Page 16 of Wed By Proxy

“I’m glad to meet you Prudence,” Mathilde murmured politely. Prudence had long passed her youth, and looked to be about thirty years in age, she had black braided hair and very straight beetling brows. She gave a tight, humorless smile, and stooped to lift her pack of belongings to add them to the cart. Mathilde was pleased to see Waldon pluck it out of Prudence’s hands and sling it on for her. Before Prudence could protest, Waldon turned and lifted her with seemingly little effort and swung her up onto the cart as well.

“I could take the reins,” Prudence said quickly, but he ignored her and clambered up beside her. Mathilde noticed the maid’s color grew even pinker and she bit her lip with vexation. Prudence seemed a very capable woman, but perhaps not the best tempered.

“Have you looked your fill?” Lord Martindale growled. He was seated now on his own horse, a magnificently large white beast.

Mathilde’s gaze darted to meet his. “Prudence seems familiar to me,” she admitted. “Yet I can’t quite…”

“She was the maid who failed to serve you this morning,” he said shortly.

“Oh, of course.” She remembered now. She beamed at him. “You did not turn her out after all.”

He gave her an odd look. “This pleases you?”

She nodded. “I’m persuaded it was all simply a misunderstanding.”

He snorted. “Pull up your hood. There’s a chance of more snow later.”

Mathilde gazed up at the sky, which was very white. She could well believe it was full of snow. With a slight shiver, she pulled her hood up over her hair, and realized she had lost the linen square that had been serving as a veil. Where had that gone? She looked about distractedly. Maybe it had gone down the back of her cloak. Now her hair was too short to braid, it was extremely difficult to affix pins to it. Dressing as a woman again had not seemed familiar at all. Then again, that might have been because the clothes she wore were nothing like her court wardrobe. Even her petticoats were thick and woolen, and the head veil she had been provided with had been a serviceable navy blue before she had lost it. Mathilde had never worn anything save the purest and gauziest of whites upon her head. As a snowflake brushed against her cheek, she glanced up at the sky again. Possibly the ladies dressed this way here because of the extreme cold. It seemed only sensible that fashion should become a secondary consideration.

The horses had started forward, and Lord Martindale took the lead, with her following close behind. The cart followed them and Robin brought up the rear. As they left the main approach toward the sprawling manor house, Mathilde noticed her husband shoot her several assessing glances. They were cantering at a brisk pace now, and she fancied he was weighing up her seat on a horse. Luckily, she had nothing to worry about on that score. Her mother had been scrupulous in her education and she had been able to ride well from a young age, though she had not lived on a country estate since she was very small. Both her parents had been courtiers through and through, and the running of their estates had been largely left to others, though her mother kept an iron grip on the accounts.

When it came to feminine accomplishments, Mathilde knew her strengths and weaknesses only too well. She excelled at the tapestry loom and with the needle. She enjoyed drafting out designs and patterns to execute and she enjoyed reading poetry, ballads and tales of adventure and romance. All of these however, were solitary pursuits. When it came to courtly pursuits such as dancing, singing, playing, and worst of all, polite conversation, she was woefully inadequate, despite the many excellent tutors her mother had engaged over the years. She simply hated to perform in front of an audience.

Eyes on her caused her to freeze. Under the keen eye of her mother, her steps would falter and her fingers would fumble. A roomful of people wittily conversing made her stomach churn and her palms sweat. In social situations, all she wanted to do was stare at her feet and pray for invisibility. She knew she was a sad disappointment, but the truth was that from infancy, she had been both shy and awkward. Perhaps it would not have been so bad if she had been given any siblings to deflect the hawk-like maternal gaze, but she had none. As such, her dissatisfied mother had decided her child was simply not fit to live her own life. Instead she had arranged things so that Mathilde would remain at her skirts for an eternity, where her shortcomings would have no consequence. It did not matter if Mathilde could not dazzle at court or secure her own admirers. Instead her mother simply arranged a succession of older husbands who did not require anything from their bride, except a few legal ramifications. In her own way, Mathilde supposed her mother was trying to shield her from a world she considered her child to be ill-equipped to negotiate.

