Chapter Text
The Red Lion was mostly empty when Ross arrived. The plush warmth welcomed him inside from the torrential rain, comforting his aching joints from the long walk. His leg creaked, the one he had injured in war and Doctor Dwight Enys had only just managed to save. It felt stiff, a dull ache throbbing from his hip joint. He settled into a slight limp. The new suit Verity had purchased him was ruined, soaked through. He wondered if Demelza would be able to dry it out when he got home. The rain washed some of the pomade from his hair and now it fell in sticky clumps of raven curls around his face. He groaned as he shifted into the tavern with an uneven gait.
He sat himself at the bar and spoke in a cracking voice to the barkeep. "Whiskey."
The man obliged, throwing a cloth over his shoulder and picking up a tumbler glass. Ross hunched into his seat, eyes dark and mood gloomy. Anger sizzled faintly in his gut, ash and scorching embers on his tongue. He thought of George Warleggan, as the barkeep placed a glass of amber in front of him. Scolded himself for thinking to apologize for his behaviour at Elizabeth and Francis' wedding. George was the same as he was at school. No, worse.
Ross didn't want anything to do with him.
"How did you get that scar?"
Ross grabbed the glass and swallowed down the burning whiskey in one gulp. He slammed it back onto the counter and muttered gruffly. "Another." The bartender rose a brow, but grabbed a large, square bottle to pour another glass of whiskey. Ross reached for it, clasping his trembling fingers around the cold glass. He shivered in his heavy, damp suit. Sniffled miserably.
The bartender huffed, wiping the counter down with a dishcloth. "Bad night?"Ross looked up from his glass. The bartender was a round, tall man with a grizzled beard and wiry, copper hair tied back with a ribbon. His eyes were bored and coloured a plain brown.
"Put it on my tab." Ross ground out, picking up his glass and stumbling to one of the empty seats in the tavern. He was in no mood to talk nor attend to polite society. He clattered into a chair, the wooden legs screeching across the floor. Ross matched it to the sound of his men sharpening the bayonets of their muzzles. He closed his eyes and could clearly see his comrades scattered around a campfire. Laughter wobbled through the oak trees and voices chattered, as the canopy swayed in the gentle breeze. Ross sat on an upturned bucket and dealt cards as his friends joked lewdly and drank smuggled rum from their canteens. The first shot was muffled by the noise of their camp, shooting straight past Ross' nose and penetrating the chest of the soldier next to him. Ross stared into the man's eyes as he died, cards slipping from his fingertips. The soldier made an awkward, gurgling sound - somewhat reminiscent of a baby's blubbering - and then slumped to the floor. Ross had recalled his brother in the moment of silence after the rifle fired.
Claude Poldark.
Ross was only eleven years old when he watched his brother die at the age of six. Ironically, a year after their mother passed from a fever, Claude died because of the mine that bore her name, Wheal Grace. He never knew water could fill up a mine, but when he found it could, he had the grand idea to teach Claude how to swim in one. Looking down in the black and deep hole of Wheal Grace, he had urged Claude to climb down first. He followed closely, easily descending the rickety, rusted ladder. Claude's feeble, pale hands clung to each rung and Ross had teased him when he wobbled and almost lost his grip. When they hit the ground, Ross took his brother's hand, lit a match off his boot and ventured into the long tunnel of the mine. The match flickered faintly in the darkness, barely lighting their way. They clung to each other as they tripped and stumbled over loose rocks. The walls were damp and mossy. Ross exclaimed in delight when they stepped into a small puddle. The shock of cold water shot through him and he rushed forward, wading into the mucky, freezing pool. He held the match overhead, warm light reflecting off the glittering spray of copper embedded in the walls. He let go of Claude's hand and turned to find the young, pale-faced boy, standing chest-deep in the water a few paces away. His eyes were pale like their mother's: a gentle, light green. Ross held out his hand with a smile. Claude pressed forward, a tiny squeak escaping his lips when the water rose to his wobbling chin. He hesitated.
