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.