Chapter 10 #2
But Roman Eastwood did not startle her with a wild dash down the road. He gave the horses gentle enough direction, and they clipped along at a steady, unhurried pace.
“I am pleased you agreed to this outing,” he said as they left the cottage behind. “I confess, I was uncertain you felt you knew me well enough to spend an hour in my company alone. We have not made much conversation between the two of us yet.”
“No, I do not suppose we have.” Emily put effort into keeping her tone pleasant and light.
“I am thankful for the invitation. York is such a delightful town, and it seems I learn of some new piece of history every time I walk down its streets. I admit, after my conversation with your mother on the New Walk, I thought it more likely she would be the one to give me such a tour.”
With the mid-afternoon sunlight warming her shoulders, and a cheerful breeze at her back, there was really no reason why she could not enjoy herself. When people passed the gig, they always nodded politely or called out a greeting to Lord Hartwell. He was well known, it seemed, and liked.
A woman could do much worse.
“My mother loves this city as much, if not more, than I do,” he said with fondness, and he almost smiled, too.
Or she thought he had. At least his eyes were bright with merriment.
Perhaps Jack liked him so much because neither of them smiled all that often.
“But my mother also prefers gardening to gossip, and what is history, but ancient gossip and fact twisted around each other?”
That startled a laugh from her. “Is your tour to be full of fact or fiction, my lord?”
“Yes to both,” he answered, his head tilted slightly to one side as he looked at her. “How can we know what is fact, hear say, or rumor if we were not there?”
“I suppose that would be difficult, without multiple witnesses sharing the same details of the story,” she said, surprised that he had spoken with more lightness than usual.
Lord Hartwell cleared his throat. “Ahem. But I will do my best to impart only the most interesting information to you, my lady, that is generally accepted as fact. At least among those of us who love the old city. We will begin, of course, at the eye of the city. Clifford’s Tower.”
The tower he named had been in position for hundreds of years. Not the exact one that stood at present, he explained, as the whole thing had been torn down and rebuilt several times.
“It is an impressive piece of York Castle, and once it was the heart of the city’s defenses.
The Normans built it soon after the Conquest, on a man-made mound—steep and surrounded by a moat in its day.
The tower itself is an odd shape, formed from four connected circles. On maps, it looks like a quatrefoil.”
She winced slightly. “I am afraid I do not know what that is, my lord.”
“They are everywhere in medieval architecture,” he explained, slowing the horses to a stop. “Here. Make two circles with your hands, like this.” He demonstrated, curving forefinger to touch thumb in a circle. “Now, make them touch. Good. Here are mine on either side.”
Emily was grateful for their gloves as they created the shape, which still took her a moment to place.
The awkwardness of the touch did not escape her, slight as it was.
Why could she not feel a rush of affection?
A blush from the brush of their hands? A flutter of her heart?
But nothing stirred within her except vague interest in the subject they discussed.
“Oh. Yes. I have seen this shape in churches. I did not think to ever give it a name, though.”
“I am, perhaps, focusing on irrelevant details.” His brow furrowed.
“Not at all.” He certainly was, but she tried her best to smile politely. “You obviously know a great deal about the city. And architecture.”
That compliment seemed to cheer him, as he continued his explanation with more exuberance.
“That mound the tower stands upon was originally much steeper, with a drawbridge leading up to the entrance. Inside, the lower floor served the soldiers, and the upper rooms were for the castellan and chapel. The walls are almost nine feet thick in places—solid enough to have withstood centuries of neglect. As you can see. If you would like, I could one day arrange for a tour of the inside.”
“Oh. That would be something.” She looked at the ruins with hesitation. “Is it safe?”
“Completely safe. Though the tower has been through quite a bit. Fires, sieges, executions, and even time as a prison. Inside you can still find the royal arms of Charles the Second above the entrance, right beside the Clifford family crest—hence the name.” His eyes took in the sight, attention fully on the lone tower.
“The rest of the old castle is not as impressive. Henry the Eighth’s survey called it ‘five ruinous towers,’ which seems generous.
Clifford’s Tower is the last of the taller towers to stand watch.
From up there, you can see the Foss and Ouse Rivers and half of York besides.
It is not a bad view—though I wouldn’t envy anyone who once had to defend it. ”
She looked at the tower with some measure of appreciation. “It is alarming, at times, how very old the world in which we live can feel. It makes me think myself quite small.”
“Really? I find it exhilarating, to be a piece of a long history,” he said, driving them onward.
Had she mis-stepped in sharing her own feelings? He passed over them so quickly, she could not be certain. She fixed her smile in place again, adjusted her posture, and kept her eyes ahead of her while he told her of the city.
He singled out other smaller places of note, where a person of historical significance was said to have slept or done business, until they reached a street where he gestured at a large building that looked as old as the kingdom itself.
“The Merchant Adventurers Hall, standing since the time of Queen Elizabeth.” He pointed to the long, timber-and-thatch structure with as much pride as though he had built it himself. “A building that has stood the test of time, and is still used for its original purpose. Mostly.”
“It is rather impressive,” she admitted, and thoroughly wished she knew more about Queen Elizabeth. Or buildings. Or anything, really, that seemed to excite the man at her side.
Next it was the Shambles, where she covered her nose with her handkerchief.
“All the butchers, tanners, and those whose crafts connect to theirs, have been along this little alley since the city was built. Look at the structures at the top. There are two houses down at the end where you could shake the hand of your neighbor across the way, reaching out of an upstairs window.”
“It is quite narrow,” she said, and felt her stomach turn slightly.
“And butchers have always had their business there?” she asked weakly.
Though she had not thought herself one to have a sensitive stomach, the sight of blood going down the lane and into the gutter at that very moment made her wince.
The smell was potent, too. “Convenient. That they all are in one place.”
