Tremont sat by the fire with a book, or possibly he dozed. He was in one-quarter profile to the door, and the sight of him, long legs crossed at the ankle, coat hung over the back of the sofa, imprinted itself on Matilda’s heart.

I want decades of this, decades to come upon him at the end of the day, lost in thought or communing with the latest pamphlet on the Irish question.

“I did not want to intrude,” he said, rising and remaining by the fire. “Tommie’s asleep?”

“Exhausted for the nonce. I’ve told him we’re leaving.”

“Going out with the tide on Tuesday afternoon,” Tremont said. “Well, it’s not Tuesday yet. Come have a seat, and I’ll tell you what I learned from an interesting interview with Mr. Spartacus Lykens.”

Matilda stayed by the door. “Whatever you learned, it’s not enough, is it?”

“Nothing, short of your hand secured in mine by legally binding holy matrimony, will be enough, but the news is interesting. It might make forgiving Harry easier.”

And to Tremont, that would matter. Matilda longed to climb into Tremont’s lap and give way to sobs. She instead took the wing chair at a right angle to his lordship’s end of the sofa.

“What did Mr. Lykens have to tell you?”

“Harry has a sister,” Tremont said, resuming his seat. “And an auntie, and he hails from Bristol, just as he claimed. Growing up in a port town, he heard all the accents and learned to mimic them as a sort of hobby. He also told the truth about being from Quaker stock, and yet, he wanted to become an actor.”

Matilda did not give two rotten tomatoes for Harry’s youthful ambitions, but she loved even the sound of Tremont’s voice, and so she mustered the effort to turn his recitation into a conversation.

“I can’t imagine Harry’s ambitions went over well with his family, but he has become quite the thespian nonetheless.”

Tremont had more to say, about an unbending father, unyielding discipline, and piety used to smother joy. About a young man’s high spirits turning to rebellion and his gifts into weapons. When Tremont fell silent, Matilda found that her eyes had grown nearly as heavy as her heart.

“I will,” she said, “on some fine and distant day, feel some compassion for that Bristol boy imprisoned in his father’s dogma—one feels grudging sympathy for such a one—but right now… I wish I’d never met Harry Merridew. I wish I’d had the patience to wait for my father’s death, for some other man to come along, for somebody to hear of a governess’s or companion’s post. But for Tommie, I’d wish I never met Joseph Yoe, and I do wish I’d never met Harry.”