Chapter Text
"If you suppose or suspect that in buying these things, I was hoping to buy myself back into your favor, then you're right. I admit it. It is true, my dear, my very dear Demelza. My fine, my loyal, my very sweet Demelza." Ross Poldark
Prologue:
Warleggan, Book 4, Ch 1 - May 1793
They were both desolate people, needing friendship and sympathy and finding none….
"Do you want to leave?"
"I - think so. I want to do what's right."
~*~
December 28th 1793
Ross,
By the time you read this letter, I will long be gone. You did ask me twice if I wanted to leave and both times, I thought it was the right thing to do. But I was persuaded against it, by you.
Ross, I do not feel I can stay in Nampara any longer. Stay with you as it was all before then. Whether it be right or wrong then, now, or in the time to come, I do not know. But the actions have been carried out and the consequences are only left but to follow. For aught I know it might happen again. And again. And that I cannot risk, to continue a mere existence that has become the norm these last seven months. The fear, the doubting if I will ever hold first place in your affections or will she always claim that seat. This is the part that hurts most of all, that in your rage, you would willingly abandon your own wife and child for another. Or how the child she carries now is not the result of your abdication of our marriage vows.
I grieve at times for what we had. For what more it could have been. Sitting at the table knowing we can never be to each other what Dwight and Caroline are. And while we may thaw, is there hope we could ever heal? To be what we once were? To know we cannot laugh and tease and share as before. Love is not a commodity to be bought, but a gift to be freely given. I gave mine, foolish and naïve as I was only to find out most wretchedly that it was never wanted, never needed. Not so, in comparison to others.
But then perhaps this is the price I should pay for loving a man who had it not within him to give back his love. Perhaps this is the penance I will pay for having worn that teal dress so long ago. I have tried to push against the thought, that we can come to heal, but as the days and weeks have gone, there was no hope in sight. There is no hope and I have become resigned that this will be my fate.
So I will carry out as I had suggested at first, only this time, Jeremy is to come with me. I have looked for work hereabouts and a few of the prospects look promising. I have accepted a position and will leave presently.
I intend to go on living my life. Not ruled by your actions and Elizabeth's. Perhaps in removing myself from the shadows, happiness and purpose can once again be found. I can only encourage you to do the same.
Godspeed,
Demelza
Ch 1:
Late August 1794
"My love," she turned to him, that gentle whisper against the early morning breeze of a pleasant English summer.
"Good morning, Lieutenant Armitage," she smiled.
"I would have thought we have become much better acquainted that we can do away with formalities." He took her left hand and brought it to his lips. "Have I done so poorly within the last week in proving otherwise?"
She blushed under his perusal as a dimple appeared and his eyes sparkled with mirth.
"You tease me so cruelly. Can a lady not show respect to such an august gentleman as yourself?"
"A lady can," said he, with furrowed brows. He leaned closer to her and whispered, "But you are not any lady, you are my wife."
"'Tis only been but a sennight. Yet I have done so poorly, first in forgetting to address you correctly. You must think me a bad wife - and regret your decision to marry me."
"Fortunately, you are not beyond redemption." His eyes went slightly to her parted lips, lush and full - asking permission.
She stood slightly on her toes, bent towards him, welcoming his advances.
His arms, long and now strong encompassed about her, pulling her to himself as he drank from her lips like a famished man until air was necessary and the could not but separate.
"Would you return with me back to our bed, dearest?" He asked after their breathing settled evenly.
He took a step back, their hands entwined. She nodded her assent and followed after him, abandoning the glorious sun as it rose on the eastern sky beyond the walls of her new home.
December 29th 1793
Christmas had come and passed. It had been spent with Dwight and Caroline. And Demelza. He thought there was hope to be had, that Christmas Even night as she stepped out, ready to leave and he had convinced her to stay, to at least consider that there was something left of their marriage to save. They had returned inside, he had given her the gifts. He thought a resolution, some solace had been found.
Dwight and Caroline had left the day after the holiday. He to his ship; she to her sick uncle. Life had continued. He went to the mine. She about her tasks. It had seemed to him that after seven months, some semblance of normal was to return to his household.
"Where is your Mistress?" he had asked the previous morning.
"Collecting the eggs for the morning, sir." Jane Gimlette had said.
The task did not surprise him, Demelza was not one to fear chores and soon she had returned, breakfast was prepared. Jeremy had joined them. And he had left for the mine not long after. He had not returned for a meal during noon-day but only late into the evening.
Today had been the same. Until only this evening. He had come to a quiet house, Jane Gimlett working. He passed by the study to see the cot now removed. He went upstairs and found his bedchambers as they always were, clean immaculate. He opened the drawers in her vanity, full with items. Nothing at all amiss.
He returned downstairs. He barged into the kitchen and asked after Demelza.
"She had run to Truro, sir. Said had to get items for the house."
"And Jeremy?"
"She took him with her, sir."
He paused a little longer, Jane Gimlette seemed to be telling the truth. He left her to her work and returned through the parlor. Nothing was amiss. Past to the library again. There. He noticed it, the envelope on the clean desk, his name in her writing marred the crisp paper.