by Jo Beverley
Perry almost rejected the offer, but inn chatter might be useful. If Miss Mallow was as impoverished as she seemed, why had she rejected his offer without a thought?
He went into the taproom and accepted a foaming tankard. The only other person present was a hunchbacked ancient on a settle, whose gnarled hands clutched a tankard of his own. He gave Perry a deeply suspicious look from under bushy white brows but said nothing.
The innkeeper picked up his pipe again and puffed it back into life. “Gather you visited Lavender Cottage, sir.” As he’d thought, nothing went unnoted in a village, especially a stranger. “Sad case, them being left orphaned so shockingly.”
“Shockingly?” Perry responded, as he was supposed to.
“Well, see, their mother went first. Ten years ago, would you say, Matt?”
The ancient nodded. “Near enough, Rob, near enough. But went quietly in her bed did Mistress Mallow.”
“Aye, despite being a restless woman in life.”
Old Matt cackled. “More than restless, I’d say. Whenever I pass her grave I expect to see the ground churning.”
Perry looked to the innkeeper for a second opinion, but he nodded. “Never happy, sir. Always angry over something, and freely voicing it.”
The harpy.
“A difficult wife,” Perry said.
“You have the right of that, sir, but Reverend Mallow was difficult in his own way.” The innkeeper leaned forward as if to impart a secret, though ancient Matt must know all. “Reverend Mallow had a weight of sin on him, sir. He spoke of it often, though he never said exactly what. He had a mighty fear of death, sir, because he dreaded hell.”
“I had a relation who was exactly the same,” Perry said.
“The sinner’s burden, sir, the sinner’s burden. The godly man has no fear of death.”
Yet many do, Perry thought.
The innkeeper went on. “Often preached a powerful sermon on damnation, did Reverend Mallow, sir, confessing himself a sinner and begging God for forgiveness. He’d urge us all to follow his example—to forego worldly luxuries and give all we could to the poor.”
“He’s to be admired for setting such an example,” Perry said, but he now had the explanation for the poverty of the rector’s dependents.
“Indeed, sir,” the innkeeper said, but without sincerity.
A noise from the old man indicated a similar doubt.
“But that brought his end,” the innkeeper went on. “He was in powerful form one Sunday, describing the horrors of hell, when he turned purple and died. Right there in the pulpit. Or perhaps from the fall,” he added thoughtfully, “for he tumbled out to land at his children’s feet.”
Now, there was an image to stick in the mind.
Especially a sensitive lady’s.
Was Miss Mallow mad as well as angry?
Would insanity be an excuse to overturn the will?
“They must have been deeply shocked,” Perry said.
“Indeed they were, sir, but there was worse to come. With Reverend Mallow dead, the rectory was no longer their home, even though they’d lived there all their lives. Lost his stipend too.”
“A sad case.”
“And like to be tragic except that their grandmother turned up. The rector’s mother, that is. Never seen here afore, but she took charge. She could do no better than to secure some sort of pension and find them a home in a laborer’s cottage, but at least they’re not tramping the roads.”
Perry drank more of his ale. The story explained much but made Miss Mallow’s behavior more peculiar. She’d been raised to a better life and must know her only hope of improvement was through marriage. The grandmother sounded more practical. Perhaps she’d take his side.
“Mistress Mallow wasn’t at home when I called. I hope to meet her soon.”
Old Matt muttered something and cackled. Perry was about to demand an explanation when the ancient spoke.
“A daft man was Rector Mallow, sir. Told me m’aching joints were a gift from God to wash away m’sins. He’d probably have called Grannie Mallow’s cream a work of the devil, but I’ll take me chances on the hereafter for a bit of ease today.”
Perry’s image of a kindly grandmother with round cheeks and smiles shattered.
In rural parlance, “grannie” often designated an old woman skilled in herbal lore—one who in less enlightened times would have been called a witch. And Grannie Mallow wasn’t related to Carrie and Nora Dunsworth.
