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The gloomy, labyrinthine corridors of Trenwith were filled with nought but echoes and draughts, and to the mind of Dr Dwight Enys as he climbed to the top of one of the old house’s many staircases with no small degree of trepidation in his heart, it seemed that the grim quiet of his surroundings was made all the bleaker by lone figure standing at the window of the little room to the end of the passage, staring down at the sunny driveway below. Dwight paused in his approach at the sight, steeling himself for what was undoubtedly to be a long and difficult day, both for himself and, more importantly, for his new and most unexpected patient. For what he would have to do today, he would need great strength—strength enough to support the both of them. Without that, any treatment he tried would surely fail.
After taking in a few deep, calming breaths, he headed towards the open door to the room, slowly, cautiously, making sure that his footsteps could be easily heard. He saw the line of the figure’s shoulders tense at his approach, shrinking nervously in on himself. George Warleggan—or more properly, now that he had been knighted by the King, Sir George—he thought with a sad sigh that he was barely able to bite back in time, may once have stood in that very room, surveying his ever-growing kingdom. Now though, huddled there as he was, in nothing but a thin nightshirt and his silk dressing gown, hair in disarray, skin as white as candle wax, he far greater resembled a ghost haunting its place of death than the baronet, peer of the realm and man of considerable fortune that he was. Or perhaps, now, had once been. It was an almost intolerably cheerless sight, but Dwight forced himself to endure it—what help would he be, after all, if he could not even face his own patient?
“George” he said quietly as he came to a stop beside the ailing man. He was mindful not to stand too close, keeping firmly to the opposite side of the large windowpane, but George remained rigid and wary at his presence nonetheless, watching him out of the corner of his eye with a timidity that seemed ill-fitting on the face of a man who had once seemed to him to be utterly indomitable. It reminded him of the way a wren might watch a cat prowling too close to its perch, cautious and ready to flit away and hide the moment he was given reason to.
“What was he doing here?,” he asked. His voice was high and thin, with a nervous edge to it which Dwight had become all too well acquainted with in his time treating the man, and which caused him no small amount of displeasure to hear. His hands, the doctor noticed, were balled up into fists, knuckles kneading anxiously at the low windowsill as he stared down at the spot which Ross Poldark had recently vacated, a deep frown drawn between his brows. “Ross? Why was he here?”
Dwight loved Ross dearly, despite his past (and indeed present) foolishness, but in that moment, he couldn’t help but curse his friend for his poor timing. He had observed in his patient a tendency to swing, in varying extremities, between two moods—one being an acute agitation and distress, and the other an equally alarming melancholy, the grip of which seemed to be nigh unbreakable. The account he had been given on his arrival at Trenwith had suggested that George had started out the day quite calmly, but it was clear that Ross’ sudden appearance had triggered some measure of the former mood in him.
Of course, both were concerning at the greatest of their extremes—in the case of the first it tended to surface as a panic so severe he seemed to lose all sense of what surrounded him, and in the second as a worrying, silent emptiness, where it was almost impossible to encourage him to speak or respond or even acknowledge that they were there at all; either way he was trapped within his own mind—but this distress, however mild it might have been compared to some of the incidents Dwight had witnessed, concerned him. He had taken the news of his patient’s relatively placid mood as a sign that he might be well enough to start the long and arduous process of confronting the delusion which had lodged itself in the man’s mind. Cary Warleggan was impatient to see his nephew returned to his former self, and his frustration with George’s continuing insistence that Elizabeth was still alive and well despite Dwight’s treatment was hardly something which he had shied away from sharing with—or perhaps more accurately taking out on—the good doctor. As quickly as Cary wished him cured, however, Dwight knew that it would take great delicacy and care, not force, if he ever wished to succeed in bringing George back to himself—especially so considering the wounds, both physical and mental, that had been left behind by the brute that had previously attended him. As such, he couldn’t help but worry that the step he had planned to take today, when compounded with the added stress of Ross’ arrival at his home, might, instead of guiding him onto the path of healing, cause him to regress.
“There was something he wished to discuss with you,” he said, truthfully. There was no point in trying to evade the question—even in the thrall of that pervasive illness, George was just as single-minded as he was when well, and attempting to obfuscate would only cause him further upset. “A matter of business.”
“Business?” The word was echoed as if it were completely foreign to him, as if he hadn’t taken his father’s provincial interests and turned them into a veritable empire, as if that same empire hadn’t once all but consumed his waking life before Elizabeth, before all this. It was a stark reminder of how thoroughly broken he had been—hollowed out until there was barely anything left, the remains shattered into pieces—and Dwight was once again struck by how insurmountable the task that lay before him seemed. Even if he could mend him, he doubted he could put him back together in the same shape he had been before.
