Fandom ANOESIS {Closed}

[Asteria]

“Someone— a Latin poet— had defined eternity as no more than this: to hold and possess the whole fullness of life in one moment, there and then, past and present and to come.”
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Kassandra Rose ​

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[Kassandra Rose]

t is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife - or so that was what Estella's friend, Marie Pendlehaven, had told her, as she twisted and weaved the silky white strands of Ella's hair into something fashionably chic.

And yet, the young Artois wasn't sure how much of a 'truth' that this actually was. George Warleggan, from what she could gather, didn't particularly want a wife, but instead the fortune, the connections and the subsequent heir that commonly followed such a union. No, if anything was a universal truth, at least to the nobility of Cornwall, it was that that money could undeniably buy happiness. For, it could purchase whatever it was that the heart desired: friends, connections, balls and feasts.

Such was true to the Peneven heiress, who had accumulated the great, the good and, in George's case, the dirty rich, all together in celebration of her marriage to Doctor Dwight Enys.

"I do believe that the young Gentleman over there is looking at you, Ella," her companion poked her in the side of her corset. Struggling to breathe already, Estella wriggled uncomfortably beneath the woman's touch, as small as it may be, and attempted to tilt her porcelain face in a manner that would not adhere attention.

"By no means," she shook her head, though she knew it to be the truth. "I believe him to be quite enticed by your natural beauty". The corners of her rouged lips tugged up ever so slightly. "Or, if not, he is at least admiring your handiwork, little else". Marie had spent hours fawning over them wretched, unruly curls of her new companion.

"Do you truly think so?" The brunette began to fan her face with the soft, baby blue lace. Her usual olive complexion had flushed to that of a ripe Spaniard tomato. "Pray, forgive me! He is quite the sight for sore eyes, if I must allow my tongue to speak freely. Oh, 'tis the greatest shame that I know no one whom is a mutual friend. To be introduced to him would be the greatest aspiration that one could hope for at the gathering!"

It took everything Estella had not to snort aloud at her friend. It was not her fault that she was indoctrinated so. "I do believe you are quite acquainted with Lady Falmouth?" She reminded her friend, with a gentle nod of her head in the direction of the elderly woman, sat within the window seat of the room alone. "If I am right, which I'm almost certain that I shall be, that is her nephew. Although I can't remember his name for the life of me, I do recall that it was he whom Captain Poldark rescued from the bloodshed of the ruthless French. Do you not remember hearing of the occasion? Lucinda told me that she heard during a ball at Tverathen house that Falmouth plans on placing Poldark in Parliament with thanks to the matter. Could you believe such a thing?"

"Mere gossip," George scoffed, rolling his eyes. "No one would dare make a man as reckless as to break into, not just one but, two prisons. And, the prisoners are lucky to be alive too. From what I heard, of Bodmin Moor, him and that Doctor friend of his murdered a poor child - hacking off his arm like some kind of wild animals".

It was Estella's turn to roll her eyes. "Mr. Warleggan, I must bid you to hold your tongue. You're here solely because that self same doctor has invited you, on his wedding day and all. Seriously, George? Must you believe all that such rumours have to say? For, I daresay... some of the most outrageous things I have heard about you".

She left it at that, for the cruel man to panic in haste of what had been said of him behind his back - whilst her eyes scanned, so softly, the face of Marie's dream husband. Her friend was not wrong. He was, without a doubt, most certainly a sight for sore eyes - or for any eyes really. His skin was flawless, as if a babe sent straight from the clouds of heaven, and it upheld such sweet, olive warmth. Below each of his high cheekbones, the Angels had kissed him, blessing him with two very beautiful dimples. His jaw was soft, but not without manly edge, and his hair fell in loose waves that reminded one of the hush sounds of the Cornish sea against the ribbed sand.

"Oh, I am afeared, Ella. Would you hate me so if I approached her so, just now?" The young lady nibbled gently on her lower lip. "You are welcome to join me".

