Chapter 5
CAROLINE
Caroline shielded her eyes as she looked out over Trevenna’s gardens. The light cast upon them was that particular golden blue unique to dark skies whose angry clouds had been pierced by a slice of warm sunlight. It made the greens all the deeper and the flowers all the more vibrant.
“Do ’ee like these, m’lady?” the gardener asked, indicating the larkspur he knelt beside.
Caroline tilted her head, then reached for the nearest bloom, which was a pale shade of purple. “They do look rather sad this year, do they not?”
“’Twas the gray spring we ‘ad. Do ’ee wish for me to take ’em out? I could replace ’em with somethin’ more to your ladyship’s likin’.”
“No, no. They still bring a nice color and height to the gardens, even if they are not as vibrant as usual. Let us leave them and hope for a better crop next year. I shall just trim a few of the dead blooms if you will give me some shears.”
As he located the tool amidst his others, she shed her gloves, setting them on the grass, for she could not operate the shears as easily with them on.
She clipped three blooms that were dry and wilting, then set them in a pile on the grass.
“My lady.”
She turned and found Oswald approaching. He and Richard had been friends long enough that Oswald had come to have nearly free rein at Trevenna. They had not stood upon ceremony, and such an arrangement had continued after Richard’s death.
Caroline did not regret it, for it meant she could continue clipping dead blooms rather than feeling obliged to host a formal call in the sitting room.
“I wondered if I might find you here,” he said with his friendly smile as he took in the growing pile of cut flowers. “Cannot the gardener do that?”
“He is more than willing,” Caroline replied, returning to her task, “but I enjoy it. How was Falmouth?”
“Good,” he replied. “I was able to accomplish everything I had set out to do, which is rarely the case, as you know.”
“And what was it you set out to do?”
“Primarily attend a meeting with my banker and another with Lord Pentreath.”
Caroline touched one of the more vibrant flowers. “And both were successful?”
He gave a decisive nod. “Both of them see a bright future where Wheal Fortune is concerned—and for Trelowen as a result.”
“Mm.” Caroline smiled, though she felt differently on the matter.
Of course, with two difficult winters in fishing, Trelowen’s families were eager for more opportunities to work.
She did not share the confidence of Oswald, his banker, or Lord Pentreath that reopening an old mine was the answer, however.
“I trust the Yorke fellow has not bothered you in my absence?” Oswald asked. “I imagine he is well on his way to London by now.”
Caroline felt an unaccountable and annoying warmth rising in her cheeks as she focused studiously on clipping a bloom that perhaps did not merit it. “Not unless you consider The Silver Pilchard well on his way to London.”
“I do not. Has he been pestering you?”
Caroline thought of their encounter on the lane to Mrs. Penrose’s cottage. She suspected it had not been happenstance.
“No,” she replied. “Though, as promised, he persists in his desire to be elected.”
Oswald laughed. “He shall find that rather difficult.”
“I would rather say impossible.”
Oswald gave a sound of agreement. “So, he has not brought you more gifts? If he intends to forever be calling at Trevenna, I shall have a talk with him.”
Caroline couldn’t hide a smile. She rather wished she could witness such a conversation. Something told her it would not go as Oswald anticipated.
“He has not returned to Trevenna,” she said. “I met him while riding.”
“Oh,” Oswald said, slightly bemused.
“I understand you had a fence installed near Eliza Penrose’s cottage.”
“Ah, yes. I have been meaning to do so for some time, but the impending reopening of Wheal Fortune gave me the nudge I needed. We shall be using the stream for sluicing.”
Caroline faced him. “I wondered if perhaps you had forgotten about Eliza. She uses the stream for laundering and to grow the vegetables she sells at the market. With the fence, she is in a difficult situation, for she must walk quite far to reach the most accessible part of the stream.”
Oswald frowned.
“As you know,” Caroline added, “she is already struggling enough as things stand. Though, I hope she shall be in a better situation soon.”
Oswald’s frown shifted to curiosity. “Has her son found work?”
Eliza’s son was but thirteen and had left to find an apprenticeship in Plymouth with the hope that he could ease the financial burden on his mother.
“I fear not,” Caroline said. “I was speaking of the position of schoolmistress I intend to offer her.” She watched Oswald, for this was not the first time they had spoken on the topic.
“Ah, yes, that would certainly improve her situation.”
“Indeed, and for that reason and others, I hope to move things forward as quickly as possible, but even then, it will be some time before it would be ready to house her. Until then, she must rely upon the garden and laundry. A gate allowing her access is integral.”
