by Jo Beverley
“Come in, sir, come in. Izzy, come and ’elp these poor people!”
A young maid peered out around him and then ran forward to Ellie. “Oh, you poor lady. Come you in. Those bullies!”
Perry got Claris to her feet and made sure she was steady, leaning against the wall, while he collected his dropped sword and dagger and restored them to their sheaths.
“I’ll carry you.”
She held him off. “I can walk. I’m much better now.” But then she clutched his arm. “Oh, Perry, thank God you came!”
He held her close as they entered the house. “Thank God indeed, but there’s a reckoning to come, wife. I forbade this.”
He saw her lips tighten and rejoiced. Her spirit was still strong.
They were ushered into a front parlor that showed signs of once having been decent if not elegant. Now it was dirty and shabby. He saw a mouse-gnawed hole in the skirting boards and a damp stain beneath the window.
The young maidservant had steered Ellie to an upholstered chair, showing more sense than he had. He settled Claris on the settee with her feet up.
“I’m all right,” she protested. “See to Ellie.”
“I’m all right, dearie, for all that my head hurts.”
“Oh, Ellie. There’s a lump!”
“Hit my head on the wall; that’s all. No real harm done. I could do with a cup of tea, though.”
Perry showed the man a guinea as proof. “Do you have tea?” he asked, without much hope.
The man shook his head.
“Brandy?”
“Only gin, sir.”
“Then gin it is. And send your servant to fetch a hackney, if you please.”
“Izzy.”
The one word was apparently permission or command, for the girl ran off. Perry saw that she was barefooted and accustomed to it.
“This place was finer twenty years ago,” Perry said.
“That it was, sir. It’s the brewery wot changed everything. No one of the better sort wanted to rent rooms ’ere after that.”
“Were you here in the better days?” Claris asked, suddenly alert and shifting to sit, feet on the floor.
Perry wanted to order her to lie quietly, but he supposed they might as well discover what they could now they were here, and she did seem restored. Except, that was, for dirty smears on her clothing and some splashes of blood from his violent foray.
The rage still seethed inside him, and he consciously calmed it before it erupted in undesirable ways. When he’d seen . . .
He’d called her “love,” and he’d meant it.
Until that moment, he hadn’t realized how crucial she was to him.
“Grew up ’ere,” the man said. “Me mam kept this ’ouse and made a pretty living from it whilst raising me brother and me. Me brother works at the armories, but I went to sea. Ruined me back, came ’ome. When Mam died I stayed.”
Claris asked, “Your mother wasn’t Mistress Stallycombe, was she?”
“Nah, three doors down she was. Sign of the dove. Number seven, now. Numbers,” he said and spat at the floor as if house numbers had caused all his woes.
“The gin?” Perry reminded him.
The man shuffled away.
“He can’t be as old as he looks,” Claris murmured.
“Life can wear people down,” Ellie said, “and as he said, his back.”
Perry saw Claris look at him and knew what she was going to say. “We must visit number seven before we leave.”
He didn’t want to fight with her. “We’ll see what our benefactor has to say first.”
The man returned with a pottery jug and three chipped cups. He poured the clear fluid into each and passed them round.
Perry tasted his quickly to see if it was drinkable, but it was good stuff as gin went. Claris sipped a little and wrinkled her nose. Ellie seemed to relish it.
“May I have your name, sir?” Perry asked. “We are Mr. and Mistress Perriam and Miss Gable.”
“Williams, sir. ’Enry Williams.”
“Can you tell us anything about Mistress Stallycombe? Does she still live here?”
“Her? Nah. Thought ’erself better even then. Left as soon as the brewery was planned.”
“Do you know where she went?”
“Sorry, sir. You relations of ’ers, then?”
“No, but relations of my wife’s rented rooms from her back in 1739. My wife is curious about their stay here.”
