I want to be honest with you. I had a chance to fuck Cameron Cook, but I didn't, and for some reason even *I* don't understand, I'm telling you. By the way, you have no right to look so alarmed about my near-infidelity when you're fucking Tony Baddingham, but let's kiss and be devastatingly gorgeous anyway.
"...but Stelly, the men of Rivals don't have beards," you say.
And you would be correct.
However, several of the actors have worn beards, and they look damn good in facial hair. So I will be sharing pictures of them, in addition to many, many pics of Aidan. Most of the photos will be my personal favorites of the Turner beard. Not necessarily his beardiest; just the ones I like most.
So it turns out I haven't made a WIP Wednesday post since December. Ouch. Anyway, for those who have been following this tale, here's a snippet from a future chapter of Duty.
Good old resourceful Ross.
....
“Mr. Phelps...erm…I mean…Sir.” The hotel page stammered, not sure what name to use with Ross now, his eyes darting nervously to see who might be within ear shot. They were alone in the dark corridor but Ross appreciated his caution all the same.
“This came for you, hand delivered. Messenger wouldn’t wait but I was to wait until you read it. He said to see that you received it straightaway.”
The young man handed over a small envelope with R. Poldark elegantly scrawled across the front. Ross recognised the slightly old fashioned fist behind it at once. The stationery was heavy, expensive–another marker of its sender, one who would never skimp on manners or style, even when dashing off an urgent piece of correspondence.
Instinctively Ross paused before opening it. It wouldn't be welcome news. He fished in his satchel for his pen knife, then carefully lifted the thick wax seal without damaging the flap.
30th April, 1941
Poldark,
New development. Return to Liverpool at once. Derby House. Driver will call for you outside the Imperial, 4 o’clock.
Respectfully,
Colonel W.C Daniell
Damn, Ross thought then realised he’d cut inadvertently himself with the blade he still was gripping.
“Blast!” he tossed the knife to the floor and put his bloody thumb to his mouth.
---
Ross slipped the letter back in the envelope then tapped it in his palm a few times while he thought the situation through.
He had a few new developments of his own and didn't want to lose traction–not just yet. Experience told him the damn thing could rather convincingly be resealed and he might then claim he’d never read it. But the hotel page waiting patiently in front of him, sweating in his ill-fitting uniform, had been given instructions to deliver the missive and had faithfully done his job. No, it wasn’t right to land the poor sod in hot water.
Anyway, how would the droplets of blood that now stained the envelope be explained if returned to sender?
“Jenkins, is it?” Ross flashed a devilish smile, and the young man, who was actually called Jennings, nodded, pleased that his name had been almost remembered properly. “Tell me,” Ross asked, “What do you have in your pocket now–your breast pocket?”
“My pocket, sir?” Jennings laughed but played along. “Well, I’ve three shillings, a pack of playing cards–lucky ‘uns, I’d say–and this cigarette case.” He pulled out a battered silver case with decorative scrollwork but no initials engraved on its front.
“Sentimental piece?” Ross asked.
“No, sir. I only found it yesterday. Not here,” he added quickly lest Ross think he’d been pilfering from guests. “In the pub–I was gonna leave it with the barkeep, only I forgot. Doesn’t really suit me–I think it's a lady’s afterall. And it’s empty.”
“Take this,” Ross said, handing over two half crowns from his own pocket. “Transfer anything you truly value to your trouser pockets.” Jennings moved Ross’s coins and his coins to one trouser pocket and the card pack to the other.
“Now put this letter back in your breast pocket," Ross instructed cryptically. The young man unquestioningly did as told, smiling as though they were just having a right laugh.
The fool should know better than to be so damn trusting. Today, it’s me but next time it could be a real danger.
“Look, I’m very sorry about this…” Ross said.
“Oh sir, t’is no bother…” But Jennings didn’t finish his sentence before all went dark.
—
“Ecky thump! Jennings!”
A gloved hand slapped the page’s cheek, less gently than was warranted. A splash of cold water followed that made him sit up with a start. Standing over him were two pals from the hotel, one holding an empty glass and both laughing.
“Ow'do, mate? What ‘appened then? Out cold, ya were, and that’ll be some shiner for tomorrow!”
Jenning rubbed his eyes and immediately felt a throbbing in his face.
“Musta been knocked out,” he said. It took a moment for the flashes of memory to illuminate his muddled thoughts. He put his hand to his trouser pockets and fingered his coins then his lucky cards in relief. Next he patted his empty breast pocket.
Just poking out a wee bit at the pool table. 2015-16-ish?
This was in the Irish Times, May 2026. Promoting either Liaisons or Rivals, maybe both? I don't know because it was paywalled. It's that tricky woven belt again, and also the photo I used for the title card.
I'm wondering now if they didn't intentionally style him this way for the Gauntlet. If you watch that scene again, you can see where the belt is hanging to his knees just like it is here. But then again, how BIG a belt would it have to be to have allll that extra length on it? And it doesn't even look buckled; it looks like they just tied it in a knot around his waist. ?? LOL.
One more in the wild. I think this is from Odessa, but I'm not sure.
BONUS: This one's not about the belt, but it IS an opportunity for me to riff on high fashone. From Man About Town, Spring 2026.
So this is what the kids are wearing, huh? Except, "the kids" probably don't spend six grand on a single outfit. It's all Yves St. Laurent. I shopped the look--shirt, $2400; pants $2800; tie, $300; glasses, $595.
It's really the pants that get me. These are called paper-bag pants, for real. It looks like someone gave him a wedgie, and his stretched-out underwear is hanging over the waistband. But nope, it's just fashion. Apparently, someone gave the Laurent model a wedgie, too, although I bet he'd be easier to wrestle to the ground than Aidan would be:
Listen, for $2800, those fucking pants better clean my house, take me to dinner, change the oil in my car, and then perform sexual favors for me for the rest of the night.
And the pants don't even look like they fit.
Becky and Hilda here didn't pay six hundred bucks for their oversized sun glasses. They only paid about $15. Think of all the arthritis cream and lottery tickets that remaining $585 would buy for Hilda.
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