"By all means, Marie, you have spent far too much of your time on myself already," the young lady smiled, brushing down her dress. "Go! Quickly, before somebody else gets to it first. I shall remain, dutifully, by the side of Mr. Warleggan, who shall no doubt keep me entertained". The English market for a new husband was a killer, or so her step mother was always writing to tell her so:

"If you are not quick, Estelle, you shall soon be an old maid, or married to the dregs which no thorough lady would ever dream of touching with an ungloved hand".

Gloves, ungloved... it made no difference to her. Estella had no desires to go near any man. Submit her freedom, and for what cost? To fawn over him, to slave over him and his... spawns? No, thank you. She'd much rather be 'an old maid'. It was a shame then that her father planned to cart her off to the highest bidder as if she were some old mule. To George Warleggan and all! Why, she wouldn't even dream of selling old Betsy to a man like him, who had no such thing as a beating heart to express the care and devotion necessary to life.

Lost in her thoughts, the young lady failed to take notice of her escort, who was consistently pestering her in regards to her prior comments. "Estella! I said, Estella!" George hissed, before grasping at her. "Will you listen to me?"

"Hm?" She turned her attention back to the Gentleman, wrapping her petite hand around his lower arm. "Yes, George?"

"Whatever have such lunatics been saying about me?"

"You know," she stole another glance to the direction of the former prisoner of France. "...I can't quite recall," she said, before casting her eyes back towards her would be Fiancé. "It can't have been much of good significance, or I ought to remember. Perhaps, Mr Warleggan, it would do you good to follow suit of Ross Poldark".

Ross Poldark. What was it that they say? Speak of the Devil and he shall appear. Unfortunately for George, it appeared that this was such the case for his archenemy, who had passed nearby with his cousin, Verity Poldark, having danced with the beautiful Elizabeth Chynoweth.

His cousin, Verity, had bid him to come, in spite of him repeatedly telling her that he felt up to no such occasion. She did, however, he accepted, need an escort, and her childbearing days were promptly lessening. It would be unfair to deny her such happiness while it were still to be offered. All the same, he could not bring himself to enjoy such a wonder. For, despite all of the beauty that surrounded him, not one of them even came a mile close of that heavenly creature that had been Amelia Carminow.

There it began, once more, images of the ghostly presence. Her, all her. Amelia running through the meadows. Ross chasing her. Him catching her, within the embrace of his arms, and lifting her in the air, before she would turn, and they would share a loving, true kiss. It was a love he had only known once and, since hearing the news of her marriage, one that he would never go again.

"You are in good health, Captain Poldark?" A small voice called out to him, not one that he was too familiar with. Turning upon the heel of his boot, Ross came to face the lady with a false but necessary, polite smile. His dark eyes fell shadow to her light face.

"Miss Artois," he nodded duly. Yet, the corners of his lips tugged downwards at her company, and could not be herewith withdrawn from such. "I am, thank you for your regards. How is your father keeping? From what I last heard, he was over the moon and his wife with twins".

"Ah, yes," she bowed sweetly. "Henrietta and Little Louisa, would you believe that they are but five years of age this year? How time flies by so quickly when one is not ensuring watch".

"How indeed," was his response, short but all too aware of it to be the truth. It felt like only yesterday that Amelia and him had shared their most melancholy farewell, that only yesterday she had placed her small ring in the palm of his gigantic hand and kissed it softly shut. 'Forget me not,' she had said, and he had followed obediently, like a sailor helpless to the voice of his siren, and yet she had been so quick to cast him aside in her heart.

"Will you be furthermore joining the dancing, Captain? I'm sure that my father would wish to see another of his daughters besotted on a gentleman, of age or not," it was no secret that Estella was not fond of her new parents. Although, she did possess a love for her father that could not be revoked. Ross had been the same, when the old man was alive at least. His mother had once said that the two were simply too alike in so many ways, that they clashed. Unlike him, his mother had been the water to his father's fire. His equal and yet opposite in every manner, and in some ways so had she been his.

