Chapter 7
CAROLINE
The writ had arrived. Trelowen’s by-election would officially take place two weeks hence.
There had been no sign of Mr. Yorke since the visit in the garden, but Caroline had it on the authority of Bess, whose sister lived in the village, that he remained at The Silver Pilchard.
What could possibly induce him to do so was beyond her comprehension. So unreasonable was it that she began to wonder whether it was true.
When she arrived at church on Sunday, however, all doubts were put to rest. Mr. Yorke was in discussion with the vicar, Mr. Curnow, who seemed to be introducing him to two mothers and their daughters, both of whom were looking at Mr. Yorke with the eyes of those who saw the embodiment of everything they had never dared imagine.
The interest in him came from all parts, however. It was uncommon for someone new to attend church services in Trelowen—much less someone as polished as Mr. Yorke.
He did look fine, to be sure, with his neat black coat, maroon waistcoat, and hair which made one wonder whether it simply arranged itself into windswept nonchalance or had received the help of brushes and pomade.
The vicar went to take his place at the lectern, and the women went to take their seats—somewhat reluctantly. Unlike Caroline and Oswald, whose families had dedicated boxes for the service, Mr. Yorke had no set place to sit.
Caroline’s pulse fluttered, and she smoothed her skirts as she debated whether to invite him to sit in her box. It was a more proper place for him than the benches, but it might occasion talk. To fail to do so, however, would be rude.
She glanced at Oswald, who was seated in the enclosed pew across the aisle. His focus was on Mr. Yorke, but he did not seem to be struggling under the same debate as Caroline.
This did not surprise her, for Oswald would be reluctant to lend Mr. Yorke legitimacy given their somewhat fraught relationship.
Mr. Yorke’s eyes ran across the benches as he strolled past the full ones, drawing ever nearer to Caroline. His gaze landed upon her and lingered.
There was only one polite thing to do at this point.
She rose from her seat.
“Mr. Yorke,” Oswald said suddenly, standing. “Please do have a seat—there is plenty of room here.” He put a hand on the door to his box and opened it.
Mr. Yorke’s gaze flitted to Caroline again, an almost rueful glint in them, before he returned it to Oswald.
“That is very kind of you, sir. But I promised Jory Tonkin I would sit with him.” He nodded toward the nephew of Mrs. Tonkin, who was seated beside her but had an empty place on his other side.
His little neck was stretched tall, his wide, worshipful eyes on Frederick.
Mr. Yorke winked at the boy, then spoke to Oswald again. “Perhaps I could join you next week—if the offer stands.”
So, he intended to remain, after all.
A flicker of something—nerves or excitement, perhaps—fluttered in Caroline’s chest.
Oswald nodded politely, then took his seat again.
Mr. Yorke smiled at Caroline, then continued down the aisle, leaving her to wonder whether he would have declined an offer from her as well.
He was impossible. The fact that he was still here and meant to remain was unfathomable. He was either the bravest man she knew or the foolhardiest. Perhaps both.
Caroline kept her eyes on Mr. Curnow during the service, but the one time she did chance a glance backward, Mr. Yorke was whispering something to Jory. The boy covered his mouth, but his crinkled eyes and shaking shoulders betrayed him, as did the chastening look Mrs. Tonkin sent Mr. Yorke.
He merely smiled at her, eliciting a little twitch at the corner of her mouth.
After the service, Caroline conversed with a few people, then thanked Mr. Curnow for his sermon. To her light annoyance, she noted her own continuing awareness of Mr. Yorke’s location throughout her conversations, despite never once intentionally looking at him.
Oswald appeared at her side and shook hands with the vicar. “May we expect to see you at Trevenna this Saturday, sir?”
“I fully expect to be present,” Mr. Curnow responded with a smile. “It is kind of you to invite me.”
“It would hardly be a proper gathering for Trelowen without you,” Caroline said.
Mr. Yorke drew near.
“I trust you shall be there, as well, Mr. Yorke?” Mr. Curnow said.
Caroline’s stomach clenched.
“Where shall I be?” Mr. Yorke asked, looking quite ready to oblige, though he hadn’t any idea of the topic of conversation.
“I was only wondering if you would be at the gathering her ladyship is hosting this week.”
“Ah,” Mr. Yorke said with an amused smile at Caroline. “I fear not. I am not included amongst the honored invitees. But you may rely upon my presence here Sunday next.”
The vicar seemed to realize he had introduced awkwardness into the conversation, and he looked at Lady Radcliffe with apology in his eyes.
