Page 33 of Miss Dauntless
Tremont rose, because movement had become imperative. “How did you not dig him up and kill him all over again? To blameyouforhisdesertion, to imply that pleasing you motivated him, when he’d, in fact, left you to face ruin and worse… He’d run from the most basic responsibility that honor requires… And then along came Harry Merridew, handsome and understanding, and what choice did you have? I’m of a mind to ruin the good Squire Yoe and… Matilda, don’t cry, please don’t…”
She was crying and she was smiling. “You are magnificent, my lord. You are utterly magnificent, and Squire Yoe is on the verge of bankruptcy. Our old housekeeper at the vicarage writes to me occasionally. She eventually explained to me that Yoe was deeply in debt despite all his lovely acres, and Joseph’s duty was to marry money. I did not signify in that regard, not compared to the squire’s debts, and the squire had saved his son from my dubious clutches. I am not certain Yoe Senior even knew there was a child on the way—I did not know myself until the housekeeper explained it to me.”
“Yoe knew. The recruiting sergeants put it thus: Why allow a scheming wench to weigh you down with her brats in some dreary, backward village when you can instead take the king’s shilling, be a hero, and see the great, wide world? That speechworks all too often.” Another chorus in the endless procession of jolly marching songs luring young men to a battlefield death.
“And,” Tremont went on, “despite the squire being in hock up to his hunter’s withers, he doubtless paid his tithes. Your father chose the parish coffers over his daughter’s wellbeing. You’ve been surrounded by strutting, lying cowards. No wonder Merridew hoodwinked you so easily.”
Matilda dabbed at her eyes and turned on Tremont the same focused study she’d aimed at his juvenile portrait.
“I’ve told myself that Papa never guessed quite how involved I’d become with Joseph. Papa never inquired into Tommie’s exact date of birth. He only railed against me for taking up with Harry when I might have waited for Joseph to return. You think Papa knew exactly what was afoot?”
“I am sure of it. He encouraged you to involve yourself with Yoe, then blamed you when the whole business went awry. Harry Merridew was the answer to your father’s selfish prayers, even if Merridew wasn’t a wealthy squire’s son. What would the bishop think, what would the congregation think, of a pastor who could not shepherd his own daughter away from harm?”
Matilda folded Tremont’s handkerchief into eighths and tucked it into a pocket. When she rose, her gaze was clouded with uncertainty. “Papa railed against me for accepting Harry’s proposal. He threatened to refuse to call the banns, said I’d end up disgracing the family name, and I wasn’t to come crawling back to him when my husband threw me out.”
“He was manipulating your pride, making sure you would never turn to him when Merridew revealed his true colors. What a wretched old hypocrite.”
Matilda frowned at the portrait of mother and son. “Papa was many things, but he was not a hypocrite. He believed all that fire and brimstone business and held himself to the highest standards of probity.”
Tremont wanted nothing so much as to take Matilda in his arms and simply hold her. While she cried, while she laughed, while she came to terms with new insights about her own upbringing. He settled for holding out a hand and drawing her nearer to the fire’s warmth.
“What an awful purgatory that vicarage must have been for a lonely, curious young lady. It’s a wonder you didn’t run away to join a band of traveling minstrels.”
Matilda stepped closer and then closer still, until she was leaning against Tremont’s side, her head on his shoulder. “I cannot believe that Papa knew my circumstances. He hated Harry, and that just made Harry all the more attractive to me. Harry understood me, you see, and Harry was so forgiving of myunderstandable lapses.”
“Who was Harry to judge you?”
Matilda shifted so she stood in the circle of Tremont’s arms. “I will say this for Harry, he never once threw my past in my face. He married me, and that was that. I was his wife.”
“And Tommie?”
“He used Tommie to keep me subdued, but he was never overtly unkind to him. I think he saw in Tommie a bit of his old self, a lad born without advantages or allies. Papa, by contrast, wrote to me only to condemn my choice of husband, to wash his hands of me, to remind me that poverty was part of a holy calling, and I would get nothing from him when he died.”
“And yet,” Tremont said, “I doubt you were one-and-twenty when you married this blight upon the human escutcheon.”
Matilda snuggled closer, bringing Tremont the scent of roses. “What hasthatto do with anything? Papa reminded me frequently that I was old enough to know better, though how is one to know better when one is kept in purposeful ignorance by one’s own parent and a village that won’t cross him?”
Forming words had become a challenge, while exploring the soft skin at Matilda’s nape and reveling in the feel of her body pressed close consumed Tremont’s awareness. He nonetheless answered her question, because only a cad and a bounder would allow her to remain convinced of a lie.
“If you had yet to obtain your majority, then your father could have stopped the wedding simply by withholding his consent. Weddings are rife with legalities—a peer hounded by the matchmakers has reason to acquaint himself with the details. In the absence of parental consent, Merridew’s only recourse would have been a long and expensive trip across the Scottish border. Would your dowry have inspired him to go to such lengths?”
“The cash portion of my dowry would have been barely sufficient to finance such a journey, though we could have sold the silver.”
“Then your father intended for you to marry Merridew. Merridew was a solution for the pious vicar who could not raise a perfect daughter. My guess is, your father sweetened the pot when Merridew came down with a calculated case of cold feet.”
Matilda was still in Tremont’s arms, but he could feel her mentally rearranging furniture that had cluttered up her mental attic for years.
“My own father…” she murmured. “What a small, dishonest… He’s the one I should exhume and take to task, except it’s not worth the bother to dig him up. I am gainfully employed, in good health, and my son is thriving. That is as much rebuttal to Papa’s sermons as I could possibly make.” She stepped back and fluffed Tremont’s cravat. “I am angry, but also relieved. I wasn’t the only sinner at the vicarage.”
“You were no sort of sinner at all. You were simply mistaken about a young man’s character and then mistaken about your father’s motivations. I went haring off to Spain because of asimilar misunderstanding. Matters were not half so dire as I’d been led to believe, but my error took years to come to light.”
Matilda wandered to the sofa, sat, and began assembling a plate of sandwiches and tarts. “Have you forgiven yourself for being deceived?”
“Yes.” Tremont debated, then took the place beside her on the sofa. “That took more years, but when you’ve committed the next thing to murder, youthful bungling fades by comparison. You have nothing to forgive yourself for, Matilda.”
“Your youthful bungling did not result in the conception of a child.”
“Do you regret becoming a mother?”
