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Chapter Text

Demelza Carne was a steadfast, curiously pretty, hardworking young woman of twenty, who was much loved by her employers and fellow servants alike. She awoke on the morning of the 30^th September 1913 and began her day like every other day – with a large stretch to soothe her overworked muscles. Despite the constant ache, she felt refreshed after a good sleep and swung her legs over the side of the bed, placing her feet into a pair of ratty slippers as she endeavoured to begin her day. She slowly opened the curtains, savouring as every beam of light trickled into the dull, bare room and illuminated her face. With a satisfied sigh and smile, she tucked her ginger curls into her cap and turned to dress into her grey-green frock and white apron: there was much to be done.

The drawing room, the parlour, the dining room, the laundry and the east wing all seen to, Demelza made her way upstairs to the most familiar room in the house, checking her pocket-watch to ensure she was neither a minute early nor late. With a gentle knock, she entered the room and crossed it immediately, flinging the thick, red-velvet curtains open and allowing the sunlight to flood in.   

“Good Lord, Demelza. A gentle shake would have sufficed,” Lady Caroline Penvenen huffed from her bed as she pulled the silk duvet covers over her head to banish the glare of the morning autumn light. 

Demelza laughed lightly as she bent down to revive the fire. “You did ask to be woken at nine-thirty, Milady,” she pointed out with a grin. 

“You must not pay attention to the things I say after more than three glasses of wine,” Caroline replied with a wide yawn as she sat up in bed, rubbing her tired eyes. 

Another laugh came from the direction of the fireplace. “I shall make a note of that for the future, milady,” Demelza chirped. “And good mornin’,” she teased, twisting to smile at her employer, who she considered more a friend than anything. 

The feeling was mutual. “Good Morning,” Caroline replied with a smirk before forcefully throwing a plush cushion in the direction of the housemaid. Caroline, unlike Demelza, was not a morning person.

Demelza squealed and deflected the cushion away from the fire as though she was saving a ball from a football net. Shaking with laughter as she lay of the floor, Demelza put a hand over her mouth to quieten her giggling, whereas Caroline giggled freely on the bed. “Oh, milady, we must be quiet or else someone might think someone is wrong,” Demelza said breathlessly. 

Caroline wiped tear from her eye and grabbed her dressing gown from the bottom of the bed. “Let them think what they want,” she said with an indifferent shrug as she stood up, wrapping the silk robe around her slender frame. “It is no skin off my nose if people should think Killewarren an enjoyable place to live and work.” Her sentence was punctuated by the sound of her taking a seat at her vanity, where she frowned at a rogue strand of blonde hair which had escaped her braid. 

Moving to stand at attention, Demelza placed the pillow back on the bed and she swiftly smoothed the bedcovers while Caroline chose some jewellery for the day. Demelza retrieved a dress from oak wardrobe and displayed it in the mirror within Caroline’s view. “I thought the pink gown for today, milady; it looks that nice with your riding habit,” she stated a little shyly. It was not really something for her to have an opinion on. 

Lady Caroline seemed to have no qualms about Demelza’s opinion on her fine clothes as she was too busy groaning at the thought of riding with Ruth Treneglos for most of the day. “Ugh, damn me, Demelza, I forgot I had agreed to that. Do you think I can make an excuse?” she asked the housemaid with a smirk as she met her eye in the mirror. 

“Perhaps,” Demelza said slowly. “But ‘twould be good practice for the hunt tomorrow.” 

“Hm. I suppose you’re right. And you’re right about the gown,” Caroline conceded with an appreciative smile. “Shall we get on so you can go about your other tasks?” she instructed sympathetically, standing up to begin the familiar dance of dressing with Demelza’s assistance. 

Fifteen minutes later, with Caroline suitably dressed and styled for her riding appointment with Miss Treneglos, Demelza marched down the corridor towards the guest rooms, which would now be vacated and require going over for tonight’s guests arriving for the hunt tomorrow. She thought to start with the room at the end of the corridor on the left, which was hardly ever used, but she knew a guest was to inhabit it this evening as the house would be full of Caroline and Lord Penvenen’s friends and strategically invited acquaintances. She would quickly ensure the fires were lit so the room would not be cold and change the bedding. Opening the linen closet to her right, Demelza grabbed clean, folded sheets and balanced them on her open palm, bending to pick up her cloth and duster before entering the room.

“The fire first,” Demelza reminded herself out-loud in a quiet yet determined voice. A pair of curtains were still drawn, so the room would probably require a bit of airing before tonight, but she would see to that after the other tasks and tell Mrs Paynter to check all the rooms later to ensure they were up to standard.

Demelza sat on her knees, the plush carpet providing a nice cushion for her tired legs. She placed the clean linen down and out of the way before pulling the bucket of coal towards her and examining it for some of the largest pieces. She frowned as she was about to place them into the fire, as she noticed that the embers still glowed softly.

 “Hello?” a deep voice came from behind her.

“Judas God!” she yelped, leaping from her knees to stand at attention. “That is– I mean, pardon me, Sir. I’m ever so sorry, Sir. I thought the room was empty,” she said helplessly, fearing the gentleman would sternly cast her out with a complaint to Lord Penvenen. She could cry.

“You’ve a strong Cornish accent,” was all the man said, much to Demelza’s embarrassment. She often tried to school her accent, but it came out especially strong whenever she was nervous. 

“Oh, yes, I- err,” she stammered, not knowing what to say or where to look. She knew she should look anywhere apart from at the gentleman who now stood in his pyjamas in front of her. As she looked around, she noted how beautiful this guest room was. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever been in it and if she had, she’d never noticed any of the room’s impressive features. The walls were papered red with splashes of gold, the dark furniture was ancient but well-kept, the bed looked luxuriously large and–

“–Where are you from?” the gentleman asked, trying to diffuse the tense, awkward silence.

She blinked at his question. “Illogan, Sir.” 

“You’re far from home,” he commented. 

Tregavethan was not all that far from Illogan, was it? “I like it that way, Sir,” she stated with unapologetic honesty.

His eyebrows raised at her answer; his curiosity piqued. “Oh? Why is that?” 

Demelza struggled visibly with the question and had to knead her lips together before something improper spilled out. “Tis not right to speak ill of those who are not present to defend themselves, especially to strangers, Sir,” she eventually managed to say.

The gentleman thought it an equitable and admirable answer. “Well, allow me to introduce myself properly so that we are not strangers, at least. Ross Poldark,” he said confidently as he offered his hand. The gesture came with a surprising air of warmth which defrosted the cool, collected mask he often wore.

Demelza stared at the rough hand as though the gesture was completely foreign to her. In her defence, in these such circumstances, in this situation, it was foreign. 

Ross’s hand twitched as a draft tickled his open, untouched palm. “Have I offended you?” he asked with a confused frown. 

The pair of alluringly blue eyes in front of him grew wide, panicked. “What–? No, Sir. Of course not, Sir. Why would you ask that?” Demelza wondered, equalling his level of confusion.

“You have not shaken my hand,” he pointed out with a laugh. 

Quite a musical laugh, Demelza thought to herself. “Oh, yes, no, Sir. ‘Twouldn’t be right,” she insisted in a low voice, admittedly disappointed that societal conventions should forbid her from shaking his hand. None of the guests in this house had ever been so kind to her before. None had ever even spoken to her, really, not like she were a person. Certainly, none of them had ever offered to shake her hand.

“Says who?” Ross challenged with a thoughtfulness to his tone. His hand remained outstretched. 

Demelza fidgeted with the soot-stained cloth she was holding and gently tossed it from palm to palm. “Everybody,” she offered with a chuckle. 

“Well, there’s no one else here,” he said, motioning to the empty room around them. “I promise not to tell anyone.” 

There was such sincerity in his tone and a mirthfulness in his hazel eyes that Demelza found herself extending her right hand towards his. 

Their hands locked and they shared a bashful chuckle. “Ross Poldark,” he said again. 

“Demelza Carne,” she said with an air of confidence that appeared to be contagious from the man whose hand she continued to shake. 

After their hands had been in contact for more time than was proper, Ross reluctantly relinquished his grasp and cleared his throat. “Well, I’d best leave you to get on. I wouldn’t want you losing your job because of me,” he chuckled, offering her an apologetic look.

She flashed a blinding, enchanting smile at him. “Thank you, Sir, that’s very kind.” She curtsied to emphasise her thanks.

“Ross,” he corrected smoothly with a half-smile. Demelza smiled at him again. “Do you know if the valet will have put my things in the dressing room?” he asked, motioning to the door behind him. 

Demelza glanced at it. “Oh, yes, Sir– Ross– Sir, Mr MacNeil will have done it with the others earlier this morning,” she explained, knowing that Malcolm always sorted the guest bedrooms by seven o’clock, and it was now almost ten. 

With a grateful smile Ross turned around and opened the door of the dressing room before disappearing inside. 

Demelza finally began her task, with unrivalled haste, as she still had four other rooms to complete before eleven o’clock. She did not know why, but she felt compelled to hum softly as she tended to the ashes. “Memories like voices that call on the winds, Medhel an Gwyns, Medhel an Gwyns, twisted and tossed on the tide coming in, Medhel–” 

“–Miss Carne?” a voice came from behind her. 

Demelza immediately stopped singing, her face blushing scarlet. She stood up and stared dumbly at Ross as he stood half-peeking out of the doorway, donning a new, pristine white shirt as opposed to his pyjama one. When she didn’t answer, he smiled and continued thoughtfully: “I hope to see more of you during my stay here.”

Chapter Text

Lady Caroline admired herself in front of the long mirror, pausing to appreciate her new hunting hat and the higher hemline of her skirt. “Excellent work, Demelza,” she complimented, knowing that it was Demelza who was the skilled sewer of the house and it was she who tended to the alterations of her own fine clothes, and often did a better job of any tailor in London.

Demelza bowed her head in thanks. “Thank you, milady,” she said with a bright smile; it was always nice to be appreciated. “Are you looking forward to the hunt?”

“I am rather,” Caroline answered, making a face at herself in the mirror as she played with her necklace, wondering if silver would not look better with her scarlet hunting garb as opposed to the gold she wore. “One always appreciates the attention of a gentleman, but to be one of two women in a crowd of fifteen men...” She grinned cheekily at Demelza, who was busy straightening the pillows on Caroline’s bed.

“Will Lord Trevaunance be attending?” the red-haired woman inferred with a small, teasing smile.

Caroline shot her a look. “I hope not,” she sniffed. “I certainly have not invited him.”

“Oh, has something changed?” Demelza pressed, her brows creasing in concern. She had it on seemingly good authority from gossip between the houses that a marriage between the two was almost inevitable.

“Do you mean has he suddenly become even slightly interesting and given up his career as a fortune hunter? I’m afraid not,” Caroline muttered bitterly, fixing her hat which was already perfectly placed.

“So, you will not accept him when the time comes?”  

“Do you think I should?” Lady Caroline asked the housemaid.

Demelza’s eyes grew a little wide. “’Tis not for me to have an opinion, milady.”

Caroline frustratedly waved her hand in dismissal. “Forget about all of that rubbish for a second. Demelza, as my friend and not an employee of this house, do you think I should?” Demelza’s silence spoke volumes. “There,” Caroline said with a sigh, half-frustrated, half-relieved that someone else saw sense on the matter. “When you are a woman of my station, not mention one with a dowry as large as mine, you are expected – required, even – to marry for advantage. But marry Unwin Trevaunance and spend the rest of my life in a draughty London townhouse listening to his boring, outdated politic opinions, to whose advantage would that be? Not mine at any rate!”

Demelza frowned and placed a hand gently on her shoulder. “I am sorry to have brought it up, milady. I did not mean to trouble you,” she apologised.

Caroline let out a heavy sigh and brought her hand up to cover Demelza’s. “You don’t have to apologise, Demelza. It was not your question that troubles me, it is the thing itself.”

“Is Lord Penvenen quite fixed on Lord Trevaunance as a match for you? Are there no other eligible gentlemen who have caught your eye?” Demelza inquired, her mind immediately and involuntarily thinking of the kind gentlemen with the hazel eyes and dark hair she had met yesterday. “I’ve seen a few gentlemen in the house today that I do not recognise,” Demelza tried to say casually.

“To whom are you referring? What did they look like?” Caroline asked with a confused frown; Demelza had been Caroline’s maid for almost three years now, she found it difficult to comprehend that she did not also know all of the young landed gentry in Britain by now.

Demelza busied herself with carefully placing Lady Caroline’s discarded gold jewellery back into their individual places and hoped that the blush on her cheeks was faint enough to not warrant an interrogation. “Oh, err,” she struggled. “For example, I saw a tall man with short, dark curls. He sounded almost as though he could be a local man. He even said hello to me,” she added with a shy smile, hoping her face was not too flushed.

Caroline smiled, too, knowing exactly to whom Demelza was referring. “Ah, that must have been Ross – Poldark. Yes, he is very nice, and an old friend of mine. Both his father and uncle used to be close friends with my Uncle Ray, and during my weeks in Cornwall in the summer, we would take play or take tea together. I always preferred Ross to his cousin Francis because even though they are both around five years my senior, Ross always spoke to me as an equal. Did you know my father disapproved highly of his family because Ross’s friendships were not confined to the nobility despite his station, and his father was also a notorious womaniser? Still, Ross and I have stayed in touch through annually written letters.  He has just returned to Cornwall from California, you know. I invited him to stay for the hunt as I doubt he has many friends hereabouts now and thought perhaps it would be a good opportunity for him to make new acquaintances,” Caroline explained to Demelza.

“That’s very kind of you, milday,” was the housemaid’s comment.

Caroline shrugged nonchalantly as she stood up, smoothing her riding habit. One last twirl in the mirror. “How do I look?”

Demelza looked at her employer – her friend – with appreciative eyes. “Very beautiful, milady.”

“You flatter me,” came Caroline’s answer, the tone of which suggested that she enjoyed being flattered very much. “Come, Horace,” she ordered, beckoning her fat pug from his plush bed in the corner of the room. “We have foxes and pheasants to catch.” And with that, the large, lilac room was vacated.

Dr Dwight Enys wheezed as he climbed the stairs two-at-a-time behind the hasty footman, who directed him to a large door and opened it so the doctor could enter.

Upon entering, Dwight noticed a young woman sitting on an expensive-looking chaise-lounge. “I’m a doctor, Miss. How may I help?” he enquired somewhat breathlessly, having just ran two miles after a footman arrived with a telegram stating that someone at this house required urgent medical attention.

“My darling Horace has had a fit on the hunt and can scarcely breathe. Can you tend to him, please?” 

Dr Enys watched as the tall, blonde woman stood up and stepped aside; he anticipated a young boy or a young man being revealed behind her but he was met by the sight of neither. Perplexed, he confirmed to her: “you wish for me to examine your dog?” 

“Yes,” she said tightly, displeased with his tone. It was always obvious that Horace was in need of assistance, was it not?

Dwight let out a bitter laugh of disbelief. A doctor for a dog? “You’re mistaken, Miss. You must have meant to send for Trencrom or Davis, who are veterinarians. I cannot help you,” he said somewhat curtly, incredulous that he had been summoned from the hospital where actual people’s – children’s! – lives were at stake.

“Wait!” she said gently, but urgently. He paused in the doorway. “I know, I sent for Trencrom, but he was unavailable, so I had word sent to the hospital. Will you really let my dog die?” Dwight glanced between the wheezing creature and the teary doe-eyes of its owner and against all odds felt his resolve and annoyance melting. “But perhaps you think a dog’s life is not worth the same as human’s,” she challenged with a jut of her chin. If the doctor had known Caroline, he would recognise that this statement was less of an insult and served more as a test of character. 

Passing the test with full marks, he crossed the room and sat down opposite her, gently taking the pug from her lap. The pug, so-called Horace, huffed indignantly at the action and growled at the unknown man as the stranger sought to examine his laboured breathing. 

After a quick examination with his stethoscope, and a quick pat on Horace’s head, the doctor announced: “he’s fine, Miss.” Caroline released a breath she had not realised that she had been holding and smiled gratefully at him. “I believe it’s quite common for young dogs to experience fits. How old is he exactly?” 

“Twelve months,” Caroline answered, tickling Horace’s chin fondly. 

Dwight nodded in acknowledgement. “I am not a veterinarian, but I would suggest that you not over-exert him. Does he often join you on hunts? I expect it would be quite overwhelming for a dog of his size to join a party of bloodhounds, and harder still for him to keep up.”

Caroline was not quite sure she appreciated the doctor’s advice or what he was insinuating about Horace. “Yes, he enjoys hunting. It is his favourite and only form of exercise, if you must know.” She looked at the middle-class man opposite her and anticipated an unwelcome judgement.

Dr Enys hummed but passed no judgement. “Might I suggest that perhaps a daily, or twice-daily, walk around the grounds would be better suited to his needs?”

“And this would stop his fits?” Caroline asked, gently pulling Horace back onto her own lap to soothe his trembling, nervous form.  “Hush, my precious,” she whispered, placing a kiss on the pug’s head.

“Yes, I suspect so. Dogs require regular exercise, Miss. They do not need to catch foxes and they most definitely do not need to be carried,” Dwight commented pointedly, bending down to pull something out of his medical bag as Lady Caroline opened her mouth to accuse him of being impertinent. “Here,” he said in a much gentler tone as he handed her a tonic that he knew to be safe for dogs, “this may help in the meantime. You may also want to cut down his portion sizes while ensuring he is walked daily. If Horace has any more fits, I suggest you telegram Thomas Davis in Wadebridge, I’m sure he is much more knowledgeable than I am. If he should be busy, you can reach me by telegram at the hospital, and I will do my best to assist you – and Horace.” He breathed a laugh as he patted Horace on the head, before standing up and beginning to close his medical bag.

“Thank you, but how ever am I supposed to reach you by telegram if I do not know your name?” Caroline teased, eyeing the never-seen-before doctor with interest now that her wave of anxiety had dissipated.

“Oh,” Dwight said, blushing slightly as he realised he had forgotten to introduce himself properly. “I am Dr Enys. How do you do?” He offered her his hand.

Caroline took it and squeezed it politely. “I am Lady Caroline Penvenen,” she said, and watched the redness on Dr Enys’s face increase as he became aware that he had not been addressing her properly throughout the duration of their conversation. Caroline laughed at him. “Fear not, Dr Enys, I am not offended by ‘Miss’, ‘Ma’am’ makes one feel so terribly old!”

“I will endeavour to address you correctly should we ever meet again, Lady Caroline,” Dwight said with an apologetic smile. “Does Horace have a title, too?” he quipped, hoping his sense of humour would undo his faux paus.

His attempt appeared successful when he was rewarded with a musical laugh and a bright smile. “Well, he is my prince. But I am working on the legalities as we speak. Perhaps you could assist with my canvasing?” she joked, lightness filling the bright room.

Dwight chuckled and then sighed. “I would love to, but I regret I would not have the time, Lady Caroline. My diary is rather full at the moment,” he informed her, a light-heartedness still present in his tone.

“Is it?” she asked with genuine curiosity. “What were you doing before I summoned you here to cure my dog?”

The blush returned to Dwight’s cheeks as her tone clearly taunted his initial reluctance to do so. “I had assisted in the delivery of a baby,” he answered with a small smile.

“Oh, how exciting!” Caroline enthused, before she grimaced. “And ghastly.”

Dr Enys laughed heartily at her quick change of mind. “Yes, it was rather ghastly, I suppose – but more nerve-wracking than anything. The baby was a month early, you see, and the mother is still quite weak, I’m afraid.” He let out a strained sigh. He very much hoped that both mother and son would pull through the ordeal.

“Dear me, how sad. Is there anything that can be done for them?” Caroline wondered.

“The baby, young George Carkeek, must be under strict supervision for the next while to ensure he is developing as he should be. As for the mother, we must simply hope that she regains her strength, she was quite weak and thin to begin with as she worked long hours at the mill,” Dr Enys said, before it occurred to him that he should not really be sharing this information. Lady Caroline was evidently far too easy to talk to, and she appeared to have a certain charm that drew people in. He imagined that her husband must do her every bidding.

Caroline hugged Horace and stated confidently: “And that, Dr Enys, is why I shall never be a mother. Childbirth is a precarious business, is it not? Regardless of one’s ranking.”

 “It is that, Lady Caroline,” Dr Enys confirmed. “It does seem a shame that you have resigned yourself from the profession, though. You seem to care for Horace very much. Besides, children are a gift to this world, in my opinion. Their innocence and honesty are something that should always be upheld and appreciated.”

“Do you have children, Dr Enys?” Lady Caroline inquired, seeing as the doctor was quite taken with the idea of them.

Dwight laughed at her question. “No, I do not, Ma’am. I fear I am only wedded to my work.”

Caroline stared into the doctor’s sky-blue eyes and thought it a great pity that a man so handsome and intelligent was not wed. “Well, we must attempt to rectify that, mustn’t we? There are not many men who care for children beyond their practicality in passing on a family name. I am sure many friends of mine would gladly take you,” she teased him with ease.

Again, Dwight chuckled. “That is kind of you to say, Lady Caroline, but it is probably for the best that I focus on my work.” Why? “Is your husband also not fond of children?” he probed, changing the subject from himself.

Now it was Caroline’s turn to laugh, and she did so heartily. “Oh, I am not married, Sir. Heavens, no.”

“Forgive me, I did not wish to offend you.”

Caroline casually waved her hand. “Oh, no offence taken. I’ve simply yet to find someone to suit me,” she said with confidence, accidentally locking eyes with him.

They exchanged bashful smiles as their glances lingered on each other a little longer than was comfortable. The room suddenly seemed to lack sufficient air despite the open window to their right.

Dwight cleared his throat and stood, hoping his blush was not too evident. “I should be going. The hospital will still require my assistance, I’m sure. Good day to you, Lady Caroline, Horace,” he said with a smile, bowing his head politely as made to leave.

“You’ll tell me how young Mr Carkeek and his mother do?” Caroline called at his back.

Dwight stopped in his tracks and turned around to face her, pleased confusion etched on his features. “If you wish.”

“I do,” she said determinedly. I wish to see more of you.

Chapter Text

Miss Demelza Carne stepped out of the dressmaker’s in Truro and onto the cobbled streets, pausing to smile as the October sun creeped out from behind the clouds to shine on her face. Lady Caroline had given her the morning off, Lord Penvenen was in London visiting his brother William, whom Demelza had never seen in her life, and he was not due back for another four days, so Caroline had insisted that Demelza have some spare time while her Uncle Ray was no longer ruling the roost.

Her motives were not without a slight catch, however. Caroline knew that Demelza liked to travel to Truro on her days off to buy sweets and anything else she fancied with what little money she had saved, and so Caroline requested that she pop into Hosking’s Tailors and pick up an order for her. Thankfully, she had only ordered one new dress to be made, which she had sent Demelza to collect to ensure it would be “delivered with care.” The gown was beautiful, a brilliant red with beads and diamantes encrusted all around it. Demelza always found a new frock day exciting, even if the gown was not for her – though, sometimes, she would imagine that they were and would think how fun it would be to twirl in such beautiful clothes and hear the shimmer of jewels brushing against each other as opposed to the rustle of her over-starched, cream skirt-suit. In her small bag – which was tucked away neatly under her armpit as she balanced the box containing the dress – was a small packet of money, complete with well wishes for her brother Sam’s birthday. He was to be eighteen years old in three days’ time, and Demelza hoped that the money she had saved, though not a huge amount, would help him to have a new start in life – to escape their father’s clutches. Perhaps once he was free, the two of them could work together to free their four other younger siblings, so that they may all have a chance at the happiness Demelza now lived from day to day.

She continued down the cobbled street in pursuit of Truro post office, which was about two miles down the road, but Demelza didn’t mind – she’d always loved walking. Humming softly to herself as she strolled along, breathing in the smell of freshly made pasties and occasionally stopping to greet any familiar faces which passed her by, she barely noticed that most of her journey was already over, she would be there in less than ten minutes. She then suddenly became so distracted by a beautiful flurry of orange and yellow leaves above her head that she missed the subtle, enthusiastic wave and smile which had been sent in her direction.

The man with the smile jogged to catch up with her. “Good day to you, Miss Carne,” he greeted smoothly. “Can I help you with those?”

Demelza started slightly and glanced to her right and was met by a familiar face. “Mr Poldark! Good day to you, Sir. Oh, no, thank you, Sir. I can manage just fine,” she said politely. She was the servant; it was not for a gentleman to carry her things.

“I insist,” Ross protested, carefully transferring the box from her arms into his. Demelza smiled shyly at the action. “Where are you going?” he asked.

The smile lingered on her face. “Err, to the post office first, and then back to Killewarren, Sir.” She glanced at him sideways. He was certainly dressed like a gentleman – his black suit was tailored to perfection, and his tie was a deep shade of green and lined with silk, yet he wore no top hat, which she found somewhat odd. Nor did he behave like a typical gentleman, he was so conversational, so helpful, so kind to her. She absently wondered if he knew how much the green of his tie brought out his eyes.

“Call me Ross,” he reminded her. “And what a coincidence! I am going there, too,” he said, inclining his head to the letter which sat in his breast pocket.

Fidgeting with the loose threads on her bag, Demelza struggled with what to say next. How does one talk to a gentleman properly? Perhaps small talk would be her best bet. “What brings you to the post office?” she asked before immediately cringing at her pathetic line of inquiry.

Ross chuckled at her question. “I have a letter to send, you see,” he teased, which brought out a crimson blush on Demelza’s cheeks. Feeling somewhat guilty for having embarrassed her, he continued: “It’s for my cousin, Francis. He lives in California.”

“Oh,” Demelza said, her eyes widening in interest. “Is that not in America?”

“Yes,” Ross confirmed with a smile. “I used to live there. Francis and I owned a mining business together. But…”

“But it did not work out?” she guessed.

Ross laughed, and it sounded bitter to his ears. “You could say that,” was the only comment he offered on the matter.

“What was it like?” Demelza asked dreamily. “California, I mean. America.”

Ross exhaled heavily in recollection. “Very hot,” he assured her with a suffering glance.

“Hotter than a summer’s day at Holywell Bay?” she challenged, unable to believe anywhere else on earth could be quite as hot as that.

As they carried on walking, Ross let out a low whistle. “Oh, yes – by a mile! And it was near enough every day!”

Demelza hummed and thought about that for a moment. “I don’t think I’d like that very much,” she said finally, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the thought of living in such constant heat.

A genuine laugh escaped Ross’s lips. “You are quite right, Demelza. But you see now I have warned you, so you are very fortunate, for nobody warned me!” he said with another laugh. It seemed effortless to laugh around Demelza. “What brings you to the post office?”

“Oh,” Demelza exclaimed, taken aback by his question. “My brother, Sam, it’s – ‘twill be his birthday this Friday comin’, I wanted to send him somethin’.” Damn her nerves and her Cornish accent; she had sounded so lady-like and proper before he’d thrown her off with his question.

Ross didn’t mind her accent at all. “That’s nice. Will you go visit him?” The mere thought made Demelza’s blood turn cold, and she stopped in her tracks. Ross glanced at her, confused by how pale she had gone. “Demelza?” he pressed. “Are you quite alright?”

A faint nod came from her direction, and she carried on walking, her eyes focused on her feet. “Quite well, Sir, thank you,” Demelza mumbled weakly. She involuntarily rubbed her arm, which stung with the residual pain of the many cigarette burns which were branded all over her. She subtly inhaled and exhaled. “No, I will not visit – Sam.”

Thinking he somewhat understood her reluctance, Ross carefully stepped in front of her, bringing them both to a stop. The only Carne girl lifted her eyes to look at him and furiously blinked away her tears. “I’m sorry, Demelza,” he said sincerely, his brows slightly furrowed above his eyes.

“For what?” she asked with a sniff.

“For whatever you’ve been through. I am sorry I pried, I did not mean to upset you,” Ross insisted quietly.

Demelza shook her head. “’Twas not your doing. And thank you, Sir, for askin’ – not many people have ever cared about my life or troubles.” She offered him a watery smile.

“How many times must I ask you to call me Ross?” he said with a laugh, trying to lighten the mood once again.

It worked; Demelza breathed a genuine laugh. “At least once more, Sir,” she insisted, resuming their short journey once more.

He shot her a look as they walked around the bend, the sign for Truro post office coming into view. Both felt rather disappointed that their walk must now come to an end. Ross glanced at Demelza and thought how fiery her red hair looked in the pale sunshine and wondered how he had only just noticed the curls the stuck out from beneath her hat. Demelza, too, glanced up at Ross and shot him a bashful smile when she saw him staring at her.

“Shall we send our letters?” she chirped, taking a step forward to do just that. Ross stepped in front of her and opened the door, holding it until she passed through. She bowed her head in thanks, and he quickly followed her inside.

Satisfied with completing the day’s preconceived tasks, the bell above the door chimed loudly as Ross and Demelza left the post office, letter-less. “Where will you go now?” he asked her.

“Home, I think. Lady Caroline gave me the morning off, but I don’t want to keep her waiting, not when she’ll be looking forward to her new frock,” Demelza said with a smile. She was rather impatient to see what her friend would look like in the gown, too.

Ross hummed in acknowledgement. “Do you ever get a new frock?” he asked thoughtfully.

Her brows furrowed momentarily in confusion. “Me, Sir? What on earth would I need a new frock for? I’d never get a chance to wear it!” Demelza laughed gaily. She didn’t mind not owning exquisite clothes for she feared they would be ruined within seconds, but Demelza did wish that she could have a new housemaid’s dress; she’d like a nicer black one, now that she was practically Caroline’s lady’s maid, and likely would be a lady’s maid officially soon once Caroline married.

“Why n–”

A motor horn bleared and stole the end of Ross’s sentence. “Demelza!” the driver called, coming to a halt in front of her and Ross as they stood outside the post office.

Demelza smiled and skipped over. “Zacky! What’re you doing here?” she asked Killewarren’s chauffeur.

“I wanted to pick up a few things for his Lordship so that everythin’ would be there fer him when he returns from London,” he explained in a thick Cornish accent. “Are ‘ee enjoying yer morning off?”

She nodded and offered him a smile, complete with flushed cheeks. “Yes, I am.” She smiled to herself. “But I was just about to head back to the house.”

“I’ll give ‘ee a lift! Do ‘ee need a hand with ought?” he asked politely, moving to step out of the car. Demelza held a hand up to stop him. “No, thank you. I’ve had help, and I can manage myself now.” She turned to Ross and smiled brightly at him. “Thank you very much, Sir,” she said cheerfully, moving to take the box from him. He shot her a look. “Ross,” she corrected with a smirk.

He nodded in satisfaction. “You’re most welcome, Demelza,” Ross replied. “And thank you for the pleasure of your company this morning.” She blushed, and Ross opened the motor door for her to climb in; she did so. He carefully placed the box containing his friend Caroline’s new gown over Demelza’s knees, imagining the hissy fit Caroline would throw if the slightest thread was out of place.

Demelza gripped her hands on the open window, their faces inches from each other. “Thank you for helping me today,” she gushed. “’Twas so kind.”

Ross waved his hand dismissively. “It was no trouble,” he insisted. They smiled at each other, and Ross found that he did not want her to go. “I shall miss your company now. It will be a lonely walk home,” he said with a slight pout.

Demelza’s musical laugh filled the air. “Well, at least ‘tis a nice day for a walk!” And with that, the car started and began moving forward. “Goodbye!” she called, leaning and waving out of the window.

“Bye!” Ross called back with a raised hand, watching as the car disappeared around the bend, leaving only dust behind it. He sighed and turned around.

It was indeed a nice day for a walk, Ross conceded. As he began his journey homeward, he pondered how it was a strange feeling to be home and yet feel utterly out of place. He thought of returning to Nampara to resume the repair of his family’s ancestral home. His Uncle Charles had not bothered to maintain its upkeep following the death of Ross’s father, and the house had fallen into disrepair during his absence. No, he thought, he would not spoil the beautiful summer’s day with the sad sight of his childhood home. Perhaps he would resume work tomorrow instead; his bedroom was clear of clutter now, after all, and it was the only room he required the use of as he took luncheon at whichever local pub he found himself near on any given day. Taking the scenic route that he had not forgotten in his three years away from Cornwall, Ross listened to the birds chirping in the tall trees, nodding politely as people walked by him.

Several minutes went by, and he found himself walking along the path towards the new hospital building, which had been erected next to the stone church. Moving out of the way of a bumblebee’s sting, Ross stepped to the side and onto the grass before continuing his lonely stroll. His attention now back on the path that beckoned him further, he narrowed his eyes at the sight before him, quite unable to believe his eyes. “As God as my witness!” Ross called, excitement filling his being. “Dwight Enys, is that you?” he asked the man walking in a daze towards him.

Dwight Enys stopped in his tracks and stared in front of him with incredulity. “Well, look what the cat has dragged in! Ross!” he chirped, walking quickly towards him, his hand outstretched. “How good it is to see you, my old friend!” 

Ross clasped the pro-offered hand and shook it firmly, placing his free hand on Dwight’s shoulder. Were they not under the public’s scrutinising and gossiping gaze, an embrace with several fond pats on the back would not have been out of the question. “It has been years! How are you?” Ross inquired with a boyish grin. 

His boyish grin was returned in kind. “Well, thank you, and you? I sent you a letter not two months ago, but I assume now it did not reach you?” The doctor guessed with a chuckle.

“It did not, you know I would have written back!” Ross insisted with a grin. “Come, let us walk a while and catch up.” They began doing just that, and Ross thought about how around half a mile down the road was the site of their fifteen-year-old friendship, where ten-year-old Ross had rescued eight-year-old Dwight from a gang of bullies on the road home from school. They had looked out for each other since that day. “So, what brings you back to Cornwall?” Ross asked Dwight conversationally.

The doctor shrugged and sighed. “I was rather sick of the hustle of bustle of London. I suppose I want a quiet life. What brings you back to Cornwall?” He echoed with genuine interest.

Ross shook his head as they continued down the gravel, dirt path. “I was sick and tired of arguing with Francis every five minutes,” he said through gritted teeth as he recalled their daily disagreements. “A lifetime’s supply of gold would not have been worth a lifetime of misery.” He kicked a stone with his shoe, and it bounced into the grass and disappeared behind a forest of ferns.

“So, California was not the cure, after all?” Dwight pressed further, his tone implying another possible reason for his friend’s departure. Ross silently shook his head. “Ross,” the doctor sighed wretchedly, “it has been years. It is time to let her go.”

“I have,” Ross argued a little too indignantly. “She is with Francis now, and I am pleased for them. I never think of her now,” he insisted. Dwight raised his eyebrows at this claim, thoroughly unconvinced. “Fine, I do not think of her often,” Ross emphasised with reluctance.

“We must find you a new girl,” Dwight chirped, patting him on the back. “There must be plenty of suitable matches hereabouts. Or have you already got your sights set on someone?” he teased, nudging Ross in the arm.

Ross smiled and shook his head. “No,” he answered smoothly before the image of a bright smile framed by flaming red hair intruded on his thoughts. “Or, at least, not yet,” he amended thoughtfully, with a small smile Dwight did not understand. “I assume you’ve no attachment?”

Dwight barked a laugh at Ross’s sly comment. “How rude of you to assume! But your assumption is correct,” he said, wincing inwardly as he recalled the last – catastrophic – attachment he’d had. Dr Enys had now sworn off women and would concentrate on nothing but his work, no distractions.

“Well, since we are both lonely bachelors with scarcely any friends to speak of hereabouts, why do you not join me at Killewarren next Saturday? Caroline – that is – Lady Caroline Penvenen,” he corrected decorously, “is having a birthday party. She is always glad of more company and is something of an old friend of mine. I know she would not mind if you were to join me; I can write and inform her; it would be no trouble. It would also be a good opportunity for you to meet new people. Cornwall is much changed from when we left it,” Ross concluded.

Dwight smothered a smile. “Ah, yes, I’m familiar with Lady Caroline. I was called to Killewarren a few days ago. Dinner sounds marvellous.”

“Perfect!” Ross enthused. “I shall telegram and ensure you have a placed arranged next to me. Perhaps I could escort you,” he taunted, offering his childhood pal his arm.

Ross’s arm was declined with a shove so forceful it unsteadied him on the dirt path. Both men laughed heartily. “Give over, Ross, I would never be so desperate!” Dwight quipped.

A wide grin stretched across Mr Poldark’s face. “A great waste,” he sighed with mock disappointment. “We’d be quite a fine match, don’t you think?” They shared a chuckle. “Won’t you join me for lunch?”

As the two men continued to walk and joke on their journey to the Red Lion pub, a warm feeling of camaraderie washed over Ross following today’s two pleasant encounters, and he thought that perhaps he need not feel so out of place here, after all.

Chapter Text

The warm October week came and went, and with it, Ray Penvenen returned from London for his niece’s birthday, which – to him – was an event not to be missed.

Caroline came into the dining room for breakfast in a cheerful mood, one which exuded the particular confidence that comes with being an adult of one-and-twenty. She was dressed casually, in a cream cashmere jumper paired with a navy skirt and sensible shoes – a complete contrast to the outfit she planned to wear for her birthday dinner this evening. Pushing aside thoughts that she would soon be labelled a spinster by society, she took her seat to her Uncle Ray’s left and awaited his good wishes.

She did not have to wait long. “Happy Birthday, my dear!” he proclaimed as soon she sat down, stretching to place a fond kiss on her cheek. He slid her a box across the white-clothed breakfast table.  “I saw these in London and thought they would be to your taste,” Ray Penvenen boasted, sure that his niece would love her gift.

He was correct to be confident. Caroline carefully untied the ribbon and opened the navy, felt package to reveal a pair of diamond earrings complete with a matching diamond necklace. She let out a small gasp, and a warm smile spread across her face. “Oh, they are so beautiful, Uncle Ray. Thank you,” she said, getting up from her seat to throw her arms around him with fondness.

Ray permitted himself to enjoy their shared familial affection for a few moments before he remembered that he was a member of the English upper-class. “Hum, yes, thank you, Caroline, that’s quite enough, my dear,” he warned without heat.

She released him from her clutches with a smile and retook her seat. Once paying full attention, she then frowned at her breakfast plate. “What is this?” she whined with a scoff.

“A fruit salad. Come now, it is good for you, Caroline,” Lord Penvenen insisted. “We must try to be healthy.”

Caroline rolled her eyes so hard they almost disappeared into the back of her head. “You mean you must try to be healthy,” she accused. “It is not I who has diabetes, and so I think it is only fair that I get cake on my birthday,” Caroline argued, and quite convincingly, she thought to herself.

Her uncle Ray was not so convinced. “You’ll have a cake with dinner, of course,” he placated.

“But I want some cake now.”

He shot her a look. “Caroline, might I remind you that you have just turned twenty-one and not seven. Cake for breakfast would not be permissible,” he maintained with resolve.

“I didn’t realise there was an age limit on cake,” she sniffed indignantly, her chin and nose aloft in the air. Ray took no notice of her comment and continued to crunch on some apple pieces while he read The Times. It was time for some drastic measures. “You know, I believe Mama would have allowed me a sweet treat for breakfast on my twenty-first birthday.” Ray looked up at his niece. “But, of course, she is not here, so I suppose we shall never know.” It was rather manipulative on her part, she knew, but she believed wholeheartedly in what she had said and felt a pang of sadness as she announced it aloud.

Entirely privy to her below-the-belt tactic, Ray Penvenen still couldn’t help but feel a wave of sympathy for his young niece, who had been orphaned at one of the most important ages in a young woman’s life. He often wished his brother and sister-in-law were still here, for sometimes he was at a complete loss as to how to control their flamboyant, stubborn daughter. Ray always tried to do what he thought was best for her, or at the very least steer her in the right direction, even if she did not like it. But as he looked at her pouting face and downcast eyes, he thought that perhaps today he could make an exception.

“Henshawe,” Ray beckoned; the butler was at his side almost immediately. “Might you send word down to the kitchen that my niece requires some crepes and chocolate for her birthday breakfast.”

“Very good, your Lordship,” was Henshawe’s reply as he made to leave the room at once.

“Henshawe,” Caroline said in a coquettish tone; the butler paused with his hand on the doorknob and awaited her command. “Might you also ask Mrs Bird to make some raspberry coulis?”

He nodded. “Of course, milady.”

Once Henshawe had left the room, Lord Penvenen concentrated eagerly on his newspaper, determined not to make eye contact with his niece and admit defeat on the matter. “Thank you, Uncle,” Caroline said sweetly, offering him a full, bright smile, one which gleamed with triumph at having gotten her way, as always.

Begrudgingly, Ray looked up from The Times and huffed a chuckle, offering his niece a soft smile. His brother would no doubt be watching over them both and criticising Ray for giving into Caroline’s every whim, but old habits die hard, it would seem. Besides, when Caroline’s plate of crepes arrived ten minutes later, Ray Penvenen found that his conscience was entirely clear.

 Caroline spun around once more in her deep red gown – as if she had done anything else for the past hour – pausing to admire herself in the mirror. She looked – and felt – quite beautiful in it, the deep shade of red contrasting with her sapphire eyes and bringing out the pink undertones of her milky skin.

More than satisfied with her attire, Lady Caroline took a seat once again at her vanity and waited for Demelza to finish adding the final touches to her look.

“Are many folk coming from London for the party?” Demelza asked excitedly, thinking how grand they would all look. Though none of them would compare to Caroline tonight, Demelza thought with certainty, feeling quite proud to have a friend so unfairly beautiful.

Her question caught Caroline off guard, as she had been avoiding thinking about the matter all week. “Oh, I’m not sure,” she lied; she knew that none would be coming. Every invitation sent out to her (now former) London friends had been rebuffed with the most meagre of excuses. Evidently, the pleasant train journey was not enticing enough, nor indeed, it appeared, was Caroline’s company. Their correspondence had lessened considerably in the 18 months since she had moved to Cornwall, but she did not expect them to miss such an important occasion, such a significant birthday. And so Caroline was to be surrounded by guests of her uncle’s choosing aside from her friend Ross Poldark. And his friend Dr Enys. But she would not let anyone know how sad and lonely this made her feel. “At any rate, I hope you know how much it grieves me that you cannot sit beside me at dinner, Demelza,” Caroline mourned as Demelza placed an embellished comb into Caroline’s elegant updo.

Demelza shook her head with certainty. “Oh, no, milady. It would not be right. I wouldn’t know how to behave,” she fussed in dismissal, nausea filling her stomach at the thought of being mocked for using the wrong cutlery or not eating in a lady-like enough fashion.

Caroline sighed in frustration. “But why would it not be right?” she demanded, crossing her arms. “It does not seem fair that my closest confidant is not allowed to attend my birthday dinner, I should make a complaint,” Caroline mused.

Demelza laughed at her determination. “To whom, milady? His Lordship? Perhaps even the Prime Minister?”

“Why ever not? I just might send him a strongly worded letter about how the restrictions of class differences need not apply to you. Perhaps he would listen.” 

“He doesn’t listen to the millions of women who beg him give us vote,” Demelza pointed out.

“Well, then, women must simply get the vote, then, mustn’t we? I don’t know why the Prime Minister resists the inevitable,” Caroline commented with a shrug as she changed her earrings to the new diamond pair uncle Ray had bought. “We should go to the next bi-election together,” she continued enthusiastically. Though Demelza was not very educated and possessed the most basic schooling and literacy skills, what she lacked in brains she made up for in passion. It was one of the only topics that Caroline had ever seen Demelza engaged with and fiery about, and the more ladies of all ranks came together, the more Caroline believed in change. “Do not tell his Lordship, though. I fear he would never allow it.”

As Caroline chuckled at the idea of her dear, old-fashioned uncle ever entertaining such a thought, she heard rustling behind her and saw Demelza’s reflection rocking backwards and forwards on her feet – a telling sign that she was nervous about something. Caroline looked at her expectantly in the mirror and then turned to face her properly. “I – I bought you something. For your birthday,” Demelza announced shyly, clutching a small, brown paper bag.

Lady Caroline gaped at her, a juxtaposition of the glee of having received a gift and the guilt that came with the knowledge that a housemaid had spent her hard-earned money on her filled Caroline’s being. Caroline had always bought Demelza gifts for her birthday these past three years, of course, but that was very different – she had the indispensable income to do so, and the gifts were always more on the practical side as opposed to sentimental.  “A gift?” Caroline wondered, an intrigued smile on her face.

Demelza blushed as she handed the homely present to her employer and friend. Caroline accepted the paper bag with interest and once opened, her nostrils were hit with a delicious smell. “’Tis nothing special, I’m afraid, milady,” Demelza apologised. "‘Tis only fudge. I was in Truro the other day and saw they had this new kind – chocolate and vanilla bean – and I thought it would be to your liking, since you like chocolate,” she concluded somewhat breathlessly, nervous that perhaps this was overstepping the line made by society as well as the line between employer and servant. But it felt only right to get Caroline a gift, somehow.

“Wow. Thank you, Demelza,” Caroline murmured, her eyes downcast and focused on the little individual pieces of fudge as she smoothed her fingers over a bit or two. Such a small present yet such a huge act of kindness and devotion. Caroline blinked several times. “Thank you,” she said again, this time standing up and flinging her arms around the housemaid, who was a bit bewildered by the action but still snaked her arms around the Lady’s back and squeezed fondly.

“You’re most welcome,” Demelza chirped, still hugging Caroline, who would not let go.

“At least I’ll always have you to rely on,” Caroline murmured and then sniffed, finally releasing Demelza from her grasp.

Demelza, though touched by her words, felt a little pang of sadness for her employer – it was not fair to be sad on one’s birthday. “Come, milady,” she encouraged, as she motioned to the long mirror for Caroline to admire her reflection one final time. “Shall we go downstairs and shock everyone with your beauty?”

Lady Caroline arrived for dinner in a timely manner and received admiring glances from all directions, which she revelled in. Almost as soon as she took her seat at the top of the table, the starter was served. Despite this, all of the guests chatted to one another animatedly, discussing the latest news in both Cornwall, London, Bath and wherever else anyone had recently visited. Caroline had attempted to join in on two such conversations but was always interrupted by some middle-aged man or another whom she did not know personally.

Quite put out at not being the centre of attention on her birthday, and being surrounded by dull, uninteresting older people, Caroline took matters into her own hands.

“Dr Enys,” she called across the table, silencing the other individual conversations. “How is young George Carkeek?” she asked, a mischievous glint in her eye as she primly sipped her creamy of parsnip soup.

Dr Enys blinked at having been addressed by her and coloured as the attention of the entire dinner party now looked in his direction. “He is very well, I’m told, Lady Caroline,” he answered politely, a small smile on his face. “It is good of you to ask,” he added unnecessarily before concentrating very hard on the steaming bowl of soup before him. Caroline smirked at him.

A brief wave of pain washed over Dwight as he felt the nudge of a sharp elbow in his left ribcage. “You might want to slow down with the wine, Dwight,” Ross taunted, barely able to resist bursting into peals of laughter. “Your face is getting quite flushed.” He shot Dwight a brief cheeky grin.

“Shut up, Ross,” he muttered as he kicked his friend under the table, his cheeks flaming hot.

Amiable small-talk continued around the table until the main dish of salmon, green vegetables and dauphinoise potatoes was served.

Caroline closed her eyes in appreciation after she took her first bite of salmon; it was creamy, flaky, buttery, lemony, perfection. The dinner guests seemed to agree, and they all ate their main course in silence in the dimly lit dining area.

The blissful silence was interrupted by a startling, guttural noise coming from Caroline’s left. A man, Sir John Treneglos, had his hand around his throat, his eyes unbelievably wide as he seemed to suffocate on air.

“He’s choking!” Lord Penvenen announced in alarm, standing up to help Sir John to his feet, somehow hoping this would help.

Dr Enys stood up and urgently walked around the large, rectangle dinner table, dodging some of the Lords and Ladies who had quickly come to stand around Sir John. “Excuse me. Excuse me, please!” he called, gently pushing people out of the way.

The doctor immediately removed the gentleman’s bowtie and loosened his shirt collar, ordering him to calm down and assuring him everything would be fine, even though it likely would not. Dwight tried to see if he could see the object obscuring his airwaves, but he could not, so he bent the middle-aged gentleman over and gave him four sharp blows to the back with the heel of his hand. There was a shift, Dr Enys could tell, as the man’s breathing was less laboured, less plugged, but still not open.

Reaching into his dinner jacket pocket, Dwight whipped out what appeared to be a small medical toolkit, from which he selected the tweezers as he moved to examine his throat again. “I see it,” he informed the other guests, feeling quite nervous at the numerous pairs of anxious, scrutinising eyes that were on him. A housemaid appeared out of nowhere and held a candle by the doctor’s side; he glanced at her in thanks. “God damn it,” he muttered crudely after two failed attempts to retrieve the piece of bone from Sir John’s throat, it was still a bit too far down. The gentleman’s skin was both reddening and paling, and his breathing was becoming less regular. With haste, Dr Enys bent the man over slightly once again and resumed thumping his back. This time, he had some extra help.

Demelza aimed for a spot in the very middle of Sir John’s shoulder blades, having had to save her father from choking on his drunken vomit several times as a child and young woman, all attempts had been successful thus far – for better or worse.   

This time was no exception, after two more forceful shoves from both Demelza and Dr Enys, the bone came spluttering out of Sir John’s oesophagus and bounced against the hard floor. He grabbed onto the back of a chair but eventually sank to the floor to recover his breath. Everyone in the room gasped in amazement at having witnessed a life being saved. Several people began applauding, Caroline and Ross among them.

Dwight and Demelza smiled at each other. “Thank you, Miss,” he said gratefully with a sense of awe as he extended his hand towards hers.

Demelza took the doctor’s hand and shook it timidly. “’Twas your doing, Sir,” she dismissed politely.

Sir John continued to wheeze and gasp on the floor next to them, finally beginning to catch his breath after his ordeal.

“And yours,” Dwight insisted; he would ensure she would be afforded some credit for the saving of the gentleman’s life. “May I ask where you learned–?” 

“–How dare you touch me!” Sir John roared as he staggered to his feet, his breath and voice quite animated once more. He aggressively brushed his suit jacket as though he had gotten dirt on it. The entire room fell painfully silent. “Have you no notion of your place?” he spat at Demelza, his already pink complexion a shade of reddish-purple.

The servant stared at him in horror, her eyes wide and filling fast with tears, her body trembling. She felt like she was a little girl being scolded by her father. Involuntarily, she flinched -  the ghost of a memory.

A chair screeched across the wooden floor behind Sir John, Demelza, Dr Enys and Lord Penvenen. “Now, wait just one damn moment–," Caroline began in absolute fury, her fists balled up by her sides.

“–Indeed,” Dwight interrupted, equally furious, quite tempted to punch the gentleman in front of him. “Without the assistance of this young woman, you would have likely choked to death, Sir.” He glanced again at the stricken-looking housemaid. Where did she learn how to do that? Was it just luck?

Another chair screeched behind them. “I believe the words you are looking for are ‘thank you’, Sir John,” Ross criticised from across the table, his tone oozing bitter sarcasm and annoyance.

Sir John looked at all three of the housemaid’s defendants before then looking at the host, appalled at what he was experiencing. “Lord Penvenen, are you going to stand by and allow such improper behaviour in your home?” he challenged, motioning to Demelza and her three accomplices as he indignantly puffed his chest out. “Drudges should keep to themselves.”

Lord Penvenen struggled and quickly glanced his niece, who was evidently furious at the appalling treatment of their favourite housemaid. Ray then looked at Demelza, who appeared visibly affected by the gentleman’s less-than-gentlemanly words of scorn. “Now, come now, Sir,” he pacified with forced casualness. “Demelza meant no impropriety, and she was quite useful, was she not?” Ray chuckled nervously; the room still rife with tension, a delicate balloon which could explode at any moment. “Why do we not retire and have some brandy? I’m rather certain you would not care for more fish, eh?” he joked, pushing his seat in and motioning to the door.

Silently, but with great arrogance, Sir John Treneglos pushed his chair in and walked in front of Lord Penvenen as they both made to exit the room. “Please, everybody stay and finish your meals, not least for my niece’s sake. Afterwards, you are very welcome to join us for a brandy in the smoking room, gentlemen, and we will then reconvene the party in the drawing room,” Ray said cheerfully to the other dinner guests as Henshawe opened the door for him and Sir John to leave.

“I really must insist that Demelza is owed an apology,” Caroline maintained with her arms folded stubbornly across her chest.

The two older men stopped short of the exit and stared at the opinionated young woman. “Caroline...,” her uncle warned her in a low voice before the two men swiftly exited.

There was a clatter of metal as Caroline’s forcefully thrown napkin disarranged her neatly placed crockery. “Well, I don’t believe I have ever met a person more rude or ungrateful,” she ranted to the remainder of the dinner guests, her blood boiling in her veins. “You should have let him choke, Demelza,” she said more quietly as she took a large gulp of her wine.

A couple of snickers came from her right as Ross and Dwight’s impeccable, youthful hearing had detected her sly remark. Demelza, however, had not at all found the event amusing, and fled the room in tears of humiliation as quietly as she could manage.

Ross, for some unbeknownst reason, found himself standing up, as though a Lady had left the room. “Will she be alright?” Ross asked Caroline with carefully diluted concern.

Caroline’s eyes traced the path Demelza had taken her hasty leave with. “I suppose,” she said with a sad sigh. She knew how nerve-racking Demelza found conversing with the upper-class at the best of times, and this altercation would have greatly unsettled her.

“Dr Enys,” Caroline addressed, demanding his attention once again; Dwight looked at her expectantly. “I don’t suppose you have some potion or other that could choke a man?” she asked almost sweetly, sipping her wine with curiosity as she awaited his answer.

Dr Enys schooled a smile. “I’m afraid not, Lady Caroline.”

“A pity,” she commented with a mournful sigh, cutting into the remnants of her salmon and willing her anger to dissipate.

“A great pity,” Ross echoed in an irritated mutter, to which Dwight arched an eyebrow. The rest of the dinner was held in silence, save for the nervous slurping of wine and port.

The party must, and did, go on. A short while after dessert, everyone met in the drawing room for more drinks and some delightful finger food; there was even some quiet, pleasant music, which seemed to relax the guests once again.

Caroline, who was much unsettled by Sir John’s rude behaviour to her friend and considered her birthday entirely ruined because of it, had drunken much more wine than was good for her, and so was closely watched by her uncle as she fluttered from guest to guest, where he prayed she would not embarrass the family’s good name.

Having been almost bored to death by the chatter of middle-aged men and women for most of her time in the drawing room, Caroline searched the room for two tall, handsome men of a closer age to her own. With a quick narrowing of her eyes to stop the blurriness, she found her victims, who were hiding in the corner of the room, rejecting society, as always.

“Ross!” Caroline chirped as she pulled him into a quick hug, her face flushed and warm from consuming too much alcohol. “It was so good of you to come. How are you settling back into Cornwall? I imagine it is not as exciting as California.”

A little too tipsy to care about the upkeep of societal politeness, Ross answered: “Well, Caroline, thank you. And thank you for inviting me, and allowing me to bring my friend, Dr Enys,” Ross added, motioning to Dwight, who hung back from their conversation a tad awkwardly, not wishing to intrude.

Caroline turned to the doctor and smirked. “Of course.” She turned back to Ross. “We couldn’t possibly have all the fun while poor Dr Enys sat alone in his little cottage now, could we?” she teased with a laugh.

It was meant as a joke, and Dwight was truly grateful to have been afforded an invite, but her jest grated on him for some reason. As he looked around the room he was in, he thought he knew why: such vulgar over-indulgence of trinkets, food and alcohol, while people nigh-on starved to death in some of the local villages. He clenched his jaw.

Ross shot him a look that told him not to take what Caroline had said personally, as he knew she rarely meant any offence with anything she ever said, no matter how good her façade was.

 “Excuse me, please,” Dwight said, bowing out of the conversation and draining his glass of its contents as he crossed the room to converse with Sir Hugh Bodrugan, whose wife had recently been a patient of his.

Caroline’s eyes followed him with interest as he walked away. “How do you know Dr Enys?” she asked Ross.

Ross drank the remainder of his glass of brandy and took another from a passing footman. “He and I are old friends; we used to play together as children.”

“Oh, really?” Caroline asked rhetorically. “Why did I not ever meet him?”

Ross let out a laugh loud enough to startle some of the other guests. “Your father barely allowed you and I to play together,” he reminded her. “He most certainly would not have allowed the son of an upper-class surgeon who scandalously fell in love with and married a penniless seamstress to be a playmate of yours.”

“Hmm. I suppose not,” the Lady conceded. “So, Ross, you have at least two allies in Cornwall, you tell me that is more than you had in California. Do you think you shall stay for good? Whatever shall you do here?” she wondered with genuine interest.

It was then Ross wondered if anybody knew of the fortune he had made overseas, and, if not, perhaps he would keep it that way. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I was considering reopening my father’s old mine–”

“– But that would surely be for… coal? Or tin? Not gold,” Caroline stated with an air of confusion. What would ever bring someone to open a derelict mine when it would not even be satisfying to reap the rewards?

“Coal and tin are very useful to people,” Ross argued. “More so than gold, in some ways.”

“Hm,” was Caroline’s unconvinced comment. “Still, if that’s what you wish, then I support you wholeheartedly. Do let me know if you need a loan or any such thing. Some of our tenants would be quite suitable miners, I believe.”

Ross smiled as though he held a secret. “Thank you, Caroline, that is most kind.” After a few moments of silence as they both nursed their drinks, Ross continued: “And what of you? Shall you stay here indefinitely? Have you many allies in London?”

This question struck a chord with Caroline. “Yes, I shall stay here for the time being. My uncle is a little sick, you see, and I feel I should care for him. But yes, I have many allies in London and can return whenever I take a fancy,” she lied smoothly, with such confidence that only a true friend could see through.

“I see none of your ‘London allies’ are here,” Ross observed, motioning to the room full of acquaintances who were mostly over half Caroline’s age, all of whom spoke with a Cornish lilt to their tongues.

And so the mask fell. “Oh, they – they were all busy. They couldn’t, they–” Caroline sighed and stared into her glass. “They did not care enough to make the journey,” she mumbled, embarrassed by her lack of true friends. Was there something wrong with her?

Ross rubbed her arm gently. “Well, you’ll always have an ally in me,” he promised, smiling sympathetically at her. “You could have another one,” he said pointedly, inclining his head to the hurt doctor who tried his best to maintain the dullest of conversations about horses with Sir Hugh.

Caroline shot Ross a look and wondered if her pride would allow her to apologise where she did not feel it necessary to do so. “Excuse me, I need more wine,” she said quickly, taking her leave.

“And I must rescue Dr Enys from dying of boredom, excuse me.” They parted ways to opposite ends of the semi-busy room. The clock struck eleven o’clock, and a few of the middle-aged women gasped in shock at how late it had become and thought of ways to politely excuse themselves.

Knowing his employer better than he knew himself, Paul Daniel removed a glass from his tray and handed it to Lady Caroline.

She looked at him in surprise. “Thank you, Paul.”

He nodded politely. “Your Ladyship did look like you needed it.”

“If my hand is ever empty, then yes, I require more wine,” she joked, spilling some on the carpet as she flailed her hands. Luckily it was white wine.

She felt the brush of an expensive dinner jacket next to her. “Caroline,” Ray said quietly, if a bit slurred. “Are you quite alright, my dear? Perhaps you should go to bed.”

With great concentration, Caroline put on her best I-am-not-that-drunk routine. “I’m fine, uncle,” she insisted with a dazzling smile. “I still have my wits about me; I am just in a chatty mood, that’s all.” Ray looked slightly unconvinced. “But perhaps you should go to bed, uncle Ray. You know Dr Choake instructed that you should reduce your alcohol consumption, especially wine. We do not want you to be ill tomorrow and all week now, do we?” she said gently, stroking his scratchy cheek with the back of her hand.

He looked at her tenderly, but her attention had shifted to the direction of laughter coming from across the room. Ross and Dr Enys were obviously finding something highly amusing, and the pair of them looked so pleased to be in each other’s company. “Oh, Caroline, my dear,” Ray gushed tenderly. Dr Enys’s carefree laugh filled the room as he wrapped one arm around his childhood pal. “You see it is exactly this kind of quality that will make Unwin most eager–”

“–Excuse me, uncle,” Caroline said absently, having not heard a single word he had just said to her. She was determined to have another ally.

As Dwight wiped a happy tear from his eye and tried to catch his breath, he felt a light tap on his shoulder. “I am sorry if I offended you earlier,” Caroline said, beckoning him to sit down on the sofa to their right.

Reflexively, Dwight did so. “It is quite alright,” he answered smoothly, appearing to hold no grudge.

Lady Caroline eyed him curiously; most, if not all, men would have lied – would have dismissed and excused her apology, but he did not. “You are a strange man, Dr Enys,” she said thoughtfully, examining him all the while. “There is something about you… Hm.” Her painted lips curved into a flirtatious smile.

Dwight coloured and felt very confused as to why a lady of Caroline Penvenen’s station and dowry would ever smile at him that way. Perhaps she had simply had far too much to drink, or perhaps she knew his dark secret, she was originally from London, after all. “But you do not know me very well, Lady Caroline,” he pointed out, trying to remain calm. “Perhaps I am not as much of a mystery as you think.” He carefully brushed his sweaty palms against his trousers.

“Perhaps,” Caroline conceded, with a wry smile. “You’ll allow me to find out, no doubt,” she teased coyly, but with an air of assured arrogance.

Dr Enys blinked at her, and he shook his head slightly in disbelief at her ego. “You flatter yourself, Ma’am.”

Caroline’s brows lowered, and she stiffened opposite him on the sofa. “Are all men so odiously conceited?” she scoffed.

Dwight laughed. “I shouldn’t put conceit as the quality of a certain sex, particularly not in this case,” he argued.

“How gracious of you to correct me, doctor. I am amazed you are so decorous to someone you so clearly despise,” she countered, having noticed the way he had raised his eyebrows at the grandeur of her home.

He leaned closer to her. “You are mistaken, Madam. I do not despise you, nor anyone, for that matter, and you’ll find I am always decorous.” He stared her straight in the face, and she stared back at him, unflinching. The air grew very thin around them.

She narrowed her eyes at him and pouted slightly before an impressed smile slowly spread across her face. She liked a man of principle and confidence. “Well, if that is the case, shall we be friends?”  She held out her hand – a peace offering.

Dwight accepted it and pretended that his hand did not tingle as he shook hers. “Friends,” he agreed readily, fearing for some unbeknownst reason deep within that he would soon break his promise.

Satisfied, Caroline stood – and wobbled slightly. She laughed at herself. “I think I have embarrassed myself, and my poor uncle, enough for one night. So, I think I shall retire to bed. Goodnight, Dr Enys.”

He tapped her arm gently. “Err, wait,” he said awkwardly, reaching into his pocket. “I brought you a small gift. It’s quite silly, and unimportant, but I did not wish to be rude and wanted to thank you for allowing me to come.” His lips twitched into a smile as he handed the box to her.

Caroline looked at him in surprise and laughed at her gift. “Strawberry bonbons?” she checked in disbelief.

Dr Enys scratched the back of his head. “Yes. I noticed when I tended to Horace that you had some on a side table. I thought maybe you might like some more. Or am I completely mistaken? Should I have just kept my mouth shut?” he cringed with a laugh.

“You are not mistaken,” Caroline told him slowly, again eyeing him with interest. “Thank you,” she said sincerely, giving the box a small shake. “I shall enjoy these tomorrow, no doubt. Goodnight.” She bowed her head politely and turned around, heading for the door which Henshawe held open for her. She held the box in both hands with a small, satisfied smile on her face, which did not go unnoticed by her uncle as she passed him on her way to the exit.

Lord Ray Penvenen narrowed his eyes at the young, unfamiliar doctor – who did not notice the older man’s gaze as his own followed the beautiful woman in the red gown as she left – and thought that he must do some digging into Dr Enys.

Realising that he had spent the better half of ten minutes being exceptionally rude, Dwight turned back towards his childhood friend to resume their pleasant conversation, dreading being teased for the blush that was, no doubt, on his cheeks. It was the wine, of course.

“Sorry, Ross, you were saying–” Dwight said to thin air as he turned around to find that Ross was no longer behind him. He frowned and looked about the room. “Ross?”

But he was gone.

 The large grandfather clocked ticked loudly in the foyer, where Ross Poldark currently made himself invisible behind a grotesque statue of a weeping angel, a plan whirring in his mind. He waited patiently for a particular man to exit the drawing room.

After a few minutes had passed, he found himself in luck. He took several silent footsteps behind the person he’d been waiting for and whispered, “John.”

The butler started and reeled around to find himself looking at an old neighbour, Mr Ross Vennor Poldark. “Mr Poldark,” he said politely. “How can I be of service?”

Ross scoffed and rolled his eyes theatrically. “John, call me Ross. We practically grew up together, for God’s sake.” Henshawe laughed and nodded in remembrance. “I need a favour,” Ross whispered, making an uncertain face.

“Oh? And how can I help?” the butler asked.

Ross hesitated. “Well, first, I require two of those full, wine glasses. Second… You wouldn’t be able to show or tell me where the servants’ quarters are, would you?”

The butler blinked at his unusual request. “The servants’ quarters?” he repeated in confusion. “Why on earth would you want to know that?”

A heavy sigh escaped Ross’s lips. How in God’s name was he supposed to explain his plan without sounding like some kind of marauder. “I – You’ll have seen the outburst at dinner this evening?” Henshawe nodded yes. “I – I want to make sure Miss Carne isn’t too upset,” he explained earnestly. “She is a friend of mine,” he added.

“A friend of yours?” Henshawe asked, a twinkle in his eye as he smothered a teasing smile.

Ross shot him a blasé glance. “A friend,” he emphasised.

The butler considered his request for information for a moment, before proclaiming: “Well, what is life without friends?” He motioned Ross to follow him to a door, which he opened. “Okay,” Henshawe said in a whisper, once they were through the door and on the landing. “The female servants’ quarters are four flights of stairs up and to your left. I believe Demelza’s room is either the first or last, but I am not certain. There should not be anyone else around at the moment as some of us still have a living to make,” he joked. “You should have at least fifteen minutes.”

Ross patted his arm in thanks and removed two glasses from the tray. “Thank you, John. And not a word to anyone,” Ross warned.

Henshawe rolled his eyes and chuckled. “Obviously!”

With that reassurance, Ross began the treck up the large, spiralling, cold staircase, already dreading how breathless he would be when he reached the top.

The servants’ quarters were exceptionally dark, Ross found, and he soon felt a worrying chill creep up on him, which teased him that he had taken a wrong turn or that Demelza would now be sound asleep. He felt along the wall, careful not to brush any doorknobs in case other servants occupied any of the rooms.

“Demelza?” he whispered into the darkness, his heart beating wildly in his chest. What would be his excuse if he was caught up here by someone? He had none; none that would be enough for people not to think him beyond ungentlemanly. He licked his dry lips and exhaled shakily. “Demelza?” he tried again, barely louder than the first time.

No answer.

He sighed in defeat and turned around, making his way back to the end of the corridor, where he would then have to return downstairs, but he thought of making an excuse and going to bed.

A door peeled open to his left before he reached the main entrance. “Hello?” A voice whispered into the darkness.

Ross froze in place before he realised that he recognised the voice. “Demelza.”

Demelza lit a match and put it into the gas lamp in the hall, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the contrast of the pitch blackness of the corridor and the glare of the flame. “Mr Poldark?” she inquired, quite unable to believe her eyes as he came into view. “What in Judas’s name–?”

“–I thought someone ought to congratulate your valiant efforts. And I wanted to check that you were alright,” Ross murmured, his heartstrings being pulled at the sight of her red, puffy eyes and tear-stained face. He carefully handed her a still-full glass and smiled at her.

The hurt housemaid took it, sniffed, and let out a sob-laugh. “Thank you, Sir.” She sniffed again. “I’ve never known such kindness.”

“Not even from Lady Caroline?”

Demelza breathed a laugh. “Except for her.”

Ross raised his glass, meeting her gaze. “Well, cheers to you, Demelza.”

“Cheers,” she whispered back, gently clicking their glasses together before taking a sip.

In the distance, they both thought they heard a door opening followed by footsteps. Demelza’s eyes grew wide, and her mouth ran dry, the implications of a gentleman like Ross being in servant’s quarters…

“You must go,” she said, draining her glass in one big gulp and pushing him back towards the staircase.

Ross chuckled at her efforts and similarly drained his glass. “I will. But do you promise to forget about that bastard? You must remember that people of class do not always possess it themselves.”

“I promise,” she whispered distractedly, looking about the hallway to ensure no one else was around. The footsteps had gone. She handed Mr Poldark the empty glass and shivered in her nightgown as she stood in the draughty landing which led downstairs.

She felt a gentle tap on her arm and looked up to see Ross’s hazel eyes fixed on her. “Goodnight then, Demelza,” he said softly before quickly disappearing down the stairs.

Demelza watched as the door slowly closed behind him with a queer flutter in her stomach. “Goodnight, Ross."

Chapter Text

Demelza Carne dawdled as she climbed the stairs to Lady Caroline Penvenen’s bedroom, having been summoned there by the ringing of her bell a minute ago. It was a bit early for Caroline to be awake, Demelza thought absently, still unable to remove the grin from her face.

In her hands, she had a note which had been passed to her by Henshawe at breakfast over an hour ago. She had already read it twice – or was it three times? – but she unfolded the piece of paper and read it over again, hardly able to believe it was real. The note read:

October 28th, 1913.

Dear Demelza,

I hope this note finds you well and finds you recovered from your (most unjust and unfortunate) altercation the other day. I visited Truro yesterday afternoon and saw a poster advertising a fair. It is due to be in Truro on Friday, November 7th. I was wondering if you’d have a chance to attend. If so, I request your company at the ‘Hook-A-Duck’ stall and any other stall thereafter which you might enjoy.

Your friend,

Ross Poldark

With a gleeful grin and butterflies in her stomach - for she knew that the Penvenens always permitted their servants to visit any of local fairs between the hours of luncheon and dinner - Demelza proceeded up the back staircase, neatly tucking the letter into the pocket of her white apron and praying that Caroline would not hear the paper rustle and interrogate her on the letter’s contents.

With a quick, deep breath so as to steady herself, Demelza knocked on Lady Caroline’s bedroom door – a mere formality, a warning – and immediately went inside.

“Demelza,” Caroline moaned as soon as the housemaid entered the room. “I think I have a two-day hangover. Do those exist?” She put her face in her hands and sighed in misery.

Demelza cackled at her and crossed the room to open the thick curtains. Caroline groaned at the daylight even though her eyes were still covered. “Some fresh air will do you good, milady,” Demelza insisted with a chuckle as she forcefully pushed the ancient window open, allowing the crisp, October morning air to flow through the room. She breathed in deeply, sighing in bliss as the smell of the wet ferns and rose bushes from the gardens hit her nostrils.

When the housemaid turned around, the lady of the house was still in the same position as before. Demelza giggled at the wild blonde in front of her. “I do not think you shall be drinking wine any time soon, milady,” she teased.

“I barely slept at all last night. I have such a pain in my throat,” Caroline croaked, rubbing her neck.

Demelza noted the dark smudges under her eyes with a glimmer of concern. “Oh? Are you sick?”

“I do not feel ill exactly, but I do not feel well either,” Caroline tried to explain, rubbing her tired eyes and sighing.

