"Francis, Geoffrey Charles is sick. Do you think it would not be better if you stayed—"
"He has been treated, has he not?!" blustered Francis angrily, turning around and glaring at her with such ferocity it made her flinch, "I have business in Truro and I must leave!"
She watched him pull on his jacket and hat clumsily, almost putting it on the wrong way. She could tell he was tipsy already and finally, he gave up on his buttons. She stepped forward cautiously, attempting to reason with him.
"It's dark outside, Francis, the ride will be long and tiring for you. Besides, Ross said he would be arriving soon to speak to you about Carnmore and—"
"DAMN ROSS!"
Elizabeth flinched again, the echo reverberating around the room threatening as spittle flew from Francis' mouth and he glared at her with a fire that had become characteristic of him in the last few weeks.
"You may entertain him if you wish but I certainly shall not!"
With that, Francis turned on his heel and swept away, his boots pounding the ground roughly until she heard the front door swing open and shut. Gravelly crunching was heard outside as he swung himself up on his horse and rode out of the gates, leaving her standing utterly alone in the middle of the room. She felt like a fool and tried once more to stop the tears from flowing. She raised a hand to her eyes and that was when she realised that she was shaking. With fear or anxiety, she didn't know which. Wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her gown, she inhaled and exhaled shakily, straightening the pretty pink fabric. She smoothed it with her hands, focusing on ironing the creases flat with her fingers until she could breathe properly again.
She knew there was no business in Truro, there was instead a mistress, or a whore. She knew he didn't want to see Ross, not due to enmity, but jealousy. She knew Francis hated her for her continued attachment to Ross and perhaps was turning to vice to punish her. Perhaps she deserved this punishment, she wondered, looking down at the varnished wooden floor as if she'd find answers there. Perhaps she deserved this punishment for not being a dutiful wife, not giving her husband her complete and utter attention and love. Francis' adolescence had been hard, she knew that since she'd been here to witness it. He would crumble under the weight of expectation even when his father was alive and now that he was dead and Francis had come into his estate, matters had gotten out of hand. He constantly compared himself to Ross, a competition Francis had set up himself in his mind. He was a victim of paranoia, believing that everyone else around him also compared him to Ross; his wife, his sister, even Ross himself. She didn't know how to explain to him that all she wanted was him, Francis Charles Poldark, as he was. Her husband, the father to her son, the dedicated, loving Francis who had kissed her hand so sweetly in that garden, asked for her consent so shyly and had promised to love her eternally. That Francis seemed to have vanished. She sometimes doubted that she could ever get him back, no matter how hard she tried. Yet still, she kept trying, if not for her sake then for Geoffrey Charles.
After a short trip upstairs check on his tiny, sleeping form, and change into her nightdress and gown, she found herself in the sitting room, perched comfortably by the blazing fire with her harp nestled between her legs. She strummed it casually with one hand, closing her eyes as she lifted the other to pull pins out of her hair and let them fall noisily to the ground. It was a relief to be out of her corset, but her head had begun to hurt since Francis had left, a sore and sharp throbbing on both sides so hard it felt like her scalp was on fire. Her hair tumbled down in a mass of loose and untamed curls, lessening the weight on her head. Dancing her fingers gently over the strings of her harp, she closed her eyes again, resting her temple carefully against the warm wood, heated by the fire. It soothed her headache as she played, nothing of any note or significance, just a gentle, lazy strumming. The tightness of the strings felt pleasant against her fingers. She plucked one experimentally, enjoying the soft resistance and the sweet, echoing sound it made as it filled the room. She felt the note reverberate through the wood against her skin.
It had begun to rain outside and she could hear the soft patter against the old wooden roof, adding another dimension to her playing. The strings trembled and vibrated as she plucked them, hands either side to manipulate the instrument to her will. She had played since she was a child, it was one of the first accomplishments her mother insisted she should learn and it was the only thing she was grateful to her for. In moments like this, when was completely alone, even before Geoffrey Charles had been born, she would sit and play for hours on end, sometimes throughout the night. It soothed her, the way her fingers floated naturally over the strings, the way she knew here to pluck and where to touch, the way the sound slipped so effortlessly from the instrument. She'd always been drawn to the harp, the angelic connotations. It had always sounded like a choir of angels singing to her and sometimes she would put her voice to it, but tonight was not one of those nights. She preferred to hear the pure, raw sound of the instrument itself, washing over her, over the room, over the entire house. It was a cleansing sound, purging the house of any ill feeling, washing away any anger and pain and hurt and sadness.
