Chapter 23
CAROLINE
Caroline stewed all evening and into the next morning over how to handle Oswald’s approaching call. The length of their friendship demanded she give him the benefit of the doubt regarding the question of the stile and the threat to Mrs. Tonkin.
But things had been…different between them lately. Less harmonious. She had forgiven but not forgotten his conversation with the vicar. It still troubled her, if she was being honest with herself and him.
She had always thought of Oswald as a likeminded friend.
But perhaps she had assumed too much—assumed an understanding that did not exist. And if that was so, it was critical that she be direct with him, as Frederick had always said.
If they were to have an effective patron-candidate relationship, their friendship had to be able to withstand frankness.
It was nearly eleven o’clock when Oswald was shown into the drawing room.
They traded stilted pleasantries for a few minutes, which was followed by an uncomfortable silence.
There was no use putting it off any longer.
“Oswald, why did you not correct me when I assumed the stile was your doing?”
He went still for a moment, then pressed his lips together. “I was ashamed I had forgotten the matter—again—and after you had just forgiven my conversation with the vicar. I did not wish to disappoint you again.”
She was grateful he was accepting responsibility, but that did not erase that he had forgotten about the gate, despite reminders from her. He knew how troubled she had been over her friend’s distress, and she had hoped he would exert himself to rectify the situation—a situation he had created.
But he had not rectified it. And he had accepted credit when Frederick had exerted himself.
“You are upset,” he said.
“Do you know who was responsible for the stile?”
He shook his head.
“Mr. Yorke.”
Oswald’s brows snapped together. “He did not have permission to—”
“Are you angry he trespassed, Oswald? Or that he did what you should have done?”
His mouth drew into a grim line. “I suppose I should congratulate him for managing to ingratiate himself with you.”
Caroline’s eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to retort, then thought better of it. “Did you threaten Mrs. Tonkin?”
Oswald grew still. “Did she say so?”
“No, but if she had, would she face your ire?”
“Her lease is nearly over. I simply reminded her of that fact.”
She watched him for a moment. “Did you simply use that reminder as a way to encourage her against associating with Fre—Mr. Yorke?”
His gaze sharpened, then his expression grew more grim. “You are not the only one who has fallen under his spell.”
A scoffing laugh escaped her. “Listen to yourself, Oswald! I have fallen under no spell. I fail to see how threatening Mrs. Tonkin is necessary when I have given you assurance after assurance that my votes were yours.”
“Do I have them, then? Or would they have been Mr. Yorke’s had I not shown him ineligible to receive them?”
Caroline stood, her frustration driving her to her feet. “Am I not a woman of my word? I wonder you should desire my votes when you seem to think so little of me.”
He too rose. “There is no one I think more highly of!”
“I find that difficult to believe when you think me unable to decipher between the genuine and the false—and think I have such wanton disregard for my own word.”
His nostrils flared. “I have only done what I thought wise to guard Trelowen against being represented by a fraudster—an aim I thought we shared.”
“And we do. But your recent behavior has made me wonder if our visions align as I believed they once did.”
He straightened. “I regret to hear you say so.”
“I regret to be obliged to say so.”
They stared at one another for a few moments, the silence thick and unwieldy.
“I came to discuss the future of the schoolhouse,” he said, “but perhaps our visions diverge there as well.”
Caroline’s stomach tightened, for there was a subtle wielding of power in those words—the implication that his collaboration on a project he knew to be dear to her heart was contingent upon her support of him.
No wonder he had forgotten to help Eliza too.
“Perhaps it does,” Caroline said stiffly. “But you needn’t pretend to regret it. I have long known you did not truly support my aims there.”
“Just as you have never truly supported Wheal Fortune.”
The silence returned.
“I must go,” he finally said. “There is much to be done before tomorrow’s election.”
Caroline’s pulse was quick, her thoughts too writhing and tangled to even offer a response.
“Good day, my lady.” He gave a quick bow, then strode from the room, pulling the door closed behind him.
Caroline did not move.
The conversation had not gone as she had hoped. The Oswald who had just left was one she hardly recognized. He was not the reliable friend she was accustomed to. This Oswald was one who misled her and threatened his tenants for their loyalty. Who threatened her for it.