"I'm inclined to say not," he shook his unkempt mane. "I was hoping to catch a breath of fresh air". Pausing, he cast a look from Ella to her arm jewellery, Warleggan. "You'd be more than welcome to join me, if your partner could spare you for but a moment".

"By no means-"

"But of course," she spoke, simultaneously to George's refusal, before casting him a stern look, a Carminow glare if he ever did see one on another lass. "George, I have such a horrid thirst. Would you please be as kind as to grab me a glass of brandy wine?"

Ross smirked devilishly, awaiting till his enemy was out of earshot to smile at the woman once more. "You look beautiful tonight, Estella," he offered out his arm, allowing her dainty hand to slip under and wrap around. "Don't tell your father I said so. I'm not, in truth, the marrying kind".

At this, the girl snorted. "Truly, I shall not. Content you, sir. However, I thank ye for your praise, whether it's justification be wholly or not. As for marrying kind, do my ears deceive me?" His eyebrows furrowed, as his head tilted to get a better look at her bemused expression. "Do you forget so quickly that it is I who introduced you to my sweetest friend, Amelia?"

His front teeth pressed down slightly on his parted lower lip. "For that I am eternally bound to you, Miss," he shook his head once more. "Although, I think we know that chapter- no, that story was firmly concluded with the marriage to her husband. In many ways, I must be thankful. We were too dissimilar to ever work properly. The match was impractical".

Only a sigh escaped the girl's lips, as the two walked in silence. Both of them had retreated to their own pensive minds. "Do you not think that opposites work well? Following our travels to Asia, I discovered the most beautiful story of perpetuatance even in the most disarray. Have you heard of the Chinese story Yin and Yang?" He shook his head again, feeling like quite the dunce tonight. "Yin and Yang were born from chaos when the universe was first created. The Chinese believed that they exist in harmony at the centre of the Earth. During the creation, their achievement of balance in the cosmic egg allowed for the birth of Pangu, the first human. In truth, I think it all to be metaphorical, but to me it makes some sense".

"Is that so?" Ross couldn't refrain from laughing. "And how is that?" He couldn't fathom anything of reality from such a bizzare tale.

"Well, it is science, of course. I know many who consider it to be but philosophy, but look at the work of our dear Dr. Enys. Is he not a proclaimed miracle worker? I believe the story to be a somewhat complicated reference to simpler things. Water keeps check of fire, to prevent seismic catastrophic events. The earth keeps us bound to the ground, so that we do not disappear within the clouds of the sky".

"Well, by all means, you and George be willfully happy then. For, he lacks all the airs and graces which seemingly come so natural to you," Ross attempted to joke, a little unnerved that she appeared to know his mind, or even his very soul and heart's desire. "Is that how you convince yourself that you may love him?"

It was the lady's turn to laugh, like the sound of sweet honey bees in summer. "In truth, I'm not sure I do believe there is such a thing. Love? Tish. My father says that 'tis something that beggars use to comfort their losses. Nobody truly gets to marry for love. You-" she paused, licking her lips swiftly. "Forgive me. I mean not to intrude".

Ross winced, but assured her of no such offence to warrant apologies. "I understand it to be true, yes, Miss Artois - and, I cannot blame your pessimism, being engaged to such..." he glanced over, to where George was trying to insert himself into a Gentleman's conversation. "I don't blame you, anyway. Yet, just because we cannot follow our hearts, does not mean that they don't beat soundly, nor that they have no hopes of their own. I cannot decline the accusation that I have fell victim once upon a time to love. I proclaim that it does exist, and I know you think me to be a practical man, so you may take my very word for it. The only problem is that you cannot possess it. It is a force to truly be reckoned with, a bit like the American's in the late war of independence".

