by Jane Feather
“I don’t know.” He blew out the candle and climbed into bed beside her. “I only know that sometimes I feel that I’m playing second fiddle. I don’t know which of your responses I can trust anymore.”
“You didn’t feel that this morning,” she said, lying still, feeling cold and adrift.
“No, but I wasn’t thinking this morning. My body wants you, Ari, but my mind tells me to be careful. If you love this man as deeply as you say, then whatever we do in the ways of love cannot mean anything . . . anything that really matters. You are my wife. I want my wife’s loyalty and love. And when I’m reminded that I don’t have it, then I feel that the act of love is merely going through the motions.”
“As if you were in the whorehouse, you mean?” It was a bitter question, an attempt to protect herself from the hurt he was inflicting.
Ivor said nothing for a long moment, in which Ari regretted she had ever let her tongue speak those words. Finally, he said, “Shall we agree that you didn’t say that, Ariadne?”
“Yes, please,” she said softly, rolling onto her side facing away from him. But was it still the truth? Did she simply enjoy lovemaking with Ivor for the sake of it, for the pleasure it brought her? Did Ivor enjoy the act simply for the ephemeral pleasure it brought him? Were they just so good together in the ways of love that she could forget Gabriel?
No. It couldn’t be possible. The pleasure she took with Gabriel was so different. It was poetic. They talked all the time, and in his company she saw the world differently. She saw colors differently; they were brighter, more vivid. The world even smelled different.
With Ivor, it was a hard, defined world, the lines clear, black, white, gray. There were truths and realities in her world with Ivor, dreams and promises in Gabriel’s landscapes. And truth and reality were the cards she had been dealt.
And somewhere in the back of her mind glimmered the thought that Ivor’s world was and always had been hers. The pastel, fuzzy-edged world of loving Gabriel was such a new experience it had entranced her, offered her a glimpse of a fairy tale.
SEVENTEEN
Gabriel Fawcett was exhausted, swaying in his saddle, as he rode through New Gate into the raucous hurly-burly of England’s capital city. Fear had spurred him on the road from Somerset, and it had been almost a week before he had stopped looking over his shoulder at every crossroads and had slept without waking at every creak of a floorboard in the various noisome hostelries that had given him a bed. But he had detected no sign of a Daunt pursuit and was beginning to allow himself to believe that he was in no more danger than any other traveler alone on the unruly roadways.
The city overwhelmed him. His father had given him directions and an introduction to a merchant acquaintance of his from many years past. He had to find his way to Lincoln’s Inn Fields where the lawyers congregated. There he would be able to find his father’s lawyer and exchange his letter of credit for guineas to furnish him with lodgings and a new coat and britches before he presented himself to Master Ledbetter, the merchant, on Threadneedle Street. His father had assured him that Master Ledbetter would furnish him with an introduction to King Charles’s court. After that, it was up to Gabriel to make the best use of the opportunies that arose.
For a young man, country born and bred, the prospect was terrifying. But it was at court that he would find Ariadne. She had told him that she and her new husband were to establish themselves at Whitehall, and he had told her in his note to look for him there.
He intended to keep that promise. Once they were together again, then he would know what to do. But what of her husband? What of Sir Ivor Chalfont? What kind of man was he?
And more to the point, would he be willing to let his wife go?
Gabriel shuddered. It wasn’t the first time he’d asked himself these questions. Chalfont came out of Daunt valley. It was a fair assumption that he would not simply stand aside when another man claimed his wife. But that was a problem for another day. For now, he needed supper and a bed for the night. When he was fed and rested, his next steps would be clearer. Besides, Ari would probably have a plan. She usually did.
A tavern at the sign of the Black Cock caught his attention as it swung creakily in a gust of wind issuing from a narrow lane just ahead. It would do as well as any other, he thought, instinctively checking his deep pocket for the reassuring bulk of his pistol. His sword was sheathed at his waist, a short dagger buckled to his belt. He could look after himself even in such a dingy hole as the Black Cock, and he desperately needed to sleep.
