lips bloodless. But she gave no further sign of resistance.
Rolf had informed him of this new plan only an hour before, just after his return to the valley with Ari. As far as he was concerned, a marriage now or in seven days made no difference. It had to happen. Her hand was still cold and nerveless in his, but he didnât loosen his grip. He couldnât tell whether she was following as the priestrattled through the words of commitment, but she made the correct responses when required, her voice dead, her face expressionless. He spoke his own responses, firmly but also without emotion. There was an awkward moment when, at the appropriate juncture, Rolf handed him a plain silver band, and he realized he would have to remove the emerald betrothal ring from Ariâs finger in order to slide the wedding ring into place. Ariadne gave him no help, merely stared straight ahead as he slipped the emerald from her finger, pushed on the silver band, and then replaced the betrothal ring.
A faint shudder ran through her, and her hand quivered for a second. She now belonged to Ivor Chalfont. The ring was a symbol of ownership; the Daunts did not entertain romantic notions about love pledges. Marriage was a business arrangement, an exchange of goods or benefits. And she had just been sold to advance the familyâs interests.
Rolf watched with a satisfied smile on his thin lips, and when the priest had muttered his final blessing, Rolf declared, rubbing his hands together, âSo, niece, now you are safely wed. Just as my father wished and as your own father would have wished. So let us get down to the real business of the evening. Come, let us feast. Music, gentlemen.â He gestured, and the musicians obliged, as servants moved among them with jugs of ale and wine, and the tables groaned with barons of beef, saddles of lamb, and whole suckling pigs.
Ari had no appetite, and her expression remained blank. When someone seized her and hurled her intothe middle of the drunken throng, she went through the motions of the dance. She drank deeply from the silver chalice that Rolf had pressed into her hand after the vows and tried to pretend that none of this was real.
Ivor watched her. Her desperation was as obvious to him as his own angry unhappiness. He would have been happy with this wedding . . . more than happy, delighted to have Ariadne as his wife. The prospect of life in London, at the Kingâs court, was full of possibilities. He had ambitions that lay outside this valley, and with Ariadne and her fortune behind him, he could see only advancement and a life of ever-expanding opportunities. But this was not the way it was supposed to be. He could not be secure in this union knowing that Ari loved someone else. And if he could not be secure with her, how was he supposed to conduct this marriage?
If they had been strangers to each other, it would have been easier. But he knew all there was to know about Ariadne, as she did about him. He knew when she was happy and when she was sad. He knew her faults and her many qualities. He knew the forces that had shaped her. He knew her secrets. And she knew his.
In ignorance, they could perhaps have found something new and fresh together that might eventually have helped Ariadne to forget Gabriel, but because Ivor knew all there was to know, he could not ignore him or forget about him.
There was no neutral ground on which to build anything new. And Ivor had no idea how to go on from this point.
FIVE
I t was long past midnight before the toasts and speeches of the wake began in good earnest, man after man rising to his feet with brimming tankard to extol the virtues of old Lord Daunt, to tell stories about his campaigns and his successes, about the raids he had led and the hand-to-hand battles he had fought in his youth.
Ariadne sat on a stool in a quiet corner, cradling her goblet of Rhenish, her discarded shoes pushed beneath the stool as she listened to the
Rolf had informed him of this new plan only an hour before, just after his return to the valley with Ari. As far as he was concerned, a marriage now or in seven days made no difference. It had to happen. Her hand was still cold and nerveless in his, but he didnât loosen his grip. He couldnât tell whether she was following as the priestrattled through the words of commitment, but she made the correct responses when required, her voice dead, her face expressionless. He spoke his own responses, firmly but also without emotion. There was an awkward moment when, at the appropriate juncture, Rolf handed him a plain silver band, and he realized he would have to remove the emerald betrothal ring from Ariâs finger in order to slide the wedding ring into place. Ariadne gave him no help, merely stared straight ahead as he slipped the emerald from her finger, pushed on the silver band, and then replaced the betrothal ring.
A faint shudder ran through her, and her hand quivered for a second. She now belonged to Ivor Chalfont. The ring was a symbol of ownership; the Daunts did not entertain romantic notions about love pledges. Marriage was a business arrangement, an exchange of goods or benefits. And she had just been sold to advance the familyâs interests.
Rolf watched with a satisfied smile on his thin lips, and when the priest had muttered his final blessing, Rolf declared, rubbing his hands together, âSo, niece, now you are safely wed. Just as my father wished and as your own father would have wished. So let us get down to the real business of the evening. Come, let us feast. Music, gentlemen.â He gestured, and the musicians obliged, as servants moved among them with jugs of ale and wine, and the tables groaned with barons of beef, saddles of lamb, and whole suckling pigs.
Ari had no appetite, and her expression remained blank. When someone seized her and hurled her intothe middle of the drunken throng, she went through the motions of the dance. She drank deeply from the silver chalice that Rolf had pressed into her hand after the vows and tried to pretend that none of this was real.
Ivor watched her. Her desperation was as obvious to him as his own angry unhappiness. He would have been happy with this wedding . . . more than happy, delighted to have Ariadne as his wife. The prospect of life in London, at the Kingâs court, was full of possibilities. He had ambitions that lay outside this valley, and with Ariadne and her fortune behind him, he could see only advancement and a life of ever-expanding opportunities. But this was not the way it was supposed to be. He could not be secure in this union knowing that Ari loved someone else. And if he could not be secure with her, how was he supposed to conduct this marriage?
If they had been strangers to each other, it would have been easier. But he knew all there was to know about Ariadne, as she did about him. He knew when she was happy and when she was sad. He knew her faults and her many qualities. He knew the forces that had shaped her. He knew her secrets. And she knew his.
In ignorance, they could perhaps have found something new and fresh together that might eventually have helped Ariadne to forget Gabriel, but because Ivor knew all there was to know, he could not ignore him or forget about him.
There was no neutral ground on which to build anything new. And Ivor had no idea how to go on from this point.
FIVE
I t was long past midnight before the toasts and speeches of the wake began in good earnest, man after man rising to his feet with brimming tankard to extol the virtues of old Lord Daunt, to tell stories about his campaigns and his successes, about the raids he had led and the hand-to-hand battles he had fought in his youth.
Ariadne sat on a stool in a quiet corner, cradling her goblet of Rhenish, her discarded shoes pushed beneath the stool as she listened to the
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