Page 22 of Miss Dauntless
“Tremont… He can’t be nine years old.”
His lordship appeared to be mentally puzzling out a geometric proof, while Matilda wanted to snatch the child off the street, sit him before a roaring fire, and acquaint him with a full plate of beef and potatoes.
“You said Cook needs more hands in the kitchen,” Tremont observed, “and we’ve already added one boy to the household.Shall we offer the post of potboy to yonder fellow, Mrs. Merridew?”
Potboy, a job at the elbow of the cook, who would prepare six meals a day if left to her own devices. Charles would be warm and well fed and might eventually apprentice to his supervisor.
“He could also see to the men’s boots on Saturday nights,” Matilda said. “Shine them up for services on Sunday.”
“Until he pikes off in the spring,” Tremont replied. “We can but try. Charles!” He motioned the boy over to the walkway, and a parley ensued. Matilda eventually divined that Charles was reluctant to become a member of any household composed primarily of men.
A reluctance she well understood. “You will work for Cook,” Matilda said, “but you will also report to me.”
Charles was trying heroically to stop his teeth from chattering. “You bide there too, missus?”
“With my son, Tommie. He’s a few years younger than you and will make a complete pest of himself if you allow that. The men are former soldiers, Charles. If they in any way treat you ill, they will have me to answer to.”
“And me,” Tremont said. “To say nothing of what our housekeeper, Mrs. Winklebleck, would do to them.”
Charles’s grimy countenance brightened. “Big Nan is your housekeeper?”
“She is Mrs. Winklebleck now,” Matilda said, “and a more cheerful housekeeper you never did meet. Please say you will assist us, Charles, or least give it a try.”
“I’ll lose me patch,” the boy said. “If I’m gone three days, some other lad’ll take me patch. That’s the rule. A fellow can miss on Sundays, and he can take ill for a day or two while the other boys keep his corner tidy, but three days straight means he’s given up his patch.”
Harry had known such rules, and he’d also made up his share. “If you come work with us,” Matilda said, “I will teach you to read and write. I will show you how to drive the pony cart. You will have more than coin to show for your labors, Charles. You will have skills.”
“My ma could write,” Charles said, sniffing as snowflakes dusted his dark hair. “Some.”
“Why don’t you look the place over?” Tremont said. “You know where it is?”
“Aye.”
“Reconnaissance is a vital part of any successful mission,” the earl went on, “and you shouldn’t accept the job without some idea of what you’re getting into. Tell Cook we’re taking you on, have her show you where you’d sleep and what your duties would be. Make up your own mind. Nobody will steal your patch if you take a day or two to do that, and this weather will soon have the streets cleared in any case.”
Another man would have been arguing with the child, or worse, ordering him to give up his trade for what might be a terrible position. As a crossing sweeper, Charles set his own hours, kept all of his pay, worked no harder than he pleased, and was never beaten for a job poorly done.
None of which mattered with a winter storm bearing down. Matilda was about to shove Charles off in the direction of the house when he held out his hand to Tremont.
“I’ll give it a looking over, milord, like you said, but I can come back to me patch if I’d rather.”
Tremont shook. “You scout the terrain for yourself, and Mrs. Merridew and I will await your decision. If you cut through that alley there, you’ll save yourself some time.”
Charles gathered up his barrow, broom, and shovel and trotted off into the thickening snow.
“Perhaps we should take the alley,” Matilda said. “This is turning into quite a squall.”
“I have another idea,” Tremont replied as they resumed walking. “We can seek shelter along the way, and twenty minutes from now, the snow will have stopped.”
“You suggest we tarry at the tea shop?” A delightful notion, particularly given that Tommie was not underfoot.
“The tea shop is one street over in the wrong direction, but my town house is right around the corner.”
Matilda nearly lost her footing. The Earl of Tremont was inviting herinto his home. True, the hour was technically appropriate for paying calls, and she was a widow and thus needed no chaperone, but still…
“Maybe this is how Charles felt when confronted with a suspiciously tempting offer,” Matilda said.
“We were to discuss how you’re settling in and what plans you have for the men,” Tremont replied. “Why not do so in comfort while Charles makes his inspection tour of the soldiers’ home?”
