Page 88 of Miss Dauntless
“I asked a few honest questions of a mostly honest man. Now behave for the major and his missus until I return.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I don’t want to get on another ship,” Tommie said. “All we did was watch the shore go by, and pass other boats, and listen to that pale lady moan, and watch more of the shore go by. Sailing on the sea is boring.On-wee-ooze.”
He said this loudly enough that the lady at the inn’s reception desk smiled.
Boring, stupid, foolish… Tommie had asked for all manner of pejorative French vocabulary as the journey—and Tommie himself—had grown tedious. He was a prodigious mimic, which would serve him well learning a new language.
“The lad’s tired,” the lady at the desk said, evidencing a slight French accent. “Le garçon est fatigué. The mama is tired as well, I suspect.”
“Exhausted,” Matilda said, “but determined to press on. We need a decent meal, and then we’ll be on the evening packet for Calais.”
“I don’t want to go to Calais,” Tommie bellowed. “Copenhagen doesn’t want to go to Calais. Calais is stupid and boring and stinky.”
“Le ville est puant,” the lady said mildly. She was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and trim. “Is Copenhagen your horse?”
Tommie touched Copenhagen’s yarn forelock. “He’s my friend. I won’t ever lose him.”
“Did you know there’s a whole city that shares a name with your horse? Copenhagen is beautiful, right on the sea. They speak Danish there, a language of the Vikings.”
Tommie looked askance at Matilda.
“Madame is right,” she said, “though I don’t know even a word of Danish. We can eat in the common, and I’m told our luggage can be stored here while we wait for the tide to go out.”
“Of course, ma’am. And under what name shall we keep your trunks?”
Harry would have used an alias, of course. Damn him and his schemes. “Matilda Merridew.”
The lady made a note on some ledger. “Mrs. Merridew, might I suggest a private dining room? We are not full, and I believe the young man could use some peace and quiet. I do not charge you for this. Even Vikings can tire of travel.”
“I’m not a Viking,” Tommie muttered.
No, but you are impersonating a barbarian quite well.“Peace and quiet sound marvelous.”
The fare was simple but hearty—bread and butter, beef and barley stew, served with steaming mulled cider. Tommie tore into his portions while Matilda lectured herself about the need to eat.
Thanks to Tremont and Aunt Portia, funds were not an immediate issue, but an upset tummy and a breaking heart were. While Tommie pretended to offer a spoonful of soup to his stuffed horse and managed to dribble a mess onto the table, Matilda nibbled bread and butter and missed Tremont.
What was he doing while she prepared for yet more hours of bobbing on the waves? Was he reading the Stoics? Tending to the account books? Staring off into space and wishing life could be different?
Was he missing her or resigning himself to that which could not be changed? A tap on the door interrupted her musings.
“Evening, ma’am. I’ve come to take the dishes, and Missus sent along some apple cobbler for your sweet. The wind has picked up, and that’s a good thing if you’re catching the evening tide.”
“I don’t want to catch the evening tide,” Tommie said. “Tides are stupid.”
“Somebody’s tired,” the serving maid said, putting Tommie’s empty soup bowl on a tray. “Travel can be wearying, but it’s ever so lovely to finally reach home.”
“We aren’t going home,” Tommie began. “We are going to stupid Paris in stinky old France, and I don’t want to go, and nobody will listen to m-me.”
He hugged his horse and buried his face against Copenhagen’s velvet neck as loud, hooting sobs filled the small parlor.
“The crossing should be swift,” the maid said, collecting Matilda’s soup bowl. “Winter weather can make for choppy currents, but you do get to Calais in good time. You’ll be in France before dawn, young fellow.”
This assurance inspired Tommie to greater volumes of misery.
And for Matilda, to be free, to be away, to be on French soil and know the parting was complete… She longed to close the door on her hopes with that much finality. To lose herself in the simple business of survival as she had when Harry had abandoned her.
