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“Who?”

“Roland.”

“I’m looking for my dog,” Fenella explained. “Though in truth, they are usually to be found together. Roland seems determined to purloin Bors’ affections. I’m convinced he lets him sleep with him, though he denies it every time and claims he sneaks into his chamber in the night.”

Mason looked at her and Fenella pressed her lips together. Was she talking too much? She knew some gentlemen did not wish to be prattled at so early in the morning. But she was nervous and couldn’t seem to stem the tide.

“Roland has stolen your dog?” Mason repeated blankly. He looked at her sternly, as if convinced she was making it up.

“To all intents and purposes,” Fenella agreed and reached for a piece of bread.

He considered this a moment, then dismissed it with a shrug and recommenced chewing.

Fen turned over both her letters and was surprised to find that one was from Gil. Her brother was not known for the frequency of his correspondence. Indeed, she had received only one dashed-off note from him since he had returned to Sitchmarsh, nearly two months ago. She broke his open before Orla’s and frowned down at her brother’s scrawled hand with a sigh. It seemed even worse than usual, she thought distractedly, taking a mouthful of salted cod. And no wonder, for on scanning the first two lines it seemed her brother had written it in something of a temper. She blinked at his vehemence. He was being ‘pursued by a harridan’ who turned his house upside down, he complained, ‘and blighted his life’. Fen’s eyebrows rose. She by no means admired her brother’s taste in women, but she doubted that the current fancy, a buxom widow, would have shown her hand before she had her feet firmly under the table. Fen had always thought Sarah Yondy to be a rather unpleasant woman who hid her sharp edges behind a cooing tongue. She wondered what could have happened for Sarah to have dropped the coy façade she usually employed around men. Unfortunately, the next paragraph was a mess of ink blots and crossing-outs. Though she stared and held the page to her nose and then away from her face, the full length of her arm, she could make nothing of it. She turned it over in defeat and found her brother seemed to expect her to do something about it! ‘I beg you will call her off her quarry, your own poor brother, whom she has backed into a corner and looks to wolf down in one bite’. Fen lowered the page in consternation. Whatever could Gil expect her to do about Sarah Yondy? She hadn’t spoken to the woman in at least three years and they had never been friends! Gil had finished with a flourish and signed himself off ‘your beleaguered brother’. Well, she thought it was beleaguered, though it could have just as easily been ‘badgered’ or ‘bludgeoned’.

“Do you have a problem with your eyes?” asked Mason, whose presence she had completely forgotten.

Fen looked up hastily. “No, no. Tis just my brother’s penmanship is so very bad. I can make neither head nor tail of it.”

Mason was still regarding her suspiciously. Rather like he thought someone had traded his brother a broken-down old nag, thought Fen indignantly. “I can see perfectly well, I assure you.”

He snorted and gestured toward the sprawling tapestry taking up most of the walls. “If that’s true, then why did you give Oswald a pair of wings?” he asked.

Fenella drew in a deep breath, feeling her face redden. “Because I was fifteen and full of fancies,” she admitted, still avoiding looking at it. Maybe she could hang a shield over it or something? Roland was always leaving pieces of armor around the place. She poured a cup of water and drank it down, only too aware that her brother-in-law was still watching her narrowly.

“He’s the finest man I know,” said Mason Vawdrey abruptly. “If you’ve any sense you’ll realize your good fortune fast, and make sure you don’t let him down.”

Let him down? Fen felt her face drain of color as she watched her brother-in-law throw down his napkin and rise from the table. He gave a sharp nod in her direction, and strode from the room. Fen sat a moment in complete silence, her appetite suddenly quite lost. She pushed her plate away and covered her face with her hands a moment. That wretched play had been hanging over her as soon as she awoke this morning, like a grisly specter. She needed to do something! In some haste she went to fetch her writing things. She stuffed Orla’s letter into the purse which hung from her belt. She would read it later, when sitting for her portrait. Dipping her pen into the ink, she wrote a short note to Hester asking if she had read the play yet, and if she could meet with her that day to offer her any advice, explaining she would not be free before two o’clock. She was just folding the missive when the door squeaked and Mason’s squire, young Cuthbert sauntered in, dressed in a yellow tunic which matched his golden hair.

“Morning Lady Vawdrey,” he greeted her agreeably.

“Good morning. You’ve missed your master, I’m afraid.”

“I’ve seen him,” said Cuthbert. “He wants me to make myself useful about here today.” A faint cloud passed over his face, as if he would much rather be further afield. “What’s that?” he asked, perking up. “A letter? I could deliver it.” He looked so hopeful, Fen found herself passing it to him. “Do you know where the Schaeffers have quarters in the palace?”

“No, but I can soon find out,” said Cuthbert.

“Well, that is for Lady Hester Schaeffer.”

Cuthbert disappeared out the door before she could even fetch him a penny. As he went out, Meldon came in, grumbling and carrying a tray with more bread and butter. “Young villain,” Meldon muttered without any heat. “He ate more herrings this morning than any Vawdrey about the place!”

Mindful of Oswald’s concern the previous day, she thought she’d better tell all the servants this time. “Meldon, I am going to the lower gallery to sit for my portrait this morning. I won’t be back until midday.”

“Again?” he asked waspishly. “How many paintings you having done anyway?”

Fenella ignored this. “Do you know where Bors is? I thought to take him with me.”

“He’s still a-bed,” sniffed Meldon. “Want me to fetch him from Master Roland’s chamber?”

Fenella demurred. Hopefully signor Arnotti had finished painting Bors already. She heard the clock strike nine and hurried to fetch her cloak. Mathilde Martindale had promised to sit with her that morning, and was doubtless already waiting for her.

The morning passed swiftly enough. Signor Arnotti seemed a lot less excitable this time and only tutted and exclaimed at her a few times. He was resigned to the fact she would want to stretch her legs on the hour and was not vociferous in his complaints. Mathilde had been waiting for her when she arrived with a plump, elderly woman who sat and dozed nearby leaving them to talk.

“She’s my old nurse, and my Mother’s before me,” Mathilde had whispered by way of explanation. “She’s a dear old thing really, blind as a bat and quite deaf.”

“An ideal chaperone then,” joked Fen, and Mathilde had giggled.

To her surprise, Fen found herself explaining her current woes to her new friend. “You see, I’m most concerned that my husband will not be at all pleased when he finds us the implied subject of the piece. But Lady Schaeffer seemed to think I was making a fuss about nothing. I wonder, what is your opinion on the matter, Mathilde? You are far more seasoned as a courtier than I.”