A.N.: I'm getting frustrated with Ross. It took an entire season and way too much grief for everyone for him to see that ignoring every opportunity to make a difference left the people he loves in danger of George's malice! Elizabeth herself, Geoffrey Charles, Aunt Agatha, Morwenna, Drake, little Valentine, they are all his victims. I won't stand for it.
I adore Sir Francis.
And…can we all please have a moment of silence for the steadfast, wonderful Captain Henshawe…
I introduce Tamsyn Poldark, heiress of Nampara, inspired by Jo March and Poldark himself, and Cathy Earnshaw, Arya Stark and Mary Lennox from The Secret Garden and Matilda, Elizabeth Bennett and myriad others I can't name.
The Dark and the Fair
01
The Prodigal Soldier
The October evening was fine and crisp, the hazy purple sky touched pink and the great froths of pillow-soft cloud filigreed gold, a faint mizzle of rain chasing away the last of the summer's warmth lingering to flirt with the changing leaves, crimson and purple, rich and vibrant against the lush Cornish greenery, darkening eerily as the sun lowered, a deep copper. Amid the changing foliage, a wrought-iron gate loomed, solid and timeless, and beyond, the solid outlines of a great ancient house stood, sturdy and resolute: Trenwith.
A rich golden glow emanated from within the night-blackened stone, candlelight twinkling through the high windows of the great hall and the parlour, the sight so familiar to him, memories of his childhood with his cousins floating through his mind like dandelion seeds on the wind. Night insects ticked, the birds twittered their night-song to the sunset, and over the sounds of nature settling in for the night, Ross Poldark heard the delicate chink of cutlery, soft conversation and easy laughter soughing on the still air.
He rapped on the outer door, waiting for Tabb, if he was still installed, the old man. Then again, when there was no answer, and he pushed the door open.
The scent of roast fowl and plums teased his nose, the sound of laughter drawing him to the great hall where the Poldarks of Trenwith, his cousins, dined when in company. A large panelled chamber with double-height ceilings, portraits of his ancestors frowned down from the shadows like gargoyles, one wall dominated by leaded windows inset with coloured glass and the ancient crest of Poldark, set aglow by fine candles and a fire in the great carved hearth to chase away the chill, and illuminating the party assembled around the great oak table.
He spied Mrs Chynoweth, as ever the vicious harpy of his memory, and beyond, his ancient and great Aunt Agatha gumming fine crumbs of soft food; a slight figure half-swathed in shadow was his cousin Verity, tending to the sideboard and her insistent father, his uncle Charles at the head of the table, in a rich silk waistcoat and trying to stifle the embarrassing wind that accompanied heavy meals. The candlelight glinted off his cousin's neat curls, fair as Ross's own were dark and unruly, as Francis laughed easily, never having had a care in his world, with a dark-haired woman whose face was blocked from view. A girl sat at the end of the table, head propped on her hand, and might have been asleep. The pleasant hum and chatter of a rich meal among friends called to him; he had not expected to find his family entertaining, but what a happy homecoming, the fewer visits he must make to let his return be known. After meeting Mrs Teague and Dr Choake in the carriage, he was certain he would have to make very few calls at all to let people know he had returned from the dead.
"I hope I'm not intruding," he said, with an easy smile as he strolled into the light, the candles showing the wear on the shoulders of his red coat, the dust on his boots from his walk from the crossroads, the wicked scar from brow to jaw marring his left eye. His dark curls, his broad cheekbones and sharp eyes, so different from his fair cousin Francis's golden looks. Schoolmates had dubbed them "the dark Poldark and the fair" and the two had more than lived up to their reputations.
From their faces, he might have caused less of a fright as a bloody apparition.
It was Verity he heard gasp, but another young-woman who reached him first, cursing "Judas!" with a strangled cry cut off as she threw herself from the end of the table, upsetting her chair with resounding thuds as she rushed headlong into Ross's arms.
As Uncle Charles blurted, "Stap me, boy! You're alive!" Ross caught the girl, shocked but gratified by the enthusiasm of such a welcome from a stranger, and set her back on her feet. He blinked, and took a closer look.
