Page 18 of Wed By Proxy

Mathilde was enchanted with her new abode. As soon as her husband left, she took herself over the lodge. She wished he had given her leave to call him Guy, but he had not. Still, you could not rush these things, she told herself as she peeped into Prudence’s attic room. She did not want to invade her maid’s privacy, so instead she poked around the vacant room next door to it. They were both decent sized and this second room seemed to have been used for storage of bits and pieces of furniture in varying states of repair. There was a third attic room which was a good deal smaller than the other two and had a low truckle bed in it and no window at all. She supposed in the past it must have been used for the lowest ranking servant, and felt heartily sorry for them, stuck in that poky little hole.

On the next floor down, she found Robin’s room to be a very pleasant room, of middling size with a large tapestry depicting a hunting party decked out in outfits of blue, with many dogs and horses and attendants with golden horns. She inspected the stitches with interest. Whoever had worked this piece had been highly skilled, and master of some techniques Mathilde was not familiar with. She turned the edge of the tapestry to look at the back. While she was here it would be good to pick up some new methods, she thought. What a pity that her husband’s household seemed to have so few women. She should have asked him to send her some tapestry supplies, she thought, biting her lip. That had been remiss of her. Back at court, working with the loom and needle was generally how she filled her days.

Leaving Robin’s room, she walked down the hall and found her own bedchamber, which was huge and handsome, yet seemed delightfully airy and open. She loved how light the interior of the lodge seemed, doubtless because all the walls between the beams were painted white. The manor house had seemed filled with dark wood paneling and furniture and seemed rather oppressive and gloomy. She pulled up her uncomplimentary thoughts of her husband’s home quickly. No, that wasn’t fair. She had only seen a very little of Acton March Manor. She had not been given a tour. Still, she knew which property she preferred.

The bed canopy and curtains of red with gold leaves were perhaps a little faded, but she liked the overall impression of rose-gold it gave now, possibly more than the flaming scarlet it would once have been. Ten of her could fit comfortably in that massive bed. She wandered over to the window, past the bench with the matching cushions and the large dresser with mirror. The view was over the garden below, which was overgrown and straggling and would need a good deal of work come spring. Would she still be here by then, she wondered idly? Or would she have taken her official place as Marchioness of Martindale by then?

She found two further rooms on this floor, one of which appeared to have been used as a sitting room, but was still covered in a thick layer of dust. This, too, had a large tapestry which entirely covered the back wall and depicted a large wood, filled with beasts including stags and bears and wolves. The more you examined it, the more animals you spotted. Birds of the air, and even fish in the stream. Once it was dusted, Mathilde was sure it would be a pleasure to behold.

She opened the door next to it, and had no sooner spotted a long table for formal dining, when Prudence’s head bobbed up from where she was sweeping out the fire. “I’ve only just started in here, milady,” she said warningly. “It’s not fit for occupation.”

“Oh, of course Prudence,” Mathilde answered. “Could I help at all?”

“Certainly not!” Prudence sounded shocked. “Begging your pardon, but you would only be in the way.” She closed her mouth tight and looked very fierce.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to be a hindrance.”

“Thank you, milady,” Prudence sounded relieved. “Perhaps you could check on that young man of yours.” She frowned. “I dread to think what mischief the young scoundrel could be getting in.”

Mathilde regarded the maid with surprise. “Oh, Robin is very mature and responsible,” she answered. “You may rest easy on that score. He has my complete and utter confidence.”

Again, Prudence’s lips screwed up tight with disapproval. “If you say so, milady,” she muttered.

Mathilde took a deep breath. “I do say so,” she said. When Prudence’s eyes darted to hers, Mathilde smiled, a kind but firm smile. Then she shut the door behind her and made her way downstairs to finish her exploration. Most of the ground floor was taken up with the large kitchen with its two fireplaces, pots and spits and a large functional table with a worn surface. The other rooms were a large store and pantry area and a buttery. These were full of implements that had not been used in a long time, and the shelves and containers were mostly bare and empty where once they would have been well stocked and heaving with provisions. The things they had brought with them had been placed tidily away, she noticed catching sight of the large round cheese and a salted ham. Doubtless Prudence’s work. She was industrious, even if she was a little abrasive. Leaning toward a draughty window, Mathilde caught sight of Robin moving about the garden and made haste to join him there.

As she shut the door behind her, she was immediately reminded of the bitter cold. Mathilde shivered as she picked her way along the path which was slushy from the amount of boots that had traipsed up and down it already. There had been more coming and going this day than any time in the past few years, she reflected, wondering if the place had felt as neglected as it looked. She had left her gloves somewhere inside, so she rubbed her hands together, as she looked around to find her friend. He was hanging over the side of an enclosure. As she hurried to join him, she realized he was feeding the chickens.

“This looks very impressive,” Mathilde said. “Did you make it yourself?”

Robin looked modest. “I had some help,” he admitted. “And this area was clearly used for this same purpose in past times.” He passed her a chunk of bread and noticing how he was crumbling his own up and scattering it for the fowls, she did the same. For a few moments they stood in harmonious silence, listening to the clucks and squawks of the chickens as they gobbled up the breadcrumbs. Robin finally broke it by pointing at the largest hen and saying, “That one’s name is the Prioress,” he said. “She holds sway over all the others.”

“So she does,” agreed Mathilde. “And she looks like she is clad in a black and white habit.” She watched the other hens a moment. “That one’s name is Intrepid,” she said pointing to a gray speckled hen. “See how she refuses to bow down, despite how the others are trying her?”

Robin nodded. “That one is Fussy and that one is Feisty,” he said pointing at the two brown hens who looked practically identical although their behaviors were very different. Fussy spent most of her time scratching in the snow and looking dissatisfied. Feisty spent most of her time squaring up to others and flapping her feathers in challenge. “That leaves one more for you to name,” Robin said nudging her in the side. Mathilde cocked her head to one side and eyed the remaining nameless hen. She was mostly white with a very red comb. “And you’re not allowed to call her Snowy,” said Robin.

“I wasn’t going to!” Mathilde protested hotly. “How about Valiant? Val for short.”

Robin rolled his eyes. “You and your names. Valiant is nearly as bad as Leander! Why do they have to be so grandiloquent?” he complained.

“Because,” Mathilde said, slipping her arm through his. “They are aspirational. It’s important to aspire to things.”

“Very well, but I shall call her Val, and likely think of her as Valerie.”

“That is fine,” said Mathilde. “For she and I will both know her real name. And so will you, deep down.”

“Aye, my lady,” he said with an eye-roll.

“You called me ‘my lady’ again,” sighed Mathilde, missing the easy camaraderie of the road.

Robin shrugged. “Of course. Anything else isn’t really proper.” At her disappointed expression, he scratched the back of his neck. “Maybe in private…” he started gruffly.

“Oh yes!” Mathilde agreed readily. “In private you must still call me Matty.”

Robin grinned reluctantly at that. “That’s a boy’s name. I only called you that in front of other people to be convincing.”

“Well, I like it,” she insisted. “Besides, you refused to call me Leander, like I wanted.”

“Leander!” he repeated scornfully. “I should say not! I’d never be friends with anyone called Leander.”