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The banging of the shutter woke her. She had left it open to allow even the slightest of breeze to waft though that evening. The day, nay, the last three weeks had seen a heat upon the land none of even the oldest in Swale could recall the likes of. But, tonight, finally that sweltering torpidity that hung over the moor would be swept away by the gusts flying across the sea brought by old Zephyr. Standing before the window, watching the lightning illuminate the sky, forming cracks in the fabric of the heavens for the blessed rain to escape. In the opening moments of the storm, the breeze, a welcome relief, and the merciful scattered raindrops eased the parched land, and cooled the choleric bodies, like a fainéant hymn. But, within minutes that relief would cascade into a maleficent strain, filled with booms and crackles heralding the destructive winds sending anything left unsecured swept off into the back of beyond. Then the driblets morphed into lashes of pricking water, stinging the skin. As the wind and rain increased, she pulled the shutter closed but left the window open.
Striking a flint, she lit a single candle, shooed Garrick to his box, and went to check the rest of the house. Prudie and Jud would sleep through the second coming, and with too much gin, they were as good as dead to the world. And tonight Ross, staggering home from Truro, a day spent with the investors, having drank too much, stumbled on the stairs as they went up for the night. At the quarter-turn, he faltered and reached for her. Putting his arm over her shoulder, she walked him to his room, sat him on his bed, removed his boots, socks, and shirt. Mumbling "Thank you." he rolled over, still in his breeches, and was snoring before she folded the clothes and laid them on the chair. What had caused him to drink to excess today, she wondered? While the mine failed to produce ore to the level he hoped, it was keeping a fair number of men below and women above ground working, along with a modest return for the investors. He often shared his concerns over the mine with her. No, it wasn't money that drove him to drink today. Perhaps it was her, looking towards Trenwith as if she could see through the walls to the larger Poldark manor. When Francis went to town, she often accompanied him, and Ross probably encountered her again. Failure drove him to drink, and Elizabeth, the Mistress of Trenwith was his greatest failure.
She often wondered what was it that passed between these two those years ago that kept him dangling, unable to leave her, at least not in his mind nor heart, all the while his body ached for her. And Elizabeth, though she gave her body to another as was his right to demand as her husband, the Mistress of Trenwith withheld a part of herself and tempted Ross with it. They danced to a tune others could not hear, but observed their carefully meted turns of the minuet. Each knew their steps so well, others could only stare at their perfection. Though each encounter seemed contained to the polite viewer, their own personal gale tore through their minds and left their parched bodies longing for satisfaction that only a tempest such as tonight would bring. Though Elizabeth had married Francis, just the sight of her spawned the storm Ross weathered. But his ferment over the Mistress of Trenwith was nothing to do with her, Demelza was just his scullery maid. Cooking, cleaning, and managing the garden was her domain, anything past the wall separating the garden from the fields was his world. And Elizabeth, the love he desired, was not the mistress of his bailiwick. Yet, only three miles, beyond his and Francis' walls, a double boundary, that kept each of them at bay from the other. Mistress of Trenwith Elizabeth might be, there was no denying she hungered for Ross. Aye, and he for her.
Still their desire, like a hurricane, churning, slowly brewing, far out over the ocean, she wondered, what should happen if it ever made landfall. Destruction, loss, even death would surely come from such a drought of wanting, desire, and denial when finally unleashed. For sometimes these storms in their intensity set off incidents that eventually brought misadventure. Not always swiftly, but with a certainty. She recalled how old Betsy Childers' towering oak tree had been struck by lightning, but lived on for years. She even bragged how that tree took a strike from god himself and endured. Then one day as she sat where she had for all those years on the swing, the branch collapsed killing her. Not instantly, no she lingered out of her mind for days, calling to people long dead she thought had come to visit her, reliving her youth, but then she became afeared of the dark, when at last death came to take her. But, that branch, where it tore away from the trunk, showed the scared, brunt black through, evidence of that festering too long hidden, rotting the heart. Yes, the storm came, left its mark, and then later judgment returned and dolled out punishment. For didn't Betsy claim to have the heart of a man, she had loved but done her wrong, buried under her bed. Yet though the villagers sought the artefact upon her death, only a box with a length of red wrinkled stained silk was found. Whatever it concealed had long ago vanished, leached into the void of time.
