Page 101 of A Most Forgettable Girl

“Like yourself?”

“Like myself,” he concurred. “You see,” he said, leaning forward in his seat, “James has always had a lot of worries heaped onto his shoulders by our family. A lot of expectations. He was never carefree, not even as a child. Our father, you know, was always entirely useless. My mother decided James was to be our salvation and simply burdened him with the responsibility of our family fortunes.”

“I see,” Gunnilde murmured. She had suspected as much.

“Father resents the fact we all treat James as the head of the family, that we have to apply to him for funds. He calls James a tyrant because he is the one controlling the purse strings. Mother is always taking offence over something or other, her feelings are constantly hurt. Father always has an injured air. Even I try to guilt James whenever I run out of funds,” Neville admitted, scratching his neck.

“We all point out his faults while simultaneously holding him to the highest standards. Our parents bemoan his lack of family feeling in private, whilst also lauding him to the skies to all and sundry as an exemplary son. Is it any wonder that James rarely wants to go home where everyone depends on him and makes constant demands on him? Or that he often has no patience for us?”

“No, perhaps not,” Gunnilde sighed.

“It’s different with you though,” he said, giving her a frank look. “He does not try to run away from you. Quite the opposite in fact. His eyes seek you out, you know, across a crowded room. For guidance, I mean,” Neville said cryptically. “Or perhaps I should say solace. Whenever he sees you’re there, he just...”

“What?” Gunnilde prompted when he fell silent as though searching for the right word.

“Unwinds,” he concluded. “His tension seems to dissipate. I’ve noticed it many times. I believe your presence reassures him somehow.” Gunnilde considered this, whilst gazing at the fire. “I always thought he must sleep with a frown on his face, grinding his teeth,” Neville continued. “I’m guessing that’s changed.” He shot her a piercing look. “He used to get up in the night too and pace about for hours. Used to get a lot of headaches too.”

Gunnilde considered how soundly James slept, wrapped around her. “Well, I can see why,” she said slowly. “When he has had so many worries in his life to contend with.”

“Yes, it’s a good thing that his choice of wife does not add to them. I just wish everyone could see that.”

“Everyone?” Gunnilde echoed, hearing the frustration in his voice.

“Oh, the naysayers,” he said uneasily. “You know how there’s always someone to throw a spoke in any wheel.” There was a faint bitterness to his voice that concerned her. Did he count his mother among these naysayers? Had her letter indicated as such?

“He would have avoided Constance like the plague too, if he had ever married her,” Neville added distractedly. “Installed her at Wycliffe Hall and simply left her there. I cannot for the life of me see why Mother cannot fathom that! The whole time they were courting he looked as though he would as soon face an execution! But there, Mother does not care a rush for James’s happiness. Everything is about prestige and appearance and...and status with her.”

Gunnilde shifted uneasily in her seat. She was sure her lack of a dowry must be adding insult to injury when it came to his parents. If only her father was not being so plaguey difficult about things. Ought she to write to him again and explain how well things were going with her marriage? She was just debating the matter when the door opened, and James came through it.

His eyes lit up when he saw her, and he walked right across the room without shedding his hat and cloak. “Here,” he said, thrusting a pouch into her hand. “I collected it on the way back from Master Gregory’s.”

“Is it my ring?” Gunnilde asked excitedly, pulling excitedly at the strings until she had opened it and extracted the gleaming gold posy ring. She held it up and turned it in her fingers to read the inscription on the inside of the band. “To my beautiful rose, from your undeserving worm,” she read aloud. “Why James!” she gasped. “How positively scandalous!”

He laughed and held his hand out to her. She took it and he pulled her to her feet. “Give it to me.” She dropped the ring into his palm, and he reached for her other hand.

“Wait, let me move the other to my right hand first.” She transferred Mistress Bartree’s ring and then held out her left hand. James slipped the ring onto her third finger and they both looked down at it.

“What do you think?” James murmured.

“Oh, I absolutely love it.”

He caught her up in his arms and only broke their embrace when Neville coughed. James turned his head to look at his brother. “When did you get here?” he asked with surprise.

“I was here all along! Not that you noticed!”

“How was your afternoon?” Gunnilde asked quickly, reaching for the fastenings to James’s cloak. “Let’s get you out of these things.”

James looked down in seeming surprise to find himself still clad in his outdoor wear. “It was good,” he said with a slow smile. “Really good. I think this latest piece is one of the best I’ve ever written.”

“Really?” Gunnilde draped his cloak over the back of her chair and reached up to take his hat. “But that’s wonderful, James.”

“Yes,” he agreed.

“Who have you written it for?” Neville asked with interest.

“No one,” James admitted. “Though Lady Schaeffer did approach me the other day about writing something to commemorate her husband’s fortieth year in office.”

“You would not give him Mistress Bartree’s piece of music though!” Gunnilde protested swiftly.