His Forsaken Bride (Vawdrey Brothers Book 2)

by Alice Coldbreath

  “Riding up to court and demanding an Earl’s hand in marriage,” suggested Hester slyly.

  Fen huffed. “That is not quite how it happened, Hester. Despite what court gossip says!”

  “Oh, but I love that story,” said Mathilde. “You are like a fearless heroine from a ballad.”

  “Heroines from ballads are never fierce,” Hester corrected her dampeningly. “They always expire of broken hearts. Which I suspect Lady Mawby will by the end of Act three, am I right?”

  Fen nodded dismally. “But not before she has spoken a great many more lines and been forced to marry the cold and unfeeling Lord Orlando.”

  “Now I’m looking forward to that part,” said Hester holding up a finger. “I expect sparks to fly.”

  “You will be disappointed in that hope,” said Fen. “Lord Orlando is a complete cold fish.” And absolutely nothing like Oswald.

  “That’s a shame,” tutted Hester.

  “All he cares about his honor and advancement at court.”

  “And Lady Mawby fades away?” suggested Hester, helping herself to another grape.

  “Entirely.”

  “Oh dear. What a pity.”

  “What do you think I should do?” asked Fen helplessly. “Can I insist on a re-write?”

  “Oh indisputably, if you are his patron.”

  “But what would you have him change?” asked Mathilde. “The ending? Have them live happily ever after?”

  “No, you couldn’t do that,” said Hester dismissively. “It is clearly a tragedy. There are conventions and rules at play.”

  “Could I ask Mr Entner to make Lady Mawby a widow instead of a divorcee?” suggested Fen.

  “Oh, he won’t want to do that,” said Hester sounding shocked. “After all, this is his trump card. This is what he is counting on to give the play its frisson of scandal. The fact he is trading on your history for inspiration.”

  Fen rubbed her temples distractedly. “What if I asked him to change the character of Lord Orlando?”

  “Make him less of a damp squib?” said Hester sympathetically.

  Fen brooded on this. “What if I asked for him to be made the hero?”

  “Forgive me, but do you think that Lord Vawdrey would be happy to be the main subject of such a play?” asked Hester gently.

  Fen realized she had a point. “Or the villain of the piece then. Then no-one could think it was Oswald.”

  Hester and Mathilde both looked dismayed by this idea. “Oh no!” they both exclaimed.

  “What if people thought you were saying that Lord Vawdrey truly is a villain?” said Mathilde, hefting Archie over her shoulder.

  “There is that,” admitted Fen weakly. “What if Lady Mawby were made into a villainess instead?”

  Both ladies seemed to be struck speechless for a moment.

  “There are already enough rumors circling about you,” said Hester dryly. “Without you adding more fuel to the fire.”

  “I’m afraid I agree,” said Mathilde quietly.

  Hester Schaeffer shot a surprised look at her.

  Fen groaned. “What can I do then?”

  “Simply ride it out,” suggested Hester. “It will be a three-day sensation at court, nothing more.

  “Maybe no-one will go to see it,” suggested Mathilde.

  “A lot of these folk and morality plays sink without a trace,” agreed Hester. “They spring up in the marketplace one day and are gone the next.”

  Fen sat back in her seat with a troubled look on her face. “I hope you are right,” she murmured. “I really do.”

  Hester and Mathilde had left by the time Linnet returned with her daughters. Mathilde had wanted to stay longer, but Lady Doverdale had sent her old nurse along to collect her. Archie had received many kisses before she’d left. He’d cried a few tears on the departure of his favorite, but Fen had eventually managed to distract him, with the help of Nan who had now finished with the unpacking. They took turns at pointing to things out of the window to him, singing to him and walking him around the room.

  “We’re back,” sang out Linnet as she sailed into the room an hour or so later.

  Cuthbert came in behind her, carrying Lily and Meg one on each arm.

  “What pretty dresses,” cried Fen, for both little girls were in their very best dresses of daffodil yellow. Meg smiled, but Lily hid her face in Cuthbert’s shoulder.

  “They’re tired,” said Linnet, coming up to Fen and peeking at her son’s face. “Thank you so much for taking care of Archie. Has he been asleep long?”

