Chapter 12 #2
Mrs. Tonkin’s lips pressed into a thin line as she regarded him. Her eyes flitted to Caroline for a moment. “Bring ’im to the inn, m’lady.”
“I can hardly leave my own campaign party,” Mr. Yorke protested.
“I will stay and ensure things continue as planned,” Eliza offered.
Mrs. Tonkin nodded her approval, then shot a cocked brow at Mr. Yorke. “If ’ee think these people are ’ere for ’ee, sir, you’re a bigger fool than Mr. O—” She cut herself off with a quick glance at Caroline, then cleared her throat. “A bigger fool than I thought ’ee.”
Mr. Yorke sent Caroline an amused glance as they went up the steps, still leaning on her slightly. “You see how she bullies me.”
The blood had started to flow more freely and was beginning to drip from his brow toward his eye.
Keeping a firm hand on his arm, she used the finger of her glove to quickly but gently stop the trail.
“Thank you.” He put his own hand to the wound. “Perhaps this is how we should decide the election. Wrassling.”
Caroline had a feeling Mr. Yorke would be the victor in such a match. While Oswald was taller, he was also thinner, and he lacked the vivacity of Mr. Yorke.
“Shall Jago go to Parliament, then?” she asked as Mrs. Tonkin opened the door to The Silver Pilchard.
Mr. Yorke chuckled, then gave a little grunt as he rolled a shoulder.
Caroline regarded him out of the corner of her eye, wondering just how much pain he was in.
“’Ee can sit there,” Mrs. Tonkin said, gesturing to the nearest table. “I’ll fetch water and a cloth.”
Mr. Yorke sighed and took a seat as she disappeared, leaving them alone in the deserted taproom. “This is quite unnecessary.”
Caroline moved a chair so that it faced him, then took a seat and removed her gloves. “We are in agreement on that point.”
“Good,” he said, rising.
She grabbed him by the wrist.
His gaze flicked to her. His skin, still bare from his rolled sleeves, was warm but rough with sand. She had the impulse to brush it away, and her fingers tingled.
She pulled him down until he was seated. “You misunderstand me. This is unnecessary because you might have avoided it if you had listened to me.” She leaned forward and touched a hand to Mr. Yorke’s brow. “Does that hurt?”
“No,” he said as his brow knit.
“Liar,” she whispered without malice as she inspected it, trying to see just how serious the injury was. Her hands cradled his head, her fingers in his hair as she gently but firmly urged his face this way and that.
His eyes lifted to hers, and she felt that same swirling in her stomach she had noted when they had danced at Trevenna earlier.
His gaze on her was watchful and curious, his usual twinkling absent in a way that made her feel breathless. His eyes seemed to ask what will you do?
The question produced a host of ideas, most of them entirely improper.
Mrs. Tonkin’s footsteps approached, and Caroline released his head.
“There ’ee go.” Mrs. Tonkin set a bowl on the table, seeming not to have noticed anything out of the ordinary.
“Perhaps you should do this.” Caroline rose.
“Nay, m’lady. Without wantin’ to offend ’ee, the cleanin’ is the easy part. I’ve to make the poultice. Unless ’ee’d rather do that?” Mrs. Tonkin regarded her with a skeptical question on her face.
Caroline wished she knew the first thing about poultices. She had watched one be made years ago, but that was no help now.
“No,” she agreed, “you had better do that.”
Mrs. Tonkin nodded and disappeared again.
Caroline hesitated, then sat back down.
“I can clean it,” Mr. Yorke offered. He reached for the cloth next to the bowl of water, but his brow furrowed and he stopped midway, rolling his shoulder.
“Jago’s work,” Caroline said, picking up the rag.
“Perhaps.”
She laughed incredulously as she dipped the cloth in the water. “Perhaps?”
His mouth lifted at one edge in a half-smile. “Wrassling is but one of my day’s adventures, Lady Radcliffe.”
She gently dabbed the cloth on his brow. It would be easier if she stabilized his head with her hand, but she decided against it.
Once she had dabbed at the wound, it was her brow that furrowed. “Perhaps the surgeon should be called for.”
“No,” he said firmly.
Their eyes met, and she noted a vestige of stubbornness in his that she had not seen there before. It must be that very stubbornness which kept him in Trelowen when there was no prospect of victory. “As you wish. But it is deeper than I had thought.”
He fiddled with the single ring he wore. “Courtesy of this.”
She glanced at it—a silver band with oval bezel, engraved with an ornate Y. “Is it a signet?”
He laughed softly. “Fourth sons do not receive family heirlooms, Lady Radcliffe.” He looked at it evaluatively, as though unsure what he thought of it. “I had it made myself.”
Her eyes lifted to his curiously. “For what occasion?” She returned to her task, but with every dab of the wet cloth, fresh blood seemed ready to take the place of whatever she had cleaned.
“No occasion. Simply as a reminder to myself.”
She wetted the rag in the bowl, then wrung it out. “Reminder of what?”
He fiddled with the ring more. “That I must make my own way in this world. I have no legacy to leave but the one I create.”
Caroline’s hands slowed. It was strange to hear him talk of such things—to gain a sliver of insight into what lay behind the facade.
In the garden, he had said he regretted mentioning his brother’s influence and that he did not intend to utilize it for his own benefit; this ring seemed to be evidence he meant it.
“I did not say that to receive pity from you,” he said with a hint of amusement.
She placed a hand under his chin and dabbed at his injury. His jaw was rough, not just with sand but stubble. The feeling was similar but distinct enough that her fingers itched to explore it.
She tried to keep her hand still and her mind on her task. “I do not pity you.”
“Why ever not?”
She gave him a quizzical look and paused tending to his injury. “Do you wish for my pity?”
