Page 79 of Miss Dauntless
“Exhausted for the nonce. I’ve told him we’re leaving.”
“Going out with the tide on Tuesday afternoon,” Tremont said. “Well, it’s not Tuesday yet. Come have a seat, and I’ll tell you what I learned from an interesting interview with Mr. Spartacus Lykens.”
Matilda stayed by the door. “Whatever you learned, it’s not enough, is it?”
“Nothing, short of your hand secured in mine by legally binding holy matrimony, will be enough, but the news is interesting. It might make forgiving Harry easier.”
And to Tremont, that would matter. Matilda longed to climb into Tremont’s lap and give way to sobs. She instead took the wing chair at a right angle to his lordship’s end of the sofa.
“What did Mr. Lykens have to tell you?”
“Harry has a sister,” Tremont said, resuming his seat. “And an auntie, and he hails from Bristol, just as he claimed. Growing up in a port town, he heard all the accents and learned to mimic them as a sort of hobby. He also told the truth about being from Quaker stock, and yet, he wanted to become an actor.”
Matilda did not give two rotten tomatoes for Harry’s youthful ambitions, but she loved even the sound of Tremont’s voice,and so she mustered the effort to turn his recitation into a conversation.
“I can’t imagine Harry’s ambitions went over well with his family, but he has become quite the thespian nonetheless.”
Tremont had more to say, about an unbending father, unyielding discipline, and piety used to smother joy. About a young man’s high spirits turning to rebellion and his gifts into weapons. When Tremont fell silent, Matilda found that her eyes had grown nearly as heavy as her heart.
“I will,” she said, “on some fine and distant day, feel some compassion for that Bristol boy imprisoned in his father’s dogma—one feels grudging sympathy for such a one—but right now… I wish I’d never met Harry Merridew. I wish I’d had the patience to wait for my father’s death, for some other man to come along, for somebody to hear of a governess’s or companion’s post. But for Tommie, I’d wish I never met Joseph Yoe, and I do wish I’d never met Harry.”
“But you did,” Tremont said, smiling slightly. “Do you wish you’d never met me?” He managed to make the inquiry merely one of curiosity, though Matilda knew her answer mattered to him.
“I will never, ever regret knowing you, Marcus. I hope you can say the same about me.” She shifted out of her wing chair to tuck herself against his side, and his arm came around her shoulders.
“You are the delight my heart has longed for,” he said, “and the day I met you, every wrong thing in my life came right. I won’t stop loving you just because you sail off to Philadelphia on Tuesday.”
Matilda fell asleep to the sound of Tremont’s steady heartbeat, and when she woke the next morning, she was tucked beneath her covers, fully clothed save for her boots, and quite, quite alone.
“Matilda is packing to leave as I speak,” Alasdhair MacKay said. “I have been tasked with delivering the executed deed to you. Alasdhair MacKay, at your service.”
Harry Merridew appeared to have already gathered up his worldly goods. A battered valise sat by the door, along with a traveling desk and a leather knapsack of ancient provenance. A half-empty glass of libation suggested Harry had been sitting before the fire, perhaps contemplating his sins.
“And I wish my wife fair winds and following seas,” Merridew replied, smiling genially. “I’m sure she wishes me the same, provided I sail in the opposite direction.”
MacKay did not want to like Harry Merridew or feel any sympathy for him—Dorcas assuredly did not—but the fellow had charm.
“Where will you go?” MacKay asked.
“Why do you want to know?” Merridew countered, making no move to take MacKay’s hat or cloak.
“So I can be sure to avoid the place and keep my family well away from it too.”
Merridew’s smile dimmed. “I deserved that. I’ve the dregs of a decent bottle of brandy to share, if you’d like to warm up while you sermonize at me.”
“I would not waste the breath, but I will accept the hospitality.” Tremont was too honorable to spy outright on his enemy, while MacKay’s conscience wasn’t half so delicate. Besides, the day was brutally cold, and the quality of a man’s brandy said a lot about his prospects.
“You might want to keep your cloak on,” Merridew said. “My landlady is parsimonious with the coal, though with any luck, she won’t be my landlady beyond the end of this week.”
“You think you can sell Matilda’s house in a week flat?” MacKay unbuttoned his cloak and left it about his shoulders. The room was chilly, though not quite see-your-breath cold.
Merridew gestured to a musty wing chair, took a seat in its equally disreputable twin, and pulled a shawl over his knees.
“I could sell that house by sundown,” he said, “but desperation seldom wins the best price. You truly have brought the deed?”
How casually he inquired. MacKay withdrew a rolled-up document tied with a red ribbon. “A quitclaim, executed before witnesses in favor of one Harrell Merriman, and I can vouch for the solicitor who drew it up.”
“Merriman?”
