Page 73 of Wed By Proxy

Lettys very likely thought her a contrary and difficult woman, Mathilde thought forlornly as she laid out scarlet stockings for her and yellow garters.

“I believe there is a pale cream under-dress,” she forced herself to say. Perhaps if she wore that under the low cut gown, it would it would give her some modesty. “It is of samite. If you could find it for me, I would be most grateful.”

“I think I remember seeing that,” Lettys said obligingly and went back to one of the drawers. “Ah, yes here it is. What lovely fabric.”

Together they managed to get Mathilde dressed and looking halfway decent, but when it came to her hair, Lettys looked less confident. Lettys’s own hair was worn in a braided coronet wound about her head.

“What do you normally do with it?” she asked, sounding perplexed. “It’s far too short to braid.”

Mathilde glanced over at the looking glass, and found her hair stood up almost on end like a dandelion clock after Lettys’s brisk brushing of it. “Um…” She reached up and tried to smooth it down. “I may need to apply a little water,” she said distractedly. “It’s most strange, when it’s long it has a wave, but not curls like this.”

“Were you ill?” asked Lettys sympathetically. “My sister had scarlet fever and they had to cut all her hair off. It took an age to grow back.”

“I’m afraid it’s rather complicated,” answered Mathilde, not wanting to go into the whole story.

Lettys nodded. “She had complications too,” she said breezily. “But it grew back in the end.”

“I’m so glad,” murmured Mathilde, slipping on the garters over her stockings.

“So was Gladys. When Erik saw the state of her, he vowed he wouldn’t marry her for a herd of heifers. Not when she looked like a plucked hen.”

Mathilde paused. “And did she? Marry him I mean?” she asked in spite of herself.

“Oh yes. And they’d not been married a twelvemonth, when Erik’s own hair started to recede. You may be sure she flings it in his face, when it suits her. My old plucked cock she calls him. ‘Never mind your field of heifers,’ she says. ‘What about my fine prize bull?’ Lettys laughed heartily, and picked up the comb again gamely. “Let’s see what we can do.”

It was somehow impossible to stay disinterested and apathetic in the face of Lettys’s lively conversation. Still, Mathilde felt an emotional wobble when Lettys pronounced her ready to precede her downstairs.

“I want only a quiet sitting room, where I won’t be disturbed,” she reiterated nervously. She was not up to any confrontations with her husband again so soon. Not now she knew what lay behind that handsome face — betrayal.

“Aye, my lady,” Lettys assured her. “All is in place.”

“Mathilde.”

“Mathilde,” Lettys corrected herself, shutting the door behind them. “His lordship specified you were to have the best blue sitting room at your disposal.”

Mathilde pulled a face. It was a little late she thought, hardening her heart against him, for him to be rolling out a warm welcome for her in his home.

“We won’t find his other guests there?” she ventured sharply, as they descended the staircase. Again, her thoughts strayed to that woman, with her golden gown and jewels, and her cultured voice and felt a tremor of anger reverberate through her.

“The Lady Julia has been locked in her bedroom in hysterics this last two days now,” Lettys told her, clearly seeing through her query. Mathilde bit her lip determined not to betray herself further.

“His lordship relieved me of my duties, chaperoning her about,” sniffed Lettys. “And a good thing too, for she was a haughty, disagreeable madam at best and resented me something fierce.”

“Resented you?” echoed Mathilde, forgetting her resolve to maintain a stony silence on this subject. “Why?”

“On account of she wanted a free reign to do as she pleased, but Lord Martindale didn’t want her racketing about the place, lording it over everyone.”

Mathilde digested this a moment before concluding regretfully that she couldn’t take much comfort from this. After all, he hadn’t wanted Mathilde to have a free reign over his home either. She remembered her previous visit and the poky little bedroom she had been locked in.

“For all the fine folk about these parts think so much of her,” Lettys continued, lowering her voice. “The servants can’t stand her. Demanding and spoiled, that’s what they all think.” Lettys nodded her head. “Her brother directed a bowl of cold water be thrown over her yestere’en, when she wouldn’t be quieted. Flew into a passion she did, and went at him like a regular she-devil! Caught her by the wrists he did, by all accounts. ‘That’s enough my girl,’ says he. ‘You’ll not be sharpening your claws on my face!’”

Mathilde’s mouth fell open. “Her brother is here too?” She hoped she managed to mask her astonishment. Was it usual for a man to house his mistress’s brother also?

“Oh yes, for they come every year to visit the neighborhood of their birth.”

Mathilde lapsed into silence. She didn’t want to hear about it after all, she told herself. Still, at low moments, she couldn’t help herself from thinking of that ruby set in a swan brooch the other woman had worn. Mathilde may have only been wed by proxy, but she knew very well the crest of the Martindales; the gorged swan with wings outstretched. In four years she had received no token from her husband, but perhaps after all, that wasn’t so surprising if he had given them all away to his various mistresses over the years. In spite of her resolve, she smarted at that thought and had to hold her head higher to hide the fact.

Her every feeling was raw and bleeding. How right Old Helga had been to identify her true enemy as Lord Martindale and not the carter. The carter could never have inflicted this amount of pain on her, for all he had trampled and kicked her. Guy had dealt her a far more grievous blow, even though, she remembered dimly, she had been the one to strike him. In front of an audience too.