Grace Poldark tied up her apron strings and went to the looking glass to pull her dark tresses up in a band. She swaddled baby Claude by her waist in such a way so that she could feed him while having her other arm free to work with.
"Ross darling?" she called, walking through the house. As she suspected, there was no answer. She smiled down at her babe, "your older brother is out up to mischief no doubt."
She went outside to check the stables. Joshua had taken Pasco of course, but Darkie and the other ponies were still there. Grace then tried the woodshed, with not much hope of finding him there either. Ross had probably run off with his friends to who-knows-where. She'd have no chance of finding him before dinner.
When she neared the door, she was pleasantly surprised to find Ross there, his scraggly dark-haired head bent over some woodcarving.
"Hello mam," he murmured, grey eyes flashing up to her than squinted back down on his work.
"Ross darling, what are you up to?"
"I'm trying to carve something – a horse. I thought –," he said, his tanned face blushing, "a play thing for Claude for Christmas."
"A Christmas present? Ross you are a wonder. At times, you act the perfect angel. And then, it was only last Sunday you were off stealing your uncles pheasants when you should have been at church!"
Her son's knife slipped. "Da told you about that did he?" Ross loved his mother dearly and hated her thinking badly of him.
"Aye he did. Your lucky in that your uncle Charles dotes on you. He let it pass as under the influence of your friends –,"
"Huh!" Ross cut in, "my friends. Miners. And why is it so wrong for me to be friends with the miners!" His anger surpassed any guilt, "You and da are always telling me to be kind to our tenants. They're the ones who do all the work on the mines, uncle's mines. Surely uncle can spare a few birds. I can't eat pheasant on Christmas day while Mark's family starves –,"
"Hush darling," Grace drew near, placing her palms on his shoulders to calm him, "You know your battles not with me. You know what I think of Charles Poldark and all that fancy folk... Now Ross, before I forget – I wanted to talk to you about that boy's school in Truro Francis is going to this summer. Well, your father has put aside some money and he would like you to go as well."
Ross got up with a huff, dropping his woodwork and carving knife into his pocket. "Oh, mam. Da's not a scholar; I don't see why I have to be. I couldn't think of anything worse than sitting in a dusty room while listening to some self-righteous old preacher drawl on. It suits Francis more. And I know he's being forced to go. Please don't let da make me go. You know I can make something of myself without going to some school. I'll start helping out more with Wheal Leisure if da wants it. Honestly, I'd rather go join the army then go to school."
"Ross Vennor Poldark," Grace bore down on her son with equal fire in her eyes, "you ungrateful simpleton! You don't reckon the Carter boys would kill to have this opportunity, to be able to get an education instead of working down the mines their entire lives? You will go to school. Your father and I will see to that."
Ross went red in the face and said nothing. Some said he had inherited his stubbornness from his father, but in truth, when passionate and determined, it was Grace Poldark who overruled them both.