Look. What right, what right does a television program have to invent an imaginary baby, out of whole cloth, cast a real baby to play her, prey on your heart and your soul until you come to love this imaginary baby, and then coolly force you to watch her die?
And not only must you watch the BABY die, with little teeny coughs and cute little arm grabs, you must watch her extremely good and handsome father breaking into helpless, barking sobs, and eventually carry her tiny little baby-size coffin in his arms while he continues to weep hysterically! How is this okay? How is this legal?
You know better than anyone that I have no time for Ross Poldark, but I must acknowledge he did comport himself well as Dwight’s friend during this appalling time. Lots of “oh, God” and “God in heaven!” and manly hugs and letting him cry and patting his back. I won’t forget this, Ross. Anyone who was a comfort to Dwight, my new husband, during this sad time gets to keep a bit of my affection forever. When Dwight put his head down on the baby’s little chest to listen to her heart and closed his eyes I burst completely into tears. Completely. It’s a miracle I managed to finish the episode.
Lady Caroline, heretofore referred to exclusively as “Pug Lady,” will be Pug Lady to me no longer: she has suffered a cruel loss, and deserves her dignity in its wake. I also am slightly angry at Dwight (just a little, the poor dear man) for waiting to tell her about the baby. I know he wanted her to enjoy their time together, but allowing her to keep cracking jokes about how beastly and dull and needy the little monster was, knowing how she would look back and cringe at those memories … I think he should have told her.
While we’re talking “should haves,” why on EARTH is Dwight allowing Lady Caroline to desert him and make for London as part of her harebrained scheme to magically forget her loss? It is the 18th century! The whole point of being a husband in the 18th century is that when your unreasonable wife decides to abandon you against your wishes, you can put your foot down! Tell the coachman to put her bags back in the house! Pull rank, Dwight!
Dwight, unfortunately, seems to have the moral compass of a damn saint, and merely hands her Horace through the carriage window.
Dragging ourselves out of the gloom to see what our other Cornish friends and enemies are up to, I am pleased to announce that Rowella truly is the GOAT. She is a menace, and I will never tire of it. She has poor Ossie on the ropes, that one. Any sympathy one might have had for Ossie (this is purely a turn of phrase, I am quite confident that no one on God’s own earth has ever felt bad for Ossie, even for a second) must have sailed out the window the moment he started trying to get Morwenna packed off to an insane asylum for not touching his gross dick.
I must admit I have become quite fond of the Carne brothers over the last few seasons. I do love a man who loves the Lord, you know? And they’ve really become less shitty about it over time. I know that I should probably be cheering for Drake to somehow save Morwenna from her miserable life, but honestly, he’s better off taking Demelza’s advice and courting Rosina. He’s a very young man, and Morwenna is married and a mother, living in London many many miles away. Rosina seems nice and pretty, which is really the most anyone could know about a future wife in the 18th century. It’s not like you sat around discussing popular music and whether Black Mirror is going downhill or not.
Time will tell. Speaking of time telling on people, the over-the-top curly black wig they’ve got on Valentine is cracking me UP. They honestly couldn’t be doing more to make the kid Not a Warleggan if they stripped him to the waist, handed him a scythe, and air-brushed a six pack onto him. George may have put that suspicion to bed for now, but I think we’re all confident it will be coming back to haunt Elizabeth in no time.
Now, how was Ross doing as a husband this week? Not bad, honestly! He DID insist on bring Hugh up, but just the once (we’re grading on a curve here, for sure) but he also thanked Demelza and offered her appreciation for all the work she does taking care of things while he’s in London. He kissed her several times, and at no point snuck off to Trenwith to have an assignation with his ex-girlfriend. Impressive work, truly.
Oh, and there was a flood at the mine. It’s fine, no one died. But apparently all the mine stuff is broken and now everyone will starve unless Ross and Demelza keep paying the workers out of their own pocket. You know, the usual. Are 18th century parliamentarians given a stipend? I have to assume they weren’t, because why would you want a man in Parliament who needed to collect a salary?
My wish list for the rest of the season is as follows: Ossie’s got to die. That’s it. That’s all I need. I don’t care if he chokes on a hooker’s toes or has an infected boil or Morwenna smothers him with a pillow. I just need to watch him die.