The housemaid nodded in acknowledgement. “You should spend the day in bed, milady,” Demelza insisted, shooing Caroline back under her duvet. “I will bring you a tray of porridge and fruit dreckly and later a tray of soup and a sandwich for luncheon. And if you are not well by dinner time, then we shall send for Dr Choake, just in case.” She sat down on the edge of the bed and patted her friend’s hand.

Caroline rubbed her throat and shivered at the thought of creepy old Dr Choake’s hands examining her. She shook her head. “Send for Dr Enys later, if need be,” she said casually.

“Is that the doctor from your birthday dinner who saved Sir John from choking? He’s rather handsome,” Demelza mused, eyeing her employer out of the corner of her eye.

Lady Caroline fidgeted with the embroidery on her sheets. “Is he? I had not really noticed,” she lied.

An unconvinced laugh tumbled out of Demelza’s lips as stood up once again. “If you say so, milady. Shall I bring you a book to read?”

“Oh, yes, please,” Caroline enthused. “Something Austen. But surprise me!”

“I’ll be back dreckly with a book and some tea with honey, milady,” Demelza informed her, quickly curtsying  as she exited the large bedroom.

 A few hours after lunch, and 150 pages into Jane Austen's romantic novel Emma, Caroline heard a knock at the door. “Come in,” she rasped quietly.

Behind the white, wooden door appeared the cautious and worried face of her uncle. “My dear,” he greeted as he came in, closing the door quietly behind him. He walked over to the bed and sat down gently, taking her hand in his own. “The servants tell me you are unwell,” he said, examining her mostly untouched food and pale complexion with a concerned frown.

“I have such a bad pain in my throat, uncle Ray,” she complained, discarding her book and rubbing the area as she had been doing for the past two days – nothing seemed to help.

“Well, then, we must send for Dr Choake at once,” Ray said determinedly, standing up to go send him a telegram.

“Can we not send for Dr Enys?”

Lord Penvenen turned sharply to look at her. “Dr Enys?” he repeated. Caroline nodded. “Why him?”

She shrugged. “His fees are not astronomical, and he does not gawp at me with a slack mouth like Dr Choake,” she croaked with a shiver, remembering all his pressing questions as to her marital status when she had influenza in the winter.

“But my dear he is our–”

“–Please, uncle Ray,” she begged with her best doe eyes.

“Alright, just this once, I’ll send for Dr Enys,” Ray Penvenen relented. “But how am I to reach him?”

“Just telegram the new hospital in Truro,” Caroline answered smoothly.

Armed with that knowledge, Lord Penvenen left his niece’s room and started downstairs before pausing to wonder how his niece knew that information.

A knock on Killewarren’s large, oak door was heard around the house about 40 minutes later. The door creaked opened to reveal Henshawe. “Dr Enys,” the butler greeted, taking the doctor’s wet jacket and hat from him and hanging it up. “Follow me, Sir.”

Dwight did as he was bid and wondered if poor Horace had had another fit as he climbed the carpeted, central staircase.

As he walked by the familiar room where he had met the pug and its owner, a man anxiously pacing the corridor came into his vision. With creased brows, Dwight continued to follow the butler.

“Dr Enys, I presume?” Lord Penvenen said rather curtly when he took notice of the young man. Ray had, thus far, not been able to obtain any information about the new doctor in town, and this frustrated him greatly. There was not much in the world a person of Lord Ray Penvenen's station and influence could not find out, but he seemed to be drawing a blank at every turn. This, in turn, made him suspicious of the man in front of him, and more suspicious of the young man's conversation with his niece the other day. Why had she insisted he be summoned?

Dr Enys extended his right hand. “Yes, your Lordship,” he answered curteously. Ray took the doctor's hand and shook it firmly; Ray Penvenen had always been of the opinion that the true mark of a gentleman was in how firm his handshake was. So far, Dr Enys was still considered a gentleman. “How may I be of assistance?”

Ray beckoned the doctor to follow him and opened the door on his right, where Dwight quickly followed him inside.

The room was large and well-lit, the walls were papered a soft lilac colour, a large mirror hung on the wall in the centre, there was also a small bookshelf and a vanity as well as the large four-poster bed, which was occupied.

“My niece has had a pain in her throat for two days,” Lord Penvenen explained to the doctor. “We thought she had simply drunk too much wine, but she has not eaten much of anything since the dinner party. She says it is too painful to swallow.” Ray glanced at her with concern.

“Thank you,” Dr Enys said as he moved to approach the bed, seeking a diagnosis. As he grew closer, he noticed how downcast and miserable Caroline seemed. “Lady Caroline this is a sad change from your high spirits the other evening. We must endeavour to get you well again,” Dwight chirped as he sat on the edge of her bed.

“My throat hurts,” Caroline told him, her voice gravelly.

Dr Enys nodded in acknowledgement of her claims. He then turned to Ray Penvenen. “Can you get a servant to fetch some tea with honey and some water?”

“At once,” Ray said eagerly, leaving the room. His nerves were on edge; he loathed sickness.

Dwight turned back to Caroline, noting with slight alarm how tired she looked – a complete contrast to the playful and vivacious young woman he had spoken to two days ago. He hoped that her complaint was not too serious in nature. “It’s alright,” he soothed. “We shall find out what the problem is. Can you open your mouth please?” the doctor asked, his eyes focused on her lips.

She wet her dry lips and obliged; she thought how warm and soft his hands were against her skin. Their eyes met for a moment. He then quickly but carefully tilted her chin upwards as he thought he noticed something unusual. “Ah,” Dr Enys said, a small, understanding smile on his face. “Let us be thankful that you did not choke at your birthday dinner, Lady Caroline,” he attempted to joke.

Caroline frowned at him in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“May I?” Dr Enys asked as he brought out a pair of tweezers from his medical bag. Caroline’s eyes grew wide, and a flicker of fear flashed across them, but she nodded and gave her permission. “Keep very still,” he warned her, his blue eyes serious as opposed to their usual look of kindness.

Nerves swirled around in her stomach. What on earth was he doing? Why did she have to keep still? Was something stuck in her throat? Would the tweezers not hurt?

Just as she was beginning to feel faint from holding her breath, Dr Enys hissed: “Yes!”

A gasp escaped Lady Caroline’s lips as she felt the awful pressure in her throat disappear. “What–? What did you do?”

Dwight chuckled at her amazed tone. “You must be more careful, and not allow yourself to be so riled, next time you eat fish, Lady Caroline. A fishbone,” he held up the sharp piece to show her, “must have escaped your notice.”

Caroline breathed a laugh, half-embarrassed at having been so lackadaisical at dinner and half-relieved that she was not dying of diphtheria or any other such ghastly disease. “So, you have saved me from withering away, Dr Enys. I am quite faint with delight at the prospect of enjoying dinner. What is your fee?” she inquired politely, her eyes full of gratitude.

“There is no need for that,” he insisted, holding up a hand in dismissal. He looked behind him to ensure the room was still empty. “We agreed to be friends, did we not? I wouldn't be much of a friend if I were to charge you for such a minor service.” His voice was a whisper. Caroline smiled widely at him, but before she could acknowledge this gesture of friendship, Dr Enys asked: “Can I do anything for Horace while I’m here?” His tone was one which suggested a fondness for the dog, which was equally matched by a poorly disguised look that suggested a fondness for its mistress.

Caroline did not reply to the doctor’s question, but her speechless smile and the pink, girlish blush that coloured her cheeks were their own answer.

Chapter Text

November seemed an unusual time to hold a travelling fair, but such is life when you live in the – often abandoned – cornerstone of Britain. The clouds in the sky were a moody, miserable, dark grey, which matched the mood of the man who walked the lonely village path beneath them.

Yesterday, Ross Poldark had received word from his cousin Francis that he and Elizabeth had welcomed a son in early October, whom they had named Geoffrey Charles. It was not the news itself that had riled him – he had expected to receive that letter someday – it was the manner in which it had been written. Francis could simply not resist boasting of his good fortune, dangling in front of Ross that which he might have had if he had joined the few Cornish families who had emigrated to the West Coast sooner. By the time Ross had reached California, almost an entire year after the Trenwith Poldarks had gone, he found that Elizabeth and Francis were already engaged and due to be married the following Sunday. Fate would, of course, have had it that he arrived just in time to see the marriage, which could only be described as his worst nightmare come true. The girl whom he’d long loved and coveted married to his arrogant cousin, who was the closest thing to a brother he’d had since Claude had died when Ross was eleven years old. Perhaps that is what hurt most: the betrayal of it all. It had certainly made any attempts to work together futile, and after trying to focus on the commercial success of their joint mining venture – the entire idea of which had been Ross’s in the first place – their relationship reached breaking point when Francis informed Ross that Elizabeth was pregnant. Francis had assured Ross that if he was to have a son that Ross would have no future in the venture nor its profits, and thus, Ross had returned to Cornwall, determined to pick up what was left of his life. Perhaps a quiet life would not be that bad.

The only major downside of living a quiet life, Ross now thought to himself, was how far away the nearest pub was. He heard irritating, cheerful music ahead of him and absently noted that he would have to walk through the fair to get to the Red Lion, though the sight of the striped tents stirred something within him, but in his agitation, he could not now think why.

As he encroached on the lively stretch of land, Ross tugged his flat-cap down further and made his way through the busy crowds, hoping to avoid any and all human contact. His mind had drifted to imagining that first, sweet, delicious sip of beer when he felt an almost ghostly tap on his shoulder. He turned sharply, brought out from his daze, and was met by an ever-becoming familiar face.

“Good day to you, Sir,” Demelza Carne chirped, her eyes and smile both sunny and bright, a complete contrast to the murky November day.

Dear God, he had as good as invited Demelza here and he had forgotten. He’d hoped his surprised facial expression would not make that obvious, Demelza was the last person who deserved to be hurt over his sour mood. “Demelza,” he greeted as cheerfully as he could. “How are you?”

Demelza wore the same cream coloured ensemble she’d worn the day they’d had a pleasant walk to the post office. It was very plain and sensible but accentuated her red curls, which sat under a worn-looking black hat. “I’m well, thank ee, Sir. And you?”

Ross merely hummed and gave a half-hearted shrug. Cheer up, Poldark, he told himself.

“Shall you take part in the tug of war, Sir?” Demelza wondered as she had seen a few gentlemen do so since she arrived almost thirty minutes ago.

“Ross,” he corrected for what felt like the thousandth time. “No,” he then said in answer to her question, his gloomy mood returning. “I have enough wars of my own to deal with.”

Demelza blinked at him; she had never seen him down before, she realised. He was usually so cheerful, so friendly; the calm before the storm, but now it seemed it was the storm she was witnessing. She rocked on her heels, unsure of how to proceed. She wanted to spend time with him, to find a way to thank him for his kindness last month as she had not seen him since. And he had as good as promised her a game of ‘Hook-A-Duck’.

“Shall we take a ride on the Galloper?” Demelza suggested with a gentle smile; it was always something that cheered her up and was her favourite ride at the fair.

Ross looked over her shoulder at the merry-go-round. “Are we not too old?” he asked with a slight frown, spying the children and young people who clambered onto the ride.

Demelza shook her head, smiled, and waved her hand for him to follow her. “You’re never too old to have fun, Ross!” she enthused with a laugh.

Her first, natural use of his Christian name sent a wave of warmth throughout his body. He schooled a smile and followed her.

There were three young children in front of them in the queue for the ride, and Demelza looked at them almost longingly. They quickly scampered away and onto the ride, shrieking with excitement. Demelza joyfully laughed at them, and Ross wondered how a person could be so good.

“Next,” the proprietor called.

“Two, please,” Ross said, handing him two shillings in payment for their turn on the ride.

Demelza’s hand was in her purse, and she shot him a wide-eyed glance. “Oh, but Ross, I can pay for–”

“–Already arranged,” he said smoothly, handing her the paper ticket. “And put your purse away, Demelza, its use will not be required today.” 

Demelza felt somewhat guilty that Ross had insisted on paying for everything, but she knew she only had enough money for them both to play two games, and this knowledge made her feel a bit embarrassed as they could not be equals even if she insisted on it.

They walked on the platform of the ride, passing the group of children until they found a relatively quiet spot at the back. Demelza squealed as she sat down, feeling the November chill on the animatronic horse.

Soon after they had chosen a horse next to each other, the ride began, blasting the music that Ross had found so irritating a mere fifteen minutes ago. It sounded a bit different now, though.

There was not much to this ride, Ross thought, as it gently bobbed him up and down and slowly spun around in a circle. He should be bored, he knew, but it was hard to find it boring as he glanced at Demelza, who enthusiastically leaned over the side of her horse, the November wind rustling her coat, a childlike glee on her face.

She laughed as she clung onto her hat. “Oh, this is just how I imagine riding a real horse would be like!” Demelza called dreamily to Ross over the music and the breeze.

Ross gaped at her and leaned closer to her so she could hear him. “You’ve never been on a horse?” he asked incredulously.

Demelza shook her head. “When would I have had the chance to be on a horse?” she pointed out with a musical laugh.

“You must come to visit me at Nampara,” Ross said before he realised what words were coming out of his mouth. Demelza blinked at him, and a blush crept on her cheeks. “That is, you must come to visit as I have a horse, and you could have a turn riding him.”

Demelza beamed at him. “I’d like that very much. What’s your horse’s name?” she wondered.

“Seamus,” Ross replied with a fond smile; he loved his horse very much; it was his pride and joy. If he had been in a better mood this morning, he would have ridden Seamus to the fair, but he preferred to walk off his bad moods and so he had gotten off the bus two miles away from the Red Lion and elected to walk from there.

“That’s a strange name, is it not?”

Ross laughed. “Not strange, just Irish,” he informed her.

“Irish?” Demelza repeated. “Why not Cornish?”

“Ah,” Ross said, pointing an index finger at her. “There is a story behind it, you see. One day, when I was young, I was out playing by myself, I cannot remember what I was doing… But I fell into a rabbit hole and twisted my ankle. After a while of lying on the ground, unable to move it, I had quite convinced myself that I would never walk again when a stranger noticed me from the path and approached me. He lifted me from the ground and carried me all the way home to my father – a three-mile walk. As I’m sure you’ve guessed, the stranger was an Irishman called Seamus,” Ross assumed with a chuckle.

“And you named your horse after him ‘cause he rescued you?” Demelza asked, thinking that it was charming.

Mr Poldark shook his head. “Not exactly,” he said with a small smile. “I told him I feared I would never walk again, and he gave me the greatest piece of life advice I have ever received.”

“Which was what?”

“’Belief is a beautiful thing’,” Ross quoted, a wistful look in his eye.

Demelza liked that quote very much. After a moment of silence, she asked: “And what do you believe, Ross?”

From her tone, he knew she did not refer to religion or any such like. Her question made his heart skip a beat. “I believe,” he began, trying to find the right words, “that you may be the most interesting person I’ve ever met, Demelza.”

Her mouth twitched into a smile, and butterflies fluttered in her stomach. “I believe so too, Ross.”

The ride then came to a stop, jolting them out of their moment and back to reality. Ross climbed down from the fake horse and offered Demelza his hand to help her down. She accepted it and slid off the horse gracefully. “Shall we try ‘Hook-A-Duck’ now?” she asked him with an enthusiastic smile.

Ross had entirely forgotten about that pint of beer he had dreamt of earlier. “We shall.” He politely offered her his arm, not sure if she would take it, relieved when she did.

Once at the stall, having once again paid for both their tickets, Ross cautioned Demelza: “I warn you, I was a miner, and so my aim is very good.” This was to imply that he would beat her.

Demelza laughed at him. “And I must warn you that I am a housemaid who does everything with precision,” she retorted, turning determinedly to the game.

In the end, they both won a duck each, but Ross insisted Demelza keep both of them. She named them Garrick and Verity.

“Would you like a drink, Demelza?” Ross asked her as they walked around, suddenly thirsty as he spied a drinking tent several feet away from them.

Normally, Demelza avoided alcohol like the plague on account of her father’s obsession with it her whole life, but she was not about to turn down drinking a cider with Ross Poldark. “Yes, I’m parched!” she exclaimed, skipping ahead of him.

His eyes followed her, and he shook his head with a fond laugh as made to catch up her with. 

“A cider for the lady,” Ross announced, placing her glass in front of her and taking a seat opposite her at the tiny table. At least it was a bit warmer in here, Ross thought.

Demelza laughed and chugged her cider. “I’m no lady, Ross,” she insisted with an eye-roll before taking another sip of her drink and looking about the tent, fascinated by the lights that hung around them.

You are a lady to me, Ross thought. He said nothing and drank his beer. “Do you want to play more games after our drink?” he asked, anticipating her answer.

“Oh, yes, please,” Demelza chirped. “But can we stay here awhile first? I’m hoping the cider will warm me up a bit.”

Ross frowned, not realising she had been cold. “I’ll get you a hot chocolate next round,” he said. “And if you’re still cold when we’re outside then you’ll take my coat,” he insisted.

Demelza’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, but no, then you’d be cold. ‘Twouldn’t be right,” she fussed. She knew she would be fine with a couple more drinks to warm her. It wasn’t dreadfully cold outside, anyways.

“I insist,” Ross maintained, draining his beer. Demelza then drained her cider; Ross was impressed. “I am always warm, anyway. Do you want another cider or a hot chocolate?”

A hum came from Demelza’s direction as she weighed the two options. “Cider,” she decided.

“Cider it is,” Ross said, leaving to get them some more. He would perhaps get them a cake, too, in case Demelza was hungry. He did not know why, but he knew that she would never admit it if she were.

Once he returned, with two ciders and two slices of Victoria sponge, they began a cordial conversation, which quickly became more personal and more amusing. The conversation flowed unlike any either of them had ever been a part of; they sat there for hours merely talking, sharing memories of their childhood as well as catching each other up on what had happened in the time that they had not seen each other.

Ross had now forgotten that Elizabeth Chynoweth had ever existed.

Lady Caroline Penvenen lifted her skirt slightly to avoid any patches of mud as she idly walked across the dying grass. She had come down with the servants half an hour ago but was naturally not permitted to join them for any games, not that she could anyway – for Demelza had hastily disappeared somewhere, and Caroline was disappointed not to find Ross about, whom she thought would have at least made a token appearance at the fair. But she was feeling very bored now and decided to return to Killewarren – to warmth and her library.

Her path was blocked by the appearance of a threadbare young boy, who looked up at her with sad eyes and a pout. “Ma’am, do ee have any ha’pennies? I want to play a game, but I ain’t got no money.”

Caroline stared at the small human and blinked. Did nobody teach this boy not to speak to strangers? And worse still, it was rude to ask people who weren’t relations for money. “Where is your Mama?” Caroline asked the redhaired boy, looking around her to see if anybody was frantically looking for him.

“I ain’t got no Mama, Ma’am,” he answered, looking up at her still.

The Lady sighed. “Your father, then?”

“I ain’t got one of those neither,” the young boy said, rocking on his feet.

Caroline then felt a little sad. He was so young; he could not have been older than six. At least she had got to spend nineteen years with her parents before they passed. “I don’t either,” she admitted. Why had she just told him that?

His brown eyes grew wide. “You, Ma’am?” She looked too well dressed to be in the poorhouse, didn’t everyone with no mother or father live there?

She laughed at his amazement as if death could only ever befall the poor. “Yes, me. Here is a shilling,” she said, handing it to him. “Why do you not go play your game?”

The young boy whooped and held his shilling aloft for all to see. “Thank ee, Ma’am. Bless ee, Ma’am,” he crowed, running away in search of the teacup ride.

Caroline’s gaze followed the young boy as he disappeared into the crowd; his shilling still held aloft as though he were displaying the crown jewels. It was only a shilling, Caroline thought dismissively, before she resumed her journey through the fair’s crowds, bound for home – well, bound for Martin to drive her home.

Ahead of her in the crowd, she heard a chorus of giggles ring out and expected to see a group of young girls playing together, but what she found was vastly more interesting.

Dr Enys stood, surrounded by four women, looking somewhat embarrassed but thoroughly engaged in conversation. In truth, Dwight had noticed Caroline walking this way about a minute ago, such was her burgundy attire which made her stick out from the rest of the gathering. As she continued walking towards him, Dwight found that he wanted her to greet him. He was not yet entirely sure what he thought of her. He liked her well enough – well, he did not dislike her – from what little he knew about her. She was very beautiful – of course – and she was witty and had a disarming charm about her, the likes of which he had never encountered before. But what was she really like? She appeared to have a wall up, blocking any chance of truly getting to know her. During their conversation at her birthday dinner it had, at times, not seemed quite so solid as armour, more like a veil. He was determined to lift it if they were to truly be friends.

Noticing him looking at her, Caroline smirked and called: “Good day, Dr Enys. What a lucky encounter.” The other women took one look at the Lady, who approached the doctor, and defeatedly excused themselves and walked away. Dwight bid them goodbye before he tipped his grey flat-cap at Caroline and offered her a polite smile. “I see you have admirers,” she said pointedly as she came to stand next to him, inclining her head to the mass of women who now trudged away.

Dwight laughed bashfully and shook his head. “They’re just patients,” he insisted, a pink blush visible on his cheeks at the female attention he had received; he couldn’t understand it.

“Perhaps we all ought to call you Doctor Dreamy instead of Dr Enys,” Caroline mused with a teasing grin, eyeing the giggling women who still – not so subtly – spied on Dr Enys.

Dr Enys bowled over, roaring with laughter, the feeling filling him up inside from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. Once his laughter had died down to breathless chuckling, he met Caroline’s gazed and challenged: “Is that your way of saying you think I am handsome?”

Caroline huffed a nervous laugh, before quickly resuming her composure. “Ah, there is that odious conceit of yours again, I see.”

Dwight grinned at her jest, and quickly looked around the fairground, seeing something that caught his eye. “Would you like to play a game, Lady Caroline?” he asked her, rather loudly over the music that began to play, motioning to the stall one hundred metres away that read Catch It, Win It! printed across its bottom.

Caroline's eyes followed his gaze to the stall. “Why ever not?” she wondered rhetorically.

For a moment it looked as though Dwight was about to offer her his arm, but he decided against it, and they simply walked side by side across the grass.

“So, were you busy saving more lives today, Dr Enys?” Caroline asked him conversationally.

Dwight wondered why everything she said to him almost seemed to be like some kind of joke that he wasn’t in on; he didn’t know how to feel about that. “You can call me Dwight if you like,” he offered. “But no, I was not ‘saving lives’ today, as you put it. Even us doctors need a day off now, and then in case we go mad.”

Lady Caroline made a face. “Dwight is such a quaint name,” was her comment, and Dwight wasn’t sure whether to be offended by it or not. “I think I shall stick with Dr Enys, it is fun to say, and at any rate seems to provoke you, making it all the more fun.” She looked at him with a playful mirthfulness in her eyes. He laughed at her claim. “Do call me Caroline, though,” she insisted, though not without a degree of hesitancy. “If we’re to be friends, there should be no illusions of grandeur, or else it will feel one-sided.”

“But there is no ‘illusion’ of grandeur, you are a Lady, and thus deserve to be addressed as one, Lady Caroline,” the doctor countered cordially.

She frowned at him and sighed. “You really are quite provoking, Dr Enys,” she complained.

“If you stop calling me Dr Enys, then I will stop calling you Lady Caroline,” Dwight wagered with a smirk on his face.

She opened and closed her mouth to speak but simply sighed heavily instead. “Fine, Dwight,” she emphasised, trying it out on her tongue. It felt odd to address a man other than Ross solely by his Christian name. Even all her suitors – not that Dwight was a suitor, of course – had insisted on being addressed by their titles.

“Do you know, I do not think I can call you just Caroline,” Dwight announced with a slight wince, feeling uneasy at the overfamiliarity. “I do not think our friendship is so far developed as to afford that.” Caroline opened her mouth to protest; she just wanted, for a time, to feel normal, to have normal friends who addressed her by her normal name. “But,” he continued, “if you do not wish to be addressed by your title, perhaps I could call you Miss Penvenen, at least for now?”

“I supposed it’s better than Lady Caroline,” she considered, feeling somewhat defeated. But Dwight was right, of course, they had barely agreed to be friends and knew so little of each other that perhaps the use of her Christian name would be considered an impertinence by those of her ilk.

“Wonderful,” he chirped. “Oh, we are here, at last.” They were the only two at the stall, as the fairgoers seemed to prefer the newer, animatronic rides. “Two, please, Sir,” Dwight asked the man at the booth, immediately digging into his pocket and handing him some change.

“You get three goes each to win a prize,” the old man with a strong east London accent explained as he pulled out six, metallic rings before he resumed reading his newspaper.

Caroline looked at Dwight and laughed at his chivalry. “Thank you,” Caroline said sincerely but with surprise colouring her tone; she absently wondered if he would miss that shilling later. “I’m not sure I could have afforded to play,” she then teased with a smirk.

Dwight rolled up his grey coat sleeve and grabbed one of the rings, his sights set on a large bar of chocolate. He threw it and missed his target by a fraction. “Damn,” he lamented with a laugh. The doctor glanced sideways at the lady, who was carefully examining the throwing hoop as if unsure what to do with it.

“Would you like me to show you how to play?” Dwight asked her with a smirk.

Lady Caroline was rather hoping he’d ask her that, as she truly had no idea how to throw the contraption, or what exactly to throw it at – none of the options in front of her seemed genuinely worthy or appealing. “Go on, then, Dr Enys,” she granted, not yet used to his first name. “Humour me.”

Dwight took a breath and then a step closer to her, moving to stand by her right side. “May I?” he asked, motioning to hold her wrist. She nodded yes, highly amused by the whole thing. “Alright,” the doctor said, taking hold of her wrist, the ring in her hand, “so, you want to bend your wrist like this,” he manoeuvred her wrist back and forth, “and quickly throw it so that there is more force behind it. Shall we try it?”

Caroline agreed, but not so much because she didn’t think she could manage the task herself. “Hang on,” she said suddenly, a realisation coming over her. “What if I miss?” she asked, confused.

Dwight’s brows creased in confusion. “Then you miss… and don’t win anything.”

“But you paid,” she said in such a way that suggested that paying for something meant that you should always get what you wanted.

A laugh escaped Dr Enys’s lips as he understood what she was insinuating. “Yes, but that makes it more exciting. There is more to lose, I suppose.”

“You are a strange man, Dr Enys,” Caroline commented with a laugh, repeating her earlier measurement of his character.

“Perhaps that is true, but it will not stop me from beating you at this game,” he baited, a mirthfulness in his eyes.

Caroline rather liked a challenge. “We shall just see about that!” she said, determinedly flicking her wrist back and forth so as to warm it up.

Dwight returned to his place by her left side and did so, too.

“Are you ready yet?” the bored man in charge of the game asked.

“Yes,” they said enthusiastically.

And so they began to their battle for a prize. Caroline decided she wanted the large bar of chocolate, simply because Dwight seemed too eager to win it, and nothing else on offer appealed to her at all. With all three turns, Dwight missed his target. He bowed his head in defeat.

Caroline had one throw left and practised the motion Dr Enys had shown her, her narrowed eyes fixed on her prize. “Come on,” she muttered to herself, as she prepared to take her last throw. Lady Caroline threw it sharply, and it hooked around the block upon which sat the desired bar of chocolate. “Yes!” she enthused, the triumphant feeling filling her body.

The old Cockney man sighed as he retrieved the lady’s prize. He handed it to her silently.

“Thank you,” Caroline said pointedly, emphasising the man’s bad manners. He scoffed and returned to his newspaper. “Don’t worry,” Caroline then said to Dwight, “we’ll share the chocolate, I cannot risk getting fat,” she said seriously.

Dwight laughed at her. “Thank you.” She handed him the sweet treat, allowing him the first piece, knowing how eager he’d been to win it.

“Tell me about yourself, about your family,” Caroline instructed with genuine interest as they walked through the fairground.

Dwight made a face and passed her the bar of chocolate. “It’s really not very interesting.”

She broke off a piece and ate it delicately. “Please, Dwight,” she implored, the use of his Christian name somewhat softening his resolve. “You did point out earlier that we do not know each other well. Friends share things, do they not?”

“Alright, fine,” Dwight relented with a small sigh, fearing she might look down on him for what he was about to tell her, little did he know she already knew some of it. “My father, Charles, was well-bred. He was the youngest grandson of an earl, so there was not much money left for him. But it was enough for him to study, and he became a doctor, he practised here for a while, before my mother became ill with the fever.” He swallowed thickly before he continued. “She was a seamstress,” he said, pausing to look at Caroline, who he expected to be shocked at his parents’ inter-class marriage, but she did not seem to be. “She was from a poor family, I think her maiden name was Walker, but she was a talented seamstress and worked in the tailors in St Ives. My father met her there one day and found her enchanting, or so he used to tell us,” Dwight said with a chuckle, remembering his father’s greatly exaggerated stories.

The continued to walk around the fairground in a slow circle. “Us?” Caroline inquired, glancing at him as she took another bite of chocolate.

Dr Enys licked his lips. “I had two siblings, an older brother and a younger sister. My sister, Anna, died when she was three, of the same fever that killed my mother. I was ten. My brother, Henry, died when he was seventeen. He wanted to try and make a name for himself in America in the shipyards, he was a talented engineer, but the ship he was on capsized.”

Caroline turned to look at him sharply, a chill running through her body. Dwight furrowed his brows questioningly at her. “Both of my parents died on the Titanic,” she supplied quietly.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” Dwight murmured sincerely. “But I–,” he began before he hesitated. “I thought that almost all upper-class women were assigned to a lifeboat?”

“Oh, yes,” Caroline acknowledged, a small smile appearing on her lips. “Mama did make it onto a lifeboat, but I’m told almost immediately jumped out, quite refusing to leave without my father. She was the most stubborn woman one could ever hope to meet!”

“Are you like her in any way?” he asked, mainly referring to her stubbornness.

Caroline smothered a smile. “In some ways, I suppose.”

 “It must be nice, Miss Penvenen,” Dwight said thoughtfully, “to have a love like both of our parents shared.”

“I’m not sure how common such a thing is,” Caroline said with a cynical shrug. “At least not for my cl– at least not for everyone.”

“You don’t believe in love?”

Caroline rolled her eyes. “You are very sentimental for a man of your profession, you know,” she accused with a satisfied smirk. “But, naturally, I believe in love, it is not a ghost or a creature from another world, I know it exists.” She then sighed. “I’m just not so sure how likely I am to find it.”

The corners of Dwight’s lips tipped downward. “What makes you say that?”

She shrugged. “A lady is expected to make a suitable match. Marriage is more of a practical thing to my kind, you see. In a way, tit where everyone else has the upper hand. Even the riff-raff!” Caroline said with a laugh.

Her words choice grated on him. “Why must you refer to people in that way? Are we not all the same at the end of it? Regardless of our class?” the doctor disputed; he was afraid she was showing him her true colours.

“I – I suppose,” Caroline conceded, a coldness running through her. What was wrong with what she had said? She heard people use that word all the time. “I apologise if I caused any offence. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“urJust, please, think about what you say before you say it. Words can be very hurtful,” Dwight lectured. He supposed nobody else would inform her of this fact, so as her friend, it was his job to teach her that her words and actions had consequences.

Caroline let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, so because I’m a Lady you think I’ve never been subjected to a hurtful word?” she challenged.

“No, I–,” Dwight stammered before he fell silent.

The lady eyed ted doctor thoughtfully. “It seems we both have prejudices we need to work on, Dr Enys,” she said half-teasing, half-serious. “And it seems we would both be well-suited to help each other remedy them, don’t you think?”

Dr Enys nodded in agreement. “I’m sorry,” he then said. “Having worked among the poor more often than the rich, it is easy for me to see everybody of the upper-class as the same – as spoiled, uncaring, ruthless and ungrateful, like so many of my former patients have been. They did not appreciate all that they had, and thought it a right, and not a luxury.”

“Do you think I’m spoiled, uncaring, ruthless and ungrateful?” Caroline asked, looking him in the face. Tension filled the air as she awaited his reply.

“No, Miss Penvenen, I do not,” he said eventually. “I think that perhaps you are a better person than you, yourself, are aware of, but are influenced by the behaviours of those around you and so at times say things that you do not mean.”

“Good Lord, what on earth makes you think that, Dr Enys?” Caroline wondered, unsure of how he had come to such a conclusion about her.

He smiled at her, as though he knew a secret. “I saw you give that little boy some money,” he informed her. She carried on looking ahead. “If you genuinely thought him – or people like him – to be riff-raff, you wouldn’t have given him anything; you wouldn’t even have stopped to speak to him.”    

“So, have you any other family hereabouts?” Caroline asked, quickly changing the subject, uncomfortable that her random act of charity had been witnessed by someone who knew her.

Dwight shook his head. “No, not anymore. At least, no one I am in contact with. Perhaps I still have a cousin or two in Gunwalloe,” he mused. “What about you? You have not spoken much about your family,” he pointed out.

Caroline lifted her chin a little. “I don’t think you would like them much,” she stated honestly.

“Well, I cannot possibly learn to like them if I don’t know anything about them,” Dwight countered, giving her a little friendly nudge.

Caroline rubbed her arm and sighed. “Very well,” she began, “You have met my uncle Ray, yes?”

Dwight nodded. “Briefly.”

“Well, he is my guardian now that I am an orphan - though he and I have always been very close; I used to spend my summers in Cornwall while Mama and Papa travelled around Europe. They took me with them sometimes, I have seen much of France, but oftentimes I elected to stay in Cornwall with uncle Ray, as it was easier than being paraded around the continent as a trophy for men to compete for.” She had said this without a trace of bitterness in her tone; it was more matter-of-fact, which made Dwight feel for her all the more. “My parents were very eager for me to make what they would call ‘a suitable match’. My father and I had some terrible rows over the whole thing; I suppose I am as stubborn as my Mama was. Mama was not as strict as my father, who was a very serious man, but she, too, was eager for me to marry as soon as I turned eighteen. But naturally, that did not happen,” she said with a laugh. “I rebuffed every suitor they had picked out for me, and we had a terrible falling-out over it all. In some ways, our relationship was never the same. They thought to go to America for a few weeks, I suspect to escape me and my moods, and I never saw them again.” She swallowed quietly and blinked twice.

Dwight opened his mouth to offer his condolences and inform her that she was right not to marry just because her parents wished it, but Caroline continued: “I have an aunt, Sarah, who lives in London. She is very extravagant and open-minded, you’d like her, I suspect. My other uncle, William, also lives in London, though I see little of him. He fell out with my father and uncle Ray some years ago about money, but he sends me a letter every year for my birthday, which is nice,” she conceded with a small smile. “But I suppose uncle Ray has always been my closest family,” Caroline said thoughtfully, as though only realising this now, “He has always been on my side.”

 “That’s nice. He seems very fond of you,” Dwight noted, remembering the old man’s anxiety over his niece’s sore throat.

She grinned knowingly at Dwight. “Yes, he is. What do you for fun, Dr – Dwight?”

Dwight explained to Miss Penvenen that he enjoyed reading, walking and cycling very much, and in turn, Lady Caroline told him of her many talents and hobbies including - but not limited to - being able to play several instruments, reading novels in both French and English and making pin cushions.

After another two hours of being lost in pleasant conversation, Caroline was about to ask Dwight how late it had become as she noticed the sunlight streaking the darkening sky when Dwight called: “Ross!” He waved his hand at his friend ahead.

Ross turned from the ‘Shy-A-Coconut’ stall with his guest and waved at Dwight, narrowing his eyes at the woman who accompanied the doctor. “Is that Caroline?” Ross asked Demelza, confusion colouring his tone.

“Oh, Judas God,” Demelza mumbled, reddening at having been found out. No doubt Caroline would disapprove of… well, whatever this was. Having spent the entire afternoon solely in each other’s company, Ross and Demelza had experienced almost every single one of each other’s moods. Ross and Demelza were both sore losers and gloated terribly when they won, Ross was irritable when hungry, and Demelza quickly grew bored if she wasn’t doing something, alcohol did not change Ross’s demeanour, but a few ciders had an immediate effect on Demelza and made her more cheerful and bold. In their minds, their feelings for each other were quite certain, but neither of them dared to speak out just yet.

“Ross, Demelza,” Caroline greeted as she came to stand in front of them, her tone one of surprise and undying interest. “What a treat to see you both here.” Together, she had wanted to add, but did not wish to be unkind as she had noticed that Demelza’s cheeks were already aflame. She supposed Demelza thought she would be cross about her connection to Ross, but when Caroline thought about it, she thought that they would be a good match – not socially, but in every other way that matter. Demelza’s warmth, determination and positivity would compliment Ross’s characteristics, and may even stabilise his ever-changing moods.

“I could say the same about you,” Ross returned, pointedly looking between his two friends.

“Oh,” Dwight began, his own cheeks coloured a little pink as Ross smirked at him, “Miss–,” he cleared his throat, “Lady Caroline and I bumped into each other a small while ago,” more like three hours ago, Dwight thought to himself, “and we had a chat.”

“It was more than a chat,” Caroline reminded the doctor, slightly offended he viewed the sharing of such personal information a mere chat. But Dr Enys had only been so vague as he knew any further elaboration would mean he would become subject to an interrogation from Ross on the bus journey home. “I have decided to take your advice, Ross, and enlist Dr Enys as my ally, you will not be jealous now, will you?” Her tone was a mixture of flirtatious and mocking.

Ross barked a laugh. “Of course not, I am glad that you two are friends. To me, having practically always known both of you, it seemed that you should have met and befriended each other long ago.”

Dwight and Caroline shared quick, friendly glances and smiles, which seemed a little more than friendly to Ross’s eyes, but perhaps that was on account of his own tinted sight at present.

“Thank you for holding my flowers, Dr Enys,” Caroline said to him, signalling a goodbye and taking from him the small bag which carried the bouquet she had bought earlier.

Demelza felt a curl being carefully brushed away. “Shall we do this again, some other time?” Ross whispered into her ear, seizing the moment while his friends were engaged in their own conversation.

The housemaid shivered, and a thrill washed over her entire body. “Yes, Ross. I’d be that glad to,” she replied shyly, her eyes involuntarily flickering to his lips. It seemed the boldness from her three glasses of cider had not dissipated. Ross’s own eyes followed her action, and his expression seemed torn between what he wanted and what was proper.

“Well, Demelza,” Caroline said, unceremoniously interrupting the moment. “I think we ought to be going, or else Lord Penvenen shall send a search party for us!”

Demelza started, then laughed and nodded. “Yes, milady,” she replied. “Goodbye, Ross. Thank you for today, ‘tis the best day I’ve had for ages,” she gushed quietly. Maybe ever, she thought to herself.

“No, no, thank you, Demelza,” he emphasised. “You pulled me from the shadows today, and I thank you for that.” Ross swiftly brought her left hand to his lips; no one else noticed. Demelza blushed, a beaming smile stretching across her face as she withdrew her hand.

“Goodnight then, Ross, Dwight,” Lady Caroline said with a cheerful nod, taking Demelza’s arm and leading her under the exit sign and down the path.

“Hang on,” Ross called after them. “Where are you two going?”

The two ladies turned around and shot him a confused look. “Home,” Caroline supplied, as though it was the most obvious thing in the entire world.

Ross and Dwight exchanged a glance. “You cannot possibly walk all the way to Killewarren at this time of night unchaperoned!” Ross protested, dramatically motioning to the navy sky above them and the sound of drunkards in the distance. 

“Well, then, by all means, escort us home, gentlemen,” Caroline ordered casually. Demelza looked at her friend, whose victorious expression suggested that exact thing had been in her mind all along. Demelza smothered a smile.

Ross walked over to Demelza and offered her his arm, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Caroline’s mouth fell open slightly at his boldness, but it then curved into an intrigued smile as they walked ahead of her, chatting amiably; she couldn’t wait to grill Demelza about that tomorrow morning.

Dwight raised his eyebrows at his friend but then smiled at the couple in front of him. He then stole a glance at Caroline, who then approached him, expressionless, and confidently hooked her arm through his. The ghost of a smile played on Dwight’s lips as he began walking to catch up with their respective friends, Caroline casually hanging off his right arm.

It was almost three miles from this part of Truro to Threemilestone, where Dwight and Ross could then catch the bus to St Agnes – they had both purchased return tickets at different points during the day. From Threemilestone, it was about another half a mile to Killewarren, but there was no danger to be found on that side-road, unless one counted a pig farm as dangerous, which neither Caroline nor Demelza did.

The walk was filled with hearty laughter, stolen glances and subtle teases. A game of questions was also played, which had resulted in more, side-splitting, laughter. They had all laughed so much they felt a little sick. After the hour-long treck to Threemilestone, the four adults felt a lot better acquainted with one another through their quiz game and felt a pang of sadness to be parting as the road forked off towards Tregavethan.

They all stalled for a further ten minutes, not wishing to leave. Ross quickly checked his pocket-watch and realised that he and Dwight would miss their last bus if they did not make a move very soon.

“I’m afraid we must be going, ladies, or we shall be sleeping a ditch somewhere between here and St Agnes!” Ross announced, not entirely joking.

Caroline wrung her hands slightly. “We should do this again, sometime,” she suggested, slightly hesitating to make plans as all her invitations as of late had been rebuffed. “It seems as though we are all friends anyway,” she shot a look between Ross and Demelza, “why not get better acquainted – all four of us? I do not believe I have laughed more in my life than I did on this walk,” she declared, giggling as she remembered the answers to some of the silly questions they had asked each other.

“Oh, yes, please!” Demelza enthused almost breathlessly, anxious to spend more time with Ross. Dr Enys also seemed like a kindred spirit to her; she knew she would like him very much if she got to know him a little better.

“It is settled,” Ross proclaimed as though he were Jesus and his word was final on all subjects.

“Count me in,” Dwight chirped. He then looked at the two young women. “Are you sure you are both going to be alright walking home from here?”

“Yes, yes,” Caroline dismissed with a casual wave of her hand, though mentally noted his chivalrous concern. “It is truly not far, and we have done so many times in the dark, haven’t we, Demelza?”

“Yes, we have,” Demelza confirmed for the men’s piece of mind.

And so, they parted ways, a chorus of goodbyes ringing out and rising into the night air. It seemed they had a competition to see who could shout farewell the loudest - the boys won in the end. Demelza not-so-subtly glanced over her shoulder, and when she came to look ahead again, there was a smitten smile on her face, indicating that Ross, too, had been looking at her as he walked away.

Caroline sneaked a glance over her own shoulder, disappointed to find Dr Enys thoroughly engaged in conversation with Ross when, in reality, the doctor had himself only just turned around.

The two women sauntered home; both lost in their pleasant thoughts of what today had brought: friendship – and perhaps the promise of something more.

“You must tell me about your day at the fair tomorrow, Demelza,” Caroline insisted as they reached Killewarren’s servants’ entrance, suggestively wiggling her eyebrows at her friend and maid. “But I must go, or uncle Ray shall be very cross. I suspect I am already dreadfully late.” With a quick, fond squeeze of Demelza’s hands, Caroline fled around the other side of the house, entering through the front door. She haphazardly dumped her hat, coat and bag into Henshawe’s arms, quickly thanking him before jogging to the dining room.

 “Oh, excuse me, uncle. I am so sorry I’m late,” she apologised breathlessly as she rushed into the dining hall, pausing to place a fond kiss on his cheek before taking her seat next to him.

“That is alright, my dear. What was the fair like?” Ray asked her, eyeing her carefully and with interest.

Caroline eagerly cut into her chicken; she was ravenous, the last thing she had eaten was the bar of chocolate she had shared with Dwight almost four hours ago, and they had done much walking since then. “It was fine,” she commented, having barely swallowed her mouthful. “There were more rides than last year and a better selection of stalls. I bought some flowers for my room,” she told him conversationally. “How was your day, uncle Ray?”

Ray ignored her question. “I heard you had much fun with Dr Enys,” he provoked, having been given this information by a witness.

Caroline inhaled. How on earth did he find that out? “Yes,” she admitted freely, feeling she had nothing to be ashamed of. She placed a piece of potato into her mouth so as to smother her desire to smile at the thought of how lovely the entire day had been. For the first time in her life, she felt like she had true friends to rely on and do things with. “I have decided to enlist him as an ally. Ross thinks him a good man,” she added, knowing Ray Penvenen had always thought highly of the entire Poldark family.

Lord Penvenen hummed at his niece. “You know I’ve no qualms with your friendship with Mr Poldark – he is an honourable man, of good blood and family, and with an estate – albeit a small one – of his own: a perfect gentleman in every way. But this Dr Enys…,” he began in a gruff voice. “We do not know a thing about him or his family.”

Caroline knew about his family – Dwight had just told her not four hours ago – but she thought it best not to mention that to her uncle. His tone made her feel uneasy. “But he is a gentleman, uncle,” Caroline argued. “And well-educated. He helps people - even saves their lives – does that not count as gentlemanly?”

“You and I have different views as to the definition of the word, my dear,” he observed, watching her closely. She would not look at him. “I disapprove of the attachment,” he stated plainly, taking a bite of his dinner. “If he accompanies Mr Poldark to an occasion here, then you are, of course, free to talk to him then. We wouldn’t want you to be discourteous. I have nothing against the man, as of yet, as I do not know him, but I forbid you from seeing him alone.” He took a big gulp of his wine, uncomfortable with the idea of his naive niece being privy to a middle-class doctor – a fortune hunter, no doubt.

His word was final. Caroline pushed a carrot cube around her plate, finding that she no longer had any appetite.

Chapter Text

Sundays were a good day for their secret meetings, Caroline had soon realised. Ray Penvenen was a creature of habit, and every Sunday between ten o’clock and five o’clock, he would retire to his own small, private library and write letters to tenants, relations and, Caroline fancied, a lady friend or two. Oftentimes he merely sat on the sofa with a glass of whisky and a book, where he’d usually fall asleep until dinner. This was the perfect time for Caroline to ride her horse, Chesnut, to Nampara – with Demelza clinging onto Caroline’s waist for dear life.

Lady Caroline had come to an agreement with the servants that Demelza would be afforded Sundays off from the hours of ten until the hours of five, and if they kept their mouths shut about it and covered for Demelza, then Caroline would pay them all an extra two shillings a week. So far, all parties had kept their word these last six months.

The four friends had also kept their word since the night of the fair and spent every Sunday together since as well as any other opportunity which had presented itself. Caroline was always looking for excuses to throw all manner of parties and dinners – even for the most insignificant occasions. She had, however, managed to convince her Uncle Ray to throw a Christmas Party, New Year’s Eve party as well as a birthday party for himself in March, to which Caroline had invited both Ross and Dwight. Christmas and New Year were perhaps the most pleasant of the occasions, as the mood was joyous and celebratory, and Uncle Ray had been much too intoxicated to notice neither Caroline and Dwight flirting nor Ross disappearing to an unknown location to seek out Demelza’s company. Caroline and Dwight had been sad Demelza couldn’t join them upstairs after the first month of Sunday meetups and the odd, coincidental Wednesday meeting in Truro – it now felt as though the group were a person with a missing limb without Demelza’s comradery. Ross, too, had missed Demelza terribly but he thought that perhaps, with luck on his side, she would be able to join them next year – on his arm.

Despite how enjoyable the parties had been, the most fun they’d had together was undoubtedly the Sunday afternoons they spent at Nampara. True to his word, Ross had shown Demelza how to ride a horse, and she enjoyed it even more than she had imagined; she still laughed every time the wind untidied her hair as she galloped around the clifftops by Nampara. Whether fortunately or unfortunately, Ross only had one horse, and so he and Demelza would usually ride together on Seamus. Caroline and Dwight would follow at a distance behind them on their own horses, often wondering aloud what Ross and Demelza were whispering to each other. Whenever the weather was not fit for a pleasant trot, the four friends would play cards and all manner of games within Nampara’s cosy walls and they would have lunch and share any local gossip they’d heard – carefully omitting any mention of unsuitable matches between a gentleman and a housemaid and a poor doctor and a lady.

Today was a cloudy but sunny morning in a St Austell for the 1914 May by-elections. The town was bustling with people of all social classes vying for a chance to hear their desired member of parliament speak.

“I think my uncle - if he were ever likely to vote anything but Conservative, which he is not - would be nonetheless impressed by Agar-Robartes’ passion,” Caroline whispered to Demelza as they stood among a crowd of men and women, listening to the liberal candidate for Cornwall give an impassioned speech about the changing situation of British politics.

“Yes, he is impressive,” Demelza acknowledged. “I do wish he’d talk about the vote, though.” She sighed a little sadly and then rubbed her arm as a few people elbowed their way past her. Some of the men were getting louder, angrier, as more women gallantly joined the traditionally male gathering.

Caroline nodded her head in agreement with Demelza’s sentiment. “I wish so, too. But he wants votes, and I’m not sure how many of the men here would endorse a man who spoke as passionately about the women’s suffrage bill as he does the Marconi scandal.” She made a face at the ill-tempered man to her right.

“But he’s held his seat a long while and 'tis not so likely that he’d lose it now,” argued Demelza, who felt disappointed at the candidate’s brief mention of Emily Wilding Davison. She thought that such a well-spoken, likeable man ought to be a supporter of equality; but perhaps the boisterous crowd simply made him uneasy. “I’m glad he’s so vocal about worker’s rights, though. Just because people are poor don’t mean they’re not still people.”

High-class men around them continued to scoff and jeer as the liberate candidate discussed a need for fairer working conditions in the mines and quarries throughout Cornwall. To their left, Demelza and Caroline spotted Sir John Treneglos among the enraged few who opposed Agar-Robartes’ sympathies for the lower classes.

Lady Caroline inhaled sharply and tucked her hair more tightly into her hat. “Do you think my disguise is convincing enough, Demelza?”

Demelza looked her friend up and down. Lady Caroline looked both incredibly different yet equally pretty dressed in Demelza’s well-worn cream coloured skirt and plain hat without a scrap of makeup on and her hair tied into a sensible bun. “Yes, mila– Caroline. I believe we could pass for cousins,” Demelza joked, a sparkle in her eyes.

“I look abhorrently plain without any rouge or jewels,” Caroline mourned, fixing her borrowed, grey coat self-consciously.

Demelza wrapped an arm around her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “But still beautiful,” the housemaid assured her socialite friend. Looking around her as the crowd began to get rowdier still, Demelza spotted two familiar faces, both of whom simultaneously spotted her and began advancing towards her. “It seems our dear friends are also here waiting for the liberal candidate discuss the vote; I knew there was a reason we liked them so much,” she announced to Caroline with a bright smile.

The golden-haired woman blinked slowly, as if unable to comprehend what Demelza had said, and a blush rose on her cheeks. “Please, in God’s name, Demelza, tell me you do not mean Dwight and Ross.”

“Hello, Demelza!” Ross greeted enthusiastically as he pushed aside some men in the crowd, coming to stand closely beside her. For a moment, it looked for a second as though he wanted to place a kiss on her cheek but had decided against it. “Who is your friend– oh,” Ross said, fighting a desperate desire to laugh as he took in the sight of his dear friend Lady Caroline dressed down in Demelza’s clothes; he hardly recognised her without the finery.

“Shut up, Ross,” Caroline warned in a grumble. “I couldn’t risk uncle Ray knowing I was here; he would have a fit if he knew I'm secretly a liberal. Do I really look that bad?” she asked, her anxious eyes giving away her insecurity despite the challenging lift of her chin.

Ross opened his smirking mouth to reply, but Dwight interrupted and said: “No, you look nice – beautiful, even.” He narrowly escaped blushing scarlet at his bold complement.

“’Beautiful’?” Caroline repeated as she twisted her neck to glance at him, her mouth curved into a mocking smile, but her eyes showed genuine appreciation. “I don’t think anyone could look beautiful in this, Dr Enys – except Demelza, of course.”

“Demelza looks beautiful in everything,” Ross readily agreed as he gave her a gentle nudge, to which Demelza coloured and smiled shyly.

Dwight and Caroline exchanged a look, wherein they shared thoughts of why their friends would not just admit their painfully apparent feelings for one another.

“Ross, what do you think of Agar-Robartes?” Demelza asked him quietly, hating to be the topic of conversation.

Ross struggled a bit. “I think him a good politician, but at times I think he lacks backbone.”

“You’re referring to his avoidance of mentioning the vote?” Caroline inquired.

Ross nodded yes. “I must admit I’m not certain whether or not he agrees with the idea. But his inability to choose a side of the fence grates on me somewhat.”

“And you, Ross, which side of the fence are you on?” Demelza asked with interest, thinking that her heart might break if he opposed the idea of women being afforded the same rights as men.

A grin slowly spread across his face as he thought how fun it would be to tease his female friends about such a delicate topic. “Why, the right side, of course,” he answered vaguely.

Caroline rolled her eyes theatrically at her childhood friend. “And pray tell us which side you consider to be the ‘right’ side of the fence, Mr Poldark.”

“Your side, naturally,” Ross said with a chuckle, a flirtatious lilt to his tone.

“And you, Dr Enys? Are you on our side?” Caroline challenged, staring him in the face. It then struck Caroline as odd that in all the time they had now been friends, she did not know his politics.

A grin creased his blue eyes. “Of course, I am. I even marched alongside some women in London last year.”

“Did you?” Demelza asked, wide-eyed and enthusiastic. “Oh, what was it like?” Her eyes took on a dreamy look as she imagined proudly walking alongside such brave women. 

“It was encouraging,” answered Dwight. “There were more men than I had anticipated. But there must be more or else our cries for a fairer society shall continue to fall on deaf ears.”

“If there is ever a demonstration in Cornwall, we should all attend it together,” Ross suggested, noting that Demelza seemed impressed by his suggestion.

Dr Enys thought that Lady Caroline had been rather quiet on the subject. “Would you march with us, Lady Caroline?”

Caroline rolled her eyes at the doctor’s use of her title. “Naturally, Dr Enys. I would hold the banner myself and everything.” She shot him a playful look.

“But would you smash windows?” Dwight teased.

“If I thought the window deserved it.”

“Chain yourself to the railings?”

Caroline grimaced and shook her head, shivering at the thought. “Heavens no. But not because I lack the courage to do such a thing or that I fear a jail sentence, because I do not, but you see I simply cannot stand the taste of semolina and so there is no cause so precious that could ever convince me to have that poured down my throat.”

They all laughed at her, but the four friends seemed to be the only people present who were enjoying themselves as the crowd grew more and more restless. 

“Shall we maybe escape to the Red Queen?” Dwight suggested, his tone a bit anxious; a cloud of contempt and catcalling hung over the busy area, which could give rise to forked lightning at any moment.

Ross nodded, thinking it best to escort their female friends out of the courtyard before things turned violent. “I see you are learning the Cornish way once again, my friend,” Ross teased the doctor at his mention of the pub. Ross placed his hand on the small of Demelza’s back and encouraged her to walk in front of him.

As he moved through the crowd, Dr Enys reflected that he had indeed learned a great many things since his return to Cornwall - the main thing he'd learned was that he was desperately in love with the woman walking by his side. Dwight was not sure what she thought of him, and he wagered that Caroline herself was also not sure. There had been times when they were together where it seemed like they were the only two people in the room – or even in the world – but there were also days from time to time where Caroline would barely acknowledge his existence. Dwight thought he knew the reason for her mixed feelings and decided during their last meeting that he would come clean to her the next time they met; he just hadn’t expected to see her again so soon. 

They all began the short, twenty-minute walk to the public house and before too long Ross and Demelza’s arms magically became linked together.

“Do you suppose they’ll ever tell each other how they feel?” Dwight whispered into Caroline’s ear from several paces behind Ross and Demelza.

Caroline giggled and then sobered slightly. “I think so; Ross told me a few weeks ago that he was seriously thinking of telling Demelza. Perhaps today shall be the day,” she mused as she looked at her two friends ahead of her, deeply engaged in their own conversation.

“I’m not sure what the delay is,” Dwight admitted. “It does not take the observation skills of a doctor to know that Demelza is also quite taken with Ross.”

 “Yes, I know. Other people are harder to read,” Caroline commented.

Dwight sharply glanced at her, but her gaze remained fixed on her friends before it wandered upwards to appreciate the blue streaks in the sky.

“I’m sorry you had to miss the end of your first by-election,” Ross said to Demelza, breaking the silence as they strolled along the dirt path.

“That’s alright,” Demelza chirped, just happy to be in his company. “It was getting a bit too much anyway.”

“You seemed to be handling yourself well,” Ross complimented, having seen her stand her ground and be vocal about her opinions.

Demelza blushed before shooting him a proud smile. “I’m a miner’s daughter, after all, I can handle myself around a drunken crowd as good as any man.”

Ross laughed heartily. “I do not doubt that you can. But should you ever need any assistance, just let me know, and I’ll be there.”

“And you’ll be there,” she murmured, smiling to herself. Demelza knew she should just tell Ross that she was in love with him; she had been from the moment he snuck up to servants’ quarter to check if she was okay. But it was not ladylike to speak out about such things, and she had been trying her best to behave like a lady – to be what she thought Ross wanted.

Little did she know that Ross only wanted her, just as she was.

The foursome continued the meander to the Red Queen in companionable silence. The two men were lost in their respective thoughts of honesty.

As the pub came into view over the hill, Ross’ palms became sweaty, and Dwight glanced at Caroline, committing her features to memory for she would surely never speak to him again once she knew the truth about him. 

 “Caroline,” Dwight said as he gently touched her arm once they had reached their destination. “May I speak with you a moment?” He inclined his head to the bench next to them.

Caroline ran her eyes over the doctor. “Of course,” she answered smoothly, a small smile on her face.

“We’ll save you a seat,” Ross promised as he opened the door for Demelza and immediately followed her inside.

The door closed heavily behind them, and Demelza craned her neck and peered out one of the small pub windows. “What do you suppose they’re talking about?” she asked Ross as she saw Caroline take a seat next to Dwight on the bench outside.

“God knows,” he said with a casual shrug as he narrowed his eyes at the lunch menu on the wall, trying to calm himself. The pub was busier than usual for an early Thursday afternoon; it was not uncomfortably so, but the hushed, private conversation Ross had sought to have was almost out of the question. 

“Hopefully Dwight’s confessing his love for her at last; he’s not subtle as he thinks. Poor Dwight,” Demelza said with a laugh at the expense of her smitten friend.

This particular topic of conversation greatly appealed to Ross as he had some confessing of his own to do and wasn’t sure whether such a thing would be worth ruining their close friendship over. “And is she in love with him?” Ross asked quietly, his gaze meeting Demelza’s. His lips twitched into a smile. “Caroline, I mean, of course.”

“Of course,” Demelza repeated, her chest becoming tight at the thought of where their conversation was headed. “I – I think she is. I’m not sure she realises it herself yet; you know Caroline, always trying to pretend she thinks the heart’s sole reason for existing is to pump blood around our bodies.” Demelza let out a laugh and then inhaled when she saw that Ross was still intently gazing at her. He opened his mouth to ask Demelza if she thought that is why the heart existed before Demelza continued: “If that is what they’re talking about, I hope she doesn’t break his heart. It’s always sad when you love someone, and they don’t love you back.” She looked at him from across the table beneath her long eyelashes, hoping he understood her meaning.

“It is,” Ross agreed. He took a deep breath. “But, in case you were wondering, you’ve nothing to fear on that front, Demelza,” he murmured, gently placing his hand on top of hers, which rested idly on the sticky, wooden table.

The wave of happiness which rushed through Demelza’s body rendered her speechless and immobile. Around her, she heard not-so-hushed whispers and felt prying gazes, but she could not bring herself to care. Ross loved her. He loved her. She had never thought she would be worthy of such love or joy, and yet here she was. “Oh, Ross,” she breathed eventually, her brows furrowing above her bright blue eyes.

“Do you know what people say of us, Demelza?” Ross asked her, referring to the local, intrusive, gossip which had for months discussed the improper match between the two and whether there was any truth in their being a couple.

She glanced at the whispering patrons around her and nodded yes.

“Suppose we give them something to gossip about?”

Demelza confidently placed her free hand on top of Ross’ and offered him a smile.  “Suppose we do, Ross.”

His hazel eyes were warm as he met her gaze, and he flashed a bright, joyous smile at her. “Suppose I buy you lunch?” he flirted, stroking his thumb against the back of her hand.

The action sent a thrill through Demelza’s body. “I would like that,” she said, a shy but genuine smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Ross got up to order for them, already knowing that Demelza would want Shepard’s pie and a cider. Her eyes followed his form as he approached the bar; she could hardly believe that such a gentleman as Ross Poldark was now officially her beau. 

Outside, on the bench in front of the pub, Dwight Enys was not about to confess his love for Lady Caroline Penvenen, but something else entirely. The sun peeked from behind the clouds.

“What did you wish to speak to me about?” Caroline asked as she took her seat next to him on the old wooden bench. She both greatly anticipated and simultaneously somewhat dreaded what she thought he was about to say.

“Something which has been plaguing my mind since I came here. I wonder if you do not already know, but I – I feel a duty to tell you myself.” Caroline stared at him dumbly; confusion etched onto her features. Plainly, she did not already know. “You see,” Dwight began with hesitation, fearing he was about to ruin their friendship – and whatever else was between them. “Before I moved back to Cornwall, I lived in London, in Islington–”

“–Oh! How amusing, my aunt lives near there,” Caroline interrupted.

Dwight smiled slightly at the knowledge of having her full attention, but nerves swirled icily in his stomach. He took a deep breath to steady himself, but it came out shakily and reflected his unease.

Caroline stared at him with interest, nerves beginning to flutter in her own stomach.

“As I said I lived in Islington,” Dwight continued. “During my training, I had many patients, rich and poor. The poor in London, they suffer greatly and I- I felt a duty to give whatever care I could,” he explained. He licked his dry lips before he continued. “A patient of mine, a young woman, who was neither exactly poor nor rich, volunteered her services at what eventually became my practice.” Caroline found her interest piqued tenfold. “At first, she simply controlled the appointment diary, answered and sent telegrams, but soon she wished to gain a little knowledge of medicine, and so I saw no harm in explaining a few things to her.” He paused to smile bitterly. “We spent almost two years in each other’s company, almost every day. She would stay quite late some nights helping me with some straightforward cases and I – I fell in love with her.”

Caroline did know not why Dwight was so nervous to tell her that, but she feared by his tone and nervousness that there was more to the story than his affections for a young woman who used to be a patient. “And?” she probed, trying to maintain her cool exterior. 

Dr Enys exhaled slowly and looked at Caroline, fearing he was about to see hatred in her eyes. “She was married. I didn’t know; I swear I did not know. But I never asked; I assumed she was not. Though once I thought I noticed a ring, but she never usually wore one, so I cannot decide if it’s my mind playing a trick on me or if I simply chose to ignore it at the time. She spent almost all day every day at the practice, and it did not seem like she had anything – anyone – to rush home for. The attachment became… physical. I’m not proud of it, but I truly thought she was the one. I was going to ask her to marry me. She didn’t come into the practice one day, so I found out from the telegram office where her address was and thought to surprise her at home. When I got there, I found her dead on the floor.” Caroline gasped, and Dwight swallowed hard. “Her husband, he’d found out about us and murdered her in a blind rage. He was an abusive drunkard in the first place, which is why she spent so much time at the practice. She told me her bruises were iron deficiency.” He let out a bitter laugh at having been so blindly love-struck as not to question the severity of her bruising. “Anyway, the police questioned me about her death. I had to testify at his trial, and he was hung. A part of me feels like I should have been, too. I wasn’t exactly blameless in the situation. The locals – they all liked her very much, and they blamed me for her death, as they should have. The gossip, the question of my own guilt in her death, drove people away from my services; I was virtually penniless when I eventually gave up trying to salvage the practice. I was lucky to find accommodation and a job here. It afforded me a new start, and I am forever gratefully for it,” Dwight concluded, exhaling heavily as if the whole world had been lifted from his shoulders; his secret was finally out, he no longer had to fear it being revealed.

“When was this?”

“Three years ago.”

Caroline stood up and paced a little, trying to take in what Dwight had just told her. She vaguely remembered reading about a similar story in a newspaper a few years ago. The attachment was foolish, of course, and had been disastrous – ungentlemanly, even – but Caroline could not find it in her to be angry with what she had heard. If anything, she appreciated his honesty, his transparency. “But what did you say to the hospital when they employed you?” Caroline asked, wondering how this story had not reached Cornwall or the hospital board. “I assume they require a reference or such a thing.”

Dwight’s blue eyes met her own, and he bit down on his lip, hard. “I- I told them I was in California with Ross and that my records had been misplaced on the journey,” he answered, staring down at his clasped hands.

“But you were not?” Caroline checked, already knowing the answer.

Dwight shook his head and gently said, “No, I was not.” He let out a deep sigh, which wracked his body with guilt and shame. “I have a reference from my former mentor, which seemed to suffice. That much is true. My name – it was never officially recorded during the trial as I was not technically the guilty party.” He sighed again and rubbed his face with his hand. Caroline’s eyes were downcast, processing what she had just heard. Dwight supposed she was re-evaluating any and all good opinions which she had ever held of him. With a bitter chuckle, Dwight said, “and now, no doubt, you hate me.”

“And now, no doubt, I hate you,” she seemed to confirm. Her tone was not that of anger, but one which Dwight could not ascertain. After a moment of tense silence, Caroline asked: “Why did you tell me this, Dwight?”

“I think you know why,” he said softly, meeting her gaze. “But I know what I’ve just now told you is quite a shocking revelation,” Dwight said, quickly changing the subject - now was not the time to discuss their feelings for one another. “So I understand if you no longer wish to be friends.”

Caroline did not move or speak, and she would not look at him. 

The doctor closed his eyes, anticipating that once reopened her tall, suave figure would be gone from his sights. She would be gone back to Killewarren in a disgusted rage or to the hospital board to reveal the truth; gone from his life, likely forever. The rustling of the gravel in front of him seemed to confirm his thoughts, but the noise grew curiously louder, not quieter. Confused, he opened his eyes to find her taking a seat on the bench next to him.

Their gazes met, and Caroline’s lips curved into a small smile, one which did not betray too much, but one which still gave him hope. She placed her hand on top of his and even though there was the barrier of her leather glove between them, he thought how warm her touch felt. “Your secret is safe with me, Dwight. And we are still friends,” she reassured. Dwight had now behaved as though he believed that Caroline should forgive him; but she didn't think there was anything to forgive. He smiled gratefully at her. “Shall we go inside and join Ross and Demelza? I wonder what they’ve been talking about.” She wiggled her eyebrows, wondering if Ross had divulged his not-so-secret affection for Demelza at last.

Dwight and Caroline’s secret meeting, however, would not remain a secret for much longer.

Chapter Text

July 3rd, 1914.

Dear Dr Enys,

Would you do me the pleasure of joining me at Killewarren this Sunday? Lord Penvenen shall be in London as of this afternoon. I trust you know there is something I have been wishing to discuss with you for quite some time. Please meet me in the back garden, where we had a conversation on New Years, at ten o’clock. I will be waiting for you by the bench.

Yours faithfully,

Lady Caroline Penvenen

Dwight re-folded the letter with a smile and placed it back into his trouser pocket. He had arrived promptly at ten o’clock on the grounds of Killewarren and carefully snuck his way around the back to the gardens. He tried not to get his hopes up about why Caroline wished to speak to him, fearing she might have changed her mind about their friendship in the last six week.

Yet his heart still hammered in his chest as he thought of the letter’s contents and the way she had linked arms with him just last week and the longing look she had given him as Ross and Demelza kissed in their company for the first time. He tried to shake all thoughts from his mind as he came face to face with the large garden gate. Dwight fiddled with the ancient iron lock and pushed his way inside, closing the gate quietly behind him. The blooming flowers were fragrant and sweet around him, and he felt excitement building in his being at the mere thought of Caroline’s company. To not speak out now, especially in such a beautiful setting, would be a wasted opportunity – and Dwight never wasted an opportunity. Today would be the day. 

Several miles away, at Nampara, Ross was assisting Jinny, the kitchen maid, in setting the table for an overly extravagant, late breakfast. As Dwight and Caroline were meeting at Killewarren for some reason or other, he and Demelza would be eating alone.

The past six weeks of their courtship had been the happiest time of his life, he had never smiled so much, laughed so much, shared so much with another person. Demelza’s presence was always warm and comforting – like a cup of honied tea made by one’s grandmother on a rainy day. She had told him of her family and their mistreatment of her. Seeing the cigar burns on her back had filled Ross with such a searing rage he’d almost ridden to Illogan to kill the bastard himself. Despite her experience, she did not speak ill of him; instead, she informed Ross that her brothers Sam and Drake wrote that their father had turned to the church for guidance and that she wished him repentance. Ross had also told her of his 'failed' mining venture in California and his disastrous relationship with his cousin Francis. When asked why their previously close relationship had turned sour, Ross told Demelza of Elizabeth and how they'd been in love and were practically engaged, but she threw him over for Francis. Demelza said that she was sorry for that but pointed out the expectations placed on women, especially those of good social standing, to marry promptly - and so could, in a way, understand Elizabeth's change of heart. But Demelza had insisted that she would never have thrown Ross over, not for anyone or anything. Demelza always found the good in people, in everything, Ross had quickly realised. It was one of the many things he loved about her and love her, he did. As he mulled over his warm thoughts of Demelza while he roughly folded a napkin, Ross heard a familiar tap on the front door.

“I’ll get it!” Mr Poldark called to the servants, quickly making his way down the short hallway.

Ross peeled the door back was immediately greeted by Demelza’s smiling face, she barely had a chance to say hello before Ross pressed his lips against hers; there was no shyness or chastity about the kiss now that they found themselves completely alone. Ross loved his friends dearly, but he was almost giddy with excitement at the thought of having a full afternoon alone with Demelza as there had been little opportunity for that as of yet; he wanted to get to know her better still, he wanted to tell her more things that he’d never told another living soul before.

“I missed you, my love,” Ross murmured against her lips, tucking a stray, red curl behind her ear.

Demelza smiled against his mouth. “I gathered that,” she teased quietly, placing her hands on Ross’ chest.

“And did you miss me?” he flirted, offering her a small, sad pout.

“Meh,” Demelza said, feigning consideration and indifference. “’Course I did, Ross.” She laughed and leaned up on her tiptoes and gently placed her hands on either side of his face before kissing him. It was a shy kiss, to begin with, Demelza had never kissed anyone except for Ross, and she was still learning the ropes, but she quickly grew bolder and opened her mouth a little more and brought her hand to the nape of his neck.

“I asked Mrs Gimmlet to make us some crepes for breakfast,” Ross mumbled as he paused for breath – and restraint.

Demelza hummed and pulled Ross in closer again. “That sounds nice,” she giggled, her forehead resting against his, their stance blocking out the morning summer sunshine. “I hope there’s berries!”

“Of course. Whatever you wish,” Ross murmured, seeking her lips again. He carefully brought his hands to Demelza’s waist and dared not let them wander any further as she deepened the kiss. With the sound of the waves in the distance, the gentle summer’s breeze blowing, the warm sunlight touching his face and Demelza’s soft lips pressed against his own, Ross Poldark wondered why life could not stay like this forever.   

“Good God, pass me the bucket,” a voice, followed by retching sounds, came from behind them.

Ross immediately broke the kiss, his heart in his throat. He blinked several times, as if unable to believe what he was seeing.

“Ross?” Demelza asked him, concerned by his expression. “What’s wrong–?”

“Caroline,” Ross said slowly as she approached him, a spring in her step. “What on earth are you doing here?”

