Ivor drew rein outside Ariadne’s stone cottage. It was in the middle of the village, close to the wooden bridge that spanned the river. She had been born in the cottage and lived there with her mother until Martha had died of typhoid fever when her daughter was eleven. Her father had lived there only nominally, most of his time being spent with the other men of the family and more often than not with one or other of the ladies of pleasure who were brought into the valley to serve its menfolk. It was the way of Daunt valley, simple and efficient.
Ari slipped to the ground before Ivor could offer a helping hand and without a word went into the house. She had nothing to say, and Ivor made no attempt to break the silence, turning his horse to the stables, his expression grim.
“Oh, where ever have you been, miss? Everyone’s been a-lookin’ for you. It’s the wake feast tonight—”
“I know that, Tilly.” Ari interrupted the girl before she could get started. In Tilly’s world, every little event was a cause for excitement and anticipation, unless it was fearful in some way. Once she wound herself up, there would be no unwinding her until she’d reached the end of the spool. “Is there any food?”
She realized she was ravenous, hardly surprising since she hadn’t eaten since just after daybreak, and it was now dusk.
“There’ll be the feast in an hour,” Tilly pointed out, carefully pressing her flat iron into the intricate ruffles of a pair of lace-edged sleeves.
“Yes, I know, but I cannot wait an hour.” Ariadne began opening cupboard doors in the one room that served as kitchen and living room. “We had some cheddar, Tilly. I know we did.”
Tilly set her flat iron back on the hearth. She was a round, plump-cheeked girl, with small, merry blue eyes, a year or two younger than Ariadne. With a flourish, she lifted the lid on a cheese dome on the plain pine table, declaring, “Right afore your eyes, miss.” Then she flushed and looked abashed. “Lady Ariadne, I should say.”
“Why should you?” Ari looked askance as she cut a slice of cheese. Lady Ariadne was far too much of a ceremonial mouthful for daily use in the valley, and it was almost never used except on formal occasions in Council.
“Lord Daunt said as how we should all give you your correct title, miss. Now that you’re to be wed, you being your grandfather’s heiress.”
Ariadne frowned at the connection but then gave an internal shrug. It was the bald truth, after all. The marriage and the fact of her inheritance were inextricably entwined, so why deny it? “Well, I’d rather you didn’t when we’re private, Tilly,” she said through a mouthful of cheese. “Is there some of that pickle somewhere? The black one that goes so well with cheddar?”
Patiently, Tilly reached into a cupboard and set a jar of pickled vegetables on the table. “Where it always is, Miss Ari.” She eased off the tight lid, and the aromatic spicy fragrance filled the air.
“Forgive me, I’m not thinking straight today.” She cut another hunk of cheese and spread it with the thick, dark mixture.
Tilly nodded sagely. “No wonder, miss, so soon as it is after his lordship’s death.”
Ari agreed with a quick smile of thanks as she ate the cheese and pickle. Her makeshift meal cried out for a tankard of dark October ale, but the wine would flow too freely this evening, and she had no desire to put herself at a disadvantage she could avoid.
“You’ll be getting dressed, then, miss?” Briskly, Tilly put away the cheese and sealed the jar of pickle, clearly indicating that Ari had dallied long enough. “I’ll fetch some hot water for you.” She looked at her mistress closely. “Looks like you could do with a wash.”
Ariadne could have guessed how she looked even without Ivor’s blunt assessment earlier, but she wasn’t about to go into explanations with Tilly. She liked her, enjoyed her company, and appreciated her help, but she wouldn’t burden her with a confidence she would find hard to keep. “I was walking above and lost track of the time,” she said vaguely. “I had to run back.”
Tilly seemed to find this perfectly acceptable and went to the range to fill a bowl with hot water from the steaming kettle on the hob. She set it on the table. “I’ll fetch soap and towel. Your gown is all ready for you.”
“My thanks, Tilly.” Ariadne kicked off her slippers and sat on a stool to unroll her woolen stockings. They were torn at the heel, she noticed, and a moment came to her, vivid as if it were happening now, of digging her stockinged feet into the moss against a tree root as she moved her body in rhythm with Gabriel’s, a swift rhythm building to a glorious crescendo.
She balled them up as Tilly set soap and towel on the table beside the bowl of water. “These need darning at the heel, Tilly. They must have worn thin.” She tossed them into the wicker mending basket beside the range, then stood up to shrug off her jacket and unbutton her now less-than-pristine white shirt. Her skirt followed suit and then her chemise and petticoat. Naked, she dipped a washcloth into the basin and sponged her body, aware of how sweaty and grimy she was. She needed a full dip in the copper tub rather than this spit and polish of a wash, but there was no time for such luxury this evening.
