“It’s cold on the water,” the maid said. “No mistake about that. We have rooms to spare this time of year. Eat your cobbler, and we’ll get a fire going for you upstairs.”

She bustled out, and Matilda was left with an overwrought child who was clinging to his stuffed horse as if Copenhagen were the last spar floating on a storm-tossed sea.

“Thomas, you owe me an apology.”

“S-sorry.” He sounded not the least bit remorseful, for which Matilda was proud of him.

“I owe you an apology as well. I’m not an experienced traveler, and I was so anxious to get us away from England that I did not plan our itinerary very sensibly. We’ll rest tonight and catch the morning packet. The ship leaves at low tide, weather permitting, and there will always be another low tide.”

Tommie sighed. “I m-miss Tidbit.”

“So do I. He is a wonderful pony. Would you like a bite of cobbler? It has apples in it, and I’m sure Copenhagen would enjoy a taste.”

Tommie sent her an annoyed look. “Cope isn’t real, Mama.”

“And you don’t hate me.” Yet.

Tommie picked up his spoon. “I was mad. I should not have said that. This has cinnamon on it, like the hot chocolate from the tea shop. Do they have cinnamon in France?”

“Yes, and hot chocolate.” But they do not have Marcus, Earl of Tremont, and for that, I hate France a little bit too.

Tommie had finished his cobbler and was sending longing glances at the remaining three-quarters of Matilda’s when the serving maid reappeared.

“Your room is ready, though the packet is just now boarding, ma’am. You could sail tonight and have the crossing behind you.”

“Mama…”

“I know, Tommie. We’ll take the room.” Matilda would far rather have boarded the packet, but removing to France could not be her excuse for turning into her father. “We are in no hurry, and we are both quite tired.”

She carried Tommie up the steps—he’d grown more substantial in recent weeks—and left the maid to bring up the traveling valise. The room was cozy and smelled faintly of lavender, and the bed was a fluffy four-poster liberally covered in quilts. Beyond the latticed window, moonlight glinted off dark, undulating waves, and the occasional running light marked the progress of a vessel out at sea.

“The coals are in the warmer,” the maid said. “And we can send up breakfast at first light if you prefer that to a meal in the common.”

“I do, thank you. Shoes off, Tommie.”

He blinked at her from the depths of a wing chair before the hearth.