High cheekbones, dark brows, a straight nose, impertinent eyes that glowed like moonstones in the candlelight, lashed thickly with short, curling lashes, the prettiest lips he had ever seen, and billows of riotous curls cropped short to her chin, curling this way and that, soft and shining in the candlelight, a riot of gentle waves coiling into perfect ringlets flirting coyly from the nape of the neck and at her ears, healthy and unruly, the scent of seawater and chamomile making him pause, and stare, and recognise in this young-woman the face of his own mother, dead these thirteen years, dark and beautiful and intoxicating, and reminded vividly of the little-girl with sharp teeth and a mane of tangled curls whom he and Father had nicknamed Shadow, she had lived her childhood so precariously close to stepping on the heels of the much-older brother she adored.
"Tamsyn?" He barely knew her, grown tall now, dressed in a fine emerald silk-damask he recognised as one of Mother's gowns, patterned with flowers, old but well cared-for and made over à la polonaise by clever stitching, with neat sleeves and a neckline cut low and rounded, a young-woman's evening-gown, showing off the beauty-spots she had been born with peppering her décolletage like constellations. Still young, but he saw she was no longer a child; he had missed that awkward gangling phase of youth just after childhood, and he recognised immediately that he was home just in time for Tamsyn to truly start blossoming into a young-woman. The most dangerous time in any man's life, when he had a daughter or younger-sister of such an age in his charge.
Vivid grey-green eyes, hooded like her brother's to give the unwary a false impression of sleepiness, glowed mercurial in the firelight, sparkling with tears, as his little-sister gazed up at him, speechless with the emotions that played so clearly over her face; shock, joy, relief.
In hearing of Father's death he had thought only of his bleak homecoming; Ross had barely entertained a thought for his much-younger sister, now far much more than a fragment of memory tied up with the rush of waves, a child's gurgling laugh and the decisive thwack of conkers and whir of spinning-tops, the scent of plum preserves and lily-of-the-valley, the chaotic storm of the harpsichord, the memory of warmth, a little dumpling startling him as she climbed into bed in the small hours for warmth, thumb in her mouth, curled under his arm with a kitten under her own, both purring gently. Tamsyn. Mother's last treasure she had left in Father's keeping, who had survived the smallpox that had taken Grace Poldark from Joshua.
Mother was long dead; and while Father had suffered and succumbed, Tamsyn had grown.
Ross looked into her face and feared half the lads in the county would be tripping over themselves to chase after her. There was already something dark and knowing in those sharp, clever eyes, the beguiling dimple at the corner of her mouth, something dangerously alluring about her natural beauty-spots, something charming and rebellious about her cropped curls, decorated with utter simplicity by a single ribbon pinned at the crown.
A dangerous young-woman. His little-sister. How old was she now - fourteen? It would soon be time for her to be presented to Cornish society.
"You've grown up!" he rushed out, beaming. His gangling, charmingly stubborn little-sister had bloomed.
"Hasn't she, though? It happened quite when we were not looking!" Verity gasped, smiling, fluttering nearby, her fingers trembling nervously like pale spiders.
"You're back!" Tamsyn finally said, her voice breaking, and Ross took a more careful look, past the thick lashes and misleading eyes to the shadows smudged beneath, to the hollows of her cheeks, and the faint line of tension between her dark brows that slowly eased as she smiled, her eyes sparkling. She looked exhausted, and as she reached for him, he clasped her cool hands, shocked to find her palms so calloused and rough, faint white scars fracturing across her hands like dewy cobwebs in moonlight, a fingernail purplish from bruising and skin splotched with ink. He noticed just how slender and fragile-looking her waist was beneath Mother's silk-damask.
Her eyes darted to the side and back, taking in Verity's nearness but returning to stare at Ross as though glutting herself on the sight of him, and beamed, "He came back!" Her smile was as tremulous as her voice as she clutched his hands with surprising strength.
"Yes! We'd quite despaired!" Verity breathed.
