The Silver Rose (39 page)

“And she didn’t?”

“She wasn’t permitted to.”

“Oh.” She turned back to the fire, staring down into the flames. If Simon had married Helene, would her own future be any different from the one she now faced? Probably not. These last several weeks had been no more than a hiccup in her plans.

Simon spoke from behind her, and his voice was taut and demanding. “Come here, Ariel.” He reached for her. Taking her by the waist, he pulled her backward onto his knee.

For a minute she perched gingerly, holding herself stiff. He ran a hand up her back, his fingers playing along her spine. She fought to withstand the creeping pleasure of his touch, his closeness, the scent of his skin, the hardness of his thighs
beneath her. And she told herself that she didn’t have to fight it. There was no reason why they shouldn’t enjoy each other while she was still with him. But even as she relaxed against him, she knew that she was playing with fire. Every moment they spent in shared pleasure she would later pay for in an eternity of loneliness.

When Ariel went down to the stables the next morning, the fog was so thick she couldn’t see her hand in front of her. The kitchen staff were sluggish as they went about their work, affected by the dismal damp that crept into the bones of even the youngest and spryest members of the household. Rheumatism and ague were the constant ills of Fenlanders, one reason why Old Man with its pain-numbing, brain-numbing qualities was such a popular opiate among the inhabitants of the local villages and hamlets.

Ariel pulled her cloak close around her as she left the warmth of the kitchen and ran across the vegetable garden to the stableyard. She could try a hot poultice of mallows on Simon’s wound, if he could be persuaded to lie up by the fire in the green parlor. He would have Helene to keep him company, and his cadre. And if Simon could be kept well amused and distracted while his wife was otherwise occupied, then a serious logistical problem would be taken care of.

Edgar was waiting for her, his breath steaming in the frigid air of the tack room that not even the charcoal brazier could do much to warm. “It’ll be a good night fer it,” he said without preamble.

“Yes, perfect.” Ariel’s teeth chattered despite the hounds’ hot breath wreathing around her as they stood, front paws on her shoulders, to greet her with ecstatic licks and barks. “There won’t be a glint of moonlight. I had a message from Derek yesterday. He said he would be ready to receive them all at dawn tomorrow. Are the ferrymen secured?”

“Aye. Secured and closemouthed as always. It’s amazin’ how dumb a man grows when ’e chews on a golden guinea.”
Edgar’s chuckle was sardonic as he spat out a mangled straw and selected another one from the bale he was sitting on.

“We must muffle their hooves with sacking. We don’t want to risk a sound, even through the fog,” Ariel was saying as she made her way through the connecting door into the stable block itself. The Arabians snorted and shuffled. They all wore blankets against the chill, and braziers burned at either end of the low building.

She went down the line, entering each stall to run her hands over the lines of each patient animal, checking as always for the slightest soreness or swelling. Her heart was thudding painfully. It was so close now—the moment when she would secure her independence.

Ariel sat on a bale of straw, leaning against the partition wall of the stall. Would Simon choose divorce or annulment? He would have to give her her legal freedom in order to go on with his own life. He would want to marry, sire an heir. He would want a wife who was prepared to accept a life limited to her position as his countess and the mother of his heirs. A life that kept her bound to him, dependent on his kindness for her emotional well-being, and his generosity for the very clothes on her back.

Ariel got to her feet with a sigh. Divorce . . . annulment . . . it all came to the same thing.

The day passed slowly. The lords of Ravenspeare and their guests settled for card play, and tempers ran as high as the stakes as the drink flowed freely. The absence of the Hawkesmoor party drew little remark, and the servants kept as far from the Great Hall as they could while still performing their duties.

In the green parlor in the north turret, the card play was for minimal stakes, the conversation was lively, and the servants were attentive. Simon lay on a sofa in his shirt and chamber robe, a hot poultice of mallow leaves easing the ache in his wounded leg. Helene was plying an embroidery needle; the men were playing basset. Ariel was in and out of the room, and it took Simon quite a while amid the buzz of
conversation and the general sense of well-being in the parlor to realize that she was more often out than in.

He was feeling easier in his mind after the night they had shared.

“What’s keeping you so busy today?” he asked casually, when she reappeared in the middle of the afternoon after what seemed a particularly long absence.

