Seduction In Silk: A Novel of the Malloren World (Malloran) (33 page)

P
erry hired a chair for their journey to Wellsted and suggested they both dress simply. Claris chose her blue skirt and caraco jacket, and he wore the same riding clothes he’d worn when they’d first met.

“We could almost be back at Lavender Cottage,” she said as he gave the sturdy brown horse the order to go.

“Or at least en route to Cheynings. Instead of an old married couple.”

She chuckled at the idea, but it caught at her heart. They looked like the sort of couple who could live contentedly in a place like Perriam Manor.

She put such foolishness aside. Blessing enough that they suited each other in a surprising number of ways.

She was interested to see a different part of London as they traveled toward the river and crossed by a bridge. It gave a unique view of the mighty river.

“So many boats, from tiny to grand.”

“The big ones are barges,” he said. “Beyond London Bridge there are sailing ships that cross the oceans, and all the services and warehouses that involves. We could have made our journey by boat, but we’d be at the mercy of the tides, and the water’s still low from the summer heat. People have been stranded on stinking mud banks.”

“Then I’m very glad we’re driving.”

When they left the bridge, they drove along a street between buildings but were soon in the countryside.

“Ah, this is pleasant,” she said.

He shook his head. “Who can converse with trees and fields?”

She thought back to Sappho’s. “Poets, it would seem.”

Though the weather was cooler than it had been in summer, it was still warm for autumn. Claris wore a hat with a brim wide enough to shade her face and with a veil to be let down if they encountered dust.

The roads here were lightly used, but that left them rough in places so that it took more than an hour to travel the few miles to Wellsted. After a while the view to their left, toward the river, included the tall masts of ships, some of them substantial.

“Greenwich, Woolwich, and such places,” Perry said. “Shipbuilding and repair, chandleries, customhouses.”

“My grandfather Dunsworth made his fortune by supplying timber for shipbuilding and repair. Better for his daughters if he’d been less successful.”

“Why?”

“Then they’d never have taken the notion of venturing into fashionable life in search of a fine husband for Aunt Clarrie.”

But in that case she would never have met Perry.

“It could have been in their natures.”

“I’m not sure it was ever in Aunt Clarrie’s. It’s strange, but I feel I know her. I spent a lot of time as a child looking at her portrait and at the mementoes my mother treasured.”

“She wrote that curse.”

“In anguish and despair.”

“Do people alter so completely?”

“If they go mad,” she said.

“True, we speak of the insane as deranged, which means altered. Ah, nearly there.”

He turned the carriage as directed by a fingerpost that read “Wellsted, 1 mile.” Ahead the tip of a spire rose above trees. Claris’s heart was beating faster than was reasonable. She’d probably learn nothing of significance here.

“How shall we go about this?” she asked.

“Churchyard first, seeking your grandparents’ graves.”

“But I don’t care about them.”

“It gives a purpose to our visit and an excuse for your curiosity. We probably won’t find out much,” he warned.

Claris realized that her fingers were clasped. She relaxed them. “I know that. But I have to try.”

They passed between farmhouses, complete with yards and animals. Perry had to rein in the horse when some hens wandered into the road. A narrow bridge took them over a stream and into the center of the village. She saw two inns, a shop, the church, and a nearby house that was probably the clergyman’s residence. There were three other houses of modest grandeur on the opposite side of the green.

“Your mother and aunt probably grew up in one of those,” Perry said, halting in front of the Ship in Full Sail.

A hostler ran out to take charge of the chair and horse, and Perry helped Claris down. She wanted to begin questions immediately, and Perry must have guessed, for he shook his head.

He’d said that solving puzzles was his talent, so she’d trust him in this. In any case, the hostler couldn’t be more than thirty. He’d know nothing of Aunt Clarrie’s time.

They strolled over to the low wall around the churchyard and surveyed the graves.

“This could take some time,” Perry said.

“We could inquire at the vicarage. I remember people doing that now and then.”

“An excellent suggestion.” He led the way to the lych-gate and opened it. “With luck the vicar is ancient and can answer all our questions.”

Alas, slender Reverend Thurstow was not much older than the hostler, but he clearly recognized Perry’s quality and became embarrassingly eager to help.

“Dunsworth, Dunsworth. I’m sure I’ve heard the name. We must consult Bowerbridge. The sexton, you see. He knows all these things. Let me take you to his cottage.”

At the cottage behind the church, Mistress Bowerbridge informed them that the sexton was “out and about somewhere.” She was quite elderly, and Claris would have questioned her, but she was very deaf. She hoped the woman’s husband had better hearing.

However, when they found the sexton, ripping out invasive weeds in a shady corner of the churchyard, it was clear the strapping young man must be her son, or possibly her grandson. At least he was open faced and ready to talk.

“Dunsworth, sir? Aye, I know the grave.”

He led them across the grass. Claris noticed one marble headstone surmounted by cherubs because it reminded her of the one at Cheere’s. There was no other like it here.

“Here we are,” the sexton said, stopping at a plain rectangle on which the writing was still clear.

Here lies Samuel Dunsworth, merchant,

1665–1730

And Mary, his wife, 1690–1736

Those who labor with a good heart will reap their reward.

Also,

Samuel 1714–1717

John 1716–1724

George 1721–1724

Marianne 1724 aged 6 months

Claris read that sorry tally and shivered. “So many little ones lost, and all at once.”

Another curse?

But the curse that haunted her had been created by a Dunsworth, not directed at one.

“There were many burials that year,” Reverend Thurstow said. “Wellsted was afflicted by a virulent fever. The incumbent at the time recorded details. Fully a half of the village caught the pestilence, and a quarter of the afflicted died. It fell hardest on the young, as you see, but it carried away others, leaving some families in dire straits.”

“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.”