Chapter 2
CAROLINE
“Were ‘ee with Mr. Oswald, m’lady?” Bess asked as she removed Lady Caroline Radcliffe’s mud-spattered pelisse.
Caroline glanced over her shoulder with a quizzical expression. She had told Bess she was going into the village, but Oswald had not been mentioned. Indeed, he had not been expected.
Bess’s mouth drew into a knowing smile. “I’d recognize that sigh from anywhere, m’lady.”
“I did not sigh,” Caroline said with amused defensiveness as she handed the gloves to her maid.
“Course not, m’lady,” Bess replied meekly.
Caroline removed her bonnet, a small pucker on her brow.
“Shall we change ‘ee out of that dress, ma’am?” Bess asked. “I can see to the mud.”
Caroline nodded and led the way through the entry hall and up the stone staircase, her mind fixed on Bess’s words.
If she had sighed, it had not been because of Oswald.
Oswald was an old, trusted friend, attentive to her and invested in the future of Trelowen.
The same could certainly not be said of Brightmoor, the MP for the borough.
He was, of course, distracted by the illness of his uncle, but even before his uncle’s health had begun to fail, Brightmoor had not cared a fig about Trelowen.
Oswald would have been a much better advocate for Trelowen’s needs, but Caroline’s late husband, Richard, had ensured his friend was elected MP instead. Richard had liked Oswald, but he had stood in greater need of Brightmoor’s goodwill.
“Do I often sigh after being with Oswald?” Caroline asked as Bess assisted her to remove her dress.
“Aye, m’lady.” She responded matter-of-factly.
There was a knock on the door.
“Forgive me, m’lady,” said the footman. “This just came for ‘ee.”
Bess took the letter, then brought it to her mistress.
Caroline recognized the hand immediately. Talk of the devil…
She took in a deep breath, then broke the seal and unfurled the missive from Brightmoor.
It was as she had anticipated. Lord Westvale had succumbed to his illness—days ago, she imagined, given that this letter had come all the way from his estate in Norwich.
Brightmoor expressed regret that he would no longer be able to represent Trelowen in the House of Commons, as he was the heir to his uncle’s title, which required him to take his place in the House of Lords.
Caroline stifled a scoff. Regret? No one in their right mind would believe Brightmoor felt such a sentiment. This was everything he had dreamed of. No longer would he be Henry Brightmoor, the Honorable Member for Trelowen. He would be Lord Westvale and take his place in the House of Lords.
For him, Trelowen had only ever been a means to an end—a way to trade favors while he awaited the title he had hoped for. Since Richard’s death three years ago, not once had Brightmoor visited Trelowen.
At least now they would be rid of him. There would be a by-election, and this time, the decision for an MP would be Caroline’s. Oswald would see to it that Trelowen was not neglected.
Of course, becoming the MP for the borough was not the only thing Oswald aspired to….
An image of the man in the village flashed across Caroline’s mind. His mud-flecked smile, in particular. Even the memory of it elicited a silly flutter in her chest.
The timing of it annoyed her, for she recognized it for what it was: a girlish fancy. An exaggerated interpretation of a short connection with a stranger.
After all, what was a five-minute interaction with a gentleman who was merely passing through Trelowen in comparison with the steady, established friendship she shared with Oswald?
If marry she must—and there was no must—there wasn’t any question which she should choose.
She had married once for convenience. It had been a pleasant enough marriage.
Richard had allowed her to do as she pleased, for the most part.
Caroline had grown to love Trevenna Court and Trelowen, places she would never have known had she not married Richard in an attempt to do her duty to her family.
If she married again, it would be for simple, reliable companionship. It would be with someone who shared her goals, who would lighten the burden of managing Trevenna Court and Trelowen.
But Caroline was not at all certain she did wish to marry. She was of different minds depending on the day. The hour, even.
As for this particular hour, she disliked that her ridiculous interlude with the man in the village made her think of a different type of marriage altogether—one full of smiles and laughter and stolen kisses. She disliked how vexed she had been at Oswald for interrupting the interaction.
Thank heaven he had. She needed a grounding influence, and Oswald was precisely that. He was kind and attentive and practical. In short, everything she wished for.
Caroline traded her mud-stained dress for a simple white muslin she kept for days when she would spend little time outside.
Cornwall was not friendly to white fabrics.
