“I do have a plan.” Matilda said, looking for all the world like a mulish schoolgirl.
“Which you refuse to share with me,” Tremont rejoined from his seat one wing chair and four universes of heartache away from her perch. “Matilda, have we no trust in each other?” She had come back to the house from some outing she would not disclose, but the men reported that she’d missed her usual half day with the MacKays.
And the reticule she’d deposited on the sideboard looked suspiciously full.
She gave him an unfathomable look, and that she would guard her feelings from the man who loved her nearly unhinged him.
“I will leave England for a time,” she said. “Harry’s schemes will result inevitably in his true demise, and when that happens, if you have not taken a proper wife, I will marry you.”
“No.” Tremont had nearly shouted the word, which would not do. They were in Matilda’s private parlor, and half a dozen men, two maids, Mrs. Winklebleck, and Cook wielding her rolling pin would all come running if they thought Matilda was getting the sharp edge of Tremont’s tongue.
“No, you will not marry me?” The question revealed a crack in Matilda’s towering dignity. “My mistake. I do apologize. I should not have presumed.”
She was once again the chilly, proper widow, and Tremont suspected that this time, she was not Harry Merri-dew-man-whatever’s widow, she was Tremont’s widow. Her grief was trussed up in propriety and determination, the twin pillars of her composure since she’d left her girlhood home.
“No,” Tremont said quietly. “No, I will not take a proper wife, if by that you mean some blushing flower whose parents covet my title. The only wife I will ever speak my vows with is you.”
Something bleak passed through Matilda’s eyes. “You must not say that. Any day, you could be run down by a passing coach. You could catch a lung fever or fall from your horse. A cousin you despise will inherit everything you and your father worked so hard to safeguard. Your mother will lose her home, and Marcus, it isn’t in you to let that happen.”
Oh, for the love of honking geese. “I survived years at war, Matilda. I risked an ignominious death by firing squad. I survived living in the damned stews, where I should have been a lamb to slaughter. I’ve turned around a sizable estate my dear relations were sailing straight into ruin, and I’ve dodged London’s most determined matchmakers for months. I will not succumb to a cold.”
Matilda offered him a slight, though genuine, smile. “Hardly the recitation of a gentrified cipher, is it, my lord?”
Well, no, which was neither here nor there. “Needs must, and you haring off to Nova Scotia won’t solve anything.”
Her smile faded to sadness. “We define the problem differently, my lord.”
Stop my-lording me. “The problem is how we can legally marry, such that our offspring are legitimate and you are not committing bigamy. I agree with you that Harry’s death—his actual death from natural causes—would facilitate those aims.”
When debating, always concede common ground to build good will with one’s opponent.
Matilda shook her head. “The problem is how to ensure that your honor is not compromised by devotion to a woman you haven’t known all that long. Suppose you do contract that lung fever? As you lay dying, no heir save your scurrilous cousin, will you be comforted to know that you could have ensured better for your mother, your dependents, and tenants?”
“Mama has been amply provided for by trusts I’ve established and by her dower portion. No scurrilous cousin can imperil her welfare.”
Matilda rose and went to the window, which looked out on a gray winter day. “Your mother pawned her jewelry before, Marcus. Dorcas shared that with me. Lady Tremont and Lady Lydia had to scheme and scrape to keep the estate afloat. Heirlooms that had been in the family for generations were discreetly sold on Ludgate Hill or given to your cousin to cover his debts. That estate is your mother’s link with your father’s memory, and you put it at risk with your loyalty to me.”
“Then Mama will have to do as many widows have done and cope with her grief. My father was a living, breathing man who loved her dearly. He was not a pile of granite and some rural vistas. She is welcome to bide with Lydia and Sir Dylan, and in winter, she often does just that.”
Matilda turned, and more than her expression, her physical attitude made Tremont’s heart sink. Her features were nearly blank, so great was her self-possession—marriage to damned old Harry had probably imbued her with that skill—while her posture was more resolute than a newly promoted lieutenant at his first parade inspection.
“Why are you doing this, Matilda?” She had not lied to him, but neither had she trusted him.
“I told you: We have no honorable way forward, except to wait for Harry’s actual death, and waiting is the one thing you must not do. Ergo, I am quitting the field. When I took up with Joseph, I was thinking of myself. When I took up with Harry, I was still mostly thinking of myself. I must think of Tommie now, and that means removing myself from the ambit of your affections. If you love me, you will marry another lady, a sweet woman who esteems you sincerely, which, God knows, is easy enough to do. You will have a half-dozen sons and live to a ripe and contented old age.”
