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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.