  “Not long. Nan has just popped down to the kitchens to fetch some supper for the girls,” explained Fen. “She and Gertie have finished unpacking.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Linnet. “Girls, let’s find Gertie and get you changed out of your finery for supper.”

  When she had finished setting out the children’s meal, Nan took Archie back and Fen was able to slip away to her room. She wrote a short note to Mr Entner, requesting a meeting with him about his intentions to stage his play. Realizing she did not have the direction of his lodgings, she addressed it to Eden Montmayne in the hopes she could forward it for her. Then she sat in a chair by the fire to read Orla’s letter. After breaking it open she realized there had been some delay with its delivery as it was dated over two weeks ago. Bors strolled in and flopped down at her feet. The logs crackled, and she settled in for a catch up with all things Sitchmarsh. Little had she known, six weeks ago when she’d rashly left for Aphrany, that she would be so long gone from her home county. She hoped Orla’s letter would mention her friends and acquaintances rather than her own grievances, as the last one had. In this, she was not to be disappointed. Orla wrote that Ambrose and his new bride had gone on a visit home to Thurrold Manor and it had not gone well. Orla dismissed Colleen as a vapid little fool and wrote that her mother, Lady Edland was overbearing, arrogant and meant to rule the roost. ‘As you can imagine, my dear Fenella, this did not endear her to myself or our servants.’ Fenella remembered Ambrose’s words in the shrubbery that day when he berated her about turning his sister against his new wife. This must have been what he was writing about, she realized. Their reception on this visit home. ‘You must not imagine that I am the only person to draw this conclusion, for our friends and neighbors have been much perturbed by your usurpation. Indeed, the only person in the neighborhood who has welcomed them with open arms is that bold-faced hussy Sarah Yondy! You may imagine my reaction, when Ambrose informed me they were to dine at her house last Thursday week! I left him in no doubt of my disapproval, of that you may be sure! And great was Ambrose’s perturbation when it dawned on him that the invitations he issued far and wide for folk to meet his upstart ‘wife’ (not that she deserves the title!) were being shunned by the respectable folk of Sitchmarsh. And would you believe, my dear sister, that he then turned to me in the expectation that I should try to sway public opinion in his favor? I need hardly tell you the reply I made! In a show of solidarity, I have ridden out to Sitchmarsh Hall three times in the last week to commiserate with your brother Gilbert. I am sorry to say, that the first time I arrived I found him with a very sore head from carousing. I gave him a very stern lecture on the evils of over-indulgence you may be sure! Such was his malady that he received my strictures most meekly and promised he would not over-imbibe again before Solstice Eve. I have ridden out twice since then to test his resolve and ensure he has kept his promise. Fen lowered the page, as it suddenly dawned on her that ‘the harridan’ Gil had been complaining was plaguing the life out of him, could in fact, be Orla! She gave a snort of laughter, and extricating her foot from her slipper, stroked Bors’ back with her stockinged foot. Bors flipped over onto his back to give her access to his stomach. Nothing loath, Fen wriggled her stockinged toes along his stomach and Bors’ let his tongue loll out of his mouth as he panted in approval.

  A knock on the door startled Fen, and Bors gave a short bark, rolling onto his stomach to preserve his dignity. A b
lond head peered around the door and she realized it was Cuthbert.

  “Any notes you want delivering?” he asked hopefully.

  Fen realized he probably wanted to make himself scarce for a while. “I do have one for Lady Eden Montmayne as it happens,” she said pointing toward the small table.

  Cuthbert wandered over and picked it up. “This isn’t the right one,” he said. “This is addressed to Mr Entner.”

  “I know,” Fen explained. “But I want it to be delivered to Lady Eden for her to forward on for me. I don’t know Mr Entner’s address. I did write a covering note to Eden, it should be there.”

  Cuthbert scanned the second page. “This is it,” he agreed, and refolded them with Eden’s note on the outside. “Anything else?”

  “Allow me to give you some coin this time,” said Fen rising from her chair.

  “Not necessary,” shrugged Cuthbert. “I’m on a retainer and you’re family, so…” He let his words trail off though he still hovered by the door instead of leaving.

