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letterfromtrenwith · 7 years ago

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Crowned With Consolation

1806: George & Elizabeth receive some devastating news, tearing their contented life apart.

A future fic which is AU for both the series and the books, although it is inspired by some events from the later books.

Prologue

“Oh, Kitty, would you please open the window?”

“Of course, Ma’am.” George and Elizabeth shared a small smile when the young housemaid could not resist pausing to take a breath of the warm summer air. As the girl departed, the faint sounds of birdsong floated into the great hall.

“Can you hear the birds? They’re very happy today!” Elizabeth smiled down at their youngest child, Nicholas, who sat contentedly on her lap, playing with the embroidered hem of her shawl. The other children had been sent back to the nursery for their lessons so he was able to spend some time alone with his parents as they lingered over the end of their breakfast.

“Because it’s summer,” he replied, quite seriously, and George could not help but laugh as Elizabeth gave him a look of astonished delight.

“Why, yes! How clever of you to know that!” Nicholas beamed at his mother’s praise, cuddling closer to her. Although just three years old, he was a bright boy, taking after his elder siblings in their tendency to precociousness. His sisters read to him from their books, while his brother took him for walks in the gardens, pointing out flowers and insects, and showing him birds’ nests in the trees. At twelve, Valentine would be off to school soon and so they were making the most of his time at home. They would miss him terribly they knew, although school was the best thing for him.

“Are you at the Bank today?” Elizabeth asked, handing the last piece of her scone to Nicholas, who ate it eagerly, smearing a spot of jam on his chubby cheek. She wiped it gently away.

“Yes, I must go this afternoon. There are some papers that need sent to Gloucester by tonight.” The Warleggan Bank had expanded greatly over the years, with offices all over the South West, and even a small one in London. Once upon a time, George had travelled often between them, but now he preferred to remain close to home as much as possible. Close to the warmth and comfort of his family. It was his age, he supposed – he was getting startlingly close to fifty, although he felt as fit as he ever had – or perhaps it was simply the years teaching him that no matter how successful his business, it could never give him the same happiness as his wife and children. “What do you have planned for today?”

“Oh, not a great deal. I was going to ride over to see Ruth, but she sent a note saying Agneta has a fever. Nothing serious, I understand, but I will visit another day.”

“That poor child is often ill. She seems prone to it.” Agneta Treneglos was one of Ruth and John Teague’s four daughters and was of an age with George and Elizabeth’s eldest daughter, Ursula, and her cousin, Loveday Carne. Malicious gossip had it that there was something wrong with her, some infirmity of mind, but on the occasions Ruth had visited with her children, the girl had seemed quite ordinary, playing with the others and joining them in pestering Cook for sweets. She was perhaps not quite so quick and lively as Ursula and Loveday, but she was only eight years old and they were both clever for their age, not to mention fortunate enough to have parents who were happy to educate girls the same as boys. A lack of sons was a great disappointment to John Treneglos, something both he and his father were not exactly shy about making known. It was very unbecoming behaviour in George’s mind; his own daughters were the light of his life, and brought him more joy than he could describe. Besides, if it was a matter of inheritance, John had a nephew to whom he could will what little of the family fortune he had not already frittered away. Then again, considering George had two much adored sons of his own and had acquired another by marriage, perhaps it was easy for him to take such an attitude.

“I think I will take the girls out into the garden this afternoon, if the weather stays fine.” Elizabeth glanced out at the clear blue skies. “The flowers are blooming beautifully now, and it is time we had some spring colour in the house.”

“I am sure they will be delighted, my dear.” All of their children had inherited their mother’s love of nature, but the girls especially so. The twins, Clare and Susannah, recently turned six, were already prone to clattering in splattered with mud and leaves, much to the despair of the housekeeper, Sarah, who complained only partly in jest that they were half-wild.

Sarah – or Mrs Ewer, more properly – entered now. Irish by birth, she had served the Warleggan family since George’s father was alive, and had been one of a handful of servants who had followed George to Trenwith upon his marriage, somewhat understandably not wishing to remain at Cardew with only Cary as master. Competent and loyal, she had been an invaluable servant over the years, and was now housekeeper. She had asked if they would keep her on even after her marriage – to a respectable coachman – and they had readily agreed. Today, her pleasant face wore a grave expression and George noticed that she was gripping her hands rather tightly together.

“Sir, there are two gentlemen here who wish to speak with you, on a matter of some importance.”

“Well, show them in.”

“Forgive me, Sir, but I think it would be better if you would step outside.” He exchanged a questioning glance with Elizabeth. This was highly irregular, but Sarah was not one for silliness or flights of fancy. If she thought this was for the best, then she would have good reason.