She dried herself briskly on the rough towel before stepping into a crisply starched white cambric petticoat and then a low-necked cambric chemise edged with lace. “You’ll need another two petticoats, Miss Ari, for the gown to fall properly.” Tilly took the stiff garments from the large oak linen press in the far corner of the chamber.
Ari pulled a face. She disliked wearing so many undergarments, but she could not appear dressed without ceremony at her grandfather’s wake. It would be considered outrageously disrespectful. She let Tilly drop the garments over her head and tie the ribbons at her waist. She peered down at herself as she adjusted the décolleté neckline of the chemise to show just the beginning swell of her breasts. Unfortunately, she was so ill favored in that area of her anatomy that there was very little to show for her efforts, she reflected disgustedly. Why couldn’t she have taken after her mother instead of some obscure, tiny-boned, vertically challenged ancestor? Her mother had been robust, with an ample bosom and wide hips. Her father had been a typical Daunt. Tall, powerful, muscular, strong enough to pull an oxcart if it were required of him.
And between them, those two had produced this diminutive creature. Well, at least she could do without a corset, she reflected. It would do nothing for her at all. That was one small mercy. She stood still as Tilly draped the gold-embroidered cream silk underskirt over the petticoats and fastened it at her waist, then maneuvered a dark crimson silk gown over her head. The gown was looped at the sides to reveal the cream and gold underskirt, and the full sleeves ended at her elbows.
“I’ll fetch the sleeve ruffs.” Tilly brought over the lacy ruffles that she had been ironing with such care. “Here they are, and beautifully pressed, if I says so myself,” she declared, buttoning them to the gown’s sleeves so that they fell in soft, creamy folds down to Ari’s wrists. “Beautiful you look, miss.”
Ariadne fiddled with the lace-edged neckline of her gown. It was so wide it almost slipped off her shoulders, exposing what felt like a very chilly expanse of white skin. “If this is supposed to offer alluring hints of my bosom, it’s not very successful,” she remarked. “There’s nothing really to hint at.”
“Well, maybe so, miss.” Tilly was ever realistic. “But the gown looks right pretty on you anyway, and you can always pretend there’s summat underneath.”
Ariadne couldn’t help but laugh. It was all too absurd. The whole business was a farce. Why not imagine she had breasts like two bubbling puddings bursting from a low décolletage?
Her lack of curves hadn’t troubled Gabriel, after all, and Ivor had never made any critical comments. Her laughter died on her lips. Just for a few moments, she had forgotten her present troubles.
“Summat the matter, miss?” Tilly asked with concern. “You look as if someone walked over your grave.”
Ari shook her head. “Oh, maybe someone did, Tilly. It’s passed now, anyway.” She ran her fingers through her tousled hair. “So what are we to do about this tangle?”
“Oh, it’ll brush out soon enough, miss. Then we’ll put it up in a knot and tease a few ringlets out. Your hair’s so thick and curly it always looks pretty. You sit down at the table, and I’ll fetch the brush and combs.” She disappeared up the narrow staircase at the corner of the room that led up to the small, simply furnished sleeping chamber. It was more of a sleeping loft than a real bedchamber, the sloping eaves making it hard for anyone much taller than Ariadne to stand upright.
Ariadne took a small hand mirror from the mantel shelf. It was a precious possession, a piece of silver-backed glass, somewhat spotted with age but nevertheless highly prized. She stared at her reflection, seeing the gray eyes look back at her. What did other people see when they looked at her? she wondered. It was an interesting thought. She gave so little attention to her appearance in general, it had never occurred to her to wonder about other people’s impressions.
“Here we are, then, and I’ve found some lovely velvet ribbon, too.” Tilly’s wooden-soled clogs clattered on the staircase as she hurried down into the living room, flourishing a length of crimson velvet ribbon. “Look perfect this will in your black hair, miss.”
Ariadne sat at the table, holding the hand mirror so that she could watch Tilly’s progress. The girl’s fingers moved swiftly, teasing out the ringlets with one hand as she brushed with the other, until Ari’s hair, black as a raven’s wing, took on the almost purple sheen of a deep midnight sky. Tilly twisted the long strands into a thick knot that she piled high, securing it with silver-headed pins before tying the velvet ribbon around the knot, fastening an artful bow at the back. The glossy black ringlets curled around Ari’s ears, trembled against her cheeks, and gathered at the nape of her neck.
“There, now.” Tilly nodded her satisfaction. “Beautiful, Miss Ari. What about the emerald pendant to set off your betrothal ring?”