“He wanted to make you an offer,” he replied gently as questioning eyes turned to face him. “For Wheal Plenty, to my understanding. There was a bad accident there—a collapse—and your uncle made the decision to close the mine.”
“And he was sent away?” George turned away from him and back towards the driveway, almost as if he were expecting to see Ross turn around and come riding right back up towards the house. He hadn’t stopped kneading at the windowsill, his movements more restless and troubled than before.
“Yes. Now is not the time for such things.”
“But he will come back!,” George cried suddenly, almost explosively, had it not been for the frantic quality of his tone that spoke far more of distress than of anger. “He will always come back, precisely where he is not wanted! Why can he not let us be?!”
Dwight swallowed a sigh. He knew well enough that a frank and honest answer to that question, to which he could only provide the vaguest of speculation, would do little to help or comfort his suffering patient. Instead, it fell upon him to nip this agitation at the bud, to find some way of soothing his stress over the situation before he could upset himself too greatly.
“I shan’t allow him to bother you, George,” he said, keeping his voice calm and low. “Nor will your uncle. He shall keep him away if I am not here to prevent it.”
George let out a strangled sound which might have been intended to be a laugh. There was a slightly hysterical note to it that only served to make Dwight more concerned.
“He didn’t keep away that man, nor the girl,” he retorted—from a previous conversation he had had with Cary, the doctor guessed that he must be referring to Ralph Hanson and his daughter, the former of whom seemed to be lingering about Cornwall in general and the Warleggans in particular like a bad smell. By contrast to Dwight, his voice was high and panicked. “He didn’t keep away the other doctor. He let him in and then stood by and allowed him to—”
He cut himself off abruptly at the mention of Penrose. Dwight straightened up, alert. George had not once spoken of the man to him, nor, as far as he was aware, to any other. True, he was not particularly loquacious in his current state—especially when the severest of his melancholic moods had him in its grasp—and their conversations, if not entirely one-sided, tended to be kept rather simple on his patient’s part, but he had noticed that that particular topic, should it be brought up, was met with anything from straight refusal to discuss it to outright panic. As such, Dwight had taken care to steer clear of talk of the man in the hope of preventing unnecessary distress when he was still so fragile—far too fragile to face those memories head on.
Unfortunately, while that decision may have reduced such risks in some ways, it did little to quell the damage those memories did when they did surface—which usually tended to be at the worst of times, at the smallest of things, or else when he was sleeping. Only a few nights’ past, he had received a frantic summons to Trenwith in the small hours of the morning, informed upon his arrival that George had, confused and panicked upon waking from some nightmare, somehow managed to barricade himself into one of the rooms on the upper floor of the house and was both refusing to come out or to let anybody else in. Dwight had spent what had felt like several long hours sitting in the corridor outside trying to calm him down and coax him out from the other side of the closed door. By the time he had managed to convince him to let him in, he had been thoroughly incoherent, having wound himself up to the point of utter exhaustion, but the few muttered, fragmented phrases Dwight had caught upon taking him back to his bedchamber to rest had spoken well enough of what—or rather who—had been the source of the trouble.
While his reaction now was not so severe as it had been then, however, it was clear that the thought of the man—and in particular, the prospect of his return—was causing him no small measure of distress. He had shrunk even further in on himself, shoulders hunched, head bowed, his messy curls tumbling across his crumpled brow and into his wild blue eyes. There were tears pooling in them, Dwight noticed, but, stubborn as he ever was, he refused to let them fall. A muscle in his jaw, tightly clenched, ticked at the effort, his whole form trembling slightly as he fought to bury down the flood of emotion that was threatening to consume him. It was, in many ways, a reminder of the man he had once been—private, closed-off, determined to hide the part of himself that was human and vulnerable behind a deep, impenetrable wall of haughty aloofness—but to Dwight, it indicated that George, despite his quiet tolerance of his care, did not entirely trust him—not enough to prevent him from trying to control and mask that vulnerability in his presence, however unsuccessfully. That did not greatly surprise him. After all, he suspected there had only ever been one person whom he had ever trusted with such things, and she was well beyond being able to aid her ailing husband.
To gain that trust, Dwight knew, would take a lot of time and patience, but in the meantime, it was clear that his all too fragile charge was in need of kindness and reassurance. He reached out carefully, making sure that George was able to gauge his intentions—he had discovered fairly quickly into his taking on of the man’s case that sudden touches were liable to cause him panic. His fingertips came to rest on the other man’s biceps, mindful not to grip. George gave an odd start at the touch, his nervous little movements coming to a sudden stop. He made no move to pull away, however, and after a short moment, Dwight, ever so gently, encouraged him to turn about to face him. He obliged, rigid and trembling, but his arms flew up to his chest, keeping the doctor firmly at arm’s length, when he tried to coax him a little closer. There was surprising strength in the gesture, for a man who seemed so frail and unwell, yet Dwight could feel him shaking beneath his palms, whether from the effort of it, the fear of some form of reprisal, or perhaps a little of both, he did not know.