He glanced at her, then looked again, and his expression changed more dramatically than she had seen thus far. He went from pleasantly neutral in expression to stoically concerned, given the furrow of his brow and downturn of his lips. He leaned toward her.
“Are you unwell, Lady Emily?” He moved the horses along. “I did not think—I apologize. I forget that there are those of a more delicate constitution than myself. I become fascinated by the history and forget the sensations of the moment.”
She waved her hand a little. “It will pass. I do not usually possess such sensitivity. Perhaps it is the excitement of the afternoon.” Emily felt her cheeks warm from the falsehood.
She had not felt any measure of excitement.
Not even once. Gratitude, perhaps, and vague interest. But that was the best she could say for it.
In all honesty, she felt somewhat stupid for not knowing enough history to follow some of the stories he told.
“Right. If you think you are well enough, I thought we would continue to the Minster?” He sounded uncertain now.
“Oh. Yes. The Minster,” she said quickly. “A beautiful, marvelous place. I have been only once, for Sunday services, with my brother and sister-in-law during my first week in York.”
He nodded slowly. “My family attends there as often as we can,” he said softly. “Though there are many, many churches in York to choose from. Some only go to whatever building is closest, but…yes. I have been to nearly all of them.” He faced forward again, and they arrived at the Minster Yard.
“Here we are. The most beautiful place in York.” His voice softened as they drew up before the cathedral, but his whole posture seemed to come alight. The reins slackened in his hands.
For a long moment, they sat and looked up at the spectacular building.
“It always gives me a sense of great awe,” Lord Hartwell said at last, “to look on something this large, beautiful, and complex, and know that it was built centuries ago with tools and contrivances that we would now consider quaint.”
She let her eyes linger on the building’s fine structure, the sweeps of it, and a reverence for such faith-inspired work made her feel, for the first time since climbing into the gig, a sense of peace.
Lord Hartwell spoke quietly as he said, “York Minster. It’s been standing in one form or another for nearly a thousand years, they say.
The earliest church here was wooden, according to old records, built for the baptism of a Saxon king.
The present Minster took centuries to complete—every generation adding its own mark until they finally called it finished in the fifteenth century.
Though of course, no one ever truly finishes a cathedral; they only pause between repairs.
” The corners of his mouth twitched as though he wanted to smile.
She smiled for him. It was a clever quip. A sign of humor in an otherwise serious man. Did he never laugh? She had not heard him emit such a sound.
“Look at it,” he went on, voice full of awe.
“The windows alone could humble a man. The great east window is the largest expanse of medieval stained glass in the Kingdom. Perhaps in all of Europe, though Rome may have something to say to that. They say the sunlight shining through it can make even a heathen feel devout for a moment.”
It was the most heartfelt thing she had heard him say, and she found herself watching him instead of the building. What else inspired a man such as he? And did he ever look at people, at anyone at all, the way he stared at the landmarks of his beloved city?
He cleared his throat and looked down at the ribbons in his hand.
He gave them a shake and the horses started moving once more.
“The towers rise two hundred and twenty-five feet above the street, and the bells can be heard for miles. If you stand close enough on a still morning, you can feel the sound in your chest. It’s difficult not to be impressed, really.
The people of York may quarrel over politics or the price of wheat, but on this, at least, they agree—the Minster belongs to everyone. ”
Turning the gig toward the edge of town, he maneuvered the horses and vehicle through the half-crowded streets with the ease of a man who had navigated them all his life.
“We did not see everything, of course,” he said as they crossed a bridge over the River Ouse, going southwest toward her brother’s home. “But I have lived here my whole life and still find new things to enjoy about my city.”
“I do not think I have ever met someone who loves the place he lives as much as you do, my lord,” she admitted.
He winced slightly, and she wondered if she had said something wrong. “I am rather zealous in my devotion to her. I cannot explain why, exactly. But yes. York is dear to me, in heart and mind. I would stand on its walls this very moment, if necessary, to protect her.”
She could not think of much to say to that, though she found it admirable. It was noble, that sort of loyalty. But she suspected she would have spent the same night tending the wounded rather than defending the stones.
Emily let the silence stretch between them for a time, and when they finally passed out into the countryside, where birdsong met her ears, she felt some of the tension in her hands ease. She did not grip the strings of her reticule as tightly.
She also found a new topic of conversation to introduce. “My brother is looking forward to the races next week. I imagine those are important to the city. The merchants must do a vast deal of trade, and the inns are likely all full to bursting.”
“Most years, yes,” he said, brow furrowed.
Had she said something wrong again?
“There are some that say the races are less popular now than they were a decade ago, but I wonder if it is only old men thinking everything was better in their youth.” He shook his head slightly.
“We will see. The Duke of Sussex often attends, with many of his friends, and that is always a boon for York. Members of the Royal Family tend to scatter their wealth liberally when seeking entertainment.” He blinked and looked at her with sudden shock.
“I beg your pardon. I should not discuss such matters with you, my lady. They are dull indeed. Conversations about the economy cannot be of any interest. You asked about the races.”
She had not minded in the least. It had sounded interesting. But she adjusted her posture. “I understand there will be a ball?”
“Yes. On Wednesday. I hope you plan to attend.” Then he cleared his throat. “And I should like to invite your family to join mine in the Grandstand. We always watch from the second tier. I would enjoy your company during the races.”
“I am certain my brother will know which day would be best for such a thing,” she said without committing herself.
And that was the end of the conversation, as they had arrived at her brother’s house.
He handed her out of the gig, tipped his hat as she curtsied, and then he was gone the moment she closed the door behind her.
She leaned against it and sighed with relief.
He was everything Jack admired, everything a practical woman could want—and nothing about him made her curiosity stir. Her heart was completely unaffected.