“Certainly,” Oswald acknowledged. “But surely, the amount that man has togainby changing his mind bears consideration.”
Caroline tried and failed to find an appropriate response—one that would not give away how her heart twisted for Oswald to call into question those moments on the beach without even being aware of them. Or how small she felt knowing he found her beliefs so unworthy of being taken seriously that the very idea that a gentleman might come to be persuaded of them was mildly amusing.
“I assume this softening toward reform is a recent occurrence?” Oswald asked.
“We spoke on the topic just this morning,” she said, annoyed to find her cheeks heating at the reference.
Oswald’s gaze flickered. “I see.” His tone was calm, but the air between them was stiff and his demeanor too still to feel natural. He let out a breath and rose to his feet. “Haveyou any errands for me in Truro? I shall be there for a few days.”
Caroline stood, her brows rising. “With the election so soon?”
“I have a number of matters to see to there, and they cannot be put off.”
“When do you go?”
“Tomorrow. I am dining with Hannaford.”
It took a moment before she realized why the name was familiar. “The returning officer? The one you invited to your campaign party?”
Oswald nodded.
As the man appointed to oversee the by-election, it was the returning officer’s duty to ensure the process went smoothly, and in the unlikely event of a tie, to cast the deciding vote.
“I shall return Monday,” Oswald said.
“I wish you an uneventful journey,” she said kindly.
“Thank you.” He set his hat atop his head, then hesitated for a moment before taking her hand. “I shall call upon you when I return.” He pressed a quick kiss to her glove, gave a bow, then turned and left.
They had not quarreled, but as the door closed, Caroline felt unease, all the same.
She had asked Mr. Yorke for distance.
Why, then, did she hate that he was giving her precisely that?
Oswald’s call had left her feeling dissatisfied and more uncertain than ever. She had hoped that distance from both him and Mr. Yorke would serve to clarify things, but in reality, it only made her increasingly impatient to see Mr. Yorke again.
She was beginning to wonder if she had imagined the way he had looked at her before the kiss or the things he had said about wanting her more, even, than the seat in Parliament.
Perhaps Oswald was right. Perhaps she was too stupid to see all of it for what it was, just as she was too stupid to know how ill-advised was reform.
And yet, her heart told her that was not the case.
Her heart told her that, whether or not reform was the silly hope of a foolish woman, she needed and wanted someone who would discuss it with her.
She called upon Eliza at her usual time, but Mr. Yorke was nowhere to be found on the path there. Whether that was because he was giving her space or because Eliza no longer needed his help carrying water to and from the stream, she did not know.
When she discovered Eliza had a basket of vegetables which needed delivering to one of the villagers, Caroline offered to take it for her. Eliza refused the kindness until Caroline insisted.
The relief her friend exhibited reassured Caroline and made her feel more justified in doing something that, if she was being entirely honest with herself, was an excuse in hopes of seeing Mr. Yorke while in the village.
When she reached it, her gaze flitted to The Silver Pilchard. Mr. Yorke was not in sight, which was to be expected; it was not as though he spent his days standing outside the inn, twiddling his thumbs.
She wished he would today, though.
The inn had the most conveniently placed mounting block, however, and she availed herself of it. She had only set two feet on the ground when Mrs. Tonkin’s nephew came running up.
“Good day, Jory,” she said with a smile.
