Chapter 8
FREDERICK
Frederick rolled his sore shoulders as he reached the cobbled road leading into the village. Three days in a row spent carrying the buckets from the stream to Mrs. Penrose’s had shown him just how hardy a woman she was.
If Frederick hadn’t disliked Oswald before—which, to be quite clear, he had—the last few days had given him ample cause.
Why the man couldn’t put in a simple gate for his tenant was beyond him.
It was not as if Oswald would be doing the work himself—he would hire someone else to do it, of course—undoubtedly someone who wished for the work.
Instead, Frederick was traipsing to the cottage each day when he had other things to tend to.
He had only gone the other day to invite Mrs. Penrose to the party.
When he had seen her hefting more buckets, however, he could no more have failed to offer his help than he could have walked past a drowning man.
Mrs. Penrose had grown in affection for him as a result, and since she had the ear of Lady Radcliffe, he hoped his efforts would not just help the widow but serve him well too.
The gate would be a welcome thing despite that, however.
He looked out over the beach that Trelowen’s small harbor boasted. It was strewn with a few dingy boats, even more fishing nets, and several of the men who worked them—men Frederick hoped would attend the party on Saturday.
He opened the door to the inn and removed his hat as he stepped inside. Voices reached him from the taproom, and he stopped short at the familiarity of one.
“I had hoped you would be willing to bake a few dozen of your fairings for my campaign celebration at Trevenna on Saturday,” Oswald said.
Frederick leaned in, for Mrs. Tonkin had already agreed to make them for Frederick’s party—in fact, they had been advertising that anyone who came would enjoy her famous fairings and ale.
“My fairin’s, sir?” Mrs. Tonkin repeated with surprise.
“Yes,” Oswald replied. “Lady Radcliffe quite enjoys them, and I would like to surprise her with them.”
Frederick suppressed a scoff—and a feeling of annoyance. He had been the one to introduce Lady Radcliffe to Mrs. Tonkin’s fairings, and now Oswald intended to use them to get into her ladyship’s good graces.
“’Tis kind of ’ee, sir,” Mrs. Tonkin said, though there was hesitation in her voice.
Would she tell him she had already promised the same for his opponent’s campaign announcement? Or would she lie to avoid the consequences? Mrs. Tonkin was not the sort to bow to pressure or hold her tongue—but, then again, Oswald was her landlord.
“Very good,” Oswald said. “I shall send someone to retrieve them Saturday morning. Shall we say ten o’clock?”
“Aye, sir. I’ll ’ave ’em ready for ’ee.”
Frederick frowned and removed his gloves as footsteps approached.
Oswald, who was putting on his hat, stopped short at the sight of him. Frederick could have sworn his color heightened. “Yorke.”
Frederick smiled. “I did not expect to meet you here.”
“Mrs. Tonkin is my tenant,” Oswald said, as though that alone accounted for his presence.
“Very good of you to check in on her,” Frederick said, offering him the opportunity to confess his true errand.
Oswald tipped his hat. “Good day to you.”
“Until Saturday,” Frederick replied good-naturedly.
Oswald regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then offered a small nod and left through the door.
Frederick stood in place for a moment, tapping a finger on his hat as he stared at the brim. Was there any possible way he could triumph over that man? The cards were stacked against Frederick. The dice were loaded. The votes had been counted.
“Do ’ee mean to hide there and pretend ’ee wasn’t eavesdroppin’?” Mrs. Tonkin called.
Frederick chuckled, hung his hat on a free peg, and stepped into the taproom. “I was not eavesdropping. I was simply waiting for a conversation of which I was not part to come to an end.”
Mrs. Tonkin raised a brow at him as she counted coins.
“It was a very informative conversation,” Frederick said. “I take it there shan’t be fairings at my campaign party on Saturday.”
“Believe me, sir,” she replied darkly, “I’d like to grind some pilchards into the dough for Mr. Oswald’s.”
“I would also like that,” Frederick said. “In fact, I will help you.”
Mrs. Tonkin tried to repress a smile. “’Ee know my ’ands are tied, sir.”
Frederick sighed and plopped down in a chair. “I know. But I also know that everyone who comes Saturday—supposing anyone does—has decided to do so more for the prospect of your fairings than to hear me.”
“’Ee aren’t wrong about that,” she said with a little puffing of her ample bosom. “’Appen I can manage to make both—if ’ee ’elp me.”
“I?” Frederick put a hand to his chest.
Mrs. Tonkin scoffed. “Aye! ’Ee, sir! Do ’ee want to win or not?”
