Page 29 of Mr. Eastwood’s Match

With the mid-afternoon sunlight warming her shoulders, and a cheerful breeze at her back, there was really no reason why she could not enjoy herself. When people passed the gig, they always nodded politely or called out a greeting to Lord Hartwell. He was well known, it seemed, and liked.

A woman could do much worse.

“My mother loves this city as much, if not more, than I do,” he said with fondness, and he almost smiled, too. Or she thought he had. At least his eyes were bright with merriment. Perhaps Jack liked him so much because neither of them smiled all that often. “But my mother also prefers gardening to gossip, and what is history, but ancient gossip and fact twisted around each other?”

That startled a laugh from her. “Is your tour to be full of fact or fiction, my lord?”

“Yes to both,” he answered, his head tilted slightly to one side as he looked at her. “How can we know what is fact, hear say, or rumor if we were not there?”

“I suppose that would be difficult, without multiple witnesses sharing the same details of the story,” she said, surprised that he had spoken with more lightness than usual.

Lord Hartwell cleared his throat. “Ahem. But I will do my best to impart only the most interesting information to you, my lady, that is generally accepted as fact. At least among those of us who love the old city. We will begin, of course, at the eye of the city. Clifford’s Tower.”

The tower he named had been in position for hundreds of years. Not the exact one that stood at present, he explained, as the whole thing had been torn down and rebuilt several times.

“It is an impressive piece of York Castle, and once it was the heart of the city’s defenses. The Normans built it soon after the Conquest, on a man-made mound—steep and surrounded by a moat in its day. The tower itself is an odd shape, formed from four connected circles. On maps, it looks like a quatrefoil.”

She winced slightly. “I am afraid I do not know what that is, my lord.”

“They are everywhere in medieval architecture,” he explained, slowing the horses to a stop. “Here. Make two circles with your hands, like this.” He demonstrated, curving forefinger to touch thumb in a circle. “Now, make them touch. Good. Here are mine on either side.”

Emily was grateful for their gloves as they created the shape, which still took her a moment to place. The awkwardness of the touch did not escape her, slight as it was. Why could she not feel a rush of affection? A blush from the brush of their hands? A flutter of her heart? But nothing stirred within her except vague interest in the subject they discussed.

“Oh. Yes. I have seen this shape in churches. I did not think to ever give it a name, though.”

“I am, perhaps, focusing on irrelevant details.” His brow furrowed.

“Not at all.” He certainly was, but she tried her best to smile politely. “You obviously know a great deal about the city. And architecture.”

That compliment seemed to cheer him, as he continued his explanation with more exuberance. “That mound the tower stands upon was originally much steeper, with a drawbridge leading up to the entrance. Inside, the lower floor served the soldiers, and the upper rooms were for the castellan and chapel. The walls are almost nine feet thick in places—solid enough to have withstood centuries of neglect. As you can see. If you would like, I could one day arrange for a tour of the inside.”

“Oh. That would be something.” She looked at the ruins with hesitation. “Is it safe?”

“Completely safe. Though the tower has been through quite a bit. Fires, sieges, executions, and even time as a prison. Inside you can still find the royal arms of Charles the Second above the entrance, right beside the Clifford family crest—hence the name.” His eyes took in the sight, attention fully on the lone tower. “The rest of the old castle is not as impressive. Henry the Eighth’s survey called it ‘five ruinous towers,’ which seems generous. Clifford’s Tower is the last of the taller towers to stand watch. From up there, you can see the Foss and Ouse Rivers and half of York besides. It is not a bad view—though I wouldn’t envy anyone who once had to defend it.”

She looked at the tower with some measure of appreciation. “It is alarming, at times, how very old the world in which we live can feel. It makes me think myself quite small.”

“Really? I find it exhilarating, to be a piece of a long history,” he said, driving them onward.

Had she mis-stepped in sharing her own feelings? He passed over them so quickly, she could not be certain. She fixed her smile in place again, adjusted her posture, and kept her eyes ahead of her while he told her of the city.

He singled out other smaller places of note, where a person of historical significance was said to have slept or done business, until they reached a street where he gestured at a large building that looked as old as the kingdom itself.

“The Merchant Adventurers Hall, standing since the time of Queen Elizabeth.” He pointed to the long, timber-and-thatch structure with as much pride as though he had built it himself. “A building that has stood the test of time, and is still used for its original purpose. Mostly.”

“It is rather impressive,” she admitted, and thoroughly wished she knew more about Queen Elizabeth. Or buildings. Or anything, really, that seemed to excite the man at her side.

Next it was the Shambles, where she covered her nose with her handkerchief.

“All the butchers, tanners, and those whose crafts connect to theirs, have been along this little alley since the city was built. Look at the structures at the top. There are two houses down at the end where you could shake the hand of your neighbor across the way, reaching out of an upstairs window.”

“It is quite narrow,” she said, and felt her stomach turn slightly. “And butchers have always had their business there?” she asked weakly. Though she had not thought herself one to have a sensitive stomach, the sight of blood going down the lane and into the gutter at that very moment made her wince. The smell was potent, too. “Convenient. That they all are in one place.”

He glanced at her, then looked again, and his expression changed more dramatically than she had seen thus far. He went from pleasantly neutral in expression to stoically concerned, given the furrow of his brow and downturn of his lips. He leaned toward her.

“Are you unwell, Lady Emily?” He moved the horses along. “I did not think—I apologize. I forget that there are those of a more delicate constitution than myself. I become fascinated by the history and forget the sensations of the moment.”

She waved her hand a little. “It will pass. I do not usually possess such sensitivity. Perhaps it is the excitement of the afternoon.” Emily felt her cheeks warm from the falsehood. She had not felt any measure of excitement. Not even once. Gratitude, perhaps, and vague interest. But that was the best she could say for it.