Matilda passed that sentence on him with a dispassion that would have flattered a judge, save that two spots of pink had bloomed in her cheeks, and she was staring fixedly at the untouched tea tray on the low table.
Why do this? Why make this great, stupid sacrifice? Everything Matilda said was true. Cousin Wesley was a self-absorbed spendthrift who’d stop at little to indulge his many appetites. He’d run Tremont into the ground, of that there was no question.
But the tenants would all have time to find other properties if Wesley inherited, and Marcus had equipped them with letters commending their stewardship and diligence. Mama and the pensioners were taken care of, and the property was in as good repair as Marcus could make it.
This was not about an estate, or even about Marcus’s honor, or even the impact on Tommie of having a mother in an irregular association with an earl.
“Have your feelings for me changed, Matilda?”
Her chin came up, and she glowered at him. “No. Were I free to marry you, I’d do so on the instant.”
He’d seen that same battle light in her eyes before, in St. Mildred’s hall… when she’d thought he’d been about to take Tommie to task.
Well, of course. The issue was not Tommie’s social standing, but rather, his safety. “I can keep Tommie from harm,” Tremont said. “We’ll have him educated in Finland, and Harry will never find him.”
“Finland?”
“Britain is all but out of lumber. The Finns have seas of magnificent pine to sell and land they want cleared. I’m importing that lumber and making a tidy sum doing it. Lovely people, and a beautiful country, what little I’ve seen of it.”
Matilda marched over to him. “I am not sending my son to perishing Finland when he’s barely old enough to dress himself. Besides, Harry would get wind of it somehow, and he is Tommie’s legal father, as he has been at pains to remind me, and…”
Her breath caught. A small sound, one easily ignored, and Matilda would doubtless prefer that Tremont did ignore it.
“Harry threatened Tommie.” Tremont waited for Matilda to refute that conclusion. She instead sank back into her seat.
The rotten, revolting rat had accosted Matilda when she’d been without allies and played a hand she could not beat. Sound tactics and very unsound honor.
“Harry has consulted the attorneys,” Matilda said. “They tell him paternity is not remotely at issue.”
Tremont took the opposite chair, feeling as if the discussion had just now reached productive ground. Difficult ground, but productive.
“Harry Merridew is dead, Matilda, if we’re to resort to legalities.”
She brushed her fingers over the arm of her chair. “I haven’t a death certificate, and Harry does have a convincing tale of lost memory and destitute circumstances.”
“Convincing? How does he explain that letter from a nonexistent innkeeper from a nonexistent inn, written in Harry’s own hand? Shall we exhume the corpse and find dog bones in the coffin?”
Matilda regarded him with something like pity. “Harry will claim he was the victim of a scheme, left for dead, and all in a muddle. He makes the most outlandish tales credible. I’ve seen him do it. Everybody believes Harry—I believed him enough to marry him—and I believe him when he says he’ll take Tommie with him when he sails.”
“He can’t sail without blunt.” Tremont had made inquiries, and Harry apparently had no creditors in London—no legal creditors. That didn’t mean he had enough to pay for transatlantic passage.
“He can only sail if I deed him the house, my lord, and I very much want that man out of my life.”
Tremont sat back and forced his mind down logical paths. “You brought up that business with Mama and the estate because you are protecting Harry. I commend the subtly of the strategy, but we have already established that I will not physically harm your… I will not do violence to Harry.”
“I might.” A grudging thread of humor illuminated those words, but only a thread. “I’ve arranged to deed the house to him. Major MacKay connected with me an affordable solicitor. With the wages you’ve paid me, I can leave England.”
Tremont’s worst fear stated in the calmest tones. Another grief, another bereavement coming from out of nowhere.
“What you mean is, you can leave me,” Tremont said softly, “because I must be fruitful and legitimately multiply, lest the family barbarian sack Shropshire.” He was barely making sense. He knew only that Matilda, for admittedly sound reasons, was conceding the battle and the war.
“I refuse to be the reason your birthright and your good name are put at risk, Marcus, and I will not let you be the reason I lose Tommie. In my undistinguished life, I have done the easy thing, the tempting thing, the too-good-to-be-true thing. For once, I shall do the right thing, as you so often do.”
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 with everything. 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.
“Harry Merridew, alive and well, precipitates my decision. He is not dead, Portia. He concocted a scheme to make me, and probably his creditors and enemies, think he was dead. He’s short of funds and has come around, expecting me to sign my dower house over to him. He will assert custody of Tommie if I balk. Harry is unwilling to divorce me because the press would become involved, but he doubtless knows enough crooked judges and magistrates to quietly take my son from me.”
