“I don’t want to go to Calais,” Tommie bellowed. “Copenhagen doesn’t want to go to Calais. Calais is stupid and boring and stinky.”

“Le ville est puant,” the lady said mildly. She was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and trim. “Is Copenhagen your horse?”

Tommie touched Copenhagen’s yarn forelock. “He’s my friend. I won’t ever lose him.”

“Did you know there’s a whole city that shares a name with your horse? Copenhagen is beautiful, right on the sea. They speak Danish there, a language of the Vikings.”

Tommie looked askance at Matilda.

“Madame is right,” she said, “though I don’t know even a word of Danish. We can eat in the common, and I’m told our luggage can be stored here while we wait for the tide to go out.”

“Of course, ma’am. And under what name shall we keep your trunks?”

Harry would have used an alias, of course. Damn him and his schemes. “Matilda Merridew.”

The lady made a note on some ledger. “Mrs. Merridew, might I suggest a private dining room? We are not full, and I believe the young man could use some peace and quiet. I do not charge you for this. Even Vikings can tire of travel.”

“I’m not a Viking,” Tommie muttered.

No, but you are impersonating a barbarian quite well. “Peace and quiet sound marvelous.”

The fare was simple but hearty—bread and butter, beef and barley stew, served with steaming mulled cider. Tommie tore into his portions while Matilda lectured herself about the need to eat.

Thanks to Tremont and Aunt Portia, funds were not an immediate issue, but an upset tummy and a breaking heart were. While Tommie pretended to offer a spoonful of soup to his stuffed horse and managed to dribble a mess onto the table, Matilda nibbled bread and butter and missed Tremont.

What was he doing while she prepared for yet more hours of bobbing on the waves? Was he reading the Stoics? Tending to the account books? Staring off into space and wishing life could be different?

Was he missing her or resigning himself to that which could not be changed? A tap on the door interrupted her musings.

“Evening, ma’am. I’ve come to take the dishes, and Missus sent along some apple cobbler for your sweet. The wind has picked up, and that’s a good thing if you’re catching the evening tide.”

“I don’t want to catch the evening tide,” Tommie said. “Tides are stupid.”

“Somebody’s tired,” the serving maid said, putting Tommie’s empty soup bowl on a tray. “Travel can be wearying, but it’s ever so lovely to finally reach home.”

“We aren’t going home,” Tommie began. “We are going to stupid Paris in stinky old France, and I don’t want to go, and nobody will listen to m-me.”