“Oh, just household things.” Ariel picked up the wine decanter, moving around the room to refill glasses. “It’s a good opportunity when the weather’s like this to do all the little things that get put off.”

Simon glanced up from the cards he was shuffling. His eyes narrowed as he watched her. Her hair was untidy and tendrils clung damply to her forehead. But she didn’t look hot. Quite the opposite. More as if she’d been out and about in the frigid damp fog. As if aware of his sudden scrutiny, she shot him a quick look, and her ears turned pink. He watched as the color spread to her cheeks.

“What kind of things?” he pressed, dealing cards with deft rapidity. Ariel’s gaze fixed in familiar fascination on his hands. It seemed to her that while his long fingers flew like the shuttles of a loom, his actual hands and wrists barely moved at all. Of all the manifold pleasures of his body, she adored his hands the most. They were so large, the knuckles so prominent, and yet their touch was so delicate it wouldn’t bruise the skin on an overripe peach.

“Oh, reorganizing the stillroom and the linen closet. There’s sewing and darning—”

“But I thought you were not expert with a needle,” he interrupted, still casual, as he selected a card from his hand and tossed a guinea to the table. “Banker’s stake, gentlemen.”

“Ariel didn’t say she was doing the needlework herself,” Helene pointed out, a little puzzled by Simon’s inquisition. It was clearly making Ariel uncomfortable.

“No, I didn’t,” Ariel said, shooting Helene a grateful smile. “But men don’t know the first thing about organizing domestic matters.”

“And how should we, Ariel?” Lord Stanton asked with a laugh, matching the banker’s stake with his own and laying down a card face up. “Men are such poor creatures. We have none of the arts of creating comfort. We’re only good for making war and havoc.”

“Speak for yourself, man.” Simon turned over the top card from the intact pack in the middle of the table. It matched his own card. “The bank wins, I believe, gentlemen.”

“The bank’s winning all too often, it seems to me,” Jack declared, taking up his wine. A chorus of agreement came from the cadre, and Simon laughingly yielded the bank to Stanton.

Ariel, grateful that the attention had shifted from her, wandered to the window. Dusk was falling already, although it was hard to differentiate any change in the light through the fog. She had been down at the river, checking on the flat barges that would be used to transport the horses. A perfectionist, she would not be satisfied until she had personally checked every rivet, every rope, every block and tackle that would be used to secure her animals. She knew she had been driving the ferrymen to distraction with her fussing, but they’d been well paid and could put up with it.

“I’m just going to see if anything’s required in the Great Hall,” she said, sliding to the door, offering an almost guilty smile to the room at large. “Is there anything anyone needs here?”

“Yes, your company,” Simon observed, leaning back and regarding her quizzically. “You seem to be having trouble sitting still.”

“It’s the weather. It makes me itchy,” Ariel said as she departed, closing the door behind her.

Simon shook his head and returned his attention to the game.

Ariel sped down the spiral stairs to the floor beneath. She hurried along the corridor, took the side staircase, and approached the Great Hall from the kitchen. She stood in the shadow of the staircase watching the scene. If there was a
sober member of the group, he or she was hiding it well. A few couples were engaged in a lewd dance on one of the tables, to the strains of a jig played by the musicians in the gallery. A hogshead of malmsey had been broached, the tap left on so that the wine flowed stickily across the floor.

Ranulf was sitting at the top table, his eyes unfocused, his mouth thinned. He didn’t seem to be enjoying himself, Ariel reflected. But then, he very rarely did. Even the heights of debauchery failed to please him, although he was always striving for some new sensation.

Roland was nibbling amiably at the ear of Lord Darsett’s mistress. The woman was giggling, even while her hand was lost in her protector’s crotch.

Ralph appeared to be asleep in a bowl of venison stew.

There was no sign of Oliver Becket.

Ariel moved away, back to the kitchen. It was as safe tonight as it ever would be. Ranulf did not suspect anything. And he wouldn’t be going down to the river on a night like this without a good reason.

“Doris?” She beckoned the girl, who was putting the finishing touches to a dish of roasted partridges for the green parlor’s dinner.

Doris, beaming, abandoned her task and hurried over, wiping her hands on her apron. “Yes, m’lady.”

“I need you to do something for me. At ten o’clock I need you to come to the green parlor and fetch me.”

