Page 12 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

“This is what friends do,” Matilda said, gaze already clouded as she returned to her thoughts again. “There is Mr. Eastwood,” she said finally. “Lyness Eastwood. He has managed his brother’s estate for some years now and has a reputation for both competence and discretion. I have heard Christopher speak well of him, which is not a thing my brother does carelessly.” She tilted her head. “I believe Lord Hartwell and his mother are engaged this afternoon. A private lecture on botanical cultivation at Mrs. Suddaby’s is going on at this very moment. My mother had no interest, but from her reputation Lady Hartwell would not miss it for anything.” The faintest suggestion of amusement crossed her face. “We could call at Castlegate now, if you wished. I am acquainted with Mr. Eastwood sufficiently to make the introduction.”

Tamsin set down her cup, relief pouring through her. “Now?”

“Unless you would prefer to wait until Thursday.”

“No, I would not.” Tamsin rose, her pulse steadying. As long as she had direction of some sort, she could quell the panic in her mind. She needed steps to take, or reassurance, or…well. Anything that would give her a measure of peace while the household fell apart silently around her ears.

“I will inform Mama that we have an errand to run at once. If I tell her it is a matter of fashion, she will think nothing of it.”

They went on foot, which suited Tamsin better than a carriage. The air was cold and clean, smelling of chimney smoke and turned leaves, and walking gave her something to do with herself other than worry. Matilda kept pace beside her, though her friend’s stride was longer, as she was a tall woman quite accustomed to walking.

“You needn’t furrow your brow so,” Matilda said encouragingly, as they turned from Stonegate into the narrower streets beyond. “He will not make you feel foolish. Mr. Eastwood is not that sort of man. He will listen properly and tell you what he thinks without dressing it up to spare your feelings, which is more useful than most men are when they speak to women about delicate matters.”

“That is a relief,” Tamsin said with a small smile. “I do not need my feelings spared. I need to know what can actually be done.”

Matilda glanced at her with something that might have been concern. “Yes. I thought you would say something of that kind.”

The streets were quieter here, away from the main thoroughfares, and the buildings older, pressing closer on either side. Tamsin had walked through this part of the city before but rarely, and not recently. She had grown used to looking at York from its edges—the half hour’s walk to the barbicans, the walls—without often going farther in. She had always been traveling with a purpose, a goal in mind to achieve. There was always something at home that needed her.

They came around a corner onto Castlegate and Tamsin stopped.

There was no reason to stop, except the church. One of many churches. York had a surplus of medieval chapels; this one was small, its stone worn and bright, indifferent to the century it resided in, its steeple still reaching up to the blue sky above. Something about the sight of it made her pause in a way she could not immediately explain.

It was very old. She knew that without knowing precisely when it was built, and whatever had threatened it over the centuries, whatever improvement or progress or simple neglect had come for it, it was still here. Still standing on its corner of Castlegate with its old stones and its narrow windows, looking much as it had likely looked two hundred years ago and the two hundred years before that.

She stood there in silence, lost in her thoughts.

“Tamsin? Are you well?” Matilda’s voice was quiet.

“Yes.” Tamsin looked at the church for one more moment, then looked away. “Yes, I was only thinking. My apologies. Are we nearly there?”

Hartwell House was only a little farther down the street, and Tamsin made herself look at it squarely as they approached. She had walked past the house before, but had never had occasion to look at it directly. It was a neighbor to the Fairfax residence, a place her mother continuously cooed over as the most fashionable house in all York. Hartwell House had a kind of quiet authority—well-kept brick, clean lines, nothing excessive, nothing neglected. It was the sort of house which did not need to announce itself. The shining number twelve near the door did all the work of that.

A footman received them with the composed efficiency of a well-run household and showed them to a sitting room without hesitation. A fire crackled in the hearth. The room was ordered and comfortable in equal measure, and Tamsin found herself noticing things; the quality of the furniture, the absence of clutter, the stillness of a house where things were where they belonged.

No scattered shoes. No abandoned needlework or sketches on every surface. No small handprints on the window glass.

It felt both empty and delightfully tidy.

She was still taking stock of it when Mr. Eastwood entered. He was dark-haired, like his brother. Goodness, had she really seen Lord Hartwell but two days before? But where Lord Hartwell was all contained precision, this man moved with a quieter ease, at peace in the place he occupied. Which made sense, she supposed. It was his family home. He had an open face, the kind that showed what he was thinking without intending to, and when he saw Matilda his expression shifted into a wide and genuine smile that reached his eyes without any apparent effort.

Lord Hartwell, Tamsin thought, had not at all worn an expression like that.

“Mrs. Elgin.” Mr. Eastwood bowed graciously. “It is an unexpected kindness to have you visit today.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Eastwood. I hope we are not interrupting,” Matilda said with a smile.

“Not at all.” He turned to Tamsin, his expression open and attentive, entirely without condescension. “And your friend?”

“Allow me to present Miss Mayweather. Her father is Mr. George Mayweather of Sycamore Lodge.”

Tamsin curtsied. “Mr. Eastwood. It is a pleasure to meet you.” She glanced at Matilda. How exactly was she to begin this conversation?

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Mayweather.” Their host looked between them. “I am afraid I am the only one available for your visit. My mother is out, and I have not seen my brother all morning.”

Thankfully, Matilda knew precisely what to say. “We have come on purpose to see you, Mr. Eastwood.” She settled into one of the chairs as he gestured at them. “Miss Mayweather is in need of some sensible counsel, and I told her there was no one more sensible in York. Excepting my brother,” she added with a teasing familiarity that set Tamsin more at ease. They were obviously well acquainted. “But as he is away, we are here to appeal to you.”

Mr. Eastwood smiled at that. “Miss Mayweather,” he said with a bow. “Please, won’t you sit down. I confess, I am not clever about all things, but I will do my best to be of service to you.”