“He shan’t return here, George,” he said softly, feeling the smooth silk of his dressing gown underneath his touch as he ran his thumbs up and down his arms in a slow, soothing gesture, trying to calm the man’s quivering. “I shall see to that. I shan’t allow anyone to hurt you whilst you are under my care.”
At this, George’s eyes, which had been fixed firmly on the floor, snapped up to his face, wide and confused, searching. There was something in his gaze—something so raw and wounded that it almost hurt to look, but Dwight forced himself to meet it, so that he might see the truth of his words in his own eyes.
“Why?,” George whispered. “You’ve every reason to hate me. Why would you…?”
He trailed off, unable to finish his own sentence. He looked so lost, so helpless in the face of his assurance, as if the thought of being shown care was completely alien to him. Dwight frowned, careful to keep his own sadness from showing upon his face. He understood why George might think it, but he did not hate the other man—had never hated him, not like Ross did. That feud, as far as he understood, was deeply personal on both sides, and rooted all the way back in their childhoods. On Dwight’s part, it was true that he had never been particularly fond of George, and that Ross’ enmity with the man had often put them in opposition, but he had never harboured any true dislike of him. Despite the distance there had been between them, he had seen enough of the way that George had acted in the presence of Elizabeth and his children to know that he was not the unfeeling monster Ross liked to imagine he was. Ross, he thought, seemed to have forgotten long ago that George was a human being, flawed and imperfect as the rest of them, just as capable of feeling love and loss and hurt, and no more deserving of the pain that had been inflicted upon him than any other. Dwight, however, had not. How could he, after all, with that wounded, fragile creature, so unlike the man he had come to know over the years, stood before him? And more importantly, what kind of man would he have been if he had turned away and allowed him to suffer alone, without aid or care or hope of recovery? No, he could never have brought himself to be so cruel. Not for anyone.
“Because you are my patient,” he said, honestly, “and it is my responsibility to see to it that you are kept safe and cared for whilst you recover. I shan’t do you any harm, and nor shall I allow any to be done to you. That, I promise you.”
George stared up at him at the admission, wide-eyed, uncertain. For a moment, Dwight thought he was about to say something, but before he could speak, there came a little cough from the doorway, and with a slight start, he shrank right back into his shell. Taking care to mask the frustration he felt at the intrusion, Dwight turned around to see Trigg, the footman, standing by the door with his usual air of inscrutability, face studiously blank as he regarded the doctor and his ailing employer. Dwight raised his eyebrows at him quizzically.
“Yes, Trigg?,” he asked. “What is it?”
“Forgive my interruption, sir, but Mr Warleggan said that you had given instructions that you would be out for the day,” came the obsequious reply. “I was told to fetch Sir George so that he might be made ready for the outing.”
He felt George shift under his gentle grip, manoeuvring himself so that he was partially shielded by Dwight’s arm. Whether it was the appearance of Trigg himself that had caused this reaction (Dwight knew that the man had probably played some role in Penrose’s treatments, even if it had been little more than fetching and carrying the necessary supplies, and that he had definitely played a role in forcibly sedating him on at least one occasion before Cary had turned to him for assistance—that confession he had drawn from the elder Warleggan like blood from a stone some days ago), or else any number of wild thoughts about what “readying him” might mean, or even the prospect of leaving the house, he did not know. Likely, he suspected, it would be a mixture of all three.
“Thank you, Trigg. If you could allow us a little privacy for a moment, we shall be with you presently.”
With a neat little bow of the head, Trigg disappeared promptly from the doorway, but his departure did little to soothe Dwight’s charge. The expression on George’s face was one of deep anxiety, and once again, the doctor privately cursed the man’s interruption. It was not the way he had wanted to introduce the prospect of leaving Trenwith to his patient. He had known, of course, that there would be no way to wholly avoid worrying him—Penrose’s cruel treatment had left George disposed to worry about anything and everything, to the point where even coaxing him onto the lawn for a little fresh air had been a struggle at first—but he had hoped that, had he been able to introduce the idea gently by degrees, he might have kept the man’s distress to a minimum. That, however, was clearly not to be, and he would simply have to make as best of the situation as he could.
