Trapped at the Altar (40 page)

Ivor heard Ari's swift step outside the salon door, and then she came in, Juno at her heels. Her cheeks were pink, and her hair was escaping its pins.

“What have you been doing?”

“Oh, it's cold and windy outside,” she said, bending to warm her hands at the fire. “I think there's snow in the air. I decided to take Juno myself. I walked a little way with our neighbor's boot boy. I thought that would be safe enough, and all our people are practically under the table now.”

“Well, you're safe enough, obviously,” Ivor observed. “Although I would prefer you to have a rather more obvious bodyguard than a scrap of a lad. However, no harm's done.” He stretched and yawned. “Let us to bed. I must attend the King in the morning.”

He moved around the room, snuffing the candles and tamping down the fire. “Go ahead and get ready. I'll be along in a moment. I'll just check that the doors are locked.”

Ari went into the bedchamber, carrying the puppy. The fire was low in the grate, and she threw fresh logs on it and drew the curtains at the windows. Ordinarily, Tilly or one of the maids would have already set the
room ready for the night, but in the circumstances, it was not surprising that it hadn't been done. She undressed and pulled her night shift over her head, then took out the little vial from the bottom of the drawer. She took a quick gulp, no longer bothering to measure it out by the spoonful, and screwed the stopper back in. The door opened behind her as she did so, and with careful, unhurried movements, she put the vial back into the drawer, smoothing undergarments over it.

“Is all well?” Her voice sounded normal as she pushed the drawer closed and turned to the door, her backside resting casually against the dresser.

“Seems so.” Ivor looked at her closely as he shrugged out of his coat. Her swift, almost guilty movement with the dresser drawer had not escaped him. “What's in that little bottle that you keep in that drawer?”

Her heart seemed to jump into her throat, and she felt her cheeks warm. There was no point pretending she didn't know what he was talking about. If he'd found it, she could hardly deny its presence.

“Oh, just some potion of Tilly's. Why?”

“I was curious. I've never seen you take it. What's it for?” And now, although his voice was evenly pitched, sounding only mildly curious, his blue eyes were as penetrating as a diamond blade.

“Oh, something for the headache.” She shrugged and turned away from that intense gaze and picked up her hairbrush. “I get them sometimes . . . with the flowers,” she added for good measure.

“Don't lie to me,” Ivor said, his voice still even, but there was no mistaking the steel beneath. “You're a hopeless liar, Ariadne, and always have been. What's it for?”

It seemed to Ari as if the whole house of cards was falling about her ears. She had to keep Gabriel from Ivor at all costs, and the prospect of keeping two secrets from him was suddenly overwhelming. Why should he mind that she had been taking this precaution against conception? It had been only a minor deceit, only ever intended to be temporary. She was probably ready to stop taking it now, ready to have Ivor's child if he so wished. Surely she could make light of this, shrug it off as if it were of no great matter.

She pulled the brush through her hair and said casually, “Before we left the valley, I asked Tilly to make me up a medicine that would prevent pregnancy . . . just for a little while . . . only a little while, Ivor.” She risked a glance at him, and her heart filled with dread.

“You did
what 
?” His voice was very quiet, and he didn't move from his position by the door.

“It was only for a little while, Ivor, just while we were on the journey. I couldn't face being pregnant while we were traveling, and if you think about it, it would have been horribly inconvenient, and the journey was dangerous and uncomfortable enough as it was.” She injected a note of defiance in her voice, facing him directly now. “It was my decision to make,” she added.

“It was not your unilateral decision to make,” he stated, still not moving from his station by the door, but Ari could feel the willpower that was keeping him there.
He was furious, and when Ivor was truly angry, he was not a comfortable person to be around. He was holding himself back from unleashing the power of his fury, and she debated swiftly whether it would be better to provoke him and get it over with or try to placate.

“Forgive me, I didn't think it would be of any interest to you,” she tried, and instantly realized her mistake.

“You didn't think it would be of interest to me whether you conceived or not?” he demanded incredulously. “Don't play me for a fool, woman. You knew all along that it would matter to me. Otherwise, why didn't you consult me in the first place?”

There was no answer to this. Ivor continued into her silence, “I can't trust you, can I, Ariadne?
Can I?
The one thing I have said all along, is that I have to be able to trust you, as you must be able to trust me. I have done nothing to forfeit your trust, but you have treated mine as if it meant nothing to you. All these weeks, you have been deceiving me in the most fundamental way. Not only have you been denying me the right to a child, to an heir, but you have used the most despicable, deceitful trick to do it.”

Ari shook her head, too distressed for coherent words. “No . . . no, Ivor, please, it's not like that.”

“Then what is it like, Ariadne? Tell me, pray, enlighten me.” His voice dripped sarcasm, which in some ways she found harder to bear than his anger. Anger was at least a pure emotion, a pure response. “Do you even know what's in that filthy stuff? What kind of poison have you been drinking? It could render you barren, did you think of that?”

She shook her head again. “Tilly would never—”

“What does Tilly know?” he interrupted. “She's an ignorant country girl, well-meaning enough, but she knows nothing.”

“Her mother . . .” she began, and then gave up. There was nothing she could say, no defense she could produce.

“For God's sake, Ariadne, maybe, just maybe, in the early days of our marriage, when things were not right between us, maybe I could understand how you might have been reluctant to conceive, but since then . . . since we put matters right . . . since I
thought
we had put matters right, you told me you loved me, in God's name.” He pushed his hands through his hair in a gesture of helpless incomprehension. “
How
could you say those words, knowing all along that you could not possibly love me?”

“That's not true!” she exclaimed. “I love you, Ivor. I meant it, of course I meant it.”