Caroline blinked at her oldest friend and laughed at his question. “It may have escaped your notice, Mr Poldark, but I have been coming here every Sunday for the past eight months. I hope you have not broken my teacup. Where is Dr Enys?” she asked, looking past Ross. “I owe him a beating in a game of snap.” She went to enter the house, but Ross blocked her way.

He received confused glances from both women in front of him. “Caroline… Dwight is at Killewarren. He said you sent him a letter on Friday saying to meet him there.”

Caroline shook her head at the information that she was receiving. “A letter? No,” she insisted with a laugh. “I sent no such thing. This is not a funny joke, Ross.” She pouted at him slightly.

He stared at her intently, his hazel eyes rounded. “I’m not joking. Dwight is truly not here. He is at Killewarren. He said your letter said to meet him there at ten this morning because your uncle is in London and you wished to speak with him.”

“But my uncle is not in London,” Caroline said in a low voice that was not her own. Her eyes widened in horror. “Oh, dear God!”

Dr Enys found himself in unbeatable spirits as he tiptoed his way down the garden path; his thoughts drifting to a certain lady, as they now so often did. Dwight could almost picture her already, perfectly poised on the white bench, perhaps in that new, pale blue frock she liked so much, her hair elegantly tied up, a book in her hand – probably something Austen – as she waited for him. Dwight tried not to focus too much on his nerves over what she might say and instead decided to focus on the three words he knew he needed to say; it was time Caroline knew what he felt for her, and Dwight hoped – he almost suspected – she felt the way same way, too.

As he turned the corner, he immediately stopped in his tracks as though he had walked into a very large glass door, which had shattered all around him and blocked his desire to move forward.

Ray Penvenen stood in front of him, looking entirely displeased with the doctor's presence on his property and yet equally pleased that his trickery had enabled a confrontation to take place. “Dr Enys,” he greeted. “I suspect you are looking for my niece.” Dwight opened his dry mouth to reply, but no words came out. “She is not here; she has gone to Nampara, which I have recently found out is the location of her canvas club, her book club and charity meetings.” He paused and stared at the young doctor in front of him, rage simmering beneath the surface that his niece had expressly disobeyed his orders and had been seeing this man unchaperoned – save for Ross Poldark and their housemaid – for God knows how many months! “I suspect you’ve some idea as to why I’d wish to meet you like this.”

“I do not think that is for me to speculate, your Lordship,” Dwight said cordially, having found his voice again. He stared at the evidently angry man in front of him and wished that the ground would open and swallow him whole.

“'Your Lordship’,” Ray Penvenen scoffed, taking several steps closer to Dr Enys. “If only you’d shown such decorum in your time spent with my niece.”

“What makes you think I have not?” Dwight challenged. He had done nothing wrong; they had done nothing wrong – they had not promised themselves to each other; they had not kissed, Dwight was not even sure they had shaken hands!

Ray looked sharply at Dwight. “The very existence of friendship between you two proves that you have not. Caroline is a lady. She is sought after by half the landed gentry in the country and is likely to be engaged to a Lord Unwin Trevaunance shortly. She is far too important to be entangled in any kind of relationship with a country doctor. I suggest you end whatever ties exist between you as soon as possible, it will be less messy that way,” Lord Penvenen insisted. “I can even offer you some money,” he added begrudgingly, knowing that is what the middle-class doctor had been after all along.

Dwight let out a bitter laugh and shook his head. “I don’t want your money,” he said, straightening his spine, boldness creeping up on him. “There is not a sum that exists in the world that could replace Caroline’s company.” Ray Penvenen physically winced at the absence of his niece’s title on the doctor’s lips. “And as for marriage, is that not for Caroline to decide? She tells me she loathes the sight of Lord Trevaunance and can hardly bear ten minutes of his company at dinner parties, does that sound like a woman who is – as you say, your Lordship – shortly to be engaged to him? I think not. She does an excellent impression of him, I should like to meet the man to compare the two, but it’s quite hilarious in any case.” Dwight was feeling and looking very smug now.

At that moment, Lord Ray Penvenen wished that they had been born two centuries earlier so that he could call for the pistols and shoot the man in front of him. He was determined not to let himself be riled by a man without a reputation, or, rather, without a true reputation. “Suppose for a moment that what you say is true, which I highly doubt it is, what makes you think that Caroline would ever wish to marry a penniless, country doctor such as yourself? What makes you think I would ever allow such a thing?”

This question struck Dwight, and, embarrassingly, he found himself tongue-tied and without an answer. “I did not say I wish to marry Caroline,” Dwight pointed out diplomatically, though his thoughts called him a liar. “You and I wish for the same thing, Lord Penvenen, and that is for her happiness. I wonder which of us is more likely to help her achieve it?”

Having had enough of what remained of polite pretences, Lord Penvenen matched towards Dr Enys, wagging his index finger at the younger man, his face reddening. “Now, you listen to me,” Ray warned severely, his face inches from the doctor’s. “I will ruin you. You will have nothing. I will drag your name through the mud so far and wide you’ll have to move to the northernmost tip of Scotland to have a chance at holding a practice.”

Dwight smiled at the older man, determined not to let his hollow threats shake his determination. “I have heard the Orkney islands are beautiful, would you recommend them, your Lordship?” the doctor asked, feigning politeness.

Ray Penvenen’s jaw tightened, and for a moment it looked as though he was going to erupt with anger, but he calmed, exhaled and took a few steps back from Dwight. “I assume my niece has invited you to the servants’ ball next month?”

Dwight blinked at the question and Ray Penvenen’s sudden change of disposition. “Yes,” he replied slowly. “Am I right in assuming my invitation has now been revoked?”

“On the contrary. I think it an excellent opportunity.”

“For what?” asked Dr Enys.

In the near distance, they heard the hum of a beehive; the buzzing and hissing rang in their ears. “For you to break with Caroline. You have a while to think about how to do so properly, effectively – in such a way that she’ll think it comes from you and not from me,” Ray explained.

An incredulous laugh escaped Dwight’s lips. “And what on earth do you suppose could ever persuade me to do such a thing?”

“Because I know your secret.” Dwight felt the blood drain from his face; he opened his mouth to try and call Lord Penvenen’s bluff, but the earl continued: “I even have proof. Money gets you very far in London society; you’d be quite amazed at what people can find out. I will not have my Caroline’s name attached to an adulterer – a man complicit in the murder of a young woman!”

Dwight had no defence; he felt his cheeks burn red in shame and his eyes sting with sorrow.

“If you so much as set eyes on my niece after August 3rd, I will find out – I have eyes and ears all over south-west England, Dr Enys – and I will ruin you. Are we clear?”

Dwight swallowed the lump in his throat and offered Lord Penvenen a small, bitter smile. “Crystal.”

“Good,” said Ray, satisfied with his victory. “I'll admit it seems a shame to ruin such a wonderful occasion by upsetting my niece, but it cannot be helped. I will not tolerate a friendship between the two of you a second past the stroke of midnight," he warned. "You can leave the way you came in.” Dwight immediately turned around to do just that. “Oh, and Dr Enys,” Lord Penvenen called after him. “If you tell Caroline of our meeting, I will know. If she is even the slightest bit coarse with me over the next month, I will know it was you, and your secret shall be shared just the same.” Dwight cursed inwardly; his plan foiled. “Good day to you, doctor.”

The scent of salty sea air, freshly picked violets and berry compote filled the Nampara dining area.

“Ross, I can get another one myself!” Demelza insisted with a laugh. He always wanted to do everything for her.

Ross shook his head. “I know, but just try mine, it’s delicious.” He pushed his plate between them. “Have you ever tried a savoury crepe before?” Demelza shook her head, so Ross cut her off a small piece and fed it to her.

Caroline frowned at the display of affection, but in truth, she was simply disappointed that Dwight wasn’t here to play cards with her – or to feed her crepes. 

“Mmm, that’s delicious,” Demelza gushed, pressing her fingertips to her lips. “Are there more?” she asked a little shyly, hoping Ross would not be put off by her large appetite.

Ross smirked at her, but his smiled warmed at her timidness. “Of course, I’ll get them,” he said, standing up from his chair to go to the kitchen. “Oh, would you like some more, Caroline?” he called in afterthought.

“No, thank you,” replied Caroline, who had barely touched the three crepes that Ross offered her in the first instance.

Demelza’s eyes went over her friend and her unusually untouched plate. “Are you worried about Dwight?” she asked her.

“Worried?” Caroline repeated, feigning confusion. “Why should I be worried? It’s not like my uncle would shoot him or anything,” she said with a forced nervous laugh. Would uncle Ray shoot Dwight? His fortune was probably large enough to escape the noose. But uncle Ray had no reason to shoot him; they had done nothing untoward. “I’m sure everything is fine,” she said, trying to convince both Demelza and herself of the fact.

Ross returned with yet another plate of crepes and balanced some fillings and toppings on a tray.

“You’d have made a fine footman, Mr Poldark,” Caroline quipped, her mouth curved into a teasing smile.

Ross laughed as he set everything down on the table. “Perhaps,” he mused. “But perhaps then I would have known Demelza longer,” he murmured, taking her hand underneath the table. Demelza squeezed his hand fondly.

“I don’t think so,” Caroline insisted, enjoying muddying their romantic moment.

“Why not?” Ross wondered.

“Because I would never have employed you,” she joked. “Your eyes are far too mischievous for your own good, and a footman must be calm and sensible.”

“Your eyes are very mischievous Ross; they d’ sometimes make me uneasy as to what you might be plannin’!” Demelza agreed with a musical laugh.

“Is that so?” Ross challenged, his hazel eyes darkening to almost brown as he shot Demelza a sultry look that made her abdomen tighten as it never had before.

Demelza silently cleared her throat. “Why do we not take some air?” she wondered, suddenly finding herself over warm and needing some fresh air. “Since ‘tis a rare beautiful day.”

Her suggestion was met with unanimous agreement, and the three friends began walking along the edge of Nampara’s humble but still beautiful garden. Caroline hung awkwardly behind the couple, thinking how much more fun it was to tease them when Dwight was here; now she just felt lonely and left out. 

As though God himself had read her thoughts, a figure came over the hill and into view.

“Is that Dwight’s horse?” Caroline asked Ross and Demelza, her heart pounding erratically in her chest. Would he be upset? Enraged? Hurt? Injured? She could barely look in his direction as he came galloping up the slightly sloped hillside that lead to Nampara.

Dwight could hardly bear to think about his exchange with Ray Penvenen but simultaneously had not been able to think about anything else for the duration of his journey. On the ride over, he had planned the answers to the questions his friends would, no doubt, have; now all he had to do was execute them convincingly.

Ross, Demelza and Caroline approached Dwight as he tied his horse to an old fence post and gave her a fond stroke.

“Hello!” Dwight greeted, wincing at how overly cheerful it sounded. “There you are,” he attempted to say casually as he walked to meet the group. Dwight smiled at Caroline and cleared his throat. “I thought you were at Killewarren? Or had you forgotten our meeting?”

Caroline blinked at him. “No. I did not send you that letter, Dwight. Did you see my uncle? Did he see you?” She was anxiously wringing her hands; Dwight hated that he had to lie to her face.

“No,” he lied smoothly after undue hesitation, faux confusion colouring his handsome features. “You think your uncle sent the letter on your behalf? But why would he? At any rate, I did not see him.” Demelza and Caroline looked both equally pleased and relieved, whereas Ross looked quietly unconvinced. “I was late arriving, so perhaps I missed him.”

“Oh, thank God,” Caroline breathed, her hand pressed against her chest in relief, a smile spreading across her face.

“It’s nice to see you, Dwight,” Demelza chirped, patting his arm.

Dwight smiled at her. “And you, as always, Demelza.” The housemaid returned the doctor’s friendly smile.

“Have you eaten?” Ross asked him. “We might have crepes left for you – if Demelza didn’t eat them all.” His comment was met with an enthusiastic elbow to his ribcage. Ross rubbed the area and grinned at Demelza. “You love me,” he teased in a whisper.

A smile tugged at the corner of Demelza’s lips. “I suppose I could learn to,” she teased in return, feigning consideration before she wandered out of earshot with Ross, their hands intertwined as they walked towards the clifftops.

“How are you today, Caroline?” Dwight absently asked the object of his affection as his eyes followed Ross and Demelza, a soft smile on his face at the sight of his friends’ collective happiness. Caroline informed Dwight that she was well and immediately began explaining some exciting gossip about two people Dwight had never heard of, not that he was really listening anyway. Demelza had her arms over Ross’ shoulders, while his hands rested on the small of her waist. He peppered her face with kisses as she squealed and laughed at the action, unable to wriggle free from his grasp. A wave of unfiltered disappointment washed over Dwight as he realised that could not now ever be him and Caroline. He frowned.

“Dwight,” said Caroline, snapping her fingers in front of his face to get his attention. She laughed at him when he jolted out of his trance. “Is everything alright?” She looked at him carefully; she had never seen him so distracted, not even after a patient of his had died.

He looked at her; her sapphire eyes, her lightly creased brows, the subtle beginnings of a frown, the lights in her hair, the wisp of hair that brushed her cheekbone. How on earth was he ever going to break things off with her, when the very notion of her eyes being on him sent his heart racing at an alarming rate? The situation was impossible. Perhaps he could tell her of what her uncle had said. Yes, he would just tell her. Dwight opened his mouth to speak, but his attention was once again pulled to a laughing Ross and Demelza, who were behind Caroline. Ross had flung Demelza over his shoulders and was spinning them both around, Demelza’s squeals and Ross’ musical laughter filled the summer air. Once Demelza promised that she would be sick on his new shirt if Ross did not put her down, he did so. He then quickly placed a less than chaste kiss on her lips before mumbling something in her ear that made her blush slightly.

“Dwight?” Caroline asked, looking genuinely concerned now.

No matter which way he approached the situation, Dwight knew they could never be as happy as their two friends, for either Dwight would irreparably break with Caroline, or they would have to live in shunned isolation and secrecy: they could never be free. Caroline deserved better than that. “Sorry,” Dr Enys said, finding his voice at last. “I’m a little tired today. Why don’t we go inside, and play bridge?” He was quite impressed by how light he’d managed to make his tone sound when his heart still slowly fell through his chest.

Lady Caroline beamed at him, immediately perking up. “Challenge accepted, Dr Enys. I hope you’ve mastered the art of dealing with defeat; being a sore loser is not a respectable look for a man of your talents,” she flirted before turning around to enter the house.

“I’ll be just a minute,” Dwight called at her back. He closed his eyes and felt the warm sun rays on his face, slowly inhaling and exhaling, willing himself to get a grip. He would have to continue this façade for the next month, so he had better get good at it and quickly - before Caroline grew suspicious.

“Are you going to tell me what really happened at Killewarren?” a voice asked into Dwight’s left ear.

He cracked an eyelid open and was met by Ross’ serious and concerned expression. Dwight knew he could not lie to his best friend. “Yes, but not now,” the doctor whispered. He sighed wretchedly and wiped his face, “Later,” Dwight promised before trudging towards the house, leaving his two friends to anxiously ponder what on earth had transpired at Killewarren that morning. 

Chapter Text

“Why can you not tell me, Ross?” Demelza had yesterday demanded to know, feeling a little hurt by the secrecy. He had invited her and Caroline to Nampara but had ushered Caroline into the library for some reason, insisting that Demelza stay in the sitting area.

Ross had smiled at her question. “Because, my love,” he began, “though your intentions are good, you cannot keep a secret.” Demelza had opened her mouth to protest, but Ross held up a hand. “Your face cannot keep a secret,” he emphasised.

Despite knowing this was true, Demelza had felt small and excluded.

At the present moment, in Lady Caroline’s bedroom, Demelza felt everything but excluded.

Caroline had sent word to one of the hall-boys that she urgently demanded Demelza’s assistance. The housemaid had come sprinting up the stairs from the servants’ dining room, where she had been busy ironing her plain yet best gown, fearing that something had gone amiss with Caroline’s look for this evening. But when Demelza entered the room, Caroline looked a perfect vision in her beaded crimson dress and immediately forced Demelza to close her eyes. Demelza obeyed and allowed herself to be gently pulled along in the large, familiar, lilac bedroom. When at last instructed to open her eyes, Demelza found herself in front of Caroline’s large wardrobe.

“Ta-da!” Caroline revealed to her friend in a sing-song voice as she motioned to the dark-green gown in front of them.

Demelza’s brows furrowed in confusion and she looked to her employer for an answer. “Thar’s beautiful, Caroline,” she acknowledged. “Do you wish to change?”

Caroline laughed. “No, silly, It’s for you!” she chirped, pleased with how she spent her monthly allowance.

“I don’t understand,” Demelza said plainly as she stared at the beautiful, olive-coloured dress. What did Caroline mean the dress was for her? She couldn’t wear something so elegant. What would people say? They would say that she was getting airs above her station, that’s what they would say. “Caroline, I cannot–”

“–Before you refuse, know that it would break my heart,” Caroline warned her. Demelza shot her a helpless look. “You deserve an evening to wear something like this, Demelza,” she insisted, her tone soft. “It’s nothing too fancy; I did not want you to feel uncomfortable; see, I didn’t even buy you gloves! It’s really quite plain with just a little something extra to make you stand out a bit. Oh, please say you’ll wear it!” Caroline begged, clutching Demelza’s hands, excited to see her friend in something more fashionable. “Ross would love it,” she added with a sure smirk.

The fabric was soft beneath Demelza’s palm as she carefully reached out to touch it. She ran a hand over the embroidery that was woven into the tulle before gently smoothing the short, mesh sleeves with her fingertips. She then envisioned herself walking into the parlour; her head held high with the knowledge that she would not look the least bit homely, Ross’ adoring eyes fixed on her before asking her to dance. Demelza dropped her hand and turned to look at Caroline with tears welling in her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered with a sniffle before she enveloped Caroline in a hug.

Uncomfortable with the extent of Demelza's gratitude, Caroline wriggled free sooner than Demelza would have liked. “We’ll say nothing more about it,” she modestly dismissed, as though a Lady buying her housemaid an expensive gown was an everyday occurrence. “Now come, we must find Grace and get you ready!” The two girls exchanged excited glances and went off in search of the other housemaid.

The early August sun had begun its descent in the sky earlier than it was accustomed to, as though hiding from the events of the day. It smeared streaks of fuchsia, red and peach across the twilight sky, stretching from horizon to horizon.

Red sky at night, Shepard’s delight.

“How are things with Demelza?” Dwight asked Ross conversationally, breaking the companionable silence, as they walked up the Tregavethan side road, bound for the servants’ ball at Killewarren.

Ross, who was dressed in his finest black suit and dinner jacket, which was presently hidden beneath his navy trench coat, turned to look at his friend. “Things are well. No, not well, magnificent,” Ross gushed.

“Will you ask her soon?” Dwight probed in tease; a small but genuine smile was etched on his face.

“Perhaps,” Ross mused; his mind already made up. “What are you going to do about Caroline tonight?” he asked the doctor.

Killewarren came fully into view as they walked over the hill. Dwight groaned. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “You’re sure you explained everything to her? Properly? She knows to treat her uncle with the utmost love and care?” He anxiously bit at his finger.

Ross rolled his eyes at Dwight’s lack of faith in the situation. “Yes, yes. I explained everything to her yesterday so that she wouldn’t have to keep the façade up for long. She almost fainted with relief when I told her; she had been wondering what she had done to offend you.” Ross shot him a disapproving look complete with a raised eyebrow.

Dwight bowed his head in shame. “I’ve mishandled the situation, I know. I know I’ve been too brusque with her. But I couldn’t not have been so, for then tonight would have come utterly out of the blue, and she would not have accepted it; you know Caroline, Ross, she would not have accepted it. But then I also could not be overly friendly or else tonight, too, would have come out of nowhere. It was impossible, Ross. I – I just…,” Dwight trailed off, sighing heavily and wiping his face in frustration. “I didn’t – I don’t know what to do. Her uncle forbids our friendship and expects an irreparable row tonight. But I cannot do it – especially not know that Caroline knows. But we cannot continue our friendship at any rate, so perhaps it would have been better if we’d just broken all ties. Oh, why did you tell her, Ross?” he asked with a whine, ramming his hands into his navy suit pocket and nudging a pebble along the road with his leather loafer.

“Because you would never have done it anyway,” Ross stated matter-of-factly.

His statement was met with a puzzled, almost offended look. “What makes you think so?” Dr Enys demanded to know.

Mr Poldark breathed in the summer air and controlled a smile. “Because you are in love with her, Dwight. No, there is no point in denying it,” he said, raising his hand once Dwight opened his mouth to protest. “The heart is a selfish organ, and you could never have done it, which is fortunate, seeing as Caroline is in love with you, too.” Ross proclaimed this announcement with such flippancy it was as though they had been discussing the weather.

The doctor looked sharply at his friend, almost pulling a muscle in his neck in the process. “What makes you think that?” he asked Ross, his eyes wide and his heart pounding in his chest. “Did she say something to you? Or to Demelza?” Ross smirked at Dwight’s lack of composure. Dwight coloured a bit and then cleared his throat. “Not that it matters for I’m not in love with her. She’s just a friend,” he insisted with an overdramatic casual shrug.

Ross grinned as they approached the front courtyard. “You see, my friend, I have done you a favour; you cannot lie even if your life depended on it – which, tonight, it would have!” Ross was still laughing when Dwight bushed him into a rose bush. “Let us hope Caroline is a better actress than you are a liar,” he said, his tone light-hearted but his eyes serious.

A nod of agreement came from Dwight, and he exhaled, steadying himself for the long night ahead. They were soon faced with Killewarren’s large, oak door. “Shall we go inside, then?”

The grand parlour was beautifully and excessively decorated with flowers and candles, silver and gold trinkets littered about the room. The tables which lined either side of the large room were filled with cakes, sandwiches, fruit, pastries and alcohol – a lot of alcohol. Not wishing to take up more space than was necessary with hiring a band, Caroline had convinced her uncle to invest in a gramophone, which stood proudly at the front and centre of the room.

Lord Penvenen had enthusiastically greeted every guest as they arrived, except Dwight, whose existence he had barely acknowledge when he firmly shook Ross Poldark’s hand and welcomed him into his home. Now, several glasses of wine and brandy into the evening, Ray Penvenen gleefully overlooked the evening following his initial reluctance. His staff were happy, and his niece was smiling, laughing and dancing. The servants’ ball was indeed a wonderful occasion for all – high and low – and he made a mental note never to forget to hold this particular ball.

In the back corner of the room, Dr Dwight Enys scowled into his glass of wine, utterly miserable that he was naturally forbidden to dance with Caroline all evening, who looked astonishingly beautiful in a new burgundy frock. To add insult to injury, Ross had danced with Demelza almost all night thus far, much to the chagrin of the other male servants, who vied for the redhead’s attention as she looked so lovely in her olive-coloured dress.

After a while in relative isolation, Demelza had insisted that Dwight join her for a dance instead of ‘sulking in the corner’, to which Dwight had happily obliged. In retaliation, Ross had stolen Dwight’s desired dance partner, Caroline, and had directed a teasing look at the doctor over the Lady’s shoulder, which Dwight had pretended to ignore.

But presently, Ross and Demelza were dancing to Let Me Call You Sweetheart with such a look of love in their eyes; one would have been forgiven for mistaking this as their first dance at their wedding.

“I love this song,” Demelza enthused as Ross led the waltz around Killewarren’s parlour.

“I love you,” he whispered her ear.

She giggled; she would never get tired of hearing that. “I love you, too, Ross.”

“Shall we go somewhere after this dance?” Ross asked Demelza, his hazel eyes dilated with desire.

“Go where?” Demelza wondered, an excited knot in her stomach.

Ross shrugged. “You know the house better than I, can you think of anywhere where we’ll not be disturbed?”

“Yes, I know a place,” Demelza informed him, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. “We can talk in peace there.”

“What if I have other plans for you?” he challenged, his gaze flickering to her lips.

Demelza bit her lip in anticipation, a buzz filling the air around them. “Yes, Ross?” she purred.

The song ended, and Ross immediately took her hand and led her through the crowd of people, none of whom noticed their swift departure.

Over the brass gramophone, Bill Murray’s By The Beautiful Sea began to play, indicating a two-step. Dr Enys decided he would not be bypassing a chance to dance his favourite dance, and so tapped a familiar looking servant on the shoulder, who looked delighted that the handsome doctor had asked her to dance.

Lady Caroline found herself scowling at the pretty, raven-haired housemaid, Grace, who placed her hand on the doctor’s shoulder, where her own hand longed to be. She took a glass of wine from a footman’s tray and downed it in one jealous gulp.

Paul Daniel laughed at her and placed his tray on the table. “Would ‘ee do me the honour of this dance, milady?”

“Why ever not?”

Off to the floor they went, and Caroline was quite impressed to find that her footman was such an excellent dancer, indeed, he was better than half the gentlemen she had danced with this evening. Over Paul’s shoulder, Caroline saw – and heard – Grace laugh at something Dwight had said. She narrowed her eyes at her, at them, before realising that she was being foolish. Why should Dwight stand in the corner all evening simply because he was not permitted to dance with her? And she knew that was precisely the reason he had been sulking there all night thus far. She smiled at Dwight’s excellent form and how he mimed the words to the song. Suddenly his eyes wandered from his partner and met Caroline’s across the room. She failed to control a small smile and blushed. Dwight’s features mirrored hers. 

“What are ‘ee looking at, milady?” Paul asked curiously, having a suspicion he knew exactly what – or who – she was looking at.

Lady Caroline turned her attention back to the footman. “Nothing. I was just checking his Lordship was alright, he finds dancing so tiring nowadays,” she deflected.

Paul smirked slightly. “If ‘ee say so, milady.”

As the song was on its last verse, it struck Dwight that there was no sign of his two dearest friends, who had not missed a dance all evening. The doctor smirked; he had a suspicion he knew precisely where they were, or rather, what they were doing there.

The music stopped, and Dwight bowed politely in front of the young woman. “Thank you, Miss.”

Grace opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted.  

“My uncle is in the smoking room, follow me,” a familiar voice instructed into his ear in a whisper. He followed without hesitation.

With Dwight in tow, Caroline tugged him along carefully by his hand, pausing every few seconds to check that the hallway was still clear. “I think the tearoom ought to be free,” she whispered to Dwight as she gently turned the doorknob and slowly entered.

Once she had taken one step passed the open door, she froze in place at the sight of Ross and Demelza as they broke apart from what had clearly been a passionate embrace, if Demelza's loose curls were anything to go by. “Oh! Forgive me, I’ll try somewhere else,” Caroline proposed, her eyes sparkling with mirth and an amused smirk on her face.

Demelza’s heart pounded wildly in her chest, her hands still on Ross’s shoulders. How could she have been so careless? What if that hadn’t been Caroline who found them? “No, no, perhaps we’d better be going, Ross,” Demelza suggested, an anxious knot in her stomach at having been found in such a precarious position. Thank God it was only Caroline.

“No, no,” Caroline said. “You’re quite safe here; the party is in full swing downstairs, so you needn’t worry. You two stay here and have some more fun,” she added with an arched eyebrow. Ross grinned in reply and Demelza blushed scarlet and smiled sheepishly. Caroline grinned cheekily at her friends. “No hanky panky, mind you,” she warned seriously with a pointed index finger. “Also, you may want to continue at the back of the room where it is darker, in case someone else should walk in. The linen cupboard at the end of the hall may also be a good hiding spot.” And with that, Caroline turned and casually exited the room, firmly closing the door behind her.

Dwight chuckled quietly. “Are we going into the linen cupboard?”

Caroline looked at him as though he were the stupidest person on earth. “Of course, we’re not going into the linen closet, Dr Enys. The small library in the east wing will be unoccupied; it usually is.”

The small library was indeed unoccupied, but luckily, the fire had been lit, and the room was warm. The often-abandoned room was quaint but charming with mauve coloured walls, a chandelier and a wall-to-wall bookshelf; two plush red chaise lounges stared at each other next to the fireplace.

Caroline rocked on her heels, working up the courage to confront Dwight – and to confront her feelings for him.

Dwight looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to speak. “Caroline, why have you–?”

 “–Do you ever think of me, Dr Enys?” she asked with a feigned air of confidence, watching the flames of the fire reflecting in his blue eyes.

Dwight let out a quiet laugh, and he shook his head in disbelief. “Do I ever think of you?” he repeated, staring her in the face.

“I do not understand what is so funny,” Caroline said with rising indignation, her face growing red with embarrassment.

Again, Dwight laughed and shook his head at her. “In truth, I rarely think of anything else,” he confessed, listening to the sound of his beating heart as it echoed in his ears.

Caroline attempted to be casual despite the tight, excited knot in her stomach. “Oh? Is that so?”

“You know it is so. Surely you must have known,” Dwight murmured, their eyes locking. “Why do you ask?”

Damn it; she had hoped he wouldn’t ask her that question. She paced back and forwards slightly, as if her movement would encourage her brain to think clearly, but her skin had not stopped tingling since his confession. “I– I, well I,” she began, stammering with uncharacteristic unease. “It’s just I don’t know men at all, really. I’ve never known a man like you, who sees me and not my title or my impressive dowry. You see Caroline, not Lady Caroline Penvenen.” She smiled shyly. “I- I just wanted to say that I like you very much, Dr Enys. No matter what my uncle thinks of you. Of us.”

Dwight took several steps closer to her, hoping to reassure her of his own feelings. “I like you very much, too,” he murmured.

Caroline smiled with relief and made to take a few steps closer to him but tripped on the ugly, red and yellow, rug and stumbled straight into him.

It was a hand dealt by fate, perhaps, as Dwight caught her with ease and quickly steadied her, his arms remaining on either side of her shoulders. His chest heaved as he stared at Caroline, barely any light passing between their forms as his glance flickered to her lips. “What now?” he whispered into the silent, dimly lit room.

She lifted a hand and placed it delicately on his chest, her fingers toying with the black buttons of his waistcoat. Not to open them, but just to simply revel in their closeness. She could feel his heart hammering in his chest; it matched the rhythm of her own.

Enthusiastically, his lips went straight to hers, drawn in by a magnetic pull stronger than anything he had ever felt before.

She had expected their mouths to come together hard and eager, mirroring the passion that had been building from the moment they first met over ten months ago. Instead, the kiss she felt was tantalising, teasing, as though Dwight were drawing her gently out of her shell with every tentative brush of his lips.

He tasted of wine and oranges and iced cake.

The very sensation of his lips against her own was giving her goosebumps, something that no other man had ever done before. She had been kissed before, of course, but this was different: she felt things in the pit of her stomach, new-born and swirling; powerful emotions raged wildly within her being which made her feel warm yet cold and sick yet never better. Emotions she would only expect from the heroine of some Austen or Bronte novel.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Caroline murmured as they broke their kiss, her face still mere inches from his.

“No, we shouldn’t,” Dwight conceded despite the way his heart plummeted at her words. “But...,” he began and then stopped.

“But,” said Caroline in agreement, a small smile playing on her lips. She lifted her gaze to meet his eyes before daringly kissing him again.

Even dilated by passion, a certain earnestness remained in the swirling depths of his eyes and posed to her an unspoken question, one which the look in her eyes had confirmed.

In truth, she had wanted to be his girl since the day they spent at the fair; Caroline could not remember a day she found more enjoyable, and all company had since paled in comparison to his.

It was quite simple, Lady Caroline Penvenen could - and had during her seasons - meet every eligible bachelor in England, educated and charming young men whom her uncle would happily accept and of whom her father would have approved, but none of them could ever compare to Dwight Enys.

So compassionate and honest and open-minded and stubborn and humorous and wonderful. He was the most complete, interesting person she had ever met.

"Are you sure this is alright?" Dwight asked, not yet ready to let go of her waist, afraid that this may perhaps be the only chance he had to hold her.

His lips still tingled from where her lips had pressed against his own. “Yes,” she breathed, kissing him again. It was more than alright.

But in the back of her mind, Lady Caroline Penvenen knew very well that many an unmarried young lady had lost her good name over far less than what she and Dwight were now doing.

Not to mention how certain they both were that Lord Penvenen would not hesitate to fire his shotgun had the Earl even the slightest inkling of the whereabouts of the lips and hands of the young doctor.

But with her beau's arms around her waist and hers resting on his chest, the young aristocrat felt more alive and exhilarated than she ever had in her whole two decades of life thus far.

No matter what uncle Ray thought, surely this couldn't be wrong, not when it felt so right.

“Would you like to dance?” Dwight asked her, offering his hand and intruding on her thoughts. “We didn’t get a chance earlier.” The soft glow of the fire reflected in his blue eyes.

Caroline breathed a laugh. “But there’s no music,” she pointed out before taking his hand anyway. She revelled in the feel of his hand on her back as they assumed the classic waltz position, his touch was more confident than she expected; he pulled her closer to him, ignoring the standard practice of 6 to 8 inches of distance.

“Well, then, we’ll just have to make some,” the doctor argued with a laugh before he started humming Danny Boy as they began to dance slowly.

Lady Caroline tutted. “That is a thoroughly predictable song choice, Dr Enys. Won’t you choose something a bit more cheerful?” she challenged, her teeth exposed as she offered him a teasing smile.

Dr Enys rolled his eyes at the Lady. “Well, I don’t hear you humming anything, Miss Penvenen,” he argued, continuing to lead the songless dance.

“And neither you shall,” Caroline promised with a wrinkle of her nose, her crimson gown swishing as they circled the rug. “I’m really quite hopeless at singing,” she lied. “So, it must fall to you to provide the music. But to a man of talent such as yourself, I’m sure anything is possible.”

“Nothing is possible without you, Caroline.”

She blushed prettily, and for the first time allowed the full extent of her affection for him to show on her features.

For some reason, a song that Dwight had heard over the gramophone at Christmas came into his mind. He had since heard it played in the hospital and sometimes even in the background of his house-calls. It had followed him like a shadow since he and Caroline had danced to it that evening, so it felt only fitting that he should sing it now. The doctor licked his lips – avoiding Caroline’s now challenging and teasing gaze – and cleared his throat, hoping that he would not butcher The Peerless Quartet’s popular number. He opened his mouth and softly sang:

“I'd like to make your golden dreams come true, Dear

If I only had my way

A paradise this world would seem to you, Dear

If I only had my way

You'd never know a care, a pain, or sorrow

If I only had my way

I'd fill your cup of happiness tomorrow

If I only had my way

If I had my way, Dear, forever there'd be

A garden of roses for you and for me

A thousand and one things, Dear, I would do

Just for you, just for you

If I had my way we would never grow old

And sunshine I'd bring every day

You would reign all alone, like a queen on a throne

If I had my way.”

Caroline was not sure whether it was the lyrics themselves or the way that Dwight sang them that made her legs feel weak. She silently cleared her throat. “You have a nice voice,” she complimented. The light from the fire was growing dimmer. “You could be a famous singer if you get bored of being a doctor,” taunted Lady Caroline with a gleaming smile.

Dwight laughed at her and shook his head. “Thank you, but I don’t think I will ever get bored. I wouldn’t have the time!” They were still dancing.

“I like that song, Dr Enys,” Caroline murmured. “It reminds me of Christmas.”

A smile met her comment. “It reminds me of you, Miss Penvenen.”

Miss Penvenen’s heart skipped several beats in her chest, and her hand tingled against his own. “Me?” she asked, feigning confusion and trying to laugh off the inference. “Why should it remind you of me?”

The dryness of his mouth prevented him from being too forward. “We danced to it at Christmas,” Dwight answered, which was not a lie, just not the whole truth. “Don’t you remember?”

“Of course, I remember,” Caroline insisted before putting a stop to their waltzing, which was making her dizzy and breathless – or perhaps it was merely her dance partner. With only the slightest degree of hesitancy, Caroline placed the palm of her hand on his face and kissed him. It was a deep kiss, but one that spoke of familiarity – as though they had been doing so forever - a force of habit.

Caroline suddenly pulled back, Dwight’s lips momentarily chasing hers, before he stopped, opened his eyes and looked at her. She placed her hands on his chest, privately wishing that one day she would get to feel what lay beneath the layers of his suit. “We should go before uncle Ray sends a search party out for me,” Caroline pointed out; they had been here longer than was sensible. “And the hounds out for you,” she warned with only a half-teasing smile.

Dwight laughed. “Perhaps that would be wise. You go first, and I’ll wait here a few more minutes and then follow. I’ll pretend I was speaking with Ross.”

“What if Ross is downstairs?” asked Caroline, fussing her bottom lip.

“He won’t be,” Dwight dismissed with certainty. “He and Demelza are probably still in the small library. At any rate, he will be somewhere with Demelza – he loathes parties, as well you know.”

They both laughed in the knowledge that their plan would be safe thanks to their dear friend Ross Poldark’s reluctance to engage with society and its conventions.

Lady Caroline cleared her throat. “Well, goodnight, then, Dr Enys,” she said, her eyes alight with mirth.

“Remember to look like you hate me when you walk in,” Dwight reminded her, a half-teasing, half-sad smile playing on his lips.

Caroline hummed and placed her hands on his chest. “I’m not sure how good I’ll be at that,” she drawled before kissing him. She rested her forehead against his, feeling sad that she now had to go; his furrowed brows told her that Dwight felt the same way. “We’ll think of something,” Caroline promised. “It will all come right in the end.” 

Dwight breathed a chuckle. “It will all come right in the end,” he repeated, trying to convince himself and God of the fact.

With a quick kiss goodnight, Caroline turned around and left the room, pausing to look back at him and smile before she closed the door behind her.

Dwight stood in the dimming room alone, the significance of what had just happened slowly trickled up the length of his body. He felt a queer desire to celebrate as though his team had just won an important football match. The doctor then sobered as he wondered how in God’s name they could continue to see each other when her uncle had expressly forbidden it and was out for his neck. He quickly pushed all thoughts from his mind and simply revelled in the memory of Caroline’s soft lips against his own, the feeling of her in his arm, the look of unmistakable adoration she had directed at him. For now, it was enough that he simply had her private affection; he would strive to be worthy of her.

Demelza leaned her forearms against the stone wall, welcoming the cooling sensation against her hot skin; she was still exhausted from all the dancing earlier – and all the kissing. She glanced up and smiled at the clear, night sky. The golden stars winked above her as though they held a precious secret.

The night suddenly felt too quiet, and a wave of inspiration came over her. She turned to face Ross, a smirk on her face.

“Come Josephine in my flying machine,” Demelza began to sing enthusiastically, taking Ross’ hands and pulling him along in a circle, a gleaming smile lighting up her countenance, “Going up she goes! Up she goes!” She bounced on her tiptoes before dropping Ross’ hands. He followed her form with slight confusion etched on his features as she climbed onto the small stone wall, her arms outstretched by her sides. “Balance yourself like a bird on a beam, in the air she goes!” She hopped off the wall.  “There she goes!” Ross was a bit worried she might hurt herself dancing around the garden like this, but he was far too enchanted by her performance to voice his concerns. Presently, Demelza came back for him and jumped into his arms; he caught her with amused ease. “Up, up, a little bit higher. Oh! My! The moon is on fire,” Demelza feigned shock, and Ross laughed at her. “Come Josephine in my flying machine, going up, all on, Goodbye!” The sound of her beautiful singing faded softly into the shimmery night sky.

Demelza giggled and placed a quick kiss on Ross’ lips before planting her feet back onto solid ground again. She walked back over to the wall, which leaned far over, pausing to take a deep breath of the spicy summer air, absolute contentment colouring her expression.

“Demelza,” Ross said softly. Her name rolled so easily off his tongue, as though it had been created for the sole purpose of being on his lips.

She turned to look at him, a vision in her green dress. “Yes, Ross?” Her expression was expectant.

Ross inhaled and exhaled, knowing what must be done but feeling stressed about it all the same. “I – I do not think it is right we continue to see each other like this.”

“Oh,” was all Demelza was able to say as she felt as though she had been stabbed in the stomach – in the heart – scarcely able to move or breathe. The happiness of the evening had been shattered for her – had it all been an illusion?

He took a few steps closer to her, but she could not – would not – look at him. “I care too much for your reputation,” he continued desperately. “People talk.”

Her eyes remained downcast. “I see,” Demelza whimpered, her lips trembling and tears threatening to leak from her eyes.

Ross put his finger under her chin and guided it until her eyes finally met his own. He licked his dry lips. “So, would you marry me?”

Demelza’s legs very nearly collapsed from beneath her. “W–what?” she breathed. She could not believe what she was hearing. Marry him? She thought he had been trying to break things off between them.

“Demelza Carne, will you marry me?” Ross repeated, taking her hand and moving to kneel on one knee. He did not care that he would get mud on his new, expensive trousers. From his jacket pocket, Mr Poldark brought out a ring and looked into Demelza’s wide eyes as he awaited her answer. Perhaps it was too soon, he thought miserably, for Demelza stared at him like a startled owl. She loved him, of that he knew, but would she accept him?

“Well I – I,” Demelza stammered, looking about her to ensure the world had not turned upside down. She then found Ross’ eyes. “Yes,” she said; there could be no other answer. “Yes! Of course! Yes!”

From the moment Ross had shaken her hand in the draughty spare bedroom in Killewarren, he had been drawn to her magnetism, he had at once felt he had to know her. Demelza was one of those people who were irresistible. Like a sun-filled window, he was compelled to lean towards her.

The ring on her finger sparkled, clean and polished in comparison to her already worn hands, which still held their own kind of softness. “It’s beautiful, Ross,” Demelza murmured, trying to take it all in. “Thank you.”

Ross enveloped her into a hug and lifted her feet from the ground as he spun her around, laughing in victory. Demelza joined his laughter, and her eyes pricked with happy tears. He gently put her down.

“I love you,” she said, taking his hand and squeezing it.

Ross pulled her in closer. “I love you, too,” he murmured. “Now give me a kiss.”

Demelza laughed at his order but happily obliged.

When they broke, Ross asked her: “When do you think, then? For the wedding.”

Miss Carne was a bit taken aback by his question; she knew nothing of these things. She didn’t know when a good time would be or how long a person should wait before setting a date. Should she have waited longer to accept him? They had only officially been courting for three months, after all. But it somehow just felt right. “I – don’t know,” Demelza admitted. “When do you think?”

“October,” he answered easily. “I think October weddings are nice. It’s usually not to hot nor too cold, and there’s still plenty of flowers in bloom then.”

“October?” Demelza repeated, her eyes wide. “But that’s only two months away!”

Ross’ face fell slightly. “If you wish to wait a while longer then, of course, that is fine.” He brought her knuckles up to his lips and kissed them, hoping that the action would signal that he did not wish to pressure her.

“October sounds wonderful,” Demelza then said dreamily. Ross beamed at her. “Truth be told, Ross, I d’ believe I’d marry you now,” she admitted, if a little shyly.

“Is that so?” Ross inquired, his gaze flickering to her lips. “And there I thought your hesitancy meant you had commitment issues,” he joked.

“No commitment issues here,” she promised him, sealing the promise with a deep kiss. Once they broke for air, Demelza’s lips twisted into a mischievous smile. “So, what shall we name our children?”

Ross tripped over an invisible object. “Steady on!” he said with wide eyes. Demelza laughed at him before luring him over to the wall to sit. There was a perfectly good bench around the corner, they both knew, but there was something much more enjoyable about sitting on the garden wall, perhaps it was merely their rebellious streaks manifesting. “I have always liked the name Jeremy,” Ross whispered into the night air.

Demelza breathed a laugh and looked at him, adoration in her eyes. “Jeremy Poldark,” Demelza tried out. “I like it. It fits well.”

Ross covered her hand with his own; her engagement ring tickling his palm and sending a feeling of love and warmth throughout his body. “Do you know what other name I like the sound of?” he asked her. She shook her head. “Demelza Poldark. Now that has a ring to it.”

Demelza giggled and placed her head on Ross’ shoulder. “Shut up, Ross,” she murmured, a soft smile on her face.  

They stayed outside discussing their future plans until Demelza’s head began to droop against Ross’ shoulder, where he then announced that it was perhaps time for bed. Although in separate ends of the house, it would be the most pleasant sleep either had had in their entire lives.

Lady Caroline Penvenen’s eyes fluttered open prematurely on the morning of 4th August 1914. Her sight was met by her darkened bedroom, but from the edges of the curtains, she could see that it was morning. She found herself in high spirits after her evening with Dwight; she brought her hands to her lips, and they tingled as she remembered the sensation of his mouth pressed against her own. Compartmentalising any further indecent thoughts, Caroline swung her long legs over the side of her bed, stepped into her slippers and moved to open the curtains. Her eyes were immediately assaulted by the still pinkish-orange glare of the sun; it must be earlier than she thought.

Red sky in the morning, Shepard’s warning.

She squinted her eyes at the small clock on the mantelpiece, which informed her it was just after five o’clock. With a happy sigh that comes with the knowledge that one can guiltlessly go back to sleep, Caroline closed over the thick curtains and padded back to her large bed, where she climbed under the covers and soon fell back to sleep. Her pleasant dreams went undisturbed for another three hours, where she was then awoken by a soft knock on the door by Demelza.

Caroline sat up against the pillows and rubbed her eye. “Come in,” she granted with a small yawn.

Demelza emerged from behind the white, wooden door, her face glowing and smiling.

“Demelza?” asked Caroline, a confused smile on her face at Demelza’s delighted expression.

“Eeeeeek!” was all Demelza said, or rather shrieked, as she walked up to the edge Caroline’s bed and displayed the ring on her finger.

“Oh, wow, that’s beautiful,” Caroline complimented, taking her hand and examining the silver band and the diamond that sat in the middle. Only then did it strike Caroline on which finger the gorgeous ring was placed.  She gasped and looked at her redhaired friend, who still grinned from ear-to-ear; she had fallen asleep that way and had woken up just the same. “Oh, Demelza! How wonderful!” Caroline squealed, enveloping the housemaid into a tight hug; so tight, in fact, that Demelza stumbled and came tumbling onto the mattress alongside Caroline.

The two women came to lie side-by-side one another on the large bed, their hair splayed out and their elbows brushing as they cackled in amusement at their clumsiness. 

Demelza didn’t think anyone had ever hugged her so tightly in her entire life, not even her youngest brother, Drake. “I’m so happy, Caroline,” she murmured, staring up at the white high-ceiling. “I feel as though someone handed me the sun, and I don’t rightly know what to do with it.” A satisfied smile spread across Demelza’s face, and she sighed happily.

Caroline giggled; love had made Demelza endearingly poetic. “I’m so happy for you, Demelza. And for Ross. You are perfectly suited, you know, no matter what hollow gossip may say to the contrary, remember that.”  She then thought about telling Demelza about how things stood with her and Dwight after last night but did not want to hijack her moment. “You’re not allowed to leave me yet,” Caroline insisted, tightly taking Demelza’s hand and offering her a doe-eyed pout. “And you must visit me at least once a week when you do.”

“Always.”

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Caroline chirped as she entered the room, her stomach rumbling, demanding its fair share of scrambled eggs on toast. She was quite put out when she took her seat and still not a single person had acknowledged her presence or greeting, not even Dwight. They were all engrossed in newspapers or telegrams. This is why women need the vote, Caroline thought to herself, we are always being ignored. She searched for Dwight’s eyes again, hoping he would feel her glare on him, but he did not. So, he was going to throw her over after all, after the beautiful evening they shared! But that did not explain why the other men at the table behaved similarly disinterested in her presence. “Have I missed something?” Caroline half-joked she took a bite of her toast.

A low voice came from her left, and she recognised it as Ross Poldark’s. “Germany has invaded France through Belgium,” he informed her in a voice that did not sound like his own as he broke the tense silence.

A cluster of egg rolled from the slice of whole wheat toast and bounced off the carpeted floor, but nobody noticed. “But does that not mean...?” she began, scarcely able to breathe, her eyes searching for Dwight’s, which remained fixed on the newspaper headline of the Cornish Echo.

“Yes, my dear,” Ray Penvenen confirmed solemnly, gently touching his niece’s hand. “We are at war.”

Dwight’s blue eyes suddenly met Caroline’s across the breakfast table. For a moment his eyes seemed to her to be shielded by a helmet and his grey suit replaced by a khaki army uniform. She found an apology in his eyes for what she imagined, for they both knew her vision was to come true.

Chapter Text

Lieutenant Dwight Enys of his majesty’s Royal Army Medical Corps stood on the bustling platform and narrowed his eyes at the cold, unfeeling, grey September morning.

He had never given much thought to how he would die, but alone in a muddy field somewhere on continental Europe was not exactly his dream. Still, to die in the service of King and country would not be a poor way to exit this life, he conceded. Dwight also conceded that the manner in which he had chosen to part with Caroline was indeed a poor way to exit Cornwall. With all his might he had resisted returning the letters she had sent him inquiring how he was, how he was enjoying training and when he was to return before going overseas.

He missed her already.

As Dr Enys stood awaiting the train alone, he wished for nothing more than for Caroline to be by his side, perhaps holding his hand and comfortably resting her head on his shoulder; he could almost feel her blonde curls tickling the side of his neck. But he knew that war was uncertain, and he knew that it would be wiser and kinder to them both - to Caroline - to allow their attachment to fade out. But was it fairer? No, he could not say that it was; it certainly did not feel fair, but in the back of Dwight’s mind, he felt it was the right thing to do. In essence, if the worst came to pass, he did not want her to have to mourn for him – though little did Dwight realise that Caroline’s feelings were such that she would do so whether their attachment was fixed or not.  

Lieutenant Enys looked around him at some of the uniformed young men – some too young – and wondered if they harboured similar thoughts and fears; their expressions ranged from steely determination to trepidation to complete undiluted terror. Suddenly, Dwight’s thoughts were interrupted by the uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched. Glancing to his left, his gaze was met by a figure which stood out from the crowd – who always stood out from the crowd.

“Caro–,” he began, his eyes round in shock. “Lady Caroline,” he smoothly corrected with a quick clear of his throat, glancing at the other people on the platform.

“Dr Enys,” she greeted evenly, making her way through the small gathering of soldiers and their families as they awaited the train to Southampton.

Dwight looked at her as she came to stand in front of him. She wore a new light blue coat which matched her eyes and brought out the lights of hair, which was partly concealed by a lop-sided matching hat. Her lips were painted a daring shade of red and Dwight thought he might have seen them tremble.

“How did you know I had returned?” he whispered so that only she could hear. He had deliberately not sent word of his return from basic training as he wished to part with ease and without a scene. But not without a single word – he had written her an exceedingly long letter detailing his love for her as well as a hope that she would find someone else; the letter had been sent to Demelza to give to Caroline in a week’s time when they knew he would be anonymous somewhere in France.

“No one in this town is good at keeping secrets,” she lied casually, having had Mr Martin drive her to St Agnes at an unholy hour last night to confirm if Mrs Paynter had indeed spotted Dr Enys in the village that day, where she then proceeded to drag Dwight’s manservant, Bone, whom she had only met once, out of his bed for interrogation. Bone had confirmed to her that Dr Enys had indeed returned to collect some of his things before leaving tomorrow and that he was spending the night at The Station Inn in Truro. “Why did you not answer any of my letters? Why did you not come and say goodbye?” she demanded, her eyes full of hurt. The rhythmic rolling of train wheels sounded in the distance.

Dwight sighed heavily, shakily. “Because it would have been too difficult. I thought it would have been easier to part without your knowledge. I thought it would have been easier if you’d just forgotten me,” he tried to explain. In case I die, he wanted to add.

“And would it?” she challenged, her chest rising and falling steadily, disguising the anxious knot which was anchored there.  

Dwight shook his head. “No,” he admitted softly. “I’m very glad you came.” Caroline offered him a small smile; Dwight desperately wanted to kiss her but knew he could not. “I am only sorry you had to get up so early,” he joked, trying to keep the mood light despite the dark cloud that hung over them and all of Europe.

Caroline chuckled. “Yes, Demelza’s face was quite the picture when I snuck down to the servants’ hall before it had even gone six o’clock!” she exclaimed with a laugh before sobering. “But I couldn’t let you go without saying goodbye,” she said seriously, her face set into stubborn determination.

The platform was becoming uncomfortably crowded now, and cries of goodbye rang out around them; the energy heavy and oppressive. The train whistle grew louder.

It was now or never. “Caroline, if I don’t come back–”

“–Dwight, don’t talk like that!”

“If I don’t come back,” he persisted, staring into her eyes. “I– I want you to happy. Please know that whatever becomes of me, I want you to be happy. Our time spent together this past year has made me the happiest of men; I am better man for knowing you and for that I thank you.”

“Don’t be silly,” she protested severely, her heart beating wildly at his attempts to be gallant. I could only be happy with you. “Everything will be fine–”

“–All abroad!” called the station master as the train came to a screeching halt beside them.

They shared a desperate look, one which said more than a thousand words ever could. People swarmed around them, elbows and suitcases nudging them as soldiers made their way to the carriage doors.

“Well, goodbye, my darling,” Dwight said, taking her hand to his lips and swallowing the hard lump on his throat. It was the first time, and maybe the last time, he had addressed her as such. There was more, so much more, he wanted to say to her, but time did not permit it.

Caroline's hand tingled and she opened her mouth, but its dryness and the lump in her throat prevented words from coming out. “Dwight, I–”

“All abroad!” the conductor repeated to the remaining few who stayed stubbornly on the concrete platform.

The station clock ticked loudly above Caroline’s head. She couldn’t even bid him farewell properly, there were too many people she recognised, more still who would have recognised her, and Uncle Ray could not find out she was ever here, or there would be hell to pay for them both. Dwight again speedily kissed her hand and offered her a watery smile before turning around to board the train. Caroline watched him go, looking so handsome and noble in his khaki uniform, and wondered if she had it in her to be as brave as he was.

She found that she did.

“Wait!” she called after Dwight, clutching his arm and pulling him towards her. She placed her hands on either side of his face and kissed him without restraint. A few whistles sounded from the Tommies who hung out of the train windows and encouraged the passionate embrace. “Goodbye,” she breathed, her forehead resting against his.

“I love you,” he murmured. The words had spilled from his mouth before he’d had the good sense to swallow them, but he was relieved he had finally gotten a chance to admit it. One should always tell the people you love that you love them while they can still hear the words from your lips.

Caroline breathed a chuckle and her smile wobbled. “I love you, too,” she whispered as she stroked his cheek gently, trying to commit his features to memory.

Dwight blinked away tears that threatened to fall. “And that knowledge, my love, shall keep me safe.” He clasped her hand tightly and then let it go, picking up his bag and boarding the train seconds before it moved off.

Lieutenant Enys squeezed his way to a second-class carriage window, where he then proceeded to join the other soldiers in leaning out of the train to bid farewell to the people they loved, their hands all raised in goodbye, cries of devotion and promises ringing out and filling the crisp morning air. Dwight and Caroline’s eyes remained locked until the train trudged around the corner and was gone. Caroline then found herself alone on the grey platform, cold and shaking, surrounded by whimpering wives, fiancées and children, and felt an overwhelming desire to weep at her own insignificance.  

Tap, tap, tap.

That was Demelza’s hand. “Go away.”

Knock, knock, knock.

“I said go away, Demelza!” Caroline grumbled loud enough for her to hear, sniffing furiously against her duvet cover.

The housemaid firmly ignored her employer’s order and came into the room. When Caroline’s eyes met Demelza’s, she frowned at the sight of her blonde friend, who was lying on the middle of her bed, still wearing her coat but only one of her shoes, her hair was a little unkempt, and her eyes were so puffy Demelza was certain that Caroline must have been crying for the past hour, though there were no tears on her face now.

Demelza sighed and frowned as she sat on the edge of Caroline’s bed, feeling very sad herself. “So, Dwight is really gone?” she asked.

Her question was met by a silent nod.

“Oh, Caroline, I’m that sorry,” Demelza murmured, her ginger brows creased in sympathy. “What can I do?” She gently placed her hand on Caroline’s arm and gave it an encouraging rub.

Lady Caroline Penvenen pushed herself up into a sitting position on her bed and looked her friend in the face. “Nothing. There’s nothing you can do, Demelza. There’s nothing anyone can do. Dwight is gone. He might never come back, and I have no right to be informed if and when he does. I love him, I told him so this morning.” Demelza’s features coloured with delighted surprise. “He loves me, too,” Caroline said, a small albeit sad smile on her face. “If he– If Dwight dies– I will feel like his widow, but I will not be. I will be nothing.”

Demelza wrapped her arm around Caroline and gave her a squeeze. “Come now, we can’t think like that. Dwight won’t die. He’s a doctor, remember? He won’t be in the middle of it, will he? He’ll be in hospitals helping people, just like he normally does. Only now ‘twill be in France for a while instead of England,” stated Demelza with a slightly cheerful tone, trying to lift Caroline’s frown.

It began to work. “I suppose you’re right,” Caroline said after a while, her voice a little stronger. “I only wish that we had come to some agreement like you and Ross – if the worst does happen.”

“It won’t,” Demelza said with unshakeable confidence. “I’m sure Dwight will marry you the second he sets foot back over the channel.” Caroline breathed a chuckle but did not want to tempt fate by stating out-loud how happy such a thing would make her. “Have you eaten, milady? I will bring you up some soup and a sandwich later,” Demelza promised. “Would you like me to ride into Truro to get you some more of those fudge pieces you liked? Or perhaps some strawberry bonbons?”

Caroline let out a sob-laugh and patted Demelza’s hand. “You are the kindest person I know, do you know that Demelza? But no, thank you, I think they would just make me feel even more nauseous than I do already. Thank Heavens the war will be over by Christmas,” she said with a shaky sigh, attempting blink away the tears that moistened her eyes. “When is Ross back? When will he leave?” Caroline asked Demelza, blowing into her handkerchief. How horrible that she would lose the two men closest to her in such a short space of time.

Demelza controlled a smile. “That’s actually why I came to speak with you,” she said.

“Oh?”

“I didn’t want to mention it before because the date wasn’t certain until yesterday, but Ross and I will be married next Friday when he returns from basic training. He took out a special licence before he left.”  Caroline gasped and then grinned. “He then leaves for France on Saturday afternoon. It’s all a mite fast, gettin’ married, I d’ know, but it just feels right,” Demelza murmured, a warm smile stretched across her face. “It won’t be nothin’ fancy, it’s just to be in the town hall. But I wondered if you would be a witness?”

“Of course!” Caroline exclaimed, her disposition brightening. “But we must throw you a reception, Demelza. Perhaps we could have it here. Oh! I could plan it all for you, you wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. I could decorate the parlour and order all the flowers. I shall send a telegram to Mrs Mason this very minute and perhaps we could also–”

“–Caroline,” Demelza interjected, an amused smile on her face. “Ross don’t want no grand affair, and truth be told neither do I. We just want to be married and then spend our last day at Nampara together,” she explained gently.

Caroline’s face fell. “Oh,” she said, somewhat deflated; she loved planning events. “Of course, whatever you wish, Demelza.” The lady patted her housemaid’s hand. “But you must allow me to contribute in some way,” Caroline insisted with a pout and her best doe eyes.

Demelza Carne, very soon to be Demelza Poldark, laughed and smiled brightly. “Thank you. I’m sure we can find something for you to do over the next week.”

A satisfied smile pulled at the corners of Caroline’s mouth before she sobered. “Everything is changing, isn’t it, Demelza? I don’t know why but it feels like nothing will ever be the same again,” Caroline said softly, anxiously playing with her fingers. She hoped that her feeling did not mean the worst would come to pass.

Demelza solemnly nodded in agreement and then leaned over and enveloped her friend into a tight hug; the two ladies sat like that for a while, contemplating what the next few months of their lives would bring. One thing was for certain: they would have each other to them through it all. They would always have each other.

Chapter Text

Ross Vennor Poldark and Demelza Lyon Carne were married on Friday, September 25 th 1914, in Truro Town Hall with three witnesses present: Lady Caroline Penvenen, Mr Harris Pascoe and Miss Jinny Carter.

Dressed in a fashionable grey morning-coat, the pocket of which was filled with a corsage of heather and cornflowers, Ross Poldark had never looked so handsome as he stood next to his bride.

The bride, Demelza, wore a forgotten cream dress of Caroline’s, who insisted it be specially embroidered with some lilac flowers around the chest for the occasion and that some white lace also be added about the sleeves for elegance. The gown was complimented by a fresh bouquet of yellow roses and indigo cornflowers and a pretty flowered silver crown which emphasised the fiery red shade of Demelza’s hair. 

Ross swallowed thickly when the time came to exchange vows; he took out a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and unfolded it carefully, trying to disguise the slight nervous tremor of his hand. “Demelza,” he began, glancing at the beautiful, vibrant, young woman opposite him. “When I returned to Cornwall, I arrived here feeling defeated and today I stand here in victory.” He smiled brightly at her. “I arrived here with a broken heart and no purpose. You have not only mended my heart but opened it in a way which I never thought possible. I never thought that the housemaid whom I bumped into in my pyjamas would end up being the woman who returned my purpose to me,” everyone present in the room giggled, “Dear God, that was the luckiest day of my life.” Ross chuckled slightly as he remembered their introduction a year ago. “Though the future is somewhat uncertain, I know that with you by my side, we can face whatever comes,” he concluded, clearing his throat in attempts to vanquish the lump that gathered there. Normally a man of few words, Ross had surprised himself by how much he had to say about Demelza, and had put more effort into his vows than anything he could recall in recent or distant memory.

Demelza’s lips wobbled as they stretched to form a wide smile across her face; she had never imagined she could feel so loved. She wasn’t quite sure she deserved it, but she would gladly take it all the same. “Ross, until I met you, in truth, I never knew men could be kind and decent and warm and good.” Her eyes shone brightly as she looked upon his face. “I never thought that such a man would ever choose to wed me. Oh, Ross, I feel like the sun follows me everywhere I go,” Demelza murmured: she then laughed as some tears trickled down her face. “And I hope - I know - it will shine on us. I love you.”

“I will always choose you,” he promised, giving her hand a quick kiss. 

The officiator looked to Demelza. “Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? In sickness and in health, until death do you part?” 

“I do,” Demelza eagerly confirmed. 

He then turned to Ross. “And you, Sir, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? In sickness and in health, until death parts you?” 

Ross smiled and squeezed their joined hands. “I most certainly do.” 

“Then you may kiss your bride.” 

Leaning forward, Ross placed both hands on either side of his wife’s face and kissed her without restraint; the officiator blushed. 

A handkerchief was discreetly pulled out by Caroline, who may or may not have had something in her eye as Ross and Demelza sincerely proclaimed their love for each other in their vows. “It was just dust,” Caroline quietly claimed to the other witnesses – even though they had not asked. “They really must hire a better housekeeper for such a public space.”

As they bride and groom turned to make their leave

“Anything Demelza wants shall be hers,” Ross said to Pascoe. “I leave her in full control of my money,” he reminded the banker and long-term friend. 

“Oh, no, but Ross-” Demelza began to protest. 

“-Already arranged, my love,” Ross dismissed, firmly shaking Pascoe’s hand, whose eyes crinkled as he smiled brightly at his favourite client. 

Pascoe then offered his hand to Demelza. “It was lovely to finally meet you, my dear. I wish you both every happiness. If you should ever be wanting for company while this young man,” he pointed to Ross, “is off fighting the hun then do feel free to drop by the bank in Truro for a cup of tea,” he offered with a genuine warmth to his tone. 

Demelza shook his hand firmly and grinned. “Thank you, Sir. I’ll be sure to make time whenever I’ve a free afternoon,” Demelza promised with equal warmth. 

With a tip of his hat, Pascoe went in search of his chauffeur; Jinny had left almost immediately to see to matters at Nampara, ensuring everything would be in shape for the newlyweds arrival home.

Only Caroline now remained, and she swayed gently in front of them, a song stuck in her head which Dwight had once sang to her. “Well, my dears, I shall leave you to your wedded bliss,” she announced with an inferring smirk. “Demelza, I shall see you tomorrow evening, should you decide to return to me after an evening in your new home.” Demelza laughed at Caroline’s slight pout. “Ross, I’m not sure when we’ll next meet again. So I must warn you to first take care of my dear friend tonight and every night as long as you remain together, and second to take care of yourself in France. No stupid heroics, Mr Poldark,” Caroline warned with a pointed index finger. 

Ross laughed and kissed her on the cheek before enveloping her into a friendly goodbye hug. “Goodbye, Caroline,” Ross said, giving her a fond squeeze. “Look after her while I’m gone,” he whispered seriously. 

Caroline clung onto Ross for a moment longer, reluctant to see the man whom she had long considered a brother go off to war. “You have my word,” she promised, her tone sincere. 

Satisfied, Ross nodded in thanks and approached Demelza, taking her hand in his; she smiled brightly and squeezed her husband’s hand. “Shall we go?” Ross asked his wife. 

“We shall,” she chirped, waving goodbye to Caroline before walking away from the town hall. When Seumas came into view, Demelza grew visibly excited and Ross knew he had made the correct decision not to rent a motor car for the day as he thought Demelza would have preferred horseback; she was quite a natural at it already. “Oh, Ross, can I ride? Please?” Demelza set her best wide doe eyes on her husband and he was powerless to resist. 

“Alright, you may,” he answered with a smile, finding her excitement endearing. Ross offered Demelza a boost up and took his seat behind her, tightly snaking his arms around her waist. “Lead the way.”

As they rode North, the clouds seemed to disperse slightly, and allowed the sun to join them now and again on their journey to Nampara. 

Butterflies fluttered in Demelza’s stomach as the sight of the now familiar house came into view as they rode over the hill; they both smiled.

“Well, my love, welcome home,” Ross murmured as he pulled on Seamus’ reins. 

Demelza smiled at the thought: home . Ross slid off the horse with ease and held his arms out slightly to catch Demelza as she dismounted the horse; he caught her with ease. They walked a few paces before Ross stopped in his tracks. 

“Ross!” Demelza shrieked as he swept her feet off the ground and lifted her into his arms, their laughter filling the air. He approached the door of Nampara and gently kicked it open, never letting her go.

There were greeted by Jinny, a delicious dinner - the finest meal Demelza had ever tasted - and a wedding cake, which Caroline had sent to Nampara as a gift. 

They had been civilised for a moment and had cut the cake with a large knife together, before each grabbing a fork and eating it whole.

They sat in the warm dining room, simply enjoying each other’s company and conversation. Ross could listen to Demelza talk for hours, for the rest of his life, he liked hearing her thoughts, her opinions, the lilt of the Cornish accent she constantly tried to school. 

Seeing him staring at her with an amused expression, Demelza swiped her finger through the icing and placed some on the tip of Ross’ nose; he repeated the action and they laughed. Feeling a little bolder, Demelza placed some on Ross’ lips, brushing it first with her thumb before kissing it away. 

Ross broke the kiss and tipped her chin upwards slightly, smoothing a smidgen of frosting onto the underside of her jawline.

Blood burned in Ross’ veins as he traced his lips along Demelza’s throat, feeling her pulse quicken beneath his mouth. Sighing softly, Demelza tugged on Ross’ hair to gain his attention and pressed her lips against his own; the kiss was certain, familiar, yet born of a new passion. 

A passion that, Ross lamented, could not be fulfilled tonight; he was to leave for France - for war - in the morning, and only God knew when - if - he would return, to consummate their marriage and leave Demelza alone with any possible consequence from their actions would be beyond foolish and-

“Demelza, would you join me upstairs?” Ross asked before the logic of his brain could catch up with the pounding of his heart and the desire which coursed through his veins for the woman who sat beside him.

Demelza knew exactly what he was asking. “Yes, Ross,” she breathed, her voice both certain and slightly wavering; she was naturally nervous about what she knew awaited them upstairs. She wanted to, she wanted to more than anything, but what if she wasn’t good at it? Can one be bad at it? She thought she had heard so. What if she was bad and Ross would be put off her? Though the way he looked at her now, she doubted he ever would.

He had guided her upstairs with the gentle tug of his hand, their fingers interlaced. Now alone in their bedroom, Ross wasted no time undressing his bride. He gently unlaced her corset, dragging his fingers through the laces to ensure they were sufficiently loosened. Watching the garment drop to the floor, Ross put his hand on his wife’s bare back and carefully traced the dip of her waist; Demelza noted that his hands were warm and steady. 

Despite being free of the restrictions of her corset, Demelza’s chest remained tight with anticipation. She turned to Ross and gently put her hands on his chest, carefully plucking several buttons open before kissing him deeply.

“I am your humble servant,” Ross murmured, trailing kisses down his wife’s neck. He then found her eyes. “And I love you.” 

With a smile, Demelza put her hands on his shoulders, which she then pulled towards her until she felt the softness of the mattress beneath her and the welcome weight of Ross on top of her. “I love you, too,” she whispered happily. 

The candles flickered brightly on either side of the bed. They made love long into the night.

Ross Poldark awoke the next morning with a heavy heart; the daylight beckoned him. He looked at the sleeping young woman next to him - his heart unable to decide whether the sight of his wife lightened his heart or made it heavier, given that he would soon have to leave her - and only God knew for how long. It was not far to Plymouth but Ross dreaded the journey already – he knew it would be the longest of his life. He would sit in an aisle seat and stare straight ahead, he had decided, for he could not bear to watch beloved Cornwall pass him by through the window, he could not bear to think of all he was now leaving behind.

Mrs Poldark stirred, stretching her long, bear legs and purred as she did so. “Good morning, husband,” Demelza murmured, 

“I live to please,” Ross murmured, his eyes alight with mirth and desire. 

“So I gathered.” 

Ross then sighed loudly, his playful mood dampened by a realisation. “I must shave for…” For today. 

Demelza nodded in understanding. “Alright, my love. I’ll be back in a moment,” she said, leaning to peck Ross’ lips before standing up and exiting the room. She did not want him to see her tears.

Around twenty minutes later, a freshly-shaved Ross was tucking his khaki shirt into his trousers when Demelza re-entered the room, wearing a beautiful yellow skirt paired with a frilly white shirt; she smiled at him before jokingly curtsying in the doorway. 

Ross returned her smile and crossed the room to meet her, his hands resting on the small of her waist as he kissed her deeply. “You look beautiful,” he told her.

“As do you.”

Chuckling slightly against her lips, Ross wondered: “Well, Mrs Poldark, shall we go downstairs and have leftover cake for breakfast?” 

Demelza kissed his lips once, twice, more. “I’d like that very much, Mr Poldark.”

They ate breakfast in companionable silence, their thoughts heavy as they thought of the day ahead; their gentle nudging of each other under the table prevented the heaviness of their thoughts permeating the atmosphere of the room. 

“I’m a small matter full,” Demelza eventually announced with a struggling sigh, frosting blotted on and about her mouth. 

Ross continued eating the delicious spiced apple and vanilla cake and took a moment to appreciate how well his friend Caroline knew him. Ross opened his mouth to tease Demelza about her various kinds of appetite before they were interrupted by footsteps.

“Sir, your car is here,” Jinny informed him.

“Thank you, Jinny,” Ross said; Jinny nodded and left the room with a quickly bobbed curtsy. “Will you walk with me outside?” he asked Demelza as he picked up his bag; he wished it contained a picture of Demelza, but they had not had time to get one. 

Demelza’s lips slightly trembled but her voice was even as she replied: “Of course.”

The day was grey, and rained threatened, the dark clouds looming ominously above them. Ross handed the driver his bag and turned back towards his wife. 

And so came the part he had been dreading. Ross took a step towards Demelza, his arms outstretched and enveloping her into a tight and tender hug goodbye; she fought his attempts.

“No,” Demelza cried, pushing him away. “No goodbyes. Promise me you’ll come back.”

