by Jo Beverley
“. . . and you will want to survey your domain.”
She twitched at another command beneath his fancy phrasing but had no argument to make.
“Very well, but as we go, tell me about the village. How many live there?”
“About one hundred.”
As they turned to walk away from the house, he touched her lightly on the back, as if she needed urging forward. It worked, because she felt that touch through cloth and stays.
“Smaller than Old Barford, then, but with a church. I saw it as we drove through.”
“Dedicated to Saint Beatrice, though as you’ll guess that only dates from the sixteenth century.”
“Your family is obsessed!”
“Not mine. We never renamed a church after Cecilia. I’m not sure there is a Saint Beatrice, whereas there is a Saint Cecilia.”
“There you go again, scoring points.”
“Trained to it from the cradle,” he agreed cheerfully, “but by our marriage we’ve put an end to all that. Rename the church if you want.”
They’d reached the end of the house and turned along the path to the kitchen garden, walking between low hedges splashed with golden celandine, blue toadflax, and scarlet poppies.
“Wouldn’t I need consent from the bishop?” she asked.
“Probably, but it shouldn’t be difficult to obtain.”
There spoke the man with generations of rank and power behind him.
“If I do change the dedication, it won’t be to Saint Cecilia.”
“Father will be disappointed.”
“He’ll have to endure it.”
“All very well as long as you don’t have to face him.”
“Is he really so terrifying?”
“Imagine a vengeful god. The sort that wields thunderbolts and breathes fire.”
“Then keep him away from here. You promised.”
“Did I?” he asked, looking alarmed.
“Do you truly fear him?” She found it hard to believe that Perriam feared anything or anyone.
“On my honor. Mostly because he’s irrational. My mother is as formidable, but icy reason flows in her veins.”
It was an oddly disturbing description. Claris had grown up amid passions and had thought she’d like calm, but icy was a different matter.
“I shall rename the church Saint Placid’s,” she said.
“Is there such a saint?”
“Yes.” She looked around. “Where are we going? The home farm is off to our left.”
“At a distance. If we’re to see the whole estate we’ll need to ride.”
Claris stopped. “I don’t ride, and I’ve no desire to.”
“You’ll be safe riding on a pillion behind me.”
“I’d rather we walk.”
“Have sense, Claris. I’ll keep you safe. We’ll only be ambling around.”
“Ambling means at walking pace,” she pointed out. “So what advantage?”
“Endurance. On horseback we can explore longer.”
“I’m able to walk for many miles, having never had the luxury of horses.”
“Then pity the pampered one. In any case, on horseback we’ll cross rough ground more easily. Trust me, it’s the better way.”
He was charming her again, seeking his own way, but his points seemed reasonable.
“Oh, very well. But if I break my neck I’ll hold you responsible.”
“And you’ll send down a curse?” But then he raised a hand. “I’m sorry. Not a subject for humor.”
“No.” She halted to look back at the tall yew hedge, still visible at a distance. “What am I to do with those memorials?”
“I don’t know.”
She saw he was serious. “I can’t destroy them.”
“No.”
“It would feel wrong to hide them away in the attics.”
“Yes.”
“I could have them placed in the church, but they’d take up a lot of space, and they’re . . .”
“. . . unsettling. In the extreme,” he completed.
“Yes.”
“I trust your judgment.”
“Why?” she asked, genuinely bewildered.
“Because you’re you. You’ve survived a difficult life and kept your sanity and good humor.”
“You described me as a thistle!”
He smiled. “A good-humored one. Despite your parents, you raised your brothers to be happy, healthy lads. You can solve the problem of the ghastly memorials.”
Claris wished she had his faith. She was tempted to admit her other problems to him, but he mustn’t know that the curse bothered her, no matter how she reasoned against it, and she felt guilty about her resentment of Athena.
They entered the stables and found the twins putting saddles on their ponies under the watchful eye of a groom.
“We’re just going to ride around the paddock again,” Peter told Perriam.
“See you do. I’m taking your sister for a ride.”
“But she’s never ridden,” Peter protested, protective again, dear boy.
“Which is why she’ll be riding on a pillion behind me. I’ll keep her safe—my word on it.”
That instantly satisfied the boys, who went back to their work, but Claris was aware again of the manly circle being formed, one that excluded her. He gave the order to another groom and went over to chat with the twins.
The groom soon brought out a brown horse that seemed huge in comparison to the ponies. It was fitted with a pillion saddle, which consisted of the main saddle and a flat pad behind that had a raised back, a side bar, and a footrest beneath.
A chair, in effect.
She’d seen women riding this way, and they’d seemed relaxed, but the horse was big and the chair high.
Perriam mounted and rode the horse to the mounting block. A groom assisted her into her seat. She gripped the side bar. When he set the horse into motion, she gripped harder. Perhaps she made a sound, for he said, “Put your right arm around me if you wish.”
The thought didn’t relax her one bit, but she needed to hold on to something substantial. She put her arm around him and clutched his jacket at the front.
