Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The December sky turned dark by half past three, and Tamsin was looking out at the barometer by the garden window, holding a letter she had meant to read all day, when she heard the front door open and Roman’s voice at the entrance. He was home before dark.
That made her smile. The early darkness of winter, coupled with nearly freezing temperatures, had made the day long and rather gloomy. She pulled her shawl closer and turned to the door. Would he seek her out first, as he had done the day before? And the day before that.
She certainly noticed his comings and goings a great deal more.
Not because his hours had once been predictable, they had never been.
Over the last week, a pattern had emerged in the absence of one.
Roman lingered at breakfast more often. He joined her for dinner rather than sending word he would eat later.
Twice when his mother had been out he had joined her in the drawing room afterward, though on both occasions he had brought papers with him and seemed uncertain what to do with himself when he remembered that he had presumably come there for her company.
He was making an effort. She could make it easier for him, and that was precisely why she did not.
She was not cruel; she responded when spoken to, she asked questions when genuinely wishing to know the answers.
She thanked him when he did something thoughtful and smiled when he said something amusing.
But Tamsin had stopped reaching across every silence to pull him to safety. It was remarkable how many silences there were when she was not taking the initiative to fill them.
The door opened and her husband entered, eyes meeting hers at once, even as he dropped to one knee to greet both dogs as they came to him full of their snuffly attention.
“You are home early again,” she said warmly.
Roman glanced toward the clock, verifying the accusation. “So I am.”
Tamsin waited. The silence lengthened.
Her husband cleared his throat. “I thought perhaps I might remain here this evening, instead of dining out with the other gentlemen.”
“With me?”
There was only the smallest hesitation. “Yes.”
Tamsin folded Matilda’s letter. “I should like that.”
The stiffness of his shoulders eased. She did not ask what he wished to do to fill the time before dinner. Roman took the chair across from hers as she settled in once more.
For a time, it went well. Tamsin returned to her letter. Roman had brought a small stack of correspondence with him, but instead of immediately opening it, he asked whether Mrs. Elgin was well.
“Very. She has been invited to dine with the Sterling family on Thursday, accompanying her brother, and is already regretting accepting.”
“I thought she liked the Sterlings.” His brow furrowed. “Why did she accept?”
Tamsin sighed. “She does like them, but it seems there will be someone new at the table.”
Roman frowned. “That does not answer the question of her regret, nor acceptance in the face of it.”
“It does if you know Matilda.”
He considered this and conceded it with a tilt of his head. “I always found her personable, a good conversationalist. Who is the new acquaintance?”
“Matilda can be shy with strangers, though with those she likes she warms to quickly.” Tamsin smiled and picked up her letter again.
“The new acquaintance is the Sterling brother who was at sea—the one they tried to find after their father inherited his title. Mr. Arthur Sterling. Imagine, coming to shore after a year at sea and finding your family’s fortunes forever changed, and for the better. ”
Her husband nodded. “Ah, yes. I heard of his arrival in London, but I did not realize he meant to travel here so soon after.”
“Perhaps London did not agree with him.” Tamsin kept reading as the fire cracked in the hearth.
It was the sort of evening she had once imagined marriage would provide, though there was little intimatcy in it still, hardly anything companionable.
But Roman had come home and immediately sought her out.
He had asked about someone who mattered to her, and listened—and heeded her expert knowledge.
She could take pleasure and comfort in those things.
A servant brought in more lamps and Roman reached for his correspondence. Tamsin unfolded a letter from her brother, Edward, away at school. His penmanship was certainly improving.
The atmosphere of the room changed. There was no exclamation from her husband; he did not curse or make a sudden movement. There was only the faint rasp of paper as Roman unfolded a letter, followed by a stillness drawing her attention.
He was staring at the page, brow furrowed. Tamsin studied him for a moment. His expression revealed very little. It rarely did when he did not wish it to. But she knew that set of his mouth now; the way his jaw hardened when anger was not permitted.
“Is it Micklegate?”
His eyes lifted. For one instant, she saw surprise. Then it disappeared. “Yes.” Roman looked down at the letter again. “It is over.”
