Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
The Knavesmire lay to his left, vast and open under a late September sky. The racecourse stood empty at this hour, the grass grown long with the end of racing season. Roman turned his attention back to the road.
He had sent the note two days ago. Mrs. Mayweather had replied within the day—prompt, gracious, plainly pleased, and giving permission for a private audience. He had not expected difficulty there.
He had spoken with Holly yesterday. A quiet conversation in the solicitor’s office, framed as a general inquiry, which fooled neither of them but preserved the necessary formality.
Holly had given him what he needed to know.
The shape of the Mayweather situation, the particulars that a man of business would know and a gentleman would not ask directly, had been outlined.
Roman had listened, asked clarifying questions, and left with a realistic picture of what would be required if Miss Mayweather said yes.
If.
He adjusted his grip on the reins. The road was good here, straight and familiar, and the horse needed no true attention.
He had arranged the gig deliberately. Easier in the city's streets, yes—but the intimacy of a gig, the way it put two people beside each other rather than across, the way it made conversation natural rather than effortful, made it the best vehicle for the task at hand.
Roman had thought about this. He was not certain whether to be pleased with himself for thinking about it extensively, or something slightly less comfortable than pleased.
Perhaps he had given things too much thought, as Lyness sometimes accused him of doing. It hardly mattered now.
The preparations were complete. Roman had considered the finances, the household, the younger children's needs, and he had solutions ready. He had, in point of fact, been ready for some days.
There was nothing left to do but ask her the pivotal question.
Sycamore Lodge appeared ahead, set back from the road, the gate posts familiar from his previous visit. Roman noted his own steadiness with satisfaction. His hands were easy on the reins. His bearing composed. He was, by every external measure, entirely calm and prepared.
He turned through the gate and—
She was waiting outside the front door.
Roman should not have been surprised—even if it was customary to knock and request the lady’s company from her family.
But her standing alone, looking down the path, simplified matters.
He was given to believe that households with many children rarely ran to schedule.
He had prepared himself for a wait in a drawing room with Mrs. Mayweather’s conversation.
Instead, Miss Mayweather stepped away from the door as he drew up, bonnet already tied, gloves already on.
He approved of this. “Good afternoon, Miss Mayweather. You appear ready for our drive.”
She touched the ribbons of her bonnet. “Yes, Lord Hartwell. I am prepared for the adventure.”
The bonnet was sensible. Not elaborate, not fashionable beyond what the occasion called for, not the battered thing she’d worn in the garden which he had thought rather charming.
Simply…correct. He made a note of this alongside everything else he had noticed about her, which was already more than he’d intended.
At that moment Mrs. Mayweather came out the front door.
Apparently, she had been keeping watch from inside.
She was a handsome woman, well-dressed, with a strange air of satisfaction and spoke with it.
“Good afternoon, Lord Hartwell. You have a most excellent day for a ride about town. I hope the weather holds fine for you.”
“Mrs. Mayweather, good afternoon.” He climbed down from the gig to make a proper bow. “I am certain our ride will be quite uneventful.” At least in regards to the weather. “Thank you for entrusting your daughter to my care. I will not keep her away overlong.”
He was well practiced at saying the appropriate things. This time he almost meant it.
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.”