“Better?”
“A little.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
That seemed highly unlikely. Her arm curved around his strong torso and she was pressed tight against him.
They went slowly out of the stable yard and were soon crossing open land, following a shallow slope across a sheep-cropped meadow surrounded by trees. It was a pleasant day, with only a few clouds in the sky, and a sweet freshness in the air.
Perhaps this wasn’t too bad.
But she’d rather be walking.
He pointed right with his crop. “That stand is walnut, I’m told. Remember, I’m almost as ignorant about such things as you. Parminter’s your man.”
She had to twist to see. “Then perhaps he should be giving me this tour.”
“I’m sure he will, and pass on greater wisdom. However, it will be best if I introduce you at the home farm and at the mill. We can probably circle back through the village and call at the parsonage. Very suitably, the parson is Reverend Rightworthy, and very fortunately he’s not as starchy as that sounds.”
“Good. It’s a name for a Puritan.”
“He’s definitely not a Puritan. Better now?”
Claris realized she’d relaxed her grip on his coat and was growing accustomed to the gentle rocking movement of the horse. She wasn’t yet at ease with his hard warmth.
“It’s still a long way to the ground,” she said.
“Trust me. That section ahead is called Chelsy Coppice and thus is used for coppicing. Ash, used for stakes, poles, handles, and such. It will soon be time to harvest it.”
“Parminter will manage that?”
“Yes. There are a number of other sections producing regular crops, but most of the woodland is timber plantations, such as the walnut and oak.”
“Why is
there so much woodland and so little pasture or arable land?”
“Easier to manage, I suspect, plus the nature of the land here. To the west, where the home farm lies, the land is better for arable.”
She frowned at one dense area of tall trees. “Are the woodlands safe?”
“Full of bears and wolves.”
“What?”
“I’m teasing.”
“I know that. There are no bears and wolves in England. But there are other hazards.”
“You cosset the boys too much.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Give them the freedom of the estate. They’ll only come to harm through stupidity.”
“They’d still be harmed.”
“And learn by it.”
“Or die.”
“That’s in the lap of the gods.”
“You wouldn’t say that if they were your brothers.”
“Oh, yes, I would, and wish them to the devil to boot.”
“You can’t mean that.”
“Still with illusions of happy families? My oldest brother’s a weak fool, Rupert is a bully, and Arthur can’t resist temptation, especially that of the gaming tables. The only blessing is that most of the time I can ignore all three. That area ahead was felled a couple of years ago and has been replanted with elm. Good for bridge timbers, quays, and coffins.”
Claris considered the area of very young trees. They wouldn’t come to harvest for decades.
Woodlands were planned over decades rather than seasons, and she liked that. She’d see those trees grow tall and be harvested, and could make decisions on plantings that would come to fruition after her death.
Her gaze on the trees had been idle, but now she blinked. “I see smoke rising. Are there homes in the woods?”
“Charcoal burners. With permission and paying a rent. There’s the home farm ahead.”
Claris looked over his shoulder and down below, through a break in the trees, she saw the sort of house she’d imagined Perriam Manor would be.
It was built of brick like the manor, but about a quarter of the size. It too was shrouded by plants, but only up to the first story, and many carried flowers. They certainly hadn’t been allowed to cover windows. There were other brick buildings behind the house, forming a sort of courtyard. There was also a large barn, already well filled with hay.
If she’d married Gideon Barnett, she could have lived in such a place. She had to fight a laugh at the temptation. She’d make a terrible farmer’s wife, for she’d no taste for making cheese and sausages, not to mention slaughtering chickens and making blood pudding.
They met a wide lane, cut with cart tracks, and followed it. The horse made easy work of it, but it would have been difficult on foot. What was more, from horseback she could see over the hedges. On their right lay good pasture grazed by cows. On their left lay the stubble of wheat or barley. A flock of starlings rose, alarmed by their passing.
“Farmer Moore should pay his rent in kind,” Perriam said, “but with so little being needed at the manor in Giles’s time, he’s been selling the produce and paying in cash. You should settle with them for the products you want and strike a fair balance.”
“It won’t be so very different once the boys go to school. I’m not sure Athena and Ellie will stay.”
“No?”
She’d opened up the subject without meaning to. “I think my grandmother pines for adventure, despite her age. She certainly pines for company. She intends to accompany us when we visit London. She may not return.”
“You could hire a companion.”
“Why would I want such a person?”
“Companionship?”
“Pleasant if congenial,” she said, “but hellish if not.”
“In that case you dismiss your employee.”
“I fear I’d not have the heart. Aren’t companions usually ladies who’ve fallen on hard times? I’ll simply keep busy. I intend to turn Perriam Manor into a delightful home and a prosperous estate. I’ll even manage the kitchen garden.”
“And hoe the weeds? As you will, my dear, as you will.”
The problem with pillion riding was that she couldn’t see his face and attempt to read his expression, but she feared he thought her ridiculous.
She’d prove him wrong.