Sorcery on both sides of the family?
The innkeeper turned to Perry. “Mistress Mallow’s skilled in plant lore, sir, which she shares with her neighbors at very little cost, as a good Christian would.”
“Rector Mallow couldn’t abide her,” said Old Matt. “Heard him once refer to his mother as the Whore of Babylon.”
He pronounced it “wore” with relish.
“You shut your mouth, Matt Byman. There’s no call to repeat such filth. A very respectable lady, sir, and from a good family. Her maidservant once said as her father was a titled gentleman.”
Perry’s vision of Grannie Mallow shifted again.
Grandmother, grannie, lady, and whore?
He couldn’t wait to meet the woman, but he’d no idea now of how she’d affect his goal.
He drained his tankard. “My horse, if you please.”
The innkeeper went to a back door to shout the order and then returned. “Can I hope you brought the Mallow family good news, sir?”
“I believe so. I’ll be returning tomorrow when Miss Mallow has had time to consider matters and speak with her grandmother.”
“I hope your matters are to their advantage, then,” said Old Matt, “or Grannie Mallow’ll put the evil eye on you.”
“Hold your wicked tongue, Matt. She does naught but good.”
The overhung eyes fixed on Perry. “I’m just warning this fine gentleman not to try any mischief with the Mallows, that’s all.”
“And that’s a fair point, sir,” said the innkeeper, amiably enough but meaning it. “No one would take kindly to that.” It carried more weight than a wavering and probably unloaded pistol. The villagers cared enough about the family to make life difficult for anyone harming them.
“As I have no ill intentions, I’m at ease.” Perry put some coins on the bar. “Another drink for you, sir,” he said to Old Matt, “and my thanks for your warning. I know it was well intended.”
He left the inn, mounted, and rode off with enough puzzles in his head to occupy a month.
A month he didn’t have.
He had only twenty-two days to get his bride to the altar.
His rebellious bride.
His unreasonably rebellious bride, who’d turned a pistol on him. When he returned tomorrow, it would probably be loaded, so he’d best put together the pieces and find the right way to proceed.
Her father had been driven mad by guilt.
Perry had assumed that the connection between Cousin Giles and Claris Mallow was only the betrayed Clarrie Dunsworth and her vengeful sister, Nora. What if Henry Mallow’s dread sin had been his active part in Clarrie’s destruction? But if Mallow had helped ruin Clarrie, why marry the sister?
An attempt at penitent restitution?
Possible, but why would she marry him?
The vicious harpy. The angry, tumultuous woman. Old Matt’s musings about the heaving earth over her grave could make the hair stand on end. Harpy Mallow had approached Giles, offering to lift the curse if he’d pledge to marry her daughter, who was a mere child. Her mother hadn’t considered her happiness. She’d been obsessed to the point of insanity.
Witchcraft on both sides of the family, and insanity as well. All that was needed was a giant helmet falling from the sky for his life to be a piece of nonsense to rival Horace Walpole’s Castle of Otranto.
He gave thanks that he was a guest at Cheynings. The Marquess of Ashart was a rational man, a scientist with a particular interest in the study of the skies. Perhaps he could
refocus this mess into normality.
* * *
Claris wore herself out with work, waiting desperately for her grandmother’s return so she could discuss the situation. But a short time after Athena returned, the twins came home from their lessons in the next village. Unusually, they were arguing.
“You did,” Peter yelled.
“I didn’t!” Tom yelled back.
“You are such a dunce!”
“Stop.” At their grandmother’s voice, they paused. “Or you will get none of the honey Mistress Trueby gave me.”
They turned into eleven-year-old angels. Truly they could look angelic, with their clear eyes and skin and tumbling brown curls, but no angel would ever be so noisy. Despite that, Claris would miss her brothers when they left for school, which they must do soon if their education was to progress as it should.
