Page 73 of His Forsaken Bride

“Lenora,” Eden said with a slight frown. “This is Fenella, Lady Vawdrey, wife to the Duke of Vawdrey.”

Lenora’s hand dropped and she turned another look on Fenella, her vivid blue eyes blinking. “Oh,” she said. “How nice.”

“Er, yes,” agreed Fenella.

Eden noticed another group of ladies arriving and excused herself to hurry away and greet them. She left Lenora standing next to Fen.

“Your cousin is so very industrious, is she not? Does she run very many ladies gatherings here at court?” she asked Lenora.

Lenora’s vague expression dropped for a moment and she regarded Fen with surprise, almost as if she had forgotten her existence. “Oh!” she said. Then appeared to have to make a concerted effort. “Yes. Eden is always occupied with something or another.” She shrugged a shoulder and fell back to contemplating nothing, running a silk scarf through her fingers.

They stood a moment in silence and Fen realized that her companion was not even going to attempt any small talk. “Do – do you – enjoy life at court, Lady Lenora?” she ventured.

Again, Lenora turned toward her almost blankly. “Oh yes,” she said, and then relapsed once again into perfect silence. Fen stole a sideways look at her perfect profile. She really was astonishingly beautiful with her golden waving hair, pure brow and long black lashes. Fen could feel no animosity or hostility from her. She stood beside her happily enough. Mayhap, people usually drank her beauty in and simply did not require conversation from her? Fen pondered. Still, she could not help but feel a little awkward, just stood there while other small groups of women milled about, talking away. “Do you enjoy tapestry-making?” she asked a little desperately.

Lenora tipped her pretty head to one side, as if she’d never even considered it before. “I suppose,” she said with another elegant shrug.

“I once embarked on a most ambitious project in my youth,” Fen blurted, unable to stand the prolonged silences any longer. “I decided I would make a wall-hanging for a gift to my betrothed.” She gave an awkward laugh. “The borders were stuffed to the gills with heraldic beasts signifying the joining of our houses. But even worse than that, the central figure was an idealized depiction of him as an angel, complete with wings and a halo made of roses.”

Lenora’s round blue eyes did not so much as blink. “How nice,” she said again, and Fen gave up.

Mercifully, it was only a few moments later that Eden returned and swept her away to join a party of ladies who were sat along the cushioned window seats, busily stitching together panels of heavily stitched cloth.

“If I could sit you here, next to Lady Martindale,” said Eden gesturing to a diminutive lady who sat in a window alone except for a large pile of tapestries. “She has a fine, delicate hand and is very productive.” Lady Martindale raised timid eyes to meet Fen’s before flinching away and staring back at her needle and thread. “Lady Martindale, permit me to introduce Lady Vawdrey who will be joining us from today,” said Eden firmly, though Fen had made no such promise to her knowledge.

“Good morning,” whispered Lady Martindale, her pale face flushed as she started to struggle up from her seat. She was so short, that her feet did not touch the ground.

“Please do not trouble yourself to stand,” said Fen, hurriedly sitting down beside her on the green cushion which covered the stone bench. “I am happy to be able to join you.”

“Today we are employed in stitching together pieces we have independently worked to make a larger whole which will eventually extend down the south gallery that runs parallel to the kitchen gardens,” explained Eden.

“I see,” said Fen. “A worthy endeavor.”

“We like to think so,” said Eden briskly. “I will leave you with Lady Martindale to demonstrate.”

Lady Martindale’s face turned an even redder shade as she stared down at her work and Fen peered over her shoulder to look at the exquisitely worked wild flowers, skillfully entwined and bordering some worthy devotional text. “How beautiful,” she said. “I have produced floral depictions on tapestry before now, but they were not half as finely-wrought as yours.”

Lady Martindale’s color ebbed and flowed at the compliment. Clearly, she was a very introverted lady, thought Fen dolefully. She was starting to understand why Hester Schaeffer avoided these sort of things like the plague.

“My mother selected the text,” said Lady Martindale, glancing almost fearfully down the room as if checking for her parent’s presence. “But I was permitted to select the flowers myself.”

“I see,” said Fen, wondering at Lady Martindale’s age. She wore a gown of burgundy and a collar of fine turquoises inlaid in gold. She was not dressed as a very young lady, as the mention of her mother seemed to suggest, although her face was youthful. Her pale brown hair was worn up under a veil with a gold striped border. If pushed Fen would guess her age was in her early twenties, but her manner was much younger. “Is your husband one of the King’s courtiers?” she asked boldly, realizing nothing more was forthcoming.

Lady Martindale’s hazel eyes widened with alarm and she once more glanced about her as if checking she was unobserved. “No,” she muttered, her eyes downcast. “That is – I live here, with mother.” Her voice died away, and she lowered her face over the cloth, her fingers flying over her tiny stitches.

Fen glanced up and found an older woman staring down coldly at her. “Good morning,” she said pleasantly and noticed the guilty start Lady Martindale gave.

“Will you introduce us, Mathilde, or just sit there like a tongue-tied ninny?” the older woman asked cuttingly.

Again, Lady Martindale’s face flamed. “I – your pardon,” she stammered. “Mother, this is Lady Vawdrey. Lady Vawdrey, this is my mother, Lady Doverdale.”

Fen rose and bobbed a curtsey before sitting straight back down again.

Lady Doverdale gave a vastly dignified curtsey. “I hope my child has managed some conversation with you, Lady Vawdrey, however scanty. I assure you, she was not raised a mute.”

Fen sat up straighter seeing the miserable slump of her companion’s shoulders. “Indeed,” she said cheerfully. “Lady Martindale and I were just arranging to work a panel together,” she lied boldly, guessing the timid Lady Martindale would hardly contradict her. She could feel her companion’s terrified gaze fixed on her face, and reached across to pat one of her thin white hands reassuringly. “Her work is superb, and I would dearly love to learn her method for making leaves and petals appear alive.”

Something flickered in Lady Doverdale’s eyes and for a moment she looked almost pleased. “Is this true, Mathilde?” she asked her daughter sharply.