“All that to say,” Frederick went on, “that I am not here to drone on about myself but to listen toyou, the people of Trelowen. To hear what changesyouthink would benefit the borough. I promise to listen and, if I am elected, to do my best to see those changes through. Now”—he smiled widely and surveyed the crowd—“what do you say we trade speeches for sport?”
The cheer this elicited was resounding.
The fiddler, who had been waiting with his instrument at his side, brought it to his chin and began a lively tune. The feeling on the beach was electric. Music, animated conversation, spontaneous dancing, and the gentle lull of waves lapping at the sand.
Whether it all would serve in the way he hoped, Frederick did not know, but he couldn’t help smiling all the same. There was a freeness and a joy he had not experienced in all the parties and balls he had attended amongst theton.
“Do ’ee mean it, sir?”
He turned to face the woman speaking to him. She had ruddy cheeks and wore a dingy dress under a sturdy gray apron and a patched shawl.
“Yes,” Frederick said definitively. “Mean what, exactly?”
“That ’ee want to ’ear what we ’ave to say.” It was evident from the tilt of her head, the crossed arms, and the skepticism in her dark eyes that she did not believe his assertion.
Frederick reached for a pint of ale, which he handed to the woman. He then guided her with a gentle hand to the bench of the trestle table. “Try me, ma’am.”
She looked slightly mollified by this response as he sat down and turned to listen.
He was treated to a ten-minute diatribe about the Corn Laws.
Frederick had supported those laws, for they had seemed common sense to him—better to pay a bit more for a loaf of bread than to be obliged to rely upon foreign grain—but he had never considered what that extra penny would mean for a mother of five hungry children. One whose husband worked the boats in the morning, the mines in the afternoon, and came home still unable to fill the bellies of the children staying up to wait hopefully.
A man joined the conversation and began to make his own concerns and complaints heard. By the timehehad expended himself, several others had joined the ranks.
“What do ’ee intend to do about it, sir?” the man asked.
Frederick glanced at the group, which was listening with far more interest than when he had stood upon the bench he now sat upon.
“A fair question,” he said. “There is no doubt that changes are needed and that many in London do not understand the challenges faced here.”
“We need more votes,” one man said.
“Reform!” another said, fist in the air.
“Reform would do Cornwall—and Trelowen—no favors,” Frederick argued. “You already have more representation in the Commons than cities many times your size. That would change with reform. Would you prefer fewer voices in Westminster?”
Several of them frowned as they considered this. Frederick wished Lady Radcliffe might be there to see him engaging with the villagers in this way—debating the very topic they had discussed at Trevenna.
“The voices in Westminster don’t care about we,” the first woman said.
“Aye,” said the man who had called for reform. “They be lords and rich men’s sons. Who speaks for the miners and fishermen?”
“Would ’ee?” the woman prodded Frederick. “Do ’ee support reform?”
The silence that followed this direct question made Frederick’s stomach tighten. Oswald did not support reform, and these people wanted change.
“If I am elected,” Frederick said carefully, “it would be to representyourinterests.”
There. That was vague enough, was it not?
“Ibe interested in whether ’ee could beat us at rope wrestlin’, sir.”
Frederick turned to find Ruan smiling at him and chuckled, relieved at the interruption. “Naturally.”
“Come on with ’ee, then,” Ruan said, motioning him over.
The group parted ways, and Frederick removed his coat, his eyes searching the area for any sign of Lady Radcliffe.
