Page 5 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

She could say nothing pleasant about that christening.

“Perhaps not, but it is vastly more exciting than what I do around here.” They climbed the stairs to the third floor where the family’s rooms stretched along both sides of the corridor, the nursery at one end and Tamsin’s smaller room opposite. The three eldest children had their own rooms, though they were quite snug, and everyone else shared.

It was the best a family of twelve could hope for, really.

Tamsin kept pace with her brother as they climbed the remaining steps. “Did you hear anything interesting while you were in town? New arrivals or events, perhaps?”

Charles shrugged with all the nonchalance of a man out in the world. “The usual gossip and hearsay, nothing to interest you.” Their father called him the nightingale, but most affectionately. He had the tendency to avoid most things he did not like, including discussing his work or gossip. But when he did speak, it was always worthy of notice.

“Do not be so certain,” Tamsin retorted, smile growing a fraction. “Sometimes it is the tiniest morsels of news that prove the most intriguing.”

A half-smile crossed her brother’s lips. “You always did have a curious spirit, Tams. But honestly, nothing caught my ear today, merely the regular din of mundane matters. Petty squabbles in the courts, talk of upcoming debates, that sort of thing.”

Tamsin sighed, her gaze lingering on her brother as he opened the door to his room. “Very well. I suppose I will see you at dinner. Will you stay after, to talk?”

“No, once the chocolate cake is consumed, I have an appointment with a friend. He claims he is finally going to best me at cards.” He closed his bedchamber door with a chuckle, her disappointed sigh going unheard in the quiet, darkened corridor.

She continued to her own room, her hand hesitating on the door handle. Within these walls, she could predict every facet of her life down to the minute. Dressing for dinner, helping her sisters with their embroidery patterns, perhaps reading a few pages of a novel before sleep claimed her. It was a familiar routine, but even the familiar eventually grew uncomfortable.

Tamsin stepped inside. As she unbuttoned her day dress, her thoughts drifted to her morning walk with little Henry. He had been so certain those dogs were lions. She smiled, shaking her head. Henry’s question about whether lions were larger than Lord Hartwell’s dogs had given her great amusement.

At least she had that to share at dinner. Even if it wasn’t anything particularly exciting, she had still interacted with one of York’s more interesting civilians.

Lord Hartwell himself had been exactly what she might have expected from the town’s most notable defender of all things old and worth preserving.

Composed. Deliberate. The sort of man who did not need to raise his voice because the people around him already paid attention.

Tamsin had recognized him immediately, of course—one could hardly live within walking distance of York and not know the handsome Baron Hartwell on sight. She had curtsied and thanked him and managed Henry with reasonable efficiency, and doubted she’d left any lasting impression whatsoever.

Which was exactly as it should be.

What stayed with her, oddly, was not the man but the dog. The female—Athena, he had called her—had pressed her nose into her gloved hand with a kind of quiet curiosity, and Tamsin had scratched her ears without thinking, the way she might have done with any creature who asked politely for attention. The massive dog had a gentility and a gentleness about her Tamsin could not help admiring.

It had been a small thing. A morning’s interruption. The city going about its business and she going about hers. Only for a moment had her path crossed with another’s.

She draped her day dress over the foot of her bed and crossed to her wardrobe. What would it be like to have news of her own to share? To be the one stepping through the doors of York’s bustling society, engaging in discussions that extended beyond domestic duties and sibling squabbles?

Perhaps it was ungrateful to even think such a thing.

Selecting a dinner gown from her modest wardrobe, Tamsin’s reflection in the looking glass above her dressing table stared back at her. Is this all there is? Is this all you want?

Tamsin tightened the ribbons of her gown, her fingers lingering on the soft material. She had yet to find any answer but the questions, insistent as they were, refused to be silenced. With a final, uncertain glance at her reflection, she left her room and took a deep breath as she prepared to join her family for dinner.

In the dining room, Tamsin had barely settled into her chair at the table before her oldest brother Leopold spoke.

“I had a letter from Augusta’s mother this morning.” He said it the way one announces a minor grievance, folding his arms over his chest and glaring at the cutlery. “She is sending Augusta to Scotland. She writes that Augusta’s grandmother intends to keep her through Epiphany.”

“January?” Tamsin said, with exactly the right amount of sympathy. “That is a long time.”

“It is entirely unreasonable. That is nearly a quarter of a year, gone.” He reached for his wine. Leopold was a peacock, according to their father. Proud. Dramatic. Perhaps a little too obsessed with the knot of his cravat. But always deservingly so. “Her grandmother is a selfish woman. I have said so before.”

“You have,” Charles agreed pleasantly, helping himself to a second roll. “Many times. With great consistency. At length.”

Leopold shot him a dark look. Charles smiled into his wine.

“I am sorry, Leo,” Tamsin said, and meant it. “I am sure she is equally frustrated by the separation and necessary pause in your courtship. She will be missed.”

Leopold’s expression suggested he found this moderately comforting, yet he immediately set it aside in favor of further complaint. “I think her mother and grandmother are doing it on purpose.”