Yes, this storm tonight might do the same, leave some mark, but hidden till a future time. Same with the storm that raged between the Master of Nampara and the Mistress of Trenwith. Still, she would need a fine eye to note when that storm was approaching. Falala girl, what has possessed you tonight Demelza thought. As if that hurricane can come ashore, no, not as long as Francis lived. For Ross was moraled, more than many, more than most expected of him. But some boundaries he would not cross and his love for Francis, at least thus far, had been greater than his desire for Elizabeth. Still that storm brewed, off the horizon, but due to make landfall some day. That was a storm which could not be ignored forever. That trussed up energy must eventually break and then those in attendance would feel the fury full force and live out the results. Yes both people and storms were mortal and must come to an end.
And why had Elizabeth not chosen Ross, that was a great mystery. Yes, Francis was due to inherit the greater portion of the genteel Poldark name, property, and even the public position. Still the two men--Ross and Francis, well, not a woman with eyes could prefer Francis. Yes, handsome Francis was, a proper gentleman and all, but put the two side by side and every woman was drawn to Ross, like moths to the flame. And, by all the stories told, Ross and Elizabeth were promised. Though it was her parents who wanted the status, the money, the property held by Francis' family. And with Ross gone off to war, not there to strengthen Elizabeth what an onslaught of a storm her parents must have brought. And there was no denying it, a woman had no say. Even her own kind, Demelza shuddered at the memory of the men who came to see her father, often he owed them money, and they demanded payment. One even eyed her, sniggered and said in a couple of years she'd be fit for a wife and her father could wipe his debt on her back. Drink upon him, her father laughed and told, in a few years he might auction her off to the highest bidder. And had he so desired, there was nothing she could do. Even the preacher said a girl belonged to her father, and he should choose who she must marry. She had seen many of the girls deliberately go off with the first boy they fancied to get with child. That way none of the other men in the village wanted them with a baby already waiting. That she could pass for a boy these many years had saved her from her father's need to pay his debts, of that she had no doubt.
Yes, life was a storm no matter how pretty the bed you made your babies in might be. Such must have been the storm Elizabeth came through to marry Francis. Still, thinking Ross was dead mayhap eased her desire for him and she saw Francis as a Poldark as much as Ross. Still, when Ross returned, that Elizabeth stuck with Francis was hard to understand. Though abandoning your pledged was a great sin, no different than lying with another once married, so they all said. And, Captain Ross, a gentleman, held more in titles than anything else of hard value. This place a right sty when he returned. Jud and Prudie, lazy, little more than drunkards too. But Captain Ross turned them around, and her too. Bringing her to Nampara, giving her his old room. But only asking for a fair day's work. That she could do, all the easier here, less to care for. And even some others to do it with. Her future was here, let the master ask for anything to be done, she would see to it. Most days it was smooth sailing at Nampara. The others might winge and grieve, but keeping the master happy, that wasn’t work, nay twas more a reward. Even the chin wagging of the old biddies about her and the master. As if he could ever see her as more than a scullery maid, especially as he kept his troth to Elizabeth.