He reined in his drooping horse and, with a courage he was far from feeling, stuck his head around the inn door and bellowed for the innkeeper.
Ariadne sat on a boulder beside the rutted track, rain dripping down the neck of her cloak, waiting for the men to change the broken wheel on the coach. They seemed to have been journeying in increasing misery for months, although it had only been three weeks. They had left the great Druid stones of Salisbury Plain behind them days ago, the last sunny day she could recall. It seemed to have been raining ever since.
Tilly perched beside her, huddled in her various layers, shivering and silent. The horses waited patiently, heads bowed against the rain, while the men labored with the heavy coach. The luggage was piled on the side of the road to make the job easier, but it was an enormous task nevertheless.
Ivor finally made an appearance through the rain, Turk seeming to emerge from a gray curtain, a ghostly black mammoth of a creature. Ari stood up and waited for them to get closer.
“There’s not much up ahead,” Ivor said, drawing rein beside her. “But there’s a barn of sorts and a couple of tumbledown sheds. It’ll shelter us from the rain, at least, and we can build a fire while we wait for the coach to be ready.”
Ariadne glanced up at the rain-sodden sky. “It’ll be dark soon.”
“Then we’ll have to stay there ’till daybreak,” he said briskly. “Come now, Ari, it’s not like you to lose heart.”
“I’m not,” she denied, “but I’m cold and wet to the bone, as are we all.”
“Then mount up and follow me. I’ll have a fire lit soon enough.” He rode over to the coach to talk to the laboring men.
“Can you get on Sphinx, Tilly?” Ari led the horse over to the boulder. “Stand on the rock and climb up behind me.” She mounted, holding the horse steady as Tilly scrambled onto his back behind her. Ivor nodded and took the lead, heading along the track the way he’d come.
The barn was little more than a rough shack, which, judging by the smell, had once housed goats. It had a loft, though, reached through a rickety ladder. “We can sleep up there,” Ari said instantly. “And the men can stay down here. The horses can bed down in the sheds over there.”
“There should be enough dry bedding inside the coach.” Ivor was relieved to see Ariadne return to her usual assertive self. She’d looked such a miserable, half-drowned waif when he’d seen her on her rock a few minutes earlier that he’d felt a stab of anxiety. She was such a diminutive creature, she’d looked as if a puff of wind would blow her away, huddled and shivering in her soaked cloak.
“Tilly and I will light a fire, if you get some of the men to bring in the bags that have bedding and provisions.” She unclasped her sodden cloak, holding it away from her with an air of distaste. “If we can get a really good fire going, maybe we can dry some of this stuff.”
“Can’t light a fire without wood,” Tilly stated, looking around. “Where are we goin’ to find dry timber around here?”
“I’ll check the sheds,” Ivor said swiftly. It wouldn’t do for Tilly to lose heart, either. “Stay here. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Ariadne climbed the rickety ladder to the loft. The roof seemed intact, and it was dry, at least, and the floor, although dusty, seemed clean enough. “We’re in luck, Tilly,” she called down. “There’s a pile of straw here, and it doesn’t seem too moldy. Come on up and help me fashion a mattress.”
Tilly climbed the ladder, her
head poking through the hole in the floor as she surveyed the loft. “Certainly seems dry enough,” she conceded, bringing the rest of her body into the low space. She tackled the straw, and Ari left her to it, going back down just as Ivor returned with an armful of wood.
“It’s damp, but I think it’ll take eventually.” He dropped the wood in the center of the shed. “We need something to get it to light.”
“If we break that up . . .” Ari pointed to a wooden feeding trough. “It would act as kindling. It seems dry enough.”
Within an hour, the fire was lit, and the men came in, divesting themselves of their dripping cloaks. The coach, newly mended, was outside, the horses tethered in the sheds with nose bags.
