He was not wrong, of course. It would send that message. She could not help wondering, however, what other messages it mightalsosend. Surely, there would be at least a few who would interpret more of it than she wished, for people invariably began to speculate about widows once they put off their mourning—and Caroline had put hers off more than two years ago.
Her thoughts on marriage were tangled as it was. She had no wish for them to become mired in political considerations and gossip as well.
“I shall think on it,” Caroline said. “I can see the advantages, of course, but with the outcome of the election being so certain, I wonder if it is entirely necessary given the expe?—”
Caroline stopped, what she was saying entirely forgotten at the sight before her.
One of Trevenna’s housemaids was walking toward them, her gaze averted from Caroline and Oswald. Behind her was Mr. Yorke.
“Good day to you, Lady Radcliffe,” Mr. Yorke called to her with his charming smile.
Oswald turned around, eyes wide.
“Ah,” Mr. Yorke said. “And Mr. Oswald. I had mistaken you for the gardener, but I should have known better. Where one finds Lady Radcliffe, one is sure to find Mr. Oswald soon enough.”
Caroline shifted her gaze to the maid, her lips pressing into a line. She should have come to ask whether her mistress was at home to visitors.
“You must spare your very capable housemaid any grief,” Mr. Yorke said, apparently noting this subtle rebuke. “I insisted what I had for you must be delivered personally and without delay.”
“You may go, Agnes,” Caroline said, her voice kinder.
The maid curtsied and darted a gaze toward Mr. Yorke, then walked back toward the house, her cheeks full of color.
“Bullying my maids, Mr. Yorke?” Caroline said. “Or flattering them, perhaps.”
He chuckled. “Acquit me, my lady. I was told in no uncertain terms that these are best consumed while still warm.” He held out a small box. “I had to redeem myself after my last gifts.”
Caroline was half-tempted to refuse it, but her curiosity was too great. She set aside the shears, took the box, and lifted the top, releasing the intoxicating scent of freshly baked goods. Within were a half-dozen of Cornish fairings.
“Mrs. Tonkin sent me with two for the ride here,” Mr. Yorke said, brushing a tell-tale crumb from his cravat. “I had finished them by the time I left the inn yard. If the twoof you truly meant for me to leave Trelowen, you ought to have ensured I never tasted them, for they have clinched the matter. I am here to stay.”
“Your allegiance is inspiring,” Oswald said a bit dryly.
“Only if you have not had the pleasure yourself. They are, of course, Lady Radcliffe’s to give or consume on her own—I certainly would not blame her for that—but perhaps she will be good enough to share. The treacle inside is still warm.”
Caroline willed her stomach not to groan, for something within her—something primal and petty—wished to deprive Mr. Yorke of his wish.
That same primal part of her also salivated at the thought of warm treacle, however, so she was at a standstill.
“As you can see, Mr. Yorke,” Oswald said, “her ladyship is otherwise engaged at the moment. No doubt, she would prefer to eat the fairings when her hands have not been amongst dirt and flowers.”
Caroline turned over a hand, and sure enough, it was not the clean specimen it had been before she had removed her gloves.
“You are right, of course,” Mr. Yorke said. “Perhaps you would be good enough to alert one of the servants so that a cloth and a jug of water might be brought.”
Oswald’s brows snapped together, his mouth opening wordlessly.
Caroline suppressed a smile at Mr. Yorke’s tactics. If she had not been somewhat amused by them and had not wished for a private word with him, she would have nipped his attempt in the bud.
“Would you, Oswald?” she asked with a warm smile. “I do love treacle.”
“I know.” His gaze shifted to Mr. Yorke briefly, as though he was debating whether he should leave her with him. “I shallgo directly.” After a final look at Mr. Yorke, he made his way toward the house.
Mr. Yorke watched him, then looked at Caroline. “What?” he asked defensively, though the way his mouth quirked up at the edge was evidence enough that he knew his crime and took delight in it.
Rather than acknowledge what both of them already knew, she laid the box on the ground, gathered her skirts, and slowly lowered herself to her knees to see to the snapdragons. She had finished with the larkspur, but she wished to occupy her hands and eyes while Mr. Yorke was present.
He came up beside her and went down to his knees as well. “What are we doing?”