  “Have you been Mason’s squire for long?” asked Fen politely.

  Cuthbert nodded. “A year last Michaelmas. I was Lady Linnet’s page before that.”

  “It must be a position of great responsibility,” she said gravely.

  Cuthbert shrugged. “My master doesn’t enter the lists,” he said with a trace of bitterness.

  “I fear my husband is the same,” said Fen sympathetically. “I think it’s because they were soldiers. Could you not ask to support Master Roland for a while at court? That way you would get to experience the tournaments.”

  Cuthbert’s eyes widened. “Support Master Roland?” he repeated. “Do you think I could?”

  “I don’t see why not,” said Fen. “The family are clearly very fond of you. I can’t imagine they would deny you the experience. And Roland has no page or squire of his own that I can discern.”

  Cuthbert nodded slowly, and seemed to look upon her with a dawning new respect. He started toward the door, before turning back impulsively. “Did you really show up at court with your wedding papers to show to Lord Vawdrey?” he asked.

  Fen considered this. She guessed he had been hearing all the palace gossip. Of course, technically, this was nothing but the truth. “I did,” she said inclining her head. “But shall I tell you a secret, Cuthbert, for your ears only?”

  He cocked his head. “Yes?”

  “When I did it, I thought to coerce Lord Vawdrey to act as my champion. I did not dream he would turn around and lay claim to me for a wife.”

  Cuthbert seemed to consider this. “They do say as he’s a dark horse,” he said at last. “My granny’s a witch,” he added with great insouciance. “I got the sight too. Want me to read your palm?” He said it so obligingly that Fen found herself holding out her hand. The boy drew up a chair beside her. She could not imagine a more unlikely witch if she tried, with his golden curls and pink-and-white complexion.

  “You been sleeping under an oak tree,” he said, startling her greatly. “Sleeping and waiting for a half-dead man.”

  Fen gave an involuntary exclamation and tried to draw back, but his grip was surprisingly strong.

  “You didn’t ought to do that,” he said sternly. “It’s bad fortune, sleeping under trees. Everyone knows that. So’s waiting for the dead. Lucky for you, he didn’t die all the way,” he traced a line on her palm. “Only part of him was killed. A part what you can give back to him, if you’ve got the courage.”

  Fen stared at him, feeling oddly deprived of breath. She knew it was pointless telling him that she’d never slept under a tree in her life. That wasn’t how it worked. He was looking at her expectantly. “Thank you,” she said.

  “You gotta give me something now,” he said with a small sigh.

  She knew that also, and fetched him the silver pilgrim’s token out of her drawer.

  He took it and turned it over. “A coin would do.”

  “I want you to have this.” She didn’t really know why.

  He untied a leather thong from around his neck and threaded the token onto it alongside several other trinkets. Then he slipped it back into his shirt. She thought of the padlock locket and shivered.

  “Who’s the man?” he asked curiously.

  She knew at once what he meant. “Oswald Vawdrey.”

  “When did he half-die?”

  She didn’t even hesitate. “The battle of Adarva. He was certainly grievously injured.” She thought of his mangled shoulder blade. “He probably almost died.”

  Cuthbert nodded thoughtfully. “I never heard him speak of that tale.”

  “No-one has,” said Fen. “Except me.”

  They sat a moment in companionable silence, the logs crackling in the hearth. Bors whined and the spell was broken. “I promised to walk him with my friend Bess at five o’clock,” said Fen, listening to the bell clang in the courtyard.

  Cuthbert jumped out of his chair. “I’ll go and deliver your note, milady.”

  “Thank you Cuthbert.”

  She couldn’t quite shake off the strange mood that had descended on her until she emerged into the vestibule that separated the outer and the inner courtyard and felt a blast of icy cold air. Drawing her cloak around her, she heard Bess’s booming voice before she could spot her friend. Three prancing hounds preceded her, sleek and rippling with muscle. Bors eyed them with tolerance as they gamboled around him.

  “Hah, there you are,” Bess hailed her heartily, as she sailed around the corner in a large orange cloak. “I’ve only bought the bitches with me this evening. Didn’t think your old boy would appreciate the young bucks nipping at his heels, hey?” She jostled Fen in the side good-naturedly.

