Page 83 of A Most Forgettable Girl

“Really?” Hal asked eagerly. “I will say that’s handsome of you, Wycliffe. If I happen to make my fortune with it, I will give you a portion.”

“What about me?” Kit demanded. “At least part of the idea is mine.”

“Yes, the rubbish part,” Hal said dampeningly.

Before a full-scale row broke out, the door opened and Gunnilde and Neville advanced into the room. James started to stand, before realizing no one else was so polite. Gunnilde met his eyes with her own and gave him a shy smile. James felt his color rise.

“Ah, here you are, James,” Neville said, brightening. “I just took Gunnilde along to meet the Ashdowns.”

“Sit ye down,” Hal said. “Move up, lads, Neville needs a place at table. The food arrived while you were gone. No, don’t worry about m’sister, she can sit on Wycliffe’s lap.”

“Hal!” Gunnilde murmured in reproach, though James found he was not unwilling. Somewhat imperiously, he held his hand out to her, and she rounded the table with downcast eyes. She squeezed onto the bench beside him, not quite on his lap but certainly pressed in close, for there was not much room. James did not mind, for it gave him an excuse to pass his arm about her. Hal sloshed ale for them into two cups and pushed them across the table.

“A couple of letters arrived this morn. One of the pages delivered them,” Neville announced as a curl of butter dropped from his knife and onto his sleeve. “Damnation! This is a new tunic,” he muttered, scooping it back up with his knife.

Hadrian guffawed. “Clumsy oaf.”

The boys joined in, judiciously abusing his brother’s new tunic along with his clumsiness. James ignored them, for plainly this demonstrated Neville had been accepted as one of their number.

“What did you think of the Ashdowns?” James murmured in Gunnilde’s ear, wanting private speech alone with her, no matter the subject.

“They seem entirely amiable,” she answered, nibbling daintily on a piece of toast. “They were very welcoming and professed themselves vastly pleased to meet me.”

“Who do you suppose the letters are from?” Neville asked. “I did not recognize the seals.” James frowned at him, not caring much about any letters at present.

“They might be replies to our invitations to that supper we are hosting here in the small gallery,” Gunnilde volunteered a little nervously.

“Have some fish,” James urged her, seeing she had selected the smallest piece of bread on the platter.

“I’m not really hungry,” Gunnilde replied in a small voice.

James frowned. “Not feeling ill, are you?”

“No, of course not!”

“Not like you to turn your nose up at good plain fare,” Hal chimed in. “What ails you?”

Gunnilde opened her mouth as though to deny any such thing when her eyes lit up and she dropped her hand to squeeze James’s thigh in warning. “As a matter of fact, I am feeling a little peaky this morning,” she said, turning to Cuthbert. “I did wonder if you might be able to send that witch of Sir Ned’s my way.”

27

Gunnilde opened the letters after they ate, and found they were acceptance notes to the invitations she had sent out thus far at court. The Portstanleys, the Bardulfs, and the Gilchrists had all confirmed they would attend, as had Earl Vawdrey and his countess.

James read each note she passed him with a blank look on his face. She suspected he had forgotten all about their banquet by this point. “And finally, Lady Winifred Hawes says she will be pleased to attend,” Gunnilde read out, opening the last.

“Is she a lady-in-waiting?” Hal asked. “I’ve not heard of her.”

“No, she’s a very serious-minded young lady who loves books and learning,” Gunnilde responded. “And tippets,” she added, glancing down at her own snowy white sleeve streamers. She had been highly gratified about that.

“I had better set off,” James said after casting his eye dutifully over Winifred’s reply. He passed it back to Gunnilde. “Her penmanship is good, though not as neat as your own.”

To her embarrassment, Gunnilde found herself blushing at this tepid compliment. “Where are you going?” she asked, setting the acceptances down in a haphazard pile.

“To Master Gregory’s. I want to spend the day working in the music room.”

Gunnilde bit back a wild impulse to ask if she could accompany him. Probably the last thing he wanted was her cluttering up the place while he was trying to compose. “Did you say that Master Gregory lives with his daughter?” she asked as he set a hat upon his head.

“Yes, his daughter, Justina, keeps house for him.”