Trapped at the Altar (11 page)

“Hunting for pheasant. There's a brace hanging in the shed. They'll make a good stew when they've hung for a day or two.” He poured mead into two tankards and pushed one towards Ari.

She took it with a nod of thanks, noticing that his arm was a little stiff, the bulge of the makeshift bandage pushing against his shirt sleeve. She glanced at Tilly, who was working at the range, her back to them. “Would you come up to the bedchamber for a moment?” she asked softly.

He looked at his arm. “It's fine.”

“I'd like to see,” she insisted, soft but determined.

He shrugged, rose from the table, and went ahead of her up to the bedchamber. He glanced at the sheetless bed. “Tilly's done her work, I see.”

Ari ignored this. “Roll up your sleeve.”

He obliged, holding out his arm for her inspection. She unwrapped the red kerchief and lightly touched the
small wound. She gave a sigh of relief. “It's not red or hot; there's no infection. We won't need to consult Tilly. How does it feel?”

“A bit stiff. Tie it up again, Ari.”

“Have you a clean kerchief?”

“In the bottom drawer of the dresser. Your belongings are in the top two.”

She took out one of her own linen handkerchiefs. “This will be less bulky.” She tied it around the wound and examined her handiwork. “There, that'll hold until tomorrow.”

“Somehow I hadn't realized you were a competent healer,” Ivor remarked, rolling down his shirt sleeve.

“I'm not . . . I listen to Tilly, that's all. I've never had to do anything myself before.” She stuffed the stained kerchief into the pocket of her nightgown. “I'll wash this out later.”

“Well, I remain impressed nevertheless.” He gestured to the stairs. “Will you go down, ma'am?”

“You go. I think I'll dress before we eat.”

He raised an eyebrow, and a flicker of amusement crossed his countenance. “Don't worry, I won't insist on any aspect of my conjugal rights as yet, my dear. You may dress in private.”

His tone was sardonic, and her temper, as so often, rose to meet his challenge. “You are too kind, sir,” she snapped.

His mocking laughter came up to her as he went down the stairs. Ariadne stood frowning for a moment, before going to the linen press for her clothes. Ivor's pride was
hurt, she understood that. It seemed he felt cuckolded even before the marriage was consummated. It didn't make much rational sense, given that neither of them had engineered the situation, but then emotions were rarely rational. She must try to rise above her own, she decided, if they were to muddle through this tangle with some pride and dignity intact.

She tied the ribbons on her chemise and petticoat and dropped a simple muslin gown over her head, tying a plain white apron at her waist. She thrust her bare feet into a pair of slippers, and feeling at much less of a disadvantage, went down to the living room, where Tilly was setting laden plates of fragrant fried potatoes, eggs, and crisp bacon on the table. She was starving, she realized, as she sat opposite Ivor, who was hungrily spearing fried potatoes.

“So I presume this transfer of my belongings occurred during the wake last night?” Ari said, folding bacon into a piece of bread as Tilly disappeared into the scullery with the greasy pans.

Ivor swallowed his mouthful. “Lord Daunt gave the order, yes.” He speared another forkful of potato on the tip of his knife and dipped it in egg.

“And did he also give order for the decoration of the bridal chamber?”

Ivor's laugh was caustic. “What do you think?”

“My uncle lacks the sensibility for such a sensitive act.” She sipped her mead, regarding him thoughtfully. “So I have to assume it was you.”

“It seemed necessary to me to go through the proper motions,” he responded.

“Even for such a travesty of a wedding?” She could hear the challenge in her voice, despite her earlier resolution.

He set down his knife and said evenly, “Yes, even for that. Sometimes, my dear, observing the courtesies is all we have to combat frequently brutal situations. I have learned that in my time among your family.”

She could not deny the truth of his observation. “Are Chalfonts so different? They're a branch of the same trunk, after all.”

He shrugged. “You're right, of course. The tree itself was always rotten. We must face it, Ari, we're descendants of a tribe of rogues and vagabonds who still haven't learned the manners of civilized folk.” He tried for a light tone as Tilly returned from the scullery. He leaned back to give her room to fill his plate with more bacon and potatoes.

“It's no laughing matter,” Ari stated. “It's all too true . . . No, thank you, Tilly, no more for me. That was delicious.”

“Right, then, I'll be away to fetch some water for the washing.” Tilly picked up the two wooden pails and left the cottage.

Ariadne leaned her elbows on the table as the door closed behind the girl. “But if my grandfather's plan is to work, at least you and I will have to learn the manners of civilization.” She shook her head with a disbelieving laugh. “Can you see us at court, Ivor? All dressed up, bowing and simpering, and flattering and pretending all the time? I won't be any good at it, I can tell you that now.”

“Oh, we'll learn,” he said, but he sounded a little doubtful. In truth, it was difficult to imagine Ariadne's free spirit confined in a cage of courtly pretense.

“It might be easier for you,” she said thoughtfully. “You've already had to adapt to a different life.” They had talked in the past about what it had been like for Ivor, as a small boy, to be separated from his family and everything that was familiar to him, having to learn the ways of another life altogether. “I've never had to be anyone but myself.”

“I was only six,” he pointed out. “Hardly formed. Once I had learned to forget my mother, I learned to become a part of the valley very quickly. It will be as hard for me as for you to dissemble in London.”