Do I have your votes?
The question bothered her.
Perhaps it was the sense of entitlement in it—the same entitlement that had led him to speak with the vicar. Or perhaps it was the implication that her votes were what he truly cared about.
Her votes. What would she do with them?
Her conscience was what had made her feel she needed to vote for Oswald. To do anything else would be to break her word doubly—to Oswald and to Richard.
But could she, in good conscience, vote for Oswald? If this was how he was acting, who was to say what he would do once he was elected? What secrets would he keep? What power would he wield over others—or her? What things would he conveniently forget?
There was a knock on the door, and a footman opened it. “Mr. Redworth is ’ere to see you, m’lady.”
Caroline breathed deeply, trying to regain mastery over herself. “Show him in and have Mrs. Penhaligan bring tea.” She was surprised to know her steward had come, for they had met but a few days ago.
She greeted him and invited him to sit down.
“Thank you, my lady,” Mr. Redworth said, remaining on his feet, “but I shan’t take your time. I merely felt I should inform you of what I learned this morning.”
She waited for him to go on, trying to ignore the tickle of unease his words caused.
“The Prowse property has been purchased.”
Caroline stared at him. The Prowse property? That was impossible. Richard had tried to locate the owner multiple times, as had Oswald, and neither had found success. It was as though the man had not wanted to be found.
“Purchased by whom?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I have not yet been able to find the answer to that. A gentleman with local interests is all I was able to discover.”
Caroline’s chest tightened. “Oswald.”
Mr. Redworth frowned. “You think he would do so without informing you?”
“Two weeks ago, I would have said no, but now…”
He had kept other things from her, after all—his investigation into Frederick, his dealings with Mrs. Tonkin.
Perhaps he had begun to despair of receiving Caroline’s votes, so he had taken measures to ensure he would not lose.
With the vote that went with the Prowse burgage, he would have as many votes as Caroline.
And in the event of a tie…he had befriended Mr. Hannaford.
How long had he been planning for this potentiality?
“Well,” Mr. Redworth said, “whatever the case, I thought you would wish to know.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you for telling me.”
Caroline could not help feeling responsible. She had thrown fuel on the fire of Oswald’s determination to be elected—and his dislike of Frederick. Perhaps if she had not done so, Oswald would not be the only candidate to give her votes to.
All she knew for certain was that she wished to see Frederick.
When she arrived on horseback an hour later to The Silver Pilchard, she waited a few minutes for Jory to take her horse but grew impatient when he never appeared. She slipped down, then looped the reins through the iron ring on the side of the inn and went inside.
A gentleman was coming down the stairs, but his gaze came up and he slowed at the sight of her. He was young—though not as young as she—handsome, well-groomed, and particularly well-dressed. More than anything, though, she was struck by his air of authority.
In short, his presence at The Silver Pilchard was highly unusual. Who was he, and what was he doing in Trelowen?
With the by-election tomorrow, the probability was high that he had come for it.
A thought occurred to her.
What if Oswald had not bought the tenement and the last vote? Perhaps someone else had—someone he knew would vote for him and according to his wishes. Someone who could offer him something he needed. Something for Wheal Fortune, perhaps.
This man certainly looked as though he would be in possession of a great many things Oswald would find valuable. Money not least of them.
The gentleman’s gaze was direct and held a glint of curiosity as it took in Caroline.
She pulled hers away and looked to the taproom on her left, but there was no one there.
“May I be of service, ma’am?” The gentleman descended the remaining stairs at a leisurely pace.
She offered a perfunctory smile. “I doubt that.”
A ripple of amusement passed over his expression, but it was gone so quickly, perhaps she had imagined it. “I pray you will forgive my presumption, ma’am, but would you happen to be Lady Radcliffe?”
Caroline opened her mouth, fully intending to put the stranger in his place, when her attention was pulled to the woman who appeared at the top of the stairs behind him.
While she must have been in her sixties, her clothing was in the first stare of fashion—though, many would consider it too colorful. She too held herself with confidence. Was she the gentleman’s mother?
If he had regarded Caroline with frank curiosity, the woman did so with unapologetic scrutiny.
Caroline was torn between amusement and affront.
“Is this…?” The woman looked at the gentleman, her brows raised in a question.