She had to wear the ring, of course, Ariadne remembered. Since her grandfather had watched Ivor put it on her finger, she had shut it away in the small box where she kept the very few pieces of jewelry her mother had given her, but tonight she must wear it. “Fetch the box, will you, Tilly?”
Tilly clattered back up the stairs and came back with the japanned box. Ariadne opened it and looked at the contents. The emerald pendant would go beautifully with the gown and, of course, the ring, as Tilly had pointed out. There were also matching ear drops. She took them out, holding them on the palm of her hand, and then, with a grim little smile, she screwed them into her earlobes. In for a penny, in for a guinea.
She fastened the pendant at her throat, watching the way the light caught it as it rested against the white skin above the cleft of her breasts, seeming to lead the eye down to what lay concealed beneath the lacy neckline. And good luck to the voyeur, she thought, before slipping the heavy ring on her finger.
“Well, I’m ready.”
“Not until you put some shoes on,” a voice said calmly from behind her. Ivor had opened the door without ceremony, just as if nothing were out of the ordinary. They had been running in and out of each other’s house for years, and his sudden appearance now seemed to imply that nothing had changed. He stepped into the room, still holding the door latch. “Do you know you have bare feet, Ari?”
His voice sounded normal, none of the icy bitterness of earlier, and she felt a wash of relief at the lightly amused tone, even though she knew it was an act, one they had to put on for the evening. This was no time to show them-selves publicly estranged. She turned on her stool, forcing herself to adopt the same tone, the easy familiarity of their usual discourse. “Actually, for the moment, I had forgotten. You look very splendid, Ivor.”
It was true, he did. Instead of his usual leather britches, linen shirt, woolen jerkin, and riding boots, he wore black velvet britches, buttoned below the knee, plain black stockings, and a gold silk coat with flared skirts. His shoe buckles sparked silver, and his chestnut hair, usually tied at his nape, now curled in a shining fall on his collar.
“Lord, Miss Ari, you’ve got no stockings on, neither,” Tilly exclaimed, flinging up her hands. “What can I have been thinking?”
“Don’t blame yourself, Tilly. I was the one getting dressed,” Ariadne replied with a shake of her head. “I’d better wear the silk pair, don’t you think?”
“I’ll wait outside.” Ivor stepped back into the darkening evening, closing the door firmly. At least Ari had followed his cue. This evening was going to be difficult enough as it was without making their estrangement too obvious to the elders of the Council, or indeed to anyone in the village. Ari was about to have the ground cut from beneath her feet, and he dreaded to think how she was going to react, but he didn’t dare to prepare her ahead of time. The whole object of the exercise, distasteful though he found it, was to ensure that she couldn’t bolt.
Ari hitched her skirts and petticoats up to her knees to draw on the silk stockings. She tied the garters just above her knee and then slipped her feet into red silk slippers. She stood up, shaking down her skirts. “How do I look, Tilly?”
“Perfect, miss. Sir Ivor is a lucky man.” Tilly smoothed down a fold in the skirt and adjusted a ruff at Ari’s wrist as she spoke, adding wistfully, “Just think, miss, next week you’ll be a married lady. Aren’t you excited?”
Ari contented herself with a vague smile and a muttered response that could have meant anything. She went to open the cottage door.
Ivor looked her over with a quizzical smile as she appeared. “You certainly brush up well, my dear.”
“I could say the same of you,” she responded, laying her hand on his proffered sleeve. “I can’t remember when I last saw you dressed so elegantly.”
He raised an eyebrow. “One must make an effort on occasion.”
“Indeed.”
He was referring to rather more than dress, she knew, and she accepted the truce. It was necessary for the moment. Nothing had changed since that acrimonious exchange a few hours ago, but since it seemed possible for them to slip into their old ways as if nothing had occurred to change them, she would be grateful for it.
The path to the Council house was lit with sconced torches at regular intervals along the riverbank, and as they approached the house, the sounds of laughter and music burst from the open doors. A wake was a party, after all. A celebration of a life well lived. Old Lord Daunt would have wanted nothing less.
It was clear as they stepped into the hubbub that everyone was waiting for them. Slowly, the noise died down, and Rolf, Lord Daunt, came towards them, the crowd parting for him. “So, niece, and you, Ivor Chalfont, we meet over the body of my brother to fulfill his most treasured wish, that our two families unite in peace to retake our rightful place in the world. This was his will, and it is now mine.” He gestured over his shoulder, and a man in the cassock of a priest stepped forwards, one of Rolf’s brothers on either side of him. Whether they were holding him up or merely escorting him was hard to tell.
Ivor felt sorry for the poor man, who looked ashen with terror, as well he might. There were no resident men of God in the valley, so presumably, he’d been carried off in the middle of the afternoon from his peaceful vicarage by a pair of armed ruffians and ordered to perform a wedding ceremony in the devil’s den.
