Trapped at the Altar

“So, ladies, what do we have here?”

“Come to the fire, Miss Ari, you need to strip to your chemise.” Tilly took charge. Whatever Miss Ari had been up to, she was here now, and they could brush through anything as long as the end result satisfied the new Lord Daunt.

The materials were all of the finest, French silks and damasks, Brussels lace, luxuriant furs of ermine and sable, and the softest dyed cordovan leathers. All, Ariadne assumed, acquired during the various raids and smuggling excursions by the Daunt bloods and their elders. They never brought anything inferior into the valley, although no one in the valley wore any of these luxuries. They were stored for trade in the storehouse in the midst of the village. But carefully stored. Those who were responsible knew how to care for such fine goods.

“So what am I supposed to need, Tilly?”

Tilly beamed. “Oh, his lordship has decreed a complete wardrobe, Miss Ari, everything from petticoats and nightgowns to full court dress.”

“And how are we, in this backwater, supposed to know what’s fashionable at court?” Ari inquired, unbuttoning her jerkin.

“We have pattern books, miss,” one of the girls piped up. “See . . .” Eagerly, she opened a bound sheaf of illustrations on one of the tables. “The petticoats are very stiff, and the stomachers are so tight.”

Ariadne examined the picture and grimaced. “How could anyone breathe in that? Well, I, for one, will not wear anything like it.”

“Fortunately, Miss Ari, the gown will sit well enough on you without such tight lacing,” Tilly declared, divesting her mistress of her jerkin and busily unfastening the waistband of her skirt. “Now, stand still while we take measurements. We have little enough time.”

“What do you mean, Tilly, little enough time?” Ariadne held still with difficulty as women wielding tape measures moved over her.

“Lord Daunt has given us but three weeks to complete your wardrobe, Miss Ari. You must start for London before the bad weather sets in, otherwise the roads will be impassable and you’ll have to wait until the spring. His lordship does not want that delay.”

“Oh, really.” Ariadne wondered why her uncle was in such a hurry. Her grandfather had never indicated any urgency about his plan to rehabilitate the family. Was there something significant happening at court that meant Lord Daunt had to have his players in place by a certain time?

The question occupied her throughout the tedious business of measurements and consultations. Did she like this design . . . or this one? Did she prefer an ermine lining to her cloak, or sable, or even a rich red fox? Her muffs must match her cloaks, and her gloves and muffs must be dyed to match the outer garments.

It was hot in the cottage, and the smell of wool and velvet and fur was suddenly overpowering. She felt stifled again, trapped in the valley, trapped in a hollow marriage. Three whole weeks before they were to leave for London. It was too long; she couldn’t bear it. If she and Ivor could be alone, without the pressure of incessant eyes upon them, maybe they could come to some truth about their future, some plan to make it work despite everything.

She had a sudden idea. Maybe there was a way to get them out of the valley sooner. “How on earth do we know what is necessary in fashionable dress in London?” she demanded, pushing aside a bolt of watered silk. “We live here, in this valley. We don’t even know what goes on above, what’s fashionable at the balls in Taunton or Exeter. I could arrive in London with a wardrobe that was fashionable ten years ago.”

A stricken silence fell among her attendants, and then Tilly said, “Lord Daunt said these were the latest designs, Miss Ari.”

“And I wonder how he knows that,” Ari said grimly. “Let me look at those patterns again.” She examined the illustrations more closely, then exclaimed, “Lord help us! These are almost twenty years old. Look at the date.” She jabbed at the faint scribble at the top of one sheet, but the scratchings made no sense to her wide-eyed audience, none of whom could read.

“How long has he had these, and where did he get them from?” She could guess the answer easily enough. The men of the valley were always robbing travelers on the road to the city. Presumably, these illustrations had been in some unfortunate lady’s portmanteau together with the rest of her possessions and kept for years in the great storehouse in the village.

“Let me dress, Tilly. I am going to see Lord Daunt before we waste much more time on this exercise.” She scrambled into her own clothes, pulled on her boots, and left the cottage, walking briskly to the Council house, planning her speech.

Rolf was in the Council chamber when Ariadne marched in without ceremony. He looked at her, his displeasure as clear as his bloodshot eyes, heavy eyelids, and air of postdissipation suffering. “I did not send for you, Ariadne.”

“No, sir,” she responded. “But I need to talk to you. Five minutes of your time, if you can spare it.” She moved briskly into the center of the room. “I understand I am to have a new wardrobe for this expedition to London?”

“Of course. You can hardly enter the royal court looking like a milkmaid,” he returned with an irritable gesture that encompassed her rustic clothing.

“I agree,” she responded. “But if I might remind you, my lord, London is some two hundred miles from here, and the patterns you have provided for this extensive wardrobe are twenty years out of date. Why are we wasting beautiful materials, dressing me up like a doll from a twenty-year-old fashion plate? I am not prepared to be embarrassed by my clothes, sir. Classified a country bumpkin from the moment I walk into Society. I hardly think that would enhance our cause, Lord Daunt.”

Rolf regarded his niece with disfavor. “You are impertinent, Ariadne.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Yes, sir, I probably am. Nevertheless, my point is valid. May I suggest a simple traveling wardrobe prepared for me here, and we carry the materials with us to London and find fashionable milliners to do the best they can with them?”

Rolf poured himself a goblet of wine. He hated to acknowledge that his niece was right, but at the same time, her objections seemed to indicate her acceptance of her upcoming task. After a moment, he said, “If we curtail the preparations for your journey, you and your husband should be able to leave sooner than I had hoped. Within ten days . . . that is good.”

He drank deeply. “You may instruct your women to prepare a simple wardrobe that will take you to the city. I will be discussing with your husband where you will be lodged when you arrive. The materials will travel with you under separate escort, and seamstresses who understand prevailing fashion will be employed on your court wardrobe.” He nodded dismissal. “That will be all. In future, you will communicate with the Council only through your husband, and he will convey our wishes to you.”

Ariadne curtsied, every line of the movement a mockery, but Rolf did not see it. He turned aside to refill his goblet, and Ari left the Council house, closing the door with exaggerated care behind her.

Now, finally, she was going to be free of the valley. Ten days was nothing. And then she and Ivor would be on their own, free. The word seemed to take concrete shape in her mind, and her step increased as she went in search of Ivor.

She saw him standing on the bridge, watching her as she walked away from the Council house. He inclined his head in question, and she walked towards him. He stepped off the bridge as she reached it. “What’s amiss, Ari?”