possible new investors had proved arduous and lengthy, eating his time as the hours of daylight whiled away and he was still stuck in a gloomy room at the inn. Only little time had remained to buy Christmas presents for his loved ones, a printed neckerchief for his wife and a wooden toy soldier for his son, safely stowed away in the saddle bag as poor Darkie marched on towards the comforts of home.
A sudden rustling in the thicket next to the road caught his attention. They were passing through a patch of woodland on the way, a grove of moss-covered, gnarled old trees amidst a dense copse of barren blackberry shrubs. There it was again! The rustling sound of someone stomping through the undergrowth. Who else could be out at this time of night, and with what intention? Robbers most likely, having a mind to steal from the one poor traveller who had the misfortune of having to travel alone at night. Ross’ hand slid to his pistol, quietly unlocking it.
“Who’s there?” He called out, a smirk tugging at his features as he lifted the pistol from its sheath. He would teach these scoundrels a lesson. How unfortunate for them to come across a former army captain in possession of a firearm.
“Show yourself!” he demanded, not in the least intimidated.
The rustling stopped for a second, then increased as if someone was rushing towards him. Twigs were snapping, the bushes moved as someone broke through the undergrowth, but the figure that stumbled out of the woods was neither robber nor highwayman, but….
“You?!”
To Ross’ utmost surprise, the person before him was none other than his old nemesis, George Warleggan.
What was the man doing in the middle of the night in a forest, on foot, without any company?
“Ross!” George cried out, his voice high and raspy. He came closer, and Ross noticed he was walking with a limp. A ray of dim, pale moonlight broke through the fog, revealing that George was only dressed in a light riding coat and cotton breeches, a shirt, and a waistcoat. No greatcoat, no cloak, nothing else. This was certainly not the suitable kind of outfit for a midnight stroll.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Ross demanded to know, tightening the reins as Darkie began to prance uneasily in view of the strange figure.
“I w-was t-thrown off m-my horse…” answered George, his teeth clattering as he stepped into the circle of light that came from the lamp at Darkie’s saddle. His hands were bare of gloves, dirty, the knuckles scraped and bloody. A closer look revealed that his coat was indeed torn in many places. George's entire clothing seemed in disarray: the breeches stained, ripped at the knees, the shredded waistcoat missing its buttons, the black riding boots thickly covered with mud. George wore no hat, his usually neatly coiffed hair was tousled and wild, and his pale face showed streaks of dirt. Ross made out a large gash at the left temple, and another one across George’s nose, crusted with dried blood that looked almost black in the moonlight, as if the night itself was eating away at his skin.
Since Ross said nothing, the other man felt prompted to explain. “I w-was o-on m-my way from C-cardew to-to-to T-truro this afternoon. A b-bird f-f-fluttered up, scared my m-mare, and I l-lost control and f-fell.”
Ross merely frowned. George Warleggan admitting to losing control over anything, that was a novelty for sure.
“I m-must have b-been unconscious for a while. When I w-woke up, there was no s-sign of my horse so I took to walking, but I…I lost my way…”
“It’s less than ten miles from Cardew to Truro. You took that path many times, and yet you lost your way?” Ross asked incredulously. He had never thought much of George, but at least he hadn’t considered him stupid - until now.
“It’s different when you’re on foot,” George said in unusual demure self-defence. “The landscape looks very different from a horse’s back. And I was slow. I took a wrong turn at the crossroads and walked in the opposite direction for a long while. Then the fog came. I couldn’t see a hand before my eyes. I mistook another path for the right one, noticing too late that it led me straight into the forest. I hoped to make it out of there before dark, but that was just not possible.”
“Surely your servants noticed your absence in the meantime and are out looking for you.” Ross said with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. The great George Warleggan needed to be guided home like a little child, now that was certainly a story to be told.
But George just shook his head again. “I didn’t inform anyone at the Truro townhouse of my coming. I didn’t think it necessary, since I reckoned I’d be arriving during daylight. They believe I’m safely in Cardew.” He paused, pulling his torn coat tighter about his shoulders, then looked up at Ross again. “I never thought I’d say this, but I’m so glad I met you here.”
“Well,” said Ross, shrugging. “I guess you’re lucky. It’s not that far anymore. Truro is less than four miles in that direction.” He pointed over his shoulder, down the way from whence he had come. “Stay right on this track and you can’t miss it. Good night, George.” He tipped his hat and gave Darkie the signal to trot on.
The other man looked at him for a moment, then lowered his gaze and nodded.
“Thank you, Ross.” As George walked away, Ross saw that his limp was worse than first assumed.
None of my bloody business, Ross thought to himself and spurred Darkie on, keen to get home. Oh, but Grace Poldark had left her oldest boy with a good heart, and as much as Ross disliked the young banker, he simply didn’t have it in him to let George walk all the way to Truro on foot, injured and unsuitably dressed for inclement weather. What if something happened to him? If he broke down and froze to death somewhere along the way, or died of exhaustion? Briefly, Ross was tempted to just pretend not to have seen anything, not to have met anyone. Who could prove it, after all? If George died, no one would know he had met Ross on the way. If he lived, however…
Ah, damn it!
Ross contemplated offering him a ration of food and some water for the way, but even that would have been cruel in the face of an injured man who had been wandering through the woods all night. With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Ross turned his horse. George hadn’t come far, so Ross caught up easily with him.
“You can ride with me if you want,” he said curtly, deliberately avoiding to look at his opponent's face, where tear-streaks had washed rivers into the layer of dirt. This wasn’t an act of kindness or anything, just simple common decency. And it certainly had nothing to do with George’s person. Oh, how Ross wished that this were someone - anyone! - else.