Ross struggled, knowing it unwise to promise such a thing where war was concerned; but as he looked into her dampening blue eyes, he could give her no other answer. “I promise,” he said, leaning down to kiss her forehead. Ross took a step back, placed his hands on either side of her arms and looked her in the eyes; they shone with unshed tears.

“You’ll write to me?” Ross double-checked; the next few months would be so much easier to get through with the knowledge of Demelza’s guaranteed correspondence. 

“Every day,” she promised, hugging him tight, her ear resting against his shoulder; she could faintly hear the beating of his heart. Demelza blinked away the tears that insisted on gathering in the corners of her eyes.

Ross stroked her hair and thought how lucky he was to have Demelza as his wife, he hoped that when - if - he returned, they would get the chance to know each other better - to know every inch of each other’s minds and bodies. As they stood in their gentle swaying embrace, Private Poldark knew if he lingered any longer he would miss his train and could may well be shot for desertion. “Twice a day?” he ventured with a smile, knowing he was pushing his luck. 

Demelza smothered a smile against his chest. “I don’t think I like you that much.” She stood up properly and crinkled her nose at him, her eyes alight with mirth.

Ross chuckled. “Ah, but if you write to me twice a day you might learn to like me that much,” he argued, convincingly, as always. 

“Perhaps I’ll consider it,” Demelza replied with a grin, light-heartedness filling the air. 

This is how Ross wished to part. He put either hand on the sides of her face and kissed her passionately; a kiss which would be burned into both their memories. 

No goodbyes , he recalled as he broke. “I’ll see you later, then?” Ross said, stroking her smooth cheek, his voice hoarse with emotion. 

Demelza squeezed her eyes closed but it did not stop the tears from spilling down her cheeks. She clasped the rough hand which rested on her cheek with her own and offered her husband a watery smile as she moved to rest her forehead against his. Through trembling lips, Demelza murmured: “I’ll see you later, then, my love.”

Chapter Text

Ross Vennor Poldark, recently promoted to the rank of Captain in His Majesty’s 47 th Brigade, made his way through the newly-dug, seemingly endless, trench with a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth; he took a thoughtful puff as he considered his plans for the day. 

An assault on the Germans was planned for the day after next, and would require at least ten men to go over the top as a diversion, while another group of men would storm their camp from the East. But it was a plan that must be executed to perfection, anything less would mean a month of work would all be for nothing - lives would be lost for nothing. After accrediting him for his previous tactical efforts, Major Smith had left the planning of the assault to Ross, as he knew of no man more suited to the task in the small corner of France they now occupied.

The war had not been won by Christmas. Nor the Christmas after. The snow had fallen heavily on both occasions - a flurry of broken promises.

Pausing to wipe the beads of sweat created by the late June sun, Captain Poldark cursed at the clear blue sky and wished for a cool breeze. Ross conceded that it was a good thing it was not raining, for the harsh winter had killed just as many as the battles on no-mans-land. Regardless, the heat was almost unbearable, and many men were so thirsty it was almost driving them mad. 

The stench of sweat was offset by the lush green grass and flowers which bordered the trench. Ross side-stepped over a sleeping man and noted a vibrant flower in his line of sight; he had never seen one so red, he wondered if it was the spilled blood of Europe’s young men which had dyed it thusly.

He thought of Demelza. She loved flowers, perhaps she had even grown a garden at Nampara in his absence, roses and pansies, he imagined. Perhaps they would tend to it one day, their children helping and getting dirt in their chubby hands. Ross exhaled and inwardly scolded himself; it would not do to tempt fate and think of such things - things that seemed so far away, so out of reach. 

He thought of Demelza, of her last letter to him. She was in good health; still enjoying her work; enjoying Sundays at Nampara, often joined by Caroline. In the twenty months since he had last saw either of them, Demelza and Jinny had become firm friends and enjoyed baking together, they made a variety of cakes and biscuits for a charity event in aid of the field hospital in Truro which Caroline had arranged. The image of the three women manning a stall and charming all manner of people out of dozens of shillings and pounds amused Ross for days. By God, how he missed them all. 

“God’s life, what do a man have to do ‘round here to earn a cup o’ water?” 

“Per’aps God would happily give ‘ee water if you’d stop taking his name in vain.” 

The curly haired private looked up to the bright sky and held out his arms. “Sincerest of apologies, Lord, a cup of water would be fitty if you can forgive my blasphemy.” 

Captain Poldark was about to pass the two soldiers with a controlled smirk on his features, but stopped in his tracks in front of them when one of the men sighed and said: “What I would give for a good old Cornish breeze!”

Ross looked sharply at them both.  “Excuse me, are you from Cornwall?”

The two young men – barely men, Ross thought – looked at him and straightened their postures. “Yes, Sir,” they both said simultaneously.

Ross squinted in the glaring light at their name tags and a queer wave of familiarity hit him when they smiled cheerfully at him. “Names? Ranks?” he asked.

“Private Sam Carne,” the one with the dark hair and chiselled cheekbones answered. He had an air of maturity around him as he saluted Ross.

“Private Drake Carne,” the other answered; his handsome features highlighted by a boyish grin that seemed to be permanently on his face. His salute was less disciplined than Sam’s.

Ross extended his hand to both of them. “I thought I’d never see the day we’d finally meet,” he mused, a smirk on his face. The two Carne boys looked at him, confused. “I am Captain Ross Poldark.” They took turns in shaking Ross’s hand tentatively, unsure if they should know this man and confused as to how he seemed to know them. “I am your brother-in-law,” he clarified; Sam snapped his fingers, knowing that the name had been a familiar one to him; Drake smiled in excitement. Captain Poldark shielded his eyes from the sun and noted that they shared Demelza’s smile. “Why do we not fetch some water and sit?” 

“There's got to be more to life than this,” thought Lieutenant Dwight Enys of His Majesty’s Royal Army Medical Corps as he frantically wrapped open wounds for what felt like the thousandth time that day. He wasn’t entirely sure what day it was, they had all blurred together, but he was almost certain it was June - or was it July now? How long had they been here? He was not certain, the only thing that was certain was that he missed her terribly. To keep the nauseating homesickness at bay, Dwight regularly had to remind himself that his being here was helping to keep her safe. It was the primary reason he had come; it was the only reason which had convinced him to stay. 

Abandoning his fruitless efforts of padding a young man’s unsalvageable torso, Dwight sat down heavily on the stool next to the private - MacDonald, his khaki uniform read - and emptied another vial of morphine into his parted lips. 

He thought of Caroline, he wondered if she had seen men in such poorly conditions - he prayed she had not. She and Demelza periodically volunteered at a local convalescent home, Demelza had written, the venture was endorsed by Raymond Penvenen and some other local wealthy man Dwight had never met. Still, it was good to hear of the rich putting their money into worthy causes and not simply spending it on luxuries and pretending the war was not happening. 

If the war was not happening, what would he now be doing? Dwight mulled the thought over a moment, the ghost of a smile on his features. Dwight supposed he would be in Cornwall, working in the hospital, perhaps running it. He and Caroline would be married, of that he was certain. Indeed, Caroline had expressed a wish of such a thing in a recent letter, which had taken him by surprise - but in the most pleasant of ways. He was due some leave in a few months, perhaps he could sneak home for the occasion... but how to hide it from her uncle? It would smack of conspiracy, of dishonour. No, they must wait until the end of the war… if such a blessed day would ever come. The vision of Caroline walking towards him in a white gown - ivory silk-lace, he imagined, a long veil trailing behind her, her lips lightly painted as she smiled - haunted him as though dangling the elixir of life before a dying man. 

“ Màiri, tha mi duilich, mo ruin ...,” the dying man on the makeshift bed - table - next to Dwight murmured. 

Dr Enys was jolted from his daydream and stood to look at the young man - young, so very young, barely eighteen. He creased his eyebrows sympathetically. “I’m sorry?” he asked as he hovered over the soldier, holding pressure on the his torn torso.

The boy, shivering as the icy chill of death began to blanket him, stared at Dwight, his piercing blue eyes surprisingly unafraid beneath his ginger brows. “ Dotair, an canadh sibh rithe gu bheil mi duilich...? Gheall mi gun tilleadh- ”

“-I’m sorry I don’t understand you,” Dwight said desperately, unsure which language he was even speaking. Irish? Welsh? Gaelic? Breton? He knew it was not Cornish or French. Dr Enys pressed the now blood-soaked rag more firmly against the young man’s torso. “Do you speak English?” 

The Highland soldier’s mouth twitched into a half smile. He licked the blood from his lips. “Màiri, my girl,” the Scotsman rasped, “tell her I’m sorry… and... I love...” A fan of ginger eyelashes came to rest against his cheekbones as his eyes fluttered closed. 

“I will tell her,” Dwight promised, though the boy could not hear him now, he knew. The doctor sighed heavily as he ran his eyes over his lifeless, blood soaked uniform; he discarded the stained rag with a now accustomed feeling of rage - one which came with the needless waste of another young life. 

Dr Enys held up a hand. “Ada,” he summoned the VAD nurse over as he began to cover the young man’s body with a sheet. “This is private MacDonald, see to it he is sent home.” The nurse nodded obediently and went in search of the register cupboard. Once more, Dr Enys cast his eyes over the lifeless young man, noting how the blood seeped into the off-white sheet. Before the war, Dwight could not imagine that the human body could contain so much blood; it had poured mercilessly from the broken men who were mechanically ushered into the field hospital like parts on a factory conveyor belt. 

Dwight cleaned some blood from private MacDonald’s young face - in case his mother should see - and sat down on the rickety stool next to the bed. “Rest easy, we’ll tell her you’re sorry,” the doctor promised. 

The boom of angry landmines, the pattering of gunfire and agonising moans echoed in the distance; Dwight sighed hopelessly, wondering how the whole world had not drowned in the spilled blood of the last two years; he had the uneasy feeling that it was somehow all about to get worse. 

As the next group of wounded young men who had not been blessed by a clean death bullet were ushered into the make-shift field hospital, Lieutenant Enys delicately covered private MacDonald’s face and murmured: “I think we are all rather sorry now, are we not, my friend?”

Chapter Text

On a bright, sunny day in south-west England, Lady Caroline Penvenen’s heels clipped merrily along the cobbled path of Truro’s high street, an excited smile on her face. She was meeting Demelza at the dressmakers for their final fittings of the dresses they would wear at Killewarren’s charity concert for wounded soldiers, an event which had been almost 2 months of preparation. Between Demelza’s beautiful singing voice, her own charms and uncle Ray’s influence, Caroline expected to raise no less than two-thousand pounds. And that was the absolute minimum amount by which she would allow herself to be placated. 

Demelza stood underneath the small sign which read ‘Hosking’s Tailors’ with an air of apprehension. She disliked spending Ross’s money, no matter how much he insisted that she should. To Demelza, it felt somehow wrong to fret over buying a frock while men were fighting for their lives and freedom over the channel; but Ross, in his letters, insisted that Demelza buy herself a beautiful, expensive gown for the concert, and had charged her with relaying every detail of the gown for his imagination. In the almost two years that they had been married, Demelza had almost grown used to being addressed as ‘Mrs Poldark’. Almost. It felt strange to her to be addressed as such without the presence of Mr Poldark; stranger still was the respect Demelza was immediately afforded once news of the nuptials spread throughout the county. She still didn’t know whether it made her angry to be treated so vastly different than before; after all, she was still the same person in body and in spirit as she had always been. Why did people only tip their hat to her now?  

Several feet in front of her, an older man announced the price of a newspaper and Demelza made a point to avoid its foreboding black headline; she did not want to know what was befalling the men over the channel. She did not want to know - she did not want to think - of how Ross and Dwight were suffering. Demelza and Caroline omitted any and all talks of the war in each other’s company, save for the organising of the charity concert.

“Good day, Demelza,” Caroline greeted with a wave and a smile, having not seen her yet today, as today was Saturday, and on the weekends Demelza stayed at Nampara to maintain the house in Ross’s absence.  

Demelza discreetly pecked Caroline’s cheek. “Hello,” she chirped. “Are you ready for our final fittings before tonight?” 

Caroline grimaced slightly. “Not really, I’ve eaten an abhorrent number of cream buns since last week.” 

With a laugh and a shake of the head, Demelza held the tailors’ door open and waited for Lady Caroline to pass her before entering herself and closing the door behind them. 

In the plush, clean, velvet sanctuary of the dressmakers, the two young ladies were oblivious to the foreboding paper headline on the other side of the door, which read: ‘INFERNAL FIRES ON THE FRONT: 90 MILES OF DEVASTATION’

An hour or two later, Lady Caroline Penvenen and Mrs Demelza Poldark climbed out of the House’s vehicle and walked towards Killewarren’s front door, until Demelza paused, her face scrunched in thought. 

“I think I might go in through the servant’s door and go say hello to everyone,” she decided, enthused by it. 

“But Saturdays and Sundays are the only days of the week where you don’t have to enter Killewarren through the side door,” Caroline pointed out to the now part-time housemaid. Demelza had insisted she would simply lose her mind if she sat at home in Nampara all day and drank tea; she needed to work, even if she didn’t need to work. “Won’t you come to the library for tea?” Caroline asked her, managing with all her might not to pout like a little girl at the thought of another afternoon tea alone in Killewarren. 

Despite her elevated social status, it still seemed somehow wrong to Demelza that she should be allowed to sit on Killewarren’s settees and chaise-lounges - while also being charged with plumping the cushions. “Thank you, but I think I’ll have tea downstairs with Mrs Paynter, I want to see how she’s feelin’ about tonight,” Demelza explained gently. 

A sigh. “As you wish. Come to my room at 6 o’clock then and we’ll change together.” After blowing her a quick kiss, Lady Caroline entered Killewarren firmly through the large front door.

“Hello, Henshawe,” she happily greeted the butler, handing him her coat and gloves which were not needed for the warm June day, but propriety had dictated she wear them anyway.

“Good Morning, milady,” he chirped in response as he opened the inside porch door for her to enter through.

“Uncle Ray?” Caroline called as she ducked and hopped through the foyer of the house, avoiding being taken out by the florists, footmen, musicians and everyone else who was busy putting the final touches on the preparation for the concert tonight.

“In here, my dear,” a voice called from the small library to her left. 

Upon entering the room, Caroline found her beloved guardian sitting at his desk frowning deeply at a newspaper. Once he became aware of her presence, he quickly folded it and put it away in a drawer. Raymond Penvenen was of the opinion that his niece should be aware of the general idea of the news but not feel powerless and disheartened by the specifics  

“Oh deary me,” Caroline said flippantly as she sauntered over to her uncle’s desk, “Is it really all that bad?” Ray conveyed with a single look that it was indeed that bad. “Oh.” Caroline felt her face fall. Was Dwight okay? And Ross? “May I see-”

“-The details are not important,” Lord Penvenen insisted with a raised hand. “What is important is that we must keep going, no matter what is happening or what may happen. We must all help each other to keep going.” 

Yes, all. Class divisions were so meaningless at times like these, was uncle Ray finally beginning to realise this? Caroline thought now may be a good opportunity to admit her betrothal to Dwight Enys, but her uncle continued on: “Which is why your concert is so important, my dear. How are the preparations for tonight going? I suppose Mrs Paynter and Henshawe are close to murdering you?”

“Of course,” Caroline said cheerfully, swallowing her disappointment. “I wouldn’t be doing my job as the organiser of the event if the household staff didn’t want to wring my neck.”

“Quite, I’m sure. I hope you’ve your wits about you tonight, my dear,” he counseled, patting her hand fondly. “We’ll need your humour and charms to raise as much money as possible for the cause.”

Caroline removed her hand from his grasp, brought it up to her forehead and saluted in a manner that would have made her friend Captain Poldark very proud. “Yes, sir!”

The great hall of Killwarren was lined with an explosion of colour, from sunny tulips to rich red velvet cake, and above the window hung a pearl white banner which read ‘HELP OUR HEROES’. The banner was effective in two ways: firstly, because it was large and demanding in tone, and secondly, because it shielded those already seated from the blinding fire of the summer sunset. The windows remained open, and the smell of freshly cut grass and spicy ferns filled the room, helping to mask the stench of desperate women’s perfume.

Upon entering the room, Demelza was taken aback by its transformation. “Wow, Caroline,” she gasped to her friend, “It’s so beautiful.” 

“I know,” Caroline confirmed with confidence, as though she placed each flower in every vase herself. In fairness, she had instructed everyone where exactly everything should be placed, and so was not shy in accepting some credit. She had even made a note to thank the servants by name at the end of their opening performance, which would no doubt be talked about all evening and beyond.

Demelza wore a beaded silk dress, the colour of which matched the midnight sky with the moon and all its stars present, and wore her copper curls in an elegant updo. Even Demelza could not deny her own beauty tonight. Caroline’s dress was also of beaded silk, but was the colour of the fuschia roses that blanketed Killewarren’s grounds. Both looked utterly beautiful, in completely unique ways, which all the men present found enticing.

Glancing at the gathering folk who scrambled to find a seat, and indeed those who had given up and simply lined the back wall, Demelza felt nerves swirl icily in her stomach at the thought of singing in front of all those people - some of whom were very high up on the social ladder. Once the two ladies reached the make-shift stage at the front of the large room, Demelza stole another glance at the concert crowd, which was full of middle- and high-class people as well as upwards of fifty local discharged soldiers, and felt that she would faint where she stood.

“Caroline, I don’t think I can do this,” Demelza whispered in a panic, her blue-green eyes wide with anxiety. She gnawed on her bottom lip, which began to shake. 

Caroline knew she had to diffuse Demelza’s fears immediately or else the wounded soldiers present would be subjected to her own rendition of Fred Fisher’s popular number - and Caroline wagered that the men had suffered quite enough for one lifetime. “Demelza, I need you to breathe,” the heiress at the piano instructed quietly. Thankfully, all the toffs present had not yet grown tired of the sound of their own voices. “Take one big breath... that’s it, and let it go.... Good… and again…” Demelza continued to huff and puff her worries away. “Now,” Caroline’s eyes met her friend’s and she clasped her hand, “you have the most angelic voice, dearest Demelza, you’ve nothing to worry about. And if you’re still worried, just sing with your eyes closed, or pretend you’re singing to Ross.” 

Ross. Yes, Ross. She would pretend she was singing to Ross. She exhaled again; he always gave her courage. She would pretend he was looking at her the way he had the first night she had sang in his company. Perhaps if she sang with enough conviction tonight he might know she was singing for him, no matter how many miles separated them at present.

Suddenly, silence spread throughout the room and anticipation replaced the conversations that had been had.

Demelza licked her lips and hoped that they might be moistened enough to allow words to break through them. “Good evenin’, everyone,” she began timidly, cursing her accent which had strongly reappeared with her nerves, “I- I’d like to begin tonight by singing a song for my husband, Captain Ross Poldark, who is fightin’ in the trenches in France.” Before Demelza could continue, the people present clapped their hands in appreciation for Ross Poldark’s service to King and country. The warmth in the room acquiesced Demelza’s anxiety. “‘Tis a traditional Cornish song, so please join in, if you like.” 

Caroline nodded her head in friendly reassurance at Demelza, who took a deep breath and nodded back, signalling that Caroline may start playing her instrument. 

Demelza gently closed her eyes and pictured Ross’s handsome features, the rest of the world fading into nothing at the memory of his hazel eyes. On the piano key’s note, she softly began to sing: 

“ I'd a pluck a fair rose for my love

I'd a pluck a red rose blowin'

Love's in my heart, I'm tryin' so to prove

What you heart's knowin'

I'd a pluck a finger on a thorn

I'd a pluck a finger bleedin'

Red is my heart, wounded and forlorn

And your heart needin'

I'd a hold a finger to my tongue

I'd a hold a finger waitin'

My heart is sore, until it joins in song

Wi’ your heart matin'' ”

By the time Demelza gained the courage to open her eyes, everyone was on their feet and applauding, led by Lord Penvenen. She released a breath of relief and a wide yet shy smile stretched across her face. She bobbed a curtsy in thanks; people began to shove money into the collection boxes which were littered all around the room. 

“Encore!” several of the men cried. 

Demelza bowed again in thanks, and instructed Caroline to play the next song on their list. “Now, gentlemen, and ladies, I’m afraid I really must insist that you join in this time,” Demelza ordered, her confidence growing, before beginning to sing Come Josephine In My Flying Machine .

The two ladies received rapturous applause once their contribution to the concert was over thirty minutes later, where they then stepped aside for a comic, a magician, an opera singer and a poet. All in all, the evening was well received, and once everyone busied themselves nibbling on cakes and cocktail sausages, Caroline snuck off to the small library with three of the collection boxes and counted a sum of two-thousand-and-sixty pounds - and that was not even a third of the donation boxes!

When Caroline rejoined the gaiety of the party, she found Demelza talking to a man she recognised from childhood Sundays spent at Tregothnan. She smiled and approached them both confidently. 

“Hugh!” she enthused. “How wonderful to see you here. How are you?” Caroline asked him. As Hugh Armitage turned to face her, he heard her gasp quietly. 

“Caroline,” he greeted warmly, taking her hand and squeezing it. “My uncle was most impressed by your piano playing and by Mrs Poldark’s enchanting singing, of course.”

Demelza blushed; Caroline smiled and nodded politely in thanks of the compliment. “Gas blindness,” Hugh told her, as he saw her continuing to stare, though she tried not to. “I still have some sight left in my right eye, so I get by,” he assured, managing to keep his bitterness at bay. 

Demelza gently patted his arm in sympathy. “Is that why you were discharged from the army, sir?”

He smiled brightly at her kindness. “Please call me Hugh,” he insisted. “And yes, it was. One requires both eyes to use a rifle, you see,” former Lieutenant Armitage explained with his mouth twisted into a side smile. 

“And the heart to fire it,” Demelza proclaimed.

“Demelza sympathises with the deer and the foxes,” Caroline supplied with a non-mocking smile. 

Hugh chuckled and fixed his eyes upon the alluring woman in front of him. “Does Mrs Poldark have enough sympathy to dance with a casualty of The Great War?” he flirted. 

She bobbed a polite curtsy. “Certainly, she does, sir,” replied Demelza, who liked to dance  very much. 

Caroline narrowed her eyes as they walked to the floor, willing that Mr Armitage’s famously antsy hand would stay firmly where it rested on the centre of Demelza’s back. 

Across the hall, Caroline thought she saw someone, but prayed to God Almighty that it was a figment of her exhausted imagination. 

It was not. “Lady Caroline! Why, my dear, you look exquisite this evening,” Lord Unwin Trevaunance declared the moment he came to stand in front of her- as though Caroline might need convincing of the fact, which she did not.

Despite being duller than the servants’ hall doormat, even Caroline had to admit that there were far worse men, some in this very room, than Unwin Trevaunance. She did not like his suit, however - clearly his opinion of himself could not be topped by anything else on earth, and who in their right mind would ever willingly entertain the company of someone like that? “Lord Trevaunance,” Caroline greeted with all the decorum she could muster, but could not prevent herself from wincing slightly as he kissed her gloved hand a beat longer than was necessary. “So, even the Germans did not want you?” Caroline accused once he released her from his grasp. 

Unwin laughed heartily, thinking she was being coy and playful. “No, it seemed they did not.”

“But you were honourably discharged, I hear,” Caroline offered politely as the violins yawned to life once more. 

Unwin looked at the band that had begun playing. “Certainly I was, why do I not tell you about it over this dance?” 

He offered her his own gloved hand, which Caroline thought odd, but accepted it anyway. Over the course of the first few circuits of the floor, Unwin had knighted himself a hero of Amiens and awarded himself an iron cross for bravery for a bullet through his hand, which Caroline knew he had somehow deserved. 

“So, Lady Caroline, though I now have a hand like a Mary Shelley creation, at least I could make a living as a glove model,” he jested as he continued to elegantly lead the dance, hope fluttering in his chest cavity and calculations swirling in his head. 

Caroline laughed because the joke was funny and because self-deprecating humour was her favourite kind, but Unwin took it as encouragement of something more and relished the opportunity. “You truly do not mind my hand?” 

Caroline blinked at his question. “Whyever should I mind?” And, more to the point, what did it matter what she thought of its wrinkly and scarred appearance?

“You would not find it too ghastly a sight first thing in the morning?” 

“I do not understand what you mean, Lord Trevaunance,” said Caroline, understanding entirely what he meant. Her heart hammered in her chest, and not in the way that Dwight could make it hammer, and her palms grew damp.  

Unwin considered the validity of her statement for a moment as they continued to sway gracefully around the large hall, as only well-trained, upper-class persons could. Gradually, their pace slowed more to a waltz. “I see I have done you a disservice by never asking you outright. I always thought my feelings had been clear. But I wonder, Lady Caroline, would you ever marry me?” 

She lost her footing but quickly regained it, her face was masked into indifference, but her insides spun uneasily. 

Seeing that his tactic of asking outright had only seemed to make her more elusive, he continued: “I think we’d make a good team, you and I.” 

Caroline could not help the bitter laugh that escaped her lips. “‘A good team’? Heavens, what on earth for? Shall we be playing cricket?” 

A flicker of annoyance and impatience shadowed Unwin’s face but was then gone. “I can stand here and wax lyrical and quote Shakespeare until the sun comes up, but I wager that’s not what you want to hear.” 

Certainly not, and definitely not from him. What Caroline wanted to hear in that moment was the sound of Dwight’s voice, and in the absence of that, absolute silence. But Unwin continued on: “You cannot pretend it would not be an advantageous match. I have two estates: one here and one in London. We could live wherever you like. Of course, I would inherit Killewarren, if we married. But our family houses are much bigger and more modern. There’s also our family business, and our fortune - though not as vast as your dowry, I imagine. But you would want for nothing. There’s nothing I couldn’t give you; there’s nothing I would deny you of, my dear.” 

Caroline was sure that she would be sick any second; she didn’t care about all that anymore, and she certainly didn’t care for Unwin - she didn’t even care about him! Or his ugly hand! She was forever changed by Dwight Enys and the love he had shown her and awakened within her. Just as she opened her mouth to flatly refuse the earl standing in front of her, Caroline noticed that her uncle was intently watching them. Now the vomit truly began to fill her throat; Uncle Ray had encouraged this, and she could not really refuse Unwin on no grounds, and she had no reasonable grounds with which to refuse - not if she wished to keep whatever family she still had. “I- well, I-,” Caroline stammered; he stared at her with intense eyes, the eyes of the man who had already been promised his prize. “I- I shall think about it,” Caroline muttered, her eyes beginning to sting. Surely the war would be over before she ever had to supply an answer to his question. 

Unwin took both her hands in his and kissed each one with such enthusiasm, the other attendees would have been forgiven for thinking Caroline had flat out agreed to be his wife. The song blessedly came to an end and Caroline forced a smile and curtsied. “Thank you for the dance, please excuse me.” 

As she moved through the once again dancing crowd, Caroline smiled as well as she could through her trembling lips until she reached the door to the servant’s staircase. She closed the door firmly behind her, the noise of the violins concealed the sound of the door and Caroline’s sobs. She slid down the wall and covered her hands with her face as she wept with despair. Her bottom had scarcely been on the cold ground for forty seconds before she felt herself being hoisted to her feet and supported up the staircase; she didn’t even have to look to know it was Demelza. 

“Sshh,” Demelza soothed, rubbing Caroline’s arm as she directed her up the windy, chilly stairs to where the east wing was. She didn’t have to ask what Unwin had been talking to her about. “Let’s just get you to bed, don’t think about it for now, ‘twill all be fine, I promise.” Caroline only continued to sniff quietly. “Dwight would never allow you to marry another man, he would fight all of Europe himself if it meant he could come home and marry you as soon as possible.” 

Though meant to be heartening, it only made Caroline cry harder. “Oh, Demelza, what am I to do? Uncle Ray would know in an instant if I turned down Unwin, he wouldn’t understand, he would likely disown me and then what? He’s the only family I have and what would I do if he casts me out?” she wailed.

“Sshh,” Demelza soothed once again. “It won’t come to that, my dear. It will all work out.” She hoped she sounded more convincing to Caroline’s ears than her own. Demelza wanted to emphasise that Caroline would always have a home at Nampara with her, but she didn’t think that addition would be all that comforting at this precise moment in time.

Once inside the familiar lilac room, Demelza removed Caroline’s shoes and her new frock and replaced them with a loose, comfortable nightgown. She then tucked the trapped heiress into bed as a mother would tuck in her children. Demelza stayed with her friend until her tears had run dry and she had exhausted herself into sleep.   

The next day, Sunday, Caroline had taken herself to Nampara for lunch as she had done every Sunday for the last two years. She took a deep breath of fresh summer air to steady herself; at least here she could openly love Dwight. And Unwin grew bored of Cornwall after two days in the countryside, and his return to London would mean a further delay in her answer. She only wished Dwight was here so she did not have to give the matter a moment’s thought. At the very least, she wished Dwight would write to her more often so she could at least find comfort in that. She missed him beyond words.

Demelza was awaiting Caroline at the door, grinning from ear to ear, flapping up and down like a baby bird, practically bubbling over with excitement. 

Caroline laughed at her. “Demelza, what-?” 

In reply, Demelza merely squealed and waved two envelopes in the air, as one may wave a winning lottery ticket. “These came yesterday afternoon while I was at Killewarren. They’re for us!” 

“And are they from the two finest soldiers in His Majesty’s Army?” Caroline asked, her chest becoming tight with anticipation; it had been an unusually long time since she had last received word from Dwight. 

Demelza handed her over Dwight’s letter to Caroline with an imperceptible degree of hesitation, which went unnoticed by Caroline, who immediately clutched the letter to her chest. 

“Well, let’s go inside and read them,” Demelza suggested with a chuckle. “Last thing we need is the starving seagulls thinkin’ they’re for their luncheon.”

June 5th, 1916.

My most beloved wife Demelza, 

You may want to sit down for this. Fear not, it is good news - well, as good as news amongst the stifling trenches of France may be. I have met your brothers Sam and Drake, they are two fine young men. (I trust you knew of their enlistment?) I find it odd that they smile exactly as you do - that wide, bright smile that could cast off the world’s darkness - I have never once heard of families sharing smiles, but then there is much that war teaches us. Cheer up, my love, and don’t worry about me so much. I am perfectly alright, simply anxious to receive your letters and anxious to hold you in my arms once more. I trust we shall not have to wait much longer.

How is my favourite housemaid faring today? And how is that dress that you promised to describe in detail to me? Is Caroline driving you mad with her planning of the charity concert? I know you are not one to be irritated easily - unless the matter concerns me, naturally - but all the same, go easy with Caroline. She likes to feel in control of things, and so war is not her friend. War is no one’s friend. 

You must tell me more of you - how you are, how you fill your days, how you have styled your hair, how our home now looks with its new furnishings - it helps to distract me from the unpleasantness of your absence.  

It’s amusing to me, in a way, that many women may have no notion of how dearly they are missed. I suppose with war comes the assumption that men are hard creatures, but at night I hear them weep for their loved ones; I wager that my observation has not been reported in the papers. I thought such a fact might be interesting to you. 

I must go on patrol now, we have planned an attack on enemy lines and a plan is of no use if it is simply in one's head. I wish you were here so you could give me your opinion of it; I know you know nothing of battle schematics, but all the same, if there was a better path to take I am sure you would find it. You mustn’t fret if you do not receive a letter from me for a while, these sorts of ployments take time, so you must trust that everything is as it should be. Can you do that for me, Demelza? 

I will leave you with a nice thought, one which I have been saving to the end of the letter. Last night, I dreamt of our children. Now, I know you may find such a thing blasphemous, and I have no wish to shock you, but I felt I must tell you all the same. There was a boy and a girl, a girl with flaming red hair like yours and a boy with soft brown curls like mine. The girl had my eyes and the boy had yours. Can you see them, Demelza? I see them so clearly, I sense a stirring within me that this dream awaits us in the future, once the nightmare here is over. I pray you take heart from that. What shall we call them? I await your answer with anticipation. Until then, I remain now and forever, 

Your husband, 

Captain Ross Poldark 

Demelza wiped the happy tears that were now streaming down her face and shuffled the pages back to the start so she could re-read the letter.

“Shall we take some tea now?” Caroline wondered, in the way that Caroline often did, wherein her wondering equated to ‘I may die if I do not drink a cup of tea within the next five minutes’.

Knowing her friend as she did, Demelza let out a chortle and rose from the table, carefully gathering the pages of her love letter and setting them neatly aside. “Of course, milady ,” Demelza emphasised with an arched eyebrow, knowing that formalities no longer existed between the two of them - particularly while they were alone in each other’s company. Before she entered the kitchen, she curtsied for added measure. 

“I could still have you fired you know,” Caroline retorted, her lips curved into a sarcastic smirk. Demelza’s giggling could be heard as she filled a teapot with water and set it on the stove. 

“His Lordship would never allow it - I’m his favourite!”

Tea and biscuits rapidly consumed, Demelza got to work on her reply to Ross, detailing the fine navy gown she wore last night as well as christening their (at present) imaginary children Julia and Jeremy. She also charged her husband with the custody of her two little brothers, swearing him to keep them both safe under his wing. Her letter also began with a chiding to change his socks often, and to consume more than cigarettes.

The letter which Caroline had received remained unopened in her hands, tumbling anxiously between her fingers as she tried to convince herself that the spot of blood on the envelope did not belong to Dwight, and within the contents she would not read news of his untimely death. 

Demelza looked up from her letter and asked Caroline: “Are you not going to open it?” 

Caroline came out of her trance and stared at Demelza. “Oh- of course,” she said with attempted determination, the fragility of her feelings eclipsing her attempt to sound brave. 

Demelza reached her free hand across the wooden table and patted her friend’s arm. “I got a letter from Ross last year that had a bit of blood on it, too,” she began, and Caroline’s lips twisted almost imperceptibly at how well Demelza knew her, “it took me two whole days to gain the courage to open it, but once I did, I wish I’d opened it sooner. Dwight is a doctor, ‘tis likely not his blood, but someone else, and it is only a little so the person is probably still alive.” She smiled reassuringly at Caroline, whose lips relaxed from a pressed thin line into a small, convinced smile. 

“The opening line of this letter better be an apology,” Caroline said as she fiddled with the seal, “else it shall indeed be Dwight’s blood on an envelope when I next see him.” Her hands shook as she immediately recognised his neat penmanship. “Twenty-nine days I have waited for a letter from him, Demelza. Twenty plus nine; in the month of February that would equate to more than a month. I will not be surprised to open this letter and find it is a paper aeroplane and that was the cause of its delay.” 

Demelza clutched her sides as she laughed at Caroline’s deadpan tone, a warm feeling filling the room, which became all the more exacerbated when Caroline opened her letter. It read:

June 3rd, 1916.

My dearest Caroline, 

Firstly, I must begin this letter with an apology for the delay in my response to your previous two letters. You must think I send my letters via obese carrier pigeons (perhaps I should name one Horace?) but I promise it is the fault of the Battle of the Somme and the Royal Mail, so you must take up your misgivings with them - which I’ve no doubt you will. 

Thank you for sending a picture of you, it is beautiful. I blush to confess that I keep it safely tucked underneath my pillow at night, I await your teasing response to that with baited breath! Today thus far there has been a restbite and so I have taken myself outside for some fresh air where I now sit beneath a tree. The bloom here is beautiful, I wonder if you have ever seen such flowers before on your travels to France? Picture it if you can, then it will almost like you are sitting here next to me. If I close my eyes tight enough on some days it seems as though you are. It is so quiet this morning that I can hear the birds chirping; but it is somehow not peaceful, the silence is eerie, it disquiets me. Would you think me a terrible person if I were to admit that I think I prefer the screaming? Forgive me, I think I should not have said that. But you see, here on the front, noise means life, hope, and so silence means the opposite. This letter is becoming rather dull now, but you did make me promise you to always be honest in my account, and so there you have it. Fear not though, my love, I am well in body, and mostly in spirit. 

How are you? And how is Horace and dear Demelza? You must tell me of everything happening with you, it helps me feel as though I am home and the four of us are together, walking through the village or along the beach, as in the old days. I hope this letter reaches you before your charity concert so I have the chance to wish you the best of luck. Demelza wrote to tell me of your plans as she somehow knew you would not do so. Your heart is so generous, Caroline, I do often wonder why that makes you feel ashamed - because it makes me love you very much. I suppose you have organised everything to the most minuscule of details. (How many attempts have been made on your life?) I chuckle to think that had you been at the helm of the British Army, planning every battle and campaign into no-mans-land and beyond, that perhaps we might have all gone home in the Christmas of 1914, like we were promised. But it is no use to dwell on such things, and I’m sure you are far more effective where you are now. I only selfishly wish you were here so we could laugh together, so I could hold you in my arms; but it heartens me to think of you safe and sound across the channel. I hope to join you again soon.

I fear I am being called back inside, so if there should be any delay in my letters again, know this: I think of you always. You are never far from my thoughts, and it is the very thought of you that keeps me going on days where it feels like all is lost and victory is impossible. But nothing is impossible, so long as I have you, my darling. 

Yours, with the greatest love and affection, 

Dr Dwight Enys

Demelza peeked a glance at Caroline through her eyelashes, studying the blonde’s expression for signs of heartbreak; she found none.“I take it Dwight is alive and well and still in love with you?” Demelza dared to joke.

“Just about,” Caroline answered flippantly, then immediately let out something akin to a sob-laugh of relief which even her sarcastic armour could not contain. Demelza’s arm was around her impossibly quick to give her a reassuring squeeze, and then just as quickly the red-head was sitting opposite her once more. “He has a new friend,” a fiercely blinking Caroline then announced to her confidant, whose ginger brows knitted together in genuine interest, “an obese carrier pigeon named Horace.” They both laughed so much that it blew out the single, flickering candle in the centre of the table; Demelza struck a match and re-lit it. It wasn’t dark by any means, but candles brought a sense of calm and warmth that was suited to letter-writing - and Ross loved candles.

Mrs Poldark cleared her throat dramatically once the hilarity had calmed down. “So, are you going to send him something equally as romantic in return?” Demelza half-teased at the blush on Caroline's cheeks, a knowing smile on her face and a softness in her eyes. 

From the open window in the kitchen, the gulls outside could be heard cackling as they swooped in dance along the Cornish clifftops.

Caroline delicately uncapped her shiny fountain pen and pressed it to the piece of paper; she looked across the table at her friend and simpered, “Of course not, my dear.” Demelza rolled her eyes fondly at this. “I am writing a complaint to the Royal Mail,” the lady insisted as she dotted the i and crossed the t of the word ‘Dwight’.

Chapter Text

The fresh, dusk air burned Ross’s nostrils as he and his men trudged through the seemingly endless tunnels of trenchways. The area which they now found themselves in was either freshly-built or had been deserted on account of its uselessness.  Nevertheless, the barracks and other half-hearted shelters were a quiet place to rest for the night - and they all needed to rest. 

“Alright gentlemen, that’s enough for one day,” Captain Poldark announced, turning to face the large group which he had grown so fond of these past few weeks and months. They were truly a band of brothers. “Fall back; sleep where you can. MacLean, Simmons and Davis, you’re on patrol for the night. Wake us at dawn.”

Cries of ‘yes, Captain!’ rang out, and the three guards went to their posts.

Having taken their order of leave, the other men bickered over how many of them could fit in the pre-made barracks and which men would subsequently have to sleep outside. 

Sam and Drake Carne had slept beneath the stars in much colder environments throughout their life and childhood, and so a June night underneath a blanket of heavenly fire didn’t sound so bad. Drake thought it would be a romantic setting to read his unopened letter from Morwenna, which he had been saving all day so that he could savour its contents at the right moment. Sam, too, felt closer to God without his views of the Heavens being obscured by pathetic wooden structures.

Ross retreated, though not without some guilt, to what had clearly been the previous officer’s barracks. He squashed a few bugs on his way in and dusted off the linen, which only offer the most minimal of dust clouds. Blessedly, there were no rats. So, the other men had not been gone long. It was a somewhat eerie feeling, one which disquieted him, and Ross felt he would sleep less soundly for that knowledge. 

Not allowing himself to be consumed by it, he pulled out his newest letter from Demelza, which he had received yesterday. Ross always read Demelza’s letters at least twice before beginning to compose a reply, he liked to be sure he had absorbed every possible detail.  He unfolded it from the breast pocket next to his heart and lit a paraffin lamp so he could read it. Shadows waltzed on the pages, beckoning the reader to its contents. The letter read: 

9th June, 1916.

My dearest Ross, 

You cannot ask me not to worry, such as I cannot ask you to not recklessly charge at the Enemy, for these two things are very against our natures. Don’t you agree? Still, I will try not to worry so much. When I start to worry, which of course I will, I shall plant some more flowers in the garden. You don’t mind, do you, Ross? I fear it will look like Eden when you return. 

The concert was a success, Caroline said it raised thousands of pounds! Oh, think of all that money going to where it is most needed - to save families of fallen and injured soldiers from starvation and ruin! It makes me want to weep, Ross. I wish you were here to wipe the tears away. 

Anyhow, I believe I promised my husband a description of a certain dress. I’m not so good with words, as you do know, but I shall try my best. Well, it was beautiful - and very expensive. (You truly don’t mind, Ross?). It was navy in colour and silken beneath silver jewels and beads. It was trimmed with a bit of fringe at the hem and its length went down to my shins. It sounds a bit silly now that I've begun to write it... but the frock twinkled the way Caroline’s music box sounds when I moved in it. I don’t suppose you know what that sounds like, so I worry that is of no good to you. Can you still picture it, Ross? I hope so. I hope even more that you will get to see me wear it soon.  

As for our future children, I think we had already agreed on Jeremy for a boy, and I still like that very much: Jeremy Poldark. It fits like a puzzle piece. I also like the name Julia, it has always sounded so beautiful and refined to me. I suppose now that I am married to a gentleman I may be permitted to use such a name for my daughter without being accused of having airs above my station? If you do not like it, though, we can think of some more. We’ll have all the time in the world to think about it, that I truly believe in my heart and soul. Have you any ideas as to more names? Or shall we finally agree on something immediately?

I hope you are remembering to change your socks. You know how I hate feet, Ross, and I would hate them all the more should my husband return from war with less than ten toes. So I hope these new socks I’ve made will fit right, I had to guess as to your measuring but I found one of your old boots and used it as a guide, so I hope they will be of some use to you. 

I do not want to end this letter about feet. So I must tell you that I love you very much, no matter how many toes you return with. So long as you return, which I know you will. You must, for our future awaits you here. Can you see it, Ross? Picking apples with the children, eating Sunday dinner together, going for a swim in the sea…

It makes me smile, I hope it makes you smile, too. 

Goodbye for now, my love. Write to me as soon as you can, I await every letter with impatience.

Keep warm and keep safe. Love always from 

Your wife, 

Demelza Poldark x

P.s. Change your socks. 

P.p.s.  Missing you more than words can describe. 

Inside the warming sanctuary of his barracks, Captain Ross Poldark grinned at his letter and felt his eyes mist slightly. He felt his letters were no good in conveying his true feelings; but he knew his words also often failed in that regard. He had to trust that Demelza knew of his love for her; and he believed she did. 

Once he had changed into his new socks, he began composing his reply to his beloved wife. He thanked her for his much needed gift and agreed with her choice of names - cheekily adding that the only thing left to do was to create them.

Outside of Ross’s den, some of the other soldiers also read letters from home. 

Drake Carne ran his hand along the page of his letter, hoping Morwenna might feel his touch through it. He sighed blissfully as he reread her words; there was truly no happier man in all of northern France. 

“Wit’s got you gigglin’ like a wee lassie, Carne?” private James MacLean teased, giving Drake’s hair a fond ruffle as he walked past him. 

Drake held the letter close to his chest. “‘Tis nothing,” he insisted, though the wide smile on his face undermined his statement. 

“Is that a letter? Wit does it say?” James asked, teasingly reaching for it. 

Drake clutched it tighter. “Nothin’, Jamie, I swear it,” he promised, still grinning. 

Private MacLean’s crooked teeth stretched into a beaming smile, which was still handsome despite its unevenness. “Lads, I think wee Carne here has a love letter,” Jamie announced to the rest of the battalion, who made various hooting and wolf-whistle sounds. 

“Alright, alright,” Drake relented, laughing as he stood up. “The letter be from my girl, Morwenna. She’s agreed to marry me when I get back home,” he announced somewhat shyly. 

Those with still enough energy charged towards the young private to offer a handshake, a cheerful slap on the back and their heartfelt congratulations. It was moments like these which truly bolstered the spirits of everyone in the group; it was moments like these where they all really felt like a family. 

“Oh, brother, I’ve no words to describe how happy your news d’ make me!” Sam exclaimed, crushing his younger brother into a bear hug. “Miss Morwenna is lovely, and you make a perfect match. ‘Tis truly heavenly.” 

Drake blushed and fondly wrapped an arm around his big brother, who had protected him his whole life. “Thanks, Sam,” he murmured, patting his arm.

“What in God’s name is all this commotion?” Captain Ross Poldark wondered as he emerged from his barracks, an amused look on his face. 

Everyone stood at attention. Ross crossed his arms and managed not to roll his eyes at them all. “Explain,” he pushed.

“Well, Sir,” Jamie began confidently, “wee Carne has got himself a bird, and when he gets back he’ll have a wife,” he concluded with a wolfish grin. 

Ross looked sharply at Drake who, naturally, had told him of the young woman, Morwenna, who held his heart. It seemed it was only two weeks ago he was wondering if he was good enough for her - she was the daughter of a middle-class banker who had recently passed and left the family with nothing but a mountain of debt hidden beneath a good name. It was the good name that worried him, he cared nothing for whatever dowry had been kept aside for her. He cared only about the way her eyes would crinkle when he made her laugh. 

“That’s tremendous news, Dra- Private Carne,” Ross enthused, shaking his hand. He would have given him a bear hug if it didn’t mean breaking rank in front of his entire battalion. 

“Thanks, Sir,” Drake said sincerely. “Hopefully it won’t be long until we all get to go home.” 

“Aye, amen to that,” Private MacLean said. “I regularly dream about the first sip of that pint of Tennents,” he mimicked the action of taking a sip and sighing with satisfaction, “Lovely.”  

Several of the Englishmen retched and Ross looked at him with disgust. “Tennents? Christ, MacLean, all the fine whisky in Scotland and you drink that piss water?” 

“Calling Tennents piss water is anti-Scottish discrimination, Sir, am reportin’ you tae the Home Office,” he cheekily teased his commanding officer. 

Captain Poldark laughed. “It is simply a matter of differing opinions,, but at any rate I’m sure they’d all agree with me.” 

Murmurs of agreement rang out. 

“Fuck the lot of ye’s am going tae sleep,” MacLean pretended to sulk as he settled down a soft sandbag with a blanket. When the other soldiers had asked how MacLean kept his blanket so free of lice, he had replied that the lice weren’t so rude as to gnaw on fine Scottish wool.

“Hey preacher,” a soldier called before yawning widely. “Have you got anything for us after today?” 

Private Sam Carne, fondly nick-named ‘the preacher’ by those in his battalion for his love of God and words of comfort, looked up from his bible and thought seriously about what private Williams asked him. It had been a long, arduous day wandering along the impossibly dry trenches but, having found what Captain Poldark had since declared ‘the perfect spot’ to go over the top, he knew that tomorrow, or the next day, would be longer and more arduous. The men needed hope, encouragement, faith in themselves; Sam knew just the excerpt to lift their spirits. He turned to them, placed his twice-fired machete aside, held his hands open, closed his eyes and quoted: “And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast.”

A few soldiers murmured amen, a few silently crossed themselves and a few agnostics said and did nothing, but all appreciated Sam’s daily affirmations all the same. 

On that note, the men properly settled down to their letters, to hushed conversations about loved ones and to their dreams, which were their only escape from the nightmare of reality.

With the sun rise came the fulfilled promise of a new day; a day which would be some of the men’s last. 

At six-thirty, Captain Poldark was woken by the sound of a bugle call, announcing that it was dawn. He sat up in the lumpy bed and rubbed his tired face; he needed a shave. There would be no time for that today, though. He immediately grabbed a map and marked the area closest to where he thought them to be, studying it closely for signs of encouragement. He began making rough scribbles on routes which would be best to attack from, as well as marking the clearest ways to reach the closest streams and rivers for water and potential food supplies.

An hour later, satisfied with his plans for the day, Ross Poldark emerged from his small, private barracks to greet the men, most of whom were still half-asleep. Some of whom were still fast asleep. 

Captain Poldark gently kicked private Drake Carne awake. Sam was awake and reading his tattered bible, as he always did in the morning. Over his shoulder, another young man read it with him.

“Sir,” private MacLean beckoned Ross over. Captain Poldark squeezed his way by the sluggish soldiers and came to stand in front of James; he looked at him expectantly. “The Germans - they know we’re here. They’re hiding behind the trees just up and over there,” MacLean whispered, inclining his head above the trench line. “There’s a lot of them, I’d say we’re outnumbered.”

 Ross sighed almost imperceptibly; he thought they might have at least another day or two before they were discovered and could find more food and water to strengthen themselves up. But it seemed there was no time for that now. “Thank you,” he acknowledged with a nod, “Get yourself ready. Williams has fresh water, ensure you’ve drunk plenty seeing as you’ve been up all night. I’ll tell the others.” 

Captain Poldark relayed the news to his men with as much encouragement as he could; his message was well-received, with little shock from the others, who had expected to go over either today, tomorrow or the next. Some were relieved they didn’t have to build it up in their heads for another day. 

Some scribbled a quick goodbye on a piece of paper and placed it in their breast pocket, in case a bullet, grenade or gas canister had their initials on it. Others clutched crucifixes or photographs between their fingers. Drake held Morwenna’s latest letter in his hands, tracing her neat, feminine script with his dirty fingers. Sam, as always, held his bible and prayed silently on it. Ross spun his wedding ring around on his finger, thinking back on the day Demelza had placed it there; it was the happiest day of his life, and one he would never grow tired of recounting. Discreetly, he brought his fourth finger to his lips and kissed the band around it, hoping that somewhere across the channel, Demelza felt him thinking of her. As he straightened his uniform and readied himself for the onslaught that awaited him and his men, Captain Poldark felt a tingle shoot through his hand, as though his wife had kissed him back. He smiled softly and felt braver for it. 

“They’re going to chuck everythin’ they’ve got at us, aren’t they?” Private Drake Carne wondered,, trying to steel himself as he stared at the seven-foot wall of earth in front of him.

 “Yes,” Captain Poldark confirmed, turning his head to look at the scared eighteen year-old man. Boy. He gently tapped him on the back. “Then we shall just have to throw everything right back at them, won’t we?” 

Drake offered him a weak smile, but a more determined head nod.

Ross took out his pocket-watch and stared at the ticking hand, which seemed to move so slowly and yet too fast. One minute to eight. He took a deep breath, which smelled of fresh grass, squashed flowers, iron and ashy dirt. 

He looked down the line they had formed and saw the same look in every single man’s eyes: fear diluted by half-measures of valour. He knew that some of them would die within the next hour, and it made holding his gun all that bit heavier.

 “Gentlemen, there is no use pretending this will be easy. Ensure you have all that you need ready now,” Captain Poldark commanded, his voice carrying the authority it had always been intended for. “Look after yourselves, and each other,” he ordered, his tone more gentle now. “At the end of the day, that is all that can be asked of us. I’ll see you back here once we’ve defeated the Hun.” He checked his watch again. Ten seconds. He brought a whistle to his mouth and held it between his chapped lips. “On my count. 3… 2… 1.” 

The scream of the whistle propelled the men over the wall of their sanctuary and into the abyss of no-man’s-land. 

It was greener than they had envisioned, but not without its signs of destruction. Churned up earth, forgotten corpses of soldiers and their animals, and broken bits of machinery lay in their path and made the surge ahead all the more difficult. 

“Spread out!” Ross ordered immediately, some men charging forward without fear, others tactically hanging back and shooting from distance.

The gunfire rang out around them, so loud it was impossible to tell which side was winning the assault. The battle cries of the British were certainly louder to Ross’s ears. Behind him, a grenade clawed up a chunk of ground and its force propelled him forwards, where he fell flat onto his face into the thick mud. He quickly rose to his feet and continued shooting, killing two enemy men. Ross knew it was a thing that had to be done, but he couldn’t help but feel the waste of life on all sides could never be worth 

From left of field, a half-beaten German tank appeared and began drilling bullets towards the running men.

“Brother, watch out!” Sam cried, pushing him out of harm’s way. The bullet having only missed the two men by mere inches, Sam knelt on the ground and aimed his gun at the enemy, successfully firing his weapon at another person for the first time, killing the driver of the tank cleanly and instantly. 

“Thank you,” Ross said sincerely, knowing it would not only weigh on Sam greatly, but also with the knowledge that he had likely just saved his life. The captain pulled the private to his feet, and gave him a loving squeeze on the shoulder. 

Sam smiled at his brother-in-law.; his smile a comforting flash of Demelza in the chaotic quest to conquer no-man’s-land. Before the guilt of his actions could consume his being, an invisible bullet darted into Sam’s chest, and wobbled him on his feet.

Captain Poldark yanked him by the straps of his uniform and threw him onto the ground, shielding his body with his own. “WE NEED COVER!” he roared to the other men as he narrowly ducked another bullet, which singed some of the hairs on his head. “Medic!”

From only God knows where, Private Drake Carne appeared, a grenade between his teeth, which was then launched with such force it was a wonder the young man didn’t dislocate his shoulder joint. His aim was perfection, however, and took out the immediate danger to their lives.

“Continue forward!” Captain Poldark ordered the other men, who obeyed him without hesitation as they continued their assault, 

Drake sprinted towards Ross and Sam and came to a sliding halt next to them. Drake shoved Ross off of his brother so he could look at him. “What happened?!” 

“The damn idiot saved my life,” Ross explained, trying to find the entry wound on Sam’s chest; the private was now so covered in mud it was impossible to tell red from brown.

Drake desperately slapped both sides of his brother’s face. “Brother. Sam! Can you hear me?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m here,” Sam murmured, staring up at his brother and brother-in-law. The painful contortion of his features slowly began to subside, and a relieved smile stretched across his tanned, handsome features. 

Ross almost crowed in relief at how even the wounded private Carne’s voice sounded. “Yes,” he enthused, his voice thick with emotion as he gently placed his hand on his chest; it was wet with blood. “Yes, you’re here. And you must stay with us, Sam. We’ll get you to a field hospital, I know just the man to care for you.” Ross smiled down at his brother in law, his gaze focused on the relieved smile on the young private’s face, before he then sat back on his knees and gratefully sighed the air from his lungs.

As Captain Poldark looked up at the greying blue sky, Drake carefully touched his hand and dragged it across Sam’s torso until it came to rest on the muddy ground beside him. Ross quizzically looked at Drake, whose eyes were over-brimmed with tears. “‘Tis okay, Cap’n Ross, he wasn’t talkin’ to us: he was talkin’ to God.” 

It was then Ross noted that the smiling private’s eyes were closed - had been closed for some time. But he looked so happy, so content, so peaceful, it was though he was still alive, as though he would wake up any moment and share a laugh with them. But he would not. 

As Ross was busy audibly protesting the reality of the situation, Drake calmly clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. A sunray escaped the sorrow of the silver sky to witness Drake murmur: 

“ In your hands, O Lord,

we humbly entrust our brothers and sisters.

In this life you embraced them with your tender love;

deliver them now from every evil

and bid them eternal rest.

The old order has passed away:

welcome them into paradise,

where there will be no sorrow, no weeping or pain,

but fullness of peace and joy

with your Son and the Holy Spirit

forever and ever. 

Amen .”

An explosion in the near distance shook the scarred ground they sat on; but neither man could bring themselves to care whether it was a metre or a mile away. “Amen,” repeated the agnostic Captain Poldark with holy sincerity - with a desperate desire to believe that private Sam Carne’s place was next to the God he had loved so dearly all his life. 

Sniffling, Drake Carne leaned forward and closed his eyes. The scent of mulch, blood and gunpowder clung to his nostrils and left a stubborn stain on his memory; the hoots of the tank fire were reduced to swirling silence in his ears. His trembling lips brushed the angel’s cooling forehead. “Goodnight, brother,” Drake whispered.

He then stood to attention and wiped his burning eyes. He swayed in his place for a moment, before turning his back on the foreboding allure of no-man’s-land, on the war itself, and trudging back to the dark, depressing, dirty den which they now called home.. 

Through misty eyes, Ross glanced down at Sam and noted once more, and for the final time, how similar his smile was to his sister’s. A wave of guilt, of sickness, of sorrow washed over Ross: How ever was he going to tell Demelza that he had broken his promise to keep him safe? 

Chapter Text

A soft knock at the door was the push Caroline needed to not turn over in her large bed and fall back asleep. “Come in,” she granted as she sat up against the pillows.

“Good morning, milady!” Grace greeted cheerfully as she entered the room; immediately crossing its length to open the curtains and window.

Caroline blinked at the raven-haired housemaid. Where was Demelza? “Good morning,” Lady Caroline greeted smoothly, not wishing to offend her. It was not her fault she wasn’t Demelza.

Grace smiled at the greeting, having not really expected one in return. “I’ve brought you some fresh bonbons, milady,” the housemaid informed Caroline. “Strawberry; your favourite.” Grace picked up the glass box from the mantelpiece and tipped the old – but still perfectly edible – bonbons into the rubbish bin and replaced them with fresh ones from the brown packet she was holding.

Caroline offered her a small smile. “Thank you.”

“Shall I start on the fire now, milady?”

Her mind whirring with possibilities, ranging from good to bad to very bad, Caroline dropped her legs over the side of the bed. “Oh, before you start on all that, could you help me dress for the day? I have a few errands to run,” the heiress lied smoothly. “A simple outfit will do – any skirt and a blouse.”

“Of course. Any preference as to colour?” Grace asked as she headed to the wardrobe.

“Anything,” Caroline casually dismissed; anxious to find out where Demelza was. “You pick.”

The housemaid shot her employer a funny look but remained silent as she selected a royal blue skirt which she paired with a lacy, white shirt.

“Perfect,” Lady Caroline said before Grace began to help her into the shirt.

Sensing that the lady was in a hurry for some unbeknownst reason, Grace quickly offered the blue skirt for Caroline to delicately step into, where she then pulled it up and fastened the belt around her waist. The housemaid handed her a clean pair of white stockings and some sensible black brogue shoes.

Caroline shot her a grateful glance. “Thank you,” she said sincerely, before moving towards the door. “You’ve done good work this morning. I shall sing your praises to Henshawe and Mrs Paynter. Do help yourself to a bonbon or two, they are delicious.”

She had barely finished her sentence before she closed the door behind her.

Power-walking down the corridor, she opened the door to the servants’ stairway and quickly descended down its cold, spiralling steps. At the bottom, Caroline came to a long passageway and was unsure which direction to go in, so she followed the sound of conversation until she found the small dining room the servants ate their meals in. They were clearly having a quick cup of tea, save the cook and the kitchen-maid who were having a belated breakfast, before starting the day properly. Caroline felt quite guilty for disturbing them, but needs must.

Henshawe spotted Lady Caroline first and quickly stood up, the other servants following, all with rounded, confused eyes.

“Please, sit down,” Caroline said gently, cringing at the formality they afforded her. Of course she was entitled to it, being who she was, but it all seemed so stiff , so proper , now that she and Demelza had long ago blurred the lines of social status between them. “I’m very sorry to disturb your tea,” she began.

“What can we do for you, milady?” Mrs Paynter wondered, struggling to keep the surprise from her tone. In the twelve years that she had worked in this house, she had never once seen Lady Caroline venture down these stairs.

Caroline rocked on her feet, now realising how inappropriate this was. She should have just asked Grace, or rang the bell. But Demelza was her friend, and so she wanted to inquire properly. “I was wondering if you could fetch Demelza for me?”

All the servants shared a quiet look. They were all still standing politely.

Mrs Prudie Paynter was the first person to speak once again; she fidgeted with the hem of her worn sleeve. “We sent her to bed, milady. Was there a problem with Grace?” she wondered, her tone moving from gentle to stern within the blink of an eye.

“Oh no, no, no,” Lady Caroline insisted, waving her palms in the housemaid’s defence. “Grace was most efficient this morning. I just wanted to make sure Demelza was alright?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Mrs Paynter nodded and then pulled Caroline into the corridor for a quiet word, gently closing the dining hall door behind them. 

Lady Caroline looked at Mrs Paynter expectantly while beginning to wring her hands with unease. “Demelza received word about Captain Poldark,” Prudie told her vaguely. 

Caroline’s breathing slowed and her heartbeat quickened. “What about him?”

The head housemaid pulled the lady aside more so. “He’s missing,” she whispered, looking very sorry about it, “missin’ presumed dead they called it.” 

No, it couldn’t be. Not Ross. Not her oldest ally and true friend. Not the love of Demelza’s life. Not Dwight’s best friend. 

“Oh, my God,” Caroline gasped quietly, bringing her hand to mouth. 

Prudie thought the young woman in front of her had become so pale that she would surely faint. “Are you alright, milady?” she asked, knowing that Captain Ross had been a close friend of hers as well as Demelza’s husband. 

“Mrs Paynter, take me to Demelza, please,” Caroline ordered determinedly, pushing aside her own feelings on the matter. 

Prudie obeyed her without words and led them up the winding staircase. 

At the top of the stairs they reached the part where the servant’s dormitories were divided into male and female. The male dormitories were eerily quiet these days, as the only males remaining in the household were Paul Daniel, Henshawe and sixteen year-old hall-boy Harry, who was of course too young to be called up. Every time anyone in the house set eyes on Paul Daniel these days, he looked as though he was a man awaiting his order of execution. 

“Demelza did explicitly say she didn’t want any visitors, but I think she would make allowances for you,” Mrs Paynter said with a knowing smile. She gently knocked on the bedroom door. “Demelza, Lady Caroline be here to see you.” 

There was no response from the housemaid on the other side of the door, and so Prudie carefully turned the brass doorknob, allowing Lady Caroline to enter in front of her. 

“Demelza?” Caroline asked, her brows stretching to meet each other in concern.

Demelza Poldark lay on her stomach, face-down on the bed. She didn’t acknowledge their presence. If it wasn’t for the slow rise and fall of her breathing Caroline would have supposed she was dead in her stillness. 

It struck Caroline that Demelza had been in her own room countless times and she had never once been inside here. It was rather plain, as all the servant’s rooms were, but there was a photograph of her and Ross on her nightstand as well as a small vase of cornflowers, which hung sadly over the glass rim. There were several small paintings on the wall to provide some colour, all of which were painted by local artists; Caroline almost smiled as she noted a painting she had made for Demelza for her eighteenth birthday which hung proudly on the wall alongside the others. 

On the floor next to the foot of the bed lay a discarded letter; its stubborn unwelcomeness still in full view. Caroline bent down and picked it up; it’s inked contents were smudged from teardrops but the words were still fairly legible. The letter read:

June 23rd, 1916.

Dear Madam, 

I regret to have to inform you that a report has been made from the War Office that

(No.) 2/81260 (Rank) Captain (Name) Poldark, Ross Vennor (Regiment) 47th Battalion

Was posted “missing presumed dead” on 18th June 1916

The report of missing presumed dead does not necessarily mean that he has indeed been killed, as he may be a prisoner of war or separated from his regiment, possibly through injury.

Official reports that men are prisoners of war take some time to reach this country, so you may receive unofficial notification of this first via letter or postcard etc. If you do receive any news, we ask that the evidence is passed forward to our Office at once, this will be returned to you as quickly as possible. 

Should any further official information be received it will be communicated to you at once.  

I am Madam, 

Your obedient servant, 

George Warleggan

Officer in charge of Records at HM Government War Office building, Whitehall, London, SW1.

Swallowing thickly, Caroline folded the letter and placed it on Demelza’s nightstand, before then pulling up a white wooden chair to sit next to the bed. “Thank you, Mrs Paynter, you may leave us now,” Caroline said, releasing the head housemaid to her other duties. 

“Give us a ring if you need anythin’,” she offered quietly, frowning in motherly concern at Demelza’s continued despondency. 

“Thank you,” Lady Caroline said again as the middle-aged woman closed the bedroom door. 

Demelza’s blue-green eyes shone with unshed tears as she continued to stare off into the distance, as though able to see something no one else could. She was privately recalling a day in the summer of 1914 where she and Ross had been walking along the cliffside; he had stopped suddenly and picked her a bountiful bouquet of wildflowers, which Demelza had then skillfully incorporated into her hair. Jealous of her decorated hair, Ross pinched a bird’s-foot trefoil and tried to incorporate it into his own dark locks, but it had resisted. As always, Demelza had managed to fix the issue, and the happy yellow coast flower smiled proudly above Ross’s ear. Soon thereafter, Demelza had laughed so much at his silly, false picture posing she thought she would be sick. Ross had laughed, too, and it was that sound that now echoed in her ears, drowning out the sound of her own breath.

Caroline gently placed her hand on top of Demelza’s which lay limp on the mattress next to her face. “Demelza?” she whispered patiently. The way Demelza was lying, the hurt in her eyes, reminded Caroline of a little bird who had broken its wing and was unable to fly.

She could not look at Caroline. She couldn’t look at anyone. She only wanted to look at Ross, and in all likelihood she never would look at him again. Her tears fell now. “He’s gone,” she breathed, the sentence constricting her lungs. The statement was so softly spoken it was almost outwith the range of human hearing. 

Caroline squeezed her hand gently, her own chest becoming tight at Demelza’s words. “My pet, we don’t know that for certain. Not yet. There is still hope yet.” 

Demelza had no hope. She did not know how she was going to get up again. She could not face a world without Ross; their life together had barely begun and already it was over. Over with a single piece of paper. “No,” was all Demelza murmured in response. 

“Would you like me to stay with you? We don’t have to talk, but I’ll sit with you and hold your hand until it’s time to eat supper,” Caroline offered, wishing to be of some use. It was difficult to feel useful in wartime, especially for a woman of her station, who was not permitted to assist in the fields or farms. At least she may be of use to her friend.

An almost imperceptible nod of the head indicated that Demelza wanted Caroline to stay and hold her hand. They remained that way in solemn, sisterly silence until the mid-morning light faded into dusk.

There had been no rest bite today. Not a single minute to simply sit down and breathe. Scarcely a moment to have a sip of water.

And then the next group of men were ushered in from the field hospital a few miles away, all in need of more specialist treatment. Several of the stretcher-bearers rushed to meet the two motors which carried the wounded soldiers.

Some other more mildly injured soldiers had elected to ride over with their friends, brothers and superiors to ensure their care would be managed properly. 

Dwight was steadying himself for the hard day’s work ahead when a young man appeared out of nowhere and grasped his shirt, his auburn brows creased above his wide, panicked eyes. “You have tae save him,” the distressed Scottish soldier told Dr Enys. “We’re all fucked without him.”

Dr Enys blinked at him. “We will,” he said, no longer hesitant to offer people that empty promise. Over the past couple of years he had found that the feigned confidence of his statement brought a sense of comfort to the other men. One which, importantly, allowed them to leave the hospital and not have to bear witness to their friends, brothers and cousins dying.  “What happened to him?” the doctor asked, not being able to see anything except blood. 

“A grenade landed about a metre or two in front of us,” the man recalled with a shiver. “And the stupid prick threw himself in front of me to protect me,” he complained without heat, looking at the blood-soaked man accusingly. “Six of us were on a secret mission, and we got separated from the other three in our battalion a few days ago. He's been like this for hours and the other doctors in the field hospital had ran out of supplies.” 

The dying soldier moaned in pain as he woke up. 

Dwight cursed and grabbed the man’s feet. “Help me lift him onto here,” he ordered the Scot as they both grabbed either end of the stretcher and placed it onto a make-shift operating table. 

“Sir? Can you hear me?” Dr Enys inquired, shining a light into the wounded soldier’s eyes. The soldier groaned again, and winced at the blood seeping into his eyes from his wound. 

“What’s his name-?” Dwight began to ask the other man, before he noticed the name stitched onto the injured soldier’s uniform. His blood ran cold. “No…”

“Drake?” the man croaked. “Where’s Drake?” 

“Drake? Who is Drake?”

“My brother… in law. He was with me when we were hit.” 

“I’m sure he’s alright. Listen, Ross, it’s Dwight. My friend, you’ve taken quite the hit, I need you to relax so I can patch you up. Ada, fetch me a clean needle and thread and plenty of fresh gauze. And morphine. Go,” he ordered the nurse, Ada Smith, who had become a sister to him over the past few years; the two of them had developed an almost telepathetic understanding. “You had better get yourself seen to,” Dwight said to the soldier who’d brought Ross in, relieved that the young man immediately followed his instructions and left.

Ada understood that whenever Dr Enys had a panicked look in his eyes and forced casualness in his tone that the situation was very bad. So she ran for the supplies he’d requested.

“Dwight? Holy shit,” Ross responded, laughing pathetically at the coincidence, with the energy of a dying man, “It seems as though God doesn’t hate me after all. How are you, my friend?” 

Dwight pressed the last clean gauze he had to the side of Ross’s head, which was still bleeding more than he would have hoped at this stage; judging by the amount of blood on his khaki jacket, it was a miracle he was even still awake. “Extraordinary. Yourself?”

“Oh, splendid,” Ross replied with a small twist of his mouth. It began to fade as he saw the stern concentration of Dwight’s face. “How bad is it?” Ross asked, his eyes staring at Dwight.

It was bad. Dwight knew his face would be forever scarred at the very least. Oh God, Demelza would never forgive him if Ross died. Nor would Caroline. Above all, he would never forgive himself. No, he would not allow himself to even think about it. 

Ross clutched Dwight’s sleeve with all the force he could. It wasn’t much, but it made Dwight look at him. The next question came a little harder. “Will I die?”

No. Possibly. Yes. Maybe. “No,” Dr Enys said firmly, compressing the wound with all his might. If Ross lost much more blood there would be nothing Dwight, or any man, could do for him.

The captain’s eyes were growing heavy, and the world around him was darkening. “Ross. Ross!” Dwight slapped his face and held his cheeks. “Look at me; eyes on me. I need you to stay awake, you must keep your eyes open,” Dr Enys ordered, panic rising in his tone. “Nurse Smith!” he yelled impatiently. 

“Coming!” she cried back, racing across the room with a bundle of the requested items in her arms. 

Dr Enys frantically took the items he asked for and threaded the surgical thread through the needle with such haste he tore a small piece of flesh from his mouth, which began to bleed. He didn’t even notice.

The nurse looked at him, and quickly deduced that Dwight knew the soldier on his table. Quiet well it would seem. She was amazed at how little his hands shook as he began the stitch. “Major Enys, should you really be working on him? Maybe Dr Wilson could take-” 

“If you think I’m going to leave the life of my best friend in another man’s hands then you don’t know me at all. Now, you can either help me or get the hell out of my way,” Dwight said through gritted, determined teeth as he began to knit Ross’s left temple back together.

Ada blinked at the doctor's stern tone; he had never raised his voice at anyone, nevermind appeared angry. She continued to assist him in whatever way she could by handing him bandages, holding the soldier’s skin in place, stemming the bleeding from the wound site.

Over three hours later, Dr Enys and Nurse Smith sat on the floor in the corner of the base hospital, both exhausted from the commotion of the past couple of hours. They had saved who they could, and made arrangements for those who could not be saved to be returned home to their loved ones if their bodies were not overly disfigured.

