Page 40 of Miss Dauntless
“I feel as if,” Matilda said, arranging loops of yarn over her hands, “the closer I come to happiness, the more Harry’s ghost haunts me.”
Dorcas MacKay made a face at that disclosure—a considering face, not a shocked face. “For anybody raised in a vicarage, happiness itself is problematic. Papa was never a dragon of doom, as some who take holy orders are, but neither was he ebullient. When I was ebullient, his reaction was a sort of saintly tolerance that in itself chided me.”
Dorcas began winding the yarn into a ball. The blue color suggested the project would be for young John, Matilda’s weekly charge in the nursery, rather than for Major MacKay, who did love his plaids.
“You mostly knew your father as a widower,” Matilda said. “Perhaps as a younger man, he was more outgoing.” Though considering Vicar Delancey in later life, that theory was unconvincing.
“Michael used to be ebullient,” Dorcas said. “My older brother was a jolly lad. After he was ordained, it was as if he forgot that happy boyhood altogether. Working for thearchbishop has knocked whatever joy he still claimed right out of him.”
Matilda did not know Michael Delancey well. He’d occasionally been paired with her at vicarage suppers. For all he was a gorgeous-looking fellow, his conversation was bland, and his company… uninspiring. He would probably take up his father’s post when the present Vicar Delancey retired.
Over the next thirty years, the ladies of the congregation would distinguish between Old Vicar Delancey and Young Vicar Delancey. For the men, it would be Vicar Tom and Vicar Michael. Both pleasant fellows, in their way, thoughpleasantwas damning with faint praise.
But then, compared to Tremont, any man’s company would be dull.
“How long has your Harry been gone?” Dorcas asked.
He was never my Harry.“Three years.” Or was it closer to four?Morethan four? Good heavens. “Long enough that he should be done haunting me.”
“Your marriage was not a love match,” Dorcas said, not unkindly. “I suspect our mistakes are meant to haunt us so that we don’t repeat them, or don’t repeat them as egregiously.” She sounded as if she spoke from experience.
“Major MacKay could not possibly be a mistake. He suits you in every particular.”
Dorcas’s winding slowed. “Oh, he does, Matilda. He most devilishly, definitely does.”
They shared a smile, and that, too, was a bit devilish on Dorcas’s part. She was a woman made lovely by emotion and easily overlooked by those noting only superficialities. Dark hair, trim figure, a bustling air, and a profound devotion to the major and the boy John.
“Alasdhair claims the men are whistling again,” she said, resuming her winding. “A whistling soldier is a happy fellow.”
“The men needed a bit more order and activity. Tremont knew that, but he also knew he wasn’t the best party to bring those changes about. The men are protective of him and he of them, but they aremen.”
“And Tremont is an earl and their former officer.”
He’s also my intended.On the one hand, Matilda was tempted to look over her shoulder twenty times a day to make sure Harry’s ghost wasn’t lounging in a doorway, mocking her for ignoring his cardinal command:If something seems too good to be true, it is too good to be true.
The first corollary to Harry’s Dictum was:But most people nevertheless long to believe in fairy tales, and Harry Merridew is here to collect on their folly.
On the other hand, Matilda was suffused with elation. Marcus understood her, understood the choices she’d made, accepted them, and even admired her for them. He believed her when she said Harry had been a charming scoundrel, and he understood that if Matilda’s child was unhappy, she felt that in her heart.
More amazing still, Tremont was honest with her about his own misgivings and blunders. To step into Tremont’s embrace was to come home to a place she’d never been before, but had longed for all her life.
“Lord Tremont,” Matilda said, “is in every way an estimable fellow. His example alone inspires the men to try harder.”
“Ah, but will his example be on hand much longer?” Dorcas finished her winding and retrieved a second hank of blue yarn from her workbasket. “Alasdhair’s Welsh cousin, Sir Dylan, is married to Tremont’s sister, Lydia. She and Tremont’s mama have been campaigning for his lordship to take a bride, and his lordship is nothing if not dutiful toward his responsibilities.”
Tremont was much more than that. He was intellectually rigorous beyond anything Matilda had encountered in scholarlychurchmen. He was perceptive, grasping aspects of Tommie’s situation Matilda herself had missed. He was tender and sweet and…
“The look on your face…” Dorcas said. “Alasdhair ran into Tremont and Tommie at Tatts. Tremont had the boy on his shoulders.”
“Tommie has been cantering everywhere ever since.” And yelling and imitating his elders and generally acting like a happy little boy. “There’s something you should know.”
Dorcas passed over the second hank of yarn. “You don’t owe me any explanations, Matilda. If you and Tremont are fond of one another, that is your business, but please do be careful.”
Matilda arranged the yarn around her hands and braced her elbows on the arms of the chair. The sitting room was cozy, boasting touches of green and white plaid, and the tea-and-talk was always a pleasant way to end Matilda’s half day in the nursery.
“Careful?”
Dorcas picked up the trailing end of the yarn and started the next ball. “I don’t take Tremont for a man who would be comfortable with a discreet arrangement involving a woman in his employ, so that means he’s courting you, isn’t he?”
