“No matter,” Mrs. Merridew said. “Into the house, and wash your hands and face. A stable is a dusty place, and the men will want to see for themselves that you are safe.”

Tommie grinned and scampered off. “I’ll go straight to the house, Mama. And I will wash both hands, and I will use soap, not just get my paws wet.”

“And your face,” Mrs. Merridew said with credible sternness.

Off he went as his mother watched his progress across the alley and into the garden. MacIvey and MacPherson sent up a shout, and somebody was soon banging the triangle that signaled mess call.

Mrs. Merridew remained standing in the door of the stable, while Tremont scrambled mentally for something cheerful and pithy to say. As usual, nothing came to mind, but what did that matter when Mrs. Merridew threw herself against his chest and commenced silently weeping?

Harry Merridew had been one man out of many, not a representative sample of the whole gender. Papa had been one man out of many. Aunt Portia had offered those observations a hundred times, and still, Matilda expected that every man would either judge her or… worse.

She wept on Lord Tremont’s shoulder, with relief, with exhaustion, with gratitude.

“You called him ‘our Tommie,’” she said, trying for some semblance of composure. “You barely know that child…”

Lord Tremont had the gift of calm. He made no move to set Matilda from him, didn’t pat her shoulder nervously, or let his hands hang uselessly at his sides.

He held her easily, as if they frequently came together for a little hug at odd moments of the day. Like a friend, or… Matilda had so little experience with undemanding embraces from grown men that analogies failed her.

“I know that boy,” Tremont replied. “He’s everything good and dear and terrifying about childhood. Were it not for the vigilance of my older sister, my mother would have disowned me before my eighth birthday in sheer defense of her wits.”

He had such a beautiful voice, soothing and substantial. Matilda allowed herself one last shuddery breath in his arms before she stepped back.

“And then you went for a soldier,” she said. “Every mother’s worst nightmare.”

Tremont passed her a plain linen handkerchief and took to politely studying the market pony, munching hay in its stall.

“The chimney sweeps must be a worse fear for you,” he said, “or the street gangs and abbesses. By the time a fellow takes the king’s shilling, he has some sense. At Tommie’s age, a boy is a bundle of curiosity and invincibility.”

The words confirmed that Matilda’s fear for her son was reasonable rather than hysterical. Why had nobody else—ever—given her those words?