Lord Hartwell's Refuge: Limited Availability

York, England

October 1822

The walls of York, though not the easiest to traverse, circled the old city as though it still had need of defense against the king’s enemies. Roman Eastwood, titled Baron Hartwell, stood on the northern wall, staring over its stone and into the distant hills. 

How many of his ancestors had stood in this spot, or near it, looking out over the same landscape? What were their troubles and hopes? They certainly could not have imagined what the city or the kingdom had become. New merchant houses stood alongside historic buildings, and the clamor of trade reached even these elevated heights—evidence of York’s prosperous markets. Cobblestone streets were bustling, not just with the local gentry but also with visitors from afar, who had heard of the city’s growth and grand social events. And if it were up to Roman, the city would continue to flourish and grow upon the foundations built by those who had come before. 

A scuff on one side had him turning to see a gentleman coming toward him, holding the hand of a little boy. Both wore black, in mourning, but the child practically skipped alongside his father. 

“The soldiers would stand all along the top here, wouldn’t they, Papa?” the boy said. 

The father glanced up, making eye contact with Roman, a glimmer in his eyes as he said, “Indeed, they would. The longbowmen, envied by the kings of Europe, would have stood here to defend the city from Scottish raids.” He tipped his head to Roman as they passed, a polite acknowledgement between strangers. 

Roman returned the gesture, touching the brim of his hat. 

“Longbowmen? Will I learn how to shoot a bow?” the boy asked, hardly aware of the stranger who watched them pass.

As they walked on, Roman turned back to the wall. He ran a hand over the stone, worn smooth by weather and time, then looked farther down the wall where small sections had crumbled or fallen into disrepair. He shook his head. Other English cities had followed London’s example and dismantled their ancient walls, claiming they were relics of the past. But the people of York had stood firm. They would keep the walls their ancestors had labored to build and defend. 

Just as Roman would keep his own defenses raised, and his family and home protected. 

The boy and man came to one of those sections, and they carefully climbed down the hill-like bank, making their way back to the street. Holding hands. The father’s head titled as he continued to listen to his child’s bright conversation. 

More than twenty years ago, Roman had navigated the wall holding his father’s hand. Then later, his father took both Roman and his brother, Lyness, along the walls as the late baron spoke of their history. The War of Roses. The assault of Scottish raiders. The history of the Romans building the first walls and leaving them behind for the people of York to reinforce and rebuild as needed. 

“The history of our city is protected and represented by these walls,” his father had said many times to both his sons.

Roman had listened and believed it. “I will continue to protect it, Father,” he murmured to the memory, laying a gloved hand against the gray stone. “York’s walls will not fall under my watch.”

A bark from below pulled his gaze away from stone to inside the wall where his carriage waited. The groom held the leashes of Apollo and Athena, German boarhounds staring up at him. As though they could not understand why he would leave them below, when they were nearly always by his side or his brother’s.

But Lyness had not kept them company as often of late. He was far too busy courting his bride-to-be, with their wedding set for December. The city walls might remain the same, but Roman’s life was changing more with each passing day. 

He strode across the twenty feet of maintained wall to the stairway, protected by a small tower, going back down to ground level. He paused at the top of the steps and moved aside for an elderly gentleman and his wife as the two slowly climbed upward, likely to take in the view for themselves. 

Were they only visiting? Perhaps they had climbed the walls a thousand times, always arm in arm. Roman watched as they passed him by, the gentleman nodding to him, and he felt a moment of envy. Not long ago, he’d decided it high time to marry. But the woman he had most recently chosen would be wife to his brother. Not him.

“And rightly so,” he muttered aloud, going down the stone steps.

His pride had been stung when Lady Emily revealed she loved his brother, even though he understood. Exactly as he had when a duke’s daughter chose another man. And an earl’s sister told him she could not see them getting on together well enough to wed. 

The baron held no ill will toward any of them. Each lady did what she thought best, as he must do for himself. Which meant finding another lady and trying again.

A child’s delighted laughter met his ears as he came out onto the street, and he heard the same voice squeal, “They are giants!”

