Chapter 4
FREDERICK
Frederick looked through the warped window pane in the inn parlor the next morning with misgiving.
“It looks as though it might rain.” He peered at the gray clouds that blanketed the sky with such density that one could easily forget the majestic blue of yesterday’s heavens. A damp chill was hardly kept at bay by the window.
“Come now, Mr. Yorke,” Mrs. Tonkin admonished him. “Show proper ’eart or I’ll ’ave to put a bit o’ fire in ’ee myself.”
Frederick’s brows drew together. Like most men, he did not care to have his courage called into question.
If only she knew he’d once ridden his horse from one bank of the frozen Serpentine to the other without losing his seat.
Or that after a card party had turned unruly, he’d given the slip to the constable via the rooftops, finally climbing down a trellis into the garden of none other than Lady Cowper.
So, no. He did not need her to put any fire in him. A bit of rain was nothing.
Once on Flint, Frederick followed Mrs. Tonkin’s very particular instructions. The horse snorted, taking exception to a broken cart wheel on the side of the road. He guided Flint past it, after which they turned to the left onto a small dirt path.
The view of the sparkling Trelowen harbor was soon lost amongst hedges and trees as the ground sloped steeply upward. Even when it was out of sight, however, the saltiness of the air and the sounds of the sea were a constant reminder of how far from London Frederick had roamed.
He had just turned a bend in the road when a figure came into sight ahead, her green skirts draped over the sleek back of her bay mount, her soft profile outlined by the pewter gray sky.
Lady Radcliffe’s head came around, and she went still.
Frederick feigned surprise—not entirely feigned, however, for he had wondered if Mrs. Tonkin was leading him into yet another humiliating situation when she had said she happened to know the path her ladyship rode each Friday morning. “Lady Radcliffe.”
“Mr. Yorke,” she said, deftly controlling her mount’s impatient prancing. “I thought you would be on the road to London by now.”
“Thought or hoped?”
She smiled. “London is that way.” She indicated the direction he had come from with a nod.
“Which is why I am going this way.” He gave a responsive nod ahead. “Shall we proceed?”
She looked at him for a moment, then urged her horse forward.
He drew his alongside hers, though the path was barely large enough to permit such a thing.
“And pray,” she said, “why are you going this way, Mr. Yorke?”
“I am becoming better acquainted with the borough, of course.”
“And what has your acquaintance taught you thus far?”
Frederick considered how to respond. “That Trelowen and I have a bright future together.”
She lifted a brow. “Your optimism is inspiring. And has your thorough acquaintance taught you where the road you are on leads?”
“Some things must be experienced to be learned. Shall we find out together?”
That earned him a reluctant glint in her eye. Perhaps Mrs. Tonkin was not wrong. Perhaps he could win Lady Radcliffe’s support.
“As I am well aware of what lies at the end, you would be alone in your discovery.”
“But not in the journey, which is every bit as important, I think.”
She regarded him for a moment. “And if the destination is dangerous?”
Their thighs brushed in a narrow part of the road, and he watched her hands tighten on the reins. Their faces were much closer than before, and her rich brown eyes watched him curiously.
“I would come to your rescue,” he said matter-of-factly, though he smiled as he said the next part. “Then you would be honor-bound to support my campaign.”
She gave a breathy laugh and turned her gaze ahead. “I am no damsel in distress, Mr. Yorke.”
Frederick was inclined to agree. Lady Radcliffe seemed more capable than most. “Mr. Oswald seems to think otherwise, and I have it on good authority that he is intimately familiar with such matters.”
Her head whisked around.
Frederick smiled to reassure her that he was teasing.
Mostly.
Her shoulders and expression relaxed slightly. “Thankfully, it is Mrs. Penrose’s house at the end of this lane, and she poses neither you nor I any danger. She is the sweetest creature imaginable.”
“And a friend of yours, I take it?” He glanced at the basket strapped behind the saddle.
“A dear one,” Lady Radcliffe said, her voice softer than before.
The trees ahead opened to show an old, stone cottage surrounded by foliage and a few wildflowers.
Its roof stood in need of repair, and a broken pane in one of the two windows had been covered with an empty flour sack.
On the near side sat a garden, surrounded by a fence that had certainly been white at some point in the distant past.
They slowed their horses as they approached.
“I thank you for your company, Mr. Yorke,” Lady Radcliffe said.
Frederick tipped his hat. The lane had been distressingly short. He had been hoping for more time with her. He had made no headway at all.
Their heads came around as the sound of footsteps and sloshing water met their ears.
