“What will you do?” asked Firmin.
Guy hesitated. “I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “Bide my time, I suppose.”
Firmin huffed and shifted in his seat unhappily. “And nurture a viper in your bosom, until you can be
certain?” he asked with disapproval. Guy shrugged. It was hard to think of her as a viper. He judged it best not to say this aloud in case Firmin got the impression she had already ensnared him. “I had heard,” Firmin started cautiously, with a look back over his shoulder at the closed study door. “That Kerslake is back.”
Guy shrugged a shoulder. “He generally turns up every few months.”
Firmin hesitated, and threw a quick look over his shoulder. “You know what they say…”
“Yes, I know what they say,” responded Guy swiftly. Everyone in these parts whispered that Tristan Kerslake was an active spy for the north.
“Then, he may know of her…the real one, I mean. He may even have caught a glimpse of her. On his travels,” said Firmin with meaning. “Which means he could identify this one as an imposter.”
“I doubt very much that Kerslake’s travels took him anywhere near the southern court,” Guy replied dismissively.
“You never know,” said Firmin mysteriously. “Anyway, it couldn’t hurt to ask.”
“I suppose he may,” Guy conceded grudgingly. Seeing Tristan always reminded Guy of Tristan’s sister, Julia. They looked very alike with their auburn hair and good looks. Generally, Guy avoided having to think about Julia Kerslake — or Julia Allworthy as she was now known by her married name. Firmin shot him a sympathetic look, and Guy smarted that his past disappointment was public knowledge. Still, it was all water under the bridge. He wasn’t eighteen anymore with a head full of dreams. That boy was long gone. It seemed a lot longer than thirteen years ago.
Guy stared into the distance. Sometimes, he thought, it would be nice to get away from it all. His responsibility. His people. His past. But that was something he could never do, no matter how weary he grew of both his burden and his privilege. This new complication simply added a new stick to the donkey’s back. He had to find a way to counter this possibly hostile move, to minimize the damage this female could inflict on his reputation. Already, the scene that had played out this morning in his Great Hall would likely be doing the rounds in the servant’s quarters. He had never bought a woman into his home before this. If he wasn’t careful… He drew in a sharp breath. For all he knew, the servants could be drawing the same conclusions as Waldon and Temur.
He needed to act fast. But how could he separate her from his own household? He thought fleetingly of the Dower House. But placing her there would also give rise to gossip. She was no kinswoman of his, so there could be no legitimate reason for settling her there. Think Guy, think! And suddenly it flashed into his mind. He remembered the old hunting lodge deep in the forest. He hadn’t thought of the place in years.
“The old hunting lodge,” he said aloud. “The one my father built.”
“Aye,” said Firmin cautiously.
“It still stands?”
Firmin gave a short nod of assent. “It does,” he said gruffly.
Guy brooded in silence a moment. “What if I were to take her there,” he said slowly, speaking his thoughts aloud. “And keep her sequestered there, away from everyone. Until I’m sure of her. That we have proof either way.”
Firmin gave him a searching look. “There could be some merit to your suggestion,” he said, clearing his throat. “We certainly don’t want her here,” he said sourly. “She’s sown nothing but discord here this morn.”
Guy felt an inexplicable burst of irritation with his steward. “If her claims are true,” he retorted, striving for a mild tone, but even he could hear the edge to his voice. “Then she has every reason to be here.”
Firmin gave a wave of his hand. “Her claims are preposterous, Guy!” he spluttered. “Nay, I’ll never believe such a thing.” He paced over by the window, and Guy found his thoughts turning once again to the enticing little maiden with her fair skin and curling hair. Firmin was right. It was preposterous to think she could be his marchioness. “I would like that above all things,” she had said of bearing his baby. His baby. His breath quickened. How she had the nerve to sit naked in his bed and say such a thing was beyond him. To a man such as he? She ought to be cringing and terrified at the idea of such a great brute touching her tender little body. Not giving him an open invitation! Again, unbidden, he thought of her bruised feet. The carter trampled me, she had said matter of factly. He wanted to kill that fucking carter. Slowly.
