“One deduced as much, and thus I put a topic to you that might offend. I mean you no insult, but I have few other options, and my situation grows vexatious.”

How prettily he referred to the inconvenience he suffered for want of a handy mistress. Harry had been similarly convinced that a man must not be without regular pleasure, lest civilization topple. Widows, by contrast, were expected to devote themselves to pious good works and other people’s mending, because civilization would be equally imperiled if widows comported themselves as gentlemen so freely did.

Not that Matilda missed Harry, ever.

“Was I fast, Tremont?” Tommie called.

“A flat streak across the horizon. Twelve seconds to the tree. We will have to change your name to Lightning Merridew.”

“I’m Lightning Merridew! Mama, let’s throw pebbles into the water!” Tommie hopped off the bench and jogged toward the pool of water reflecting the bright sunshine of midday.

“He’s not skipping rocks yet?” Tremont asked, following Tommie at a purposeful march. “I am convinced that the objective of skipping rocks is to keep a child who is intent on leaping into the water otherwise occupied on the bank. My sister is a prodigiously talented skipper, and for a time, my sole aim in life was to best her. Petty of me.”

Raising offensive topics in the park was petty, also shrewd, because Matilda would not make a scene here and flounce off in high dudgeon.

“I don’t know how to skip rocks,” Matilda said, “else I would teach him. The child wants constant diversion and constant activity.”

“Not diversion,” Tremont said as they gained the grassy bank of the Serpentine. “Recreation. Or occupation, in the child’s sense of the word. The boy has a lively mind, and that mind wants obstacles to climb, much as he’d delight in climbing a tree.” Tremont picked up a round, smooth stone and idly flicked it into the water.

The rock bounced four times, and Tommie was instantly fascinated. The next five minutes were spent explaining and demonstrating the manly art of skipping rocks, while Matilda silently argued with herself.

Town had emptied for the winter. The probability of renting out the rest of the house was not great, and spring was far away. Tommie did need a new coat. The mending was ruining Matilda’s eyes to the point that she could barely see to read Tommie his stories by the end of the day. She could move in with Aunt Portia—the last, dreaded alternative to destitution—but Portia was barely managing.

She was also unrelentingly serious.

Tremont was comely, clean about his person, and he’d be willing to bind himself to terms under a written contract. Matilda’s duties under that contract would be merely… to welcome him and him alone into her bed for coin.

For coin. For the ten thousandth time, the admission trudged through her mind: Papa was right about me.