Oliver patted her hand, though he was not so audacious as to leave it there. Instead, he contented himself with smiling at her, for it was as though the vice around his lungs loosened, and he could breathe once more.
Miss Caswell slanted him a sly grin and leaned closer. “The Nelsons have a rather odd approach to guest lists. I am not sure if we are in for rousing political debates or ruined reputations. Though Miss Banfield seems a charming young lady, her family has a rather colorful reputation.”
“Oh?”
She gave a vague wave. “Nothing terribly untoward. Or at least nothing that can be proven. But I’ve heard whispers about them and the company they keep. And then the Nelsons rounded out the group with Mr. Flemming and Mr. Dosett—both of whom are influential in the government.”
The vice tightened once more, constricting Oliver’s chest until his innards felt liable to burst. Ignoring the first part of her statement, he focused on the second. “Mr. Nelson fancies himself an armchair politician.”
Miss Caswell would never be so impolitic as to roll her eyes (even when the situation warranted it), but Oliver felt it lingering beneath the surface, begging to be let loose as she slanted a look in his direction.
“The majority of gentlemen believe themselves political, yet few stir themselves beyond reading the odd newspaper article and expounding upon subjects at great length and little substance,” she replied.
Oliver met that with raised brows. “Ought I to be offended?”
But Miss Caswell merely bumped him with her shoulder again. “I suppose I am being unfair to them. It must be difficult to bear the burden of omniscience, for those gentlemen also boast expansive knowledge on the law, economics, warfare, medicine, business, agriculture, philosophy, architecture, welfare and social issues, and any other subject broached within their hearing. It is a wonder their necks keep their heads upright with that vast amount of expertise weighing their minds.”
Oliver could give no other response than a hearty laugh to that, for Miss Caswell spoke with such earnestness that anyone listening would think her words a compliment. “And what would they say if they knew what a wicked tongue you have, Miss Caswell?”
She sighed, leaning into his arm. “It is an unfortunate fact that such men hold the power, for they hold the purse strings. They may not understand the complexity of economics, but it is their money that propels the economy forward. So, I must flatter and cajole them, guiding them along without their knowledge. It is exhausting at times.”
“But you do it well, and for good causes,” said Oliver.
They drew up under a vast oak tree, and Miss Caswell pulled free of his hold to pluck a leaf from the ground. Wandering around the trunk, she said in a low voice, “It seems so unfair that some gentlemen are born with all the wealth and connections but no intellect or passion to do anything with it, while others are forced to languish in obscurity and poverty as they fight to climb the ranks.”
Miss Caswell paused, turning to stare out at the party. “There are so many fine gentlemen of worth and ability that struggle for years to gain a particle of the power that so many are given unworthily.”
“That is revolutionary talk for the granddaughter of a baron and viscount,” replied Oliver.
“Much good it has done my family,” she said with a stern look at him while tossing the leaf aside. “But I find I am quite swept up in this new philosophy of merit and effort determining one’s place in society. I have watched far too many gentlemen like Mr. Dixon who have all the skill, talent, and drive to go far in politics but are forced to spend years slaving away as clerks and personal secretaries, hoping that some well-connected patron will notice and assist them. Whereas others, like Mr. Dosett, are handed power and influence and do little with it.”
“Mr. Dixon seems a fine gentleman, and I am certain he will go far,” said Oliver.
“But how long will it take?” she said, turning away and continuing to stroll along the edge of the group. “He will spend years scraping by with hardly enough income to feed himself.”
“From what I know of him, it sounds as though he is positioned for a very bright future,” said Oliver as he came up beside her.
Miss Caswell took his arm and held it tight as they continued their turn about the grounds. “Have I ever told you how much I admire you? You are such a wonderful man.”
Oliver’s brows rose, and he gave her a smug grin. She bumped him again with a mock scowl.
“I must amend that statement,” she murmured. “You are just as irritating and condescending as all the rest.”
