Page 5 of Miss Dauntless
“You will be astonished to learn that I was a small boy once, Mrs. Merridew. Widowhood quite undid my mother, and my only sibling was a sister several years my senior. When my father died, I became a trial to the nerves too.”
Mrs. Merridew regarded him in the gathering shadows while the sound of a door scraping open came from beneath the porch.
“What changed?” she asked. “You are the furthest thing from a trial to the nerves now.”
“I grew up. I went to war. I realized I could never be my father, and life goes on.”
“That, it does. Thank you again, my lord, and good luck with your men. I surmise they can be a trial to the nerves as well.” She curtseyed and followed her son down into the darkness of the half basement.
Tremont waited on the walkway until a dim light appeared in the narrow window beside the basement door, then he set a brisk pace for his own dwelling. Walking calmed his mind and allowed his thoughts to form into tidy squares. His imagination, however, was making that exercise impossible.
A whisper of an idea wedged its way into the swirling currents of Tremont’s cogitations. Mrs. Merridew might be the answer to a prayer. She was pretty, though she tried to hide it. Pretty wasn’t necessary, but it did help, and she was patient. A wealth of patience was mandatory.
Mrs. Merridew was the soul of patience. She was accustomed to unruly males who needed a firm, kind hand. She was in straitened circumstances. The child’s too-short coat, her widow’s weeds going worn about the seams, and her willingness to accept a spare coin at the expense of her pride all confirmed as much.
Tremont marched along, the idea growing and twining like ivy around other ideas and between yet still others. By the time he reached home, he was humming “Green Grow the Rashes, O” and wondering if he’d parted with what little remained of his reasoning powers.
CHAPTER TWO
The day was sunny for a change, which made the mending less of a chore. The seat by the parlor window was nonetheless frigid, and Matilda again considered smashing some of the furniture from the floors above to burn for warmth.
But no. Winter had yet to truly arrive, and the day would soon be less chilly. She wasn’t desperate—yet. Somebody would rent the upstairs soon, and until then, she had scribing for the church meetings, mending, watching Major MacKay’s son on the governess’s half day, and other odd jobs.
Charity jobs, and Matilda was grateful for them.
“I’m hungry,” Tommie said, shuffling a deck of cards with more dexterity than was proper for a boy of his age. “Can we go to the bakery?”
“We will go to the bakery tomorrow afternoon.” Tomorrow, the baker put the fancy products for the week on display, and thus the selection of day-olds was larger. “You had your porridge, my boy. Build me a castle of cards.”
“I want to go to the bakery now. The bakery is warm, and Mrs. Spicer sometimes gives me a biscuit.”
One of the stale biscuits, of course. “If you are cold, then put on your scarf.”
“Iwantto go to thebakery, and I want abiscuit, andI do not want to put on my scarf—”
A knock at the front door interrupted the gathering tempest of Tommie’s frustration. Not the coalman—he still did Matilda the courtesy of coming down the back steps to dun her for his payment—but who else could it be?
“We have company!” Tommie was off his chair and out of the parlor, cards forgotten.
“Thomas, you do not pelt up to the door like the first footman trying to impress his employer. I will answer the door.”
Tommie slowed, his eagerness yielding to annoyance. “Why can’t I have any fun, Mama? I’m the man of the house. I should answer the door.”
The man of the house was still small enough to be snatched by an ambitious chimney sweep, though that would change in a year or two. Then the mines and the merchant ships would become the greater threats, to say nothing of the abbesses.
Matilda stopped by the speckled mirror in the foyer. Her reflection was pale, tired, and going gaunt. Harry would not have been best pleased to see his wife in such a condition.
Which was just too blessed bad. Matilda opened the door, prepared to see Mrs. Oldbach or possibly Dorcas MacKay.
The Earl of Tremont, in all his lordly splendor, stood before her. “Mrs. Merridew, good day.” He tipped his hat and bowed. “Master Merridew.” To Tommie, he offered a gloved hand. “I hope I’m not calling at a bad time?”
“Mama was mending,” Tommie said. “She mendsall the time. I want to go to the bakery because it’s warm, and it smells like heaven, but I’m building a card castle. You could help me.”
A riot of emotions buffeted Matilda.
Grudging respect for the earl’s courtesy to a small boy.
Resignation, because a peer calling on an impoverished widow did not bode well for the propriety of Matilda’shousehold, though in fairness, Tremont would not be the first man to proposition her.
