Trapped at the Altar

The sedan stopped at the broad, shallow flight of steps leading up to the theatre. Ivor gave Ari his hand as she stepped daintily out of the chair, managing her wide skirts with one hand, her delicate chicken-skin fan with its beautifully painted ivory sticks dangling from her other wrist. She looked up the stairs into the brightly lit maw of the theatre. Lavishly dressed ladies and gentlemen moved up and down the steps, fluttering fans, talking excitedly, nodding at acquaintances. To her astonishment, she noticed that some of the ladies carried tiny dogs under their arms or peeping out from fur muffs. Dogs in Ari’s experience worked for a living; they weren’t carried around like pieces of jewelry.

“So this is London,” she murmured. And indeed, this was the London she had imagined, this glittering stage set, rather than the inns and dirty alleyways, the crowded, noisy cobbled streets, the pathetic urchins and deformed beggars. The air in Covent Garden was heavy with perfume and the rich aromas of roasting meats, overlaid with the heady fumes of wine and brandy, mingled with smoke from the charcoal braziers where chestnuts were roasting under the colonnade. Beneath it all, somewhere, would be the fetid reeks of the city as she knew it, but here in this glittering piazza, they were not apparent.

“Come.” Ivor offered his arm, smiling at her obvious fascination with the scene. “It’s even more magnificent within.”

Once inside the pillared foyer, he spoke to a liveried footman, who with a bow and a murmured “This way, sir, my lady,” preceded them across the foyer and into a side passage, lit by sconced lamps and lined on one side by doors. Some of them were ajar, and Ari glimpsed slivers of the theatre itself as they went past. Their escort opened a door and stood aside. “Sir, my lady. Your box.”

Ari stepped past him into a small, narrow box that hung out over the main body of the theatre. The stage was almost directly in front of her. The pit beneath the box was packed and noisy, mostly young men standing in groups, talking, laughing, drinking. Orange girls plied the aisles, their baskets of fruit hanging from their necks, calling their wares.

She looked up along the boxes. Some were empty, but many were filled with fashionable ladies and their escorts, a vivid array of color, of sparkling jewels, amid the rise and fall of voices.

“What d’you think of it, Ari?” Ivor was enjoying her astounded reaction. The scene was as new to him as to Ariadne, but he was not as enthralled by it. In many ways, he missed the simple life of the valley. There was something sugary and unreal about all this glitter covering a heaving cesspit of poverty-stricken misery.

“It’s hard to believe there are so many people in this city,” she said with a half laugh, adding, “So many rich people, I mean. There’s plenty of the other kind.”

“Indeed,” he agreed, pulling out a small gilt chair for her. Ari was not as blind to the realities of this city as he’d thought. “Pray be seated, my lady.”

Ari sat down, raising her fan in a gesture that enabled her to look at the boxes around her without making it too obvious. “How much does a box like this cost?”

“A lot, I expect, but this is a loan from Lord Lindsey, for our use while we are in town. He and his lady don’t use it anymore. Lady Lindsey is in somewhat fragile health, I gather. He’s happy for it to be used.”

“Mmm.” Ari nodded thoughtfully. “He seems a most congenial relative, Ivor.”

“There are ways in which I . . . or, rather, we can be of service to him. He is very aware of that.” Ivor turned as the door opened. “A bottle of Rhenish and some savory tartlets, if you please.”

“How delightful.” Ari leaned forward, resting her arms on the edge of the box. “Oh, look, something’s happening.” A trumpet had sounded, and the crowd had risen as one body to its feet, all looking towards a central box, elaborately gilded and swagged with velvet.

“Ah, it seems we are to be honored with the King’s presence,” Ivor said. “Try not to stare, Ari.”

“Well, I’ve never seen the King,” she said stoutly, her eyes still fixed upon the royal box.

“As it happens, neither have I.” Ivor stood just behind her, looking over her head from the shadows.

The royal procession entered the box with another trumpet fanfare. The King wore a full periwig, falling in luxuriant black curls to his shoulders. He was accompanied by two women, both a-sparkle with precious gems, both magnificently gowned, their bosoms almost bare beneath the smattering of lace at the necklines. Their coiffures were dressed with yet more gems, and they waved fans languidly as they cast their eyes over the boxes.

“Who are they?” Ari asked in a whisper.

“The King’s favorites, I believe. Nell Gwyn and the Duchess of Portsmouth, Louise de Kéroualle. Of course, Nell is rather familiar with the stage,” Ivor added with a chuckle. “She’s made a remarkable ascension from orange girl to the King’s bed. ’Tis said he adores her.”

Ariadne had heard tales even in the valley of the King’s favorites, and particularly of the erstwhile orange girl. “She’s a good actor, too, though, isn’t she?”

“Was,” he corrected. “I don’t think she treads the boards anymore. The King has made her far too wealthy and has enobled their bastards. A mother on the stage would hardly be appropriate.”

“And the Duchess? What of her? She’s not particularly beautiful, is she?”

“No, but ’tis said she’s very clever, and his majesty values that. I suspect she’s also rather an accomplished bedfellow,” he added drily. “She also happens to be Catholic, which makes her unpopular in certain quarters.” He paused, then said, “If you receive an introduction, you should mention the Daunts’ Catholic affiliation.”

“And what of Nell Gwyn? What is she?”

Ivor laughed. “Ah, now, I heard a story. Apparently, one day, the lady Nell was traveling in her coach through a crowd, who turned nasty. The King’s debauched lifestyle is not hugely popular among his people. They surrounded the coach, shouting abuse, and Nell leaned out and said something along the lines of, ‘Good people, you are mistaken. I am the Protestant whore.’ ”

Ariadne laughed. “I should like to meet her. I’m not so sure of the Duchess, but Mistress Gwyn sounds amusing.”

“With luck, you will meet them both,” Ivor said. “The King is looking this way. Lean forward a little, flick a curl from your cheek . . . yes, that’s perfect.”

“You sound like my pimp,” Ari said, only half laughing. “Am I supposed to seduce the King? That was never mentioned before.”

“Don’t be absurd, Ariadne,” Ivor protested, his mouth thinning with annoyance. “You’re insulting. I wish you only to draw his attention. There is a reason we are here, if you remember. This is your grandfather’s wish, but you cannot hope to reestablish the reputation of your family by treating it as an insulting joke.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you, Ivor,” Ari said swiftly. “I spoke without thought.”

“You do that too often,” he stated. “Try to moderate your tongue . . . ah.” His tone changed. “I do believe you have attracted his majesty’s attention.”

Ari watched from behind her fan as the King beckoned a footman from the back of the royal box. His majesty didn’t take his eyes from Ari’s box as he spoke to the man. The footman backed away, and the King leaned a little forward and smiled at Ariadne. There was no mistaking it. King Charles had smiled directly at her.