Chapter 6
FREDERICK
After Frederick’s last call to Trevenna Court, he had left disheartened; today, he was defeated.
He had hoped he could turn the tide of Lady Radcliffe’s support in his favor; he had not realized that some of the votes in the borough also belonged to Mr. Oswald. Those votes were entirely and utterly out of his reach. Together, Oswald and Lady Radcliffe became an unstoppable force.
As he led Flint back into the village, he surveyed it with something suspiciously like sadness. It was not the most comfortable or familiar of places, but for Frederick, it had been something even better—the avenue that could have fulfilled his dream.
Jory ran out to take Flint’s reins. Frederick nearly instructed him to water the horse but leave him saddled. But it would be hasty to leave so soon. At the very least, he owed Mrs. Tonkin an explanation. And perhaps a lecture, for she had failed to inform him just how impossible victory was.
“Where is your aunt, Jory?” he asked as he swung down, narrowly missing a chicken roaming the inn yard.
“She be behind the inn, sir.”
Frederick fished in his pocket for tuppence and handed it to the boy, whose eyes grew round as he stared at it.
Mrs. Tonkin was, as promised, behind the inn, sitting on a wicker chair with three buckets in front of her as she gutted fish.
Frederick’s nose wrinkled at the sight, but he squared his shoulders.
She glanced up as his footsteps drew near. “What’re ’ee doin’ here, Mr. Yorke? ’Tis no place for a fine gentleman like ’ee.”
Frederick was tempted to agree. In the first bucket was layer upon chaotic layer of silvery fish. The second bucket contained…well, the parts he never encountered at the dinner table. The third was full of the prepared fish—or rather, ready to be properly prepared for eating.
He thought of what Lady Radcliffe had said. What good will your knowledge of Parliament do us if you do not know a pilchard from a mackerel?
“What are those?” he asked.
“Bless ’ee, sir,” Mrs. Tonkin said with a laugh. “I forget ’ow much of the fine London gent is in ’ee.” She pulled out a fish. “’Tis mackerel, of course.”
“Of course,” Frederick said. “Which are distinguished from pilchards by their…” He left the sentence to be finished by her.
She did not oblige but merely stared at him as though he might be drunk.
“My ignorance of all things Cornish has been pointed out, not least of which is my inability to distinguish the types of fish.”
“Pilchard be smaller, sir,” she said, sounding a bit like she was instructing Jory rather than a grown man.
“They be plain and silver. Nothin’ fancy, but with the right salt, they’ll last ’ee through the winter.
Mackerel, on the other ‘and”—she picked one up and turned it in her hand to show him—“they be bigger and stripey and full of oil. Fancy fish that spoil quick.” She made a slice down the fish’s stomach with as much ease as though she had been petting a cat.
“I’ll show ’ee the pilchards tomorrow when Tom brings ’em. ”
Frederick cleared his throat. “Speaking of tomorrow…I should like to pay my reckoning. I can do so now if it is more convenient.”
Her head came around, the mackerel forgotten. “What do ’ee mean, sir?”
With her stern gaze on him, Frederick considered staying. But it was no use. “I am returning to London.”
“Oh, no ’ee aren’t. We made a deal, me and ’ee. ’Ee gave me yer word, Mr. Yorke.”
“And you conveniently forgot to mention that the election is a mere formality. Oswald is unbeatable.”
Her lips turned down at the corners, but she said nothing.
“I looked like a fool when he informed me that I would require both his and her ladyship’s support to win an election.”
“Well, ’tisn’t true, sir.”
“You mean to say he was lying?”
“Not properly, sir. But ’ee could win without ’is votes.”
Frederick was unconvinced, and Mrs. Tonkin took note of that before returning to her task.
“There be eleven votes in Trelowen,” she said, gutting another mackerel. “’Er ladyship do control nearly ’alf of ’em. Five, ’ee see? Mr. Oswald do control four—’e bought up another burgage last year.”
“And the other two?” Frederick asked.
“That be a bit more complicated, that do. One be owned by Gideon Trewella, but ’e be thick as thieves with Oswald. And the last? Well, that be a bit of a mystery.”
Frederick scoffed lightly. “A mystery? What in the world do you mean by that?”
