by Jo Beverley
“May I congratulate you, sir, on the recent safe arrival of a son?”
“You may, you may! I wish you the same satisfaction, in good time, of course, eh?”
Not inside nine months, in other words.
With Cyn, the king went straight to business. “How go things at Horse Guards, eh?”
“As before, sir.”
The king pouted, but he must be in control of his wits, for he simply turned to Perry. “I hope for better from you, Perriam.”
Was he supposed to produce the traitor out of thin air? If he didn’t would the king’s wits be turned? Sadly there was something a little odd about him, even now.
“I will do my best, sir.”
“Indeed, indeed, but with care, eh? Need to find the right man or men. Can’t have innocent men cast under a shadow, eh?”
“Assuredly not, sir.”
“Excellent, excellent! Find the true culprits, gentlemen, and we’ll gladly see them hang.”
Perry and Cyn were dismissed, but Rothgar was kept behind.
“Not even for our ears,” Cyn murmured as they passed the guards and made their way out of the palace. “I need to bring you up to date. Your place or Malloren House?”
“Mine’s closest,” Perry said. Once they were out of earshot of anyone, he said, “He’s not well.”
Dangerous to say whom, but Cyn would understand.
“No. Often says odd things, such as that babble about innocent men.”
“A perfectly reasonable sentiment, but it worries me.”
“Why?”
“Perhaps he has a particular man in mind, one he wants to be innocent.”
“Oh, devil take it.”
“Quite. I can bear losing His Majesty’s favor, but I don’t want to be the one who brings him news bad enough to turn his wits.”
Chapter 27
Claris flung herself into work and didn’t think of her husband more than once or twice a day.
The nights were different. She often lay awake remembering, and not just their lovemaking. That mad sword fight in the attic. His kind firmness with the boys. His arms around her amid the smothered babes.
She still hadn’t thought of a solution there.
She received the first letter two days after his departure and took it to her room to read in privacy. Athena protested, demanding news of Town, so later Claris shared those parts. Perhaps Perry understood how it would be, for he’d included gossip and mention of titled people Claris could not know.
She wrote back, wishing she could make her letters as amusing. He couldn’t be the slightest bit interested in drainage and treatment for the beetle, but that seemed all she had to say. She had the boys write short letters to include. That should lighten the whole.
His reply came a few days later, with a separate note for each twin. Of course he would realize that a letter each would thrill them.
Four days after Perry’s departure, a one-horse chair came up the drive. Claris thought it brought a guest, but it was driven by a groom who announced it was for the use of Mistress Perriam. The contraption made her very nervous, but she set to learn to drive.
Chestnut, the horse, was very well mannered, and driving proved much less frightening than riding. Soon she could drive herself confidently to the village and back. Then, accompanied by the groom, she drove over to visit the Fosses, arriving flushed with triumph.
After that she could take Athena and Ellie on visits. There were a number to make as local families came to call. Claris did find the Fosses’ daughter, Jane Jordan, particularly congenial and began to tentatively hope for a friendship there.
Each letter from Perry became a precious moment, but she wished they sometimes contained something personal. He never wrote about his family or about special friends. In truth, she could have read the letters to Athena and Ellie as soon as she broke the seal, for they contained nothing personal at all.
The letters were probably an onerous duty, but she wouldn’t let him off the hook. She replied to each one, thus demanding one in return.
Then a letter told her to expect Lionel Lovell, who would tutor the twins, subject to her approval. Perry listed impressive qualifications, adding that Lovell was well suited to a temporary post because in a few months he was to be secretary to the new ambassador to Poland.
Lovell was only twenty-two, and Claris hoped he’d be able to manage her brothers. Their new freedom and status were making them unruly, and they wrapped their valet, Matthew Greenwell, around their fingers despite his being nearly forty.
She’d been insisting that they sit at desks in their newly prepared schoolroom with some books gleaned from the library, but she couldn’t force them to learn. She certainly couldn’t test them on Latin and Greek.
When Lovell arrived, she knew he’d been chosen with care. He was a stocky man, very robust and active, but also with bright-eyed intelligence. He came armed with a box of carefully chosen texts and insisted on immediately testing the twins. Claris saw that they longed to rebel but knew they’d met their match. No, their master.
Claris wrote to thank Perry.
“The twins were disgruntled at first, but Mr. Lovell has won them over by interspersing study with outdoor activities. He takes them riding but insists they speak Greek all the way. He’s teaching them about a game called cricket, but only if they both produce a perfect Latin exercise. I thank you for finding him.”
She added some details of estate management before signing it, as always, “Your affectionate wife, Claris.”
It would be more conventional to write “your loving wife,” but she couldn’t do that. She liked her husband, and she’d liked their marriage bed, very much indeed, but to claim love, no matter how conventionally, would be untrue. How could she love someone she’d known for so few days? Affection, however—that she could honestly claim.
She wished that he’d sign a little more warmly than “Your servant.” They’d made an agreement, however, and he was doing his part and more, so she must be content.
