Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The Star Inn was quiet at this morning hour, which was precisely why Roman liked it.
The low beams, the scent of good coffee and wood smoke, the unhurried pace of men who had nowhere pressing to be—it suited him when he needed to think without being interrupted.
His usual table near the window overlooked the small courtyard and pump, and the proprietor had long since learned not to hover.
He was early. He had left Hartwell House twenty minutes before necessary because the notebook on his desk had begun to feel like an accusation.
He set it on the table now and opened it to the page causing him the most trouble. A page with a list.
The list.
The list written in his own hand, neat and deliberate, which made it worse somehow. His mind was at war against him to support the ongoing battle of duty and disappointment.
Qualities essential in a baroness:
Socially competent.
Accustomed to or capable of learning the management of a large household.
Even temperament.
Not given to extravagance.
Capable of independent judgment.
Presentable.
Willing.
He studied it for a moment.
Willing was perhaps not his finest hour as a diarist.
He had added a second column late last night, which he regretted in the morning light:
Qualities desirable but not essential:
Intelligent conversation.
Genuine interest in York and its concerns.
Some warmth of character.
He had stopped there because he had started to write ‘Genuinely fond’ and rubbed it out.
Then he’d gone to bed, trying not to think of the absurdity of making a shopping list for a future wife.
He’d amused himself by wondering what his dogs might have done, had they the ability to understand what their master was doing, the silent witnesses to his list-making.
Apollo would not have judged him for it, given the dog’s unending loyalty. Athena would have simply sighed and put her head on his knee with sympathy, which was worse.
In the inn this morning, Roman closed the notebook.
One table over, a young gentleman was doing a poor impression of a man who was perfectly fine.
He sat alone at a table with a cup he hadn’t touched, staring at the window in focused misery.
Roman hadn’t seen the fellow before. He looked more in need of a stiff drink than a coffee.
The man was tall, dark-haired, well-dressed, not in any distress exactly.
Just thoroughly, specifically unhappy in the only way that produced such pain in a man of his age.
Roman recognized it because he had felt a version of it himself, three times now, and had managed each time to be considerably less obvious about it.
The young man exhaled sharply at nothing, caught Roman’s eye by accident, and straightened immediately.
“Your pardon,” he said, though it seemed no more than a reflex of good breeding. “I did not mean to—” He gestured vaguely at his own expression, as though he could explain it away. Then the window. “I was looking out, sir. Not at you.”
“No need for an apology,” Roman said. “The window is not mine to claim.”
The young man’s gaze drifted back to the nothingness of the view outside, then returned to Roman.
“Do you find,” he said, with the air of someone who had been arguing with himself for some time, “that women of good family have an unusual talent for being in Scotland when they are most needed elsewhere?”
Roman considered this, wondering whether to even deign to respond to the absurd question. “I have not found it to be a pattern, no.” The women of good family he had known were simply engaged elsewhere.
To other men.
“How fortunate for you.” The other man said it without bitterness, though with much sadness. He paused a moment. “I am Leopold Mayweather.” He spoke his own name with emphasis, obviously expecting it to mean something to Roman.
Interesting. Gentry, then, but likely of lower social circles than Roman typically moved in.
“Roman Eastwood. Baron Hartwell,” Roman returned, inclining his head.
Something shifted in Mayweather’s expression—a flicker of worry and rearrangement of the mind.
He sat up straighter. “Lord Hartwell. Oh, right. Of course. I beg your pardon. I am not usually in such a scattered state.” He winced and made a helpless gesture that seemed to condemn the very air they breathed. “It has been a difficult fortnight.”
“So I see,” Roman said, not unkindly.
Young Mayweather appeared to want to say more, then thought better of it and rose, leaving his untouched cup with a coin beside it.
Roman looked down to his closed notebook, envisioning adding to the list ‘Must not disappear to Scotland when needed elsewhere’ but decided against it.