A moment later he saw his dogs sitting, perfectly behaved, on either side of the groom but both their heads turned to look at a little boy coming toward them in a rush. He did not jump at them, thankfully, but he stopped directly in front of Apollo and stared up at the dog with wonder. 

“May I pet them?” he asked the groom, who had not moved an inch. 

“Henry! Henry, stop. Please.” A woman was hurrying along the path, one hand holding her bonnet to her head, the other gripping a basket. She was dressed in a rather somber brown gown and coat. Perhaps a governess or nursemaid? The lad was wearing finer clothing. 

Roman had come close enough to raise his voice. “It is all right, Jones,” he called to his groom. “Let the lad bid them good morning.”

The boy looked over his shoulder to beam at Roman, then politely held his hand out to Apollo. The large boarhound snuffled at the boy’s hand, then bent to receive his pat on the head and a scratch behind his large ears. 

Apollo and Athena, a mated pair, were a marvel to most who met them, merely because of their size. Roman loved them because they had the courage and loyalty to match, and he would not trade them for any earthly treasure. 

The woman had arrived, out of breath. She made eye contact with Roman, deep brown eyes large and bright from her run, then quickly dropped a curtsy. “Thank you, Lord Hartwell. Henry has a great love of animals, of all shapes and sizes.” Her cheeks were quite pink from her run, which he found somewhat charming. 

The boy nodded enthusiastically. “It is true, sir, but I have never seen dogs of this size. I almost thought them tigers from far away. What are they?” Apollo had pressed his head against the boy’s shoulder to better enjoy the attention of the child. 

Athena watched her mate with her head tipped to the side, then tentatively sniffed at the gloved hand of the boy’s minder, which she had stretched out to the dog.

He did not wonder how the woman knew him on sight. He was one of York’s most public figures. He had no notion who she or the boy might be, however, and it would be rude to force an introduction. Even if they were giving attention to his dogs.

“They are German boarhounds. I found them on a visit to Berlin, Prussia, where they and their ancestors before them were raised to hunt deer and boar alike. They are Apollo and Athena.” He watched from the corner of his eye as the woman gently scratched between Athena’s ears, the female dog politely tipping her head to allow it.

“I like them,” Henry said with the confidence of a happy child. 

The woman gently placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “They are charming creatures. Henry, we must be on our way. Thank Lord Hartwell for his time, please.”

The boy sighed but immediately obeyed, offering Roman a bow. “Thank you, Lord Hartwell, for letting me meet your dogs.” He looked up at the woman. “I must go now, as I have another appointment to keep.”

Roman raised his eyebrows at the sudden formality, and glanced at his caretaker with a lift of his brows. He found her fighting back a smile, her dark eyes glittering with amusement. She curtsied again, adding her own murmured thanks, then went on her way with the boy. 

He watched them a moment, as did the dogs, and heard the child say, “Did I do well, Tamsin? Was I a gentleman?”

“Yes, you were. Next time, though, we ought not run up on strange animals….” Her voice faded as they turned a corner on the path, disappearing from sight. 

The boy had used the woman’s name. It sounded like a given name, though one he was not familiar with. He hadn’t called her nurse or “Miss” anything. That suggestion a familial relationship. 

“Jones,” Roman said, looking to his groom. “Find out who they were, will you?” He was curious enough to wonder about a boy who had approached his dogs with wonder and the woman who had given her silent attention to Athena. 

“Yes, my lord,” the young groom said. It was an easy enough matter for a servant to find out such things with a few questions placed in shops. Roman had never known such a simple inquiry to produce no results. 

He gave the word for the dogs’ release, and they pranced energetically around him before circling to the rear of the carriage to follow it through the city. With a final look at the ancient walls, Roman stepped into the conveyance, the scent of worn leather greeting him as the carriage trundled down the cobblestone streets towards No. 12 Castlegate.

As they turned a final corner, the carriage jolted gently and Roman caught sight of his residence—Hartwell House. A grandeur manifested in brick and mortar, with its symmetrical facade and elegant windows that peeked out like eyes watching over the narrow street below. Roman’s chest swelled with a sense of pride; this house was a testament to his family’s history in the city he loved above all else.