"I knew you would!" Tamsyn whispered, gazing right into his eyes, her words choked with emotion and her lips twitching as tears welled in her eyes. "Aunt would have read it otherwise." He chuckled at the allusion to Great Aunt Agatha's habit of reading tarot, something she took very seriously and consulted more than the most pious did their bible.
And Tamsyn launched herself at Ross, clamping arms skinny but unyielding as ironstone around his middle, tucking her head under his chin, her clean, unblemished face pressed against the faded shoulder of his uniform. She felt insubstantial in his arms, lacking any weight, all skin and grief; and a dreadful weight settled in his stomach like a stone, worry for Tamsyn, the sudden realisation that she had been left to tend to Father, to Nampara, alone, that with his reappearance Ross had robbed her of inheritance to bring to a suitable marriage. And yet he had brought with him protection from those who might have sought to take the advantage. The elder brother by many years, she had idolised him as a child and now gripped him tight as if she would never again let him go. Her hero, returned from war in America - a conqueror of his own survival, if not in helping retain the Empire.
He had left at Nampara little Tamsyn, or Tansy when she could not yet pronounce her own name, ferocious and great-hearted, singing to her tamed thrush, wrathful of Law and of excise-men and of his faults… At a wild and tempestuous ten years old, Tamsyn had already known that her elder brother was no saint, was rather considered a wastrel, prone to gambling, brawling, and breaking hearts all over Cornwall. She had caught him stealing kisses; and upturned buckets of ice-water over him where he had dropped in his drunkenness on the doorstep - egged on by a laughing Father. The ice-water, the savoury, homey warmth of cooked eggs and fresh bread to break his fast and the sound of his handsome father's rich laughter resonating in the great room were all he truly remembered of his drunken nights out with the lads, Tamsyn chirping and gurgling with delicious giggles and battering the harpsichord at Father's encouragement so Ross cringed, his head pained and dull until he carried Tamsyn over his shoulder to the Cove and dumped them both unceremoniously into the water.
His behaviour had caught up to him, though; a jury of true Cornishmen would never have convicted him of that business with the excise men, but a trial might have thrown up his gambling debts… To evade the gallows, Father's solution was a commission in the Army. After a few weeks' training in Ireland, he had been shipped off to America to fight. Ross had not felt Cornish soil beneath his feet since that day, leaving Tamsyn at the gate with her song-thrush on her finger and furious tears streaking down her face, her lower-lip trembling, angry and betrayed by his abandonment of her, as he rode off to meet Elizabeth, and bid her fare-well, and extract a promise…
It was only three years; and yet in Tamsyn he comprehended how much time had truly passed, with the sudden, irrepressible clarity of a bucket of ice-water thrown in his face.
Tamsyn squeezed him tight, and he realised she hid her face from the others as they murmured and drank and exchanged gaping, wary expressions. The beguiling eyes of the dark Poldarks missed nothing: Ross had felt a change in the air at his appearance and now saw Mrs Chynoweth, Elizabeth's harpy-mother, rigid and stony; Charles blustering and shocked; Francis' reserved pleasantness. In all but Tamsyn in his arms and Verity fluttering at his elbow he sensed a great feeling of…something - Wariness? Dread? He could not put his finger on it - mingled with the surprise at his sudden appearance.
And in Tamsyn he felt the shudder of suppressed tears as she pushed her face against his shoulder, heard the faintest of sniffles the others could not over their banter and the crackle of the fire. He inhaled the scent of chamomile and clean flesh, felt her warm but alarmingly slender in his arms, her stifled shudders giving way as she relaxed in his embrace, reassured he was not a ghost come to haunt them with the rest of their ancestors.
"Tamsyn…" He reached up, plucking a soft, perfect curl between his thumb and forefinger. "You have not been ill? Or did you catch it on a candle again?" Tamsyn shook her head against his chest, the curls bouncing enticingly, sending the scent of chamomile washing over him; chamomile rinse for the hair, from Mother's book of recipes.
"I sold it," she said, her voice low and choked, but not embarrassed. He saw the way Mrs Chynoweth pursed her lips smugly at this, looking at them from the corner of her eye over her wine-glass.
