Page 36 of Miss Dauntless
She was clearly trying for lightness, trying not to be insulted—again.
“You and I have a talent for communicating at cross purposes, but allow me to explain. Sometimes, I know what I’m thinking about. I will set myself a topic: What’s to be done with Amos Tucker, who is discontent in his present circumstances? I will gather up all that I know of him. Hard worker, sweet on one of the maids, family emigrated while he was in Spain. Not yet thirty, but his right shoulder pains him. That sort of thing. I stirit all about in my mind and look for connections or pieces that don’t fit. I’m thinking about Amos Tucker.”
Matilda’s expression had become vaguely puzzled. “Do go on.”
“Other times, I will focus on Amos Tucker, for example, but that’s not really where my mind is. In some silent, busy way, I’m thinking about a home for crossing sweepers, like a guild hall, but more of a residence. They tend to be children, often orphaned, and they are unsafe, though the city would be unlivable without their labor. But those thoughts are trotting along in parallel to my Amos Tucker thoughts, like a drover’s road parallels the carriageways, just out of sight over the ridge. Without warning, my thought paths converge. Amos Tucker and his lady love could run a boardinghouse for crossing sweepers.”
“Tremont,” Matilda said gently, “Marcus, what are you going on about?”
He secured her hand in both of his. “With you, the paths have converged in a spectacular way. I noticed you at the church, and I thought, ‘That woman has a great deal of patience, and she’s very protective of the boy. Good qualities.’ I was also noticing that you’ve learned to keep your thoughts from showing in your eyes, and what lovely eyes they are too. I noticed that you are tired, but you keep going. You were not cowed by my title, nor did you sneer at it. Your dignity did not desert you on the first, spectacular occasion of miscommunication between us. All of my thoughts, of every description, focused on you.”
“I’m a novelty in your experience, a lady fallen on hard times.”
“You are very much a novelty in my experience,” Tremont said. “I’m in possession of more acres and farms and tenancies than you can imagine. Ladies fallen on hard times besiege me in Shropshire. Ladies trying not to fall on hard times—or trying to fall out of them—besiege me in Mayfair’s ballrooms. You takea general’s view of hard times. Even unforgiving terrain has advantages, and you have survived many a battle.”
She withdrew her hand. “Now I’m a warhorse?”
“In a sense, which, coming from a soldier, is high praise.”Will I look more or less ridiculous if I go down on one knee while I compare my beloved to livestock?“You are also a devoted mother, a pragmatic widow, a woman who can laugh at herself, independent, and nobody’s fool. I could go on and on, because I delight in the mere contemplation of you.”
Matilda rose and paced to the fireplace, which she studied as if the flames held the secret to eternal spring and spotless carpets.
“I’ve told you my worst mistakes, my lord, my most shameful missteps, and you offer me marriage. I am confused. Flattered, but confused.”
The lady was wary, another quality Tremont liked about her, and she was on her feet, so he could also abandon the dratted sofa.
“You’ve been proposed to before,” he said, joining her before the hearth, “and that did not end well. I’m asking for permission to court you. I considered going through an intermediary—Major MacKay, Vicar Delancey—but you would rather be approached directly, so here I am.”
Here he was, blathering on about drover’s roads and warhorses. Ye gods and little fishes, she would think him daft, and maybe that’s what all those clever poetical fellows meant when they referred to love as a form of madness.
“You are here,” she said, “explaining to me how your extraordinary mind works, though I hardly grasp the explanation, and finding virtue in me where others have seen only bumbling and pigheadedness. I will not, on my most biddable day, be a restful or biddable wife.”
“We all bumble, Matilda. I certainly have, spectacularly. What you call pigheadedness, I call determination, and I love you for it.”
“Oh, you…” She turned away and pretended to resume studying Mama’s portrait. “I might look to you as if I’m quite in possession of myself, but this morning, I was polishing silver, and now you expect me to consider… A countess must be presented at court, for pity’s sake. You cannot justsayyou love me, Tremont. I am a difficult woman, and proud of it.”
“I haven’t said those words to anybody else. I love you, I am smitten, I am besotted and knocked top over tail. You are not difficult. You make perfect sense to me, though your life has been difficult. So, in its way, has mine, and I think we would rub along together quite well.”
She whirled to face him again. “That was Harry’s reasoning. He wanted my respectability and my dowry. I wanted marriage. We were torub along, and we did, and it wasn’t all awful, but much of it was nightmarish. I’m through with rubbing along, Marcus. You will have to do better.”
Marcus.Though still not a yes. Tremont considered the lady before him, considered what she was leaving unsaid.
“I am happy to do the whole courting quadrille. I will enjoy it, in fact, though driving out in an open vehicle this time of year takes fortitude and warm clothing. If there’s a winter assembly at St. Mildred’s, I will attentively escort you. I will walk with you to and from services and call upon you at the proper hour.” He was running out of ideas, because Matilda was not the blushing heiress an earl was supposed to pursue.
“That isn’t the sort of doing better I had in mind, sir.”
Where was even a scintilla of insight when a fellow’s dignity was going begging? “Pretty words?” he said. “I can memorize poetry as easily as I have military regulations, Shakespeare, and Bible passages. Original compositions are beyond me, but I’mwell versed in Latin, and perhaps a translation or two would suit?”
That offer was met with silence. Matilda took his hand and peered up at him as if trying to see into the labyrinth of his mind.
“The problem,” she said, “is that I do trust you. I never thought to trust a man again, ever.”
“You are unnerved?” He understood that all too well.
She stepped closer and regarded their joined hands, which meant Tremont could not see her eyes. “I do not trust myself,” she said. “I’ve wrecked my life, twice, because I did not exercise caution where men are concerned. Then you come along… You have all the manly virtues, you are good with Tommie, kind, honorable, you say the words I’ve longed to hear…”
Her litany implied that something was lacking, despite those glowing attributes. What else could she possibly…?
The winding paths in Tremont’s thoughts all joined up in the most glorious of possibilities. “Shall I kiss you, Matilda?”