The carriage pulled to a stop, and Roman stepped out, Apollo and Athena bounding ahead of him towards the home they knew well. As the heavy front door closed behind him, Roman felt the familiar shift in the air—cooler, more refined, like the interior of a well-kept library. The entryway was a world of marble and intricate wooden carvings, portraying scenes from Greek mythology that had fascinated him most during his education.

He moved past an ornate long-case clock that chimed the hour—a solemn tolling that shifted his thoughts again. He had returned to his sanctuary, yet he couldn’t escape the subtle pricking at the edges of his consciousness, a reminder that despite the walls he had built around his life and heart, something was missing.

“Roman, here you are at last,” a cheerful voice greeted from above. He looked up to see his mother on the landing, one of her hands on Athena’s head. “Where have you been all day? The house is far too quiet with you away, and Lyness visiting Lady Emily, and not even the dogs for company.”

The footman took his hat, gloves, and coat. Then wordlessly bowed and went on his way. 

“Where is your little lap-creature?” Roman asked, coming up the steps. “The over-sized mouse. What is it we call her? Ah. Yes. Princessa.” He couldn’t resist teasing his mother about her beloved dog, the tiniest ball of fluff he had been able to find. A Pomeranian, a breed English ladies had latched onto when Queen Charlotte was seen with her own. The royal kennels were reportedly full of the creatures, in various sizes and colors. 

“Princessa is ten years old,” his mother said as she tilted her cheek for him to kiss her in greeting. “She requires frequent naps. The poor thing is in her dotage. So you see, I am quite alone here and have need of a companion. If it will not be you, Lyness, or your dogs, I must ask for additional consideration.”

He followed her into the music room. “I am quite certain this is the beginning of another well-meant lecture on the topic of wife-finding.”

“Not a lecture,” his mother said, settling into the chair nearest the window. “Merely an observation. Several observations, perhaps, but none of them lectures.” She smoothed her skirts and looked at him, wearing a mild expression he had long since learned to distrust. “You have been very quiet lately.”

“I am often quiet.”

“You are often contained. That is different.” She tilted her head toward the window, where the last of the season’s roses had been pruned away. She regarded the garden for a moment as though resigned. As though she watched the departure of a beloved friend rather than the dormancy of her garden. “I have written to Mr. Fenwick about cutting them back properly before the first frost. He assures me he knows what he is about, but then he always does, and yet every spring I find myself wondering if there is a better way to go about it.”

A basket near the fire held her little dog, whose snores were as miniature as the rest of her.

Roman sat across from her. “The roses are well enough.”

“The roses are finished for the year,” she said pleasantly, “which is exactly my point.” She looked back at him, eyes bright. “The assembly rooms will be thin of company soon. Everyone retreating to their estates, or to Bath, or to wherever it is people go when they have decided York has nothing left to offer them for the autumn.” Here she employed a pause, delicate as a held breath. “I had a most interesting letter from Mrs. Alderton. Her daughter has returned from a visit to her aunt in Edinburgh. Quite improved, apparently. Very accomplished.”

“Mm.”

“You have met Miss Alderton, I think.”

“I have.”

She waited. He offered nothing further. She accepted this with patience and moved on. “I only wonder whether you intend to visit Hartwell before Christmas, or whether you will remain in York through the winter. I ask only for the purposes of planning, you understand.”

“I had not decided.”

“How unlike you.” She folded her hands in her lap. Outside, a gust pushed the dead rose canes against the wall with a dry, rattling sound, and she glanced toward them again briefly. When she looked back, something in her expression had softened past the gentle maneuvering into something quieter. “I only want you to be settled, Roman. And happy. That is all I have ever wanted.”

He met her eyes. She held his gaze a moment, then looked away first—which was unusual enough that he noticed it.

“You are not unwell?” A thread of worry for her wrapped around everything else on his mind.

“Perfectly well,” she assured him. She lifted the bell to ring for tea. “Now. Tell me about your walk.”

He thought, briefly, of the boy and the woman outside the walls. The child’s unguarded delight, Apollo’s undignified enthusiasm, the dark eyes that had glittered with amusement before she turned away. Jones would have her name before long, most likely.

“There is nothing of note to tell,” he said. And for the moment, he meant it.