Chapter 19
CAROLINE
Caroline’s cheeks were still pink from the wind—and warm from something far more intimate—when she stepped through the doors of Trevenna Court twenty minutes later.
It was the same house she had lived in for years, but it felt suddenly different, as though the wind had carried Mr. Yorke’s kisses and confessions before her, permeating every room and corner with his essence.
She took the stairs quickly, half-expecting him to appear at the top with that breath-stealing smile of his.
A glance through the window as she adjusted a pin in her hair brought her heart to a sudden halt at the sight of a top hat bobbing up and down on the approach to Trevenna.
Only a second longer was needed to inform her that it was not Mr. Yorke but Oswald.
Her chest tightened. She had not seen him since his last call when they had quarreled—when he had told her to stop associating with Mr. Yorke.
Well…she had certainly not done that.
Her cheeks grew hot as she thought on the kiss, for she could not remember whether she or he had been the one to initiate it. She had the creeping and unsettling sense that it had been she.
She waited for her cheeks to cool and her thoughts to settle before descending to see Oswald, but even once she had managed those things, there was a prickling guilt that lingered. A sense of betrayal of which she could not rid herself.
Oswald had his hat in his hands and his back to her when she entered the drawing room. He turned quickly, his eyes wide and his gaze almost hesitant as they met hers.
“My lady,” he said.
“Oswald.” She inclined her head and kept her tone even, for she was not certain of the purpose of his call and worried the kiss on the beach might be written on her face.
He gripped the brim of his hat tightly. “I have come to apologize.”
Her brows went up. “Oh?”
He nodded. “I have been sick over our last conversation.”
She kept her gaze on him but said nothing, for she could not claim the same.
Did that make her heartless? He had been working to ensure Eliza was able to access the stream again while she had been flirting with Mr. Yorke.
He had been in pain while Mr. Yorke had been kissing her until she was ready to give him anything. Everything.
“I should not have presumed to speak with Mr. Curnow as I did,” Oswald continued. “And it was poorly done of me to instruct you on your behavior.”
Caroline shifted her weight, trying not to imagine what he would think of her behavior since then. When he had criticized her, her hackles had risen. Now that he was apologizing for his, she wondered if she had let her pride drive her into doing things she would come to regret.
It was difficult, however, to imagine regretting those moments on the beach.
“It was not my place,” Oswald said. “I pray you will forgive me. You must know how deeply I admire and respect you.”
Caroline let out a breath and smiled, any lingering frustration melting away. “Of course I forgive you.” She put out her hands. “You have been a dear friend to me, Oswald, and I trust I may count you one still.”
He regarded her for a moment, then smiled and took her hands. “Always.”
“I have been meaning to thank you.”
“For what?”
“The stile,” she said. “It has made Eliza’s life immeasurably easier, and I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it, for her happiness is very important to me.”
He searched her face, then squeezed her hands. “It was nothing.”
Caroline let his hands drop. “It was not nothing to me. And certainly not to her. Now, tell me”—she gestured for him to take a seat—“what news have you since we last spoke?”
Tea was called for, and Oswald recounted some of what he had been doing since their last meeting—progress on the mine, news from his sister, and a great deal of correspondence.
Caroline felt a sense of comfort in the familiar conversation between them. Was there not a great deal to be said for this type of relationship? It was not heart-stopping, but it was restful and comforting.
If Mr. Yorke was a cliff, drawing her to its magnificent views, Oswald was a friendly path, inviting her to walk its gentle, well-trodden ground.
“What of you?” Oswald asked, sipping from his cup. “Have you been agreeably engaged?”
Heat crept up Caroline’s neck, and she suppressed the urge to touch her lips. “I have, though, of course, there are always the mundane things to be done—meeting with Mrs. Penhaligan, making plans for the interior of the schoolhouse…”
Kissing Mr. Yorke.
She cleared her throat and smiled. “That sort of thing. Speaking of which, Mr. Curnow mentioned he knows a man willing to donate a half-dozen desks for the schoolhouse. He wishes to know when to have them delivered.”
Oswald frowned. “I think we had better wait on any decisions until the election has passed. It shall be upon us before we know it.”
“Indeed.” In a mere five days, to be precise. Why any discussion of the matter needed to be delayed until then, however, she did not understand. It was the simple matter of where to store the desks until the schoolhouse was ready.
