“Do you have a problem with your eyes?” asked Mason, whose presence she had completely forgotten.
Fen looked up hastily. “No, no. Tis just my brother’s penmanship is so very bad. I can make neither head nor tail of it.”
Mason was still regarding her suspiciously. Rather like he thought someone had traded his brother a broken-down old nag, thought Fen indignantly. “I can see perfectly well, I assure you.”
He snorted and gestured toward the sprawling tapestry taking up most of the walls. “If that’s true, then why did you give Oswald a pair of wings?” he asked.
Fenella drew in a deep breath, feeling her face redden. “Because I was fifteen and full of fancies,” she admitted, still avoiding looking at it. Maybe she could hang a shield over it or something? Roland was always leaving pieces of armor around the place. She poured a cup of water and drank it down, only too aware that her brother-in-law was still watching her narrowly.
“He’s the finest man I know,” said Mason Vawdrey abruptly. “If you’ve any sense you’ll realize your good fortune fast, and make sure you don’t let him down.”
Let him down? Fen felt her face drain of color as she watched her brother-in-law throw down his napkin and rise from the table. He gave a sharp nod in her direction, and strode from the room. Fen sat a moment in complete silence, her appetite suddenly quite lost. She pushed her plate away and covered her face with her hands a moment. That wretched play had been hanging over her as soon as she awoke this morning, like a grisly specter. She needed to do something! In some haste she went to fetch her writing things. She stuffed Orla’s letter into the purse which hung from her belt. She would read it later, when sitting for her portrait. Dipping her pen into the ink, she wrote a short note to Hester asking if she had read the play yet, and if she could meet with her that day to offer her any advice, explaining she would not be free before two o’clock. She was just folding the missive when the door squeaked and Mason’s squire, young Cuthbert sauntered in, dressed in a yellow tunic which matched his golden hair.
“Morning Lady Vawdrey,” he greeted her agreeably.
“Good morning. You’ve missed your master, I’m afraid.”
“I’ve seen him,” said Cuthbert. “He wants me to make myself useful about here today.” A faint cloud passed over his face, as if he would much rather be further afield. “What’s that?” he asked, perking up. “A letter? I could deliver it.” He looked so hopeful, Fen found herself passing it to him. “Do you know where the Schaeffers have quarters in the palace?”
“No, but I can soon find out,” said Cuthbert.
“Well, that is for Lady Hester Schaeffer.”
Cuthbert disappeared out the door before she could even fetch him a penny. As he went out, Meldon came in, grumbling and carrying a tray with more bread and butter. “Young villain,” Meldon muttered without any heat. “He ate more herrings this morning than any Vawdrey about the place!”
Mindful of Oswald’s concern the previous day, she thought she’d better tell all the servants this time. “Meldon, I am going to the lower gallery to sit for my portrait this morning. I won’t be back until midday.”
“Again?” he asked waspishly. “How many paintings you having done anyway?”
Fenella ignored this. “Do you know where Bors is? I thought to take him with me.”
“He’s still a-bed,” sniffed Meldon. “Want me to fetch him from Master Roland’s chamber?”
Fenella demurred. Hopefully signor Arnotti had finished painting Bors already. She heard the clock strike nine and hurried to fetch her cloak. Mathilde Martindale had promised to sit with her that morning, and was doubtless already waiting for her.
The morning passed swiftly enough. Signor Arnotti seemed a lot less excitable this time and only tutted and exclaimed at her a few times. He was resigned to the fact she would want to stretch her legs on the hour and was not vociferous in his complaints. Mathilde had been waiting for her when she arrived with a plump, elderly woman who sat and dozed nearby leaving them to talk.
“She’s my old nurse, and my Mother’s before me,” Mathilde had whispered by way of explanation. “She’s a dear old thing really, blind as a bat and quite deaf.”
“An ideal chaperone then,” joked Fen, and Mathilde had giggled.
To her surprise, Fen found herself explaining her current woes to her new friend. “You see, I’m most concerned that my husband will not be at all pleased when he finds us the implied subject of the piece. But Lady Schaeffer seemed to think I was making a fuss about nothing. I wonder, what is your opinion on the matter, Mathilde? You are far more seasoned as a courtier than I.”
Mathilde bit her lip. “Mother won’t allow me to watch any plays at all,” she said sadly. “But I should dearly love to see one with you as the heroine, Fenella.”
“But that’s just it, it’s nothing like me!” objected Fen. “This heroine is a piteous, miserable creature. A mere puppet in the hands of others.”
Mathilde looked stricken by this, and remembering her friend’s peculiar circumstances, Fenella hurried to clarify. “She is married first to one man who callously abandons her and then another, who is interested only in power and neglects until she expires of a broken heart.”
Mathilde’s eyes opened wide. “Oh but- forgive me, but that is really nothing like you Fenella,” she said softly. “I- I do not like to repeat gossip, but surely you are aware of what everyone is saying.” She lowered her voice over the last few words and glanced over at the artist who was employed mixing paints.