"Sold -?!" Ross gaped, placing his hands on her slim shoulders and holding her away. He stared into her face, reading the exhaustion - and the relief - in her tired, sad expression.
"'Tis only hair. I shall grow it back again," she sniffled delicately, her eyes bright, giving him a tremulous smile. Verity caught his eye, her expression telling him a great deal. The dark Poldarks were nothing if not a stubborn, intoxicating breed, mysterious and mercurial, fierce-tempered and cleverer than they looked. He had missed Tamsyn growing into this slender wraith of a young-woman in her gown cut flatteringly low, with calloused hands and cropped curls. She had sold her hair.
Six months past, Father had died, and he now this evening found Tamsyn a wraith at their Uncle Charles' table in Mother's refashioned silk-damask, hands scarred and hair shorn off.
For a young-lady of Tamsyn's position, of an ancient family with land and mines to inherit, selling her hair, the crowning beauty of any young-woman, was an act of last resort. For money.
He frowned, confused. Here Tamsyn sat at Charles' table, yet she had sold her hair?
"Why in heaven's name -?"
"I couldn't part with a single one of Mother's jewels, any more than I could Opal or Mayhem," Tamsyn said in an undertone, gazing at him with her eyes upturned and her chin tilted slightly low, a habit from childhood, when she had stood on her tiptoes leaning slightly forward as if about to take wing from her perch.
"Opal and Mayhem?" A touch of embarrassment made her pretty lips draw together in a stubborn line, giving him a hedgy look as her chin rose, glancing sidelong at the attentive Mrs Chynoweth. She gave him a look that was at once remorseful, apologetic, and stubborn and proud. He could not work it out.
"Our milking cow and one o' the goats," Tamsyn said, with a brief, beaming smile, and he answered it with a brief, wry smile of his own. Her accent was rough compared to Verity's clear ringing voice, a low huskiness as if she was sharing a secret. Opal and Mayhem! She had always named their livestock, respecting that eventually it would end up as their supper. Names like Dandelion, Fearsome, Wretch and Violet, Abernathy and Coxcomb and Louis XIV and Iago and Doll Tearsheet and King Richard, Chiron and Hermes, Evadne, Hero and Shylock and Hidalgo, Lothario and Hyacinth and Dalliance and Pearl and Odysseus - wild hedgehogs and lame foxes and rescued robins and tamed thrushes and the family of sparrows and the homeless kittens found in one of the empty cottages and the lamb born too soon had all been carried home and christened, tended to and loved by little Tansy, her friends in the isolation of Nampara, and of being the youngest cousin by many years with no playmates but what Mother Nature provided.
Ross frowned: the question of why Tamsyn had need to sell Mother's jewellery or livestock could not be asked in front of his uncle's guests, one of whom was a notoriously vicious gossip, but he was curious, wary that Tamsyn had found herself in such difficulty she had even thought of selling Mother's jewels, disappointed that Charles had allowed her to become so very thin and to sell her hair.
"But your hair," Ross protested, and Verity caught his eye, giving him a look as if this topic of conversation had been met with resistance many a time before now.
"'Tis no loss to part w' my hair, Ross, when't tangles up about my face so as I'd prefer to hack it off m'self w' sheep-shears," Tamsyn said, and Ross's heart sank. She should have had a governess, or been sent to school in London to learn "the womanly arts". Had Uncle not brought her to live at Nampara when Father died? He remembered her curse of "Judas!" at his appearance, and dreaded how deep the Paynters' influence went. Jud had taught him to smoke a pipe and cheat at cards - and spot a cheater - but he would not have condemned his little-sister to be raised in the model Jud and Prudie set. And without Father, whom they had always minded…
He saw the tension, the exhaustion in his little-sister's eyes, and frowned. She was worked to the bone, exhausted, and had sold her hair. The beautiful curls would've fetched a good few guineas, he was sure. He caught Verity's eye, humble and quiet in the shadows, and sighed at her expression. Perhaps, when he learned the order of things at Nampara, he might extend an invitation. Tamsyn was dressed finely - but that accent; Mother would have been horrified, Ross always remembered her so well-spoken. With hope Uncle could spare Verity, to teach Tamsyn; Verity had the graces of a lady, if not the confidence or any of her elder-brother's fair beauty to promote her amongst society. She was dark-haired, like Ross and Tamsyn, but there any similarity ended, for she was small-mouthed and rather plain. What God had seen fit to withhold from Verity he had lavished on wild Tamsyn: she had the beauty, and Verity the grace. Verity was also the kindest person Ross had ever met, more intelligent than her father and brother, and utterly lacking the detestable Poldark temper. Ross and Francis had always been more friends than cousins, but it was Verity whom he adored, and turned to for confidence.
