Though he had seen her with his own eyes, conversed with her over dinner, Falconer had trouble believing that she was under his own roof. In his mind he never used the name Ariel; to him his wife was she, as if she were the only woman in the world.
What he had not expected was how tormenting her presence would be. It had been ten years since he had last lain with a woman, and he had become reasonably comfortable with his monkish life. But no more; though he still wore the robes of a monk, he ached with yearning. He wanted to touch his wife's blossom-smooth skin, bury his hands in her silky hair, inhale her sweet female scent. He wanted more than that, though he would not allow himself to put words to his base thoughts.
After she had gone to bed, he went outside and walked from one end of Belleterre to the other as dusk became night. Cerberus trotted obediently behind, ready to defend his master from the lethal attacks of rabbits and pheasants.
As soon as it was dark enough, Falconer pushed back his hood, welcoming the cool night air, for he burned. He despised himself for his body's weakness; it was unthinkable that a monster such as he could lie with the angel he had married. At least, unlike Gordstone, he knew that he was a monster. But in his heart, he was no better than the other man, for he could not stop himself from desiring her.
It was very late when he returned to the house. To his surprise, when he went upstairs a light showed under his wife's bedroom door. Was she also having trouble sleeping? Perhaps he should go and talk with her, reassure her about her new life.
Though he knew he was lying to himself about his motives, he literally could not prevent himself from going down the hall and tapping on her door. When there was no answer, he turned the knob and eased the door open, then crossed the room to the bed.
She had fallen asleep while reading, and she lay with her head turned to one side, her pale blond hair spilling luxuriantly over the pillow. She wore a delicately tucked and laced nightgown, and she was the most beautiful being he had ever seen.
He picked up the book that she had laid on the coverlet. It was one of his own volumes of William Blake, the mystical poet and artist. A good choice for a girl who was also an artist. He set the volume on the table by a vase of roses, turned out the lamp, and ordered himself to leave the room.
But he allowed himself one last look. The bedroom curtains hadn't been drawn, and in the moonlight she was a figure spun of ivory and silver. He drank in the sight, knowing that he could never permit himself to do this again, for he could not trust himself so close to her.
When he had memorized her image well enough to last a lifetime, he turned to go. He was halfway to the door when his resolve broke and he went back again. Against his will his hand lifted, began reaching out to her.
With a violence that was all the more intense for being subdued, he turned to the vase of roses and gripped the stems with his left hand. Ignoring the thorns stabbing into his fingers, he stripped the blossoms away with his right hand. Then he slowly scattered the fragile scarlet petals over her like a pagan worshiping his goddess. They looked like black velvet as they drifted down the moonbeams.
One petal touched her cheek and slid over the soft curve, coming to rest on her throat, exactly the way he longed to touch her. As the intoxicating scent of roses filled the air around him, more petals spangled her gilt hair and delicate muslin gown, rising and falling with the slow rhythm of her breath.
When his hand was emptied, he took a shuddering breath. Then he turned and left her room forever.
Autumn
Ariel added a little more yellow paint to the mixture, stroked a brushful across her test paper, then critically examined the result. Yes, that should do for the base shade of the leaves, which were at the height of their autumn color. In the next two hours, she made several watercolor sketches of the woods, more interested in creating an impression of the vibrant scene than in drawing an exact copy. As James said, now that photographers were able to reproduce precise images, artists had more freedom to experiment, to be more abstract.
The work absorbed her entire attention, for watercolor was in many ways the most difficult and volatile medium. When she finally had a painting that satisfied her, she began packing her equipment into the special saddlebags that one of the Belleterre grooms had made to carry her supplies around the estate. The glade was deeply peaceful. Above her head tall, tall elm trees rustled in the wind like a sky-borne river.
It had not taken long for her life to fall into an easy routine. As her husband had promised, she had quiet, freedom, and anything else that money could buy. The size of the allowance he gave her was staggering, and it had been exciting to order the finest papers and canvases, the most expensive brushes and pigments, and never have to consider the cost.