“After the election, I shall be obliged to remove to London for a good part of the year.” Oswald’s gaze rested upon her, soft but observant.
“You shall be too fine for us when you return,” she teased.
Richard had spent less of the year in London than he should have, given his title, but even then, he had done so without Caroline.
The one time she had joined him, she had found little enjoyment in it, for she had few acquaintances and had generally been left to her own devices.
She had preferred to remain in Cornwall and manage things at Trevenna thereafter.
Oswald chuckled. “Of course not. My only aim, as you know, is to help Trelowen.”
Her thoughts flitted to her conversation with Mr. Yorke on the subject of reform. Her heart had made much of the way he had listened to and debated the matter with her.
Perhaps her heart had made too much of it.
Had she ever given Oswald a fair opportunity to listen to her views on the matter?
“I wonder,” she said, setting her cup on the table beside her, “how much the topic of reform will feature in discussions.”
Oswald stared at his tea with a frown. “There is no knowing.”
Caroline hesitated, for his response was hardly an invitation to continue the topic. If she wanted more, she would have to be direct.
“I thought perhaps we might discuss the topic,” she said. “See if we cannot come to an agreement.”
His gaze swept to hers, his frown still intact. “I do not think we shall agree.”
“Why not?”
He regarded her for a moment, then set down his teacup, resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned toward her.
“My lady,” he said, his tone gentle and patient, “you must trust me in this. Reform is the sort of thing men in London debate when they have the luxury to ignore what such upheaval truly costs. Trelowen needs stability. Practicality. Sensibility. A member who does not cause everyone to question the soundness of its governance.”
Caroline forced her jaw to unclench, then nodded. “Of course.”
He was not wrong. For a new MP to arrive spouting ideas many considered dangerous and revolutionary might prejudice Oswald’s ability to make progress and connections that would serve Trelowen.
But she was disappointed, all the same, as though she had been politely set aside, her hand patted indulgently.
“I have upset you,” Oswald said.
“No”—she forced a smile—“only given me something to think on.”
He watched her for a moment, then reached for his cup. “Is Mr. Yorke a supporter of reform now?”
It was said with disinterest, but her muscles still tightened at the introduction of a subject that had been tense between them.
“No,” she said. “That is, he is not entirely set against it, I think, but he would not characterize himself as a supporter.”
Oswald smiled slightly, as though enjoying a private, amusing thought.
“What?” Caroline asked.
He shook his head. “Merely that I had anticipated such a shift in his support for the issue once he discovered your opinion.”
Caroline bristled. She hated the implication of his words. Hated it because she feared its truth. “May not a man change his mind without nefarious motives?”
“Certainly,” Oswald acknowledged. “But surely, the amount that man has to gain by changing his mind bears consideration.”
Caroline tried and failed to find an appropriate response—one that would not give away how her heart twisted for Oswald to call into question those moments on the beach without even being aware of them.
Or how small she felt knowing he found her beliefs so unworthy of being taken seriously that the very idea that a gentleman might come to be persuaded of them was mildly amusing.
“I assume this softening toward reform is a recent occurrence?” Oswald asked.
“We spoke on the topic just this morning,” she said, annoyed to find her cheeks heating at the reference.
Oswald’s gaze flickered. “I see.” His tone was calm, but the air between them was stiff and his demeanor too still to feel natural. He let out a breath and rose to his feet. “Have you any errands for me in Truro? I shall be there for a few days.”
Caroline stood, her brows rising. “With the election so soon?”
“I have a number of matters to see to there, and they cannot be put off.”
“When do you go?”
“Tomorrow. I am dining with Hannaford.”
It took a moment before she realized why the name was familiar. “The returning officer? The one you invited to your campaign party?”
Oswald nodded.
As the man appointed to oversee the by-election, it was the returning officer’s duty to ensure the process went smoothly, and in the unlikely event of a tie, to cast the deciding vote.
“I shall return Monday,” Oswald said.
“I wish you an uneventful journey,” she said kindly.
“Thank you.” He set his hat atop his head, then hesitated for a moment before taking her hand. “I shall call upon you when I return.” He pressed a quick kiss to her glove, gave a bow, then turned and left.