The cat climbed onto Portia’s lap and stropped himself against her such that his tail waved before her face. She scratched the base of his neck, and he settled on his haunches and began a stentorian purr.
“Harry Merridew,” Portia muttered. “Well, of course. I am ashamed to say I rejoiced when he supposedly died, Matilda. He was a desperate measure indeed, and you paid dearly for throwing in with him. When your father told me he’d approved the match, I nearly did him an injury.”
What on earth could motivate Portia to violence? “Papa was likely paid—by Harry—to bless the match.”
The cat settled to all fours, a miniature smoky sphinx, doubtless getting hair all over Portia’s gray skirts. Did she dress to accommodate her presuming cat?
“Your father was not paid to allow Merridew to wed you,” Portia said, setting her drink aside without disturbing the cat. “Whilst kicking his heels in the village and courting you, Harry got to nosing about the parish registers. He happened across the record that showed when your father, while still a curate, had taken a bride. Less than seven months later, you showed up in the birth registries, and whatever else was true about your Harry, he could count.”
“I came a bit early, then?” Even as Matilda spoke, another explanation was beating on the door of one of her mental linen closets.
The cat sent Matilda a sagacious squint, his expression oddly mirroring Portia’s.
“From what your mother intimated, Matilda, you came precisely when you were due to arrive.”
Matilda felt an odd prickling down her arms. “Mama and Papa anticipated their vows?” She could barely recall her mother, a quiet, pretty woman with an air of patient good humor.
“Courting couples do,” Portia replied, “though I wasn’t about to take that risk with your uncle. As fond as he was of his port, he might have left me widowed before I’d wed, as the saying goes. Harry would have bruited about your parents’ indiscretion had your father thwarted the courtship. The good vicar was vain and hypocritical enough to be manipulated that easily.”
The fire crackled softly, the cat purred, and Matilda downed half her remaining drink. “Is every adult woman forced to constantly manage and accommodate the self-indulgence and arrogance of the men around her?”
Portia nudged the brandy bottle closer to Matilda’s elbow. “Tremont isn’t self-indulgent or arrogant, and he’s marvelously well-read. He didn’t simply memorize his lines for the day and then spit them out for the headmaster. He is a learned man, Matilda. Smart enough for you, and a good man.”
How smart was a woman who’d not known the circumstances of her own birth?
Matilda rose to pace, her progress around the parlor tracked visually by the cat. “My father… My father berated me constantly for laughing, for curtseying too quickly, for smiling at the butcher’s boy, or not making a long enough production of grace on the few occasions he allowed me to say it. He assured me over and over again that I would come to a bad end, that I was a burden sent by the devil to try his patience.”
“Your father was impatient, and he certainly tried your mother’s nerves. He also lied if he claimed you were sent by the imp, Matilda. You were an ominously well-behaved girl, and your father’s own precipitate wooing occasioned your conception. If you didn’t realize that Harry was a born deceiver, maybe that’s because your father lied to you from your birth. He told you that you weren’t quiet enough, pious enough, submissive enough to God’s will… The lack of virtue never lay with you. I’m sorry we didn’t have this discussion years ago, but I thought Harry would have told you.”
Matilda paused before a very good sketch of the cat posed beside a vase of irises. “Papa would doubtless take the oldest dodge in the Bible and blame Mama for tempting him, though she married straight out of the schoolroom. What does ‘ominously well-behaved’ mean?”
Portia stroked the cat and gazed at the fire. “When a girl is held to an impossible standard for too long, she eventually stumbles, and that stumbling can feel… good. Like freedom and honesty and power.”
What experience did Portia speak from? “Portia, why do I feel as if it’s only now, as I’m on the brink of leaving England, that I begin to know you?”
Portia set the cat in Matilda’s vacated chair and rose. “Stumbling comes at a price, and we have both learned caution in a hard school. You are leaving London because you don’t want your earl to stumble, aren’t you? Has he offered to set you up?”
“No.” A relief, because Matilda would be tempted to stumble yet again. “I thought that was his interest in me initially, but I was mistaken. Tremont is unlikely to risk illegitimacy for his offspring, and he and I cannot marry with Harry so hale and whole. Tremont is a peer, he votes his seat. He cannot abandon his homeland.”
“So you will abandon him. This feels right to you?” The question was merely curious rather than judgmental.
“I took up with Joseph Yoe because he purported to offer me a way to leave the vicarage. I took up with Harry because he promised me a scintilla of safety and propriety. My motivations in both cases were selfish and desperate, and I hoped a man would solve my difficulties. My motivation in this case… Yes, the decision to leave England feels right. Miserable, but right, and my choice.”