He seemed to pick up on any little thing she said. When she wrote about a particular sort of fire iron she’d admired at Jane Jordan’s, a similar set arrived within days. It had been only a passing comment. Her main purpose had been to tell him that she was visiting neighbors and finding congenial companions. In other words, that she was perfectly content without him.
It was a lie. She pinned her hopes on his having to spend some days here to fulfill the terms of the will.
That requirement was one thing to lay to Giles Perriam’s credit. She’d found nothing else. He’d been a careless owner of the manor and a more than careless husband. By now the servants had relaxed enough to sometimes mention his flaws.
Until his last illness, he’d visited the manor only in the company of cronies—disreputable cronies who drank till they puked, assaulted the servants, and broke things for amusement. His poor last wife, Lydia, had been terrified by his visits, and the servants had concealed her to keep her safe.
Apparently Giles had never even asked after her except to once say, “Still alive, is she, the bitch?”
She wished he were still alive to be beaten till bloody.
And there was a silly thought all around!
When not indulging in foolish thoughts about Perriams, she was making good progress on the house. The beetle problem had been corrected. The damp had been caused by deteriorating leading, so that had been repaired. New hangings and curtains were being made for one room, but elsewhere a thorough cleaning and some darning had done the job.
Athena disdained such economy.
Claris retorted that she’d not waste money. She wished her grandmother would find some occupation other than observing and criticizing.
At Lavender Cottage, Athena had worked hard at her herbs and potions, but she showed no interest in such work here. She read books and wrote letters. She received replies and sometimes shared gossip from them. Apart from an occasional walk around the grounds, she took no exerci
se.
Claris reminded herself that for all her briskness, her grandmother was an old woman. If she wanted to sit with her feet up for most of the day, she must be allowed to do so.
Ellie certainly didn’t want to. As at the cottage, Claris hardly ever saw her sitting down. She accompanied Athena on her strolls but also took brisk walks alone. She seemed to move easily between the servants’ hall and the main house and was liked by all.
When Claris decided to conduct a thorough inventory of the attic in order to find anything of use, Ellie plunged in with enthusiasm. They found a number of pieces of furniture that could be used with only cleaning or minor repairs. Each was a triumph, but by agreement, they didn’t share that with Athena. There were a number of chests full of this and that, and they left those for later.
Next they attacked the great number of narrow cupboards around the house and found them all packed with linens.
When confronted, the housekeeper was defensive. “We were never given instructions about whether to mend or discard, ma’am, so we put things away.”
Claris assured her that she held no blame, but later Ellie wasn’t so forgiving.
“A housekeeper should make such decisions. What’s happened is that no one fancied mending when they’ve been allowed to buy new. They sit idle in the servants’ hall when they could be mending.”
“A little rest is allowed,” Claris said, “but I want to sort out what we have. And yes, I will expect some mending. Let’s go and explore that one at the end of the west corridor. I think it’s the oldest.”
They unloaded all the shelves of sheets, pillowcases, shifts, and nightgowns.
“So much,” Claris said. “But at least everything was stored with herbs. We’ll test each for thin places. If any are sturdy, we might find a use for them.”
She took a sheet, shook it open, and saw only a tear. “With a patch this would be good as new.”
Ellie took it from her. “But not good enough for the house, dearie. The servants would appreciate such things. They all have families locally who’d make good use of them.”
A lifetime of frugality made Claris reluctant, but she saw the sense of it. There was no need for family or guests to sleep on a patched sheet.
“Make a pile for the servants, then, and another for rags. I still haven’t quite the knack of being the lady of the manor, Ellie. It’s as if I’m acting a part, a part I don’t really know.”
“Then you’re acting it well, dearie.”
Claris picked up a pillowcase. “I should be more like Athena.”
“Not a bit of it. This isn’t a grand place, and there’s no call for grand airs. Anyway, there’s never any point in trying to deceive servants. To them you’re a respectable clergyman’s daughter who fell on hard times but has always been a lady through and through.”
Claris lowered her voice. “It’s as well no one here knew the respectable clergyman!”
Ellie chuckled. “I certainly thank the Lord I never had the pleasure.”
Claris decided to ask a question that had been troubling her. “Ellie, why are the servants here so cold with me?”
“Cold?”
“Perhaps reserved. They don’t smile. They seem afraid of me. I’ve given them no cause.”
“A new mistress, that’s all. Are you putting that on the rag pile?”
Claris looked at the pillowcase, which she’d just ripped with ease because it was so thin. “It would be an insult to imply this was of value.”
“The ends are still sound, and embroidered. They could make a child’s cap.”
Claris put it on the servants’ pile. “I thought I’d known poverty, but I haven’t.”
“Rags are riches to some, and what are you to do with the rags? Burn them?”
“You see more clearly than I. Very well, two piles only. Good enough for the house as they are, and the rest. The servants can sort through those and use as they wish. It’ll have to be done fairly, though.”
“See, I’d not thought of that. I can supervise that if you want.”
“If you don’t mind. They’ll be more comfortable with you.”
“It’ll all sort out in time, dearie.”
Claris wasn’t so sure, but she let the matter drop, embarrassed by her own neediness. She picked up another piece of cloth. “A sheet, but small.”
“For a child’s bed. Well used.”
