Page 81 of Miss Dauntless
The major wrapped his scarf more snugly about his ears and turned his steps in the direction of the park. Tremont would expect a report by nightfall, and then MacKay, as was the duty of a true friend, would do his best to get his brokenhearted lordship roaring drunk.
Parting was not sweet sorrow, it was bitter hell.
Matilda came to this conclusion as Tremont handed her down from his coach and four and then assisted Tommie to alight. Had the stink of the Thames not been so intense, theearl might have been dropping them off at some elegant seaside resort.
The inn was an oasis of grandeur and decorum amid the otherwise indifferent offerings along the riverfront.
“London exerts itself to make a good first and last impression on certain travelers,” Tremont said, eyeing the wide veranda. Liveried footmen and porters bustled about with luggage, and swags of holiday greenery adorned the first-floor balcony. “They serve meals on that balcony in fine weather, but the best views are from the back. You can watch all the river traffic and pretend you are the harbormaster.”
That was said for Tommie’s benefit, and Matilda’s heart broke all over again. “Will you spend the Yuletide holidays in Shropshire, my lord?” she asked.
“I hardly know.” Tremont offered his arm, and Matilda took it, all too aware that the moment of separation loomed ever closer.
“Tommie, come along.” Tommie latched on to Matilda’s free hand. Copenhagen peeked out from the top of his coat, a measure suggested by the earl when Tommie would not stop fretting over the possibility of his stuffed friend going missing.
Tremont dealt with the business of room keys and fare for the accommodations. “Your meals will be brought up to you,” he said, “and your rooms are reserved until you board the packet for Portsmouth tomorrow. Shall I see you up?”
He’d been the proper, punctilious earl since retrieving them from the soldiers’ home. Matilda grasped that Tremont’s demeanor was intended to shore up her flagging composure, but she also resented that he was able to maintain such effective command of himself.
Did his mental linen closets and pantries never spill open? Never spew their contents forth at inopportune moments?
“I would rather not say good-bye in public,” she muttered. “Upstairs with us.” Tommie came along, though he dragged at her hand, gawking over his shoulder at every step.
The stairs seemed to go on forever, one pretty, quintessentially British landscape after another, every step muted by the spotless carpets underfoot. Condemned felons probably climbed to the gallows with only slightly more foreboding than Matilda felt. They at least faced an end to their troubles, while she…
Don’t be pathetic, Matilda.That voice, oddly enough, belonged to Papa, and for once, his admonition was appropriate. She gained the first floor and let go of Tommie’s hand.
“This way,” Tremont said, striding past more landscapes. “You have the corner, where the light is best, and you have a superlative view of the river. I allowed myself to stay in that suite for one night when I returned to England. I watched the sun come up over the Thames and knew I was finally home—except I wasn’t, not truly.”
He fell silent and fitted a key into the lock of the last door at the end of the corridor.
When will I finally know I am home?“It’s lovely,” Matilda said, stepping into a parlor that would have been of a piece with the earl’s own dwelling. “Tommie, take a peek out the window.”
Tommie ran to the window and simply stared at the vista of the river below. Even on a winter afternoon, the light sparkled off the water, and the distant shore—an unremarkable collection of shops, warehouses, and tenements—had the aspect of a magical land.
“We’re sailing away on the river?” he asked, nose pressed to the glass.
“With tomorrow afternoon’s outgoing tide,” Tremont said, which spared Matilda having to prevaricate with her son. “You will travel to a new world and have many fine adventures.”
Tommie turned away from the window, his features set in an obstinate cast Matilda knew all too well.
“I don’t want to have adventures in a new world, Mama. I want to have them here. With Tuck and Jensen and Cook and MacIvey. I want to learn to polish boots like Charlie and speak the Erse like the major and MacIvey and MacPherson. I miss Tidbit, and Arthur, and—”
The earl scooped Tommie up and perched him on his hip. “My boy, this will not do. Do you recall that in my youth, I had to imagine sailing away in my longboat? I had to make believe some old tree or ruined cottage was my ship? I was an earl, a peer of the realm, and I’d never seen the sea. I’d never heard the sails luffing in the breeze, never felt the deck shifting as my ship got underway. By this time tomorrow, you will know firsthand all the things I could barely imagine.”
“I don’t want to be a Viking.” A note of true despair undergirded Tommie’s petulance. “I want to go back to the happy house and learn to play the fiddle. I hate the stupid ocean.”
Tommie had reason on his side. From his perspective, this journey was purely one of loss.
“The Atlantic Ocean is merely a lot of salt water,” Tremont said. “Do you know some ships cross the whole thing in little more than a fortnight? Those ships carry letters, and I am hoping you will write to me.”
“My lord…” Matilda began. Correspondence was not in her plans. Correspondence could ruin everything.
“Will you write to me?” Tommie asked, knuckling an eye. “I can write my name and spell Arthur and Tidbit and Mama.”
“Matilda?”
“I have told Portia I will write to her. I’m sure any correspondence for Tommie that she receives from you, my lord,she will be happy to forward to us. If Tommie is inclined to write to you, Portia will doubtless send his letters on to you as well.”