Presently, they passed sour orange segments between each other. Dwight remembered that Caroline often anonymously sent oranges to the local workhouse, which everyone in their friendship group knew about but did not mention because they knew Caroline would strenuously deny the accusation of sentimental generosity. It was the doctor who broke the not-uncomfortable silence first. “Ross hasn’t woken up yet,” Dwight fretted, worrying his bottom lip until it bled further. 

Ada gently tapped his arm. “He is alive, though. He’s breathing, see?” she pointed to Captain Poldark, whose chest rose and fell in a defiant rhythm. “It’s probably just all the morphine in his body that’s knocked him out. If he wasn’t your friend, you’d already know that, Dr-Major Enys,” she soothed. 

Dwight released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He placed his hands over his face and wiped it roughly, before running a hand through his untidy hair. “You’re right,” he told Ada. "You can just call me Dwight, so as you know," he said gently. It filled him with both pride and dread to have been recently promoted to the rank of Major. "Especially when we're just talking like this." Ada offered him a small smile and head nod. Dwight exhaled heavily again, glancing at where Ross lay. He shivered as his eye caught the tag tied to Ross’s uniform for the English doctors back home to assess and provide follow up care, if necessary. It read: ‘Probable sight damage, irreversible ligament damage to the left ankle, possible hearing difficulties.’

Dr Enys had left strict instructions with the other doctors that Ross was to be taken back to England to recuperate at the next available opportunity, where he should then be immediately offered honourable discharge. To calm his anxiety, he fished out a letter from his pocket and ran a hand over the soothing, cursive script.  

Noticing the piece of paper in his hand, Ada asked, “Have you heard from your Caroline recently?” 

His Caroline. He liked that so much, he even allowed himself a smile at it. “Yes, I heard from her yesterday,” he told Ada, holding the folded letter aloft. 

Ada nudged him playfully. “And?” she pried, with the tone of an annoying little sister. 

Dwight smiled at that, too. “And she is well. She held a charity concert at her home for injured soldiers and they raised a few thousand pounds.”

“A few thousand?!” Ada repeated, her eyebrows in her dark-brown hairline. “Crikey, she really must be as charming as you say.” 

“Oh, she is,” Dwight assured the nurse with a bright smile. 

“So, when are you getting married?” Ada demanded to know. 

Dwight’s smile grew wider, and a blush formed on his cheeks. “Well, I need to ask her first!” he said with a laugh. He would ask her the moment he next saw her and not a second later.

“Well, hop to it! I need an excuse for a new hat once this is all over.”

“I rather suppose Arthur thinks you have enough hats,” Dr Enys taunted the nurse. 

Ada twirled her wedding with a wry smile. She tossed her head confidently. “My husband has no taste, so it is up to me to have enough for the both of us!” 

“How funny, I can hear Caroline saying exactly the same thing about me,” he dared imagined with a laugh. 

“Smart girl.” It then struck Ada how dark the smudges beneath the doctor’s crinkled eyes were as he smiled. “Why don’t you go for a quick kip? You look exhausted. Actually, you look terrible,” she said with the frankness of a sibling. 

A smirk tugged at the corner of Dwight’s mouth. “Thanks,” he said sarcastically.

“Welcome,” replied Ada in a sing-song voice. “I mean it, though, go get some rest while it’s quiet. Your shift was over two hours ago anyway. Go read your Caroline’s letter until you drift off.” 

That sounded like the best idea he’d heard in a long time. “I think I will,” he said, slowly rising to his aching feet. He turned around to face Ada. “Wake me if any others are brought in or if Ross wakes up,” he told her with a yawn. 

“Of course,” she lied; she was going to let him sleep. It seemed as though he had barely slept in months, and he had just managed to save the life of his best friend through sheer stubbornness and determination, so that deserved a reward in itself, even if Dr Enys didn’t think so.

With the wave of a hand, Dwight bid her goodbye and he trudged down the short corridor to the doctor’s quarters; his room was on the left-hand side. Cautiously, he pushed the creaky door open and found the room, which he shared with Dr Hayes, blessedly vacant. He discarded his bloody coat and overalls and released his shoulders from the strain of his braces. Like a stone plopping into a lake, he dropped onto the bed in an exhausted heap. He could just about managed to hold Caroline’s letter still in his hand, taking comfort from her words, which read:

9th June, 1916.

Dear Dwight, 

Thank you for your last letter. I should like to think you have now received my letter quicker than the last, as I have written a complaint to the Royal Mail. I fear it is up to you to chide your pigeon friend Horace for his tardiness. I’m glad you received my picture, though I am sorry to hear you are hiding it beneath your pillow. I look quite fine in it, and I do not blush in false modesty to admit it, and so I think it deserves to sit on your bedside for all to see. Unless you are ashamed of me, of course.

My Horace, Demelza and I are all well, as I hope you are, too. I hope you know how much I mean that. I fear I do not have much news to relay, other than the concert was a great success! We raised the sum of four thousand pounds and ten shillings exactly, which have since been donated equally between the British Red Cross and Help for Heroes Cornwall. Though I admit that making a difference in this way is pleasing, I am not sure about my heart being overtly generous, Dr Enys. But I wager you know its secrets better than I. 

I have been staring at this letter for twenty minutes now wondering if I should be honest or lie. As children we are always taught that honesty is the best policy, but as adults we know that a white lie to spare someone’s feelings is always the better option. But that is a fine line when you wish neither to deceive or hurt a person you love. 

I have decided to be honest, and I hope you will forgive me if it distresses you, my love. Lord Unwin Trevaunance has officially asked me to marry him. Don’t worry, I have not yet given him an answer. (The answer of course being ‘no’, ‘absolutely not’, ‘over my dead body’, ‘when hell freezes over’ etc etc.) But the difficulty, you see, is that my uncle expects a match between us. Naturally, I shall have to let him down in this regard, and he shall have to cast me out into the cold and I shall dine on gruel in the workhouse or hard turnips on the streets. Both of which are favourable to a life with Unwin and a life without you. I already have a plan in place for when Unwin presses me for an answer, which he will, but not - I would wager - for another six months or so as he has the self-respect and conviction of a wet fish. I shall not tell you what my scheme is because I know you will object to its severity and I shall spare you the trouble of trying to change my mind, which of course you cannot.

Nevertheless, Dr Enys, it is important to me that you should know that I could never marry him, or any other man except you. You have cracked the wall around my cold heart and I do not care to repair it so long as you care to stay. 

Dear God, I think I have been reading too much Austen. Still, I think it is worth saying that I love and miss you so very much. I count the days until you can return to me, I trust it will be soon. On that note, before I embarrass myself any further, I shall bid you Adieu,

With all my love, 

Your affectionate friend, 

Caroline 

Dwight had fallen asleep before he could even put the letter next to the picture frame of Caroline on his side table.

One summer's evening, the muted sunshine continued to pour in through the open dining room windows of Killewarren, casting hopeful shadows about the room. Lord Penvenen and his niece, Caroline, enjoyed a lovely dinner in each other’s company. The starter of salmon mousse with oatcakes and an entree of roasted duck with all the trimmings had hit the spot quite nicely. Realising that her uncle was enjoying his meal, and his evening, especially as he tuck into his favorite dessert of raspberry meringue, Caroline decided now was the window of opportunity. 

Ray took a large sip of his wine and sighed with satisfaction. 

“Uncle Ray?” Caroline began sweetly, disarming him with one of her charming smiles. 

Ray smiled back. “Yes, my dear?” 

“Who might we know who works with the War Office?” Caroline inquired casually, as though inquiring as to how her uncle’s day had been.

Lord Penvenen’s features creased in confusion. “The War Office? Well, I believe there’s a few old Eton friends who are involved in such affairs.” He narrowed his eyes in suspicion at her, but a small smile still played on his lips. “Why do you ask, my dear?”

Lady Caroline placed her knife and fork down neatly. “I won’t beat around the bush,” she told her uncle as she placed her napkin on the table. 

“-You never do, Caroline.” 

“My friend, Mr- that is Captain - Ross Poldark, is missing.” She swallowed before continuing: “Missing presumed dead.” 

Ray frowned deeply. “Oh, my dear, I am truly sorry to hear that. I have always liked Ross, you know,” he said with a hurt sigh. It would be such a shame to lose one of the finest young gentlemen in the county, especially since he and dear, sweet Demelza had not long been married.

“Yes, I know,” Caroline confirmed, carefully taking his hand. “That is why I was wondering if I could trouble you to use your influence in contacting the War Office to find out more news. Please, uncle,” she pleaded, her golden brows knitted sadly above her sapphire eyes. 

“Of course, my dear girl. I shall write a telegram after I finish my glass of brandy,” he promised. 

Caroline leapt from her seat and flung her arms around her guardian, squeezing him tightly. “Thank you,” she said with a small sniff. Whether the news was bad or good, Demelza deserved to know for certain and as quickly as possible.

Ray tapped her back fondly. “Don’t think anything of it. I am sure Captain Poldark is alright,” he promised hollowly as Caroline took her seat next to him again. “Let us be thankful you’ve only one man to worry for on the front,” he said gently, but still somehow pointedly referring to a doctor whom Caroline may once have worried for. 

She laughed lightly and began breaking off a piece of meringue with her fork. “Oh, yes, thank God I’ve only Ross to worry about,” Caroline lied smoothly.

Demelza Poldark sat in her living room, staring somewhat apathetically into the fire. On the table sat a tray of uneaten food, made with care and concern by Jinny, who was troubled that Mrs Poldark had scarcely eaten for three days since she had heard news of Captain Poldark’s uncertain whereabouts. Demelza had not been in the mood for the porridge laced with sweet apples Jinny had made, and preferred more of a liquid breakfast. A cup of tea, she had discovered, did not solve everything, as previously claimed. Brandy wine was a better friend, for it helped her to forget for a moment; it helped to soothe the depth of her aloneness. Ross would no doubt chide her for drinking wine before the clocks had scarcely struck ten o’clock, but he was not here to do so, and so Demelza continued to sip from the bottle’s neck. 

She hated to be alone in this house. Whenever news of Ross’s death would be officially confirmed she knew she could not stay here, though she didn’t know how Ross would feel about her leaving his family home vacant. But she simply could not live here without him; not when his memory lurked in every corner of the house. Over there by the gramophone was where Ross had taught her how to dance the foxtrot, she remembered that day fondly as it was the day she realised she was completely and irrevocably in love with him. At the kitchen table is where they had shared their wedding cake together, talking nonsense until the time came to retire upstairs to become husband and wife. She found herself stroking the glossy wooden table with her hand at the spot where he would sit, unsure of how she had even come to be there. Tears sprung to Demelza’s eyes as she bitterly wondered why she could not have had the chance to bear his child. Many other women had fallen pregnant on their wedding nights, why not her?  

Suddenly, a loud thumping came from the front door, so loud it made her jump where she now stood. “What in God’s name?” Demelza whispered to herself as she cautiously approached the door. “Hello?” she called, fear starting to creep on her. What if her father had found her? She sniffed and blinked away her forming tears; she had none left to spill.

“Demelza, it’s me. For Heaven’s sake, open the door! I have news!” The impatient knocking restarted.

Demelza immediately approached the door, took the keys from where they hung on a nail and unlocked the front door with two noisy clicks. The summer sunshine assaulted her dry, reddened eyes as she opened it.

“Demelza,” Caroline greeted breathlessly at the threshold of the door; if Demelza didn’t think it impossible she might have supposed that Caroline had run to Nampara from Killewarren. “Ross is - alive,” she gasped out, “wounded - but alive.” Demelza clutched the beams of the doorframe to keep herself upright. “He’s in a field hospital in Kent, he’s being discharged home in a few days.” 

Caroline thrust a telegram into Demelza’s shaking hands. “Look, read this,” she ordered, clutching her splitting sides. Why didn’t she order a motor to meet her from the bus stop at St Austell? Why did she think she could run two miles in these shoes? She was quite impressed she had, though, but knew it was the adrenaline alone that had carried her there. 

Demelza unfolded the small piece of paper and saw through tear-rimmed eyes that it read: ‘CAPTAIN ROSS POLDARK RECOVERING WELL COURTESY OF ST MUNGO’S HOSPITAL IN KENT. AWAITING DISCHARGE IN A FEW DAYS.’

She clutched her chest to prevent her heart from beating right through it. “Oh, thank God!” Demelza sobbed, slipping to the kitchen floor, her legs unable to stand under the weight of her relief. She leaned towards where Caroline stood; the messenger then kneeled in front of Demelza and enveloped her in a hug. 

“Sorry if I’m all sweaty,” Caroline apologised, still panting from her run; she soothed Demelza’s loosened curls as she continued to sob uncontrollably at the news of Ross’s safety. 

Demelza couldn’t have possibly cared less in that moment whether Caroline was sweaty, aflame or covered in smallpox - she needed to hug her friend for relaying the best sentence she had ever read. After a few minutes of sitting that way, Demelza noticed that Caroline was wearing a new coat. “Oh, no, Caroline, your coat - it’s new,” Demelza began to fret, wishing to distract herself from her overbearing emotions, “And I- well, I haven’t felt- well enough... to sweep these past few days.” She anxiously chewed on her bottom lip. 

Thinking she understood what was troubling Demelza, Caroline dismissed, “Demelza, my dear, pray do not worry for my coat. It is quite happy to be on your kitchen floor, I assure you; and, at any rate, it can be washed when I return home. What matters is that Ross will be returning home.” 

Demelza started to cry again; Caroline wrapped one arm around her chest from behind and rested one hand in Demelza’s hair. “I cannot believe it. I cannot believe Ross will be home soon,” Mrs Poldark laughed through her streaming tears. “It d’ not seem real.” She never thought she would see him walk through their home again. 

Caroline continued to let Demelza have her feelings and swayed them both gently as they sat on Nampara’s dusty floor. It was times like these that Caroline wished she was better with people, better with navigating feelings, better with kind words - like Demelza and Dwight were - she felt somewhat embarrassed that the only reassurance she could offer Demelza was: “Well, my dear, you had best believe it. It is real, and Ross will be home any day now. And the two of you shall be together again, and you will have a chance to properly live in your home together. That is something you must take to heart, for it is true. The Home Office hath spoken.” 

Little did Lady Caroline know, but it was her honest, practical, matter-of-fact tone that meant more to Demelza than if she had spoken in flowery Austen speeches. It was true: Ross was coming home. He was safe, alive, and he was coming back to her. Any day now. Demelza smiled and looked up at her friend, her mouth slowly twisting wryly as she did so. Suddenly she stood up, laughing gaily as she wiped her wet face. She looked sunny again - like the victorious golden sky at the end of a storm. “Well, if my husband will be home any day now, I suppose I better get sweepin’!”

Chapter Text

Ross Poldark yawned widely as he stared out of the train window, the southern English countryside racing by his hazel eyes so quickly he could not even count the number of lambs in the field. His scar, which lay scarlet along his left temple, having narrowly missed his eye, had not yet grown accustomed to Ross’s wide yawns, and protested the action with a dull ache. The morning sun began to shyly creep over the rolling hills as though it hardly dared steal their limelight by glowing brilliantly in the sky. Ross couldn’t have cared less if his scar hurt or if the day was sunny and cloudless or drowning the whole world with rain, the only thing that mattered that he would see Demelza soon. Today. Come rain or shine. 

He knew from the fast evolving landscape that they would be arriving in London soon, which placed approximately five hours between now and seeing his wife. On that pleasant note, Ross Poldark closed his eyes, leaned his head further against the window pane and fell into a peaceful doze for the remainder of the journey. 

The day was glorious - warm with a pleasant breath of wind, the cloudless blue sky above smiling smugly at its own beauty - and still Demelza Poldark found herself shivering where she stood on the train platform. What if Ross had missed the train and wasn’t coming? What if he had fallen ill and had had to stay another day or so? What if he really wasn’t coming at all, what if he was lying forgotten in a French field, and the last week had all been some dream which would now become a nightmare? She took a deep breath and firmly told herself to stop being ridiculous. She found this worked better when she thought about it in her friend Caroline’s voice. Caroline had offered to come with Demelza for moral support this afternoon to greet Ross off the train, but Demelza had politely declined her offer, wishing to see Ross for the first time alone. Caroline had understood entirely and simply told Demelza to send her a telegram if there was anything they needed between today and their afternoon tea tomorrow. But as she stood nervously chewing the whites of her nails, Demelza suddenly wished she had Caroline’s strong arm in hers and was listening to her stern words of encouragement. Right now, Demelza thought, she would give anything for anyone to interrupt the ceaseless anxious whirring of her thoughts. 

“Mrs Poldark?” a familiar voice wondered. 

Demelza turned around to be greeted by Hugh Armitage’s handsome face and soulful eyes. Something about him made her cringe slightly, though she could not think why, he had always been perfectly pleasant conversation. “Mr Armitage,” she greeted with a polite smile. “Are you off to London?” Demelza assumed.

He shook his head, which ruffled his dirty blonde curls. “No,” he answered. “I am waiting for my fiancée, she is coming off the ten o’clock train.”

“Fiancée?” Demelza wondered, her eyebrows rising in surprise. He had never mentioned her before, and they had seen each other three times since the servants’ ball at Killewarren; he always bumped into her in Truro, almost as if he knew where she might be. He had once kindly given her a ride back to Nampara in his motor and helped her carry her things inside.

He came to stand beside Demelza as they stared out at the empty space which the train would soon fill. “Yes, her name is Mary,” Hugh went on. “We have been friends for many years.” 

“And it became somethin’ more?” Demelza asked, a happy smile on her face. She loved to hear of other people’s joy. 

“Yes, I suppose you could say that,” was all Hugh offered. His engagement had come rather suddenly, out of a rash realisation that Demelza Poldark could never be his, would never permit to be his mistress. Not that he had ever gotten the chance to truly know her, to truly love her, yet he had been bewitched by her upon their first meeting. But her nosy friend Lady Caroline Penvenen had stuck her nose in and gently reminded him that ‘we mustn’t pursue what isn’t ours to pursue.’ Besides, Demelza, herself, never seemed to be romantically interested in him, she talked relentlessly of her husband, even when they had been alone together and there needn't be any pretenses. And so his hope had died in vain; he could not say that he wasn’t bitter, but bitterness fades over time, and Mary would make a perfectly acceptable life companion - they already got on so well. Perhaps love would flourish one day, he would live in hope that it would. “Are you waiting for Captain Poldark?” he asked Demelza suddenly. 

She looked at him. “Yes, I am,” she answered, unable to keep the mixture of glee and trepidation from her face. 

“Yes, I heard of his injury and recovery. I hope you two shall be happy together,” he said with a soft smile, trying very hard to mean what he said.

“Thank you,” Demelza said warmly. Hugh then politely tipped his hat, and walked to the area of the train where the second-class coaches would likely stop. It would be the last conversation they ever had. 

In the not-too-far distance, Demelza heard the unmistakable sound of a train’s whistle. She wrung her hands. What should she do with them? Fold them genteelly? Perhaps cross her arms? Allow them to hang casually by her side? But how did she look? She turned towards the empty waiting area and peered at her reflection in the window. Her new green dress suit did compliment her red hair, but she wasn’t sure if she suited the style. The dress suit was a modern cut but her hair was wrapped into a loose gibson bun on the top of her head and now Demelza thought it looked quite silly and outdated as she smoothed her shaky hands over it. 

Noticing her preening, an eldery station-master with a thick white mustache chuckled at her. “You look fine, ma’am,” he assured her, his whiskery mustache twitching and his eyes crinkling as he smiled kindly at her.

She looked at him, somewhat taken aback that he had noticed her amongst the other beautiful women on the platform. “You think so?” she asked, still peering into the sunny window. “My husband - he’s returning from France, I haven’t seen him for nearly two years.” She was not sure why she was telling the old man this. “I wanted to look nice.” She played with her hair and fidgeted with the delicate chain around her throat.

The station-master chuckled again. “Well, I may be biased, as you look a lot like my wife did at that age,” he paused to smile at a memory Demelza could not see. “But all the same,” he continued, “I should think your husband will agree with me; else he’s a damned fool!”  

Demelza laughed and refrained from commenting that Ross could be just that whenever he felt so inclined. “Thank you, Sir,” she said warmly, “you’ve... oh, what’s the word… bolstered my spirits!” 

“Not at all, not at all, ma’am,” he dismissed modestly, the same kind smile continuing to crinkle his eyes. “Now you’d best turn around, I don’t want your husband thinking I’m trying to steal you from him!” 

Whirring around where she stood, she was met by a black and scarlet steam engine which now sat stationary several feet in front of her. Doors from all three sections began to swing open and greetings floated into the air. A gaggle of young women cackled as they alighted the first class carriage, and for a moment it looked as though nobody else would emerge, but a tall figure shadowed the threshold and carefully set foot onto the platform.

The very air around Demelza seemed to tremble. Ross was in front of her. It was truly him. He was still in his uniform, she suspected he had nothing else to wear. He had aged five years in two and his face was now marked by a brave red line, but his eyes remained as warm as ever and his hair was just as dark and curly as she remembered.

He carried a small suitcase in one hand and a wooden cane - grudgingly - in the other. He had not yet seen her amongst the crowd of people, which Demelza considered a blessing as her chest heaved and her mouth and thoughts ran dry.

Still incapacitated by her emotions, it took her several seconds to realise that Ross had met her eyes and was approaching her. For a moment, the gravity of the situation had also rendered Ross speechless, but then the corners of his mouth twitched. “Who is this fine lady?” he teased, his mouth curved into an amused and appreciative smile. “I’m looking for my wife. She’s about your height, with beautiful red curls, an angelic voice - though sometimes has a mouth like a sailor - and a good knack for keeping things neat and orderly. Have you seen her?” 

Despite herself, Demelza laughed. “Judas,” she gently christened him, glad that his ability to lighten the mood had not been damaged with the rest of him. She set her eyes upon him again, and for the first time truly registered that he was indeed standing in front of her, within arms reach. 

Ross took another somewhat unsteady step towards her which had nothing to do with his injured ankle. “Oh, there she is,” he murmured, his eyes were soft and - in a certain light - damp with emotion.

“Oh, Ross,” Demelza finally cried, flinging herself into his arms. She wept openly into his shoulder and held him so tightly he knew that she was never letting him go for as long as they both lived. 

After a long while of gently swaying in their embrace, both of them savouring the feel of one another in their arms, Demelza gently pulled back, smiling as she pressed her nose against his. “Shall we go home now?”

Home. The very thing he had been dreaming of for the past two years - to be home with Demelza. “Yes,” said Ross thickly, thinking nothing on earth could possibly be better. “In a moment, though.” He dropped the two objects he was holding, placed both hands on either side of Demelza’s face and kissed her as though she were the only thing that was real.

The car journey passed silently. It was not an awkward silence, as both Ross and Demelza had, in private, feared it might be after all this time. The silence was comfortable, one of companionship, of quiet hope and answered prayers. Demelza lay her head against Ross’s shoulder and slept soundly for the first time in two years, their hands remaining clasped together.

Ross was glad of Demelza’s catnap, for when the motor turned the corner and started up Grace’s Lane and Nampara came suddenly into view on the half-hearted hill, he found his eyes pricking with tears and his throat thick with emotion. He was finally home. 

Demelza Poldark awoke the next morning to find herself alone in the bed, Ross’s side still slightly warm. She clutched the thin sheet to her naked form and grinned widely at the sunshine pouring through the window and the sound of Ross whistling downstairs. There was something heartening - restorative, even - to her about the sound of his boots echoing on the floorboards of their home.

Her smile widened further as she thought of yesterday. They had spent practically all of Ross’s first day back in the confines of their home: talking, laughing, crying, loving. 

The crying had come unexpectedly for Demelza, who was ignorant of a loss she had sustained during the Battle of the Somme. Ross had held her close as he told her of Sam’s death and was utterly furious to learn that her family had not been in touch to inform her of such important news. She had taken the news both well and badly: one minute she was sobbing and the next she was laughing about their childhood. Perhaps grief was an ever-changing current: sometimes manageable, sometimes all consuming. 

Their reunion had been seamless beyond all right and reason, it was as though they had never been apart, though their quiet anguish was not altogether forgotten; it was simply put on a shelf for another time - like an umbrella on a cloudless day. 

Ross slept better than he had anticipated; he thought privately, and with a smirk, that Demelza had tired him out. He had talked in his sleep, though, and Demelza wondered if this was new or not. If it was, she hoped he would tell her of what he saw there. She knew he did not wish to talk about the war, not yet, and she would not pry, she could only trust that he would come to her when the time was right. It was not treason, after all, to think war a terrible waste of good men, as Ross now did. She hoped he would not be too proud to admit his sorrows, for sorrows were made to be shared, how else was one to bear them?

Finally dressed for the day, Demelza was busying herself in the kitchen, ensuring the currant bread dough she had prepared yesterday had suitably risen for baking. Currant bread was Ross’s favourite and was his first request upon returning home. Well, maybe his second request. Demelza hummed happily along to herself as she placed the dough into a bread pan and then into the oven. 

Presently, Ross found himself in the garden, breathing in as much of the Cornish air as his lungs would allow. It was the kind of fresh air that pleasantly burns one’s nostrils, and Ross allowed the sensation to fill him up inside. Having already changed into an old white shirt and a simple pair of black trousers and braces, he found himself feeling more at home than he could have imagined. Ross turned to face the house, and saw Demelza singing through the kitchen window. The guilt of having survived while others did not was matched only by the guilt of having left her behind; the two opposing feelings battled within him. He could never truly be as he was before, having left several pieces of himself back in France, but they were parts of himself he wasn’t sure he would ever want to reclaim in the first place. 

He took another deep lungful of Cornish air and exhaled his worries. That chapter of his life was over and he was alive - and with Demelza. There could be no greater victory than that. 

He walked a little further along the neat garden. Over the clifftops below, Nampara Cove beckoned him, as God might beckon one into the golden light of Heaven. “Demelza?” Ross called towards the house.

“Yes?” she answered at once, jogging to the threshold of the open door of their home, the light breeze rustling the fiery curls that framed her face. She looked at her husband expectantly. 

He held out his hand to her and indicated to the beach below with a nod of his head. “Walk with me awhile?”

She nodded eagerly and cast her floury apron aside where it floated to the floor in abandonment. With a familiar ease, Demelza slipped her hand into Ross’s, their fingers intertwining. “Oh, Ross, remember Caroline is comin’ for tea in an hour or so, so let’s not go too far.” 

Ross laughed and the sound made Demelza’s tummy flutter with happiness. “It’s Caroline, my love. She’ll be late. We can walk to the rocks and back.” 

As they made their first few steps towards the beach, Ross sighed and looked accusingly at his new cane, before proceeding to fling it carelessly over his shoulder, where it plonked onto the earth, useless and forgotten.

“Ross!” Demelza cried. “You need your stick, ‘tis good for you and your leg!” She had forgotten how infuriatingly stubborn he could be. She moved to retrieve the abandoned length of wood from the lush green grass but Ross’s hands snaked around her waist and prevented her from retrieving it. 

They both laughed as she tried to wriggle free. “You are good for me, Demelza,” said Ross simply. “You can be my stick. I shall lean on you.” The earnestness in his hazel eyes made it clear he did not only mean physically. 

Demelza interlocked their fingers once more and began ambling down the beach path. “I’m not sure how good I’ll be,” she fretted quietly after a moment had passed. “But I’ll try. I promise I’ll try, Ross.” 

“Well, then, there’s nothing more to ask,” Ross said, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. “We may fall together, but at least we’ll have each other while we’re down.” He tried to smile at her, but his own worries about the long-term effect of the war on himself, on their relationship, made him wonder if they would turn their backs on each other on the ground.

Not privy to Ross’s internal struggle, a small, comforted smile began to grow on Demelza’s face at his words. She looked to Ross, still hardly able to believe he was truly there, truly standing next to her. “And if we do fall, Ross,” Demelza began, her expression a little more thoughtful, anxious. “Will we rise again?” 

Ross tenderly kissed her hand. “I hope so, my love.” Dear God, how he hoped so. 

With a nod of approval at her periwinkle blue coat, Caroline turned away from her reflection and looked to the housemaid. “Thank you, Grace. Won’t you pass me the cream bag?”

“The embroidered one or the one with the beads, milady?”

“The beads, please,” Caroline said, pausing to admire her completed outfit. Yes, this would do nicely for tea at Ross and Demelza’s, how excited she was to see her old friend Ross!

Grace placed Caroline’s abandoned outfit choices neatly over her arm to take down to the laundry for ironing. “Will that be all, milady?” she wondered politely.

“Yes, thank you,” Caroline dismissed with an appreciative smile. 

With one final check in the mirror, Caroline smoothed the fabric in her coat and felt a surge of childish excitement swell within her. How nice it would be to visit her friends like she used to, to take tea and ride horses and eat crepes and play bridge and…

Caroline’s reflected smile faded slowly as she realised that one important member of their friendship circle would be absent: Dwight. 

Dearest Dwight, where was he now? Was he afforded any opportunities to have a cup of tea and play cards? She dearly hoped so. She must write to him at Nampara and inform him of Ross’s return home; and tell him she thinks of him always - and chide him for his use of carrier pigeon. Heartened by her plans to include Dwight in the day, no matter how minisculely, and knowing he would not wish her to be sad on such a happy occasion, Caroline turned on her heel and left her bedroom, determined to enjoy her day. 

As Lady Caroline Penvenen descended the staircase of her home, she ran a hand along the banister, smiling at the memory it evoked. She thought of how she and Dwight had snuck upstairs the night of the servants' ball almost two years ago, how her heart had hammered heavily in her chest as he looked at her and held her hand. She noted her uncle sitting in his chair in the parlour and schooled her girlish smile.

“Caroline? My dear, where are you going?” Lord Penvenen wondered, looking up from his book as Caroline sauntered across the parlour towards the front door.

Caroline stopped in her tracks and twisted where she stood. “Have you taken leave of your senses, uncle?” she lightly teased. “I am going to Nampara for tea, we have had this discussion at least three times in five days,” she said with a light laugh.

To her surprise, Uncle Ray quickly scrambled to his feet. “Oh but- but, won’t you stay and have tea with your old guardian? I have scarce seen you these past two days; it’s rather a lonely life for an old bachelor such as myself,” he guilt-tripped, pouting at his niece for added measure.

Dangerously close to throwing a tantrum, Caroline managed to contain her frustration to a single stomped foot. “But Uncle Ray, you know I’ve been meaning to go to Nampara this afternoon, it’s been arranged since we knew of Ross’s safety!” she whined.

“Just a couple of sandwiches and a quick natter is all I ask, you’ll still be able to eat Demelza’s scones at tea,” Ray offered with a sweet smile.

Caroline was powerless to resist the old man’s charms, they were very well matched in that regard. “Oh, alright,” she relented bedrudgingky, “I suppose a cup of tea and a ham sandwich won’t cause me to explode like a figment of HG Wells’s imagination.” And with that realisation, she stepped into the library with a sunnier disposition. She was certain Ross and Demelza would not be angry with a few additional minutes of alone time. 

“So, how is Captain Poldark doing?” Lord Penvenen asked his niece conversationally after they had been served their afternoon tea and left to each other’s company.

Caroline sipped her peppermint tea and placed it back on the dish, her mouth twisted into a side smile. “Well, as you know, I’ve yet to examine him in person,” Ray controlled a small and an eye roll, “but he was badly injured, I’m told, so I expect he shall look different to how I remember him. I’m sure Demelza is more than capable of caring for him, though. You know how she is.” 

Ray nodded in agreement. Demelza was his favourite member of staff, not only because of her work rate, but primarily because of her temperament. It was simply not possible to not adore her. He then felt rather sad at the thought of Demelza’s steadily decreasing presence throughout his house as time went by; still, he wanted the girl to be happy. “And how is Demelza?” 

“She is well, her colour has returned having found out Ross was alright. I can only imagine the terror she must have felt…” she took another sip of tea to moisten her throat; she had pictured hearing the worst possible news. She had pictured Dwight not being alright.

“Do not trouble yourself, my dear. It is not a feeling you shall ever have to endure,” he soothed as he ate a piece of Victoria Sponge.

What made him say that? “Yes, I suppose not,” Caroline said with a forced brightness. “So, Uncle Ray, what time shall I return for supper? Would eight o’clock be-”

“- Lord Unwin Trevaunance for you, milord,” Henshawe interrupted, holding the dining room door open to let him inside. 

Caroline had leapt to her feet; Lord Trevaunance took this as an encouragement. “Unwin!” Caroline exclaimed in surprise, unable to keep the alarm from her eyes. She knew why he was here and could not give him an answer; at least, not the answer he (and uncle Ray) wanted to hear. Her heart fell in slow motion through her body, she thought she would have at least six months to delay and Unwin had scarce given her a month. The nerve of the man!

He flashed her a bright smile - he was quite handsome, really, especially in the modern suit he wore. “Lady Caroline,” he chirped, cordially taking her hand and kissing her knuckles. “Permit me to say that you look radiant in blue.” 

“Permission granted for it is as much a fact as anything,” retorted Caroline confidently, recovering some of herself. Both men laughed, though she was not joking. “And what brings you to the west country? Are you escaping London’s nauseous fumes?” she wondered, though she knew precisely why he was here. She felt herself shaking slightly.

Judging from Uncle Ray’s nonplussed expression, he had rather expected their afternoon tea to be disturbed by Lord Trevaunance’s presence. It was only with great effort that Caroline managed to not actively scowl at the old man. The two men exchanged a pleasant head nod of acknowledgement, which felt overly-familiar to Caroline’s gaze.

Unwin turned his full attention to Caroline, the object of his desire - as was all of the fine furnishings in this ancient room. “Only you could ever persuade a man to abandon London’s luxurious comforts,” he complimented; Caroline felt her insides scream in protest. “Dearest Lady Caroline, might I have a word with you in private?” he wondered, flashing her his best, most flattering smile. 

It did not stir the emotion within her that Dwight’s smile did, nor could it ever. “Anything you wish to discuss can be discussed in front of Lord Penvenen, I’m sure,” Caroline insisted. She was quite sure it could be, given that Uncle Ray was likely the one who summoned him here and knew exactly what he wished to discuss.

He let out a short laugh, which did not sound nervous. Caroline thought it an insult that he did not so much as have the slightest nervous tremor about him. Dwight’s chest had heaved unsteadily the first time they had kissed, and she felt sure if it was Dwight proposing to her he would scarcely be able to stand on his own two feet. “Well, you see, you still haven’t given me an answer,” Unwin stated plainly, his tone vilely business-like. “I was hoping that you might have made up your mind after all this time?” 

Caroline made a mental note that 'all this time' could now be applied to a period of four weeks; though her mind had been made up long before Unwin had asked her. She wished he hadn’t asked her so outright, as she now had no more time left to stall. “Of course I’m terribly flattered that you would consider me a suitable candidate as your wife,” Lady Caroline began, quite elegantly she thought, “I take it as the highest compliment,” she was lying now, “but you see, I’m afraid I cannot accept, Lord Trevaunance. I'm sorry.”  She wasn't the least bit sorry.

“Why ever not?” spluttered both Unwin and Ray simultaneously. Unwin’s complexion paled in mortification while Ray’s deepened in fury. 

“Because…,” Caroline tried to explain, her mouth impossibly dry. 

She hadn’t really thought the refusal through. For a woman of her status, she had no true good reason to refuse a man of his position. There was nothing he couldn’t give her, materialistically. She also had to admit that he was quite handsome and sometimes even possessed inklings of a sense of humour. She could do a lot worse, she knew, it’s just that she knew she could do a lot better. And she had found better. Nothing could compete with what she had found. It was love, in perhaps a purer form that Caroline had ever dared to imagine possible for herself. Unwin could not give her that and she would accept nothing less. 

“Because I do not want to,” Caroline answered finally, a defiant wave of confidence washing over her: the courage of one’s own convictions.

“Caroline,” Ray said, his tone somewhere between despair and rage, “Lord Trevaunance is a good man, of good family, with an estate, status, money… he is a war hero, for God’s sake! What more could you possibly want?” 

Caroline knew exactly what she wanted; who she wanted. It was plain, painfully so, that she could never have him and still have her uncle. He still placed too much emphasis on things, on status. What did any of that truly matter? 

Tears of humiliation pricked her eyes and she felt a new stirring of rage as both men continued to gape at her, evidently thinking her foolish. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me. I don’t think there’s anything more to be achieved here,” she said, her eyes cold as she met both of their gazes. She walked squarely passed them without looking at them and headed upstairs. She felt her uncle’s glare of embarrassed fury bore into her skull. 

This was it, Caroline knew it. This marked the end of her life as she had come to know it. She must take charge of her own life and create a new path, create her own circumstances. She was no longer willing to simply sit around and be a pawn in the chess game of high-society patriarchy. She would take her small fortune, which was hers to have and inherit as a single woman, and she would start afresh. How ever was she going to manage it? She knew Demelza only drank tea brewed by her out of friendly politeness, she scarcely knew where the pins in one’s hair went, she knew a little of how to dress oneself and she knew precisely nothing about being independent.

Still, hadn’t many women learned such things? Why not her? Just because she could not speak Latin and would not discover radium did not mean she didn’t have a brain - and she knew of the perfect opportunity to put it to good use. She would have to send the telegram today or it wouldn't reach the appropriate person by Monday. Despite any and all misgivings, Caroline pulled a suitcase from underneath her bed and accepted it was time to implement her back-up plan.

Chapter Text

Lord Raymond Penvenen walked past his niece Caroline’s room before stopping in his path to the stairs. He approached the door and gently turned the doorknob, hoping to find his niece curled up in bed reading some Austen book or other - hoping that she might have materialised out of thin air and returned. She had not. The bed was empty, and had been empty for some time. 

He sighed heavily and patted the letter in his pocket, which he carried with him always. It was the one Caroline had left him; his last tie to his beloved niece. He had no idea where she was now or if she was safe there. Hell, he didn’t even know if she was even still alive. If Caroline could just send him a letter, a telegram, a single stamp, even, which read the word ‘safe’ or ‘ok’ he would find it remarkably easier to sleep at night. But then on reflection he realised he would likely  be undeserving of it. 

Hindsight was a cruel thing. 

Why had it taken him until the week after Caroline had gone to realise it was only her personal happiness he cared for? Her true personal happiness. Her happiness, her comfort, her safety, her basic needs being met was all that mattered. Was she happy now? Comfortable? Clothed? Sheltered? Safe? He had no idea, and all of his enquiries into her whereabouts thus far had come up empty, it was almost as if she had disappeared off the face of the earth. 

She could not have gone far, Ray knew. She disliked Wales - too much scenery , Caroline had complained when she was sixteen; she disliked Ireland - can they even understand each other , Caroline often wondered, and she disliked Scotland - it’s simply too smug in its beauty , Caroline had once proclaimed as they journeyed through the Highlands. That left little old England in her vastness, for Caroline would have never gone to the continent - she would waste away if she couldn’t consume a pie of some kind for her tea once a week. Though London was undoubtedly dense and largely populated, Lord Penvenen was certain that he and his associates had turned over every pebble in the city and had found no trace whatsoever of Caroline. He had men making further inquiries in York, Bath and Exeter, and hoped dearly his efforts would pay off soon. 

He took out Caroline’s letter, which he had since memorised in its entirety, and looked, once again, for any kind of code she may have left to be deciphered. 

The letter read: 

July 3rd, 1916.

Dear Uncle Ray, 

For these past few years, and most of my life in truth, you have been both father and mother to me. You must know this is not a decision I make lightly, but you have forced my hand. Despite your insistence on the matter, I think you knew I would never marry Unwin, nor could I ever have done so. 

The most infuriating thing in all this is that despite my anger and humiliation I still love you very much. I know it is not genteel to say so, but I am practicing for my new life, so there you have it, uncle.

Please do not try and find me, it would be a wasted effort, I promise you. I won’t be in touch; it would make foraging ahead impossible if I knew you had forgiven me entirely and would welcome me back any minute of any day.

But I do not suspect you would, and I understand. 

I hope you understand, too. This is something I must do. It is better this way.

So goodbye, dearest Uncle Ray! I am more sorry than you know that we could not part as friends - father would have been most aggrieved to see me abandon my responsibilities as a Penvenen, I suppose you feel the same way. 

I do not know if it will be a comfort or discomfort to you to know that I believe I shall be quite content in my new life. Perhaps one day you can be a part of it. I hope so. In the meantime, pray take care of yourself. And of my darling Horace, give him a kiss from me.

Farewell with love always,

Your niece,

Caroline x

Defeated at the lack of new information in his six month-old letter, Lord Raymond Penvenen sighed wearily, very much looking his age nowadays, and began his descent down the staircase. He could smell his eggs benedict from the landing but it did nothing to cheer him up - he was not very hungry these days. 

Lady Caroline Penvenen snuck out of her dormitory and silently made her way down the hall and out the side door. She gasped at the cold winter breeze and wrapped her cardigan more tightly around her. It amused Caroline how late the gas lamps remained lit up North, if she strained her ears hard enough she would hear the chattering of men, and some brazen women, at the pub around the corner. It was well past midnight and still the Scots refused to let a good night die quietly. Quite right. She smiled softly as she looked up at the sky which was twinkling encouragingly at her. She let out a breath, which exhaled both the stress of the last six months and the sense of fulfilment they had brought her. 

Six months ago, having written a letter to her uncle and one to Ross and Demelza, Caroline had fled Killewarren late at night. Mr Zacky Martin had driven her to Plymouth, under oath he would not tell his Lordship where he had taken her; as far as Caroline knew, he had not broken that oath. She stayed one evening in Plymouth and took the train to Manchester, stopping there for the day and night to stretch her legs. During her time in Manchester, Caroline had made a point to drop by a Red Cross office and submit a large, anonymous, donation which may cover her inevitable failings as a VAD nurse. 

She now found herself in the bitterly cold streets of Edinburgh’s Old Town, which she had fallen completely in love with, despite herself. People didn’t bother her here, no one knew or cared who she was - not that they could, of course, because she had invented a new version of herself. Gone was the grand stiffness of Lady Caroline Penvenen and most - though definitely not all - of the luxuries she had been afforded. In her place was Caroline Ennis, a middle-class orphan of a deceased wealthy man, the story of which she had borrowed from her would-be husband, Dr Dwight Enys. The spelling change, though unsatisfactory to Caroline - who very much wished to be an Enys with a decisively curvy y - was necessary so that she could remain untraceable to her uncle. He would never suppose she would have dared to leave England, but in case he had an inkling, the use of a false last name would put a damper on his investigation into her whereabouts.

In any case, even if Uncle Ray did find her now, there was nothing he could do. In three day’s time, providing she passed her exam tomorrow, she would be a graduate of Edinburgh’s Royal College of Nurses, who at present offered a crash course in basic nursing and trained women of all backgrounds, who had demonstrated any level of skill, to be useful assets to the British war effort. 

Speaking of the war effort, her dear friend Ross Poldark and his wartime contributions had come in most useful during this time. She remembered his credentials from the letter the War Office had sent Demelza and approached a local war office to enquire, while masquerading as Mrs Demelza Poldark, as to the whereabouts of his ‘cousin’ Dr Dwight Enys. With astonishing little scrutiny, the man had agreed to assist Caroline in locating Dr Enys. After four hours, a few telegrams and several army ledgers, they found a Major Dwight Enys registered as a surgeon in a field hospital in a small French town called Loos. The date was November 27th, 1916, so it was fairly new and less than two months old. It had bolstered Caroline’s spirits beyond belief to see his name written there, strong and clear and bold. She wished she could have torn it out as a keepsake, some proof that he was real aside from the letters which he sent. 

Given the town’s proximity to Paris, Caroline had requested to be sent there once a graduate, in the hope that she and Dwight would cross paths. She knew neither Ross nor Demelza would mind the infringement of their good name at the War Office, especially not where Dwight was concerned. The thing which Caroline had found the hardest about her new life was the long absence from her dear friends. She could not risk regular contact with them, but sent them a telegram now and then to ensure them of her safety, but provided no information as to her whereabouts. Once in France it would be easier for her to disappear into the chaos and she could write more freely to them. 

Caroline sent Dwight a letter from Manchester explaining what she had done and telling him to refrain from contacting her, that she would send word to him when she reached her destination. Naturally, she had done so promptly, with instructions inside as to her new address and ‘name.’ The letter took longer to reach her than she was accustomed to waiting, and for the first month she quietly feared that he disliked the boldness of her new surname and the assumption she put upon it. Worse still, Caroline feared he may have been killed in the long days she waited for an answer, given he was now truly on the front line and no longer in a base hospital. 

One evening, nearing a full month of her being at college, she returned to her dormitory after a day shift and a filling dinner of mince and potatoes to find a letter sitting neatly against her pillow, waiting to be read. Her room mate, Victoria, was a month shy of twenty-one and was from Berwick upon Tweed; she, too, had fled her former life - she had fled her abusive father. Caroline thought wryly that it was almost like having her very own Northern version of Demelza. Except that there was only one Demelza. 

Victoria was perfect company, she was well-spoken, kind, funny and an exceptionally good nurse. The days on which their shifts overlapped were always Caroline’s favourite, for they became a dynamic duo on those days, and always received top marks, as opposed to being passing ships in the night. Victoria knew of Dwight, though not much else about Caroline except the false story of her upbringing she peddled to others. All the same, she kept a friendly eye out for any letters delivered during Caroline’s shifts, making sure to leave them in an obvious place for her to find. 

Caroline had kicked off her shoes at the door and practically leaped onto her bed and snatched the letter, her hands trembled as she fumbled for her music box, which chimed merrily on her small bedside table. 

With shaking fingers, she ripped open the sealed fold of Dwight’s letter and read:

July 21st, 1916.

Dearest Caroline Ennis , 

I cannot tell you the joy it fills me with to write those two words side by side. One day, soon I hope, I shall work hard to ensure the spelling is correct.

Firstly, permit me to say how proud I am of you. I can only imagine how difficult that must have been for you, I know how fond you are of your uncle. Perhaps he will come around one day, he does love you very much, no matter how wounded his pride may now be. 

And who would have thought it? The great Lady Caroline Penvenen, masquerading as a humble country girl who has always dreamed of being a nurse! Despite your trepidation, I know you’ll be magnificent. I know this because I know you better than you know yourself you see. It is an advantage of loving you and being loved by you - something I mean to never take for granted.

My love, I am sorry but I must finish this and dash for I have slept later than I had planned. You’ll be pleased to read that I am sleeping well enough again, I hope. Now you might stop sending felt bags filled with lavender? But perhaps they were useful, after all. I shall leave the decision in your capable hands. 

I will write again soon to make up for this, I promise. In the meantime, write to me. Tell me all of Edinburgh, of your friends (of which I’m sure you already have many!), of your course, the things you learn.

Did I already mention how proud I am of you? In case it somehow came to be omitted I must tell you again: I am so very proud of you, Caroline. I am truly in awe of your courage and admire your strength. I hope one day you will see the goodness in your heart that I, and all others who know you, see.  

I love you, my darling. Good luck with the intervening days until we speak again. I believe in you!

Yours with greatest love and admiration, 

Dwight Enys

His first letter five months ago was what reaffirmed her will to proceed when the days were long and hard. She read it over and over again on the worst days.

Caroline’s late mother had once told her, “absence makes the heart grow fonder, dear.” And Caroline had thought it the biggest load of nonsense she had ever heard in her young life. How could such a thing possibly be true? Surely one would simply find something or someone else to dote on instead? But the war had taught Caroline that her mother - and the Romans, who she had since found out coined the term - were correct. She was surprised to stand corrected in this regard, she had originally been worried that the time and distance between her and Dwight would cause their love to fizzle out. If anything, she felt closer to Dwight than ever before. These past few months made her realise how important the work he had devoted his life to was. She felt connected to him in a way she hadn’t before, there was a new understanding of him - and of herself. It was as though before they had happily walked along a path side-by-side but they were now hand-in-hand.

The first week of her new, ‘ordinary’ life was the hardest she had endured this far. She had arrived in Edinburgh with no real idea of where to go, she was exhausted and had to carry her own suitcase on her walk from the station. Why was everywhere in Edinburgh uphill? And how was such a thing scientifically possible? Even when descending the stairs to the Old Town it still seemed to her legs as though she were climbing. 

Eventually, sweating in an extremely unladylike fashion, she arrived at the college and had signed in and paid the remaining fee. The building was a combination of a welcoming beige colour mixed with cold grey granite stones. The first two weeks of training were a rude wake up call, to say the least, and Caroline would have quit if not for the kind assurances from the other ladies on her course and her determination to see Dwight. She was so desperately homesick at times she thought she might die. 

She could not pinpoint exactly when, but her homesickness disappeared in its entirety and was replaced by a deep affection for all the women around her and the men whom they treated under ample supervision. For the first time in her life, Caroline felt she had a purpose. The freedom such a feeling gave her could not be replaced by anything. After three months, she knew she could never go back to her old life, and least not precisely the way it was.

One day just last month, when the snow was falling thick outside and igniting a childlike sense of excitement within everyone, an officer with damaged hearing in one ear and some missing fingers came to convalesce at the college. In looks, Caroline thought him akin to a Scottish version of Unwin, though vastly more charming. 

“Say, darlin’, you are just beautiful so ye are. Like a wee angel,” Captain MacKay had complimented her. “You look like one of they lassies in they picture books, ken wit I mean?” Caroline had no idea what he meant. “Would you be free to go to the pictures when I’m all better? I am a war hero, ye know.” He had straightened himself up and winked at her and Caroline found herself laughing gaily. 

“You’re wasting your time, Captain MacKay,” Victoria had gently assured him with a smirk. “Nurse Ennis has her own war hero.”

MacKay’s eyes lit up with a certain mischievous mirth that all Scottish people seemed to possess within, as though they always found something to laugh at, even if it was themselves. “Ah, but I don’t see a ring on her finger, Nurse Palmer,” he pointed out, though Caroline knew he was only teasing now. 

“I’m not married yet ,” Caroline emphasised, cocking an eyebrow at the Scotsman. “But I will be, the second peace is declared. I am flattered, though, Captain, I assure you,” she then said, humouring him as she tucked the blankets around a young boy who was suffering with a bruised spine. 

“Don’t say that,” Victoria whispered gravely, “you know what these men can be like.” 

“It would do Dwight some good to know he has some competition,” Caroline joked with a wink at her friend. 

“Ladies, that’s quite enough chitchat for the day!” scolded Nurse Thomson. “There are soldiers to be seen to in the east wing.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” they chimed obediently, going on their way. 

Once in the corridor, hardly able to stifle her giggling, Caroline whispered, her voice deep and inferring, “What do you say, Vicky? Shall we give the men a good seeing to?” 

Vicky started cackling and Caroline shushed her and clapped her hand over her mouth as they walked towards the east wing. “Stop laughing or you’ll get us in trouble,” Caroline told Victoria through her own maniac giggling. 

“Stop making me laugh then! And you are so scandalous! What if your Dwight had heard you say such things?” Nurse Palmer argued, trying and failing to be serious. 

With a shrug, Caroline had insisted, “He would have laughed with us!” 

Caroline chuckled out loud as she thought back on that day, despite all the lightheartedness of it, it was the day Caroline felt like a nurse for the first time, like it came somewhat naturally to her.

She smiled softly and wrapped her cardigan tighter around herself, her breaths coming out into cloudy puffs as they floated into the night sky. 

“Carrie!” Victoria hissed from the door behind her.

Caroline jumped and nearly tripped over her own feet. “What?” she whispered, her eyes wide and panicked. 

“Darling, have you any idea how late it is? Stop stargazing! We have our exam tomorrow. How are you going to find your doctor if you fail and aren’t allowed to go to France? For heaven's sake, come get some rest!” 

Laughing quietly, Caroline made to follow her inside, with one last look up at the twinkling stars. One casually streaked across the sky, as though reassuring Caroline she’d be fine. She liked to think it was a message from Dwight, wishing her luck. 

“Carrie!” Victoria hissed again. “Hurry up before Nurse Thomson hears us or we’ll fail automatically for being out of bed and breaking the rules.”

“Keep your knickers on Vicky, my sweet, I’m right behind you,” said Caroline as she closed the door, with one last look over her shoulder. She smiled and made her way back to her warm bed, knowing all would be well tomorrow. 

Across the channel, an exhausted man dropped onto his bed in the small, shared room, fighting every vestige in a body which screamed to let him sleep. In a moment, Dwight always told himself, as he looked out whichever of Caroline’s letters was atop the prized pile. Dwight smiled at her words, her humour, her pretty cursive script, the love which emanated from the paper. She was now his sole comfort in a world which seemed damned to drown in the blood of innocents. 

February of 1917 had brought with it more destruction than Dwight could ever recall having experienced. But perhaps it was because he was closer than ever before to the front lines. He tried very hard not to feel culpable, and on some days he achieved that feeling upon reminding himself he was a good surgeon who only wanted to help people, but most days, the days on which he was surrounded by men he could not save, he felt as though he might as well have shot them himself.

Dwight sighed heavily and picked up another letter, determined to distract himself from his internal berating.

“It’s never your fault, you know,” Dr Wilson told him knowingly from over his spectacles. He had his thumb trapped between the pages of the book he was reading and a gaslamp flickered cordially between them. “No more than it is mine,” he said pointedly, knowing Dwight would never blame another doctor for failing to save a life under the chaos of war. Naturally, he only made that exception for himself. 

Dwight regarded the older man and thought privately there could be no way on God’s green earth he was younger than forty-one. It made him admire him all the more. “That is kind of you to say,” said Dwight quietly. 

“I am not being kind,” Wilson said bluntly, “I’ve never had the knack for that like you do, son. I’m just being honest. You’re too hard on yourself. This is a war, and it is the worst the world is like to ever see, God willing. And that has nothing to do with you - you are the better part of the war, you fight death, as do I. But we are not God, Enys. We do not get to decide who lives and who dies, no matter how much we might want to.” 

It took a moment for Dwight to realise that he was crying. He hastily wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Thank you,” he said sincerely, swallowing the lump in his throat. He was feeling a little better already, a little less guilty, a little less useless. He tried to repeat Dr Wilson’s words in his head for a moment, hoping they might sink in. 

“You’re welcome. It’s worth being reminded that we are the good guys at times, especially after a day like today,” the older man said with a shiver. He had lost count within half an hour of how many men had died in the field hospital today. People were dropping dead of hypothermia, pneumonia, starvation and influenza among the other usual causes of death found in war. “Anyway, I’m sure our wives wouldn’t appreciate us feeling all sorry for ourselves.” 

“I’m not married,” Dwight pointed out diplomatically. 

Dr Wilson scoffed and chuckled before pointing to the pile of letters next to Dwight’s bed. “You’re as good as, boy! That's the biggest pile of letters I’ve ever seen, so your girl must be as keen as you are. What’s her name again? Katherine? No, Caroline . Yes, that’s right. Good Lord, I’ve never known a man to go on about a woman as much as you. I hope to meet her one day to see whether you’re exaggerating or not.” 

Dwight laughed, the sensation evicting all feelings of hopelessness he had felt previously. “I promise you, I’m not,” he said with a smug grin. 

“Well, my wife, Maud, makes the best apple pie in all of England,” Wilson proclaimed proudly, his rough mustache twitching with happiness. “Consider yourself and Caroline cordially invited to Somerset for a slice after this is all over.”

“Consider the invitation accepted,” Dwight said warmly. 

Dr Wilson beamed at Dr Enys, before clearing his throat. “Now, you get back to your letters and I’ll finish copying out this poem for Maud and then we’ll catch some sleep, eh?”

It was amusing to Dwight, to technically be the ranking officer and be spoken to like a nephew or such like. He found he didn’t mind in the slightest. 

He traced his fingers over Caroline’s latest letter and breathed evenly, his mind now completely at ease. 

January 18th, 1917.

Dearest Dwight, 

How are you, my love? If France is as cold as Scotland, which I very much doubt any place on earth could ever be, I supposed you might be cold and so I have sent you some socks and a jumper. Naturally, I bought them in a shop. You see, as skilled as I am in cross-stitching and embroidery, knitting I cannot do. You would think I would excel at it now that I can quite successfully stitch a wound, but alas the knitting needle is not my friend. I hope this does not alter your good opinion of me. 

I am jesting, of course, for surely nothing could alter that? I must admit I’m quite nervous for my examination in a few weeks. How in God’s name did you go through all those years of university? Six months of this stress and I wonder why we as a species bother learning anything new at all! 

The head nurse, Nurse Thomson, thinks my skills have come on well enough, and she is not kind enough to lie about such things. Still, ‘well enough’ is not good , is it? You know how I like to be best at everything. Won’t you wish me luck, Dr Enys? Perhaps offer some words of medical advice in your old age? It would give me such a lift of confidence in my abilities. Stop laughing, Dwight, even my self-assurance has its limits. 

Have you wished me luck yet? You had better, for I hope to join you in France soon, and shan’t be able to if I fail my examination. No, it’s no use persuading me to remain here, you’d have a more sensible and productive conversation with Kaiser Wilhelm, I assure you. Now no doubt you hate me.

Anyhow, let’s not fall out about it now, we may yet be able to argue in person in the middle of the French countryside! I shall kiss you first, though, then perhaps we needn’t argue at all. How nice to think of such a thing.

I had intended to make this a short letter, but you know how I haver (this is my favourite Scottish word, Dwight, it means to talk foolishly, how useful it will be for us both to know! it). I suspect you have already fallen asleep. I hope you are warm and fed and in good company.

Do you know, Dr Enys, after all these months, I think I’ve learned that that is what is truly important: to be warm, fed and in good company. It is strange to think of the things I did not think I could live without. Now the only thing I could not live without is you. Though I do miss my darling little Horace and Mrs Bird’s eggs benedict on rye. 

There, I shall release you from my ramblings now. I can almost hear you sigh with relief. 

Write to me soon, please, I hate to not hear from you. In the long absences I am convinced you will turn up in this convalescent home all battered and bruised and I could not bear it. 

I love you so very much.

Adieu for now (I’m practicing my French), stay safe and stay well,

Yours always,

Caroline 

He read it and re-read it until his eyes grew too heavy and closed of their own accord. 

He was later awoken from his unusually pleasant dreams, of Caroline and his friends, of home and laughter, to the sound of screaming. He sat bolt upright in bed, his heart hammering in chest, echoing in his ears. He looked at Dr Wilson next to him, whose face was ashen and afraid. The risk of setting up camp in Loos town hall was a risk they had been consciously aware of, but its proximity to the frontline and access to wounded British soldiers had outweighed the risk. 

Until now.

They were coming. They were here. They were marching down the hall. 

“John,” Dwight said gently to his companion. “Do not be afraid. Think of Maud, of little Jane and Henry, think of nothing but them. Do as you are told and we may see them again. If not, there can be no more pleasant final thought than the people we love.” 

Caroline, her musical laugh, her sense of humour, her smile, her blue eyes, the lights in her hair, the way her lips felt against his own...

The door burst open and several men began shouting things at him he could not understand. Their guns were pointed in his line of sight. He was astounded by his calmness; he was not afraid.

Tentatively, Dwight and Dr Wilson raised both hands into the air in surrender, gently closed their eyes, thought of their loves and waited for oblivion. 

On a subconscious level, Ross Poldark knew what he was doing was wrong and unfair. On a conscious level, however, his thoughts were so plagued by the two soldiers in his battalion whose frozen bodies he’d come across precisely one year ago today that he did not feel much of anything. As though a part of himself had frozen. 

He did not mean to be so curt with Demelza these past few days, he could see the hurt in her eyes, and he longed to apologise. But to apologise would mean having to have a discussion about what he saw in his mind’s eye, and that was to be avoided at all costs. She did not need to imagine the horrors he had seen, surely he could spare her that?

Despite her hurt, he knew that Demelza had grown used to his queer moods and he appreciated the space she gave him. At the same time, however, this space somehow made him feel worse.

So he had taken himself out into the fields to plough what little land was left intact, which was not much, and the pickings were quite slim compared with their abundance. Such was the effect of the harsh Winter on the coastline.

He was so focused on the task at hand and releasing his pent up anger and frustration at the harshness of the world that he didn’t hear Demelza approach until she spoke next to him. He started.

“Won’t you take some tea, Ross? It’s a cold day.”

Why did all women seem to have the notion that a cup of tea would solve all the world's problems? It could not. At any rate, he preferred coffee. “No, thank you,” he grumbled. 

“I’ve made you some, you didn’t take breakfast today,” Demelza accused, offering him the steaming cup. It was a peace offering he could not just now recognise; it was an invitation to talk.

“I already said no.” 

Ross saw her bottom lip tremble and was surprised by how much it did not bother him at that particular moment. 

Wordlessly, refusing to be provoked into an argument, Demelza tipped the contents of the cup into a bed of winter primroses. She placed the empty teacup on the thawing ground and met his gaze. “What is all this for, Ross?” she asked, gesturing to all the work he had done recently - and all the work she knew him to be planning to do. “‘It’s- it’s almost to keep your mind from thinkin’.” 

The gentleness in her eyes made his insides twinge and for a moment he considered telling her all. Only for a moment, however. “Whereas you, Demelza, think too much,” Ross retorted, almost dismissively, as he continued to plough the patch he was working on before she had turned up. 

Determined to spend some time with her husband, no matter how grumpy he was being, Demelza grabbed a discarded shovel and began digging up what she thought might be potatoes. Her first few attempts were unsuccessful and she nearly tore up a stretch of perfectly good earth which had nothing underneath. It had seemed an age since she had last worked the land with her mother. She had died when Demelza was seven years old, so in some ways it was an age. Perhaps the skill would return to her on the next few attempts- 

“Don’t you know how to pull potatoes? I thought it might have been a former pastime of yours.” He regretted the scathing mocking of his words as soon as they’d left his lips, but he could not take them back now. 

With no warning, Demelza flung the heavy spade at him. Without his lightning-fast reflexes, it would have likely knocked him spark out onto the frosty ground. His eyes followed her as she marched back towards the house; he was alarmed to see that her shoulders were shaking as she walked. 

Ross sighed heavily; she did not deserve his anger. He had the most terrible habit of taking out his frustrations on the people in his life who least deserved it - something which his father, Elizabeth and Francis, among others, could attest to. He would finish up what he was doing and go apologise. Perhaps Demelza would want to truly know why he had been acting so harsh lately, and she might even understand. He conceded with the greatest air of reluctance that he couldn’t find out if he didn’t tell her. With another sigh, Ross turned his attention back to their homegrown vegetables and remembered that Demelza had yesterday asked him to pick some carrots and potatoes for dinner tonight. Gently, he kneeled down and tugged on a flurry of green leaves, which produced bright orange carrots, albeit a bit misshapen, but perfectly edible all the same. Perhaps it was possible to survive, to grow, under harsh circumstances, after all. 

Demelza Poldark swayed where she stood and cursed under her breath. Not again, and not now! She had dinner to make, having given Jinny the night off to spend with her new beau Ben Carter, so long as Jinny provided a full report on the date on Monday. Today was Saturday. She was currently alone in the kitchen of her home. 

Ross had been quiet after their heart-to-heart earlier this morning. It seemed that the new year reminded him only that the war extended its long fingers of death into another year, and made him think of his friends who had died in such a cruel way. Poor Ross! His mind was plagued by such horrible images and memories it made her want to cry to even think of it. She supposed that had been partly why he had been so reluctant to speak to her about it, but she couldn’t pretend that his lack of trust in her hadn’t hurt her feelings. She had felt so alone, so brushed aside, so dismissed this past week. She wished to confide all her present worries, joys, anxieties, feelings to Ross but did not want to burden him further. She had to tell him but could not think how. To Demelza, there would never be a good time to give him another thing to worry about.

In her wallowing, Demelza hadn’t noticed her lax grip on the hot dish, nor the slight ringing in her ears. The dish went crashing to the ground, smashing into some pieces, and Demelza fell heavily onto her bottom next to it, the blood in her head swirling as she slowly recovered herself on the kitchen floor. Demelza stared at the broken container and took it personally: she was a bad wife, a clumsy cook and would be an even worse mother. She rested her head on her knees and began to whimper.

From the parlour she heard Ross call, “Demelza?” 

But she did not respond and she continued to cry where she sat. It was the first time he had addressed her after their chat this morning; the rest of the day he had spent in the small library, Demelza didn’t know whether he’d been reading or working or simply trying to avoid her. 

On the floor, her unslippered feet were mere inches from the broken segments of the dish which had housed the roasting carrots. She neither noticed nor cared. 

“Demelza?” Ross wondered as he slipped into the room, looking for his wife. “You goose,” he then said with a light laugh as he spotted her on the ground, bending to pick up the broken bits of clay, “what quarrel did you have with the dish?” 

It took a moment for Ross to register the thick tears that flowed down Demelza’s face. He frowned at her. “There’s no need to be so upset,” he assured her - almost sternly, “dishes can easily be replaced. Though I was looking forward to those carrots,” Ross then joked lightly, which did nothing to alleviate Demelza’s distress, which had since graduated from sniffles to sobs. 

He gaped at her.

“S-sometimes I d’ think I displease you, Ross,” Demelza wailed, wiping her wet eyes with the back of her hand. She could not seem to get a grip on her emotions. 

The corners of Ross’s mouth tipped downwards. “What?” he wondered, perplexed by Demelza’s comment. Had he really been so awful to her this week that she now doubted him? When Demelza did not answer, he discarded the three broken remnants that he’d picked up back onto the kitchen floor and carefully shuffled towards his wife until he sat on the ground next to her. “Demelza, what’s all this? What’s the matter?” he demanded to know. 

“I- I just feel so… so… oh, Ross what’s that word when your feelings are- are two ways?” she blubbered, now feeling uneducated and stupid on top of everything else. 

The blood in Ross’s veins stilled. Had Demelza’s feelings for him changed? Had he really come home so different? Did she not understand his moods after all? His reasons for feeling the way he sometimes did? Was there nothing between them now for her? “Conflicted,” Ross supplied with a calmness he did not feel. 

“Yes, yes, conflicted. Thank you,” she sniffed.

“What are you conflicted about?” Ross asked at once, his unease growing with every second. He longed to put his hand on her back, to comfort her, but could not take it if she shied away from his touch, so he left his twitching fingers by his side.

She looked at him, her blue-green eyes brighter against the whites of her eyes which had been dyed pink by the salt in her tears. To Ross’s eye she looked almost nervous, which, in turn, made him anxious. “I am… happy, but I worry you are not. Or will not be...” 

Unable to listen to such things anymore, Ross placed his hands on either side of her shoulders and held her gaze. “Demelza, I assure you you make me very happy. My moods- the war- it has changed me, in some ways. It is not your doing, I am not angry with you. I am angry at the world. I shall try to be less short with you in future. If you could just bide a while, I’m sure in time I will be more like my old self. I apologise for how I have behaved of late.” Demelza’s tears had stopped now. Taking advantage of her full attention, he moved his hands on either side of her face, gazed into her eyes and said, “I love you very much. I do.” His hazel eyes were sincere, pleading. 

Demelza smiled brightly at him, tears still shining in her eyes. She sniffed before returning, “I love you, too, Ross. But I wonder-”

“What do you wonder?” he interrupted, a sliver of unease rising within him again. 

She bit her lip anxiously but then smiled at him again, softer this time; the smile looked almost intimate. “I wonder if you might have a little love to spare?” 

His brows knit together in confusion. “For what?” 

“Our child,” she whispered happily, her hand dropping to her abdomen.

For a moment, Ross’s brain seemed to stall, as though a motor moved too hastily, before it reared into life once more, the full effect of her words hitting him like a wave. “A- a child? Our child? But- how- when-,” he shook his head, willing himself to form a sensible, complete sentence. He had never been so surprised in his life, had never experienced such a range of emotions within a single day. Right now, he found he had never been happier. 

“When can we expect our new tenant?” Ross asked with a growing smile; he hadn’t even noticed that his hand was now on top of Demelza’s. 

“Erm… perhaps May or June… or July,” Demelza guessed, trying to calculate the months in her head. 

“How long have you suspected?” he asked her, his voice full of wonder. 

“I've suspected awhile. I knew this morning,” she said with a smile, which was both happy and sad. 

A realisation dawned upon Ross. “And I was not very nice to you this morning,” he said quietly, shame burning within him. “So you did not wish to tell me.”

Demelza silently nodded, indicating that his assumption was correct. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. 

Demelza winced at the apology. She wasn’t sure she wanted him to be sorry - because she understood, to a point, why he had been absent - harsh - of late. The war and its repercussions were not his doing, but he knew now his behaviour was his responsibility, the war notwithstanding. Not wishing to revisit such unsavoury topics, Demelza whispered, “and- and the child… ‘tis good news?” 

Ross snapped out of his daze and kissed her squarely on the mouth. “Yes, it is good news,” he said a few moments later after they’d broken their kiss, emotion starting to coat his throat. “It is wonderful news!” 

“Oh, Ross,” Demelza cried, this time it was happy tears that sprang to her eyes. She hugged him tightly. “I was afraid you would not wish to raise a child in a world you were angry with.” 

“I have reservations,” he admitted, not wishing to discuss them all at this present moment, “but children are a blessing,” he said simply; Demelza wrapped her arms more tightly around him and snuggled against him, almost speechless in her happiness. 

They sat in silent contemplation for a minute or so until Ross’s gaze had taken him to one of the guest chairs at the dinner table. “How strange it is to think of there being three of us in this kitchen in a few months' time,” he murmured, looking around at the space, almost able to imagine it. 

“Strange but wonderful,” said Demelza dreamily. 

“Yes,” Ross agreed, then suddenly remembering from the aromas that filled his nostrils that dinner was still in the oven. He turned his attention back to Demelza and the evicted carrots. “You’re not hurt are you, my love?” he fretted looking between his wife and the shattered dish. 

Demelza shook her head. “No, I’m perfectly fine, Ross. I just needed to sit down for a moment; I was feelin’ a little light-headed is all,” she explained casually. 

“You sit,” he ordered, lifting her from the floor and steering her into a seat at the table, “and I shall fetch the rest of the things from the oven.” 

She failed to not roll her eyes from her chair. “I can manage myself,” Demelza insisted, “I’ve sat down awhile and feel better now. Let me.” She reached for a tea cloth to lift the chicken out of the oven. 

“I’ll do that, that was a rather big hen we killed last night and it will be heavy,” said Ross, reaching for the oven door with his bare hands. “Argh!” he hissed and recoiled as the heat licked his palms. 

“Ross!” Demelza exclaimed in utter exasperation. “You need a cloth!” she told him, throwing the thing at his stupid head. 

Ross caught it and rearmed himself while Demelza fetched the cutlery and plates. “I know that,” he said, placing the delicious looking bird in the centre of the dining table before going in search of the roast potatoes and parsnips, “I just forgot.” He shrugged at her with the frivolity of a man who had not almost burned the fingerprints from his hands. 

“Judas,” said Demelza with a fond and exasperated sigh. He was going to try her hard over the next six months. 

“I wonder if we shall have Julia or Jeremy Poldark first,” Demelza wondered aloud a month later, glowing with happiness as she smoothed a hand over her small bump. She hoped it would remain as inconspicuous throughout her pregnancy, she’d hate to look all round and fat like a goose egg. 

“Hmm, Jeremy, I think,” said Ross, taking a drink of his brandy as they sat by the fire. 

He had been thinking of their open communication of late, and how that had benefited them both. Naturally, Ross omitted some things from his retellings, always making sure to mention the root cause of what was troubling him, while leaving out the more unpleasant images seared into his mind.  He found that he always felt better after talking to Demelza about things, whether she was able to offer words of comfort or not. Sometimes she simply held him for a while, and other times would sing gently to him until he slept away his worries. All ways served their intended purpose and would leave him feeling better. 

