Page 22 of A Most Forgettable Girl

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The Portstanleys, keen to squash any hint of scandal, graciously accepted the invitation to meet outside the Queen’s rooms that afternoon. After an hour holed up in their bedchamber, Gunnilde emerged in a blue velvet gown with gold brocade sleeves, apparently ready to impress her fellow ladies-in-waiting.

Despite the mismatched sleeves, James would not have thought the dress so very jarring if it were not for the fact she had swept up a good deal of the front and pinned it with a brooch to reveal the underskirt, which was of an altogether different color, a deep pink rose.

The Queen had been right; Gunnilde, it appeared, was determined she would not fade into the background. As for her hair, it seemed he had depended rather too much on the fact that once married she would be obliged to obscure her crowning glory.

Somehow, she had skirted this convention, for though a veil was duly draped over the top of her head, she had arranged two smaller puffs of hair at her temples, which evaded the covering altogether and stood out proudly for all to see.

Employing great tact, James declined to comment on her appearance, merely offering her his arm. To his surprise, Gunnilde swept a critical look over his own ensemble. “You do not intend to change?” she asked.

“I do not.” There was absolutely nothing wrong with his own restrained elegance, he thought indignantly.

“Oh.” She accepted his arm without further comment, and they made their way to the appointed meeting place and greeted the Portstanleys cordially. However, soon after, they found the Queen’s rooms to be practically deserted.

“But where is everyone?” Lady Portstanley asked, looking about in surprise. “Last time I was here, I was jostled from pillar to post.” Her mousy daughter murmured some soothing reply and both looked toward James expectantly.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he admitted. The only court events he paid attention to were educational. “Perhaps the Queen is having one of her outdoor events?” he guessed, remembering some of her summer spectacles.

“In November?” Lady Portstanley asked incredulously.

“What was that portrait viewing Neville mentioned this morning?” Gunnilde queried. “Did he not say it was in the King’s rooms? I wonder if it could be that.”

James shrugged. It seemed unlikely to him. “I don’t think he said whose portrait it was,” he added when she seemed to expect actual words by way of response.

“Perhaps it is someone exciting!” Gunnilde said, her eyes lighting up. “Let me just ask.” She flitted off and James was left with the Portstanley women.

“Someone exciting?” Lady Portstanley ruminated. “I wonder, could it be some explorer or enlightened thinker, do you suppose?”

In King Wymer’s state rooms? James rather thought not. “I suppose it could be,” he answered diplomatically.

He turned to the daughter politely, expecting to hear her thoughts on the matter, but she stood twisting her hands together, silent as a stock.

Mercifully at this point, Gunnilde reappeared, having apparently received her answer for her eyes were agleam. She caught hold of both his own and Harriet’s sleeves, drawing them closer to her. “You will never guess!” she whispered with barely concealed excitement. “A new portrait of the prince, no less! Commissioned for his thirteenth birthday. Shall we go and see it?”

James suppressed a groan. He failed entirely to see what was exciting about a portrait of a royal child, even if he was heir to the throne.

“The young prince!” Lady Portstanley uttered, sounding impressed.

“Prince Raedan,” Harriet breathed.

Despite their forward thinking, both ladies seemed keen to view the portrait. Given little choice, James inclined his head to show his willingness, and they turned about and made for the King’s rooms.

“I wonder if he is fair-haired like King Wymer?” Harriet said to her mother as James and Gunnilde dropped behind them.

“Sure to be, child,” her mother answered confidently. “His own mother’s hair was fairer even than the King’s.”

Harriet sigh floated back over her shoulder reaching their ears. “Poor Queen Eleanor,” she said sadly.

“Do you remember the King’s first wife?” Gunnilde asked James.

“Barely. I saw her once at Caer Lyoness and was all but a child at the time.”

“Was she beautiful?”

“Not that I remember.”

“What was she like?”