“Very well.” He rose, feeling a twinge in his left shoulder. He had dislocated it in a riding accident over a decade ago and now age occasionally niggled at it. Out in the stone-flagged entrance hall stood not merely two gentlemen, but two soldiers, their uniforms almost glaringly bright in dark-walled space.

“Sire, you are Mr George Warleggan, are you not?” asked the taller of the two. George looked between them, confused as to what their purpose could be.

“I am, but – “

“Stepfather of Lieutenant Geoffrey Charles Poldark, of the 81st Regiment of Foot?”

“Yes…” The solider continued to speak but George did not hear him. His voice faded away, along with everything else that had been in George’s mind that morning, because the other officer was holding out a letter. A letter edged in black.

Elizabeth’s grief was almost harder to bear than this own. Her misery was total and all-consuming. As he’d stepped back into the hall that day, feeling as if he was suddenly in another world than he had been when he’d left it, it hadn’t been the matter-of-fact way in which he’d just been told that his son was dead which truly agonised him, but the knowledge that he must now tell Elizabeth. She’d been playing some sort of game with Nicholas, making him laugh, sheer happiness on her face. He’d watched them for just a moment, wanting to draw out the time before he had to shatter her heart completely. She knew him too well not to see that something was dreadfully wrong as soon as she saw him. He’d watched her beautiful, beloved face fall and her soft eyes fill with tears, and he’d felt an icy hand take hold of him inside and squeeze as if it were trying to crush the very life out of him.

Such was the depths of her despair that when, about three weeks after that day, he had not been able to find her, a terrible possibility had occurred to him. A truly dreadful thought which had almost paralysed him with horror, until he realised that there was one last place he had not looked. He had not thought to look there, because he himself could not bear to go there.

Geoffrey Charles’ bedroom was exactly as he had left it on his last visit home. His books piled on his writing desk and the bedside table, the mantelpiece littered with childhood keepsakes – shells, old coins, some of his toy soldiers, now faded and worn. The sight of their painted red coats made George look away quickly.

Elizabeth lay on the bed, her mourning dress flowing inky-black across the coverlet. Her face was wan, her eyes red and she was clutching what it took George a moment to recognise as Geoffrey Charles’ school coat. He had not realised that the boy had kept it, but then again, by all accounts, his stepson had fonder memories of his schooldays than George.

“Here you are, my dear. I have been looking for you.” He was careful not to let any of the panic he had briefly felt into his voice.

“I thought there might be something of him left in here, but there’s nothing.” Her voice was so soft George had to take a step closer to hear her. “It just all reminds me that he’ll never come back here – never read his books or wear his clothes, never look out of his window or sleep in his bead.”

Her voice broke into a quiet sob and George felt her words keenly. The shock of Geoffrey Charles’ loss had been so brutal, so sudden, with no time to prepare or say goodbye. Yes, they had known he was going off to war, to face terrible danger at every moment. They had seen their friends and neighbours experience the loss and suffering of their husbands, brothers and sons; and yet, somehow, George knew that some part of them both had always believed that Geoffrey Charles would come out all right, that somehow not even a war was enough to take him from them. But they had been wrong, so very wrong. That spirited, clever young man, with his love of riding and cards and sensational novels, his ready smile and dandyish air, was gone. Snatched away, leaving behind only a great hole ripped in the lives of those who loved him.

Not knowing what to say – he hardly knew what to say to anyone at the moment – George came to sit beside her on the bed. She shifted slightly, laying her head on his lap.

“We cannot even bury him,” she whispered. Pain poured through her every word. Elizabeth was a wonderful, loving, devoted mother to all of her children, but Geoffrey Charles was her first born, their special bond strengthened by the time after Francis’ death when they had only had each other. George knew that nothing he said could make it better, so he simply sat and stroked her hair in silence. After a while, although he did not know how long, he heard her breathing slow and felt her relax against him. He dared not move for fear of disturbing her, so he leant back against the headboard and closed his eyes. It would be an uncomfortable night, but it was worth it to bring Elizabeth even a moment of comfort.

The old Poldark family church was cool even in the height of summer. There was a faint hint of damp, in fact, and George absently thought that he must have word with the estate manager about seeing to it. Perhaps he would speak to the stonemason when he came about Geoffrey Charles’ memorial. There may be no body for them to bury, lost on the battlefields of Europe, but his passing would not go unmarked. His stone would go next to the one commemorating his father. The letters of Francis’ name were looking a touch worn, George noticed; that would have to be fixed as well.

George had never been a man of any particular piety. He attended church as often as was thought proper, but was not especially interested in religion. The clergy spent their time lecturing their flocks on temperance and Christian charity, but were almost inevitably a feckless, grasping bunch themselves. However, he had found this place oddly comforting these past weeks. It was quiet and peaceful. Here, he could be alone with his grief. At home, he spent all his time worrying about Elizabeth and the children. He did not come often, and when he did he asked Sarah and Kitty to take care of Elizabeth as best they could, without pestering her of course.

