Miss Dauntless, page 2
“I did not. Earls are forbidden from doing that sort of thing. My father permitted me to climb my share of trees, though, where I went for a sail among the fjords of the Viking north, then returned to my homeland in my longship. My brothers-in-arms and I made many a victorious raid upon the wealthy castles of Normandy.”
Tremont had forgotten his outings in the boughs of the surveying oak. They had come to an abrupt end when Papa had died.
“I’m a Viking, too, sometimes.” Tommie closed the drawer he’d been rifling. “I’m quite tall when I’m a Viking, and I wear fur robes. Mama was wroth with me for the fur robes.”
“You used her best cloak.”
“Her night-robe. It’s warm and soft and smells like Mama.”
Another memory assailed Tremont, of being a small boy, newly saddled with a title, and hiding—from whom or what he could not recall—among his mother’s morning dresses. His older sister, Lydia, had found him and given him one of Mama’s shawls to sleep with. Not the first or last time Lydia had found him.
“Let’s return you to your mother’s side, my young friend.”
“I was a good vice chairman, wasn’t I?” Tommie marched down the corridor ahead of Tremont, but for all the confidence in the boy’s step, his question held uncertainty.
“The best I’ve ever had. You do a recognizable rendering of a toad, too, which is more than I could manage at your age.” Tremont’s road to a gentlemanly command of the arts had been long, wearying, and pointless in the end.
“Toads are easy. They’re toad-shaped with big toad eyes. Mr. Prebish looks like a toad when he’s yelling about the lilies of the field and giving glory to God. He means he wants the church to buy his flowers. Mama says we shouldn’t yell in church, but when I asked where should we yell, she said we should yell when small boys vex us past all bearing.”
“And you said, ‘What if that happens in church?’”
Tommie stopped at his mother’s elbow and looked abruptly bashful. “I ask Mama a lot of questions.”
Mrs. Merridew tousled the lad’s hair. “You make me think, Tommie. You make me use my brain, and that is a good thing. Let’s get you into your coat and be on our way.” She passed her son a coat that was a bit too short in the sleeves for his arms.
She was avoiding Tremont’s gaze, which might have been embarrassment about the boy or about the coin. Other congregants milling about had doubtless seen Tremont pass her that coin and seen her accept it.
“Allow me,” Tremont said, taking her cloak from her and holding it out. She submitted to the courtesy without comment and then bent to rebutton the buttons Tommie had done crookedly.
Probably on purpose, the little blighter. Tremont was abruptly tempted to button his own cloak crookedly. Instead, he draped that article about his shoulders and did something he rarely allowed himself to do—he yielded to an impulse.
“Might I walk you home, Mrs. Merridew?”
She straightened. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”
Women had the ability to make two words—my lord—convey a wealth of meaning. Those two words could communicate a willingness to become Tremont’s countess, his mistress, or his intended. They could also convey caution, though they never had before.
“We’re losing the light,” he said, “you have a small child to keep track of, and I don’t see anybody else on hand to provide you an escort. I’m offering my services, as any gentleman ought to. The linkboys won’t be at their posts yet, and you likely wouldn’t bother with them when traversing familiar ground in a decent neighborhood anyway.”
Major MacKay chose then to intrude on the discussion. “You’re seeing Mrs. Merridew home? Then I will be on my way. Dorcas will want a full accounting of the meeting, and she will be most pleased to know the committee acquired a vice chair.” He squeezed Tommie’s shoulder, bowed to Mrs. Merridew, and bustled off, humming Burns’s ditty about men being the practice version of the species and ladies being nature’s finer article.
Mrs. Merridew watched MacKay go, her expression caught between bemusement and vexation. “I must yield to your good manners,” she said, settling a plain straw bonnet on her head. “Tommie, you will mind the earl’s example. He will walk us home and provide you with a demonstration of how a gentleman escorts a lady.”
True to her word, Mrs. Merridew delivered the boy a homily about an escort’s duty. Tremont matched his steps to the lady’s, lest he jostle her arm or hurry her. He walked on the outside, the better to shield the lady from splashing or mud from passing vehicles.