Tilly was stirring the aromatic contents of a large copper kettle set on a trivet over the fire. She looked up as the men entered and said sharply, “Before you all get too comfortable, someone fetch me the sack of potatoes from the coach and that bag o’ flour. These rabbits had little enough on ’em to feed us all, but a few potatoes and some nice ’erb dumplings will bulk it up. Oh,” she added, as one of the men turned to go outside again. “And I think I spotted some carrot tops over by the side of that shed. Overgrown, most like, left over from someone’s garden, but better than nothing, I reckon. And,” she added as an afterthought over her shoulder, “more water, if I’m to make dumplings.”
Tilly’s word was law on this journey. She was the source of all domestic comfort, dispensing food, medicine, and advice freely, and she seemed to relish her role. It was vastly different from her subservient position in Daunt valley, where, like most of the women, her job was to keep her mouth shut and do as she was told while attending to the men’s needs.
Two of the men set up a beer keg in one corner of the shack, and the men gathered around with pitch-coated leather tankards. Ivor opened a flagon of wine and poured two cups. “Ari?” He held out one cup.
“Thank you.” She took it, drawing closer to the fire.
“Are you warmer now?” he asked, standing beside her.
“Yes, much. And if we can keep the fire in all night, we should have dry clothes by morning.” Cloaks were spread out around the fire, steaming gently. She would have liked to change out of her damp riding habit, but their quarters were too crowded and confined to make that practical.
“We’ll keep it in,” Ivor assured her. “The men will sleep around it, and someone will have sufficient interest in keeping it fed.” He drank from his cup, staring sightlessly into the fire.
Ariadne hugged her arms around her, taking occasional sips from her cup, wondering how this strange awkwardness had come upon them. They were uncomfortable with each other, their conversations stilted at best but mostly just simple exchanges of information or instruction. Ivor was no longer the careless, happy-go-lucky companion of her childhood or the comfortable confidant of later years. And the memory of those few nights of lovemaking was so distant and indistinct they might not have happened at all. Ever since that night when he’d said that without her feeling love, making love meant nothing to him, he had made no move to touch her, even when their sleeping arrangements afforded them the privacy. Every night, she dutifully took a spoonful of Tilly’s potion, but she was beginning to wonder if there was any point to it anymore. She was certainly in no danger of conceiving at the moment.
She moved away from him as the men came back with Tilly’s shopping list, and taking out her knife, began to peel potatoes. At least while she was doing something useful, she felt less bereft. She could feel Ivor’s eyes on her as she bent to her task, but after a moment, he turned away from the fire and went to join the men at the beer keg.
Tilly glanced once at Ariadne, a sharp, shrewd assessment, before she returned to chopping ancient, wrinkled carrots and their green tops into the stew. Most nights, she slept in the same space as the married couple. When they were lucky enough to find an inn with a separate bedchamber, she slept on a mattress outside the door. But she was fairly certain that for the last several weeks, there had been little activity in the marriage bed. Miss Ari was looking peaky and unhappy, Sir Ivor sometimes black as a thunder sky.
The rain began to let up as night fell. Ivor lit the lanterns, and the little shack took on qualities of warmth and comfort and safety that in the daylight would have seemed impossible. Tilly dished up rabbit stew and dumplings, the beer and wine flowed, and the Daunt men ate and drank, sang and joked, leaning back on piles of baggage, as easy and comfortable as if at their own fireside.
These men had spent many a worse night, Ariadne reflected, watching them from her own corner of the fire. They had sat out on frozen beaches with their lanterns, drawing ships onto the rocks; they had raided farms at black of night, they had robbed horsemen and carriages on the wilds of Bodmin Moor and returned to the valley at dawn, as merry as Robin Hood’s men. Although none of their spoils went from the rich to the poor.
