Chapter 13
FREDERICK
“Don’t know what ’ee were thinkin’,” Mrs. Tonkin said as she gathered up her things. “Challengin’ Jago at wrasslin’.”
“I was doing what you instructed me to do,” he replied. “Courting the approval of the village.” He put a few fingers to the poultice, only for her to smack it away.
“Leave it be, sir,” she commanded as Lady Radcliffe reappeared.
Frederick’s pulse hummed at the sight of her.
Mrs. Tonkin took note of her return and picked up the poultice bowl. “I’ll be off to clean this. See to it he don’t take it off, m’lady.”
Lady Radcliffe nodded, but there was a sharpness in her eyes as she watched Mrs. Tonkin go, then turned them on Frederick.
Her smile was brittle. “I understand you have declared your intent to support reform.”
Frederick frowned, watching her warily. “Have I?”
She nodded, still smiling in that unsettling way. “I heard two villagers speaking of it just now. A quick change of heart after our conversation at Trevenna today.”
He said nothing for a moment. “I never told them I supported reform, Lady Radcliffe.” His conscience squirmed, however, for he had phrased his response to their question so that they might believe it if they wished.
“But you let them think it.”
He said nothing, unable to counter the accusation.
“Bravo.” Her smile sharpened. “Yet another stirring performance from you.”
His brows drew together. “It was not performance.”
“Oh? Do you support reform, then?”
He opened his mouth, but no answer came. He had never truly considered reform before now. He had dismissed it, as most did. Lady Radcliffe’s support of it and the things the villagers had said had begun to make him wonder if…but he could not truthfully say that he was a proponent of it.
“And what of this party?” She gestured toward the beach. “Is this not all spectacle as well? Your way to prove to me that you care about the future of Trelowen when all you truly care for is your own?”
Frederick wanted to respond, to defend himself, but he couldn’t. There was too much truth in her accusations.
She gave a soft but caustic laugh. “As I said. A stirring performance.” She took her skirts in hand and walked toward the door.
He followed behind, panic and frustration mingling in his chest. He must look ridiculous with the poultice on his brow, but he did not care. “I am not the villain you insist on believing me, my lady.”
She stopped in front of the door, her form rigid. Finally, she opened it and turned just enough to meet his gaze, her own cool. “Nor are you the hero you would have everyone think you.” She swept through the door and pulled it shut with a resounding thunk.
Frederick stared at the closed door, his jaw tight, his throat thick.
He had told her he could not have borne her pity.
Well, now, he knew the taste of her contempt, and it was a bitter cup indeed.
Frederick’s body was still screaming at him for rest, but he went to Mrs. Penrose’s all the same. His body might wish for a respite from labor, but his mind required distraction.
He had not been able to put Lady Radcliffe’s words from his mind since the other night.
Nor are you the hero you would have everyone believe you.
She thought him despicable—changing his tune, adapting his behavior to suit his selfish whims.
Perhaps she was right. He had allowed the villagers to think him a supporter of reform because he had wanted their approval.
He had told himself that, if he won the election, he would have time to help them see the error of their views.
It seemed a convenient but selfish excuse now.
As for the party, he had held that to gain the favor of the village, but only so he could prove himself to Lady Radcliffe.
“Mr. Yorke,” Mrs. Penrose said welcomingly as he approached.
Frederick pushed his thoughts aside. “I am here to assist you.”
“And you injured.” Her brows pursed sympathetically at the sight of his brow, which was swollen and red.
“A mere scratch,” he said, dismounting. “No gate, I take it?”
She shook her head. “I do not think there shall be a gate.”
Frederick grimaced. He was inclined to agree.
Though Mrs. Penrose insisted she could manage, Frederick made the journey to the stream thrice, returning with two full buckets each time, for she had much laundry to do.
He was glad to be of help, but it was hardly an ideal solution—or one that could continue indefinitely.
“You are too kind, as usual, Mr. Yorke,” she said when he brought the last load of buckets.
“No,” he said with a wry smile. “I am far from it.”
“On the contrary,” she said. “Captain Rathmore—the friend of my late husband’s I mentioned before—writes that he is anxious to meet you whenever he manages to come to Cornwall. He is in Plymouth just now.”
“I would be honored to meet the captain,” Frederick said, privately thinking he was unlikely to be in Cornwall when the man came.
He took a circuitous route back to Trelowen, thinking on Mrs. Penrose’s predicament as he guided Flint along the fence Oswald had ordered constructed. The entire situation bothered him.
