Chapter 14
CAROLINE
Caroline’s head came up slowly until her gaze met Mr. Yorke’s. Was he truly implying what she thought he was?
“Do you mean I should court you?” she asked incredulously, her heart skipping at the fleeting visions the word conjured.
“I am merely offering my services,” he said with a bow.
“A purely charitable endeavor,” she said with dry amusement.
“You doubt it?”
“Of course I do! How convenient that your suggestions to help me”—she raised a brow—“involve getting under Oswald’s skin.”
“Personally, I find it more convenient that they allow me time in your company.”
Heat prickled at the base of her neck.
“I would offer even if I did not enjoy the prospect of gaining your goodwill—even if only pretended—but can something not be both charitable and convenient?”
She broke her gaze from his and looked ahead, wishing she was more skilled at deciphering what parts of Mr. Yorke she could trust. “I hardly think a sudden courtship between us would serve my purposes. It is still more pickaxe than anything.”
“It need not be formal courtship,” he argued. “A mere softening toward me—admitting me into your friendship—would suffice.”
Caroline pulled up on the reins and regarded him, for they had reached the path that led back to Trevenna.
One part of her whispered a warning—he is using you—while the other berated her for judging him so harshly.
Since their interaction at the inn, she had wondered if she had been too quick to condemn him and too harsh in that condemnation.
Most bothersome of all, she wanted to agree to Mr. Yorke’s ridiculous idea. In his company, she felt alive, as if she were standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing full well the danger that lay below but unable to persuade herself from it.
But her footing was far from steady.
“There is no need for me to involve you in such matters,” Caroline said. “It was unwise of me to speak of it, and I beg you will forget I did so.”
There was a flicker of disappointment in Mr. Yorke’s expression. “Very well. You must do as you see fit, but however you regard me, I am your friend. And I am here to help in whatever way I can.”
Caroline inclined her head with a polite smile, then turned her horse onto the path toward Trevenna, annoyed to find her anger with Oswald eclipsed by her thoughts of Mr. Yorke.
He had featured heavily in her thoughts of late—particularly since they had danced at Trevenna and raced at the beach. She could not think on the moments in the inn with her hand on his face and his eyes on hers without a flush creeping into her cheeks.
Her disappointment and embarrassment had run deep when she realized that everything she had witnessed that day had been part of his strategy—hence her angry and abrupt departure.
She was pulled from her thoughts by the sight of Oswald’s horse being taken to the stables by a groom.
She took in a large breath and squared her shoulders—then immediately thought of what her maid Bess had said about her sighing when she was with Oswald.
But the sigh was merited today, for this conversation was bound to be difficult.
By the time she stepped into the house, Oswald was no longer in the entry hall. No doubt he had seen himself to the drawing room—his preferred room in Trevenna.
She could almost see Mr. Yorke’s raised brow, but he did not understand the degree of her friendship with Oswald. When she had been overwhelmed with the arrangements after Richard’s death, it had been Oswald who had helped her most, meeting with the steward when Caroline hadn’t the energy for it.
Mr. Yorke’s imagined eyebrow lifted even higher, but what he would no doubt see as presumption and interference, Caroline knew for kindness.
She did not bother changing her dress because, again, she and Oswald did not stand upon ceremony.
“Oswald,” she greeted him as she came into the drawing room.
He turned from the liquor cabinet, where he had poured himself a small glass of brandy.
Mr. Yorke’s imagined brow inched higher, but Caroline ignored it.
Oswald smiled, though there was something different about it—less full and genuine, perhaps.
He had been more occupied of late. With Wheal Fortune, she imagined.
She might have been more apt to argue against the mine, except she knew Oswald felt similarly about her schoolhouse venture—he did not think it held the value she did.
In his eyes, it pulled children away from bringing in an income the villagers sorely needed.
So, they were allowing one another to pursue their respective interests. It was the very sort of mature arrangement that should have made Oswald the perfect candidate for marriage.
