The Silver Rose (38 page)

Simon gave a crack of laughter, his own relief now transparent. “Then let us be on our way before the evening grows much older. Ariel and I came on horseback, but I took the liberty of instructing the ostlers to put your horses back in the traces of your carriage.”

“I must pay my shot even if the hospitality lacked certain amenities.”

“I have already done so,” Simon stated. “A servant is coming to take down your portmanteau. All you need to do, my dear, is pick up your cloak, summon your maid, and come with us.”

Ariel noticed how Helene’s cheeks took on a delicate flush of pleasure, how her eyes sparkled, her lips curved, as Simon swept her along on the force of his own intentions,
anticipating, taking charge. He had been so certain Helene would come with him. Maybe he was right to have been so, but if
she
had been in Helene’s place, Ariel thought, she would have been rather put out at this sweeping mastery of events.

However, she said nothing, merely accompanied Helene to the coach, where she gave precise directions to the coachman. She noted that Lady Kelburn was not so nervous a traveler that she needed more than two postilions and two outriders; her maid was a round and bouncy creature with no starch to her and a Fenland accent that would make her perfectly acceptable in the servants’ quarters of Ravenspeare Castle.

“Will you travel in the coach with me, Ariel?” Helene laid a hand over Ariel’s as she prepared to climb into the vehicle. “The postilion could lead your horse. I know Simon must ride; the shaking and the jolting of a coach cause him too much discomfort; but I would be glad of your company.”

Ariel’s jaw dropped as she struggled to find a way to refuse gracefully. She detested traveling in a closed vehicle, but she had no wish to appear discourteous.

“Ariel becomes travel sick in coaches, Helene,” Simon said smoothly. “And she gets an insufferable headache. Mount up, Ariel, and let’s be on our way. It’s too raw a night to be dallying.”

Arid offered Helene an apologetic smile, murmured something about being dreadful company in a coach, and mounted her horse. “How did you know I can’t abide carriages?”

Simon, riding beside her out of the yard, cast her an amused glance. “Your face, dear girl, was quite sufficient to tell us all.”

“I
really
can’t bear coaches,” Ariel insisted. “It wasn’t that I didn’t wish to ride with your friend. Indeed, I’m sure she’s very charming.”

“She is,” Simon agreed. “Both charming and very anxious
to be
your
friend also.” He glanced at the pale shadow of her face in the fog. “I hope you will admit her to your friendship, Ariel. It would please me greatly.”

“Of course,” she said. And for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why there was no enthusiasm in her dull voice.

Chapter Twenty

W
HEN THEY REACHED
Ravenspeare, only the faintly sulphurous fumes of the now extinguished flambeaux and pitch torches remained of the exuberant tilting tournament. The noise of the banquet swelled through the firmly closed doors to the Great Hall, but there was no sign of visible life from the party.

Helene descended from the carriage, her hand resting for a moment in Simon’s. She looked around the orderly stable-yard, her ear cocked toward the muted racket from the castle.

“Don’t worry, Lady Kelburn,” Ariel said swiftly. “You won’t have to meet my brothers or their guests tonight. We will dine privately.”

“I wouldn’t wish to be discourteous to my hosts,” Helene said a shade doubtfully, glancing at Simon.

However, it was Ariel who answered. “I assure you, ma’am, that your
hosts
are not in the least aware of your arrival. And you will find it much more comfortable if they remain in ignorance.”

The acid lacing the girl’s voice shocked Helene a little. She knew the reputation of the Ravenspeares, but still her finer feelings were dismayed by this slip of a girl’s contemptuous dismissal of her family . . . of the men who had had authority over her until her wedding. She glanced again at Simon.

“Ariel is somewhat outspoken,” he said quietly. “But on this occasion I won’t fault her. She speaks but the truth.”

Ariel’s eyes flashed as she heard “on this occasion.” He was telling Helene as clear as day that he had had occasion in the past to take his wife to task. Just as if she were a child
whose less than perfect behavior he considered he could discuss with a close friend.