“I was still ’ere back then. Delivery boy, I was, to an apothecary. Good job, but I took a notion to travel.” His morose expression said that in hindsight that hadn’t been a good idea. “Shot in the China Sea, I was, and sickened in Barbados; then me back went on me. Not ’ealthy in foreign parts, sir. Not ’ealthy at all.”
“I’m sure you’re right. The ladies we’re interested in were the Misses Dunsworth.”
The man shifted. It was subtle, but Perry saw it.
“You remember them?”
“I might,” the man said, mouth working, probably on one or more loose teeth. “Dunsworth. Dun Street and worth,” he said with a smirk. “Not thought of that afore. Worth a bit to you, is it, sir, to know what I know?”
“No.” Perry sensed Claris’s start of objection and quickly added, “It’s merely curiosity, but you might think the guinea covers a bit of gossip.”
He took Claris’s hand and squeezed it, hoping she’d understand. He didn’t want this man to think his knowledge important, particularly as there was clearly something to know.
Williams sucked his teeth a bit more, then gave in. “One of ’em died. That’s why I remember ’em. Not many guests died ’ere back then. More now, though, if guests you can call ’em.”
“How did she die? A fever?”
“Aye, that was it, sir. A fever.”
Devil take it. He shouldn’t have led him that way.
“Did she have a doctor?”
The man chuckled at that. “No, sir. No doctor, that’s for sure.”
Perry feared he knew what was to come. He let a silence run. Williams had come this far, so he wanted to tell the tale. Eventually the man said, “Mam was as close to a doctor as she ’ad.”
“Your mother?”
“Aye, sir, she played that part on the street. Midwife, laying out, ’erbs and such.”
As he feared. Perry hesitated, but Ellie said it. “Your mother helped one of the Miss Dunsworths to restore her courses.”
That was the term, and Perry was grateful to her for finding it. Tonics to restore a lady’s courses—in other words, to rid her of a child. He glanced at Claris and saw her beginning to understand.
“And that killed her?” she asked.
“No!” Williams protested. “All went as it should. Mam did nothing amiss. It was a week later the pretty sister sickened. The plain one wouldn’t send for a doctor, even then, and it probably wouldn’t ’ave done any good, so she was wise to save the silver. Took the body back to ’er village for burial and that was the last we saw of either.”
The maidservant ran back in, looking as if she’d enjoyed her outing. “The ’ackney’s ’ere, sir!”
Perry rose and turned to assist Claris, but she was already standing and looking steady. “The older sister must have been very distressed,” she said.
“Distressed? Raving, is ’ow I’d put it. Vowing revenge on ’im. To those who didn’t know, it seemed she was raging at God, but we knew. Raging against the man who’d done that. I pity ’im, for she was the sort to act on her fury.”
“Indeed she was,” Perry said.
“Mam said that Miss Clarrie swore she was married and that the child was legitimate. She didn’t really want . . . But her sister insisted.”
“Poor Aunt Clarrie,” Claris said.
Perry saw her hold back her thoughts, but he could imagine what they were. Giles had duped Clarrie Dunsworth into thinking she was married, probably with the help of his crony, Henry Mallow. Perhaps Mallow had stood as witness, then later
denied it. Twenty years ago, marriage records were chaotic and witnesses were key.
Clarrie had clung to hope as long as she could, but in the end she would have felt like a harlot, even though she’d done no wrong.
“Perhaps the older sister raged against herself,” Ellie said.
Williams looked at her and nodded. “Perhaps she did, ma’am; perhaps she did. I ’adn’t thought of that afore, but there’s no ’atred so deep as ’ating yerself.”
“Thank you, Mr. Williams.” Perry gave him the guinea. He found a sixpence and gave it to the maid. “And thank you too.”
She blushed as she curtsied, bright eyed with her riches. He rather wanted to carry her away from Dun Street, but meddling always had consequences and should never be indulged on impulse.
He escorted Claris and Ellie out to the hackney, which was no worse than most of its sort. Once they were on their way, he said, “I hope you see that my warning not to come here was justified.”
