Seduction In Silk: A Novel of the Malloren World (Malloran) (34 page)

“I saw in the churchyard that they lost a number of children.”

“In 1724. Such a terrible time. The sickness spread so quickly there was no chance to flee, even for those who had the means. Came and went like a fire, and then burned out.”

“No one knew the cause?”

“Many thought it was a sailor returning from abroad. Jethro West’s son, Saul. Came home sick but was so keen to meet his old friends he’d been everywhere before he took to his bed.”

Perry entered the conversation. “No one spoke of evil causes, ma’am? In such times, some will whisper of spells and witches.”

Miss Pellew hesitated and then lowered her voice. “There were some such, sir, or so I was told. I was a young child myself at the time. There was an old woman called Betty Stoker whom some blamed, but the vicar of the time defended her. Perhaps the feelings lingered, for I can remember him preaching on the subject for years afterward.”

“On unjust suspicions?” Perry asked.

“On that, and that it was a sin to believe in superstitions such as witches and the evil eye. I must confess that as a girl I found such sermons more exciting than the ones on thrift or forbearance.”

“I’m sure I would too,” Claris said. She decided to invent a story. “There was a parish not far from where I grew up with a tradition of witchcraft. Not in the present, but the past. There was even a place called Coven Close—a dip in the ground where some said witches used to gather.”

“How exciting!” Miss Pellew said. “Did you ever visit it?”

“I was far too nervous.”

“Oh, I would have. You might not believe it, but I was quite venturesome as a girl. Clarrie remonstrated with me many a time, but in time I could remonstrate with her, when she related her adventures in London.” She paused, then said, “Would you like her letters, dear?”

Claris stared. “Aunt Clarrie’s letters?”

“Yes. She wrote to me a few times when she was in London. I still have them, for it didn’t seem right to burn them once she was dead, though I’m sure that doesn’t make sense. . . .”

“It does to me.”

Miss Pellew smiled. “You’re more like Clarrie than Nora, you know. Though not much like either.”

“I think I take after my father.”

“Except for the freckles.”

“My mother didn’t have freckles.”

“Clarrie did. Nora made her cover them with paint.” Miss Pellew sighed. “If only Clarrie had stayed here and married a local man. But what’s done is done. I would be grateful if you’d take the letters. I don’t read them now, but in a sense they haunt me. I sometimes wonder if there was anything I could have done to prevent her going to London.”

“I’m sure there wasn’t, ma’am. My mother was a forceful woman.”

“She was, and they had all their father’s money. He left it to them without restraint. Clarrie was not yet twenty-one, but Nora was. Oh dear, oh dear.”

“I’m sorry if our visit has upset you.”

“It’s stirred some old aches, I admit, but enlivened my day. I shall enjoy gossiping all around the village about Nora Dunsworth’s marriage and her happily married daughter. We so rarely have news.”

Claris had to chuckle. “I understand, ma’am. I can add more news. I have brothers—twins, aged eleven.”

“Eleven. Does that difference in age indicate lost children?”

Claris could only say, “No.”

She should have remembered that village spinsters were not always naive. “I see,” Miss Pellew said, clearly speculating. Then she smiled. “The letters.”

She rang the bell on the table and the maid came in. “There are some letters in the bottom drawer of my dressing table, Annie. Please bring them down, and the box that’s beside them.”

The maid soon returned with the letters, which were tied with a pink ribbon, and a small cardboard box.

Miss Pellew passed over the letters and then opened the box.

“Clarrie made a will. She left nearly everything to Nora, of course, but she asked to be buried here and she specified some legacies to her old friends. I received this necklace. I’ve worn it now and then over the years, but it’s not a style suitable for an older lady. I believe she would like you to have it, my dear.”

Claris took the delicate necklace. It was a silver chain set with small ovals of amber.

“Freckles,” Perry said.

“I see what you mean. Are you sure, Miss Pellew? About this and the letters?”

