“’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, therewasno 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 notallof it. She simply did not know if she wished to be married at all—to Oswald oranyone.
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, therewasa 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 towantto 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 marryhim.
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.
13