Originally, he had told only Valentine what had happened. He was too old, and too intelligent to be deceived, and George had not wanted him to find out any other way. He at first tried to be stoic, with the typical twelve year old boy’s idea that he must be very grown up about everything, but his resolve had quickly crumbled and he had cried properly for the first time since he was a little boy. It pained George deeply to see him so upset. He himself had been barely older than Valentine when his father died; there was no right age to have death first intrude on one’s life.

“I – I never wrote to him,” he’s stuttered between sobs.

“Yes, you did, I sent your letters myself.”

“No, I – I mean, the last time. His last letter, I kept putting off writing back, and I never did, and now he’s…”

“Shhhh, my boy. Geoffrey Charles did not need letters to know that you were thinking of him.” Despite their age difference, the two boys had always got along well, Geoffrey Charles patiently reading to him from Mrs Barbauld, and playing hide and seek with him in the maze of old attic rooms upstairs then, as Valentine grew, taking him riding and showing him how to play chess.

George had extracted a promise that he would not tell any of the other children, nor any of his cousins. However, Ursula, as usual, could not be fooled. One day, as he sat alone in the parlour, Morwenna having managed to cajole Elizabeth into at least sitting outside with her, if not taking a walk, Ursula had burst in quite suddenly, a determined look on her little face.

“Papa, is Geoffrey Charles dead?” The blunt, direct question was typical of her. “I asked Valentine but he won’t tell me.”

“Ursula…” It had been on the tip of George’s tongue to lie, but he had seen that there was no point. “Yes, my love, he is. I am so very sorry.”

He could see from her face that a small part of her young mind had hoped that her Papa would tell her she was being silly, that it was all a terrible mistake, but he had not. In the end, she had cried into his coat for an hour, every sob like knife in his chest.

The younger children could sense the terrible cloud of pain that hovered over their once idyllic home, but George absolutely could not bring himself to tell them its cause. Nicholas was certainly far too little. Perhaps the twins were not, but he could at least try to preserve their innocence a little longer.

He was startled out of his reverie by the church door opening behind him, and the soft brush of a woman’s shoes upon the floor. The woman did not hesitate to approach, but he did not look up, not until she stood over him.

“May I sit?”

“Of course, my dear.” Morwenna Carne was a married woman with children now, and almost thirty years old at that, but George still often thought of her as the sweet young girl who had come to them as Geoffrey Charles’ governess. Although she had stopped being that girl when she absconded from her home and her engagement to the odious Osborne Whitworth to marry Drake Carne, a decision which may have caused a great upheaval, but which she had blessedly never had reason to regret.

“How is Elizabeth?…But that is a foolish question, of course.” She shook her head, looking down at hands clasped on her lap. It may have been warm outside, but she was dressed quite sombrely, her long coat a pale grey. In deference to the church, perhaps, or her own way of mourning. The special connection which had formed between her and her charge had never lessened over the years, and although she had endeavoured to bear up for the sake of Elizabeth and the children, George knew she must feel her own sense of loss just as deeply as they did. “I will visit again this week, if she would like.”

“I am sure that she would.” Morwenna had been the only visitor Elizabeth would see. George had turned away several in the first weeks, from the genuinely well-meaning likes of Caroline Enys, to the morbidly nosy Mrs Teague. By now, they had stopped coming. He did not miss them.

“I – I have something I must tell you. Drake says I should not, but I believe it would be wrong of me to keep it to myself.” George looked at her curiously. She sounded regretful, almost guilty, but he could not imagine why. “You will remember when Geoffrey Charles first announced he wished to join the Army? You were both so set against it, but he would not listen to you. Elizabeth begged me to persuade him not to go, and I told her that I would but –“

“But?”

“I did tell him that I did not want him to go, but I also told him that I could not tell him what to do, and that he must trust his own judgement. I encouraged him to go to his death.” Her voice wavered at the last word, and she looked away, her hat covering her face. It would be easy to be angry with her, but he was not. She had not fired the rifle or the canon which had killed Geoffrey Charles – it was not her fault.

“You knew him as well as any of us, Morwenna. Even if you had told him unequivocally that you would never approve of his going, do you think he would have listened?”

“No, I do not suppose that he would,” she conceded after a moment.

“If he had been considering any other decision, I might well have told him the same thing.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her nod, although she kept her eyes down.

“I just – I wish there was something I could do. To – to make it better.”

“We all wish that, my dear.”