She forgot the part about the gentleman offering his left arm indoors, the better to keep his sword hand free, or perhaps she did not want to bring up swords around the boy.
Tommie, capering about on the walkway, had a thousand questions. Why not hold hands, which would make it easier to prevent a lady from falling on her face if she stumbled? Why was getting mud on a lady’s skirts worse than getting mud on a gent’s trousers? The laundress had to deal with either mess. Why didn’t the lady just tell the gent not to walk so quickly if his legs were longer, or why didn’t the person with shorter legs set the pace because Mama was much taller than Tommie, and she always waited for him even though she was a lady?
Tommie chattered all the way to the steps before a modest town house. No light shone through the foyer windows, and nobody had yet lit the mandatory streetlamp either. When Tremont expected Tommie to charge up the stairs, the boy instead disappeared into the gloom leading down to the half basement.
“Thank you for your company, my lord,” Mrs. Merridew said, “and for your kindness to Tommie. Most people consider him a trial to the nerves.”
His mother did not, though Tremont suspected that Tommie challenged his mama’s patience frequently.
“You will be astonished to learn that I was a small boy once, Mrs. Merridew. Widowhood quite undid my mother, and my only sibling was a sister several years my senior. When my father died, I became a trial to the nerves too.”
Mrs. Merridew regarded him in the gathering shadows while the sound of a door scraping open came from beneath the porch.
“What changed?” she asked. “You are the furthest thing from a trial to the nerves now.”
“I grew up. I went to war. I realized I could never be my father, and life goes on.”
“That, it does. Thank you again, my lord, and good luck with your men. I surmise they can be a trial to the nerves as well.” She curtseyed and followed her son down into the darkness of the half basement.
Tremont waited on the walkway until a dim light appeared in the narrow window beside the basement door, then he set a brisk pace for his own dwelling. Walking calmed his mind and allowed his thoughts to form into tidy squares. His imagination, however, was making that exercise impossible.
A whisper of an idea wedged its way into the swirling currents of Tremont’s cogitations. Mrs. Merridew might be the answer to a prayer. She was pretty, though she tried to hide it. Pretty wasn’t necessary, but it did help, and she was patient. A wealth of patience was mandatory.
Mrs. Merridew was the soul of patience. She was accustomed to unruly males who needed a firm, kind hand. She was in straitened circumstances. The child’s too-short coat, her widow’s weeds going worn about the seams, and her willingness to accept a spare coin at the expense of her pride all confirmed as much.
Tremont marched along, the idea growing and twining like ivy around other ideas and between yet still others. By the time he reached home, he was humming “Green Grow the Rashes, O” and wondering if he’d parted with what little remained of his reasoning powers.
Chapter Two
The day was sunny for a change, which made the mending less of a chore. The seat by the parlor window was nonetheless frigid, and Matilda again considered smashing some of the furniture from the floors above to burn for warmth.
But no. Winter had yet to truly arrive, and the day would soon be less chilly. She wasn’t desperate—yet. Somebody would rent the upstairs soon, and until then, she had scribing for the church meetings, mending, watching Major MacKay’s son on the governess’s half day, and other odd jobs.
Charity jobs, and Matilda was grateful for them.
“I’m hungry,” Tommie said, shuffling a deck of cards with more dexterity than was proper for a boy of his age. “Can we go to the bakery?”
“We will go to the bakery tomorrow afternoon.” Tomorrow, the baker put the fancy products for the week on display, and thus the selection of day-olds was larger. “You had your porridge, my boy. Build me a castle of cards.”
“I want to go to the bakery now. The bakery is warm, and Mrs. Spicer sometimes gives me a biscuit.”
One of the stale biscuits, of course. “If you are cold, then put on your scarf.”
“I want to go to the bakery, and I want a biscuit, and I do not want to put on my scarf—”
A knock at the front door interrupted the gathering tempest of Tommie’s frustration. Not the coalman—he still did Matilda the courtesy of coming down the back steps to dun her for his payment—but who else could it be?
