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No doubt the servants whispered she too was a vicious woman and cruel. She remembered indistinctly that the people who sat at the table had been fancy in raiment. No doubt Guy’s friends and neighbors that she would never win over now. The visiting gentle-folk, too, would have no good opinion of her after the show she had put on.
What did it matter? she told herself wearily, as Lettys led her into a well-appointed room with large windows flanked with blue velvet curtains. A servant was busily laying logs in the fireplace. To her surprise, she spied her new tapestry loom had been set up in one corner. Set next to it was the lift-out shelf from her trunk at the lodge which contained all her threads. Mathilde flushed at the idea of people going through her things, but then she remembered Prudie still had the scandalous book and calmed a little.
Spotting a piece of parchment, she recognized it was her design of the lodge and its inhabitants. Her lips twisted bitterly to think of how differently she had felt when she set that scene out. It had been a few days merely.
Walking over to the loom, she picked up the design and let her eyes travel over it a moment. Her first impulse was to tear it up and cast it into the newly lit fire. But, after all, she was badly in need of a distraction if she was to tarry here a while. She eyed the drawing and felt a pang when her gaze fell on one figure in particular. Well, she would omit him from the tapestry altogether, she resolved.
She must get word to Robin. He would help her plan her escape from this accursed place if Guy refused to see reason and release her. But first, she must bide her time awhile until she was sure of the lay of the land. From the impassioned interviews she had with him thus far, Guy had every intention of keeping her here, ironically, now she no longer wanted to stay. Well, she thought, stung, she would soon change his mind about that! She had no intention of playing the role of his marchioness, a role he clearly had always thought her unfit for.
Her chest heaved. Her mother had been right all along, she thought bleakly. She was not equipped to deal with the harsh realities of married life. Men were faithless beasts who could not be trusted.
She seated herself at her loom as Lettys gave some instruction to the servant for refreshment. Mathilde cared not, she had no appetite. With unsteady fingers, she selected the materials she needed from her wooden box, and set about starting her tapestry.
XXXI
Guy eased the door open and nodded to Lettys to make herself scarce. The lass was quick-witted enough to catch his meaning and made her way lightly over to him.
“Wait until I call for you,” he said in a low voice and she nodded and left.
He closed the door behind him and stood on the threshold a minute, contemplating the picture Mathilde made as she sat absorbed at her tapestry loom. She ought to look rather lost, her small figure in the midst of its large frame, but she was clearly mistress of it, for her fingers moved over it lightly and confidently. He cleared his throat, and suddenly she was sat stiff as a board, her back straight and her cheeks suffused with an angry flush.
“My lord—” she started.
“My lady,” he replied, looking up at her, fully aware it was the first time he had addressed her as such.
She was quiet a moment. “What are you about? I believe I told you that I have no desire to hear aught you have to say.”
“And I told you I still have much to say on the matter.”
She gave a determined shake of her head. “’Twould be pointless,” she insisted. “We — we do not suit each other, sir.”
“That’s a damned lie.”
“You do not want me here. You never did.”
Her voice was suddenly so quiet, he had to strain to catch it. “I always wanted you,” he said abruptly. “I just didn’t know it, until recently.”
She didn’t even pause. “You love another,” she said in a wobbly voice.
This accusation stunned him so much, he had to grope a moment for his answer. “What the bloody hells are you talking about now, woman?” he growled.
“Waldon told me about Julia and your first betrothal. I deserve a husband who can give me his whole heart.”
Guy reeled. What? “Waldon was talking utter nonsense!” he roared, then noticed the tear that was tracking down her cheek. Damn it! He was making a mess of this.
“I don’t love anyone but you!” he bellowed. No doubt the whole damned household had heard that, but he was past caring.
“I don’t believe you,” she said, sticking her little button nose in the air. Gods, she was obstinate and pretty and infuriating.
“Did you hear what I just said, Mathilde?” he asked, drawing in a steadying breath. “I have never spoken of love to a woman before in my life.”
“You didn’t just now,” she said rallying. “You flung it in my face like an insult.”
He blinked. Well, she might very well have a point there. “I love you,” he said blankly.
“Well I don’t love you,” she said, but the fact she sobbed it softened the blow.
“I’ll make you,” he said resolutely.
Strangely enough, speaking the words made him feel somehow better. With each second that had passed since he made his declaration he felt stronger, like some weight had lifted from his shoulders. The terrible ache that had filled his chest was abating, though not gone completely. Still, her expression was wooden, unbending.
She opened her mouth, but before she could even speak her unforgiving words, he said, “I never loved Julia Kerslake. It was just a passing boyhood fancy. I admired her looks when I was too young to notice her personality.”
This made her fall silent for a moment, but her expression was still unutterably hurt. “I lied,” she said sadly, robbing him of all breath. “I loved you as soon as I clapped eyes on you. You were everything I ever wanted in life.”
His heart swelled, though his mind boggled at the fact he could ever have been anyone’s romantic ideal. Then the past tense of her statement filtered through the glow. Were?
