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Thurrold Manor House, Sitchmarsh, The Summerlands

Fenella Thane dropped her embroidery into her lap and stared at her sister-in-law in disbelief.

“I’m sorry Orla, I think I misheard you,” she faltered.

Orla’s rather long nose quivered with excitement.

“You poor thing. It must be a lot to take in… Indeed, it’s a hard day when a wife finds herself usurped from her husband’s favor.” She gave a mournful sigh that didn’t quite conceal the gleam in her eye. “But indeed it’s true. Ambrose loves another. Even now he petitions the king at his winter court in Aphrany.”

“Divorce?” choked Fenella. “Ambrose means to divorce me?”

“Indeed ‘tis so.” Her sister-in-law held up her letter with a flourish. “Do you wish to see it in his own hand?” she asked. “I don’t wish to be indelicate… Of course my brother writes to tell me all. It was always so, ever since he was a babe he has always confided in me and me alone,” she gloated.

Fenella surprised her by holding out her hand for the missive. She had herself received a letter from Ambrose two weeks ago that had mentioned no word of it.

“Oh!” Orla stammered, clearly taken aback. “Very well…” she handed it over grudgingly and Fenella pored over Ambrose’s words. These last few months have revealed my true feelings to me… Colleen is the love of my life. In truth I never loved Fenella as a wife. She re-read the last sentence three times over. ‘I mean to divorce her on my return.’ The words swam on the page. He’d never loved her! In eight years of marriage! The words blurred before her eyes as she stared down at the piece of paper feeling numb. And yet it was unmistakably Ambrose’s perfectly round neat script. Her husband of several years spoke of casting her off like an old worn out glove.

“You’re crumpling my letter!” squawked Orla snatching it from her hand. “Are you mad?” she clucked her tongue. “You know I always keep all of Ambrose’s letters pressed in my ledger!”

Fenella stared at her as Orla fussily pressed out the creases from the page. Orla was jittery with excitement. Her sister in law was gleeful at the prospect of her brother casting off his wife she realized feeling faintly sickened. Maybe, a voice whispered in her head, just maybe Orla thought she could rule the roost with a younger mistress at Thurrold. A nasty taste in her mouth told her this was probably true. Bors, her old black Labrador whined at her feet and she bent down to stroke him.

“It’s alright Bors,” she murmured reassuringly, although she almost choked on the words.

Orla sniffed. “I doubt it as far as he’s concerned. They won’t let you keep a dog at the convent.”

“Convent?”

“Of course, that is where you’ll be placed as a cast-off wife. You can hardly hold a property unwed.”

Fenella’s face flamed. She straightened up abruptly. “My father left me two properties…”

“And they became Ambrose’s when he married you,” cut in Orla smugly. “You have nothing now. Not a penny to your name.”

“But if he no longer wishes to be my husband, why should he keep what is mine? What was my father’s.” asked Fenella in a voice that shook.

Orla shrugged. “Tis the law of the land,” she sniffed. “What can us weak women do?”

Fenella balled her hands into fists so hard her nails pressed into her palms as she gazed down steadfastly at her dog, unable to face her traitorous sister-in-law. The same sister-in-law she’d sewn, eaten and gossiped beside for the last eight years. She felt betrayed. Betrayed. Bors panted up at her in slavish devotion, a slight wheeze emanating from his graying muzzle. She thought suddenly of her father who’d always maintained that the lowest act a man could commit was to cast off an old dog who’d been loyal in his service. She felt the burning conviction her father would feel the same contempt for the man who would cast off his own wife who had been loyal and true to him for almost a decade. A wife who had brought him wealth and prestige and had always honored him as a spouse. She was a Bernard of Sitchmarsh Hall. Her black bear was quartered even now on her husband’s standard. How dare he try to throw her in a convent and take some young bride to the bedroom she’d furnished! She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. “I’ll not go to the convent,” she said with resolve.

Orla gazed at her with a slack jaw. “What choice have you?” she gaped.

“I don’t know,” Fenella admitted slowly. “But I’ll not go quietly. Ambrose has made a huge mistake if he thinks I will.” She gathered up her skirts to stand as her sister-in-law stared at her in alarm.

“Fenella... wait. You don’t mean to go to court?” she gasped. “You know the King does not agree with unescorted women presenting at court.”

That was true enough thought Fenella despairingly. King Wymer was a traditionalist where women were concerned. She doubted he’d lift a finger to help her. Rumor had it he was currently flushed with success from his recent reconciliation campaign in the north. Those that had been useful in negotiations with the powerful northern barons were being lavishly rewarded. Ambrose as his diplomatic equerry in the north would be in prime favor. She’d expected her husband to return home any day now from his two year sojourn. An expectation she’d held in vain, she thought bitterly. Fenella felt her gall rise at the faithlessness of men.

“I won’t stand for it!” she burst out anguished, holding the back of her hand to her mouth. Suddenly, she felt nauseated. The floorboards beneath her felt like they were heaving. Thurrold had been her home now for many years. She’d come to love the handsome timbered moated manor house with its abundant fields of barley and fruit trees. She’d been happy here, making a home and a rich family life for her husband. And all this time…he’d never loved her… The vows he’d made. The promise he’d given her father to cherish her. All lies.

She felt Orla’s fingers close over her arm like a claw and realized her skinny sister-in-law was struggling to hold her up.

“You’ll be fine,” Orla panted sounding panicked. “It’s just the shock.”

Fenella gave a low moan, sinking to her knees, as Bors keened and ambled to his feet around her, giving a series of low barks.

“Fenella!” Orla pleaded. “What ails you? You’ve never fainted in your life.”