By which child or children? One of Giles’s? No, these linens probably predated Giles, but she wondered what eerie memories the other cupboards might hold. She could never entirely avoid the smothered babes, even though she avoided that side of the house and rarely looked out from her window.
She cocked her head. “Wheels?”
She hurried to a front-facing window and looked out. “An elegant carriage,” she called back to Ellie, “with a liveried footman behind. Not the Fosses. Someone new.”
Perhaps the carriage was bringing someone else to be a friend, and here she was in one of her plainer dresses, probably dusty to boot. She shouted for Alice and fled to her room. There was still water in the jug and she washed her face and hands. Her hair was untidy. Her maid rushed in.
“A cap. My best!”
She took off her apron and inspected her gown for marks. All was well. She grabbed the cap and pinned it in place.
“Jewelry box!”
She added earrings and a seed pearl bracelet.
“The silk fichu!”
Her gown wasn’t low, but the fichu would lend elegance. She fixed it carefully with the bar brooch Genova had given her, took a deep breath, and hurried out. She made it to the middle landing of the staircase as the door opened.
The guests’ liveried footman entered first and announced, “Lady Bigelow, Miss Youngman, and Mistress Foxell-Smith!”
Claris had to bite her lips. It was as if they were an embassy from the East!
As she went down the stairs, she remembered some comments Lady Fosse had made about Lady Bigelow. Lady Fosse didn’t stoop to criticism, but Claris had gained the impression that Lady Bigelow had airs above her station. She was the wife of a sugar merchant who had purchased their estate, Esham Court, only three years previously.
Claris reminded herself that she had no reason to look down on people for their origins and that it was very unchristian to do so. Lady Bigelow might be a comfortable companion.
She greeted her guests and took them up to the drawing room, ordering that tea be brought there. She already doubted Lady Bigelow would become a friend. She was young and round faced and could have been pretty but for a downturned mouth. Miss Youngman was a better prospect, for she had a ready smile. From the resemblance, she was Lady Bigelow’s sister so probably was only visiting.
Mistress Foxell-Smith was a creature from another world. She was obviously a Lady of Fashion. Claris felt capitals were essential. Her green silk gown spread over wide hoops that must have been inconvenient in the carriage. Her glossy dark hair was piled high and crowned by a large hat with a bold red feather. She was painted as well.
When they arrived at the drawing room, Athena was already there and ready to be amused. She adored guests. Ellie often absented herself, as now. Claris didn’t think it was a matter of social standing but that Ellie had considered the party and decided they would be boring. She was probably continuing to sort linen, and Claris wished she were with her.
She introduced Athena. Miss Youngman was pleasant, but the other two ladies showed no interest in an elderly Mallow. Claris disliked them already, but she set to be polite, asking about Esham Court and Lady Bigelow’s family.
“I have a son,” Lady Bigelow said, showing at least one positive emotion—smug satisfaction. Her mouth drooped again. “But I’m now with child again, much to my inconvenience.”
“Inconvenience?” Claris asked, relieved that the tea makings were being brought in. The sooner they’d drunk, the sooner they’d leave.
“Of course I’m delighted to be able to present my husband with anot
her little gem, but he is insisting I remain in the countryside throughout!”
“Positively barbarous,” said Mistress Foxell-Smith. “I’ve come to keep Anabelle company for a little while, but already I pine for Town.”
Claris poured boiling water on the tea leaves. “And you, Miss Youngman? Do you dislike country life?”
“Not when the weather’s fine. London was dreadful in the summer heat.”
Mistress Foxell-Smith tittered, but from all Claris knew, Miss Youngman was correct. It had been a shockingly hot summer, and that had spread contagion in the city.
“I’m surprised you put up with such barbarity,” Athena said to Lady Bigelow. “A husband should not be a dictator.”
“Alas, he has every right, ma’am, as you know. I assure you that no argument, no plea, no tears, will move him. I have tried. After all, did not the queen remove from Richmond to London for her confinement?”
Claris said, “I’m surprised that makes no point with your husband, ma’am.”
“He is obdurate. I even pointed out to him that country living had not served the ladies of Perriam Manor well. To no avail.”
Miss Youngman looked uncomfortable at that, but Anabelle Bigelow was oblivious.
“Bigelow is a brute!” Mistress Foxell-Smith exclaimed. “Only think, poor Anabelle’s babe will arrive in January. January in the wilderness!” She gave an exaggerated shudder.
“This is not exactly a wilderness,” Claris objected.
Another titter from Foxell-Smith. “My dear! Clearly you have nothing with which to compare it. All countryside is barbaric, especially in winter.”
Miss Youngman spoke up. “It’s not so bad as that, especially at Christmas.”
The Fox, as Claris was calling her in her mind, looked down her thin nose. “We were speaking of January, my dear. Perhaps even February.” Another shudder. “Roads so hard with ice that travel is torture, even between estates. Houses impossible to keep warm. I assure you, Mistress Perriam, that even a modest house such as this will have icicles inside.”
Claris ignored that exaggeration and poured the tea, summoning the maid to pass around the cups. Duty done, she attacked.
