Ivory Innocence (12 page)

Small though it was, the reception was another ordeal for Ivory. Harry Drummond insisted on making a speech in which he made several coy references to the wedding night to come; toasts were made and clichés spoken. And all the time Ivory was bitterly aware of how uncomfortable Rob and his family felt.

"It was lovely of you to come," she said to Mrs. Garth, meaning it. "And I do hope Janey won't make too much extra work for you. I had no idea Matthew was thinking of asking you to have her while we're away or I'd have—"

"We're only too pleased," Mrs. Garth said. "Becky's looking forward to it. Janey's a little dear. You're not to worry. You go away and enjoy yourselves." But her eyes were saying "How could you do this to my son?"

At last Ivory forced herself to turn to Rob. "Thank you for the card. It was sweet of you to think of it."

"I wanted you to know there's no hard feelings," Rob said awkwardly. "We'll still be friends. If ever you need me, you know where I'll be. Thanks for inviting us, but I think we'd better be off now. I've got chores to do. We'll… see you around, I expect."

"Yes, of course," Ivory said, whispering so that her tears didn't sound in her voice. She was sorry to have hurt him, sorry that he and his mother seemed to feel she was now somehow out of their reach.

They left swiftly, taking Janey with them. Ivory was alone with her husband and the Drummonds. Harry and Matthew, standing by the buffet table, were talking business.

"Have some more champagne," Nancy Drummond suggested, coming to fill Ivory's glass as she stood by the front window, staring down the drive. "Those are nice people, those friends of yours. It was good of them to have Janey. Matthew'll be relieved she's in such good hands."

"Yes," was all Ivory could think of to say.

Soon, the Drummonds left. Ivory went to her room to prepare for their journey, while Jim Barnes stowed the cases into the car. Matthew had been very secretive about their honeymoon destination, telling her only that it was to be in England: "I've had enough of flying for a while. You'll need clothes suitable for the English climate and the country life." When she came back to the Hall she would no longer be sleeping in this airy room but in the master suite—in the master's bed. But he would find no joy with her, if she could help it. It would be the days that would make her life worthwhile, days spent making Janey feel secure and loved, and days when at last a Meldrum would be mistress of Hedley Hall again. Why, suddenly, did it seem such a hollow victory?

Then the door suddenly opened and Matthew walked in, carrying her cartwheel hat. Ivory gasped and began to protest at his invasion of her last few moments of privacy.

"I'm your husband now," he said laconically. "Or had you forgotten?" He held up the hat. "Do you want this?"

"No, I don't think so. Leave it."

Tossing the hat onto the bed, he came to take her by the shoulders, his fingers urgent through the soft material of her outfit. "Not having regrets, are you, Ivory? It's too late for that. You're mine, and I intend to make sure you stay mine."

"That ought to work both ways," she said dully. "Or did you think I'd turn a blind eye to your affairs?"

"Just give me ample reason and I'll be faithful," he replied, pulling her into his arms and kissing her gently.

Ivory sat beside her husband as he headed the car north up the broad sweep of the A1 highway. She glanced at his hands, tanned and capable on the wheel, wearing no ring to mark him as a married man. On her own hand the thick gold band and the emerald felt heavy, a constant reminder that she belonged to him. But there was nothing about him that said he belonged to her.

"Where did you get that scar on your hand?" she asked.

He was frowning against the brightness of the sun, but flicked a glance at her distractedly. "Scar? Oh, tangling with some barbed wire. Get the map out and navigate for me, will you? We want York for a start. We'll stop there and have a cup of tea."

Glad of something to do with her mind, Ivory consulted the maps and wondered if he had given her the job to stop her from talking. He didn't need a navigator; the road went practically all the way to York and the signs were clear enough.

From the city of York, with its ancient walls and solid cathedral, they drove through pleasant vales and villages with country mansions on their outskirts, to Pickering, the small town backed by the dark bulk of the North York Moors. They could be heading for the coast, Ivory thought, or perhaps there was some fabulous hotel hidden in the wilds, offering riding and walking facilities. The thought cheered her, for she loved the wild loneliness of the area, having spent a holiday there one summer. It would be a small compensation for the loveless marriage to which she had condemned herself.