“Not really,” admitted Fen. “Even though I currently reside here at the palace, I am not mixing in royal circles and have only a small acquaintance.”
“Only the favorites have private audience with the King and Queen,” agreed Mathilde. “And you have not been here long. I am sure that once people get to know you-”
“Oh, but I am not overly-concerned at currying favor,” admitted Fen. “I am happy to have a close circle of intimates and consider myself fortunate in the few friends I have.” She pressed Mathilde’s hand and her friend blushed. “I know, of course that there was some talk when I appeared at the palace,” Fen admitted. “And Hester did tell me there was gossip afoot on the subject, but she was surprisingly reticent about its nature. I know after Oswald returned my pearls to me-”
“Oh yes – now that was a wonderful story,” whispered Mathilde. “What a pity that Mr Entner did not include that in his play!”
Fen winced. “I want the story to resemble my circumstances less, not more!”
“True,” said Mathilde. “Though you must admit it would be a much better story than the one he concocted, which sounds rather maudlin.”
“It’s utterly dismal,” agreed Fen. “But my worry is that it will be scandalous and estrange my husband from me.” To her dismay, she felt her eyes well up with tears.
“Oh Fenella,” murmured her friend sympathetically and squeezed her hand. “Perhaps- well, perhaps you should speak to him of it.”
“To Mr Entner?”
“No, I meant Lord Vawdrey.”
Fen blinked. Well, he did keep telling her to come to him with her worries. But he had so much more to concern himself with at present. “Perhaps,” she agreed. “But he is rather occupied of late with delicate matters of state…”
“The Blechmarsh princess,” murmured Mathilde, instantly comprehending.
“Quite.” Not that she knew anything about it really. “And I do so wish I could be more of a – a help-meet to him. Do you understand? I – I feel so helpless and useless here at court. I’m not really sure of my function.” She wiped her eyes and took a couple of deep breaths to pull herself together. “I hate to think of myself being an actual hindrance and – and bringing disgrace on him.”
“Oh, I’m sure you could never do that!” objected Mathilde, who looked, if anything, completely out of her depth. It occurred to Fen that she could not have picked anyone less suited to advising her on such a matter as poor
Mathilde who was thrice married, yet never a wife.
Her friend leaned over and patted her hand. “Depend upon it, no-one here at court will believe these characters depict you and Lord Vawdrey. They sound really nothing like you.”
Fen felt a flicker of hope in her bosom. Could that be true? After all, it would have been much more accurate if the heroine had shown herself completely inept in wifely virtues than some kind of saintly victim. “Thank you Mathilde.”
Her friend accompanied her back to their rooms, which was full of half-dressed children when they returned. Little Archie was screaming and wailing, while the Cadwallader’s maids tried to unpack trunks and find missing clothes.
“Oh dear,” said Linnet, who had on a very fine ice-blue dress, but had loose hair and only one stocking on. “I do apologize.” Her gaze fell on Mathilde Martindale and widened with surprise. “Why Lady Martindale! I had no idea you were a friend of Fenella’s.”
Mathilde’s reply was quite drowned out by another lusty wail from young Archie.
“I can’t do nothin’ with him this morning, milady,” said her maid Nan tearfully. “He just won’t be consoled and Gertie’s a-dressing of the girls. I need to do your hair too…”
“Oh dear, if only I did not have an audience with the Queen today,” tutted Linnet. She turned back to Fenella. “I don’t suppose…” she started hopefully.
“Let me see if I can find Trudy,” said Fen in alarm, rushing toward the bedroom. She opened the door and scanned the room, but her maid was nowhere to be found. By the time she’d checked out in the corridor and then returned, the noise had abruptly stopped. Had he fallen asleep? To her surprise she found all quiet in the communal area. Mathilde stood to the far end of the room next to the window, rocking the baby in her arms. She was so diminutive of stature and Archie was such a bouncer, that it was surprising she could get her arms round him, thought Fen. She watched the wondering expression on Mathilde’s softened face. She glanced up, as if feeling Fenella’s gaze on her and beamed. Fen blinked. Mathilde Martindale looked positively radiant, despite her tear-stained cheeks.
“You’ve been crying,” said Fen in dismay. “I’m so sorry, let me have him if it’s causing you distress…”
Mathilde shook her head vehemently. “No,” she whispered hoarsely. “They’re happy tears.” She gazed down at the baby’s slumbering face with an expression of adoration. “I never knew-” She broke off distractedly as they drifted toward the window seat together.
“He certainly seems very peaceable now,” commented Fen as they sat down together.
“He’s perfect,” breathed Mathilde rapturously.
“Where is everyone?”
“The Duchess of Cadwallader has taken her daughters to meet the Queen.”
“The servants must have made themselves scarce,” said Fen dryly. She darted a shrewd look at her friend as they sat side-by-side. “Have you never thought about having a baby, Mathilde?” she asked cautiously.