But it didn’t matter what he said or did It was a temporary irritation. She didn’t need to let it upset her.

“Excuse me. I’ll make the rounds of my horses while I’m here. Timson will show you to the green parlor, my lord, if you go into the house through the side door. And he will show Lady Kelburn’s maid to her ladyship’s chamber with the baggage. I’m sure Lady Kelburn would enjoy a glass of sherry . . . or ratafia, perhaps. You have but to give the order.” She turned away, her cloak swirling around her with the energy of her movement as she stalked off.

“Oh, dear,” Simon murmured. “I fear I’ve trodden on my bride’s sometimes delicate toes.”

“She seems a . . . a . . . well, rather unusual,” Helene finished, after a fruitless search for the right word.

“Downright eccentric is a more accurate description,” Simon replied with a little laugh that somehow lacked conviction. “I have never met anyone remotely resembling my wife, Helene.” He linked his arm in hers and ushered her to the side door of the castle.

Timson was waiting to greet them and within minutes Helene found herself looking with approval and relief around a small yet cozy turret chamber. It took its name, presumably, from the green embroidered tapestries that lined the paneled walls and the green motifs in the embroidered rugs. A table was set for three before a massive log fire, and decanters and glasses reposed upon a pier table against one wall.

“I haven’t been here before,” Simon observed with an appreciative nod.

“It’s Lady Ariel’s private sitting room, my lord. She don’t usually bring folk ’ere, lest their lordships discover it,” Timson informed him as placidly as if it were perfectly normal for a young woman in a gentleman’s household to keep her private parlor a secret.

Helene looked startled, Simon merely comprehending.
The room was on the floor above the bedchambers, in the same turret as Ariel’s bedchamber immediately below. It had the same atmosphere as that room. A secluded oasis in a desert of sandstorms.

“Lady Ariel said you’d be servin’ yourselves, m’lord, so I’ll leave you and show Lady Kelburn’s maid to the bedchamber.” He bowed himself out, closing the door firmly.

“The household seems to run very smoothly,” Helene said, drawing off her gloves. “Why should that surprise me, I wonder?”

“It surprised me too. But Ariel is a woman of many facets, as you will discover soon enough, my dear.” He reached over her shoulders to unclasp her cloak.

Helene put her hands up to cover his. “I shouldn’t have come, Simon, should I? But I would so much like to help if I can.”

He made no attempt to move his hands, merely allowed his head to rest on top of hers. “If you can gain Ariel’s confidence, my love, I shall be ever in your debt. There is so much that I don’t understand about her. I have tried, but she keeps eluding me.” He frowned, and they stood for a minute in silence, holding each other with all the easy familiarity of long and friendly lovers.

Ariel stood in the doorway, watching them as they stood with their backs to her. She could read the true history of their relationship in every line of their bodies, in the smooth melding of one into the other. A violent surge of jealousy shook her, and she stepped silently back onto the landing, letting her hand slip from the door latch.

She had no right to feel such resentment. Of course her husband had had his share of lovers. And he had had to contend with Oliver Becket’s devil-driven malice.
On his wedding night, no less.

No, she had no right to feel even a twinge of dismay at this situation. Not when she didn’t intend to fulfill the duties of a wife for very much longer. If Simon chose to keep a mistress, it would not be any concern of hers.

She stepped back in the room, saying loudly, “I’ve left the dogs with Edgar for the night, since I wasn’t sure how Lady Kelburn might feel about sharing her dinner with a pair of wolfhounds.”

Simon moved away from Helene, holding her cloak. “Helene’s taste in dogs tends to run to the lapdog variety.” He laid the cloak over a chair back. “May I pour you both a glass of wine?”

“Lapdogs?” Ariel said on a note of wonder. “But they’re not what one would call dogs, Lady Kelburn.”