Chuckling, Oliver patted her hand and urged her to continue.
“You were born with so many advantages, yet rather than sit back and live off your estate’s income, you are driven and work hard to improve the lives of not only your tenants but the rest of Bristow.”
“That is a product of being a Kingsley. We’re meddlers.”
Miss Caswell gave him an exasperated shake of her head, and it was his turn to bump her with his shoulder.
“And you do not see how unique you are among ladies?” he replied. “Never contented unless you are furthering a cause. I don’t know if I’ve ever met a woman so involved in politics and social reform.”
“Any good politician’s wife is, and that is what I long to be,” she said.
Oliver didn’t trip or fumble his steps in any way. In truth, he looked as though that pronouncement was nothing out of the ordinary, but there was a wealth of meanings and implications steeped in that little sentence. His mind sped between dozens of thoughts all at once to the point where they tangled together into an incomprehensible mess.
“Is that how you see our future?” he asked.
Miss Caswell was silent beside him, moving in step with him as they meandered far enough not to be overheard but close enough for propriety. Her expression gave little indication as to her feelings on the subject, a faint gleam in her eye conveying curiosity. But with her arm tucked in his, Oliver felt her muscles tighten.
“The future,” she murmured. “I will admit it occupies most of my thoughts.”
“I would expect nothing less of you, Miss Caswell. You are not one to act hastily.”
She graced him with a warm smile and another squeeze of his arm. “To answer your question, yes. The world is changing around us, and I wish to be a part of it. I have long dreamt of using my talents to effect major changes in our world. I cannot stand for office or pursue politics myself, but a politician’s wife can be just as influential as her husband. Their work is done as much in the parlors as it is in parliament, and it is in the former where ladies rule supreme.”
Many a man might be offended by Miss Caswell’s assertion, but Oliver was no fool, and though he was prone to pride (as anyone is), he knew the power of societal politics. Any politician married to a woman as intelligent and talented as Miss Caswell would go far.
“Think of it, Mr. Kingsley. The world our parents knew is shifting into something new, and we can be a part of it. Not simply spending our days as armchair politicians but leading the charge in London.” Miss Caswell’s eyes glowed with an eagerness that reached out to touch his heart, giving him a hint of that passion and desire she felt. She spoke of their life together, painting a future filled with purpose, and it was impossible not to feel a resounding longing in his heart for that possibility.
“But what of Avebury Park?” he asked, the thought leaping into his head and out his lips.
Pausing, Miss Caswell turned to look at him. “What of it?”
“I am needed here, in Bristow. The Kingsley estate is important to the area.”
She cocked her head to the side, her brows drawing together. “If we wish to assert change, we must be in London.”
“I cannot abandon my home,” he said with a shake of his head. “Even if I wished to turn over the entire running of the estate to our steward, there are many duties and responsibilities the Kingsley family has to Bristow.”
Miss Ca
swell held his gaze, her hand brushing against his before she pulled away to a proper distance. “That is admirable, Mr. Kingsley, but it will be some years before you inherit—hopefully, a good many—and you must have an occupation in the meantime.”
“And when that happens, you would wish to retire from public life?”
A grimace flashed across her face for the briefest of moments. “We needn’t spend all year in Essex. Your parents manage their responsibilities at home and still visit London during the Season.”
“Not often,” he replied. “And rarely for the entire Season.”
Miss Caswell’s lips pinched together, and she turned her gaze to the grass, her hands clasped tightly before her. For a brief moment, she stood there, and then she turned her gaze back to Oliver, looking as carefree and serene as before they’d arrived at this subject.
“We are borrowing trouble, Mr. Kingsley,” she said, taking his arm again and turning him towards the gathering. “We will find a way.”
Chapter 14
Apparently finished with their less than leisurely stroll, Miss Caswell led him to where the political faction of the house party was standing.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said, bestowing a radiant smile.
