Chapter 20 #2
Frederick cocked a brow. “You may have promised him your votes, but he will not be content with only that. And if he knows that you and I…” He let the thought remain unfinished, for he was not entirely certain how to finish it.
She sighed. “He will be crushed. Angry, even.”
Frederick slid a reassuring hand down her arm. “I never thought I would feel sympathy for him, but if there is anything I can understand, it is the disappointment a man would feel to lose you.”
“He is my friend. I have no wish to hurt him.”
“Of course not.”
“I must think on it. How to tell him—and when. I have a bit of time, at least, for he does not return from Truro until Monday.”
Frederick went to pick up the brush he had dropped. “I am surprised he agreed to leave you for so long, particularly with an infamous rake so nearby. I fully intend to take advantage of his absence.”
She smiled, some of her worries disappearing from her brow in favor of a light that invited his teasing. “Do you?”
He walked around her to set down the brush. “I shall forever be on your doorstep”—he turned and stepped behind her—“following you like your shadow.” He wrapped his arms around her, and she settled into his embrace, turning her head so that her temple rested against his cheek.
“Does this mean I shall see you tomorrow at church?”
His lips brushed her ear. “Does this mean you wish to?” His fingers splayed across her stomach, and he felt her breath catch as her hand covered his.
“That depends upon whether you can behave.”
“Of course I can,” he murmured, lowering his head and pressing his lips to the hollow beneath her ear.
“Is this your idea of behaving?”
“Believe me.” He kissed her again. “I am showing great restraint.”
She gave a little sigh of contentment, then slowly turned and broke away from him. “Perhaps seeing one another is all we should do at church.”
“No, no,” he pleaded, reaching for her hand. “I will do better.”
Her mouth lifted at the side. “I do not believe you. But if you can behave yourself, I promise to meet you afterward. On our beach.”
Our beach. The words brought a smile to his lips, and in Caroline’s eyes, he saw a ghost of the kiss they had shared there.
“I will be a model of decorum,” he promised.
Her eyes twinkled. “Then tomorrow shall be a day of miracles. Goodbye, Frederick.” With a last smile, she disappeared from the tack room.
Frederick stood in place for some time, a small, content smile on his lips and an intense impatience for the next morning.
Time was no friend of lovers. The hours without Caroline crept by with a torturous slowness, while the minutes with her had slipped through Frederick’s fingers like sunlight on a wave.
Had church services always begun so late in the morning? Ten seemed unnecessarily delayed. Surely, if the parish needed religion, earlier was better.
He had never in his life arrived in advance of a church service, but when he peeked inside, the only person within was the sexton.
Rather than sit down in an empty nave, Frederick took a stroll up the lane, forcing himself to walk slowly.
He was obliged to move out of the road for an approaching traveling chaise. There was a man riding on horseback behind—broad-shouldered, hair going silver at the temples, and sun-browned skin.
The man slowed as he neared, his sharp, blue gaze fixed on Frederick.
“Good day,” the man said.
Frederick inclined his head and offered a polite smile.
“Is this the way to The Silver Pilchard?”
“Yes.” Frederick pointed ahead. “You shall see it when you reach that bend.”
“Thank you, Mr….”
“Yorke. Frederick Yorke.”
A novel interest entered the man’s eyes as his mouth drew into a smile. “Just the man I have been hoping to meet.”
Frederick’s brows went up.
The man swung down from his horse, then put out a hand. “Captain Hugh Rathmore.”
Frederick took his hand, but it was a moment before he realized where he knew the name. “Ah! You are a friend of Mrs. Penrose.”
“I knew her husband.” His expression grew a bit more solemn at the mention. “I have been meaning to pay my respects personally but have been detained with my duties until now. You have been of great help to her, as I understand it.”
“Hardly,” Frederick said with a chuckle. “She exaggerates—you are undoubtedly aware how kind she is.”
“I am, but I think you are being modest, sir.” He glanced ahead as his chaise disappeared around the bend.
“I must ensure my belongings arrive, but I pray you will believe me when I say how appreciative I am. I trust we will see one another before I leave.” He gripped the saddle and put his foot in the stirrup.
“I am certain we shall,” Frederick responded. “I am putting up at the same inn.”
“Ah!” Captain Rathmore settled into his seat. “Dinner sometime, perhaps?”
“I would enjoy that.”
With a tip of the hat and a smile, the captain continued down the lane.
When Frederick returned to the church, the pews had begun to fill. His gaze flitted to Caroline’s box, and his heart skipped at the sight of her beside Mrs. Penrose.
Caroline’s eyes met his, and he was rewarded with the glimmer of a smile before she schooled her expression into something neutral and gave him an acknowledging nod.
He returned it, determined to show himself on his best behavior as more parish members filed around him and took their seats.
“Mr. Yorke,” Jory said.
Frederick broke his gaze away and looked down at him. His hair had been wetted and brushed into something more orderly than its usual disheveled chaos.
“Sit with me?” he asked.
