Page 53 of Rival to Resist
“Mr. Yorke,” Mrs. Penrose said welcomingly as he approached.
Frederick pushed his thoughts aside. “I am here to assist you.”
“And you injured.” Her brows pursed sympathetically at the sight of his brow, which was swollen and red.
“A mere scratch,” he said, dismounting. “No gate, I take it?”
She shook her head. “I do not think there shallbea gate.”
Frederick grimaced. He was inclined to agree.
Though Mrs. Penrose insisted she could manage, Frederick made the journey to the stream thrice, returning with two full buckets each time, for she had much laundry to do.
He was glad to be of help, but it was hardly an ideal solution—or one that could continue indefinitely.
“You are too kind, as usual, Mr. Yorke,” she said when he brought the last load of buckets.
“No,” he said with a wry smile. “I am farfromit.”
“On the contrary,” she said. “Captain Rathmore—the friend of my late husband’s I mentioned before—writes that he is anxious to meet you whenever he manages to come to Cornwall. He is in Plymouth just now.”
“I would be honored to meet the captain,” Frederick said, privately thinking he was unlikely to be in Cornwall when the man came.
He took a circuitous route back to Trelowen, thinking on Mrs. Penrose’s predicament as he guided Flint along the fence Oswald had ordered constructed. The entire situation bothered him.
How could Lady Radcliffe so loyally support Oswald when he declined to do something as simple as placing a gate in his fence for one of her dearest friends?
It might be forgetful rather than willfully negligent, but even that, Frederick found difficult to understand, particularly for someone Lady Radcliffe insisted was such a proponent for the people of Trelowen.
If Lady Radcliffe had asked something of Frederick, he would have rushed to accomplish it. But perhaps that was only further evidence of his selfishness?
He reached the point where Oswald’s fencemet with another, and he followed the new one, which ran parallel to the road.
His horse sidled nervously as two men came into view. Frederick rubbed Flint’s neck, speaking calming words as the men took turns climbing over a stile. He brought Flint to a full stop while they passed, for his horse seemed to have taken exception to their sudden appearance.
“Good day, sir,” the older one said gruffly.
“Good day,” Frederick said absently, for his focus was on the stile.
He stared at it, for it was nothing more than a few pieces of wood hammered together.
It was so simple, he could have hit himself for not thinking of it sooner. A gate was ideal, of course, but a stile was easier, less expensive—and it was somethinghecould do himself.
Or with a bit of help, at least…
The bluish light of dawn had given way to the muted gray of a cloudy day as Frederick and Ruan finished hammering the final nails the next morning.
Ruan gripped one of the stairs and shook it. “’Tis as sturdy as one could wish.”
Frederick stepped back and regarded their handiwork with satisfaction. For his first stile, it was quite good.
More importantly, it would save Mrs. Penrose the long and arduous trek she had been making.
“We had better get back,” Frederick said.
They had chosen dawn for a reason—this was Oswald’s land, and while Frederick doubted he would mind the stile, he was certain Oswald would mindhim.
“Aye,” Ruan said. “Tom’ll ’ave my ’ide if I’m not there to ’elp.”
