Page 30 of Mr. Eastwood’s Match

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.

Chapter Eleven

“Completely unaffected?” Juniper repeated as they walked through the back of the garden, where the carefully cultivated flowerbeds gave way to more wild-looking plants before blending in to a stretch of woods. “Oh dear. And you are not ill? No headache? You mentioned the Shambles made your stomach turn, and I confess they do the same to me.”