“Deliver me up? To the authorities you mean?” asked Mathilde dully. She gripped her reins very tightly.
“The authorities?” A startled expression crossed over Oswald Vawdrey’s handsome face. “Dear me, I seem to have expressed myself very ill, my dear Lady Martindale. I am here, I assure you, purely out of concern for your continued well-being.” He paused. “I am not sure it is advisable to discuss recent events at this present moment. You are wearied and in much need of a bath and then bed.” His eyes tracked back to the men following on behind them. “I would rather discuss such things when we are assured of privacy. You understand?”
Mathilde gazed back at him miserably. Not really. She inclined her head in acquiescence all the same. What else could she do?
“Fenella,” he said speaking his wife’s name in an abrupt change of subject, “will be overjoyed that you have been recovered none the worse for wear. She charged me with several messages for you and sent several parcels and letters. She would have come herself if she could have persuaded me, but we have recently discovered she is expecting my heir.”
Mathilde looked up quickly. “Oh, but that is wonderful news! Fenella must be overjoyed.”
“We both are,” he said firmly, and she could not mistake the pride in his voice.
“I am very happy for you,” she replied, before allowing her head to droop forward again.
How tired she was. And how she longed to get out of her horribly stained gown. Before they had mounted their horses, Lord Vawdrey had whipped out a kerchief and scrubbed efficiently at her cheek. It had only occurred to her afterward that it must have been dried blood from where she had touched her face with bloodstained fingers. She shuddered now to think of it. What must everyone have thought when she shot down the hill like that toward them, covered in blood? “None the worse for wear,” Lord Vawdrey had said, and she marveled at his word choice. Still, he was a politician and everyone knew they expressed themselves differently from most people. Oh, whatever would everyone at Acton March think when she did not come home?
XXXVIII
What would everyone think when she did not come home? The words reverberated through her mind as she woke with a gasp four hours later. The room was dimly lit, and by the door, a quiet, mature looking woman sat with a distaff, winding yarn. She nodded gently when Mathilde sat up, placed her spinning down on her chair and poured a cup of water, which she brought over to the bed for Mathilde to drink.
Mathilde took it with thanks and drank it down as memories of this woman helping her undress and bathe flooded into her mind. She had not spoken once before tucking her into the comfortable bed. At the time, Mathilde had been profoundly grateful that no explanations were needed for her gory dress or monosyllabic conversation. Her eyelids had been drooping the entire time she had sat in the tub.
“Thank you for all your help,” she murmured now, as the lady fetched a brocade robe for her to slip over her clean shift and then buttoned it from neck to hem.
Mathilde stood obediently as a child, as soft slippers were placed on the floor in front of her. Feeling as though she were in a dream, she stepped into them, and then the woman took her hand and led her across the room into a dark corridor and down it to a small room where Lord Vawdrey sat writing at a desk. He looked up at her and smiled, placing down his pen.
“Ah, I see you look a good deal recovered,” he said with satisfaction. “If you could be so kind as to have our supper brought in to us, Mistress Bassington?” The woman smiled and nodded and left the room.
“Do take a seat, Lady Martindale,” he urged her, gesturing to one before the fire. He stood up and came to join her there. “You slept well, I trust?”
“I, er, yes,” Mathilde agreed. “This is a very comfortable house.” She wondered who the large country property belonged to, before deciding shrewdly that in all probability, it would be the Crown.
“Yes,” agreed Lord Vawdrey. “Alas, the Bassingtons did not prosper. That lady who attended you is that last of that once proud family.”
“The war?” Mathilde guessed with a sinking feeling.
Oswald smiled thinly. “Quite so. Mistress Lucy Bassington remains on here as caretaker.”
“Her home confiscated?” Mathilde ventured in dismay. Oswald inclined his head. “Can she—? I mean—”
“Her tongue was cut out,” he answered. “By her own brother, who considered her an informer to the southern forces.”
Mathilde’s hands grasped the arm of her chair. After a moment she said slowly. “The war took a considerable toll here in the north. There are many scars, some you cannot see.”