“Completely, my dear. I have good friends, but no close female relatives to leave that necklace to. And as I said, I think Clarrie would like you to have it. I do believe it was given her by Jeremy Knightly. A local man. A good man.”

Her sigh spoke of might-have-beens.

“I will treasure it,” Claris said, “and the letters.”

“How pleasant this has been. Might you be so kind as to write to me now and then? I’d like to know how you go on.”

“Then I will.”

Claris thanked the woman again and they took their leave.

As they walked back to the inn, she said, “It’s hard to believe that Miss Pellew’s Clarrie wrote that curse, even if deranged.”

“And impossible that she created a true curse. You have nothing to fear.”

Claris paused to look at the church, the well-tended graveyard, and the tranquil green. Such a wholesome place to grow up. But it had once been blighted by a pestilence.

“Perhaps I’ll come to believe that soon.”

“Is it the infant memorials? I’ll have them taken away and destroyed—”

“No!” Claris exclaimed. “No. That would be horrible.”

“They’re marble, Claris. The infants themselves are buried far away.”

“It wouldn’t be right. That really would curse us.”

“There are no such things as curses!”

“Don’t shout at me.”

“My apologies, but I dislike seeing you afraid. I wish I’d rid the manor of the things before you saw them.”

“Perhaps I do too, but we can’t turn back the clock. Thank you for bringing me here. It has helped. Before, I only had the portrait of Aunt Clarrie and my mother’s praise of her, but now I know her better. I’m sure she could never truly ill-wish anyone, but I’m equally sure that Giles Perriam deserved it. How foul he must have been to treat such a sweet lady so cruelly.”

“You’ll hear no argument on that from me. Come. Let’s go home.”

As they went to the inn, Claris was aware of the letters in her pocket, wishing she could read them now.

“We could take refreshment here,” Perry said.

“We just had tea.”

“There might be gossip to confirm what Miss Pellew told you.”

Claris was desperate to get home and read the letters, but he had a point, so she agreed.

The keeper of the Ship in Full Sail was a Mistress Greenberry, very round, very short, and very jolly. She quickly provided coffee and cakes for them but then hovered, clearly as keen to know about them as they were to know about the Dunsworths.

“A pleasant village, ma’am,” Claris said, sipping her coffee. “My husband brought me here to seek news of my mother’s family, the Dunsworths.”

“The Dunsworths!” exclaimed Mistress Greenberry. “Fancy that. Hasn’t been a Dunsworth here for many a year, and they were newcomers before then.”

Claris had forgotten that aspect—that most of the families here would go back centuries.

“We visited Miss Pellew and she told us about my grandfather building a house here.”

“That he did, back when I was a girl.”

“What sort of man was he?” Claris asked.

“Hearty, ma’am. A bit blustery, but warmhearted.”

“And my grandmother?”

“A kindly lady, though a bit reserved. Of course, after the ’twenty-four she became more so, poor lady. And he less hearty. But many were hereabouts.”

“It must have been a terrible time.”

“Took two of my brothers, ma’am, which is why I have the inn now.”

Claris had the impression that in that regard the ’24 hadn’t been a complete disaster. She could understand. There were few opportunities for a woman to be independent in this world.

“These are delicious cakes, ma’am. Are they your own work?”

“They are, ma’am.”

Having dished out praise, Claris continued her questions.

“Miss Pellew described my Aunt Clarrie as a heart-breaker.”

“That she was, but not by intent, poor dear. I’d tell her she must be colder to her swains, but she’d say she couldn’t be. There were many lasses around here who were glad when her sister took her off to London, God rest her soul.”

Claris hadn’t thought of that—of the jealousy of the other young women. She also noted that in youth Clarrie had been on good terms with the innkeeper’s daughter, even though they would have been of different status in the village. Had that been her kind heart again, or had they been true friends?

“So sad that she died,” Claris said. “My mother grieved for her most deeply.”