Frederick smiled and tugged the bottom of his ear. “Of course.” He followed him down the aisle, chancing a glance at Caroline, who watched him with an appreciative warmth in her eyes that made his heart dance. How was he to behave himself if she looked at him in such a way?
“I found Mr. Yorke,” Jory said to Mrs. Tonkin, who was seated on a pew beside the family of one of the fishermen Frederick had worked alongside.
Her gaze swung to his, and there was a little pause before she looked at her nephew. “We’ve no room, Jory.” She looked back at Frederick just long enough to say, “Forgive us.”
Jory frowned. “If ’ee move over a bit—”
“Never mind, Jory,” Frederick said, though there was space enough.
“I shall find another place.” He winked at him, then turned away, trying to conceal the pinch of hurt.
He had been determined to ask Mrs. Tonkin the reason for the change in her behavior, but she had been impossible to pin down.
On purpose, he assumed. His meals and drinks were all served by Jory.
Frederick’s eyes met Caroline’s perplexed ones for a brief moment, then moved to look for a seat. The pews were fuller than usual, though, and he looked in vain for a place to sit that would not require stepping over families to reach.
Mr. Curnow took his place at the lectern.
“Mr. Yorke.”
Frederick turned, and Caroline met his gaze. “There is space here.” She indicated the place beside her.
He hesitated for a moment, then made his way over and entered the box.
She gave him a perfunctory smile that was so convincingly detached that he nearly began to wonder if he had imagined what had happened in the tack room.
He took a seat beside her just as the vicar began the service.
Frederick did his best to listen, but his mind was simply more interested in the mere inch separating him from Caroline. The impulse to reach over and take her hand, which was clasped in her lap, presented itself to him, only to be firmly discarded.
He slid his hands along his breeches and left them gripping his thighs to keep them occupied.
Ten minutes into the sermon on…well, Frederick could not have said what topic the vicar had chosen…Caroline’s hands released from their clasp in her lap. She set her right hand on the edge of her skirts so that her pinky sat against Frederick’s.
A current flashed through his body as though she had taken him by the cheeks and kissed him full on the lips in front of the congregation.
His gaze searched the room, as if everyone in attendance must have felt the same jolting of the heart as he.
All eyes were on the vicar, however.
He leaned toward Caroline and whispered, “Temptress.”
Her mouth lifted ever so slightly at the corner, though her eyes remained resolutely ahead.
A loud creaking brought a number of heads, including Frederick’s, around.
A shaft of light spread in front of the open door, and Oswald stepped into the church. His gaze went directly to Caroline’s box.
Frederick moved his hand like a schoolboy found sneaking into the kitchens.
Caroline had said Oswald would return Monday. What was he doing here?
Oswald’s nostrils flared slightly before he strode forward and took a seat in his box.
Both Caroline’s and Frederick’s hands returned to their laps, clasped tightly for the duration of the service.
Silly as it was, Frederick felt as though he had stolen something from Oswald.
Caroline’s heart had never belonged to Oswald, but whether he would see it that way was far less certain.
The service concluded, and the nave filled with the low hum of movement and growing conversation.
“Thank you for allowing me to sit with you, my lady,” Frederick said in his most polite and aloof tone.
“Of course,” she replied, courteously inclining her head, though her gaze jumped behind him.
Frederick turned and found Oswald there.
“Oswald,” Caroline said with a smile. “I had not thought to see you until tomorrow.”
Oswald’s eyes flicked to Frederick. “Given what I learned in Truro, I felt it incumbent upon me to return sooner.”
“Oh?” Caroline said with concern. “Is everything well?”
“No. I fear it is not.” He turned to Frederick, then reached into his coat.
Frederick held his breath, half-expecting him to pull out a pistol.
But it was only a piece of paper.
His relief was short-lived, however, for his mind was suddenly taken up with what unwelcome news the paper might contain. The sickness of a family member? Was Aunt Eugenia unwell? His stomach clenched. Or William’s baby?
Oswald unfolded the paper. “I assume you are aware of the requirements to stand for election.”
“Yes,” Frederick said, unable to keep a bit of annoyance out of his voice. Between the two of them, there was no question who was more familiar with them.
“Including that only men with more than ￡300 in property are eligible?”
“Yes.” Frederick’s patience wore thin as a few people seemed to take interest in the conversation, no doubt thanks to the unnecessary way in which Oswald insisted on adjusting his hold on the paper, making it crinkle loudly in the echoing room.
Oswald handed it to him. “You do not meet that requirement, Mr. Yorke.”
Frederick scoffed, leaving the paper hovering in the air, untouched. “I most certainly do.”
“This is a certified copy of a deed stating otherwise.”
Frederick’s jaw clenched, and he took the paper, keeping his gaze on Oswald for a moment before looking down at it.
Abstract of the valuation of freehold property held by Mr. Frederick Yorke, it stated across the top.
His eyes ran along the various sections of the document detailing the acreage and description of his lands, the estimated annual value, and finally the estimated capital value.
￡284.
According to this, he was ￡16 short of the property requirement to stand for election.