Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
The council chamber smelled of old wax and damp stone.
Roman had learned, over the course of six weeks of attending meetings from a seat near the back wall—the only place open to a baron who held no seat among the aldermen and no vote to cast—that this was the smell of a council that had already decided what it meant to do and was merely observing the correct forms on its way there.
He sat between Kettlewell and Holly, neither of whom spoke, which he appreciated more than he could say.
Phineas and Thaddeus had come too, crowded along the same bench, present in the way friends were present at a funeral—not because there was anything useful to be done, but because a man oughtn’t to sit alone through the burying of a thing he loved.
None of them could speak, not properly. That privilege belonged to men who held the floor by right of office. Roman’s title, however old, had never once bought him a place or voice among them.
That was the entirety behind his campaign: swaying popular opinion was the only way for him to make a difference. If he wrote enough letters and made enough noise in the right papers, the aldermen would have to listen to the people around them.
The clerk read the first motion for the vote. “That the barbican at Micklegate Bar be preserved in its present state, pending further survey.”
Roman had drafted half the language himself, weeks before, in letters to every alderman he could reasonably claim acquaintance with, and his associates to those he could not.
He had written to the York Herald under his own name.
He had stood in the street outside the printer’s on Coney Street and watched his own pamphlets reach the hands of men he did not know, hoping some fraction of them would care about a thing they had walked past their whole lives without seeing.
The second motion followed on its heels. “That the bar itself be retained, the barbican removed as impractical to the city’s improvement, the matter of restoration to be revisited as expertise and funds allow.”
Patchett rose to speak to it. He did not look at Roman directly; that would have been too plain a thing for a man of his skill. He did not need to.
“I have great respect,” he declared, in the mild, reasonable voice of a man who had never once raised it in his life and had no need to, “for those among us who feel strongly on matters of history. Sentiment does the city credit. But sentiment does not repair a crumbling barbican, nor does it widen a road too narrow for modern trade. Some among us,” and here his gaze drifted, briefly, unmistakably, to the back wall where Roman sat, “have lectured this body at some length on its civic duty. Yet duty cannot be considered apart from expense, however passionately one may wish it. I would ask this body to consider which duty is owed first. Do we owe it to crumbling stone, or to the citizens who must pass through the hazard daily, and to the ratepayers who must fund its keeping?”
No one asked Roman to respond, obviously.
He had no standing here, not like in the Lords.
Here he had no choice but to sit with his hands on his knees and his jaw set in the steady shape he had long ago trained it to hold.
He knew, with clarity which did him no good whatsoever, that Patchett was not entirely wrong.
That was somehow worse than if he had been.
But the argument, when made by the man against the barbican’s preservation, was still much more than the simple case Patchett presented.
The vote was called. Hands rose. Roman counted without meaning to, the way he counted most things, and knew the outcome before the clerk had finished tallying it aloud.
The barbican would be removed, when funds and expertise allowed, and the bar itself would remain.
There was no date attached. There was no date because there was no intention of hurrying one way or the other to empty the city’s meager coffers; Roman understood that as clearly as he understood anything, sitting in that chamber with his face arranged to give nothing away.
He did not remember standing up to leave. He did not even realize he was moving until he was in the street, cold and grey, and Kettlewell’s hand landed on his shoulder. Holly said nothing at all, which Roman didn’t mind in the least.
“Come have a drink,” Phineas said, with a sort of uncertain gentleness in his tone. He clearly wanted to be useful, but was not certain how. “The Black Swan is nearby.”
“I fear I am not in the right mind for company.” Roman scarcely recognized the quality in his voice. He sounded…small.
“No one asked if you felt like it,” Kettlewell said, brusque but not as loud as usual. “Come anyway. Sit in a corner and say nothing if you like. We will talk over you.”
There was something restful in the offer. Nothing would be asked of him there; he could sit among men who would not require him to explain the shape of the thing he’d lost, or perform his recovery from the loss before he’d had the chance to feel it properly.
Home would ask something different of him. He was not steady enough, not yet, to let Tamsin see whatever his feelings were before he’d had the chance to put them in some order. He needed time.