The innkeeper stared. “Never say you’re Nora Dunsworth’s daughter? I hadn’t thought how you came to be, but
Nora
? She had no time for men at all.”

“People change. She married my father, the rector of Old Barford in Surrey.”

“Well, I never.” The woman subsided into a chair. “Well, I never. When she came back here to bury Clarrie, she spewed her hatred of all men, but especially the one responsible for Clarrie’s death. She never said who or how, but he must have broken Clarrie’s heart. She was too gentle for this life. I always worried about her.”

Claris tried to find a way to introduce the subject of covens but failed. She didn’t want the whole village wondering why those Perriams had been asking about witches.

As Perry said, the whole idea was ridiculous.

But then why and how had that virulent curse come from sweet, gentle Clarrie Dunsworth?

S
oon
they were on their way back to London. Claris resented the journey, for she desperately wanted to read Aunt Clarrie’s letters. Perhaps Perry felt the same. As they left the village, he said, “Why don’t you read those letters aloud as we go.”

“What a good idea.” Claris dug them out of her pocket and untied the ribbon. She caught a faint perfume and put them to her nose.

“Any scent could as well be from Miss Pellew as your aunt,” Perry said.

“I know, but I think it’s the same. Yes, it’s the one I remember from Aunt Clarrie’s fichu and handkerchief. It brings back so many memories. And it’s sweet and gentle, as she is said to have been.”

“Read the letters,” he said. “And start from the first.”

She sifted through them. “The date of handling is written on the front, so this one.”

The address was written in careful, upright writing, with each loop flourished. It was light, as if Clarrie had barely touched the pen to the paper. Sweet and gentle, like the lady herself.

“
My dear Olivia . . .
How odd. I would never have thought Miss Pellew an Olivia.”

“Don’t be distracted by incidentals.”

Claris stuck her tongue out at him, even though his eyes were on the road and he wouldn’t see. Perhaps because of that.

My dear Olivia, so here we are in London. I must confess that I find it noisy and the air not good, though I’m told it is much worse in the height of summer, and in winter when everyone is burning coal for heat.

“What’s the date on the letter?” Perry asked.

“May twelfth. It doesn’t say the year.”

“It’s 1739, I assume. The year she died, unless this misadventure lasted over a twelvemonth. Is there an address?”

“At the sign of the dove, Dun Street.”

“When I said to read the letters, I meant the entire contents.”

Claris stuck out her tongue again, and this time he saw it. He grinned.

“I’d tell you to read the letters,” she said, “except that I don’t want to drive. Shall I continue?”

“By all means. But every word.”

Claris found her place.

Our rooms are pleasant. We have two bedchambers and a parlor in which we also eat. It has an outlook over a field. Our landlady, Mistress Stallycombe, is very respectable. She provides breakfast daily and clean bed linen once a week. She will also provide a dinner if requested, at extra cost. I suppose we are comfortable, and there are parks nearby, but it is not at all like village life.

I must not repine! We attended a play last night. So magical, my dear Olivia, and so dramatic. I wish you were here to share such excitements. There were some parts that I felt not quite proper, but Nora commanded me not to be a bumpkin, and most of the company was amused, ladies as well as gentlemen. Your dear friend, Clarrie.

Poor Aunt Clarrie,” Claris said, folding the letter. “She would have been much happier marrying a local man.”

Something was teasing at her mind.

“The next?” Perry prompted.

“Did anything in there strike you as significant?”

He glanced at her. “No. You?”

“I feel there’s something.”

“Did you read every word?”

“Yes.”

“It will come to you later. Read the next.”

She unfolded the single sheet and read it out, beginning with the same address and the date, May 25. It related a trip to St. James’s Park, and paying a call on a Lady Steventon.

“She seems to expect Miss Pellew to know the name,” Claris said, “so she was probably a local lady. We could go back. . . .”

