His Forsaken Bride (Vawdrey Brothers Book 2)

by Alice Coldbreath

  Oswald was already out of his chair, steering her toward the window seat. “You look tired,” he murmured. “It must have been draughty and cold, sat in the long gallery all day.”

  The servants tactfully withdrew, Meldon giving the tapestry one last doubtful look. “Just hope it holds!” he murmured under his breath. “Damn thing’s plaguey heavy!”

  Fenella clutched at Oswald’s arm and turned a very dull red. “Why are you hanging that up?” she asked in strangled tones. “It really ought to be relegated to a dark cupboard!”

  “Why?” he frowned. “I see naught amiss with it.”

  Fenella stared at him.

  “Do you mean the wall-hanging or the portrait?” asked Roland with interest. Bors dropped the glove in his lap as an offering.

  “Portrait?” repeated Fenella. She glanced up and gave a yelp on catching sight of the painting. “What’s that doing here?”

  “Why would I not display my betrothal gifts?” asked Oswald with annoyance.

  Fen sat down so fast she looked winded.

  “How’s the new portrait coming along?” Oswald asked her, pouring her a drink.

  She took it from him, still eyeing the tapestry with a pained expression. “What? Oh, er... I hardly know,” she admitted. “Signor Arnotti does not permit you to look at a work in progress.” She took a hasty sip and then coughed, as it appeared to go down the wrong way. “In any event, Bess is happy with the painting he did of her oldest hound, Padraig. She said he caught his noble expression most admirably.”

  “That’s something at least,” said Roland, pointing to her portrait accusingly. “Poor Bors looks like a smudgy blob in that one.”

  Fen grimaced. “More to the point, I look like a smudgy blob in that one.”

  Roland laughed, and for some inexplicable reason Oswald found himself feeling aggravated. He glared at his brother. “Why are you not out with your degenerate friends, celebrating?” he asked ill-naturedly.

  Roland shrugged. “Didn’t feel like it, as it happens.”

  “A hollow victory?” asked Fen with interest. “Whose token did you wear?”

  Roland shrugged. “Lenora Montmayne,” he said without much enthusiasm.

  “Indeed?” said Fen with more interest than Oswald cared for. Fen seemed to catch his impatient gaze on her and gave a start. “Oh, I almost forgot we are dining tonight with the Schaeffers.” She glanced down at her burgundy gown. “I’m already in my newest gown for the portrait sitting. I don’t need a change of clothing, do I?” she looked appealingly at Oswald.

  He let his gaze wander over her. Any excuse to look at her was welcome, these days. Perhaps he could put the new portrait side by side with the old when it was finished?

  “Husband?”

  He re-focused on her face. “You don’t need to change your dress,” he said, swiftly replaying her query in his mind.

  “Good,” she patted her leg and Bors trotted over to her for some fuss. “Would you believe that Ambrose did not even recognize Bors?” she asked indignantly. “Why, he still looks as noble as he ever did.”

  “Thane’s an idiot,” said Roland with disgust. “A man who can’t even recognize his own dog, doesn’t deserve to be recognized as a man.”

  “Or a husband,” said Oswald casually. He withdrew the rolled-up document from his tunic and tossed it toward Fenella. She caught it clumsily, and clasped it to her. “What is it?”

  “Annulment papers,” he said briefly.

  Fen’s eyes widened, but she said nothing, though Roland gave an exclamation.

  “You did it then,” said his brother with a low whistle. “I thought it was just a rumor!” He held out his hand and for some reason Fenella handed it to him. He unfurled it with interest.

  “I think I might go and change my veil,” said Fen standing up. “I told Hester that I had one with a gold border and she said she was thinking of getting one.” She walked toward the bedroom and Oswald’s eyes followed her moodily.

  “Does this mean you get Fen’s original dowry?” asked Roland, squinting at the script.

  “No idea,” said Oswald distractedly. “I haven’t actually read the fine print yet.”

  His brother looked surprised. “Why else did you do it, then?”

  But Oswald was already walking toward their bedroom, after his wife. She was unpinning her veil when he entered the room. She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled. He shut the door and walked over to where she stood before the mirror.