A marriage he evidently expected.
For a moment, she knew a doubt. Had Mr. Yorke somehow misunderstood? Perhaps the conversation between the vicar and Oswald was nothing but a rumor.
“I am happy to find you at home today,” Oswald said.
“I understand you paid a call yesterday when I was not here. Lady Carveth invited me to join her for tea.”
“I hope you enjoyed yourselves,” he said as he sat down with his glass.
“Immensely.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
He did not sound particularly glad.
“Is something amiss?” she asked.
He regarded her before answering, his brows pulling together. “Yes.”
Her chest clenched, and she forced a light tone. “Oh dear. What is it?” She had not entered this conversation expecting him to be the angry one.
“Did you attend Mr. Yorke’s campaign announcement?”
Caroline’s muscles tightened. She had not spoken to him of her venture into the village—or of anything that had come after.
And why should she? He was not her keeper.
Mr. Yorke’s eyebrow hitched yet again.
Of course, she was not obliged to give an account of her days to Oswald, but that was not why she had kept this particular thing from him. She had done so because she knew he would disapprove—or perhaps feel betrayed.
“I accompanied Eliza there,” she said, forcing herself not to squirm at her weak justification. Why could she not simply admit that she had been curious?
Oswald offered no response to this. “Did you participate in sack racing?”
Caroline’s heart beat more quickly, but she straightened and gave a little laugh. “I did. And quite enjoyed it, I admit.”
Oswald’s brow knit more tightly. “And did you enjoy tending to Mr. Yorke’s injury?”
Caroline blinked in surprise. How had he learned of that? “I doubt anyone could find joy in such a necessity.” And yet, she had. For a time, at least.
“Could someone else not have performed such a task?”
“Undoubtedly they could have. But I was the one who noticed the injury, and everyone else was busy enjoying themselves. Mrs. Tonkin prepared a poultice. I merely cleaned the injury.” Her hackles rose higher with every disapproving expression.
She did not like the implication that she had behaved badly.
“And in the midst of such entertainments, did you consider how your actions would reflect upon me? Upon Trelowen?”
Caroline was torn between guilt and indignation.
She had considered how it would look for her to attend the party, and she had gone despite that.
But if only Oswald too had come, just as Mr. Yorke had come to Trevenna, he might have made it into an opportunity.
“I did not think it wise to allow Mr. Yorke to carry out his plan without either of us present to challenge any…inaccuracies that might be perpetuated.”
“And sack racing accomplished that goal?”
Caroline refused to become defensive, despite the way his comments were tinged with disapproval. She smiled. “Come, Oswald. Do not be angry with me. Would you have had the entire village cheer for Mr. Yorke while I stood to the side? It was an opportunity to challenge him.”
“And did you win?”
Caroline’s smile flickered as she remembered the race—the moment when victory had been within reach and she had forfeited it. She could have won. She could have rid them of Mr. Yorke altogether.
She fortified her smile. “I fear I underestimated the skill required.”
Oswald nodded, his expression unreadable.
“Whatever you may think of it, Oswald, Mr. Yorke’s campaign party was a successful effort to curry public favor.”
“As was mine.”
“Yes,” she granted. “You have the support of the gentry, but there is something to be said for Mr. Yorke’s approach. How unfortunate it would be to win the election and have the village disappointed by the result.”
“Even if that occurred, their disappointment would quickly be tempered by the good effect in Parliament on their behalf.”
Caroline did not respond. Perhaps he was right.
And yet, she wished he could see the value in appealing to the villagers directly.
“There was a great deal of talk when you danced with Mr. Yorke,” Oswald said. “And now the village has seen you attend his party and stoop to behavior below your station, not to mention tending to his injury. I had hoped to present a more united front.”
Caroline could see he was troubled by it all, and yet, she too was troubled. Troubled by the way he was characterizing her behavior as though she was some thoughtless hoyden who had damaged her reputation—and his. It was unclear which concerned him most.