“Guy?” Firmin was speaking again. Guy turned his head quickly. “You have every right to be angry at her deception,” his friend cautioned. “But we must ensure no harm befalls her, or you’ll doubtless pay a high price.” It seemed Firmin had misinterpreted his angry looks, imagining it was directed toward the small female. The idea brought him up short. Firmin’s words were annoying him, but hers hadn’t. Hers had stopped him in his tracks.
“Perhaps you’re onto something,” Firmin continued slowly, oblivious to Guy’s conflicted mood. “Maybe removing her to some remote spot is a good notion. After all, only servants have seen her so far. None have heard her false claims save yourself. It would be unwise to allow her to remain here, stirring up trouble for us all.” Again, despite the fact Firmin only echoed his own thoughts, Guy found himself having to fight down a stinging retort. Firmin was his most trusted friend and advisor. Right now, his every word grated on him. Why was that?
“The hunting lodge is remote enough,” he forced himself to say. “Though probably in some disrepair. She’ll need a servant or two to accompany her there.”
“She can take her young friend with her,” said Firmin in a generous tone that annoyed Guy, considering the lad was not part of their household to bestow.
“He’s not a servant,” he pointed out sharply. “He’ll likely have to return to his own people soon.”
“His people?” asked Firmin, looking up with swift concern.
“He’s the son of a knight. Sir Edward Geddings.” Or was it Edgar? Guy wasn’t sure.
Firmin looked a little taken aback, but quickly rallied. “I would take every word that falls from their lips with a pinch of salt,” he said curling his lip. “They’re a pair of liars.”
“Firmin,” Guy said with sudden curtness. “Watch your step.” Firmin opened his mouth, but Guy stopped him with an abrupt gesture. “If there’s even a remote chance she could turn out to be who she says she is…”
Guy had left his warning unspoken, but Firmin hesitated, and colored slightly. “I take your meaning,” he said a little stiffly.
Guy sat back in his chair. “Leave me now,” he said in dismissal. “Send Waldon back in to me.”
Firmin shot him an incredulous look. “You’ll need me here in order to plan,” he protested.
“No.” Guy had made up his mind. “I’ll oversee this personally.”
He made a great show of opening and closing the drawer to his desk, ignoring the heavy silence before Firmin took his leave. Doubtless Firmin’s nose was out of joint over the business, but he’d get over it. Guy just knew he couldn’t listen to his overt hostility toward the wench. For some reason he found it intolerable. He had to remain cautious and on his guard, but he expected everyone else to treat her with deference. For now.
Moments later Waldon shuffled in, a wary look in his light blue eyes. Swiftly Guy outlined his plan to take the lady Mathilde to the old hunting lodge. He did not specify who she was to Waldon, but likely the man had his own suspicions. “We’ll need provisions,” he said. “The place has been shut up for at least four years.”
Waldon nodded. “Aye,” he agreed. “And covered in a thick coating of dust, likely as not.” Guy murmured some agreement. “Has she her own attendants?” Waldon asked, scratching his neck.
“No,” Guy said, with a shake of his head. “Her companion, the boy goes with her. But
she’ll need a servant. Can you get someone from Acton Dymock?” Guy asked, naming the nearest village.
Waldon’s eyebrows rose. Doubtless he thought it odd that Guy could not spare one of his own. To be honest, Guy was torn. On one hand, a trusted servant of his own might be better as they would not talk. On the other hand, all servants talked. If it was one of his own household, no doubt it would spread like fire throughout all those in his employ. But then, an outsider might spread gossip to — well — outsiders. He sighed.
“What about Prudence Eddard,” suggested Waldon, with a sudden smirk.
“Who?”
“Sour-faced wench you dismissed this morn.”
“Heard about that, did you?” Guy asked, giving him a sidelong look. He’d already forgotten, and see what had happened? It was common knowledge!
Waldon shrugged. “Would serve her right,” he said with a chuckle. “She’s a stiff-necked scold and not much liked. It’s not as if she’d have a lot of choice in taking the post,” he added. “Her father’s lately remarried and won’t want her back at his table.”
Guy grunted. “Can you see to it she’s ready to leave by noon?” he asked, glancing at the window.