“Fetch you fer what, m’lady?”

“Just say that I’m needed at a birthing in the village and Edgar’s waiting with the gig to take me.”

“Oh . . . but who’s ’avin’ the baby, m’lady?”

Ariel sighed. “You don’t have to worry about that. Just come upstairs at ten o’clock and give me the message. Can you do that?”

Doris looked mightily puzzled, but the instructions were simple enough, so she bobbed a curtsy and said she could. Ariel nodded and left the kitchen, returning again to the
stables, where Edgar was alone, muffling the hooves of the horses in preparation for moving them out.

“I’ll start at this end,” Ariel said, gathering up sheets of sacking and entering the far stall.

“Don’t you think you’ll be missed up at the castle?” Edgar inquired phlegmatically. “You don’t want to draw attention to things, seems to me.”

Ariel paused in the act of lifting Serenissima’s hoof. Edgar was right. Still, she was afraid she would only draw more attention with her stupid blushes around Simon. “I’ll just do a couple,” she compromised. “Then I’ll go back for dinner.”

Somehow she would get through dinner.

She hurried upstairs and found Simon alone in the parlor. “Where is everyone? Timson is bringing dinner up in ten minutes.”

“They went to change.” Simon flexed his poulticed thigh. “Since I’m playing the invalid today, I’m excused such courtesies, but . . .?” He raised an eyebrow as he ran his eye over Ariel’s tousled clothing.

Ariel glanced down at her old riding habit and cursed her stupidity. “Forgive me. I . . . I was forgetting that we have guests,” she said somewhat lamely. “Everyone is so easy and informal, I . . . I just forgot.”

“I expect you’ve been too busy today to worry about such unimportant matters.” Simon watched the flush crimson her cheeks. “Come here, wife of mine.” He held out a hand.

Ariel crossed the room, trying to hide her reluctance. He took both her hands and held them firmly as she stood in front of him. His eyes were still quizzical.

“What’s going on, Ariel?”

“Nothing! I’ve just been very busy doing things . . . things that have to be done.” She tugged at her hands but his grip tightened.

“You wouldn’t be hiding something from me, would you?”

“No!” she exclaimed. “And you’re making me blush because you’re making me feel guilty, and I don’t have anything
to feel guilty about. You
know
how I go red at the slightest thing.”

He laughed and released her hands. “Yes, I do. Very well, forgive me for being suspicious. If you say you’re not hiding anything, then of course I believe you.”

Ariel spun away from him as flames blazed in her cheeks. “I have to go and change.” She whisked from the parlor, leaving Simon staring reflectively into the fire. He was far from convinced she was telling him the truth.

Ariel, praying her clumsy blushes hadn’t put him on his guard, pulled a simple gown of gray wool out of the armoire. Its only ornament was a band of turquoise silk beneath the bosom, and matching bands on the sleeves. When she had first acquired it, she had considered it the height of elegance, but compared with her admittedly scanty trousseau wardrobe, it struck her as pathetically plain and unfashionable. However, silks and velvets were ill suited for the rough work she would have to do later. Dinner was an agony. She felt Simon’s eyes on her constantly and covered her confusion by seeing to her guests’ needs when the servants were gone as attentively as Timson himself. Not a glass was left empty, a plate unfilled.

Doris’s knock on the dot of ten o’clock was a blessed relief.

“M’lady’s wanted at a birthin’,” Doris announced with a curtsy. She was frowning as she struggled to be word perfect. “Edgar’s waitin’ wi’ the gig in the yard.” She curtsied again and said with a rush of inspiration, “If you could come quick, m’lady. The mother’s powerful bad.”

Ariel leaped to her feet. “Yes, of course. I’ll come directly.” She cast a distracted glance around the table. “Forgive me, Helene . . . gentlemen. I may be back late, so I’ll see you in the morning. Simon, don’t wait up for me.” She almost raced from the room, her heart jumping with relief.

“What was all that about?” Helene asked, puzzled.

“I wish I knew.” Simon leaned back in his chair, idly twisting the stem of his glass between his fingers.

“But . . .but a birthing?”

“Remember I wrote to you that Ariel is a midwife and a leechwoman,” he said, still somewhat absently. “She’s much in demand in the neighborhood as a healer.”