Miss Dauntless, page 10
They approached the intersection that had belonged to Charles, and of course, another grubby, skinny boy was at the ready with his shovel and barrow.
“Your name, lad,” Tremont asked, tossing the boy a coin.
“Patrick. You’re Tremont. Charles said you’re a good ’un.”
“I am pleased to have his endorsement. If you’re ever in the mood to pay him a call and pass the time, he’s at the big house with all the soldiers down the street and ’round the corner. The door will always be open to you, and I trust you’ll keep watch on the surrounds for us.”
Patrick saluted with his broom. “Aye, milord. I allus keep a sharp eye. Missus.” Patrick offered Matilda a jaunty bow and then trotted off toward a steaming pile of horse droppings.
“I meant to inquire after Charles,” Tremont said. “I suppose he would have decamped for his home shires by now if he meant to.”
“He’s a hard worker, and his greatest worry is that his auntie will come along and snatch him away from us. His second-greatest worry is that she will forget about him entirely.”
“For the boy’s sake, perhaps that would be best. May I ask you a question?”
The day was brisk enough that nobody was tarrying on the walks, and yet, the sun was out, and Matilda was very much enjoying the fresh air.
“Ask, my lord.”
“You did not care to have me standing behind you when I was unknotting your apron. I didn’t imagine that, did I?”
With Harry, Matilda had learned to lie of necessity, though she used that option sparingly and only when she knew she could carry off the deception. With Tremont, lies simply would not do.
“I learned to keep Harry in sight at all times.”
“The better to guard against presumptions upon your person?”
Tremont posed his question dispassionately, which made answering him easier. “Not particularly that. I learned that if I simply acquiesced to Harry’s overtures, he soon lost interest. He married me for my money and my respectability. Part of him enjoyed exercising his marital rights with me—he liked the idea of a vicar’s daughter disporting with a rascal—but another part of him could not handle being passively tolerated as a lover. Toward the end, he left me alone.”
Tremont’s town house came into sight, though Matilda could have done with more walking and more talking. The past was easier to discuss when she and Tremont weren’t facing each other over a teapot.
“Did you miss Merridew’s attentions when he withheld them?”
That question, too, was posed without any particular weight. “No. Not in the least. On my worst, most bleak and hungry days, I am still glad to no longer be married to that man.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What have you to be sorry for?”
“I’m sorry, Matilda, that even in the most basic comforts the married state is intended to confer, your husband failed you. That doesn’t explain why you had to keep him in sight at all times.”
No, it didn’t. Matilda gave the matter some thought. “He didn’t strike me.”
“We have established that he did not need to strike you when he could instead threaten to send your child to a baby farm or foundling home.”
And that observation was offered with exquisite dispassion.
Matilda resigned herself to sharing another sordid truth about her past. “Harry stole things. From me, from Tommie. Aunt Portia somehow put together the coin to gift Tommie with a silver rattle. He loved it. He shook that thing by the hour, fascinated with the sound, with how sunlight gleamed on the surface. Harry pawned it or sold it. He pawned my best boots to buy me a fancy cloak, as if people wouldn’t notice my worn boots because fancy hems were draped over my frigid toes. My little trousseau—a tea service, some linen, bride clothes, and so forth—didn’t last a year.”
“And let me guess,” Tremont said, escorting Matilda up the steps to his town house. “When you asked your husband if he’d seen the rattle, he turned an innocent expression on you, or—if he was vexed by some detail of the day that had nothing to do with you—he’d chide you for not taking better care of your son’s toys. Merridew would ask you where your good boots were and then mutter that clearly you could not be trusted with any item of value. For a long, desperate moment, you’d wonder if he was right and if you were losing your wits.”
Tremont held the door for her, and Matilda passed into the quiet and warmth of his home. “That’s it exactly. I began to doubt the evidence of my own eyes, and keeping a vigilant watch over Harry became necessary, though by then, I had nothing left to steal. He had shaken me from my passive tolerance, though, and that was likely his objective.”
Tremont set aside the ledger he’d carried and unwrapped the scarf Matilda wore instead of a bonnet.
“And still,” he said, undoing her frogs, “you watched Merridew, because by the smallest shifts of expression, by the look in his eyes and the tilt of his head, you learned to know the sewer that passed for his mind. It’s a blessing all around that your husband no longer draws breath. Were I to meet him, I might have a relapse of violent impulses, and I am a dead shot.”
“You aren’t boasting.” Did Tremont ever boast? Matilda turned so his lordship could lift her cloak from her shoulders.
“I was told my father was a dead shot, and I felt it incumbent upon me to uphold his tradition. I later learned that he was only a good shot, and only with long guns, but because he’d been the earl, and he’d gone to his reward, his skills were embellished by fond remembrance. Others idealized him in memory, just as I did. Papa couldn’t manage a pistol to save himself, but my own skills extend to every sort of firearm.”
“Because when you set your mind to a thing, you never give up.”
“Because,” Tremont said, passing her his hat, “when practice is all that stands between me and an objective, even I can generally achieve the possible. Brilliance has been denied me, but persistence is my consolation.”
