Chapter 5 #3
Oswald was not a dog with a bone. He was there when she needed him, willing to fetch her a rag when she required one.
He had proven himself time and again, particularly since Richard’s death.
As for his ignorance about the way things were done in London, he cared enough for Trelowen that he would find a way to carry out what the borough needed. He was not without friends or allies.
Mr. Yorke moved to pick up the box of fairings, but Oswald beat him to it.
Oswald opened the box and presented it to Caroline, though his gaze shifted to Mr. Yorke, who smiled good-naturedly. No, amusedly.
Did anything shake the man from his charmed nonchalance? Her reference to his plan to use his brother’s influence seemed to have, a fact that she found puzzling.
Caroline took out a fairing, which was no longer warm to the touch, thanks to the delay. The smell of ginger and treacle filled the air as she took a bite.
It was, in a word, divine. How had she known Mrs. Tonkin so long yet never tasted one of her fairings?
She chewed and chewed while Oswald and Mr. Yorke watched, as though her reaction would tell them something more important than whether she liked the fairing.
“It is good,” she said, a most lackluster response to a heavenly dessert.
Mr. Yorke’s brow quirked, a twinkle in his eye, as if he knew she was dampening her response. “You seem to appreciate them less than I do. I shall be all-too-happy to relieve you of them.” He reached toward the box, but Oswald retracted it, and Caroline reached for it at the same time.
Mr. Yorke smiled knowingly.
Caroline had the unnerving sense that he could somehow see through her. What he should have seen was that he had come to Trelowen in pursuit of a futile goal. But the confidence in his smile told her that when he looked ahead, he saw victory.
He would soon discover it was naught but a mirage.
“Would you care for one, Oswald?” she asked.
“No, thank you, my lady.”
She suppressed a smile, for she understood the response to be one driven by pride. She sympathized with it.
“Be so good as to give Mrs. Tonkin my gratitude and compliments,” she said, taking the box. “Perhaps we could have Cook make some for the gathering, Oswald.”
Oswald’s brows went up. “The gathering...”
“Yes.” She kept a bright smile on her lips as she turned to Mr. Yorke. “Once the writ arrives, we shall be holding an event here to celebrate Oswald.”
A flicker of something passed over Mr. Yorke’s face, but it was too quick for Caroline to identify. “Celebrating his candidacy, I hope, rather than his victory, for that is far from a certain thing.”
“I believe you have not quite grasped the situation here, Mr. Yorke,” Oswald said. “No surprise, for you are hardly versed in Trelowen’s matters.”
“More and more versed each day,” Mr. Yorke said genially. “But do enlighten me, Mr. Oswald—in what way do you find my understanding deficient?”
Oswald gave him a quizzical look. “Do you understand how a burgage borough functions, Mr. Yorke?”
He chuckled. “Of course I do. Only burgage owners may vote.”
He was right. In boroughs like Trelowen, the ownership of certain properties came along with a vote. Acquiring one burgage meant acquiring one vote. Only those who possessed burgages were able to take part in electing the MPs for the borough, of which Trelowen had just one.
“And do you know how many burgages there are in Trelowen?”
“A dozen or so,” Mr. Yorke responded with a little shrug of one shoulder.
“And do you know who owns the burgages?”
Mr. Yorke’s eyes went to Lady Radcliffe. “She is standing in front of me.”
“Lady Radcliffe owns more of the burgages than anyone in Trelowen, yes. Five, in fact. And I believe she has made it quite clear that she will not support you in an election, which already puts you in a near-impossible position.”
“You say near-impossible; I say possible.”
Oswald smiled, and Caroline could tell he took pleasure in the blow he was about to deal Mr. Yorke.
“I myself happen to own a few of the burgages, Mr. Yorke, and I hope you can forgive me when I say that neither shall those votes be in your favor. Without Lady Radcliffe or myself, you see, the near-impossible turns…impossible.”
Mr. Yorke gave a chuckle, but it was more forced this time. Caroline almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
Perhaps he would return to London now, knowing that it was not simply a tall order he faced but a towering one, like a rowboat and pistol against the HMS Victory.
“I see,” Mr. Yorke said, his composure intact again already in the form of an amused smile that had a sardonic edge. “You mean to tell me that, while the dice may be yet uncast, they are loaded.”
The description rankled Caroline. He made it sound as though she and Oswald were every bit as corrupt as the politicians with whom he rubbed shoulders daily.
“Well,” he said, “I hope you shall enjoy your celebratory gathering here.” With the same sharp smile that pricked Caroline’s conscience, he gave a small bow and a tip of the hat, then went on his way.