Claris met his eyes. “You didn’t warn; you forbade. And in the end, we did learn something.”
“Almost at cost of your life. And Ellie’s.”
“If you’d brought me here, we would have been safe!”
He broke the glare first. “Very well, we learned that your aunt Clarrie took a potion to rid herself of her child, and then died a week later of a fever, probably caused by that. Does any of that soothe your mind about the curse?”
To his surprise, she nodded. “It does, though I haven’t quite sorted out why.”
“Likely because your mother was mad with self-hatred,” Ellie said. “As the man said, it’s the sort to eat into the soul, for there’s no one else to blame. She tried to blame Giles Perriam, but inside, she knew her sister’s death was her fault.”
Perry had never heard Ellie make such a long speech, and it was clear and cogent.
“If Giles was the villain, then Giles must pay,” he said. “She might have thought of killing him, but that would be difficult and also too quick. She needed him to suffer as she must suffer, hoping his constant suffering might ease her own.”
“That almost echoes the curse,” Claris said. “Suffer as I must suffer.”
“Indeed it does. She wrote mostly of herself.”
“But how could she be sure he’d suffer as she dictated? Could she have killed his babies and wives? How horrible to even think that about my own mother!”
Perry shook his head. “Impossible. She wouldn’t have access to Perriam Manor, and in a short while she was married to your father. She must have hoped that dread would be torment enough.”
“Children do die,” Ellie said.
“And she would remember the pestilence in Wellsted and the deaths of her own siblings. That must have made a deep impression upon her young mind. She might have thought that the probability of death for children was even higher than it is.”
He sensed a reaction from Claris and wished his words unsaid.
He took her hand. “We’ll do all we can to keep our children safe. That curse was the creation of your mother’s deranged mind. Insofar as she was rational, she could only hope that he’d live in dread, especially of hell.”
She clung to his hand. “Why did she not fear hell? She’d killed her sister, but all the days that I knew her, she seemed convinced of her own righteousness. Even on her deathbed she spoke of being with Clarrie again, and she must have believed Clarrie was in heaven.”
“She probably changed the story in her mind,” Ellie said. “I’ve known people who did that when the pain of the truth was too much to bear. After a while of telling their false story to themselves, they believe it as much as that the sun rises in the east.”
Perry nodded. “Let’s put the true story together. Your mother persuaded Clarrie to come to London and seek a fine husband. She pushed her into Giles’s arms, for I can’t believe Clarrie was truly in love with a man like that. Giles betrayed them, so Clarrie took Mistress Williams’s potion.”
“Reluctantly. Mother probably terrorized her into it.”
“Because your mother still had her plan. Without the child, there was still hope of Clarrie making a good marriage. Harpy Mallow.”
“Why do you call her that?”
“Giles described her that way. For once, he was right. All teeth and claws.”
She shivered. “Yes.”
He put an arm around her. “You are not at all like her.”
“I pray not. Giles was vile, but she set out to torture him as surely as if she had him tied on a rack.”
“And succeeded in the end, but by his ill luck, not a curse.” He could see she still doubted. “Only think of the wording, Claris. It’s all lies. The ‘suffer as I must suffer’ was about her, not Clarrie. The part about children dying as hers must die was perhaps most about Clarrie herself, whom she might have thought of as her child. She was already twisting it in her deranged mind. She was the victim, and Giles was entirely to blame. Giles alone had caused Clarrie’s death, so he must pay. In composing that curse, she made herself the righteous vindicator.” Perry thought for a moment. “And that’s why she forced your father to marry her.”
“What do you mean?”
“Once she’d established her version of the truth, she inherited the necessity of marrying well. It had to have been important, for it had led to Clarrie’s death. So it must still be important. However, she didn’t have the looks or charm, and she’d probably spent most of the money on the Town foray. There was one man she could get—a clergyman, but from a good family. She’d have sent a curse to your father for the part he’d played, and so she followed it up with a demand. Marry her and the curse against him will be nullified. He will escape hell.”