“Not today. I can find out about Lady Steventon in Town. They would have been hoping the lady would be their entree into better circles. We’ll find out if that worked in the next.”

Claris refolded the second and went on to the third. “A trip to Ranelagh Gardens.” After she’d read to the end, she said, “Clarrie thoroughly enjoyed that. Would I?”

“Illuminations, music, and fireworks?” he said with a smile. “I assume you would, and I will enjoy taking you there.”

Claris reflected his smile, no longer regretting the length of their journey. They were alone together with a shared purpose, in harmony. It seemed so easy to be in harmony with him, despite her prickly nature.

“The next?”

She unfolded and read it. “Ah, here we are.
‘At Ranelagh I met a particular gentleman. He is an acquaintance of Lady Steventon’s and very fine. He has such charming manners and a delightful smile. . . .’”
She looked at Perry. “Giles? I’d never have thought him charming. I suppose his portrait shows good looks.”

“As Miss Pellew said, charm requires some effort. A rake finds it worthwhile to make the effort. Does Clarrie name him?”

“Not in this letter.” Claris read an account of an assembly where a certain gentleman paid marked attentions and went on quickly to the next.

“They won’t disappear if you don’t read them fast enough,” Perry said. “Attention to detail is key.”

“I’ve read you every word. If only she named her admirer.”

“Let’s assume it was Giles. Do you think she was completely pleased with him?”

Claris read over the letter in her hand. “I don’t know. She remarks on how pleased Mother was with him.” She frowned at the decorative lines of Clarrie’s writing as if they could reveal more than the words. “Mother was in control of this. She was pushing Clarrie toward Giles as much for her own sake . . .”

And then it came.

The point she’d missed all along.

“Perry, look at this!”

He drew the horse to a stand. “At what?”

Claris thrust the letter at him. “The writing! It’s nothing at all like the writing on the curse.”

He whistled. “It isn’t, is it? When you first saw the curse, you said the writing was similar to your mother’s, only smaller.”

Everything fell into place.

“Mother wrote it. Oh, yes, I can believe she could invent such vitriol. But, Perry, I can also believe that she could create a curse that would have effect!”

He rescued the letter from her clutching hand. “How could your mother know how to do that? Even if a curse is possible.”

“Perhaps hating fiercely enough makes it possible. I know I’m unreasonable about this, but it matters.”

“Only if you believe in it.”

“Don’t you? Not at all?”

His hand tightened on hers. “Occasionally. In the dark of the night, and only because it would be just if betrayed innocents could wreak vengeance. But then I see that there’s no justice in the workings of this. The innocents suffered the most.”

“I’m sure my mother rejoiced in each death.”

“But didn’t cause them. They were ill luck as much as the pestilence that visited Wellsted. Please try to believe that.”

“I’ll try.”

He kissed her gloved hand and released it. “There’s one more letter.”

He set the horse in motion again as Claris unfolded Aunt Clarrie’s last letter. She expected dark drama, but it was another light recounting of London entertainments. The only hint came at the end.
“‘I will soon have exciting news to share with you, my dear friend. . . .”
I wonder how it played out. Wouldn’t you think she’d have written to Miss Pellew after the spurious marriage?”

“She was probably told not to. That it must be secret for some reason. Giles was still quite young, so perhaps he warned of trustees who would object. Hers wasn’t a unique story back then. Only the vows were necessary, and rakes exploited that with false clergymen and cronies as witnesses who’d later deny the vows were ever said.”

Claris put the letters neatly together and retied the ribbon around them. It was now thinning and weakening with age.

“Poor Aunt Clarrie. It would be a sin, but I could hate my mother for what she did to her.”

“She was probably convinced that she was doing the best thing for her sister. That’s the worst about people like that. They are sure of their own righteousness.”

Claris thought back. “Yes, that’s the word. Even when doing vile things, she was sure she was righteous. She never, ever made a person happy, and when she saw happiness she sought to destroy it. She made Father ban the maypole.”

