Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
The evening had been arranged, as these evenings always were, with the precision of a siege. Every guest placed, every conversation anticipated, every smile deployed at exactly the right moment. Roman had attended enough of the Lord Mayor’s dinners to move through the mechanics without thought.
He arrived already tired.
Not visibly. He was dressed correctly, spoke to the right people in the expensively furnished drawing room, and accepted a glass of something he did not intend to drink, choosing instead to carry the glass through the room the way an actor carried a prop.
After nearly being drugged a short time ago, he was reluctant to put anything to his lips he or one of his servants did not pour themselves.
His political rival, Patchett, had tried to discredit Roman with a minor scandal, hoping to make him appear intoxicated at an important event during Race Week.
Roman had accepted a glass from an unknown hand, then handed it to a distressed lady, and it was she who had suffered the ill-effects and life-altering gossip.
The weariness of his soul had little to do with the vigilance he must keep, nor was it the fault of his proposal to Miss Mayweather. Of that he was certain. Explaining his plans to his mother, on the other hand, and arranging the public announcement, had given him a headache.
Lord Mayor Isaac Spencer, a man with great political acumen he hid well behind a jovial spirit, bowed as Roman approached.
“Ah, one of York’s finest sons. Lord Hartwell, welcome to our home yet again.
It is a magnificent evening, is it not? So many of our leading citizens present. My dear wife has outdone herself.”
Lady Spencer, elegantly graying and one of York’s most sophisticated matriarchs, rested her hand lightly on Roman’s arm. “Lord Hartwell, it is wonderful to see you here this evening. I was saddened that your mother could not join us.”
His mother had quietly stepped back from more and more of the duties of a baroness in the last five years, perhaps due to her own need for solitude and restful evenings. Soon it would be Tamsin who accompanied Roman to such events.
The reflection made his response a touch delayed. “I thank you, Lady Spencer. I will tell my mother you missed her, I am certain she wishes she was here this evening.”
“She is a good friend.” Lady Spencer withdrew her hand. “How is your brother? All of York is anticipating his Christmas wedding. Mr. Eastwood’s bride is a lovely creature. I have only had the pleasure of meeting her twice but I hope we see more of her soon, too.”
Unlikely, given what Roman knew of both his brother and future sister-in-law. They much preferred quiet evenings at home with a book between them than at parties and dinners with politicians.
“Our family is delighted to have Lady Emily joining us,” he said with true sincerity, before excusing himself to let the next guest speak to the hosting couple.
What would they think when he announced his own impending wedding? A quick, practical exchange of vows designed to make things efficient might garner raised eyebrows here and there. No one who knew him well would be surprised in the least.
Roman took in the other guests scattered in the large room, mingling and speaking in hushed tones before the meal. Political allies and rivals alike measured each other from one corner to the next, though most were cordial, despite their differing views on matters of economy and law.
He tried to ignore Victor Patchett near the fireplace, speaking with Alderman Cross. Patchett, the man who had attempted to drug Roman, certainly acted the part of an honorable man. Roman knew better, as did his friends.
Unfortunately, many of his closest friends were not present, though there were other Whig party members with whom he had respectable political relationships.
He passed the time with them, until dinner was served and proceeded as it always did in such gatherings: with a great deal of noise adding up to very little.
The discussions circled the same arguments as they did in any political parlor across England: the Marriage Act Amendment causing more confusion than clarity; Canning’s appointment; someone’s opinion of the improvements on the London road, offered with the confidence of a man who had never laid a square paver, let alone a road.
Roman contributed at measured intervals—enough to be present, not enough to be exposed to anyone watching for weakness—and found himself thinking, not for the first time, how thoroughly he had learned to perform interest he did not feel.
He was not bored, precisely. He was something more specific than bored.
He was tired of being good at this.
And he wished there was someone to talk to about all of it. Someone on his side, who did not have an agenda. Someone like Tamsin Mayweather…
The woman he had proposed to that afternoon had laughed at a joke about bread passed between windows and put her hand flat against an ancient wall with wonder in her eyes.
She had asked him practical questions before agreeing to marry him.
She had not performed a single thing in his presence.
Every moment she had seemed genuine in her humor and curiosity.
She had intelligence, too, matching him in observation and commentary—most unusual.
He was not certain he knew what to do with that yet. He set it aside and listened to someone’s opinion of the need for more bridges along the Ouse, a thing he did not yet see a need for.
“If we want our city to grow,” one of the aldermen said across from Roman, “we need more room for more modern conveyances. We are forever coming to choking points in the city where it is difficult for three horses to walk abreast of each other, let alone more than one narrow wagon or carriage.”
Another call to modernize the streets, ripping apart the fabric of the city. Roman nearly sighed aloud.
Patchett spoke from three seats away, his tone authoritative and charming.
“On that matter, we are agreed. In fact, I am most pleased to announce the Corporation committee has submitted its report.” He glanced around, not to Roman specifically.
That was the tell—the slight expansion of Patchett’s attention to include the room, so that whatever came next would put him center stage.
“The improvement of the city’s gate structures.
The committee has moved to put a vote of principle to the full Corporation in November. ”
A slight murmur rose, though Roman focused on nothing but Patchett’s smug little smirk.
“We are moving for their demolition—beginning with Micklegate Bar.” Patchett lifted his wine glass to his lips before adding, “And the others following after, as the committee recommends.”
Demolition.
Roman set down his glass.
It was a gesture of such normalcy, no one would even note it. He had set down glasses in this room for ten years and knew what complete steadiness looked like. He was a model of steadiness.
“I have not heard a word about this,” Mr. William Vernon-Harcourt, a clergyman and son of the Archbishop of York, spoke from across the table.
“Surely this is not a matter for the city to decide without more engagement from the community itself, and the primary families of York—perhaps even the Royal Family. There is much more to the barbicans than whatever inconvenience you believe they cause. They are part of our city’s great history. ”
“Ancient history, Reverend Vernon-Harcourt?” Patchett shook his head. “I am much more interested in the continued progress of our city’s future. One would think a man of your own political and scientific mind would agree with such a thing.”
Roman felt the eyes of others land on him. All at the table knew his stance on the history of York. He held it as something approaching sacred, to preserve the buildings and beauty of the ancient city.
“I agree with the Reverend.” He nodded to Vernon-Harcourt, a man similar to him in age but with vastly different life experience, as a former naval man and now a recognized man of science.
“There are some things in this city that belong to everyone, and a single committee, even the Corporation itself, should not have final say when it comes to our heritage.”
“The committee’s been thorough, the vote will be in November,” Patchett snapped. “What would you propose? A city-wide vote?” He chuckled. “The citizens and masses who make up the census records are not qualified to decide such matters. They lack the education and understanding.”
“Which means it is up to those who represent the people to educate and ensure all points of view are heard before making such sweeping decisions,” Roman argued, fingers steepled together before him.
The table was mostly silent, until the Lord Mayor cleared his throat from the head seat.
“Such passionate views. It is a good thing our city has so many looking out for its best interest and future prosperity. Perhaps you will read the brief the committee prepared, Lord Hartwell. I will have a copy sent to your home in the morning, if you wish.”
A dinner party full of people who would benefit from demolishing old structures was hardly the place to win friends or make his point.
Roman gave a nod to his host. “I certainly accept your offer, sir. I look forward to seeing what the committee has put together.” Though he doubted their argument was compelling for any reason other than financial.
The conversation at the table moved on. Patchett watched him a few moments longer, but he stared back at him steadily until the other man looked away.