“That is a very good way of putting it,” Oswald said gravely.
“Was she an informer?”
Oswald’s eyes flickered. “If she was, she was not aware of the fact.”
Mathilde looked at him. What a tricky man he was. How did Fenella ever know where she stood with him?
Just then, Lucy Bassington returned with a young girl, both carrying trays of food which they set on the table against the wall. Mathilde watched the older lady’s faded blue eyes. She would not have willingly betrayed her kin, she felt sure of that. She must have been tricked, poor thing, by some man in all probability. Perhaps a charming, unscrupulous man, she thought, like Tristan Kerslake. Or Oswald Vawdrey.
“Let us sit to the table for our meal,” he suggested, rising from his seat and holding out his hand to her. “You will need to build up your strength for the morrow.”
Mathilde’s gaze darted to his as he pulled out a chair for her. “Tomorrow?” she repeated nervously. He nodded and made his way to the seat opposite. “My husband will return the day after tomorrow,” she added, not really sure why she felt the need to say that aloud.
Lord Vawdrey paused in the act of pulling in his chair. “You need have no concerns on that score,” he said. “If that is what worries you.”
He was spooning some salad onto a plate of fresh lettuce and cabbage leaves served in a vinegar oil dressing. He slid it over to her and she took it with wide eyes. What did he mean, she “need have no concerns” about her husband’s return?
“Let us eat first,” he said contritely. “We will talk afterwards. In the meantime I will try not to make any more cryptic remarks.”
Mathilde bit her lip, and did her best to force down the light supper of salad and fish served with fresh baked bread. She drank sparingly of the watered wine and surprised herself by making a rather decent meal of it.
Lord Vawdrey made light conversation and they progressed to a second course of cheese and candied fruits. Mathilde was just nibbling on a sucket of orange soaked in syrup, when he mentioned the popularity at court of the tale of her escape dressed as a boy. “Doubtless there will be poems and dare I say plays written in your honor.” He grimaced at the word play and Mathilde’s memory was jogged.
“Did Fenella manage to suppress that play?” she asked on impulse. “The one she was so worried about?”
To her astonishment, she thought Oswald Vawdrey colored ever so slightly before her eyes. He gave a small cough.
“No, she did not,” he said ruefully. “She discussed that with you, did she?” He shot her a swift, appraising look. “I wish I had managed to inspire her confidences to a similar degree. I made rather a mess of that whole episode, I’m afraid.”
Suddenly, it hit Mathilde with clarity, why his manner seemed so strange. He was speaking to her as if she was an equal, she realized. She didn’t think a courtier had ever done that to her before. Except for Fenella, of course.
“I’m not sure what it is about wives that can send a man into a perfect frenzy of idiocy,” he continued with a sigh. “But I acted like the greatest fool on earth. Mercifully, Fenella is the best of all women and has forgiven me.”
“And everything is well between you now?” pressed Mathilde a trifle anxiously. Fenella was the sweetest and kindest person Mathilde had ever met, and Lord Vawdrey … was not.
He smiled, and Mathi
lde blinked. She didn’t think she’d ever seen Oswald Vawdrey smile quite like that before. Suddenly, he looked a good deal more approachable.
“Oh yes,” he said with a satisfied assurance that spoke volumes. “And I mean to spend the rest of my days making sure it remains that way.”
Mathilde released a relieved breath. “So, what will you do about the play?” she asked curiously.
Her dear friend Fenella had become a patroness to a playwright with disastrous consequences. He had decided to capitalize on her notoriety by releasing a play about her disastrous first marriage, divorce and subsequent remarriage to Lord Vawdrey, under the thin guise of a tragedy.
Lord Vawdrey waved a negligent hand. “It is dealt with already. I met with the playwright, a Mr Enderbury — perhaps you know him?” Mathilde demurred. She was not a patroness of the arts, having a lively horror of speaking to artists and practically anyone of consequence at court. “A most enterprising fellow,” he continued smoothly. “I persuaded him that extensive rewrites were in order. My assistant Brice has uncovered a heretofore unsuspected talent for literature and helped in the redrafting. It is now ready to tour the provinces with a revised title and ending. The Most Tragical History of a Woman Most Foully Betrayed has now become The Husband Tamer: A Play in Three Acts.
