“Then your father intended for you to marry Merridew. Merridew was a solution for the pious vicar who could not raise a perfect daughter. My guess is, your father sweetened the pot when Merridew came down with a calculated case of cold feet.”

Matilda was still in Tremont’s arms, but he could feel her mentally rearranging furniture that had cluttered up her mental attic for years.

“My own father…” she murmured. “What a small, dishonest… He’s the one I should exhume and take to task, except it’s not worth the bother to dig him up. I am gainfully employed, in good health, and my son is thriving. That is as much rebuttal to Papa’s sermons as I could possibly make.” She stepped back and fluffed Tremont’s cravat. “I am angry, but also relieved. I wasn’t the only sinner at the vicarage.”

“You were no sort of sinner at all. You were simply mistaken about a young man’s character and then mistaken about your father’s motivations. I went haring off to Spain because of a similar misunderstanding. Matters were not half so dire as I’d been led to believe, but my error took years to come to light.”

Matilda wandered to the sofa, sat, and began assembling a plate of sandwiches and tarts. “Have you forgiven yourself for being deceived?”

“Yes.” Tremont debated, then took the place beside her on the sofa. “That took more years, but when you’ve committed the next thing to murder, youthful bungling fades by comparison. You have nothing to forgive yourself for, Matilda.”

“Your youthful bungling did not result in the conception of a child.”

“Do you regret becoming a mother?”

She studied the plate she’d assembled, a tempting array of pretty tarts, delicious sandwiches, and two delectable tea cakes.

“No,” she said, sounding a little surprised. “I regret marrying Harry. I regret trusting Joseph Yoe. I regret not standing up to my father sooner and more loudly, but if I had not had Tommie, I would still be at the vicarage, probably keeping house for the next pious hypocrite. Worse yet, I might have married one in the desperate hope that he would not be as bad as Papa. I do not for a moment regret being Tommie’s mother.”

She smiled at her plate, apparently having settled something in her own mind, then bit into a jam tart. “These are scrumptious. Do you suppose I might have the recipe for Cook?”

Scrumptious sat before Tremont in all her fierce, honest glory. “I can give you the recipe, but I’d rather give you my name.”

Matilda paused in mid-reach toward the epergne on the tea tray, then assembled a second plate of delicacies and passed it over to Tremont.