Page 15 of Wed By Proxy

Waldon nodded. “Aye,” he agreed. “And covered in a thick coating of dust, likely as not.” Guy murmured some agreement. “Has she her own attendants?” Waldon asked, scratching his neck.

“No,” Guy said, with a shake of his head. “Her companion, the boy goes with her. But she’ll need a servant. Can you get someone from Acton Dymock?” Guy asked, naming the nearest village.

Waldon’s eyebrows rose. Doubtless he thought it odd that Guy could not spare one of his own. To be honest, Guy was torn. On one hand, a trusted servant of his own might be better as they would not talk. On the other hand, all servants talked. If it was one of his own household, no doubt it would spread like fire throughout all those in his employ. But then, an outsider might spread gossip to — well — outsiders. He sighed.

“What about Prudence Eddard,” suggested Waldon, with a sudden smirk.

“Who?”

“Sour-faced wench you dismissed this morn.”

“Heard about that, did you?” Guy asked, giving him a sidelong look. He’d already forgotten, and see what had happened? It was common knowledge!

Waldon shrugged. “Would serve her right,” he said with a chuckle. “She’s a stiff-necked scold and not much liked. It’s not as if she’d have a lot of choice in taking the post,” he added. “Her father’s lately remarried and won’t want her back at his table.”

Guy grunted. “Can you see to it she’s ready to leave by noon?” he asked, glancing at the window.

“She’s already packing her things to leave,” Waldon reminded him. “She’ll likely jump at the chance not to have to return home in disgrace.”

“See to it,” Guy said shortly. “And Waldon, see that she understands the post requires discretion.” To his discomfort, Guy couldn’t quite meet his eyes as he spoke the words. Waldon murmured some assent. “And we’ll need foodstuffs — salted meats, flour, you know the sort of thing. Enough for a small household, for at least a month.”

Waldon’s eyes widened, but he kept his mouth firmly closed. He gave another brief nod. “I’m to have it all ready for midday?” he said, starting up out of his chair.

“Yes. And Waldon?” The other man paused in the act of crossing to the door. Guy hesitated. “These arrangements are between us,” he said, motioning with a finger between the two of them. “The fewer people know, the better.”

This time it was Waldon who kept his eyes averted. “Aye,” he said with a jerk of his chin, and he was gone.

VII

Mathilde was dressed in her new green wool dress and matching cloak with brown fur trim. On her feet were scarlet stockings and a pair of brown leather ankle boots, and on her hands she wore knitted mittens of dark red to protect her against the biting cold. She watched with great interest as the cart was loaded up with the last of the various wares they were taking for their sojourn to Lord Martindale’s hunting lodge. She was especially interested to see a basket with five hens in it. They squawked and flapped as they were placed next to a large cheese and a keg of wine. Her only objection came when her husband went to lift her up onto a fine bay mare, saddled in red leather.

“This is not my horse,” she pointed out. She was a little shocked to find she was expected to ride astride. Of course, this past month she had done so on many an occasion, but she had not been dressed as a female then. She swung her one leg over to the other side of the saddle, and Lord Martindale helped drag her skirts down over her suddenly exposed scarlet stockings.

“It will have to do for now,” he said a little gruffly, and started to turn away.

“My lord?” she said impulsively. He paused. “I would rather reclaim my own horse, and my own knife before we journey away from home.”

He gave a quick glance to his attendants and then seemed to consider her words. “We’re only travelling three miles further into my estate,” he pointed out with a frown. “And I have provided you with both a new horse and a new knife.”

Mathilde bit back the hasty retort that sprang to her lips. She wanted her own dear horse that she had rescued, and her own knife that Will had given her! But she was a wife now, and wives were supposed to be meek and conciliatory. “And very nice they are too,” she acknowledged brightly. In truth, both were probably far superior to her own belongings in every way, except sentiment. “But I still want my very own,” she added with quiet firmness. Lord Martindale frowned at her, no doubt thinking her both stubborn and ungrateful. “My own horse has been much abused,” she added appealingly. “And I promised him he would be safe in his new life with me.”

“And your knife was gifted to you by your friend. Yes, you told me,” he said dryly.

“I will fetch them for you on the morrow, my lady,” said Robin obligingly, as he swung himself up and onto the saddle of the tall chestnut horse he had been provided. “I’m sure I can find my way back to Wickhamford easily enough.”

“Oh, would you Robin?” she cried.

Lord Martindale announced simultaneously, “You will do no such thing, boy.” They both turned and looked at each other.

“But—” Mathilde started.

“I will see to it in my own good time,” Lord Martindale ground out.

Feeling eyes on her, Mathilde turned her head to find Waldon watching their exchange with interest. Not so, the woman standing by his side, who was staring stonily ahead. She looked vaguely familiar to Mathilde. Noticing the direction of her gaze, Lord Martindale said: “You’ve already met Waldon. This is your new maid, whose job it will be to serve you while you’re at the lodge.” His tone was strangely pointed, and Mathilde looked back at the maidservant with curiosity. Two spots of pink had appeared in the maid’s rather sallow cheeks.

“Her name’s Prudie,” rumbled Waldon, with a lop-sided grin. The smile transformed him, and Mathilde realized that despite the gray in his beard, he was probably numbered no more in years than thirty-five or thereabouts.

“Prudence!” the maid corrected him with sideways glare in his direction, before bobbing a hasty curtsey. “Milady.”