Trapped at the Altar

“Is all well?” Her voice sounded normal as she pushed the drawer closed and turned to the door, her backside resting casually against the dresser.

“Seems so.” Ivor looked at her closely as he shrugged out of his coat. Her swift, almost guilty movement with the dresser drawer had not escaped him. “What’s in that little bottle that you keep in that drawer?”

Her heart seemed to jump into her throat, and she felt her cheeks warm. There was no point pretending she didn’t know what he was talking about. If he’d found it, she could hardly deny its presence.

“Oh, just some potion of Tilly’s. Why?”

“I was curious. I’ve never seen you take it. What’s it for?” And now, although his voice was evenly pitched, sounding only mildly curious, his blue eyes were as penetrating as a diamond blade.

“Oh, something for the headache.” She shrugged and turned away from that intense gaze and picked up her hairbrush. “I get them sometimes . . . with the flowers,” she added for good measure.

“Don’t lie to me,” Ivor said, his voice still even, but there was no mistaking the steel beneath. “You’re a hopeless liar, Ariadne, and always have been. What’s it for?”

It seemed to Ari as if the whole house of cards was falling about her ears. She had to keep Gabriel from Ivor at all costs, and the prospect of keeping two secrets from him was suddenly overwhelming. Why should he mind that she had been taking this precaution against conception? It had been only a minor deceit, only ever intended to be temporary. She was probably ready to stop taking it now, ready to have Ivor’s child if he so wished. Surely she could make light of this, shrug it off as if it were of no great matter.

She pulled the brush through her hair and said casually, “Before we left the valley, I asked Tilly to make me up a medicine that would prevent pregnancy . . . just for a little while . . . only a little while, Ivor.” She risked a glance at him, and her heart filled with dread.

“You did what?” His voice was very quiet, and he didn’t move from his position by the door.

“It was only for a little while, Ivor, just while we were on the journey. I couldn’t face being pregnant while we were traveling, and if you think about it, it would have been horribly inconvenient, and the journey was dangerous and uncomfortable enough as it was.” She injected a note of defiance in her voice, facing him directly now. “It was my decision to make,” she added.

“It was not your unilateral decision to make,” he stated, still not moving from his station by the door, but Ari could feel the willpower that was keeping him there. He was furious, and when Ivor was truly angry, he was not a comfortable person to be around. He was holding himself back from unleashing the power of his fury, and she debated swiftly whether it would be better to provoke him and get it over with or try to placate.

“Forgive me, I didn’t think it would be of any interest to you,” she tried, and instantly realized her mistake.

“You didn’t think it would be of interest to me whether you conceived or not?” he demanded incredulously. “Don’t play me for a fool, woman. You knew all along that it would matter to me. Otherwise, why didn’t you consult me in the first place?”

There was no answer to this. Ivor continued into her silence, “I can’t trust you, can I, Ariadne? Can I? The one thing I have said all along, is that I have to be able to trust you, as you must be able to trust me. I have done nothing to forfeit your trust, but you have treated mine as if it meant nothing to you. All these weeks, you have been deceiving me in the most fundamental way. Not only have you been denying me the right to a child, to an heir, but you have used the most despicable, deceitful trick to do it.”

Ari shook her head, too distressed for coherent words. “No . . . no, Ivor, please, it’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like, Ariadne? Tell me, pray, enlighten me.” His voice dripped sarcasm, which in some ways she found harder to bear than his anger. Anger was at least a pure emotion, a pure response. “Do you even know what’s in that filthy stuff? What kind of poison have you been drinking? It could render you barren, did you think of that?”

She shook her head again. “Tilly would never—”

“What does Tilly know?” he interrupted. “She’s an ignorant country girl, well-meaning enough, but she knows nothing.”

“Her mother . . .” she began, and then gave up. There was nothing she could say, no defense she could produce.

“For God’s sake, Ariadne, maybe, just maybe, in the early days of our marriage, when things were not right between us, maybe I could understand how you might have been reluctant to conceive, but since then . . . since we put matters right . . . since I thought we had put matters right, you told me you loved me, in God’s name.” He pushed his hands through his hair in a gesture of helpless incomprehension. “How could you say those words, knowing all along that you could not possibly love me?”

“That’s not true!” she exclaimed. “I love you, Ivor. I meant it, of course I meant it.”

“And yet you deceived me in the most despicable manner. Could you only bear to carry the child of your lover, your poet?” he demanded. “My child was not worthy. Was that it, Ariadne?”

“No . . . no, of course not,” she cried, her voice filled with distress that he should think such a thing. “Oh, please, Ivor. Never have I thought that. I will be proud to carry your child. Gabriel is gone from my life . . .” The untruth choked her, and she turned her head away from his gaze. She felt as if she were swimming through quicksand. She hadn’t invited Gabriel back into her life, he wasn’t back in her life. She would send him away, once and for all, in the morning. But until then, every word she spoke was a lie.

Ivor looked at her for a moment, then shook his head in disgust. “I can’t be in the same room with you, Ariadne. I can’t bear to look at you.” He turned on his heel, and the door slammed behind him. Juno whimpered and ran to the door, sniffing beneath it, her tail waving frantically.

Ariadne stood still, her hairbrush poised above her head. A wave of nausea rocked her, and she stumbled behind the screen to the commode. When she emerged, drained, purged, filled only with a deep sense of loss, she crept shaking under the covers and lay curled on her side, trying to shut out the world, praying only for the amnesia of sleep. Juno yelped, and she reached down and scooped her up, tucking her under the covers with her. The puppy’s body warmth was some comfort.

She awoke at some point in the night and knew instantly that she was alone in the bed. Ivor’s side was cold and empty. Where was he sleeping? Or had he left the house altogether? She sat up, swinging her legs out of the bed, and listened. The puppy jumped to the floor and looked up at her with an air of expectation.

The fire still glowed, throwing a feeble light around the chamber, but Ari could see no hint of light from beneath the door leading to the small parlor. And she could hear no sound apart from the usual scratchings and creakings of a house at night.

Ivor wouldn’t have gone out, not in the middle of the night. There was nowhere for him to go. She slipped to the floor and crept barefoot to the door, opening it a crack. The room was empty. She stepped back, closing the door softly again, and climbed back into bed with the puppy.