by Jane Feather
“So, ladies, what do we have here?”
“Come to the fire, Miss Ari, you need to strip to your chemise.” Tilly took charge. Whatever Miss Ari had been up to, she was here now, and they could brush through anything as long as the end result satisfied the new Lord Daunt.
The materials were all of the finest, French silks and damasks, Brussels lace, luxuriant furs of ermine and sable, and the softest dyed cordovan leathers. All, Ariadne assumed, acquired during the various raids and smuggling excursions by the Daunt bloods and their elders. They never brought anything inferior into the valley, although no one in the valley wore any of these luxuries. They were stored for trade in the storehouse in the midst of the village. But carefully stored. Those who were responsible knew how to care for such fine goods.
“So what am I supposed to need, Tilly?”
Tilly beamed. “Oh, his lordship has decreed a complete wardrobe, Miss Ari, everything from petticoats and nightgowns to full court dress.”
“And how are we, in this backwater, supposed to know what’s fashionable at court?” Ari inquired, unbuttoning her jerkin.
“We have pattern books, miss,” one of the girls piped up. “See . . .” Eagerly, she opened a bound sheaf of illustrations on one of the tables. “The petticoats are very stiff, and the stomachers are so tight.”
Ariadne examined the picture and grimaced. “How could anyone breathe in that? Well, I, for one, will not wear anything like it.”
“Fortunately, Miss Ari, the gown will sit well enough on you without such tight lacing,” Tilly declared, divesting her mistress of her jerkin and busily unfastening the waistband of her skirt. “Now, stand still while we take measurements. We have little enough time.”
“What do you mean, Tilly, little enough time?” Ariadne held still with difficulty as women wielding tape measures moved over her.
“Lord Daunt has given us but three weeks to complete your wardrobe, Miss Ari. You must start for London before the bad weather sets in, otherwise the roads will be impassable and you’ll have to wait until the spring. His lordship does not want that delay.”
“Oh, really.” Ariadne wondered why her uncle was in such a hurry. Her grandfather had never indicated any urgency about his plan to rehabilitate the family. Was there something significant happening at court that meant Lord Daunt had to have his players in place by a certain time?
The question occupied her throughout the tedious business of measurements and consultations. Did she like this design . . . or this one? Did she prefer an ermine lining to her cloak, or sable, or even a rich red fox? Her muffs must match her cloaks, and her gloves and muffs must be dyed to match the outer garments.
It was hot in the cottage, and the smell of wool and velvet and fur was suddenly overpowering. She felt stifled again, trapped in the valley, trapped in a hollow marriage. Three whole weeks before they were to leave for London. It was too long; she couldn’t bear it. If she and Ivor could be alone, without the pressure of incessant eyes upon them, maybe they could come to some truth about their future, some plan to make it work despite everything.
She had a sudden idea. Maybe there was a way to get them out of the valley sooner. “How on earth do we know what is necessary in fashionable dress in London?” she demanded, pushing aside a bolt of watered silk. “We live here, in this valley. We don’t even know what goes on above, what’s fashionable at the balls in Taunton or Exeter. I could arrive in London with a wardrobe that was fashionable ten years ago.”
A stricken silence fell among her attendants, and then Tilly said, “Lord Daunt said these were the latest designs, Miss Ari.”
“And I wonder how he knows that,” Ari said grimly. “Let me look at those patterns again.” She examined the illustrations more closely, then exclaimed, “Lord help us! These are almost twenty years old. Look at the date.” She jabbed at the faint scribble at the top of one sheet, but the scratchings made no sense to her wide-eyed audience, none of whom could read.
“How long has he had these, and where did he get them from?” She could guess the answer easily enough. The men of the valley were always robbing travelers on the road to the city. Presumably, these illustrations had been in some unfortunate lady’s portmanteau together with the rest of her possessions and kept for years in the great storehouse in the village.
“Let me dress, Tilly. I am going to see Lord Daunt before we waste much more time on this exercise.” She scrambled into her own clothes, pulled on her boots, and left the cottage, walking briskly to the Council house, planning her speech.
