Page 22 of Rival to Resist
As he led Flint back into the village, he surveyed it with something suspiciously like sadness. It was not the most comfortable or familiar of places, but for Frederick, it had been something even better—the avenue that could have fulfilled his dream.
Jory ran out to take Flint’s reins. Frederick nearly instructed him to water the horse but leave him saddled. But it would be hasty to leave so soon. At the very least, he owed Mrs. Tonkin an explanation. And perhaps a lecture, for she had failed to inform him just how impossible victory was.
“Where is your aunt, Jory?” he asked as he swung down, narrowly missing a chicken roaming the inn yard.
“She be behind the inn, sir.”
Frederick fished in his pocket for tuppence and handed it to the boy, whose eyes grew round as he stared at it.
Mrs. Tonkin was, as promised, behind the inn, sitting on a wicker chair with three buckets in front of her as she gutted fish.
Frederick’s nose wrinkled at the sight, but he squared his shoulders.
She glanced up as his footsteps drew near. “What’re ’ee doin’ here, Mr. Yorke? ’Tis no place for a fine gentleman like ’ee.”
Frederick was tempted to agree. In the first bucket was layer upon chaotic layer of silvery fish. The second bucket contained…well, the parts he never encountered at the dinner table. The third was full of the prepared fish—or rather, ready to be properly prepared for eating.
He thought of what Lady Radcliffe had said.What good will your knowledge of Parliament do us if you do not know a pilchard from a mackerel?
“What are those?” he asked.
“Bless ’ee, sir,” Mrs. Tonkin said with a laugh. “I forget ’ow much of the fine London gent is in ’ee.” She pulled out a fish. “’Tis mackerel, of course.”
“Of course,” Frederick said. “Which are distinguished from pilchards by their…” He left the sentence to be finished by her.
She did not oblige but merely stared at him as though he might be drunk.
“My ignorance of all things Cornish has been pointed out, not least of which is my inability to distinguish the types of fish.”
“Pilchard be smaller, sir,” she said, sounding a bit like she was instructing Jory rather than a grown man. “They be plain and silver. Nothin’ fancy, but with the right salt, they’ll last ’eethrough the winter. Mackerel, on the other ‘and”—she picked one up and turned it in her hand to show him—“they be bigger and stripey and full of oil. Fancy fish that spoil quick.” She made a slice down the fish’s stomach with as much ease as though she had been petting a cat. “I’ll show ’ee the pilchards tomorrow when Tom brings ’em.”
Frederick cleared his throat. “Speaking of tomorrow…I should like to pay my reckoning. I can do so now if it is more convenient.”
Her head came around, the mackerel forgotten. “What do ’ee mean, sir?”
With her stern gaze on him, Frederick considered staying. But it was no use. “I am returning to London.”
“Oh, no ’ee aren’t. We made a deal, me and ’ee. ’Ee gave me yer word, Mr. Yorke.”
“Andyouconveniently forgot to mention that the election is a mere formality. Oswald is unbeatable.”
Her lips turned down at the corners, but she said nothing.
“I looked like a fool when he informed me that I would require both his and her ladyship’s support to win an election.”
“Well, ’tisn’t true, sir.”
“You mean to say he was lying?”
“Not properly, sir. But ’eecouldwin without ’is votes.”
Frederick was unconvinced, and Mrs. Tonkin took note of that before returning to her task.
“There be eleven votes in Trelowen,” she said, gutting another mackerel. “’Er ladyship do control nearly ’alf of ’em. Five, ’ee see? Mr. Oswald do control four—’e bought up another burgage last year.”
“And the other two?” Frederick asked.
“That be a bit more complicated, that do. One be owned by Gideon Trewella, but ’e be thick as thieves with Oswald. And the last? Well, that be a bit of a mystery.”