“I mean”—she tossed the mackerel in the barrel of finished ones—“that the man who owns it—Prowse, I think ’e be called—don’t live there, so ’e never votes. I never saw ’im in me life. Some say ’e be in the army; others say ’e be so well-to-do, ’e doesn’t care for a wee bit of land in Cornwall.”
Frederick frowned. That meant that Lady Radcliffe controlled half the votes and Oswald effectively controlled the other half.
“So ’ee see, sir, that all is not lost.”
“What I see, Mrs. Tonkin, is that you are strangely optimistic. Even if I could secure Lady Radcliffe’s votes—which would mean convincing her to vote against her friend—without this Prowse fellow, it would be a split vote. That is no victory.” He frowned. “How is such a tie broken here?”
“Drawin’ lots, per’aps?” Mrs. Tonkin suggested.
“Drawing lots?” Frederick repeated incredulously. “That is madness!”
Mrs. Tonkin grinned. “’Ee be in Cornwall, sir. ’Ere, man’s fortunes do tip on the edge of a coin.”
Frederick shook his head in disbelief. He could not imagine leaving his future to a coin toss or to a paper pulled out of a hat.
“Well, whether it is drawing lots or a duel at dawn, it is irrelevant. Once the writ for the by-election arrives, Lady Radcliffe shall be hosting a gathering to celebrate Oswald’s candidacy at Trevenna.
If that is not the nail in the coffin on her support, I do not know what is. ”
“Oh, sir! ’Ee do be dramatic. Oswald ’as her blinded, to be sure. But the good Lord do say the blind may see again, don’t ’ee?”
“By a miracle,” Frederick said dryly.
“Then ’ave a bit of faith! If they be throwin’ a party, throw one of yer own.”
Frederick laughed. “A party for whom? Myself and the mackerels?”
“Don’t ’ee go sneerin’ at the fish, sir. Without them, we do starve.”
“Forgive me,” he put a hand on the bucket of dead fish. “I warmly invite you all to my party and would be delighted to have you in attendance.”
Mrs. Tonkin gave a soft smack to his hand. “’Ee be teasin’, but I be serious, sir. Lady Radcliffe, fine lady though she be, do care for us workin’ folk. If ’ee can win us over, per’aps she’ll see the light.”
Frederick’s brow knit tightly. The strategy seemed questionable at best—win over the village and hope Lady Radcliffe cared enough for their opinions to shift her allegiance to him?
But it was the only strategy he had.
“And how would I win over a borough of people who do not know me—and who likely view me as…”
“A London peacock what’s lost its flock?”
Frederick failed to suppress a smile. “Yes, thank you for that.”
Mrs. Tonkin took up the next mackerel. Its wide, glassy eyes seemed to stare at Frederick as though in shock that he was actually considering such tomfoolery.
“Listen to they, sir,” Mrs. Tonkin said. “Listen to their trials and wishes, and they’ll like ’ee. Let the polished and powdered folk gather at Trevenna while ’ee gain the support of Trelowen.”
Lady Radcliffe’s argument against Frederick from the beginning had been that he was unfamiliar with Trelowen, where Oswald was intimately familiar with it. If Frederick proved her wrong, what, then, would be her reason for refusing to consider his candidacy?
“And where would I hold such a gathering?” he asked. “At The Silver Pilchard?”
“Oh, no, sir,” she replied, shaking her head quickly. “Mr. Oswald would be furious. I be a tenant of ’is.”
“Is this one of his burgages?” Frederick asked.
“Aye, sir. I do ’ave to take care not to appear too supportive of ’ee.”
“That will be difficult, given how strongly you have taken a liking to me,” he teased.
She gave a snort. “Hold the party on the beach, sir. Provide food and drink and a bit o’ fun for the village. They don’t need fine speeches, sir. They need a laugh and a listenin’ ear. If ’ee promise those, ’ee’ll ’ave no trouble fillin’ the beach.”
Frederick met the stare of the next mackerel, deep in thought.
Was Mrs. Tonkin onto something? Or was this just another madcap idea that would end in crushing loss and disappointment?
He thought of his visit to Trevenna and how he and Lady Radcliffe had worked side by side plucking dead blooms. Something in him wanted to prove to her that he was up to this challenge. Needed to prove it.
A madcap idea this party and candidacy might be, but a man with as little to lose as Frederick could not be overly particular.
If he was going to throw a party for Trelowen, he meant to do as fine a job of it as he could. And if he failed, so be it; at least he would fail spectacularly.