Rolf was in the Council chamber when Ariadne marched in without ceremony. He looked at her, his displeasure as clear as his bloodshot eyes, heavy eyelids, and air of postdissipation suffering. “I did not send for you, Ariadne.”
“No, sir,” she responded. “But I need to talk to you. Five minutes of your time, if you can spare it.” She moved briskly into the center of the room. “I understand I am to have a new wardrobe for this expedition to London?”
“Of course. You can hardly enter the royal court looking like a milkmaid,” he returned with an irritable gesture that encompassed her rustic clothing.
“I agree,” she responded. “But if I might remind you, my lord, London is some two hundred miles from here, and the patterns you have provided for this extensive wardrobe are twenty years out of date. Why are we wasting beautiful materials, dressing me up like a doll from a twenty-year-old fashion plate? I am not prepared to be embarrassed by my clothes, sir. Classified a country bumpkin from the moment I walk into Society. I hardly think that would enhance our cause, Lord Daunt.”
Rolf regarded his niece with disfavor. “You are impertinent, Ariadne.”
She inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Yes, sir, I probably am. Nevertheless, my point is valid. May I suggest a simple traveling wardrobe prepared for me here, and we carry the materials with us to London and find fashionable milliners to do the best they can with them?”
Rolf poured himself a goblet of wine. He hated to acknowledge that his niece was right, but at the same time, her objections seemed to indicate her acceptance of her upcoming task. After a moment, he said, “If we curtail the preparations for your journey, you and your husband should be able to leave sooner than I had hoped. Within ten days . . . that is good.”
He drank deeply. “You may instruct your women to prepare a simple wardrobe that will take you to the city. I will be discussing with your husband where you will be lodged when you arrive. The materials will travel with you under separate escort, and seamstresses who understand prevailing fashion will be employed on your court wardrobe.” He nodded dismissal. “That will be all. In future, you will communicate with the Council only through your husband, and he will convey our wishes to you.”
Ariadne curtsied, every line of the movement a mockery, but Rolf did not see it. He turned aside to refill his goblet, and Ari left the Council house, closing the door with exaggerated care behind her.
Now, finally, she was going to be free of the valley. Ten days was nothing. And then she and Ivor would be on their own, free. The word seemed to take concrete shape in her mind, and her step increased as she went in search of Ivor.
She saw him standing on the bridge, watching her as she walked away from the Council house. He inclined his head in question, and she walked towards him. He stepped off the bridge as she reached it. “What’s amiss, Ari?”
She smiled. “Nothing’s amiss. It’s good news. Uncle Rolf was trying to dress me as if I lived twenty years ago. I suggested an alternative. I daresay he was about to do the same for you?”
He laughed. “Yes, but I did not have the wit to complain. Damask doublets and chin-high ruffs were on order. I confess I was unsure.”
“Well, it is arranged now. Our wardrobes will be made up in London by seamstresses who know what they’re doing, and we leave in ten days . . . just ten days.” She touched his arm. “Once we are free of the valley, Ivor, maybe we can make things better between us.”
>
He looked at her for a moment. “Maybe.” But she could hear no conviction in his voice. She bit her lip, then turned to walk back into the village.
Ivor looked across the bridge. A house stood close to the bridge, one he had frequented on many occasions, as had every young man in the valley and many of the older ones, too. Ariadne belonged to him, and his need for her grew more painful the longer he was deprived. She was so sure of her invincible love for her poet. And Ivor was so sure of his right to take her in the conjugal bed and make this marriage complete. He had to wait until he was certain she did not carry another man’s child, but was he supposed to contain himself until then?
He needed release, and it was Ari’s fault that he could not take it in the manner ordained by the Bible.
He walked back across the bridge.
Ariadne stopped on the opposite bank and turned. She saw Ivor striding across to the other bank and with disbelief watched him stop at the whorehouse.