All of the pain and misery gathering at the house had to boil over eventually, and it did so one day in early October. The summer had passed in a sort of grey blur, each day much like the next. George continued with his work purely out of necessity – he could take no pleasure in it at all now. Almost one penny in three which passed through his hands had something to do with the war. It had tripled their income, but at a terrible cost. The thought of it had made him somewhat uneasy right from the beginning, but since the loss of Geoffrey Charles he loathed it. He would gladly throw every coin into the sea if he could.

Sometimes, he would forget for moment, and for that all-too-brief second it was as if their world had never been destroyed. As if his dear wife were not consumed by her agony, his children’s young lives falling in the shadow of death. As if he had not lost his son. George had been Geoffrey Charles’ godfather before he became his stepfather; he had held the boy at his christening, encouraged by a smiling Elizabeth, her pure adoration for her child written all over her face. In the first months of George’s marriage to Elizabeth, his relationship with Geoffrey Charles had not been the easiest, but over the years they had become much closer, and George loved him as he loved all of his children. He had never hesitated to tell anyone who asked that he had three sons, and Geoffrey Charles had quite happily introduced his friends to ‘my parents’.

If George was laid low by his grief, it was naturally taking a much greater toll on Elizabeth. She had lost weight, rarely eating, and he knew she was not sleeping properly. Partly because he was not either, but he often woke during the night to find her sitting at the window seat, simply staring out into the darkness, or frequently gone altogether. The servants had told him that she had taken to wandering the house at night, like some melancholy spirit. She would rarely speak unless spoken to, and then very little. The children tiptoed around her, not wishing to upset her further, although she tried her best to hide her sadness from them. It hurt the youngest children the most, because they did not know the reason for their mother’s melancholy.

The time was rapidly approaching for Valentine to go to school. George had considered putting it off, and asked Valentine if he wished to stay at home a while longer. To his surprise, Valentine had said not.

“It is only proper that I go….I do not think Geoffrey Charles would approve if I did not.” That had brought the first genuine smile to George’s face in a long time. Valentine was probably right. Geoffrey Charles had done very well at school, and often spoken of it to his siblings. Upon reflection, George thought that going away might in fact be good for Valentine – he could make new friends his own age, and find something else to think about other than the absence of his brother.

When George had attempted to broach the subject with Elizabeth, she merely nodded her understanding, but commented no further. He had seen her watching sadly as Valentine’s boxes were piled up in the hall, ready to be loaded into the carriage, but she’d turned away as soon as she saw him watching her.

That night, she barely touched her dinner yet again, disappearing into the parlour. George sent Valentine to bed, and looked in on the others, sitting with Ursula until she fell asleep, and watching Nicholas dream his innocent dreams. He found Elizabeth staring into the fireplace, sewing sitting long untouched on the table beside her.

“My dear,” she turned her head slightly towards him. At first, she had clung to him for comfort, but every day he felt her drawing further away, further into herself. He could stand it no longer. “I beg you, you must eat, and I know you have not been sleeping. I cannot bear to see you this way. Geoffrey Charles would not wish you to suffer like this.”

“How would you know?” He was so surprised by her question that he did not answer, and she turned entirely in her chair to face him. “How would you know what he would wish?! You were not his father! If you were any sort of father to him you would have stopped from going! He could still be here, at home, with me, but you let him go! You let him go and now he’s dead!”

George could not reply; her words had cut him deeply, to the point he felt tears prick at the back of his eyelids. After she had finished her tirade, her sudden burst of energy seemed to drain out of her and sat heavily back down, looking away once more. He did the only thing that he could think of – he turned and walked away from her.

He sat up the rest of the night in his study, not wishing to go to bed alone. There was a chamber upstairs set aside for his use, but he and Elizabeth had spent barely more than a handful of nights apart since their wedding. He had no desire to lie alone in a cold bed that smelled of nothing but laundered sheets.

After a while, he opened one of the desk drawers and took out two letters, one well-read, the creases deep from being opened and refolded so many times. The other was almost pristine, despite being several months old. George had read the first letter Geoffrey Charles had sent him after his departure many times over. Despite Elizabeth’s assertions, George had in fact had a furious row with Geoffrey Charles over his decision to enlist – George demanding that he think of his mother and siblings, of his responsibilities to his estate, but Geoffrey Charles had been defiant and in the end George threw up his hands in defeat.

“Very well! Go if you wish!” They had barely spoken thereafter, and George had regretted that their last words had been cross long before Geoffrey Charles was lost. This letter had arrived a few weeks after he left home/

My dear Uncle

I write to you from Plymouth; we depart tomorrow at last. I wish that my departure from home had been a more harmonious one, but I want you to know that I am not upset with you. I understand entirely why both you and Mama feel as you do, and I cannot blame you for it, but I must do what I believe is right. Please be assured that I am happy with my choice, even if it pains me dreadfully to leave you all.