Silence had fallen once more, like a blanket over the wounds of the past. "Well then," Ella spoke feebly. "I hope it may spare me from its wrath. May I never love, or be forever inclined to misery".

"Unless, you love George? Though I can see how you feel it quite so impossible," Ross tugged down upon his hat, altering it so that it could cascade the faint glimmer of sadness in the depths of his eyes. From then, the silence remained, though not the least bit unappreciated, and all the more comforting things were because of it. Yet, their conversation lingered in their minds, or at least he knew it did in his, alongside the ghost of the only woman that mattered. Then it came: the welcome distraction!

"Hugh!" Ross clapped him on the back with his free arm, "it is good to see you looking so entirely well. You have been making the most of your liberty then?" His liberty and John's had been the only light shining through the prison of Ross's torments, and his responsibility for the death of one of his closest companions. "I'd hoped to see you here, knowing all too well that John wouldn't be able to resist the charms of your friendship. I fear that the bride may be green with jealousy when she sees his second wife is here..." he halted his jokes, forgetting the presence of the lady upon his arm. Such topics were truly not for the ears of a delicate woman. "Forgive me. May I introduce my companion: The Honourable Miss Estella De Artois".

 

[Asteria]

Marriage. What is marriage if not a trade, a simple transaction that takes place between families more often than it did between individuals? ‘You shall have my name and fortune, as well as the connections that come with it and I shall have you on my arm, the heir that you would bear for me and the new doors your name may open in the future,’ the man would say – a compelling speech only a merchant would be capable of. That was how Lieutenant Hugh Armitage viewed marriage, at least – another prison, and one less gentle than those of France.

Any man would think him mad, for how could one compare the misery and atrocities seen in France to a harmless marriage to a woman, a frail thing, something they found so easy to control. It would not be surprising, however – no matter how charming he was, how intelligent and well-bred he appeared, he was still considered a madman, someone that was not in their right state of mind. They could not understand how a man of war, one who had suffered at the hands of it, still preoccupied himself with art, music. All of it was futile in their opinion. It was not in his eyes. It was escapism: just as they yearned for their heart’s desires, he had yearned for nature, for the sun kissing his temples or waves lapping at his feet, for the liberty poetry and art allowed him.

He had yearned for beauty and his deep, earthy brown eyes sought it relentlessly in those around him. When he had withdrawn from his aunt and uncle, allowing himself a moment’s respite, he took in his surroundings. Hugh enjoyed the joyous murmurs, the sounds of pure life, for he could no longer bear the silence. Yet, he wished there would be more meaning behind those quiet conversations though, behind mere gossip. It was in the midst of his critical analyze that he saw a trail of light, of molten gold that caught his interest. Blonde strands of hair framed the round face, accentuating its purity, its paleness. Whereas the woman at her side seemed to be taken aback by his presence – Hugh could easily read women’s interest whenever he was near, a skill he had acquired over the years – the one he was enraptured by paid him no heed. Not even George Warleggan was any luckier than he.

A childish curiosity, fascination, took over him. ‘Who are you?’

Yet, Hugh was not allowed to wonder for long. A rough hand fell upon his shoulder, squeezing it lightly and he found himself, unwillingly so, redirecting his gaze to the one who sought his attention. It was Dwight, the Doctor, his friend, his companion, the one man for whom he had made an exception when it came to his beliefs of marriage. He truly wished that Dwight would continue to find joy in his marriage to Caroline and that he would not come to regret his decision with time. He deserved it, after everything he had been put through. “Still daydreaming, I see,” Dwight commented. “When will you learn to remain awake and aware of yourself?”

“I have stood grounded for far too long, my friend. I no longer have a reason to.” France and its memory had to fade. The Doctor’s lips held a certain sorrow to their curve at his words. A sorrow that led Hugh to ask: “Are you certain of your decision?” What they had suffered at the hands of the French could change a man – change his perception of life, his desires and wants. Dwight had not been the same when he had returned from France. He was a broken man, uncertain and confused. Caroline had been steadfast in her decision, but Hugh did wonder…

“Jealous, Hugh?”