“We have company!” Tommie was off his chair and out of the parlor, cards forgotten.
“Thomas, you do not pelt up to the door like the first footman trying to impress his employer. I will answer the door.”
Tommie slowed, his eagerness yielding to annoyance. “Why can’t I have any fun, Mama? I’m the man of the house. I should answer the door.”
The man of the house was still small enough to be snatched by an ambitious chimney sweep, though that would change in a year or two. Then the mines and the merchant ships would become the greater threats, to say nothing of the abbesses.
Matilda stopped by the speckled mirror in the foyer. Her reflection was pale, tired, and going gaunt. Harry would not have been best pleased to see his wife in such a condition.
Which was just too blessed bad. Matilda opened the door, prepared to see Mrs. Oldbach or possibly Dorcas MacKay.
The Earl of Tremont, in all his lordly splendor, stood before her. “Mrs. Merridew, good day.” He tipped his hat and bowed. “Master Merridew.” To Tommie, he offered a gloved hand. “I hope I’m not calling at a bad time?”
“Mama was mending,” Tommie said. “She mends all the time. I want to go to the bakery because it’s warm, and it smells like heaven, but I’m building a card castle. You could help me.”
A riot of emotions buffeted Matilda.
Grudging respect for the earl’s courtesy to a small boy.
Resignation, because a peer calling on an impoverished widow did not bode well for the propriety of Matilda’s household, though in fairness, Tremont would not be the first man to proposition her.
Grim humor, because her father had predicted she’d end her days in disgrace, though Papa hadn’t quite got the timing right.
And shame. Always the shame.
“You must not tarry in the cold,” Matilda said, though she was loath to allow anybody to see her home. The place was spotless, also pathetically shabby. “Do come in.”
Tremont had to duck to pass through the doorway. He took off his hat, but did not pass it over.
“I was wondering if you and Tommie might join me for a walk in the park? This is one of those days where it feels colder inside than out, and I am consumed with the need for a constitutional. We could pass by the bakery on our way home if a certain party manages not to fall into the Serpentine or frighten anybody’s horses.”
“He means me,” Tommie said, slipping his hand into Matilda’s. “Say yes, Mama. Please.”
Tommie’s fingers were like ice, while the earl was politely not glancing about at Matilda’s bare floor and curtainless windows. He did not wrinkle his lordly beak at the stink of tallow and coal pervading the air, nor did he press Matilda for an answer.
“The days are getting shorter,” she said, feeling Tommie’s cold fingers right down to her soul, “and the mending will keep. A brief outing to enjoy the sunshine will be good for our spirits.”
Tommie wrapped his arms around her waist and squeezed hard. “Thank you, Mama. I will get my coat, and Mr.… Tremont will hold your cloak for you. When I am taller, I will hold your cloak for you too.”
The boy rocketed back to the parlor—he and Matilda wore their outer garments indoors on the coldest days—and the earl took Matilda’s cloak from its hook beside the mirror.
“You have made two fellows exceedingly happy with your decision. When winter arrives in earnest, we’ll consider a day such as this balmy.”
He settled Matilda’s cloak around her shoulders and no doubt noticed the careful stitching that attempted to hide the wear at the collar. The cloak was one of the last fine articles Harry had bought for her, because never let it be said that Harry Merridew’s missus went without.
“I won’t keep you for long,” Tremont said, “and I meant what I said about stopping at the bakery. The boy will hold me to it, and I do fancy a rum bun on such a day.”
“You did not stop by to talk of rum buns, my lord.” Hunger was making Matilda snappish, or perhaps earls paying casual calls did that.
He passed her the gloves sitting on the rickety sideboard. “You are right, and I am an utter failure at small talk, but I cannot appear on your doorstep without making some attempt at polite conversation, can I?”
Tommie thundered back to the door. “I buttoned my coat right this time!”
