Page 16 of Miss Dauntless
Two days after Tommie’s great adventure, Tremont was still pondering that question. Mrs. Merridew prattled on about literacy being more important than table manners while Tremont nodded politely and pondered further. In the stable, the lady had been as upset as a woman could be, short of grieving for a deceased loved one, and yet, her tears had been soundless.
Tremont had held her, thus he’d felt the tremors pass through her, felt the heat radiate from her, heard the slightest catch in her breathing. He’d seen female tears of all stripes—years of Mama’s polite sniffles, the great histrionic displays of the camp followers, and everything in between. He’d never seen a woman so parsimonious about expressing justified upset, and he disliked what that much self-restraint implied.
“You are suggesting that we start with teaching the men their letters?” Tremont said.
Mrs. Merridew poured him a second cup of tea. She made a graceful picture, two fingers holding the lid of the teapot, her body canted slightly along the same curve as the porcelain spout. She added the merest drop of honey and passed him the cup and saucer.
In the few days she’d been in Tremont’s employ, she’d subtly transformed the guest parlor. The rugs were brighter, the windows cleaner, the brass candlesticks gleaming, and the hearth swept. More than that, the room bore the light scent of lemon oil, and the chimney no longer smoked.
A bouquet of dried hydrangeas picked up the blue hues in the carpet and curtains, and the candles in their holders for once all stood perfectly straight.
Had she done the work herself? Supervised the maids? Asked the men to lend a hand? Tremont followed Napoleon’s example and did not ask for details when a general was getting impressive results.
“If a man can read,” Mrs. Merridew said, “he can peruse the etiquette manuals, should he wish to learn how to properly hand a lady into a coach. He can read the little pamphlets about tying a fancy knot in his cravat. He can memorize Proverbs to give himself enough pithy aphorisms to sound wise on any occasions. If he has no letters, he must beg another for all that information.”
“That was me in the military,” Tremont said. “Poring over the manuals—and the army has a deuced lot of manuals—but still needing somebody to show me the obvious. I was a laughingstock for a time, then I realized that the regiment functioned better when I remained in that role.”
She put a tea cake on his plate. “When did you realize that?”
“When my superior officer was preparing to hang a man for horse thievery, and I could instead claim that the beast had got away from me while I was trying to saddle him myself.”
“That superior officer would be Dunacre?” She made his name sound like a foul disease.
“The very one. My groom had merely taken my gelding to the far side of the river for some decent grazing. He had not first gained my permission, though, so when Dunacre asked wheremy horse was, some confusion resulted. I was a peer, Dunacre’s social superior despite his father being a marquess, and he delighted in making me look like an ass.”
“So you obliged him, and nobody was murdered in the name of military protocol.”
“Not that time.” Tremont took a sip of his tea and cast about for any means of changing the subject. “For the men who are not literate, I agree that learning their letters is appropriate, but some of the fellows can read, and MacIvey can read in both English and Gaelic. MacPherson was sent to convalesce under the quartermaster’s watchful eye, so he’s a fair hand at ciphering.”
Mrs. Merridew cocked her head, and only then did Tremont catch the faint echo of a child’s voice coming from the library. A man’s quieter rumble replied.
“Who keeps the books for this establishment?” she asked, as if there had been no interruption.
“I do. Captain Powell reviews them for me when he’s in Town, but the ledgers are simple. I was hoping you might take them on.”
“And leave you more time to hunt for a countess?”
Oh, that.“One cannot produce a legitimate heir unless one is married, so yes.” Lydia and Mama were growing positively agitated on the topic of the next Countess of Tremont, and Powell—damn his smirking silences—was no sort of ally to a fellow beset by female schemes.
“Please do explain the ledgers to me,” Mrs. Merridew said, “though I would prefer that we entrust them eventually to MacPherson.”
“What task will you give MacIvey?”
“If he can read, he might do well in the kitchen.”
“As a cook’s apprentice?” An interesting suggestion.
“Cook needs the help, and MacIvey knows how to charm her. She’s from Aberdeenshire, and he can understand her Doric.”
Tremont hadn’t known where Cook hailed from, only that her accent was nigh unintelligible, while her soups were ambrosial.
“What have you found for Tommie to do?”
“He is assigned to the maids, who are dusting in the library this morning. I believe Tucker is on hand to assist, or to keep Tommie from climbing the bookcases.”
“I used to do that, and it’s much harder to climb down a bookcase than to climb up one. You will make me a list of proposed activities for the men?”
“Give me a week,” Mrs. Merridew said, setting down her tea cup. “The trick for me has been to find each man alone or in the company of only one or two trusted familiars. I cannot suit a fellow to a task if I have no sense of the man.”
