Trapped at the Altar

There had been too much stress since their marriage on preparations for the upcoming journey. It had been much harder for Ari than for him. He at least could escape with his gun into the fields or with his rod along the riverbank. They would fish for brown trout together.

His step quickened as he imagined her ready smile, the shine in her eyes at the prospect, and just the thought of having her beside him, quietly casting into the smooth brown waters of the Wye, a companionable silence between them, filled him with a deep sense of pleasure.

He opened the door to her cottage and found it deserted.

He poked his head around the door of his own cottage, expecting to see Ari at the table or helping Tilly with supper. Instead, he saw only Tilly, sitting by the range plying her needle. The fire burned brightly, and a bubbling cauldron sent aromatic steam to the rafters.

“Where’s Ariadne?” Ivor inquired, stepping into the room. “I thought she’d still be busy with the dressmaking.”

“Not feeling too well, sir. She’s abed and asleep.” Tilly set aside her sewing and stood up. “Can I fetch you something?”

Ivor shook his head. “No, thank you. I had it in mind to fish for some trout for supper. I thought Ari might care to join me. What’s the matter with her?”

“Oh, ’tis nothing serious, sir. Just the flowers.” Tilly turned to stir the cauldron on the range. “It takes her bad some months. I’m just making her some soup.”

Ivor said nothing. Tilly would have no idea of the significance this month of that regular event. With a distracted frown, he went to the dresser for the flagon of ale. He filled a tankard and took a thoughtful draught. Now their marriage could start in earnest.

Abruptly, he set aside his tankard and started up the stairs to the bedchamber. He stood at the top of the stairs. Ari was a small, hunched ball under the covers. He watched for a moment to see if she gave any indication of being awake and then climbed back down. “I’ll eat in the refectory tonight, Tilly. No need to disturb Ari.”

“Right, sir. If you’re sure you don’t want supper. I’ve soup for Miss Ari here, but I can whip up a meat pasty for you easy.”

Ivor shook his head. “No need. Look after Ari. I won’t be back until late.” He went out into the early dusk and walked along the riverbank until the village was behind him. He sat on a rocky outcrop and considered his next step. It would be a few days before the bleeding stopped and they could finally consummate their marriage. But he couldn’t imagine a silent, hasty coupling. There had to be some ceremony, some acknowledgment of what it meant. And yet why should he think so? His wife loved another man and would not welcome any physical union   with her husband, however willing she was to accept its necessity.

He jumped to his feet. He was in the mood to drink and eat in congenial and uncomplicated company, and he would find that in the refectory with the young men of the village. The pitch torches were already alight, and light spilled from the building with the sounds of merriment as the kegs of beer were broached and the flagons of wine opened. Legs of lamb and shoulders of pork turned on spits over the open fire of the kitchen attached to the rear of the refectory, and the succulent smells of roasting meat and hot bread filled the air as he went into the building.

Men sat on benches running along the tables, sprawled at ease, tankards at hand, laughing over ribald jokes. Ivor was greeted with a chorus of unquestioning welcome and took a place on one of the benches, accepting a brimming tankard and a few minutes later a loaded platter of roasted meat and potatoes. For now, he let his personal puzzles lie dormant and returned to bachelorhood with remembered ease.

? ? ?

It was long past the midnight hour when Ivor made his way back to his cottage. He didn’t think he was drunk, but he was happy to admit that he wasn’t as steady and as sober as he preferred to be. He let himself into the cottage. The fire was tamped down for the night, and a single candle burned for him on the mantel. He took up the candle and climbed upstairs as softly as he could in his slightly unsteady state.

He could hear Ari’s deep breathing as he entered the chamber and shielded the candlelight with his cupped hand to keep it from shining on the bed. She was still a tiny curled mound on her side of the bed, leaving a large expanse on the far side. He hesitated, wondering if he would risk waking her if he slipped into that inviting space. He’d intended to sleep downstairs tonight, unsure what degree of privacy she would need in present circumstances, but now he wondered if it was necessary.

He set the candle on the mantel and perched on the windowsill to remove his boots. His movements were clumsy, and the boot slipped from his hand with a thump on the floorboards. The mound in the bed stirred.

Cursing under his breath, Ivor tackled his other boot and managed to set it down with exaggerated caution beside its mate and turned his attention to rolling down his stockings. He stood up gingerly to remove his belt and britches and yank his shirt over his head, all the while keeping an eye on the sleeping form in the bed. He couldn’t see his nightshirt anywhere and debated opening the linen press, but the hinges needed oiling, and it sometimes squeaked like a mouse in a cat’s jaws.

He gave up the idea and blew out the candle before creeping naked into bed. He was asleep almost instantly, and within minutes, the stertorous snores of a man sleeping off a night’s drinking filled the chamber.

Ari lay listening. She had been awake from the moment Ivor had set foot in the chamber and had waited, keeping silent, hoping he would assume she was asleep and not start a conversation she didn’t want tonight. It didn’t take her long to realize that he was rather the worse for wear, and the thought brought an unconscious affectionate smile to her lips, one that if Ivor had been awake would have presaged one of her teasing comments. Ivor almost never let himself go. He had a horror of losing control, a feeling they both shared. It was with some relief that she felt him slide into bed beside her. At least horizontal, he couldn’t come to any harm.

She had expected the bolster at her back as usual, but tonight she could feel his body warmth even though he wasn’t touching her. What would his skin feel like? Not the weather-beaten skin on his arms, legs, hands, face—she knew what that felt like—but the secret skin, kept concealed beneath his shirt and britches. His private skin. The urge became irresistible. Tentatively, as his snores deepened, she slipped a hand across the space separating them, and her fingertips encountered warm, bare flesh. She snatched them back hastily but his breathing didn’t change, and she let her fingers creep back to rest lightly against his side, feeling his ribs lift and fall with each sleeping breath.

What would it be like to feel all of him, the whole length of his skin against her own nakedness? To feel him inside her, possessing her? To hold him against her?

Ari shivered, and she didn’t know why. It was a strange shudder of what? Fear? Anticipation? She withdrew her fingers and rolled over onto her side, away from her sleeping husband, and finally drifted off into sleep herself.

? ? ?

Ari awoke to the first faint streaks of dawn in the small window and the first chirrup of the dawn chorus. And then to a heavy warmth against her hip, which turned out to be a hand on her flank. She lay rigid for a moment as she understood that Ivor’s body was touching hers, his belly against her back, his long legs following the line of her own. And her mind was filled with the memory of her secret exploration a few hours ago. She had wondered then what it would feel like to have his whole length pressed against her. But she hadn’t imagined being swathed in her thickest shift when that happened, she reflected with an ironic smile.