“Of course I do, but I haven’t the slightest idea what to do in a kitchen.”
“Then it be a good thing ’ee’ll ’ave me to tell ’ee, don’t it?”
Frederick smiled in spite of himself. Working in the kitchen and carrying water buckets had not been part of his plans when he had set out for Trelowen, but gaining a seat as an MP had, and it appeared such things were necessary stepping stones on his route to Parliament.
Or perhaps they were stepping stones on a path that led nowhere.
“Do you think we shall have a good turn-out?” Frederick asked.
“Aye, sir. If ’ee offer food and drink, ’ee cannot keep most of Trelowen away.”
The way she said most of Trelowen and her strange tone had Frederick watching her more carefully.
“And what of the others? Are they in Oswald’s pocket?”
“No, sir, but they didn’t like Mr. Brightmoor, and they don’t like ’ee neither.”
“They don’t know me,” Frederick said, half-amused, half-incensed.
“They don’t like genteel folk.”
“Oswald is genteel.”
“Aye, sir.” She cocked a brow significantly.
“At least they are consistent, I suppose,” he said doubtfully.
Mrs. Tonkin made a noncommittal noise. “I do think ’ee could convince ’em to come if ’ee were brave enough.”
Frederick regarded her warily. “Brave.”
“Aye, brave,” she snapped. “’Appen ’ee’ve ’eard the word?”
Frederick snatched the nearest rag and threw it toward her.
She deflected it with a hand and a mischievous grin.
“If you’ve finished attacking my character,” Frederick said, “perhaps you would care to explain what type of bravery is required of me in order to persuade these people to attend.”
“Well,” Mrs. Tonkin said, “’ee need to speak with Tom Tregenza. ’E be the one whose opinion matters, for all the other fishermen do follow what ’e says.”
Frederick frowned. To his knowledge, he had never seen Mr. Tregenza, but in his mind’s eye, he imagined a tall, burly man with a beard and a few teeth lost to brawling. “And where can I find this formidable man?”
“Where do ’ee think, sir?” she said incredulously. “’E be a fisherman.”
He shot her an unamused glance. “I meant which boat belongs to him?”
“The biggest one, sir. It be blue—or it was at one time.”
Frederick nodded. “And what do you recommend I say to him?”
She laughed, her bosom rising and falling with her shoulders. “Lord bless ’ee, sir! Do ’ee expect me to do all the work for ’ee? Oh”—she straightened suddenly—“I nearly forgot. A letter came for ’ee.” She reached across the counter and picked it up.
Frederick stood and went over to take it. He immediately recognized his brother William’s neat script. He broke the wax with the Duke of Rockwood’s seal pressed firmly into it, then unfurled the letter.
His gaze raked over William’s script, assuring him that everyone was well and anxious for news of Frederick.
I spoke with Brightmoor the other day and learned from him that there is a candidate there who is poised to win. If it would be of help, Clara has insisted she is well enough for me to take the journey to Cornwall and lend my aid in your campaign.
Frederick reread the sentence, his heartbeat quickening, for he knew what it meant.
A visit from William might well tip the scales in his favor.
Few landowners in the county would care to set themselves at odds with a duke—including Oswald.
The money William would be able to offer was another factor that nearly made Frederick salivate.
For Saturday’s party, he was already spending a large portion of the money he had saved—just how much only time would tell. Something told him Trelowen’s villagers would be able to drink an ocean’s worth of ale when it was at Frederick’s expense.
To accept William’s aid could be the thing to turn the tide, as Mrs. Tonkin had said. And this was a king tide. William would undoubtedly be able to offer Oswald something he valued as much as a seat in the Commons.
As for Lady Radcliffe, even she, with her stubborn dislike of politicians, was unlikely to be proof against William’s powers of persuasion. He could offer her promises for Trelowen that precious Oswald could not manage with twenty years in the Commons.
In short, William was offering Frederick everything he needed and wanted. He was offering victory.
But it would be William’s victory, not Frederick’s.
Lady Radcliffe might bow to a duke’s pressure and power, but what would she think of Frederick?
She would disdain him, and he could not blame her for it, particularly after he had told her that he would not accept any help from William.
Frederick might emerge with a seat in the Commons and an MP beside his signature, but deep down, he would disdain himself.
He would wonder whether he could have managed it on his own, whether he was capable of standing on his own two legs or only with assistance from William.
He let out a breath and folded up the letter, then slid it into his coat, hoping he would not look back on this as the moment he had let his one true chance slip through his fingers.
He strode out of the room and removed his hat from the peg.
“Where do ’ee be going?” Mrs. Tonkin called.