They all sat to rabbit stew followed by bread and honey, talking of their day. Claris didn’t mention the visitor in front of the boys and was grateful when Ellie didn’t either.
When they’d all finished, she rose to clear the table. “Off to your tasks,” she told the twins. “There’s a weak spot in the chicken coop and water to bring from the well.”
They went willingly enough, still full of energy after a long day. They were probably hoping for encounters with some village lads that might lead to a game. They rubbed along well with the local boys, whereas Claris had never made friends in the village. Her mother had kept her too close for that, and after her mother died she’d had the twins to care for.
Her mother would have allowed her to have friends from the local gentry, but those families had avoided the Mallows as much as possible. Claris couldn’t blame them.
“Let’s sit outside,” she said. “It’s a lovely evening.”
Only Athena took up the invitation. She sat on the bench and said, “Who was this visitor to have you all on end? Gideon Barnett finally plucking up courage to propose? Or some other suitor?”
Claris laughed but then realized that in a way her grandmother was right. “A threatener, more like.” She described the encounter, then asked, “What am I to do?”
“Marry him? It would be a better life than this.”
So she did want Claris to marry them into comfort!
“I’m sure your life with your husband was ‘better’ in those terms,” Claris pointed out, “but you couldn’t bear it.”
“A point. A salient point. Let me amend my advice. If this Mr. Perriam is a decent, kindly man, which my husband wasn’t, you could marry him.”
“If he were a saint from heaven I’d not marry him, so take heed of that.”
“Very wise,” Athena said, undisturbed. “Saints make poor husbands, quite apart from their having to be dead to be canonized. What of this curse? Do you know anything about that?”
“Of course not. I know nothing of Perriams other than the occasional mention by my father. Do you not know anything?”
Athena stared at her. “I paid no attention to my husband or Henry after I left, but I assume it’s possible Henry’s mad guilt has some connection to the Perriam curse.”
“Even if so, it’s not for me to expiate their sins. Yet that man is going to return and try to insist.”
“You could shoot him. I gather you waved Ellie’s pistol around.”
“No jokes. Why on earth does Ellie have a pistol?”
“We’ve traveled in places where it was wise. Do you think it drove him off?”
Claris would have liked to say yes, but she shook her head. “I think it suited him to leave then.”
“To give you time to consider.”
“As if I’m some weak-minded fool whose convictions re-form by the moment.”
“Claris, resolution is a virtue, but stubbornness is not. Consider well. The life of an impoverished spinster is not to be cherished.”
“I’m content,” Claris insisted, remembering saying that earlier, before her world had been cast into turmoil. “Or I would be if not threatened.”
“He can’t force you to the altar.”
“I thank God for that, but I don’t want to be pestered.”
“We can’t forbid him to visit the village, but we don’t have to let him into the house or garden.”
“Who’s going to stop him? He’s a gentleman. Ellie said his clothes were London made. How did she know that?”
“We’ve spent time in London.”
Claris rose to pace the herb garden. “Perhaps I could complain to someone, seek protection. The squire . . .” She dismissed that. Squire Callway was no match for Perriam. “Lord Wishart? The Marquess of Ashart!” she exclaimed. “He’d see him off.”
“And how would you approach such a man?”
Claris blew out a breath. She’d not be allowed through the door of Cheynings. “I’ve heard of people delivering petitions for help to such men.”
“To what purpose? What is your complaint? A gentleman has offered you marriage.”
“And plans to return, even though I forbade it!”
“When he’s returned a half dozen times you might have a case.”
“Then what am I to do tomorrow?”
Athena shrugged. “I could stay at home and stand willing to shoot him. We could bury him in the garden with no one the wiser.”
“No jokes!” Claris protested.
But later, sleepless in her bed, she wondered if it had been a joke. Her mysterious grandmother might be well capable of shooting a man.
She herself had pointed a pistol at him.
