Trapped at the Altar

by Jane Feather

  The sounds of music, voices raised in laughter and anger, and the raucous cries of barrow boys reached them as they drew close to Covent Garden. Forgetting the instability of her position for a moment, Ari leaned forward to see more clearly as they turned into the grand piazza. Crowds gathered in the long colonnades, and light blazed from the open doors of Drury Lane Theatre. She didn’t think she’d seen so many people in one place before, spilling from taverns, intimately entwined behind pillars, brawling on the cobbles, and her eyes grew larger with every new sight.

  The sedan stopped at the broad, shallow flight of steps leading up to the theatre. Ivor gave Ari his hand as she stepped daintily out of the chair, managing her wide skirts with one hand, her delicate chicken-skin fan with its beautifully painted ivory sticks dangling from her other wrist. She looked up the stairs into the brightly lit maw of the theatre. Lavishly dressed ladies and gentlemen moved up and down the steps, fluttering fans, talking excitedly, nodding at acquaintances. To her astonishment, she noticed that some of the ladies carried tiny dogs under their arms or peeping out from fur muffs. Dogs in Ari’s experience worked for a living; they weren’t carried around like pieces of jewelry.

  “So this is London,” she murmured. And indeed, this was the London she had imagined, this glittering stage set, rather than the inns and dirty alleyways, the crowded, noisy cobbled streets, the pathetic urchins and deformed beggars. The air in Covent Garden was heavy with perfume and the rich aromas of roasting meats, overlaid with the heady fumes of wine and brandy, mingled with smoke from the charcoal braziers where chestnuts were roasting under the colonnade. Beneath it all, somewhere, would be the fetid reeks of the city as she knew it, but here in this glittering piazza, they were not apparent.

  “Come.” Ivor offered his arm, smiling at her obvious fascination with the scene. “It’s even more magnificent within.”

  Once inside the pillared foyer, he spoke to a liveried footman, who with a bow and a murmured “This way, sir, my lady,” preceded them across the foyer and into a side passage, lit by sconced lamps and lined on one side by doors. Some of them were ajar, and Ari glimpsed slivers of the theatre itself as they went past. Their escort opened a door and stood aside. “Sir, my lady. Your box.”

  Ari stepped past him into a small, narrow box that hung out over the main body of the theatre. The stage was almost directly in front of her. The pit beneath the box was packed and noisy, mostly young men standing in groups, talking, laughing, drinking. Orange girls plied the aisles, their baskets of fruit hanging from their necks, calling their wares.

  She looked up along the boxes. Some were empty, but many were filled with fashionable ladies and their escorts, a vivid array of color, of sparkling jewels, amid the rise and fall of voices.

  “What d’you think of it, Ari?” Ivor was enjoying her astounded reaction. The scene was as new to him as to Ariadne, but he was not as enthralled by it. In many ways, he missed the simple life of the valley. There was something sugary and unreal about all this glitter covering a heaving cesspit of poverty-stricken misery.

  “It’s hard to believe there are so many people in this city,” she said with a half laugh, adding, “So many rich people, I mean. There’s plenty of the other kind.”

  “Indeed,” he agreed, pulling out a small gilt chair for her. Ari was not as blind to the realities of this city as he’d thought. “Pray be seated, my lady.”

  Ari sat down, raising her fan in a gesture that enabled her to look at the boxes around her without making it too obvious. “How much does a box like this cost?”

  “A lot, I expect, but this is a loan from Lord Lindsey, for our use while we are in town. He and his lady don’t use it anymore. Lady Lindsey is in somewhat fragile health, I gather. He’s happy for it to be used.”

  “Mmm.” Ari nodded thoughtfully. “He seems a most congenial relative, Ivor.”

  “There are ways in which I . . . or, rather, we can be of service to him. He is very aware of that.” Ivor turned as the door opened. “A bottle of Rhenish and some savory tartlets, if you please.”

  “How delightful.” Ari leaned forward, resting her arms on the edge of the box. “Oh, look, something’s happening.” A trumpet had sounded, and the crowd had risen as one body to its feet, all looking towards a central box, elaborately gilded and swagged with velvet.

