Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
The private dining room in Etridge’s Royal Hotel, well-appointed with a view of Blakestreet broad windows for natural light, served the York Whig Club well. It was a perfect place for their larger meetings.
Lyness had no notion why the hotel had been chosen years ago as headquarters for the Whigs in favor of reform, but he dutifully attended with Roman whenever he was asked. Even if his mind was on other matters.
The evening of the dinner party had ended as most events did, with Roman at the fore, Mother satisfied, the company diverted, and Lyness precisely where no one would trip over him.
He had liked being in the garden with Lady Emily better.
Besides the quiet, he had enjoyed their discovery of shared pleasures.
But when Roman had appeared, Lyness followed the old, familiar pattern: withdraw, tidy the edges, let the plans of others resume.
It was no tragedy. It was order. Still, as the guests debated charades versus dancing and the lamps glowed softly, he caught himself listening for her laugh.
But he heard only the scrape of chairs, the voices of everyone else, the cheer of the company and not her individual mirth.
“It will do you good to be seen,” Roman said as he joined Lyness at the window, bringing him back to the present moment in the hotel.
Roman had lately made himself a favorite subject of the York Gazette, and not for his tailoring.
His habit of paying printers to publish essays on reform delighted some and unsettled others, which meant Lyness sometimes could not tell whether the smiles greeting them at such meetings were friendly or assessing.
Though weary from the previous evening and his thoughts, Lyness nodded. As loyally as ever. He would be useful, as he and Lady Emily had discussed. Wherever Roman required him. That, at least, he knew how to be.
Sir George Cayley, baronet and inventor of flying machines no one yet believed in, presided at the head of the table. At eight-and-forty, he was older than most present, and the rarest guest: their president in person.
Lyness liked Sir George a great deal, and he knew Roman admired the man’s scientific mind. But Sir George lived thirty miles from York, which meant his attendance at any such events was rare. It left more work to people such as Roman to motivate the club members into action.
He was also, everyone knew, more middle-of-the-road than a true champion of reform.
Not long ago, one of his remarks on the matter had been published in the paper.
“I am as firm a defender of the crown and the aristocracy in their proper spheres as I am a determined enemy to all encroachments upon commoners.”
Many in the club felt no man could be both.
Yet the statement had drawn more moderates to their numbers, leaving Roman with the headache of feeling both gratitude and despair in equal proportions.
Which meant Lyness, of course, had spent a few weeks cheering his brother up and taking up more duties with the estate’s management.
This day did not seem as though it would have any particularly divisive topics shared. Roman was in his element, too. Talking trade, the Corn Laws, Catholic emancipation, and the upcoming York Races with practiced ease.
Lyness watched from his chair at the other end of the table from his brother, admiring him.
Wondering how one brother commanded the attention of others so easily while the other could not even command his own tongue.
Roman could speak for five minutes on any subject and convince a room he’d been born to lead the cause.
Admirable as Roman’s abilities were, there were moments that Lyness wished things were different.
He loved his brother, of course. Lyness supported Roman’s political ambitions, and worked to maintain their shared heritage.
Roman would have made their father proud.
But Roman was, at times, so busy looking after everything except his own interests.
He treated the city as though it were his life’s blood, trying to preserve every historical structure and make all the arrangement, personally, for the continued prosperity of York.
The growth of his party was his second greatest concern.
It was no wonder he had put off marriage as long as he had.
He was practically married to the medieval stones of the walls and minster.
And that made Lyness worry for how his brother’s heart measured happiness.
The talk was spirited. Lyness did his best to keep track of who said what and who remained silent, the better to help Roman go over the relative success of the evening at a later time. This was one of his duties, though it had never been asked for by his brother.
It was Mr. Cooke, the only other man over forty-five present, who appeared cross that evening. He was irritable and grew more so as the rest of the party turned more cheerful. This Lyness watched with interest until Cooke himself stood to gain attention.
“While all this is very good, to discuss the things we have in common as though they are all that matter, we ought to give more attention to the upcoming races. For one thing, Lord Hartwell, there is talk the Conservatives mean to paint you and your circle of close friends—young members of the gentry and nobility both—as radicals. They say you have made enemies in the Church and are too cozy with the more radical progressives.”
Roman kept his neutral expression as calm as ever, and he leaned back in his chair as though this troubled him not a whit. “Let them talk. I have no interest in their mudslinging or musings. York has better things to concern itself with than unfounded claims.”
“Indifference is a luxury,” Cooke retorted. “They will print it all the same, and half the county will believe you have taken up arms with the radicals.”
“Words, not arms,” Roman said. “If they mistake one for the other, it says more of them than me.”
“What of the committee Mr. Walter Fawkes means to establish, during Race Week itself?” Phineas Nelson, also present with his older brother, asked from mid-way down the table. “He hopes to bring in more people to his committee precisely because of the races.”
“Fawkes is more concerned with his bid to be High Sheriff of Yorkshire,” Roman said with a coolness of tone that immediately stilled the room.
“He has served well as Yorkshire’s former M.P.
, but he has little interest in anything beyond his breeding of cattle and patronage to the arts.
He is too tired to lead. And what is more, he plans to only invite those who are gentlemen or of higher rank.
Which is completely the opposite of what we wish. ”
Lyness felt brief unease at his brother’s easy dismissal of a man many knew had played a prominent part in ending the slave trade.