You asked me to think of Mama, and of the children, and of my estate. I could not say it then, but the truth is that I feel able to go because I know they will all be in your excellent care, Uncle. Knowing that you are all waiting for me at home gives me the strength to go forth, and I believe will help me come back safely.

I will write as often as I can, and I ask that you do the same. Tell me all – what new words has Nicholas learned? What little games have the twins devised? Which of the horses has foaled? What gossip is old Mrs Teague spreading now? It will help me to miss you all less.

Please do not be angry with me, Uncle. I could not bear that.

Your affectionate son,

Geoffrey Charles

George could almost recite the words from memory now, and they remained as simultaneously comforting and saddening as ever. Some part of George agreed with Elizabeth – he should have forbidden Geoffrey Charles from going. Or at least tried. He had always indulged Geoffrey Charles, partly out of affection and partly to please Elizabeth, but perhaps he should have been sterner. George glanced at the portrait of Francis on the wall. Its glaze was yellowing now, but his long gone friend’s gaze was as direct as ever. Would Francis have been able to keep Geoffrey Charles at home? With a sigh, George turned to the second letter. It had never been opened, its ominous black seal still in place. The letter the young officer had given George that fateful day; it contained the report of Geoffrey Charles’ death. Nobody had especially wanted to read it, and George had locked it in his drawer. He had taken it out and turned it over in his hands once or twice, but still it remained sealed.

I must read it, he thought. It is only right that I should know the fate I allowed him to go to.

After so long, the wax parted easily from the paper, and George steeled himself for a moment before reading the small, neat hand.

Dear Mr & Mrs Warleggan

It is with regret that I must inform you that your son, Lieutenant Geoffrey Charles Poldark, of the 81st Regiment of Foot, has been killed in action. He fought and died bravely at the Battle of Maida, where the French troops were beaten back by his battalion. I am told that he sustained his fatal wounds while rescuing his fellow men who were pinned down by enemy fire. He served his country with great honour, and his heroism will not be forgotten.

Your &c.

Major Edward Darnley.

So that was it. A single, formal paragraph detailing the end of a young man’s life. George might as well have burned it as read it, it made no difference. He felt neither better nor worse. Geoffrey Charles was still dead; the fact that he was hailed a hero did not change that. Dropping the letter back into his drawer, George closed it with a click and sat back in his chair.

Sometime after midnight, he was disturbed by the door opening, and realised that he must have been dozing. Elizabeth stood there in her night-clothes, her light dressing gown giving her a ghostly appearance in the moonlight. He could see that she had been crying.

“Oh, George, I am sorry for what I said, it was so dreadful.” She came and knelt beside his chair, her eyes shining with tears as she looked up at him. “Of course I do not blame you and it was so very wrong of me to say that I did. And you were a father to Geoffrey Charles, he told me so himself many times over. I spoke so cruelly do you, can you ever forgive me?”

“Oh, my love…” He stroked her cheek softly and she closed her eyes, leaning into the touch. “There is nothing to forgive.”

“But – “

“No, Elizabeth. I cannot deny that your words cut deep, but only because I have sometimes thought them myself.”

“Oh, George…” She rested her head on the arm of the chair and gently ran his fingers through her hair. After a few quiet moments, she spoke again. “You were right to say that Geoffrey Charles would not want this for us. For me. I believe he would be quite cross with me, in fact.”

“He would never be cross with you, my love, but I know that he would hate to see you so unhappy. No one could ever blame you for feeling so – certainly not I – but it pains me to see it consume you like this. If you continue as you have, you will make yourself ill and…I cannot bear to lose you as well.”

“George, I am so very sorry. You have only tried to care for me and I have given you nothing in return when you too have been hurting. I have been so selfish, and such a poor mother to the other children besides.”

“You did not want them to see your pain. You have done nothing wrong, Elizabeth, not to my mind. Many others would have done the same in your position.”

“But you did not. You have been so very strong where I have been weak.”

“To grieve is not a weakness, Elizabeth. Your love for Geoffrey Charles is not a weakness. And I will say, I have not felt very strong these past weeks.”

“Oh, my love…” Elizabeth took her hand in both of his and kissed the back of it. “Now, I think, we must both try our best to be strong together. Not just for the children, but for ourselves too. That is what Geoffrey Charles would want.