“She’s already packing her things to leave,” Waldon reminded him. “She’ll likely jump at the chance not to have to return home in disgrace.”
“See to it,” Guy said shortly. “And Waldon, see that she understands the post requires discretion.” To his discomfort, Guy couldn’t quite meet his eyes as he spoke the words. Waldon murmured some assent. “And we’ll need foodstuffs — salted meats, flour, you know the sort of thing. Enough for a small household, for at least a month.”
Waldon’s eyes widened, but he kept his mouth firmly closed. He gave another brief nod. “I’m to have it all ready for midday?” he said, starting up out of his chair.
“Yes. And Waldon?” The other man paused in the act of crossing to the door. Guy hesitated. “These arrangements are between us,” he said, motioning with a finger between the two of them. “The fewer people know, the better.”
This time it was Waldon who kept his eyes averted. “Aye,” he said with a jerk of his chin, and he was gone.
VII
Mathilde was dressed in her new green wool dress and matching cloak with brown fur trim. On her feet were scarlet stockings and a pair of brown leather ankle boots, and on her hands she wore knitted mittens of dark red to protect her against the biting cold. She watched with great interest as the cart was loaded up with the last of the various wares they were taking for their sojourn to Lord Martindale’s hunting lodge. She was especially interested to see a basket with five hens in it. They squawked and flapped as they were placed next to a large cheese and a keg of wine. Her only objection came when her husband went to lift her up onto a fine bay mare, saddled in red leather.
“This is not my horse,” she pointed out. She was a little shocked to find she was expected to ride astride. Of course, this past month she had done so on many an occasion, but she had not been dressed as a female then. She swung her one leg over to the other side of the saddle, and Lord Martindale helped drag her skirts down over her suddenly exposed scarlet stockings.
“It will have to do for now,” he said a little gruffly, and started to turn away.
“My lord?” she said impulsively. He paused. “I would rather reclaim my own horse, and my own knife before we journey away from home.”
He gave a quick glance to his attendants and then seemed to consider her words. “We’re only travelling three miles further into my estate,” he pointed out with a frown. “And I have provided you with both a new horse and a new knife.”
Mathilde bit back the hasty retort that sprang to her lips. She wanted her own dear horse that she had rescued, and her own knife that Will had given her! But she was a wife now, and wives were supposed to be meek and conciliatory. “And very nice they are too,” she acknowledged brightly. In truth, both were probably far superior to her own belongings in every way, except sentiment. “But I still want my very own,” she added with quiet firmness. Lord Martindale frowned at her, no doubt thinking her both stubborn and ungrateful. “My own horse has been much abused,” she added appealingly. “And I promised him he would be safe in his new life with me.”
“And your knife was gifted to you by your friend. Yes, you told me,” he said dryly.
“I will fetch them for you on the morrow, my lady,” said Robin obligingly, as he swung himself up and onto the saddle of the tall chestnut horse he had been provided. “I’m sure I can find my way back to Wickhamford easily enough.”
“Oh, would you Robin?” she cried.
Lord Martindale announced simultaneously, “You will do no such thing, boy.” They both turned and looked at each other.
“But—” Mathilde started.
“I will see to it in my own good time,” Lord Martindale ground out.
Feeling eyes on her, Mathilde turned her head to find Waldon watching their exchange with interest. Not so, the woman standing by his side, who was staring stonily ahead. She looked vaguely familiar to Mathilde. Noticing the direction of her gaze, Lord Martindale said: “You’ve already met Waldon. This is your new maid, whose job it will be to serve you while you’re at the lodge.” His tone was strangely pointed, and Mathilde looked back at the maidservant with curiosity. Two spots of pink had appeared in the maid’s rather sallow cheeks.
“Her name’s Prudie,” rumbled Waldon, with a lop-sided grin. The smile transformed him, and Mathilde realized that despite the gray in his beard, he was probably numbered no more in years than thirty-five or thereabouts.
“Prudence!” the maid corrected him with sideways glare in his direction, before bobbing a hasty curtsey. “Milady.”