But with each passing year, her position had become steadily more unbearable. She wanted — all the time — to live. She had no relationships independent of her mother, except, that is, for her relationship with the palace pages. And if Nurse ever caught wind of that, she would report back to Lady Doverdale and that too would be summarily stopped. So much of the time, she felt so very alone. In truth, it had not seemed so very bad, until she had made friends with the Countess Vawdrey. Fenella was her very first court friend, and while she had felt so proud that Fen had even felt her worthy of befriending, it had opened her eyes to the half-life she was enduring. She had been embarrassed that when they made arrangements to meet, she was always accompanied by her childhood nurse. Fen was too kind to even raise an eyebrow, but for the first time Mathilde had felt the keen sting of embarrassment. She wasn’t stupid, she knew people laughed up their sleeves at her at court, but that hadn’t mattered somehow. But Fen was her friend, and her opinion did count. Fen treated her like an equal, but strangely enough, it was that very fact that made Mathilde realize she wasn’t one. Not in semblance or plain fact.

And then there had been the magical day when she had held Fen’s nephew, baby Archie, in her arms. Her heart had swelled so hard, she had thought it would burst. The baby had looked right into her eyes, almost as if he could see into her soul. By some miracle what he had glimpsed there did not put him off. He had not found her wanting in any way. Instead he had burrowed into her arms for comfort, had lain his head on her breast, had turned to her. Mathilde had rocked him in her arms, she had dried his tears and sung him a lullaby. And in that instant, she had known. She wanted so much more from this life. She wanted to be a mother. It was from that very moment, that she could trace the point in time her sleepwalking had ended, and her heart truly started to beat. From that minute, she had looked about her critically at the gilded cage she had been living in, and started to make plans for her escape.

“You ride well.” The words were almost an accusation and startled her out of her reverie. Lord Martindale’s critical gaze was sweeping over her again.

“Thank you.” They were approaching a thick wooded forest now. The bare trees were covered in glittering snow.

“Surely,” he said with a frown, “as a high-born lady, you would have learned to ride side-saddle?”

“Yes,” Mathilde agreed. Then she noticed his hard stare. “This last month though—” she began, but he cut her off.

“Of course,” he said. “I might have known, this last month has been enough for you to adapt.”

Mathilde darted a surprised look at him. Why did he sound so skeptical? “After all,” she pointed out, “it’s much harder to ride side-saddle.”

He seemed to consider this, and after a moment, gave a shrug. He twisted back in his saddle, to check on the progress of the others. “There’s a track down here that’s wide enough for the cart. It will take us through the wood,” he said, raising his voice so the whole party could hear him.

It was hard to make out any track under the snowfall, but it seemed that her husband knew well the lay of his land. They made good progress, but Mathilde was surprised at how long the ride through the trees took them. It was a good hour before she began to see light breaking through and saw they were approaching a clearing. “This is surely farther than three miles,” she hazarded, glancing at Lord Martindale.

“We could not take the direct route, due to the wagon,” he replied.

“Oh!” Mathilde sat up straight in her saddle. “I think I see it!” She pointed in excitement. “There! Is that it?”

He was watching her with a hooded gaze. “Yes,” he said, his eyes still on her.

Mathilde turned back to it with delight. The hunting lodge was a timber framed building of brown and white with a pointed tiled roof and latticed windows with wooden shutters. Mathilde had lived nearly all her life, certainly as long as she could remember, in magnificent royal palaces of imposing gray stone. The rustic hunting lodge enchanted her. The idea of living in such a place, however temporarily, filled her with a giddy sort of pleasure. She would have clapped her hands if she weren’t already holding her horse’s reins.

“It’s not been used in recent years,” Lord Martindale was saying. “Since the war.”

“Oh,” the smile wiped off her face and she nodded. “I see.” The war. She kept forgetting that in these parts the outcome was not a celebrated one. “I’m sure it can be set to rights in no time,” she said, and glanced back at Prudence who had a sour look back on her face and seemed to be muttering under her breath. “I can help,” Mathilde offered glibly. After all, it did look a lot of work for one servant. She felt her husband’s eyes on her again, but when she turned to meet his gaze, he had already looked away.

VIII