“What did he mean?” George’s left hand, which had been placed flat on his chest to keep him at arm’s length, had found the lapel of his coat, and was clutching at it with white knuckles. There was a suggestion of that wild panic in his voice that he had only just managed to tame, eyes flicking towards the door where Trigg had been moments before. “What do I need to be made ready for?”
His expression was so crumpled with bewilderment and distress that, for a moment, Dwight toyed with the idea of leaving the outing for another time. George was already very fragile and he did not want to cause him too much strain—his aim was to mend him, after all, not break him. He was sure that Cary would protest—he wanted the delusion gone as soon as possible, ostensibly due to concern over the family’s reputation and secretly, Dwight suspected, because he hadn’t the slightest idea of how to care for his nephew whilst he was in such a delicate, dependent state. Unfortunately, this meant that he tended to mishandle the situation. Cary thought of the illness as he might have thought of an infestation—some foreign thing that had lodged itself where it shouldn’t and had to be forced out like rats from a hole. Dwight, however, was more inclined to think of it as a cage, an iron fist which had him trapped in its grasp, unable to look to the future, to move forward. The longer the delusion remained, the tighter that fist would squeeze, until he shattered under the strain of it, broken and beyond the reach of any who might be able to put him back together. For that reason alone, Dwight knew that it would be unwise to put it off. He could delay, again and again and again, and each time he might think to try and tackle it again, George would be no less fragile for allowing the delusion to linger. No, it would be best to face it now, so that he might begin to heal.
“I had intended to take you out today,” he said, keeping his voice calm and measured. “To St Sawle Church.”
George frowned, his brow upturned in worry and confusion. He was tugging slightly on Dwight’s lapel. The doctor allowed it without comment. It was more for comfort than a means of getting his attention, he knew.
“Why?” came the agitated enquiry after a long pause. Dwight was careful to keep the frown from his face as he contemplated what he should say. He’d no wish to lie to George, but to tell him the whole truth would do nothing but ensure his complete refusal to come, and to say nothing at all would lead to naught but suspicion and mistrust.
“There is something I need to show you there,” he said. “I cannot promise you that it shall be pleasant. In fact, I suspect it shall be painful and difficult, but what I can promise you is that, once it is done, it should help you get well again.”
At that, George’s expression crumpled. The panic, gradually fading from his eyes, was being replaced by a look of resigned despair. It occurred to Dwight, suddenly, that he had probably been given such platitudes under the brutal care of Dr Penrose.
“Must I go?” The pleading note in his voice was almost childlike in quality, but the desolate look in his eyes told Dwight that he didn’t really believe he had any sort of choice in the matter, and that was a state of affairs that the doctor could not allow to stand as it was.
“I shan’t force you to,” he replied carefully. “Look at me, George, look at me,” he added, his tone coaxing and gentle when the man refused to meet his gaze. “I promise you that if you wish to remain here today, then that is what we shall do. But I urge you, if you wish to recover, this cannot be avoided for long. It may be hard, but what is easy is not always what is best for us. All I can ask is that you be brave.”
Had a passing stranger seen this moment, they would likely been surprised to learn that before them lay the very same man who had once stood against an armed mob with naught but a handful of men and a few firearms in order to defend his family, but Dwight thought he saw a shadow of him, however faint and brief as, after several long moments of stillness and silence, he gave a short, sharp nod, his jaw clenched tight. Dwight smiled at him encouragingly. Good, at least there was something of him still in there.
“Thank you,” he said. “Now come, it shan’t do for us to keep Trigg waiting, shall it?”
With a great deal of time and effort, they had managed, between them, to coax George into some warm clothes suitable to ward against the autumn chill, and outside the door of Trenwith and into the carriage. The journey to St Sawle Church was not a long one, and could, as a general rule, be easily traversed on foot by a reasonably healthy man. For George in his current state, however, Dwight thought that a walk or ride there, where they might encounter all manners of people with whom the thought of interacting could well be distressing for his frail charge, would perhaps be too taxing, especially considering that he had no idea what state he might be in on the return journey. What he intended would be stressful enough for his patient without adding extra sources of worry along the way.
The carriage slowed to a stop outside the church in barely any time at all, jolting the both of them as it came to an abrupt halt. Dwight turned his gaze towards George. He was dressed neatly enough in his usual clothing, but, with his head bowed, staring forlornly down at the hat clasped tight in his gloved hands, he looked no less fragile and unhappy in his Sunday best than he had in his nightshirt and dressing gown. They hadn’t been able to do anything about his hair, which was still a disorderly mess of tangled curls. He wouldn’t let anybody near it—at least, not without descending into a sharp, intense panic from which it was extremely difficult to calm him down. He had had similar reactions before to touches to his shoulders as well, and his wrists, and from this, Dwight suspected that it was related in some way to Penrose’s rough treatment. He knew from experience, after all, how easily the smallest of things could dredge up memories of that kind. In the end, he had simply told Trigg to leave him be. George had looked so pathetically grateful at that that it had almost shattered his heart to see the once proud man fallen so low.