Mathilde’s mouth dropped open. “The H-husband Tamer?” she stammered.
Oswald’s smile grew. “Yes. It is no longer a tragedy, but a farce. When it was originally performed in the Great Hall at Aphrany, everyone was most underwhelmed by Mr Enderbury’s ending. Now, instead of perishing a tragic martyr, The Lady Mawby ends the play triumphantly leading her adoring spouse, the Lord Orlando, about by the nose.”
Mathilde gasped. Lady Vyella Mawby was a thinly disguised caricature of Fenella, and Lord Orlando of Oswald himself. “And you don’t mind it ending that way?” she asked tentatively.
He shrugged. “Not at all. My self-esteem is quite healthy I assure you. Fenella was more horrified than I, but then, she has no notion that it was changed at my instigation.” A smile spread over his face. “Naturally I enjoyed her indignation on my behalf. She has been most solicitous to ensure my feelings aren’t hurt by this new turn of events and has forsworn playwrights altogether.”
Mathilde’s expression wavered. “You will not tell her it is at your instigation?”
Oswald’s eyebrows rose. “Good gods no! She would insist that it was rewritten again, with me as a shining beacon of virtue. It is much better this way,” he said with calm assurance. “I predict Enderbury has a great hit on his hands. No doubt it will be touring for a good few years and finance his prodigious offspring.”
Mathilde considered this a moment. “I do hope it comes to the north,” she said wistfully, and Oswald leaned back in his seat and laughed.
“You mean to remain then?” he asked, leaning across and refilling her goblet.
Mathilde gave a start. “Of course,” she said with a frown. “Really, I need to return home forthwith. My husband will doubtless be most concerned if I am not awaiting his return.”
Oswald looked unconvinced. “I don’t think that’s going to work,” he said regretfully. “You see, I am in possession of some facts that you are not.”
“What facts?” asked Mathilde in alarm, lowering the goblet she had been raising to her lips.
He looked apologetic. “The queen and your mother are also put up here at Woodcote House.”
Mathilde’s heart thudded. “My mother?” she repeated in startled accents. Oh no. “Why is the queen this far north?”
“To see you,” he said frankly. “You do not seem to realize the stir you have caused at court, my dear Lady Martindale. The whole place is in uproar over it.”
Conversation was stalled while the table was cleared and they returned to the seats set in front of the fire, Lord Vawdrey settling back in his with a sigh.
“I feel I must apologize,” he said. “You see, I did not realize how perilously close to the edge, Tristan Kerslake had grown, playing his dangerous game. The letter he sent alarmed me greatly. Thankfully it reached me, although I was already en route.”
“You were already coming North before you received his letter?” Mathilde asked.
“Yes, or I would not have been in time,” he said. “Though, in truth, you were forced to save yourself in the end. I simply helped pick up the pieces.”
“But why,” Mathilde persisted. “Why were you already headed North?”
He was silent a moment. “I’m not sure if you have been in communication with anyone at court recently?” Mathilde almost folded her arms. Oswald Vawdrey seemed to ask more questions than he answered. He gave a small smile, as if aware of her thoughts. “You see, it had finally been confirmed that this was where you had flown to.”
“Oh.” She digested this a moment in silence. “So, when you spoke of ‘delivering me up’ to ‘a concerned party’ you meant…” Her words trailed off in dismay. “To my mother.”
“I think on the whole, it would be better for you to see them on the morn, when you have had a good night’s sleep.”
“Oh, I agree,” said Mathilde fervently.
She shuddered to think of her old Nurse putting her to bed again, but the awful thing was, she had been so tired earlier, that no doubt she would have allowed it. She definitely needed to be on guard around her mother and Nurse, or they would be eager to resume their time-honored roles in her life as her custodians. She could allow no back-slipping now she had finally achieved independence.