"Come on Claude, don't be a white liver." Ross called grumpily. How could Claude learn to swim, if his feet were still on the ground? Joshua tossed Ross in the lake by Nampara when he was three and according to Grace, Ross had been like a frog. Legs splayed and arms hooked, paddling through the clean water with ease. That was how he learned. So, without delay, he caught Claude by the arms and tossed him into the water. His brother screamed as he met the water and then the sound died to a bubbling gurgle in the murky depths. It took Claude a few panicked seconds to burst up from the water, thrashing wildly. Ross shouted in delight, wading further into the grimy water to watch as his little brother gradually started to doggy paddle in small, slow circles. He remembered how the flecks of copper ore in the mine had struck Claude's fair curls, sparking gold as sunlight. The way the water reflected against the damp, clay walls, in rippling splashes of indigo and turquoise and emerald. He remembered reaching out to hold Claude's tiny, pudgy hands, feeling how cold they were. How soft...
Claude came down with tuberculosis that fourtnight. He passed after an arduous month of doctor's feeding him herbs and long nights awake coughing and crying for his mother. Ross couldn't remember their mother, save for the image of her, sick and shaking, splayed out on a bed. All thin, pale limbs and the scent of death permeating the room she died in. Claude had appeared quite similar the night he passed; with his trembling, tiny limbs, his flushed and gaunt face. Unlike their mother, however, Ross remembered Claude as he was that night in Wheal Grace. Bright and peaceful as he waded through polluted water, glowing like the flickering light of the match that lead them down, down, down into the mine. Then, sputtered out.
Ross realized the first man he killed had not been at war. Nor had it been a man at all. It was a young boy, who barely lived. His beloved brother, Claude Poldark.
The door to the Red Lion opened, a blustery wind tossing an unkempt man inside with his black umbrella. Thunder growled like a prowling beast outside and the man quickly shut the door against its bottomless hunger. Ross didn't look up from his glass, as footsteps tapped to the bar. Instead he nursed his whiskey in a mournful bout of semi-sobriety. There were no tears left in him for Claude, for he had wept for his brother every night for five years after his death. Now, all he had left was a deep and momentous grief which could never again leave his side. For his brother was no more and in his place, Ross gladly welcomed his own guilt and pain, lest he truly be alone.
"Ross!" A voice hissed to him in his fuzzy-minded state. He glanced around, eyes bleary from the strong whiskey. "Over here, Ross!" Turning completely, he spotted Captain Henshawe crouched by the steps of the Red Lion. Ross hiccuped, rubbed at his eyes, but found the man still there. Ah yes, Ross thought, I was to meet Henny, wasn't I?
"Henny!" Ross burst, picking up his glass and sliding off his seat. He almost fell to the floor, but caught himself against the wooden stanchion of the entryway. His glass tipped, amber liquid splashing across the floor. "What are you doing over there?"
"Ross!" Henshawe fought to keep his voice low, wringing his umbrella anxiously. It leaked a puddle of rain onto the floor. "Be quiet..a-and get over here!"
Ross obliged, stumbling his way over to the staircase. He slumped over the bannister, peering down at his old friend. "Henny, are you playing hide-and-seek? We are a bit old, now..."
"Ross!" Henshawe exclaimed, casting a quick glance to the bartender who was doing his best to pretend the two men in his bar did not exist. The Captain caught Ross by his shirt and tugged him down to the floor. "Are you drunk?!" Henshawe demanded as Ross tried and failed to sit himself on the first step of the staircase. "I told you I had something important to talk about. Good God man, I only left you at the ball for an hour or two."
"Oh, sod off, Henny. You always were a hearty pair of gingambobs."
Henshawe gaped. "Ross!" He grabbed Ross' glass of whiskey and shook his head. "I see you haven't changed much from school."
"Nor you," Ross leaned against the banister, closing his eyes. "Still a prudish arsehole. Do tell me you have at least come across a beast with two backs?"
"I'm married, so I can assure you, I have educated myself on such...improper topics."
Ross grinned, reaching over to clap a hand over Henshawe's shoulder. "Good one, Henny."
The Captain blushed a deep scarlet and shrugged off Ross' hand. "You are uncouth." He paused, face softening. "But I truly missed you, Ross."
"Joshua Poldark's ghost returned, haunting the cliffs of Cornwall." Ross laughed, darkly. "I always did look like my father, didn't I?"
"Ross..." Henshawe's serious tone woke Ross somewhat from his drunken stupor.