Most of all, it gave her company. There was no shortage of pleasant conversation in the house and she had a young child to look after so she couldn't say she was bored or lonely, yet there was a unique isolation to be found in the absence of a husband. The unearthly sound of the harp provided her with a companion for some time, one that she could listen to and one who would listen to her. So she closed her eyes as she played, immersing herself fully in the harmonies of the different notes, allowing them to envelop her in safety and familiarity. She picked an old Cornish melody, plucking the strings at will as the rain strengthened outside, beating down heavily on the roof to supplement the sound like her very own accompanying orchestra. The crackle of the fire added an odd bass to the mix and she barely noticed that she had a visitor.
One of the servants had deigned to let Ross in when neither Elizabeth, Verity nor Francis had answered the door and once he entered the receiving room, he furrowed his brows in confusion. The room was dark, in fact the whole house seemed to have its lights doused as if everyone was asleep already. Francis had agreed to meet him tonight, had he not? He set his hat curiously on the large table in the centre of the room, shaking his hair out and preparing to look for a glass of port to warm him after riding through the rain, yet no one appeared. He made to open his mouth, intending to call out loudly for his cousin until another, softer sound reached his ears. He had heard it before and recognised it instantly. Drawn to it, he walked slowly out of the room and down the hall, following the sound like gravity pulling him towards it. His boots made soft patting sounds on the floor as he tried to be as soft as possible until he reached the doorway the sound was emanating from.
And there sat Elizabeth, framed in the doorway like an exquisite painting. He felt like he was intruding on a private moment yet also felt he had every right to be there. She sat comfortably in her night gown, swathes of white pooled around her, the large sleeves falling elegantly as she played, her hair loose and wild, unconstrained by pins, spilling elegantly down her back to her waist, the curls swaying gracefully as she moved. Her eyes were closed, half opening sometimes to view the gold and red strings she plucked so delicately and the room was filled with the sweet, warm harmonies of her harp. She tipped her head to the side, exposing the soft expanse of the side of her neck. His eyes drifted there instead of her fingers, tracing the length of her neck with his gaze, trying to stop himself wondering how soft and warm that skin would be to touch, to taste. He loved watching her like this, so absorbed in doing something she loved, doing something for herself. There was something so entrancing about the way she played, the way she lost herself completely in the melody he recognised from his childhood, perhaps even one he remembered her singing absently as she sat on the tree swing, her dress fluttering behind her in the oppressive summer heat.
He felt he could stand there for hours, listen to her play and feast his eyes on her, just watch her. He knew it wasn't his place, she wasn't his wife, she wasn't his to observe so openly but somehow when she appeared in front of him, he lost all sense of propriety. He just wanted to have her, to take her, to possess her, to spend every evening sitting and watching her play. Nothing else mattered.
The serenity that washed over him as she strummed the strings of her harp felt warm and comfortable, familiar, like coming home after a long day. He felt covered by it, held in a warm grip almost, floating in freefall yet strangely happy with it. He leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms as he watched her, resting his head against the doorframe, yet this small action broke the tranquillity she had so carefully constructed with her playing. She saw the movement out of the corner of her eye and turned her head in surprise, expecting to see Francis yet shocked that he would be back so soon.
When she saw Ross, her mind went blank and she jerked away from the harp, suddenly horridly aware of her state. Drawing her nightgown around her hastily, she stood up and clutched it to her chest, walking partway across the room and then standing awkwardly, unsure of where to look.
"Ross, I….it slipped my mind to inform you that Francis would not be able to meet with you tonight. Forgive me, I sent no word ahead and—"
"Why not? Has he been taken sick?" asked Ross in concern, stepping into the room.
She stared anxiously at how close he seemed to get with just one step. He was wet, his hair dripping onto the shoulders of his jacket, his skin slightly damp. His gaze was piercing and direct, his intense brown eyes capturing her own and seizing them in an uncomfortable hold.
"No, he left for Truro on urgent business earlier in the evening. Geoffrey Charles has been taken sick but Dr Choake visited him earlier and prescribed the necessary remedy."
She was explaining more than he'd asked and he could tell she was clearly flustered at his unannounced presence. She hadn't been expecting him, that much was obvious.
"Can I offer you some refreshment? Port or whisky?"
She turned suddenly, sweeping away to the sideboard to draw a cut crystal tumbler and decanter to her. He sipped the port slowly, looking at her over the glass with eyes so dark she thought she saw the storm outside reflected in them. He didn't speak and the silence was overwhelming.
"You're wet," she stated unnecessarily, her eyes wandering over his dripping coat, which he began to remove and drape over a vacant couch. He unbuttoned his waistcoat and removed that too, draping it over his coat methodically as Elizabeth watched. She didn't know why she felt so distinctly anxious watching him remove his outerwear. He locked eyes with her again as he reached to his throat, untying his neck cloth slowly. His fingers pulled one end of the soft fabric out of the knot, causing the rest to loosen before he unwound it from his neck, removing it completely. Her eyes followed his every movement religiously and he sat down in a chair across from the harp, now only in his breeches, boots and shirt. He gestured to the harp in front of him, never once removing his sharp gaze from her.
