Page 28 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

Roman drew the horse to a walk and said nothing, because there was nothing useful to say about it from the outside. One either felt the spirit of the vast monument to mankind’s reach for the eternities…or one did not.

The bells began to toll the hour. Beside him, Miss Mayweather went still. Her face lifted toward the towers, and for a moment he did not think she even drew breath.

“All the people who stood here before us,” she said quietly, perhaps to herself. “Hearing the same bells. It is incredible to think upon. They all had lives. Hopes. Struggles. Rivers of people have flowed around this place, as the river flows. Their prayers pressed into these stones. And these stones continue to stand.”

A pull beneath his ribs, a warmth in his chest, and his mind taking in what she said with satisfaction…all of it gave Roman leave to think he had chosen well.

She would do well as a baroness. As his wife.

The bells finished. Miss Mayweather released a soft sigh, still looking up, still drinking in the sight of the magnificent structure.

Thus far she had taken in everything he had shown her with interest, if not reverence. There was one more place he rarely took others; not because it was a secret or sacred to anyone but him, but because it was simple. Unassuming. Yet it was on every map he had seen of his home city, as far back as such things reached.

“There is one more thing I would like to show you,” he said gently. “If you are willing.”

Miss Mayweather focused on him again, her intelligent eyes bright and untired. “Yes,” she said, before he had told her what it was. “I am not at all ready for our adventure to end.”

Roman believed her, much to his pleasure. Nothing about her attitude or tone struck him as mere indulgence, but instead curiosity. His choice to propose matrimony settled in his mind, weightless as a feather as his shoulders relaxed.

Thomasine Mayweather would be an excellent match for him, in every way that mattered.

He drove them down Little Blake Street until they came to the greenery which hid the corner of the old Roman wall. He brought the gig to a stop at the edge of the wild grasses that made up part of the wilderness around St. Mary’s ruins. They sat still for a moment, and he drew in a breath, watching her.

“There,” he said, and nodded toward the corner of the old wall where the Roman courses showed beneath the medieval stone. The join was visible from the edge of the path if you knew what you were looking at. “The lower stones are Roman. Third century, perhaps fourth. The city was built on top of what was already there and never saw fit to remove it. All visible to the naked eye for anyone who knows the history.”

She was quiet, eyes narrowing as she peered at it.

“Have you seen it before?”

“No,” Miss Mayweather said slowly. “I would like to see it closer, if that is permissible. I can see a difference from here, but⁠—”

He climbed down from the gig, though was not entirely certain when he decided to, and held up his hand. “Then you must have a closer look.”

It was not strictly a proper thing to do. The gig was harmless, given his reputation and that they were visible to all and sundry. Besides, Mrs. Mayweather had approved of the excursion.

This, however, was quite different.

Miss Mayweather took his gloved hand without hesitating. Once both her feet were on the ground, he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and guided her down the short length of the wall until they came to the corner, the most interesting piece of the ancient fortifications.

“The Multangular Tower,” he said, voice as soft as it had been at the Minster.

“What a strange name,” she replied, eyes sweeping across the tower.

Mossy stones at the bottom were of different sizes, squared and put together to fit in a strong but unpatterned formation. Above that was a narrow band of smaller, red bricks. Above those were more uniform, smaller stones that made up most of York’s oldest walls and buildings still easily studied around the city.

“There is much history here. From Rome’s first years in power on our soil to our own Civil War, with damage from a cannon ball visible just there.” Roman pointed to the north of the tower. “This portion was named by Doctor Martin Lister, in 1807. I think this is the place where I first understood how deep the roots of this city go, reaching backward in time, growing into what York is now.”

He swallowed once, her eyes met his, and her brow furrowed. Miss Mayweather was listening. Focused entirely on him.

“It is a city built by people, one stone at a time, defended over a thousand years of England’s past. The evidence of it, the enormity of York’s time, is indescribable to me when it comes to mere words.” Before Roman realized he meant to say the words, he was telling her one of the most precious truths of his being. “Such things have made many a man feel small in comparison. Yet when I look at these stones, when I consider the things that have happened and the people who have walked the city’s paths, I feel a sense of…of great purpose. I believe I am one in the long line of York’s defenders. Taking my place along its walls. A part of my city’s future relies upon me. My work. My dedication. It is my home, and I hope it stands for another thousand years.”

Miss Mayweather’s expression relaxed as he spoke. When he made his declaration for the city’s future, she did not scoff or smile indulgently. She turned to look at the tower, releasing his arm to walk forward until she stood before it. After a moment she reached out and laid her palm flat against the oldest of the stones with a reverence that made his lungs tighten.

“It is not a small thing, to defend an ancient city. Not in any era, I should think.” Miss Mayweather looked upward at the tower, then stepped back. “York is fortunate she has a man as devoted as you to look after her.”

Roman had brought people here before; had explained the history, pointed out the joining of two ancient peoples, watched them nod, listened as they said something appropriate though vague. He had never seen anyone simply put their hand on it.

Her words, though not the most profound spoken in that place, pierced him. Satisfied him.