He sighed, and turned back to Tamsyn, who gazed at him the way he always remembered her gazing at him; with barely-stifled joy, and something close to reverence, still on the balls of her feet and leaning slightly forward as if about to take flight, gazing up through thick lashes with her chin lowered.
Ross reached for a ringlet, plucking it so it stretched and sprang back, shining in the firelight and glittering with the faintest hint of copper as it rustled the other curls. "It may yet become the fashion."
Tamsyn giggled delightedly, swatting his hand away as he reached with an impish smile to tease his little-sister again. How many times had he believed he'd never again have that simple pleasure? Verity approached for a swift embrace, beaming, her joy unconcealed; she reached and took Tamsyn's hand and squeezed, smiling, sharing a teary-eyed smile.
"It is good to see you again, Cousin," Francis said, smiling haltingly but clasping Ross' hand as he strode forward, Tamsyn plastered to his side like a barnacle. "For we had quite despaired - hadn't we, Elizabeth?"
"Yes!" a soft gasp, a familiar breathless smile, and Ross' grasp on Francis' hand loosened. Elizabeth. He separated himself from Tamsyn, drawn to the pale vision in shell-pink duchess satin to Charles' right-hand.
"Elizabeth!" he beamed. "I had no idea you'd be here."
"Do tell us, Ross," said Mrs Chynoweth, her voice jarringly loud and brusque in the room amid the firelight and the scent of baked pears, "how we managed to lose the war?" She had always disapproved of him, his reputation - well-earned, but even so… Elizabeth.
"By choosing the wrong side, ma'am," Ross said pleasantly, sidling around the table to beam down at Elizabeth. She was just as pretty as he remembered, with her shining dark hair drawn up but for a single ringlet over her shoulder, a delicate little pearl glinting at her slender throat. She beamed up at him, and no time had passed; his ankle did not pain him, he bore no scar cleaving his face in two. She looked older but was lovelier for it.
"I could not have wished for a better homecoming," he said softly, smiling warmly at her, glancing up to smile at Tamsyn - and startled by the uncharacteristically vicious look on Tamsyn's face as she raised one knee on her chair, grasping the back of it, holding her wine-glass, the way she had always half-climbed onto the settle as a child, gazing at him as he read Sophocles aloud.
"I must speak with you, Ross," Elizabeth said, with a quiet urgency.
"Yes, of course," Ross said gently, frowning a little at the small noise from Tamsyn that made Elizabeth half-glance over her shoulder, ducking her chin down, her eyes darting.
"A-and what will you do with yourself now, Nephew?" Charles stammered. "You'll find Nampara not as you left it."
"Nay; he'll find it improved," Tamsyn put in, her voice sharp and dangerous as a scythe, frowning at her uncle as if he had struck a blow to her pride. Her hair, Ross recalled, confused by the Chynoweth family's presence at Charles' table - they had never come to Nampara, after all - struck anew by Elizabeth's beauty which time and war had diminished his memory of; he was startled by the change in Tamsyn far beyond her shorn curls. The sharpness of her eyes, as they set upon Elizabeth like a wolf upon a hapless bleating lamb, the dangerous look on her face as she glanced at Francis; Charles' agitation; Mrs Chynoweth's thinly-veiled hostility; Francis' nerves.