“I see nothing to be gained by waiting for seven days, so we will celebrate the marriage now, a culmination of all that my brother worked towards during his life. Step forward.”
Ariadne felt Ivor’s hand tighten on hers, a hard, affirming grip, as he drew her forwards into the center of the room. She looked at him, her eyes filled with fury. Did he know? And she saw in his own dark gaze no surprise but just a flicker of something like apology. It was clear that he had known, that this outrage was with his full agreement. She pulled at her hand, but his grip was now a vise, and the crowd was forming a tight circle around them. They stood alone in the middle, the priest in front of them. Ari’s eyes darted to the dais at the end of the room, where her grandfather’s coffin sat, stark.
Rolf had a reason for this extraordinary haste . . . did he suspect anything? She thought of Gabriel, and her heart went cold. Had they discovered him? Could Ivor have betrayed her? Or was it simply because of what she had said that morning, when she had refused to comply with her grandfather’s will? They wanted to make sure of her before she could do anything to prevent it. Her thoughts raced at frantic speed, but her eyes were blank, hiding her inner turmoil. If they suspected anything about Gabriel, then the best thing she could do was to get this wedding over with. Once she was married to Ivor, they would have no need to pursue their suspicions. If they had already found Gabriel and killed him, then what did it matter what happened now?
Ivor felt Ari’s hand suddenly grow icy cold in his, the quick, panicked spasm as she tried to withdraw it from his grasp. Instinctively, he drew her close against his side, his fingers curling around hers, as he tried somehow to infuse her with his own bodily warmth. Slowly, he felt her rigidity soften with her gradual realization of the inevitability of this event. He glanced down at her. Her profile was hard and unmoving, the full curve of her mouth narrowed, her lips bloodless. But she gave no further sign of resistance.
Rolf had informed him of this new plan only an hour before, just after his return to the valley with Ari. As far as he was concerned, a marriage now or in seven days made no difference. It had to happen. Her hand was still cold and nerveless in his, but he didn’t loosen his grip. He couldn’t tell whether she was following as the priest rattled through the words of commitment, but she made the correct responses when required, her voice dead, her face expressionless. He spoke his own responses, firmly but also without emotion. There was an awkward moment when, at the appropriate juncture, Rolf handed him a plain silver band, and he realized he would have to remove the emerald betrothal ring from Ari’s finger in order to slide the wedding ring into place. Ariadne gave him no help, merely stared straight ahead as he slipped the emerald from her finger, pushed on the silver band, and then replaced the betrothal ring.
A faint shudder ran through her, and her hand quivered for a second. She now belonged to Ivor Chalfont. The ring was a symbol of ownership; the Daunts did not entertain romantic notions about love pledges. Marriage was a business arrangement, an exchange of goods or benefits. And she had just been sold to advance the family’s interests.
Rolf watched with a satisfied smile on his thin lips, and when the priest had muttered his final blessing, Rolf declared, rubbing his hands together, “So, niece, now you are safely wed. Just as my father wished and as your own father would have wished. So let us get down to the real business of the evening. Come, let us feast. Music, gentlemen.” He gestured, and the musicians obliged, as servants moved among them with jugs of ale and wine, and the tables groaned with barons of beef, saddles of lamb, and whole suckling pigs.
Ari had no appetite, and her expression remained blank. When someone seized her and hurled her into the middle of the drunken throng, she went through the motions of the dance. She drank deeply from the silver chalice that Rolf had pressed into her hand after the vows and tried to pretend that none of this was real.
Ivor watched her. Her desperation was as obvious to him as his own angry unhappiness. He would have been happy with this wedding . . . more than happy, delighted to have Ariadne as his wife. The prospect of life in London, at the King’s court, was full of possibilities. He had ambitions that lay outside this valley, and with Ariadne and her fortune behind him, he could see only advancement and a life of ever-expanding opportunities. But this was not the way it was supposed to be. He could not be secure in this union knowing that Ari loved someone else. And if he could not be secure with her, how was he supposed to conduct this marriage?
If they had been strangers to each other, it would have been easier. But he knew all there was to know about Ariadne, as she did about him. He knew when she was happy and when she was sad. He knew her faults and her many qualities. He knew the forces that had shaped her. He knew her secrets. And she knew his.
In ignorance, they could perhaps have found something new and fresh together that might eventually have helped Ariadne to forget Gabriel, but because Ivor knew all there was to know, he could not ignore him or forget about him.
There was no neutral ground on which to build anything new. And Ivor had no idea how to go on from this point.