Page 34 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

“The committee’s been thorough, the vote will be in November,” Patchett snapped. “What would you propose? A city-wide vote?” He chuckled. “The citizens and masses who make up the census records are not qualified to decide such matters. They lack the education and understanding.”

“Which means it is up to those who represent the people to educate and ensure all points of view are heard before making such sweeping decisions,” Roman argued, fingers steepled together before him.

The table was mostly silent, until the Lord Mayor cleared his throat from the head seat. “Such passionate views. It is a good thing our city has so many looking out for its best interest and future prosperity. Perhaps you will read the brief the committee prepared, Lord Hartwell. I will have a copy sent to your home in the morning, if you wish.”

A dinner party full of people who would benefit from demolishing old structures was hardly the place to win friends or make his point. Roman gave a nod to his host. “I certainly accept your offer, sir. I look forward to seeing what the committee has put together.” Though he doubted their argument was compelling for any reason other than financial.

The conversation at the table moved on. Patchett watched him a few moments longer, but he stared back at him steadily until the other man looked away.

Roman glanced around him. Most of the men present had little concern for the old barbicans. They had passed beneath the structures their whole lives, but could not be bothered to lift a voice in defense of the stones. The same stones Tamsin had looked at and remarked, tone thoughtful, that the arched entrances to the city did not distinguish between king and commoner.

The rest of dinner proceeded as normal. Roman remained present for all of it, though he hardly said another word.

Micklegate Bar. Not just a barbican—it was the royal entrance to York. Seven hundred years of the city’s own chronicle of itself, of what it had survived and done and considered worth remembering, had happened right there.

If the Corporation voted in November to pursue demolition, it would be merely because the gatehouse inconvenienced the road, and the road mattered more to them than the memory. But history, when protected, provided more than stories. It provided inspiration to future generations to fight for the same things their predecessors had fought for—or a different, better way of life.

Roman would fight for the barbican, even if no one else would. If he lost, York would be less than it was.

Would most people in this room even notice the difference?

He noticed when such things were lost. He had always noticed, but this was, he understood, not necessarily considered a useful quality.

The thought arrived before Roman could stop it: Tamsin would want to know about this. Not Lyness. Not Holly. The woman who had stood beneath that arch only a few hours prior in the early afternoon light, and had said the stone didn’t distinguish. She had understood, without explanation, why it mattered to him.

He ate what was in front of him. He spoke when spoken to. He did not look at Patchett again.

After dinner Roman worked his way through the room. This was not a contrived thought anymore so much as a trained reflex—saying the right word to the right person, the seed planted at the right moment in the right soil, cultivating connections.

He was effective and deliberate in who he greeted. The room was full and he was aware, when he stopped moving, of an aloneness which had nothing to do with the number of people present.

This afternoon he had driven through the city with someone who had asked real questions and looked at real things and spoke real thoughts, and it had lasted approximately three hours. He had spent ten years learning to do what he was doing now and was very good at it, and it had never once felt like this much work.

Mr. Salmond, a good friend to the mayor, stood near the window speaking with Reverend Vernon-Harcourt. Roman crossed to them, hoping for intelligent conversation on the barbican matter.

Instead, he found the older man speaking with a quiet earnestness. “…as I have been saying, Reverend. There is need for men such as yourself to bring such things forward.”

They stopped speaking as Roman came near, and he bowed politely to both. He turned to Reverend Vernon-Harcourt. “I did not wish to end the evening without seeking you out, sir, to reiterate my agreement with you on the matter of the barbican.”

“I had a great deal more to say,” the clergyman said with a crooked smile. “But our hostess gave me a specific look from where she sat down the table. I decided I would reserve comment until I have read the committee’s findings, like you, Lord Hartwell.”

Mr. Salmond chuckled. “Of course, our friend the baron is a bachelor, so he will not yet know the perils of ignoring a command given with a lady’s eyes, wife or no.”

That brought Tamsin to mind again, the thought of her soft gray eyes looking into his. Would she give him such instruction and communication with nothing more than a glance?

Roman relaxed his stance. “A bachelor I may be, but my mother has well taught me that a lady’s perspective is to be weighed with respect. I do not fault you, Reverend, for following our hostess’s advice, spoken or not.”

“I thank you, Lord Hartwell.” The clergyman chuckled and nodded to the older gentleman. “I think you ought to tell his lordship about our plans, Mr. Salmond. We are nearing the final stages, and I think a man of Hartwell’s interests and intelligence would find what we are attempting to create inspiring.”

“Perhaps.” Mr. Salmond tucked his hands behind his back. “As you know, Lord Hartwell, I am something of an amateur geologist. The things found in the formation of the earth are of great interest to me.”

“I read about your role in the Kirkdale Cave findings, in the North Riding of Yorkshire,” Roman said, admiration in his tone. “I understand it is the largest cache of fossils found in our county, perhaps in England itself. It must have been thrilling to be part of the excavation, Mr. Salmond.”

“Indeed.” The older gentleman’s chest puffed and his eyes brightened. “I am in correspondence with Mr. William Buckland, of the Royal Society. He is writing a book about the discovery and will examine my fossils of an elephant taken from the cave.” He shook his head slightly. “Imagine a time when elephants roamed Yorkshire, gentlemen. How different the world was once!”

Reverend Vernon-Harcourt chuckled and shook his head. “There is much we could contemplate on that matter, my friends—but to bring our conversation to the point, it is the Society I wish you to speak of, Mr. Salmond.”

Roman looked between the two of them. “Which society?”