The earl called the meeting to order, and a discussion began of hiring former soldiers to look after St. Mildred’s grounds. His lordship’s charitable endeavors included housing a dozen such worthies. Setting them up in some sort of business was his present aim.

The sexton had vociferous objections to anybody tending to the churchyard but himself, until Lord Tremont suggested that any lot of former soldiers managed better when somebody was appointed to supervise their efforts. Moreover, gravedigging was a skill known to all former soldiers, alas, and one suited to younger men who benefited from regular vigorous exertion.

Matilda bent over her notes while keeping one eye on Tommie, who was imitating Tremont’s hand gestures. The earl’s hands were graceful, his manner dignified, but more than anything, his voice held Matilda’s attention.

Tremont moved the discussion forward with polite dispatch. Whether he agreed with the committee member who held the floor or not, he thanked every participant for sharing their thoughts. He listened. He asked sensible questions and again listened to the answers.

Nobody dared interrupt or talk over anybody else. Nobody dared make a ribald aside. The meeting was the most civilized and productive exchange of ideas Matilda had observed. That Tommie was a witness to this gathering gave her all manner of maternal ammunition for good examples.

The orderliness of the proceedings aside, Lord Tremont had the makings of an orator. Before he spoke, he took a moment as if to gather his thoughts, and when he replied, his words were chosen for precision and economy. All that was lovely—the fellow made sense even as he flattered his listener—but what upended Matilda’s usual indifference to all things masculine was the beauty of Tremont’s voice.

He created a flowing stream of golden elocution in a well-modulated baritone. His words resonated with courtesy, reason, benevolence, respect for his audience… all the gentlemanly virtues made audible.

If he ever set out to be charming instead of polite, he’d be dangerous. Matilda mentally shook herself for even speculating on such a topic and pretended to add something to her notes.

Has beautiful voice.

She was erasing that nonsense when Tommie began to sing. Being Tommie, he did not sing a venerable old hymn or a sweet little nursery rhyme. He burst forth with Burns’s “Green Grow the Rushes, O,” an earthy tribute from a man to the charms of the ladies.

While Matilda scrambled about for a means of discreetly silencing her son, Tommie caroled on. The sweetest hours that e'er I spend/Are spent among the lasses, O…

Had the Earl of Tremont not been present, Mr. Prebish would have been leading a charge to silence Tommie’s warblings and assign him a penance. Instead, the committee of the whole waited to see how a peer of the realm dealt with a Proper Limb.