“Come, George,” he said, standing from his seat and moving to open the carriage door. “We have arrived.”
George did not move, save for his nervous kneading at the brim of his hat. It was only until Dwight had alighted from the carriage and had turned about to wait for him to follow suit that he shuffled carefully along the seat and made to step out onto the path below. He was a little unsteady on his feet, and he staggered slightly, unbalanced. Dwight’s instinct was to grab hold of him to stop him from falling, but he forced it down—he’d no wish to distress the man with any sudden touches. Instead, he confined himself to a slow, light touch at his elbow, waiting until he had righted himself to withdraw.
“Thank you” George murmured, after a long pause. Dwight gave him a slow nod of acknowledgement in reply.
“It is not too far now,” he said. “Are you ready?”
George’s eyes flickered from the ground upon which they had been fixed, up to the church, and then down to the myriad of gravestones surrounding it. From the apprehension in his gaze, the doctor suspected that, somewhere beneath the delusion, he knew exactly what it was that Dwight had brought him there to see.
“I-I don't—” he stammered.
“I will be beside you the whole time,” Dwight reminded him gently. “I shall be here to help you. It is just a little further.”
George tore his eyes away from the graves to meet his gaze, lost and afraid, but nevertheless, he followed in Dwight’s footsteps as he began to lead him into the churchyard. Their pace was slow and unsteady, and Dwight had to keep checking over his shoulder to check that George was still behind him. He took care to send him the odd word of encouragement, coaxing him carefully on when he faltered. It was a relief, he thought, to see the churchyard nigh empty, for he knew that his charge, whilst in his right mind, would have hated to be seen in such a state.
It was just as they rounded the corner of the church to where their destination lay that George slowed to a stop, unwilling—or perhaps unable—to go any further. He had spotted the gravestone. They were close enough to make out the name it bore, and it had been enough to halt George in his already slow, unsteady path. He looked lost and bewildered, clutching tight at the brim of his hat like a frightened child. It seemed as if he did not know whether to go backwards or forwards, whether to approach, or to run and hide and forget.
“A little further,” Dwight said, trying to keep his tone gentle and encouraging. When George made no response, eyes fixed firmly on the gravestone ahead, he knew that words would not be enough. He lifted his arm, offering it to him to grab hold of. “Take my arm. This will not be easy, but it is a necessity.”
The movement was enough to tear George’s eyes away from the grave. He gazed down at the proffered arm, timid and uncertain. Dwight kept carefully still, waiting. A long moment passed in which neither of them moved, and he thought George might reject the offer, but then, with some trepidation, the ailing man crept forward, hand reaching out to clutch faintly at his elbow. The touch was barely there, feather-light against the fabric of his coat.
“Come,” Dwight said, with an attempt at an encouraging smile. “Just a little further.”
The going was slow for such a short distance, but eventually they came abreast of the grave, slowing to a staggering stop when George could go no further. Dwight felt his patient’s grip at his elbow, barely noticeable before, tighten like a vice.
“But I-I saw her only yesterday” he protested. His brow crumpled in confusion and distress as his eyes fixed on the name on the stone, then onto the date below it. His voice was faint, a slight tremor to it as he desperately tried to make sense of the sight in front of him.
“In your memory,” Dwight replied, slow and quiet. He knew that George would fight against it, that his mind would twist and turn to find ways of denying it, and so he, in turn, must remain calm and patient if he stood any chance of guiding his charge towards the truth. “And memories should be cherished, but not mistaken for what is real. However painful that is.”
George shook his head. Letting out a wounded little noise that Dwight just barely heard, he drew back, almost imperceptibly, caught between the urge to back away from the grave, and the strange transfixion the sight seemed to have over him.
“But I – It-it can’t – She isn’t – ” It seemed as if he could barely form a coherent thought, his distress was so great. He turned to Dwight, wounded and bewildered, and the doctor felt his grip on his arm lessen as he pulled away. “It must be a lie, a trick. She cannot be – Why would you show me this?”
Dwight let him retreat, but he kept a hand hovering just above the man’s bicep, so that he might take hold of him if need be. George was in a deeply fragile state, and he worried that he might collapse, or else do himself some injury trying to get away, should it become too much for him.
“Because it is the truth,” he returned, gently. “A painful and difficult truth, but the truth nonetheless.”