“Because you love him,” Portia said, passing Matilda her unfinished drink and picking up her own glass. “To love, then, though your earl might well show up in Philadelphia, Matilda. What will you do then?”
She finished her drink. “I won’t be in Philadelphia.”
“I see. You will write from wherever you end up and let me know how you’re getting on?”
Marcus would doubtless turn to Portia once he learned Matilda was not in America. “I will write eventually, after Tommie and I are settled.”
Portia crossed the room and opened the central drawer of a delicate inlaid escritoire. “Take this,” she said, passing over a velvet bag. “Consider it a loan, or an early bequest to your darling Tommie. He’s such a dear boy, and you should know he will inherit this house when I die.”
Matilda did not want to take the money, but Portia had brought up Tommie. Shrewd of her.
“Tommie is no blood relation to you, Portia. You need not leave him anything, but I am most grateful for the assistance.”
“I am leaving the house to your son, Matilda, because I know you would not accept it for yourself. Besides, I am in roaring good health and plan to stay that way for some time. You will write?”
“I shall. You will support the fiction that I have gone to Philadelphia?”
“I will not lie, Matilda, but when it comes to prevaricating, I can be skillful. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”
And that was as close to a promise as Matilda was likely to have from Portia. “I will be on my way. Thank you for the brandy and for your kindness.”
“I could not do enough for you and Tommie when your uncle was alive, but you made time to look in on me, to attend your uncle’s funeral, and to bring Tommie around. He is so lively. Perseus has no idea what to make of him.”
Perseus being Portia’s familiar, of course. Matilda took her leave, surprised nearly to tears when Portia imposed a fierce hug on her at the door.
“Be happy, Matilda. Find a way to be happy, and if you cannot be happy, at least don’t be bitter. You have Tommie, you are in good health, and for what it’s worth, you have me.”
Matilda could not be happy, not now and no time soon, but she knew what Portia was saying: Don’t stuff your whole future into one of those linen closets, shoved between decorum and prudence, stashed next to living within one’s means and never giving cause for offence.
What do you want, Matilda. What do you want?
She wanted to safeguard Tremont’s good name and his hard-won self-respect. She also wanted to be the sort of mother of whom Tommie could be proud.
“You be happy too, Portia, and I will write.”
Matilda slipped out the door and into the chilly wind. The drive back to the soldiers’ home passed in a preoccupied blur. The pony seemed to know the way, while Matilda’s thoughts wandered. When she passed Hyde Park, she was reminded of the day she’d thought Tremont was propositioning her.
She’d been mortified at the time, and so, apparently, had he. The memory was sweet now, as were most of her memories of Marcus, Earl of Tremont. That was fortunate, because those memories would have to last her a lifetime.
“Where is the boy?” Tremont asked, his gaze taking in a library filled with people trying to look as if they hadn’t been having some sort of war council. “I was very clear that Tommie wasn’t to be without the escort of an adult male at all times.”
Alasdhair MacKay rose from a wing chair in the corner. “Tuck and Jensen took the lad for a hot chocolate, with Mrs. Merridew’s prior permission. She’s calling upon her aunt and made certain we knew to keep a sharp eye on Tommie.”
What are you doing here? Rather than pose that rude question—MacKay was clearly a reinforcement brought in from the former officer ranks—Marcus bowed.
“MacKay, good day. Has anyone thought to offer you refreshment?”
Nanny Winklebleck, who occupied one of the chairs before the hearth, shook a finger at her employer.
“Don’t you be gettin’ all lordly on us now, sir. We’re trying to sort out what to do for Missus, and a tea tray won’t make that exercise go any better.”
“A wee dram never went amiss,” Cook muttered, brandishing her flask and tipping it to her lips.
Mrs. Winklebleck’s chin came up. “I’m for putting that Harry Merriman on a transport ship and giving the ship’s mate a false name for him. He’d stay dead for a proper long time that way, long enough that no magistrate would believe him if he showed up again fourteen years later, claimin’ to be some old swindler nobody much liked to begin with.”
“Her plan has merit,” MacKay said, resuming his seat.
Her plan was criminal. Kidnapping was a hanging felony, bearing false witness a sin, and Tremont was tempted to commit both. He set the decanter before MacIvey, who’d parked at the reading table.
“Cook should not drink alone,” Tremont said. “MacPherson, the glasses, please.”
Tremont took the desk beneath the mezzanine, and while the business of passing drinks around occupied the assemblage, he mentally set aside the scheme to put Harry on a transport ship. The plan did have merit—Harry had committed many crimes—but also risk.