  She lifted a different veil, “Do you think this one will look as well?” she asked. “Usually I let Trudy choose. She has such a good eye-,” she broke off catching sight of his expression. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I suppose we do have to go to the Schaeffers?” he scowled.

  Fen watched him in the mirror with a slight frown. “We did not make it to the Duchess of Horberry’s feast last week,” she reminded him.

  Oswald found he did not much care. “Should you mind very much if we missed it?” he asked.

  Fen placed down a hair pin carefully. “Hester is my closest friend at court,” she said. “And I should like to make a good impression on Lord Schaeffer for your sake.” She looked wistful.

  “For my sake?”

  “Hester told me that Lord Schaeffer was your mentor at court in the early days.” She tilted her chin up. “If I could just win over one person, and not show myself up as some awful countrified embarrassment of a wife…”

  “You’re hardly that,” he interjected swiftly.

  “It would be one big step toward becoming a lady-in-waiting,” she said, picking up her hair comb. “It is kind of you to say I am not an embarrassment, but I am not an asset to you at court either. And I should like to be. If I can.”

  She looked so fiercely sincere in this wish, that Oswald knew not how to reply. Instead he reached inside his tunic and withdrew the box of rings, opening it and placing it on the surface before her. “Wear this,” he said, picking out the smaller ring. She held out her hand and he slid the ring onto her finger.

  She gazed down at it a moment. “Vawdrey panthers?” she asked looking at the decoration on the blue enamel band.

  “And Bernard bears,” he said holding up the box with the larger ring still in the box. “Like in your tapestry.”

  Her startled eyes met his and she reached for the box and extracted the larger ring, slowly turning it over, before hesitantly holding it out to him. Instead of taking it, he held his hand out toward her. Catching his meaning, she slid the ring onto his finger, where it fitted snugly. Her hand slid into his, and they stood silently a moment, their hands clasped fast together, and Oswald found himself feeling strangely moved. The strangest feeling nagged at him that he had experienced something like this, once before. But when he tried to force the memory, it instantly disappeared.

  **

  Fen woke feeling groggy and disoriented. They had passed a pleasant evening with the Schaeffers and she had found herself relaxed and at ease for once at a social engagement. She had possibly had one more goblet of wine than she should have, but she had enjoyed herself and she flattered herself that Lord Schaeffer who had seemed tense and a little stuffy at the outset, had also warmed to her. She had gathered from the conversation that there was some delicate negotiation going on at present at court. She tried not to look too inquisitive or ask questions displaying her ignorance. She had of course, heard of Princess Una and her claim to the throne, but she had no idea that there were still plots being quashed and uprisings being quelled on a monthly basis! She had heard that the princess was a fierce creature, raised to join her father in battle, but according to Lord Schaeffer she was a poor, weary soul who had been dragged from battlefield to battlefield and longed for nothing more than to lead a peaceable life.

  “’Tis said she both looks and acts like a man and rides a horse, astride,” Hester had told her in the hushed voice of one repeating scandal.

  “What’s that Hester?” Lord Schaeffer had
asked, beetling his brows at her.

  “Nothing, Andrew dear,” his wife had replied, before winking at Fen.

  Fen had been itching to ask Oswald if he’d ever met the princess, but she remembered only too clearly that he had been most displeased when she’d shown an interest in his work, so she had instead suppressed her curiosity.

  When they had returned to their rooms, her husband seemed in a strangely reticent mood, though he was physically as affectionate as ever. If anything, he was more so than usual. After a bout of vigorous love-making, he immediately curled up behind her instead of the usual rolling away and then coming back together as they slept. When she first woke, his head was pressed into the back of her neck and he was gently stroking her hip. He shushed her, when she started to ask the hour, and turned her around so she fell back to sleep in his arms.

