Trapped at the Altar

“Oh, Tilly, I have had enough,” Ari said impatiently. “Leave it now. It feels perfectly comfortable.”

Tilly set another pin and cast her mistress a knowing glance. “The flowers, I suppose,” she said confidently. “ ’Tis about your time. You go on home now, Miss Ari, and I’ll bring you some chamomile tea and a hot bottle for your belly.”

Ari could think of nothing she wanted more than her own bed and Tilly’s ministrations. She offered a wan smile to the women with their pincushions and scissors, needles and thread, and went out into the brisk chill of the morning. Autumn was definitely in the air, the leaves beginning to turn on the trees along the riverbank, the nights drawing in. She crossed her arms over her breasts beneath her shawl, feeling chilled to the bone, as she hurried back home, hunched a little over her aching belly.

Ivor would know soon enough, of course, and then, when she was no longer bleeding, he would expect to consummate the marriage. And the thought of that filled her with sick panic. These last days, she had been able to push the prospect of that act of consummation to the back of her mind. But now she must finally face it. How could she give herself to Ivor with wholehearted desire when she felt such passion for another man and when she knew that Ivor was blisteringly aware of those feelings and would not be able to forget them? How could it be anything but a cold, practical union   that would destroy their friendship while putting nothing in its place?

She let herself into the cottage and huddled in the warmth of the range, stroking her aching belly, waiting for Tilly. Only Tilly knew how to ease the pain of this monthly inconvenience. She had a collection of herbs and vials of remedies for most everyday ills, her knowledge gleaned from her own mother, who had been the nearest to an apothecary the valley could produce.

Tilly hurried in, the door banging shut behind her. She regarded Ari’s hunched figure sympathetically as she hung her cloak on a hook. “Now, you get on upstairs and sort yourself out, Miss Ari, and I’ll just put the warming pan through the bed. Then I’ll fill a bottle with hot water for your belly and make you some tea.”

Ari nodded and dragged herself up the stairs. She found the thick cloths she needed in the dresser and her warmest night shift. Tilly came in with the copper warming pan and energetically ran it beneath the covers to create a nest of soothing heat.

“In you get, now.” She turned back the coverlet. “I’ll fetch up the hot water bottle and the tea directly.”

Ariadne inserted herself into the warmth and felt her limbs instantly begin to relax. Tilly was back in a few moments with an earthenware cylindrical container, its neck stuffed tightly with an oil-soaked rag. Ari took the container, which was filled with hot water, and rested it on her belly. The warmth was instantly soothing.

“Now, here’s your tea. Got a few bits and pieces in it to help you sleep.” Tilly held out a steaming mug. “There’s chamomile and valerian and just a tincture of poppy juice with a touch of honey.”

Ari took a sip. Valerian had an unpleasant smell, but she knew its good properties well, and the honey masked the taste. “You are wonderful, Tilly. I don’t know how I’d go on without you,” she said with a grateful smile.

“You want me to tell Sir Ivor the flowers have come, when he comes in for his supper?” Tilly sounded a little tentative now.

Ariadne sipped her tea. Tilly, of course, would be assuming that Ivor would not be pleased at the news that his wife was not pregnant. The girl would assume that he had hoped to sire a child quickly, as, in normal circumstances, perhaps he would.

She shrugged. “It matters not, Tilly. He’ll know soon enough.” She handed Tilly the empty mug and slipped down into the welcoming warmth of the feather bed, and soon enough, her eyelids felt heavy, and the strange trancelike sleep of valerian and poppy juice enveloped her.

? ? ?

Ivor was in the stables inspecting the horses. Ariadne’s Sphinx was a beautiful strawberry roan gelding, her sixteenth-birthday present from her grandfather. He was strong and fast and would carry Ari’s light weight for many miles without tiring.

“He’s in right good condition, sir,” the stableman said, watching Ivor checking the animal’s hocks for strains. “Nothin’ wrong with ’im at all.”

“No, I’m sure not. But we’ve an arduous journey ahead of us, and I want to be sure there are no signs of possible trouble.” He patted the animal’s withers as he walked around his rear, stroking the muscular neck as he lifted the velvety lips to check for sores or canker.

“I take care of the horse meself, sir.” The stableman sounded a little put out. “You’ll find nothing wrong with ’im.”

Ivor nodded. “I know, Judd, but I need to satisfy myself. Let’s take a look at Turk.”

Judd whistled to a boy who came running. “Put Sphinx in his stall, and bring out Turk.”

Ivor performed the same inspection on his own gigantic black. Turk blew through his nostrils and bared his teeth, stamping a hoof impatiently on the hard-packed earth. “He needs a gallop,” Ivor commented.

“Aye, sir, but he’ll take no one but you on his back,” Judd pointed out. “Any of the others I could exercise meself. But not this one.”

“No. And I’ve no time today. Let him loose in the paddock. He can kick his heels up there for an hour or so.” He blew gently into the horse’s nostrils, which seemed an incongruously intimate gesture with this stomping beast, but the animal merely whickered and pressed his nose into Ivor’s shoulder.

“What about the carriage horses? We’ll need two pairs so that we can run them on alternate days.”

“Aye, Sir Ivor. I’ve selected the four I think’ll do the job best.”

Ivor followed him into the stable building. The coach that would carry their luggage stood in one corner. It was a cumbersome vehicle with huge iron wheels, and it would be hell on earth to ride inside it over the deeply rutted cart tracks that formed most of the roadways between Somerset and London. They could expect the way to get a little smoother as they drew close to the city, but they had more than two hundred miles to do across rough and desolate country before that.

Fortunately, Ari was a fine horsewoman, he reflected. And she had considerable powers of endurance. She would need them in the weeks ahead.

Once he’d satisfied himself that the carriage horses were up to the journey and that the wheelwright had attached a spare coach wheel to the rear of the vehicle for when the inevitable happened and they lost a wheel somewhere along the way, he left the stable yard.

It was mid-afternoon, and his mind turned to supper. It was his responsibility to provide the food for the table in his little household, and he mentally ran through the supplies of game hanging in the shed. Tilly always found something succulent there, but the image of fresh-caught brown trout sizzling in butter sharpened his appetite.

He made his way back to his cottage for his fishing tackle. Ari would still be enduring the ministrations of seamstresses, he assumed. She found it tiresome, and it tended to make her poor company for the first half hour after her release. On impulse, he turned his step towards Ari’s old cottage. If the women were still at their work, he would give her a welcome early release. She loved to fish, and it was time they recaptured some of their old friendly ease, doing the things they had always enjoyed together.