Going down the stairs, she shut and latched the windows and shutters on the leeward side of the house, but left the windward windows open. Storms from the sea always took the same path, that she knew. People miles away would be facing a wet morning, but the sun would rise here. Opening the door, she saw the garden already turned to mud, in the morning the poultry would feast off fat worms worked up from their tunnels. She would spend the day trying to revive her plants battered and broken from the rain and wind. But, most would come though, she set out only the hardiest of plants. Like the peasants, hardened off by extremes, reaped year after year, each succeeding crop carrying all the knowledge and experience of the previous generation. Yes her kind of people and her plants were cagey, heedful, and proven to thrive in this land of storms. Look at the gentry, a feeble lot, few children usually, and those often sickly with rickets and carried off by one of the poxes. Yes, her peers died, but more often from lack of food. A starving never known by the gentry, the feeling of a hunger-wolf gnawing at your belly. Or from working in the mines when a rock fall or flood could snuff out a life in a moment. Yes, those sort of deaths, mostly preventable if you had the money, were what took her lot. She never knew of a child in her village to have rickets, only those cloistered behind walls. Sometimes a fever would land and then all were doomed. But, those sort of agues, rich or poor, olden name or lowly born, all faced the same fiend. Only a few, those strong enough to fight the storm in their body would survive those scourges.
Shutting the door, all was well there; Prudie snoring, never opened a window for sleeping, saying the soul eaters traveled on the night miasmas. Leaving open windows was an invitation to those monsters to come in and secrete your soul off in the middle of the night. Returning upstairs she knew only Ross' room had open windows, but hesitated to enter unbidden and without good reason when her master was within. During the day, she went in to make the bed or strip the sheets for washing, or to return his cleaned clothes, often darned before he even knew there was a tear or thinning spot. Or to clean and leave fresh water in the pitcher, yes she had full access to his domain when he wasn't about, but to go slinking in like a thief in the night, that thought stayed her hand on the knob. Still his room faced the full force of the rain, even now puddles would be below each window, she daren't not.
Turning the knob quietly, though when drunk, the master was more like Jud than she dared mention. The lightning burst across the sky and there on the bed, the master naked. At some point he'd needed to piss and left his garments on the floor. Though looking was a sin, her eyes refused to look away, waiting for the next burst of light to show her his body complete. Often he worked in only his breeches, his back and chest exposed, sculpted, that was the word she had read about statues, how the artist sculpted the statues into perfection. And Ross, her master, his body like a god of old, he could pose for any statue. Chiseled, another word to describe him, she found in the latest book taken from the shelf and read at night. Often needing to ask the master what the words meant, even when she looked them up in 'A Dictionary of the English Language' proudly displayed on Ross' desk. Why that book was wrote in 1755, older than she or even Ross, but kept like the finest china. Ross showed her how his father had bought it for his mother for their wedding, writing a dedication to Grace. Apparently, Mistress Grace had been a learned woman, something her master Ross felt she should be. And at first the thought of her ever holding a book to read seemed impossible. Trying to make sense of the words was like a storm in her brain, scribbles on the page as mysterious as raindrops, she much preferred the ones with pictures to look at. Still, as Ross read out loud, the words of the stories, so elegant and inspiring, allowed her to see, and more, feel beyond what the pictures offered.
Once she grasped the basics, she spent every free minute consuming books, and Ross soon tired of being asked what every other word meant, had pulled the dictionary from his desk and showed her how to use it. She took a new word every day, one she did not know and learnt it. Spelling it out loud, writing it on the page, and trying to use it in her conversations with Ross. She had reached the Ps now and words like precedents and promulgate were challenging to use in her day to day conversations. Of course she could say to the master; “Did he recall any storm of such precedent as this one?” When in fact her only thought was ‘Judas, it’s a right ol’ rough time out there none’s seen for ages.’ Certainly these types of words were lost on the likes of Prudie, whom from years of neglect and lazy habits was a storm to navigate on the best of days. Even when she used them in speaking to Ross, she noticed how he'd smile and nod. Unsure if we was laughing at her, or pleased that she was raising herself up.
She had quickly learned to read his signs, like a captain who knows a storm is coming, no way to go around, nor outrun it. In that case you had to avoid going against the tall breaking waves, lest you be turned over. Like the sails you used the smaller ones, best to remain inconspicuous and moving forward just out of his line of sight. Watch for opportunity, anticipate his moods, food at the ready, drink poured high in the mug. Busy yourself out of the room, but be industrious. Once he sought her in the smoke-room, sure she was hiding, drinking Port. But she was just rotating the hanging meat; if left, one side would blacken, and the other never completely cure. Satisfied she was working, he bade her soon finish and come to the library and read to him.That command almost worse than being in the midst of a storm, her way of pronouncing words, never in the genteel fashion. But that night he had listened and softly corrected her.