It also proved educational to have such wealth at her disposal. She found that after she had bought her art supplies, there was little else to spend the money on. She scarcely even needed to buy books, for the Belleterre library was the finest she had ever seen. Nor did she have to buy clothing, for she had the wardrobe her husband had given her when they married.
He had also given her an exquisite, beautifully mannered gray mare. Foxglove was the prettiest horse on the estate, for the rest of the beasts were an odd-looking lot. Though quite capable of doing their jobs, they tended to have knobby knees, lop-ears, and coats that were rough even after the most thorough grooming. The pairs and teams didn't match at all. She suspected that, like Cerberus and Tripod, the horses had been given a home because they hadn't been appreciated by a world that valued appearance over capability.
Ariel found the mismatched horses endearing and almost resented the fact that her husband had bought Foxglove for her. Did he think she was incapable of appreciating anything that wasn't perfect? Apparently. Yet because his intention had been to please her, she could hardly complain.
Yes, James had given her exactly the life of peace and freedom that he had promised. She could draw and paint to her heart's content, for she no longer had to spend most of her time trying vainly to oversee her father's neglected estate. Her work was improving, and some of the credit for that must go to her husband, for they often discussed art over dinner. His knowledge of painting was remarkable and his insights very helpful, for her abilities were more intuitive than analytical.
Yet instead of mounting to ride back to the house, Ariel put her arms around Foxglove's neck and buried her face against the mare's glossy, horse-scented hide. She was a very lucky young woman. That being the case, why was she so miserable?
"Oh, Foxy," she said in a choked voice. "I'm so lonely—lonelier than I've ever been in my life. Sometimes it seems as if you're my only friend." Though it sounded perilously like self-pity, the statement was true. If she hadn't asked that her husband dine with her, days on end would have passed without her seeing him.
She looked forward all day to those meals, for he was the pleasantest of companions, well-read and amusing, able to discuss any subject. In spite of her youth and frequent ignorance, he was never rude or disdainful of her opinions; in fact, the discussions were making her much more knowledgeable, and she enjoyed them enormously.
Yet no matter how pleasant the meal, as soon as it was over James would bid her a polite good night and withdraw. She would not see him again until the next evening, except perhaps by chance, in the distance, as he rode about the estate.
In addition the Belleterre servants were a surprisingly reserved group. Ariel had been on easy terms with everyone at Gardsley, but Falconer's people were as distant now as they had been the day she arrived, four months earlier. The one exception was Patterson, the old, half-blind groom who had been her husband's best man at the wedding. He at least was always friendly, though not very forthcoming. Patterson, Foxglove, Cerberus, and Tripod were almost the whole of Ariel's social life. Even her friend Anna hadn't written in months, presumably because she was absorbed in her new family.
With a sigh Ariel mounted and turned Foxglove toward home. She had always been able
to live quite happily in her own world; in fact, she had never been lonely until she came to Belleterre. Now she reckoned it a good night when Tripod deigned to sleep on her bed.
She had changed, and the blame could be laid at her husband's door. Solitude was no longer enough because she loved being with him—loved hearing his deep, kind voice, loved laughing at his dry sense of humor. She would have been happy to trail around after him like Cerberus. But she couldn't, for she knew James wouldn't like that. She was just a young and not very interesting female; though he was willing to share one meal a day with her, more of her company would probably bore him to tears. She didn't dare jeopardize what she had by asking for more than he was willing to give.
As she reined in Foxglove in front of the stables, Patterson ambled out to help her dismount. When her feet were safely on the ground, Ariel impulsively asked a question inspired by her earlier thoughts.
"Patterson, why are all of the servants so reserved with me? Is it something I've done?"
The old man paused in the act of unpacking her painting materials. "No, milady. Everyone considers you very proper."