She was a warm drink straight to the soul.

“Are you a gambling man, Mr Poldark? What would you be willin’ to bet on it?” Demelza wondered, confident in her knowledge as only a woman and mother-to-be could be that it would be Julia who would be born first. 

Ross forgot for a moment what they had been talking about before, and let out a short laugh; though his face lit up with continued mirth as he regarded his wife’s cocked eyebrow. “Hmm. How about a month’s worth of mornings with the baby?” 

“A month’s worth of mornings?” Demelza repeated, slightly confused.

“Yes. Whoever loses the bet must be the first to wake when the child wakes and the winner is allowed to stay in bed,” Ross elaborated, thinking about those long, cosy lie-ins he would be cashing in on in a few month’s time. 

Demelza eagerly offered her hand for shaking. “Deal!” 

Ross took her hand and shook it, smirking at her. “You seem very enthusiastic for a person who shall be awake for a month on end.” 

“And you d’ seem very in denial for a person who will be awake for a month’s worth of mornings ,” retorted Demelza. 

Ross chuckled in reply and they settled into a comfortable silence; the only sound was the crackling of the fire and Demelza’s knitting needles. She looked up from the small bootees she was making and stared at her husband. He was staring hard into the fire, his expression was hard to read at times. “Are you happy, Ross?” she whispered. 

Her question made him start in the stillness. Demelza had this strange knack for being able to sense his thoughts. 

He looked at her, wondering if he was up to the task of being a father - his own had certainly set no example for him to follow. Would he manage a month’s worth of mornings with their child? How was he to do it? Perhaps there was some book he could read? He also contended with daily, and would continue to contend with daily until the child was born, the fear that something may happen to either Demelza or the child. He might be going about his day, harvesting potatoes from his land and the unwelcome thought would intrude and ruin an otherwise good day. Already, to Demelza’s utter exasperation, he had banned her from lifting - or even approaching - the five kilogram bag of flour, from walking to St Agnes, from climbing trees, from anything that would cause even the slightest overexertion. 

Demelza thought privately that she was almost ready to overexert herself in the act of bludgeoning him with an axe. 

But then Ross also thought of their child; he (or she) would be a little bit of him and little bit of Demelza twined together in a small bundle with a beating heart, perhaps with dark hair and a blue eyes on a fat, rosy face, or a mane of red curls and hazel eyes on a dainter, more feminine face. Ross hadn’t even met the child yet and he had not known love like this, it was separate from all other loves. Despite his anxieties, he knew he never wanted to be apart from the two of them. He had never felt so content in his life, even if the contentment became buried in a bundle of brooding on some days.

 “I am,” Ross said at length. “I am happy, Demelza. So happy I fear words fail me.” His mouth twisted into a small self-deprecating smile. “You know I am no poet.” 

Demelza didn’t need words or poems, she just needed the assurance in the blazing look of his hazel eyes and she found it. She snuggled closer to him and continued knitting their child’s first pair of shoes. 

Ross watched her for a little while, his arm comfortably around her as she leaned back against his chest. He slowly drained his glass as he watched his wife's fingers move quickly and effectively. His face twitched into a cheeky grin as her project was almost finished. “You had better make those blue instead of pink,” he teased her, placing a kiss into her hair.

“Yes, Ross,” Demelza said, knowing in very bones - in a way she could not describe - their child would be perfectly happy to have their little feet cushioned in pink wool.

Chapter Text

Six months of nothing except sleeping, eating and working had worn Caroline down to very last embers of her soul. Before, at college, she had found it difficult to look at a man with a clean, lost limb; she now barely blinked at the sight of a blood-soaked young boy in a khaki uniform and simply went straight to work doing whatever she could. The war had stolen her innocence, but it had not stolen her substance.

It had rained ceaselessly and without mercy for the majority of August. On the 25th, it finally stopped, just in time for Caroline’s first day off in four long months. All she wanted to do was sleep, but she found herself riding a bus to the small village of Loos, as she had long promised herself to do. The driver had told her he would be stopping just outside of the village and would tell her when to get off. 

Dwight had not answered either of her letters, but in Loos he was not very far from where she was - a little further east and closer to the front lines. She assumed he had simply been even busier than their field hospitals in either Paris or Amiens, and so didn't feel overly worried about the period of absence. It was not, after all, the first time there had been wide gaps in their correspondence, and all times had come good in the end.

She had left at dawn today, slipping away from the unrelenting chaos within the walls of the base hospital, and the journey to her destination had taken almost four hours. 

Safely disembarked on the dirt road, Nurse Ennis and the bus now parted ways: the bus turning left towards Grenay and Caroline turning right towards Loos-en-Gohelle.

After a good walk, she arrived in the town and was greeted by the late-morning sunshine. But it was a strange sunshine, one which was both warm and cold, and with something sinister about it, as if it belonged to a world which was slipping away, leaving humanity behind. 

Having aimlessly ambled through this street and the next without much luck, Caroline searched around the quiet town for a person to talk to. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a slightly dishevelled-looking woman walking towards her. 

Caroline marched to catch up with her. “Excuse me,” she asked the older woman in fluent French, “could you tell me where the town hall is?” 

The elderly woman laughed without smiling. “It is at the bottom of the street on your right. I hope you didn’t have a meeting there.” 

Caroline thought that was a very strange thing to say, but before she could open her mouth and ask what she meant, the old woman was on her way in the opposite direction. Undeterred by the strange encounter, and armed with directions, Caroline continued her way down the cobbled streets, which oddly reminded her somewhat of home - except that the French buildings were prettier, and the people clearly less friendly.

On her right she turned onto a street which opened up into a large square, overseen by what must surely be the town hall.

Except that the building was not the fine display of French architecture she had pictured so many times - instead it looked forlorn: its windows were cracked and broken, little remained of the front door, several chunks of brick were missing and dying mustard-coloured moss clung to life in its cracks. 

A young woman, standing out amongst the neglected grey buildings in her bright clothes, came into Caroline’s view. She met her eye curiously as she passed her. 

“Excuse me,” Caroline called in French at her back. “Is this the town hall?” 

“Oui,” said the young woman with barely a glance over her shoulder.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Caroline collected what little courage she had left and walked towards the building, in search of her beloved Dwight. 

She slipped through the gap in the front door and gasped at the sight before her. The building was in complete disrepair. No one was there; silence lay unsteadily in her wake. She took a few chary steps further inside and looked around for Dwight - or anyone. 

The only signs of life were the greedy rats lurking in the shadows. Caroline shivered and tried another room, and was met by the sight of abandoned stretchers, beds, medical equipment and books. She swore she saw a couple of pairs of boots, but didn’t linger in the doorway to find out what - or who - they were attached to. 

She found a long corridor and made her way down it, narrowing her eyes at the writing on the doors and walls. None of them meant anything to her until she reached the end of the corridor. The name ‘Dr J. Wilson’ alongside the name ‘Dr D. Enys’ was written on a piece of paper, acting as a door sign. 

After a sharp intake of breath at seeing his name written there, and with a chill in her heart, she slowly pushed the door open. 

The room was small and bare with two pathetic beds side-by-side with just enough space for two small side tables to be wedged between them. What struck Caroline the most was that the room was devoid of people - and, blessedly, skeletons. However, it had clearly been vacated for some time - and with some haste: the beds were dusty and unmade ( not very soldierly , thought Caroline), pieces of paper littered the floor, a mildewed khaki hat hung off the end of one of the beds and well-loved looking book remained stubbornly on a bedside table.

Caroline found herself inexplicably drawn to the bed on the right-hand side and approached it with baited breath, hoping for a sign from Dwight or for some explanation as to where he might have rushed off to. Something beneath her heeled shoe crunched as she walked, and Caroline’s insides twisted icily. After a long moment of debate, Caroline glanced down to see a  now-cracked dusty frame. Curiously, she bent down to pick it up, being careful not to cut herself on the broken glass. She almost dropped it immediately back onto the floor; she was met by the sight of her own face, a few years younger, immortalised in a photograph. It was the photograph she had sent Dwight two years ago. The sight of it, left behind, broken on the messy floor, pierced Caroline’s soul - she knew, she knew, this meant that wherever Dwight was, he did not go there willingly.

Feeling like she was going to suffocate within the claustrophobic walls, she freed the photograph of herself from beneath the fragments of glass and exited the room. Once outside, she leaned against the door-frame taking deep, steady breaths to calm the hammering of her heart. 

A small grey marking on the photograph caught her eye and she turned it over fully. The blank side, in faded pencil, simply read: ‘My love, Caroline.’ Her brows furrowed painfully above her blue eyes and she held his words tightly to her chest.

“Hello?” Caroline called rather hopelessly. She had not really expected to hear an answer, and she received none. Her voice echoed mockingly throughout the derelict building. 

She ignored the grenade shell at her feet and thought that they had perhaps moved further inland. Yes, that would make sense. Clearly, this had been too close to the front line and they had moved further west for safety. It would likely have had to be a quick getaway. She would make enquiries as to which hospital Dwight was at when she returned back to Amiens.

“Pardon?” a weak voice came from the shadows. 

Caroline started so violently she almost fell over. “You scared me!” she accused whomever had spoken as she clutched her pounding heart.

“Anglaise?”

“Yes,” Caroline confirmed in French as she followed the sound of the voice. In the shadows of the room opposite her sat a very downtrodden looking man. At least the beggar was French, so they were on the same side. 

“Vous êtes perdu, madame? ” the man wondered. 

That was an interesting question. Caroline was exactly where she had planned to be since coming to France, and yet she had indeed never felt so lost in her whole life. “I’m looking for someone - a doctor. Do you know where he might be?” 

The Frenchman looked at her gravely, with a sense of curious pity that annoyed Caroline. “There have been no English here since February,” he told her in heavily accented French. 

“Since February?” Caroline repeated, her heart falling through her chest. That would explain the lack of letters she had received from him, but she had just supposed him to be as busy as she was, and that he hadn’t had the time to write. Besides, she had recently relocated from central Paris to Amiens, and Dwight couldn’t have known that for she hadn’t yet had a moment to write to him and tell him. “Do you know where they went?” 

The man pointed a bony finger towards a group of skeletons over her right shoulder. “They killed some of them,” he explained in a quiet voice, “and took the rest. We - the whole town - heard it. I don’t know where they were taken, I’m sorry.” Caroline didn’t reply; she was too stunned, too scared, too heartbroken to speak. “Why are you looking for a doctor? Are you hurt?” 

“Mon fiancé,” replied Caroline, her mouth dry. Technically, he wasn’t her fiance, but he might never be now, so there could be no harm in the small white lie. 

The man’s look of pity didn’t seem so annoying to her this time. “I’m sorry,” he told her. After a few moments of silence, the man shyly asked her, “Do you have any food? Or money?” 

“Oui.” Caroline searched her purse for some francs. She found two, which would be enough for a couple of loaves of bread. She handed the money to him, thinking precisely nothing of it. 

“Merci beaucomp! ” he exclaimed, tears filling his eyes.

“You’re welcome,” Caroline absently replied in French. She was staring at the gaping hole in the roof; the light which shone through it acted like a spotlight, illuminating all her worst fears. Dwight had been taken prisoner. Or, worse still, he was among the pile of bones behind her. Somehow she knew in heart he was not, though. Still, if he had been taken by the German Empire, where was he now? February was six months ago, was he even still alive after all this time? If so, was he starving? Was he cold? Frightened? If he was dead, had he died quickly and with mercy? Or had it been slow and painful and devoid of dignity and company? Something tickled her chest and pulled her out of her listless trace, she looked down at herself but couldn’t see anything. It took her a minute to realise she was crying. 

Caroline sniffed and turned back to face the emaciated man, who had been kind enough to offer her the truth without guarantee of payment of any kind. “Thank you for your help. I wish you luck.” With that, she turned and made to leave. Dwight wasn’t here. There was nothing left here for her now.

“Madame? ” he called after her. 

Caroline turned back around to face him. He was thoughtfully twirling the money between his thin fingers, the excitement etched on his features suddenly made him look fifteen years younger. “Yes?” she asked, looking at him expectantly. 

His old brown eyes met hers, a mixture of gratitude and sincerity swam in them. “I hope you find your doctor.”

Ross Poldark awoke in the dawn stillness. Though the night had been windy, the autumn sea was now calm through the open window: the only sound was the meek cries coming from the crib in the corner. 

His hazel eyes opened to familiar, friendly shadows in the bedchamber, and in the corner an even more familiar and friendly fist punched the air, demanding its share of attention. 

Carefully, ensuring not to wake Demelza, Ross slipped out of the bed and padded across the room to the wooden crib. The cries became more indignant as his form came into view. 

“Well, good morning to you, too,” Ross greeted his daughter with a chuckle, bending to pick his daughter up.

Julia Poldark was born in June and had brought with her unbridled joy which had filled every day of their lives these past three months. Though his debt of a month’s worth of mornings had long since been repaid, Ross found that he had come to enjoy their alone time together and so continued the tradition wherever possible. 

Now in the safe embrace of her father’s arms, Julia was placated by the attention and ceased her whimpering. She took a greedy mouthful of Ross’s cotton nightshirt and relaxed against his shoulder. 

Ross chuckled and gently swayed them both in the early morning light. “Come, shall we go and find breakfast? Mama has left you some milk in the refrigerator, let us hope it was in the mood for staying cold,” he whispered, silently slipping out of the room like a thief. 

As he reached the landing in front of the stairs, he looked again to his baby daughter. “Ready?” he asked her with a soft smile, knowing this was her favourite part of the day. “One, two, three…” And the two Poldarks descended down the staircase, the older bouncing deliberately on his feet and the younger gurgling gaily at the bumping sensation, very much looking forward to her breakfast. 

“Oh, you’re alive, thank Heavens,” joked Ross over his second breakfast as Demelza entered the kitchen a couple of hours later, looking bright and refreshed. “I was about to come upstairs and check your pulse.”

“Oh, ha ha,” Demelza mocked, unable to keep the smile off her face. “Am I not allowed to sleep in now and then?” she wondered with a self-satisfied smirk at her husband. 

“No,” said Ross. “We miss you too much.” 

This earned him a kiss. “Good morning,” Demelza murmured against his lips. 

Ross kissed her again. “Good morning, my love.” 

Julia Poldark made a disgruntled sound and jabbed her small palms against the silky curtain of her Moses basket. 

Demelza laughed and made her way over to her. “And good morning to you too, my lamb!” she chirped, lifting her from her comfort. Demelza peppered her little face with kisses, which always elicited giggles from Julia. “I hope you have been nice to your papa, ‘twas very good of him to wake up with you.” Demelza offered him a warm, grateful smile.

"She is always good for her papa, it is only her mama she takes exception to, my love," Ross teased from his seat.

Demelza blew an enthusiastic raspberry against Julia's cheek and then directed one in Ross's direction for his comment.

“Good morning, ma’am,” Jinny greeted brightly as she entered the room, her arms and hands full. “The post, sir,” she then said, placing two letters and a newspaper in front of Ross at the table. 

"Thank you, Jinny." He placed the newspaper to one side.

“Shall I make you some eggs, ma’am?” Jinny asked Demelza.

“That’s alright, Jinny. I can manage that myself. Could you maybe launder some of the sheets, er, if you have the time? It’s a good drying day.” Demelza had been Mrs Poldark for three years and still she had to fight off a wince every time she gave Jinny an order.

Ross stifled a laugh at Demelza’s obstinate unease at her position in society and looked to his letters. One was from Pascoe, no doubt reminding him it was time for his monthly inventory, and the other one was indistinguishable from the hastened scrawl on the envelope. There were several stamps from the continent on it, meaning it could only be from a handful of people. “Jinny, would you excuse us, please?” 

Jinny bobbed a curtsy goodbye and exited the room in search of the washboard.

Demelza went to the countertop and fetched a bowl and two eggs, which she then cracked and began to whisk, dreaming of her scrambled eggs and toasted bread. 

Meanwhile, Ross curiously ran his letter-knife along the seal of the grey envelope and unfolded the letter, drawing in a sharp breath of surprise. He announced: “It’s from Caroline.” 

Demelza dropped the whisk onto the floor with a clatter and whirled around where she stood; they had not heard from her since March. “What does it say?” she wondered, half-excitedly, half-anxiously as she took a seat next to Ross at the table.

Ross placed his hand on top of hers, cleared his throat and read: 

“ August 25th, 1917.

Dear Ross and Demelza, 

I hope you are both well. Forgive my silence, I have scarcely had a second to do anything besides work or sleep these past six months. I suppose they could not advertise that at college or else no one would ever wish to complete the training of course - or indeed, volunteer in the first place. I am safe, clothed and quite well fed, though, so I mustn’t complain - though I do and shall, as you can imagine, knowing me as you do.

If I am not mistaken by my calendar, you are now parents! My congratulations to you both, you must write and tell me of your child. What is their name? Who is he or she most alike? I suppose I am to assume my invitation to be godmother has been lost by the French P.T.T.?”  Ross paused to laugh; Demelza rolled her eyes fondly. “Oh, you’ve no idea how I long to be home with you both. I cannot tell you how foolish I now feel. I wish I had a more cheerful letter to send you, but I’m afraid it is not the occasion. I wonder, have either of you heard from our dear mutual friend? I have not long returned from the village in which I last knew him to be, and I found no trace of him nor of any British men. Indeed, the building looked half-destroyed and as though it had not been lived in for some time. Please write to me and tell me that you have heard from him and that you know him to be safe. Or alternatively, please write to me and tell me that you know him to be dead. It is the not knowing I cannot bear. 

I don’t suppose you know how my uncle is doing? I fear for him now that I am not there to control his sweet intake. 

I hope to hear from you soon. Please send as much good news as you are able, it would cheer me up immensely. 

Lots of love, hugs and kisses to you all, 

Caroline x”  

They both sat in stunned silence for some time, the gravity of Caroline’s question hanging in the air. Ross wracked his brains, trying to think when they had last heard from Dwight. He hadn’t responded to their letter informing him of their good news, which was not like him. Ross fought both the sensible side of his brain and the loyal one, which vehemently denied the possibility of Dwight’s death, no matter that all logic now pointed towards it. 

Julia, sensing the discomfort in the room, began to cry softly. Demelza quickly rose from the table to pick her back up. Though his eyes remained on Caroline’s letter, Ross thought he saw Demelza wipe her eyes. 

“Sshh,” Demelza soothed her daughter, gently shaking her against her chest. “Sshh now, it’s alright. Everything will be quite alright.” 

Ross wondered if she was talking to them all.

After another few moments of quiet, Demelza said: “I’m sure Dwight’s fine. We'd- we'd have heard if...”

Ross considered this for a moment. “It’s true he has no immediate family alive, I think perhaps a great aunt in Gunwalloe, he once told me. Surely she would have received news of his-” Ross found he could not finish that sentence. 

“Yes, she would have. And she would have- have told people, he is well-known here for being a good doctor, so people will have heard,” Demelza tried to rationalise, finding it was making her feel a little better. 

Ross was less convinced, though he did not wish to upset Demelza by appearing so glum. There were things he could do to find out for certain - people whom his money could and would influence. Money was power, and luckily for Ross, he had quite a considerable fortune sitting idly in a bank not far from where he now sat. Perhaps a journey to London was in order.

"At least we know Caroline is alright," Demelza said with visible relief, derailing his train of thought.

Ross looked at his wife and blinked. "Oh, yes. I'm glad Caroline is unharmed."

"I'm going to get dressed," Demelza announced quickly, as though struck by divine inspiration.

Ross took another mouthful of his treacle scone as he opened Pascoe's letter, and absently mumbled, "OK." His gaze then looked up some twenty seconds later, staring at the open kitchen door in confusion - Demelza had already been dressed.

Julia tried to convey a story to her papa to cheer him up, babbling nonsense at him, to which he would either agree or disagree. "Yes, I know," he said gravely as she shrieked about something or other. "It's a terrible business." He danced her up and down on his knee as he re-examined Caroline's letter, his frown lessening with every passing minute as the cogs in his brain began to turn and turn, soon to stop and find a solution to his worry.

A very different looking Demelza entered the room: her hair was neat and tied up, she wore plain but pretty silver earrings, some rouge and she had adorned her new wool coat Ross had bought her for Christmas.

Ross blinked at her and grinned wolfishly. "Demelza! You look wonderful," he complimented sincerely. "Where are you going?" His brows creased in amused confusion.

Demelza beamed at him. "Thank you! Oh, I'm just going out, I meant to get Julia something... the other day." She really was the most pathetic liar she'd ever met.

Her husband eyed her with the suspicion she deserved. “Shall I drive you to wherever it is you’re going?” Ross offered, continuing to pry. 

“Oh, no, it’s alright, Ross, I’ll get the bus. You know I like the walk,” she said cheerfully as she finished buttoning up her coat. She avoided his gaze.

“I’ve a meeting with Pascoe later,” he told Demelza, also being vague about his own plans. “So pray be home for three o’clock, if you can.” 

“Oh, yes,” Demelza said as she pinned on her hat. “I’ll be home by then.” She carefully bent down to kiss Ross goodbye and then to kiss Julia.  

Ross chased her lips and Demelza giggled at him and lightly swatted his arm before taking her leave. “Good luck with your mission,” Ross teased, offering her a salute. He had not noticed what she had taken.

Demelza stopped at the door and shot him an amused look over her shoulder, her eyebrow raised. “And good luck with yours, Captain Poldark,” she retorted, knowing very well from his face that he was scheming something that had very little to do with his monthly inventory at Pascoe’s Bank. 

Ross laughed heartily and smiled at how well she knew him. “We’ll see you later. Wave goodbye to mama," he told Julia, holding up her little hand to wave it gently.

Demelza blew them one final, fond kiss each and was gone. 

Mrs Demelza Poldark approached the familiar grand estate with a mixture of trepidation and determination. It was a nice thing she was doing, a kindness, she firmly told herself. 

“Demelza!” the butler beamed at her. “What can I do for you?” 

“Hello, Mr Henshawe,” Demelza chirped. “Erm, I’m here to see Lord Penvenen. That is... Mrs Poldark for Lord Penvenen.” 

Henshawe grinned at her and politely held the main door open for her to enter. “If you’ll follow me, ma’am, his Lordship is in the library,” he said with an air of grandeur. 

Demelza nudged him with her elbow, smiling. “Stop it, Henshawe,” she chided with a laugh. “I can still make twenty beds in less than an hour, you know.” 

“I am glad to hear it, Mrs Poldark. How is your daughter?” Henshawe asked with genuine interest.

A warm smile came over Demelza's face. "She is well, she's thrivin'. She's such a happy baby, she hardly ever fusses," Demelza gushed unapologetically.

Henshawe chuckled. "So you're one of the lucky ones?"

Before they knew it they had reached the door of the library. Henshawe knocked and entered first when told to do so. "Mrs Demelza Poldark for you, your Lordship." He held the door open for Demelza to enter, which she did, wearing a slightly nervous smile.

Lord Raymond Penvenen practically leaped out of his desk chair to greet her. "Demelza! Mrs Poldark! To what do I owe the pleasure?" His tone was confused, surprised and pleased all at once.

Henshawe swiftly departed.

Demelza bowed politely, trying not to be overcome by the awkwardness that was beginning to gnaw away at her bones. "I was just passing," she excused. "And it struck me I'd not- visited- for a long time. I thought I ought to say hello." It sounded a weak excuse to Demelza's ear, but Lord Penvenen didn't seem to mind, in fact, he looked rather pleased to be in company.

"Would you like some tea? Maybe some sandwiches?" he asked her.

She, a former housemaid, was about to have tea in Killewarren's library - as a guest! How strange. "Oh, yes, please," she said politely.

Lord Penvenen rang the bell and Henshawe immediately re-entered the room, awaiting instruction. "Some tea, please, Henshawe."

"Right away, milord," said Henshawe, closing the door behind him.

The two looked at each other with a mix of fond familiarity and awkward unease. "So, how are you?" Ray brightly asked his favourite former housemaid.

"I'm well, thank you, milord," Demelza answered. "How are you?" She was alarmed by how old he was looking. Of course he was quite old now, but he had never really looked old. He always had an air of grandeur about him, a zesty enthusiasm for his life, a healthy rosy complexion to his otherwise ageing face. But now he looked small, almost gaunt and... sad.

Ray paused for a moment, as though he considered telling her the truth. "Oh, I'm fine," he lied quickly. "Getting on with things."

Demelza now felt that her rash decision to come here was a good one, after all. "Your Lordship, I have something I think may be of..." she paused, trying to think of the right word to use, "help... to you."

The old man's face lit up with interest. "Oh?"

Henshawe entered silently and placed a small tray of tea, sandwiches and biscuits on a table to their left. From the atmosphere in the room, he sensed not to ask if they wanted anything else, and simply left without a word.

Grateful for Henshawe's discretion, Demelza removed a letter she had stolen from under her husband's nose earlier this morning. She offered him the envelope. "It's a letter from Caroline," she explained. "She's well, and she was askin' for you."

Ray snatched the letter from Demelza's hands with shaking fingers. He opened it and greedily drank in every word written in his niece's neat script. “May- may I keep this, Demelza?” he asked thickly after having read it over twice, his eyes soft and pleading. 

Demelza thought she might cry to see Lord Penvenen so removed from his usual air of authority and grandeur. “Yes, yes, of course,” she granted. 

Ray choked on a single sob. “Thank you, my dear. You’ve made a foolish old man very happy,” he said, holding the letter to his chest. 

Feeling as though she may be overcome with emotion, and not wishing to disgrace herself by crying in front of his Lordship, Demelza hastily said, “I’ll pour us some tea.”

“Where are my manners?” wondered Ray as he discreetly dabbed his eyes. “You’ve had a daughter, so Mrs Paynter tells me. My congratulations to you and Ross. What did you name her?” 

A warm, motherly smile spread across Demelza’s face. “Thank you, milord. Yes, we named her Julia. Julia Grace, after Ross’s mother.”

“Ah yes,” said Lord Penvenen, stroking his rough stubble in remembrance. “I remember Grace Vennor. She was a lovely woman, very handsome, too. And so charming and gentle. Not unlike yourself, my dear.” 

Demelza blushed furiously at the compliment. “Thank you. I never knew her. Milk and sugar, your Lordship?” 

“Milk and two, please,” Ray said. "No, no, I don't suppose you would have known Grace," he continued with a sad sigh. “The fever took her when Ross was young, it took his younger brother, Claude, too. A terrible business.” 

“Oh yes,” Demelza said, thinking Ross had told her that once. “It’s very sad.”

“Did you bring little Julia with you?” Lord Penvenen asked. 

Demelza shook her head as she poured the tea into their cups. “No, milord. She’s at home with her father, God help her!” Demelza joked, before realising she probably shouldn’t have said that. “Beg your pardon, milord.” 

Ray laughed. “Not at all. I'd have liked to have said hello, if you're ever nearby again please don't be shy. Though," he said with a chuckle, "we men don’t seem to have the knack of babies like women do. Why, when Caroline was an infant…"

A steaming cup of tea was offered to him to fill the silence. Demelza hesitated before gently prying, “What happened when Caroline was an infant, milord?”

He looked rather pleased to be asked about it. “My brother, Caroline’s father, could not get her to do as he said, no matter how he tempted her with sweets or a good spanking,” he chuckled softly at the memory. “Even my sister-in-law could barely get her to sit still. For some reason, she always obeyed me growing up, I cannot now think why…” He took a big gulp of tea to disguise his emotion.

Demelza looked at him, her eyes soft and kind. “Because she loves you very much,” she said, not caring how impertinent it might be to say so. “And she always considered you her primary guardian, she told me. You always played with her and- and would read to her. F-forgive the impertinence, milord, but you must know that Caroline’s relationship with her parents was more… more... business-like…” Her hand shook as she brought her saucer to her lips. She thought belatedly that she should not have said that about his late brother. 

Lord Penvenen looked at her, quite impressed by her boldness. After a few seconds went by, he granted: “Yes… yes, I suppose I did know that.” He considered her again for a moment and Demelza felt the urge to squirm under his gaze. He then softly said, “You truly have no idea where she is either, do you?” 

Her lips wobbled a little as she replied, “No. The letter didn’t say, and it was stamped many times so I’ve no idea, I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry, my dear. I’m the one who is to blame.” 

“Oh, but your Lor-” 

Ray held out a hand to quieten her. “No, no, it’s quite alright. We need not pretend otherwise when it’s just the two of us. I have known it for a long while, and I will always feel it.” 

“She may be home soon,” Demelza tried to say brightly, thinking that surely the war could not rage on for much longer. There would be no men left on earth besides the old and already wounded. 

Ray Penvenen looked at the small table to his right, upon which rested a newspaper with the headline: ‘THE FIGHT FOR FRANCE'S EASTERN FRONT: WHO WILL BE VICTORIOUS?’

Having skimmed the article, it did not seem like the home front were any closer to gaining control of the eastern borders, and Paris had scarcely survived the bombing from the Germans some years ago, and struggled to regain its former glory. He then looked out of the window, the pale September light hurting his dry eyes. He thought of the day eight-year-old Caroline had dragged him outside that very window to have a picnic on the grass with her china dolls. He could see it so clearly, as though it had only happened yesterday. But he found himself an old man, and his beloved niece a VAD nurse in war-torn France, and all golden memories of them both were beginning to grey. He then said quietly: “Or she may never come home again.”

Chapter Text

February had raced on into March, bringing with it the first signs of spring. In two days' time, the Germans would begin the Kaiserschlacht , their last ditch effort to claim the Western Front from the Allies and win the war. But Ross Poldark, standing in his kitchen eating a slice of toast, was no seer; and so he enjoyed the sound of the birds chirping as he read over yesterday’s newspaper, which contained good news that the Allies had made considerable headway in gaining back a portion of the lower Wastern Front.

Warmth from the deepening sun spread through the window, illuminating Nampara in all her glory. Ross was grateful for a day where he finally didn’t have to burn through an entire bag of coal to warm his home.

Presently, he checked his wrist-watch which informed him it was seventeen minutes past nine. Knowing they would have to leave soon, he folded his paper and went off in search of his wife. 

Leaping up the stairs two at a time, ignoring his protesting old ankle injury, Ross pushed open the ajar door of their bedroom and entered. He found his beloved wife, Demelza, sitting at her vanity putting pins in her hair. 

She smiled widely at him in the mirror. “Morning, Ross,” she chirped. “It’s a beautiful day.”

Nine-month-old Julia, too, was awake and dressed. She was sitting in her crib, banging her metal rattle against the wood facings, as though an inmate who was imprisoned against her will. 

“Good morning, my love,” murmured Ross, pressing a kiss against Demelza’s cheek before turning his attention to his daughter. “And good morning to you, too, Miss Moody,” he said to Julia, who immediately perked up at the sight of her father. She opened her arms and whined, indicating he must pick her up this instant. 

Determined to keep the peace on what would undoubtedly be a long day, Ross obliged and picked her up. 

“Goo Maman,” Julia greeted, giving her rattle an enthusiastic shake. 

“Ta, papa,” Ross said, holding out his palm for the rattle. The noise of the damn thing set his teeth on edge and the incessant twinkling threatened to ruin his mood on a daily basis. 

Being very familiar with such a command now, Julia Poldark leaned forwards and gifted her favourite toy to her papa and clapped in excitement. 

Ross almost felt guilty about discreetly hiding it underneath her pillow and fetching her teddy bear instead. Almost. 

“I saw that, Mr Poldark,” Demelza teased from her vanity. 

Ross covered Julia’s ears. “You saw nothing,” he told his wife. 

“What time are we leaving?” Demelza wondered, taking one last look at her simple updo. 

“In five minutes or so,” Ross informed her, checking the ticking hands on his watch. “Where’s Jinny?” He hadn’t seen her all morning, which was very strange. 

“Oh, she must still be in the garden. I asked her to fetch more carrots, it didn’t seem like we had many. I said she could have the rest of the morning off.” 

Ross chuckled. “You worry too much, my love,” he told her. “There will be plenty of food. You could feed the entire British Army with the produce you have charmed from unsuspecting victims these past few weeks!”

Demelza shot her husband one of her charming smiles. “If you don’t ask then you don’t get, Ross,” she said simply, nodding in approval at her updo in the mirror.

“How on Earth did you convince Ray Penvenen to give you half of his vegetable garden? And Hugh Boscawen to give you one of his best cows for beef?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“The beef is for the next time, I think I’ll make a stew. And I didn’t convince Lord Penvenen to give me half of his vegetable garden, he simply wished to donate it to our cause when I informed him about it over tea last week,” Demelza replied with a proud smile. “Oh, Ross! I forgot to tell you! I cannot believe I forgot to tell you, I don’t know where my mind has been this week, perhaps it has a little to do with the sickness I’ve been feeling.” She shook her head to refocus her mind. “Lord Penvenen thinks he’s found Caroline!”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Ross enthused, pretending he knew absolutely nothing of Lord Penvenen’s ongoing inquiries, despite being the man who was funding and orchestrating them. “Did he say where she is?”

“No… he seemed a little uncertain somehow, yet sure it was her at the same time. Does that make sense?”

“No.”

“Ross.”

Ross laughed. “Well, it doesn’t!” he argued reasonably.

Demelza suppressed a chuckle and thought of her friend. “Well, I hope it is Caroline. Even if we can’t send her letters and expect a reply, it will be nice to know where she is. And then we will know where both Dwight and Caroline are – oh, think of that, Ross! To know our dearest friends are workin’ away in hospitals and are alive.” She beamed at him in the reflection of the mirror before turning around and holding out her arms for Julia. With a smile, Demelza began telling her daughter of her unofficial aunt and uncle, whom she was surely soon to meet.

Ross did not share her smile. It had been months since his inquiries had paid off, when they found out where Dwight was being kept, but he had received no update since January - and he hadn’t even been able to reach Caroline to tell her what he’d discovered two months ago. For all he knew now, his oldest friend may  be lying anonymously in a pit of mud across the channel. Cold, alone and lifeless. He did not want to think of it.

Presently, Ross cleared his throat. “If we don’t leave now, we may have to open late.”

Demelza immediately got up, determined to begin on time, and Ross then helped her into her coat. She picked up Julia and set her securely on her hip. “When are you going to teach me how to drive, Ross?” Demelza wondered as they began walking out of the bedroom. “I heard in the village that Rowella Chynoweth was driving a tractor for old Mr Brown,” she informed him, as though it was the most important sentence she’d ever said.

“So?” Ross wondered, quite perplexed. What significance did that have?

Demelza let out a frustrated sigh as they descended the stairs. “ So , it means that a woman of good station is helping out a man in the community. It is a good thing – for women – to be seen doing these things. And it makes me feel I should be doing more.”

The corners of Ross’s lips twitched in amusement. “So, O Holy One, shall I teach you to drive the tractor or the motor first? Or perhaps maybe an ambulance wagon?”

“Don’t tease me, Ross,” Demelza complained. “I’m serious. I want to learn.”

“I understand that,” Ross said. “But, my love, I think that would be a recipe for disaster.”

At once Demelza looked outraged, and refused to pass through the door Ross held open for her. “So you think I can’t do it?! That it is – is only a thing for a man to do?! What a charming message to send to your daughter.”

Ross held up his hands and laughed, which did not help to abate his wife’s fury. “Please disembark your soapbox, Demelza. I only mean that I cannot be the one to teach you.” Demelza opened her mouth to wonder why not when Ross continued, “I cannot teach you because we would… fall out.”

Demelza smiled, though did so reluctantly. She walked past him into the sunshine outside; he followed. “Ah, I think I understand now. You mean you would bark at me like an Army Captain and I would cry and scream at you like a long-suffering wife and one of us may throw the other out of the moving car?” 

“That’s about the size of it,” Ross confirmed with a chuckle.

“I’ll ask Mr Martin if he would have the time when I’m next at Killewarren,” she said resolutely.

As they approached the car that Ross had recently purchased for the household, he stopped and drew Demelza to him, wrapping his arms around her waist. Julia didn’t mind the infringement on her personal space at all and simply switched from playing with the button on her mother’s coat sleeve to playing with the one on her father's.

“You already do so much,” Ross told Demelza, looking into her eyes as he did so. “You have no reason to feel like you do not do enough for others – it is all you ever do, Demelza. It’s in your nature.” She looked touched. “And this was all your idea, and its impact will be huge on the community – maybe even the entire county. If you wish to learn how to drive because it will be useful, then please do so. But do not do so out of an unfounded idea that you must do more, because you already do more than enough.”

Demelza’s eyes gleamed as she gazed back at her husband. “Oh, Ross… That means so much to me, I shall hold it dear in my heart for a long time. Thank you.” She kissed him softly and he kissed her back before releasing her.

“Come, we really will be late now. It’s almost an hour’s drive from here,” Ross said with a sigh. “Have we got everything?”

Demelza looked around, thinking. “Yes, I think so. Check the back to make sure Jinny put the carrots, potatoes and turnips there.”

A quick glance in the back showed Ross that there was a bag missing; he checked inside the sacks. “No turnips,” he said, searching the interior of the car for them.

“Papa,” Julia whined, trying to wriggle from her mama’s hold, suddenly bored of sitting still. “Papa, papa, papa.” She held her arms out.

“Julia, wait, please,” Demelza pleaded, struggling with her daughter’s determination.

Ross jogged over to them, laughing. “Here,” he said, holding out his arms for Julia. Julia settled into his shoulder and he was awash with the now all-too-familiar feeling of fatherly comfort. Ross moved back towards the car to investigate further but turned on his heel when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye. “Oh, Demelza, I think that’s the missing turnips over there,” he pointed to the side of the house where the onions grew; a small brown sack sat hunched on the soil. “Would you take her again for a second and I’ll fetch them?”

“No need,” Demelza chimed breezily. “I was born ter carry turnips.” She winked at him before going off to fetch the missing piece of their produce puzzle.

When Demelza returned to the car, she found Ross and Julia in the driver’s seat; she couldn’t decide between the two of them who looked more amused at Julia’s little hands being on the steering wheel.

“I have some competition, it would seem,” she joked as she climbed into her seat.

Ross laughed and gently bounced Julia on his knee. “Why don’t you ask Mr Martin if he has two spaces available for lessons? Though I doubt Julia’s feet could reach the peddles of a tractor just yet.” He safely handed their daughter to his wife in the passenger seat, and both of them were amazed that their daughter didn’t protest.

A hand covered Demelza’s face, such was her embarrassment at Ross’s terrible dad joke. “Oh Judas, just drive, Ross,” she said with a laugh; Ross obeyed and the car grumbled to life, and they were quickly on their way south, determined to do some good.

Three hours later, the Poldarks and their local allies, now armed with several litres of soup, opened the doors of Truro Methodist Church and awaited the first recipient. They did not have to wait long. 

An hour passed without much talking other than taking orders and attempting to brush off any and all praise. Most people who had come through the door were men who had been wounded in service or were women and children widowed and orphaned by the war that continued to rage on across the channel. Groups of people now sat clustered in conversation, a sight which was very pleasing to Demelza, given that so many of them had come in alone and looking forlorn. No one looked forlorn now. 

“Ross,” Demelza whispered once the queue had quietened down. 

He looked at her as he preemptively buttered a slice of bread and whispered back, “Yes?”

Her arms went around his neck and shoulders, and she squeezed him tightly. “Thank you.”

“For what?” he asked, both confused and amused. He put his butter knife down and wrapped his arms around her.

“For today. I know you dislike church, and Methodists, but it was- important to me- to do some good and to do it here,” Demelza said as she released Ross from the embrace. 

Ross knew why Demelza had wanted to make this church the base for their soup kitchen, though she had not explicitly stated it aloud - and Ross had the sense not to question or deny the request. With the permission of the preacher, Travis, they had been granted access to use the church and all its facilities - including a small kitchen - so long as they spread the grace of God. Ross was confused as to what this meant, but Demelza assured him that was precisely what they were doing. 

A gaunt man in his best clothes approached them cautiously, his eyes scanning the two philanthropists in front of him. From the bible in his hands, Demelza deduced he was a regular church-goer here. “Soup kitchen, is it?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Ross answered. “We wanted to give something back to the community in hard times seeing as we had the means to do so.” 

“I don’t recall seeing you here before,” said the man, who had not introduced himself. His tone was accusatory, and though Ross had answered his initial question, he directed this statement at Demelza, thinking her features familiar. Yes, yes, that was it, she was likely Tom Carne’s relation. A niece, perhaps. Or the runaway daughter. He narrowed his eyes further at her. 

“I don’t often go to church, sir,” Demelza admitted without shame. “If God is truly everywhere, like I d’ know him to be, I don’t think he’d mind my absence from the pews so long as I’m godly wherever I go.” 

Ross controlled a smirk. 

The man eyed her curiously. “So if God is everywhere, why did you choose here? Just a matter of convenience?” 

There was a challenge to his tone that rubbed Ross the wrong way, as if the prime location of the event somehow undermined its goodness. He opened his mouth to speak but Demelza gently stood in his boot and beat him to the reply. “My brother, Sam, was killed in the war, and was a great lover of Methodism. It was his dream to be a preacher and help people. I thought helping here would be a fitting way to honour his memory. Do you not agree, sir?” 

There was a slight edge to the sweetness of her tone, which Ross readily recognised as an invitation to argue. 

The man did not wish to embarrass himself by doing so, and had the good grace to now look slightly ashamed by his interrogation. “Yes, I agree with you, ma’am. Of course I meant no offence,” he tipped his hat and then took it off. “It’s a fine ambition - to be a preacher. And what a fine legacy for your family, ma’am, to have a brother who so readily served God and country.” 

“Yes, I believe so, too,” Demelza said, genuine sweetness in her tone once again; she was not one to hold a grudge. “Will you take vegetable broth or leek and potato?” she wondered, motioning to both soup pots. 

“Vegetable, thank you. Shall I expect to see you this Sunday?” the man asked the Poldarks.

Ross refrained from offering his opinions about Methodism as a religious denomination and simply served the man a hearty ladle of soup into a bowl, which he accepted gratefully. “Enjoy,” was all Ross said, evidently closing the topic of their attending church on Sunday. 

The Methodist ambled away with his bowl to a table with former soldiers, whom he appeared to know. 

“Thank you ,” said Ross as an aside to his wife. 

Demelza schooled a knowing smile. “For what?” 

“For speaking before I said something I might have regretted.” 

“You’re welcome. I could feel your tongue vibrating from here.” 

Ross laughed; Demelza’s stomach then rumbled loudly, protesting its emptiness.

“Would the lady like some soup?” Ross asked with a feigned air of grandeur. “I think she is deserving of it after her efforts today.” There was admiration in his eyes.

Demelza swatted his arm for his sarcasm and laughed. “I’m no lady, Ross.”

“You insult my wife. She is the finest lady I know.”

“Do I?” Demelza wondered, her face set into an expression of amusement. “Well, then, I suppose I must make amends.”

“You can make amends later,” Ross inferred with a suggestive wink. “First, you must eat,” he then insisted, pouring her a hefty portion of leek and potato soup, knowing it was the one she would prefer.

She accepted the steaming bowl and smiled. “You take such good care of me, Ross,” she said softly, her gaze fixed on him adoringly.

Ross waved away the claim. “It goes both ways.”

Demelza leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. Ross chased her mouth and quickly pecked her lips. They shared loving smiles - until Demelza examined her meal and frowned.

“What’s the matter?” Ross wondered, noticing her expression.

“Where’s my bread, Mr Poldark? And I want a decent serving of butter, ‘tis only fitty when one has soup.” She gently placed it back on the table and waited.

With an eye-roll and a schooled smile, Ross cut a slice from the loaf and began buttering it. He felt Demelza kiss his shoulder-blade through his waistcoat.

She then rested her chin in the nook between his shoulder and neck and sighed contentedly. The day had gone better than she could have imagined, and everyone was so enthusiastic and grateful for their new venture; it felt immeasurably good to make such a difference. If she hadn’t met Ross, she might be one of the women who had come here today with nothing and no one. How blessed she was now.

Demelza continued watching her husband a moment longer until he offered her the piece of buttered bread she had asked for. She accepted it hungrily. “Perfect,” she proclaimed with a grateful smile at the lashings of butter. Her mouth then twisted into a teasing smile. “Judas, poor Jinny may be out of a job soon.”

“Oh, just eat it,” Ross implored with a chuckle. 

Demelza immediately dipped her bread into her bowl and began wolfing it down as though she hadn’t eaten for days.

Ross gaped at the spectacle of his wife consuming her food like a wild animal and then started laughing in earnest. “Christ Almighty, you’d think-”

“-Ross! We’re in church!” Demelza hissed, looking at him with wide, wifely eyes.. “You can’t say that !”

Ross did look a little guilty. He raised a casual hand of apology at the large hanging cross in the corner of the room. “Sorry. Anyway, you’d think you've never been fed in your life! These people will think I beat and starve you!” 

Demelza shrugged and carried on eating. “I’m jus’ hungry,” she said with a full mouth. That was likely a lie, she soon realised. Her courses were almost two months late, so it was likely she was eating for two. But she wasn’t certain, not yet. In another week or so, she could be certain and then she could tell him that three would become four. He would be so happy - they would all be.

“What are you grinning at?” Ross asked her, eyeing her suspiciously. 

Demelza did her best to smother the doe-eyed smile on her face. “Nothin’, just enjoying the company and the meal.” Ross narrowed his eyes at her. Demelza reached for his hand and squeezed it. “I love you, Ross.” She felt the emotion well up in her and took a bite of bread to conceal it, lest he become more suspicious. 

Ross squeezed her hand back before taking it between both of his own and then kissing her knuckles. “I love you, too,” There was nothing more to be said.

Several heeled shoes tapped in an even urgent rhythm across the old wooden floors of the base hospital. It had been a hectic morning, influenza had ripped through the building, and the streets of Paris, and left a trail of death and suffering in its wake. The fine Parisian architecture didn’t seem so beautiful anymore. 

Caroline’s feet ached so badly she wondered if they might simply fall off soon. But she had to keep going - she had to keep busy, no matter what. Any pause in her day meant that her thoughts would drift to Dwight and she would become dangerously distracted by her misery - by her grief. She worked every day until she began to physically collapse with exhaustion; she had to, if she stopped to acknowledge the helplessness she felt she would never walk amongst these people and this room again.

Nurse Ennis wiped the beads of sweat off her forehead with her sleeve and entered the room reserved for American soldiers, which was understaffed due to the number of doctors and nurses that had recently been claimed by the oddly savage cold. Caroline buzzed about the room like a honeybee - dutifully fulfilling her act of service, ensuring that every flower was given ample attention and opportunity to thrive, no matter how different they were. 

Presently, hunger pangs rattled her body, and she became aware of how the book in her hands shook.

“Here you go, Captain Evans,” Caroline said as she handed him a Dickens novel she’d never even heard of. 

He looked up from his piece of paper and accepted the book. “Thanks. What day is it, Nurse Ennis?” He held a pencil to the top of what was clearly to be a letter.

“It’s Friday, March 22nd,” she answered. She then excused herself and went in search of another soldier she could help. After she was finished tending to the next person, she would allow herself a break to have a sandwich, no matter how hard it would be to swallow when her mind inevitably drifted to Dwight’s whereabouts.

“Is there someone here named Caroline Penvenen?” a wondering voice called into the room. 

Caroline whipped round, her eyes wide. 

“Caroline Penvenen?” 

Nurse Ennis raised her hand. “Yes, me,” she said, walking towards a woman she’d never seen before. “My, er, father’s last name. I took my mother’s when he left us,” she quickly lied to the curious gazes who had come to know her as Caroline Ennis. 

“A telephone call for you,” the woman said, holding out the receiver for her.

With a furrowed brow, Caroline took it, pressed it to her ear and bent slightly towards the mouthpiece. “Hello?” 

“Caroline?” 

Her blood ran cold; money’s influence truly knew no bounds. 

“Caroline?” 

She licked her lips, willing them to release words. “Yes, Uncle Ray?” she answered, having recovered her voice. She prepared herself for the onslaught of rage that no doubt awaited her. 

“Oh, my dear girl!” To Caroline’s amazement, it sounded as though he was sobbing with relief. “I thought you might be dead.” 

“Whyever would you think so?” The line wheezed in its struggle to connect them.

“Well, Caroline, you ran away - to war-torn France I found out - and two years ago you could not make a cup of tea, nevermind dress a wound.” 

She allowed herself a small laugh. “You’d be impressed,” she said shyly. 

“I should have been more impressed if you had written or taken me into your confidence.” 

A beat. “I could not have.” 

“Why not?” The weak line crackled.

“You did not trust my judgement. You wished me to marry Unwin, and I would never have done so.” 

A longer pause. “Because you love Enys?” 

“Yes,” she admitted, his use of the present tense ripping her delicate heart strings. 

“And have you found him yet?” 

Caroline almost laughed at how well he knew her, despite everything. But when it came to Dwight, she could not laugh. “No, uncle, I fear he is... missing.” She swallowed thickly. “Is something wrong? Why have you gone to such trouble to contact me?” Her heart was pounding in her ears. Was Uncle Ray alright? Were Ross and Demelza alright?

“Ah yes,” Ray acknowledged, remembering why he called. “It’s about Enys, in fact.” Caroline’s heart pounded faster. “A little birdie…” he began, unsure of whether he should tell her, if it was a breach of national security or not. He decided he cared more about his niece, and continued on: “A little birdie informed me after a recent inquiry that there was a record of a Dr Dwight Enys working in a field hospital in Lille in October of 1917. It is thought to be German-occupied.”

Caroline understood what he was saying. Dwight was indeed a prisoner of war, but was very much alive a few months ago. If he had been kept alive for that long, why not a few more months until the war was over? 

“Nurse Ennis! Bed six, please!”

Caroline started at the call back to reality. “I must go, uncle, I’m needed,” she said quickly. “Thank you for telling me of Dr Enys. Take care of yourself. So long.” 

“Goodbye…”

The receiver went down with a hasty clang and Caroline marched off towards bed number six. She thought she should have told Uncle Ray that she loved him and now regretted not doing so.

Sergeant Wallace, who oversaw the daily running of the base hospital, shot her a reproving glance as she passed him. 

Caroline knew that society would dictate that she apologise to her superior for the delay in her reaction to his order, but she had never been very good at doing what society dictated. She passed him with her head held high and her lips sealed shut. 

“Now, there’s no need to look so glum,” she told an American soldier recovering from influenza as she reached his bedside. She dabbed the beads of sweat from his face and spoon fed him a ghastly tonic. 

Lieutenant Jones winced as he swallowed the black liquid. “I still have a fever,” he moaned. 

Caroline put a hand to his forehead, which was warm to the touch. It was true he had a fever, but it was not as bad as yesterday’s by any means, and Caroline wasted no time informing him of this fact. The Americans could be such babies compared to the British men, perhaps the difference lay in how they were raised. 

The flu was indeed very unpleasant, though. Caroline had experienced it herself in the winter and for one whole day thought she would die. The fever was awful and every breath she took felt like a sharp knife prodded her chest. These days it seemed to be killing more men than the war itself.

Still, she found a tough love approach to be more effective on the soldiers’ recovery efforts; she thought it encouraged them to find the strength to fight it.

“I like the American nurses better,” the American complained, though not without a slight teasing smirk. “Were none free? You British ladies are mean.”

Caroline laughed as she tucked his feet into his blanket. “We aren’t mean. Just because we are universally known for being polite does not mean we will sugar-coat things for you.”

“So you really think I’m on the mend?” he wondered, a genuine hopefulness in his tone.

“Yes, I wouldn’t lie to you, if I thought you were a goner, I assure you I’d let you know,” Caroline said with a smirk and raised eyebrow.

The soldier chuckled. “I don’t doubt you would. I’m glad I’m not a goner, then.”

“You’re not, but I will be if you don’t stop talking my ear off and let me get on with helping people who actually require medical attention.” She handed him his copy of J.M. Barrie’s novel Peter and Wendy so that he could occupy himself.

Lieutenant Jones accepted the pro-offered book and smiled guiltily at the pretty English nurse. “Sorry, my bad. Thanks for your help, Nurse Ennis,” the American said sincerely.

“You’re quite welcome, Lieutenant Jones.”

“You can call me Tommy,” he called at her back, a flirtatious ring to his tone. “All my friends do.”

Caroline rolled her eyes and smiled wryly, though he couldn’t see. “Goodbye, Lieutenant Jones.”

Later that night, having been sent to her room by Sergeant Wallace, who insisted she rest, Caroline found herself in the small room she shared with another nurse. It was blessedly empty at the moment, as the other VAD was on the night shift. Caroline leaned her head against the wooden headboard and stared out of the open window. The streetlights of central Paris glowed arrogantly outside, and if you had never seen the inside of one of the many base hospitals in Paris, you’d be forgiven for thinking that the war was already over. 

The small theatre across the street was constantly busy and a stream of people were currently waiting outside. 

Caroline glared at them, her heart full of envy in more ways than one. She could not remember the last time she was at the theatre, perhaps it had been with her mother and father. Second, it was mostly young couples who waited, each of them chatting animatedly or holding hands or kissing or doing all manner of things she may never get to do with Dwight again. She wiped away a bitter tear and thought of Uncle Ray’s news. 

If Dwight had been kept alive for six months, then the German Empire must have deduced that he was a brilliant physician. That could only work in his favour, if he could be useful - which he certainly was - then logic dictated that he was, in all likelihood, still alive. 

A small, hopeful smile, had replaced the former frown and tears. She sunk into her pillow, still wearing it as the happy conversations from outside floated up through the night air and into the room. 

Maybe, just maybe, she would have the chance to see a play with Dwight one day. Maybe. On that pleasant thought, willing it to carry over into her dreams, Lady Caroline Penvenen fell soundly asleep.

Roughly one hundred and fifty miles east of central Paris, on a hot July day, a team of displaced English healthcare workers tried their best to save as many people they could.

It was easier than Dwight had imagined, to save the enemy, because despite the difference in uniform, these men were still people with names and families and dreams and ambitions. His good work was no doubt aided by the possibility of death which loomed over his head like a never-ending cloud that threatened to rain. Though, he had to concede that for prisoners of war, they were relatively well-fed, even if they did have to sleep on the floor. 

But Dwight knew many of them were only alive because they were compliant and useful, for how much longer they would remain that way, nobody knew. Still, they had been kept alive for over a year now, so the odds were leaning in their favour for the time being. He only wished they were allowed the privilege of pen and paper; Caroline would be worried sick at the absence of his letters. Some nights he, too, woke up in a cold sweat wondering if she was still alive.

He was checking a stitch he’d made three days ago for any signs of infection when he felt a light tap on his shoulder. He knew who it was before he even turned around.

“Dr Enys, can you take a look at this man over here, please? I’m not sure how best to save his hand,” Nurse Ada Smith whispered to him.

“ Ruhe !” Herr Dettweiler, the man in charge of the German field hospital, roared; he didn’t like it when the English spoke. Though he seemed abnormally agitated today, even for him.

Dwight nodded wordlessly and followed her to the bed to examine the soldier’s hand. Dr Enys was surprised to see Dr Wilson standing over the man also, as a quick glance at the soldier’s hand showed it would be an easy repair.

The older doctor looked at the younger one. “The Spring Offensive was a failure,” he informed him in a whisper so low it was barely within the range of human hearing.

Dwight and Ada stared at him. “You’re sure?” Dwight breathed, pretending to examine the injured soldier’s hand.

Dr Wilson nodded inconspicuously. “Yes, I just heard Böhm tell Dettweiller. We’d best stay out of their way for a while.” It was a blessing that many years ago, when John Wilson had been a student of medicine, he had elected to spend three months in Berlin studying new ideas surrounding human anatomy, and thus had a decent grasp of German.

But what did this failure mean? Of course, it was a good thing that the German Empire had failed to claim the Western Front from the Allied Forces – it meant that they could surely not now be within any chance of winning the war. But what did the defeat mean for his own life as a prisoner of war? Or for John’s life? Or Ada’s?

His inner turmoil was interrupted by the arrival of wounded soldiers being hastily ushered in. At first glance, their injuries seemed to be from an explosion of some kind, which was confirmed by the yelling men as they entered.

All the doctors and nurses - who were mostly made up of imprisoned Allies, given that so many German doctors and nurses were taken by the deadly influenza late last year - got to work immediately, while Herr Dettweilier and his men patrolled around them, glancing over their shoulders to ensure the doctors were indeed doing more good than harm.

He suddenly stopped next to a young French VAD – who Dwight, Ada and John supposed had only been spared on account of her good looks, for she wasn’t an exemplary nurse by any means. Dettweiler clutched his chest, appearing out of breath. His eyes were wide and he was soundlessly shaking his head.

Without ceremony, he forcefully shoved the young woman aside and clutched the pale soldier’s lapels. “Moritz! Moritz, wach auf! WACH AUF! ” Dettweiler begged, shaking his childhood friend by the shoulders. He did not wake up.

Cautiously, Dwight took a quick look at him. Judging by the blood that had spilled from his mouth, the man had suffered some kind of internal injury. Dr Enys checked his pulse and found it unmoving; he closed his eyes in despair.

“Fix him!” Dettweiler commanded Dr Enys in German, screaming in his face so loudly it made his blue eyes water.

“I can’t,” Dwight tried to explain. The man was unfixable – he was dead. His internal injuries had been catastrophic – the explosion had likely ruptured his heart and lungs, not even God could have saved him. But Dwight didn’t know how to explain that in German.

He suddenly found himself face to face with Dettweiler’s rifle. “I said fix him. NOW!”

Ada stifled a scream behind the palm of her hand.

“ Das kann ich nicht tun. Er ist tot .” Dwight was not naïve enough to think this would be a good enough excuse.

He stared at the gun with an unwavering look of defiance. If he was to die, here, in this way, he would not show fear. If he was never going to walk on the Cornish cliff tops again, he would close his eyes and think of them. He could see it so clearly: the sky was a vibrant blue blanket, the sea whooshed quietly beneath the green grass he walked on, Caroline was hanging off his arm - her tinkling laughter filling his ears, and dear Ross and Demelza were walking in front of them, hand in hand. They were all together again, just like the old days, and were happy.

Perhaps that was what Heaven looked like.

Without a chance to contemplate this further, Dwight felt a quick, searing pain on the side of his head and everything had dissolved into darkness before he’d even hit the ground.

Chapter Text

Jeremy Poldark’s birth had been highly anticipated, but the anticipation was quickly replaced by anxiety. From the outset it had not been easy for Demelza, who struggled with the speed and sharpness with which the contractions came. 

Jinny was prepared and by her side for the first few hours, and a local midwife from their township had also been summoned, but when Jinny came down the stairs to fetch some water and a clean cloth, she looked thin-lipped and weary, and deliberately avoided Ross’s gaze. 

With a bitter reluctance, Ross had telephoned and summoned both Dr Choake and Dr Behenna for an opinion as he feared it might be one of those deadly illnesses that afflicted pregnant and birthing women. Both doctors tried to acquiesce Ross’s terror by insisting it was nothing out of the ordinary; it was merely the trials of childbirth. 

Their arrogant dismissal did nothing to calm his frayed nerves, and all evening Ross sat with a sickening knot of disgust at the thought of his life without Demelza. He had paced every inch of downstairs until blisters formed on his feet; he continued to march even after they had burst. The pain distracted him from his wife’s pain, which could be heard in all its blood curdling agony upstairs. 

The dawn had broken when Dr Behenna descended the staircase, followed by a petulant looking Dr Choake. Ross ceased biting his nails and shifted in his seat; he knew he should stand in their presence but did not want to disturb little Julia, who was sleeping peacefully on his lap. 

Ross had stared at them, trying to read their expressions for any sign of bad news. 

“Well?” he’d asked, his eyes round. 

Dr Behenna smiled politely and announced, “Congratulations, Mr Poldark. You have a son.” 

A wave of pride and relief washed over Ross at the news. He gently placed Julia’s head under a cushion and manoeuvred her sleeping form so as to free himself; he was relieved that she didn’t waken. 

Ross inclined his head to the stairs; the doctors followed. “And my wife? How is Demelza?” he asked, his lips pressed into a thin line. 

“She is well, you may go see her if you wish,” Behenna said. 

Without another word, Ross was away and bounding up the stairs two-at-a-time.

He swiftly came face-to-face with his bedroom room, and though it was partially open, he thought it best to knock gently and did so. “May I come in?” he asked the ajar door. 

He heard a slight movement from inside - the rustling of a blanket, perhaps. “Yes, please,” came Demelza’s voice; it was quiet and breathy.

Ross pushed the door open and carefully looked over at the bed. Demelza was under the linens, neither quite sitting up or lying down, and held a small, cooing bundle in her arms. She looked both radiant and spent. “You look tired,” Ross accused as he crossed the room.

“I am tired,” Demelza admitted. “He tried me hard, so he is definitely your son.” She looked at Ross with a teasing twist of her lips. 

Ross wished he could joke with her but he was despairing at her paleness, unaware it was completely normal. He simply hadn’t noticed it last time as he had been too preoccupied with his new status as a father. “How are you?” he asked her, kissing her temple with a slight wobble to his lips. 

She looked up at him and smiled. She reached out a hand and took one of his, squeezed it in reassurance. “I’m fine, Ross, truly. Just a little tired is all.” 

“You are not leaving this bed for a week,” Ross proclaimed. “No baking, no dusting, no long walks. Nothing.” 

“If it would please you.” 

“It would.” Ross nodded and then pursed his lips in thought.

Demelza looked at him sympathetically: it must be hard to be a man and listen to all the commotion of a birth and be forbidden to enter the room and try to help. “Then it’s settled, I’ll rest this week. Ross, come meet your son. He’s just perfect,” she gushed, smoothing his cheek with her finger. 

“Is it alright- may I sit next to you?” he wondered, motioning to the blank space on the bed.  He was anxious to be close to her.

Demelza nodded eagerly and patted the space. Since the midwife had announced it was a boy, she had been so excited for Ross to meet his son. And she was pleased, so very pleased, to have both a son and a daughter, it had always been something of a dream of hers to have one of each. 

With a slight hesitation, Ross eased himself onto the mattress, checking Demelza’s face for any signs of discomfort at his movement. He found none; she was simply smiling. How could she look so happy and he so worried and serious? Perhaps he ought to lighten up. He would try it. 

Ross peered at the moving bundle, which reminded him of the tide coming in and out. Eventually, a small face, with half-closed eyes and Demelza’s nose peered back at him. It hit him then - he had a son. This was his and Demelza’s son. Ross took his little hand in his and the baby grasped his finger and gripped it tightly. “He has the strong Poldark grip,” Ross murmured with pride. “Hello, Jeremy.” 

Demelza found herself crying as she watched the two of them, the tears fell silently down her cheeks. 

Ross noticed them and wiped them away. He carefully enveloped them both. “I promise you,” he said to Demelza, his voice thick with emotion. “I will make the world a better place for him, for Julia, for you. For us all.” He already had a few ideas as to where to start. 

Demelza leaned her head against her husband’s shoulder and sighed with blissful contentment. “I know you will. Thank you for loving us the way you do.” 

Quite unexpectedly, Ross chuckled. Demelza looked at him quizzically. “Who'd have thought that the day I bumped into a maid in my pyjamas would turn out to be the luckiest day of my life?” he murmured. She was his wife, his lover, his companion, his friend; she was everything - the saving grace of his life. He hoped she would always know that.

Two months later, Demelza was fully recovered from the ordeal and more lively than ever as she and baby Jeremy fluttered about the parlour, giving things a quick going over to preoccupy her mind. The clock struck twenty minutes to ten as she wiped its facing. 

“Ross!” Demelza called upstairs. “Hurry or we’ll be late!” She was both looking forward to and dreading the gathering at Killewarren today, which would mark the end of the war. But for Demelza - whose own brother had died in service and whose two dearest friends on earth were still across the channel somewhere, who had now missed so much of life here - it seemed as though the war could never really end . The violence and death and destruction might stop, but its consequences would live on in innumerable ways. 

Luckily, before she could become too consumed by her melancholy, little Jeremy Poldark, resting comfortably in a sling against his mother’s chest, cooed soothingly at her. Demelza felt a swell of motherly love, and gently smoothed his feather-soft cheek. “What’s that, my lover? Are you telling your mama a story?” She let out a small gasp of delight. “Thank you very much, ‘tis awfully kind of you!” 

“You’re going mad, Demelza,” Ross declared with a smirk as he hopped down the last step, a sleepy looking Julia trudging behind him. “He can’t understand a word you say yet.” 

“I was always bound to be driven mad - living with you!” came Demelza’s reply. 

Ross chuckled and then kissed her. “How very true.” He then lightly kissed Jeremy. Julia, always following in her father’s shadow, tugged at his trouser leg. “Do you want a kiss too, my angel?” he asked Julia, who nodded her assent. Bending down to pick her up with only a slight groan at her increasing weight, he kissed her cheek. Demelza leaned forwards and peppered her little face with kisses and she squealed with laughter. 

“Shall we go now?” Ross wondered rhetorically. 

“Yes, I think so,” Demelza agreed, smoothing her blue coat. 

“Do you not think we should maybe leave the children with Jinny? Perhaps the event will be too much for them?”

Demelza did not know how she could face it without the comforting presence of her children. They were a reminder that love and goodness could prevail despite it all. She pressed Jeremy a little tighter to her chest. “I think I’d rather have them there,” she admitted. 

“Then it is done.” 

After a familiar hour-long drive, the Poldark clan arrived at Killewarren, which was slowly filling up with people. 

The decoration was tasteful and the flowers were beautiful, Demelza thought sadly that Caroline would approve.

They had all come here today to commemorate the end of four long years of war, there would be a buffet-style luncheon in the dining room after the service, which was the main attraction to the high-society members whose heads were bowed in hush conversations throughout the room. 

Demelza felt uncomfortable as they stared at her and the homemade knitted baby sling which concealed her new dress, but Lord Penvenen had specifically requested she bring the children along, as the sight of them cheered him up. She kept her head held level and approached Raymond Penvenen. 

Ross extended his hand to the earl. “Lord Penvenen,” he greeted politely. 

“Ross,” the earl greeted, but with a warning tone. “How many times must I ask you to call me Ray?” They shook hands. 

“At least three more times, your Lordship,” answered Ross. 

Ray laughed and turned his attention to Demelza. “Demelza!” he chirped at his favourite ever servant, who had become somewhat of a friend to him this past year. He kissed her cheek. “My, look how big young master Jeremy has become! And look at you, Miss Poldark!” He said to Julia, bending to pick her and her extended arms up. “How much have you grown since last I saw you?” 

Julia giggled shyly and then confidently ran her little hands over Ray’s grey stubble, which tickled her palms in a way that always made her laugh. 

“Beg your pardon, milord,” Henshawe murmured, “but it’s almost time to begin.” 

Lord Penvenen nodded in acknowledgement and handed Julia off to her father. “I must admit, I’m a bit nervous about my speech. I don’t suppose you’d fill in for me, Demelza?” He was only half-joking.

Demelza laughed and shook her head. “I’d sooner be struck down by a canon, thank you, your Lordship.” 

Ray chuckled and then cleared his throat and the clock hand leaned evermore towards eleven. “Well, I suppose I better say something. Will you stand by me here?” he asked the Poldarks. Already it soothed him to have Caroline’s friends here, perhaps with them by his side he might be able to face today - that he was celebrating without Caroline. 

The Poldarks nodded and Ray took a step forward and held up his hands. “Ladies and Gentleman, may I beg your attention for one moment?” Everyone fell into a hushed silence and looked at the earl. “Thank you all for joining me here today to celebrate this auspicious occasion. I’m sure the war has touched us all, no matter how big or small. It has been a worthy enemy to everyday life, and so we must show it respect as we bid it goodbye at last. But above all,” his authoritative voice boomed across the foyer, “we must pay our respects to those who fought against our common enemy, many of whom are among us today,” he nodded at Ross and another man in the crowd, “some of whom remain across the channel, eager to return to us,” he swallowed, evidently thinking of Caroline, as did Ross and Demelza, “we must also remember those who have sadly died in service, and ensure their deaths were not in vain. We must look forward to the future with hope, we must be kinder to our fellow men. These brave men - and women - fought and died so that we may live, and it is now our duty to do so with purpose and intention. Won’t you join me in a minute of silence while we remember them all?” 

A few men and women dabbed their eyes and noses with handkerchiefs and nodded their agreement. Everyone remained quiet in anticipation of the striking of the clock.

Without giving it a second thought, without thinking of how inappropriate a thing it may be, Demelza slipped her hand into Ray Penvenen’s and squeezed it. She knew her sadness at the absence of her friends likely could not match the sadness and regret that Ray would just now be feeling.

He swallowed thickly as he gripped Demelza’s hand and squeezed it back, grateful for this marvelous young woman’s existence. 

The grandfather clock chimed with a proud authority as it signalled the long awaited hour of eleven o’clock; the house fell silent and bowed in contemplative hope and remembrance. 

Across the channel, bells tolled triumphantly, their ringing echoing throughout the streets of Paris. 

Caroline wasn’t sure where she was now, she had been walking aimlessly for what felt like hours, seemingly unable to get to grips with reality. The war was over: she was free of her obligations, she could go home, back to Cornwall, to Killewarren, to uncle Ray, to Ross and Demelza and their child, whom she had yet to know. But she did not want to leave without Dwight, whether he was dead or alive, she would ensure he was brought home to Cornwall where he belonged, with all the people who had ever loved him. 

She turned a corner and found herself in a large park area, where crowds of soldiers gathered in conversation and contemplation, many of them continuing to fire now unneeded ammo into the air. 

Caroline found a vacant bench and climbed up onto it but she couldn’t see any sign of Dwight among the sea of people. Lille had been liberated on the 17th of October, almost four weeks ago, and she had heard nothing from him. The man she had spoken to in the war office couldn’t tell her anything about freed prisoners of war; he’d had no lists, no names, no hope to offer her. It only cemented her fear that he was dead. This was where the armistice was commemorated, and Paris was the main hub for wandering soldiers of all nationalities; if Dwight was free, and alive, she couldn’t think of another place he would be.

With a defeated sigh, Caroline climbed down from her perch and made her way through the clearing, her feet dragged as she walked. 

Around her people were cheering and hugging and kissing and singing; there were soldiers everywhere, some crying, some laughing, some saying and doing nothing at all. 

The winter rain fizzed, as though it, too, was celebrating with them. But its persistence in hanging in the air merely annoyed Caroline, and she wished it would rain properly or not at all. 

Caroline was pulled from her glum trace as she felt herself being lifted into the air. She felt a firm grip on either side of her thighs and realised she was sitting on two soldiers’ shoulders. “Put me down! Let me go!” she shrieked indignantly, kicking her legs back and forth. After a few paces the soldiers received the message and set her back down, but linked arms with her and began singing happily. “Get off me!” she yelled, yanking her arm away. She was not in the mood to celebrate.

“Easy!” one of the men said, his hands held up in surrender. “Don’t you want to join in our celebrations? You looked lonely walking just there.”

Caroline’s lips almost wobbled. Yes, she was lonely. She was alone. “No, thank you.” She could feel her face was glum but it wasn’t to be helped. 

“Cheer up, darling, the war is over!” a soldier with a thick Yorkshire accent crowed before joining a group of his friends to discuss arrangements home.  

Caroline tried to smile but it didn’t reach her eyes. As people continued to fire the last of their ammunition into the crisp air and laugh and joke around her, Caroline felt her palms begin to warm and her heart rate increase. 

