Page 21 of Miss Dauntless
MacKay took the glasses to the sideboard. “There you go, noticing again. As best I can recall, Matilda Merridew arrives at services escorted by only Tommie, and she doesn’t linger in the churchyard. Now that you ask about it, she strikes me as a rather solitary woman.”
“For a widow with a small boy, that is unfortunate, MacKay. A woman needs friends.” Did an earl need friends?
“She does, which gives you something to ponder, doesn’t it?”
“Something more. Thank you for the libation and the conversation. Please do drop around on the odd afternoon if you’re so inclined. I am home most days.”
Tremont’s host had escorted him to the front door, where no butler or footman stood on duty. An informal household, and it had the same sense of cozy repose that Mrs. Merridew had imparted to her guest parlor.
“I heard you were courting the Pringle girl,” MacKay said. “Any truth to that rumor?”
MacKay had certainly kept his powder dry. “None, and if you would do your bit to ensure talk to the contrary is scotched, I would appreciate it. She’s a delightful young lady…”
“But her smile does not signify.”
“Her smile is for my title and standing, and because her mama insists that I be smiled at. The young lady deserves better.”As do I.At least in the opinion of Matilda Merridew.
“Good heavens,” said a female voice. “We’re having a regular open house today. Major, you did not tell me you have a guest too.”
Dorcas MacKay stood on the landing six steps above the foyer. She was smiling in a wifely sort of way, and beside her stood Matilda Merridew.
Who was also smiling.
At Tremont.
“This is fortuitous,” MacKay said, a bit too heartily. “Tremont can escort Mrs. Merridew home, and they’d best hurry if they’re to avoid nasty weather.”
“A happy coincidence,” Mrs. MacKay added, coming down the rest of the steps with her guest. “And the major is correct that you will want to be on your way with all possible haste. The days grow so short this time of year.”
Tremont allowed himself to be hustled out the door with Mrs. Merridew on his arm, though they hadn’t gone three steps along the walkway before the lady made an odd sound, then she put her gloved hand over her mouth, and it dawned on Tremont that she was laughing—or trying not to.
Tremont tried for manly composure, but the sheer determination in the MacKays’ matchmaking had exceeded all bounds. Thus did Marcus, Earl of Tremont, stand on the walkway, laughing with Mrs. Matilda Merridew, and as the first bitter flurries wafted from the sky, the sun burst forth in his heart.
And, he hoped, in hers too.
CHAPTER FIVE
Lord Tremont had a surprisingly jolly laugh, all good nature and merriment. He apparently took no offense at the MacKays’ machinations, while Matilda… She had hoped her inquiries of Mrs. MacKay hadn’t been too obvious, and then, there stood the earl, gazing up at her from the foyer as if she’d conjured him from her abundant imaginings.
Fate playing a little joke on her, or a wish coming true?
“I have never seen Major MacKay looking so devilish,” she said as she trundled along arm in arm with the earl. “When I first met him, he struck me as the quintessential dour Scot. Dorcas Delancey was the equally circumspect daughter of the vicarage, but they appear to have brought out the mischief in each other.”
“Is a little mischief a bad thing, Mrs. Merridew?”
Matilda considered the question while they waited at an intersection. The snow was rapidly thickening, and street traffic was hustling along. The crossing sweeper marched out into the middle of the passing vehicles and brandished his broom in both directions. The boy’s trousers were raggedly hemmed a good six inches above his skinny ankles, and the lumbering coaches dwarfed him.
“It’s hard to imagine that one is entitled to any mischief,” she said, “when a child must face this weather. That could be Tommie—shivering, underfed, a hairsbreadth away from tragedy if some drunken lordling goes racing by in his phaeton. I was raised in a vicarage—I have that in common with Mrs. MacKay—and such an upbringing takes a jaundiced view of mischief.”
“Perhaps ‘mischief’ is the wrong word,” Tremont said, guiding Matilda across the slick cobbles. “Maybe the term I want is ‘joy.’ Glee, high spirits.” He tossed the boy a coin, and the lad caught it in a bare, dirty paw. “In a world where children must fend for themselves from too young an age and generals send young men to their deaths by the thousands, joy can be an act of courage.”
Matilda had felt a spike of joy simply to behold Tremont, and he was right—that had been an act of courage, or folly. Maybe both?
They reached the opposite side of the street, and when Tremont ought to have escorted Matilda down the walkway, he instead considered the crossing sweeper.
“The lad’s name is Charles,” he said. “He refuses to answer to Charlie. I’ve tried giving him more substantial coin, but he spends it all on his auntie, who is a sot. I doubt Charles is home much, if a home he even has.”
A closed, crested carriage careened by, nearly knocking Charles off his feet.