“I’m glad to meet you Prudence,” Mathilde murmured politely. Prudence had long passed her youth, and looked to be about thirty years in age, she had black braided hair and very straight beetling brows. She gave a tight, humorless smile, and stooped to lift her pack of belongings to add them to the cart. Mathilde was pleased to see Waldon pluck it out of Prudence’s hands and sling it on for her. Before Prudence could protest, Waldon turned and lifted her with seemingly little effort and swung her up onto the cart as well.
“I could take the reins,” Prudence said quickly, but he ignored her and clambered up beside her. Mathilde noticed the maid’s color grew even pinker and she bit her lip with vexation. Prudence seemed a very capable woman, but perhaps not the best tempered.
“Have you looked your fill?” Lord Martindale growled. He was seated now on his own horse, a magnificently large white beast.
Mathilde’s gaze darted to meet his. “Prudence seems familiar to me,” she admitted. “Yet I can’t quite…”
“She was the maid who failed to serve you this morning,” he said shortly.
“Oh, of course.” She remembered now. She beamed at him. “You did not turn her out after all.”
He gave her an odd look. “This pleases you?”
She nodded. “I’m persuaded it was all simply a misunderstanding.”
He snorted. “Pull up your hood. There’s a chance of more snow later.”
Mathilde gazed up at the sky, which was very white. She could well believe it was full of snow. With a slight shiver, she pulled her hood up over her hair, and realized she had lost the linen square that had been serving as a veil. Where had that gone? She looked about distractedly. Maybe it had gone down the back of her cloak. Now her hair was too short to braid, it was extremely difficult to affix pins to it. Dressing as a woman again had not seemed familiar at all. Then again, that might have been because the clothes she wore were nothing like her court wardrobe. Even her petticoats were thick and woolen, and the head veil she had been provided with had been a serviceable navy blue before she had lost it. Mathilde had never worn anything save the purest and gauziest of whites upon her head. As a snowflake brushed against her cheek, she glanced up at the sky again. Possibly the ladies dressed this way here be
cause of the extreme cold. It seemed only sensible that fashion should become a secondary consideration.
The horses had started forward, and Lord Martindale took the lead, with her following close behind. The cart followed them and Robin brought up the rear. As they left the main approach toward the sprawling manor house, Mathilde noticed her husband shoot her several assessing glances. They were cantering at a brisk pace now, and she fancied he was weighing up her seat on a horse. Luckily, she had nothing to worry about on that score. Her mother had been scrupulous in her education and she had been able to ride well from a young age, though she had not lived on a country estate since she was very small. Both her parents had been courtiers through and through, and the running of their estates had been largely left to others, though her mother kept an iron grip on the accounts.
When it came to feminine accomplishments, Mathilde knew her strengths and weaknesses only too well. She excelled at the tapestry loom and with the needle. She enjoyed drafting out designs and patterns to execute and she enjoyed reading poetry, ballads and tales of adventure and romance. All of these however, were solitary pursuits. When it came to courtly pursuits such as dancing, singing, playing, and worst of all, polite conversation, she was woefully inadequate, despite the many excellent tutors her mother had engaged over the years. She simply hated to perform in front of an audience.
Eyes on her caused her to freeze. Under the keen eye of her mother, her steps would falter and her fingers would fumble. A roomful of people wittily conversing made her stomach churn and her palms sweat. In social situations, all she wanted to do was stare at her feet and pray for invisibility. She knew she was a sad disappointment, but the truth was that from infancy, she had been both shy and awkward. Perhaps it would not have been so bad if she had been given any siblings to deflect the hawk-like maternal gaze, but she had none. As such, her dissatisfied mother had decided her child was simply not fit to live her own life. Instead she had arranged things so that Mathilde would remain at her skirts for an eternity, where her shortcomings would have no consequence. It did not matter if Mathilde could not dazzle at court or secure her own admirers. Instead her mother simply arranged a succession of older husbands who did not require anything from their bride, except a few legal ramifications. In her own way, Mathilde supposed her mother was trying to shield her from a world she considered her child to be ill-equipped to negotiate.
Wed By Proxy (Brides of Karadok Book 1) Page 6