The city and this place was filled - overfilled - with people, but not the one person she wanted.

With a ringing in her ears, she ducked out of the crowds and stumbled around for a place to sit. On the outskirts of the gatherings, she found a few empty, turned over kegs. She sat down on one, and wept bitterly. She cried until she had no more tears left to give.

When she uncovered her eyes, a couple in front of her were crying and clinging to each other. The woman with the short brown hair was wearing a similar armband to hers on her coat. Her boyfriend - or husband - was in a dirty khaki uniform and had a half-hearted beard that did not suit his face, but the woman who loved him did not care. They smiled at each other and kissed with a sweetness that only Austen could describe. 

Caroline could not find it within herself to feel happy for them, though she’d have liked to have felt so. It was not their fault she was alone, with no one to hold or be held by, with no one to share kisses with. Once again, the tears fell fat and fast down her cheeks, splashing on her folded hands. She remained that way a while, numb and cold and staring at nothing, until motion caught her eye.

It was the woman who had been kissed a moment ago, she was waving at Caroline, her face soft and concerned. She sat down next to her without asking. “Are you alright, Miss?” 

Caroline wiped away her tears and sniffed, trying to compose herself. She looked at the young woman with the kind eyes, who couldn’t be much older than she was, and opened her mouth to insist she was fine, when she admitted: “No, I’m not.”

She then felt a comforting hand rub circles on her back. “Have you lost someone?” the stranger asked, a sympathetic look on her face.

“Yes,” Caroline said quietly. She sniffed furiously, but it did nothing to stem the heavy heart ache that consumed her being; she feared its weight would never allow her to stand again. “We never even got the chance to marry,” Miss Penvenen found herself wailing. “We never even got to court, not properly. All because I cared too much about what other people thought. And now I have to live my life knowing what I could have had - even if just for a few years.” 

“That sounds terrible,” the other woman said frankly, but not without empathy. “I’m so very sorry for your loss. Why don’t you tell me a little about him? It helps to talk about these things, helps with the pain - at least so the soldiers tell me.” 

“Alright.” Caroline took out her crumpled handkerchief and wiped her face with it until it was saturated and her face was dry. She licked her lips, which tasted of salt. “His name was Dwight,” she began. Oh. Was . “He was the kindest person I’ve ever met. He was so selfless, so determined, so utterly wonderful. He devoted his life to saving others - he even saved our mutual friend, who is back home with his wife, and they’ve had a child together.” Caroline allowed herself to smile slightly at this, at least Ross had lived and would have a full life with dearest Demelza. The two of them deserved nothing less.

The woman nudged Caroline gently. “That’s something at least, what a lovely legacy to have.” 

Yes, legacy. Caroline would ensure that Dwight would be afforded the proper respect and recognition he deserved. “Yes, I suppose so. I’m glad I got to tell him I loved him; I never supposed being of upper-class stock I would really ever know the feeling, but he taught me how.” The pain, though still fresh and sharp, stung a little less with that realisation. She would always have the memory of the love they had shared. Her heart was more open for having known him, for having been loved by him. “I only wish I could have seen him one last time,” Caroline said sadly, with a long sigh of regret. “Just once more.” Tears leaked from her eyes again. “The last time I saw him was four years ago, when he got on the train from Truro to Plymouth.” 

“Where’s Truro?” asked the other woman, thinking it was a funny sounding name - maybe Irish or something. 

“In Cornwall,” Caroline answered. 

“Oh, wow, Cornwall! That must be so beautiful,” the nurse said dreamily, as though she had imagined herself on its sandy beaches. 

“It is very beautiful. Dwight was only home for about eighteen months before he enlisted, but he loved every second of it. He loved walking along the cliff tops almost as much as he loved being inside Truro infirmary… almost,” Caroline said, allowing herself to have a little joke at Dwight’s expense. He would have laughed at its truth. 

The nurse chuckled softly too, before turning sharply to Caroline and unceremoniously thrusting her hands on her shoulders. “OH, MY GOD!” she exclaimed suddenly, to which Caroline started and looked at the woman in bewilderment. “Are you talking about Dr Dwight Enys?!” 

Caroline blinked at her. “Yes.” 

The nurse began to cackle maniacally, and Caroline thought to run away from the mad woman, but she then continued, shaking Caroline’s shoulders all the while, “Dr Enys is alive!” she cried, a beaming smile on her face; she hadn’t been able to give many people good news over the past four years. “I’m Ada Smith, I worked with him for the past four years! I can assure you he’s very much alive! I think he’s hiding in the first aid tent by the clock-tower. Oh, my God, you must be Caroline! It’s so lovely to finally meet you! My God, you really are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I thought he was exaggerating.”

Was this a cruel joke? Caroline was sure she would faint - or vomit with relief, whichever came first.

“He’s- he’s alive?” Why had he not written to tell her he was alright? She had been worried sick for almost a year! He would receive a slap before he would receive a kiss.

“Yes,” Ada confirmed, eyeing Caroline curiously as she sensed a sudden stiffness about her. “When we left Lille, we considered coming to Paris straight away, but we decided to go to Amiens where we might be more useful during the final push of the war.  It was utter chaos from the moment we got there and we had no time to let anyone know we were alright. Dr Enys felt terribly guilty over having been unable to save more British men, so we went with him. He seemed too weary to do it alone, but we knew he’d go anyway. He couldn’t stand the thought of being idle; of not using his skills to help.” 

Caroline thought that sounded very much like Dwight. Damned, stupid, stubborn, wonderful man. “Thank you,” Caroline found herself saying. It was nice to know he had not been alone through all of this, that he’d had a friend or two to keep him company. 

Ada squeezed Caroline’s shoulder. “Don’t thank me - thank yourself. It was the thought of you that kept him alive, I think. No, I really do,” she insisted when Caroline scoffed quietly at the idea. “He talked about you all the time. Truly, I feel like I know you, even though we’ve just met. How funny is that? Anyway, believe me when I say that it was you that kept him going. He had this ironclad, stubborn will to see you again. I wish my husband loved me the way he loves you.” 

A girlish blush coloured Caroline’s cheeks and warmth pooled in her stomach. So he did still love her, despite all they’d been through, despite all this time. “Where did you say he was?” 

“By the clock-tower. See those men just there? It’s behind them, to your right a little and then straight down,” Ada instructed. “You can’t miss it. The tent has a huge red cross on it.” 

Without being entirely aware of what she was doing now, Caroline got up and smoothed her skirts. “Thank you,” she said, bending to kiss Ada on the cheek. She didn’t know if they’d ever see each other again, but to Caroline the VAD with the short, brown hair would always be the woman who had given her her old life back. 

“Excuse me. Excuse moi. Excuse me,” Caroline chanted as she pushed herself through the crowd of clustered men and women. She received more than her fair share of elbows, bumps by the time the clock-tower came into her view in the distance. 

She took a few paces towards the off-white tent but was once again hoisted off her feet by a drunken soldier. “Woohoo! It’s time to go home!” he crowed, before breaking into a loud chorus of It’s A Long Way To Tipperary, to which many other men and women joined in and danced. 

Just as she was about to join in, Caroline heard a loud scream very close to her ear and started. 

“Carrie! Carrie!” 

There was only one person on this earth that referred to Caroline by that name. Her head whipped around to be greeted by the sight of her former roommate, Victoria Palmer. 

“Vicky!” Caroline chirped, amazed to see the young woman waving in front of her. A handsome-looking man was resting a hand on her hip. “What are you doing here? I thought you were staying home?” 

Vicky jogged the few paces to Caroline and flung her arms around her; Caroline squeezed her warmly. “I thought just at the start of the year that I’d be more useful in France. Of course most of the damage had already been done by that point, but God loves a trier, all the same."

Caroline laughed; people were still singing around them.

“And then I met Thomas in a base hospital, he has a ghastly scar down his back, but is otherwise perfect," Vicky gushed, motioning to him. "So it wasn't a wasted journey, by any means. Thomas, he’s half-French, you know. So the best of both worlds!” 

“Ooh, la, la,” said Caroline with a suggestive wink. 

Vicky nudged her good-naturedly. “Have you found that lovely doctor of yours?” she demanded to know. 

“As a matter of fact, I think I have,” Caroline said, as she could see a small figure moving in the tent several metres in front of her; butterflies danced in her stomach. 

Vicky squealed and kissed her cheek. “Wonderful! Where is he? You must go to him! But first you must have a little dance and sing-song with me. No, no, I really do insist. Come and say hello to Thomas.”

Caroline found herself laughing and singing along with the others now, the feeling of victory - in more ways than one - flooded her being and lightened her heavy soul. “Bravo, bravo,” Caroline said with a smile and polite applause as the singing died out. She turned to Nurse Palmer with a blushing smile, “Now, please excuse me, there’s someone else I’d quite like to dance with.”

With one final friendly kiss goodbye, Caroline was pushing her way through the busy crowds. She soon took off in a run, dodging arms and legs and kegs and bottles and any other obstacle. She ran for almost two hundred metres, her breath coming out in exhausted and excited pants. She stopped short of the tent and waited for movement. 

Dwight. 

It was really him. His back was to her, but she knew it was him by his height, his strong shoulders, his hair, the aura of kind-heartedness he always seemed to emit.

She stopped at the entrance to the tent, afraid to set a foot inside it, as though she were Alice and would fall through the looking glass. Dwight was busy organising surgical tools into bags, and she watched his long fingers carefully roll up a wad of clean gauze and put it away. Evidently, he had also not been in the mood to celebrate with the others outside.

He suddenly seemed to pause as though he had sensed another presence. 

“Dr Enys,” Caroline greeted, amazed she had summoned the voice to speak. 

Dwight turned around slowly, convinced his mind was playing tricks on him. It could simply not be. His blue eyes widened when they met hers. “C-Caroline,” he said, as though hardly able to believe she was there. 

“Hello,” Caroline said softly, the growing lump in her throat making it almost impossible to form words. She wanted to go to him, to run to him, but she didn’t dare take a step for she knew her knees would not carry her. 

Dr Enys continued to stare at her, blinking as though expecting her to vanish into thin air. His brows creased painfully about his eyes. “Caroline,” he said again, as if this one word was the only one he had left. He loaded it with awe and fear and yearning. 

“Yes.”

He then frowned, and regarded her as though all the cracks of his heart were opening, “You- you’re hurt.”

She lifted a hand next to her eye, where a tiny gash had been made by a celebrating man’s knuckle. She had not even noticed. “Oh,” she said, looking at the small spots of blood on her fingers. It was not the only liquid about her eyes. “How silly of me,” she flippantly waved away, completely uncaring of anything except for the man standing six metres in front of her.

The air around them seemed to still as they stared at each other, their chests rising and falling with a noticeable heave. 

Breaking the invisible barrier between them, Dwight crossed the room and stopped short of her, but not beyond her reach. Tentatively, he raised his hand to her temple, and gently wiped the weeping cut with his thumb. The feel of her warm skin beneath his hand almost stopped the air circulating his body. He stared determinedly at the graze, and only the graze. 

Caroline had noticed this, and her heart constricted painfully. Why could he not bear to look at her? Was Ada wrong? Had he found someone else after all this time? Perhaps some other pretty nurse whom he’d worked with during the war?

He felt her hand cup his cheek and closed his eyes at the action. 

“Won’t you look at me?” she asked him, her voice wobbling. 

“No,” he said softly, swallowing the lump in his throat. 

Her tears fell more freely now. He was so near and seemed so far. “Why?”

Dwight swallowed painfully. “I’m scared.” 

“Of what?”

A single tear trickled down his tired face. He tried to smile but it faltered. “That you’re not really here,” he whispered, hoping that God did not hear him. “I’ve imagined this moment so many times, you cannot know how many. My darling, if you’re not- really here- I- I cannot…” 

Caroline was distressed by his breathlessness, she put either hand on the side of his face and softly pressed their noses together so he could be reassured by her touch. “Shh, my love. It’s alright, you’re quite alright now, I’m here, truly.” She gently wrapped her arms around his torso and said, “Look. See? Hold me, Dwight. Hold me and then you’ll see.” 

Shakily, as though in fear of breaking something precious - a priceless treasure - he lightly pressed his fingertips against the fabric of her red coat. Caroline shivered at the feel of his fingers on her back; she felt them whisper against her before tentatively spreading into a flat palm against the curve of her back. He looked into her eyes, a realisation swimming within his own. “It’s you,” he said. Then he laughed tremorously. “Dear God, it’s really you!” Now his whole arms went around her. 

“Oh, my love,” Caroline cried, quite happy to be crushed to dust by his embrace. 

“Please tell me I’m not dreaming,” he sobbed against her shoulder. 

She smoothed his hair and tried to abate the sobs that bubbled up within her. “You’re not.”

Once accepting that it was truly Caroline’s frame that he held between his arms, Dwight’s thoughts could not be removed from the question he had longed to ask her for four years. 

He felt somewhat embarrassed that he no longer had a ring to give her, but given the way she clung to him now, he wondered if she would even care. And he could always buy one when they got home to England. 

Before he could contemplate this further, Caroline had taken his face in her hands and was kissing him as he had never been kissed before. And yet the kiss was comforting and familiar - like returning home after a long time away. 

Slowly, gradually, Caroline began to pull away, already smiling smugly; impressed by her own boldness and pleased with its result.

“Marry me,” Dwight whispered against her lips. The words had tumbled from his mouth beyond his control; they had been suppressed for so long they had no choice but to burst out.

Caroline flashed him a smile; as quick as taking a photograph, it was there and then was gone, replaced by breathlessness. “Wh-what did you say?” 

Not entirely sensible of his own actions, Dwight found himself kneeling in front of her, both of their hands trembling gently as they held onto each other’s fingertips. Just because he didn’t have a ring, didn’t mean he shouldn’t make an effort. He shot her a smile; it was nervous, ecstatic and adoring all at once. “You know I'm no good with speeches,” Dr Enys prefaced as a warning. “So I’m afraid this may not be the flowery Austen ‘if I loved you less I could talk about it more’ proclamations I know you are fond of. In fact, I love you so much, so very much, my darling, I could talk about nothing else for the rest of my life. But I know how easily you bore of such things, so I promise not to lecture you,” he chuckled and his knee buckled in its anxiety. He glanced at a small bird that fluttered its wings encouragingly at him. Was he winning her over? Perhaps she already wanted to run for the hills. “There- there have been many times over these past few years where I thought I’d never see you again… and every time, every time, it was you who haunted what I thought would be my last moments. Always you; your laugh, your smile, your teasings, the lights of your hair, your eyes… To be your husband would set a seal on my heart I likely would not deserve but would gladly take. I promise to devote every day to making you happy, if you'll let me. Lady Caroline Penvenen, will you marry me?”

For a man who apparently couldn’t make speeches, Caroline found herself rendered quite speechless by his words. She swallowed and looked into his bright blue eyes. “Yes,” she answered with a watery smile. It was the easiest word she had ever uttered.

Dwight rose to his feet and closed the distance between them, not even the slimmest slice of sunshine could have shone between them. He placed his palms on either side of her face and kissed her with fervor, Caroline almost swayed.

Once they broke, the breathed heavily to regain their breath and Dwight was smiling as though he had won the lottery.

“No ring?” Caroline wondered, the twitch of her lips indicating that she was merely teasing him. 

Dr Enys coloured all the same. “I had a ring. I bought it when I first came to France, naturally it was confiscated in Lille,” he laughed, but then shivered. 

"Make one," Caroline challenged, determined to have something, anything, around her finger, to show everyone she was taken by the wonderful man in front of her.

Dwight laughed and shrugged. "With what?" he wondered, his eyes searching around the tent.

"Surprise me."

His face scrunched in concentration for a moment before a thought occurred to him. He went over to the table with the medical supplies and removed his jacket. With a scalpel, he carefully cut away a thin strip from the hem and sewed it together with a piece of surgical thread. He laughed self-deprecatingly at the sight of it. "Will this do?" Major Enys wondered as he held it up for her approval. 

"I cannot judge it until you put it on," Caroline said, pointedly offering her left hand.

Dwight approached her again, smiling, and lifted her hand. He placed the soft circle onto her forth finger and examined how it looked.

Caroline removed her hand from his and peered at it in better lighting. She wiggled her fingers and regarded the ring as though it were made of diamonds. Dwight brought her ringed finger to his lips and kissed it. 

They hugged each other again, and remained that way a long time, swaying softly in each other's embrace, almost as if they were dancing like they had done all those years ago.

Caroline made to release him but Dwight made a small noise of protest. “Just a second longer,” he said, holding her to him, his voice thick with emotion. She was the only real thing in the world, his Caroline, the feel of her, one hand on her back, the other at the nape of her neck, his fingertips brushing her sunny blonde hair. 

Caroline sniffed and held him tighter. She, too, was in no rush to let go. 

They had walked back to Caroline’s base hospital hand-in-hand, unable to remove the smiles from their faces. John, Ada and her husband had congratulated them sincerely and had pooled together their earnings for a bottle of champagne to celebrate the occasion. They had all agreed to help out around the hospital with the injured who remained there until instructions were sent as to how best to gain passage back to England.

They had only been in each other’s company for a day until Caroline realised something was wrong. Dwight had disguised it well initially, blaming thirst, something in the back of the throat, the warmth of the room. But he could not wave away his paling complexion and the increasing lethargy which seemed to seep into his very bones. 

By nightfall of the 12th, he was running a dangerously high fever. 

"It would be too cruel," Caroline told Ada; her voice was quiet and her customary glibness was failing her. "He has no energy to fight this illness. We have only just found each other. We’re to be married... It would be too cruel if he died now." 

She was not a nurse by nature, yet a mixture of determination on her part and mocking fate on the Lord’s seemed to cast her in that role. Dr Wilson and Nurse Smith bustled about the base hospital they had all sought refuge in, no doubt to distract themselves from the sight of their suffering friend, while Caroline sat at Dwight's side and held his hand and listened to his mutterings, firmly ignoring every other person in existence. He spoke more freely in his fever than he usually did, rambling about the devastation of the Somme, the deep love he held for a woman named Caroline, his deceased family and the harshness of the German prison camp. It seemed that the fate of another man’s wife he'd once loved weighed somewhat upon his mind as did the fate of her husband. The greatest weight of regret lay with his fellow soldiers left behind to suffer and die without the attention of their physician. 

Lady Caroline Penvenen was rather unaccustomed to making bargains with God, but in the wind-lashed night of her bitterest fear, she found herself kneeling next to Dwight’s bed.

“Dear Lord…,” she began in a dubious whisper, her bony knees aching on the wooden floor. She had never felt so foolish, but she was so desperate she would have prayed to Zeus or Odin if she thought they could be of any help. “I don’t pretend you and I have always been friends. I don’t pretend to know that you are even there or can hear me now. But if you are, and if you can, I ask for nothing, I will ask for nothing more in this life, but that you save Dwight, and if you cannot save him…” she exhaled heavily and a tear leaked from her eyes, “then I also ask that you take me alongside him. For I will not… cannot… imagine a life without him.”

God had evidently been displeased with her audacity, or else did not much care for the offer of her own soul, for the rain continued to beat down on the large windows in an unimpressed answer. Caroline paced tirelessly, her stockinged feet freezing against the floorboards. If only this illness wasn’t so harsh and random in its severity. If only someone smarter than her had found a cure for it already. Why hadn’t they done so? What on Earth could they be waiting for? Dwight was lying in bed only half-conscious and entirely insensible as to what was happening around him. God damn it what were people waiting for?! There simply must be a cure! She would walk up and down this room until it came to her or she collapsed with exhaustion, whichever came first.

“She hasn’t had a rest all day,” Dr Wilson whispered to Arthur and Ada, all of their gazes were fixed on Caroline, who had been pacing up and down for half the day. They were surprised she wasn’t literally climbing the walls.

Ada nodded and untangled herself from Arthur’s comfortable lap. She approached Caroline with a gentle caution, and lightly tapped the pacing woman on the shoulder. “Come sit,” Ada instructed, placing an arm around Caroline in such a way that she would have to oblige. They sat on a small chaise lounge in the corner of the large room. Ada tucked Caroline’s hair behind her ear and gently patted her cheek; the motion was so foreign to Caroline, it was such a sisterly action - motherly, even. “You must be so tired, my lamb,” Ada said sympathetically. “Why don’t you-”

“-If you’re going to tell me to go to bed, I suggest you save your breath,” Caroline interjected. Nothing would get in the way of her caring for Dwight. She tossed her head haughtily for good measure. 

To her surprise, Ada simply smiled. “I thought you would say that, so I’ll make you a deal. I noticed you haven’t eaten anything today, so if you do me - and Dr Enys - a huge favour and have half a sandwich, just half, then I’ll convince the men to let you stay up with him,” Ada offered. 

Caroline narrowed her eyes at Dwight’s colleague. She was not used to being bargained with, it was she who did the bargaining. She did not like it. “I’m not hungry,” Caroline insisted. 

Ada let out a put upon sigh. “Well, then, I suppose we’ll just have to lock you upstairs until you fall asleep…” 

“I would simply break down the door.” 

Ada cackled. “Oh, I don’t doubt that you would. But why don’t we save you the embarrassment of being carried upstairs over my husband’s shoulder - not to mention save your shoulder from dislocation - and eat half a sandwich?” 

Her voice was warm and kind and encouraging and Caroline found herself being pulled by it. “What kind of sandwich is it?” she ventured tentatively. She would rather be locked in her room than consume a ploughman’s sandwich.

“It’s just cheese.” 

That wouldn’t be so bad. She glanced over at Dwight, who was sleeping fitfully across the room. She wanted to be next to him, to whisper in his ear that everything would be alright. “Fine, I’ll eat it,” Caroline said at length. “But only if you promise I can stay with him.” 

“I promise,” said Ada, crossing her heart for good measure. She got up and left the room and returned with a cheese sandwich. 

Caroline consumed it in three bites - dear God, she was hungry - and resolutely returned to Dwight’s side, where she remained for the remainder of the night.

The fever was frighteningly sharp but mercifully brief, and within the early hours of the morning was reluctantly abating. 

God had been listening after all; He had answered her prayers. Of course Dwight was not out of the woods yet, but having come through the first night - which what was usually the worst of it - Caroline was feeling exceedingly grateful. Just not quite grateful enough to attend church beyond the usual customary occasions such as christenings and weddings.

“Caroline…” Dwight croaked, his voice impossibly weak and soft. His eyes were too heavy to be opened fully. Was she even there? Had their reunion all been some cruel fever dream? His heart began to hammer painfully in his chest. He tried and failed to sit up; his entire body was leaden with influenza. 

He felt a warm, soft hand slip into his and another one smooth his damp hair. “I’m here, my love, I’m here,” Caroline soothed. “Here, open up.” 

He was immediately assisted in a sip of water; a trickle of relief upon a parched wasteland. But he did not have the energy for anything more, and his half-opened eyes, assured that the sight of her was real, fluttered closed the moment his head met the pillow again.

It was complete darkness now, save for the lamp casting shadows flitting like malevolent spirits along the far wall. He might have been diverted by their dance if other more immediate concerns did not press upon him. He ached all over, to the very marrow of his bones. His larynx felt as if it had been torn out and then hastily and without care shoved back down his trachea. He was aware of a faint scent of blood and a stiff, crusty layer behind his nostrils and mouth. His mucus membranes must have ruptured, which meant he must have had a bad time of it. He couldn’t remember anything. What day was it? He shivered violently all over and clutched weakly at the blankets that covered him; he was freezing yet aware of how warm the air around him was. He was weak and sweat-stained and he smelled terrible.

He tried to pull himself to something resembling a sitting position, but grunted so loud in his efforts he awoke a dozing man attempting a moment's respite in the nearby chair.

“Son… easy! Easy does it…" Dr John Wilson urged, throwing an arm around the shrinking figure of his friend, who had grown quite gaunt and pallid in his sickness.

Dwight’s head hissed at the rush of altered gravity, and his noisy breaths showed the strain of this small physical action. "I feel… as though I’ve been beaten… by a train," he groaned through gritted teeth, only barely loosening his jaw to accept more water, which he tried not to gulp. "And I smell like… something… found at the bottom of a muddy trench.”

John shot him a genuine smile that strove to reach his tired eyes, though his manner soon became meditative. "I'm sorry, son. I know you must feel wretched. But these past two days… they were the worst of all. We couldn't risk even moving you - a sponge bath was entirely out of the question." He rubbed Dwight’s sweaty back with a touching, fatherly gentleness.

“Where’s Caroline?” he wondered, narrowing his eyes in the dark room, hoping to make out her form. 

“I sent her to bed not an hour ago. That bloody woman,” John began with a grin and a shake of his head. Dwight looked at him questioningly. “Well, let me just say it’s no wonder you’ve chosen her to be your wife. She certainly matches you for stubbornness! She hasn’t left your side for two entire days, she barely ate a single meal, she positively refused to go to bed. She finally fell asleep hunched in that chair and I awoke Arthur to carry her upstairs to a bed.” John was smiling but Dwight was not. 

Caroline had really sat in that chair next to him and refused to move for the past two days? He was both touched by and annoyed at her selflessness. Supposed she too had become dangerously ill? He said as much to Dr Wilson, who merely laughed at him. 

He slapped him on the back. “You great big hypocrite!” John chided with a smile. “If, Heaven forbid, it was Caroline who was ill, you wouldn’t have left her side either.”

Dwight said nothing because he had no reply. 

“That’s what I thought.” Dr Wilson said smugly. “Now, try this biscuit. You shouldn’t find it too offensive.” He handed him a ginger nut. 

The younger doctor accepted it and began nibbling at it, he reckoned he could taste cinnamon. Dr Wilson handed him another one, which he ate slowly, feeling very full but blessedly not nauseous.

"I'm tired," Dwight said with a yawn.

John pulled the blankets back over Dwight and tucked him in. Dwight smiled weakly at the action. "I don't doubt it. Get some rest and we'll all talk tomorrow."

Dwight was asleep in an instant, daring to dream of a new day.

Caroline awoke the next morning with a start. She quickly took in her surroundings and gathered she was not in the main ward of the base hospital. She dressed quickly into a simple navy cotton dress and threw the cleanest apron she could find over it. She frowned in the mirror at the tired bags beneath her eyes and smoothed and pinned her hair into place. 

With a resigned sigh, Caroline left the bedroom and went off in search of her ailing doctor.

She ran her hand along the smooth, varnished, wooden banister and hummed a tune Ada had been singing yesterday as she descended the long, winding staircase.

“Good morning, Caroline,” a voice called from the bottom of the stairs. She started and looked up. It was Arthur, who looked much more handsome with his red beard shaved off.

“Good morning,” Caroline greeted with a small smile. “How is he today?” she wondered with baited breath. 

Arthur tried to smother his smile but failed completely in his attempt. “Why don’t you go ask him yourself?” 

Caroline’s gaze flew to the ajar door and back to Arthur. “He’s- he’s awake?” 

Arthur nodded his confirmation. “Mhmm.” He was grinning now. 

Caroline sped down the last few steps, propped herself up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek before running for the closed door.

The door flew open to reveal Dwight sitting up in bed, talking to Dr Wilson. His tired face lit up as he met her gaze. 

Butterflies buzzed in Caroline’s stomach and she put one foot in front of the other and was soon running towards the bed. She stopped short of it, recognising that leaping onto him - as she wished to do - would be counterproductive to his recovery efforts. She bent down and kissed him instead. “Good morning, Dr Enys.” 

He swallowed and then smiled at her. “Good morning, my love,” he murmured, shakily kissing her hand. His strength would need some rebuilding, Caroline thought with determination.

Caroline eyed him closely. He looked a little less pale and his body temperature seemed to be approaching normal. “How are you feeling?” 

“Better, much better - all thanks to you, I’m told,” Dwight said, allowing himself a smile. He then wrinkled his nose at himself. “But good God, I really need a bath.” 

“May I volunteer?” Caroline asked scandalously, with her usual air of mirth. 

Dwight’s eyes became wide and slightly panicked at the thought. He wouldn’t want Caroline to see him like that for the first time when his body was so weak and thin. “My love, I think perhaps-,” he began politely but was interrupted by another voice. 

“Ladies, if you’ll excuse us, we men feel it is time to bathe,” Dr Wilson said pointedly. 

Caroline pouted. “Such suspense you keep me in, Dr Wilson. Do I not deserve this one, tinsy, tiny rule break?” she wondered, fluttering her eyelashes at the middle-aged man and flashing him a charming smile. 

John let out a loud laugh. “If you expect any of us to believe that this would be the first time you had broken any rules then I don’t know what planet you live on, girl!” 

Caroline’s pout became a frown as she got up to leave with Ada. “Spoil sport!”

After his bath, and the following three days of strict bed-rest, ordered by Caroline, Dwight was beginning to feel more like himself again. 

Today he was stomaching sensible portions and his sense of humour - and stubbornness - had returned. 

“I do not see why I cannot get some fresh air,” he complained, spying the pale winter sunshine outside the window. “A walk will do me some good.” 

“Because I said so,” Caroline argued firmly, putting an end to the conversation. The sun was deceiving and it was freezing outside, the last thing he needed was to catch a chill. “And you can walk inside here. Some of the windows are even open.” Her back was to him as she poured tea into a cup.

Dr Enys’ mouth twitched as he asked his fiancée, “And how is that any different to simply walking outside?”

“Oh, shut up and eat your porridge, Dr Enys,” Lady Caroline ordered, as she turned to face him, a tray in hand. “You really are the most terrible patient I’ve ever had - and I cared for Americans. Now, you better eat all of this, you need your strength. I added a bit of honey for your throat.” 

Dwight grinned as Caroline placed the tray of tea, porridge and bread and butter across his knees. “I could get used to this, you know,” he teased her with a wink. Though he was getting rather bored of eating porridge for dinner, and every other meal. Still, he knew it was the best thing for him. "Have you eaten?"

Caroline ignored his question and sat down on the chair next to his bed. The base hospital was almost entirely empty - most soldiers were already on their way home. “Well, don’t get used to it,” Caroline told him, the ghost of a smirk on her features. “You’d only be setting yourself up for disappointment.”

Dwight laughed, and for the first time all week the painful wheezing from his lungs was absent as he did so. 

A better sound had never filled her ears. "It is high time," Caroline announced, her voice wavering slightly, "That we went home, don’t you think?" And she then set about making plans for their tickets to Calais and then a car from Plymouth to Killewarren, where Dwight would be staying so Caroline could be fully assured as to his recovery.

"The county will talk," Dwight said in a voice that was both tired and shy, his strength still recovering from the violence of the fever; but he was smiling as he said it, amused by the prospect of being discussed over an old woman’s tea.

Caroline scoffed and rolled her eyes. “You think I give a damn what those bored housewives have to say about me?” 

“Not for one moment. I was merely pointing out a fact,” he took a few grateful spoonfuls of his honey-laced porridge before becoming all too aware of Caroline’s gaze on him as he ate. He cleared his throat. “John thinks to start a study on the effects of the influenza on the body, having closely observed myself and others over this past year,” Dr Enys began conversationally, but Caroline’s gazed had remained fixed on him and so she noticed the glimmer of professional interest in his eye.

"Dwight," she said warningly. "Do not even think about it. You have not yet fully recovered from the thing itself and you are already thinking of how to cure your sick people of it!"

He looked sheepish but did not deny it. "It would only be research," he said, between slow breaths, "It will likely be a week or so until I can resume my post at the infirmary and-”

"-A week?!" said Caroline, outraged.

Dr Enys took another spoonful of porridge to hide his smile. “Two weeks, then,” he offered. 

“A month,” she countered with a sense of finality in her tone. 

Dwight sighed. She meant well, of course she did, but she did not yet understand just how important working was to him, especially now. An occupied body meant an occupied mind, one which did not mercilessly drift to thoughts of blame and death. Working in the infirmary at home, to gain some sense of normality after the chaos of war, would help him feel like he was balancing his books once again - and nothing would aid his recovery more. He would have to explain this properly on the journey home. He took her hand and nodded to appease her. ”A month is likely a good starting point, we’ll see how I fare,” Dr Enys said diplomatically. He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. “Still, the need is not merely theirs, or John’s, my love, but mine as well."

 "Your sick people have done without you till now; they can manage another month." She couldn’t bear to have him enclosed in Truro Infirmary’s walls of disease and sickness, not when he still had such trouble with his breath.

"This profession," he continued at length, "is a curious one. I believe that in doing good, in restoring life - or at least a degree of quality to a life - it can also restore oneself. I have seen it..."

Yes, so had she; it had indeed been her own experience these past two years - working to alleviate the depths of her worry and loneliness. But she was not about to admit that to him now, not when he looked so determined. "Rest and good food restore the body," said Caroline resolutely. "We have an excellent cook, a large library - there may even be some medical books - and very comfortable rooms. Our gardens are also very nice, you remember. Now, of course I cannot hope to compete with the attractions of France, but I wager you will not altogether be disappointed in your new home."

He smiled again. "Is this your prescription, Miss Penvenen?"

"It is."

"Well," Dr Enys said with a feigned air of contemplation, "You are, of course, correct, in the first instance. I see that you learned a great deal at nursing college - or perhaps it was my own influence?”

Now Caroline smiled. "You are mocking me, my love. So it seems we are both victims of the other’s influence!"

He chuckled and finished his porridge - a worthy feat, given the portion size. His hands shook slightly as he dabbed his mouth with a napkin and swallowed. He dreaded to ask her but he needed to know. “How bad was it?” How bad was I?

Caroline fleetingly met his gaze before swallowing and reaching for half of his bread. “Bad,” she murmured, pulling apart the crust to distract herself from remembering the horrid details. 

“Hm,” Dwight acknowledged, but not without a pang of guilt. She still looked very tired. Still, it gladdened his heart beyond measure to know how much she truly loved him. “I’m sorry to have worried you so much.” He kissed her hand. 

“I wasn’t that worried,” she lied flippantly, feeling tears prick her eyes at the memory of him wheezing for breath. 

Dwight huffed a chuckle, seeing through her facade. “I’m glad to hear it,” he placated.

“Though it would have been an extreme length to go to simply to escape my clutches…” Caroline laughed without humour, “you need only have said the word and I would have readily abandoned you to the fever.” She ran an impatient hand across her cheeks. “But you insisted on surviving and so now you are stuck with me. Ha, you are my prisoner instead of the Empire’s, I wonder whose company you’ll really prefer?” The piece of bread had fallen to the floor. 

“Caroline.” His hand was resting atop hers now and her tears were splashing the back of his hand. 

Her lips trembled reflexively at the softness of his tone. “I would have so hated you if you had died,” Caroline admitted, her voice wobbling. 

Dwight felt emotion clog his throat. “I know. Here,” he gently beckoned, tugging on her hand. He shuffled over in the bed slightly with an ease that had not been there yesterday; he looked quite proud of himself. “Come lie with me awhile.” He tapped the spot next to him. “It’s alright now, my love. It will all be alright now.” 

Without a second thought, Caroline kicked off her brogues and climbed onto the bed next to him; she wrapped her arms around his torso and clung onto him as a child would to its favourite teddy bear. 

Dwight spent most of available energy peppering her hairline with reassuring kisses. “I won’t scare you like that again, I promise.” 

“Good,” said Caroline with a sniff. There was a comfortable silence for a while; Caroline played absently with Dwight’s fingers, while Dwight drew circles on her back with his free hand. “We have to pack,” Caroline murmured into the silent haven, her eyes beginning to droop under the weight of her relief and exhaustion, “we have to leave first thing tomorrow to catch the boat home.” The sun looked like it was setting outside; a pinkish glow shone into the room and cast warm brown shadows around them.

Dwight made a sound of noncommittal acknowledgement. It was truly the last thing on his mind. He had everything he would ever need in his arms right now. Home was wherever she was.

“I love you,” he whispered, placing a kiss to her forehead. A wave of contentment washed over him in that instance. He was alive - alive ! And Caroline was by his side. They were to be married - as soon as possible. They were going home. They would see all their loved ones again soon. There was no greater victory than this, it eclipsed all wars - real or fictional.

Caroline shifted slightly into a more comfortable position, surprised at how natural it felt to be lying here like this with him. She sighed happily and then yawned. “I love you, too.” 

There would be time to pack later. For now, all that mattered was the feel of his arms around her and the steady rise and fall of his chest as they both drifted off into a well-earned sleep. 

Demelza sat by the fire nursing Jeremy, wondering how life could be so changed and yet feel so unaltered. He was only two months old, yet Demelza could already see a strong resemblance to his father. His hair was beginning to darken and curl; although his eye seemed unsure as to their colour just yet, some days they were blue-green like hers and other days moory like his father’s. His nose was decisively hers, though.

Ross was sitting at the table reading a newspaper and smoking a cigarette. Demelza hadn’t seen him smoke for a while, he only did so when he was troubled or plotting. She did not suppose for a single second that he was merely reading the sports section or looking at cake recipes, she knew he was scanning the list of the dead, whose names were being released on a daily basis, now that the end of the war had brought more certainty. So far, there had been no sign of Dwight. Demelza could not altogether feel this was a good sign, and she knew that Ross felt the same. 

Just as Ross had thrown his paper aside with a sigh of frustration, there was an urgent knock at the door. His eyes met Demelza’s, who quickly made to get up. Ross held up a hand from across the room. “It’s alright, my love,” he said gently, “I’ll get it.” The knock came again and Ross hurried out of the room and down the hall to the front door. 

He peeled back the ancient wood to reveal a young man who was very out of breath. “Te-telegram for you, Mr Poldark. My ma - Mrs Tregilis at the post office - said ‘twas urgent you get it now.” He clutched his sides to ease the pain of his breathlessness.

Ross smirked at the young man and offered him two shillings. “Thank you for delivering it. Please see you get the bus back and don’t injure yourself.” 

The young man beamed at him. “Thank you, sir! Good day to you and Mrs Poldark.” He tipped his hat politely. 

“And to you,” he said calmly, though feelings of anxiety began to bubble up inside him. Who was this from? And was the news good or bad? Why had Mrs Tregilis thought it urgent? What did she know about his life to assume such a thing? Ross waited until the young man could no longer be seen from where he stood before he went back inside. 

He reappeared into the parlour and wandered about the room like an apparition, muttering to himself about something. 

Demelza watched him with a creased brow as he messed up the room she’d spent all morning tidying. “Ross? What is it?” 

“Where is my damn paper knife?!” he shouted in frustration at an empty drawer. 

“On the damn shelf behind you,” Demelza answered calmly. 

Ross whirled around and grabbed it from where it rested and quickly ripped open the seal of the telegram, silently hoping for news of his friends. His eyes scanned the short message and he clapped his hand against his mouth, the hand unable to contain the sob that broke free from his chest. He stumbled where he stood. His eyes dampened as he read it over again, and a single tear trickled down his face, tracing the bottom inch of his scar. 

Demelza set Jeremy down in his Moses basket and hurried over to her husband. “Ross! What is it? What does it say?” she wondered, her eyes round and panicked. She reflexively rubbed his arm in comfort.

Silently, Ross handed the telegram to his wife, studying her expression closely. Demelza accepted the thin strip of card with shaking fingers. The telegram read: 

125 P 56a 18 PAID via Calais

Received at: Truro Postal Office

R Poldark  Nampara  18 Nov. 18 

My dears one week ago I found our favourite doctor. We are both well and will see you all very soon. I can hardly wait.

Caroline Penvenen

Demelza did not know whether to laugh or cry and so she did both at once. She then slumped towards Ross, who caught her in his arms and held her up. “They’re coming home at last!” she cried against his shoulder. “Oh, thank God!” She clung to her husband, who was - as always - her unwavering support.

He rocked them where they stood and sniffed. “Yes, they’ll be home at last,” Ross echoed, hardly able to believe it. He wondered how changed they would both be after all they had seen and done, but that did not matter now. What mattered was that they were alive and on their way home, and they would all meet again, just like old times. They would get to know his children, and love them as he and Demelza did. He let out a boyish laugh of joy. 

Ross felt Demelza smile against his shoulder and made a noise of inquiry. Her grin widened as she murmured, “I think I’d better buy a new hat. I can hear the church bells already!”

As promised, Dwight Enys and Caroline Penvenen arrived at the grounds of Nampara via Killewarren a few days later, their cheeks a little more filled out and stretched with smiles. 

Demelza was fussing in the kitchen ensuring that the cake was iced evenly. She looked at it and frowned; Ross glanced up from his mine restoration plan and smirked at his wife. 

“The cake looks fine, my love,” Ross assured her. 

“Maybe I should have made crepes… they’re Caroline’s favourite,” Demelza fretted, worrying her bottom lip. 

Ross got up and put his hands on either side of Demelza’s face. “Demelza, breathe. Don’t fret. Our friends will love whatever you have prepared, and at any rate will be much too excited to see you than to care about what type of frosting is on the cake.” 

Just as Demelza was about to reply, she spotted movement coming over the hill and her heart jolted with excitement. She rushed over to the window and pressed her nose against it. “It’s them! It’s really them, Ross! They’re here!” she exclaimed and then was gone from the room, heading for the front door. 

Ross laughed and followed her with a jog. 

Demelza shot out of the front door and tore across the plain. “Dwight! Caroline!” she yelled with a child-like excitement, a wide grin on her face as she sprinted, open-armed towards them. 

Caroline, too, detached herself from Dwight’s arm and ran towards Demelza with an equally large smile on her face. Dwight watched them with an amused smile and stinging eyes; he would have ran towards dearest Demelza too but did not want to put too much stress on his recovering lungs. 

“Welcome home!” Demelza cried and she enveloped Caroline with a forceful crash, which sent both women tumbling to the ground. 

They lay there for a moment, their laughter floating into the clean air. Caroline kissed Demelza’s cheek. “Oh, my dear! How I have missed you!” she freely admitted, linking arms with her. 

“I missed you, too!” Demelza cried. “Oh, I have so much to tell you!” 

“You must tell me everything,” Caroline ordered, and Demelza wasted no time in beginning, uncaring that the damp grass may stain their skirts; there was not enough time in the world to make up for what Caroline had missed, but Demelza thought she should at least try.

Eventually, the two childhood friends caught up to each other. 

Dwight extended his hand. “Ross,” he greeted, a slight crack to his voice. “It is so good to see you. You look well!”

Ross accepted the pro-offered hand and shook it enthusiastically but did not let go. He motioned to his pale, lengthy scar on his temple. “Ah, that is all thanks to you, my friend,” Ross insisted - returning the compliment. “It’s good to see you, too.” It was an understatement, which they both knew. But there were no words for how glad the two men were to be in each other’s company once again. Growing up, their friendship had been almost brotherly in nature, and once Ross had returned from California their friendship grew to be so again. Meeting again now after all they had endured separately but for the same cause brought with it a newfound understanding between them, one which did not require vocalisation. 

They stared at each other for a moment, their clasped hands still shaking politely. 

“Do you think they’ll kiss?” Caroline teased Demelza. Demelza looked at her sharply, almost appalled - but of course not surprised - that Caroline would make such a dangerous joke. “I think I’d quite like to see that.” 

After a further moment of feigned politeness, Ross laughed and withdrew his hand and wrapped his arms around his childhood pal. Dwight repeated the action and placed several fond pats on his back. “It’s so good to have you home,” Ross said, affected by the reality of it. 

Dwight offered him a watery smile. “It’s good to be here. Thank you for having us for dinner.” 

“Not at all,” Ross dismissed casually, “it’s no trouble.” 

Dwight’s lips twitched. “No trouble for you, I wager poor Demelza has worked herself into a frenzy over the pastry crust or such like.” 

A loud, booming laugh erupted from Ross’s chest. 

The sound made Demelza’s heart flutter; she had not heard him laugh so freely at anything for years. It was a most welcome sound. 

“It’s amusing how well you know her after all this time,” Ross said as they walked over to their wives, who had been too lazy to get up by themselves. 

“Boo!” hissed Caroline from where she still lay on the grass. “We were hoping for a kiss, weren’t we Demelza?” 

Demelza coloured. “Well, no- we-”

Ross cupped Dwight’s cheek with one hand and theatrically kissed his free cheek. Dwight laughed and brushed it away. “Satisfied?” Ross asked Caroline. 

Both Demelza and Dwight were shaking their heads and smiling. 

“Just about,” answered Caroline, tapping her offered cheek with her fingers at him. 

Ross bent down and politely kissed her. 

Caroline looked extremely pleased with herself as she was known to do when she got the things she wanted. “Now I’m satisfied. Unless Demelza also wants to join in?” she teased gently. 

Demelza smoothed her skirts after Ross helped pull her to her feet. “Perhaps I better check on dinner,” she excused. 

They all laughed at her innocence. 

Having moved into Nampara’s warm interior, the men and the women went their separate ways, apparently each of the sexes needing their own private conversations with one another.

The women chatted incessantly on the sofa and the men stood in front of the fire, basking in its warmth as they clinked their filled glasses together. 

“So, how are you?” Ross asked Dwight, in a casual yet pointed manner which clearly referred to his state of mind following the war. 

Dwight hesitated and sipped his brandy. “I have nightmares,” he confessed quietly. “I’m glad Caroline and I do not yet share a room.” 

“I did too for the first week,” Ross admitted; Dwight immediately felt a little less alone for having heard Ross say that. “They passed a little easier when I talked them through with Demelza, or when I talked about the war more generally. Naturally, I did not go into any great detail about what I… experienced… but it truly did help. I suggest you do the same. We mustn’t underrate our women. They are tougher than they look.” 

“Far tougher than we are,” Dwight said admirably, thinking about all Caroline had also endured during the last two years. The last two weeks, even.

Ross nodded and drained his glass. “Exactly. So talk a little with Caroline about it. Don’t shut her out, it will only make things worse for both of you. I speak from experience.”

“I’m sorry,” Dwight murmured, thinking how hard it must have been for them both to have gone through such a transition with few friends and no family to support them. He patted Ross on the shoulder. 

“Don’t be sorry, it has all come good now, just heed what I say. And if the thing is too terrible to speak of, I find that weeping into the shaving sink can help,” Ross said. 

Dwight blushed, as though Ross had seen into his mirror earlier that day. He cleared his throat and took another sip of his drink. “Noted.” 

“And you can always talk to me,” Ross offered seriously, “you know that, I hope.” Ross laughed lightly but Dwight looked like he might cry. 

Saved by a gentle tugging on his trouser leg, Ross looked down to see Julia’s big eyes staring up at him. “Ah,” Ross beamed, “we have some introductions to make!” He picked Julia up and set her on his hip. “Julia, my love, this is your uncle Dwight, your godfather. You remember mama and I telling you of him?” Julia nodded shyly and leaned into her papa and away from the stranger. “Dwight, this is Miss Julia Grace Poldark.” 

“How can it be that she looks so like you and yet so like Demelza?” he wondered. He took a tentative step towards them and looked only at Julia; he offered her his hand. “Hello, Julia. It’s so very nice to meet you. I’m Dwight, but you can call me uncle Dwight, if you like.” 

Julia quickly and suspiciously high-fived the extended hand. 

“Why don’t you show uncle Dwight your new toy?” Ross whispered to her, giving her an encouraging bounce. He set her down onto the floor. 

She tilted her head in a scarily Demelza-like fashion and examined the tall, slim man who towered above her. His smile was kind and patient and his eyes were blue like mama’s and so Julia decided she liked him. She slipped her small hand around his index finger and pulled him along to her toy box. “Parteee!” Julia announced in a sing-song voice. 

“Oh, you’ve been honoured with an invite to a tea party,” Ross told Dwight, “very impressive. I was only invited to one for the first time last month!” 

Dwight laughed and followed his niece to the corner of the room.

Demelza watched the spectacle with an emotional smile on her face. She was so pleased Julia had taken to Dwight, she was usually very wary around new people. Dwight looked so happy, so natural, with her daughter as they exchanged teacups.

Demelza’s smile morphed into a smirk as she pointedly turned her gaze to Caroline, who determinedly ignored Demelza’s stare and simply sipped her tea. 

The red-haired woman shifted along the sofa in such a manner that Caroline could no longer pretend to ignore her anymore. 

“Stop it, Demelza, don’t even speak your thoughts into existence,” Caroline chided with a carefully controlled smile. 

Demelza cackled in response. “It is a consequence of marriage, you know.” 

“Perhaps Dwight and I shall simply remain engaged forever.” 

“You’ll feel differently once the children arrive, I was very anxious at first,” Demelza offered, smoothing Jeremy’s wisps of hair in a more practiced way than she had done with Julia’s. “But you soon settle and get used to things.” She beamed with pride as she glanced between her two children, being a mother was the greatest joy of her life. It was a dream fulfilled. 

Caroline shook her head firmly. “I won’t. Really, I truly cannot bear babies. Sparing little Jeremy here of course,” she said, not wishing to cause any offence. Besides, even Caroline had to admit he was a very sweet-looking baby, and so timid and well-mannered. She almost smiled before she remembered herself. “They are wrinkly, smelly, screaming little tyrants! They are greedy, selfish, demanding and- and rude and there are simply far too many of them already.” 

Ross and Demelza both laughed at her. 

“No, I mean it. Dwight knows. He knows. I have warned him. Dwight, you know how I feel about children, yes?” she called to him. 

Dwight ceased his conversation with an inanimate teddy bear and glanced at his wife, his amusement and eye-roll barely contained, “Yes, dear.” 

“There,” Caroline said resolutely, but Ross and Demelza simply laughed at her again. 

Dinner passed with animated, familiar and new conversation, and many compliments about Demelza’s cooking. 

“Perhaps you ought to have been a cook in place of a housemaid,” Caroline had teased; Demelza took it as a compliment.

“So,” Dwight began, clearing his throat, a shy blush was colouring his cheeks. He took Caroline’s hand. “As you both know, I’m sure, Caroline and I are to be married,” Demelza squealed at the confirmation all the same, “We are to be married on Decemeber 23rd, and we hoped that you would join us as the best man and the bridesmaid.” 

Ross clapped Dwight on the back as acceptance; Demelza looked both touched and wary. 

“What is it, Demelza?” Caroline wondered. “You looked as though you have seen an apparition, but suspect it might have only been a moth.”

Dwight and Ross laughed but Demelza picked her nails. 

“Is it- is it proper - to be married so close to Christmas?” she wondered quietly, she had never heard of such a thing.

Caroline laughed. “My dear, when have I ever cared about that? And fear not, it will be in Killewarren’s private little chapel, so we won’t disturb the brainwashed masses. I have three clergymen who are willing to perform the service, so it mustn't be as unusual as you think.” 

This placated Demelza a lot and she began to eat her slice of cake with a smile.

Dwight cleared his throat. “Not to sound like a sap-” 

“- you always do,” Ross interjected teasingly, and was rewarded with a flick of icing to the face.

“Not to sound like a sap,” Dwight continued, “but marrying Miss Penvenen here will be the happiest day of my life. I can hardly wait and I can barely believe my good fortune. It's doubly pleasing to know you will both be there. I feel as though I have swallowed a box of fireworks.” 

Caroline squeezed his hand. “You talk as if I were certain. I may yet change my mind,” she said with a deadpan expression at her beloved fiance. 

Demelza looked at her friends, happy, alive and in love. She looked to her husband, who winked softly at her and took her hand. Her children played on the floor next to her feet. “Seriously, though,” Demelza murmured, they all paused and looked at her. She knocked a cherry from its perch on the edge of the cake. She was blessed beyond all measure, and the weight of her fortune began to pleasantly crush her. Her mouth wobbled as she said, “Won’t it be the most beautiful day, after all this time? We four, together again, celebrating love and happiness and each other. Oh, it will be wonderful for us all.”

Chapter Text

Dwight Enys skulked through Killewarren’s east wing, taking care to avoid the creaky floorboards that he knew peppered the corridor. The household slept lightly, especially Ray Penvenen, so he had to be as light-footed as a ghost, not least because he was half dressed, his waistcoat and jacket lying forgotten on a chair in his room in the west wing.

Somewhere in the near distance a clock struck ten o’clock. Killewarren’s long corridors were lit with a mixture of candles, gas lights and electricity, the latter of which Raymond Penvenen still somewhat doubted. Outside the windows the sky was black, as though painted in one large unforgiving stroke. 

Continuing onwards passed the large staircase, Dwight’s heart skipped several beats as a door on the right-hand side opened and Caroline’s maid, Grace, stepped out. Dwight pressed himself thin along the wall, between a pillar and a bookshelf; if Grace had seen him, she made no sign or comment as she tiredly hummed her way down the stairs. 

Dwight blew out a breath and then smiled gratefully: he was now certain which room was Caroline’s. Tiptoeing along the final ten metres of the corridor, he found himself face-to-face with the white, wooden door. He looked from side to side as though crossing a busy street and gently tapped on the door. 

“Caroline?” he breathed into the keyhole. There was still a glow coming from the room, perhaps she was still awake and reading. 

A few nervous seconds ticked by without reply, and so Dwight lightly brushed his knuckles against the wood again. 

He was ready to retreat back to his room on the other side of the house when an amused voice came from behind the closed door. “Dwight?” Caroline murmured, her tone both confused and pleased; Dwight smiled at the sound of her voice, “What are you doing here?” 

“I brought you something,” he said, turning over the small tin between his palms. “Open the door.”

“No!” Caroline said quickly, pressing her bare foot against the door to ensure it stayed shut. “It’s bad luck to see me before tomorrow. Just leave it on the floor and I’ll get it in a minute once I’m certain you’ve gone.” 

Dwight grinned and leaned against the door frame. “I didn’t have you down as a superstitious person, my love.”

“I’m not,” Caroline said frankly. “I simply think that we should not tempt fate - in our case especially! It has thrown far too many obstacles in our way already and I’ll not give it another chance.” 

The doctor took her point and mulled it over, eventually finding himself agreeing with her conclusion. “But we’ve barely had a moment to speak to one another alone these past few days,” he argued all the same, “I want to see you.” 

A small smile pulled at the corner of Caroline’s mouth at the sincerity of his words. “I suppose you have a point, my love. Still, it is not allowed, and there is no use spoiling our exemplary behaviour on the last night.” 

“Mm. I suppose you’re right.” 

“And did you not suppose that maybe I wished to have a Dwight-free evening? This is my last night as a single woman in my girlhood room. You are spoiling the experience,” she accused in a tease. In truth, she desperately wanted to open the door and let him in, even just for a moment. She could accept his token, perhaps a quick kiss or two and a goodnight. Could that really be riskier than having a hushed conversation in the hallway where anyone might see him and jump to their own conclusions? Caroline shook her head clear of such thoughts, of course the alternative - her husband-to-be actually entering her bedchamber before they were married - was a greater risk to her reputation than what they were doing now.

“You’re really not going to let me in?” he challenged, both impressed and disappointed. 

Caroline laughed at his tone. “No,” she confirmed sweetly. “Just leave my gift by the door. I trust it’s a love token in the form of a diamond necklace?”

“Of course. The finest jewels known to man, handpicked by God himself from the depths of the River Babylon.” 

“I should think so.” After a moment, a realisation struck Caroline as she noted the time on her clock and wondered suddenly, “How did you get here?”

Dwight scoffed at her question, thinking the answer was obvious, “I walked.”

“You’ve taken rather a risk walking through the house so late at night,” she said, impressed by his boldness. 

Dwight looked around again to ensure he was still alone in the corridor; he had best think about leaving soon; the longer he remained, the greater the risk of being caught in such a compromising location. “As risky as any walk in a minefield,” he agreed with a smile. “But far more rewarding.”   

“If your idea of a reward is a conversation through a closed door then I suppose we shall have a very easy and happy marriage, my love.” She was laughing at him, but he didn’t mind at all. 

He thought about what she said for a moment. “We will, though, won’t we?” Dwight murmured thoughtfully. “It won’t always be easy, I suppose. But I believe we’ll always be happy or, at the very least, content .” 

“Yes, I suppose we will,” Caroline agreed. She knew they would be. 

Dwight laughed soundlessly before bending down to set the tin of strawberry bonbons on the floor - a homage to the first gift he gave her all those years ago. He hoped they’d be as gratefully received as they were back then. “I’ve left your small favour by the door as requested, Lady Caroline. If you wish to stick to your superstition then wait at least two minutes before coming out to fetch them.” 

“Yes, yes, very good,” Lady Caroline said, her tone one of mocking grandeur. She then cleared her throat softly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get back to my book before I go to sleep, which I ought to do soon. I believe there’s some event or other I’m being forced to attend tomorrow - I shall have to consult my calendar to be sure, though.” 

He could hear the smile in her voice and mirrored her. “Of course,” he said softly. “I’ll leave you to your beauty sleep - not that you need it, naturally.” She breathed a chuckle on the other side of the door and Dwight imagined a light pink blush on her cheeks. “Goodnight then, my love,” he murmured, leaning further into the door as opposed to leaving. “I love you.”

Caroline lifted her palm and pressed it against the wood of the door, somehow knowing Dwight’s hand was resting on the other side against her own. “I love you,” she echoed. “Goodnight, Dr Enys.”

Dwight grinned at the invokion of his professional name; it was her affectionate name for him, and although at first it seemed rather formal, he had come to regard it as the highest term of endearment Caroline offered. “Goodnight, Miss Penvenen.” He allowed himself the triumphant thought that this would be the last time he would ever address her as such, for tomorrow she would be Mrs Enys. “Sleep well, my love. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Perhaps.”

The morning of December 23rd, 1918 was a bright one. Snow blanketed the grounds of Killewarren, shimmering in excitement at the day ahead. It had snowed throughout the night but the snowflakes had now slowed in their descent from the Heavens, as if now too exhausted to fall with any severity. Thus the accomplished look of the day was a winter wonderland from a fairy story. 

“God curse it!” Dwight Enys yelled in frustration as his third attempt to insert his new cuff-links - a wedding gift from Ross - into his shirt failed miserably. 

Ross paused in the act of tying his tie and approached the groom, a small smile on his lips. “Allow me,” he interjected, swatting his friend’s nervous hands away from the shiny silver buttons. Dwight’s jaw was still clenched as he watched Ross fix his problem. “You need to calm down,” Ross told Dwight with a light laugh. 

Dwight glared at Ross for a moment before exhaling and admitting, “I know. But you talk as if it were easy.” 

“I did not say it was easy, but you must do so all the same.” 

“How?” Dwight wondered, worrying his bottom lip. How could he relax when he did not know why he felt so irrationally stressed? 

Ross fiddled with the second cuff-link and bit his lip in concentration. He had not had this problem as he and Demelza had married in the town hall. He had never thought to ask her since if that had been a disappointment to her. Had she wanted a big wedding? With all the frills? He shook the thought from his head for now.

“Well, try not to think about the day so much,” Ross advised. “Forget the flowers and the speeches and the guests and these damn cuff-links,” they both smiled, “and just focus on Caroline. All there is to do is to show up and say a few words. The rest is easy.” 

“Alright,” Dwight accepted, nodding vigorously as though trying to convince himself. 

“Stop moving, you twat,” Ross chided in a brotherly fashion. “I’m trying to make you look presentable.” 

The doctor shot a nervous glance at the tailored, black morning coat hanging on the wardrobe’s facing and felt very much that he would look like a ridiculous upstart in it. “A most unenviable task.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll have you fit to be a silent film star by the time I’m finished,” Ross joked, trying to clasp the two pieces of silver together. Perhaps they should have accepted assistance from Lord Penvenen’s valets for the occasion, after all. 

“Are you suggesting I am not already handsome enough for such a thing?” Dwight asked in feigned indignance. 

“Exactly.” 

Dwight laughed, feeling some of the tension leave his body as he did so; Ross smacked him on the arm. “If you move one more time, Enys, I swear to Almighty God I will ruffle your hair.”

Said hair had been most indifference to Dwight’s wedding day, and so Dwight had spent the majority of the morning trying to get his hair to cooperate with his hair oil, which it now did - and neatly so - but only after forty-five minutes of noncompliance. It was quite the threat, and Dwight warily examined Ross’s expression. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“One would think by now you would have come to realise that I’d dare to do almost anything,” Ross replied with a boyish grin.

Dwight half-laughed, half-groaned. “Oh God, I know. I don’t need reminding. Alright, I’ll be as still as a statue.”

“Can you also be as quiet as one?”  

Once the cuff-links were finally secured, the two men finished dressing in contemplative silence. 

Both of their thoughts drifted to the women they loved. Ross wondered what Demelza’s gown would look like, and how the children would cope with such a long day. He also - ridiculously - fretted about the state of Demelza’s yellow flowers, the life of which she had protected as fiercely as her children these past few weeks, ensuring that Caroline could have a pop of colour in her bouquet. 

“Ross, just because it’s a winter wedding doesn’t mean it has to be gloomy. Yellow is a joyful colour and ‘twill be a most joyful occasion, and the details should reflect that,” she had firmly told him when he’d questioned her obsession over the maintenance of the flowers in Nampara’s exposed garden. 

He chuckled now as he thought of that conversation, of her, of her kindness and thoughtfulness. He would be forever thankful of the day she had entered his room to clean the fires. What would life be without her and all she had given him? He truly could not imagine it. He was the luckiest of men. 

Feeling similarly as he smoothed his crisp morning coat, Dwight Enys reflected that this day was a long time in coming. Perhaps if he hadn’t been so hesitant, frightened of the thoughts and opinions of others, he and Caroline might have married years ago. Still, he supposed that the war had done them both some good: they had each grown as individuals, in profession and personage, and their love for one another had grown fonder in their absence. 

Ross gave Dwight’s jacket a brushing over and examined him with brotherly pride. He wanted to tell him how glad he was for him - that fortune couldn’t befall a more deserving man, that he was proud of all he had survived and accomplished, that he was confident he would make an excellent husband (and father one day), despite his worries. But Ross had never found vocalising his feelings easy, so he simply wrapped Dwight into a tight hug and hoped that it conveyed all the words he wished to say. 

“I am happy for you,” Ross managed as he released him. 

Dwight smiled. “I know. I have you to thank for all this,” he said, motioning to his tails and the fine house they stood within. Ross frowned in confusion at his friend. “Caroline’s party,” Dwight elaborated with a laugh, “All those years ago, you insisted I come with you, and it was the evening that Caroline and I became friends. And well, the rest is now history.” 

“You overestimate my involvement.” 

“I do not. You underestimate yourself,” Dwight accused, though there was no heat in his tone. “Ross, you’ve truly no idea what you have done for me - and what it means. You have, however inadvertently perhaps, given me a family. Something I thought I would never have. I have Caroline, Horace, you and Demelza - your children call me ‘uncle’...” He offered his friend a watery smile. “It means everything to me, to know and love you all.”  

“Well, we all feel the same about you,” Ross rasped, quite affected by Dwight’s words. 

The ticking clock on the fireplace indicated that it was almost time and so Dwight wondered, “Shall we go now?” 

“Yes, we don’t want you to be late.”

“You do know I’m marrying Caroline , don't you? When was the last time she was ever on time for an event?” Dwight questioned with a hearty laugh. “She’s likely still asleep!” 

Ross pulled the door open and held it in its place as he exited, followed by Dwight. Ross chuckled at the groom’s question. “I concede your point. I believe Caroline was even born a day or two late.” 

Lord Raymond Penvenen subtly paced the foyer of Killewarren, nursing a brandy to calm his nerves. It was an important day for Caroline, whom he’d long considered a daughter before a niece, and he did not wish to mar it in any which way known to man. But there was something he must do - things he must say - that perhaps may be better left alone and forgotten. 

The sound of boyish laughter floated into the air, echoing along the upstairs west corridor and down the stairs as the two friends descended them.

They both looked unfairly handsome and youthful in their new clothes; they each wore matching black morning coats and light grey-blue waistcoats with accompanying trousers. The only difference between their attires was that Dwight’s pocket contained a white Christmas rose and Ross’s contained heather. 

“Dr Enys,” Ray summoned, more sternly than he had intended. 

Dwight winced inwardly - and a little outwardly - at the call as he approached the keeper of the house at the bottom of the stairs. “Yes, your Lordship?”

“Might I have a word?” he beckoned to a pillar next to the large staircase, suggesting it might be a more private place to talk. 

A look passed between Ross and Dwight. “I’ll make sure the guests have found their seats alright,” Ross whispered. “I’ll come back and check on you in ten minutes. Remind me where I might find a pulse point?” he joked. 

Dwight shoved his best friend down the last two steps and sent him chuckling away in the direction of the church, whereas presently the doctor followed his fiancee’s guardian to the pillar. As he looked around the house from where he stood, he noted privately - and with a slight level of discomfort - it would be a rather good location in which to commit murder.

The two men stared at each other in tense silence for a moment until the older man cleared his throat.

“I want to apologise,” Lord Penvenen announced frankly, wasting no time with small talk.

A dumbstruck look came over Dwight’s face. “For what, your Lordship?” 

Ray tutted and shot him a pointed glance. “You don’t have to plead ignorance, sir, we both know I have behaved badly.” The old man looked genuinely sheepish. “I had a servant spy on yours and my niece’s whereabouts, I had him into your past as well as your present activities, and I tried to forbid any connection between you and Caroline in favour of another man of greater wealth and status. Fortunately, in the end, Caroline was not keen to obey her foolish old uncle’s wishes and my attempts were unsuccessful.” 

The only noise that filled the silence was the clicking of the grandfather clock and the sound of the servants bustling about in the distance. Dwight blinked at Lord Penvenen, thinking he must be in some sort of fever dream. Had the old man really warmed to him after all?

Unable to think of an adequate reply to this out-pouring of feelings, Dwight, still grimacing at the formality between the two men, insisted: “Please call me Dwight, like Caroline and I discussed with you last week.”

“I admit that when you and Caroline returned from France and announced you were to be married and would be living here, I was more than a little dubious,” he confessed, continuing as though Dwight had not spoken. “I realise now that I have long misjudged you and your intentions, I have seen the error of my former thoughts this past month. I see how clearly you love my niece. I believe you want and mean to take care of her, and that you like to do so.” 

His mind drifted to the memories of the young man in front of him opening doors for his niece, pouring her tea, bringing her biscuits, buying her little sweet treats with the modest wage he brought home from the hospital as he had done these past four weeks.

Dwight stood up a little straighter, allowing his shoulders to relax slightly. “I do, your Lordship. And I will continue to do so. If we are being frank with one another it is all I have wanted to do with my life since I met Caroline five years ago.” There was no embarrassment about his admission, only sincerity. 

Ray nodded his head in firm approval. “Then, what more can I ask of you? Caroline seems happy - nay, she is happy. That is all that matters to either of us, I feel.” 

Dwight released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He could sink to the floor in relief that this conversation had not turned into the shouting match he feared. In fact, it had been a conversation he had never expected to have with Ray Penvenen, and it was all the more gratefully received because of it. Best of all, he knew Caroline would be thrilled at the prospect of the two most important men in her life finally being on good terms.

The old man eyed the groom with a look of hesitation in his eye that made both men nervous. “And Dr- er, Dwight, you might… call me Ray now… or uncle, if you wish. Not in formal company, mind you. But I know you, too, have little or no family. We three are to be a family now, so we might as well act like one properly.” Ray’s tone was stiff and matter-of-fact as he spoke, as if he thought that it might help to outweigh the sentimental value of the statement. It didn’t.

A large lump had formed in Dwight’s throat and it took two feigned coughs to attempt to clear it. “Thank you, uncle,” he said shyly, hoping Caroline’s guardian could not detect the mistiness of his eyes and did not think him an overly sensitive berk. “Shall we be friends now?” The doctor offered him his hand. 

Ray accepted the pro-offered handshake and silently approved of the firm grip. “Yes, I think it would be for the best. I promise not to set any more spies on you, at any rate.”

They both chuckled and stood that way a while longer than was proper or necessary, all tension between them dissolved and forgotten, replaced by determined smiles.

“Hurry along then, young man,” Ray chirped, shooing him away with his hands. “You don’t want to see Caroline before the ceremony, it would be bad luck - and I reckon you’ve both had quite enough of that.” 

Flowers and ribbons and all manner of delicate things were peppered throughout the ornate church. The inside of the little chapel was still relatively empty, as it was like to remain on account of the small guest list. Blessedly, Lady Caroline Penvenen had not insisted on a large society wedding, and at any rate the harsh weather of the past week would have prevented most socialites from venturing out of their London homes of luxury.

There were small clusters of conversations being held amongst the pews and between the aisle and the entrance. Despite being one of two people of whom this day was about, Dwight Enys felt somewhat anxious to step further into the church as Ross was engaged in conversation with a woman named Ruth Teague, whom neither man liked, and he couldn't see anybody else he was acquainted with. 

“Dr Enys!” a voice called. 

Dwight narrowed his eyes and searched the room to find the person who had summoned him; a hand towards the altar was raised high in the air and was waving.

“Excuse me, please,” Dwight murmured as he edged by two older women he did not know; he supposed they were friends of Lord Penvenen. 

The hand was still outstretched and waving when Dwight passed them, and he stopped in his tracks as he noticed to whom the arm was attached. 

“Ada!” he called, his body filling up with enthusiasm as quickly as a glass fills with water, “What are you doing here? I thought you wouldn’t be able to make it on account of the snow? Arthur, it’s so good to see you again! And Dr Wilson, what a pleasant surprise!” 

He was practically grinning from ear to ear by the time he’d caught up to his friends - his war-time family. 

Ada flung her arms around Dwight and almost squeezed him half to death. “You surely didn’t think we’d let something as silly as some snow get in the way of being here?” 

“But how did you get here?” he wondered, astonished. “There have been no trains from the east for two days!” 

“Caroline telegrammed last week and suggested we should come several days earlier due to the unpredictable weather,” Ada explained. “She put us all up in The Swan Inn in Truro. Dear life, I was so nervous we’d bump into you at the market yesterday and spoil the surprise! I heard your dulcet tones and hid behind an animal pen. I was still picking hay out of my hair this morning, wasn’t I, Arthur dear?” 

“You were, darling,” Arthur confirmed. 

“You must stay at Killewarren, we have plenty of room,” Dwight offered, before wondering in hindsight whether it was his place to do so. 

For the first time, Dr John Wilson spoke. “Already arranged,” he assured his former protege. “Your Caroline is very organised. We’ll be staying for Christmas, I believe, until the 27th, providing the snow grows tired of itself. Won’t you allow me to introduce my wife, Maud, and our children, Jane and Henry.” He beamed with pride as he nudged the two children, both on the brink of adolescence, forward to say hello. 

“How do you do, Dr Enys?” eleven-year old Jane Wilson greeted with the air of a thirty-year-old woman. “It was kind of you to invite us. I have never been to a wedding before, it seems it will be quite beautiful.” 

Dwight shook her hand, trying not to laugh at how well-spoken she was for her age. “Pleased to meet you, Jane. And you must be Henry.” He offered the young boy his hand. 

The twelve-year-old took it, evidently thrilled to practice his hand-shake, which was as firm and proper as any grown man’s. “Yes. Hello. It feels as though we have almost already met, dad talks about you all the time.” 

A small blush came over Dwight’s cheeks. “Well, we spent a lot of time together in France, you see. I’m sure I talk too often about your dad, too.” The two friends smiled at each other. 

“My husband told me I must make you some apple pie while I am here, I wonder if I could trouble your cook tomorrow for an hour’s use of the kitchen?” Maud Wilson asked, her tone shy. She was a woman of about forty, with simply styled mousy brown hair, young green eyes and she permanently wore a slight demure smile. 

A grin came over Dwight’s face for the upteenth time today, “Yes, of course. Mrs Bird will be more than happy to assist you in anything you might need. I confess I have dreamt about your apple pie for upwards of two years, Mrs Wilson. Dr Wilson assures me it is the best in the land.” 