“One drink,” he finally agreed.
Thaddeus, who so rarely spoke at all, said only, “Good.”
That, too, was somehow exactly what Roman needed.
The Black Swan was warm enough that fog crept across its windows, and crowded enough that no one paid attention to five gentlemen taking possession of a table near the back.
Kettlewell procured a bottle of claret without asking anyone what they wanted.
Holly complained about the quality before he’d taken so much as a sip.
Phineas objected that a man could hardly condemn a wine on sight, and Holly informed him he had eyes and had found them broadly reliable.
It was exactly the sort of conversation Roman ordinarily enjoyed. Tonight he drank and let it flow around him.
“They’d decided before Patchett stood up,” Kettlewell said eventually.
Roman looked at him. His friend had lasted longer than he’d expected.
“He knew precisely what he was doing,” Kettlewell continued. “That little performance about ratepayers was for the benefit of men who already meant to vote with him.”
Looking over the rim of his glass, Roman huffed. “Yes.”
“And he made you the villain of it.”
Roman did not bother to agree. “That is overdramatizing the case.”
That brought one of Kettlewell’s eyebrows up. “Is it?”
“Yes.”
Kettlewell snorted and downed his glass. Roman turned his own glass between his fingers. The wine was not especially good, Holly had been right about that.
Finally he voiced, “He made the better argument.”
Four faces turned toward him.
“Utter rubbish,” Holly said. “You cannot possibly believe that.”
“He did.” That was the crux of it, surely. He had not made the right argument, the right connections. Had not done enough, written enough, tried enough.
That brought a snort from Kettlewell. “He called you sentimental.”
Roman shook his head. “He called the preservation of the barbican sentimental.”
“While looking directly at you,” Phineas pointed out.
“Toward me.”
“Hartwell.” That was Holly, his tone one of warning.
“He knew his audience,” Roman said, with more impatience than he intended. He stopped, drew a breath, and set his glass down. “He gave them a reason to do what they already wished to do. I gave them reasons they ought to wish otherwise.”
Thaddeus, quiet on his left, finally spoke. “Those are not the same thing.”
“No.” Roman looked down at the table. “They are not.”
He had spent six weeks believing sufficient information, logically presented, must eventually produce the correct conclusion.
He had written about the age of the structure and the history of the road beneath it, facts that he loved.
He had found estimates for repairs, facts he respected.
He had spoken with men who understood stone better than he ever would and men who understood traffic through Micklegate better still, facts he valued.
He had anticipated objections and answered them before they could be raised.
He had believed, in some private and apparently foolish corner of himself, that facts, that being right ought to matter. Caring about something ought to matter.
Patchett had embraced something simpler. Men did not like inconvenience. They liked expense still less. And they disliked being told by a man who did not live under their authority how they ought to exercise it.
“I should have addressed the cost sooner,” Roman sighed.
Kettlewell made an exasperated sound.
He continued. “The estimates were too broad, I knew that. If I had found someone willing to commit to the lower figure—”
“Hartwell,” Kettlewell grumbled.
“—or proposed the survey before the preservation motion rather than attaching one to the other, I might have—”
“Roman.” Holly, his closest friend among them, used his Christian name—an occasion so remarkable that it brought Roman’s attention to the solicitor. Holly’s expression had lost its usual neutrality, his brow furrowed, his lips turned down. “You lost.”
Guilt sank into his chest. “Yes, I am aware.”
His friend shook his head. “I do not think you are.”
Roman’s fingers tightened again around his glass.
Phineas shifted in his chair. “What Holly means—”
“I know what Holly means.” His voice was lower now, calmer.
“Good,” Holly said. “Save us all the boredom of listening to Phineas explain it.”
That made Phineas stick out his chin. “I explain things very well.”
That made Kettlewell chuckle. “You explain them at great length. It is not the same as doing so with any great talent.”
Phineas put a hand to his chest, wounded. “I have been told I am an excellent conversationalist!”
“By whom?” Kettlewell challenged.
Roman wanted to smile. The impulse had melted away before it reached his mouth.