Page 125 of A Most Forgettable Girl

Gunnilde was silent a moment. “No,” she agreed, withdrawing her feet from his lap. “It was for me to lord it over my former acquaintance, was it not? To make them bitterly regret spurning me.” She lifted her chin. “Tell me, James,” she asked quietly, “do you think I fell short of my aim?”

“Certainly not,” he answered promptly. “You had two royals show up, no less. Your childhood friend was chastened, and Conway looked like he would fall at your feet given only the slightest opportunity.”

“You think so? Then why do you imagine I might be disappointed with how things went?” He did not speak. “Because Sir Ned did not show up?” Gunnilde persisted. “I told you, we are now quite reconciled. I harbor no ill will toward him.”

James’s expression hardened. “I am not so forgiving as you it seems.”

Had he woken on the wrong side of the bed this morning? Gunnilde surveyed him doubtfully. “Did you speak to your cousin Lady Gilchrist last night? Only she seemed a little preoccupied. She asked me if you had shared the contents of your mother’s last letter with me, and I was forced to admit you had not.”

He grimaced. “Trust me, there was precious little worth imparting. My mother is one of those distant, discontented types. Always taking offence at something or other.”

What sort of things? Gunnilde wondered, pleating the bedsheets. “The Queen spoke to you a good deal last night,” she ventured.

“Yes,” he agreed grumpily.

“Did she mention your mother’s letter at all?”

“No, she was talking about something else entirely.” At her querying look, he added offhandedly, “My being appointed royal musician.”

Gunnilde’s heart thudded. “Really? Did she...did she offer you the post?”

“She said she would speak to the King about it. She seemed fairly confident about it, however.”

“But that’s...that’s wonderful, James. Isn’t it?” Gunnilde was puzzled. Surely this was good news. Why did he look so discontented?

“Is it?” he asked irritably. “She seemed to think you were set against the idea?”

Gunnilde stared at him. “I?”

He shrugged. “That’s what she said.”

“But I’ve never...” Vague memories drifted back into Gunnilde’s head. A disagreement with Mistress Bartree where she had denied she was currying favor purely to secure such an appointment for her husband. She flushed. “Oh! But that was merely a discussion of vague ideas at that time! It was never mentioned as an actual possibility!”

No wonder he was out of sorts, Gunnilde thought, her heart sinking. He must think she had been trying to sabotage his career, not promote it. “At the time I had that foolish notion that you might achieve acclaim through writing ballads,” she said desperately. “Please believe me, James. I would never have willfully jeopardized—”

A bump on the door heralded Bennett’s arrival, and he pushed it open with an armful of logs, making for the fireplace, eyes carefully averted. James swung his legs out of the bed and cleared his throat.

“Is Master Neville still abed?” he enquired of Bennett.

“I’ve not seen hide nor hair of him this morn,” Bennett answered. “Likely he’s still snoring his head off, after all that dancing into the small hours. Those musician friends of yours didn’t pack up until long past midnight.”

“He did dance a good deal, did he not?” Gunnilde said brightly. “He danced with both Harriet and Winifred unprompted, which pleased me greatly.”

“It’s who your brother danced with that might cause more of an issue,” James said dryly. “He will soon be getting a reputation where women are concerned if he is not careful.”

Gunnilde bit her lip. She supposed by stuffy Wycliffe standards Hal had caused something of a scene. Doubtless his family would be appalled to hear of brawling at a banquet held in their family name. She knew full well her own father would only laugh and call it youthful high spirits.

Belatedly, it dawned on Gunnilde that this was yet another reason for him being out of temper. How foolish she had been thinking the night had been an unqualified success! He must think her the veriest simpleton for saying so. Likely, it was only just occurring to him how much of a liability she was proving to be as his wife.

Two hours later they stood shivering in the wooden stands watching the lance toss final. Even Neville, who had been so enthusiastic about the Revels, seemed somewhat depressed in spirits, though Gunnilde suspected that might be due to how much wine he had imbibed the night before.

The final two had been whittled down to Cosgrave and a young man named Willard Peyton. It was a close-run thing. Neville managed a rousing cheer when Cosgrave took the honors, then relapsed into moody silence.

Gunnilde pulled her cloak tighter about her, willing her teeth not to chatter in the bitter December air. She noticed several of her fellow ladies-in-waiting packing out the stand opposite them. Not the maturer of their number like Osanna Spencer or Margaret Pryor but the younger faction were there in droves. Even Lucy Melvin, who turned her nose up at everything.

Estrilda caught her eye at that moment and waved a scarf enthusiastically in her direction. Gunnilde waved and nodded back. She felt quite relieved about the distance between them so she would not have to answer any quizzing about Hal. According to Neville he was not particularly strong in this event and was conserving himself for the wrestling which was next.

She had caught only one glimpse of her brother so far that morning, when he had helped set up the targets for the spear throwing. He had been wearing a pale blue scarf tied about his upper arm. Nervously, she wondered whose colors he was displaying now, before casting the thought out of her mind. Hal’s amours were the least of her problems.