In all her years of acquaintance with Oswald, he had never made her feel this way: as though she was a child who had disappointed him. And all this when he was the one who had acted without regard for her reputation by speaking with the vicar.
“You feel demeaned by your association with me,” she said, striving to keep her tone light despite the tightness in her chest. How odd to be made to feel unfit in her own home.
“Of course not,” he replied. “But I wonder you should insist on continuing your association with Mr. Yorke given the situation.”
“I thought you regarded his campaign as a piece of silliness—too ridiculous to be deemed a threat.”
“I am far more concerned for the threat he poses to you.”
Caroline’s eyes widened. “Me?”
“You mustn’t underestimate him, Caroline,” Oswald said. “Mr. Yorke is a man of the Town. A rake.”
Caroline blinked, then laughter burst from her.
The reaction hardly pleased Oswald.
“Forgive me,” she said, “but that is entirely too absurd. A rake indeed.”
Oswald’s mouth pressed into a grim line. “I can see you do not mean to take me seriously.”
“Should I? It seems to me that your dislike of Mr. Yorke has led you to exaggerate his flaws.”
“And your admiration of him to ignore them. You are blinded by his charm.”
Caroline’s brows snapped together, the smile she had thus far maintained falling away. “Is that what you truly think me? A green schoolgirl unable to tell a sheep from a wolf?”
“A schoolgirl, no. But I do think you are greener than you realize. You have been shielded from men like Yorke and naturally—but wrongly—attribute your own guilelessness to him. You must allow me to be a better judge of my own sex, particularly when they are men of the Town.” He regarded her frankly.
“I think you should discontinue association with Mr. Yorke.”
Caroline stood, indignation flashing through her. “You overstep, Oswald.”
He followed suit, rising to his feet. “I am doing what I promised—protecting you.”
“I do not require protection. You are my candidate, Oswald, and I am content that you be so, but I cannot and will not allow you to dictate with whom I associate.”
Oswald’s jaw was hard, his expression more somber than she had ever seen it. “You esteem Mr. Yorke so highly?”
“It is my liberty I esteem highly. If I wish to call Mr. Yorke a friend, I shall call him a friend. If I wish to engage in sack racing or cut flowers in my garden, I shall do so. And while we are on the subject, I would be much obliged if you refrained from discussing plans for my future with the vicar when no such plans have been discussed, let alone approved, by me.”
He stared at her dumbly, his surprise and silence so prolonged she began to wonder if the accusation was indeed unmerited.
“Forgive me, my lady,” he said somewhat stiffly. “I was under the impression that my suit was not displeasing to you.”
“Your presumption in making arrangements for my wedding is what displeases me.”
There was a slight softening of his demeanor at this—a palpable relief.
Her conscience prickled.
You must be forthright.
Mr. Yorke had said it. But he did not understand the situation or the history she and Oswald shared.
In Oswald’s eyes, she saw a glimpse of the man who had gently helped her through the chaos and uncertainty of being a widow.
The man who, whenever she had questions about the management of the estate, was ready to help her.
True, the thought of marrying him held less appeal than ever.
But she did not wish to act rashly or hurt him.
She feared she had opted for the pickaxe in the end, after all.
“I would not have done so had I realized it would upset you,” Oswald said.
“I am sorry for it. We are of such similar minds on most matters that I…” He trailed off, then grimaced.
“You intend to continue your association with Mr. Yorke, then?” The question was soft rather than challenging.
It was almost as though he was asking, Do you intend to continue hurting me?
Caroline was tempted to reassure him—to capitulate, even.
But she could not.
She matched his soft tone when she responded. “No doubt, my continued support of you in the election will appear the stronger for it, Oswald.”
He gave a stiff nod. “I pray you will not find yourself disillusioned in him. Good day, my lady.” With a curt bow, he left, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Caroline let out a long, slow breath and shut her eyes, annoyed to find herself wondering what Mr. Yorke would think of her handling of the situation.