  “Ah, it seems we are to be honored with the King’s presence,” Ivor said. “Try not to stare, Ari.”

  “Well, I’ve never seen the King,” she said stoutly, her eyes still fixed upon the royal box.

  “As it happens, neither have I.” Ivor stood just behind her, looking over her head from the shadows.

  The royal procession entered the box with another trumpet fanfare. The King wore a full periwig, falling in luxuriant black curls to his shoulders. He was accompanied by two women, both a-sparkle with precious gems, both magnificently gowned, their bosoms almost bare beneath the smattering of lace at the necklines. Their coiffures were dressed with yet more gems, and they waved fans languidly as they cast their eyes over the boxes.

  “Who are they?” Ari asked in a whisper.

  “The King’s favorites, I believe. Nell Gwyn and the Duchess of Portsmouth, Louise de Kéroualle. Of course, Nell is rather familiar with the stage,” Ivor added with a chuckle. “She’s made a remarkable ascension from orange girl to the King’s bed. ’Tis said he adores her.”

  Ariadne had heard tales even in the valley of the King’s favorites, and particularly of the erstwhile orange girl. “She’s a good actor, too, though, isn’t she?”

  “Was,” he corrected. “I don’t think she treads the boards anymore. The King has made her far too wealthy and has enobled their bastards. A mother on the stage would hardly be appropriate.”

  “And the Duchess? What of her? She’s not particularly beautiful, is she?”

  “No, but ’tis said she’s very clever, and his majesty values that. I suspect she’s also rather an accomplished bedfellow,” he added drily. “She also happens to be Catholic, which makes her unpopular in certain quarters.” He paused, then said, “If you receive an introduction, you should mention the Daunts’ Catholic affiliation.”

  “And what of Nell Gwyn? What is she?”

  Ivor laughed. “Ah, now, I heard a story. Apparently, one day, the lady Nell was traveling in her coach through a crowd, who turned nasty. The King’s debauched lifestyle is not hugely popular among his people. They surrounded the coach, shouting abuse, and Nell leaned out and said something along the lines of, ‘Good people, you are mistaken. I am the Protestant whore.’ ”

  Ariadne laughed. “I should like to meet her. I’m not so sure of the Duchess, but Mistress Gwyn sounds amusing.”

  “With luck, you will meet them both,” Ivor said. “The King is looking this way. Lean forward a little, flick a curl from your cheek . . . yes, that’s perfect.”

  “You sound like my pimp,” Ari said, only half laughing. “Am I supposed to seduce the King? That was never mentioned before.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Ariadne,” Ivor protested, his mouth thinning with annoyance. “You’re insulting. I wish you only to draw his attention. There is a reason we are here, if you remember. This is your grandfather’s wish, but you cannot hope to reestablish the reputation of your family by treating it as an insulting joke.”

  “I didn’t mean to insult you, Ivor,” Ari said swiftly. “I spoke without thought.”

  “You do that too often,” he stated. “Try to moderate your tongue . . . ah.” His tone changed. “I do believe you have attracted his majesty’s attention.”

  Ari watched from behind her fan as the King beckoned a footman from the back of the royal box. His majesty didn’t take his eyes from Ari’s box as he spoke to the man. The footman backed away, and the King leaned a little forward and smiled at Ariadne. There was no mistaking it. King Charles had smiled directly at her.

  Instinctively, she flicked her fan, smiled at him, then flicked it back to cover all but her eye
s. His majesty laughed and turned his attention to the stage, where the actors were beginning to assemble.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The actors on the stage began to speak, but to Ariadne’s astonished indignation, the hubbub in the audience didn’t diminish. She leaned forward in an attempt to hear what was happening on the stage below her. In the pit, the mostly male audience continued to chatter, to move around, to hail acquaintances and orange girls as if the stage were empty.

  “Why won’t they be quiet?” Ari demanded. “Some of us want to hear. Why doesn’t the King tell them to be quiet?”

  “He’s not exactly riveted by the play himself,” Ivor observed, turning his head as a knock sounded at the door to the box. “That’ll be the wine . . . Enter.”

