Page 2 of Wed By Proxy

“That one?” asked Robin, nodding toward the jeweled dagger. “It would get stolen in a heartbeat on the road, milady! Or others would think you stole it and we’d be hauled before the law.”

“Oh,” replied Mathilde crestfallen.

“You can take mine,” offered Willard.

“Oh no, I couldn’t…”

“You can,” he said firmly. “If you’re to be a convincing boy, then you’ll need one.”

“Then you must take mine,” said Mathilde equally firm. She walked to the dresser and picked it up by the hilt. “When we meet again, we can exchange back. And this will be a token of our faith in one another.” She passed it to him carefully and he took it with a soft whistle.

“Where did you get it?” he asked turning it over. The jewels flashed. There were two rubies decorating each end of the cross guard, and on the pommel was a large emerald.

“My first husband sent it to me as a betrothal token ten years ago. I used it for opening letters and cutting pages and such.”

“Are you sure..?” asked Willard suddenly doubtful. “What if I lose it or…”

“Quite,” she replied, cutting him off. “After all, it is my own to bestow.” When both boys stared at her, she added awkwardly. “And it is not as though it has any sentimental value. I only ever met Lord Langdon once.”

“I always forget that you’re even married, let alone a widow,” commented Willard ingeniously.

“A widow twice over,” she reminded him quietly. She couldn’t really blame him. She’d never felt like a wife herself in anything but name. Hopefully that would all soon change. In a few short weeks she would face her current husband, Lord Martindale in person. Then she would tell him, that she wanted to be wedded in truth, as well as lawfully. Willard passed her his own serviceable dagger in a leather sheath. She tucked it into her belt without examining the blade. After all, it was more about feeling the part than functionality. “And if I should lose your blade,” she told him, “then mine becomes yours.”

“Then I hope you do lose it,” said Willard fervently.

“Well, in that case let us exchange now and be done with it.”

“Truly?”

“Truly,” she said. “After all, you are sure to run into some serious reprisals for your part in my flight. It is only right that I make you some gift in reparation.”

Willard spat in his palm and extended his right hand to her. She wrinkled her nose. “Nay, you mustn’t do that,” he cautioned. “All men know this is as binding as a blood oath. Or as near to it as damn it,” he added conscientiously.

“A blood oath?” repeated Mathilde, doubtfully. Spit might be a bodily fluid, but it was not blood.

“Is that not right, Rob?” Willard appealed to their friend.

“Aye,” Robin flung at them over his shoulder. His needle flashed in and out of the light brown hair.

“Very well then,” Mathilde said, and raising her hand, delicately spat into it. Willard rolled his eyes. Then she extended her hand and tried not to flinch at the feeling of his wet palm against her own. Being a boy is disgusting!

Some ten minutes later, she gazed down at Willard lying in her bed, wearing her nightgown and cap, with her long locks hanging about his shoulders. It was most extraordinary, and the impression made Mathilde feel quite light-headed. “Don’t forget,” she cautioned. “Speak in a whisper. I told Nurse my throat was sore, so she’ll be expecting your voice to be scratchy and hoarse.” Willard nodded.

“And huddle under the covers,” added Robin. “Don’t loll. You’re supposed to be suffering from a chill and you’ve got to spin it out as long as you can, to make good our escape.”

Willard pulled a face of long-suffering and gave an exaggerated shudder. “Oh, I’m ever so ill, Nurse,” he whispered pathetically. “I believe I shall not last till morn!”

“Don’t say that for the lords’ sakes!” blurted Mathilde in alarm. “That would make her fetch my mother!”

“Only say that you’re tired and need to rest,” added Robin.

“Would you both stop fretting?” sighed Willard. “I shall be very well. ’Tis you who shall be late. Weren’t you supposed to meet Gordon at the south gate on the stroke of midnight?”

Mathilde and Robin’s eyes met. “We’d better go, milady.” Impulsively Mathilde fell on Willard and hugged him fiercely.

“Mind my hair!” he said in a muffled voice. “It’s not terribly secure.”

“If they try to punish you, you must get word to me at the Martindale estate which is called Acton March.” Mathilde urged him. “And when the furor has died down, you must write to me —”