Page 26 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

The lady of the house turned to Miss Mayweather, and something shifted. “You look very well, Thomasine.” She laid a brief touch to her stepdaughter’s arm, wearing a smile that held more uncertainty than the occasion called for. “I am certain you will have a pleasant time. I cannot wait to hear all about it when you return.” She spoke as she would to an acquaintance rather than a daughter. “Mind you keep your bonnet on snug, in case there is wind, and be a good girl.”

Miss Mayweather received the public admonishments with perfect composure. “Yes, Mother. Of course.” She did not look at Roman.

He did not look at her either. He looked at Mrs. Mayweather, who was watching her stepdaughter with an expression caught somewhere between hope and the faint bewilderment of a woman who could not at all account for why a baron was standing at her door and whisking her stepdaughter away.

He understood that bewilderment. He shared it.

“You do us great honor, Lord Hartwell, offering Tamsin this lovely entertainment,” the elder woman said to him, seemingly feeling the need to say something. The way she stood had crossed into a sort of awkward eagerness. “Our family is quite pleased to come to know your own better.”

Miss Mayweather stood beside her stepmother with an expression that gave nothing away, and Roman could not tell whether she was unaware of the woman’s transparent pleasure or simply choosing not to see it.

He suspected the latter.

“Shall we, Miss Mayweather?” He offered her his gloved hand, helping her up into the gig. The small, ordinary business of it—her gloved hand in his, the step, the settling of her skirts as he climbed in—crowded his mind before he realized he was beside her, closer than a carriage would have placed them. Roman picked up the reins and reminded himself he was perfectly accustomed to driving with a passenger.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Mayweather.” He clicked his tongue and slapped the reins to the horse and away they went, leaving Sycamore Lodge behind at an easy pace.

They were alone. Appropriately, at least, given the open air and open gig, and with parental permission. But still. Completely at leisure to speak to one another of whatever they wished, without anyone to add thoughts or pass judgment.

And he could not think of a thing to say.

Say something, man! “I hope the day finds you well, Miss Mayweather.”

“Very well, thank you, Lord Hartwell.” A pause, brief and comfortable. “I confess I have been looking forward to this.”

She spoke simply, without performance or careful social inflation. She had been looking forward to it.

Roman felt something in his chest settle, quiet and unexpected, like a door easing shut against a draft he hadn’t noticed until it ceased.

He turned the horse toward the road. “As have I.” And meant it rather more than he’d planned to.

The Knavesmire opened to their right as they turned north, wide and green under the sky, the racecourse stands distant and idle at the far edges. The trees along the road had begun to let go of their leaves—not bare, but thinning, the light coming through differently than it had a month ago.

“It feels a little strange, giving a tour of the city to someone who lives on its doorstep. I hope you do not mind?” Roman asked, his stomach knotting. Had this been a terrible idea? Would she be painfully bored throughout their ride?

“Oh, I am quite intrigued by the idea of seeing the city through new eyes. I might have lived here all my life, but that does not mean I have taken the time to appreciate it, or know all its secrets.” Her tone was even, and completely sincere.

He glanced at her in an attempt to read her thoughts. Sitting beside him with perfect posture, Miss Mayweather looked forward with a pleasant expression upon her face. Her eyes were bright with interest, her cheeks rosy and lips turned upward. Her dark hair framed her face beneath the brim of the bonnet. Roman had to be certain the intelligence he had sensed was still present and not a trick of a few moments in her company, and there it was.

He cleared his throat. “Tadcaster is a remarkably ancient road.”

History. He always fell into conversations about history. Well, at least it was not the weather. There was surely something more interesting to say to engage her. But before he could set upon another topic, she had turned to fully face him.

“I understand the tradition says such things, but I have never made a study of its history for myself. Most of what I have read is of England as a whole, yet it is fascinating to know the road we are on has existed since the city’s founding.”

Was she…actually interested in this topic?

Roman quickly added, “It is even older than the city. Francis Drake, a physician from centuries past, wrote a book about York using all the sources available to him. He described how the Romans called it Eboracum and according to his writings, the Tadcaster road came first. The city grew toward it, an already established route through Yorkshire.”

Her eyebrows raised. “Is that why people are forever coming upon old coins and such along the roadside? One of our neighbors found a rusted dagger that looked positively ancient, and all he meant to do was dig up a patch of his garden to plant carrots.” Her smile flickered with amusement. “A rather ignominious end for what was likely a once treasured weapon.”

His lips twitched. “Hundreds of such things have been found all around the city, every time there is a new house built or garden soil overturned. I understand antiquarians are kept busy polishing old copper tools and iron weapons, or pottery shards with strange bones found inside them.”

“Evidence that perhaps our traditions and folklore have some basis in fact,” she said with a blithe grin. “My own brothers have found odd bits about the woods. Buttons. Coins. They play at treasure hunting quite often, though sometimes the treasure will merely be an interestingly shaped rock.” Miss Mayweather was quiet for a moment, looking out at the landscape ahead. Not the polite forward gaze of someone waiting for conversation to resume, but taking time to observe. “It is easy to forget, at times, how very long people have lived on this land.”

“Indeed.” Roman turned forward as the city walls came into view. “Many take it for granted that the stone walls are simply there, and have always been, and will always be.”

After a moment, she said, “It doesn’t announce itself.” When he glanced sideways at her, she clarified. “The city, I mean. You come along this road and the fields, the trees, the hills, are all quite lovely. And then the city—it is suddenly there. All at once, like something out of a fairy story or a tale of King Arthur’s court.” A small smile pulled at the corner of her mouth.