Page 87 of Wed By Proxy

“I am very happy for you,” she replied, before allowing her head to droop forward again.

How tired she was. And how she longed to get out of her horribly stained gown. Before they had mounted their horses, Lord Vawdrey had whipped out a kerchief and scrubbed efficiently at her cheek. It had only occurred to her afterward that it must have been dried blood from where she had touched her face with bloodstained fingers. She shuddered now to think of it. What must everyone have thought when she shot down the hill like that toward them, covered in blood? “None the worse for wear,” Lord Vawdrey had said, and she marveled at his word choice. Still, he was a politician and everyone knew they expressed themselves differently from most people. Oh, whatever would everyone at Acton March think when she did not come home?

XXXVIII

What would everyone think when she did not come home? The words reverberated through her mind as she woke with a gasp four hours later. The room was dimly lit, and by the door, a quiet, mature looking woman sat with a distaff, winding yarn. She nodded gently when Mathilde sat up, placed her spinning down on her chair and poured a cup of water, which she brought over to the bed for Mathilde to drink.

Mathilde took it with thanks and drank it down as memories of this woman helping her undress and bathe flooded into her mind. She had not spoken once before tucking her into the comfortable bed. At the time, Mathilde had been profoundly grateful that no explanations were needed for her gory dress or monosyllabic conversation. Her eyelids had been drooping the entire time she had sat in the tub.

“Thank you for all your help,” she murmured now, as the lady fetched a brocade robe for her to slip over her clean shift and then buttoned it from neck to hem.

Mathilde stood obediently as a child, as soft slippers were placed on the floor in front of her. Feeling as though she were in a dream, she stepped into them, and then the woman took her hand and led her across the room into a dark corridor and down it to a small room where Lord Vawdrey sat writing at a desk. He looked up at her and smiled, placing down his pen.

“Ah, I see you look a good deal recovered,” he said with satisfaction. “If you could be so kind as to have our supper brought in to us, Mistress Bassington?” The woman smiled and nodded and left the room.

“Do take a seat, Lady Martindale,” he urged her, gesturing to one before the fire. He stood up and came to join her there. “You slept well, I trust?”

“I, er, yes,” Mathilde agreed. “This is a very comfortable house.” She wondered who the large country property belonged to, before deciding shrewdly that in all probability, it would be the Crown.

“Yes,” agreed Lord Vawdrey. “Alas, the Bassingtons did not prosper. That lady who attended you is that last of that once proud family.”

“The war?” Mathilde guessed with a sinking feeling.

Oswald smiled thinly. “Quite so. Mistress Lucy Bassington remains on here as caretaker.”

“Her home confiscated?” Mathilde ventured in dismay. Oswald inclined his head. “Can she—? I mean—”

“Her tongue was cut out,” he answered. “By her own brother, who considered her an informer to the southern forces.”

Mathilde’s hands grasped the arm of her chair. After a moment she said slowly. “The war took a considerable toll here in the north. There are many scars, some you cannot see.”

“That is a very good way of putting it,” Oswald said gravely.

“Was she an informer?”

Oswald’s eyes flickered. “If she was, she was not aware of the fact.”

Mathilde looked at him. What a tricky man he was. How did Fenella ever know where she stood with him?

Just then, Lucy Bassington returned with a young girl, both carrying trays of food which they set on the table against the wall. Mathilde watched the older lady’s faded blue eyes. She would not have willingly betrayed her kin, she felt sure of that. She must have been tricked, poor thing, by some man in all probability. Perhaps a charming, unscrupulous man, she thought, like Tristan Kerslake. Or Oswald Vawdrey.

“Let us sit to the table for our meal,” he suggested, rising from his seat and holding out his hand to her. “You will need to build up your strength for the morrow.”

Mathilde’s gaze darted to his as he pulled out a chair for her. “Tomorrow?” she repeated nervously. He nodded and made his way to the seat opposite. “My husband will return the day after tomorrow,” she added, not really sure why she felt the need to say that aloud.

Lord Vawdrey paused in the act of pulling in his chair. “You need have no concerns on that score,” he said. “If that is what worries you.”

He was spooning some salad onto a plate of fresh lettuce and cabbage leaves served in a vinegar oil dressing. He slid it over to her and she took it with wide eyes. What did he mean, she “need have no concerns” about her husband’s return?

“Let us eat first,” he said contritely. “We will talk afterwards. In the meantime I will try not to make any more cryptic remarks.”

Mathilde bit her lip, and did her best to force down the light supper of salad and fish served with fresh baked bread. She drank sparingly of the watered wine and surprised herself by making a rather decent meal of it.

Lord Vawdrey made light conversation and they progressed to a second course of cheese and candied fruits. Mathilde was just nibbling on a sucket of orange soaked in syrup, when he mentioned the popularity at court of the tale of her escape dressed as a boy. “Doubtless there will be poems and dare I say plays written in your honor.” He grimaced at the word play and Mathilde’s memory was jogged.

“Did Fenella manage to suppress that play?” she asked on impulse. “The one she was so worried about?”

To her astonishment, she thought Oswald Vawdrey colored ever so slightly before her eyes. He gave a small cough.