Waiting for the lightning, she could see his form on the bed, but it was the clarity of light that would reveal his manhood. Ashamed she should be, lifting a cover over him, or going about her business at the window, she knew each inch of the room and needed not the light. But the sin of desire was greater than the fear of punishment and she waited. The old gods laughed and brought a dozen bolts together, illuminating the room bright as day for a moment and she saw again his manhood. Trying to count, on the two, the crack followed, near, someplace near had been hit, just beyond the house, as it shook from the strike. Still, she was not afraid and smiled. Surely this was not a vision the Mistress of Trenwith would ever know. As a country girl, even carefully clothed, she reckoned Master Francis had not inherited nearly a portion of what Master Ross had.
Yes she was wicked tonight. Storms released her from the bonds of polite behavior. With her red hair the old folk said she bore the mark of a witch. And she knew recipes for many remedies, and how always where to hunt for mushrooms, collecting herbs, many hanging in the garret now, even healing animals. Yes she possessed knowledge of many things that others did not, but not because of training, no, just observant, trial and error, necessity as much as anything. Yet the Droll Tellers spoke of the witches in Cornwall, describing them as she looked.
Closing the shutters, she took a linen and wiped the sill, the bench, and floor below . Rain had come in on the wind and the room smelled fresh and invigorating. Turning to go, the master raised on one arm and looked around the room. Held in the shadow of the armoire, she froze. Had he heard her in his room, was he trying to see her hiding. Yes, a simple explanation of why she was in his room, but not so simple to live with knowledge he would know she had seen him naked. He rolled, then sat on the side of the bed and held his face in his hands. A soft moan eased from him. and a word whispered, too faint to hear, but she imagined it was Elizabeth. Whom else would he call for.
The old gods laughed again, and flooded the room with light. Had he not been holding his head surely he would have seen here. Looking up, he glanced to the door, she'd left if open, anticipating just a moment in the room to close the shutter. Rising he walked to the door, then out into the hallway. She needed to move, leave the room and return to hers at the end of the hall, but should he turn and come back. Waiting a moment, Demelza took a chance, and went out the door and hurried to her room. Once inside, behind the safety of her door, she realized, in the heat, she too had been naked. Imagine wandering the house, what if he had seen her. A reason to send her packing back to Illugun. Quickly pulling on her shift, she crawled into her bed.
Still the wonder of where Ross went held her awake. Was he even now, checking the house, worried about the rain. Should she go and let him know, the house was secure; but no, meeting him naked in the hall held her in her room. Yet, the memory of his body brought a smile and longing. No, the mistress of Trenwith would not know how he looked naked, but then only her wicked gaze tonight provided that secret knowledge. Still, that he rarely stayed in Truro overnight meant he did not visit the working women she heard about. Nor did he often go to any gatherings his kind attended. Such a handsome gentleman, pining for his lost love, when there were so many young ladies who would delight in his attentions, especially being married to a member of the gentry. Still, suddenly finding herself answering to a mistress of Nampara would be a whole different type of storm to face.
Yes, she lived in a land of storms and her life was navigating them. She knew his moods, and how to navigate each, but a mistress such as Elizabeth, from an old family, traced their name back, far back owning the same piece of land for more grandparents than she could count. Well, her people went just as far back, it said so in the Bible, they all came from Adam and Eve, every single one of 'em. Still, knowing your place, a place that was yours for all time, that was something.
The lightning exploded across the sky, filling her room with light, and immediately a sound, more than the expected booming, rather something had been hit nearby. Then the sound of his footsteps coming quickly along the hall. She rose and pulled another shift over hers, and went to the door. When she opened it, he was standing there about to knock.