The young man could help but sigh. Ross’ jests could not be forgotten by either of them. “Ah, yes. Is it that noticeable that I am deeply affected by all of this? But what can I do except sulk in my misery, knowing that I will always be just a friend, a trustworthy companion in your eyes and nothing else? That I shall remain in Caroline’s shadow for the rest of my life?”

Dwight’s laughter could not be contained and Hugh joined him with a light shake of his head. The silence that followed was not unsettling and both men welcomed it.

“I do love her.” The Doctor’s words followed. “She was the only thing that had remained untouched by the stinging smell of iron and death in my memories. She is the innocence and purity that this world has been deprived by for so long… she is the better part of your friend’s heart, Hugh.”

“Does a man that has been through what you have been still believe in innocence and purity? Does it not anger you, knowing what is out there?”

“Are you in a position to ask such a thing?” Dwight meant no harm with his words. He only meant to remind Hugh of his own belief in matters unrelated to the memory of war.

Hugh’s lips were brought together into a smile and the young man lightly shook his head. “I imagine not.” Only then did he notice the gentle curves of Caroline’s silhouette passing through the gathered people – she was indeed beautiful, captivating. He could see why their Doctor had found in her an oasis in this deserted and desolated land. “Your duty as a husband calls you.” And his words were enough for Dwight’s attention to be caught. A warm smile greeted him as he turned his head and with a quick pat on his friend’s arm and an apologetic smile of his own, the Doctor left him behind.

He was not to remain alone, however. As soon as Dwight escaped his eyes, it was a familiar voice called out to him and Hugh was met with Ross Poldark himself. “How could I not when there is so much to enjoy when you find yourself face to face with freedom?” Hugh could not help but let his lips curve into a gentle smile – grateful even, for the Captain’s past actions and for the distraction that he offered him then. But… there was more to Ross’ unexpected appearance. Her. Even if Ross’ attention was entirely focused on his person – he had even forgotten that he had a lady on his arm as he returned to his usual jests that Hugh could no longer bear –, Hugh’s gaze fixed itself on the woman he had brought along himself. It traveled from the blonde curls to her eyes and lips, settling for a moment on the curve of her neck before they went up once more, not allowing himself further exploration of her image. A Venus she was, born out of sea foam and purity.

When Ross composed himself though and introduced the strange beauty, Hugh bowed his head and left his hand move for her own. Hardly gripping it, he brought it to his lips, allowing them to brush against the soft skin that met their touch. “You did not tell me you are acquainted with Venus herself, Ross. Nor did I know I will find it in Cornwall from all places,” he spoke as he held on to her hand for a moment too long. “It is my greatest pleasure to make your acquaintance, miss. And I shall introduce myself as, seemingly, my friend here forgot to. Lieutenant Hugh Armitage, at your disposal.”

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“Marriage has never been about love in this world, my dear. Never. Marriage is about survival, about security. This fantasy of yours – this false notion of what marriage should be… it is of no use to us.” Thus were the words Mary Carminow, née Coryton, had tried to root deep into her daughter’s, Amelia’s, head. She had been delusional after her pregnancy announced itself – it had been a desperate situation that allowed her no time for decision and yet… she had waited and hoped for Ross’ return, something that only a foolish girl with dreams of love could do. It was when her mother had noticed the signs, had come to know as any mother would, that her hopes were shattered. Amelia could still recall, through the fog of time, the burning touch of her mother, the way her unrelenting fingers had coiled around her hand. The way her nails dug into her pale flesh. “I’ve loved a man. I’ve trusted his cursed tongue and words and look at me now! A plain second wife to a man with an heir that would no sooner throw me on the road after his father’s death! Do not let the dream of a man ruin your potential.” Even tighter had she held her. “You’ll save us. You’ll save us both.”

