Page 119 of A Most Forgettable Girl

“Ah, here’s Neville now, with the Ashdowns,” Hal observed as Neville walked in with an elderly damsel on each arm.

“Oh, how lovely!” Gunnilde cried, for both Mistress Ruth and Mistress Abigail Ashdown were beaming ear to ear and dressed in matching dresses of royal blue. James joined her once again, and they walked over to welcome them. Gunnilde told them all about how helpful Bennett had been all afternoon and complimented the sisters on their new matching gowns.

“Well, but you are also matching,” Mistress Abigail said, looking her and James up and down. “You make a handsome couple, my dears.”

“Speaking of handsome, where is that dashing brother of yours?” Mistress Ruth asked eagerly. “He promised to dance with me.”

“Hal? Oh, he’s here some whereabouts.”

“Probably lying in wait for that Mistress Culmington he was telling me about, the young rogue!”

Mistress Culmington? Gunnilde’s eyes widened. She had suspected for a while that Hal’s affections had taken a turn from Estrilda toward Emma Thackeray, but she had not realized that Penelope was even in the running! Was there not some rumor circulating that she was in the midst of an affair du coeur with Sir Symond Chevenix? That was the trouble with spending most of her time with Harriet and Winifred, neither of them were ever abreast of palace gossip.

“Dear me, who is this?” Neville said, staring in the direction of the doorway. “What an unfortunate-looking headdress. It looks rather like she is balancing an anvil atop her head.”

Gunnilde turned and spied her childhood friend Muriel Lelland stood just inside the doorway, looking decidedly ill at ease. Her headdress was somewhat cumbersome, though to Gunnilde’s mind, it was the unbecoming chin strap that was mostly to blame.

“Who are they?” James asked as he took drinks from a passing attendant and handed them to the Ashdowns.

“It is my old friend Muriel,” she said, “and her husb—” But it was not her husband, she realized belatedly, who hovered at Muriel’s side. No, it was not Sir Christopher Lelland but Gunnilde’s former affianced! “And—and her brother, Sir Arthur Conway,” she finished unevenly.

James caught hold of her arm. “The Queen will be disappointed to miss this first encounter,” he said. “Shall we go and greet them, wife?”

“Er...yes, let’s,” she replied, glancing up at him with some trepidation. Was it just her imagination or was James’s manner somewhat preemptory? Together they made their way toward the unprepossessing couple. Arthur’s moustache looked rather limp, Gunnilde thought. And why did he look so nervous?

Muriel practically let out a yelp as they came to a halt before her. “G-Gunnilde,” she stammered. “Why, I scarcely recognized you! You look so grand.” Her wide eyes took in Gunnilde’s silk and velvet magnificence before she turned to James and her jaw positively dropped.

“Allow me to introduce my husband,” Gunnilde said proudly. “Sir James Wycliffe. James, these are the friends of my childhood I told you about, Lady Lelland and Sir Arthur Conway.”

As she spoke, Gunnilde turned toward Arthur, who was also staring open-mouthed at James. “Y-your servant, sir,” he stammered, bowing at James, and then to Gunnilde’s surprise, he turned to look at her, his expression equally dazzled. “My lady,” he said in a choked voice, “it has been too long. You are looking quite uncommonly well.”

James let out a hiss of air. “Your husband does not accompany you tonight, Lady Lelland?” he said, addressing Muriel, his voice cold and clipped.

“Alas no,” Muriel answered, practically falling over herself to answer him. “Sir Christopher’s health always suffers at this time of year. The damp, you know.”

“It’s doubtless his age,” Arthur added. “It seeps into the bones, you know, and sets them to creaking.”

James turned to her. “Gunnilde would not know about such things, for she has a young and vigorous husband,” he observed, robbing her of breath. “Is that not so, my love?”

“Er, yes,” she agreed, feeling rather flustered that he should address her thus. She shot him a sidelong glance. What was he doing?

“Though I suppose an older husband affords you certain freedoms that I would not permit my own wife,” he continued. “For one, I would not allow Gunnilde to travel any great distance across country without me by her side.”

“Fulford is not so very far away,” Muriel protested before her brother cut in.

“Such sentiment does you credit, sir,” Arthur replied hastily. “And I am sure I do not wonder that you feel that way.” He bowed again gallantly in Gunnilde’s direction. Both Muriel and James looked somewhat annoyed by his rejoinder.

“Sir Christopher knows that he can trust me to behave at all times with the utmost consideration of his honor,” Muriel rallied, two high spots of color appearing on her cheeks.

“No doubt,” James answered bluntly. “But my own feelings have nothing whatsoever to do with my wife’s conduct. Rather they are concerned with others who would covet that which is mine and mine alone.” He passed a possessive arm about Gunnilde’s waist.

“Again,” Sir Arthur said, bowing. “I fully comprehend your feeling, and I cannot wonder at them.”

Over his shoulder, Gunnilde noticed the arrival of a gaggle of ladies-in-waiting. They glittered in the doorway in their jewel-colored gowns. She cleared her throat. “I am so glad you could both attend,” she said brightly. “We hope—”

“The Queen arrives!” Piers Winstanley’s confident voice rang out. “Make way for the Queen of all Karadok!” Everyone turned to look at his tall, commanding figure as he turned and swept an elegant bow. Queen Armenal sailed into the room accompanied by two royal guards who fell back to stand either side of the door.

The Queen shone with rubies tonight which flashed at her hair, her bodice, and her throat. She was gorgeously arrayed in a gown of gold and black silk, lavishly trimmed with fur. Muriel gasped and shrank back despite the fact there was ample room remaining.