“Miss Caswell, thank goodness you have arrived,” said Mr. Flemming. “You must help Mr. Dixon and I convince Mr. Nelson and Mr. Dosett of the merit of proper education for the working class. They seem to think it will upend the very foundation of British society.”
“Now, steady on, Flemming,” said Mr. Nelson, giving the older gentleman a good-natured scowl. “I am not opposed to educating them, but government mandated schooling makes me uneasy. We shouldn’t dictate how people are to live, and poor families depend upon multiple incomes. Taking away their children’s ability to work would land them in the workhouse.”
“The whole argument is ludicrous,” said Mr. Dosett. “The poor do not have the faculties for education, and it would be a waste of time and taxes to attempt it.”
There were plenty of things Oliver wished to say in response to both of those arguments, but there was little chance as Miss Caswell, Mr. Dixon, and Mr. Flemming all swooped in with defenses at the ready. The trio worked poor Mr. Dosett and Mr. Nelson into knots, winning them with wit and intelligence. The whole debate was a thing of beauty and endlessly entertaining to watch, but Oliver had nothing to add to it nor did he wish to fight for a voice in the discussion.
Miss Caswell was radiant, and even if she hadn’t admitted her deepest desires just moments ago, Oliver would know this was where she belonged. Her understanding of the issues and unfailing logic served her well, but more than that, she had a manner of speaking that soothed the ruffled feathers, pressing the points home but without offending or alienating the others. It was a sight to behold.
But was this the life he wanted to have?
The conversation deepened and shifted, moving from subject to subject, and Miss Caswell’s hold on his arm loosened. Her attention was so fixed on the other gentlemen that Oliver wandered away, and she did not notice his absence. From a distance, Oliver watched the group and wondered if he would ever have the energy and excitement to match theirs. Anything less and he would be a poor politician indeed.
A life in London. A life lived in the public eye. A life of being written about in the newspapers and traveling from engagement to engagement. The whole idea was merely speculative at this time, yet Oliver already felt his spirit dragging at the thought of the never-ending political swirl.
Yet the good he could do. The change. Miss Caswell’s words repeated in his head, reminding him of all the blessings to be found in such a life. The thought of doing so much good for so many was a siren’s call, begging him to embrace the madness that world required.
Moving to the edge of the hill, Oliver looked out at the fields and forests of Bristow. This was his home. Its beauty wrapped around his heart, filling him with such peace and happiness that Oliver couldn’t imagine being separated from it for so much of the year.
And the people. His tenants and the villagers. A good steward handled much of the estate’s business, but Oliver enjoyed overseeing the day-to-day issues and difficulties. Working with the tenants to alleviate their suffering and improve their lives brought him a sense of satisfaction that no amount of political debate could replace.
But was it selfish to focus solely on those desires and ignore the greater amount of good he might do?
Turning away from the landscape with a heavy heart, Oliver looked over the guests, many of whom were gathered on the blankets and chairs, availing themselves of the feast. His gaze slid over a short distance and found Miss Sophie seated on a blanket alone. The image of her silently watching the rest of the party mirrored the first time they’d met. Standing to the side of the Fitzsimmons’ ballroom, she had been a silent sentinel, watching and waiting but not engaging.
Miss Sophie’s expression was the picture of peace. She sat with her legs curled to one side, the opposite arm propping her up, and her gaze traveled the crowd, constantly observing all that was going on around her. To all outward appearances, she appeared content with her situation, but Oliver felt loneliness emanating from her like a cool breeze. With a gust it enveloped him, settling into his heart as though her pain was his own.
From what she said concerning her family, Oliver suspected she had no close ties to her siblings or parents. And seeing her seated thusly, he wondered if she had many people in her life whom she counted as friends. But she had at least one.
Striding to her blanket, Oliver sat beside her, stretching out his legs and propping himself up on his arms from behind.
“And how is my good friend this lovely afternoon?” he asked.