Matilda said everybody believed Harry, and Tremont believed Matilda. Cousin Wesley had that same ability to charm, wheedle, and deceive. Some people were given great good looks, others had beautiful singing voices.
The Harrys and Wesleys of the world had guile.
While I have… logic? Reason? Honor? Those gifts were not much comfort when a man’s heart was breaking.
“My objective,” Tremont said, “is to ensure that Mrs. Merridew need not leave familiar surrounds to make her way alone in the world without friends or allies. I intend to accomplish that goal by guaranteeing Harry cannot set foot on British soil without taking an enormous risk.”
“You’d put him on remittance?” MacKay asked.
“Of course, if I must, which will be the carrot, but I also need a stick. Mrs. Winklebleck, what else can you tell us about the man’s past?”
A few bits and bobs of information emerged from a general discussion. Harry was a confidence trickster of some renown, but had few friends. He eventually left any accomplices in awkward circumstances, and women soon realized he was more parasite than protector.
While the talk eddied and a second decanter was emptied, Tremont realized that Harry Merridew must be a profoundly lonely man. No home, no friends, no family… Harry, while telling himself London was his own personal patch, was lost in the stews of vice and deception.
“Who are his people?” Tremont asked. “He has family somewhere—cousins, an auntie, somebody. What do we know of them?”
Silence crept over the library.
“He never mentioned family,” Mrs. Winklebleck said. “Never mentioned a village, never talked about going ’ome for Yuletide or to pay a call on his granny in ’igh summer, but then, who’d ’ave a grandson like ’im? I’ll ’ave another tot, if you don’t mind, MacIvey.”
“Best give it a rest, Nanny,” MacIvey said, making no move to surrender the decanter.
“She’s Mrs. Winklebleck to you,” Tremont muttered, though his heart wasn’t in the scold. Somewhere in her words, in what Harry Merridew lacked, was a thread of gold.
“He doesn’t go home,” Tremont said, feeling again an unwanted kinship with Matilda’s husband, “but he has a home. The situation wants more information, and as it happens, I know how to come by it. Who here recalls a man named Spartacus Lykens?”
The discussion went on for another quarter hour before a quartet of former infantrymen was detailed to patrol—to harmlessly wander about, rather—a certain neighborhood in Knightsbridge. Five minutes later, Tremont was escorting MacKay to the door.
“Do you know what you’re about?” MacKay asked, whipping a green and white plaid scarf about his neck.
“Part of me knows what I’m about. I am securing for Matilda and Tommie the freedom to remain in England. If she leaves, that should be a choice rather than her only option.”
“And the rest of you?”
“I want to kill Harry Merridew, MacKay. I want to slowly strangle him and watch his eyes as he realizes that he cannot swindle, rig, lie, cheat, or bamboozle his way out of the fate he deserves. What that man has done to Matilda… Except that, for a time, I wanted my mother and sister to think I was dead, didn’t I? I hid in the slums and hoped the sins of my past would never reach the ears of my family. Having made egregious wrong turns myself, I can judge no man for his faults.”
MacKay, who had served under Dunacre, looked thunderous. “You had your reasons.”
“And Harry Merridew must have his. My job is to ferret them out and use them to Matilda’s advantage. She said he comes from good Quaker stock and had a falling-out with his father. If any people on the entire face of the earth go about their disputes with deliberation, it’s the Friends. Somebody somewhere will recall the details of this family scandal. Failing that, Lykens might impart some names and dates that I can use to persuade Merridew to stay more or less dead.”
MacKay settled a high-crowned beaver on his head at a jaunty angle. “So you can keep Matilda as your mistress?”
That question was a kindly attempt to turn despair into anger. “Of course not, but neither will I see her banished from her homeland with a child to support while it’s in my power to make her circumstances easier. I will not allow her to get on that ship bound for Philadelphia unless and until I’ve done all in my power to see her disentangled from her scapegrace husband.”
“Because,” MacKay said with a lopsided smile, “you love her. Dorcas saw this coming, damned if she didn’t. ‘For aught that I could ever hear by tale or history, the course of true love never did run smooth.’ Let me know what you get out of Lykens. He was a tough old boot at too young an age.”
“My regards to your lady, MacKay.”
“And mine to yours.”
Tremont offered a polite bow in parting, but he wanted to apply his boot to MacKay’s backside. Matilda was not Tremont’s lady, and she might well never be.
Also, MacKay had bungled the quote. “It’s ‘for aught that I could ever read,’” Tremont muttered as he watched MacKay stride along the walkway, “‘could ever hear by tale or history, the course of true love never did run smooth.’”
In that much at least, the Bard had hit upon the sorry, stinking truth.