“Oh, the wickedness of it. Father would have done anything, especially when he learned that Clarrie had died. Poor man.”
“A kind heart, as always.”
“He did his best to suffer for his sins on earth, and Mother helped him.”
“Worrying again that you are like her? My dear, my dear, as Miss Pellew said, you’re more like Clarrie, but with steel and spine. What’s more, your father, though weak, was not a bad man. He probably only committed the one vile sin—to help Giles dupe Clarrie—and he truly felt his guilt. His pouring out money to the poor was unfair to his family but showed his contrition.”
“He was truly compassionate,” Claris said. “He felt the sufferings of others. Without Mother, he might have died a beloved rector rather than a mad one.”
The carriage came to a stop and he thought quickly. “Our explanation for our appearance is the truth. You ventured into a dubious part of Town and were assaulted. I rescued you.”
“And all in search of a superior mender of stockings.”
“What?”
She smiled at him, a wry smile but true. “I’ll explain later.”
The footman stared but accepted the explanation. Washing water was ordered for all of them and then Perry took Claris upstairs.
Chapter 39
Claris was glad of Perry’s strong arm around her as she climbed the stairs. Her mind had slid back to that moment of terror, firing the shot, his arrival, his driving off four attackers.
Four.
Terror turned to thrill. He’d been magnificent!
When they arrived in their room, he gently removed her hat, smoothing her hair, looking at her with such tenderness. Perhaps more than tenderness? Hadn’t he called her “love”?
The thrill swelled inside her, especially when he kissed her.
She clutched at him, wanted him—
Footsteps.
They broke apart.
Alice hurried in with the jug of hot water. “Oh, ma’am, thank the Lord you’re safe. Let me get you out of those clothes.”
“It’s all right,” Claris said as calmly as she could. “You may go for now.”
Alice stared, but then bobbed a curtsy and left.
Perry was looking at her, amused, quizzical, but knowing.
�
�I want you,” she breathed. “Now. This very moment. I know it’s shocking. . . .”
He swept her up and laid her half on the bed so her legs dangled from the knees down. She went up on her elbows to shift further, but he already had his breeches undone.
He flipped up her skirts and slid right into her, hard, hot, and strong. Leaning forward, he caught his arm around her to hold her up for his searing kiss. It couldn’t entirely stifle her sharp cries of pleasure as he thrust again and again. She brought up her legs around him, uncaringly bruised by his sword hanger.
They’d taken off nothing but her hat!
She thrust up to meet him again and again as the fever built and the ache exploded into a pleasure more intense than any she’d known.
He was braced on his arms over her, sucking in breaths, as she was heaving with them, but laughing down at her with such a light in his eyes. “My warrior bride.”
“That was . . . That was . . .”
“What?”
“Naughty.”
He hooted with laughter. “Then naughtiness is pure delight.”
He pulled her up into his arms and rolled them both onto the bed, despite shoes, sword, and riotous clothing.
He cradled her face and kissed her again. “I love you, Claris. Say you love me too.”
She searched him for humor, for a tease, but saw only honesty. “I love you, Perry. I didn’t want to say. It wasn’t in our agreement.”
“I tear up any such agreement. We have love. We are blessed.”
And a blessing was the opposite of a curse.
There and then, Claris ceased to believe that her mother’s misbegotten curse could have any power over her. In the midst of such love, it simply wasn’t possible. She tangled her fingers in his unruly hair. “If any powers come from beyond the grave, Aunt Clarrie will be working hard to make all right for me. For us.”
He captured her hand and kissed her palm. “And she’ll be particularly protective of our children.”
“She will. She will.”
They lay together as the clock ticked away the minutes, but when it chimed two, Claris pulled out of his arms and scrambled off the bed. “Dinner!” She stared at him. “Alice will guess.”