“I still am,” he said belligerently. “Or I’d better be.” She said nothing, and he took a deep breath. “Mathilde?” She gave a slight shake of her head. “I’m not giving you any more time to yourself,” he growled. “I’m never making that mistake again.” She closed her eyes, and he walked unsteadily forward.
“Please, don’t—sweetheart, I can’t stand it. I won’t.”
This isn’t working, he thought wretchedly. He needed to take a different approach. Hauling her out of her seat at the loom, he half dragged her over to the window seat. He saw her seated and then knelt at her feet. It was the only way to bring them onto a similar level.
“When I first saw you,” he said desperately. “I wanted to shelter you, from the law even. And I didn’t even know who you were then.” No reaction. He continued. “Then when you revealed yourself, I was so angry, so very angry.” He swallowed. “But still… I felt this, this strange urge to protect and …” own you, would sound wrong. Take ownership of you. No, that was wasn’t right either. “I wanted so badly to…” join my body with you? “…be with you,” he stammered.
Gods, he was bad at this!
“I didn’t trust you, but I wanted you so, so much. And that threw me too, because in recent years I felt I disliked and mistrusted women. But you were so beautiful and so different from what I knew and what I thought I knew. I just couldn’t stay away from you. Not if my life depended on it. I wanted to possess you utterly.”
He winced at his crudeness. He’d be lucky if she didn’t run screaming from the room at this rate. He fell silent waiting for some sign from her that his words had registered. When she did speak, it still took him by surprise.
“My first husband was seventy-nine years old,” she said in a quiet voice, and he clenched his fists until his short nails bit into his palms. “I only met him twice. My second husband I met once on his death bed.”
He nodded, managing to stop himself from denying anyone was ever her husband save himself. It took an effort though.
<
br /> “Aye,” he said roughly. He wanted her confidences, for her to talk to him. Just not about other men in her life.
“I didn’t know anything about … husbands or the marriage bed,” she said refusing to look at him.
He cleared his throat. He already knew that. “I don’t understand how—” he started hoarsely, but she cut him off.
“I was twenty-four years of age. I still had Nurse, although there was no more story-time. It wasn’t needed anymore. My mother had successfully maneuvered me through three political marriages, yet I had never left her side. I had never run my own household, had never held a child of my own in my arms...” Her voice cracked.
“Sweetheart…”
She turned her face away again. “It’s too late Guy. You have broken my heart.”
XXXII
Mathilde spent a melancholy, but quiet afternoon at her tapestry. She got a goodly portion of it started off and felt quietly pleased with her progress, though in all likelihood she would spend the rest of her life trying to forget everything that had taken place at the lodge. Her insides still felt lacerated, though. If she sat very still, and very quiet, she told herself, then there was a chance she would not fall completely apart.
In an odd way, it reminded her of her old life, back in the days when she all she had wanted was to go unnoticed. How she would have loved to have sat at such a loom in a beautiful room like this away from all the intrigues at court! Lettys had picked up on Mathilde’s desire for silence, and asked for leave to go and fetch a basket of mending from her own room. Mathilde quickly assented. It would be peaceful for the two of them to sit industriously occupied for the afternoon. With a bit of luck, she would not need to speak more than a handful of words between now and bedtime.
She sank into silence, and when the door creaked, she did not turn her head at once, imagining it was Lettys returning. A small cough sounded, and Mathilde turned her head to find a good-looking man with copper hair wearing a very fine burgundy doublet hovering in the doorway. He looked strangely familiar to her. Frowning slightly, she turned back to her task, guessing he had taken a wrong turn. She had no desire to speak with him. After a moment, the door carefully closed, but the sound of a throat being politely cleared, made her turn back again.
“Lady Martindale,” he said presenting her with a very elegant bow. “I trust I do not intrude?”
She gazed at him wordlessly. What could she answer to that? When plainly he was intruding in the worst way. His lips twitched, and to her surprise she realized he was amused by her pointed silence.
“I am Tristan Kerslake, your very humble servant. Perhaps you, ah, remember me from the most unfortunate feast two nights ago?” Mathilde’s brow puckered. She remembered no one from the banquet save the principle players. “I was the one who identified you as the rightful marchioness,” he said with assumed modesty.
“Did you?” Mathilde asked after a small pause.
“Though in truth, you would not remember it, for you had already fled by that point.”
Mathilde shrugged a shoulder. He really was very good-looking, she thought dispassionately, though perhaps a little on the short side. Of course, that might just be because she was comparing him to Guy. Oh dear. She would always she realized, for the rest of her days, compare men with Guy.
“I have a friend in Aphrany who pointed you out to me once. You were part of the queen’s royal retinue.”
Feeling she must respond at this point to avoid outright rudeness, Mathilde murmured “I see.” He inclined his head. It was at that point she realized she recognized him, though not from a tournament. “I feel sure I too have seen you before, sir,” she said. “Is your friend a courtier?”
“You flatter me,” he smiled. “Alas, he does not move in such exalted quarters, and is naught but a wealthy merchant’s son. He pointed you out to me at a public event. A tournament, in fact.”