  Instead of the usher with the wine and tartlets, however, it was a flunky in the King’s livery. He bowed. “His majesty requests madam’s presence in the royal box in the interval,” he stated in a monotone. “And that of her escort.” The last was a perfunctory addition, and he departed as suddenly as he’d come. Clearly, an answer was not expected.

  “So, let the games begin,” Ivor murmured, and Ari felt a shiver of apprehension not unmixed with excitement. She glanced towards the King’s box. Ivor was right. His majesty was chatting with his companions, taking scant notice of the action on the stage.

  The noise in the pit was subsiding now, and the actors could at last be heard, but Ari’s pleasure in the stage was diminished by the prospect of the upcoming royal audience. It seemed almost fanciful to imagine that she, of all people, the unruly daughter of an outlawed earl, ill schooled in the finer things of life, let alone the conduct and expectations of a royal audience, was about to be presented to King Charles himself. At least, she thought, she looked the part, which was some comfort, and after a while, the novelty of the play itself took over, and she lost herself in the witty dialogue and absurdity of the situation being played out before her.

  When the intermission began, the audience instantly started its conversational rounds once more, and the noise of voices rose from the pit. “So what do we do?” she asked Ivor in a whisper as she saw the King turn towards their box. His majesty raised a beringed hand and beckoned. As he did so, the door to their own box opened, and the flunky from before stood expectantly in the opening.

  “Sir, madam.” He bowed. “How are you to be introduced to his majesty?”

  “Sir Ivor and Lady Chalfont,” Ivor said smoothly, offering Ari his arm. He laid a hand lightly over hers in a gesture of encouraging reassurance as they followed the flunky along the corridor to the royal box. Doors to the other boxes stood open now, and gentlemen were moving between them, paying social calls. Ari noticed that the women were not on the move. Only the gentlemen, it seemed, paid calls at the theatre. Except, of course, for a summons to the royal box.

  The royal box had double doors, and these stood open, flunkies on either side. King Charles was standing with his back to the theatre, a chased silver goblet in his hand, the other resting on the head of a spaniel sitting in the royal chair. He was laughing at something one of the ladies had said, but as soon as Ari and her escort appeared, he turned the full force of his attention upon them.

  “Sir Ivor and Lady Chalfont, your majesty.” The flunky announced them without expression.

  “So, a beautiful newcomer to our theatre,” Charles declared, extending a hand. “Lady Chalfont, where have you sprung from?”

  Ariadne curtsied as low as she dared without falling over, her lips brushing the royal hand in homage. “From Somerset, sire. My husband and I are but newly arrived in London.”

  “Indeed . . . indeed.” He made a gesture to her to rise and turned to Ivor. “Sir, I bid you welcome to our fair city.”

  Ivor bowed over the royal hand. “Your majesty is most gracious.”

  Charles indicated his companions. “Her grace of Portsmouth and Mistress Gwyn are pleased to receive you. We enjoy the company of newcomers, is that not so, ladies?” He smiled benignly at his companions.

  Ariadne curtsied low to both ladies, who responded with sketched curtsies of their own. Ivor bowed and received smiles in his turn.

  “So, what brings you all the way from Somerset, Sir Ivor?” Mistress Gwyn inquired from behind her fan. “Is it not a wilderness of a place?”

  “Some parts, perhaps, madam.”

  The King frowned. “ ’Tis damned lawless in parts. I hear little good about the people of the West Country.”

  “I trust, sire, that you hear only good of my husband’s family,” Ariadne murmured, mentally crossing her fingers. She could only hope that his majesty didn’t inquire too closely into her own lawless antecedents. She took her example from Mistress Gwyn and peeped at him over her fan. “They are loyal subjects of your Protestant majesty.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Charles said with a vague dismissive gesture. “And we are always delighted to see new faces at our court. I trust you will attend my lady wife, madam, when she holds audience. I will ensure you receive a particular summons.”

  “You do me too much honor, sire.” Ari curtsied again. The spaniel on the King’s chair lifted its head and jumped down, coming to Ariadne, sniffing at her skirts. Ari automatically bent to stroke the animal’s head, lifting the heavy, silken ears with a practiced touch. The dog pushed her nose into Ari’s palm, and the King chuckled.