George let out a pained whimper which sounded like a half-attempt at the word “no”. He was still shaking his head in tiny, jerking little movements, his eyes fast filling with tears which he refused to shed. Dwight stared at him sadly. It was not enough, he knew, to simply tell him it was so. Slowly, carefully, he reached out and took George’s hand in a gentle grip, waiting to see if he would pull away. When he did not, Dwight tugged at it lightly, trying to encourage him to step forward.
“Come,” he said. “Just a few more steps.”
George stared at him with wide eyes, now frantically shaking his head. He had realised what Dwight wanted of him, and he stood firm, refusing to move.
“No.” At any other time, there might have been considerable force behind his refusal, but as it was, it came out more like a plea. His voice shook, though he made no attempt to remove his hand from Dwight’s grasp.
“Just a little further, George,” he repeated, running his thumb soothingly over the other man’s knuckles. “You’ve come this far already. I need you to be brave for just a little longer.”
George stared into his eyes, jaw clenched so tight in his fight to hold back his tears that Dwight wouldn’t have been surprised if it shattered. Then, after a long moment, he bowed his head and allowed himself to be guided forward, his gaze fixed firmly on the movements of their feet. It was only a few steps before they were inches away from the gravestone itself. Carefully, Dwight took the hand cradled in his own and placed it atop the stone. He could feel it shaking beneath his palm.
“You can feel it, can you not?,” he said, gently. “You can see it. Does that not make it real?”
“But—” George’s eyes flitted over the stone, as if trying to take every detail of it in, to find some tiny thing which might prove it to be a lie. “But I-I saw her. Many time’s, I’ve seen— Why must it be that she is the lie?”
“They cannot both be true,” Dwight reminded him softly. “You know that.”
George shook his head. His grip on the headstone was so tight that Dwight was sure his knuckles must be bone white behind his leather gloves.
“She shouldn’t be—,” he gasped out, and there was a vehemence to his words that was only slightly dampened by the unsteady, lost look shining in his eyes. “This shouldn’t be—”
He could not finish the thought, lips drawn tight in a trembling line, breath ragged as he fought to contain the emotion that was threatening to overcome him. Dwight, however, caught his meaning well enough, and he looked away across the path leading up to the church, his own jaw clamped about a sudden rush of feeling. Elizabeth should have been alive and happy, with her family, not dead and buried beneath their feet, but if there was one thing he had learnt in life, it was that death did not care about “shoulds”. It was a brutal lesson—one which he had learnt battling both people and disease—but never had it been cemented more in his mind than when he had walked up that very path, rain pouring down upon him, Caroline trailing behind him, beyond tears, and a little coffin cradled gently in his arms, as if its inhabitant were merely sleeping, and the slightest jostle would have disturbed her. Oh, how desperately he had wished for that to be true then, but he had known no amount of wanting would bring Sarah back.
“If there were any fairness in this world, Elizabeth would still be with us,” he murmured. He was glad to hear that, despite the dark turn of his thoughts, his voice came out quiet, but strong. “But wanting it does not change the fact that she is gone, no matter how strong that want is.”
George, who had seemed almost frozen in place as he listened to his words, tore away from the grave, almost as if he had been burnt, as he whirled abruptly around to face him. His pale eyes glistened in the autumn sunlight as he met Dwight’s gaze with a desperate, almost feverish intensity—pleading, though for what, the doctor was not sure either of them entirely knew.
“Sh-she could have— She needn’t have—” He stumbled, trying to find the words for a sentiment he could barely express. “If she hadn’t had the child— If I hadn't—”
He spoke the last words with such pain that he could barely choke out another sound, his hands, which were now clutching at the brim of his hat so tight that it looked as if he might crush it, shaking violently. There was a maelstrom of emotion in his eyes, each to greatly entangled to even begin to set them apart, but if there was one that shone through, clear as day, it was guilt. In that moment, it seemed so powerful that it might well crush him into dust. Dwight felt his throat constrict as he met the man’s gaze. His thoughts flashed back to the vial he had found on Elizabeth’s dressing table that awful night—the vial to which he suspected, though could scarce believe the purpose of. Should he tell him? But no, he couldn’t, not here, not now. George was not ready to hear such things, and even if he were, Dwight doubted that vague suspicions would do anything to help him. Once he knew the truth, perhaps—if he ever knew the truth—he would ensure that his patient knew it too. If nothing else, for better or for worse, George deserved to know exactly why his wife had died.
“There is no fault here,” he said. He prayed that time would not make a liar of him. “Loss, but no blame.”
Given the thoughts that were rushing through his head, the platitude sounded weak to his own ears, and it was clear from the expression on his face that, no matter how reassuring he had tried to be, George did not believe him. He turned away from him, back to the gravestone, eyes fixed once again on the elegant inscription before him. With one trembling hand, he reached out, barely touching the carved “E” of her name as he traced the shape of it with the tip of his finger.
