“Thank you for your company, my lord,” Mrs. Merridew said, “and for your kindness to Tommie. Most people consider him a trial to the nerves.”

His mother did not, though Tremont suspected that Tommie challenged his mama’s patience frequently.

“You will be astonished to learn that I was a small boy once, Mrs. Merridew. Widowhood quite undid my mother, and my only sibling was a sister several years my senior. When my father died, I became a trial to the nerves too.”

Mrs. Merridew regarded him in the gathering shadows while the sound of a door scraping open came from beneath the porch.

“What changed?” she asked. “You are the furthest thing from a trial to the nerves now.”

“I grew up. I went to war. I realized I could never be my father, and life goes on.”

“That, it does. Thank you again, my lord, and good luck with your men. I surmise they can be a trial to the nerves as well.” She curtseyed and followed her son down into the darkness of the half basement.

Tremont waited on the walkway until a dim light appeared in the narrow window beside the basement door, then he set a brisk pace for his own dwelling. Walking calmed his mind and allowed his thoughts to form into tidy squares. His imagination, however, was making that exercise impossible.

A whisper of an idea wedged its way into the swirling currents of Tremont’s cogitations. Mrs. Merridew might be the answer to a prayer. She was pretty, though she tried to hide it. Pretty wasn’t necessary, but it did help, and she was patient. A wealth of patience was mandatory.

Mrs. Merridew was the soul of patience. She was accustomed to unruly males who needed a firm, kind hand. She was in straitened circumstances. The child’s too-short coat, her widow’s weeds going worn about the seams, and her willingness to accept a spare coin at the expense of her pride all confirmed as much.

Tremont marched along, the idea growing and twining like ivy around other ideas and between yet still others. By the time he reached home, he was humming “Green Grow the Rashes, O” and wondering if he’d parted with what little remained of his reasoning powers.

Chapter Two

The day was sunny for a change, which made the mending less of a chore. The seat by the parlor window was nonetheless frigid, and Matilda again considered smashing some of the furniture from the floors above to burn for warmth.

But no. Winter had yet to truly arrive, and the day would soon be less chilly. She wasn’t desperate—yet. Somebody would rent the upstairs soon, and until then, she had scribing for the church meetings, mending, watching Major MacKay’s son on the governess’s half day, and other odd jobs.

Charity jobs, and Matilda was grateful for them.