Page 80 of His Forsaken Bride

“I like to perform my civic duty,” he murmured with a mock-modesty that had Fen giggling again. They had reached the inn by now, and Oswald opened the door for her. Fen gazed around at the low ceiling and dark interior. There were great swathes of ivy pinned and draped across the ceiling beams in honor of the midwinter festival and tied with bright red ribbons. A fire burned merrily in the hearth, casting an inviting flicker over the far wall. Oswald headed straight for it, towing her in his wake. He had no sooner helped her out of her cloak and seen her settled on a corner wooden bench than a server approached. Oswald ordered a wassail bowl to share a hot spiced punch and seated himself at the bench opposite her. “Warm enough?” he asked, reaching for her hand.

Fen nodded, feeling the warmth from the blazing fire at her back. “Tis very cosy in here,” she assured him. “And it does one’s heart good to see the decorations up for the midwinter festivities. Back home-” she stopped herself. “Back in Sitchmarsh,” she corrected herself quickly. “Preparations will be well underway for the Solstice celebrations.”

Oswald frowned. “I daresay the palace will catch up in a month or so,” he said. “The Yule log will be brought in and the greenery to decorate the halls.”

“Yes?” said Fen hopefully. “That will be nice, but I cannot help but think…”

“Think what?” he asked.

Fen shrugged. “Why, that when every other evening is a fancy banquet, the feast of Midwinter will not have the significance that it does for every-day common folk.”

Oswald’s head turned before Fen had even noticed that a server was approaching them with a steaming pedestal bowl of mulled punch on a salver. The bowl was a lover’s cup made for sharing, with a tall lid, carved in the shape of an acorn. Toasted bread was laid on the platter with which to mop up the last of the punch. It was set down before them and Oswald handed over payment and removed the lid, before sliding it toward her. “You miss the country,” he said. “It is not to be wondered at, since this is the first significant time you have spent away from it.”

Fen nodded as she lifted the cup and took a sip of the fragrant hot liquid. It tasted of apples, cinnamon and nutmeg with a kick of something else. She lowered the bowl and slid it toward Oswald, before commenting. “It is very good. Very warming.”

She watched him lift it to his own lips and take a drink. “It’s not just that this is a large town,” she said, mustering her courage. “I miss - making plans, the responsibility and challenges of running a household.” She hesitated. “At the palace, you are a part of the royal household. You have no say in how the halls will be decorated, or what food will be served at your table.” She looked across at her husband to see if she had offended, but Oswald’s gaze on her was hooded and she could make nothing from his expression. “For a bachelor, it must be highly convenient,” she acknowledged.

“It is a big change for you,” he said simply, lowering the bowl and then pushing it across the surface toward her. “Drink some more.”

She waited for him to mention the fact she would be sent to Vawdrey Keep soon enough, but he made no mention of it. Feeling confused, Fen lifted the bowl and took a hearty swig. It packed a punch and Fenella took courage from its potency. “Of course, when I am sent to Vawdrey Keep, I will soon have the running of a household again,” she ventured and looked through her lashes at him as she moved the bowl back across in his direction.

His mouth twisted and for a moment she thought he would say something, but words were not forthcoming. Instead he took a deep draught and plunked the bowl back on the table. He cleared his throat. “No doubt the Robertses would celebrate the festivities in the old style, despite their town existence.” He quirked an eyebrow at her and Fenella could not help but laugh.

“Of course,” she agreed. “Their town house would be wreathed in ivy and mistletoe, across every lintel and mantel, and all tied up with ribbons.”

“What else?” he asked, pushing the bowl back toward her.

Fen picked up a piece of toasted bread and dipped it into the foamy drink left at the bottom of the bowl. “I think…They would have a piece of the yule log in every hearth,” she listed. “Even in the servant’s quarters. And on the three nights from Midwinter’s Eve, ghost stories would be told to the entire household.” She took a bite of the toast before continuing: “Fruit and candle arrangements would glisten on every table surface.” She chewed her bread in heavy thought. “Honey-plum puddings would boil in the kitchen and any passing wassailers would be bade to come in, drink from the cup and give their blessings upon the house.” She finished a little self-consciously. “How does that sound to Mr Roberts?” she asked.

“As though Mrs Roberts indeed likes to celebrate the Midwinter in the grand old style,” he said gravely.

“Yes,” she agreed, and even to her own ears she sounded a little forlorn. Of course, she was being quite ridiculously over the top. Ambrose would never have allowed such extravagances at Thurrold Manor. “I expect Mr Roberts would have to rein in his wife on the expenses,” she joked. “And remind her that his coffers are not bottomless!”

Oswald reached for some of the bread and wiped it around the inside of the bowl before taking a bite. “I think Mr Roberts is very keen to do whatever keeps Mrs Roberts happy and by his side,” he said quietly.

Fen’s eyes widened at his serious tone. “Oh – but I am sure – that is, Mr Roberts can have no worries about that,” she stammered awkwardly. “Forgive me, I was speaking without thought and-”

“You said naught amiss,” he said calmly, but Fenella wasn’t convinced.

“Indeed, my lord-” she started again.

He reached across to put his hand over hers. “I assure you, Fenella.”

She bit the inside of her mouth and regarded him anxiously.

“Tell me about your morning,” he said, nudging the platter of bread toward her.

Fenella picked up another piece of toasted bread. “Well, I spent my morning with Mathilde Martindale,” she said distractedly. She glanced about to make sure no-one was close enough to hear her speak of courtiers. “She is a sweet and pleasant young woman. If a little shy.”

“Most people would say, extremely shy,” said Oswald. “I have scarcely heard her speak above two words in the last three years.”

Fen pulled a face. “I think she is a little cowed by the presence of her mother,” she admitted, before getting caught up in her subject. “Tell me, where is her husband Lord Martindale? Is it not extremely unusual that she lives at court, when he does not?”

“It is certainly unconventional,” Oswald agreed with a small smile. “But you see, timid Lady Martindale is already on her third marriage.”

Fenella almost dropped her piece of bread. “What?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “And yet, she has never had a single night away from her dear mother’s side.”