"Play for me."
The words sent shivers down her spine and she tightened her hold on the lapels of her nightgown, unable to take her eyes away from his. The way he looked at her made her feel like she was disintegrating inside, a slow burn melting her slowly from the inside out. She'd never felt someone look at her with such focus before, as if nothing else in the world mattered but her. She sat down slowly then, her heart audible in her ears and perfectly aware that her breathing was out of sorts and probably audible to him too. All sorts of justifications appeared in her mind, it wasn't so bad if she was just playing for him. Thoughts of anyone appearing in the doorway and viewing the scene flew from her mind as soon as her trembling fingers brushed against the strings. They fit against her fingers perfectly and she began to play, her hands steadying as the melody built up quietly, slowly. Ross watched her in a trance, letting the rest of the world and their surroundings melt away as he focused just on her and the way she played. Just for him.
It was a different tune from before but just as sweet, filling the air around them, milling once again in perfect harmony with the rain and fire. She was too involved in her playing to see him now, to see the way he looked at her with such abandon it was almost obscene. He watched her delicate hands work over the strings, the way she stroked them as if she were touching a lover, observed the way her body bent to accommodate the harp's elegant shape, her eyes closed as pure peace washed over her features, smoothing out the constant frown she wore these days. Her lips parted slowly as she played and Ross dragged his gaze to them, possessed completely by how soft and plump and pink they looked, how he longed to feel that softness on his skin once more.
The last note faded into the rain and she opened her eyes cautiously at the silence, lifting her gaze to look at Ross. Her breath caught in her throat at the pure….hunger with which he looked at her, as if he would devour her if given the chance. She felt suddenly aware of her clothing, drawing her nightgown around her carefully as she attempted to contain her breathing. She needed to lace herself in, hold herself in to stop her from throwing herself at Ross just to feel his arms around her again.
He wasn't aware of the restraint required from her side to keep herself still. She wanted nothing more than to feel his hands on her, feel that intimacy she missed so much. She closed her eyes and she could almost feel the warmth of his hands slipping under her gown, over her nightdress, warming her and holding her close. That was all she wished, to be held close to him, to feel him touch her with the same tenderness he had before, to feel herself pressed against him. To feel safe and sure and comfortable once more.
Ross sat up from where he had been resting against the back of the chair and pulled himself up slowly, walking over to the vacant couch to pick up his jacket and waistcoat, donning them in the same repetitive fashion he'd removed them. Elizabeth watched him once more as if he was performing some odd ritual and paused as he held out his neck cloth to her. His gaze stayed firm as she stood up and against her best interests, took the cloth from him, straightening it out slowly in her palms. She felt the light, silky fabric slip against her skin and held it taught, standing up and onto her tiptoes to drape it around his neck and under his collar.
She set herself about her task diligently, trying not to think about how close he was to her as she wrapped the cloth around his neck, careful not to tie it too tight as she fixed one end over the other, preparing to tie the knot neatly. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed and her eyes were drawn to it, her fingers slipping a little as her gaze ran up to his jaw, lightly dusted with stubble but sharp and inviting. She felt the sudden urge to reach out and touch it, to feel the roughness under her fingers, to feel the ridge of his jaw down over his neck. The very thought filled her with a warmth she wished she could banish and she flicked her eyes back to the knot she was tasked with, aware she was taking longer than she should. She fed one loose end through the loop and felt her fingers slip again as a spark of electricity flew through her and her breath was knocked momentarily from her body. She felt Ross' hands ghosting under her gown, over the fabric of her night dress, almost gripping her sides softly as she tied his neck cloth. She teased the fabric through the loop and tied it quickly, moving her hands down over his upper arms that were now raised as he placed his hands more firmly on her waist, squeezing it softly through the thin fabric of his gown. She swore she could feel his callused fingers rub against her skin as she looked up at him, her throat dry. He stared down at her with the same hunger as before, but this time tinged with a hint of desperation as his eyes searched her face, settling on her parted lips before ghosting over her flushed cheeks and back to her wide eyes. She squeezed his upper arms almost warningly, wishing she could tell him what his touch did to her. Desire as she'd never felt before flooded her body and she suddenly felt that if Ross wanted to devour her, she wished he would. The change in her look was evident to Ross, whose eyes had glazed over.
All of a sudden, he dropped his hands from her waist and stepped back, gathering himself somehow. She faltered, confused as she watched his jaw tighten in frustration before he turned on his heel and strode out almost angrily, leaving her standing alone once more in the middle of the room. She didn't quite know what had happened.