"Then why do I feel as if I'm being judged and found wanting?" Ariel said, then immediately felt foolish.
The groom took her words in good part. " 'Tisn't that, milady. You're much admired," he said. " 'Tis just that folks are afraid you might hurt the master."
She stared at him. "Hurt him? Why would I do that?" A horrible thought occurred to her. "Surely no one thinks I would poison him so that I could be a wealthy widow!"
"Not that, my lady," he said quickly. " 'Tisn't that sort of hurt that folks are worried about." He heaved the saddlebags from the mare. Without looking at Ariel, he said, "Don't need a knife or gun or poison to break a man's heart."
"His lordship scarcely knows I'm alive," she said, unable to believe the implication. "I'm just one more unfortunate creature that he brought to Belleterre because I needed a home."
"Nay, milady. You're not like any of the others." In spite of the cloudiness of his eyes, Patterson's gaze seemed to bore right through her. "I've known that boy most of his life, and I know that he's never brought home anyone like you."
Ariel's mind unaccountably went to the morning after her wedding. There had been blood red rose petals all over the bed when she woke. She had been surprised and a little uneasy, until she decided that some of the flowers had fallen apart and been blown by the wind. But they had fallen very strangely if it was the wind. She had a mental image of James scattering her with rose petals, and an odd, deep shiver went through her.
Was it possible that he cared for her, as a man cared for a woman? She rejected the idea. He didn't want her for a wife; from all appearances, his nature was as monkish as his clothing.
As she hesitated, caught in her thoughts, Patterson said, "I think he's in the aviary, milady. If you like, I can take your pictures up to the house."
As a hint there was nothing subtle about it. "Please do that, Patterson. And thank you." Ariel's steps were slow as she walked through the gardens to the aviary. If she understood the old groom correctly, James did care about her, at least enough that she had the potential to hurt him. Not that she would ever do so, but the opposite side of that potential was that she might be capable of making him happy. She often felt deep sadness radiating from her husband, and the possibility that she might be able to reduce that was tantalizing.
Her steps became even slower when she came within sight of the aviary. It was an enormous enclosure made of elaborately molded, white-painted cast iron. Not only was it large enough to include several small trees and a little pool, but there was a shed where the birds could shelter during bad weather.
The aviary was home to dozens of birds, most of them foreign species that Ariel didn't recognize. She often came by to watch them fly and chatter and play. In particular she enjoyed coaxing the large green parrot into conversation. Several times she had done sketches of the aviary's residents, trying to capture the quick, bright movements.
But today her gaze went immediately to her husband, who was inside the enclosure. Instead of his usual calf-length robe, he was garbed in a dark coat and trousers such as any gentleman might wear for a day's estate management. However, his head and shoulders were swathed in a cowled hood that concealed his face as effectively as the longer robe.
Ariel had occasionally seen him dressed this way, but always in the distance. Close up, he was a fine figure of a man, tall and strong and masculine. His black coat displayed the breadth of his shoulders. His movements fascinated her—the turn of his powerful wrist when he stretched out his hand so that a small brown bird could jump onto it, his gentleness as he stroked the small creature's head with one forefinger, his warm chuckle when the parrot swooped down and landed on his shoulder with a great thrashing of wings.
The birds loved him, not caring what his face was like. The same was true of all the creatures who lived at Belleterre, and all the humans, too, including Ariel. Or perhaps what she felt for her husband wasn't quite love, but it could be, if given a chance. She yearned for his company, for his touch. In her limited life she had never known anyone like him—not just for the obvious reason of how he dressed, but for his kindness and knowledge. It no longer mattered that she didn't know what he looked like; she was so accustomed to his hood that it had in effect become his face.
But how could an ignorant young woman tell a mature, educated man that she yearned to be more to him? Praying that inspiration would come, Ariel unlatched the door and entered the aviary. Cerberus, who had been lying outside, lurched to his feet and tried to enter with her, but she firmly held him back.
