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Pride goeth before the fall.
Mayhaps it will be my epitaph, Ross considered wryly. It had always been one of his weaknesses, the fierce pride the only son of a second son would carry, especially in a family as old and storied as the Poldarks. It had got him in more scrapes than he’d cared to remember, including the one that had forced him into the army instead of prison. Or worse, he reminded himself. As it stood, that last act of rebellion had been the first in the chain of events that had led him to this moment: standing in the drawing room of Trenwith House on Christmas Eve, surrounded by friends, his cousins Verity, Francis and Francis’ wife Elizabeth, and listening to the crystalline voice of a young woman from Cornwall.
It was Demelza. His wife of six months. The girl-turned-woman (before his very eyes, as it had happened) he’d married out of a sense of duty and obligation borne of the kind of decisions he’d been known to make: rash, impulsive, risky. Prideful. Upon reflection, many of the decisions he’d made regarding Demelza had been rash and impulsive, from the very first: rescuing her (and her beloved pup Garrick) from the Redruth Fair dogfight. Offering her work as his serving maid.
The blue satin dress.
A blue satin dress and an instant of mutual need and surrender had led to a night of devastating passion. Once her initial shyness and inexperience had passed, he’d discovered she’d been a match for his appetite, until they’d both succumbed to the sleep of the well-sated. In the weeks preceding the wedding, he’d struggled to keep himself from her, despite her reassurances that his attentions were much desired. Their wedding night had been one of delight and new discovery.
He’d known for some time now that she loved him beyond reason. That love had morphed over the years: sheer gratitude for saving her from a vicious father’s fists to a servant’s devotion to a woman’s appreciation for his form to a lover’s adoration. And, knowing this, he’d wielded the power that love had over her to push her boundaries over the last six months. He fondly remembered her first visit to Wheal Leisure as his wife, and how he’d had to grasp her elbow to keep her from bobbing a curtsey to Captain Henshaw, his partner. Making arrangements for Jinny to join their household as HER kitchen maid, and her barely concealed shock over being curtseyed TO. Leaving her alone at home with Verity, who’d made good on her promise to call upon them, to figure out how to manage the entertainment of “a great lady” through an entire afternoon. And in all of these situations she’d risen above her fears and shone brighter than he’d ever imagined.
But she’d always managed to wriggle out from under the last test of her transformation from servant to lady: standing by his side in front of the rest of the Poldark family and taking her rightful place as his wife. His chance had come two weeks before Christmas, with the arrival of a letter.
“From Francis,” he said, casually leaning against the sideboard, the letter held lightly in his hand. “Inviting us to spend Christmas at Trenwith.”
The look on her face would have been comical if he’d not known how frightening the prospect of being trapped with his relatives was for her. “Oh.”
He sighed. “What’s the matter?”
“Well I—I couldn’t,” she stammered. “You go—“
“—Naturally we’d both go or we’d both stay,” he interrupted.
The excuses had begun almost at once. “Ross, I aren’t their sort. They’ll look down their noses.” She paused, before continuing in a near-whisper, “They’ll send me to eat with the servants.”
He fixed her with a steely gaze. “Do you think I ought to be ashamed of you?”
She blinked. “Tis not that, but—”
“—Do you think they are so much better than you?”
“I don’t, but they’ll think so. Maybe not Verity, but…Elizabeth…” She fidgeted, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye before shifting her gaze to the floor.
As soon as she’d whispered Elizabeth’s name, he’d recognized how he could push her to go.
“You do her a great disservice,” he said, shaking his head. “And me.” He swung his leg over the bench to sit at the kitchen table.
“You?” she exclaimed, settling across from him, her fingers gripping the shawl around her shoulders.
He gazed at her. “To think I could admire someone who’d think meanly of you.” He slid a fresh piece of paper and a quill from the centre of the table.
Her brow furrowed. “Well,” she said, flicking a petulant glance at him across the table, “do you admire her?”
A brief smile touched his eyes. “Elizabeth was born to be admired,” he said softly.
That made the furrowed brows snap together into a scowl. “And I was born to pull turnips!” she all but snarled. Ross gave a slight snort, dipped the quill into the inkpot and began writing on the sheet of parchment. Demelza sat up and went very still. “What are you doing?”
“Accepting the invitation.”
And, with that, she’d been cornered.
Pride goeth before the fall.
In the end, he’d been filled with such pride for his wife, all throughout the evening. The bravery she’d shown when Aunt Agatha had forced her to sit beside Elizabeth, one of the most beautiful women to ever grace the land, so the old woman could see how Demelza “measured up.” And when she’d appeared before dinner…. He smiled at the memory.
He’d been last through the door into the dining room and wondered what had caused the slight crush at the doorway. He’d lifted his head and had seen her, framed by the carved marble archway at the other end of the room. She’d been resplendent in her new gown – a teasing surprise to Ross – of the deepest cranberry red and covered with tiny, embroidered flowers, her red-gold hair gleaming in the candlelight. He hadn’t been the only one to stare in amazement, but he may have been the only one to notice the panicked breathing that forced the bodice of her dress to tremble in its rising and falling. He’d walked over to her to take her hand, to share a private, appreciative gaze into her eyes before he’d introduced her to the newcomers: the Warleggans and the Trenegloses.
His pride in her had grown deeper during their dinner by the way she’d handled Ruth Teague Treneglos’ near-surgical insults to her character, only to take up the sword and defend his dear cousin Verity when Ruth’s barbs had failed to have the desired effect upon her.