"Damn me, boy, if we hadn't thought you'd gone to join the blest above!" Aunt Agatha crowed, breaking his attention from Elizabeth. He smiled warmly at the wizened crone stooped under the weight of black lace and velvet swathing her diminished figure from head to toe.
"Great Aunt, I'm glad to see you are still of the blest below," he said warmly, bending to kiss a withered, incredibly soft hand. Aunt Agatha had seen six generations of Poldarks come and go, or so she claimed; she was enduring, immortal, as much a part of Trenwith as the cornerstones and the ancient oaks. It would be a harrowing day at Trenwith indeed when the good Lord above called her to her eternal rest. If He had the patience.
"Sit here, Ross, you must be exhausted," Verity fluttered, drawing him a chair, and he sat, glad of the reprieve on his ankle, which was starting to throb from his long walk from the crossroads. Good strong boots helped the pain, but potholes worsened it. Tamsyn went to the sideboard to help Verity; she knew all his old favourites, and Verity had always kept an excellent table.
"Elizabeth," Mrs Chynoweth said, in a sharp tone like a fan snapping shut. "Fetch me my wrap."
Elizabeth glanced from Ross to her mother, her smile faltering, a reserved look shrouding her prettiness. "Yes, mama."
"I seem to have interrupted a party," Ross smiled. "Is this in honour of the peace, or of the next war?"
"Oh, no, um…" Francis stammered. "Uh… The occasion is…"
"Something far more pleasant!" Charles interceded, as Francis flustered and faltered under Ross' smile. "My boy - is to be married."
"But that's tremendous!" Ross grinned. Francis, a husband! He had had no designs on any girl that he recalled when Ross had left Cornwall - he had been enjoying his time exchanging dance-partners and gambling at cards with his friends far too much to settle into matrimony. "Who's it to be?"
Daughter of a harpy, any possible beauty marred by an unaccountable beak of a nose and an ugly character, Mrs Chynoweth's eyes flashed, triumphant and gloating, as she intoned, "Elizabeth."
Silence, but for the crackle of the fire.
Ross' heart skipped a beat, his world off-kilter. The girl herself strode back into the hall with an embroidered shawl draped over her slender arm, and froze, as he stared at her. Elizabeth…and Francis? Three years, and thoughts of Elizabeth, beautiful and unchanged here in the wild downs of Cornwall, had sustained him. He had drifted out of consciousness after the ambush at James River with thoughts of her dark curls and plump lips guiding him to St Peter - Enys had ensured he did not pass through the gate, but Judas…
And this was his homecoming?
"Elizabeth?" He barely breathed her name, yet it was all he had to say; in that word she knew he had discovered her secret, as she stood there with her dear mama's shawl and an expression of pretty contrition staining her cheeks red.
It was not to be believed. Elizabeth and Francis? And yet, here was the table set for a feast, Mrs Chynoweth gloating that "naturally, we're delighted that our two ancient and distinguished families will be united."
The harpy shrieked suddenly, breaking the tension in the room as everyone started, and stared.
Behind her, a bowl of soup steaming in one hand and an empty glass in the other, Tamsyn eyed Mrs Chynoweth, her eyes twinkling with silent laughter as she said coolly, "These wretched skirts, I tripped."
Mrs Chynoweth spluttered, red wine staining a large patch of her silver silk-brocade gown, puffing up from her chair in indignation and anger. Tamsyn made no apology, Ross noted - and he caught Tansy's eye over Mrs Chynoweth's head as her wig dripped; he might have imagined Tamsyn's wink, in the flickering shadows of the fire, but he knew he had not. Some things, he was relieved and amused to see, had not changed: his little Tansy was naughty as ever - and as instinctual; she had always known his moods, as songbirds sensed a thunderstorm.
As Mrs Chynoweth rounded on her, Ross watched his little-sister: there was cold challenge in the raising of Tamsyn's chin, the uncompromising nature of her eyes, the slim shoulders thrown back, suddenly years older.
In Tamsyn Poldark, at that moment, Ross beheld an empress.