She had been only a girl of seventeen at the time, scared and lost and so unaware of the harshness of the world. Her mother’s word was law, for she knew better. So had Amelia married Edmund William Rasheleigh, a man perhaps even more desperate than she had been. She had entered his mind, his soul and his bed – she had fooled him into believing that the boy she had brought on the face of the earth was his rightful heir. And she had lied to him until the moment he had entered his grave. ‘I’ve done it to save myself. To save my son,’ she would repeat to herself, when the guilt and shame became too much to bear.

Yet, her mother seemed to feel no shame. With the end of Amelia’s mourning period approaching, she felt it fit to mention new marriage prospects throughout their sporadic conversations. Mistress of Lanhydrock or not, mother of Rasheleigh’s heir or not, she was a woman before everything else. And what was a woman without a man, without a husband? But she could not think of it. She could not. Not with Ross’ return…

In her mother’s eyes, her attending Caroline Penvenen’s celebration of her marriage was a critical step in reentering the market. Amelia, however, did not think the same. She attended out of respect for Caroline and the friendship they shared, as well as the need to escape Lanhydrock and its dreadful walls. This did not mean that her mother had not ensured that her daughter would be a sight to be enjoyed: the finest dark-blue silks, well-crafted jewelry that adorned her neck and hands, intriguing gems that stood out against her pale complexion. Delicate curls that fell in cascades on her back.

And since the moment she had entered through the doors, the widow became something of interest. She paid them no attention though, as she made her way through the mass of dresses and heat and simple chatter. It was Caroline she looked for, and yet, there was another that stopped her with a gentle touch on her arm.

“Oh, my dear, is it you!” Verity Poldark. Verity Blamey, recently. As they looked upon one another, a silent understanding was formed between the two – Verity had been the dearest of friends. Even after all this time, after all the mistakes of the past, she still welcomed her with the gentlest look and the warmest smile. Amelia found herself happy for the reunion, but unsettled deep in her heart. If Verity was present, did it mean that she had managed to convince Ross to attend as well?

“You’ve grown.” Amelia broke the silence, her eyes settling upon the other woman’s swollen middle.

The remark was enough for Verity to break the touch and place her hand on the covered flesh that kept her away from the growing babe. Her lips curved into a smile. “Yes. He is growing. So impatient and restless he is.”

“They just grow worse with age when it comes to impatience. One day they can hardly break free from your hand without falling and the next they walk this Earth as if they have grown several years overnight.” Joshua’s image was not far from her mind. He was a boy of almost four years. He has grown too fast and too soon in her eyes and each day brought him closer to resembling his father in every aspect of his being – from the wild curls atop his head till his adventurous spirit.

“Joshua has grown, did he not? Four years…”

“Yes.” Always too careful when she spoke of her son. Never giving too much away, not in front of Verity or those who had known too well what she and Ross had shared. Aunt Agatha already had seemed to known more than she should and not just once had she made it clear that she knew… or at least suspected the truth. “I should leave you…”

“Are you heading to see Caroline?” Verity interjected, allowing her no room to escape.

Amelia thought, for a small moment, to lie, and yet, a positive answer parted her lips: “Yes, I am. Would you like to join me?”

The cherubic woman welcomed the invitation and was quick in lacing her arm with her own. Amelia was no keen on instigating a new conversation, but Verity’s next words made a lump form into her throat – she had left silence to settle over them as they moved towards the center of the room, and yet, when she had found the silence too much to bear, she had struck with all her force. “He is here as well.”

He. Ross. Amelia’s face betrayed no emotion. “I thought so. He is a good friend of Doctor Enys after all. I did not imagine he would miss the celebration of his friend’s marriage for anything in the world. His presence might be a delight to Caroline as well – without him, I am afraid this may have been a darker day for her.” Ross had been the one to rescue her husband, after all.