Miss Sophie’s brows rose, and she turned her gaze to look out at the view. “She is enjoying a fine afternoon out of doors and delicious food.”
“And longing to explore the fields, hunting for more insects to paint?”
Her light blue eyes met his again, and the corners of them crinkled as she smiled. “I assure you I do more with my time than that.”
“A lady with hidden depths, I see,” he teased. “If not for your exploration in naturalism, what would you like to do most right now?”
Miss Sophie’s gaze slanted to the side as she bit on the side of her lip. “If allowed to choose without any respect to reality, I would most love to be out on the water, sailing along the southern coast on a clear day where the sky is sapphire blue and the white cliffs topped with tufts of emerald grass loom overhead.”
Oliver’s brows rose. “That is very specific.”
“I once had the opportunity to sail along the western coast, and I’ve always wondered what it would be like to see the mighty white cliffs of the south from the sea,” said Miss Sophie. “But if I were to answer your question more realistically, I would be curled up under that tree.” She nodded at the largest tree sitting at the crest of the hill. “With a selection of Banbury cakes and a novel.”
“Ah, but what novel?”
Miss Sophie paused, her eyes unfocusing as she thought through her options. “It would depend on my mood. For a bit of tears with a happy ending, I enjoy Charles Dickens. For drama, something like The Monk or The Castle of Otranto. But my latest love is a French serial by the name of Les Trois Mousquetaires. I stumbled across it a few weeks ago and was lucky to find the very last issue before we left Town. It is an exciting tale of daring swordsmen fighting against a great evil to protect their king and country.”
Oliver chuckled. “I hadn’t expected such an array of dramatic prose.”
“I must balance out the serious books on migration patterns in waterfowl with fanciful tales.”
And with that, they began discussing literature, which led to plays and music. Then on to art. The more they spoke, the more Oliver felt at ease. The conversation was natural and engaging, at times passionate but with a muted quality, as though Miss Sophie felt all the same excitement as Miss Caswell but held
it inside rather than releasing it out into the world.
It was unfair to compare the two ladies. Oliver knew it was wrong, yet he couldn’t stop himself as he listened to Miss Sophie speak about her favorite walks through the woods. She described them in such detail, it felt as though he were there. She captured his attention so thoroughly, and Oliver couldn’t help but compare this conversation with the one he’d just left.
Miss Sophie was peace personified. Being with her was like being wrapped in a thick blanket on a winter’s day, watching the snow drift lazily to earth, feeling warm and content and never wishing to leave the beauty of that moment.
Miss Caswell was all brightness and energy. There was a spark of vitality glowing in her heart, which had the power to invigorate and inspire. Being near her was like being swept up in a horse race, the hooves beating a rapid beat against the ground as he held on for dear life, thrilled at the feel of the wind rushing across his face and the power of the horseflesh beneath him, yet with a dash of trepidation that the horse might misstep and spell disaster for them both.
She was a force, commanding those around her with an ease and tenderness that ensured their actions aligned with her end goal—a power she used to further her many causes. Miss Caswell was many wonderful things, but Oliver struggled to picture her sitting thusly and enjoying a beautiful afternoon lounging about and enjoying the splendors of the countryside. As of yet, she hadn’t availed herself of any of the comforts the Nelsons had provided, choosing instead to linger around the politicians.
Giving some undoubtedly witty rejoinder, Miss Caswell had the others laughing, and Oliver was taken with the picture she presented. There was so much good to be found in that dear lady, and the more he came to know her, the more he admired her. And yet the thought of pursuing the future she painted, with a life full of social events and the tangled mess of politics, held little appeal. Oliver liked the idea of effecting that grand change she desired—it was something he longed to see—but those truly successful in politics dedicated their lives to it, and Oliver shuddered at the thought of surrendering the life and responsibilities he had in Bristow.
Hearts Entwined (Victorian Love Book 3) Page 10