Mrs Chynoweth had gloated, exulting in what she had known would be a bitter blow to Ross - and paid the price for her malice. His little-sister's audacious naughtiness had both diverted attention from Ross, who was no longer under scrutiny as he felt the devastating blow, and punished Mrs Chynoweth for her nastiness. Fair-minded and unprejudiced as a child, there were a few things Tansy would not tolerate, even as a little girl; bullying was one. And there was no bully greater than a thoroughbred lady of society experienced in the art of genteel warfare.
Elizabeth's mama stormed from the hall to change and see how Mrs Tabb could salvage the silk, and as Verity refilled glasses to soothe the nerves, Ross caught his little sister's eye. Little Tansy, waging war against a harpy with sheer audacity and opportune naughtiness as her weapons.
"There is a rare woman," Tamsyn said lightly, her accent suddenly clearer, gazing after Mrs Chynoweth, "who lights up a room simply by leaving it."
Ross hastily turned his laugh into a cough.
He had gone to war and been rewarded with betrayal. And yet his heart was warmed, after the severe blow, by the valiant little warrior who gave his shoulder a subtle, fortifying squeeze as she set the bowl of soup in front of him. The savoury scent made his mouth water, though he wondered that he felt any hunger at all, even amusement at Tamsyn's sharp tongue. Francis and Elizabeth…married?
Elizabeth had crumpled meekly into her chair again, and Francis sat beside her, blue-eyed and flustered and unsure. Charles drank slowly of his wine, and Agatha muttered about her last reading. The fire crackled, and the apple-tart was dished out.
"Here, eat, you look weary, Ross," Verity breathed, beaming, as she set a loaded plate beside the bowl of soup. "Chestnut soup, and mutton and roast pheasant, I know how you enjoy buttered carrots and roasted parsnips, and blackberries, Tansy brought the last trug we're likely to see this season. Apple tart, and plums from Nampara, and there is liquorice, too, if Tansy has not squirreled it all away!"
"I've decided the candied ginger is my favourite, 'tis like eating blasting-powder, I think," Tamsyn said airily, after sticking her tongue out good-naturedly at Verity, taking a perch on the chair Mrs Chynoweth had vacated, so close to Ross he could smell the chamomile from her hair. "Who sewed up your face, Ross?"
"A field-doctor name Dwight Enys; he became a very good friend of mine," Ross said, spooning up the rich, silky chestnut soup. It was delicious; Verity had always been a very good cook.
"I should hope so," Tamsyn smiled briefly, taking a sip of the wine-glass, now refilled after having emptied it over Mrs Chynoweth's expensive silks.
"You'd like him," Ross said earnestly. Dwight Enys was exactly the sort of man he would be relieved to marry his sister, if he thought Tamsyn wouldn't frighten the man to death.
"But now you are monstrously disfigured," Tamsyn sighed, clucking her tongue. She frowned inscrutably at him, then nodded. "I believe I can learn to love you again still in spite of it. What do you think, Verity?"
"Does it hurt, Ross?" Verity asked, as she brought another plate over.
"Not at all, cousin. You set as excellent table as ever, Verity," Ross said, smiling warmly up at his plain, beautiful cousin. She gave him a quiet, secret little smile that spoke of a world of things she could not say in company. He took the glass from Tamsyn and raised it toward Charles, saluting him. "I have missed your suppers, Uncle."
"We've had your sister to dine near fortnightly, but I fear she was not caught young enough to tame!" Charles croaked with laughter, and Ross did not miss the harried look he shot his son. The announcement was not forgotten, but Ross did not resurrect the subject, not while he ate his fill of Verity's cooking and Charles spoke of the harvest and of Grambler and the ongoing troubles with the miners and starvation wages.
Only when he had finished the last mouthful of apple tart and lemon syllabub and had his fill of fresh fruit did Ross speak again, listening out of the corner of his ear to the stilted conversations around him. Tamsyn shared his wine, quiet beside him, her leg restless - Father's old habit, he suddenly recalled.
"Did my father suffer much, Uncle?" he asked, and Charles stifled a belch.