As the door clinked shut behind her, James turned. Surprise in his voice, he said, "I thought you were painting, Ariel."
"I was, but the light changed, so I decided to stop after I did a picture that I was somewhat satisfied with."
A smile in his voice, he said, "Is an artist ever wholly satisfied with her own work?"
She smiled ruefully. "I doubt it. I know that I never am."
While she tried to think what to say next, the parrot flew to a branch and crooned, "Ar-r-riel. Ar-r-riel."
Surprised, she said, "When did he learn that?"
James shrugged. "Just now, I imagine. He's a contrary creature. Once I spent hours unsuccessfully trying to teach him to say 'God save the Queen.' The only thing he learned that day was the phrase 'Deuce take it,' which I said just before I gave up in exasperation."
The bird obligingly squawked, "Devil take it! Devil take it!"
Ariel laughed. "Are you sure that 'deuce take it' is what he learned that day?"
Her husband joined her laughter. "It appears that my bad language has been exposed. Sorry."
"James…" Not sure how to say what she wanted, she took several steps toward her husband.
To her dismay he moved away. "Have you ever seen one of these parakeets close up?" He laid a hand on a branch and a bird hopped on. "Lovely little creatures." It was neatly done, as if he was not retreating but had merely seen something that caught his attention.
Ariel felt tears stinging in her eyes. Patterson must be wrong; if James cared for her in a special way, he would not flee whenever she approached. She was struggling to maintain her composure when the blue-breasted parakeet suddenly skipped up her husband's arm and disappeared into the folds of the hood where it wrapped around his throat.
For Ariel it was the last straw. Even that silly little bird, which wouldn't make two bites for Tripod, was permitted to get closer to James than she was. Her loneliness and yearning welled up, and with them her tears. Humiliated, she turned to leave the aviary, wanting to get away before her husband noticed.
But he noticed everything. Quickly he said, "Ariel, what's wrong?"
She shook her head and fumbled with the door, but the latch on this side was stiff. As she struggled with it, her husband came up behind her and hesitantly touched her elbow. "Has your father tried to reach you, or upset you in some
way?"
It was the most natural thing in the world for her to turn to him, and for him to put his arms around her. She was crying harder than she ever had in her life, even when her mother died. But dear God, how wonderful it felt to be in his embrace! He was so strong, so warm, so safe. So tall as well—the top of her head didn't quite reach his chin, which put his shoulder at a convenient height. Trying to stop her tears, she gulped for breath, pressing her face into the smooth dark wool of his coat.
"Ariel, my dear girl," he said with soft helplessness, rocking her a little. "Is there anything I can do? Or… or are you crying because you're married to me?"
"Oh, no, no, that's not the problem." She slipped her arms around his waist, wanting to be as close as she could. "It's just… I'm so lonely here. Would it be possible for us to spend more time together? Perhaps in the evenings, after dinner. I won't disturb you if you want to work or read, but I'd like to be with you."
It was as close as she could come to putting her heart in his hands. He didn't answer for a long time, so long that she thought she might suffocate because she couldn't seem to breathe normally. One hand stroked down her back, slowly, as if he were gentling a horse. Finally he said, "Of course we could, if that's what you want."
"But will you mind?" she asked, needing to know if he was willing or simply indulging.
She felt a faint brush against her hair, from his hand or perhaps his lips. "No, I won't mind," he said softly. "It will be my pleasure."
She was so happy that her tears began to flow again. It gave her an excuse to stay just where she was, in his arms. She would never tire of his embrace, for she felt as if she had come home. Besides happiness, she felt also deeper stirrings that she didn't recognize. They frightened her a little, but at the same time she knew that she wanted to explore them further, for they had something to do with James.
She became aware how much tension there was in her husband. Reluctantly she stepped away, for she didn't want to wear out her welcome. "It's getting late." Suddenly aware of the untidiness of her hair and the stains on her painting clothes, she said, "I must go and change for dinner."