"Ah...Forgive me, Henny." Ross sat up, tugging at his cravat until it loosened and fell open at his neck. "I have always been an unsavoury drunk." He shook himself in an attempt to pay attention. "Um, you spoke to me at Mr. Freathy's mansion. Of Lord Bassett and my father...What is it you wished to tell me?"
"I..." Henshawe froze, face paling considerably. He struggled for a moment, twirling his wet umbrella in tiny circles. Water splashed over Ross' breeches. "You see..." The Captain sighed, lifted Ross' glass to his lips and downed the last of the whiskey in one large gulp. He groaned, making a face at the taste and then sighed deeply. "I was at war when your father passed -"
"Yes, I am most aware. I was also at war, though my homecoming has been somewhat lackluster in comparison to your own, I presume."
"I did return after only a year." Henshawe admitted, looking inexplicably guilty. "Even that had been an adjustment. I can't imagine being out there... for three years. The woman I engaged, Delilah - do you remember her from school? - we wed the night of my return. She was one of the only things that kept me grounded in reality."
"How fortunate..." Ross sighed, glumly. "Alas, my own return has brought more grief than the war."
"You jest, Ross." Henshawe chuckled, nervously. "Surely, you are glad to be away from the war?"
Ross looked to the other man, almost entirely sobered by the topic of conversation. He realized quite quickly by looking at the other man's face, that Ross and he were completely different men. In the freshness of his complexion, he saw long nights filled with good rest, and in bright, brown eyes, an entirely different war. Had Captain Henshawe grown strong bonds with his comrades over the months only to watch them die with his own eyes? Had he rolled and crawled through filthy muck and warm blood and clay? Had he felt the weight of the cold steel of a musket in his dominant hand? Had he pulled the trigger?
Beyond all that, did Henshawe have nightly visitings of the violence and death war bore? When he woke, drenched in a cold sweat, memories wreaking havoc on his mind, did he have someone by his side to comfort him?
"Of course, I am glad, Henny." The words bumbled out of his mouth as the drivel he was taught at school might; a reflex beaten into him by finer society. "Cornwall has changed, but remains superior to the trenches in every way."
"Why must we men of war so often brood over said glory?" Henshawe scratched his balding head, leaning back against the wall. Ross thought him to young to be balding.
"Perhaps, it is because we still refer to it as a glory and not the tragedy it is."
"Tragedy?" Henshawe placed the empty whisky glass on the second step of the staircase. "If it were a tragedy and not glory, then why do poets write of it so honourably?"
"Poets haven't gone to war." Ross grouched, ruffling a hand through his hair. "And those who did are widely overlooked for their tragic writing."
"What a miserable insight."
Tired, Ross wondered, briefly. "Do you feel honoured, having been to war?"
"Do you feel tragic?" Henshawe shot back, raising his brows.
"I feel..." Ross scrubbed his hands over his face, slumping against the stairs. "Forgotten."
The Captain paused, giving Ross a quick once over. "You always did feel too much. Or not enough. I remember the days when you smiled, just because the weather was good. Now, its hard to find anything, but a scowl in your expression."
"School was a place for boys to smile. The world is for men-"
"To grow old and grumpy?" Henshawe quipped. "Like Pascoe?"
"Harry truly did change, then?" Ross shook his head. "I thought I had forgotten how he used to be."
"Oh, he changed as soon as he inherited the bank." Henshawe sighed sadly, stretching out a creaking knee slowly. "I don't blame the old fool. The pressure must have been immense."
"But to change so much..."
"It is certainly sad." The Captain smiled, warmly. "But maybe to grow is to change."
"I believe my growth is stunted."
Henshawe puffed a laugh, holding his stomach and chortling heartily. The noise sounded dry and unused, as if it had been held inside the man for years. Ross let the man calm down, before he brought up the real reason for why they were here.
"What is it you wish to say to me?" Ross muttered softly. Henshawe's smile dimmed and he shuffled closer, placing his hands neatly on his lap. Ross' leg suddenly bounced, settling into an antsy pace.
"I am not sure how to broach the topic..." The Captain admitted, face pale.
"As any subject."
"But this is not merely any subject." He swallowed thickly, lowering his voice to an almost inaudible tone. Ross leaned closer. "I am not sure how much I may even say, lest -"
"Say as much as you can and it will be more than any other has given me since my return." Ross leaned back on the stairs, elbows resting on the step above. "I know that something has happened while I was away. Well, much has happened, but something significant . To do with my family."