When Demelza excused herself after dinner he’d worried the dinner conversation – battle was more like it – had taken more out of her than she’d cared to admit, and he’d worried that he’d pushed her too far. But she’d reappeared in the drawing room a quarter of an hour later, looking a little tired, but nothing that had caused him great concern. In that moment, Ruth had thrown one last, needle-sharp dart in the hopes of bringing her down to where the vengeful woman thought she belonged.
“Mistress Poldark.” There was the slightest tinge of insult in the sweet way Ruth uttered Demelza’s formal title. “Now you must play something for us.”
Ross’ eyes darted up to Demelza’s face. He struggled when he saw the dart hit home. The slight dip of her chin. The way her eyes shifted their glance towards the floor.
“No, no,” Demelza stammered nervously. “I—I—”
“—What,” Ruth said, barely containing a derisive laugh, “not musical, ma’am? Did your governess not teach you?”
“Demelza sings.”
The words had come from his mouth before he’d even given the implications another thought. Rash, impulsive, risky, prideful. He’d seen her sea-green eyes flash up to meet his, a myriad of emotions flickering through them: her initial fear re-doubled, a flare of anger at the challenge and then what he’d known he’d see: the soul-deep desire she carried within to please him, whatever it would take. He’d known, without question, which one would win.
“Oh?” A mocked sound of surprise from Ruth. “Then, we must hear her.”
Pride goeth before the fall. He’d held Demelza’s gaze once more, and had given her a nod and smile of encouragement. He’d known she could do this and had willed her to believe it as she made her way towards the harp to pluck a single, rich tone to begin.
I pluck a fair rose for my love, I pluck a red rose blowin’
Love’s in my heart, tryin’ so to prove
What your heart’s knowin’
It was a tune he’d heard her humming to herself from time to time, but had never heard the words. Her voice had trembled at first, but then turned sure and strong, despite nerves evidenced by the bloodless grip of the hands which had clutched onto the back of Verity’s chair.
I’d pluck a finger on a thorn, I’d pluck a finger, bleedin’
Red is my heart, wounded and forlorn,
And your heart, needin’
Her eyes had captured Ross’ from across the room, and he’d forgotten how to breathe. Tonight, before this assembly of his friends and his family, she’d chosen to declare herself. It could not have been clearer. His eyes had clung to hers, hazel to sea-green turned stormy with… with what, he’d wondered. Desire? He knew his appetite for her had yet to have been satisfied. And probably never would, given how often thoughts of her and her uninhibited response to his needs would creep into his mind, leaving him restless and longing at the most inopportune moments.
Was the same as true for her? The prospect had ignited a slow burn in his blood.
He’d once considered his marriage to her to be a distraction from all of the turmoil in his life. The mine. His tenants. His debts. To consider her to be a mere distraction was an understatement of biblical proportions.
He’d once considered his marriage to her to be a salve for his wounded heart. If he was to be honest, he hadn’t considered Elizabeth – now as enchanted by Demelza’s song as the rest of the assembly – overmuch, if at all, in several months.
Love. Pride goeth before the fall. He’d fallen, and the realization had made him quake.
“Sometimes I barely see what is right in front of me.” He’d said those words to her not more than 24 hours before he’d stripped her of that blue satin gown. But it was there. Had BEEN there, right in front of him all along. The longing he’d experience when he would see her fingers play with the ribbons he’d given her, only to wish she were touching him instead. The smile that would creep across his face simply thinking of the way she looked as she was sleeping. And how the sweet scent of the flowers she’d placed everywhere around Nampara had made him glad to be at home. The way the hairs would stand on the back of his neck when he bent to kiss her in the evening. The joy he’d feel as the lilt of her song drifted across the kitchen as she kneaded dough for their bread. The growl that issued from deep in his throat whenever he’d heard the gentle coo she’d make when his thumb flicked past her nipples. The admiration he’d feel as he’d watched her practice her letters, her brow in a furrow and her bottom lip slightly held between her teeth. The shudder he’d feel course through his body whenever her thighs gripped his hips, fierce and strong, when he’d turned to her for pleasure.
I’d hold a finger to my tongue, I’d hold a finger, waitin’
My heart is sore, until it joins in song
Wi’ your heart, matin’
As she finished her song, the breath Ross hadn’t realized he’d been holding sighed through his slightly opened lips. He’d felt himself tremble with an emotion he hadn’t thought possible for him to feel again, not after all that had happened with Elizabeth. He nearly bobbled the wine glass in his hand in an effort to free it to join its twin in applause most heartily deserved. He smiled broadly, blinking away the merest hint of tears and willed the love finally acknowledged within his heart to shine through, hoping she’d see it.
The party had broken up shortly after her performance. He’d wanted to go to her, to hold her, to kiss her, to give her the words that nearly screamed to be heard. As it happened, he’d only been able to offer her the brief touch of his lips to her cheek and a whispered, “Thank you,” in her ear before Francis had pulled him into a discussion about Wheal Grambler’s prospects. Despite his best intentions, it had been well past two in the morning when he’d finally made it to their bedchamber.
He removed his jacket and cravat, laying them atop a chair before sitting on the bed to look at her. She was nestled in the feather ticking, one hand curled near her head, her face turned away from the door. Her hair spilled across the pillow, gleaming in the light of the single remaining candle next to the bed. The whiteness of her nightgown fell in contrast with the rich gold brocade of the coverlet. Her lashes looked impossibly long, fanned across her cheeks. He barely restrained himself reaching to caress that cheek, to tangle his fingers in her hair, to wake her with the need for her that pounded through his veins. Instead, he gave her the words he’d wished to share with her hours before, and hoped to do so again in the morning, once they were home, at Nampara, alone at last: Merry Christmas, my love.