Page 25 of A Most Forgettable Girl

Feeling a tap on his shoulder, James turned about to find the Portstanleys stood looking rather forlorn. In truth, he had forgotten all about them.

“Oh, Harriet, do come stand next to me,” Gunnilde urged guiltily. “We have been neglecting you.” She gave James a significant look that he could only assume meant he should pay some attention to the old lady.

James had always thought Lady Portstanley a worthy woman of education and good sense. He did not really know then why he felt strangely reluctant to turn to her now and converse with her a while. Still, he did as good manners dictated and set himself to making some conversation with her while they inched their way toward the King’s state rooms.

Lady Portstanley was keen to discuss some new philosopher and James listened with half an ear as he watched Gunnilde chattering away to the daughter. Harriet Portstanley was a drab sort of girl, so it was no wonder that his eye remained firmly riveted to his wife. Of course, that didn’t explain why he was craning to hear whatever nonsense she was currently spouting. That part was a complete mystery even to himself.

8

It took a least an hour of waiting and shuffling forward by tiny degrees before they reached the confines of the King’s state room. Gunnilde could not say that she regretted a moment of it, for she was far too busy soaking up the atmosphere. To think of it! She, Gunnilde Payne, in the very thick of things at the palace!

She knew for a fact that it would be weeks before the wider court got their chance to see Prince Raedan’s portrait but she had been permitted her viewing on the very first day it had been hung! She could barely suppress her excitement. Even Harriet’s desultory conversation could not dim her enthusiasm one bit.

Every so often a courtier or two would press through the crush to appear before James and offer their congratulations on his recent marriage. Their “congratulations” were naught but a thinly veiled excuse to stare first at him, and then at Gunnilde and back again, their brows arched and their words insincere as they tried to gauge how things really stood between the unlikely couple.

Still, Gunnilde did not begrudge them their inquisitiveness. Indeed, she was keen to make their acquaintance, but the first few times she had been a little anxious that James would become all starchy and offended in the face of such obvious curiosity.

To her relief, he barely seemed to react at all, other than to perform the necessary introductions. He did this in a perfunctory manner, appearing distracted and preoccupied all the while, as though his mind was currently on other things.

It occurred to her that he could be composing something, perhaps some piece to celebrate the prince’s portrait? King Wymer would surely like that. She would have to encourage James to commemorate such royal occasions in future, she thought with sudden inspiration. Good wives encouraged their husbands, so the way forward was clear to her.

On finally reaching the inner sanctum, Gunnilde found the King in residence, though to her disappointment, the Queen was sadly absent.

“Sir James Wycliffe and Lady Wycliffe,” the announcer intoned. “Lady Portstanley and Lady Harriet Portstanley.”

After performing their bow and curtseys, the King gestured for them to view the portrait hung on the opposite wall, and they duly drifted in that direction. Gunnilde gazed keenly up at the serious boy who stared out of the canvas, stony-faced and somewhat pinched of feature.

He was not what Gunnilde had been expecting at all. Somehow she had expected a rosy-cheeked boy, fair of hair and blue of eye, rather like she imagined King Wymer must have been at that age. Instead, the prince’s hair, cut very short, was a silvery sort of shade and his eyes appeared a flinty gray.

Prince Raedan had a cold stare which she imagined must be able to freeze a tutor at thirty paces. There was also a distinct lack of childish roundness to his features. One of his very white hands rested on the nape of a large and spectacularly ugly dog.

“Well, well, what do you think? Eh? Speak up,” the King entreated.

“I think it is wonderful, Your Majesty,” Gunnilde responded at once. “You can sort of feel his intelligence radiating from the picture.”

The King grunted. “What about you, Wycliffe?”

James took on a hunted look Gunnilde was starting to recognize. It meant he had no idea what was the right thing to say. “Is it a good likeness, Your Highness?” he asked evasively.

“A good likeness?” the King looked incensed. “You think I would hire an inferior artist, is that it? Damned impertinence!”

“Such superior brushwork, Your Majesty,” Lady Portstanley gushed placatingly. “The colors are so vivid. They seem to come to life before one. As though the prince stood in this very chamber before us.”

“Quite,” Harriet agreed hurriedly. “Oh, quite, I wholly agree.”

The King snorted. “You, Hilde,” he said, gesturing to Gunnilde. “You appear to have some sense. Tell me why you think this boy of mine looks intelligent.”

Gunnilde cleared her throat. “Well, sire, I think he has a look of premature matureness about him. As though he is wise before his years. A look of infancy clings to most boys of that age, yet the young prince shows no sign of such childishness.”

“Mmmm,” the King rumbled, apparently appeased. “He is smart, so they tell me. Uncommonly smart for his age.”

“What is his dog called?” James asked.

The King squinted at him, as though suspecting some slight. “Balto,” he replied shortly. “None can supplant him from Dan’s affections though I have offered several hounds better-looking and better behaved than that beast. He will take none of them.”

Dan? Gunnilde was surprised. He did not look like a Dan somehow. Still, his partiality for his dog sounded commendable. “Do they not say that men should emulate a dog’s loyalty?” she mused aloud. “They are certainly natural companions. My own brother is most devoted to his little dog, Dustin. He found him half drowned in a village ditch and no bigger than a rat.”

“Dustin?” the King echoed, a look of disgust on his face. “What kind of a name is that?”