George however didn’t seem to need another moment to consider this offer.
“Thank you,” he nodded and came up to the horse. Ross slid back in the saddle to make room for another rider at the front. George held on to the cantle, trying to swing himself up, but his grip was too weak and he slipped. Grudingly, Ross grabbed him by the arm and hauled him up, none too gently, where he landed in the saddle with an unelegant thud and a subdued moan.
“Where are we going?” George inquired while shifting into the least uncomfortable position.
“Nampara,” Ross answered brusquely, steering Darkie back on the path. Having someone on the horse was a complicated affair, one that Ross wasn’t overly fond of (except when the passenger was his wife, of course). His line of view was partly obscured by George’s head; he had to handle the reins to either side of the other man’s body, making sure Darkie wasn’t getting muddled or abrupt commands, and anyways he was far too close to George Warleggan for his liking. The man smelled of wet earth and damp wool, mixed with sweat, some powerful pomade, a hint of old lavender, and the metallic stench of blood. Ross could have done without this olfactorious symphony; the smell of horse and of his own wet clothes was quite enough for one night. Also, sitting behind the actual middle of the saddle was not doing favours on his own bones, and thus his mood wasn’t exactly improving.
Apparently, George sensed his generous saviour’s obvious state of mind, for he said nothing further until they were well on the way and had left the wretched forest behind them. When they reached a crossroad, he finally spoke.
“I have a small sum of money on me. I can pay someone at the village to take me in for the night, if you would be so kind as to point me to a suitable house.”
That earned him a disapproving snort from Ross. “Do you even know what the folks at the village think about you? They’re more likely to just strangle you and take your money. No, we’re going to Nampara. It’s the closest, anyway.”
The fact that George didn’t even try to argue spoke volumes. He must be quite exhausted from the ordeal. Ross himself had no fancy to discuss the matter further, and so they rode on in heavy and uncomfortable silence.
Snow began to fall. Tiny ice-stars sneaked into every gap in the clothes. The snow barely touched the ground before melting away, but once Ross had steered Darkie out into the open grassland, the cold wind from the near coast drove masses of finger-thick snowflakes down from the dark skies. Winter had come late this year. Christmas was little more than a week away, but the month had only seen one or two days of snow so far. For weeks, all of Cornwall had been preparing for the cold season, hoarding victuals, boarding up houses and taking the animals inside, but apart from steady torrents of rain, the weather had not changed. Until now.
Ross’ hands and toes were starting to prickle. In a way, he was glad for the additional protection that another body so close to him offered. George wasn’t exactly warm, but being chest to back with another living, breathing being was at least some small shelter against the biting wind. Though after a while Ross noticed that George had neither spoken nor moved for quite some time except for a small shiver every now and then. Even that had ceased, and so Ross grew concerned.
He nudged him slightly, “Are you alright?”
“…c-c-cold….” came the answer, no more than a whisper, and laced with such desperation it made Ross almost wince in sympathy. Quickly, he gathered up the folds of his cloak and wrapped the excess fabric around the shivering man, thus enveloping them both in the ample garment. The army knew how to keep its men warm, at least. The cloak left their legs bare from the knees down, but it covered their thighs, arms, hands and upper bodies well. George whispered some words of thanks to which Ross replied with an indifferent grunt. As they rode on, Ross gradually felt the smaller man’s body relax against him as it grew warmer under their makeshift shelter. George’s breathing evened out, and soon his head lolled to the side as he obviously fell asleep, nestled against Ross’ right shoulder.
At first, Ross frowned at that and briefly thought about shaking him awake. But what good would it do, waking an exhausted, wounded man from sleep? George seemed so comfortable there, in this oddest of positions, feeling so safe in the arms of his enemy. And coming to think of it, he was indeed safer here on the horse with Ross than in the forest, where all sorts of ugly things could happen to a lone man - robbers, thieves, murderers.
I may have broken his nose and given him a few bruises in the past, but I would never truly harm him - would I?
Ross could not think of a situation in the past where they had been closer to each other, not counting the few occasions when they had physically fought. This unexpected bodily contact was almost intimate, and while not entirely uncomfortable it still felt foreign, somehow strange. And yet it was the right thing to do, Ross argued with himself. Should I let him freeze? Should I watch him suffer when I can also help? He is my enemy and I have no love for him, but does that mean I have to rejoice at his misfortune? That wouldn't make me any better than he...
Such were the thoughts that kept his mind occupied until he eventually reached Nampara, where Demelza had already heard the approaching sound of hooves and was rushing out to meet her husband in the yard, her red mane hidden under a thick knitted shawl.
“Oh, Ross! I was so worried. This weather…why didn’t you stay at the Red Lion?”
Ross gave George a slight nudge before he dismounted and walked up to Demelza, taking her hands in his.
“No bed and no hearth fire is like the one at home, my love.” He pressed his lips to her forehead.
“But, the snow! Ross, oh, you must be freezing.” She rubbed his cold hands. “Let me prepare a hot bath for you, yes?”
He nodded. “Yes, but not for me. I know someone who is in direr need of a hot bath than I.”
He pointed to Darkie, where George was struggling to dismount. With an exasperated sigh, Ross walked over and helped him down. The banker was unsteady on his feet, swaying, the limp even more pronounced than earlier, and if Ross hadn’t seen it coming and grabbed him by the shoulders just in time, George would have landed face forward in the dirt.
Demelza, too, had rushed to his aid, and for the first time she was close enough to recognize the man’s features.
“George Warleggan in our house? Are you quite mad, Ross?”
“It must appear so,” Ross said darkly, holding the banker upright. “Come, help me get him inside.“