They were talking now with all the old ease and familiarity, sharing their deepest thoughts, revealing their weaknesses, always in the utter certainty that their confidences would be kept. Abruptly, Ari reached her hand across the table, catching Ivor's, twining her small, delicate fingers with his. He had long fingers but the rough nails and callused palms of a working man, one who sawed and chopped wood, wielded a sword, thatched roofs, and hammered nails.

“I could not bear to lose our friendship, Ivor,” she said softly. “We cannot let this marriage come between us.”

For a moment, he looked at her in disbelief, then threw back his head with a shout of laughter. “Oh, Ariadne, only you could say something like that. Marriages are supposed to be unions, they symbolize a joining of minds and bodies, and you see ours as an instrument of
division.” He clasped her hand tightly for a moment and leaned towards her. “
I
will not let this marriage divide us, Ari. Whether you do is entirely up to you.”

He released his grip and pushed back his chair. “I have work to do. And the women are waiting for you in your old cottage, which has been set up as a workshop. They are to furnish you with a wardrobe for the journey.” He unhooked his hunting knife from the wall and left the cottage.

Ariadne sat at the table, looking absently at her hand, which lay across the table, her fingers stretched as if still reaching for Ivor's. Her hand felt cold. Slowly, she withdrew it, tucking it into her lap. Presumably, Rolf had told him of the daily plans for herself; her husband should have the ordering of her day, after all.

She pushed back her chair and stood up. She felt as if she were suffocating. Everything had happened too quickly, as if they feared that if she were given time, she would somehow escape her destiny. And they were right. If she could, she would. But for as long as she and Ivor remained in the valley, there would be no opportunity for more than the trivial acts of defiance she had always relied upon to give her a spurious sense of freedom. Well, she would indulge in one more such act today. The women with their measuring tapes and pins and bolts of material would wait in vain.

She went up to the bedchamber and changed her thin muslin gown for a homespun skirt and jacket, woolen stockings, and heavier shoes. She was going to climb the cliff, and flimsy sandals wouldn't give her traction.

She let herself out of the cottage just as Tilly came back with her wooden pails. “Eh, Miss Ari? Where are you going? They're waiting for you in the cottage yonder. I'll be along myself as soon as I've washed the dishes and put fresh sheets on the bed.”

“I have other things to do, Tilly.” Ari brushed past her and walked swiftly behind the cottage. She crossed the small vegetable plot that formed every cottage's back garden and threaded her way through the buildings to the steep cliff towering above the valley. The path was a thin white line, which began after a jumble of rocks at the base of the cliff.

She climbed over the rocks and onto the path, glancing once behind her. The village was still somnolent, only a few people appearing on the lanes, women mostly, filling water pails, collecting flour from the mill. The men were presumably treating the aching heads of dissolution, she thought, and then wondered why Ivor was not suffering similarly. He was as bright-eyed and energetic as ever. And he certainly hadn't appeared the worse for anything last night, planning for the bridal chamber, knowing all the while that there was to be no bridal night. Planning for the public proof of her lost virginity, all as cold and clear-headed as if he had never taken a drink in his life.

She thought with a sense of shock that Ivor Chalfont, this husband of hers, was a man to be reckoned with. Not just her friend and confident childhood playmate but a man who made plans and executed them to the last detail.

It wasn't that she hadn't known that about him, she
thought as she climbed, swiping perspiration from her brow with the back of a hand. It was just that she hadn't seen the fact of it as it affected her own life and hadn't really taken it seriously.

She looked up. For some reason, the cliff top seemed a lot farther away than usual, and the path steeper and more treacherous.

B
elow, Ivor stood on the wooden bridge, his hand shading his eyes, looking up at the cliff. Damn the woman. She was almost at the top. Why did Ari have to make things so much more difficult than they needed to be? Rolf would be furious that she hadn't spent the morning with the dressmakers, and he himself would look like an inept husband who couldn't control his wife.

And then that wave of jealous anger flooded him once again. She was going to her lover? There could be no other explanation.

Well, not this time.

He set off at a run through the village to the base of the path. He stepped around the rocks at the beginning of the path and started upwards. And after a few minutes, he stopped. What was to be gained by a confrontation with the poet? Ari wasn't going to run off with him; she was too practical to do something so foolhardy. His quarrel was with Ari, not Gabriel Fawcett. He turned back
and found a comfortable spot on the pile of rock. She would have to come back this way eventually. He would be waiting.

Ari reached the top and hauled herself up the last few steps to the grassy summit. She stood up, regaining her breath. Maybe, just maybe, Gabriel had left something for her under the stone. Some indication of where he was going, what he was going to do. He hadn't had much time to make plans since their parting just yesterday afternoon, but it was possible he'd left her some communication.

Without a backwards glance down the path, she raced across the grassy meadow to the gray rock that seemed to jut out of the grass like a beacon. Kneeling, she lifted the stone. A folded piece of paper was tucked deep into the indentation. He
had
left her something.

Her fingers shook a little as she lifted it out and unfolded it.
My dearest, I will follow you to the ends of the earth. Oh, my dearest Ari, I will hold your heart in my breast every second we are apart, and pray God we will be united once more. Look for me in London. Dear one, think kindly of me always.