"Of course, you have realized. You were always quick in regards to these matters." Henshawe's lower lip trembled, slightly. He sucked it into his mouth and gnawed on it. "You see, I only know as much as I've been told. Perhaps only rumours-"
"Perhaps not."
"Y-yes..." Henshawe glanced around. "Perhaps not. When I returned from the war, it was a commotion to which I was welcomed. Joshua..." Glancing to Ross for a moment, he continued. "He had just passed and the streets were alive with gossip. Rumours that he had debts, he visited brothels and abused his tenants."
"What?" Ross demanded, sitting straight up. "My father always fought for liberty for the commonfolk. He thought all men should be treated equal. He would never-"
Henshawe grabbed his shoulder, squeezing lightly. "Of course. I knew him too, Ross. He was a brave and honourable man. Even the commonfolk fought for his image, though the nobility paid them no heed. He had been declared a wild, beard-splitter with no regards to those around him. I did my best to quell the rumours whenever they popped up. Still, it was no use. I decided to find the source, but there were no leads. I spoke to Francis, though it may have been impolite while he was torn with such grief. Your cousin could only tell me one thing. That...That an anonymous benefactor had paid for the funeral."
"A benefactor?" Ross prompted, not quite following Henshawe's point yet.
The Captain shifted even closer, until they were almost butting heads and whispering how they used to at school. "I...I thought it meant nothing. I forgot about it, until just recently. When Lord Bassett tragically took his own life, I had an unsavoury thought. Mere speculation-"
"Spit it out, Henny."
"Bassett's mines were closed. His funeral paid for anonymously."
Ross nodded, urging the man to continue. "Yes, I know that. There are rumours that he was a drunk, gambling away his bank loans and...m-mistreating his tenants..."
"Sound familiar?" Henshawe urged.
"They are the same rumours circling my father!" Ross tried to rationalize, a flicker of the firey anger the rain had dispersed burning back to life. "But gossip in Cornwall is common and-"
"Do you remember what you said at the ball? About Wheal Leisure?"
"Um, the mining?" Ross thought of his father's journals and frowned. "You were looking for tin, even though there were clear signs of ironstone."
"Exactly!" They startled as the bartender placed some glasses on the bar with a clatter. Henshawe waited for the man to focus on his tasks and then continued. "Joshua came to the mine a month before his death. We had only just found ironstone and I was confident if we dug further, we would come across copper ore! But, that day, Joshua told all the miners that we would start searching for tin. Something about brand new evidence that suggested we should abandon our search for copper."
"He never wrote anything in his journals about evidence of tin..." Ross furrowed his brow. "Why would he suddenly...Wait..."
"The mine closed right after Joshua's death. We were all let go, without a day's notice." Henshawe whispered, grasping Ross' arm. "Do you see, Ross? Do you?
"I don't understand what this means. It sounds like - "
"Ross..." Henshawe looked him straight in the eye, serious and foreboding. "Who was Lord Bassett's banker?"
The penny dropped. Ross gasped in surprise. Blood drained from his face and his stomach churned violently. The realization hit him as harshly as a jealous lady's slap. His fuzzy mind slowed his thought process, but honed the pith of his constant, unexplained rage. The rumours surrounding Joshua Poldark and Lord Bassett after their death to discredit them, the closure of both mines which were quite successful. Who would be most profitable in this situation? The banker. Did Ross' father share the same banker as Lord Bassett? As all of Cornwall?!
"George Warleggan."
Steps thumped from upstairs and both men jolted away from each other, glancing up. On the landing, stood a lady of the night in a loose-fitted, revealing red gown. She stood in the dim candlelight for a moment and then, started down the stairs.
"I-I must leave!"Henshawe burst, jumping to his feet.
"Henny? We must-"
"We will speak further on this later." Leaning down to Ross, he peered down on him, imploringly. "Please, Ross. I was never here. We spoke of nothing."