He nodded. “I shall have one put in.”
Caroline smiled with genuine gratitude. “Thank you, Oswald. I knew I could rely upon you.”
“Always, my lady.” The warmth in his regard was unmistakable.
“How soon do you think work can be begun on the schoolhouse?”
“Hm. The boundary agreement must be drawn up first. I shall write to my agent.”
“Thank you.” She turned back to the flowers. “I trust it shall not be long before the writ for the by-election is issued.”
“We share that hope,” he said. “I wonder if, particularly given Mr. Yorke’s arrival, it would be wise to do something to mark my candidacy.”
Caroline snipped a bloom. “What sort of thing?”
He lifted his shoulders. “A gathering, I suppose. Once the official writ is received, we could invite people from the surrounding boroughs. The more connections I have, the better for Trelowen, after all. I imagine many of them would be glad to hear of the planned reopening of Fortune.”
“And the schoolhouse,” Caroline agreed. “Lanrowen has been without one for some time. I thought perhaps there might be two or three children from there who could attend as often as they are able.”
“A good thought,” Oswald said. “As far as the gathering, naturally, I do not wish to offer up something that is not mine, but I do think it would send the strongest message if such a gathering were to be held here at Trevenna. It would be a simple way to signify your support and our unity where Trelowen is concerned.”
He was not wrong, of course. It would send that message.
She could not help wondering, however, what other messages it might also send.
Surely, there would be at least a few who would interpret more of it than she wished, for people invariably began to speculate about widows once they put off their mourning—and Caroline had put hers off more than two years ago.
Her thoughts on marriage were tangled as it was. She had no wish for them to become mired in political considerations and gossip as well.
“I shall think on it,” Caroline said. “I can see the advantages, of course, but with the outcome of the election being so certain, I wonder if it is entirely necessary given the expe—”
Caroline stopped, what she was saying entirely forgotten at the sight before her.
One of Trevenna’s housemaids was walking toward them, her gaze averted from Caroline and Oswald. Behind her was Mr. Yorke.
“Good day to you, Lady Radcliffe,” Mr. Yorke called to her with his charming smile.
Oswald turned around, eyes wide.
“Ah,” Mr. Yorke said. “And Mr. Oswald. I had mistaken you for the gardener, but I should have known better. Where one finds Lady Radcliffe, one is sure to find Mr. Oswald soon enough.”
Caroline shifted her gaze to the maid, her lips pressing into a line. She should have come to ask whether her mistress was at home to visitors.
“You must spare your very capable housemaid any grief,” Mr. Yorke said, apparently noting this subtle rebuke. “I insisted what I had for you must be delivered personally and without delay.”
“You may go, Agnes,” Caroline said, her voice kinder.
The maid curtsied and darted a gaze toward Mr. Yorke, then walked back toward the house, her cheeks full of color.
“Bullying my maids, Mr. Yorke?” Caroline said. “Or flattering them, perhaps.”
He chuckled. “Acquit me, my lady. I was told in no uncertain terms that these are best consumed while still warm.” He held out a small box. “I had to redeem myself after my last gifts.”
Caroline was half-tempted to refuse it, but her curiosity was too great. She set aside the shears, took the box, and lifted the top, releasing the intoxicating scent of freshly baked goods. Within were a half-dozen of Cornish fairings.
“Mrs. Tonkin sent me with two for the ride here,” Mr. Yorke said, brushing a tell-tale crumb from his cravat.
“I had finished them by the time I left the inn yard. If the two of you truly meant for me to leave Trelowen, you ought to have ensured I never tasted them, for they have clinched the matter. I am here to stay.”
“Your allegiance is inspiring,” Oswald said a bit dryly.
“Only if you have not had the pleasure yourself. They are, of course, Lady Radcliffe’s to give or consume on her own—I certainly would not blame her for that—but perhaps she will be good enough to share. The treacle inside is still warm.”
Caroline willed her stomach not to groan, for something within her—something primal and petty—wished to deprive Mr. Yorke of his wish.
That same primal part of her also salivated at the thought of warm treacle, however, so she was at a standstill.
“As you can see, Mr. Yorke,” Oswald said, “her ladyship is otherwise engaged at the moment. No doubt, she would prefer to eat the fairings when her hands have not been amongst dirt and flowers.”
Caroline turned over a hand, and sure enough, it was not the clean specimen it had been before she had removed her gloves.