She closed her letter. “I thought it was already.”
“I took one last chance.” There was enough bitterness in the words to make her remain silent. Roman read the page once more, though she doubted he needed to. He folded it with unnecessary precision. “I wrote to a man I know, in London. There was a possibility…”
“I am listening, Roman.” She leaned toward him. “Please tell me what this means to you.”
“It was a very slight possibility,” he admitted dully. “I knew that when I wrote.”
“And?”
“He agrees with everyone else.” Roman placed the folded letter on the table beside him as though it had not injured. “There is nothing more to be done.”
Tamsin studied him. “I didn’t ask whether there was anything to be done.”
His gaze came back to her. For several seconds, neither of them spoke. Roman finally admitted defeat. “What did you ask?”
“Whether it was Micklegate, and what it meant to you.”
He looked confused. “Yes.”
“Then you answered me. Partly.”
His brows drew together.
Tamsin picked up Edward’s letter again, though she did not open it, and Roman remained quiet, fixing her with a stare.
There were many who would have asked what the man in London had said, or who he was. She might have leapt at the opportunity to reassure him, telling him he had done everything possible. No one could expect more, and the failure was not his.
She suspected that was what he had thought the conversation would be, but it was not what he needed. Not what they needed.
The clock on the mantel ticked and Apollo stretched until his nose touched Athena’s before the fire.
At last Roman spoke. “I thought it would matter that I tried.” The anger had gone out of his face, replaced with an exhaustion she had never seen. It was worse than the anger.
She put her letters aside. “It did matter, Roman.”
His voice was defeated. “It was not enough.”
“No, it was not. Not this time.”
His eyes sharpened at that, but she would not insult him by pretending otherwise. The barbican had not been preserved. Whatever would be lost by their destruction would still be lost, utterly unrecoverable. But his effort could matter without changing the result.
Roman turned his attention to the fire. “I keep thinking there must have been something I missed. Someone I ought to have spoken to sooner. Some argument I failed to make.”
Ah. This was new. “Was there?”
He shrugged, exhaustion taking the place of frustration again. “I do not know.”
That, Tamsin pondered, might be the difficulty.
Roman Eastwood, Baron Hartwell, knew how to contend with an enemy.
He had often negotiated with an opponent, marshaled an argument, gathered support, called in favors.
Even defeat could presumably be borne if he understood precisely how it had happened.
But there was no action to take against not knowing.
He leaned forward, elbows upon his knees and chin resting upon his clasped hands as he stared into the fire. Watching the flames dance the way a soothsayer of old may have, hoping to find answers in the elements, if not in logic. “I dislike useless things.”
Tamsin did not bite back her smile at that. “Yes. I noticed.”
He glanced at her, enough dryness in his expression that she knew he’d heard what she had not said. “And useless people are a difficulty I would rather not manage.”
“I had noticed that too.”
His mouth shifted, but the almost-smile did not survive for more than a moment.
Gesturing to the letter on the table beside him, she asked, “Do you think trying was useless because it failed?”
Roman did not answer immediately. He tilted his head slowly from one side to the other, considering his response. “I think failure is a poor recommendation for the usefulness of an endeavor.”
“That sounds like something a politician would say when he does not want to give an answer. I am your wife, not an opponent.” A week ago, Tamsin might have regretted the words as soon as she spoke them.
She might have softened them, explained what she meant, supplied him with an easier question. But not tonight.
He turned to her, this time with unguarded admiration that made her catch her breath.
“No. But I enjoy when you challenge me, all the same.” Roman sat back again, shoulders relaxing.
“To answer your question, I do not know. It did not feel useless at the time. The outcome has made me question all my concerns for this city. My friends stood by me because they are my friends, not because they believe in preserving the history the way that I do. There is much to consider, going forward.”
“I imagine so.” Tamsin relaxed somewhat and picked up her letters.
Roman stared. “That is all?”
She was not going to smile. “What else would you like me to say?”
“I…I do not know.”
This time she did smile, just a little.
His expression altered. His lips twitched as he heard it himself. He did not laugh, but he leaned back and watched her with that faint tilt of his head. He was pleased again.