“And yet you deceived me in the most despicable manner. Could you only bear to carry the child of your lover, your poet?” he demanded. “My child was not worthy. Was that it, Ariadne?”

“No . . . no, of course not,” she cried, her voice filled with distress that he should think such a thing. “Oh, please, Ivor. Never have I thought that. I will be proud to carry your child. Gabriel is gone from my life . . .” The untruth choked her, and she turned her head away from his gaze. She felt as if she were swimming through quicksand. She hadn't invited Gabriel back into her life, he
wasn't
back in her life. She would send him away, once
and for all, in the morning. But until then, every word she spoke was a lie.

Ivor looked at her for a moment, then shook his head in disgust. “I can't be in the same room with you, Ariadne. I can't bear to look at you.” He turned on his heel, and the door slammed behind him. Juno whimpered and ran to the door, sniffing beneath it, her tail waving frantically.

Ariadne stood still, her hairbrush poised above her head. A wave of nausea rocked her, and she stumbled behind the screen to the commode. When she emerged, drained, purged, filled only with a deep sense of loss, she crept shaking under the covers and lay curled on her side, trying to shut out the world, praying only for the amnesia of sleep. Juno yelped, and she reached down and scooped her up, tucking her under the covers with her. The puppy's body warmth was some comfort.

She awoke at some point in the night and knew instantly that she was alone in the bed. Ivor's side was cold and empty. Where was he sleeping? Or had he left the house altogether? She sat up, swinging her legs out of the bed, and listened. The puppy jumped to the floor and looked up at her with an air of expectation.

The fire still glowed, throwing a feeble light around the chamber, but Ari could see no hint of light from beneath the door leading to the small parlor. And she could hear no sound apart from the usual scratchings and creakings of a house at night.

Ivor wouldn't have gone out, not in the middle of the night. There was nowhere for him to go. She slipped
to the floor and crept barefoot to the door, opening it a crack. The room was empty. She stepped back, closing the door softly again, and climbed back into bed with the puppy.

She hadn't the strength to confront Ivor again that night. In truth, she didn't know how to defend herself from his accusation of deceit. She
had
deceived him, by omission if not commission. But she hadn't seen it as such. She'd done what she'd done for her own benefit, certainly, but she hadn't thought it would hurt Ivor. She had always made decisions about herself for herself. She had reasoned, if she had thought at all, that what Ivor didn't know couldn't harm him, and when she was ready to bear a child, then she would stop taking the precaution.

But of course it had something to do with him. Of course he had a right to know. Even if they had disagreed, he should have been able to state his own point of view. And what if he was right about the medicine? What if the potion had made her barren? If she could never give Ivor an heir, then she had caused irreparable damage. A man was entitled to a child. It was a wife's duty to give him one. He would be entitled to cast her aside and take another wife if she had deliberately made herself infertile. The church would grant him an annulment without question.

The panicked thoughts raced across her brain like a raging fever, and she forced herself to think calmly. Surely Ivor would never go to such lengths to revenge himself? He was capable of anger, but he was not a vengeful person.
He was a much finer person than she was, Ari decided, on a little sob of self-disgust. He had grown up in the valley just as she had, but he hadn't emerged twisted and selfish and thinking only of his own comfort.

She flung aside the covers again and got up, hurrying to the dresser. She took out the vial and went to the window, opening the latch. A gust of windblown snow blew into the chamber, rattling the door in its frame. Ignoring the icy blast, Ari unstoppered the vial and leaned out, pouring its contents into the night, the sulfur smell making her nose wrinkle. She shook the last drops out and closed and latched the window again. A dusting of snow had settled on the floorboards beneath the window. She left the empty bottle on the dresser and jumped back into bed, chilled to the bone, her teeth chattering.

She was just shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted, but in the morning, maybe, she would find the right words to convince Ivor that she had not set out to betray his trust.

Not in this, at least. But the abyss of her assignation with Gabriel yawned at her feet. And there were no two ways of looking at that. She was most deliberately deceiving her husband. If he ever discovered that, then his accusations of untrustworthiness tonight would be strengthened a thousandfold.

But what if she told him the truth? It was too late for that now. She had met Gabriel in secret once, and she was planning a second assignation. She had known for two days that he was in London, following her. And she had said nothing. She was condemned by her own
silence. It was far too late for the truth. She had the sudden image of an old torture device she had seen in an illustration, a box studded with sharp nails both back and front. When you were shut in it, every breath you took drove a sharp nail into your body. The door was closing inexorably upon her.

I
vor came into the bedchamber just after dawn. Ariadne woke instantly from a fitful doze and sat up, holding the covers beneath her chin. “Good morning.” It seemed a ridiculously normal greeting in the circumstances, but she didn't know what else to say.

Ivor did not return the greeting; neither did he look at her. He bent to make up the fire. He was still dressed as he had been when he'd left her the previous night, and Ari guessed he had slept in a chair in the salon. If, indeed, he had slept.

He straightened from the fire, and his eye fell on the vial on the dresser, its stopper lying beside it. He picked it up and turned at last to the bed. “So, you got rid of this poison.” His voice was without expression, his face a mask.

She nodded. “You
must
forgive me, Ivor. Truly, I meant no harm . . . I know I was only thinking of myself, and it was selfish and underhanded, but I didn't think of it as a
betrayal.” She twisted the covers in her fingers, frowning fiercely as she tried to think of something to say to banish the anger and contempt in his eyes. “In the valley, it was different,” she said, feeling for words. “When this started, we were in the valley. I had to plan for the journey not as your wife but as myself. We were sent to accomplish something, and I was thinking only of how best to do that . . . and . . . and it seemed to me that if I became pregnant quickly, it could be a complication.” Her voice trailed away. There really was nothing else she could say; that was the truth as she knew it.