“It is, Sir,” Jane confirmed quite seriously; Mrs Wilson blushed in a mixture of thanks and embarrassment to be the subject of conversation.

“Who is that staring at you?” Henry bluntly asked Dwight.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spied movement. A young woman and a tall man with dark hair and a pristine, shapely moustache stood awkwardly just inside the church, as though waiting their turn. 

Dwight politely excused himself from the company of Ada, Arthur and the Wilsons and approached the two strangers by the door.

The blonde-haired woman grinned widely at him and stuck out her hand before the groom was even within reaching distance. “Oh, you must be Dwight!” she squealed in her excitement at finally meeting the object of Caroline’s affections. She then remembered herself and a blush crept across her cheeks at the overfamiliarity she had displayed. “Er, I mean, you must be Mr Enys. No, sorry, Dr Enys. How do you do, sir? Pleased to meet you. Thank you so much for inviting us. I am Victoria - Vicky - I studied and boarded with Carrie in Edinburgh at Nursing College. This is my husband, Thomas Mûsic. We met in France towards the end of the war. He is French - his English is not perfect but he tries his best and that’s all we can ask of him, is it not?” 

Dwight laughed at her rambling introduction; she was immediately endearing. “Please, call me Dwight,” he insisted. “Pleased to finally meet you, Victoria. Caroline speaks very highly of you and your time at college together. She will be delighted you are here, I wanted it to be a surprise. Bonjour , Thomas. Welcome to Cornwall.” The men shook hands with an air of comradery automatically afforded to all those who had served in the Great War. 

“Oh no, please,” Mrs Mûsic said with a wrinkled nose. “Please call me Vicky. Only my mother calls me Victoria, and she does so out of spite.” 

They all laughed. 

“We are very ‘appy you came home in one piece, yes?” Thomas said slowly, choosing his words carefully and deliberately, as a learner of any language does. He looked to Vicky for assurance he had spoken correctly; she nodded at him in encouragement, eyeing him with such a sickly look of love it almost made Dwight laugh out loud in contentment for them. “We ‘ope you and Caroline will be very ‘appy togezer, merci beaucoup for ‘aving us in your beautiful town.” 

“Thank you both for coming at such short notice. It will be a pleasure to host you over Christmas. I’m sure your presence will mean the world to Caroline,” he said warmly. 

Without warning Vicky, detached herself from her husband and leaned up on her tiptoes to place a fond kiss on Dwight’s cheek. “You really are as nice as Carrie said. I suppose we ought to take our seats now, I hope we’ll have the chance to speak again later, Dwight.” 

“I shall make sure we do, Vicky,” he returned in kind, the light pink blush now fading from his cheeks. 

Back in the house, in the large lilac bedroom at the end of the east wing, the maids had all departed with excited squeals, leaving Caroline and Demelza alone to perfect the finishing touches. 

Baby Jeremy Poldark was sleeping peacefully on the bed, his small heart-shaped lips parted as he breathed evenly. His mother smiled softly at him and wondered how her daughter was doing in the presence of Jinny and Mrs Paynter, they were probably feeding her biscuits downstairs this very moment. 

Ambling over to the bed, Demelza carefully took a seat on the edge, in the first instance because she did not want to wake her son and in the second because she wanted to be near enough to her friend to have a proper conversation but not too close so as to seem confrontational. 

Today, Demelza was keenly aware that Caroline had no mother, no grandmother, no sister, no real other female friends, no other kind of womanly influence in her life. She felt the weight of her role today; but she would rise to it, and would rise to it well. 

Presently, she cleared the throat quietly. “Caroline?” 

The jewellery box on the vanity closed with a soft clap after the late Charlotte Penvenen’s pearl ring had been safely removed from its place within. “Hmm?”

Demelza picked her nails a little, reminding herself it was no good feeling awkward about it; her offer was a kindness and Caroline could choose to accept her advice or not, she would not take offence. She cleared her throat again, willing her confidence to come. “Is- is there anything you want to ask me? About the ceremony? Or... tonight? Or marriage in general?” Her eyes were soft and patient as they fixed on Caroline, who was examining her complexion in the vanity mirror.

“Does it really hurt?” Caroline asked after a few seconds of silence, fighting to keep her tone casual, and pretending to be nonchalant as she applied a little more rouge to her lips and cheeks. 

Demelza didn’t need to ask her what she was referring to. She was a little taken aback by the note of shyness in her friend’s tone; she couldn’t remember if she’d ever heard Caroline sound remotely shy about anything. Normally Demelza might gently tease her about it - as the women often did to each other - but she knew now was not the time or place.

“A little,” Demelza admitted after a few seconds. “But it’s more like…” she paused, trying to find the right word; she had never spoken about this with anyone before, so the words did not come readily. “Pressure - and it doesn’t so much hurt as aches. Yes, it’s more like a bit of a dull ache. Almost like stubbing your toe.” She laughed at the ridiculous comparison, and quickly added, “It’s not bad, and I believe 'tis very different for everyone, so you may be lucky and avoid all discomfort.” 

“Does it hurt for long?” Caroline was looking at her nails for any signs of dirt - but more so because she didn’t want to have to look at Demelza while they were having this conversation. 

Mrs Poldark considered this for a moment, trying to remember her first time. “No, it doesn’t,” she said finally. “The first two or three times, I think, but then it… gets better.” Yes, that was a perfectly polite way of putting it. Demelza felt quite proud of herself, she felt she had not embarrassed herself - and she did not think she had embarrassed Caroline either. It was a perfect success.

Caroline made a noise of acknowledgement as she picked up her veil. That all didn’t sound so bad; her married friends back in London had spun some terrible tales.

“Dwight loves you,” Demelza found herself saying. “I’m sure he’ll be a perfect gentleman, I don’t think he knows how to behave otherwise. There’s no need to feel nervous. And when you love someone it’s never… awkward or strange or embarrassin’. It just is. In fact, it can be very fun- er, I mean, nice.” Demelza focused her gaze on Jeremy and distracted herself with his little hands and tried to ignore the fact that she was now blushing to the very roots of her hair. 

Caroline decided to save that little slip for later. She would not tease Demelza about it now, not when she had soothed her worries so perfectly. She truly did not know where she would be and what she would do without Demelza. The feeling was mutual.

“Yes, I suppose he will be a perfect gentleman,” Caroline said softly, her mind drifting to his caresses - the way he stroked the back of her hand with his thumb, the light touch on the small of her back to reassure her he was there, the curls he would always push out of her face so he could kiss her. Her mind then drifted to their more heated encounters as of late - discarded papers on a desk, the soft fall of books from a shelf they were pressed against. “Though I do hope there will be some nights where he will be quite ungentlemanly ,” she inferred with a wicked smile as she placed her veil on.

“You try me hard,” Demelza complained with a sigh of exasperation. 

Caroline was amused as she glanced at the red-head. “Oh?” she asked innocently, as though they had been discussing the light snowfall outside. “How so?” 

Demelza got up and stood behind where Caroline was seated. “Don’t be coy, you know how.” She removed the veil from Caroline’s fingers and fixed it in place with the practiced precision of a lady’s maid.

“I suppose we ought to think of leaving soon,” Caroline commented, eyeing the clock which read five minutes to twelve. 

Demelza noticed the hour for the first time since she awoke this morning and her knees almost gave way beneath her. “Judas God! Oh, Lord in Heaven above we are going to be late! And ‘tis only next door! Oh, what might poor Dwight think when we are late!?” she fretted, smoothing Caroline’s veil with haste. 

A laugh bubbled up through Caroline’s chest and she released it with ease. “Don’t fret, my dear. Dwight knows that I shall be late for my own burying. Besides, at a wedding the bride is never late, everyone else is simply early,” she said with a casual shrug of her shoulders. She then got up and smoothed her skirts, taking a deep breath to steady herself for the ceremony ahead. 

“Oh, Caroline,” Demelza gushed breathlessly as the bride turned to face her, their tardiness instantly forgotten. “Oh, you look so elegant! And so beautiful!” 

“Demelza, I believe the rule was no crying,” Caroline warned, though she looked touched by the other woman’s tears.

“I can’t help it, you know I love weddings,” Demelza sniffed, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. “Oh, I’ve never been so glad of anythin’! Is it not the perfect outcome after all we have endured, is it not?” She pulled Caroline in for a tight hug; the bride's arms going around her back.

Caroline released Demelza from their embrace and pressed a fond kiss to her cheek, to which Demelza blushed. "Thank you - for everything, my dear. I would be lost without you, truly."

The use of Demelza's handkerchief was needed once again. "Likewise," she sniffed, offering her friend a watery smile.

A loud knock sounded at the door and jolted them away from their little moment.

“Come in if you are not Dr Enys,” Caroline granted.

From behind the door frame, Mrs Prudie Paynter and Jinny appeared along with a flower girl in the form of Julia Poldark. “Beg your pardon, milady,” Prudie said. “But we thought it was time to come fetch young master Jeremy.” 

Demelza carefully picked him up and placed him into Jinny’s waiting arms; she did not know what she would do without her. “Thank you, Jinny.” 

“‘Course, ma’am,” she said, nodding her head at Demelza. 

Carefully bending down, Demelza placed a kiss on Julia’s forehead. “Why, look at you, my lamb! You look so pretty, like a princess. Now, do you know what to do? You just pick some petals like this,” Demelza took a tiny handful, “and drop them on the floor when Papa tells you to.” She sprinkled a few petals on the floor and then scooped them back up and placed them in Julia’s basked. “Do you understand?” 

Julia nodded and smiled, her nine teeth proudly on display. “Yes, Mama.” 

"Hurry along, then," Demelza whispered, kissing her daughter again.

Julia waved. "Bye-bye, Mama. Bye-bye Aunt Cawoline."

"Goodbye, Julia," Caroline bid her with a soft smile. If there was anything that might convince Caroline of a life in motherhood it was the sight of the sweet Poldark children.

“Are you excited, milady?” Mrs Paynter boldly asked the young woman.

Caroline smiled at her. “I am. Thank you for your help these past few weeks, Mrs Paynter. Your effort does not go unnoticed. I must tell you how much I appreciate it.” 

Prudie Paynter looked fit to burst into tears as the young heiress gently squeezed her arm in thanks. Caroline had always appreciated Killewarren’s servants, and knew from experience that they were all exceedingly good at their jobs. Dwight had only recently convinced her that such appreciation should be voiced and not merely thought.

“Thank ‘ee, milady. Bless you,” the head housemaid sniffled. She then curtsied and quickly disappeared with the Poldark children. 

Demelza smoothed Caroline's veil and checked the security of her hairpins before nodding in approval.

Both women turned towards the mirror for a final glance. Demelza's gown was a simple dusty red with gold flowers littered across the muslin fabric.

Caroline's gown was white and far more elaborate, with lace trimmings on the sleeves and silver embroidery on the corset. The trail brushed the floor and was long enough to mask her shadow as she walked. “Well, my dear, do we look the part?” 

“‘Course we do,” Demelza affirmed at their smiling reflections. She picked up their respective bouquets from the vanity and handed Caroline's to hers.

“Shall we go and find Uncle Ray now?” Caroline asked her bridesmaid. “I heard there is an event in the chapel next door.” 

Both women were very surprised to see Ross waiting next to Ray Penvenen when they descended the stairs. Ross smiled brightly at both women, thinking they both looked exceedingly beautiful; he shared such thoughts. 

“Naturally on this occasion, my gown grants me the upper hand,” Caroline baited with a sweet smile. 

Ross laughed. “Now that I cannot answer,” he said diplomatically. He kissed Caroline’s cheek before she went to stand with her uncle and the remaining servants, where she was immediately showered with compliments.

Demelza chuckled briefly and continued to stare at her husband, awaiting explanation as to why he wasn’t standing next to the groom at the altar. Was something amiss? 

Reading her expression, Ross placated her worries and said, “I have abandoned the groom for a moment. He seems to know some guests who have already arrived, so he is not without company.” 

“I’m glad. You look that fine, Ross,” Demelza complimented warmly. “Have you forgotten something upstairs?” 

“Thank you.” Ross then shook his head. “No, I haven’t. It occurred to me I must right a wrong; Dwight quite agrees and so allowed me to escape for a moment.” 

A frown of confusion came over Demelza’s face. “Right a wrong? On such a joyful day? Can you not just ignore that the wrong ever was?” 

Ross laughed; it was Demelza’s way - to always find the good in things, as though the bad had never existed. He offered her his arm, she took it skeptically. 

They exited the house, their shoes crunching on the powdery snow as they crossed the garden. “It occurred to me,” Ross began with a thoughtful air, “that I may have done you a disservice in insisting we were married quickly, and in the town hall.” Demelza opened her mouth to object but Ross continued, “There is nothing to be done about it now, and it was a marvellous day all the same. But I wondered if you would allow me to escort you into and out of the church on my arm, as perhaps we ought to have done in the first instance.” 

Demelza looked touched at the thought. She smiled widely and clutched her small bouquet of flowers with purpose. 

Ross leaned down and kissed her once, twice, three times. “And you look beautiful, in case you were wondering. More beautiful than the bride, though I know you will not believe me, but it doesn’t change the fact. Now, Mrs Poldark, there is the church. Are you ready to play pretend - even just for a few minutes?” he wondered, gazing at his wife of four years. God, he loved her. He wanted no one but her so long as they both lived, and what a blessing that she shared his opinion. 

“Well, lead the way, Mr Poldark,” Demelza granted with a girlish smile. “We’d better make haste, though, it wouldn’t be fitty if the best man and the bridesmaid were late!”

“Uncle Ray, if I ask you something, do you promise to answer truthfully?” Caroline wondered five minutes later as they left the warmth of their home in pursuit of the small chapel on the edge of the garden. 

Ray looked at his niece, a vision in white, somehow whiter and more beautiful than the snow on the ground. “Of course, my dear.” 

Caroline stared straight ahead, focused on the church entrance, and the man on the other side of it. “Do you- do you think Mama and Papa would approve of my choice?” 

Lord Penvenen was taken aback by her question. They so rarely discussed their dear departed family members, and Ray did not like to think of his brother and all the years they wasted in animosity. 

The simple answer to Caroline’s question was no, for Dwight Enys was no earl, no viscount, no lord, no marquess… but what he was was a good man, who loved Caroline for who she was and not what she could give to him. 

“I think perhaps they, like I, would have been wary about him and his motivations at first,” Ray began thoughtfully, “but would eventually come to see that he is a good man, a hard worker and someone who loves you deeply. In the end, I believe they would have approved.” 

“And do you - approve at last?” 

He smiled and met her carefully diluted anxious gaze. “I do.” 

A grin spread across Caroline’s face, still bright beneath the lacy veil that covered her face. She leaned into her guardian, resting her head on his shoulder as they walked on. “That means more than anything, uncle.” 

“I know, my dear. I’m only sorry I took so long to see what you see.” 

“That doesn’t matter now,” she gently assured, squeezing his arm, “so long as you do see it.” 

“I do.” 

“Then let us go inside, and claim another victim into our family.” 

The church doors opened and the organ piped up, playing that all-too-familiar march, but Dwight listened as though it was the first time he’d heard it. It had certainly never sounded better. 

He turned around and was instantly moved by the sight of Caroline dressed in white walking towards him, a smile detectable beneath her veil. Everyone in the room was smiling, and the joy and love that circled in the air was tangible to all.  

She was magnificent, his Caroline - she was light and laughter and everything good about his life, and after a month of peace, a whole month of spending almost all his time with her, of learning everything he could about her, he was more fascinated with her than he’d ever thought possible. Dwight was starting to believe that maybe— just maybe it wasn't too much to ask, to have a normal life. To be in love and be loved back in return. To spend time with his friends, time with his unofficial niece and nephew. To have a family, of sorts - perhaps one day, God willing, to have his own family. To live in peace and happiness. Perhaps that was what life was about all along, and he needn’t even have asked in the first place. 

Dwight smiled so widely at her as she came to stand beside him that his eyes almost closed entirely. “You came,” he whispered, impressed by her presence and even more so by his good fortune. 

“Yes, I was rather in two minds about it all, Dr Enys,” Caroline said, looking at him rapturously. “But here I am.”

Dwight shared her look. “I wasn’t entirely convinced you would come - but I’m very glad you did.” He kissed her hand.

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Caroline with her usual wry smirk, “I should hate to be so obvious in my affection.” 

The ceremony was done with the speed and precision afforded to a winter’s day and the vows were exchanged adoringly and clearly between husband and wife. Well, with the exception of Demelza noisily blowing into her handkerchief.

“What now?” Caroline wondered in a whisper after they had sworn their promises.

“You may now kiss the bride,” the minister granted. 

Dwight placed both of his hands on either side of her face and kissed her deeply. There was no shyness about the kiss, no hesitation, no restraint to save the blushes of the attendees: no, Dwight Enys did everything in his life thoroughly, and kissing his wife for the first time was no exception. 

They made their way down the aisle, behind Ross and Demelza, and nodded appreciatively at the guests as they passed them by. 

Caroline drew a small gasp. “Is that Vicky I just saw?” she whispered to her husband.

A wide grin came over his face, the type of smile reversed for when one succeeds in pulling off a great surprise. “Yes,” Dwight confirmed. “I found her details through the war office and invited her, I thought you’d quite like to see her.” 

“Yes,” Caroline murmured. “Thank you. I was certain she would still be in France and quite unreachable.” She lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed it. 

“You’re welcome, my love. And thank you for inviting my war-time family. I truly believed you last week when you said they had telegrammed to say they could not make it on account of the snow up in the North.” He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Yes, deception is a strong suit of mine, you see,” said Caroline self-deprecatingly. 

Dwight simply rolled his eyes at her as they reached the end of the aisle. He placed both hands on the old doorknobs and pushed both sides of the door open. The crisp winter air floated into the church, burning their nostrils deliciously.

They stepped outside and immediately flower petals fell about their faces like summer rain - warm and welcome. The Poldarks were responsible, and they cheered and whooped as they carried out their task before enveloping their dearest friends into a warm embrace.

For the next twenty minutes, the bride and groom gladly accepted the heartfelt congratulations from all the guests who flitted out of the chapel before they all began to slowly amble back towards the warmth of the house for the reception party. 

“And then there were two...” Dwight said suggestively once the Poldarks had left the churchyard. His strong arms went about his wife’s waist, drawing her closer. 

“It is a good thing you know numeracy, Dr Enys, being a surgeon and all,” Caroline quipped, though she brought a hand to softly cup his face. 

A few snowflakes fell lazily from the sky around the newlyweds but failed to bring any lasting impression or coldness with them. 

Dwight leaned forward and kissed Caroline soundly on the mouth. Their first private kiss as husband and wife was not wasted, and both parties were left feeling a little dizzy at the fierceness of the embrace and their roaming hands, which were now allowed to move freely. 

Releasing her from his hold, Dwight smiled and kissed her on the forehead, before moving to inspect the love heart Julia had drawn in the snow with her finger - and her mother’s assistance. He smiled and bent down to draw one next to it, unaware that his wife was watching his every move. 

Caroline breathed a chuckle and walked up behind him, her kitten heels dragging in the inch-deep snow. She rested her hand on his shoulder, beckoning him to her. “I love you,” Caroline said. It was not the first time she had told him so, but the manner in which she had sent a soft thrill through his being. There had been no hint of humour, of teasing, of self-deprecation, of nervousness or of vulnerability. It was not spoken, as it had been once back in France, as though it may be the last chance to say so. No, it was spoken as though it was both familiar and yet new. 

“I love you, too.” Dwight leaned forward and kissed her again. He thought of how he could do this now, so openly, in front of anyone, as Caroline was now his wife. Their love no longer had to be kept a secret - and Dwight was determined to show that the love of the young woman in front of him had always been the greatest pride of his life. 

“So, Miss Pen-,” he began and then paused, his face breaking out into a wide grin, “so Mrs Enys,” he corrected, narrowly avoiding bursting with the pride of it, “shall we go on, my love?” Dwight offered her his arm.

Caroline knew he was not simply referring to the parlour where the wedding party was awaiting their arrival. In accepting his arm, Caroline was agreeing to whatever came next, all the potential joy and hardships and love and arguments and heartache and happiness. On the one hand, the thought frightened her beyond belief; on the other hand, she had never wanted anything more. She tightly looped her arm into his, securing it with her other hand resting on his bicep. There, now they were unbreakable. “We shall,” Caroline Enys murmured. 

They shared a meaningful look before Dwight felt a slight pressure on his arm. “Well?” his wife wondered, staring at him. Her mouth twisted into her familiar, teasing smile. “Do hurry up, Dr Enys. I believe the promise of cake and the sight of you deshabille next to me in our marital bed awaits my future; I am quite anxious to see both promises fulfilled.”

Chapter Text

To the ordinary eye, the 19th of September 1926 was just an ordinary day on the calendar; the sky outside was a predictable autumn blue and peppered with clouds, some of which were a menacing grey and threatened to shower the county in rain. But today wasn’t a ordinary day to the inhabitants of the impressive little house on the cliff side, for today was fair day - and rain it would not, for Demelza Poldark had quietly forbidden it; Mother Nature had not yet decided whether She feared Mrs Poldark’s or God’s wrath more, but then it was still only morning and so She had hours to decide yet. 

Clowance Poldark, though unfortunate in her family position as the middle girl and the impending middle child, was a sweet-looking girl of five, with dirty blonde hair and honey eyes, and she had both a logical sense of humour and a naivety about her that would remain with her to the grave.

Presently, she strutted down the stairs searching for more food, her belly still rumbling after the bowl of porridge she had consumed some twenty minutes earlier. 

“Mama, Papa, Jinny,” she called before entering the kitchen, so they would not start when her small frame crossed the threshold, “may I have some toast and jam?” 

The sigh that came from the kitchen was decidedly maternal. “No, Clowance, you’ve just had breakfast. You can have something more to eat when we get to Aunt Caroline’s, she’ll have some biscuits for you, I’m sure.” 

Suitably placated, Clowance opened the door of the kitchen and pattered inside, determined to be nosy and cure her boredom as her siblings were all still abed.

Inside, she came face-to-face with a somewhat chaotic scene. The kitchen table was covered inch-by-inch with two large picnic baskets and already prepared food which was to be placed within their confines.

Instead of looking daunted by the task she performed alone, Demelza Poldark sang softly to herself, her aura sunny.

“Mama, why are you smiling?” five-year-old Clowance Poldark asked her mother. 

Demelza did not pause in the act of packing the picnic baskets, it was quite a task when one has four children and another on the way. “Because, my fudge, it is fair day. And this year Bella will be old enough to remember it.” 

“Why does it matter if Bella remembers it? The rest of us will and we will tell her about it when she forgets,” Clowance argued logically, not understanding why her mother cared if her little sister would remember being spun on the teacups or not. Though it was the most exciting fun! 

Demelza sighed as she placed a bottle of homemade lemonade into the basket. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter, but I’d like her to remember it all the same,” she chirped. 

“Do you think this will be a ‘memory box’ kind of day, Mama?” Clowance wondered excitedly. 

The Poldarks, following the birth of Jeremy Poldark, had created a family memory box, where they would write letters or draw pictures explaining the events of a day they found to be special. They would open it every two years on New Year’s Eve and examine the contents as a family, the Enyses included.

“Yes, I do,” Demelza murmured. She then sighed at the lack of noise coming from the sitting room. “Clowance, can you get your brother and sisters, please? It will be a long day and they’ll need to have some breakfast before we leave, so they’d better make haste and get ready!” 

Clowance nodded and trotted obediently to the base of the stairs and proceeded upstairs in search of her siblings. 

Five minutes later, she came back down the stairs with a quivering lip after being told in no uncertain terms to “get lost.” 

At the same time, Ross Poldark had re-entered his home, having left before the first light to see to his coal mine and give the working orders for the day, seeing as he would be spending it with his family. 

He frowned at his daughter’s tears. “Clowance, what’s the matter?” He stroked the hair at the crown of her head.

“J-Jeremy t-told me to ‘get lost’. I only s-said that Mama told him he must wake up and get dressed. Julia is still in her nightclothes, too, but she was awake when I knocked. No one has seen to Bella yet.” 

Ross sighed and picked Clowance up; Demelza would have a fit that the other children were still in bed, they were to leave for Killewarren in fifteen minutes. 

Father and daughter entered the kitchen alone; Demelza smiled at the sight of her husband and then instantly frowned at the lack of children which followed him in. “Where are the others?” she asked.

Ross grimaced. “In bed.”

“In bed!?” Demelza exploded. “I told them- I told them last night- didn’t I, Ross? Last night I told them they must be up and dressed early for today. And they are in bed! Still! I can’t believe they are still in bed. I will crown their heads together,” she vowed. Her sudden outburst left her fit for tears, but Demelza’s emotions were all over the place these days, so they were growing accustomed to her anger, not that it wasn’t justified in this case.

Glancing up at the ceiling and holding the kitchen door slightly open, Ross bellowed, “You two had best be up and dressed in ten minutes or I’ll whip you from here to Penzance, do you understand?”

A chorus of “Yes, Papa!” rang out upstairs followed by hectic scrambling on the floorboards. 

Ross chuckled and looked at his wife with a humorous smile. “There, now that they’re fully awake, I’m sure they’ll be down any moment.” 

“God’s life, they try me hard. I told them to set an alarm yesterday because I had the picnic to sort and Jinny was caring for Ben’s mother today; Clowance remembered to set one! I swear those two upstairs were born with cotton wool in their ears!” Demelza vented. 

“Clowance, fetch a nice outfit for Bella, will you? Not too nice, though,” Ross cautioned, envisioning their whimsical child dressing their youngest in the crisp-white family christening gown to run across a dirty fairground. 

Clowance offered her father a toothy grin and went off in search of the youngest Poldark; it was a big girl's responsibility to dress Bella, and so Clowance would take her task very seriously. 

Once they were alone, Demelza felt arms go around her waist, and Ross placed his chin on her shoulder. “You worry too much, my love. You must not allow yourself to overtire for the sake of our new friend.” He placed his hand on her abdomen, which was still relatively flat for Demelza being about four months gone, but there was beginning to be a detectable bump. Ross smiled and pressed a kiss to his wife’s cheek. “What can I do?” he wondered. 

The tension slowly began to leave her and she settled against Ross, the comfort of his strong arms always made her feel as though everything would be alright. “You’re right,” she conceded, taking a deep breath. “Just hold me like this a while. And pass me those sandwiches.”

He did so and then gently rocked them where they stood. 

“They’re getting so big aren’t they?” Demelza said with a sad sigh. “Did you see Clowance buttoned her dress properly all by herself? Why must they grow up so fast?” 

Ross kissed her cheek. “Don’t stress yourself, my love. We’ll be doing it all again in a few months time with this little fellow.” He gently tapped her tiny bump. 

Demelza raised an eyebrow. “Fellow? You think it’s a boy?” 

He shrugged. “It would make sense, we’ve only had one boy and three girls, so another boy would even things out a bit.” 

“I suppose so,” Demelza considered. “That might be nice. Though the girls are so sweet and well-mannered. But then again Jeremy is the most well-mannered of the lot of ‘em! What shall we call the new baby?”

Ross hummed and thought seriously about it. “How about Grace for a girl?” 

“Yes, that sounds very fine. Grace Poldark. Grace Caroline Poldark?”

Ross chuckled. “Oh dear God, Caroline would never let us forget it!” 

“But it sounds so beautiful, and we might know another Caroline,” Demelza argued reasonably, “she’s not the only Caroline in the world.” Demelza was already laughing, knowing what Ross was about to say. 

“Try telling her that!” The two shared a laugh at the expense of their dear friend. 

“What about for a boy?” Demelza wondered as she wrapped up a cheese sandwich for herself and placed it into the wicker basket. 

“Henry.”

Demelza blinked at him. “You answered that quickly.” 

Ross smiled. “You say that as though I never think of such things.” He spent almost every minute of the day thinking about his family. 

“I like Henry. We might call him Harry, too. That would sound nice,” Demelza said dreamily. 

“We’ll discuss it some more when the child is born; we are getting rather ahead of ourselves, seeing as we have little control over the four children upstairs.” 

Demelza packed the last few scones with a satisfied sigh. Then she let out a different sigh, “Where are they?”

Ross took a broom that was resting against the wall and prodded the ceiling with its wooden tip. “By my watch you have exactly three minutes to get down here or we are leaving without you and you’ll have no sweet treats until there is snow on the ground!”

The scrambling upstairs intensified and Demelza laughed. Ross grinned and said: “There, problem solved. The key with children is to bargain with them.” He then took the two picnic baskets to carry them to the car outside.

As he made to cross the room, Demelza was unable to to keep the teasing smile from her face and suggested: “Perhaps you ought to write a parenting book, my love.”

Ross almost dropped the second basket as he made a rude hand gesture at his wife, who then returned it with equal mirth and enthusiasm. 

Sarah Enys, to her mother’s eternal fury, was conceived on - or shortly after - her parents’ wedding night and so was born in the first week of September 1919. 

“I think I have been cursed,” Caroline had said to Dwight quite seriously over dinner one evening after the news had been shared with friends and family. “Do you know I met a fortune teller at a fair in 1911 and she cursed me for explaining to her she was scamming people of their money? This is her doing, I am sure of it.”

“It is quite obviously someone else’s doing,” Ross had retorted, before a piece of plum cake hit him in the face. 

Presently, the eldest Enys girl was sitting on a rug in the parlour piecing a puzzle together, watched over by the eldest occupant of the house, Lord Raymond Penvenen, affectionately known as ‘Unpa’ - a culmination of his technically being their great uncle but feeling and acting more as a grandpa.

“Unpa, do you know where this piece goes?” Sarah wondered, holding part of the flower puzzle up to Lord Penvenen’s face. 

The old man reached for his spectacles and frowned at the piece and then at the bigger picture. “Hmm. Well, my dear, I think that is part of the poppy as it is red, see? Is that not a red corner there?” he sat on the very edge of his chair and strained to point at the place. 

Thankfully, Sarah noticed where he was pointing and the piece slotted in perfectly. “Thank you!” She then jumped up and placed a kiss on his whiskery face; Ray blushed warmly and patted her head with fondness.

“Morning Unpa,” Sophie Enys sang as she - quite literally - skipped into the room. All of the Enys children, to Caroline’s wonder, were exceedingly cheerful little people, who greeted everyone and everything as though thankful for its existence. 

Sarah gasped at her sister’s attire. “Sophie, Mama will spank you. You can’t wear those shoes to the fair. They are much too nice!”

The middle child crossed her arms in defiance; Lord Penvenen thought Sophie looked the very spit of Caroline when she had been a child, and chuckled. “Why not?” she demanded. “Am I not allowed to look nice?”

“Not that nice,” came their mother’s calm voice as she sauntered into the room, looking quite contradictory in her new fine burgundy coat. “Go change, please. Any black brogues will do.” 

Sophie whined, “But Mama-” 

“No buts. Go change,” Caroline ordered. Noting that Sarah looked far too pleased with herself, Caroline added, “You too, Sarah, I don’t want you getting dirt on that new dress. Why not wear one of your pretty gingham dresses?” 

“May I at least wear my blue coat with it?” Sarah asked sullenly. 

“You may. Sophie, you may choose one hair accessory from Mama’s box. One , and nothing gold or silver,” she emphasised, noting the little girl’s excitement. 

Both girls made to bound from the room but Caroline halted them. “Do I not have three children?” she wondered rhetorically, searching the room for the youngest. “Where is Meliora?” 

“With Papa,” Sarah supplied before running up the stairs, quickly followed by Sophie. 

With a fond shake of the head, Caroline crossed the room to her uncle and greeted him with a kiss on the cheek. “Have you taken your powder today?” she asked him. 

“Whatever happened to ‘good morning’?” Ray wondered with a glint in his eye as he settled back into the large red armchair.

“Good morning, have you taken your powder today?” 

Ray laughed loudly. “Yes, I have. You may confirm this with Dr Enys and Mrs Bird, who witnessed it.”

“I will,” Caroline promised with a smile. She patted his balding head. “And your headaches are better?” 

“Much,” the old man confirmed, who was still somewhat recovering from a bad case of summer flu. “Dwight said it would take a while to feel myself, but I am feeling better on that new diet he has put me on. Pray, do not tell him or he will never let me have wine again.” 

Now Caroline laughed. “I would never betray confidence to Dr Enys, especially where wine is concerned. He does so spoil our fun, does he not, uncle Ray?” Her eyes were alight with mirth. 

“Ah, but he takes good care of us,” Ray admitted. “We would have been quite lost without him these past few years.” 

“I shall definitely not tell him that ,” joked Caroline. “Will you come to the fair with us today? Or would you prefer to read?”

“I think I had best stay home and read,” said Ray somewhat regrettably; fairground crowds were likely not the best place on earth for a frailing man of seventy who was prone to migraines. 

Caroline patted his hand. “Don’t feel badly. The girls know you are getting older and so cannot do as much as you used to. Perhaps you could all do a puzzle later, that would cheer them up, I’m sure.” 

“Dwight says some light exercise every day will be good for me, so perhaps the girls and I could walk to the stables,” he suggested. 

“Dr Enys takes his prescription of exercise very seriously,” Caroline warned him, thinking back to her pregnancies where he chased her heels around the grounds so she would take some exercise. It was a wonder the man was still alive. “So you must take your walk past the window so he can see you have taken it or he’ll force you to take another!”

Ray chuckled and sipped his cup of tea before dunking his piece of shortbread in it. 

“We’ll come say goodbye before we leave,” Caroline promised with a kiss to his cheek, rising from her knees beside her uncle’s chair.

“Where are you going, my dear?” 

Caroline glanced over her shoulder. “To find the subject of our conversation - and my youngest daughter, who had better be fully dressed.” 

“But how will you know where to find him?” Ray called after her, the house - though familiar to them all - was no less large for the familiarity. 

Her laughter echoed throughout the parlour. “As if he would be in any other place!”

“Papa?” Meliora Enys whispered, seated comfortably on her father’s knee, her little legs swinging high above the carpeted floor of the study, which to her three-year-old mind seemed almost a perilous drop.

His hand stopped writing. “Yes, my love?” 

“Can I do the stamp?” she wondered, having thus far resisted the temptation to distract her father from his work, which was a condition of her staying in his office with him.

Dwight went to hand the instrument to her and then remembered his duty as a father. “No, you can’t have the stamp. You may have the stamp,” he gently reminded her. 

“Papa, may I please have the stamp?” Meliora dutifully repeated, holding out her wee hand for the inked-filled gadget. 

She was handed the tool and even received an enthusiastic kiss for her correct grammar, which she barely registered as she aimlessly stamped a blank piece of paper, and not her father’s letter.

“Dr Enys, you spoil that child,” Caroline gently admonished from the open crack in the door after watching them together for a few moments. There was clearly a half-eaten biscuit to Meliora’s left, with small teeth marks on it.

Dwight looked up from his desk and smiled guilty at his wife. “She has been so very well-behaved this morning. I think she deserves a little treat.” 

“You would think she deserves a treat for breathing in air,” Caroline argued as she entered the room. “But perhaps we shall fetch her a special one later.”

“Mama!” Meliora cried happily, scampering off her father’s chair and running towards her mother with open arms. With a sigh, Caroline picked her up and set her on her hip.

“Later?” he wondered absently as he examined his diary for tomorrow.

Caroline crossed the room so that her shadow loomed over his appointment notes and she could not be ignored. “Do not provoke me, Dr Enys. You know it is fair day today. Don’t tell me you have forgotten.” Despite not being as openly sentimental as her dear friend Demelza, Caroline looked forward to their annual extended family tradition just as much as anyone.

She did not sound in the mood to be teased, so Dwight did not poke the bear, so to speak. He grinned at her. “Of course I didn’t. These are tomorrow’s appointments,” he lifted up the book to show her the evidence. 

Satisfied, Caroline leaned forward and kissed him; Meliora clapped her hands - she liked to do that whenever people showed affection to one another. 

Dwight kissed her again, and then again. Caroline giggled and retreated, “That’s quite enough for now , thank you, my love. Come, hurry up, our favourite people shall be here soon and then we must leave.” She handed Meliora back to Dwight with a smile, and smoothed the little girl’s curls. “Now, I must find some almond biscuits for Clowance and Jeremy, they cannot go without them whenever they are here.”

Thanks to the pleasant weather, the fair was busier than ever. The children instantly dispersed into the crowds, armed with coin purses of shillings, ignoring Demelza’s pleas to stay close by.

Giving up, Demelza shouted, “Julia, you are in charge of your brother and sisters!” She thought she heard a faint “OK” called back to her. 

The Enys girls anxiously awaited their mother’s nod of approval before expending their boundless energy. 

She crouched down in front of them. “You must not try to abandon Nanny, Hicks or Mrs Paynter or - at the very least - each other. Do you understand?” They all nodded distractedly, eyeing the lights of the rides and the promise of the stalls. “Then you may go,” Caroline granted with pleasure. 

“Be careful, my loves!” Dwight called after them, feeling somewhat anxious watching them disappear into such a large crowd. Thankfully he noticed that the three servants charged with their care had caught up to them and were clutching their hands so they could all not separate.

“Yes, Papa,” they all called back. 

The adults, now free of children, breathed a collective sigh of freedom and relief.

Caroline looked at them all. "What shall we do first?"

"Demelza and I are going to the candy stall and then to our favourite tent. Will you join us?"

"Yes, to the candy stall, but Dr Enys and I are going to play some games. I want him to win me a goldfish," said Caroline.

Dwight laughed; this was news to him. "You do? Since when?"

"Since I decided just now."

Dwight chuckled again. "Very well, though I think it's cruel they tie them up in bags."

"Then we'd better hurry to the candy stall so you can then win one and free it from captivity," Caroline argued with a teasing smile.

The four friends walked arm-in-arm, side-by-side to the stall and shared two large portions of candy floss between them, silently praying their children would not notice, since they had forbidden the consumption of it as it led to hyperactivity. Once suitably satiated, the two couples went their seperate ways: Ross and Demelza to their drinks tent, and Dwight and Caroline in search of a goldfish.

“Are you well, my love?” Ross not long after asked his wife, who now had a blush upon her cheeks. 

They sat in the same tent they had gotten to know each other in some thirteen years ago. In some ways it felt like a lifetime ago, in others, it felt like it was only yesterday.

Demelza smiled at him; he was always so attentive during her pregnancies, she wondered if her condition still worried him as it had the first few times.

It did. 

“Yes, I’m well, Ross,” she reassured him. “Just a little spent from all that walking.” 

He ran his eyes over her, and thought her a trifle pale in the face. “And your sickness?” he pressed. With Clowance, Demelza’s sickness had been constant until almost the day she had been born and Demelza had grown as thin as a heron, which worried Ross, Caroline and Dwight in equal measure. It had all come well in the end, but it took almost three months for Demelza to be fully recovered and regain the fullness in her cheeks. Ross was not sure his nerves could withstand a repeat of that experience, though with Bella she had had an easier time. 

Able to see that her husband was indeed worried about her, Demelza placed her hand on top of his and squeezed it. “I’m fine, Ross, truly. The sickness has passed for some weeks and so I feel brave again.” 

“Not too brave, I hope.” His mouth almost quirked into a smile. She would chase the rats from the attic if she took the notion. 

Demelza grinned. “Never too brave,” she promised. 

“Good.” 

Demelza looked around the tent and out through the openings where children were running riot throughout the fairground; absent, though, was any sign of the Poldark or Enys children. “Where do you suppose the children are?” she asked, a small knot of anxiety forming in her stomach. 

“Who cares?” Now Ross was smiling behind his glass. 

“Ross!” 

His hand shook as he laughed; he dearly loved to provoke Demelza. “Caroline said that Mrs Paynter and Hicks were more than happy to look out for them all as they dislike fair rides and have had some sort of falling out with the younger servants, I do not know the details,” Ross added as he could practically see the cogs of Demelza’s mind working to figure out what had happened. 

Placated, Demelza felt she could enjoy her cider again, and so took another drink. “I’m glad,” she said with a small sigh of relief. “They both love the children dearly, and the children are all fond of them.” 

“Yes, Mrs Paynter will certainly keep them all in line. She reminds me of Cerberus.”

“Who is Cerberus? Is he a friend of yours?” 

Ross laughed lightly and shook his head. “Cerberus is the dog that guards the gates of Hell.”

Demelza mouthed the sentence he had just said, thinking she must have misunderstood the implication. “Ross! You can’t say that ! ‘Tis so… so blasphemous ! And- unkind .”

At the look of his wife’s shocked and appalled face staring at him, Ross laughed some more. “Forgive me, my love, I did not mean to be unkind. I only mean she is fiercely loyal and ruthlessly protective, so no harm will come to our children. Do you know, I’m not sure why, but I believe she’d take the comparison as a compliment,” he said with a thoughtful sip of his drink. 

Repeating the action because she could not counter his point, Demelza sipped her own cider; it was very good and she rather wanted another one, but did not want to be stumbling like a newborn lamb later this evening. 

“Ross, are you happy?” Demelza suddenly asked him.

Her question startled him. He clenched and unclenched his fist around his glass. “Happy…,” Ross repeated thoughtfully. “It’s a tricky thing: happiness. It’s not a word I would attribute to myself or my life, though of course we have had - and do have - moments of great happiness. But that is precisely the point: happiness is momentary, fleeting, whereas I feel... content. Yes, that’s it, I feel content. Contentedness is more robust and stable - it is designed for longevity. Right now, with you, in this tent, I am happy. Perhaps when we get up and leave I will not feel so. But I always feel content. Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” Demelza said, her eyes shining. “I am content always, too. And I am so happy today.” 

“Would you like another cider, my love?” Ross wondered as he drained his glass. 

She grinned, as though Ross had read her mind. “Yes, please. Might we go on the teacups later?” 

Ross raised his eyebrows. “The teacups? They are for children,” he protested. 

“Well, I am carryin’ a child,” she argued. “‘Tis the only ride gentle enough for them to let me on. Oh, please, Ross! Please, please, please,” she begged, reminding him of Isabella-Rose, whom he was also powerless to resist. 

Demelza’s wide doe-eyes undid his resolve and any sense of propriety. “Alright,” he relented. “Just once, mind you - and not until after we’ve finished our ciders.” He motioned for a waiter to refill their glasses and took out the money and a tip. 

Leaning across the table, Demelza quickly kissed him square on the lips and sat back in her chair giddy with glee at the prospect of riding the teacups with her husband. 

Ross Poldark would have sat on the pole above the dunk tank any day of the week so long as she looked as happy as she did in that moment. 

Elsewhere, Dwight and Caroline Enys ambled aimlessly around the fairground, sharing a bar of chocolate Dwight had won them, as was now tradition. He had, however, failed to win her a goldfish, but she did not seem to put out as she nibbled her square of cocoa.

They were reminiscing about their first time at the fair. 

“To think I once had no idea how to play, and now I must lose so as not to spoil our tradition,” said Caroline. 

Dwight chuckled and broke off another square of chocolate; for a doctor, he had quite an impressive sweet tooth. “Ah yes, that is why you lost,” he taunted. 

“It is,”  insisted Caroline, her chin held aloft.

He passed the bar of chocolate back to her so she might have the last piece, she accepted it gratefully. “Why don’t you prove it?” Dwight challenged, motioning his head to the stall behind him.

Just as she opened her mouth to accept, Caroline noticed their eldest daughter waving a small flag several metres in front of them and looking very sweet in her little blue gingham dress. In only her dress!

“Sarah! Sarah Enys , come here at once!” Caroline called across the field to her daughter. 

Sarah searched around for her mother’s voice and spotted her vibrant burgundy coat amongst the crowd, she obediently ran over to her. “Yes, Mama?” 

“Darling, where is your coat?” 

Sarah smiled widely, which showed off her little dimples. “I gave it to another girl, she didn’t have any coats at all, Mama, not one and I have...,” she paused and counted the number on her fingers, “five! Well, four , now,” she conceded. “And I’m not cold!” Sarah concluded brightly. 

Dwight tried and failed not to smile with pride; Caroline made a noise of despair. 

“Dear God, Sarah, you really are too much like your father,” she accused with a hand over her face - it concealed a small smile. “It is, of course, a nice thing to give your coat to another girl. But there are other ways to help that don’t involve disadvantaging yourself. And you will catch a chill today without a coat,” Caroline warned before removing her decorative wrap and wrapping it around her daughter. Despite herself, she did have a good deal of motherly instinct. 

Dwight smothered a smile at the action - it was not the slightest bit cold today. 

Sarah beamed at the pretty, white shawl and spun around in it. “Thank you, Mama! I promise to look after it and to not give it away.” 

“And I promise you a good spanking if you get so much as a drop of dirt on it, am I understood, Miss Enys?” 

Sarah nodded vigorously and seriously. “Yes, Mama.” She then turned to her father and twirled around again, giggling as the shawl floated around her. “Papa, do I look pretty?” 

Dwight crouched down and kissed her cheek. “You look very pretty, my love. Now, why don’t you run off and find your sisters and your cousins? Do you still have enough shillings?” he wondered, fishing around in his pocket. 

Sarah nodded again. “Yes, I have money. Goodbye!” She waved cheerfully to them both and then disappeared into the crowd. 

“That child, Dr Enys,” Caroline said with a fond shake of the head as she linked arms with her husband and resumed their pleasant stroll around the fairground. “How many items of clothing has she given away this year?” 

“I think the coat makes it an item per month, so far.” 

Caroline smiled wryly at her husband. “How ridiculous. You’d think we were rich or something.” 

Dwight laughed enthusiastically - too enthusiastically, Caroline thought. “Heavens, it wasn’t that funny, was it?”

He continued laughing, pointing vaguely in front of him. “Not your joke. Look, Ross and Demelza are on the teacups, next to Sophie and Clowance. They look ridiculous amongst all the children, like giants from a fairy story who are sitting on a toadstool.” 

Caroline thought so too, and heartily joined in with her husband, clutching onto his arm to keep herself upright as her sides began to ache. 

Arm-in-arm as the ride spun around, Ross and Demelza had no thoughts except their own, which were focused on each other. Demelza rested her head on Ross’s shoulder, and he rested his head on top of hers, watching the calm blue sky above them go by. Ross absently reflected that he could almost hear Caroline and Dwight laughing at them, entirely unaware that they were doing just that a few metres away.

The Poldarks and Enyses had a predestined rendezvous at the top of the small hill overseeing the fair, only the Ferris wheel and the top of the circus tent towered over where they sat. 

As always, Demelza’s picnic food went down a treat as did Caroline’s additions of biscuits and cake. 

Demelza’s brother, Drake, his wife, Morwenna and their daughter, Loveday, managed to join them this year, having been too busy the last two years to attend the fair. 

Mrs Poldark had not stopped smiling since they came to sit down: she got to spend so little time with her brother and sister-in-law as they lived almost as remotely as one could live in Cornwall. But having them here, with the rest of her family, on such a beautiful day, was a dream come true. 

Drake had returned from war a bitter but not broken man, and Morwenna’s love and devotion had eased some of the war’s poison. Demelza found him to be now almost exactly as she remembered him: sweet, caring and care-free. 

Ross, too, was very fond of the Looe Carnes. Though he had not managed to convince Drake to address him by his Christian name, they had agreed on a middle ground of “Captain Ross.” 

The group continued to share food and stories and play games until they grew too indulgently full and so had to resume their exploration of the fairground for health reasons.

Several hours later - everyone’s purses and pockets considerably lighter - the children had tried every ride and visited every stall in the fair and had now run out of shillings and tickets.

“Why don’t we all retire to Killewarren? It’s much closer and, as you know, our grounds are fast and so the children may run themselves ragged while we enjoy a little tipple. What do you say?” Dwight Enys cheerfully asked the rest of the group. 

The Poldarks gave a resounding yes; the Looe Carnes politely declined. 

“We have been invited to stay with my sister this evening, but thank you all the same,” Morwenna said brightly as Drake helped her into her coat. 

Dwight kissed her on the cheek. “You are welcome any time. All three of you.” 

“Thank you,” Drake said, patting him on the arm. “And you - if you are ever in Looe - we have just moved house and so would have the space now, right, Wenna?” 

She nodded in agreement. Caroline kissed them both goodbye with fondness. “Drake, have you had a chance to build me that fire guard? I shall have Mr Martin collect it when it’s ready. No rush, of course. You’ve still to tell me your fee,” she said pointedly. 

Drake blushed, having planned to give it as a gift for all of Caroline’s custom - and all the wealthy friends to whom she had recommended his services. “Erm, maybe thirty pounds?” 

“ Thirty pounds ? Only thirty? I shall give you fifty, I know it will be a job well done, and I don’t trust any other blacksmith in Cornwall to do as good a job as you.” 

Demelza sniffed lightly as she hugged them tightly goodbye, blaming her emotions on her condition; Ross made up his mind that they must visit their relatives more often for his wife’s sake, and would plan a surprise visit for next month to cheer her up.

The Carnes departed with enthusiastic waves and cries of goodbye; the Poldark children won the shouting competition. 

“Shall we head to Killewarren now?” wondered Demelza, who was now hungry for a proper meal.

“Yes, I think so. Dr Enys is quite skilled at making an impressive fire, though his pride when it glows might convince you it was the first fire ever lit. But it is a nice evening so we could sit in the garden for a while after supper. You are, of course, very welcome to stay,” said Caroline casually, as though she had not already ordered the spare beds be made with her new linens in anticipation. 

Before their parents answered for them, the Poldark children all insisted they must spend the night. You see, at Killewarren, they had servants who would bring you anything you asked for. And the bedrooms were big and plentiful, and its long corridors and secret cupboards were perfect for games of hide-and-seek. And Aunt Caroline always let them have jellies.

Demelza laughed at their eagerness. “Well, it seems it has been decided. Lead the way, Dwight,” she gladly granted. “I hope you gentlemen remember where you have parked your cars, for I haven’t the faintest idea.” 

“Precisely why only men should be allowed to drive cars,” joked Ross as they crossed the field, almost unable to contain his laughter. 

He received a slap each from Demelza and Caroline anyway.

The sky was as yet reluctant to darken – as though it, too, did not want this wonderous day to end - and so clung onto its shades of magenta and violet for dear life.

“Caroline, come join in on the fun!” Dwight enticed breathlessly, beckoning her to join the group in the game of tag they were all playing. 

Caroline laughed and shot Dwight a look that questioned if he knew her at all. She remained firmly on her blanket. “I’m having quite enough fun from here, thank you, Dr Enys. Besides, I have been charged with the care of the sandwiches and Clowance’s new china doll – and so I must play saviour.” 

“If you’re certain, my love.” 

“When am I ever not certain of my own mind?” Caroline asked her husband with a smirk. 

Dwight barked a laugh and bent down to kiss her forehead. “How very true!” 

“Tig, uncle Dwight!” Jeremy shouted, slapping the doctor on the back before sprinting away on his ever-growing legs. 

Dwight started and glanced behind him. “You little-” he began, chasing his unofficial nephew across Killewarren’s large garden grounds. 

Caroline chuckled at Dwight’s determination and wondered who the bigger child of the two was. 

Before too long, Dwight had given up his quest for Jeremy and instead caught Clowance Poldark, who was shrieking with laughter as he swung her around in the air from her underarms. 

Once released and fully recovered from dizziness, Clowance immediately went for her father, as always. “You’re it, Papa!” she declared as she tapped him with an enthusiastic, toothy grin. 

Ross accepted his responsibility and quickly caught his wife, Demelza, before she could run away. He held her tightly around her waist. “Tig, my love.” 

Demelza laughed and tried to wriggle free. “Tig,” Ross said again, placing a kiss on her cheek. “Tig.” He pecked her lips. “Tig.” And again. 

“Bleurgh, Papa!” Jeremy protested with a disgusted expression; he did not share Meliora Enys’s love of public displays of affection. “You’re spoiling the game!”

Ross laughed and freed Demelza, who wasted no time in tagging her husband again before sprinting away. Ross groaned as he watched her flaming red curls blow in the autumn breeze as she ran towards the others, who all stood at anticipated attention. 

Ross searched the group for his victim and decided perhaps the only person who could not outrun him was seventy-year old Raymond Penvenen. He charged towards the earl and slapped him unceremoniously on the shoulder, such was their familiarity now. “Your turn.” 

Lord Penvenen glanced to his right and eyed little Bella Poldark distractedly admiring the new gas lamps that littered the garden; she thought their glow was magical. Ray took several paces towards her and – with some difficulty – crouched down and fondly tapped her back. “Tig, my dear.” 

The little girl smiled; pleased to be included in the fun game. She then made a hand gesture that suggested the old man ought to lean in more towards her. “How do I play?” she whispered to Ray, having never played the game before. Her hazel eyes were wide and anxious and her dark brown curls rustled softly in the breeze.

“Well, first you run, then you must catch another person. To do that you tap them and then you run away,” explained Ray, his eyes crinkling as he smiled softly at her innocence. 

Isabella-Rose nodded at the information. “Okee,” she said in a sing-song voice as she scanned the group. She set her eyes on the quiet young girl whom she knew very well. They were almost the precise same age, save the difference of three weeks, and so were each other’s best friends in the whole wide world. 

Meliora did not see her coming, she was smiling at her cousins, Julia and Jeremy, who were pulling very silly faces at one another to make her laugh. The youngest Enys girl started when Bella tagged her and scampered away. With a grin, Meliora then charged straight for Sophie, knocking her to the ground as only a sister would. They rolled around in the grass laughing before Meliora escaped Sophie’s clutches, leaving her in charge of who to pick next. 

As ever, Sophie had only one person in mind. She sprinted as fast as her legs could carry her towards the large bonfire and gently tapped her mother on the shoulder. “Tig, Mama!” she exclaimed, grinning with pride.

“No.”

“No?” Sophie asked, confused, as she hadn’t asked her mother a question or permission for something, and that was usually the only reason she ever said no.

Caroline smiled teasingly. “Yes, no. Mama is not playing.”

“Oh, go on, Caroline!” Dwight called. “It’s fun.”

“Yes, come play, Caroline,” Demelza echoed.

“Hmmm,” Caroline hummed, feigning consideration as she subtly changed her seating position. “You really want me to play?” she wondered, already knowing the answer, but wanting to hear it again all the same. She did like to feel wanted, and so what?

“Yes!”

 “Oh, alright,” Caroline said with a forced sigh as she quickly clambered to her feet and clutched her skirts, her middle daughter running gaily alongside her, her four-year old legs trying to keep up with her mother’s long ones. 

Caroline chased and caught Jeremy Poldark with ease. She could never – and would never – admit so out-loud, but she rather thought that Jeremy was her favourite of the Poldark children, as much as she truly loved them all. There was something in his manner that reminded her scarily of his mother, a certain gentleness and warmth that cannot be taught. He was the only Poldark child to possess all the softer qualities she so deeply admired in her dearest friend.

Jeremy beamed at being in charge of the game once again and began relentlessly chasing his father. Ross managed to outrun him for about thirty seconds, before Jeremy finally jumped on his back. “You’re it!” 

Ross spun them where he stood for a moment before letting him down. As he watched his only son laugh and boisterously run away, he put his hands on his knees. “I am too old for this,” Captain Poldark wheezed with a self-deprecating chuckle, his old war injury starting to flare up after all the sprinting he’d just done. “I forfeit.” All the children - and Demelza - whined at Ross’ game-ending announcement. He held up his hands in apology and defence. “I shall buy you each a square of chocolate from the sweet shop tomorrow and then we shall have some tea at Nampara.”

The children immediately perked up at Ross’ suggestion; chocolate was a most luxurious treat and even though Ross could well afford to regularly indulge in it, he did not believe in spoiling his children – they must learn something of hard work and patience. Ross’ announcement cheered Demelza up, too, but for a different reason: there was nothing Demelza Poldark loved more than her home filled with the people she loved most; perhaps they could even have some music and play cards. She began planning the after in detail as she and the group walked back towards the large display of overlapping blankets and vacant sun-loungers. 

Having not moved very far, and having moved significantly less than the others throughout the evening, Caroline Enys was first to reach her blanket and was comfortably admiring the sight of two little birds chirping in the birdhouse when a heavy drop next to her made her jump. To her right, Caroline saw her husband’s form sprawled across her large, striped blanket. 

“When did I get so old?” Dwight wondered, panting on the grass next to his wife. Caroline laughed at him as he caught his breath. “Have we anything to drink?” 

“Yes, one moment,” Caroline said, twisting her torso to open the picnic basket behind her. She pulled out a bottle of wine and handed it to Dwight to hold for a moment while she dug through the straw box in search of a cup.

Dr Enys accepted the pro-offered bottle but did not wait for his wife to fetch a goblet and instead popped the cork off and drank greedily from the bottle. 

“Seven years of marriage and still I have failed to mold you into the perfect gentleman,” Caroline teased, half-amused and half-appalled.

Dwight grinned at her comment and took another swig from the bottle. “Ah, but if the perfect gentleman is truly what you wanted then you wouldn’t have married me in the first place,” he pointed out with a victorious smirk. 

“I regret the decision daily.” 

“Me too,” Dwight mocked, taking another hearty sip of wine; it was very good.

Caroline watched him closely, a taunting smile tugging on the corner of her unpainted lips. “I never pegged you for a drunkard, Dr Enys.” 

Dwight laughed heartily. “If I may be so bold as to remind you, Mrs Enys, it wasn’t me who overindulged in gin last week and tripped over thin air!” He laughed again as Caroline swatted his arm. 

“I was trying to get your attention,” she claimed. “You ignored me for most of the week in favour of your sick people.”

It was meant as a jest but her words rang true and Dwight felt a twinge of guilt. He looked up at his wife from where he lay and carefully intertwined their fingers. “That may be true. The refurbishment of the hospital has been taking up the lion’s share of my time; I will try to prioritise my time better this week. I’m sorry.”

Caroline smiled softly at him. “Please, ensure you do. We miss you.”

He kissed her briefly on the lips. “I miss you, too.” 

“Meliora has learned about a hundred words this week,” she informed her husband with an eye roll, thinking about the youngest Enys girl's constant yammering. “Thank Heavens she inherited her mother’s brains.” 

Dwight’s booming laugh echoed throughout the grounds, startling the birdsong. “I think such comments are grounds for divorce, my love,” he joked.

“I shall have Hicks pack you a bag in the morning,” Caroline assured with a put upon sigh as she lovingly combed through his hair with her fingers.

Dwight smiled at her and re-interlocked their fingers. “I am fine where I am,” he assured her in a murmur. “Although,” he began, glancing over his shoulder, “perhaps we ought to join the others now.” The rest of the party appeared to be deeply engaged in their own conversations but Dwight could not help but feel like they were being a little rude by sitting a little bit out of the way on their own.

“Five more minutes,” Caroline murmured, placing her hand on top of their joined ones. “It is nice talking like this - just we two.” She felt they had barely seen each other for the past two months.

Dwight shuffled himself on the blanket and moved to rest his head on his wife’s lap, not letting go of her hand. Caroline reflexively ran her fingers through Dwight’s hair. He looked up at her and smiled brightly; she looked beautiful in her new satin blue shirt and cream skirt, and the latest fashionable hairstyle was very becoming on her. Dwight closed his eyes in utter contentment at the feel of the fire on his face and his wife’s fingers gently combing through his hair. “Five more minutes, then.”

As she glanced at all her children sitting neatly, playing with each other and their cousins, Demelza thought her heart might burst. “Isn’t lovely when they all get along?” she whispered to her husband, in fear they would hear her praise and rebel for the sheer mischief of it.

“Very,” Ross agreed, pulling her closer against his chest. He carefully brushed a stray curl away from her neck. “For it means we have more time alone.” He kissed a spot on the nape of her neck he knew she liked. 

The bonfire roared in front of them, the spellbinding flames whipping the cool air above them. Demelza squirmed in her husband’s hold and blushed. “We’re not properly alone,” she pointed out with a wicked grin. “But we’ll be alone later…” 

“Later,” Ross promised, his breath tingling against her ear.

Before Demelza could make any further promises, Nanny Tregilis and Mrs Paynter came out to fetch the Enys children for bed as the clocks were close to striking eight. Ross informed the Poldark children they were also to go to bed; surprisingly, none of them protested. They were all exhausted after the day's fun.

“Mama, may we have hot cocoa before bed?” Sarah asked, crossing her fingers on both hands.

Caroline pretended to mull over her decision. “Hmm. Yes, you may. Only if you ensure your cousins receive some, too. Mrs Paynter, would you tell Mrs Bird that you require seven hot cocoas instead of the usual three?”

“Right away, milady.”

“Thanks, Aunt Caroline!” Jeremy enthused, tightly wrapping his arms around his aunt. 

His three sisters quickly followed suit and Caroline was being suffocated with love, which was both her dream and her nightmare. “Yes, yes, you’re quite welcome,” Caroline wheezed, fighting to break the chain of little limbs that encircled her. “And that’s quite enough, thank you, my dears. I suppose I am rather fond of you all, too.”

The children all gave a kiss and a hug to each adult and then gladly went with Nanny and Mrs Paynter for a hot cocoa.

“I think I shall also retire,” said Ray Penvenen, yawning widely. “That was quite enough excitement for one day for an old fool like me - I shall need a week to recover!” He was laughing and his eyes crinkled as he beamed around the party; the last eight years of his life had been some of the happiest of his long life, and when the day did come that he must leave this life, he would do so without protest wearing a gentle smile. “Goodnight all.”

Caroline got up from her blanket and sauntered over to her uncle to kiss him goodnight. “Sorry we disturbed your reading earlier, uncle. But thank you for joining us outside, the children loved it.” 

If at all possible, the Enys girls had more influence on their great uncle than their father, both of whom were wrapped tightly around their little fingers. “Of course, anything for those dear children. Such happiness they have brought us all,” he said with a happy sigh as he watched Sarah gather her younger sisters for bedtime, promising to read them a story. 

Caroline’s mouth twisted wryly. “Yes, I am glad you and Dr Enys have found pleasure in the company of the little tyrants.” Despite Caroline’s best efforts, she fooled no one where her children were concerned. For all her displeasure at her pregnancies and for all her indifference to the prospect of motherhood, she was decidedly not indifferent to her children once they were born. Other people might call it deep maternal love, but Caroline certainly would not. 

“Goodnight, uncle.” They kissed each other on the cheek. 

“Goodnight, my dear.” 

When Caroline reseated herself on the blanket between her husband’s knees, she could hear Ross and Demelza quietly bickering about something but was immediately distracted by Dwight gently combing his fingers through her hair.

“Oi, Dr Enys!” Ross eventually called, which was then followed by a whistle when Dwight didn’t respond. 

Dwight twisted round to look at his oldest friend, fighting to keep a straight face. “I’m off duty; I am not examining a single inch of your body or diagnosing any condition you may have. Come see me on Monday morning at the infirmary.”

“Shut up. Who discovered the smallpox vaccine?” 

The most offended scoff known to man was released from Dr Enys’s mouth. “What do you mean ‘who discovered the smallpox vaccine’? How do you not know who invented it, Ross? It’s one of the most important discoveries of our time!” He looked quite simply appalled. 

Ross theatrically rolled his eyes. “ What do you mean ‘who discovered the smallpox vaccine’? ” Ross mocked in a high-pitched voice which sounded nothing like Dwight’s. “Stop being a smartarse and just answer the question.” 

“Edward Jenner, obviously.” 

Demelza leapt up and thrust her arms in the air. “Yes! I told you!” she gloated before performing a little happy dance.

 “How did you know that for certain?” Ross wondered. 

Demelza chuckled but before she could reply, Dwight interrupted and said, “Because unlike some people, dearest Demelza actually listens to what I have to say.” 

“No wonder she is so tired these days,” teased Ross; Caroline laughed and sympathetically patted her husband’s hand. 

Peaceful silence set over the group as they watched the last rays of light in the sky morph into a navy black. 

Presently, Dwight cleared his throat and stretched to fetch a bag he had brought outside with him. “I bought you all something today. Nothing big or important, just something to last a little while and remember today by. For old time’s sake,” he concluded with a smile. 

He got up and walked a few paces to Ross, his hand digging into the brown paper bag. “Some coffee fudge for you, my friend,” Dwight said, lightly tossing it to him. Ross caught it with ease and thanked him sincerely; those were his favourite treat.

“And for Demelza, some lemon sherbets of course.” He handed her a large glass jar full of them, her eyes looking as youthful as Julia’s as she began to count how many were in there. 

“Dwight! Thank you! Oh, this shall keep me happy for quite some time. I must hide them from the children.” She could already envision the tall shelf in the library she would place them on. 

Dwight walked back towards his wife and sat down on their blanket. “And for the lady…” He gave her a small tin and a bar that could not pretend to be anything other than chocolate. 

Shaking the tin gently, Caroline wondered, “Aphrodite’s amulet?” 

“Only strawberry bonbons I’m afraid.” 

Caroline sighed, “I suppose they shall have to do for now.” She leaned forwards and gratefully kissed him on the lips. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying their indulgences as the large fire warmed them.  

“Listen,” Ross suddenly ordered in a dramatic whisper. “Do you hear that?” 

The other three strained their ears; the only noise was that coming from the babbling brook at the bottom of the garden - and in the distance a wise owl hooted as it flew away from the mischievous company of the group of friends.

“Hear what?” Caroline asked, frowning in confusion. 

“Exactly. Nothing. Not a sound.” He stretched his arms up over his head and wrapped one around Demelza’s shoulders, pulling her closer. Her head rested against the fabric of his waistcoat, her cheek resting against his chest. “Total, blissful, silence. No screaming children demanding this, that or the next thing.”

Demelza smacked him lightly on the arm and controlled her smile. “Ross! What a terrible thing to say about your children! They love you so very much, y’know!” 

“I agree with Ross,” Caroline commented. “One of my favourite times of the day is when the brats have all been sent to bed and Dr Enys and I have time to talk alone.” 

Shaking shoulders indicated that Ross was laughing. “Ah yes, talk ,” he inferred with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. 

Caroline schooled a smile and set her face into perfect indifference. “Captain Poldark, you spoil my indiscretion. And here I was trying to spare Dr Enys his blushes, and now I am not sure whether the glow I see out the corner of my eye is from the bonfire or the apples of my husband’s cheeks.” 

They all laughed.

“Aw, my wine is finished,” Demelza lamented, as the upturned bottle trickled only meager little droplets into her mouth.

“Then we need more alcohol. Especially now it is just us adults,” Caroline declared, getting up in search of a footman. 

An hour and an uncountable number of brandies and cocktails later, Ross and Dwight watched in amusement as a tipsy Caroline demonstrated the steps to the Highland Schottische to an even tipsier Demelza, who - unlike her friend - had never once set foot on Scottish soil and so did not have the faintest idea as to the possibly rhythm of music that would accompany such a dance. Both women laughed as their arms got entangled when they bumped into each other; they hung onto each other’s waists for support as they cackled at their mistimed folly. 

Ross sighed happily at the sight of Demelza’s smiling face. He was glad her sickness had passed and she was feeling better, her face already had an ethereal glow to it. “Are they not wonderful?” Ross asked his best friend in a slight slur, whose eyes were set adoringly on his own wife. 

“They are,” Dwight sighed in agreement, still smiling softly as he watched the dance tutorial several feet in front of him. “We won quite the windfall when they agreed to marry us, didn’t we, my friend?” He looked at Ross. 

Ross smiled. “We did,” he agreed. “Though it can’t have been easy on them, just as the war was not easy on us,” Ross contemplated, thinking of his time in the trenches and how difficult those first few months home were. 

“No,” Dwight agreed softly, thinking of all the times he almost died but didn’t. Sometimes he wondered if Caroline truly did reconcile with him in that First Aid tent like he imagined; a part of him was still afraid to ask. “But no matter, all has come well.”

“All has come well,” Ross repeated, the sentiment ringing truer than any he had uttered before. Ross nudged Dwight and raised his glass. “To Demelza and Caroline - and to the children.” 

“To Demelza and Caroline and the children,” Dwight repeated, holding his glass aloft. “Cheers.” 

“Cheers, my friend,” Ross said, clinking their drinks together. 

Without warning, Demelza and Caroline stumbled and fell onto their husbands‘ forms, causing them both to spill a little of the contents of their drinks - and almost crack a rib or two. Demelza smoothly stole Ross’ glass of brandy and drank it greedily, a powerful thirst upon her after dancing. Dwight did not wait for Caroline to steal his and simply offered it to her instead; Caroline privately lamented that it was not as fun this way. 

“What mischief is goin’ on over here, Sirs?” Demelza asked, tone teasing and filling the air around them with light-hearted camaraderie. 

The two men laughed. “None,” Ross promised. 

“Yes, none,” Dwight echoed. “We were actually discussing our good fortune.” He looked between the two women to illustrate his point. 

Demelza looked touched; a teasing smile slowly spread across Caroline’s face. “Ugh, all this talk of feelings. Don’t you ever discuss politics? The discoveries in Egypt? Trade? And here I thought you were both gentlemen,” provoked Caroline, her eyes alight with mirth as Dwight’s soft eyes met hers. 

“Oh, hold me up, Ross, I’m that tired after dancing,” Demelza said with a laugh, her limbs delightfully heavy as she leaned against him, almost coaxing him to lie on the grass.

Ross sat up and held her in place, and pressed a kiss to her temple. “We’ll go in soon. It’s getting a little cold - and you need rest.” 

Her arms went about his torso and squeezed; he cared so much about her - and their children. She sighed happily. “I love you, Ross.” 

He smiled softly and kissed her again. “I love you, too.” She had been his wife for twelve years; if they could not leave this life together then he would have to die first for he could not bear to be without her.

The love and gratitude that quietly encircled them all warmed them as much as the dancing orange flames from the fire. 

“What are you smiling at?” Dwight gently wondered, breaking the comfortable silence.

Demelza looked at him, the soft smile still on her face. Everyone looked at her and waited, such was the thoughtfulness of her expression. 

She detached herself from Ross and sat up. “I am just- happy to be here, to be Ross’s wife, to be your friend, to be my children’s mother. I have no wish to be anywhere else other than here, right now, next to you all. I also believe that you have no other wish than to be here with me - which is perhaps the nicest fact of all,” she smiled widely around the circle, her eyes misty as she looked at all those she held dear. 

Ross had taken her hand and was dragging his thumb along the smooth skin on the back of her hand. Caroline’s head was resting on Dwight’s shoulder, his arms wrapped lovingly around her torso. 

“And despite our differences, it has always felt that way, and ‘twill always be that way between us - until we die,” she continued, the emotion in her voice clear now. Ross sniffed lightly and pulled her closer to him. “I have only one regret in this life - and that is that we cannot stop time, even just for a little while. I think I would pause it now, so that we may look back on this perfect day together with the smallest hope that it might never end. Though, all good things must end, as they d’ say. How ever would we know if they were truly the best of days if not put against the bad ones? But our love for one another need not change, and I doubt it ever shall, no matter how quickly the time passes and no matter what life will bring with it.” 

Demelza then got up and sat between Ross and Caroline, filling the small space between them. She wrapped her arms around them, her hand managing to reach Dwight’s shoulder blade; the result of which was a warm, family hug. The four friends all smiled then; Demelza’s smile was clear and bright as her eyes shone with unshed tears. “And so, in the end, I suppose there can be no regret... Right now, I am alive and breathin’; we are alive and together, just like the old days; our children are safe in bed. I can’t ask for anything more than what I already have, and all that it will bring me in the future. I love you all dearly and am loved equally in return. There is nothing more to ask.”