Fawkes was not a loud man, but he held much respect in the county.
And if his committee drew members of rank from the Whig Club, it could cause trouble for the future of their party.
Sir George gave a long sigh from his place at the head of the table.
It was almost the first sound he had made since the conversation began in earnest. “Though we do need younger men such as yourself, Lord Hartwell, to lead the cause, it will not do to alienate more established men of greater reputation. You will forgive me for saying it, but you have yet to prove yourself outside of our fair city.”
That made Lyness wince, and he saw the slight tick at Roman’s jaw that meant the baron gritted his teeth against making a sharp response.
“We have invited Prince Augustus Frederick, Duke of Sussex, to lead our dinner during the race week,” Roman reminded everyone present.
“He has yet to accept the invitation, but I am certain he will agree. He presided over the Norwich Fox Dinner two years ago, and he is sympathetic to our cause. Having a brother of our king in attendance will bring all the respectability we need.”
Lyness considered, for a moment, mentioning his own misgivings about that endeavor. The press for the York Whig Club had not been favorable of late. He kept up with the London papers, and they were hardly mentioned there except with the written equivalent of a smirk.
He did not wish to appear to undermine Roman, however, and so he was relieved when someone else voiced his question.
“What if the Duke of Sussex declines the invitation?” Mr. Thaddeus Nelson asked, eyes steady on Roman. “What then?”
For a moment, all were silent, waiting for an answer. Looking between their president, Sir George and Roman, their most vocal leader.
Finally, Sir George answered, “We will reschedule the dinner, of course, to a time that is more conducive to speaking as a collective body. Perhaps putting it around that the races were too much a distraction from our goals at the present time.”
The tension in the room did not exactly dissolve, but a few tight nods made it possible to at least move forward in the conversation.
“The festivities during Race Week,” Archibald Kettleburn said, hands steepled together before him, “are of concern to me. Not merely because I have horses racing, as you all know.”
Good natured groans followed that statement. Archibald waved a hand to silence them, but with good humor, before he continued.
“It is a time when all our most prominent members will be in town. Gambling. Attending political meetings. Entertainments. I think it important that we stress keeping all our behavior above board. We are already reported in the papers as a club falling into disrepute.”
“Only because we have common men as members,” Sir George said with a huff. “A man doing an honest day’s labor ought not be seen as disreputable. Quite the opposite.”
“Nevertheless,” Kettleburn continued, “if one of our most distinguished members should bring undo attention to himself, we may find the papers are more antagonistic than usual toward us. Can we at least voice the warning to our membership this evening, Sir George?”
That was not something Lyness had considered. Thankfully, he had nothing to worry about in Roman or himself. They were committed to upholding the family name in honor, doing all in their power not to summon the ire of good Society.
“We will say something,” Sir George promised with a brief nod. “It will not go amiss to remind our men to be on their best behavior.”
A gentleman on Lyness’s other side turned to him with eyebrows raised. “You have been quiet all evening, Mr. Eastwood. You are one of the most level-headed members of our club. Have you anything to add?”
“Silence should not always be taken as good sense,” Lyness said, trying for levity. This was not his sphere of expertise. “If you must know, I am considering how much to bet against Kettleburn’s horses come Race Week.”
Several of the others laughed, and even Roman nearly smiled at that. They had done a great deal of talking without making any decisions. Other than reminding an assembly of men to behave themselves, as though they were schoolboys let out on holiday for a picnic.
“I, for one, would rather speak of pleasanter things. Like the ball on Wednesday of Race Week,” another younger, unmarried man said. “The loveliest ladies in the county and outside of it will be present.”
“Ah, and speaking of fair ladies,” Phineas said suddenly, turning to Roman. “Rumor has it, Hartwell, that you are entering the marriage mart.”
Immediately, Lyness went stiff and still as a statue, hand tightening on his glass.
Roman shook his head in calm denial. “You should know better than to trust to rumor. And I would prefer not to have my private affairs discussed. But if it will satisfy the curiosity I can see come alive in all of you, I admit that I do mean to invite a certain lady to join me on an outing tomorrow.”
The table hummed with amusement and curiosity.
But for Lyness, the words struck like a blow—he froze, his glass of wine half raised to his lips.
Some asked which lady, but Lyness already knew. Of course, Roman had not given up the idea of courting Lady Emily. Why had Lyness ever thought that he would? As the men’s laughter and conversation dwindled, Lyness withdrew slightly, half-listening, his gaze on the fire.
“I heard she has a handsome marriage portion,” Kettleburn murmured, arms crossed over his chest. “I have yet to meet her myself. Though her brother is a good chap.”
“Lady Emily Sterling is deserving of better than to be discussed by us,” Thaddeus said with a small shake of his head. “I would not wish my sisters speculated about in a room full of men who do not know them. We ought to limit our subjects to matters we know more about.”
“You would have us sit in silence, then?” his brother Phineas quipped.
That brought about more laughter, but the conversation moved along.
Lyness sat quietly, berating himself. He should have acted sooner.
But if Roman made known to Lady Emily that he wished to court her, it would be a betrayal for Lyness to ask the same.
And Roman needed someone steady and calm, someone kind and thoughtful, as his wife.
Lady Emily would certainly suit. And their mother would delight in teaching her how to be a leader in York society.
He had come to the meeting keep his brother company, supportive as always—and would leave with the uncomfortable certainty that he’d lost his own peace in the process.