“I apologize if I come off as too forward, dear, but what is it to you? What does his presence mean to you?”

“You are indeed too forward.” However, her tone betrayed no ill feelings behind the chosen words.

Verity’s smile carried more behind its subtleness. “I have been meek for too long, don’t you think so? I never spoke my mind freely, I accepted all that was said and given to me, no matter if there were good or ill intentions behind the spoken words or done actions. I almost lost my chance at happiness because of it. Do not lose time if you believe there is a chance–“

“There is no chance, Verity. It is in the past – all of it is in the past. Since that childish infatuation, I have gotten married, had a child and became a widow. I cannot live in the past anymore.”

There was sincerity in her voice, a sincerity that Verity could not overlook and her lips were tightly shut as she nodded lightly. She understood, understood too well. It was no use to live in the past. Silence fell over them once more, a silence neither dared to speak against.

Yet, both seemed to lighten up at the sight of Caroline and Dwight, close to one another and watching the other as if there was no one else in the room. Love. Young love. Amelia’s gaze traveled though, not so far behind them, as she caught sight of the dark curls that became a reoccurrence in her dreams. It was enough for her to become unaware of her surroundings and, unconsciously, her free hand moved to her belly as if she sought the part of him – Joshua – that he had left behind. She had thought herself untouchable, undefeated, but the sight of him, so close, was enough to remind her that she had not forgotten him – that she could not forget him. It was when she broke her gaze off of him that she noticed Caroline’s worried eyes searching for her own. “It so good to see you, Amelia. I did not think you would come…”

Amelia forced a smile, reminding herself of her surroundings, of her situation. “How could I miss this? And I can say the same, Caroline. I wanted to give my best wishes to you and to Doctor Enys. I can only pray that your marriage would be the happiest, for both of you deserve it after all of your hardships.”

It was all too soon. The sight of him. The sight of her friend, there, at his side, as that cursed day she had introduced them. She could barely hear Caroline’s gratitude, her soft words. She felt sick in her stomach. “If you will excuse me, I… need a breath of fresh air.” And with these words, another curve of her lips, she broke from Verity and the formed group and moved for the doors that led to, hopefully, an empty hall. She needed to breathe. Despite the rushing emotions, she still kept her back straight, her head high as she passed by the so well-known Ross Poldark and those at his side.

Kassandra Rose ​

 

[Kassandra Rose]

Most people, once you were close enough to see them in truth, were unattractive, if not in looks then in soul. Perhaps, sometimes, it was a wart, or a yellowish undertone that candlelight may have missed. In fact, Estella would go as far as to testify that this applied to everybody, herself included. She'd always thought her nose to be quite flat, too 'button-y'. As a matter of a fact, in childhood, she used to stick pegs from the washing lines upon it, in hopes that it would grow pointier, like a little nymph or a fairy. Except, this stranger was no uglier up close. Unlike the stars, whose light lessened when stared upon directly, she could now closely admire the beauty of him, and even the beauty of his flaws.

It was peculiar. For, Lieutenant Hugh Armitage did not particularly seem to disprove her hypothesis. He was indeed flawed, and if she were looking for specifics she'd claim he were a little bug-eyed and his nose was rather prominent. And yet, it was these self same flaws that were beautiful. Perhaps, it was because within those eyes was a spark of a spirit so much more unique than those she usually encountered. Or, maybe, it was due to the manner that he carried himself, and his nose, with a grace so unearthly that it were not yet known to mankind.

As much as her girlish instincts urged her to fluster and swoon beneath the touch of his lips against her bare skin, she upheld her chin high and responded swiftly with a polite courtesy.

