Page 82 of Miss Dauntless
Even that compromise left Matilda uneasy, and Tremont clearly hated it.
“You see?” he said, setting Tommie on his feet. “We will become loyal correspondents, and you will tell me all about your travels and the new friends you make. You must practice your penmanship so I can make out your words easily. Shall we shake hands in parting?”
He extended a hand to Tommie, and Tommie shook, then wrapped his arms around Tremont’s waist. “Please look after Arthur and Tidbit and the goats and Tuck and Jensen and all the rest, sir. I will write to them too.”
The lump in Matilda’s throat eclipsed Gibraltar by an order of magnitude. “The bedroom is through there,” she said, pointing to an open door. “Decide which side of the bed you want, Tommie, and get Copenhagen acquainted with his new paddock.”
Tommie cantered off, waving his horse, and Tremont watched him go.
“Do you truly object to letters, Matilda?”
“If you are merely being considerate of a small boy’s homesickness, no, I do not object, but you must not try to follow us.”
Tremont ran a hand through his hair. “I have no great wish to see Philadelphia, but if dear Harry should be run down by a dray Wednesday next, I would most assuredly want to convey that development to you. I can guarantee I will hear that news before Portia does.”
“Harry would never be so obliging as to step out in front of a heavy vehicle.”
Tremont smiled crookedly. “Suppose not. I’ve sent for his sister, though. She might knock him flat for us.”
“You didwhat?”
“That long talk I had with Spartacus Lykens—who is on his way back to Ireland with funds in his pocket as we speak—included a few more details regarding Harry’s origins that I meant to pass along to you, except that you drifted away on the arms of Morpheus before I got around to it. Harry is of the Merchant family of Bristol, a fine lineage and well-heeled. Cousins in banking, uncles in shipping. I sent an express to the sister, who yet resides in the family’s Bristol home. I suspect Harry owns that property, does he but know it.”
Oh, the irony. “Why do this? Why give his family a chance to reclaim him?”
Tremont’s smile faded. “I suspect many a boy runs away from home just to make sure he’ll be missed at supper. He ends up hungry and humiliated, whether or not his family misses him. I can’t begin to know what passes for motivation in your husband’s head, but he’s more muddled than even he knows, and sisters have a way of sorting a fellow out.”
“I do not care whether Harry is ever sorted out. If he grasps what’s good for him, he will stay far, far away from me and Tommie.”
“Depend upon it. Contrary to his prevarications with you, he’s off to Rome, according to MacKay. Harry apparently considered France, but chose Rome as the cheaper and sunnier alternative, also one where he’s less likely to encounter familiar faces. The French should consider that they’ve had a narrow escape.”
“He doesn’t speak the language,” Matilda said. “As facile as Harry is as a mimic, he could never quite get the knack of French, while I had French drummed into me, along with Proverbs and Fordyce’s Sermons.”
Words, coherent words, were coming out of her mouth, but Matilda’s heart ached with the knowledge that when Tremont walked out the door, her path and his would never cross again.
“You won’t need much French in Philadelphia,” Tremont said, “though Proverbs might come in handy.” He shifted his gaze to the river. “Matilda, I don’t want to leave you, but if I stay another five minutes, I will succumb to strong hysterics.”
“As will I.” She would whether he remained or departed. “My stores of fortitude are ebbing by the moment, so let’s say farewell and wish each other the best, shall we?”
Tremont held open his arms, and Matilda lacked the ability to resist.
“I will miss you for the rest of my life,” she said, burrowing close. “If I were a different woman, if you were a different man, we’d not need to part.”
“But we are who we are,” Tremont replied, “and I would not have you any other way. I will miss you, too, Matilda, but I will also love you and thank the benevolent powers that you have been a part of my life.”
“Tell me you’ll take a wife, Tremont. Please. You need to take a wife.”
He kissed her cheek and stepped back. “I will write to Tommie, through Portia if you insist, and I will wish you a safe journey. I promise not to follow you to Philadelphia, and I will keep some eyes on Harry in Rome for the good of all concerned. Be well, Matilda.”
He bowed and withdrew, closing the door softly before she could disgrace herself by begging him to stay. He’d given his word not to follow her, and Marcus, Earl of Tremont, would not break that word.
She should have been relieved. Instead, Matilda sank into a chair and commenced silently weeping.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“The MacKays mean well,” Michael Delancey said, “and Dorcas sets a fine table. Shall we walk together for a bit?”
Tremont would rather have walked alone, but left to his own devices, he’d find himself standing outside a certain genteel riverfront inn, baying at the inky winter sky.
