Page 65 of Wed By Proxy

“Even now,” Helga continued in a loud ringing voice. “He sets another woman at the head of his table, wearing a jewel that belongs by rights to his wife.”

“No,” said Mathilde, shaking her head. “He would not.” She could not believe it of him. Not when they were at last approaching an understanding. They were growing closer; she was sure of it!

“Another woman sits in your place,” Old Helga repeated, her words ringing with conviction. “The place he has denied you time and again. He has set her up in your stead as his false bride. His friends and neighbors all pay court to her. They give her the accord that should be yours alone.”

“I don’t believe you,” Mathilde said, lifting her chin. Her heart was beating now almost painfully in her chest.

Helga reached across the table and placed the black stone between them. Almost against her will, Mathilde found herself reaching for it. Belatedly she remembered that before when the small rock had appeared in her reading, Old Helga had spoken of Guy, not the carter. Mathilde’s fingers closed around its rough surface.

“Don’t believe or won’t believe, little maid?” Helga’s voice asked quietly. Under the older woman’s steady gaze, Mathilde found her conviction wavering.

“It’s not true,” she heard Waldon’s voice from over at the fireplace. Mathilde turned her head sharply, relieved to find support in an unexpected quarter. The fire crackled behind Waldon as he straightened up. “Lady Julia is a guest in his house, that is all. Nothing more.”

Helga gave a crack of skeptical laughter. “A guest!” she mocked. “Is that what he calls her? And what of this little one?” she said, nodding toward Mathilde. “What does he call this one?”

Waldon’s lips pressed together and he flushed. “He does not call her anything,” he muttered, avoiding Mathilde’s eyes.

“Not wife, then?” asked Helga slyly.

“Wife?” Waldon looked so startled that Mathilde felt all the breath stolen from her body. She squeezed the black stone so hard that its edges cut into her palm. Waldon looked from Mathilde to Helga. “He has given you his vow?” he asked uncertainly, his eyes full of disbelief. Then he shook his head. “Nay, he can’t have.”

Mathilde swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. She remembered once more, how no one at Acton March had accorded her her rightful title.

“But that is because,” she said, trying desperately to rally, “he wanted us to become better acquainted before announcing it.” Even to her own ears, the excuse sounded weak. She heard a footfall in the doorway, and looked up to see Prudie stood there, grave-faced, holding a jug of wine.

“But Lord Martindale was not at liberty to give you his vow,” Waldon persisted gently. “For he is already wed to a southerner.”

Mathilde drew herself up in her chair, trying to muster some dignity. At the end of the day, she supposed bleakly, it would always boil down to that. She would forever be a southerner to these people.

“Of course he is,” said Prudence sharply. “Just who do you think my lady is?” She bustled forward with the wine and slammed it down on the table.

“Then, the Lady Mathilde is—?“ Waldon broke off in confusion. “Nay, she cannot be.”

“I am the Marchioness of Martindale,” Mathilde said with quiet conviction. “And Guy’s lawful wife.” She looked up again to find Old Helga’s eyes watchful, her head tipped to one side like a bird’s. Mathilde turned back to Waldon. “There is another lady at Acton March at present?” she forced herself to ask in a small voice.

He cleared his throat. “As I said, a guest of his lordship’s—”

“Who is she?”

“More importantly, who was she?” put in Helga, holding up a crooked finger.

Mathilde looked expectantly at Waldon. There was a feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach, but she had to know.

“The Lady Julia Allworthy,” Waldon answered with clear reluctance. He shot a look of appeal at Prudie, but she folded her arms and glared back at him. “She — in the old days, her family held a neighboring estate.”

“Neighbor was she?” snorted Helga. “And what else?”

Waldon rubbed the stubble on his chin. “They were betrothed,” he admitted. “But that was before the war. She’s wed now—”

“To a man who lies on his deathbed,” Helga retorted. “An old man she left to gasp out his last breath alone.”

“I had not heard that,” Waldon answered defensively. “She’s highly thought of in these parts—”

“Unlike his unwanted southern bride,” Helga agreed. “Who he stashes in the woods like a guilty secret, while he woos his former love.”

Mathilde gave an involuntary cry of anguish, as she felt her heart crack.

Prudie rushed forward, slipping an arm around her shoulders. She turned angrily on Waldon. “You should have told me!” she flung at him accusingly.