"I must learn to mind my tongue, for my stepmother oft does scold me to remember my manners, but is Venus not the goddess of fertility, sex and desire? How very fitting to the patriarchal needs. What think you, Captain Poldark?" Her silver tongue was sharp and piercing, but truthful, unlike the swoons of most women gathered by. "I do appreciate that you must be well-intent, Lieutenant Armitage, and very well versed. Yet, I must proclaim to thee that I do indeed reject such foolish, societal notions of female beauty. Must a woman be reassigned to the superficiality of appearance, whilst the men thrive in all pursuits?"

"I daresay that I know many a man who thrive in no pursuit at all," Ross's laughter broke through the sincerity of the silence. "Do my manners restrain me from proclaiming your fiancé as much as one?"

"Well then, I fear society must have to tremble, for I, a woman, shall have to use intellect to keep our livelihood steadfast . How very frightening," her lips dripped with satire. Estella allowed, for the simplest of moments, a tender smile to alas breakthrough her placid veil. "Forgive me, Lieutenant. My mind wanders. I do not engage much in conversements of gossip, and so quite find myself at a loss of things to speak of".

"And yet, I never do see you with your mouth closed," Ross retorted, a typical jester if she'd ever met one. "I fear you may have met your match, Lieutenant. You know, all of these people credit me so greatly for your release, and yet I have failed to tell them the true story". A few eyebrows were raised all around. One lady prayed that he did continue. "You wish to hear it? It is really quite unsatisfactory. In earnest, Hugh did talk so much that the French considered it a form of torture, and wished to return him back to where they had found him". Laughter broke out around the group. A few ladies had begun to cover their giggles with prompt fluttering of their lacy fans.

"And you, Captain Poldark, I do recall hearing word that you are so ruthless in your jests that they alone left the French quivering with fear. Have mercy on the Lieutenant's dignity, and I daresay my own. I do far too damage to that, daily, on my own accord".

She allowed her sky trickled eyes to once more rest upon her new acquaintance, and considered that Marie might be quite vexed indeed that she were conversing with the gentleman. Had the offer for trade been an option, Estella would've gladly swapped places with her friend. She had no need for bachelor's, or even the torment of misogyny, be it nicely placed or not.

"Forgive me," Ross took her hand in both of his, squeezing it gently. "I must kindly ask my friend if he would be as generous as to escort you presently. I am in dire need for some fresh air, and a walk alone to clear my mind. I hope you shall not think me too rude". His eyes flickered from her own, to that of Armitage's.

​

To anyone else, his actions may appear sudden. It was not the company that Ross wished to escape. For the dire and bleakness that was society, these people, with the absence of John and Caroline, were as good as company as it got. To them, nothing noteworthy of their attention could've possibly happened in the split seconds that had past since his taunting and jestering. They were in something of what he considered a blissful ignorance.

Ross Poldark had never much considered himself a man of faith. Yet, in that moment, he knew the truth to be that such phantoms, like ghosts, did indeed exists, and that he'd very well just seen one as plain as day with his own eyes. Could it truly have been her, his dearest sweetheart, Amelia? The face of her had passed his thoughts, his dreams, of both day and night, so many times, that he thought himself to have lost his senses at last. He was finally mad, and had begun to hallucinate.

Yet, having blinked, and rubbed his eyes, and surpassed all such necessity notions to ensure that one was indeed very much awake and sane, Amelia was still there, jostling through the sea of the people. Having excused himself, Ross began to pace behind, in the direction that she seemed to be headed: towards the balcony. He upheld his pace steadily, until he was within close proximity, and then promptly slowed.

As they reached the sweet silences of the outdoors and the beauty that nature had to offer, only then did he extend his word. "You haven't aged a day since I left. I almost feared that you were a spirit come to haunt me," he coughed, to clear his throat, shuffling his weight from one foot on to another. It was hard not to notice that they were alone here, away from the watchful eyes of society. "I suppose true beauty doesn't ever fade. Although, I imagined seeing your face so much that I half expected to real thing would fall short of my idealisation. Now, I see how dreadfully wrong that I was". Too much rambling, a trait that was not usually within his nature. "I trust that you are well, and your mother?"