“She will be cold down there,” he said, and Dwight could hear the tears that he was still stubbornly holding back thick in his quivering voice. “A-alone in the dark. She was afraid of the dark.”
It took all of Dwight’s willpower not to jolt at his words. George barely seemed to realise what he was saying, but to Dwight, it was proof. Proof that the memory—that one horrible memory that he had tried so hard to push away that he had crumbled under the strain of it—was not buried so deep as to be lost completely. Beneath the comforting lie that he told himself, he knew. He remembered. All he needed to do was get him to face it.
“She told you that, do you remember?” he asked, careful to keep his voice as calm and measured as it had been before.
For a long time, George made no response. He was busy tracing the letters of Elizabeth’s name. Despite his ongoing battle, a single tear seeped, unbidden, from the corner of his eye and trailed down his hollow cheek, but still, he refused to let the rest follow in its wake.
“I held her hand” he said eventually, so quiet that, for a moment, Dwight thought he must have imagined it.
“Yes” he replied, just as softly. He watched his patient carefully, hovering close by to support him if need be. He didn’t like the way he was shaking, as if the strain was becoming too much for him.
“I— She—” It was no longer just tears which were making George’s eyes look misty, his gaze losing focus as he started to fall into the memory. He swayed dangerously, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. “She was cold— I-I can't—”
Dwight caught him deftly before he could crumple in a heap on the grass below them. Too soon, he thought. George wasn’t ready to face that memory—not yet, not here. He would have to confront it soon enough, but now…he had done enough for now.
“It’s alright, George,” he murmured as he staggered against him, his breathing too fast and too shallow at the sudden touch. “It’s alright.”
That, he thought, was the closest thing to a lie he might have said, but what else was there to comfort the man? He adjusted his grip so as to keep him upright, and though George flinched at the movement, he seemed too overcome to push him away. Strain and exhaustion had quashed what vestiges of his pride remained, and he allowed himself to slump against the other man, one hand gripping tightly at the lapel of his coat.
Dwight let him lean against him until his breathing slowed and his trembling calmed. He glanced about him over the top of his head, glad to see that they were still alone in the churchyard. He was acutely aware of how vulnerable his patient currently was, and how much it would have alarmed him, in his right mind, to risk being seen in such a state. They should return to the carriage, he thought, but he wasn’t sure George would be able to make it so far without having time to compose himself.
“Come,” he said, gently encouraging George to right himself. “I think we had best get inside the church.”
George pushed himself upright, but he did not let go of his lapel, still tightly clenched in his gloved fist.
“Is there more?” he asked. His voice was hollow, and his gaze was directed towards the floor, rather than his face.
“No.” Dwight shook his head firmly. “It is over now. I simply wish for you to sit down and rest for a little while before we return to Trenwith.”
George made no reply, his eyes, still fixed firmly on the floor, suddenly full of a kind of empty despair which reminded him, despite the bright sunlight rather than the dim gloaming, and the safety of the ground rather than the edge of the cliff, all too much of the occasion which had started all this. Once again, he knew that it fell upon him to lead him away from that despair.
“Come” he said again.
Slowly, carefully, Dwight shifted so that his arms were rested protectively around his shoulders as he began to lead him in the direction of the church. Despite the padding of his coat, he felt no less bone-thin than he had in nothing but his nightshirt on the clifftop, held fast to keep him from falling. He wondered why it had never truly occurred to him before that George was really a rather small man, slight of build and short of stature. But then, he supposed, he had—or had once had—such a presence about him, such a formidable force of personality, that one barely took notice of the fact. Well, there was none of that now, he reflected grimly as he glanced down at his fragile charge. All of that—all his strength and stubbornness, all that rage and ruthlessness—had been gutted from him, leaving nothing behind but that poor wretched slip of a shadow in his arms. He thought back to the day he had first seen George, back during—good God—Julia’s christening, all those years ago. He had understood why, then, underneath his velvet coat and neat hair and pretty smiles, Ross had found such a formidable opponent in him, why he was a man whom most did not dare cross. How greatly all their lives had changed since then.
The church was blessedly empty as they staggered inside, and Dwight praised the lord for small mercies as he guided a trembling George to the nearest pew and encouraged him, wordlessly, to sit. The man sank down onto the bench, spine bowed as he buried his face in his hands, like a willow forced to bend its boughs before a strong wind. He made no move, not even the slightest acknowledgement, as Dwight came, cautiously, to sit beside him, but his shoulders were shaking violently, and with an unpleasant jolt, the doctor realised that he had finally, finally begun to cry.
