Trapped at the Altar

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, tinyboned, 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 themselves 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.