“I’m hungry,” Tommie said, shuffling a deck of cards with more dexterity than was proper for a boy of his age. “Can we go to the bakery?”

“We will go to the bakery tomorrow afternoon.” Tomorrow, the baker put the fancy products for the week on display, and thus the selection of day-olds was larger. “You had your porridge, my boy. Build me a castle of cards.”

“I want to go to the bakery now. The bakery is warm, and Mrs. Spicer sometimes gives me a biscuit.”

One of the stale biscuits, of course. “If you are cold, then put on your scarf.”

“I want to go to the bakery, and I want a biscuit, and I do not want to put on my scarf—”

A knock at the front door interrupted the gathering tempest of Tommie’s frustration. Not the coalman—he still did Matilda the courtesy of coming down the back steps to dun her for his payment—but who else could it be?

“We have company!” Tommie was off his chair and out of the parlor, cards forgotten.

“Thomas, you do not pelt up to the door like the first footman trying to impress his employer. I will answer the door.”

Tommie slowed, his eagerness yielding to annoyance. “Why can’t I have any fun, Mama? I’m the man of the house. I should answer the door.”

The man of the house was still small enough to be snatched by an ambitious chimney sweep, though that would change in a year or two. Then the mines and the merchant ships would become the greater threats, to say nothing of the abbesses.

Matilda stopped by the speckled mirror in the foyer. Her reflection was pale, tired, and going gaunt. Harry would not have been best pleased to see his wife in such a condition.

Which was just too blessed bad. Matilda opened the door, prepared to see Mrs. Oldbach or possibly Dorcas MacKay.

The Earl of Tremont, in all his lordly splendor, stood before her. “Mrs. Merridew, good day.” He tipped his hat and bowed. “Master Merridew.” To Tommie, he offered a gloved hand. “I hope I’m not calling at a bad time?”

“Mama was mending,” Tommie said. “She mends all the time. I want to go to the bakery because it’s warm, and it smells like heaven, but I’m building a card castle. You could help me.”

A riot of emotions buffeted Matilda.

Grudging respect for the earl’s courtesy to a small boy.

Resignation, because a peer calling on an impoverished widow did not bode well for the propriety of Matilda’s household, though in fairness, Tremont would not be the first man to proposition her.

Grim humor, because her father had predicted she’d end her days in disgrace, though Papa hadn’t quite got the timing right.

And shame. Always the shame.