He was still looking at his notebook without opening it when Holly arrived, unwinding his scarf. His friend always moved with ease, a sort of confidence that Roman admired silently, and had never been late for anything since Roman had known him.
The solicitor dropped into the opposite chair with a glance at the notebook and then at Roman. “Hartwell. You are early.”
“And you are punctual.”
“Same thing, in this case.” Holly accepted the coffee the proprietor brought without being asked, and settled back in his chair.
The quiet amusement living permanently somewhere behind his eyes was present, as always, doing nothing and missing nothing.
“Shall we discuss your brother’s wedding gift, or would you like another few minutes with whatever that is? ”
Roman picked the notebook up and put it in his coat pocket with a gentle care that tried to say, without words, that it was nothing important. “The gift.”
“I thought so.” Holly produced his own papers from a leather folder with smooth efficiency, changing one metaphorical hat for another, and spread them on the table between them.
“Now. The question of Larkfield Cottage and whether conveying it to your brother constitutes a diminishment of entailed property, or a gift of discretionary estate. The answer in this case is the latter, but I want you to understand precisely why before you sign anything.”
Roman nodded, and for the next half hour he was wholly Baron Hartwell—focused, precise, asking the right questions. Holly answered with the same economy, occasionally making a note or tilting his head at something Roman said, clearly tucking the thought away for later examination.
It was only when their business was concluded and Holly was returning his papers to the folder that he said, “My sister writes that she has been seeing rather more of the Mayweathers lately. Nice people, from what I understand, though the household sounds somewhat…energetic.”
“Mm,” Roman replied politely. He was well aware Holly’s sister, Mrs. Elgin, made friends easily despite being a quiet sort. His mother was quite fond of the young widow.
Holly glanced at him. “This is the part of our meeting where we exchange personal news and opinions, Hartwell. If we wish to remain friends.”
Guilt prickled at his thoughts. “Ah. Forgive me. My thoughts were already upon the next matter I must attend to. Yes, tell me more about your family. How is your mother?”
The exchange was cordial, with Holly seemingly comfortable enough to carry on most of the conversation until a quarter of an hour passed and they parted ways.
Roman had much to do, including finding a way to inform Lyness there would be a home for him and his bride belonging to them alone without harming his brother’s pride.
That evening, when he was handing his horse over to the stablemaster, his groom Jones approached with a deferential bow. “My lord, did you still wish to know somewhat of that lady and her brother? The lad who likened the dogs to lions?”
Roman paused and turned to face the man. “I would, yes.” He hadn’t forgotten the woman with the deep brown eyes and Athena’s interest.
“So they’re brother an’ sister, from a large family.
Ten children, all living.” The man cleared his throat, clearly focused on what he’d memorized.
“They live at Sycamore Lodge on Tadcaster Road. The father’s a gentleman, some say of modest means, name of Mayweather.
The eldest daughter is the one you saw, m’lord.
Name of Thomasine. Family all calls her something else, queer-like. She was with the youngest one, Henry.”
Impressive details. Roman reached into his pocket and pulled out a crown, handing it to Jones with an appreciative nod. “Well done.”
He turned and went down the row toward Hartwell House on Castlegate.
Mayweather. The third time he’d heard the name that day.
First he had encountered a Leopold Mayweather at the Star Inn.
The specific, helpless misery of a man who knew what he wanted and could not have it had made an impression he would not quickly forget.
Then Holly had mentioned his sister visiting a family by the same name.
Roman hadn’t put the two together at that point, distracted by his duties and the business at hand.
And now this. The revelation he had met two Mayweathers yesterday.
He entered the house and went upstairs to his rooms, his dogs already at his heels to politely follow along.
He thought of the woman walking away along the path outside the walls, one hand on a small boy’s shoulder, saying next time we ought not run up on strange animals. Of dark eyes. Of quiet, and calm.
He opened his desk drawer. Took the notebook out of his pocket. Stared at it a moment, then he dropped it inside.
Roman blew out a breath, closed the drawer, and began to dress for dinner.