When they stopped for a snack, Matthew studied the maps, not allowing her to see which particular place he was looking for. He stowed the maps away in the glove compartment and said he knew where he was going; she could relax and enjoy the scenery.

After a while, Matthew turned down a side road that wound tortuously into a shadowed valley with lonely farms dotting the rugged landscape and dry-stone walls draped like lacy shawls across the flanks of the hills. Then they began to climb again, along a dirt track so little used that grass grew down the center.

"Where exactly are we going?" Ivory asked. "There can't be any hotels this far in the wilds."

"Who said anything about a hotel?" Matthew replied with a cold smile. "You'll soon see."

At length, as the light faded, they came in sight of a low stone building with a slate roof, standing alone in a hollow sheltered by sycamores, with a stone wall marking the edges of the property. Matthew stopped the car outside the house and produced a set of keys from his pocket.

"Honeymoon Cottage," he said drily. "At least, that's what we'll call it from now on. We're going to be entirely alone for two whole weeks. Let's take a look at the place, shall we?"

He opened the door and flicked on a light. Ivory saw a big kitchen with low dark beams, a scrubbed wooden table and the usual appliances, including a big refrigerator freezer that, she saw when Matthew opened it, was fully stocked.

"I've never asked you if you can cook," he said. "Now we'll find out."

All the walls were whitewashed, with black-framed prints hanging on them. Stairs angled up from a small hallway, and there was a sitting room furnished in dark oak and chintz, with a big open fireplace laid ready with logs. It was a comfortable, friendly, welcoming place; in different circumstances Ivory might have loved it. Now she was filled with apprehension as her husband led her up the stairs.

They found a bathroom, a small bedroom with a single bed, then opened the third door and stepped into the main bedroom. Hovering nervously in the doorway, Ivory saw a simple wooden bed covered in a crocheted coverlet of rainbow colors, with furniture of polished oak and bright rugs on the floor.

"Lovers' nest," Matthew said in an undertone, flicking her a wicked look. "Right, Mrs. Kendrake. I'll bring the cases in. You make a start on supper."

Ivory found an apron in a drawer in the kitchen and put it on over her pale dress. The cupboards contained everything she might need, and in the deep-freeze she discovered homemade pies and bread, carefully labeled, as well as meat and prepared vegetables.

"Who does this place belong to?" she asked as Matthew appeared with the luggage.

"To us, of course," he said with a surprised lift of eyebrows. "It was my uncle's favorite retreat."

Touched by the way he had said "us" and not "me," she said, "But who looks after it? All this food, it's been specially prepared."

"I arranged it that way. The Wheelers down at Beck Farm keep an eye on the place. Mrs. Wheeler keeps it aired and cleaned, and when somebody's due she stocks up with food and her husband gets the generator going. Who did you think did it, the little people?"

"I just wondered. What would you like to eat?"

"Something quick. I'm absolutely starving." He disappeared and she heard his footsteps on the stairs.

She chose a precooked steak pie, frozen french fries and mixed vegetables. This wasn't quite the way she had imagined this evening would be. At least she had something to do to take her mind off the coming night.

When Matthew came back, he had changed his wedding suit for navy slacks and a white sweater. He searched the pantry and emerged, smiling, with a bottle of wine. "Good old Uncle George. I knew he'd have a store somewhere."

Looking askance at the bottle, well aware of the effect its contents might have on her determination to resist him, Ivory asked, "Haven't you been here before?"

"Never had the chance," he said, clattering in a drawer in search of a corkscrew.

"But you used to visit Hedley Hall when your uncle was alive?"

"Not very often, not after I went to Australia. Why?"

"I never—" she began, and bit her lip. Matthew mustn't suspect she had lived most of her life in Hedley Magna, so how could she say she had never seen him there? She was sure to have remembered him; those lean good looks might have turned her girlish head.

Luckily he was too preoccupied to inquire into her bitten-off sentence. But Ivory had visions of him at the Hall as a guest of his uncle's. Was that where he had met Carla?

"Ah, there it is," he sighed, turning with the corkscrew in his hand. "Red wine needs to breathe before it's served, you know. If you've finished what you're doing, why don't you go and put on something more comfortable?"