The November air was bitingly cold against his face as George stepped out of the Bank. He had barely been to the offices in months, disliking being away from home, and unable to concentrate. There had been some business he simply could not put off, however, and so he had made the journey into Truro. This time, his reluctance to leave had blessedly little to do with worry. Elizabeth’s release of anger, and their subsequent talk in his study, seemed to have done her some good. She was still grieving, of course; they would all be for some time yet, but he had been pleased to see some of her old warmth return to her. She was eating and sleeping better, and her health was much improved. The children had noticed the uptick in her spirits as well. Until he had been nearly bowled over by Nicholas and the twins barrelling along a corridor after Sarah’s little terrier, he had not realised how quiet they had been of late. Although they had not known the reason for it, their parents’ sadness had subdued them.

Elizabeth still regretted her words to him that night, although he had assured her many times that he was not upset with her. In the heat of the moment he had been stung by hearing his own guilty thoughts from her lips, but he had truly meant it when he told her that she did not need to ask his forgiveness. She had still wished to try to explain herself, turning to him one night in their bed, her brow creased in a small frown.

“For all those weeks, I was so very angry. It built and built inside of me. I was angry at the war, at the generals who order young men to their deaths, at whichever damn Frenchman shot my boy; I was angry at the whole world, even Geoffrey Charles for going in the first place. And then I took my rage out upon you and I realised how foolish I was. It would not bring him back, and all I had accomplished by it was to push you away when I most need you. I know that I have not shown it, but you are my greatest comfort, George. Even long before this, from when we were first married, I have always felt that I could face anything if you are with me.”

“Elizabeth…” Too overwhelmed to say anymore, he had simply gathered her close, kissing her forehead.

It was perhaps remembering this which had him so distracted as he crossed the street towards the confectioner’s that he almost ran into the woman in the green coat. He was halfway through an apology when she looked up from under her hat and he realised it was Demelza Poldark.

Save brief glimpses across a ballroom or a banquet hall, George had barely seen anything of the Nampara Poldarks for he did not know how long. Years. His intense dislike for Ross had never changed, and it was safe to presume it remained mutual, but over time they had both become too preoccupied – and too old – to have a care as to do anything about it. George had sent a note to Nampara to tell them of Geoffrey Charles’ death; they had been his family, after all, and so far as George knew, Geoffrey Charles had still spoken to his aunt and cousins or occasion. For some time afterwards he had half-expected Ross to come barging into Trenwith, demanding they all get out at once. With Geoffrey Charles gone, Ross and his family were the last of the Poldarks, so the family property now surely reverted to them. Not wishing to distress Elizabeth or the children, he had put off broaching the subject of them having to leave Trenwith, but he knew he could not delay much longer.

With a polite nod, he stepped around Demelza and continued on his way, until he was pulled up short by the sound of her voice.

“It’s like a shard of glass in your heart.” Of course he knew exactly to what she referred, for Demelza Poldark had lost a child, too. It was many years ago now, almost eighteen if he was not mistaken, but he was sure such things did not slip easily away into the mists of time. George had thought often these past months of how young Geoffrey Charles had been, how much of his life he had yet to live; Julia Poldark had been barely more than a babe in arms when she died, the question of who and what she would grow up to be left forever unanswered. Behind him, he heard Demelza take a step forward, and he turned his head but did not face her. He did not think that he could. “It pierces your soul, and the agony is so terrible you think it will never end. You think it will kill you. Sometimes, it seems like it’s getting a little better and then something will remind you – a word, a sound – and the pain comes back all over again. One day the wound will heal over, but the scar is always there. It will never stop hurting, but it does get a little better.”

“….” He wanted to say something, but could not. With a short, sharp nod of acknowledgement, he strode away. In her desire to be kind – even after everything that had passed between their families over the years – Demelza had inadvertently re-opened the very wound to which she referred. After he was sure he was out of her sight, he had to spend ten minutes standing in the shadow of the alley next to the shop until he was able to master himself.

III

The answer to the mystery as to why Ross had not come to claim his family property was answered one day early in December when an officious little man appeared at the house, announcing that he was Mr Silas Pettyfer Esq, Geoffrey Charles’ attorney, and he was here to read them his will.

“I would have come earlier, but it seems that the Army neglected to inform me of Mr Poldark’s passing,” he complained in his nasal voice, giving George a look of mild disapproval. “Among others.”

George frowned. He did not especially care to be chastised by complete strangers in his own home, let alone over such a distressing matter.

“I might have informed you, Sir, had I not been entirely unaware of your existence until this moment.” That took the wind out of Mr Pettyfer’s sails somewhat and he coughed awkwardly, fishing in his little folio for some papers.

“Mr Poldark had not informed you he had made a will?”

“Lieutenant Poldark, and no he had not, although I cannot imagine why.”

“Perhaps he did not wish to upset us,” Elizabeth said quietly. George covered her hand with his and she gave him a small, sad smile.

“Shall I begin?” Pettyfer looked between them.