What could he be thinking? They were in the morass of emotional turmoil, married yet not married. He refused to consummate the marriage unless he was certain her relationship with Gabriel had produced no consequences, and yet he was prepared to take his body into a whore’s bed while his wife lay stiffly on one side of a bolster waiting to prove to him that she did not carry another man’s child.
Angry tears blinded her for a moment. And then she realized what fueled her anger. She was jealous . . . jealous and hurt that he could so easily find solace for his own hurt pride. He was her husband, God damn it. He didn’t belong in some other woman’s bed.
Ariadne stalked back to her own cottage and stopped on the threshold. Of course, this was no longer hers. She lived in the marital home, with a whoring husband who didn’t give a damn how many children he might father on a harlot’s body. Her breath caught on a sob, and she leaned against the wall for a moment, struggling for composure. Her world was falling apart around her ears, and she seemed helpless to stick it back together again. What was happening between herself and Ivor? They had been so close, such dear friends. And now they were like angry strangers. She was overwhelmed with a wretched mix of angry and hurt feelings, all spiced with her own guilt that it was her impulse that had brought them to this pass.
NINE
Ariadne turned from what had once been her own front door and made her way back to Ivor’s cottage. Tilly was busy at the range, clattering pots. The living room had been swept and dusted, and the aroma from the bubbling cauldrons made her mouth water despite her unhappiness.
“What are you cooking, Tilly?” She hoped her voice sounded normal to Tilly, although it sounded thick in her own ears, filtered through a knot of tears in her throat.
“Venison stew. Sir Ivor had a haunch hanging in the shed, just ripe for eating,” the girl responded cheerfully. “Did you see Lord Daunt, then?”
“Yes, and he’s changed his mind. We’re to leave in ten days. You’re to prepare a simple traveling wardrobe for me, and the materials will travel with us to London, where we can get proper advice on fashions.” She moved to the stairs. “I’ll just change my shoes, and then I’ll come and help with the supper.”
“So we’re not good enough for the likes of London folk,” Tilly muttered, throwing a carrot onto the board and attacking it with a sharp knife.
“I don’t think that,” Ari said, pausing on the stair, struck by another thought. “And you will be coming with me, Tilly. Has Lord Daunt said anything to you?”
“No, Miss Ari.” Tilly scraped the carrots into the steaming cauldron and began to chop an onion.
“Well, you may rest assured that you will be,” Ari declared. “I cannot go without female assistance, and who better than you to provide it. If you wish it, of course,” she added.
“Go to London, Miss Ari?” Tilly turned from the stove, her round cheeks flushed from the heat. “I’ll be afeard in that city, full of thieves and murderers, it is. But I’ll not let you go alone, miss.”
Ariadne smiled. “And I can promise you will not fall afoul of a thief or a murderer, Tilly. And, indeed, my dear, I don’t know how I should go on without you.”
She made her way up to the bedchamber. Here, too, everything was in order, the bed freshly made, a fire laid in the small hearth. She kicked off her shoes and slipped her feet into a pair of soft woolen slippers. Ordinarily, she would be looking forward to an evening by her own hearth. She often relished her own company and the quiet privacy of her own house, but tonight would be different. It would be a quiet evening by the conjugal hearth, with the husband who was husband only in name.
If he returned from the whorehouse, that is. Tears pricked her eyes again, and she blinked furiously.
She went to look out of the small window. It gave her a direct view across the bridge to the stone cottage where Ivor had gone, like any one of the village men in search of male pleasures while their women stayed by the hearth, stirring their suppers on the range. He had entered that cottage knowing she was watching him; that seemed the final insult. Although rationally, Ari didn’t know why it should make a difference. Why would it be better for him to sneak around behind her back?
Oh, it was insupportable, she thought on a fresh wave of miserable anger. She was supposed to sit here by the fire waiting for him to leave a whore’s bed and come home for his supper. She marched downstairs. “I’m going for a walk, Tilly.”
“Supper’ll be ready in an hour.” Tilly glanced over her shoulder. “Why’re you going out in your slippers?”