"Oh yes,
sir
," Ivory said tartly, and escaped. Although the kitchen was large enough, it seemed small with Matthew in it. His head almost touched the low beams and his vibrant presence filled the whole room with electric sparks that jumped along her taut nerves.

She was horrified to discover that he had unpacked her suitcase as well as his own and distributed the clothes into drawers and wardrobe. Her dresses hung alongside his suits in a curious intimacy. And across the bed, draped invitingly, lay a nightdress and negligee that she had not seen before. Made of delicate silk and lace, it was a seductive outfit. Her pale skin would shine through the sheer weave. Was he expecting her to appear for supper in those flimsy items?

Without even touching the nightdress, Ivory hurriedly changed out of her formal wedding clothes and slipped on a pair of jeans and a loose blouse. She would have liked to delay her return to the kitchen, but a glance at her watch told her the food would soon be ready.

Matthew sat at the table, pouring wine into two glasses. His mouth tightened when he saw her attire, but Ivory ignored him, her pulse jumping, and went to open the oven and check the pie. It was almost done; the french fries were hot.

"It won't be cordon bleu," she said over her shoulder, "but at least it's quick."

She was aware that, while she dealt with the final preparations for the meal, he was watching her. Nerves made her fumble. The pie was nearly burned when she took it from the oven. She served the food onto two plates, giving him the much larger share, and took them to the table, seating herself at the far end from him.

"Just as well we have Mrs. Barnes to cook for us at the Hall," Matthew said drily.

"You said you were in a hurry," she retorted. "If I'd had the time, I could have done something fancy. But then you didn't marry me for my culinary ability."

"No." That single word managed to convey all manner of intimate nuances, and made Ivory flush and reach for her wine glass. Over its rim she saw Matthew watching her with a baleful light in his eyes.

"I assume you put on those jeans to defy me," he said. "Didn't you like your wedding present?"

"Wedding present?" she repeated lightly, frightened of the ominous tension that suddenly lay like a blanket over the cottage. "Oh, is that what it was? Thank you. Yes, it's beautiful. But it hardly seemed suitable for the kitchen. You did say I was to wear something comfortable. I'm most comfortable in my old jeans."

His lips stretched in a slow, wolfish smile that made her aware of how totally alone they were. He looked as if he knew exactly what was in her mind but wasn't bothered: he was confident of his own ability to override her, however she might plan to stall him.

Thoughts of the coming night, alone with him in that country bedroom, made her pick at her meal. She began to feel that if she ate another mouthful she would be sick.

"If you're not hungry," Matthew said eventually, "why don't you go to bed? You must be tired. I'll clear up in here, after I finish this wine."

The bottle was still half full. Ivory had sipped a little from her glass but wanted no more, for fear of what it might do to her. Now she feared what it might do to Matthew.

"Yes, I am tired," she said, rising from her chair, wondering what to say next. If she bade him good night he might laugh, for she would be seeing him shortly-seeing him, and having him touch her in the way he had every right to touch her now. She stood there uncertainly for a moment, her gray eyes wide with apprehension. Then she ran up the stairs to the bedroom.

She bundled the filmy silk and lace negligee into a drawer and put on one of her own cotton nightgowns, wondering if she dared bar the door. There was no lock on it, but if she set a chair under the handle it would provide a barrier. But Matthew was capable of breakdown such a barrier, and then he might take her in anger.

Eventually, she sat on the bed, unwilling to climb between the sheets. But the night air was cold, and soon made her shiver. She put out the light and lay down, huddled into a ball of misery. Perhaps if she were asleep when he came in, he might leave her alone.

Desperately, she sought sleep. But the more she tried to force herself to unconsciousness, the more wakeful she felt. Moonlight lay silver against the chintz curtains; outside, the wind breathed through the sycamores. Every little sound made her tense with panic as timbers creaked in the roof. Somewhere a sheep bleat-ed and a night bird called, emphasizing the vast emptiness of the moors surrounding the cottage.

With no apparent transition, she found herself waking up. Moonlight had been replaced by sunlight. In disbelief she looked at the other pillow: it remained uncreased, plump and laundered to perfect whiteness. Matthew had not come to bed.