Page 14 of Miss Dauntless
Tremont crouched down when he’d stepped free of the ladder. “On my back, and latch on like an organ grinder’s monkey. If we bungle this, your mother will never let us live it down.”
“You won’t tell Mama I’m afraid? I went up all right, but when I looked down, my insides felt all funny, and the ladder made such an awful racket.”
“The ladder is none the worse for its ordeal, and neither shall you be. Grab hold of me, and we’ll be on the ground in no time.”
The boy held tightly, and the ladder took their weight. Tremont had barely divested himself of the child before Mrs. Merridew thrust two stone of feline malevolence at him. He grabbed at the cat, who managed to dig twenty saber-sharp claws into his chest at once. Tremont then suffered onefabulously rotten feline breath full in the face and a near swipe to his chin, before the beast leaped free and disappeared up the ladder into the hayloft.
“I wasn’t lost, Mama,” Tommie said as Mrs. Merridew knelt to hug him. “The sweeps didn’t get me. I was looking for a string, and I got stuck.”
“You were smart not to jump,” Mrs. Merridew said, brushing the hair from Tommie’s eyes. “You could have broken a leg if you’d attempted to make that leap. I am very proud of your common sense, Thomas Merridew, but in the future, if you’re inclined to go on a treasure hunt, you must tell me first, please.”
Tremont could read Tommie’s thoughts from the boy’s expression.I was only in the stable. I would have yelled for help soon. I’m fine, Mama.Tremont caught Tommie’s eye and arched one eyebrow in a fashion that Lydia claimed made him look like his father.
“Yes, Mama,” Tommie muttered, “but you cannot name that cat anything silly. He won’t like it.”
“What about Lancelot?” Tremont said, assisting Mrs. Merridew to rise. “That’s a fine name for a fellow who’s a favorite with the ladies.”
“Was Lancelot fierce?” Tommie asked.
“Yes, in a manner of speaking. Not always as chivalrous as he should have been, but brave and shrewd.”
“What’s shrivelrous?” Tommie asked.
“Honorable,” his mother said, brushing at his bangs again. “Gentlemanly. Lancelot sometimes broke the rules, and he wasn’t the most loyal friend to Arthur.”
“Not Lancelot,” Tommie said. “Arthur. The cat is Arthur, like the magical king.”
“Or the king with the magical sword,” Tremont muttered. “Into the house with you, Thomas. You will be surprised to learnthat half the regiment was searching for you, and the ladies as well. You gave your mother quite a turn.”
This gentle scold produced a look of perplexity from the boy.
“No matter,” Mrs. Merridew said. “Into the house, and wash your hands and face. A stable is a dusty place, and the men will want to see for themselves that you are safe.”
Tommie grinned and scampered off. “I’ll go straight to the house, Mama. And I will wash both hands, and I will use soap, not just get my paws wet.”
“And your face,” Mrs. Merridew said with credible sternness.
Off he went as his mother watched his progress across the alley and into the garden. MacIvey and MacPherson sent up a shout, and somebody was soon banging the triangle that signaled mess call.
Mrs. Merridew remained standing in the door of the stable, while Tremont scrambled mentally for something cheerful and pithy to say. As usual, nothing came to mind, but what didthatmatter when Mrs. Merridew threw herself against his chest and commenced silently weeping?
Harry Merridew had been one man out of many, not a representative sample of the whole gender. Papa had been one man out of many. Aunt Portia had offered those observations a hundred times, and still, Matilda expected that every man would either judge her or… worse.
She wept on Lord Tremont’s shoulder, with relief, with exhaustion, with gratitude.
“You called him ‘our Tommie,’” she said, trying for some semblance of composure. “You barely know that child…”
Lord Tremont had the gift of calm. He made no move to set Matilda from him, didn’t pat her shoulder nervously, or let his hands hang uselessly at his sides.
He held her easily, as if they frequently came together for a little hug at odd moments of the day. Like a friend, or… Matilda had so little experience with undemanding embraces from grown men that analogies failed her.
“I know that boy,” Tremont replied. “He’s everything good and dear and terrifying about childhood. Were it not for the vigilance of my older sister, my mother would have disowned me before my eighth birthday in sheer defense of her wits.”
He had such a beautiful voice, soothing and substantial. Matilda allowed herself one last shuddery breath in his arms before she stepped back.
“And then you went for a soldier,” she said. “Every mother’s worst nightmare.”
Tremont passed her a plain linen handkerchief and took to politely studying the market pony, munching hay in its stall.