He spoke as if reviewing lecture notes. Tremont wasn’t lamenting a lack of mental agility, nor was he insulting himself. He merely reported what he believed to be true.
“Have you made a study of kissing, my lord?”
He paused in the act of hanging up his own cloak. “I beg your pardon?”
“Kissing.” Matilda audibly kissed the air. “Because if you bring to that endeavor the same focus you turned on your marksmanship, I must ask that we postpone our examination of the ledgers.”
The words surprised her. That was the old Matilda talking, the Matilda who’d disgraced herself and her father, who’d seen Harry Merridew’s glib charm as a suit of shining armor. The Matilda who’d yielded to impulse at the expense of common sense and decorum.
The Matilda who had caused so much trouble was stirring back to life, and she had apparently caught Tremont’s attention. He was smiling again, and this smile would have done justice to the most buccaneering pirate ever to storm a seaside castle.
Chapter Seven
The idea that Matilda had been so distrustful of her husband that she’d had to watch the blighter at all times made Tremont furious. How dare that varlet steal from his own wife, much less from a helpless baby? How dare he subject Matilda to freezing toes for the sake of his vanity?
Tremont’s usual means of corralling rage—a handy quote from the Stoics, a pithy Shakespearean observation, a determined examination of any unexpected good that had flowed from harm—were unavailing.
And in the midst of Tremont’s mental tirades at Harry Merridew, Matilda had flourished her question about kissing and marksmanship.
“You befuddle me on purpose,” Tremont said, managing to get his cloak onto the nearest brass hook. “You know that I am vexed past all bearing by the behaviors of your late spouse, so you distract me with an outlandish question.”
“My question is serious,” she replied with perfect equanimity. “You undertake everything you turn your hand to with singular thoroughness. I wonder if you are similarly thorough in pursuit of your pleasures.”
Where was the butler when a fellow needed time to concoct a witty retort? “I can see where Tommie gets his relentless logic from—and his curiosity. Let’s find a roaring fire, shall we?”
He led Matilda to the family parlor this time. Tremont allowed himself to enjoy the look of her among gleaming brass fixtures, embroidered pillows, and velvet curtains. He liked that she would turn her hand to hard work, and he liked even more that she wasn’t put off by his Town residence.
He gave the bell-pull the requisite three tugs and realized he’d left the ledger in the foyer.
“Shall I retrieve the account book?” he asked.
“Let’s do justice to the tray first. Is this your mother?” Matilda moved behind the desk to peer up at the portrait of Mama and her only begotten son. “You were a solemn little fellow, if that’s you.”
“I had been breeched shortly before we sat for this painting. Papa made a great to-do out of the occasion. His valet assisted me to don my manly attire as if I were being presented at a royal levee. I wish Papa had joined us for the portrait, but we have several good likenesses of him at Tremont.”
“I am trying to find the words to tell you something,” Matilda said, still studying the portrait. “Something that does not flatter me.”
“I do not care one flying pig if you pinched your husband’s watch to sell for sustenance, Matilda.”
She shook her head. “I sold myself in a sense.”
She had commenced blinking. Tremont produced his handkerchief and led her to the sofa. “If you sold yourself, you had no other options. I have learned not to judge women for wanting to survive. When a soldier fights to survive, he’s a hero, and he’s paid for his efforts. Fed, clothed, housed, and paid. We drink to his health immediately after we toast the health of the sovereign. Soldiers kill people to survive, and we sing jolly songs about them.”
He fell silent and folded Matilda’s hand between his. He had killed his commanding officer to survive, and Matilda hadn’t judged him for it.
“Soldiers,” she said, “can cause trouble even when they aren’t fighting.”
“They can be the very devil.” Rioting for days, plundering civilian homes, and worse. “Did you fall in love with a devil?”
Matilda took his handkerchief and clutched it in her fist. “Not a devil, a high-spirited young man. He was the second son of the wealthiest squire in the parish. His mother would not allow him to buy his colors, so he joined the local militia. Papa was pleased when young Joseph Yoe began walking me home from services, and I was… I was besotted. Vicars’ daughters are easily besotted.”
The tray arrived. Tremont poured out and passed Matilda a cup.
“You know how I like my tea,” she said, taking a sip. “If Harry were alive today, if Joseph were alive, neither one of them could fix me a cup of tea as I like it.”
What was so complicated about a dash of cream and a dollop of honey? “What happened to young Joseph?” What had happened to young Matilda was of far more interest, and clearly the two tales were intertwined.
“Joseph and I became close. We had an understanding, and I was in transports. I was to marry into a good family, get away from the vicarage, and finally make my father proud of me. Joseph could make me laugh—I was starved for laughter—and when he touched me, I was starved for that too. He was affectionate and passionate, and I was an idiot.”
“You were young and in love. Early in life, emotions can play havoc with our common sense.” Later in life, too, sometimes.
“I was desperate to be free of my father, desperate to be away from his constant judgment. I wanted to laugh and have a second glass of wine and wear pretty clothes. I had less common sense than a pullet in spring.”
And now, Matilda was all common sense, all the time—almost all the time. What could effect such a radical change?