She didn’t regret it, but it was the sort of thing to stir a man’s anger. He might return similarly armed—or even with a magistrate. That made her sit up in panic. It was probably a crime to threaten the son of an earl with a gun.
She collapsed back down again. Why was this happening to her?
By what justice were her father’s sins being invoked to torment her?
Chapter 6
Perry enjoyed riding, so the three miles to Cheynings restored his mood.
When he’d set out on this enterprise, he’d intended to take a room at an inn in Woking, but he’d run into Ashart there and been invited to his home. They weren’t close friends, but they’d both lived their adult lives at court and shared many cynical opinions of court and the beau monde.
Perry had been curious to witness Ashart the husband and father, who seemed improbably fond of rural living. Many said that with a beauty for a wife he had reason to spend time at Cheynings, but a wife was a moveable object.
Last evening had answered some questions. Ashart had frankly admitted that Cheynings had needed extensive repairs, which had drained his purse. The beau monde was expensive, but rural living was economical and had allowed him to supervise the work.
It had also been clear that he was enjoying doing so, which was astonishing, even given Genova Ashart’s stunning blond beauty and the charms of an infant daughter who might one day rival her mother. That was no puzzle for his investigation, however.
He hadn’t told the Asharts the details of his business, only that he needed to visit an old connection of Giles Perriam’s. Now, however, he needed help, so once they’d dined and were enjoying coffee in the drawing room, he told the tale.
Ashart laughed. “That almost rivals my family’s demented obsessions and feuds. You’re truly going to marry this woman?”
“One must suffer for family duty,” Perry said, “and perhaps she deserves some good fortune.”
“Then why the pistol?” Genova Ashart asked. Perry had discovered that her beauty was matched with intelligence and an independent spirit.
“She hasn’t yet recognized her good fortune?”
“Or accurately sees that you are not it.”
“She’s living in poverty,” he pointed out.
“Wealth is not the only consideration in life, or I’d never have married Ashart.”
Ashart chuckled. “A true folly, love. One for which I’m grateful.”
The Asharts
open fondness was distinctly unfashionable. Perhaps that was why they lurked in the countryside.
“In my experience,” Perry said, “all women wish to marry, but most especially those without the means for a comfortable life. Why is Miss Mallow so different? A sensible answer, if you please.”
“Perhaps she loves another,” Genova said.
“Inconvenient if true, but I don’t think so. She would have thrown that at me like a spear.”
Ashart said, “Perhaps her parents’ marriage has given her a distaste for matrimony.”
“More plausible, but illogical. She and I are not they.”
“Not everyone is ruled by logic,” Genova pointed out.
“Alas.”
Genova frowned. “Your social skills are famous, Perriam, but I fear you must have mishandled this.”
“I did. She seemed so practical that I raced to the point. What now? I have only twenty-two days to get her to the altar, and less time than that before I should be back in Town.”
“You have pressing appointments with your tailor and boot maker?” Ashart asked lazily. He knew better.
“I have, but yet more pressing duties for my father.” To Genova, he added, “He provides both a salary and sinecures so that I be ready to support the family’s interests.”
“What does Rothgar pay you?” Ashart asked.
So that was the thrust of his comment, and might be the reason Perry had been invited here. Perry sometimes assisted the Marquess of Rothgar in delicate matters to do with court politics, but Rothgar was Ashart’s cousin and until recently they’d continued a family feud of their own.
“Are you still sparring with him?” Perry asked.
“Only for amusement, but I could bear to know what engages him at the moment.” When Perry didn’t oblige, he shrugged. “Very well, I’ll return to your entanglement. I see no hope. It’s no longer possible to drag an unwilling bride to the altar.”
Genova offered more coffee and refilled cups. “The normal course is to woo. That didn’t occur to you?”
Perry spread his hands. “How, if she has more brain than a pigeon, and I assure you she has. Did I glimpse her amid her cabbages in her dismal black gown and tattered straw hat and be instantly slain by passion?”
