Chapter 12 #3
“He expects nothing,” she countered, but doubt simmered beneath the words.
Perhaps Oswald did not expect her to marry him; perhaps he only hoped she would.
If it was hope, it was a more robust sort—the kind that meant to make hope into reality by sheer force of will.
Only today, he had implied a level of understanding between them that Caroline well knew would have been discussed by those present after the gathering.
Mr. Yorke watched her, as though he could see her thoughts.
“Does loyal friendship not merit reward?” she challenged.
“Surely, loyal friendship is the reward.”
They looked at one another in silence.
“You and I both know Oswald has his sights set far higher than friendship with you—or even a Parliament seat.”
“Whereas you arrived in Trelowen out of sheer selflessness.” She set the rag aside with more force than necessary, not letting her eyes leave his.
“No,” he acknowledged. “I came with a purpose—a selfish one, even. But you have challenged me at every turn, forced me to consider other perspectives. And I am the better for it.” There was a pause before he continued.
“I may tease, Lady Radcliffe, but I ask nothing from you but what you want to give.”
She covered the way her heart responded by a laugh. “Did you not say you wished for the opportunity to rescue me so that I would be obliged to support you in the election?”
“A joke meant to garner a smile from you,” he said. “I think you know me well enough by now to know I could never be satisfied with anything from you that was not given freely and willingly.”
Caroline’s heart thrashed at her ribs. Was he speaking of votes?
“If you wish to vote for Oswald,” he said, “if you wish to marry him, that is and must be your choice, but”—his mouth pressed shut, and a muscle in his jaw feathered—“if any part of you is doing it out of obligation…”
“’Ere it is,” Mrs. Tonkin said, bustling over with a bowl in hand.
Caroline rose. “I must wash my hands.”
“Pump be through the kitchen and out the door, m’lady,” Mrs. Tonkin said. “I’ll see to the invalid.”
Caroline followed her instructions, keeping her pace calm despite the agitation inside.
Mr. Yorke was wrong. Though it was true Richard’s expressed wishes made her feel some amount of obligation to vote for Oswald, that was not the only reason she was doing it. In comparison to Brightmoor, he was…well, there was no comparison. He was the best candidate.
As for marrying him…
Her stomach knotted as she used one hand to pump water onto the other.
But, no. It was not a sense of obligation that had kept her debating the matter for months. Or, at least, that was not all of it. She simply did not know if she wished to be married at all—to Oswald or anyone.
Mr. Yorke’s laughing smile as they had hopped in their sacks, shoulder to shoulder, flashed before her.
Cheeks warming, she dismissed it, replacing it with Oswald’s face.
The knot in her stomach tightened.
If she was being entirely honest, there was a feeling of obligation—a sense that, if she refused him, he would feel…what? Angry? Cheated? Misled?
She rubbed her hands together roughly, as though trying to wash away the unwelcome thoughts. Unlike the traces of blood, the thoughts in her mind would not be chased away.
She shut her eyes and shook her hands to dry them.
She wanted to want to marry Oswald. It would make everything so much easier—it would give her a partner to help run the estate, companionship for the lonely days and nights, and be good for Trelowen.
Together, they might see the schoolhouse built and help the borough to flourish.
It seemed obvious now, though. A choice with so many inducements should have been an easy one. But she had been resisting it. Not because she did not want to marry but because she did not want to marry him.
Voices reached her from around the side of the inn, and she walked back toward the kitchen.
She stopped, however, at the sound of Mr. Yorke’s name.
“Yorke be just like the others. Like Brightman.”
“Brightmoor,” the other man said. “But ye’re wrong. Yorke’s different. ’Ee supports reform.”
Caroline’s heart clenched, hand on the door latch.
There was a scoff. “And ’ee believe ’im?”
“I reckon I do. When ’ave we seen a gent wrassle or rope pull with our like? Mark my words. ’Ee’s different.”
The two men appeared around the side of the inn, but they came to an abrupt stop at the sight of Caroline.
“Forgive us, m’lady,” one said, and they both retreated.
Caroline stood at the door, her eyes trained on nothing in particular.
Had Mr. Yorke truly said he supported reform? Only hours before, he had hedged and claimed the opposite to her face.
Whatever the case, some villagers seemed to believe he would support the cause, and evidently, he had not corrected them.
She had watched him that afternoon, laughing and racing and playing with the villagers, and had wondered if perhaps she had misjudged him.
But as she stood there, the echo of the villagers’ words in her ears, what she had watched felt less like conviction and more like strategy.