“It does have pagan, and even vulgar, connotations.”

“I’m sure that was her argument. When she died, he reversed the ban and a number of other petty restrictions she’d insisted on.”

“Because he wanted to wipe her influence away,” he said. “I could almost be sorry for Henry Mallow. If there’s truth to the notion that suffering on earth reduces suffering in the afterlife, he might now be in heaven.”

“He certainly tried.” Claris tucked away the letters and revealed something she’d never told anyone. “He whipped himself.”

“What?”

“I came upon him once, in the church late in the evening. . . .”

Perry took her hand and halted the horse again.

“Peter had fallen and banged his head. It swelled and I went in search of my father. He was kneeling before the altar, bare from the waist up, with only the light of the setting sun upon him, swinging a many-stranded whip, muttering prayers for mercy.”

“That must have shocked you. Could he have been the clergyman at the supposed wedding?”

“No, he became one shortly before moving to Old Barford.”

“A false witness, then. How old were you when you came across him?”

“Fifteen, I think.”

“You are a remarkable woman to have survived all you have.”

“I had no choice. I had the twins to care for.”

“And now I will care for you and your brothers. Let your burdens pass to me.”

She looked at him, absorbing his words. He was offering true support, and she could trust him as she’d never felt able to trust anyone before.

She squeezed his hand. “Thank you. You can’t know what that means to me. Together we can make Perriam Manor a happy home for our children and our children’s children.”

She instantly regretted the implications of that and wasn’t surprised when his lips twisted a little, nor when he said, “I will always do my best.”

He was still devoted to his London life, and she must count her blessings. Her many, many blessings.

*  *  *

They were home just in time for dinner. Claris would have preferred a peaceful time to think over many things, but Athena and Ellie were in the drawing room and Athena demanded to know what she’d learned. Claris regretted telling her the purpose of the expedition.

She told them, but not about the revelation of the handwriting.

“On that curse,” Athena said, “was there any mark that could be blood?”

“I don’t think so.” Claris looked to Perry for confirmation.

“Not even a blob of ink. Very neat, all in all. Why?”

“As you are still fretting about it, I consulted someone who interests herself in superstitions. I’m told that a curse requires blood, preferably used as ink, but if that’s not possible, a drop.”

“Thank you for asking,” Claris said. She’d thought her grandmother entirely wrapped in her own affairs.

“I hope you are now reassured that Giles Perriam was unfortunate by chance.”

“That points to an unjust God,” Claris protested.

“So do the deaths at Wellsted, and the families killed by fire in Whitechapel not long ago. We live in an unjust world, Claris, and must survive as best we can. The meek do not inherit the earth, and indeed, what would they do with such responsibility?”

That made Claris laugh. “You should write a commentary on the Beatitudes.”

“That would get me whipped at the cart’s tail. I’m more interested in commentaries about the injustices perpetrated against women. You left last night before Miss Sprott read Sarah Fyge’s ‘The Emulation.’ An excellent piece. ‘Say, Tyrant Custom, why must we obey / The impositions of thy haughty Sway; / From the first dawn of Life, unto the Grave, / Poor Womankind’s in every State, a Slave.’”

“Not Empress Catherine of Russia,” Perry pointed out, “nor Maria Theresa, Holy Roman Empress.”

“And much good they’ve done for the women in their dominions.”

“A woman’s fault, not man’s.”

The debate shot backward and forward. Claris met Ellie’s eyes and saw the same resigned amusement.

Claris agreed with Athena in principle, but she couldn’t become passionate about it. Her passions flowed into Perriam Manor and the child within her.

And the man who’d given her both.

The man who was enjoying the spirited debate as much as Athena.

The man who loved the rich tapestry of London life.

*  *  *

In bed that night, sweetly in his arms, she finally told him. “I believe I’m carrying a child.”

“You know so soon?”