Matilda sat agreeably close to him on the bench, which suggested to Tremont that cold weather had advantages when it came to courting. Why did polite society go about the troth-plighting in spring, after all? But then, spring meant fewer heavy clothes…

And courtship was making Tremont daft.

“Aunt has learned to be both formidable and invisible. If she ever confronted Uncle Porter, it was behind a closed door with the curtains drawn. He was twenty years her senior, and she humored his moods.”

“Is Portia’s endless forbearance the ideal to which your father tried to conform you?”

“Unsuccessfully,” Matilda replied as they passed a tavern from which emerged the strains of a filthy drinking song. “Papa’s intentions were probably good. Aunt’s life has been devoid of gaiety, but she has never feared for her next meal or a safe place to sleep.”

Matilda’s aunt—who appeared to be barely ten years Matilda’s senior—had been reserved, polite, and skeptical of Tremont’s intentions. She had produced a modest tea tray that was of a piece with her tidy Chelsea cottage, and yet, she had quoted dear old Aurelius, Shakespeare, and Proverbs with equal facility.

When Tremont had given her more of the same in return, she had thawed—a little.

“Should we have taken Tommie with us?” Tremont asked, because something about the visit had not agreed with Matilda. She was quieter than usual and had declined an offer to stop at a fancy tea shop in Knightsbridge.

“Perhaps next time. Tommie would rather tag around after Jensen and Tuck, and honestly, they need his civilizing influence if the household isn’t to find itself in the midst of a contretemps.”

“One does not like to see true love thwarted.” Nor would it be for long if Tuck became intent on his goal.

Matilda was frowning at a flower seller shivering on the corner. “Tremont…”

“Of course, my dear.” He halted the horse, passed Matilda the reins, and hopped down. He bought the whole inventory, added a few coins to what was due, and chose a posy of violets for his love.

“Thank you,” Matilda said, cradling the flowers between gloved hands. “Violets symbolize modesty. I was allowed to decorate the vicarage with them, to a point.”

The past was much on her mind today, perhaps as a result of visiting her auntie. Portia struck Tremont as haunted by regrets. Her present protectiveness toward Matilda had been balanced by a tacit admission that she had been unequal to the challenge of keeping Matilda safe when it had mattered. Without a word, Portia had conveyed a warning to Tremont that he must not fail Matilda as Portia had failed her.

Matilda glanced over her shoulder at the flower seller, who had collected her signs and was already pushing her barrow in the direction of the pub.