Page 2 of Rival to Resist
He trusted it would not be too tall an order. Thanks to his Aunt Eugenia, Frederick had acquired no small bit of experience making himself agreeable to the elderly. Lord and Lady Radcliffe could not possibly be more difficult to please than Aunt Eugenia; they lived in Cornwall, after all.
He was just dropping off to sleep when a yell jolted him awake.
“Fine combs and pretty beads! Soaps and spices! Aye, all here!”
Frederick rose and went to the window. In the cobbled street below, a peddler led a donkey, laden with a large pack on its back. A few dirt-stained children ran out of nearby houses and swarmed him.
“Goods from upcountry!” the man called as he offered them sweets.
Frederick considered for a moment, then took his purse and went downstairs. He had debated whether to bring a gift for the Radcliffes but had been put off the idea by the lack of space. Had he come by carriage, he certainly would have brought something, but travel by horseback was another matter.
If this peddler had goods from London, perhaps Frederick would not be obliged to call upon the Radcliffes empty-handed.
“Where are ‘ee going, sir?” Mrs. Tonkin asked, a hint of anxiety in her voice, as though she feared he meant to seek accommodation elsewhere.
“There is a peddler outside,” Frederick explained. “I was hoping to purchase something.”
“Were ‘ee?” Mrs. Tonkin asked curiously.
Frederick smiled slightly. There was something almost charming in the woman’s unabashed prying and her mistrust of him. “Do you advise against it?”
“That depends on what ‘ee want to buy, sir.”
Frederick considered for a moment. Mrs. Tonkin’s knowledge of the Radcliffes necessarily exceeded his own. Perhaps she would be able to give him counsel.
He took a few strides closer to her. “I intend to call upon the Radcliffes tomorrow and do not wish to go with empty hands.”
Her brows drew together. “To Trevenna Court, ‘ee mean?”
Frederick nodded, the name of the estate ringing a faint bell in his mind. Lord Radcliffe was a baron, but despite Frederick’s knowledge of theton, he had never met the fellow. The fact that he was oldandlived in the far reaches of the southwest explained that quite easily. “Have you any counsel on what his lordship and her ladyship might appreciate?”
Mrs. Tonkin watched him for a few moments before responding, her expression difficult to read.
“Something to increase their comfort, perhaps,” Frederick suggested. “Or a little trinket. The elderly seem to enjoy such trifles.”
Mrs. Tonkin’s mouth twitched. “Aye, sir. ’Tis thoughtful of ‘ee. Perhaps I can be of ’elp if I come with ‘ee.”
Frederick readily agreed to this.
The wares the peddler possessed were a hodgepodge, and a quarter of an hour later, he was possessed of a lace cap—not the finest lace, certainly, but well enough for an old Cornish woman—a snuff box, and some elderflower lozenges.
“Thank you kindly, Mrs. Tonkin,” Frederick said as they returned to The Silver Pilchard.
“’Twas my pleasure, sir. I only wish I could be there when ‘ee call tomorrow. Best close that window, though.” She nodded at the darkening sky. “’Tis a fine storm on its way.”
Frederick sat down to dine three quarters of an hour later with apprehension. He was not accustomed to dining on fish pie or barley bread. Not a crumb was left on his plate, however, when he returned to his room for the evening, for despite its poor presentation, the meal was very tasty.
As Mrs. Tonkin had warned, the rain and wind pounded the windows all night, but by morning, the sun was shining, and the only evidence of the storm was the puddles that shone in the pocked road. Thanks to the early activities of the shouting fishermen, Frederick was up betimes.
He donned his finest tailcoat, waistcoat, and boots, and took extra care in the tying of his cravat. These were all new pieces he had bought in preparation for his arrival in Trelowen—and things he could ill afford. He needed the Radcliffes to believe him the best possible representative for their borough—someone accustomed to interacting with the finest MPs in all of England.
He scribbled off a letter to his brother Silas and one to his friend Fairchild to inform them he had arrived safely in Trelowen. Even after he had breakfasted, however, it was still too early for his call upon the Radcliffes. The elderly and infirm were unlikely to take kindly to an early call from a stranger.
Feeling impatient, he went out for a stroll. After so long in the saddle, his legs were grateful for such exercise.
Trelowen was all abustle, with gulls fighting over fish heads, women mending nets, and carts rumbling over the uneven cobblestone. Frederick observed it all with vague interest. He was accustomed to the chaos of Town, but there was a different feel to the activities of Trelowen. Perhaps it was the distinctive manner of speaking, the familiarity between the villagers, or the constant calls of the gulls.
Whatever it was, it filled Frederick with a sense of foreignness, which was accentuated every time the villagers stopped mid-conversation to stare at him as though he was a monkey escaped from a menagerie. A very finely dressed monkey, at least.
