Page 39 of A Most Forgettable Girl

As she had suspected, it was Bennett plunking down a pitcher of water for their morning ablutions, a sour look upon his face. She mouthed her thanks, not daring to speak the words aloud in case she woke her sleeping husband.

As it was, Bennett shutting the door smartly behind him achieved that. She felt James jolt against her before lifting his head.

“Good morning,” she greeted him. He regarded her with bleary incomprehension. “I don’t think you slept very well last night. Mayhap you should put your head back down for another hour,” she said sympathetically.

His gaze fell to where his head had been resting, and he swallowed. “Er, no,” he said, tearing his gaze away and clearing his throat. “I, er, don’t think that’s a good idea.” He rolled away and swung his legs out to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I didn’t actually mean to lie on me,” Gunnilde clarified. “I was not offering myself as a pillow bearer.” He made no reply, merely rubbed his eyes and yawned. “What will you do today?” she asked curiously. “Go and see your Master Gregory?”

“Yes, I had better. For this morning at least.” He turned to look back over his shoulder at her. “Unless you would rather have my escort somewhere?”

“No, no,” she assured him. “You should definitely go. I mean to attend the Queen in her chambers today.”

“I could meet you there, this afternoon, perhaps,” he offered after hesitating.

She smiled at him. “That would be most agreeable, thank you.”

Gunnilde urged James to get washed and dressed first, for she knew he would be quick, and she intended to take her time over her appearance. Sure enough, he was up and ready for his day in very little time.

“I’ll leave you to ready yourself,” he said, hovering in the doorway a moment, and then he was gone.

Gunnilde dressed with the greatest care. First, she donned her finest shift, her scarlet stockings, and her second-best gown of bright blue silk, along with the brooch the Queen had gifted her. Next, she wrapped her widest girdle about her rib cage, so that it sat high, cinching her in at her smallest point.

The girdle did not really bear close inspection for it was not of great quality, but the enameled buckle was pretty and Gunnilde told herself that the gold-colored thread made it look far costlier than it really was.

She did not need to consider shoes, for it had to be her favorites, the highly impractical ones with the cutouts. If she knew she was not leaving court, then they would always be her slipper of choice.

Once satisfied with her dress, she turned her attention to her hair. Today, she decided that instead of braiding her hair before rolling it into buns, she would simply twist it and then twine a very thin ribbon around the length to add detail. Fortunately, she had some blue ribbon which would match her gown pretty well.

It was trickier to wrap the hair this way, for it did not feel so secure, however, she fancied this modified technique gave a clearer view of the overall “whorl” effect, and once one side was completed, she admired herself in the small looking glass she had brought with her from home.

She could really do with a larger one such as the Portstanleys had in their chambers, Gunnilde thought glumly, for she had grown accustomed to seeing her whole head and not just sections of it at a time, however she made do and completed the second “horn” a lot quicker than the first.

Lastly, she pinned her gauzy veil to the back of her head and drew on her new white tippets which she was convinced everyone would be wearing soon. They slipped up and over your sleeves and buttoned up to form a band encircling your upper arm. A fall of wide ribbon then extended down in a graceful fall of fluttering fabric from your elbows. The longer they extended, the more heavily they were frowned upon as frivolous trip hazards.

Gunnilde specified hers were to be so long that they scraped the floor. If one was going to adopt a new fashion, then she felt sure it should be followed to the furthest possible degree. There was no point in half measures when it came to this kind of thing.

Giving a pleased nod, she walked out into the sitting room and found a cup of ale but no bread awaiting her there. Swallowing her drink, she pondered the shared servant situation. Clearly Bennett was determined to be disobliging. She could only imagine that the Ashdowns paid the lion’s share of his wage. At least, she certainly hoped that was the case considering the precious little he did for the Wycliffe brothers.

After draining her cup, she made her way out of the courtier’s quarters and proceeded along to the Queen’s chambers at a steady yet sedate pace, on the lookout for any acquaintance she might know to nod or speak to. She had just reached the long corridor when she spied Lady Winifred Hawes, Harriet’s bookish friend, coming from the opposite direction.

Winifred’s step faltered and she stifled a gasp. For a moment it looked as though she might turn and flee.

“Good morning, Winifred,” Gunnilde greeted her, affecting not to notice her strange behavior.

“Oh, er...Gunnilde. I scarcely recognized you. You look so...different.” She stole an aghast look in the direction of Gunnilde’s horns.

Gunnilde doubted marriage had changed her looks so vastly. Instead, she suspected Winifred was uncertain if she was in disgrace or not and ought to be publicly acknowledged. “I am just on my way to the Queen’s quarters,” she said airily, “to assume my new role as lady-in-waiting to Her Majesty. Had you heard?”

Winifred’s eyes widened. Clearly, she had not heard this momentous piece of news. This was not surprising considering the staid company Winifred kept. Neither she nor Harriet were ever abreast of current court happenings.

Winifred congratulated her generously and asked if she was attending some lecture that afternoon with Harriet and her mother. Gunnilde happily informed her that she was not. Winifred expressed sadness that she would not see her there, and Gunnilde prepared to walk on, but Winifred’s hesitant expression halted her.

“Is there something else you would ask me, Winifred?” she asked encouragingly.

“I just—pray might I ask—” She took a deep breath. “What are those white streamers hanging down from your elbows?” Winifred enquired timidly.

Gunnilde beamed at her. “They are called tippets and originated in Vlandivar,” she told her, though she was not entirely sure about that part. When Viscount Bardulf had worn a pair two months ago, he had made that claim, or so Gunnilde had heard. “Are they not elegant?” She held up one arm to show their full glory.