"Unacceptable," George Warleggan said again, fixing an unpleasant sneer on Morwenna Chynoweth. "What do you mean, you refuse to accept Mr. Whitworth's hand?"
Morwenna's voice quavered slightly, but she didn't back down. "It means what it means, Mr. Warleggan. I will not marry Osborne Whitworth."
"Because of that miner?" George spat, a look of absolute hate in his eyes. "Drake Carne. A relative of my sworn enemy, Ross? A Poldark?"
"I love him!" Morwenna shouted back. "This is my life! You have no say in how I live!"
George's nostrils were flaring. He flashed a look of anger at his wife, Elizabeth, who was also the girl's cousin. "This has nothing to do with you, Miss Chynoweth! You will marry Mr. Whitworth, whether you like it or not!" He took a step toward her.
"No," Morwenna said, shaking her head. "I will not marry him."
George smiled, a horrible snake-like smirk. "Well, that's a sharme, isn't it? Because I've already written to Mr. Whitworth and told him that the wedding will be tomorrow, at Sawle Church."
Morwenna took an involuntary step back, shaking her head again in denial. Her eyes were wide with panic. "No. No!" Tears traced tracks down her cheeks. "I cannot!"
Weeping, she rushed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
After her sounds had faded into the bowels of Trenwith Estate, George turned to his wife. "You don't think she'll try to run away, do you?"
Elizabeth gave a small start. "No, of course not, George."
"All the same, I'll tell Tom Harry to keep an eye on her."
Smiling with unconcealed triumph, George poured himself a glass of expensive wine, toasting himself on his victory.
YOU ARE READING
fly away • drake carne
Hayran Kurgu"it doesn't have to be this way, we could just fly away, leave all of this behind us." This is a short fanfiction about the British television show Poldark. It takes place about midway through the third season, where Morwenna Chynoweth is forced to...
