Chapter 11
CAROLINE
Eliza did not require a friend to accompany her to the party on Trelowen’s beach. She was a capable woman and knew the villagers better than Caroline did.
It was a flimsy excuse, and Caroline hoped Mr. Yorke would not see through it.
“The entire village must be present,” Eliza said as they turned the bend that brought the quay and the beach into view.
Caroline was inclined to agree. Trelowen’s beach was never large, even at low tide, but it was chock-full of people now, while fiddling and clapping filled the air.
It was a far cry from the well-attended but more staid gathering at Trevenna earlier.
Oswald might think it vulgar, but Caroline could not stop a smile as she watched two men throw their young children high into the air, then catch them, while a group of men rope wrestled behind.
Her gaze snagged on Mr. Yorke, who was at the front of one side of the rope.
Her heart tripped.
He had discarded his coat, the buttons of his shirt undone at the throat, and the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
His stockinged feet slid in the sand as he dug his heels in, a look of intense concentration on his face while he and the men behind him heaved, tugging and being tugged by the men opposite them.
With one enormous pull, they yanked the men on the other side across the line.
Cheers went up from the crowd watching, most with a drink or a fairing in hand.
Mr. Yorke grinned and slung his arm around the shoulders of one of the fishermen, who said something, eliciting a laugh and a friendly elbow jab from Mr. Yorke.
Caroline’s chest pulled strangely at the interaction, even as her mouth drew up at one corner.
Mr. Yorke had always seemed to be performing to her—molding impressions and perceptions to his benefit. Seeing such a moment of genuine enjoyment—and with one of the fishermen, no less—left her feeling uncertain in a new and unsettling way.
It was only then that she realized Eliza was watching her from a few feet ahead, a curious, almost amused expression on her face.
Caroline did not remember stopping, but there she stood in the middle of the cobbled lane that led down to the beach.
“They are certainly enjoying themselves,” Caroline said, resuming their walk.
“I hope you will do so too.”
“Only if you do.”
Eliza had experienced her fair share of adversity in life—joining her husband on uncomfortable ships in unsteady waters, then losing him in battle, which had left her and the one child that had survived infancy in severely reduced circumstances.
She deserved laughter and enjoyment for a few hours as much as anyone Caroline could think of.
If Caroline could only manage to get the schoolhouse built, Eliza and the village would both benefit—she with an increase in income, they with education that would serve them in ways they could not even imagine.
They could take positions as clerks or overseers rather than risking their lives in the deep mazes of the mines or facing the unpredictable tides and catches at sea.
When they reached the short, mossy steps that led down to the sand, Eliza lifted her skirts and hesitated.
Mr. Yorke jogged over, then lifted a hand to assist her. “Allow me.”
Eliza smiled gratefully and took it, taking careful steps to avoid the places most likely to end in a slip or fall. “I might have known you would be the one to assist us.”
“You might indeed,” he said, his voice friendly, “for I have been waiting for you.” His gaze flitted to Caroline.
When Eliza was safely on the sand, he turned and offered his help to Caroline.
Their eyes met, and she could have sworn there was amusement in them, as if they were saying I knew you would come.
“I came to accompany Mrs. Penrose.” She accepted his hand.
Mr. Yorke smiled. “Of course.” There was no mistaking the twinkle in his eyes. He knew she was indulging a curiosity she had found herself no match for.
Mr. Yorke fetched drinks and fairings for both of them, his progress slowed by a number of people who stopped him for short conversation.
Caroline and Eliza watched from the edge of the party as the rope wrestling continued and a few children began to engage in sack racing, hopping and tumbling over with shrieks of laughter.
The atmosphere of joy and merriment was contagious, and Caroline found her cheeks beginning to ache from smiling as she sipped her drink.
Jory hopped over in his sack until he stood in front of Mr. Yorke. “Come, sir! I wager I can beat ’ee.”
“Oh ho!” Mr. Yorke said. “Do you, now?”
“Aye,” he said proudly. “I be the fastest sack racer in all Trelowen.”
“Faster than Ruan?”
He nodded.
“And Mrs. Penrose?”
He nodded again, a hint of offense in his eyes that this should even be a question.
“I was quite good in my day, you know,” Eliza said with a little lift of her chin and an enigmatic smile.
Jory looked doubtful.
“I was,” Eliza insisted. “I was beat but once—and that only because Jonathan Davies knocked me over on purpose. He knew he could not have otherwise beat me.”
Caroline’s gaze slipped to Mr. Yorke, who met hers with shared laughter in his own. Mrs. Penrose had clearly held onto the grudge.
“You had better show him, Eliza,” Caroline said.
“Oh, no,” Eliza protested with a laugh. “I could not. I am old now.” And yet, she looked tempted all the same.
“I’d give ’ee a ’ead start, ma’am,” Jory offered.
“A head start,” Eliza said with offense that was only half pretended. “When I win, I win fair and square, I will have you know.”
