Page 74 of Miss Dauntless
Despite that unflattering characterization of her past, Matilda had reason on her side, dammit, and logic and—most powerful of all—mother-love.
“When do you sail?”
“Tuesday. Philadelphia seems like a worthy place to start over. Aunt Portia knows some people there who will look kindly upon Tommie and me. Harry says he will avoid that city owing to a surfeit of Quakers. His family were prosperous members of the Society of Friends, if you can believe that, and Harry became a prodigal after a falling-out with his father—assuming what he told me was true. I will send an executed deed to him on Monday. He’s keeping rooms in Knightsbridge.”
Not as fancy as Mayfair, but a more than respectable neighborhood. “Did he give you a specific direction?”
Matilda recited the name of a modest lodging house catering to bachelors enjoying a limited stay in Town. “You must leave him alone, Marcus. As unfair as it is, Harry has the law on his side, and he does not make idle threats.”
“Right now,” Tremont replied, rising, “I do not give a shovel full of Charlie’s finest for the law, for common sense, or for reason. The woman I love is leaving me, and I haven’t even the comfort of arguing with her motivations.”
He kissed Matilda’s forehead and lingered near her long enough to breathe in her scent, then took his leave of her.
And she, to his eternal sorrow, let him go without another word.
Matilda drove the market pony along Park Lane and barely felt the cold. Obliviousness to discomfort warned her that she’d relapsed into a mode of coping that she’d doubtless pay for.
Married to Harry, she’d learned to keep her feelings in a locked emotional linen closet. Anger sat stacked on top of worry, worry was folded atop fear. Thoughts of vengeance occupied a wide shelf, as did regret. She tucked away that most unruly impulse, hope, in a dim and dusty corner.
When Harry had “died,” unpacking that linen closet had been the substance of her mourning. She had felt some genuine sorrow. Harry had in his way tried to be the best husband he could—and failed miserably—but he had tried. He’d never put Matilda at serious risk for criminal charges. He’d never taken out his frustrations on Tommie.
At the time, though, she’d been convinced his demise was the result of some scheme gone awry, the just deserts of a professional swindler.
Her sorrow for Harry had been eclipsed by her ire at him. She’d married him to secure a place of modest respect in society, but respect could not feed a baby or pay the coalman. For months, Matilda had darned Mr. Prebish’s socks and mended Mrs. Oldbach’s shawls, sewing both fury and fear into every stitch.
How could he do this to me? How could he do this to Tommie?
Did widows cling to their veiled bonnets and retiring ways not because grief demanded it of them, but rather, because a raging woman knew better than to wear her anger in public?
That rage was back in full spate—damn Harry to New South Wales for that—along with enough sorrow to fill the Thames. Sorrow for herself, and for Tremont, whose great crime was to be a decent, loving, lovely man.
“He will cope,” she muttered, steering the pony into the less elegant surrounds of Knightsbridge. “He has coped with…” Marcus had coped witheverything. From losing a parent at too young an age, to joining a war, to repeated betrayals by a superior officer, to that ghastly business at Waterloo, to restoring an estate on the brink of ruin…
Tears threatened, again. Matilda clucked to the pony, who gamely picked up his pace and soon had her in the quieter surrounds of Chelsea. Aunt’s modest cottage had acquired some early holiday greenery, and the sight nearly undid Matilda’s self-possession.
Merry Olde England did such a fine job by Christmas, and this year, Matilda had hoped the holidays would be different. Warm, well fed, jolly…
She drove the pony to the livery, tipped the groom as handsomely as she dared, and made her way to Aunt Portia’s door. Her aunt received her with the same guarded warmth that always characterized their dealings, and perhaps a little relief that Tommie had not joined the outing.
Portia did set great store by her few porcelain treasures.
“I got your note,” she said, taking Matilda’s cloak and hanging it on a peg. “What on earth requires that you hare about London in this cold, Matilda? You must be half frozen and one-quarter daft.”
“I am neither.” Though she was done with allowing any and everybody to judge her for no reason. “I have made some difficult decisions, and you deserve to hear of them directly from me.”
Aunt’s fussing hands went still on Matilda’s cloak. “Brandy, I think. To ward off lung fever.”
Brandy would do, considering Matilda’s mood. She held her peace until she and Portia were seated in a warm parlor, and Portia’s long-haired gray cat was sniffing delicately at Matilda’s skirts.
“What has you in a taking this time?” Portia asked, sipping her drink.
The vintage was excellent, which made Matilda wonder whether Portia had acquired an admirer. Good for her, if she had.
“Tommie and I are leaving London,” Matilda said. “I’ve put it about that I am sailing to Philadelphia for a fresh start. You will please support that fiction should anybody inquire.”
“Phila—Philadelphia? Matilda, what on earth precipitates this unseemly drama?”
Matilda would have objected to the implications, except that Portia sounded genuinely worried.
