Word Count: 921
Summary: A comedic domestic sketch of Ross and Demelza Poldark
(Set during season two, before episode seven.)
Ross had just come home from the mine and settled in his seat to talk to Demelza while she was cooking dinner. The topic of holding the smuggled goods for Trencrom had come up and Demelza had started a rant.
“It just tisn’t righ’, Ross! He’s taking advantage of our good nature, and I jus’ won’t STAND for it.” She slammed a pie tin down, glancing at Ross, only to see him leaning back in his chair, a big grin on his face. “What ‘ave ye got to be smilin’ about? Are ye even listenin’?”
“Indeed, I am. But it’s a miracle I can understand half of what you are saying.”
“What are ye talking about?” There was confusion in her already terse tone.
“All that Cornish in one little voice. It’s like trying to understand another language,” he smirked.
Demelza put one hand on a chair, and propped the other on her hip. “I ‘ave half a mind to slap that smirk off your face.”
Ross assumed a look of bewilderment. “I do apologize. All I was able to make out was that you have half a mind. I wouldn’t worry about that, though; I’m sure your wits will improve with age and sophistication.” He tried to hide the growing smile on his face behind his rum-filled cup.
Demelza stared tight-lipped at him for a moment, then straightened herself and stormed out of the room.
Ross frowned as he watched her go, before guilt started creeping up in his chest. “Demelza,” he called, getting out of his chair to follow. “Demelza, I am sorry, I didn’t mean it. I was only trying to lighten the mood.” He entered the hall before noticing the door leading outside was open, the chilly night air pouring in. He sighed and started towards it, feeling like he had just struck a child. “Demelza, please come back in.” He stood outside, looking around. “I truly-” He was stopped short by a wave of ice water hitting him from the right. “WHAT ON EARTH-”
“Perhaps ye can understand this, sir!!” he heard Demelza cry.
He looked over to see her grinning, holding an empty bucket like a child would hold a prize. “I do dare think that this is a message which transcends all languages,” she cried, again propping her hand on her hip.
Ross pulled out a handkerchief, wiping his face and shaking his head. “Indeed!” He paused a moment. “I also think that in all languages,” he glanced up to look at her, “one must always get what’s coming to them.”
Demelza’s smile waned only a little with confusion, before she realized that Ross was reaching for the bucket left out from the evening chores of watering the livestock. Her eyes widened. “Nay Ross, ye wouldn’t dare!” She started running before a splash of water hit her from behind, stopping her in her tracks.
“At least your measure was only lukewarm, madam!” Ross taunted to her back.
“Oh, you’re gonna get it, Ross.” She shook her head at him, before sprinting to the pump, with Ross fast on her heels.
She got to the pump first and started madly working it. It was only a quarter full when Ross got to her, but she used it anyway, again throwing ice water at him. Only this time hitting him squarely in the face.
Seeing Ross with his curls plastered to his forehead, she bent over with laughter. It was Ross’s turn to stare at her, tight-lipped, but instead of walking away, he stormed towards her. She had barely glanced up before he hoisted her over his shoulder. “What are ye doin’?” she cried, but there was no reply. She tried to see where he was taking her, and discovered that they were marching towards the horse pen.
Realization slowly dawned on her face. “No, Ross. No. No-no-no!” she started kicking him in the chest but it did nothing to slow his pace. It only made him move faster.
He reached the horse pen and bent over the water trough, dropping her in like a bag of potatoes. “Perhaps this will put an end to your unruliness!” he said triumphantly.
“JUDAS!” she screeched.
He watched for a moment before it was his turn to bend over, laughing at her curls stuck around her face.
Demelza spluttered and thrashed before finally pulling herself out of the now almost empty trough. “You’re hateful, Ross!” she cried, wringing out her hair.
“And you’re not the first to inform me of that,” he retorted, offering his mostly soaked handkerchief to her. She took it, but not without glaring at him.
Ross watched a moment before reaching out to run his hand over her waterlogged hair. “I want you to know, though. I would not trade your accent nor your manners for all the English sophistication in the world,” he said quietly.
Demelza looked up with a sigh and small smile. “An’ perhaps I can stand your rudeness a little while longer,” she countered, wiping her face. They both chuckled before Ross noticed a small shiver from Demelza.
“Come. Let’s go get out of these clothes,” he said, reaching around her shoulders.
Demelza feigned a gasp and looked up at him. “Such forwardness. I’d expect better from well-bred English sophistication.”
“Perhaps being around Cornish boorishness has rubbed off on me,” he smirked, before being struck in the face with a wet handkerchief.
Accents and Sophistication: A Poldark Fan-Fiction Story