Mr. Yorke turned around and called out to someone a dozen feet away. The man looked around, grabbed something near his feet, and tossed a pile of sacks to Mr. Yorke.
“There is only one way to settle this.” He threw one sack over his shoulder and handed one to Eliza.
She hesitated.
“She be afeared, sir,” Jory said in a low voice.
Caroline took the sack and put it on her friend’s lap. “You cannot back down from such an insult to your character, Eliza. I insist you teach young Jory a lesson.”
Eliza laughed and held up the sack, looking at it thoughtfully.
“Will it do?” Mr. Yorke asked.
Eliza let it fall to her lap with her hands, then looked at Caroline. “I will race if you will.”
Both Jory and Mr. Yorke’s eyes widened with intrigue, and Mr. Yorke all too readily extended the last sack he held to Caroline.
She stared at it for a moment, thinking what it would be like to hop and laugh with as much unfettered enjoyment as she had seen others do.
She shook her head. It was one thing for a woman of Eliza’s current situation to engage in such entertainment; it was quite another matter for Caroline to do so.
“Did you not promise to enjoy yourself if I did?” Eliza prompted.
“My enjoyment will be in watching you teach this young man what it feels like to lose.” She winked at Jory.
“She be too fine a lady for sack racin’,” Jory said, clearly thinking this an insult rather than a compliment.
Caroline itched to prove him wrong, but that very genteel upbringing he was throwing in her face kept her from giving in.
She might not be able to race, but she would not hold her tongue, either. “And how do you know that fine ladies do not sack race?”
“Do they?” His challenging demeanor gave way to genuine curiosity.
Caroline pressed her lips together, wishing she could lie and say she counted sack racing amongst her accomplishments. “No.”
“What about fine gents?” Jory asked Mr. Yorke.
He smiled and shook his head, letting the sack he had been holding out for her drop to his side.
“This be your first time, then?”
“Yes, but I intend to beat you and Mrs. Penrose despite that.” His gaze shifted to Caroline. “And Lady Radcliffe, if she dares.”
There it was again—the unmasked provocation she wanted more than anything to rise to. She imagined herself hopping beside him, then shouldering him just as Jonathan Davies had done to Eliza.
She and Mr. Yorke came from the same world. Why should she not engage when he was? This was her village, after all, and her people. She hated to see Mr. Yorke squirming his way into their affection while she was obliged to sit primly watching.
Jory seemed to grow suddenly impatient of the conversation, and he hefted the sack he wore higher. “The race be about to begin.” And he hopped away to the starting line.
“Shall you come?” Eliza asked as she stood.
Mr. Yorke immediately held out the last sack again, a challenging glint in his eye.
What was it about him that made Caroline so desperate to throw caution to the wind and do the very thing he was trying to provoke her to do?
She rose and clasped her hands to keep them occupied since they itched to take the sack. “I shall cheer you on.”
Mr. Yorke studied her face for a moment, then retracted the sack, and the three of them walked toward the starting line Jory had redrawn in the sand.
Caroline helped Eliza into her sack, trying to ignore the hint of jealousy she felt.
“Join me,” Eliza pleaded, looking a bit like a child as she held the edges of the sack at her waist.
“I do not think my pride could bear it if I lost to Jory,” Caroline teased, though she glanced at the sack Mr. Yorke had dropped onto the sand as he situated himself in his own.
Eliza gave her a smiling grimace but was too kind to press her further. “I will try to win for both of us, then.” And with that, she hopped to the starting line.
Mr. Yorke glanced at Caroline, picked up the extra sack from the sand, and hopped over to her. He looked like a fool, and it delighted her.
“I am not joining, Mr. Yorke,” she insisted, as much to remind herself as him.
“I will give you a head start,” he offered with a mischievous glint in his eye.
“You shan’t provoke me into joining.”
His brow cocked. “Shall I not?”
“No.”
“What if I laid you odds?”
She lifted a shoulder, though inside, she burned with curiosity over what odds he would lay. “I am not a gambling woman.”
He did not respond immediately, simply watching her. “If you beat me,” he finally said, “I will surrender the election to Oswald.”
Caroline’s heart somersaulted. He could not possibly be serious. “Your stakes are less appealing than you seem to think. You shall lose the election either way.”
“I will cease campaigning,” he said as though she had not spoken, “and return to London. Forthwith.”
Her mouth went dry while he looked on with unconcealed relish in her reaction.
“And if you win?” she said, too curious not to ask. “I assume you expect me to support you instead of Oswald in the election?”
“No,” he said.
It took her a moment to recover from her surprise. She had been so certain. “What, then?”
“You owe me another dance.” He tossed the bag toward her.
She let it fall at her feet, not so much to prove a point but because she was taken off guard by his response. He was willing to surrender his entire campaign—and all he wanted if he won was to dance with her again?
“As I said, Mr. Yorke, I shan’t be provoked.”
With a grin, he hopped around so that his back was to her, then he turned his head so only his profile was visible. “Or perhaps you want me here more than you care to confess.”