"Tamsyn's the one to ask after all that," Charles said heavily. Ross could tell the rich port Tamsyn now sipped had taken its toll on his uncle after the rich meal, as it always had. He took note of Tamsyn savouring her sips of the fine port, as if she were not unfamiliar with it. He hoped she had not made a habit of tippling - the Paynters would drink Cornwall out of liquor if left unfettered. "Never met him more'n twice in his illness, he took such a foul temper. But a pitiful end. Affairs in tatters. Next to nothing left for you to inherit."
"Not that we thought you'd be back to claim it," Aunt Agatha spoke up, and
"It's a poor Cornwall you've returned to," Charles continued, as if trying to convince Ross. Cornwall had not been flourishing when he left, either. "Taxes sky-high, wages in the gutter."
"Mine closures every other week," Francis interjected.
"Bad as you, lad!" Charles declared. "Scarred for life! Whole county's on its knees; and Nampara left to rot." Ross glanced subtly at Tamsyn, whose face was lowered, her expression tight. Disheartened chagrin glittered in her eyes, a tightening to the set of her port-stained lips showed her ire anger; she was insulted.
"I have been to Nampara far more often, Father, and more recently; you will be proud of what Tamsyn has accomplished," Verity said kindly, giving Ross an encouraging smile. Verity was not one to veil the truth or give false flattery, but she was the kindest and fairest of all the Poldarks, and Ross trusted her judgement.
"You remain at Nampara?" He frowned up the table at his uncle, confused. Why had not the invitation been extended to Tamsyn the moment Father was laid to rest?
"'Tis home, Ross," Tamsyn said. "T'will always be so. Uncle believes his eyes are merely ornaments; he does not use them. He would convince you the land is desolate; the harvest was not what it could be, but…we shan't starve." Charles belched, fidgeting in his chair. The uncompromising tone of Tamsyn's voice was not new to Ross, but it was strange to hear her speak to their extended family in such a way. She turned to Ross, her expression weary and a little embarrassed, but stubborn. She smiled softly when she noticed he had been watching her. "You're back," she said softly, placing her calloused hand over his arm. She leaned over to kiss his cheek, and he smelled chamomile. "All will be well."
Mrs Chynoweth, in a fresh gown of dark brocade, had made her reappearance, and Tamsyn smiled guilelessly, sipping her port; Mrs Tabb was aided by Verity in removing the dishes to the kitchen; and Charles creaked and groaned as he hauled his great girth out of his chair, to escort Elizabeth - his intended daughter-in-law - into the parlour.
"Do you join us, Nephew, or are you hasty to see what time has wrought on Nampara?" Charles asked. Ross glanced at his sister; she smiled gently.
"If I may impose on your hospitality, Uncle - "
"You can have my bed, Ross, I'll cuddle up with Verity," Tamsyn beamed. "We can surprise the Paynters - no doubt they've been in the drink tonight, though I can't fathom where they've squirrelled it away. I emptied every bottle into the Cove that I could not lock away."
"They'll have their hidey-holes, like the most expert of smugglers," Ross said drily. And he would know. Verity exchanged a word with Mrs Tabb, who nodded and bustled away. "But if I may, Uncle, I shall go to bed early. My journey was a long one, I fear I shall fall asleep before the second glass of port is poured."
"Of course, m'boy," Charles groaned in his chair.
"If I may…a toast," Ross said, reminded of his courtesies. He raised a glass, and the others exchanged fearful looks. "To Elizabeth and Francis."
Beside him, Tamsyn rose, standing nearly to his own height, raising her own glass as the others murmured a quiet toast.
"To the future of Trenwith," Tamsyn added, her smile uncharacteristically vicious as she stared down Francis and Elizabeth - Elizabeth in particular. "What empire was ever built on scruples?"
A.N.: So, little Tansy. I wanted someone rough and wild and Ross's champion, a great sparkling jewel hidden beneath ironstone. She's young enough to idolise Ross, and to mature into a fearsome young lady, but she's already experienced a great deal before Ross returned home, and that will play a part in how their relationship evolves.