Time ticked on, the silent church filled with nothing but the sounds of the wind outside, the scrabbling of starlings in the eaves above them, and George’s quiet sniffles, muffled behind his hands as he tried, in vain, to mask them. Dwight was not sure how long they remained there—the doctor and his weeping patient, neither saying a word to the other—but after a while, he noticed a slight lessening in his charge’s trembling. Slowly, he reached out and pressed the flat of his hand against the small of his back. He half-expected the gesture, just as he had the offer to take his arm, to be shrugged off, but though George let out a startled little noise at the contact, he made no move to withdraw from the touch, save for an almost imperceptible twitch.
“I didn’t show this to you to be cruel,” Dwight said. Quiet as his voice was, it still echoed strangely about the walls after so long of silence. “I know that it is painful, and pain is powerful, but it is also needful. It reminds us that we are alive. We cannot avoid it, nor should we try.”
For a moment, George made no move, no sound, and Dwight begun to wonder whether he had heard him at all, lost in the harsh grip of his grief as he was. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, he raised his head from his hands, face pale and wan, his eyes very red. He did not turn to look at Dwight, but instead stared straight ahead of him, unseeing.
“If this is being alive,” he said, and his voice was thick with emotion he could no longer repress, “then why should I wish to live?”
It took all of Dwight’s willpower not to inhale sharply at his words. As much as he might wish to be, he was not surprised by them. How could he be, when he had been the one to pull him away from the cliff edge that had so nearly been the end of him? If anything, he had dreaded them. He was painfully aware that, though he had prevented him from falling that evening, George was still teetering on a precipice which he might tip over at any moment. For that was what the delusion was, Dwight saw—a poisonous comfort, a gilded cage which kept him from tumbling into the abyss as much as it prevented him from turning away from it. With that strange security which he had been clinging to beginning to break down, it would be his, Dwight’s, duty once more to keep him from falling over the edge.
There was something different this time, however, something which gave him pause. The way he had asked whether it would matter if he fell, that time on the clifftops, had been bleak and despondent, the words of a man resigned to the thought that his life was not worth living. Now, however, it was less despairing and more beseeching, as if he desperately, genuinely wanted—needed—an answer to that question which he couldn’t seem to find within himself. He needed a reason, Dwight realised, a reason to keep on fighting. In a moment, his thoughts flashed, unbidden, to that terrible time in the aftermath of losing Sarah. He wondered, if there had been no Ross, or Demelza, or his dear Caroline, if he would have been inclined to ask that very same question.
“You still have your children” he said, quietly, gently. Thinking of Sarah made him think of Ursula, and of Valentine. Ursula was too young to know what was happening, though Dwight thought from the nature of her cries that the strange absences of her papa had not gone unnoticed. Valentine was even more affected, all too aware of the cloud that had descended over his home and family, of the loss of his mother, and of the fact that he was fast losing his father too. It was a harsh reminder that it was not just the life and soul of one man that depended on his aid and success. More than ever now did the fear of failing weigh on his mind.
“My children.” The words were soft, barely audible. Still, George stared blankly ahead of him, the quality of his gaze a little glassy, but there seemed a little more light in his red-rimmed eyes. It was a response, of sorts, and thus encouraged, Dwight continued on.
“Elizabeth may be gone,” he said, “but she lives on in them. They have already lost their mother. They need their father more than ever. For their sake, if not your own, you mustn’t give in.”
“My Valentine, my Ursula.” He still had that faraway look in his eyes, but Dwight knew that he was thinking on his words. For all his faults, George loved his children. If their need was not enough to bring him back from the brink, he doubted anything else could.
“For them, you must at least try to keep fighting,” he continued, the hand on the small of his back travelling up to rest between his shoulder-blades. “And for Elizabeth as well. She wouldn’t wish to see you so lost. For her, you must try to find yourself again.”
This time, George finally turned to face him, eyes shining. He looked adrift, like a ship that had lost its anchor to the depths of the sea, afraid of falling into dangerous currents that it could not steer away from.
“I don’t know how.”
The admission was small and faint and frightened, so unlike the man he had come to know, but Dwight thought that, somehow, it was one of the most brutally honest things he had ever said to him. He reached out, taking one of George’s hands carefully in both of his own.
“All I can ask is that you try,” he said. “I shall be there to help you. You are not alone anymore.”
George stared up into his eyes for what seemed like an age, then down to their joined hands. After a long moment, he gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Dwight smiled, sadly. It was no wonder he had fallen into despair, with nothing and no one for company but his own misery, guilt and his unfeeling old uncle pushing him forward until he broke. Now, however, it would be different. It would not be he—Dwight—who left the vulnerable man lost amongst the waves. No. Whatever happened, whatever stood in his way, he would make George Warleggan well again.