“If I had known you were still in Trelowen, Mr. Yorke,” Caroline said, trying to will away the bit of warmth creeping into her cheeks, “I would have seen to it that you had an invitation.”
Oswald shifted beside her.
“Would you?” Mr. Yorke asked with a quizzical brow and a quirk to his smile.
“Of course.” She had never wanted to box someone’s ears so much.
“That is very kind of you, your ladyship,” Mr. Yorke said. “I am sure I could never decline an invitation from you. If there is to be dancing, I trust you will save me a set.”
Oswald shifted again.
That was the point of asking, she didn’t doubt—to provoke Oswald. It had nothing to do with wanting to dance with her.
“The details of the entertainment are still being arranged,” Caroline said, “so I am reluctant to make promises I cannot keep.” In any case, how would it look if she were to dance with the man challenging her candidate?
If Mr. Yorke did mean to challenge him, that was. Caroline was not at all certain of that. It was entirely possible he had remained in Trelowen purely to cause mischief.
“I shall only hold you to it if there is dancing, of course,” Mr. Yorke said graciously.
“Very good of you.” Caroline was unable to entirely mask the irony in her voice. It would have been impolite to persist in her refusal, but she determined right then to rethink the plans for dancing, no matter how much it disappointed the other guests.
Preparations for the gathering at Trevenna consumed Caroline for the next three days. Despite her wish to do away with any dancing, Oswald—ever-practical—argued that it would be a mistake.
“I think it will look strange to our guests if I am dancing with the candidate challenging you,” Caroline argued as they sat over tea in the parlor.
“That does not concern me,” Oswald replied.
Caroline tried to conceal her surprise.
Oswald glanced at her and apparently felt the need to expound. “He hasn’t a leg to stand on here, whether he dances with you or not. Unless, that is, you fear dancing with him may shift your own allegiance.” His eyes fixed on her, gently questioning.
Caroline let out an incredulous laugh. “Do not be ridiculous.”
He gave a little smile. “I am glad to find you think the idea ridiculous.”
“What else should I think it?”
He shrugged. “Mr. Yorke seems bound and determined to win your support—and more—and he is a charming gentleman.”
“And you think me so susceptible?” Annoyance flickered in Caroline’s chest.
“You would hardly be the first woman to succumb to the charms of a gentleman of the ton.”
“Allow me to set any such fears—absurd as I find them—to rest here and now by giving you my word. My votes shall be for you, Oswald. All five of them.”
He gave her a grateful smile. “I hope you will allow me to claim the first set of the dancing, though. As your candidate.”
That last phrase had been tacked on—needlessly, she thought. Almost as though he was trying to reassure her over a thought that hadn’t crossed her mind until now.
“Naturally,” she replied. “That is, unless I am inexorably swept up by the charms of one of our guests.”
Oswald laughed good-naturedly, and she felt herself relax.
The two of them did not always see eye-to-eye, but they managed to find their equilibrium despite it. Was that not a good basis for a marriage? Perhaps she was being ridiculous in holding Oswald at arm’s length when it would be natural for them to marry. Surely, Trelowen would be the better for it.
And yet, as Oswald took his leave, she found herself reluctant to say anything that might give rise to hope inside him. She watched him ride his horse from the courtyard, wishing she could be more decisive. The longer she waited, the more it felt like putting off the inevitable.
And why? What reason had she to delay?
And if there was good reason to do so, why allow him to think there was a chance?
The thought of rebuffing him entirely set her stomach clenching. What would come of their friendship? Would he be angry? Distant?
Caroline’s marriage to Richard had been…
satisfactory. Its purpose had been accomplished for her, at least. She had become a lady, and her family had received a handsome sum.
For Richard, it had been less satisfactory, for no heir had resulted from the match.
He had not blamed her for this—at least not outright—and had held her in great enough esteem and affection to leave her Trevenna.
Or perhaps that was merely a testament to how much he despised his uncle.
Whatever the case, Caroline’s relationship with Oswald was much friendlier than the polite connection she and Richard had shared. Perhaps it was a result of their ages being nearer. She was too grateful for his friendship and support to wish to harm it.
A squeaking floorboard brought her head around, and she found the housekeeper, Mrs. Penhaligan, in the doorway, looking reluctant to enter. She had something in her hand—the menu for the week, it appeared.
“Come in.” Caroline went to the writing desk in the corner where they always discussed such matters.