Trapped at the Altar

by Jane Feather

  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.

  EIGHT

  Below, Ivor stood on the wooden bridge, his hand sha
ding 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.

  Ariadne folded the sheet again and tucked it into her shirt to nestle in the cleft of her breast. Look for me in London.

  He was going to follow her to the capital. Her heart lifted, but only for a moment. By leaving here, Gabriel would escape one danger, but in London, there would be many others. How could she possibly make sense of this marriage to Ivor when she was constantly afraid for Gabriel and constantly looking out for him to appear around every corner? What would Ivor do if he came face-to-face with the man he felt had cuckolded him? The man his wife still loved? It didn’t bear thinking of. Ivor was a warrior, Gabriel a misty-eyed poet. He would not stand a chance against Ivor’s strengths and skills. And she would be ultimately responsible.

  She turned away, leaving the stone upturned in the grass. There was no need for a hiding place now. She hesitated, reluctant to return to the valley but knowing that she must. There was nothing for her up here and a world of trouble below if her absence became too obvious. She set foot on the path and made her way slowly down towards the gleaming strip of river, the afternoon sun hanging low in the sky.

  Ivor inadvertently closed his eyes against the afternoon sun, enjoying the gentle warmth on his eyelids, the soft red glow beneath. He was tired; the previous night had taken its toll, even though he had not drunk as deeply as his fellows. But it had been a dance of wit and wisdom to bring both him and Ari out of it without suspicion, and he was aware of a deep fatigue, the rock at his back smooth and warm.

  A shower of stones brought him to his senses as gravel, dislodged by Ari’s descent, slipped down the dry path to clatter against the rocks. He pushed himself upright and turned to look up at the path. Ari was a few feet away, slipping and sliding down the last few feet of the path.

  He had been concealed by the rock, but when he stood up, she saw him at once and stopped, planting her feet firmly on the slippery path. “Ivor?”

  “Ari?” He surveyed her calmly. “You have been above?”

  She nodded. “Yes, but what’s it to you?”

  “Rather a lot, as it happens.” He stepped around the rock and reached up to take her hand, giving her a gentle pull, which obliged her to jump the last few steps to the flat.

  She landed squarely and removed her hand from his, brushing down her skirt in a gesture more nervous than purposeful. “Why are you waiting for me?”

  Ivor weighed his words and then decided that the brutal truth was the only pointful route. “The rules have changed, my dear. You may not leave the valley without my permission. Lord Daunt gave order that you should spend the day on your travel wardrobe, and you chose to disobey him. That leaves me, as your husband, in an awkward position . . . one I prefer not to be in.”

  This was not the Ivor Ariadne was accustomed to. That Ivor didn’t give her orders or issue veiled threats. In an instinctive effort to restore the balance between them, Ariadne shrugged. “For heaven’s sake, Ivor. Pomposity doesn’t suit you. I’ll go to the women now.” She made to push past him, but he took her arm. There was nothing painful about the hold, but Ari knew she could not shake it off.

  “What were you doing?”

  She turned her head away from him, although her arm remained held fast. “Nothing that should alarm you, Ivor. I promise you that. I was doing nothing that would cause you harm.”

  “I don’t know whether you understand what could cause me harm, Ari, how many things could cause me harm. Not just me but you, too.” His fingers tightened around her wrist. “Now, what were you doing above? Did you see your poet?”

  She turned her head aside with a mute headshake.

  Ivor looked at her closely, and his gaze caught the small piece of white poking up from the neck of her gown. “What is that? A love letter?” His fingers twitched the paper out of its nest before she could stop him. “A love poem from your poet, Ari?” The sarcastic derision in his tone masked a hurt he would not acknowledge.

  “Don’t.” She made to take it from him, but he held it away from her.

  “Let us see what flights of eloquence your lover can reach in extremis.” He unfolded the sheet one-handed, while she watched, helpless. Ivor mustn’t know of Gabriel’s plans to follow them to London.

  But then, without reading it, he folded the paper again and gave it back to her. “Put it away, Ari, and if you’ve any sense, you’ll burn it before anyone else sees it.” His voice was his own again.

  Ariadne crumpled the paper in her fist, relief flooding her. She should have known Ivor would never read someone else’s personal correspondence. But then, in the last day, she had been seeing a side of him she had not come across before, and she couldn’t be sure how that Ivor would react. She said stiffly, “If you would be so good as to release me, sir, I have my business to attend to.”

  Ivor did not immediately release his hold on her wrist. He took her chin with his free hand and forced her to look at him, his gaze grave and intense. “There are watchers everywhere, Ari. While you were under your grandfather’s direct protection, you were safe enough from prying eyes, but no longer.” He shook his head in frustration. “You have to understand that you are no longer a free spirit in this valley, indulged and protected. You are a tool now, a means to an end.”

  His hands moved to take her shoulders, bringing her body around to face him. “If you will survive here, Ariadne, you will accept the position you are in now. I am in the same position, and together we must weave a path through this quagmire. Do you understand what I’m saying?” He gave her a little shake in emphasis and felt the tension slide from her shoulders beneath his fingers as she accepted his words.

  Ari moved out of his hold. She turned to look at the valley and said quietly, “Yes, of course I understand, Ivor. Sometimes acceptance is hard.”

  “I know that.”

  “Perhaps when we are out of here . . .” She waved an encompassing hand around the village. “Perhaps then we can make a path for ourselves. We do understand each other, after all.” She wasn’t looking at him as she spoke, her eyes on the slow-flowing river.

  “We understand each other to some extent,” Ivor corrected. “How we conduct a marriage in these circumstances is a differen
t matter. Do we have purely a business arrangement, Ari? Or can we hope for anything more?”

  He hadn’t intended to bring this up so directly, but it was so close to the surface he didn’t know how to keep it in check. He knew what he wanted, a full, loving partnership with Ariadne, as his lover and his friend. But could she give him that?

  “My friendship, my loving support, those I can give you,” she said slowly and with difficulty. “But true love must have passion. I feel no passion for you, Ivor. I cannot love you with passion, only with friendship.”

  “I see.” He let his hands fall from her. “I thank you for your honesty, Ari.”

  “It does not mean we cannot have a contented life together,” she said, hearing how hollow it sounded even as she spoke the words.

  “Contentment?” He gave a short laugh. “Well, I suppose for some people that would be sufficient. Unfortunately, Ariadne, it is not sufficient for me.”

  She turned to him. “But we did not make this betrothal, Ivor, this wedding. You have never felt passion for me any more than I have felt it for you. It’s not just of you to make me feel at fault because I cannot feel that kind of love for you. You cannot feel it for me, either.”

  “Ah, but there’s a difference, my dear Ari. I can imagine feeling it for you.” His mouth curved in the travesty of a smile, and then he turned away and walked off into the village.

  Ariadne watched him go. What did he mean? That somehow he believed he could find love and passion for her in this enforced marriage? But how, unless he felt some of that already . . . No, that was impossible. She would have felt it, guessed at it, before now.

  But she felt helpless and unhappy as she walked to her own cottage, flinging open the door to a chorus of female consternation at her absence. She said nothing but walked to the range and dropped the balled-up paper containing Gabriel’s message into the flames. Then she turned back to the room. Bolts of material, velvets, damasks, silks, taffetas, lay spread out on trestle tables with filmy piles of lace and sheets of supple leather.