She stole a glance at Ivor. He, too, seemed at his ease, as if he’d shared in those dubious adventures, but he never had. He had never been included in anything outside the law, and now, of course, they knew why. They were to be respectable, their respectability based on a midden of ill-gotten gains. Her mouth twisted at the cynical reflection. But it could be argued that without the repression and persecution of Cromwell’s Protectorate, the Daunt family would have continued on the path of righteousness.
It could be argued.
She drained her wine cup and stood up. “Tilly, we should go to bed.”
Tilly, who was dozing happily in the warmth, soothed by a tankard of beer, blinked and nodded, hauling herself to her feet. “Right, Miss Ari.”
Ivor stood up. “Are you going to bed?”
“It’s time,” Ariadne said. “And we should make an early start.”
He nodded. “I’ll sleep down here with the men tonight. We should be safe enough, but we’ll set a guard anyway.” He moved to the ladder, holding it steady for her as she stepped onto the bottom rung. “I’ll call you at dawn.”
She nodded. “Good night, then.” Her tone was bleak, but she turned her face away from him and climbed up into the loft, Tilly following behind.
Ivor stood for a moment, his hand on the ladder. He ached to go up to her, ached to hold her again, just to feel her warm against him as she slept. But there was a coldness in his breast that wouldn’t melt. He knew he was punishing them both with this restraint—or rejection, he wasn’t sure what to call it—but he couldn’t seem to help himself.
He couldn’t let down his guard and simply enjoy what she would give him. It wasn’t enough. Long ago, he had believed that the people who cared for him, who told him they loved him, had meant it. He had believed their caresses were true expressions of love and protection. At the age of six, he had discovered the lie, abandoned with no warning among hostile strangers by the people he had trusted. He wasn’t prepared to make the same mistake twice. He could not trust Ariadne to be true to him; she had told him as much. He needed to know that she was bound to him not by duty or the need to make the best of the situation but because she wanted to be, needed to be. Because she loved him truly and not just in the ways of friendship.
He would not love alone. He could not afford to be so vulnerable again.
EIGHTEEN
They approached the city just before dusk on a mild November day by the road to New Gate. The road was wide enough for two-way traffic, and the Daunt party met a stream of carts, carriages, and horsemen leaving the city for the evening before the gates were closed at curfew.
Tilly sat wide-eyed on her seat on the box by the coachman as the procession of folk of every class and creed flowed past them. Merchants in fine linen jostled with barrow boys in filthy jerkins, farmers drove empty carts, their day’s produce sold, and milkmaids drove cows and goats back from the city, where they had been selling fresh milk to the city’s inhabitants.
The stone edifice of New Gate reared up before them, their entrance through the city walls into the strange and unknow
n life within its warren of lanes and alleyways, busy markets, and quieter green spaces through which the mighty River Thames flowed, as bustling a thoroughfare as any of the main London streets.
Ariadne was too busy for a few moments calming Sphinx, who was objecting vigorously to the crowds around him, to take much stock of her surroundings as they passed through the double roadway of the gate. She was aware of the foul stink, however, emanating from the grim buildings of the prison piled atop the gate and stretching to either side. And she could hear the mournful wails of the prisoners drifting from barred windows onto the fetid air of the late afternoon.
Ivor rode just ahead of her. His back was ramrod straight, his eyes everywhere. He spoke to the watchmen in the gatehouse, showing the safe conduct pass that Lord Daunt had given him, one of a package of letters of introduction intended to smooth their path in this alien land. The watchmen waved them through, the last travelers to enter the city before they closed the gates in the wall until daybreak.
The street that took them within the walls was teeming with activity, even though the gates were now closed. Sphinx bridled and pranced as an iron-wheeled carriage pulled by a team of great cart horses emerged from an alleyway. The coachman cursed as he saw that the gates were closed, a fluent stream of violent language pouring from his lips. Tilly cowered, pulling the hood of her cloak tighter over her head.
“I suppose you know where we’re going?” Ari asked, bringing Sphinx up beside Turk.