Tremont considered that question while Matilda sipped her tea, considered the hell that had been Matilda’s marriage and the other hell that had been her life at the vicarage. The squire’s dashing son had showered Matilda with attention, and… the pieces of the puzzle formed a whole.
Matilda had never once referred to Tommie as Harry’s son. The boy was never our son. He was always my son.
“Joseph Yoe is Tommie’s father,” Tremont said. “Then something happened, such that you turned to Merridew to give the boy legitimacy.”
Matilda stared at her teacup, then finished her serving. “You do not sound appalled.”
“Oh, I am thoroughly appalled. When Yoe became aware that you carried his child, he should have had the banns read, taken up his responsibilities, and kept you laughing for the rest of his natural days.” Tremont poured Matilda another cup of tea, though he’d yet to touch his own.
“Squire Yoe happened, or so I suspect. I was as ignorant as a girl can be, which is very ignorant in a country parsonage with no mother to educate me. Joseph told me I could not conceive unless he and I were married. I knew of no unmarried women with babies, so Joseph’s perversion of the facts was credible. I happened to mention to him as summer drew to a close that I’d missed my courses.”
“That was unusual?”
“Unheard of. I enjoy very good health, as a rule. We were walking home from services, and that was the last time I saw him. He didn’t show up for our usual picnic on market day. He did not appear at services the next week. After the service, Squire Yoe was very proud to announce that his son had transferred to an active-duty unit. An uncle had bought him a captaincy. Joseph never set foot in Spain. He died of some stupid accident—stepping barefoot on a rusty nail—and I had only one letter from him. I was to remember him fondly and go on about my life. He hoped I knew that he’d bought his colors the better to make me proud of him.”
Tremont rose, because movement had become imperative. “How did you not dig him up and kill him all over again? To blame you for his desertion, to imply that pleasing you motivated him, when he’d, in fact, left you to face ruin and worse… He’d run from the most basic responsibility that honor requires… And then along came Harry Merridew, handsome and understanding, and what choice did you have? I’m of a mind to ruin the good Squire Yoe and… Matilda, don’t cry, please don’t…”
She was crying and she was smiling. “You are magnificent, my lord. You are utterly magnificent, and Squire Yoe is on the verge of bankruptcy. Our old housekeeper at the vicarage writes to me occasionally. She eventually explained to me that Yoe was deeply in debt despite all his lovely acres, and Joseph’s duty was to marry money. I did not signify in that regard, not compared to the squire’s debts, and the squire had saved his son from my dubious clutches. I am not certain Yoe Senior even knew there was a child on the way—I did not know myself until the housekeeper explained it to me.”
“Yoe knew. The recruiting sergeants put it thus: Why allow a scheming wench to weigh you down with her brats in some dreary, backward village when you can instead take the king’s shilling, be a hero, and see the great, wide world? That speech works all too often.” Another chorus in the endless procession of jolly marching songs luring young men to a battlefield death.
“And,” Tremont went on, “despite the squire being in hock up to his hunter’s withers, he doubtless paid his tithes. Your father chose the parish coffers over his daughter’s wellbeing. You’ve been surrounded by strutting, lying cowards. No wonder Merridew hoodwinked you so easily.”
Matilda dabbed at her eyes and turned on Tremont the same focused study she’d aimed at his juvenile portrait.
“I’ve told myself that Papa never guessed quite how involved I’d become with Joseph. Papa never inquired into Tommie’s exact date of birth. He only railed against me for taking up with Harry when I might have waited for Joseph to return. You think Papa knew exactly what was afoot?”
“I am sure of it. He encouraged you to involve yourself with Yoe, then blamed you when the whole business went awry. Harry Merridew was the answer to your father’s selfish prayers, even if Merridew wasn’t a wealthy squire’s son. What would the bishop think, what would the congregation think, of a pastor who could not shepherd his own daughter away from harm?”
Matilda folded Tremont’s handkerchief into eighths and tucked it into a pocket. When she rose, her gaze was clouded with uncertainty. “Papa railed against me for accepting Harry’s proposal. He threatened to refuse to call the banns, said I’d end up disgracing the family name, and I wasn’t to come crawling back to him when my husband threw me out.”
“He was manipulating your pride, making sure you would never turn to him when Merridew revealed his true colors. What a wretched old hypocrite.”
Matilda frowned at the portrait of mother and son. “Papa was many things, but he was not a hypocrite. He believed all that fire and brimstone business and held himself to the highest standards of probity.”
Tremont wanted nothing so much as to take Matilda in his arms and simply hold her. While she cried, while she laughed, while she came to terms with new insights about her own upbringing. He settled for holding out a hand and drawing her nearer to the fire’s warmth.
“What an awful purgatory that vicarage must have been for a lonely, curious young lady. It’s a wonder you didn’t run away to join a band of traveling minstrels.”
Matilda stepped closer and then closer still, until she was leaning against Tremont’s side, her head on his shoulder. “I cannot believe that Papa knew my circumstances. He hated Harry, and that just made Harry all the more attractive to me. Harry understood me, you see, and Harry was so forgiving of my understandable lapses.”