"Good, you are up. Come quickly." demanding as he went down the back stairs. At the door, he grabbed a pair of his old boots and his oil coat and handed them to her. "Here put these on, though you will get drenched in this storm. But Jud's still hung over and senseless."
Following him out, she saw the debris of the pigsty, the fence was down, the pigs even now huddled along the wall.
"Get them inside the barn, else no telling where they might range. Your garden would be a feast for them." He yelled to be heard over the wind.
Demelza called to the pigs, so used to her, they followed into the barn. Throwing open the door, she managed to get them into one of the empty stalls and shut them in dumping in a bucket of corn for them to enjoy. By now she was drenched, her hair plastered to her scalp. Finding the lantern, she struck the flint and a small flame flickered, giving the area a small patch of light. Waiting, holding the lantern at the door to see where Ross might be. There, coming from the paddock, she saw him leading the ox, not quickly, nothing moved Ol' Buck faster than a Sunday stroll on a warm evening. Ross was soaked, as he entered the barn and put the ox in a stall. As she pulled the door closed the skies open up, sheets of torrential rain poured down.
The lightning flashed again, and Ross took her arm. "We can wait here till the worst of the storm passes. You are soaked, you will catch your death." Looking around for something to offer to dry her. A pile of sail cloth was all he saw, grabbing and offering it to Demelza.
Taking the cloth, she moved to the last empty stall and went in. Stripping off the oil coat, boots, and her 2 shifts, Demelza tossed them over the gate and stood naked. A slight chill raced down her body as her rain soaked skin shed a few drops. The cloth was a long rectangle of duck canvas, rough and scratchy. Unfurling it, she wrapped it around her body. Stepping out, Ross was clad only in his breeches, lying upon a pile of hay. Patting the spot beside him, Demelza reclined.
"Let us make ourselves comfortable, for this storm is raging. The roof needs repairing, over there." Pointing to a steady stream that hit the floor and carved a channel flowing to the door. "Must work on that before the next storm causes more damage. Are you cold."
Demelza shivered, the temperature had dropped with the rain and wind. And the length of sail barely covered her body, with a distinct rip from her thigh to her ankle. "Not so much. I can feel the hay warmed by you."
Moving over, Ross pulled her into the spot he had lain. Slipping into the nest made by his body, Demelza enjoyed the warm feeling. Lying there together, the storm raged on, stalled over this patch of land, isolating them.
"This one is far less than the one the night before I was captured. That storm was a premonition of what to come. In the forest, the tents soaked, no light could withstand the wind and rain. Only the lightning striking all around gave any light and with each strike, tree after tree; branches came crashing down, and the acrid smell of green wood burning. It raged for hours, only ceasing as the sun rose. We spent the day drying out, only to be attacked late in the afternoon. But here we are safe, nothing can be worse than war."
Demelza turned to face her master, surely the handsomest man in all the world. His scar though in no way diminished his pleasing appearance. Perhaps the harm was the evidence of the storm he bore over Elizabeth. Touched by the fates for leaving her, a reminder of what he lost. Surely that scar was much as a bolt of lightning from his eye pointing down to his heart. Yes, Elizabeth must have been in mood that day and her thoughts carried across the sea to Ross perhaps blinding him to the danger of the moment. Still a scar from that storm meant something must come of it eventually. Yet the sound of Ross' voice talking about a time before she came to Nampara and into his life, in the warmth of the hay was soothing and comforting. Smiling at the thought of him in his uniform, brave, afraid of little, certainly not of storms, nor war, nor hard work. No, the master’s only fear was of himself, what he was capable of doing when his storm raged. Demelza could feel that tempest within him. But, to her he offered only kindness, a man she respected. Truly a man she could respect. Surely this and more is what the Mistress of Trenwith forfeited when she relinquished Ross. Unkind mayhap, but the realization she already shared more with her Master than Elizabeth ever would, Demelza slipped into a heartened sleep.