* * *
Perry was a little concerned about this visit to the home farm, which was why he’d wanted to accompany Claris here. The Moores would know all the gossip and might resent their new mistress. They certainly assessed her over tea and cake, and did seem a little distant. Claris behaved perfectly. She didn’t attempt fine airs but treated them as equals.
She asked about the animals raised and the crops grown, not hiding any ignorance or inexperience. She knew a great deal, however, because she’d lived in the countryside all her life.
After the tea, she asked to borrow a pair of Mistress Moore’s pattens so she could stroll around the muddy farmyard. Perry knew Auguste would be distressed by the damage to his boots, but he went with her.
She paused to look over a fence at a new litter of piglets, lined up to suckle at their mother’s teats. “No wonder she looks exhausted.”
“Especially as they’ll soon be like that lot,” Perry said, as some older piglets ran by squealing.
“Let them run,” Claris said. “They’ll soon be bacon.”
“What a morbid mind you have. In time we’ll all be dust, but before that we’ll be food for worms.”
She laughed. “To speak of morbid!”
He smiled back, enjoying her relaxed pleasure in this setting. “The common fate is reason to enjoy life whilst we have it.”
“To run and squeal?”
“At times.”
She looked around and beyond and said, “I like it here.”
“In the mud and dung?”
She smiled at him. “Yes. But all of it. Thank you.”
“For bringing you here?”
“For persuading me to marry you.”
Her eyes were bright, the hazel color warm, and her open smile approached beauty. Shockingly, he wanted to kiss her, there and then, quite desperately.
“It has been my pleasure,” he said, “and I grant you, the estate is in good heart. Some small credit to Giles, I suppose. He kept good managers.”
“Yet for you London has greater charms.”
Did she sound a little wistful?
He didn’t want her to build expectations. He knew his limitations.
“Greater stimulation,” he said lightly. “You’ve seen how I am. A day of rural calm and I’m climbing ladders, knife in hand.”
She shook her head at him, but still smiling. “We’d best head back. The sun’s low in the sky.”
“Perhaps that’s why you’re singing the praises of a farmyard—the golden glow.” It was touching her face, warming her delightful freckles. Before he could stop himself, he touched them.
She flinched but didn’t step away. “They won’t rub off,” she said, smiling, blushing.
Who would have thought a farmyard so dangerous?
“Come along,” he said, taking her hand.
He’d merely meant to make sure she came, that they escaped this unexpected intimacy, but they’d touched so rarely, and now, hand to hand, warmth flowed between then. A warmth that in other circumstances could lead to delights.
Perry reminded himself of the promises he’d made. As soon as they reached the farmhouse, he let go of her hand.
They said their farewells and Farmer Moore brought out their horse. Perry checked everything and tightened the girth himself. There was no mounting block, so he bent one knee slightly and had her put a foot there. He put his hands on her waist and boosted her up, keeping his hands in place until she was steady.
An even more intimate touch, especially as she wasn’t wearing boned stays. She smiled down at him, clearly wondering at the lingering moment.
She was his wife.
Why had he agreed tha
t it would be in name only?
But he had.
He mounted in front of her and they rode away.
“Where’s the mill?” she asked. “Won’t it be dark when we arrive there?”
“Yes. We’ve dawdled too much even to visit the village. Parminter can take you to those places. If we ride to the right here we’ll be back at the house soon.”
He turned the horse that way, hastening toward sanity.
Even so, by the time they left the horse at the stables the sun had set, turning trees to dark silhouettes against the peach-pearly sky. A few clouds drifted by, touched by the pink light, and a night bird sang. So intoxicating and she so warm and pretty . . .
“I’d like to look at the house now the work is completed,” she said, not appearing to be affected at all.
“Better done tomorrow in good light.”
“I’ll look tomorrow as well.”
So they walked all around the house, somehow hand in hand again.
“There are more windows than I thought.”
“Blinking, like a man whose eyes have been bandaged.”
“Not in this light,” she pointed out, but smiling at his whimsy.
“I’m imagining their state tomorrow, hit by morning sun.”
“They’ll welcome it.”
“Yes, they probably will. As I’ll welcome the light shining inside.”
He’d strolled with many women, and sometimes in the fading light of day, but it had never felt like this.
She was unaffected. “I intend to have trellises put up so some flowering plants can climb, as at the farm. And perhaps flower beds here at the front.”
“Including lavender?”
“Why not? It gives a sweet aroma that soothes the soul.”
“Then definitely lavender,” he said.
Irresistibly, the thought came that he could seduce her. He knew the ways of it and he sensed her susceptibility. She was sensual. He knew that from the ginger and cherries. She was warm and giving, lively and spirited, and her temper promised fire. Wouldn’t that all continue into a bed?
It wouldn’t be wicked to seduce his wife.
It would be wicked to break a promise, however, and unfair to use tricks and arts to seduce her into breaking her resolve.
Thank God he was leaving tomorrow.
This sunset madness would fade with the light and he’d soon be sane again.