“Forgive me, Mr Pettyfer, but I believe we know its contents, the Nampara Poldarks…”

“Ah, no, Mr Warleggan. That is just it. Mr – Lieutenant Poldark expressly made the will to avoid the automatic passing of the family property.”

“He did?” Elizabeth was frowning, and George knew his expression would match hers.

“Yes, Ma’am. Aside from some small bequests to his cousins – that is, Mr Jeremy and Misses Clowance and Isabella-Rose Poldark – and some personal items willed to, ah, Mr & Mrs Drake Carne, Mr Poldark has left the entirety of his estate to you both, to divide as you wish amongst your remaining children. I have the will here, if you should wish to see it.” George took it, a combination of incredulity at its contents, and years of business teaching him never to agree to a document without reading it. It did indeed reflect what Mr Pettyfer had said, and was, so far as George could see, properly signed and witnessed. He passed the paper to Elizabeth and, out of the corner of his eye, saw her trace the loops and whirls of Geoffrey Charles’ signature with her fingertips.

“Was that everything?” If Mr Pettyfer was displeased at being treated so abruptly, he endeavoured not to show it.

“Not quite. There is also this.” He produced a folded letter. George immediately recognised Geoffrey Charles’ seal. “I was to give it to you if…”

“I see. Thank you.”

“Now, unless there is anything else you wish to discuss I must visit…Nampara?…to discuss those bequests.”

“Does Ross Poldark know that he is no longer to inherit Trenwith?” George did not really know why he asked.

“Yes, I believe Mr Poldark informed him before he made the will.”

“Thank you. If there are any items for them to collect, please tell the Poldark children they may come for them whenever they wish.” George might have once felt some sense of satisfaction at Ross being deprived of the property, but now he felt nothing. It was not the value of Trenwith that would have been the greatest loss. Elizabeth had lived here for most of her life, since she was barely twenty years old and all of the children had been born here; for George, it was the place he had been happiest in his life. It was where all of their memories were. To leave it all behind forever would have been deeply saddening.

After Pettyfer had departed with an obsequious sketch of a bow, George and Elizabeth sat quietly for a while. Eventually, George picked up the letter which had been left on the tea table. He held it out to her, but she shook her head.

“Read it to me? Please?”

“Of course, my love.” They sat close together on the sofa and, as he opened the letter, Elizabeth rested her head on his shoulder. Taking a deep breath, George prepared to read their son’s final words to them.

My dear Mama, Uncle George, Valentine, Ursula, Susannah, Clare and little Nicholas,

As you are reading this letter, it seems that the worst has come to pass. Before I sat down to write, I thought that it would easy to decide what to say to you all, but now I put pen to paper I find it almost impossible.

There is not enough parchment and ink in the land to capture how much you mean to me, and how deeply I will miss you all. You will be always in my thoughts while I am away from home, and I am sorry if we shall never see each other again. I wish only to come home safely to you all, but of course that must not be the case.

As this is so inadequate a way to express what I wish to say, perhaps I can discuss some everyday matters instead. If Mr Pettyfer has shown you my will, you may be wondering as to its contents. The Poldarks may be my family in name, but you are my family in my heart. If I cannot be there for them in life, I wish to do something for the children in death, even if that is simply to make sure they will always have a home here. I know, Uncle, that you are more than capable of providing for their futures, but let me help you also.

Oh! There is so much in my heart I wish to say, but I cannot make come out of the end of this pen.it is my fervent hope that I have made it all plain to you over the years. Please do not weep too sorely for my memory, but remember the happy times we have all had together.

If I allow myself, I will continue this letter forever, as if by doing do I could put off the event it is designed for. I think I shall have to be content to sign myself…

Your ever loving

Geoffrey Charles

There was nothing but a sheet of pure white outside of the windows, wind swirling the flake madly. Snow had been expected all over Christmas but the sky had remained quite clear – much to the disappointment of the children – until almost the very end of January. Now, it seemed quite relentless. Thankfully, Valentine would have arrived safely back at school before it began. He had returned for the Christmas holidays filled with confidence and good cheer, much to his parents’ delight. They had hoped school would be good for him, and so it had proved.

It had been a lovely Christmas in the end, although Geoffrey Charles’ absence had hung heavily over them all. About two weeks before the festive day, George had almost bought him a Christmas present, forgetting for a moment that Geoffrey Charles would not be coming home for the season, or ever again. George looked up now at the fine portrait of him on the wall – a Christmas gift from Morwenna; she had come to George a week before to show it to him.

“It is a larger version of the miniature I painted for his twenty-first birthday. I wanted to ask you if you thought it would be….I am worried it would upset Elizabeth, or the children.”