“Please call me Helene, my dear.” Helene smoothed her hair where it had come loose beneath the hood of her cloak and smiled at Ariel. “Simon’s exaggerating somewhat, but my spaniels certainly wouldn’t be a match for wolfhounds.” She took the glass Simon handed her and sat down beside the fire, a deft flick of her hand automatically correcting the graceful fall of her skirts.

Ariel sat down opposite and sipped her wine. Her ankles were crossed and she uncrossed them hastily. The broadcloth skirt of her riding habit was creased, and it didn’t seem to fall away around her with the natural grace of Helene’s dark blue velvet.

Simon limped over and sat on the sofa beside Helene, stretching his leg to the fire, absently rubbing his thigh.

“Your wound still pains you badly,” Helene stated.

“It’s worse than usual today.” Simon grimaced, sipped his wine. “But Ariel has magic fingers and a physician’s treasury of potions and ointments.” He sent her a wry glance, half plaintive, half questioning, and she blushed crimson, jumping to her feet.

“I’ll make up a sleeping draught for you later. Shall we have supper? I own I’m famished.”

The evening passed pleasantly enough. Ariel was an attentive hostess and Helene was clearly happy to be in such comfortable surroundings after the sparse cheer at the Lamb. Simon was aware that she was assessing Ariel with all the shrewdness of experience. She knew almost all there was to
know about Ariel’s background, and she was in Simon’s confidence—she knew how he felt about his marriage and his bride. He hoped that her insights would be helpful to him.

And what did Ariel think of Helene? What impression was she forming of her husband’s oldest and dearest friend? Would she want the full history of their relationship? He realized that he hoped she would care enough to ask him.

Ariel left Simon to show Helene to her bedchamber and, after a friendly good night, vanished into her own chamber. For a moment she held the door ajar, listening, despising herself, but unable to resist the urge. For her pains she heard Simon grimly instructing Helene and her maid to throw the bar across the door and not raise it until morning. He didn’t expand on the instruction, and Helene didn’t ask for reasons.

Ariel clicked the door shut and moved away to the fire, absently unfastening her riding habit. She would not eavesdrop further. Let Simon and Helene bid each other good night in private. Besides, the maid was there.

She bit her lip in frustration. What was she thinking? Jealousy was a completely foreign emotion and she didn’t know what to do with it . . . particularly when it was so utterly out of place.

She was in her shift, her back to the door, warming her hands at the fire, when Simon returned. He closed the door quietly and came over to her, setting his cane against the wall as he eased into a chair with a little sigh of relief.

“Helene’s your mistress?”
Lucifer!
She hadn’t meant to ask. Her nails dug punishingly into her palms.

“No,” Simon responded, leaning back in the chair and linking his hands behind his head in his customary relaxed posture. “Not anymore.”

“Oh.” It was no good, she had to find out. She turned to look at him. His face was grave as befitted a serious subject, but his eyes were clear and bore the hint of a smile. “When did she stop being your mistress?”

“When I decided to take a wife.”

“Oh.” Her vocabulary seemed to be severely limited this
evening. “How long were you lovers?” Even as she asked she realized that her catechism was no different in essence from Simon’s questions about her relationship with Oliver. And if her own questions were prompted by something as stupid but unmanageable as jealousy, then so could his have been. Maybe what he’d been expressing was not purely disgust but jealousy.

Simon stretched with a lazy yawn. “Since we were shamefully young. I was all of fifteen, I believe. We were very precocious.”

“But . . . but . . . but that’s . . .” Ariel added rapidly in her head. “Nineteen years!”

“Yes, I suppose it must be. On and off, of course. The war was something of a disruption.” His smile now reached his mouth. “What else would you like to know?”

“Why didn’t you marry? Were your parents against it?”

“No, I believe they would have welcomed it, but we were young. We thought everything could wait on our own whim . . . or, at least,” he amended, “I thought that. I wanted to go to war. I didn’t want to leave a wife behind. But I also thought in my arrogant selfishness that Helene would wait until I’d sown my martial oats, as it were, and was ready to settle down.”