Two days after Tommie’s great adventure, Tremont was still pondering that question. Mrs. Merridew prattled on about literacy being more important than table manners while Tremont nodded politely and pondered further. In the stable, the lady had been as upset as a woman could be, short of grieving for a deceased loved one, and yet, her tears had been soundless.

Tremont had held her, thus he’d felt the tremors pass through her, felt the heat radiate from her, heard the slightest catch in her breathing. He’d seen female tears of all stripes—years of Mama’s polite sniffles, the great histrionic displays of the camp followers, and everything in between. He’d never seen a woman so parsimonious about expressing justified upset, and he disliked what that much self-restraint implied.

“You are suggesting that we start with teaching the men their letters?” Tremont said.

Mrs. Merridew poured him a second cup of tea. She made a graceful picture, two fingers holding the lid of the teapot, her body canted slightly along the same curve as the porcelain spout. She added the merest drop of honey and passed him the cup and saucer.

In the few days she’d been in Tremont’s employ, she’d subtly transformed the guest parlor. The rugs were brighter, the windows cleaner, the brass candlesticks gleaming, and the hearth swept. More than that, the room bore the light scent of lemon oil, and the chimney no longer smoked.

A bouquet of dried hydrangeas picked up the blue hues in the carpet and curtains, and the candles in their holders for once all stood perfectly straight.

Had she done the work herself? Supervised the maids? Asked the men to lend a hand? Tremont followed Napoleon’s example and did not ask for details when a general was getting impressive results.

“If a man can read,” Mrs. Merridew said, “he can peruse the etiquette manuals, should he wish to learn how to properly hand a lady into a coach. He can read the little pamphlets about tying a fancy knot in his cravat. He can memorize Proverbs to give himself enough pithy aphorisms to sound wise on any occasions. If he has no letters, he must beg another for all that information.”

“That was me in the military,” Tremont said. “Poring over the manuals—and the army has a deuced lot of manuals—but still needing somebody to show me the obvious. I was a laughingstock for a time, then I realized that the regiment functioned better when I remained in that role.”

She put a tea cake on his plate. “When did you realize that?”

“When my superior officer was preparing to hang a man for horse thievery, and I could instead claim that the beast had got away from me while I was trying to saddle him myself.”

“That superior officer would be Dunacre?” She made his name sound like a foul disease.