“Do I often sigh after being with Oswald?” Caroline asked as Bess assisted her to remove her dress.
“Aye, m’lady.” She responded matter-of-factly.
There was a knock on the door.
“Forgive me, m’lady,” said the footman. “This just came for ‘ee.”
Bess took the letter, then brought it to her mistress.
Caroline recognized the hand immediately.Talk of the devil…
She took in a deep breath, then broke the seal and unfurled the missive from Brightmoor.
It was as she had anticipated. Lord Westvale had succumbed to his illness—days ago, she imagined, given that this letter had come all the way from his estate in Norwich. Brightmoor expressed regret that he would no longer be able to represent Trelowen in the House of Commons, as he was the heir to his uncle’s title, which required him to take his place in the House of Lords.
Caroline stifled a scoff. Regret? No one in their right mind would believe Brightmoor felt such a sentiment. This was everything he had dreamed of. No longer would he be Henry Brightmoor, the Honorable Member for Trelowen. He would be Lord Westvale and take his place in the House of Lords.
For him, Trelowen had only ever been a means to an end—a way to trade favors while he awaited the title he had hoped for. Since Richard’s death three years ago, not once had Brightmoor visited Trelowen.
At least now they would be rid of him. There would be a by-election, and this time, the decision for an MP would be Caroline’s. Oswald would see to it that Trelowen was not neglected.
Of course, becoming the MP for the borough was not the only thing Oswald aspired to….
An image of the man in the village flashed across Caroline’s mind. His mud-flecked smile, in particular. Even the memory of it elicited a silly flutter in her chest.
The timing of it annoyed her, for she recognized it for what it was: a girlish fancy. An exaggerated interpretation of a short connection with a stranger.
After all, what was a five-minute interaction with a gentleman who was merely passing through Trelowen in comparison with the steady, established friendship she shared with Oswald?
If marry she must—and therewasno must—there wasn’t any question which she should choose. She had married once for convenience. It had been a pleasant enough marriage. Richard had allowed her to do as she pleased, for the most part. Caroline had grown to love Trevenna Court and Trelowen, places she would never have known had she not married Richard in an attempt to do her duty to her family.
If she married again, it would be for simple, reliable companionship. It would be with someone who shared her goals, who would lighten the burden of managing Trevenna Court and Trelowen.
But Caroline was not at all certain shedidwish to marry.She was of different minds depending on the day. The hour, even.
As for this particular hour, she disliked that her ridiculous interlude with the man in the village made her think of a different type of marriage altogether—one full of smiles and laughter and stolen kisses. She disliked how vexed she had been at Oswald for interrupting the interaction.
Thank heaven he had. She needed a grounding influence, and Oswald was precisely that. He was kind and attentive and practical. In short, everything she wished for.
Caroline traded her mud-stained dress for a simple white muslin she kept for days when she would spend little time outside. Cornwall was not friendly to white fabrics. With the passing of Lord Westvale, the day would be full of correspondence. News from Cornwall traveled with agonizing sluggishness to London, and the sooner she could get word to Parliament, the sooner the by-election could be held and Oswald could take his place in the Commons.
She took a seat at the old writing desk in the library, but though she pulled the quill from its stand, she sat brushing it along her jawline for many minutes as she stared at the rows of leather volumes her husband had collected.
From an outsider’s perspective, the most sensible person to write to would be Richard’s uncle, the new Lord Radcliffe. He had inherited the title—and the seat in the House of Lords—after Richard’s death, after all. He could see to it that the writ for a by-election was issued and the process for a new Member of Parliament for Trelowen begun.
But he would not do so. Richard and his uncle despised one another, which was why Richard had left Trevenna Court and the management of the entire estate to Caroline, stripping the position of everything but the title rather than see anythingpass to his uncle, whom he had always viewed as an old, vulgar upstart.
Caroline dipped the quill and began a letter to Lord Warren instead, an old friend of Richard’s with the right contacts to ensure things happened in a timely manner.
She was just finishing when there was a knock on the door.
She signed her name at the bottom. “Come in.”
“’Ee’ve a visitor, m’lady. A Mr. Yorke.”
Caroline’s brows went up, for she counted no one of such a name among her acquaintance. “You may show him in.”
The footman nodded and excused himself while Caroline sanded the letter.