At the bend just ahead of the cottage appeared a woman in a gray dress, an apron, and a simple straw bonnet. Her brow dripped with sweat she could not wipe away, as her hands were occupied hefting buckets of water.
Frederick swung down from his horse, handed the reins distractedly to Lady Radcliffe, and hurried to the woman’s aid.
“Bless you, sir,” she said breathlessly as he took both buckets.
“Where would you like them?” he asked, his voice strained under their weight.
She moved her fingers one by one, wincing slightly. “By the door will do, I thank you.”
Frederick walked the final stretch to the house, then set the buckets next to the front door. It was a deep green, but the paint was dull and chipped and the handle loose.
“What are you doing, Eliza?” asked Lady Radcliffe, her voice full of concern.
The woman wiped her brow with the sleeve of her dress. “Fetching the water, my lady. Would you care to come in for some tea?” She looked to her ladyship, then Frederick.
“Oh,” Frederick hurried to say, “I shan’t trouble you. I will leave the two of you to converse.”
“You did me a good turn, sir,” she replied with a kind smile. “I insist.”
Frederick looked at Lady Radcliffe, who gave a little nod and raised the reins of his horse for him to fetch them.
He took them, then looped them through the iron ring attached to the side of the cottage before going to assist Lady Radcliffe.
“I can manage.” Her tone was kind but firm. She freed her leg from the leaping horn, arranged her skirts, and slipped down to the ground gracefully.
After the basket had been unfastened from behind the saddle, she introduced Frederick and her friend.
Though Mrs. Penrose’s living conditions put her decidedly below the baroness’s station, Frederick could see why Lady Radcliffe would want to count such a kind woman amongst her friends.
Despite the humble state of her clothing and home, the way she spoke and conducted herself gave the impression that she had not always lived in such humble conditions.
Mrs. Penrose opened the door and led them into a simple room that acted as both sitting room and kitchen.
The muted light from the cloudy day filtered through hand-sewn muslin curtains, and the smell of damp wool permeated the room.
She invited them to have a seat and went straight to the stove to boil a pot of water.
“Where do you hail from, Mr. Yorke?” she asked.
“I came from London, ma’am.”
“I thought I recognized some of the ton about you,” she said with a smile before hanging the pot on the fire. “And how do you know Lady Radcliffe?”
Frederick and her ladyship shared a quick glance.
“We do not,” Lady Radcliffe said. “We only met yesterday. He happened upon me on the lane to your house just now.” The glint in her eye made Frederick wonder if she truly believed their encounter to be happenstance.
“I see.” Mrs. Penrose wiped her hands on her apron and faced them with a smile. “And what brings you to our corner of Cornwall, Mr. Yorke?”
Frederick felt Lady Radcliffe’s eyes on him, but he avoided them. “I mean to stand for election.”
Mrs. Penrose’s brows went up. “Here? Are we to have an election?”
Lady Radcliffe’s eyes remained fixed on Frederick for a moment, making it clear she had hoped he would not say such a thing. “Lord Westvale has died, and Mr. Brightmoor will take his seat in the Lords.”
“Ah.”
“I will endeavor to serve Trelowen every bit as honorably as Mr. Brightmoor did,” Frederick said. “I hope I may count on your support, ma’am.”
Mrs. Penrose and Lady Radcliffe shared a glance.
“My support does not count for much, Mr. Yorke.” She took a seat in a simple wooden chair beside her friend. “It is Lady Radcliffe whose sway matters.”
“And I intend to prove myself to her, as well.” He met Lady Radcliffe’s eye, which watched him with amusement and perhaps a sliver of annoyance.
He smiled, then returned his focus to the widow.
“But I disagree that your support does not count for much. I would be honored to receive it—and hope you will allow me to show myself worthy of it.”
Mrs. Penrose’s cheeks pinked.
“More of that ton charm coming through,” Lady Radcliffe said. “But London polish does not last long in a place like Cornwall, does it? Speaking of which, is something the matter with the stream? Dirty runoff from the storm?”
“No, my lady,” Mrs. Penrose said. “The stream is as clear as it has ever been.”
Lady Radcliffe watched her friend, frowning slightly.
“There is a new fence,” Mrs. Penrose explained. “Mr. Oswald had it built just last week, so I have been going around the other side of the hill to fetch water.”
“Around?” Lady Radcliffe said. “But that must be a mile!”
“More or less, yes.” There was a hint of forced nonchalance in Mrs. Penrose’s tone.
“And what did Oswald say is the purpose of the fence?”