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“Yes Mother,” she murmured, so faintly Fen could hardly hear her.

“Well,” exclaimed her Mother. “That is the most interesting thing you have done for a twelve-month!”

Fen kept the smile plastered to her face as Lady Martindale colorlessly repeated, “Yes Mother.”

Lady Doverdale’s sharp gaze ran over Fen a moment. “You are not what the Queen led me to expect,” she said surprisingly.

Now it was Fen’s turn to flush. “Oh dear,” she said. “I’m afraid her majesty was most disappointed in me.”

Lady Doverdale’s eyebrows rose. “Hmmm,” she said thoughtfully. “But perhaps that was your intent,” she suggested with a grim smile. “It has been observed that you are great friends with Lady Schaeffer. Hester Schaeffer has tried to convince everyone who’s met her in the last thirty years that she is a vapid creature of little distinction.”

Fen bristled at such a description of her friend. “I believe Hester to be a woman of both character and distinction,” she objected.

Lady Doverdale smiled thinly. “Perhaps you also, are not so easily fooled by her façade,” she suggested.

Belatedly, Fen remembered that Hester had no desire to wait on the Queen or be considered a senior member of court. “Are you one of her majesty’s retinue, Lady Doverdale?” she asked changing the subject.

“Mother is the Queen’s Mistress of the Robes,” said Lady Martindale timorously. From the surprised look on Lady Doverdale’s face, Fen could see she was not used to her daughter joining in any conversation voluntarily.

“Ah, yes of course, as you were telling me Mathilde, when we were interrupted,” said Fen glibly. She smiled up at Lady Doverdale again, whose eyes narrowed in response. “Will you permit me to help sew this border?” asked Fen turning back to the younger woman. Lady Martindale swallowed and nodded.

“I shall leave you to it,” said Lady Doverdale after a heavy pause.

“It was nice to meet you,” said Fen, picking up and threading a needle.

They both worked quietly side by side for a while, before she felt Mathilde Martindale’s hand softly touch her sleeve. She looked up.

“Did you mean it, when you said-?” started her companion.

“Every word,” said Fen. “Though I do not have a loom at my disposal here.”

“We could work on my loom,” said her new friend shyly, before taking a breath and adding with great daring. “Fenella.”

“That would be most agreeable,” said Fen, feeling suddenly elated that she had found a new friend.

In all, Fen spent a very enjoyable morning sat in the long gallery, feeling the winter sun streaming through the window onto her back. Mathilde Martindale was a sweet little thing, and Fen found she was worth coaxing her out of her shell as they whispered over their needlework. It reminded Fen of simpler days when she had spent time with her female cousins from Thripstone. They had always come to stay with them at Sitchmarsh Hall for the winter Solstice. She and her new friend made plans to meet the following afternoon in Mathilde’s rooms to work on their plans for a shared tapestry, and they parted just outside the long gallery.

Impulsively, instead of returning to the rather bare and unwelcoming Vawdrey rooms, Fen’s footsteps turned toward her husband’s study. She had a sudden mind to see him again in his natural habitat. She knew not why precisely, save for the fact it was becoming more and more pressing to her that she gained some sort of understanding of this husband of hers. Whenever she thought she had grasped some comprehension of his character, he slipped away from her, enigmatic as ever. Finding the room turned out easier than she’d anticipated. She recognized the stretch of corridor with its vaulted stone ceilings and suits of armor at once. When she reached the door, however, she hesitated, suddenly uncertain of herself. What if he was engaged in some business of the realm and sent her away? Even worse, what if there were others in his office with him, important men of state? She realized, she could not simply knock and go in. Glancing around she wondered where Bryce was usually to be found, when to her consternation, the door suddenly opened. Fen’s head whipped round and she came face to face with one of the many medium sized, bearded men in non-descript suits that so often seemed to flock around her husband. She opened her mouth, but before she could so much as utter a sound, a hand clamped over it and her wrist was seized in a punishing grip, and she was dragged inside.

“Wheeler!” exclaimed a shocked voice, which Fen realized was Bryce.

“This one was listening outside,” the man behind her said in clipped tones.

Fen started to argue that she had not heard a thing, but his hand over her mouth prevented it. She was still facing the door and could not see the inhabitants of the room.

Fen heard the sound of a chair dragged being back from behind a desk.

“Let her go at once,” said her husband’s voice which seemed to be growing nearer. Then she found herself seized in another pair of arms. Familiar ones this time. Then a dryly spoken: “This happens to be my wife.” Profuse apologies spilled from Wheeler’s lips, which Oswald seemed to pay little heed to. He turned her round, his hands resting on her upper arms as his eyes scanned hers. “Though I confess I do not know what she is doing here.” There was a question in his voice.

“I came to see you,” Fen told him indignantly. She felt rather foolish after being so manhandled and tried to brush down her crumpled skirts and straighten her bodice. She put a hand to her hair and hoped her veil wasn’t askew. She tried to avoid Oswald’s gaze, but thought he probably saw her discomfiture all too clearly. Just when she started to think she was fitting in, she made an idiot of herself again!

He reached out and caught her hand, drawing back her sleeve to examine her wrist. “If you’ve marked her, I won’t be pleased,” he said calmly.

Again, Wheeler apologized and Oswald ignored him.

“You’re dismissed,” he said without looking at him, and turned her wrist over. “I will see you next week.”

“Yes my lord,” the door shut behind him.