No, that wasn’t right, thought Mathilde, not that she was particularly interested. She remembered him from court, she was almost sure of it. And for some reason, she did associate him with a courtier, and a famous one. In a flash it came to her.
“Lord Oswald Vawdrey,” she said aloud and saw him stiffen. “It was Vawdrey I saw you with. I was with his countess at the royal palace at Aphrany, and you were emerging from his office.”
His face, she noticed impassively, was flushed. “I assure you, madam, you are quite mistaken,” he answered, and though he still smiled, it looked rather brittle and unreal.
She shrugged again, and at this point Lettys reappeared with her basket. Tristan Kerslake murmured his apologies and retreated, and Mathilde was left once more in silence.
At suppertime, she was escorted to the Great Hall which was brightly lit with candles and manned by many servants who seemed to line every wall, despite the fact that only five places were laid at table. She was led with great pomp to the seat at Guy’s immediate right. Temur was waiting at his left and Lettys went to join her husband there.
“We are just family this evening,” Guy said. “May I present my steward to you, Mathilde? This is Firmin, who served my father before me.”
The older man presented her with a very low bow and then drew back her chair for her. She murmured something and sat down. Firmin took his seat to her right and everyone was seated as the first course was served.
Mathilde was glad to find she felt pleasantly numb and quite divorced from proceedings as she sipped her vegetable soup out of convention more than hunger. She made no effort to join in the conversation that struck up as the fish course was served and soon, when she did not respond to any lures, they began talking of business and the estate and Mathilde was able to sit in utter silence.
Again, she was reminded of her previous life as the timorous Lady Martindale at court. Then, whole conversations would be carried on around her without her being expected to participate. Perhaps it would not be that surprising, she mused, if I were to slip back into that previous role of mine? After all, it had not been so very long ago. Perhaps she could not escape her fate as the meek and unassuming Lady Tilda.
“Mathilde?” With a start, she found she was being addressed by her frowning husband. She raised her eyebrows at him eloquently. “Do you have no opinion to put forth on the subject?” he asked challengingly.
She opened her mouth to explain she had not been listening, but for some reason other words entirely tumbled out. “It is no concern of mine,” she said coolly instead.
A spark kindled in his gaze. He sat back in his seat regarding her. “No concern of yours? What an amenable wife you shall be,” he mocked.
“Aye, but not to you,” she answered crisply. “For presently I shall return to court and request the king finds me a fourth husband who may be more suited to me.”
“Don’t!” he said sharply, but it was the note of pain in his voice that halted her. She lapsed into silence, acutely aware of the startled eyes of the other diners riveted on them.
“How long?” Guy rumbled, not even attempting to speak quietly. She did not answer. “How long are you going to punish me?” he asked hoarsely. “I make no complaint, you understand. I just need to know my suffering will be finite.”
“How about four years?” Mathilde heard herself ask in a clear concise voice. “How does that sound? The amount of time I waited in vain for you to send for me.” You could have heard a pin drop in the Great Hall.
Guy did not answer a moment, then he cleared his throat. “That sounds fair,” he said at last and not one more word was spoken between any of them for the remainder of the meal.
As she climbed the stairs for bed, Mathilde realized with shock and a certain amount of grim satisfaction that Lady Tilda had left for good. There would be no sinking back into her previous life. What, then, would become of her? The future stretched out before her, strange and unknowable.
Should she should seek out an audience with Old Helga for guidance, she wondered? She felt a strange reluctance to, after the painful i
nterview a few nights previously. Her memory was hazy as to when the old woman had left them that night. She had definitely been leading their way through the woods as they had set out for the manor house. But when Mathilde had mounted the steps to the main door, she did not remember Helga being present.
She would not send for Helga, she resolved, as she brushed her hair before bed. Indeed, she had the strangest feeling that no messenger would even find her cottage unless Helga wished it to be so.
She was washing before bed when she noticed the large carved wooden box that had been placed at her bedside. Lifting off the lid, she found it full of precious jewels. She recognized the rubies set in enameled swans immediately. Only the brooch was conspicuous in its absence. Quietly, Mathilde replaced the lid and climbed into bed.
XXXIII
The next morning followed almost precisely the pattern of the previous morning, except that Lettys suggested they went for a walk in the gardens instead of retiring immediately to the blue sitting room. Mathilde acquiesced, and they had not walked farther than the kitchen gardens when Temur headed them off from the direction of the stables, and Lettys excused herself with an apologetic look and hurried over to meet him.
Mathilde waited a moment, but when they looked deep in conversation, she decided instead to have a walk about the large herb and vegetable beds. Most of the snow had now melted and only the odd patch remained, though it was still very cold out. She could identify fennel, cabbage, leeks and radishes but not much else. She had not spent much time in the country, after all.
She wandered up and down the narrow paths in between the plots and was just wondering idly which were lentils and which were peas, when a quiet voice wished her a good morning, and she looked up eagerly in hopes it might be Robin. To her surprise, she found it was Tristan Kerslake smiling his urbane smile. She blinked at his turquoise doublet and matching cape and wished him a good morning in return, hoping she hid her disappointment that he was not her young friend.