Page 91 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

“It proves you were thinking quite hard.”

Roman laughed quietly, sobering as he looked at the papers. “The petition is doing well. Better than Patchett expected, I think.”

“That ought to please you.”

“It does.” He certainly did not look it.

Tamsin leaned forward. “However…?”

He hesitated. Rather than give her the short answer she expected, he began to explain. The petition had gained signatures; men who had initially refused to attach their names had reconsidered, preferring to be preservers of history rather than destroyers of ancient monuments. Merchants now discussed the struggle to get through the passage more openly. The pamphlets were circulating beyond the gentlemen Roman and Mr. Salmond had first approached.

Their success had brought complications of its own.

Tamsin did not understand every detail. There were questions involving the Corporation, the cost of alterations, traffic through Micklegate’s barbican and the other three at each main city entrance, and several gentlemen whose positions seemed to depend less upon the merits of the matter than upon which other gentlemen had already taken the opposite side.

And in all of it, she understood Roman. He cared about the thing itself: not merely because he wanted to defeat Mr. Patchett, though Tamsin suspected that had become an increasingly pleasant prospect. He cared because people used the road every day, and they had for centuries past. Because inconvenience and expense fell most heavily upon those who possessed the least influence over the men making the decisions. Because Roman could not see a piece of his beloved city that might reasonably be kept and understand why everyone else did not mind ridding themselves of it entirely.

Once he began talking, he seemed to forget he had intended to work. He pulled a sketch of the barbican and an open road toward them, and Tamsin moved her chair closer.

“And this is the proposal for removing the barbicans?”

His voice was low, intimate. “Yes.”

“The road certainly looks much larger without them.”

Roman looked offended on the stone passage’s behalf. “The barbican is quite large enough—traffic has been passing through it since before written history.”

“I shall defer to your expertise,” she said with a most solemn nod.

Her husband narrowed his eyes at her a moment, then his lips twitched. “You are teasing me.”

Tamsin had to concede the point. “A little.”

He pointed to another place on the map and continued explaining why he believed there was no need to tear down the barbicans, and that removing them would result in more expenses than maintaining them. Tamsin listened, asking questions when she did not understand: sometimes Roman answered immediately, sometimes her question made him stop and consider.

It was pleasant. More than pleasant, actually. She liked hearing Roman speak about something that mattered to him, and knowing why it mattered.

A knock sounded at the door and Roman glanced toward it. “Yes?”

A footman entered carrying a folded paper. “This was delivered for you, my lord. The messenger said Mr. Hargrove wished you to see it this evening.”

Roman took the paper from the salver and the servant withdrew. Tamsin watched him unfold the note, his face hardening as he read, the only sounds in the room the soft crackle of the fire and Apollo’s quiet snoring.

Eventually she could not resist. “What is it?”

“Nothing worth your concern.” He spoke absently rather than with any sharpness, his thoughts already retreating from her to rush toward the new problem.

But she wasn’t ready to be so dismissed. Tamsin held out her hand. “May I read it, Roman?”

With a sigh, he passed her the paper which was an article. Or perhaps a printed commentary; Tamsin was not entirely certain what to call it. It was not long, and no author’s name appeared beneath it.

Lord Hartwell’s name appeared quite frequently, though.

The writer had taken a remarkable interest in Roman’s political opinions. Her husband’s sympathies toward Catholics were mentioned, as were certain Irish gentlemen with whom he associated, his activities in Parliament, and his determination to involve himself in the affairs of York’s tradesmen.

None of it was precisely false. Taken together, however, the writer had created a Lord Hartwell who Tamsin scarcely recognized: a young upstart peer perpetually in search of an injustice against which he might publicly rail against, more interested in appearing enlightened than attending to those responsibilities properly belonging to him.

There are gentlemen for whom the ordinary obligations of rank become insufficient occupation. Lord Hartwell, having lately distinguished himself by an ardent concern for the unwarranted political grievances of His Majesty’s Catholic subjects, and by an uncommon sympathy with certain Irish gentlemen whose complaints find ready audience at Westminster, has now discovered another oppressed population nearer home. The merchants and tradesmen of York may congratulate themselves upon acquiring so fashionable a champion—except that it is not their concerns, but the worries of a lump of stone that tugs Lord Hartwell’s heartstrings. Whether his lordship’s attention will prove as lasting as it is enthusiastic remains to be seen; but a young peer possessed of so generous a quantity of principle must surely be grateful for every fresh opportunity upon which to display it.