Listening to the storm rage around the barn, the sight of Demelza beside him, so trusting, so willing to do his every command, brought a smile to his face. Watching her sleep as the lightning flashed, Ross thought of how the child was growing. Quickly, she had blossomed with good food, fitting clothes, and a purpose. The house was as well kept and as comfortable as his mother made it. Since she had taken on preparing most of the meals, his belly was never empty nor aching from some half cooked dish, over salted or seasoned with an unknown weed Prudie had mistaken as edible. Yes, Demelza was worth her weight in gold. Not that he had any, but this year, besides paying her father, he would pay the girl her own wages. Surely him paying her would bring a smile to her face. Though in truth, whenever he looked at Demelza, she smiled at him. So easy to please, so agreeable, and satisfied with all he had to offer.
Watching her sleep, he wondered, why had he kept her in the barn. They were already soaked, nothing a few more minutes running through rain would change, and yet, seeing her waiting for him at the barn door, shutting it behind him, seemed to create a sanctuary he was loath to leave. Her shifts soaked though even under his oil coat, Ross could make out the curve of her body, lithe, slim, flourishing; life at Nampara had transformed her. Gone was the iltreated urchin, Demelza was like a fairy child these days, weaving circlets of flowers, the ducks, geese, and chickens followed after her for the weeds she pulled and the ground she turned over to find them fat bugs and worms. And Garrick, Ross knew she kept him in her room at night. More of a shadow than dog, was probably even now crying to escape her room and find her.
Listening to the raging storm, Ross thought of Trenwith, only a few miles inland. He remembered Elizabeth was afraid of storms. She had shared her fear with him, before he left, believing a storm would sink his ship. But, Demelza had no such fear. Her life before coming with him to Nampara was harsh, little to eat many days, a brood of younger brothers to care for, and a father more often drunk and mean than a caring parent. With such a life, few things brought fear to Demelza. Even now with the destruction of the storm playing out around them, she was peaceful, her mouth slightly open, almost a smile beginning. She slept as the innocent, not fretting nor tossing unsure, unsatisfied, unredeemed. No fear for this girl, she would meet any challenge head on.
Lying there, time seemed languid, neither passing nor adjuring. Though the storm raged, within this snug barn the two of them gently rested. His head should ache, perhaps the alcohol still pushed through his veins, and tomorrow that pain would provoke and remind him of what he had lost. Or mayhap the thrill of battling the storm drove it from his blood, and in the morning he could begin life as invigorated and satisfied as he was in this instant. Yes, in this bucolic moment Ross realized he was satisfied, comfortable, and safe. Demelza stirred for a moment and whispered a word, "Ross." Was she awake, or in sleep did she want something from him. Perhaps she was dreaming of calling him to help her.
Thinking how they had come to sleeping in the barn; awakening from the crash, he moved to check the house, but, as ever, Demelza had gone before him, securing all the shutters. It was only as he returned to his room and heard the shattering of wood from the strike, had he realized he had walked naked around the house. Pulling on his trousers, he hurried to Demelza's room and found her waiting for him. Willing to follow him into the storm, willing to lead others to safety, even if only pigs. Willing to...willing that was the word to describe Demelza, willing. No storm ever caused her fear; she just rose to do what was needed to be done, then back to bed. But tonight they shared this hay as a bed. Let the storm rage all night, in the light of day, they would rise and take up the chores to set their world right.
The lightning dimmed, the thunder faded, the storm moved further inland. Only the unremitting rain continued to hold them together in this satisfying cocoon. Watching the rhythmic rise and fall of her breast. Ross mused, should any discover they had shared this intimacy, what a twattling the community gossips would cluck over. Still he smiled and drifted off to sleep. During the night, the two pulled together, briefly holding the other in sleep. During the day, their work divided them, his and hers, but as surely it bound them in respect, in accomplishment, if not within their arms. The morning would dawn bright, clear, clean. Storms brought destruction, but often as a way of thinning out, much like winnowing the wheat from the chaff. What was solid, durable, and constant would survive a storm, but the frail, weak, and derelict only revealed through the battering. One must respond and remove the unhealthy. Surely this storm would reveal what he must do come the morning.