“We will, of course, discuss any matter that concerns the men when you find it convenient to do so.” Tremont took up the reins, wishing the men would all immigrate to Nova Scotia. “About the other?”

Matilda sniffed her violets, which one did only the once. Their scent was most apparent on the first whiff, for some reason.

“Drive on, my lord. The sky is threatening nasty weather, and I do fancy Mr. Marlowe’s poetry.”

Tremont gave the horse leave to move off at a very smart trot.

Aunt Portia was clearly worried about Matilda’s dealings with Tremont, but then, Aunt had been reared to worry. To fret over the men in her orbit, the coming winter, the price of bread, and the health of the king. Where occasional bouts of joy and hope should have been, Aunt Portia found troublesome matters to dwell on that reinforced the Church’s admonition to cling to Scripture—and to fear.

Had Aunt Portia been sitting beside Tremont in the gig, her gaze would have been on the threatening sky beyond the lattice of dark, bare branches overhead. Matilda had been astonished to realize that Aunt was not yet forty. Not yet five-and-thirty, for heaven’s sake, and yet, Aunt and the fussy Mrs. Oldbach were of a piece.

And I was becoming very like them. As Tremont guided the horse along a path strewn with dead leaves, and a few snowflakes drifted on the breeze, Matilda felt as if she’d had a narrow escape. Living with Harry, worry had become her shadow. Where is Harry? What if he’s run one rig too many? Has he been taken up by the law? May he please return home safe and sound, but not just yet?

Raising Tommie had become more of the same. Is he a bit warm? Not warm enough? Can I afford an orange to go with his Sunday breakfast? He needs a new coat… By degrees, worry had taken over a mother’s joy in her son’s good health and high spirits, until love and anxiety had become next of kin.

Tremont, by contrast, was the soul of calm. His outlook was optimistic, and he regarded life as a worthy challenge rather than an inescapable purgatory.

And he had invited Matilda to closely inspect his person, behind a locked door, on a fluffy bed.

“I ought to decline this inspection tour you’ve proposed,” she said as a bitter gust sent the dead leaves dancing. “I should wait until we are properly engaged, rather than only courting.”

The horse shied at all the skittering leaves. “Settle, my good fellow. We’ll soon be home, and there’ll be a pile of hay for your labors. Fix your little horsy mind on that happy thought.”

The beast calmed, and the wind died as suddenly as it had arisen.

“You would decline,” Tremont said, “because conception might result, and then you’d be forced to marry me?”