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

by Jo Beverley

  “That’s the truth, Reverend,” said the sexton. “Carried off m’father and his brother, it did. M’grandfather had to return to the job, despite his years, till I was old enough to take on the work. Another daughter’s buried alongside.”

  It took Claris a moment to understand, but then she turned to the right, to the stone with the grieving cherubs.

  Aunt Clarrie’s grave!

  Here lies Claris Maria Dunsworth, 1719–1739

  daughter of Samuel Dunsworth of this parish.

  Gone too soon, but she is with the angels now.

  “An impressive memorial,” Perry said.

  “Aye, m’grandfather often spoke of it, sir. Thought it was out of place, he did, but still a credit to the devotion of Miss Claris’s sister, who commissioned it. There was only the two of them survived, you see, sir. They got all the money and went off to live in London Town.” He shook his head. “Nasty place, London Town. We can see the bad air over it in wintertime.”

  Eager Reverend Thurstow broke in. “May we help you in any other way, sir?”

  “My wife is curious to know more of her family. Is there anyone in the village who might remember the Dunsworth sisters?”

  “Alas, sir, I’m too recently here to know.”

  The sexton answered. “There’s any number old enough, sir, and in a place like Wellsted, everyone knows everyone. I’d say your best chance is Miss Pellew over at Read House. She’d be of an age with Miss Claris and her sister, and being a gentle lady, likely a friend.”

  Perry thanked him and gave him a coin, then managed to avoid an invitation to the vicarage without giving offense. Soon they were crossing the village green toward a gabled house. Read House wasn’t large except in a village context. Here it was substantial.

  “That implies the Dunsworths were also a gentle family,” Claris said. “No hint of scandal.”

  “The vicar might not know, and the sexton might be discreet, but I agree.” He paused. “What do you hope for here, Claris?”

  He hadn’t challenged her curiosity so directly before.

  “I want to believe that Aunt Clarrie knew nothing of curses. That whatever drove her to create one was nothing to do with witchcraft.”

  “She’s buried in hallowed ground with angels on her stone.”

  “Perhaps witches can be. But there’s another thing.” She looked at him. “If Aunt Clarrie committed suicide, how can she be buried in hallowed ground?”

  “A clever insight! Though sometimes a pitiable suicide is masked out of kindness to the family.”

  “Ah yes, that’s true.” Claris glanced back. “All those dead children . . .”

  “From an illness. Clarrie was five years old when the illness visited here. Are you imagining she cast a curse to bring it?”

  “No, no . . . But if there was a coven here . . . Oh, madness must be in my blood. Let’s talk to Miss Pellew. Read House doesn’t look like a likely home for witches.”

  “Perhaps witches disguise themselves as ordinary people. I would if I were one.” He rapped on the door and it was opened by a neat young maid. “Yes, sir?”

  “Is Miss Pellew at home? We are Mr. and Mrs. Perriam, but my wife’s mother was Nora Dunsworth.”

  A very slim lady came into the hall. Though not old, she looked frail and supported herself with a cane, but her eyes were bright and her smile warm. “Nora’s child? Heavens above, I’d no idea she married.”

  Then she looked a bit alarmed.

  “Yes indeed,” Claris said quickly. “To a clergyman, the Reverend Henry Mallow.”

  “My gracious, what a lot you must have to tell me. Do, please come in. May I offer you tea?”

  They were ushered into a front parlor and tea was ordered.

  “Do please excuse my not taking you up to the drawing room,” Miss Pellew said as she eased herself into a chair. “I have an affliction of the hip and prefer not to use the stairs any more than I must. Now, tell me about Nora.”

  Claris obliged until the tea arrived, already made in the pot.

  As Miss Pellew poured, she said, “Nora married. I never would have thought it. She wasn’t giving, you see. She always wanted her own way, always thought her own way best.”

  “She didn’t change,” Claris admitted.

  “Her husband must have been a saint. Oh dear, I shouldn’t have said that, should I?”

  Yet Miss Pellew wasn’t repentant. Twinkling eyes showed she was enjoying herself, and Claris hoped she’d share more indiscreet thoughts.

  The lady sipped her tea. “Truth to tell, my dear, your mother and I never rubbed along well. Clarrie was my friend. Chalk and cheese they were. Clarrie was the most giving person in the world. Sometimes to her own pain. Do please have a piece of cake.”

  Claris took a piece of ginger cake, wondering what to ask. She’d like Perry to take the lead, but he seemed to be leaving this to her.

  “What sort of pain?”

  “Oh, only small things. She was pretty, you see, and more charming than she was pretty. No, that’s not quite right, for charming implies effort. People were attracted to Clarrie’s natural sweetness, and young men lost their hearts. She was too sweet to discourage them.”

  “Perhaps some of them appealed to her.”

  Miss Pellew nodded. “Perhaps some of them did, but Nora would have none of the local men. She had her eye on the gentry.”

  “For Clarrie?”

  “Oh, never for herself, dear! She knew she didn’t have the looks or the appeal, and she had a low opinion of men and marriage. That’s why I was surprised . . . But enough of that. I hope her marriage was happy.”

  Claris didn’t want to lie. “No, it wasn’t happy,” she admitted. “In fairness, my father was a difficult man.”

  “Oh dear.” But Miss Pellew shrugged. “Enough of that. How can I help you, dear?”

  “I simply want to know more about my mother’s family, ma’am. Where did they live here?”

  “Two houses to the right. It’s still called Dunsworth House, though the Buckhams live there now. Your grandfather spent a great deal of time by the river for his business, but your grandmother didn’t want to live there, so he built the house here.”

  “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 trie
d 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?

  Chapter 35

  Soon 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?”