Tremont tousled his hair. “Because you are desperate to get into the fresh air, but please recall that the bakery will not grace our itinerary unless your behavior is exemplary.”
“Be good,” Matilda said, wrapping a scarf about the boy’s ears, “or no biscuit.”
“I will be a saint, Mama. An angel. I will be perfect, and you will be so proud of me!”
He bolted out the door and up the steps, and true to his stated intentions, he for once stood at the top of the steps and waited for the adults to join him.
Tremont offered his arm, and Matilda had no choice but to take it. At the crossings, Tommie dutifully took her free hand, which was their rule more honored in the breach. When they reached the park, Tremont suggested that if Tommie ran to the large oak fifty yards off, Tremont would time him.
The earl produced a pocket watch, and Tommie scampered across the grass.
“Is that a trick your sister pulled on you?” Matilda asked.
“My father. I was his only son, a long-awaited miracle, or maybe he understood that he and I might not have long together. The distances gradually got longer, and I picked up speed. Papa made room in his schedule for me, and I adored him. He showed me all the best Viking sailing trees and told me Norse legends when I had nightmares. I understand why my mother so desperately grieved his passing. I suppose you miss your late husband?”
A complicated question. “I’ve been widowed longer than I was married, and yet, sometimes it feels as if I’ll come around a corner, and there Harry will be, grinning at me as if the past few years were just some sort of joke. He had a perverse sense of humor.”
“Any sense of humor must be a boon to those who have one,” Tremont said as Tommie tagged the tree and started back at a trot rather than a sprint. “I could tell you that I was just passing by your door and taken with a sudden notion for some company in the park, but I’d be prevaricating if I did.”
Matilda endured the same sinking dread she’d suffered when she’d realized her courses were late. Tremont was about to proposition her, and he was doing so honestly.
Damn him for that. “I much prefer plain speaking, my lord.”
Tommie stopped several yards away and flopped dramatically onto a bench.
“I note that your home is not well heated,” Tremont said quietly. “That the boy needs a new coat, that you accepted a coin from me that you’d rather have graciously refused. You are taking in mending, which is surely the hallmark of a lady fallen upon difficult times.”
“I am a lady.” In only the most attenuated sense, because Papa had been a vicar.
“One deduced as much, and thus I put a topic to you that might offend. I mean you no insult, but I have few other options, and my situation grows vexatious.”
How prettily he referred to the inconvenience he suffered for want of a handy mistress. Harry had been similarly convinced that a man must not be without regular pleasure, lest civilization topple. Widows, by contrast, were expected to devote themselves to pious good works and other people’s mending, because civilization would be equally imperiled if widows comported themselves as gentlemen so freely did.
Not that Matilda missed Harry, ever.
“Was I fast, Tremont?” Tommie called.
“A flat streak across the horizon. Twelve seconds to the tree. We will have to change your name to Lightning Merridew.”
“I’m Lightning Merridew! Mama, let’s throw pebbles into the water!” Tommie hopped off the bench and jogged toward the pool of water reflecting the bright sunshine of midday.
“He’s not skipping rocks yet?” Tremont asked, following Tommie at a purposeful march. “I am convinced that the objective of skipping rocks is to keep a child who is intent on leaping into the water otherwise occupied on the bank. My sister is a prodigiously talented skipper, and for a time, my sole aim in life was to best her. Petty of me.”
Raising offensive topics in the park was petty, also shrewd, because Matilda would not make a scene here and flounce off in high dudgeon.
“I don’t know how to skip rocks,” Matilda said, “else I would teach him. The child wants constant diversion and constant activity.”
“Not diversion,” Tremont said as they gained the grassy bank of the Serpentine. “Recreation. Or occupation, in the child’s sense of the word. The boy has a lively mind, and that mind wants obstacles to climb, much as he’d delight in climbing a tree.” Tremont picked up a round, smooth stone and idly flicked it into the water.
The rock bounced four times, and Tommie was instantly fascinated. The next five minutes were spent explaining and demonstrating the manly art of skipping rocks, while Matilda silently argued with herself.