Ross balked, somewhat outraged. "But, I have to find out-"
"Just..." Henshawe glanced once more to the lady descending the stairs. "Just leave me out of it!" Grasping his umbrella, he turned up the collar of his coat and ventured out into the stormy, Cornish night. The door slammed shut behind him and Ross stared after the man, utterly confused. An anger that simmered just beneath his skin since his return from the war, finally seemed to bubble, spilling out of his very pores in hot, searing bursts. He tasted steel on his tongue, the rifle of a musket pressed between his teeth. He smelled the gunpowder and the piss and shit from the lavatory in the trenches. He felt grief for his father, for his brother and quashed it beneath his fury. Grabbing the whisky glass by his side, he smashed it against the far wall, glass shards sprinkling near his feet.
"Oi!" The bartender yelled, coming out from behind his bar. He approached Ross with a furrowed brow. "What are ya doing? Wreckin' my inventory!"
"Oh piss off!" Ross shot back and the man lunged at him, grabbing his shirt.
"Think ye had a bit much to drink now, sir." He hefted Ross up to his feet. "Gonna 'ave to ask ye to leave."
Ross pushed the man away from him and stumbled back onto the staircase. "Gimme a fight." He ground out, standing on wobbly feet. "Come on, you bastard! Raise your fists!" Lunging to the man, Ross paused when the lady of the night slid between the men. She pulled a wad of pound notes from her breast and handed it to the barkeep.
"That should do it, Joe." The woman patted Joe's shoulder with a demure smile. "I'll take care of this."
"Be careful with the rough ones now, Red." Joe warned, pocketing the money and shuffling back to his bar. Ross slumped against the banister and cursed.
"Mind yourself, whore. Don't get between men." He spat, aggrieved at the loss of a good fight. He couldn't seem to shake thoughts of Claude and his father tonight, so he'd rather get them knocked out completely.
Red laughed, clapping a hand to his back. "Hush now, am I not a professional at getting between men?" She winked. "And under them."
Ross appraised the woman anew. She had long black hair falling in loose curls, woven through with red ribbons. Huge, brown eyes peered at him, face powdered lightly and lips painted a stark red befitting of her name. A tiny black heart was drawn on her cheek, a touch of rouge colouring her cheery expression. Large breasts burst from her gown, spilling out over her corset. She had the scent of grime and ale around her, that her cheap, floral perfume couldn't hide.
"Are we acquainted, m'am?" He demanded, suddenly finding similarities between her and Elizabeth when there were none.
Red looked up at him from under her eyelashes. She siddled next to him, leaning over the banister. "We could be." She whispered secretively, swaying her hips with a swish of fabric.
"I've neither time, nor the money to seek such diversions." He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. She was quite beautiful, despite her wicked mouth.
"So you'll settle for fighting?" Red clicked her tongue. "Men. Always so immature. Or...a sweetheart, perhaps?"
Ross stilled, glaring at her from under the spills of wet curls in his eyes. "I made the mistake of going to war."
"And, when you returned, she was pledged to another?" Her eyes sparkled and Ross caught sight of a large red ruby dripping from her ear, hidden beneath her wild curls. "Yet, you still care for her. Perhaps, she loves you still..."
Ross scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Enough with the useless flattery. It is neither endearing nor effective."
"Then what is effective with you, m'lord?"
"For an immature man like me?" He flashed his teeth. "Fighting."
"I can assure you, sir, when you are with me, it will feel like a very rough fight." She reached over to tug on his open cravat, stealing it from around his neck. "I bite." She snapped her teeth, tossing the cravat around her neck, as if it were a scarf. "And suck and scratch and a manner of other things..."
"You are quite foul-mouthed." Ross laughed, amused by the woman before him. It was rare to find a lady willing to make jokes, especially ones so lewd. Her thick, Cornish accent had become somewhat charming as they spoke.
"Just a quick brush, sir. I'm in the mood." Red bit her lip, mouth curving into a dastardly grin. "We can even blow the grounsils."
Surprised, Ross burst into laughter at that, clutching his stomach. "What a refreshing conversation!" Chuckling to himself, he reached out to cup Red's cheek, fingers spanning across her slender neck. "I'd much rather riding St. George with a beautiful woman."
Red leaned into his touch and grabbed him by the suspenders, tugging him back up the stairs. "I'm borrowing a room, Joe!"
The barkeep huffed, scrubbing at a glass. "Just don't break the bed, again!"
Red lead him to the second floor and they pressed and crashed up against the walls, kissing and giggling their way to a spare room.