She was pulled from her thoughts by the sight of Oswald’s horse being taken to the stables by a groom.
She took in a large breath and squared her shoulders—then immediately thought of what her maid Bess had said about her sighing when she was with Oswald.
But the sigh was merited today, for this conversation was bound to be difficult.
By the time she stepped into the house, Oswald was no longer in the entry hall. No doubt he had seen himself to the drawing room—his preferred room in Trevenna.
She could almost see Mr. Yorke’s raised brow, but he did not understand the degree of her friendship with Oswald. When she had been overwhelmed with the arrangements after Richard’s death, it had been Oswald who had helped her most, meeting with the steward when Caroline hadn’t the energy for it.
Mr. Yorke’s imagined eyebrow lifted even higher, but what he would no doubt see as presumption and interference, Caroline knew for kindness.
She did not bother changing her dress because, again, she and Oswald did not stand upon ceremony.
“Oswald,” she greeted him as she came into the drawing room.
He turned from the liquor cabinet, where he had poured himself a small glass of brandy.
Mr. Yorke’s imagined brow inched higher, but Caroline ignored it.
Oswald smiled, though there was something different about it—less full and genuine, perhaps. He had been moreoccupied of late. With Wheal Fortune, she imagined. She might have been more apt to argue against the mine, except she knew Oswald felt similarly about her schoolhouse venture—he did not think it held the value she did. In his eyes, it pulled children away from bringing in an income the villagers sorely needed.
So, they were allowing one another to pursue their respective interests. It was the very sort of mature arrangement that should have made Oswald the perfect candidate for marriage.
A marriage he evidently expected.
For a moment, she knew a doubt. Had Mr. Yorke somehow misunderstood? Perhaps the conversation between the vicar and Oswald was nothing but a rumor.
“I am happy to find you at home today,” Oswald said.
“I understand you paid a call yesterday when I was not here. Lady Carveth invited me to join her for tea.”
“I hope you enjoyed yourselves,” he said as he sat down with his glass.
“Immensely.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
He did notsoundparticularly glad.
“Is something amiss?” she asked.
He regarded her before answering, his brows pulling together. “Yes.”
Her chest clenched, and she forced a light tone. “Oh dear. What is it?” She had not entered this conversation expectinghimto be the angry one.
“Did you attend Mr. Yorke’s campaign announcement?”
Caroline’s muscles tightened. She had not spoken to him of her venture into the village—or of anything that had come after.
And why should she? He was not her keeper.
Mr. Yorke’s eyebrow hitched yet again.
Of course, she was not obliged to give an account of her days to Oswald, but that was not why she had kept this particular thing from him. She had done so because she knew he would disapprove—or perhaps feel betrayed.
“I accompanied Eliza there,” she said, forcing herself not to squirm at her weak justification. Why could she not simply admit that she had been curious?
Oswald offered no response to this. “Did you participate in sack racing?”
