Chapter 7 #2
Mrs. Penhaligan placed the menu in front of her, but their main topic of discussion was what would be served at the gathering on Saturday. Caroline went through each suggestion one by one, adding her own notes and modifications before handing it back to the housekeeper.
“There be one other thing, m’lady,” she said.
“What is it?”
“A few of the servants be askin’ what time yer ladyship reckons we’ll ’ave done ’ere on Sa’urday.”
Caroline’s brows went up. “Oh?”
“Word is there be a gatherin’ on the beach that evenin’, and they be wantin’ to attend—if they’ve finished their duties, o’course.”
“What sort of gathering?” Caroline did her best to give her servants ample time for recreation, but it was not common for them to ask for it on a day as important and busy as Saturday would be.
The housekeeper gave her a significant look. “I only know what I’ve ’eard, but they say ’tis that London gent. ’E be announcin’ his campaign.”
Caroline frowned. So, he did intend to pursue election. More fool he.
But she failed to see the connection between his campaign and her servants’ desire for permission to attend a party at the beach.
“’E be invitin’ the village, m’lady,” Mrs. Penhaligan explained.
Caroline blinked. “To his campaign announcement?”
“Aye. Least ways, ’tis what they say.”
Caroline did not reply, for she was bemused. What in the world did Mr. Yorke think to accomplish by announcing his candidacy to the villagers, who had no say in the election?
“I told everyone below stairs that ’twas unlikely they’d be able to go, m’lady—no’ with the work we’ll ’ave that day. But I promised I’d ask ’ee. Now I can say I’ve done that.” She smiled and picked up the menu.
“Wait,” Caroline said, emerging from her thoughts. “What do the servants make of Mr. Yorke?”
The housekeeper’s brow ticked. “That all depends whether ’ee be talkin’ of the maids or the footmen, m’lady.
The maids be fair struck by ’im—as good as swoonin’ as they speak of ’im.
” She rolled her eyes indulgently. “The footmen don’t know what to make of ’im.
But I’ll say, there seems to be a great deal of talk ’appenin’ about ’im in all quarters. Curious, people be.”
Of course they were curious. A handsome London gentleman arriving in Trelowen was almost as exciting as if Prinny himself had arrived.
Evidently, Mr. Yorke had taken to heart what she had said about his not understanding the borough and was attempting to rectify that. There was no other explanation for it.
It was politics.
For her servants, however, it was needed excitement after a long, grueling day of work.
“You may tell the servants that, once all duties have been seen to after the gathering here, they may go.”
Mrs. Penhaligan nodded with a slight smile. “They’ll be that ’appy, m’lady.”
Caroline watched her housekeeper leave, her own curiosity over this development growing by the second.
The next morning as she made the ride to see Eliza, she was still mulling over Mr. Yorke’s decision. All of this felt a bit like playing chess—trying to decipher her opponent’s strategy.
That opponent was gathering up his pawns, but he was playing without a king, as far as she could tell. He had no way to win.
Caroline was the kingmaker in Trelowen. And while she did not believe anyone should hold such power, she was glad it was she and not Mr. Yorke who wielded it.
The only way Mr. Yorke’s decision made any sense was if he believed he could win Caroline’s support by persuading the villagers to prefer him to Oswald. He must believe she might shift her patronage to him.
Well, if he thought bringing her delicious fairings—for they certainly had been delicious—and charming impoverished villagers by inviting them to a party would make her change her mind, he was sorely mistaken.
She did not wish for a candidate who was able to charm people into liking him; she wanted one who was both reliable and familiar with Trelowen’s issues. Mr. Yorke was neither; Oswald was both.
As she reached the bend in the road where she had last met Mr. Yorke, she looked around, wondering if he would “happen” upon her again. But the lane was quite empty.
Eliza was in her garden when Caroline arrived, working in the soil, which was damp from rain during the night.
“Oh, no,” Caroline insisted when Eliza saw her and began to push herself up. “Do not get up on my account. I shall join you.”
Rising despite this, Eliza smiled and opened the gate of the small, leaning fence that surrounded the garden. “I am nearly finished.”
Caroline secured her horse’s reins to the loop on the cottage wall, then went to the garden. It was full of broad beans and leeks and gooseberries.
“How are you, dear Eliza?” Caroline took her friend’s dirtied hands.
Eliza attempted to pull them away. “You will sully your gloves.”
“That is precisely what gloves are for,” Caroline said, keeping her grasp on them.
Eliza smiled kindly at her. “I am well enough. Only tired. What of you, my lady?”
“Happy to see you,” she said. “I have been cooped up far too much for the past few days, arranging things for Oswald’s gathering.”
“It is very good of you to host it,” Eliza said, lowering herself to her knees again.