  When she woke again, he was gone, but he had left his scarlet robe for her at the bottom of the bed. The first thing she did after washing, was to replace the heavy ring he had given her back on her finger, before dressing for another four-hour sitting with signor Arnotti. It would have been tedious indeed, if were not for Eden Montmayne who had kindly accompanied her this time. They talked of the Queen, who Eden greatly admired, and Eden’s many artistic pursuits - dancing; poetry; tapestry; music, there seemed no end to them. Fen noted how Eden apparently flourished at court with all her talents. She wanted to ask if she had no admirers or suitors, but something held her back. Perhaps the fact that Eden was an orphan, and her uncle was probably too busy fending off suitors for his beautiful daughter Lenora, than he was trying to find a suitable match for his niece. At midday, Signor Arnotti announced the light was no longer conducive to his aims and picked up his canvas and bag of brushes and left.

  “He is very abrupt, is he not?” wondered Fen aloud.

  “Oh yes. That is why he has not heretofore made it as a fashionable portrait painter,” said Eden. “He lacks the ability to flatter or amuse his patrons.”

  “I hope he manages to flatter them on canvas,” joked Fen weakly. She had nearly been put off her breakfast by the sight of her pudgy fifteen-year old self staring out of a frame that morning. She heartily hoped this portrait would be able to replace her old one.

  Eden looked a little unsure. “He certainly has a very unique eye. I do not lay claim that his vision will universally please,” she said cautiously.

  “But Lady Hartleby was very pleased was she not? With his work?”

  “Signor Arnotti has only made the preliminary sketches of her dogs thus far,” said Eden with a shrug. “Bess herself has not yet committed to sit for the pre-requisite amount of hours he requires for a portrait.” Eden gave her a sidelong look. “Which is why he is now working exclusively on your painting.”

  “Oh dear,” said Fen. “She really only did want a painting of her dogs.”

  Eden smiled. “We shall see who comes out the victor. They both have very strong personalities, do they not?”

  “They most certainly do!” agreed Fen fervently. “Still, I should not wish to be embroiled in their quarrel, for I do not have many friends at court and I had hoped Bess would be one of their number.”

  “I do not think she is so easily offended,” said Eden. “Perhaps you might invite Lady Bess to join you in a walk with your dogs?” she suggested. “I hear you and Lady Schaeffer exercise your hounds most days.”

  “That is a very excellent notion,” Fen agreed, brightening up. To her surprise, a page hurried over with a note for her. She took it from him and hastily retrieved a coin from the purse suspended from her belt. “Thank you.” She broke it open. “Why, it’s from Mr Entner!”

  “Your playwright,” said Eden.

  Fen scanned the letter. “He writes that he has finished his play!”

  “Ah, that is good news,” said Eden with satisfaction.

  “He asks if he can deliver a copy of it to me this afternoon.” She turned the page over to read the postscript. “I am to send a reply with the deliverer of the note.” She looked up to find the page still hovering nearby. “Yes, that would be agreeable,” she told him, and he took off, his green hose flashing. “I am going to walk down and meet him in the main courtyard.”

  “I will come down with you,” said Eden. “For it is on my way.”

  They linked arms and made their way down together.

  Mr Entner bowed very low when he saw both her and Eden, and to Fen’s eye, he looked even more nervous than the last time she had seen him. He dropped his hat twice and made very poor eye-contact as Eden bade them farewell. He waited until Eden had disappeared from view and then handed over the bundle of closely written papers to Fen.

  “The Tragical History of a Lady Most Foully Betrayed in Three Acts: A Morality Play” Fen read aloud from the front page. She peered over the top of the manuscript at Mr Entner. “But what happened to the donkey?” she asked in bewilderment.

  He shrugged. “My muse took me in a different direction,” he said evasively.

  A pucker of apprehension appeared on Fen’s brow. “What happened to her?”

  “I couldn’t get beyond the first few scenes,” he replied. “The donkey metaphor seemed labored and –”

  “Not the donkey,” Fen corrected him testily. “The tragical woman most cruelly betrayed.” She held up the manuscript.

  Mr Entner reddened. “Foully betrayed,” he corrected her. “I could not do the subject matter justice by summarizing the plot. ‘Twere much better if you simply read it yourself.”

  Fen had a sinking feeling about the whole thing. She clutched the pages so hard her knuckles turned white. “Mr Entner-,” she started.

