Page 25 of Mr. Eastwood’s Match

Lord Hartwell’s manners were perfect, and he was quite handsome. Yet she already missed the less formal, more relaxed manner of Lyness, and the ease of his company. She never stopped to consider if her behavior was correct when they spoke. Why was that? Why could she not be as comfortable and confident with herself in the baron’s company? Surely, she must be doing something wrong, and the guilt of that made her speak in a softer, apologetic tone.

“I hope we were not away too long. I have no wish to worry your mother. Her roses were so delightful, though, I quite forgot myself.” A small exaggeration would not hurt, surely. It was better than admitting she preferred his brother’s company to an entire party of people.

“You must tell her that,” the baron said, a pleasantness to his tone. “She enjoys speaking of them in great detail.”

It ought to have been simple to switch from one brother’s company to the other. Especially given that both were kind and well mannered. Both intelligent. Lord Hartwell was the one she ought to give her own attention to, in full.

But her heart, foolish as it was, sunk in disappointment as she settled on a couch next to Lord Hartwell. The debate of how to spend the evening went on around her, without her contributing more than a smile and nod of agreement when others set the course for entertainment. A guessing game of sorts.

Emily looked for Mr. Eastwood and found him standing near his mother, head bowed, gaze unfocused toward the fireplace. That sight, the feeling that he had withdrawn in spirit if not in body, made her feel as though something precious had slipped away. And she did not like the mood it cast over her for the rest of the evening.

Chapter Nine

The private dining room in Etridge’s Royal Hotel, well-appointed with a view of Blakestreet broad windows for natural light, served the York Whig Club well. It was a perfect place for their larger meetings.

Lyness had no notion why the hotel had been chosen years ago as headquarters for the Whigs in favor of reform, but he dutifully attended with Roman whenever he was asked. Even if his mind was on other matters.

The evening of the dinner party had ended as most events did, with Roman at the fore, Mother satisfied, the company diverted, and Lyness precisely where no one would trip over him. He had liked being in the garden with Lady Emily better. Besides the quiet, he had enjoyed their discovery of shared pleasures.

But when Roman had appeared, Lyness followed the old, familiar pattern: withdraw, tidy the edges, let the plans of others resume. It was no tragedy. It was order. Still, as the guests debated charades versus dancing and the lamps glowed softly, he caught himself listening for her laugh. But he heard only the scrape of chairs, the voices of everyone else, the cheer of the company and not her individual mirth.

“It will do you good to be seen,” Roman said as he joined Lyness at the window, bringing him back to the present moment in the hotel.

Roman had lately made himself a favorite subject of the York Gazette, and not for his tailoring. His habit of paying printers to publish essays on reform delighted some and unsettled others, which meant Lyness sometimes could not tell whether the smiles greeting them at such meetings were friendly or assessing.

Though weary from the previous evening and his thoughts, Lyness nodded. As loyally as ever. He would be useful, as he and Lady Emily had discussed. Wherever Roman required him. That, at least, he knew how to be.

Sir George Cayley, baronet and inventor of flying machines no one yet believed in, presided at the head of the table. At eight-and-forty, he was older than most present, and the rarest guest: their president in person.

Lyness liked Sir George a great deal, and he knew Roman admired the man’s scientific mind. But Sir George lived thirty miles from York, which meant his attendance at any such events was rare. It left more work to people such as Roman to motivate the club members into action.

He was also, everyone knew, more middle-of-the-road than a true champion of reform. Not long ago, one of his remarks on the matter had been published in the paper. “I am as firm a defender of the crown and the aristocracy in their proper spheres as I am a determined enemy to all encroachments upon commoners.”

Many in the club felt no man could be both. Yet the statement had drawn more moderates to their numbers, leaving Roman with the headache of feeling both gratitude and despair in equal proportions. Which meant Lyness, of course, had spent a few weeks cheering his brother up and taking up more duties with the estate’s management.

This day did not seem as though it would have any particularly divisive topics shared. Roman was in his element, too. Talking trade, the Corn Laws, Catholic emancipation, and the upcoming York Races with practiced ease.

Lyness watched from his chair at the other end of the table from his brother, admiring him. Wondering how one brother commanded the attention of others so easily while the other could not even command his own tongue. Roman could speak for five minutes on any subject and convince a room he’d been born to lead the cause.

Admirable as Roman’s abilities were, there were moments that Lyness wished things were different. He loved his brother, of course. Lyness supported Roman’s political ambitions, and worked to maintain their shared heritage. Roman would have made their father proud. But Roman was, at times, so busy looking after everything except his own interests. He treated the city as though it were his life’s blood, trying to preserve every historical structure and make all the arrangement, personally, for the continued prosperity of York. The growth of his party was his second greatest concern. It was no wonder he had put off marriage as long as he had. He was practically married to the medieval stones of the walls and minster.

And that made Lyness worry for how his brother’s heart measured happiness.

The talk was spirited. Lyness did his best to keep track of who said what and who remained silent, the better to help Roman go over the relative success of the evening at a later time. This was one of his duties, though it had never been asked for by his brother.

It was Mr. Cooke, the only other man over forty-five present, who appeared cross that evening. He was irritable and grew more so as the rest of the party turned more cheerful. This Lyness watched with interest until Cooke himself stood to gain attention.

“While all this is very good, to discuss the things we have in common as though they are all that matter, we ought to give more attention to the upcoming races. For one thing, Lord Hartwell, there is talk the Conservatives mean to paint you and your circle of close friends—young members of the gentry and nobility both—as radicals. They say you have made enemies in the Church and are too cozy with the more radical progressives.”

Roman kept his neutral expression as calm as ever, and he leaned back in his chair as though this troubled him not a whit. “Let them talk. I have no interest in their mudslinging or musings. York has better things to concern itself with than unfounded claims.”

“Indifference is a luxury,” Cooke retorted. “They will print it all the same, and half the county will believe you have taken up arms with the radicals.”

“Words, not arms,” Roman said. “If they mistake one for the other, it says more of them than me.”

“What of the committee Mr. Walter Fawkes means to establish, during Race Week itself?” Phineas Nelson, also present with his older brother, asked from mid-way down the table. “He hopes to bring in more people to his committee precisely because of the races.”

“Fawkes is more concerned with his bid to be High Sheriff of Yorkshire,” Roman said with a coolness of tone that immediately stilled the room. “He has served well as Yorkshire’s former M.P., but he has little interest in anything beyond his breeding of cattle and patronage to the arts. He is too tired to lead. And what is more, he plans to only invite those who are gentlemen or of higher rank. Which is completely the opposite of what we wish.”