“The ground’s dry enough,” Ari responded, opening the front door. It was almost dusk, and a watchman was already moving around the village, lighting the pitch torches that filled the valley with light during the deepest recesses of the night. The inhabitants of Daunt valley didn’t like darkness and shadows. They sought the night’s invisibility up above, when they went about their dark work, but in their own valley, they didn’t trust the murky obscurity of shadowy corners.
She walked along the river, aware that the temperature had dropped and she was cold, a sharp breeze gusting across the water, sending little wavelets rippling against the bank. She folded her arms, hugging her chest, wishing she had thought to bring a shawl, but she wasn’t ready to go back to the cottage yet, although the prospect of its lantern-lit, fragrant warmth was enticing.
She heard a footstep behind her, and then, before she could turn, a woolen jacket encased her shoulders, redolent of Ivor’s familiar scent. He stepped up beside her. “It’s cold. Why aren’t you wearing a cloak or at least a shawl?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t think it was so windy when I left.”
“It seems logical, in that case, to turn back,” he pointed out. “Instead of walking farther away from home.”
“Home?” She increased her pace a little. “I don’t have my home anymore.”
He sighed. “It cannot be otherwise, Ari. And in my eyes, it is more your home now than mine. You are its mistress. Can you not accept that?”
“Oh, I can accept it perforce,” she said coldly. “And I suppose if you choose to spend most of your time over there . . .” She gestured across the bridge. “I suppose I will accept it even more readily.”
He stopped abruptly, putting a hand on her elbow. “What are you saying, Ari?”
She turned on him, her eyes glistening under the light of the torch overhead. “What am I saying? You know perfectly well what I am saying, Ivor. We part company, and immediately you go to the whorehouse. Did you enjoy your harlot? Did she satisfy your needs?”
He was suddenly very pale beneath the weather-beaten tan, his own eyes narrowed. “You have no right to question what I do, Ariadne.”
“Oh, really?” She lifted an incredulous eyebrow. “I must suffer because I did not come a virgin, pure as the driven snow, to your bed, and yet you have been with countless women, I am sure, and, judging by this afternoon, have every intention of being with countless more. Does that strike you as fair, Ivor? I fall in love with one man;
you have no feelings whatsoever for the woman whose bed you share. An exchange of favors, money for her body. Don’t you think there is something just faintly hypocritical about that?” She heard the words pouring from her in an angry, fluent torrent and couldn’t seem to stop them.
“It is the way of the world, Ariadne,” he said coldly, her bitter words inciting his own. “There is nothing hypocritical about it. I have needs, and my wife cannot satisfy them at present; therefore, I use the outlet available to me. A man is entitled to expect his bride to be a virgin. You, however, lost your virginity through an act of fornication, and as a result could be carrying another man’s child. I am prepared to forgive your fornication, and once you are certain you are not with child, then we will begin married life as if none of this had ever happened.”
Ariadne stared at him under the light of the torch. How could Ivor, the person she had grown up with, loved as her friend, shared her troubles with, listened to his confidences, soothed his hurts, how could he prate such pious, sanctimonious claptrap? Her rational mind told her he was only responding to her attack, but her rational mind was not in control at this moment.
“Can you hear yourself?” she demanded. “Can you hear what hypocritical nonsense is coming out of your mouth? You and I have never subscribed to such societal nonsense. My so-called fornication was no betrayal of you or of any promises I had made to anyone. I neither need nor want your forgiveness. I suggest you keep it for yourself.” She swung his jacket from her shoulders and thrust it at him. “And I don’t need this, either.”
She stalked away, leaving Ivor clutching his jacket, watching her retreating back, and cursing his insensitivity. He had thought he should assert himself. It was what was expected of him, and yet all he’d done was make a pompous fool of himself. Anger and frustration had driven him to the whorehouse, and he had wanted Ariadne to know it. But now, looking through Ari’s eyes, he saw it as an act of childish spite.