“Whereabouts in the house are they?” she asked with misgiving. She hoped there was no chance of stumbling upon them unexpectedly in the corridors.
As if aware of her thoughts, Oswald Vawdrey smiled. “They are in the east wing, so you need have no fears on that score. We are in the west.”
“And my mother does not come around to hound you daily about your progress?” she asked, shrewdly.
“I have been most careful to curb such behavior,” Lord Vawdrey said with what Mathilde could only suppose was massive understatement.
Mathilde frowned and leaned forward in her seat. “I, um, I don’t suppose there will be any need to divulge what happened today,” she said hopefully, and fixed him with an appealing look. “You see I dread to think what Mother would say if she knew I allowed myself be led into a dark cave by a treacherous spy. No doubt lots of scathing things about my naivety. That and my being quite unfit to leave her side.”
Oswald Vawdrey gave a small cough. “Even if she knew that only you walked out of the cave alive?” he asked.
“Oh,” said Mathilde, considering this. That aspect had not quite occurred to her. She thought about it now. “She would probably still think, quite unfairly, that the north is a nasty, dangerous place,” she concluded with a sigh. “And that I should return to the palace with her.”
“I am guessing,” said Oswald good-humoredly, “that the account of your adventures you regale the queen with will be highly edited. No mention for instance of Wickhamford jail.” He shot her a sidelong look and she gave a violent start.
“You heard about that?” she asked, alarmed.
“I did.” He inclined his head.
“Is it too much to hope that no one else has?” asked Mathilde, biting her lip.
“Well, not from me,” he said with a smirk. “But if you take my advice, you won’t give them too sanitized a version of your travels. After all, you mean to prove you have found your feet, do you not? And besides,” he added dryly. “The queen will be satisfied with nothing less than high drama.”
Mathilde turned this over a moment. “What about the Kerslakes though? Would not their name be dragged needlessly through the mud by a frank retelling?”
Lord Vawdrey gave her a considering look. “It might be as well not to mention that part,” he conceded. “Though we may be forced to admit the truth to a select few.”
“What, um…” She swallowed. “What were your instructions about … the body?”
<
br /> Oswald looked startled at the directness of her question. “It was to be recovered and taken away,” he admitted after a momentary pause. “I have not yet decided on the best course of action. Perhaps, in a few days’ time, it will be found at the bottom of a cliff. Kerslake will have had an unfortunate accident and broken his neck in the fall.”
Mathilde fidgeted a moment in her seat. “Tristan said he did not care about preserving his good name, but … I am not so sure.”
“You are generous,” said Oswald heavily.
She brushed this aside. “Though he was a little concerned that an outcast might be blamed for his death.” Oswald’s eyebrow arched skeptically, though he did not comment on this. “If I spend the day tomorrow with my mother and the queen,” said Mathilde. “Then will I be permitted to return home to Acton March the day after in order to wait for Guy’s return?”
Oswald hesitated. “Let us see how things go with the queen,” he prevaricated. “After coming all this way, I do not think she will allow your reconciliation quite so meekly.”
Reconciliation? Mathilde looked up sharply. It was a strange word to use, unless… Unless he had heard about the way she and Guy had been carrying on these last few days. Her color rose. But surely he could not be informed on such matters?
“Come now,” he said quietly, and rose to his feet. “You must be tired. The hour grows late and you have a big day ahead of you tomorrow, persuading your mother and the queen that you are a vastly contented wife.”
Mathilde glancing at the window, guessed the hour must be around midnight at the very least. She rose to her feet. “You are probably right,” she admitted distractedly.
He took her hand and, bowing over it, regarded her thoughtfully a moment. “I am starting to suspect you are quite the husband tamer yourself,” he said with a quirk of his lips. “I begin to pity Martindale quite sincerely.”
Mathilde looked up at him startled. “Pity him?”
Wed By Proxy (Brides of Karadok Book 1) Page 31