  “By God, she likes you, my lady. Miss Sarah here is very particular in whom she takes to. You have a liking for dogs?”

  “Indeed, sir. I grew up with them. Hunting dogs for the most part, but I have hand-reared several puppies.”

  “Have you, now?” The king beamed. He bent to pick up the spaniel, handing her to Ariadne. The dog instantly licked her face, and the King’s beam grew wider. “Tell me more of yourself, my lady.”

  Gabriel sat dazed amid the hurly-burly raucous crowd in the pit, his eyes riveted on the King’s box above him. The disturbance in the royal box in the interval had drawn many curious eyes, and he was not the only one assessing the newcomer. But he was the only member of the audience in the pit who knew who she was. She was here. Ariadne, his Ariadne, was here, and she was talking to the King.

  He had known he would see her eventually. Their paths had to cross in the few square miles of the city inhabited by fashionable London, and yet, despite telling himself this, he had sometimes despaired of ever finding her. He hadn’t known how to begin to search for her, except to visit the places where she might be found. And tonight he had found her.

  But she didn’t look like his Ariadne. She was a radiant lady of the court, alight with jewels, the lithe, slender body he could still sometimes in his dreams feel between his hands now encased in turquoise and black, a dramatic counterpoint to the dusky pearl-threaded curls framing her face. But the face was the same. He couldn’t see her eyes clearly at this distance—the brilliance of the many candles in the royal box blurred her image—but he knew their gray clarity as if it were embossed on his mind’s eye.

  And the man beside her, the man whose hand rested lightly but without undoubted possession on her arm? Her husband. And Gabriel felt strangely diminished by the man’s sheer physical presence. He was dressed richly but without ostentation, and Gabriel felt instantly that the heavy, gold-embossed fob he wore in the lacy fall of his own cravat was almost vulgar.

  And he could never hope to stand where they stood now, in the King’s intimate presence. Ari was talking so easily to his majesty, a dog cradled naturally in her arms, one hand—oh, how he remembered her hands, so strong, so sensitive, so quick to arouse him—pulling at the animal’s ears as she talked to the King with as much ease as if she were talking to a close friend.

  Gabriel burned with longing and with resentment. This was not how it was supposed to be. He was here to rescue her from a forced marriage, to take her away to live the life they had promised each other. And for the first time since their parting, he wondered if she had forgotten about him.

  He pushed his way out o
f the pit, out of the theatre, into the brisk, cold night air. He would wait for them to come out.

  Ari’s head was beginning to ache with the heat in the box from the many candles and the heavy perfumes worn by both men and women, which barely disguised the musky smell of overheated flesh in the richly elaborate damasks and velvets. Her gown seemed suddenly too heavy and constricting, but she managed to keep a smile on her face as she set Miss Sarah back on her chair.

  “Madam, I will ensure that the Queen sends you an invitation to attend her,” Charles said again, in a tone that contained dismissal as he held out his hand. “And I shall much look forward to renewing our acquaintance.”

  Ari curtsied deeply over the royal hand and rose slowly as he turned his attention to her husband. “We shall see you at court, Sir Ivor. Attend one of my morning receptions.”

  Ivor bowed his appreciation of the order and backed out of the box. Ari followed suit, desperate to escape the suffocating atmosphere.

  “Your direction, Sir Ivor?” The flunky intercepted them as they moved away.

  “Dacre Street,” Ivor responded, aware suddenly that Ari was leaning heavily on his arm. He looked sharply at her. She was very pale. “You don’t look well, Ari. Do you want to stay for the rest of the play?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think I can take any more of this noise and crowd and heat. I need air.”

  He said nothing, merely steered her down the corridor and back into the foyer. It was as noisy and crowded as it had been before the play, but outside on the steps, the cold winter air was instantly reviving.

  “I think I’m hungry,” Ari decided as she took a deep, cold breath. “The meat pie was a long time ago, and the tartlets weren’t substantial enough for a kitten.”