Poldark: The Legacy Continues

Unwelcome Guests

Christopher Michael was not a particularly exceptional horseman. But he could usually get to where he needed to go with minimal injuries or mishaps, so at least there was that. 

"Young Dr. Enys!" a voice cried, tugging him out of thoughts on his poor horsemanship. 

"Me da's all terrible raspy in his throat. Will ye take a look on him?" The boy looked up imploringly at Christopher, his fair eyebrows drawn together in earnest concern. 

"James, you do understand I'm not a true doctor yet?" Christopher did his best to bring his horse to a stop. It was always a chance, as the horse may simply decide to keep going. Luckily, the chestnut steed halted, dipping his head to tear up clumps of grass. 

"I be knowing that, sir, but everyone also be knowing that ye be just as much a doctor as yer father, even if yer studies be not fully finished." 

It was true. The only difference between real doctors and Christopher Michael was the official title. Having accompanied his father on medical calls from the time he was seven or eight, he could diagnose, treat, and prescribe as well as (if not better than) other doctors in Cornwall. 

"I'd be mighty grateful, sir, if ye were having the time." James ducked his overgrown head of under-groomed hair, his large eyes quickly darting back up to Christopher Michael. 

"Of course," Christopher said with a slight smile, internally worrying whether he would be able to properly diagnose James's father. He lived in dread of accidentally misdiagnosing a patient and thus being the cause of their untimely mortal departure. 

                                                                                     * * * 

The hovels that the poor inhabited were not unfamiliar to Christopher Michael, yet every time he entered one discomfort filled him. Not because he found their circumstances somehow distasteful, but because, in comparison, he found his own luxurious circumstances so. 

How was it right that he should enjoy so much excess when others were in so much want? 

James had three younger siblings, each one hollow-faced and wraith-like. Their mother had died just two years before. Now they were huddled together in a shadowed corner of the room, staring listlessly as their father's chest rose and fell with every laborious breath. Christopher Michael's breakfast had probably been more food than they had split between them in the last three days. His face burned with the shame of it. 

Ambrose Finch lay in the same bed in which his wife had died. Not a thing about the splintered, rough wooden frame or the flat, thin hay-filled mattress that covered it were different. Christopher Michael remembered. He had been there. He'd seen the struggle of existence leave her body and her eyes go glassy and blank. He remembered. And he wouldn't forget. 

"Mr. Finch," Christopher Michael started, his voice sounding out of place in the heavy quiet of the room, "James told me that your cough has worsened and I thought I might check up on you, if that's all very well." 

Ambrose Finch opened his eyes slowly after Christopher Michael finished talking. 

"Young Dr. Enys," he croaked, swinging his legs around to sit up. 

"You needn't sit up if-" Christopher started, but Ambrose waved him away, sitting up stiffly on the bed and shooting a disapproving look at James. 

"Me boy exaggerates, 'tis only a mine cough, and nothing with which to bother-" but here he broke into a fit of rasping, uncontrollable coughing. 

"Let me examine you," Christopher knelt on the floor next to Ambrose Finch, "And I'll take my analysis back to my father." 

"Very well," Ambrose consented when he finally regained his breath.