“No, my dear, quite to the contrary. I believe it would please them very much indeed.” And so it had. Elizabeth had wept a little over it, but not in misery. She had become much more able to remember Geoffrey Charles with happiness. Now, the portrait hung in pride of place over the fire, above another piece of Morwenna’s work – matching silhouettes of George and Elizabeth. She had a truly find hand.

Wet flakes spattered against the windows, obscuring the view even further. George had been writing letters in the parlour – although it would be days before they could go anywhere – and was now resting his eyes; he had been fighting a losing battle against the need for spectacles for several years now, and it was only a matter of time before he was forced to surrender.

With a soft click, the door swung open and Elizabeth entered. The first thing George noticed about her was her dress. Although her spirits had gradually improved these past few months, she had remained in her mourning clothes – her previous array of blues and pinks and greens replaced by grey and black. George had said nothing to her about it; if that was how Elizabeth wished to mourn her child, he would not stop her.

Today, however, the black was gone. Her dress was not quite so bright as some of those she used to wear, but it was a warm brown, almost the exact colour of drinking chocolate. It suited her eyes, and her simple gold necklace.

“Elizabeth….” She glanced down at herself with a soft smile.

“Do you like it?”

“Very much so, my love. But…if I may ask, what has brought this on?” Elizabeth came to sit next to him at the table. There was something different about her, something else besides the dress, but George could not put his finger on what. She was smiling, but she had been doing that more often recently, some of the light returning to her eyes. Of course, their loss would never leave them, but it pleased George to see her able to be happy again.

“The time just seemed right. Although, perhaps there is a particular reason why I feel I must put away my mourning garb.”

“There is?”

“Yes.” She took his hands. “For, although we have suffered a great loss, we have now received a great blessing.”

“What – “ He frowned, and Elizabeth gave him an affectionate look.

“I am with child, George.” He had to confess to being entirely astonished. Such wondrous news…and so unexpected. Elizabeth would be forty-three this year, and as time had passed since Nicholas’ birth, they had come to accept he would be their last child. But now….

“Are you quite certain?”

“Yes!” She frowned a little. “You are pleased, are you not?”

“Of course! Forgive me, my dear, I am simply surprised. Wonderfully surprised.”

Epilogue

The street was busy today, filled with people – servants hurrying about on errands, gentlemen striding along with importance, ladies twirling their parasols as they strolled. A few carriages trundled by, sunlight glancing off their livery. Two young officers passed by, laughing at some jest, and George felt a pull in his chest.

It was just over a year now since Geoffrey Charles’ death at the Battle of Maida. They missed him as much as ever, but Demelza Poldark had been right – the pain was still there, but it was not quite so sharp as it once was.

Glorious sunshine filled his office at the Bank, making it almost glow. Recently, he had been able to pay more proper attention to his work again. Geoffrey Charles’ desire to provide what he could for the children even if he himself was no longer here had motivated something in George. He could not neglect the businesses he had devoted years of his life to building up, for the sake not only of Valentine, who would one day inherit them, or his other children whose futures depended upon their success, but to all those whose livelihoods were connected to them.

He still preferred to be at home with his family, especially now. Valentine was home from school for the summer, and the children had spent the long, sunny days playing in the gardens. Last summer had been a cold, dark time for them all, and for no reason to do with the weather. Valentine and Ursula still talked of their elder brother, but it was with happy remembrance as much as sadness. The twins had to be told in the end, asking too many questions about when Geoffrey Charles would be coming home. Like their siblings, they had been terribly upset, but had borne their sorrow with impressive maturity for their young age. Nicholas would find out when he was old enough; being so small when Geoffrey Charles left, he had not known his brother the way the others had. Perhaps that would lessen the sting a touch.

After a sip of tea, George stifled a yawn. The reason for his tiredness was their greatest joy – their youngest child, a beautiful baby girl, arrived only a week ago. They had named her Flora, and to them she was a true blessing, a sign of brighter times to come after a truly dark time in their lives. Of course, the fact that she had had a sibling she would never know was always with them, and she would be told all about her brave brother, who had lost his life fighting for what he believed was right.

Returning to his desk, George scanned the shelves behind it for a particular ledger he needed. Behind him the door opened, and a secretary gave a discreet cough.

“Sir, there is a young man here to see you.”

“Show him in, Preston.” George dropped the ledger onto his desk as Preston’s light tread was replaced with a heavier, bolder one. He looked up to greet his visitor and paused. He felt the teacup slip from his hand, heard it crash upon the floor, but he did nothing, frozen in place.

“Good Heavens, Uncle! Am I such a shocking sight?”

Title part of a quote from Shakespeare’s Anthony & Cleopatra: “For grief is crowned with consolation.”

#poldark #george warleggan #elizabeth warleggan #geoffrey charles poldark #morwenna chynoweth #demelza poldark #george x elizabeth #fic #au #m: fic

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