  He shot up to his full height. “Rehearsals have already started,” he said defensively. “People are saying this is my most seminal piece of work.”

  “People?” she echoed.

  “My wife, and brother-in-law, then.”

  Fen looked about them. All around, courtiers and servants were milling. She lowered her voice. “Very well, I shall read it, Mr Entner, but make no mistake if I find-”

  “Your very gracious servant,” he said loudly, bowed and then scurried away as Fen stared after him.

  Fen made her way back to their rooms feeling deeply uneasy. Hester Schaeffer was coming over to visit with her in two hours, which she hoped would give her ample time to wade through Mr Entner’s play. She closed the door behind her, dragged a blanket out of the chest and bundled herself into the window-seat to plough through it. At various points, Meldon appeared to throw some more logs on the fire. Trudy tiptoed in at one point for some direction on what refreshments they were serving to her guest later, but otherwise Fen was left in peace to decipher Mr Entner’s cramped hand, as a grandiose tale of woe and treachery unfolded before her horrified gaze.

  “Hester,” Fen announced hollowly as soon as her friend arrived. “I have read Mr Entner’s play.”

  Her friend regarded her thoughtfully. “Oh dear, is it really that bad?” she asked drawing off her gloves. “It is so difficult to find a playwright of good quality these days.”

  “It is not the quality that troubles me,” blurted Fen. “But rather, the subject matter!”

  “Indeed?” Hester Schaeffer’s eyebrows shot into her hairline. “Pray do tell. No!” she said throwing up an elegant hand. “On second thought, allow me to guess!” She chose the seat facing away from the window and selected a piece of marchpane that Trudy had set out for them.

  Fen watched her distractedly.

  “Patricide!” her friend ventured with her eyes glowing.

  “Nay.”

  “Matricide?”

  “’Tis not murder of any kind.”

  “Oh, not incest again,” sighed Hester in disapproval. “One gets so tired of it!”

  “Suicide!” burst out Fen. “Of a lady most unhappily thrown over by her husband.”

  Hester leant back in her seat with a thoughtful expression. “Oh I see,” she said. “Clever Mr Entner.”

  �
�Clever?” echoed Fen wringing her hands. “Everyone will think I put him up to it!”

  “And what if they do?” shrugged her friend. “Tis considered a vastly elegant way of getting revenge on an enemy. Having a thinly veiled insult acted out to them as a play.”

  “Is it?”

  “Why of course, my sweet Fenella. Why do you suppose Sir Inverdale sponsored that piece of theatre last year that set everyone by their ears? Lady Jarrow’s Innocence.”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” admitted Fen dully. She picked up a piece of marchpane and ate it distractedly, barely even registering what it tasted like.

  “I forget Thane kept you buried in the country,” sighed Hester. “Well, it was naught but a cleverly concealed barb, about the checkered history of Lord Heber’s third wife. Everyone knew she was the mistress of the Earl of Wallace.”

  Fen tapped her foot impatiently. She was not one whit interested in any of these awful sounding people! “But-”

  Lady Schaeffer held up a hand again. “No, no my dear Fenella. You must allow yourself to be led by me in such things. Depend upon it, you are upsetting yourself over naught.”

  Fen chewed on her bottom lip. Could Hester be right?

  “Why don’t I read it?” suggested her friend.

  “Oh, would you?” said Fen eagerly. “Now that really would reassure me!”

  “Of course,” said Hester soothingly. “Now, pray put it completely out of your mind, for I want to tell you what Andrew said to me as soon as you and Lord Vawdrey left us last night.”

  Fen, who was in the act of tidying all the papers together into one pile, abruptly stopped. “What did Lord Schaeffer say?”

  “He said that, despite the fact he refused to listen to rumor as a matter of principle, he could see that everything being bandied about regarding yours and Lord Vawdrey’s marriage was entirely true.” Hester sat back in her seat with an expression of utmost satisfaction. “Now what do you say to that, my dear?”

  Fen paled and stared down at her hands on her lap. “I don’t know what is being bandied about,” she said with a helpless shrug.