Chapter 13 #2
A woman with an armful of flowers came out of the church, and Ruan turned to her. “Were Mr. Oswald in a bad ’umor when ’ee saw ’im, May?”
A little smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. “Do a man be in a bad ’umor when ’e plans is own weddin’? Course not.”
“His wedding?” Frederick said abruptly.
“Aye, sir.” She looked quite pleased with her news. “’E and the vicar be talkin’ ’bout when to ’ave it. Mr. Oswald be goin’ to London after the ‘lection, but ’e wants to be married first.”
Frederick tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry.
Had Lady Radcliffe accepted an offer of marriage from Oswald? Or was Oswald simply presuming?
It would be a great piece of audacity for him to take such a step if he and Lady Radcliffe did not have an understanding—a level of presumption that surprised even Frederick.
Which meant that they must be engaged—or as good as.
He gathered himself enough to bid farewell to Ruan and continued the walk to The Silver Pilchard, hardly noticing his surroundings.
Had Lady Radcliffe decided to move forward with marriage to Oswald after their dispute in the inn? Because of their dispute?
No, that seemed too ridiculous a notion to entertain.
Whatever the situation, an impending marriage between Oswald and Lady Radcliffe was the final nail in the coffin for Frederick’s campaign. She would never vote against her own affianced husband.
But that alone could not account for the low spirits Frederick was laboring under.
It was something more, something deeper—a sense of loss that had nothing to do with the election but everything to do with Lady Radcliffe.
When Frederick awoke the following morning, he lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling for some time.
What was he to do? He had only just announced his campaign. But what was the point of continuing it if Lady Radcliffe was to marry Oswald? It would be to throw good money and time after bad.
Precisely how many signs did a man require before he conceded and admitted his journey to Cornwall was—and always had been—a lost cause?
There would be other opportunities for a seat—perhaps not anytime soon, but he had waited all these years; what was a few more?
Or perhaps it was time to consider another path.
The Navy? No. Frederick would be the oldest midshipman in history.
Perhaps William would help him purchase a commission in a respected regiment in the army?
Frederick shut his eyes at the thought and fiddled with his ring with the sense that the walls of his bedchamber were closing in on him.
Feeling suddenly restless, he dressed and asked Jory to saddle his horse.
The fresh sea air acted like a tonic, and once he was free of the narrow village streets, he cut through a gap in the hedge and urged Flint into a gallop.
He leaned forward, guiding them along the grassy hills, which spread ahead and to his left, while the wide expanse of white-capped blue water consumed the view to his right.
This was an experience impossible to achieve in London, and his chest tightened at the thought of returning there. He loved Town, but he had come to appreciate Cornwall more than he ever thought to—certainly more than his friends or family would have expected.
What would they say if they could have seen him salting pilchards or wrassling Jago?
Perhaps it was for the best they had not seen the latter…he wished to maintain a bit of dignity, at least.
He reined in Flint and rubbed the horse’s neck, muttering appreciative words as he took in the view. To the west lay Trevenna Court—a refined estate in a place where the power of nature was constantly demonstrated.
Perhaps he should pay a call to Lady Radcliffe.
To congratulate her on her engagement? To bid farewell? To apologize for upsetting her in the inn? To thank her for tending to his injury?
He could conjure a dozen excuses to see her.
But to what end?
If he was to leave Cornwall, a clean break might well be best for all.
Or perhaps that was the coward’s way out.
The sack race flashed across his mind—that brief but extraordinary moment when he had given her the opportunity to send him back to London and she had not taken it.
It had sent a jolt of hope and ecstasy through him at the time that he recognized now as evidence of his growing regard for her.
Now? It left him puzzled. Why not take advantage of the opportunity to rid herself of Frederick if she did not care a whit for him nor have the intention to even consider voting for him?
“Mr. Yorke.”
Frederick whirled around in the saddle and found Lady Radcliffe herself approaching on her own gray horse.
She had always been beautiful, but now that she felt entirely out of his reach, she took his breath. Her expression, however, was unreadable.
Was she truly engaged?
“Good day, my lady,” he said, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt.
“How is your injury?” Her voice was cool but polite.
“I hardly notice it,” he replied with a smile. “I am, however, still finding sand in my hair.”
She smiled slightly and reached a hand toward her bonnet. “I imagine you shall be rid of it long before I am. Mine is a more effective trap.”
Frederick was momentarily distracted by the thought of her hair let down, hanging loose around her shoulders.
He cleared his throat, dismissing the image. He should not be entertaining such thoughts of another man’s affianced wife.
It galled him to admit that he was not so different from Oswald after all. At some point, Frederick’s aims had shifted. He was not merely satisfied to seek Trelowen’s seat; he had come to desire the heart of its patroness as well.
“I understand felicitations are in order,” he said, his mouth dry.
Her brows rose. “Oh?”
“On your approaching marriage.”
She blinked, then let out a strange laugh. “What sort of joke is this?”
Hope leapt in his chest like a hound catching a scent. “Are you and Oswald not…?”
“No,” she said firmly, her forehead knit. “Why would you assume such a thing?”