Page 42 of Miss Dauntless
“One does not like to see true love thwarted.” Nor would it be for long if Tuck became intent on his goal.
Matilda was frowning at a flower seller shivering on the corner. “Tremont…”
“Of course, my dear.” He halted the horse, passed Matilda the reins, and hopped down. He bought the whole inventory, added a few coins to what was due, and chose a posy of violets for his love.
“Thank you,” Matilda said, cradling the flowers between gloved hands. “Violets symbolize modesty. I was allowed to decorate the vicarage with them, to a point.”
The past was much on her mind today, perhaps as a result of visiting her auntie. Portia struck Tremont as haunted by regrets. Her present protectiveness toward Matilda had been balanced by a tacit admission that she had been unequal to the challenge of keeping Matilda safe when it had mattered. Without a word, Portia had conveyed a warning to Tremont that he must not fail Matilda as Portia had failed her.
Matilda glanced over her shoulder at the flower seller, who had collected her signs and was already pushing her barrow in the direction of the pub.
“Harry would have told me to distract the girl by examining her wares so he could pinch three bouquets from her, which he’d either sell to the next flower girl he came across, or use to flatter ladies from whom he wanted something.”
Harry again—Harry and his rotten schemes. “Are you having second thoughts about this courtship, Matilda?”
She sat up straighter on the bench. “Not in the least.”
Her assurances sounded genuine. Matilda was clever, independent of spirit, and kind, and she was not a dissembler. Tremont guided the horse into Hyde Park, intent on cutting across Kensington Gardens on less crowded thoroughfares. The park was quieter and, given the weather, all but deserted of wheeled traffic.
“Are you having second thoughts?” Matilda asked.
“My thoughts…” Tremont drew the horse up onto the verge and tried to gather up the flock of mental doves that passed for his thoughts these days. “I have never been in such a muddle. You debate the Apostle Paul’s attitude toward women as enthusiastically as you argue the merits of donkeys over mules. You have a recipe for removing wine stains from linen, good little churchwoman that you are, but you kiss like… Your kisses have been much on my mind, Matilda.”
“As yours have been on mine.” She offered that rejoinder as politely as if she were remarking on the nippy weather.
“I doubt that. We are to inspect the ledgers now that we’ve called upon your auntie. I have been hoping—desperately—that you’d use the afternoon to instead make a thorough inspection of me. Of my person.” His physical, male, desperately preoccupied person.
A snowflake drifted by while Tremont marveled at the complete abandonment of verbal restraint that had recently befallen him. One did not proposition his intended in the frigid confines of the park in the middle of a weekday after taking tea with the lady’s dragon auntie.
“You… you want me to inspect your person?” Matilda was beaming—beaming—at her violets.
Or perhaps one did precisely that. “Every inch of me, preferably on a fluffy bed behind a locked door, where we shall all the pleasures prove, with apologies to old Mr. Marlowe.”
The silence that ensued was comfortable. Matilda had a vigorous mind, and her thoughts required sorting and framing every bit as much as Tremont’s usually did. He awaited her reply, confident that she would match him honesty for honesty.
“The men are hiding something from us,” she said. “Whispering in corners, singing too loudly, and very much on their manners at meals. I wanted you to know that, and we must discuss it, but we can discuss itlater.”
The men were always up to mischief. Betting on illegal prizefights, falling in love, taking in stray dogs, and so forth.
“We will, of course, discuss any matter that concerns the men when you find it convenient to do so.” Tremont took up the reins, wishing the men would all immigrate to Nova Scotia. “About the other?”
Matilda sniffed her violets, which one did only the once. Their scent was most apparent on the first whiff, for some reason.
“Drive on, my lord. The sky is threatening nasty weather, and I do fancy Mr. Marlowe’s poetry.”
Tremont gave the horse leave to move off at a very smart trot.
Aunt Portia was clearly worried about Matilda’s dealings with Tremont, but then, Aunt had been reared to worry. To fret over the men in her orbit, the coming winter, the price of bread, and the health of the king. Where occasional bouts of joy and hope should have been, Aunt Portia found troublesome mattersto dwell on that reinforced the Church’s admonition to cling to Scripture—and to fear.
Had Aunt Portia been sitting beside Tremont in the gig, her gaze would have been on the threatening sky beyond the lattice of dark, bare branches overhead. Matilda had been astonished to realize that Aunt was not yet forty. Not yetfive-and-thirty, for heaven’s sake, and yet, Aunt and the fussy Mrs. Oldbach were of a piece.
And I was becoming very like them.As Tremont guided the horse along a path strewn with dead leaves, and a few snowflakes drifted on the breeze, Matilda felt as if she’d had a narrow escape. Living with Harry, worry had become her shadow.Where is Harry? What if he’s run one rig too many? Has he been taken up by the law? May he please return home safe and sound, but not just yet?
Raising Tommie had become more of the same.Is he a bit warm? Not warm enough? Can I afford an orange to go with his Sunday breakfast? He needs a new coat…By degrees, worry had taken over a mother’s joy in her son’s good health and high spirits, until love and anxiety had become next of kin.
Tremont, by contrast, was the soul of calm. His outlook was optimistic, and he regarded life as a worthy challenge rather than an inescapable purgatory.
And he had invited Matilda to closely inspect his person, behind a locked door, on a fluffy bed.
