Page 28 of A Most Forgettable Girl

James nodded and went into the bedroom in search of his coin pouch. Gunnilde jumped out of her seat and followed close on his heels. “Wait, I have some coins I can contribute,” she said, hurrying to her trunk. “It is not much but—”

“Keep it,” James said, turning and chinking some coins in his hand. “I have enough here.”

“It is only fair,” she insisted, throwing open her chest and rummaging within it. “For I suspect you usually do without or light your fires but sparingly when you are alone.”

“Keep it,” he reiterated. It stood to reason that the household’s costs would increase along with its members. “I think you’ll find I am the one who is expected to provide for a wife.”

Gunnilde straightened up and regarded him with apparent dismay. “So, I am to become one of your pensioners now too?” she said, surprising him.

He shrugged. “Did you think your father would continue to pay your expenses?” he asked. “Obviously that obligation is now mine.”

She flushed, dropping her eyes. “Mayhap I will receive an allowance as one of the Queen’s ladies?” she suggested hopefully.

James looked skeptical. “Doubtful. The role is one of prestige and not profit. The royals do not keep their coffers full by giving with an open hand.” He walked back and gave Bennett the money and instructions about fetching their supper.

Once the servant had been dispatched, he turned and found Gunnilde stood in the doorway watching him. She had thrown a dark wool mantle over her dress and looked somber. “You are used to shouldering responsibility for your family, are you not?” she observed quietly.

“I am,” he said simply. “Come and sit closer to the fire. I have put out writing instruments on this table. You need to write to your family and apprise them of our marriage.”

“And will you write to yours?” she asked, coming slowly into the room.

“I will,” he said shortly, and sat down at the table. It was not a task he was looking forward to.

Gunnilde advanced into the room, sitting down opposite him and setting the ink pot between them. “Do you think your news will bring them to court?” she asked a little nervously.

“Who? My parents?” She nodded and he shook his head. “They never come to the winter palace. Wycliffe Hall is just outside the summer capital, and when the King is in residence there, they are at court every day. During the winter months they stay at home.”

“Oh.” She dipped her quill. “My stepmother would dearly love to come to court,” she volunteered though he had not asked. “There was some talk of it a couple of years ago, but it came to naught as my father dragged his heels. He is not so keen to leave Payne Manor nowadays.”

“He is older than your stepmother?” James enquired without much interest.

“She is three months younger than me,” Gunnilde admitted.

James looked across at her, unsure how to respond. Did she resent that and dislike her stepmother? He did not know how to approach such things. “I see,” he said instead.

She sighed, propping her cheek against her hand. “I am sure I do not know how I will explain the past two days,” she exclaimed. “Such tidings are sure to be shocking to those at home.”

“It might be best to keep things brief and strictly factual,” he suggested, for that was certainly how he intended to frame things.

Gunnilde set her down her nib and started writing in very neat, round script with lots of loops and twirls, and James set about his own missives in his usual sparse manner. For the next half hour, it was very quiet in their rooms, with nothing but the scratching of quills and the crackle of logs in the hearth.

James dashed off a terse letter to his mother, another to their steward apprising him of his marital status, and a quick apologetic note to his old tutor, Master Gregory, for missing today’s musical performance at Barnabus Hall, a thing he had not done since journeying to Aphrany.

The letter was really more for Justina Gregory’sbenefit, for she was the one who would have dressed the old man in his hat and cloak and set him on the bench by the door ready for James to collect. Old Gregory would never have remembered what day it was, but his daughter would wonder at James’s nonappearance.

James described his reason as a “matter of unavoidable business,” then shot a look across at Gunnilde. Ridiculous to feel furtive. What else could he call it? “A highly personal matter” perhaps, or “a family matter”? None of them seemed to quite fit present circumstances.

He noticed with raised brows that Gunnilde had covered six sides of paper with her angelic writing and still seemed to be in full flow. So much for not knowing what to say, he thought wryly.

A knock on the door heralded Bennett’s return. He was bearing an armful of logs and a disagreeable expression on his face. He stomped over to the fireplace and threw them down, then turned and left again as abruptly as he’d entered. Gunnilde pursed her lips but made no comment, looking instead at his folded pages.

“Have you finished your letters?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“They must have been very short. Did you really stick to plain matter of fact?”

“I did.” And he had skipped some of them at that.