Free Ross Poldark by Winston Graham

died 9th January, 1771, in the sixth year of his age.
    Four days later Ross returned to the church to bury the hopes he had carried with him for more than two years.
    All the time at the back of his mind had been the half conviction that somehow the wedding would not be. It was as hard to believe as if someone had told him he was going to die.
    Sawle Church was half a mile from the village of Sawle at the head of the track leading to the village. Today the main altar had been decorated with golden chrysanthemums, and four musicians scraped out the hymns on fiddles and bass-viols. There were twenty guests; Ross sat near the front in one of the tall pews so convenient for sleeping, and stared across at the two figures kneeling at the altar and listened to the drone of William-Alfred's voice forging the legal and spiritual bond.
    Soon, it seemed in no time at all for so vital a matter, they were out in the churchyard again where were gathered about four dozen villagers from Sawle, Trenwith, and Grambler. They stood at a respectful distance and gave out a thin little unrehearsed cheer when the bride and bridegroom appeared at the door.
    It was a bright November day with areas of blue sky, intermittent sun, and grey-white monuments of cloud moving unhurriedly before the fresh wind. Elizabeth's veil of old lace blew in billows about her figure, making her seem unsubstantial and ethereal; she might have been one of the smaller clouds which had lost its way and been caught up in the human procession. Soon they were in their coach and were bumping off over the rough track, followed by the rest of the wedding party on horseback.
    Elizabeth and her father and mother had come out from Kenwyn in the Chynoweth family coach, rattling and lurching along the narrow rutted lanes and throwing out behind a fog of grey dust which settled evenly over the staring people who gathered to watch it go by. For the appearance of such a vehicle in this barren countryside was an event of the first importance. Horseback and mule train were the unvarying means of travel. News of its coming moved faster than its large red iron-rimmed wheels could carry it, and tinners panning tin in nearby streams, cottagers and their wives, farm labourers, miners off duty, and the flotsam of four parishes turned out to see it pass. Dogs barked and mules brayed and naked children ran shouting after it through the dust.
    As the drive was reached the coachman set the horses at a trot. Bartle on the back seat blew his horn, and they arrived before the front of Trenwith House in fine style with several of the following riders trotting and shouting alongside.
    At the house a banquet had been prepared which put all other feasts in the shade. All were here who had been here on the night of Ross's return. Mrs. Chynoweth, beautiful as a well-bred female eagle; Dr. Choake and his silly, pretty wife; Charles, rising to the occasion in a large new wig, with a brown velvet coat finely laced about the cuffs, and a red waistcoat. Verity spent less than half her time at the table, being constantly up and down to see that things were going right, her fluffy dark hair becoming untidy as the afternoon advanced. Cousin William-Alfred, thin and pale and unapproachable, lent some solemnity and restraint to the proceedings. His wife Dorothy was not present, being ill of her old complaint, which was pregnancy. Aunt Agatha, taking her usual place at the foot of the table, wore an old-fashioned velvet gown with a whale bone hoop, and a cap of fine lace on her dusty wig.
    Among the newcomers was Henshawe, captain of Grambler, a big young man with the lightest of blue eyes and small hands and feet, which allowed him to move easily for all his weight. Mrs. Henshawe was out of her depth here and paused now and then in her over-genteel eating to glance uneasily at the other guests; but her husband, though he had been down a mine since he was eight and could neither read nor write, was used to mixing with