Chapter 8 #2
He opened the door. “Lord bless you! Where do you think I am going? To see Mr. Tregenza, of course.”
The last sound he heard before the door shut was Mrs. Tonkin laughing.
He wore a smile of his own as he made his way down the cobbled street toward the beach. The steps that led from the small quay down to the sand were uneven and weather-torn, with moss growing in the spots where the tide covered them when it was high.
The beach was littered with its usual boats, a dozen men handling fishing nets. One by one, they turned their attention to him, as though recognizing an enemy in their territory.
Frederick was determined to prove himself friend rather than foe.
His eyes fixed on the largest of the wooden boats, which, as Mrs. Tonkin had said, bore evidence of having once been painted blue. All that remained now were sections of patchy, sun-weathered paint of a nondescript gray.
Two men stood beside the boat, the one not too different from what Frederick had pictured—tall and thick, with a ruddy face wherever his abundant hair did not grow.
Frederick had envisioned this conversation being between Mr. Tregenza and him alone, but he should have known that would not be the case. Mrs. Tonkin had said all the other fishermen followed the man, after all.
He addressed himself to the largest of the bunch, standing by the once-blue boat. “Mr. Tregenza?”
The fishermen shared glances and sniggered.
“Tom be over there, fine sir.” The man said the last words with a hint of derision so subtle, Frederick was uncertain he hadn’t imagined it.
He looked to where the man pointed at the nearest, much smaller boat.
A short, thin man with a gray beard hammered at a section in the hull.
“Tom!” one of the fishers called. “This fine gent wishes to speak with ’ee.”
The man looked up, pausing his hammering. His eyes fixed on Frederick.
Frederick had met some of the most feared and intimidating men of the haut-ton, but never had he felt such a desire to shift under a gaze as he now did. Mr. Tregenza was small, but his presence loomed large. As did his lack of desire to speak with Frederick.
“Forgive me for interrupting,” Frederick said with an apologetic smile. “I shan’t keep you long.”
The man said nothing, merely waiting for Frederick to state the reason for his interruption—all while the other fishers looked on.
Frederick cleared his throat. “I wanted to personally invite you”—he turned and put out a hand toward the others—“all of you—to join me here on Saturday afternoon.”
“Join ’ee?” one of the men repeated blankly.
“For a little party,” Frederick clarified.
The man looked him up and down, then whispered something to the others. Soft chuckling rumbled through the group.
“I don’t think we attend the same parties, sir,” one of them said, barely suppressing a smile as one of the others executed an awkward attempt at a flourishing bow.
“On Saturday we do,” Frederick said. “That is, I hope to find you amongst the guests.” He turned back toward Mr. Tregenza, who had yet to say a word.
“And what do ’ee be celebratin’?” asked the large fellow Frederick had mistaken for him.
Frederick turned again—it was dashed awkward to address himself to the group and Mr. Tregenza at the same time when they insisted on remaining behind Frederick.
“I am announcing my candidacy—to stand for election for Trelowen.”
“And what do that ’ave to do with we?” Mr. Tregenza asked.
Frederick faced him. “Everything, I think. You are the members of the borough I hope to represent, after all.”
“Represent ’ow?” he asked. “By returnin’ to London after ’ee win and never comin’ back? Just like the last one?”
Frederick opened his mouth to respond, but he wasn’t entirely sure what to say. How often would he be in Cornwall if he somehow emerged victorious? In truth, when he had decided to come to Cornwall, he had envisioned returning to London as soon as he was elected—and managing things from there.
Mr. Tregenza took his hesitation as a response in and of itself and returned to his hammering.
“What do ’ee care about we?” a fisherman asked. “We can’t vote for ’ee.”
This was not going the way Frederick had hoped it would. He took in a large breath and faced the group of fishers, for Mr. Tregenza had long since moved on from the failed conversation.
“Listen,” Frederick said, “I understand that you have no reason to care whether I live or die—much less whether I am elected. You do not know me, and I am new to Trelowen—and to many of the issues you face. All I ask is that you join me on this beach on Saturday. Hear what I have to say, and I will hear what you have to say.”
“I don’t think ’ee’ll like that much,” the large man joked to the group.
“Perhaps not,” Frederick acknowledged. “But I shall hear you, all the same.”
Three of the men looked somewhat impressed by this—and the others every bit as skeptical.
“There will be food and drink and good company,” Frederick added.
“Wrasslin’?” asked one of the men.
Frederick’s brow knit. “Wrassling?”
“Cornish wrestlin’, sir,” another replied with a grin.
The fact that the group was beginning to warm up to the idea made Frederick eager to appease them.
“If you would like that,” Frederick said, “I don’t see why not.”
“And will ’ee be wrasslin’?” The fisher who asked was lanky.
Frederick hesitated, but at the sight of all sets of curious eyes on him, he nodded. “If you will show me the way of it, I shall gladly…wrassle.”
The number of grins that accompanied this offer made Frederick both happy and wary.
“We ’ave work, sir,” Mr. Tregenza said, rising from his boat behind Frederick. “I know it be different where ’ee come from, but ’ere, we don’t ’ave time to make merry whenever we wish.”
The smiles from the group faded.
Frederick was losing them. Mrs. Tonkin had been right. Mr. Tregenza must be convinced, or none of them would come.
“Perhaps we could help you finish your work,” Frederick suggested.
Mr. Tregenza’s eyes narrowed at him. “’Ee?”
Frederick opened his mouth to clarify that he had rather been thinking of a group effort on the part of the villagers.
Mr. Tregenza gave a small scoff and turned away, satisfied that Frederick had not meant to help.
“Yes,” Frederick hurried to say, for there was no backing down now. “I will gladly help you—if you will, again, show me the way of it.”
He would undoubtedly regret the offer, but he could not let this small victory slip through his fingers when he was so close. Were wars not won with a hundred small victories?
Mr. Tregenza turned toward him, looking him over with an evaluating gaze, just as he had done upon first being addressed. “Do ’ee mean that?”
Frederick put out his hand, which was encased in a leather glove.
Mr. Tregenza looked at it for a moment, then at his own dirtied hand. It was likely smeared generously with pilchard scales and heaven only knew what else.
Frederick removed his glove, then stuck out his hand again.
After a moment, Mr. Tregenza grasped it, his gaze still scrutinizing and skeptical.
The fishers behind him cheered, and Frederick’s mouth stretched into a grin.
“Saturday, then,” Mr. Tregenza said.
“Saturday,” Frederick promised. “I have engagements until two o’clock, but I shall come here as soon as I am able, prepared to work.”
Heads nodded, the eyes upon him gleaming with a hint of admiration and curiosity.
Frederick hoped—truly hoped—that his hasty promises would lead him that much closer to victory—whatever those promises cost him.