He regarded her for a moment, and a thoughtful haze clouded his gaze. “I think I could bear pity from almost anyone better than I could bear it from you.”
Her pulse stuttered, and her eyes held his, looking for any evidence of guile and deceit.
She found none.
Did he truly value her opinion so highly? Or was it merely the power she held over his future that made him wish for her good opinion?
And why did she hope it was not the latter?
The impulse to slide her fingers along the cut of his jaw ran through her like a river surging after a storm.
She removed her hand and clenched it in her lap. “You would prefer pity even from Oswald?”
Mr. Yorke seemed amused by this. “Infinitely. His opinion of me is a matter of indifference. It is your opinion of him I envy.”
She forced herself to continue attending to his injury. “Because you believe that is what stands between you and a Parliament seat?”
“No.”
She shot him a look, one skeptical brow raised.
“I want a seat in Parliament,” he clarified. “But what I envy of Oswald is that he has your confidence, your trust, and your attention.” He studied her face. “More, perhaps.”
Caroline’s body grew tight. “Oswald has been a loyal friend.”
Mr. Yorke smiled slightly, and there was a rueful glint to it. “And expects to be rewarded handsomely for it.”
“He expects nothing,” she countered, but doubt simmered beneath the words.
Perhaps Oswald did not expect her to marry him; perhaps he only hoped she would.
If it was hope, it was a more robust sort—the kind that meant to make hope into reality by sheer force of will.
Only today, he had implied a level of understanding between them that Caroline well knew would have been discussed by those present after the gathering.
Mr. Yorke watched her, as though he could see her thoughts.
“Does loyal friendship not merit reward?” she challenged.
“Surely, loyal friendship is the reward.”
They looked at one another in silence.
“You and I both know Oswald has his sights set far higher than friendship with you—or even a Parliament seat.”
“Whereas you arrived in Trelowen out of sheer selflessness.” She set the rag aside with more force than necessary, not letting her eyes leave his.
“No,” he acknowledged. “I came with a purpose—a selfish one, even. But you have challenged me at every turn, forced me to consider other perspectives. And I am the better for it.” There was a pause before he continued.
“I may tease, Lady Radcliffe, but I ask nothing from you but what you want to give.”
She covered the way her heart responded by a laugh. “Did you not say you wished for the opportunity to rescue me so that I would be obliged to support you in the election?”
“A joke meant to garner a smile from you,” he said. “I think you know me well enough by now to know I could never be satisfied with anything from you that was not given freely and willingly.”
Caroline’s heart thrashed at her ribs. Was he speaking of votes?
“If you wish to vote for Oswald,” he said, “if you wish to marry him, that is and must be your choice, but”—his mouth pressed shut, and a muscle in his jaw feathered—“if any part of you is doing it out of obligation…”
“’Ere it is,” Mrs. Tonkin said, bustling over with a bowl in hand.
Caroline rose. “I must wash my hands.”
“Pump be through the kitchen and out the door, m’lady,” Mrs. Tonkin said. “I’ll see to the invalid.”
Caroline followed her instructions, keeping her pace calm despite the agitation inside.
Mr. Yorke was wrong. Though it was true Richard’s expressed wishes made her feel some amount of obligation to vote for Oswald, that was not the only reason she was doing it. In comparison to Brightmoor, he was…well, there was no comparison. He was the best candidate.
As for marrying him…
Her stomach knotted as she used one hand to pump water onto the other.
But, no. It was not a sense of obligation that had kept her debating the matter for months. Or, at least, that was not all of it. She simply did not know if she wished to be married at all—to Oswald or anyone.
Mr. Yorke’s laughing smile as they had hopped in their sacks, shoulder to shoulder, flashed before her.
Cheeks warming, she dismissed it, replacing it with Oswald’s face.
The knot in her stomach tightened.
If she was being entirely honest, there was a feeling of obligation—a sense that, if she refused him, he would feel…what? Angry? Cheated? Misled?
She rubbed her hands together roughly, as though trying to wash away the unwelcome thoughts. Unlike the traces of blood, the thoughts in her mind would not be chased away.
She shut her eyes and shook her hands to dry them.
She wanted to want to marry Oswald. It would make everything so much easier—it would give her a partner to help run the estate, companionship for the lonely days and nights, and be good for Trelowen.
Together, they might see the schoolhouse built and help the borough to flourish.
It seemed obvious now, though. A choice with so many inducements should have been an easy one. But she had been resisting it. Not because she did not want to marry but because she did not want to marry him.
Voices reached her from around the side of the inn, and she walked back toward the kitchen.
She stopped, however, at the sound of Mr. Yorke’s name.
“Yorke be just like the others. Like Brightman.”
“Brightmoor,” the other man said. “But ye’re wrong. Yorke’s different. ’Ee supports reform.”
Caroline’s heart clenched, hand on the door latch.
There was a scoff. “And ’ee believe ’im?”
“I reckon I do. When ’ave we seen a gent wrassle or rope pull with our like? Mark my words. ’Ee’s different.”
The two men appeared around the side of the inn, but they came to an abrupt stop at the sight of Caroline.
“Forgive us, m’lady,” one said, and they both retreated.
Caroline stood at the door, her eyes trained on nothing in particular.
Had Mr. Yorke truly said he supported reform? Only hours before, he had hedged and claimed the opposite to her face.
Whatever the case, some villagers seemed to believe he would support the cause, and evidently, he had not corrected them.
She had watched him that afternoon, laughing and racing and playing with the villagers, and had wondered if perhaps she had misjudged him.
But as she stood there, the echo of the villagers’ words in her ears, what she had watched felt less like conviction and more like strategy.