Page 35 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

“Why, the one we wish to form, Lord Hartwell.” Mr. Salmond brought his hands together in front of him, rubbing them together as his smile grew to a grin. “The Yorkshire Philosophical Society. I am determined to have it founded and officially recognized by the county before the year is up. Myself, Mr. Anthony Thorpe—you ought to know him, Lord Hartwell, he is a most excellent attorney—and Mr. James Atkinson, a surgeon of some repute, are bound and determined to make this society a reality. Our goal, of course, will be the preservation of Yorkshire’s history as well as its continuation at the forefront of modern sciences.”

“Lofty goals indeed,” Roman murmured. “Not a preservations society, then.”

“Not in total, no.” Mr. Salmond rocked forward on his heels. “What is the point of preservation if the knowledge from the past is not used to further discoveries of the present? The growth of the future?”

The older man’s words echoed Roman’s own thoughts near perfectly on the matter. For a moment he could only stand and stare at them. “I have felt the same for most of my life, Mr. Salmond. My father instilled such a philosophy in my heart and mind when I was a small boy, walking with him on York’s walls.”

That returned Mr. Salmond’s grin back to something softer. “Aye. The late Baron Hartwell was one who cherished our city’s past, I well remember that. He would be pleased to see his son has not forgotten those lessons, I should think.” He exchanged a glance with Reverend Vernon-Harcourt. “If you are interested in our society, Lord Hartwell, I will tell the others. Look for an invitation to dine with us.”

“I will, with pleasure.” Roman bowed to them, then continued his circuit through the room. The conversation settled him, somewhat—until another man stepped directly into his path.

Patchett grinned. “Ah, Lord Hartwell. I was hoping we would have a moment to speak.” Cordial. Patchett was always cordial, and tonight he wore the smile of a man who considered the evening a success.

Roman gave him nothing but a polite nod. “Mr. Patchett. Your announcement caused a stir.”

“Did it?” Patchett chuckled and tilted his head back, the better to look down his nose at Roman, who was taller than him. The effect was ridiculous, from Roman’s perspective. “I would say there was hardly any reaction at all—as I expected. No one much cares for a pile of old stone.” He sighed with false sympathy. “Except for a collection of a sad few, who seemingly have nothing better to do with their time.”

Roman pressed his lips together and said nothing, though he wanted to say a great deal. Now was not the time, and Patchett was not someone to waste his breath upon needlessly.

The man went away satisfied regardless, which was its own variety of defeat, and the solitary carriage ride home left him to the quiet and his own thoughts.

Roman attempted to keep his thoughts away from Micklegate. He needed to read the committee’s report before jumping to conclusions about what demolition actually meant. Patchett may have exaggerated the report’s outcome. There was still the vote to consider.

Instead, he let his mind repeat the evening, including the dinner: three hours of the event, every moment managed, all for an audience of his peers. Patchett, who had wanted to see him flinch and hadn’t, and would try again. Men who would vote in November without fully understanding what they were voting on. A room full of people who knew his reputation without knowing him personally.

All of them assumed his feelings regarding the old walls and ruins of York, but none of them actually knew.

He wanted, suddenly and specifically, to tell someone about Micklegate Bar.

Not a political ally. Not Lyness, who would listen with care and say the right thing and who Roman would feel, the entire time, that he was repeating an old tale. No. Roman wanted to speak to someone who had looked at the Bar that afternoon and said the stone doesn’t distinguish and meant it.

He halted that line of thinking with a scoff.

Tamsin would not want to hear about this. They had been engaged for approximately eight hours! She had agreed to a practical arrangement, to their mutual benefit: not sitting up with him while he catalogued his losses to a Corporation vote which hadn’t happened yet.

She barely knew him. He barely knew her.

The thought made no sense.

His feelings on the matter were irrelevant. He dismissed the thoughts and looked out the window at the dark streets of his beloved city as the carriage reached Hartwell House and rolled to a stop. After bidding the coachman goodnight, he entered the quiet house, a sleepy footman taking his hat and gloves. No one was awake.

Except Apollo and Athena. Both dogs were waiting for him, ears perked, eyes alert, until he gave them the soft command to come. They were at his side immediately, both leaning against his legs on opposite sides. He rubbed their heads with a smile.

At least he had them. They were wonderful creatures; the companionship of loyal hounds could not be overstated.

“Come along,” he murmured to them, walking into his study instead of going upstairs. He stood there for a moment without lighting a candle, the fire banked, the room quiet in the way rooms were after performing for several hours in someone else’s home.

Slowly his bearing relaxed. Roman walked to his desk, opened the drawer, and took out his notebook. He jotted several lines while his thoughts on the dinner remained fresh.

About Micklegate. Not a plan to counter whatever horrible fate Patchett and his cronies had thought up, not yet, there wasn’t enough information. But he emptied his thoughts on the page, including the significance of the barbican. What a vote of principle in November would mean procedurally and what it would mean to the city’s memory of itself. Patchett’s timing of the vote was of interest. He wrote until the shape of it was clear on the page. The weight of it that had rested on his shoulders, that he had been unable to show in a room full of people, eased.

There was more worth noting from the evening, of course. Reverend Vernon-Harcourt and Mr. Salmond’s conversation about a Philosophical Society. That was something worth pursuing carefully.

Twisting his pen between his fingers, Roman sat back. The formation of such a group of concerned, influential citizens had the possibility of aligning with his own desires for the city. York needed defenders now as much as it had in the time of the Romans, and the War of the Roses.

Apollo whined and dropped his head on Roman’s foot. Athena had spread out in front of the fire, her bright eyes watching her human. They both knew his routines. They both knew he would sit and think until he grew tense, then finally take himself off to bed with a heavy sigh.

“Nearly there, hounds.” He reached down to scratch Apollo behind the ears. “Writing it down helps me put it aside. For a time.”