  “That is a kindness I’m sure he appreciates.”

  “Looking a little peaky, if you don’t mind me saying so Lady Fen,” Bess commented as they crossed the first courtyard. “You been sat being painted all day long?” she sucked in her cheeks. “Not wise to be sat still so long. All your black bile will sink to the bottom of your spleen and make you melancholic.” Her brown curls bounced as she made this pronouncement, and her velvet feathered cap almost slipped off her head.

  Fen’s eyes widened. “Oh, I shouldn’t want that. But I only sat for signor Arnotti this morning.”

  “Ah, I’m glad to hear it,” said Bess. “Though I understand your portrait is coming along very nicely now, and signor Arnotti spends a good deal of time on it in his studio.”

  Fen was surprised. She did not find the artist very forthcoming about his progress. “That is heartening to hear,” she said. “I understand you remain unpersuaded with regards to having your own portrait done.”

  “He told you that, did he?” asked Bess, not sounding very pleased and turning even ruddier in color.

  “Oh no,” Fen hastened to explain. “’Twas Eden who told me, not signor Arnotti.”

  “Humph,” said Bess, looking somewhat mollified. “Got a finger in every pie that girl.”

  “She’s certainly very busy about court.”

  “Some would say too much so,” snapped Bess. Then she seemed to remember herself. “Ho Clementine!” she bellowed and her white hound came bounding back. “Not too far ahead of the pack, you hussy!” Clementine dove off again to catch up with Bors and the others.

  Fen watched her friend covertly. Whilst Bess was usually an eccentric character, she seemed a little more on edge today, she thought. “And how is Padraig?” she asked after Bess’s oldest and most beloved dog. “I understand his likeness on the canvas was most masterfully done.”

  Bess inclined her head. “With a profile as noble as Padraig’s you could scarcely fail to produce a work of startling beauty,” she boasted. “I daresay,” she added with a short laugh. “That even a second-rate artist could do a passable job with such a fine subject.”

  “I daresay,” agreed Fen.

  “Not that I’m saying he is second rate,” added Bess self-consciously. “Far from it. From what I have seen in his st
udios his work is very fine.”

  “You have been to his studio?” asked Fen with interest.

  Bess pulled up short. “And why shouldn’t I?” she asked.

  Fen gazed at her in amazement. “No reason at all. I was merely making conversation.”

  Bess grunted. “You may depend on it that busybody Miss Eden Montmayne has been there prodding and poking among the canvases!” She jutted out her chin aggressively and Fen almost wished she had not arranged to meet her.

  “She does a lot of work espousing artists for patrons,” she said mildly.

  “Hah!” was all Bess answered. “Perhaps she’d do better to apply her energies to other purposes, such as finding a husband.”

  “Well, if she had,” said Fen a little sharply. “Then you or I would not be having our paintings done.”

  This seemed to bring Bess up short. “Quite right,” she said a little gruffly after a pause. “Wasn’t thinking straight.”

  It wasn’t like her, thought Fen, wondering what had got into her friend. She could be a little fiery, but she was usually good-natured with it.

  “Benedict tells me your portrait is nearly completed now,” said Bess.

  Fen pondered this a moment. “Who is Benedict?” she asked at last, defeated.

  Bess coughed. “Why, signor Arnotti, to be sure.” Her ruddy complexion deepened.

  “Oh I see,” said Fen, surprised they were on first name terms. Bess was an heiress and noblewoman, despite her eccentricities.

  “To be frank, it looked finished to me when I saw it two days ago,” Bess continued. “But Ben- I mean signor Arnotti,” she corrected herself hastily. “Is something of a perfectionist.”

  “Have you seen my portrait?” asked Fen in surprise.

  Bess nodded. “Oh yes.”

  “But I thought he didn’t permit anyone to look at his pictures unless they were fully finished?” exclaimed Fen.

  Bess fiddled with her glove in a very un-Bess like fashion. She looked almost coy. “Oh yes,” she agreed vaguely. “But that mostly applies to his subjects.”

  “I see,” said Fen. “Perhaps I should ask to see your portrait?” she added rather tartly.