With the passing of Lord Westvale, the day would be full of correspondence.
News from Cornwall traveled with agonizing sluggishness to London, and the sooner she could get word to Parliament, the sooner the by-election could be held and Oswald could take his place in the Commons.
She took a seat at the old writing desk in the library, but though she pulled the quill from its stand, she sat brushing it along her jawline for many minutes as she stared at the rows of leather volumes her husband had collected.
From an outsider’s perspective, the most sensible person to write to would be Richard’s uncle, the new Lord Radcliffe.
He had inherited the title—and the seat in the House of Lords—after Richard’s death, after all.
He could see to it that the writ for a by-election was issued and the process for a new Member of Parliament for Trelowen begun.
But he would not do so. Richard and his uncle despised one another, which was why Richard had left Trevenna Court and the management of the entire estate to Caroline, stripping the position of everything but the title rather than see anything pass to his uncle, whom he had always viewed as an old, vulgar upstart.
Caroline dipped the quill and began a letter to Lord Warren instead, an old friend of Richard’s with the right contacts to ensure things happened in a timely manner.
She was just finishing when there was a knock on the door.
She signed her name at the bottom. “Come in.”
“’Ee’ve a visitor, m’lady. A Mr. Yorke.”
Caroline’s brows went up, for she counted no one of such a name among her acquaintance. “You may show him in.”
The footman nodded and excused himself while Caroline sanded the letter.
She was stamping the Radcliffe seal into the melted wax when the door opened again.
She rose from her seat as the footman announced, “Mr. Yorke, m’lady.”
Her lips parted in surprise at the sight of the gentleman from the village entering the library.
He had doffed his hat, revealing brown hair that matched both brows and eyes. The mud that had spattered him earlier was absent. He was neat and even more handsome.
His smile stuttered and he checked at the sight of her, looking every bit as surprised as she.
The door closed behind the footman, leaving the two of them staring in mutual confusion.
“Good day, Mr. Yorke,” she said, her manners finally returning.
“Good day,” he said, his voice still uncertain. “I…” He looked around the room. “I did not mean to disturb you. I was under the impression that I was being taken to see…your parents, I presume?”
Caroline’s brows pinched together. “My parents are in Staffordshire.”
Mr. Yorke’s confusion doubled. “Staffordshire…”
Caroline watched him curiously, wondering how in heaven’s name he could possibly have come all the way to Cornwall in search of…her parents. She noted for the first time that he held a small wooden box.
“Might I be of assistance?” she asked doubtfully.
Mr. Yorke blinked. “No, I fear—that is…I suppose I could leave this small gift for them with you.” He looked at the box in his hands. “May I ask when you anticipate their return from Staffordshire?”
It seemed they were taking turns frowning more and more deeply. “Mr. Yorke, my parents can never return for they have never been to Cornwall in the first place.” The fact that he had brought a gift for her parents when he had no idea where they lived was a matter of deep perplexity.
“Never bee—” He stared at her for a long moment. “Are you not the daughter of Lord and Lady Radcliffe, ma’am?”
She let out a laugh. “I am Lady Radcliffe.”
His lips parted as he stared at her in a way that was either offensive or comical.
Caroline was tempted to find it the latter.
After a moment, he seemed to remember himself, and his mouth snapped closed. “And your husband…is he at home? Resting, perhaps. I understand he does not enjoy good health.”
A burst of laughter escaped Caroline, and she slapped a hand to her mouth to stop it.
Mr. Yorke reared back slightly at her reaction.
“Forgive me, sir,” she said, regaining her composure. “I fear you are misinformed. My husband died three years ago.”
His brown eyes widened in dismay. “Your ladyship, I beg your forgiveness. I—”
“No,” she said, unable to stop a smile. “I beg yours. It must seem very callous of me to have laughed just now. It is only that I have never heard death described as not enjoying good health, and I suppose I was overcome by a sense of the absurd.”
Mr. Yorke grimaced, but his eyes danced despite it as they met hers.
“An unfortunate choice of words on my part.” His frown began to return.
“I confess I am still confused, however. I had it on good authority—or what I believed to be good authority—that Lord Radcliffe was an ailing baron who oversaw the borough of Trelowen.”
The misunderstanding was becoming clearer to Caroline by the second, though a dozen persisting questions flitted through her mind.