Chapter 13 #3
Frederick paused, unsure how to navigate the territory in which he found himself. If she spoke the truth, it meant that Oswald had been presumptuous enough to speak to the vicar as though a marriage to her ladyship was a foregone conclusion.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I did not mean to…” He trailed off again.
“Mr. Yorke, I insist you tell me what caused you to congratulate me on an engagement that does not exist.”
He met her intent gaze but hesitated further. He did not relish being a tale-bearer, even if Oswald was the one who would be injured by it.
But Lady Radcliffe deserved to know.
“Very well. I happened to be near the church when Oswald emerged. Someone who overheard the conversation between the vicar and Oswald mentioned that they were discussing a date for…your wedding.”
Lady Radcliffe’s rosy lips pressed into a thin line, her nostrils flaring. She forced a smile. “I wonder when I was to be apprised of the date—or asked if I meant to attend.”
“Do you?” Frederick could not help himself.
She shot him a flat look.
“You did not seem so set against it when we last spoke. I wondered if perhaps our conversation had decided you in favor of it.”
“No.” She looked out at the water. “Quite the contrary.”
Frederick willed his heart to beat steadily. “You mean you have decided not to?”
It was a moment before she met his gaze again, a hint of amusement in her eyes. “That is what quite the contrary means, does it not?”
A laugh escaped him, borne of relief—that she was not, in fact, to be married, and that her anger had ebbed enough to tease him. “You might consider informing him of this development.”
The amusement died out like embers under a jug of water. She looked away again. “It is a delicate situation.”
Frederick’s mouth pulled up at one side. “Because Oswald is a delicate creature?”
The flat look was repeated.
“What?” Frederick argued, unable to repress a grin. “A man who has the gall to speak of a wedding date with the vicar before he has secured the bride does not deserve careful handling.”
“Perhaps not,” she replied. “But had I been more decisive, all of this might have been avoided. Instead, I allowed time for a seed to take root.”
“Allow me to pull it out by those same roots,” Frederick said. “I shall happily do so.”
She took the reins and guided her increasingly impatient horse to begin walking—away from Frederick.
He gave Flint a kick and came up alongside her. “What?”
“I tell you the situation is delicate, and your suggestion is to take a pickaxe to it?”
Frederick shrugged. “Treat it with too much delicacy, and Oswald will never receive the message you wish him to receive. You must be forthright.”
She looked troubled as she stared ahead. “I need his support,” she said curtly.
Frederick watched her, wearing a frown of his own. “I thought it was he who was in need of yours.”
“We are in mutual need. My schoolhouse requires both his land and support.”
Frederick considered this. “And you fear that, if you tell him you do not mean to marry him, he will refuse to provide you with it?”
Her lack of response was answer enough.
A man who was obliged to hold something over a woman’s head in order for her to agree to marry him was a pathetic figure indeed.
He held his tongue rather than expressing as much. “Very well. The seed has taken root. So…you must ensure it withers away.”
She glanced at him, a laugh in her eyes. “And what precisely does that look like, pray?”
Frederick shrugged. “I might be of assistance.”
“With your pickaxe?” she said dryly.
“No. With another idea you shan’t like.”
“I am sure you are right. But do expound, all the same.”
Frederick’s heart thunked against his chest. “At the moment, Oswald is laboring under the assumption that he has everything he wishes for from you—your votes and your hand.”
She peered at him warily. “And?”
“And,” Frederick said slowly, “perhaps he would benefit from the prospect of losing both.”
She laughed and shook her head.
“What?”
“This is your idea of delicate handling, then? Remove not just the prospect of marriage from Oswald’s mind but my patronage too? I might have known your plan would involve transferring my votes to you.”
“You misunderstand me,” he said, “though I would certainly not object if that plan did appeal to you. I only meant that perhaps Oswald’s entitled view of you would change if he did not think himself owed both things.
If he believes there is no risk of losing what he wants most, he has no incentive to act in good faith.
If, however, he senses that you are not entirely…
resolved in your loyalties, he may take greater care. ”
“You suggest I manipulate him?”
“I suggest you stop allowing him to manipulate you.”
They were harsh words, perhaps—a pickaxe, even—but he respected her too much to protect her from what he saw: that Oswald viewed her as some sort of property.
He continued more gently. “You should not have to barter yourself for this schoolhouse, Lady Radcliffe. There must be alternatives.”
She tugged at one glove, looking pensive. “And where do you come into this plan?”
Frederick smiled, but his heart skipped a few beats. “As the reason he might finally realize that your votes—and your heart—are not his by right.”