Mathilde shook her head, her cheeks reddening. “Never,” she whispered.
“Did neither of your previous husbands want children?”
“Oh no,” her friend replied looking shocked. “They were quite old. And besides, they did not like the children they already had. Which is why they wanted to marry me,” she added sadly.
Archie’s face scrunched up and he gave a whimper.
“Do not fret, dearest one,” murmured Mathilde. “For your mother will be returning ere long.”
Archie’s little stiffening body, relaxed and his chubby chin wobbled as he settled back against Mathilde’s bosom. She shot a look of triumph at Fen.
“You’re a natural,” Fen whispered and Mathilde turned quite pink with pleasure.
“He does seem to like me, does he not?”
“I should say,” agreed Fen. “The entire time I was holding him last night, his head kept swiveling round to look at me with positive outrage!”
Mathilde giggled, and lowered her face to kiss the slumbering baby’s brow.
His eyelids flickered open to look at her, then drifted back down again.
“You see,” said Fen. “He is quite content to be held by you.”
Mathilde gave a happy sigh. “I wish…” She began, but then closed her mouth again, without voicing her wish.
“Why don’t you?” asked Fen curiously.
“You forget, I have never even met Lord Martindale,” Mathilde pointed out stiltedly. “We were married by proxy. And he – that is – I have heard…,” she broke off agitatedly.
“But you are married,” pointed out Fen frowning in puzzlement. “Why should you not have a baby, if you want one?”
Mathilde shook her head. “No, it is quite impossible,” she said.
Just then, the door latch sounded, making her friend almost guiltily.
It was Linnet’s maid Gertie, looking deeply apologetic. “I’m so sorry!” she began, then did a double-take, seeing her young master asleep. Her hands flew to cover her mouth. “However did you manage it?” she whispered, dropping her hands and tiptoeing across the floor. “He was in a rare taking when we left.” Fen and Mathilde exchanged glances.
“It was Mathilde,” admitted Fen. “It seems babies adore her.”
“He’s such a good baby, though,” said Mathilde warmly.
Gertie looked surprised by this pronouncement. “That’s what the mistress always says!” she said doubtfully. “But hardly anyone ever agrees with her!”
It was a good hour later that Meldon announced that Lady Schaeffer had arrived. Fen looked up from where she was crouched on the floor rolling walnuts to Archie. He squealed, picked them up and mouthed them before dropping them again and waiting patiently for the next one.
Hester grimaced. “I’m not overly fond of children,” she announced, casting a dubious eye over Archie.
“Oh, since his nap he’s been quite congenial,” Fen assured her, clambering to her knees. Mathilde picked up a walnut and commenced rolling duties.
“Where’s his nurse?” asked Hester disapprovingly as she sat in a chair.
“We’ve been keeping him tolerably amused while the servants unpack the Cadwallader things,” explained Fen.
“And he’s been a sweetheart,” piped up Mathilde.
“It has actually been quite fun,” Fen admitted.
“Don’t go clucky on me now,” said Hester darkly.
“Pardon?”
“Broody.”
“Oh,” Fen colored up. “There would hardly be any point.” To her dismay, the regret in her voice was only too apparent. At both her friends enquiring gazes, she added. “I have been married for years and never caught, after all.”
Hester cleared her throat. “Forgive me dear,” she said tactfully. “But was not Thane absent from the country for a good deal of your marriage.”
Fen opened her mouth, then closed it again. “Well yes,” she admitted.
“Whereas your current husband hardly seems to let you out of his sight now does he?” Hester said sotto-voiced.
Fenella looked back at Archie who held up his arms to Mathilde in an unspoken demand. Her friend delightedly complied. A baby of her own? She tamped down the brief flicker of hope she felt ruthlessly. It would not do to cherish false hopes which probably wouldn’t come to fruition. Mathilde kissed Archie’s chubby cheek and rocked him in her arms. If she wasn’t careful, Fen knew she’d be wearing the same expression of gentle yearning on her face. She gave herself a brief shake. This was not what she wished to discuss after all! “Have you had a chance to read Mr Entner’s play, Hester?” she asked, after clearing her throat.
Hester was peeling a grape and popped it in her mouth before answering. “The first act,” she said nodding her head. “I am a lamentably slow reader and Andrew kept talking last night when I was trying to start the second.”
“And what do you think?” asked Fen anxiously.
“A little slow to start,” said Hester tipping her head to one side. “And one
does rather want to wring Lady Mawby’s neck at times. Your pardon,” she said glancing at Fen. “But she is rather verbose.”
“Lady Mawby is the character based on me,” Fen explained to Mathilde.
“How nice,” said Mathilde who was gazing worshipfully at Archie.
Fen tsked. “It is not nice,” she said firmly. “Lady Mawby is a ninny who runs around wringing her hands and soliloquizing when she should be…Oh I don’t know.”
His Forsaken Bride (Vawdrey Brothers Book 2) Page 34