How could Lady Radcliffe so loyally support Oswald when he declined to do something as simple as placing a gate in his fence for one of her dearest friends?
It might be forgetful rather than willfully negligent, but even that, Frederick found difficult to understand, particularly for someone Lady Radcliffe insisted was such a proponent for the people of Trelowen.
If Lady Radcliffe had asked something of Frederick, he would have rushed to accomplish it. But perhaps that was only further evidence of his selfishness?
He reached the point where Oswald’s fence met with another, and he followed the new one, which ran parallel to the road.
His horse sidled nervously as two men came into view. Frederick rubbed Flint’s neck, speaking calming words as the men took turns climbing over a stile. He brought Flint to a full stop while they passed, for his horse seemed to have taken exception to their sudden appearance.
“Good day, sir,” the older one said gruffly.
“Good day,” Frederick said absently, for his focus was on the stile.
He stared at it, for it was nothing more than a few pieces of wood hammered together.
It was so simple, he could have hit himself for not thinking of it sooner. A gate was ideal, of course, but a stile was easier, less expensive—and it was something he could do himself.
Or with a bit of help, at least…
The bluish light of dawn had given way to the muted gray of a cloudy day as Frederick and Ruan finished hammering the final nails the next morning.
Ruan gripped one of the stairs and shook it. “’Tis as sturdy as one could wish.”
Frederick stepped back and regarded their handiwork with satisfaction. For his first stile, it was quite good.
More importantly, it would save Mrs. Penrose the long and arduous trek she had been making.
“We had better get back,” Frederick said.
They had chosen dawn for a reason—this was Oswald’s land, and while Frederick doubted he would mind the stile, he was certain Oswald would mind him.
“Aye,” Ruan said. “Tom’ll ’ave my ’ide if I’m not there to ’elp.”
“You can tell him I am to blame,” Frederick said as they began the walk back to Trelowen.
“Careful, sir,” Ruan said, “or ’e’ll expect ’ee to ’elp with the saltin’ and barrelin’ again.”
“As long as Jago does not mistake my presence as a desire for a rematch, I would be willing. I am indebted to you, after all.”
“Nay, sir,” Ruan said. “When ’ee ’elp one of us like Mrs. Penrose, ’ee ’elp all of us.”
Frederick put an arm around Ruan and gripped his shoulder, more moved than he cared to let on. The people of Trelowen had next to nothing, but they shared something he envied: a mutual affection and commitment to one another.
They reached that path that passed the church just as the door opened.
Oswald stepped out, putting his hat on his head as he spoke with the vicar. They smiled and bid one another good day, and Oswald came down the steps that led from the church to the road.
“Good day,” Frederick said with an incline of the head.
“And to you,” Oswald replied, though his gaze flicked to Frederick’s eyebrow. “You have been injured. Nothing too serious, I hope.”
Frederick smiled at the polite lie and put a hand to his brow. “The result of an overzealous spirit the other night.”
“I trust your party was enjoyable,” Oswald said.
“’Twas a fine evenin’, sir,” Ruan said, grinning at the memory. “I shan’t forget the sight of Mr. Yorke here bein’ wrassled to the sand by Jago—or he and Lady Radcliffe hoppin’ to the finish line in the sack race. A sight I never did think to see.”
Frederick suppressed a grimace at the artless comment.
“You must be mistaken,” Oswald said with a strange smile. “Lady Radcliffe was not in attendance.”
“She were, sir,” Ruan said, all innocent earnestness. “’Twere she and Mrs. Tonkin who tended to Mr. Yorke’s injury, weren’t it?” He turned to Frederick.
Frederick cleared his throat, eyes on Oswald. “Very kind of them it was, for I had no one but myself to blame for it.”
Oswald was still smiling, but his nostrils flared slightly. “I trust you will make a full and swift recovery. If you will excuse me now, I must be on my way.”
Frederick tipped his hat, and Ruan bowed his head deferentially as Oswald nodded and continued on his way.
Frederick watched him with a thoughtful frown as a woman came out of the church and down the stairs.
“Did I say somethin’ amiss?” Ruan asked Frederick with a worried brow.
“No, no,” Frederick reassured him, though he would lay odds that Oswald was on his way to Trevenna now. He would have paid dearly to be present for the conversation that would take place.
Frederick had been intentionally provoking Lady Radcliffe when he asked if Oswald had forbidden her from attending the party on the beach, but perhaps he had not been as far off as he had thought.
“’E looked displeased,” Ruan said.
“I rather think that is his natural expression,” Frederick said. “You needn’t concern yourself over it.”