The Trouble With Heroes.... (12 page)

“
Is Miss Mallow at home?”

“
Miss Mallow, is it?” the maid asked,
seeming surprised.

“
Yes.” Was she married after all? No,
for then she’d not be a Mallow.

“
She’s in the garden, sir. Would you
mind going round, for I’m swabbing the floor.”

He could see the truth of that behind her.
The door opened into a front room with an uneven flagstone floor,
which was awash with water. A mop was propped against the wall.
Oddly, the room contained a large table and shelves of jars and
bottles.

A stillroom?

Potions?

The curse returned unsettlingly to mind.

Clarrie had laid a curse on Giles, and her
sister, Nora, had claimed to know how to raise it. Nora was Claris
Mallow’s mother.

Would he be marrying into a family of
witches? Witches who knew how to cast curses?

Even so, it must be done.

“
A shame to bring Miss Mallow indoors
on such a lovely day,” Perry agreed. “The path to my
left?”

“
That’s right, sir. She’ll likely be
down the end.”

Whatever that meant. Perry headed for the
path.

The cottage was in a poor state, but it had
some rural charms. The path was bordered on the right by a bed
bursting with colorful flowers, worked over by bees on this sunny
afternoon. To his left lay a hedge, twitteringly full of birds.

When he came to the end of the path, he
found a contrast. Far less color here, because the garden was
devoted to herbs. He had little interest in horticulture, but he
was sure everything here had its purpose for cooking or healing,
even the brash marigolds crowding along some edges.

Cooking, healing—and magic?

He looked around for other evidence of
witchcraft but found none.

A bench sat in one corner with a wooden
table in front of it in a position that would catch the afternoon
sun. Behind it, a line strung from house to tree carried a full
load of white laundry, stirring in the breeze. His life rarely
involved lines of laundry, and there was a simple beauty in the
movement.

Then he noted the simplicity of the
undergarments and that some were patched or darned.

Impoverished.

Excellent.

So where was his bride?

Down the end.

He circled the herb garden and realized that
a trellis covered by climbing flowers wasn’t the end of the garden
but a partition. He went behind to find a gated fence, and beyond
that a vegetable garden being pecked over by hens.

Still no sign of Miss Mallow.

Then a movement drew his eye behind a tall
frame covered by scarlet-flowered vines. He went through the gate
and walked down a side path.

A sturdy woman was hoeing between rows of
cabbages as if weeds were imps from hell. She wore a wide hat from
which straw escaped around the edge and from which dark hanks of
hair escaped down her back. Her shabby black gown was kirtled up to
show battered leather shoes and six inches of dirt-splashed,
white-stockings.

Another servant, so Claris Mallow couldn’t
be in truly dire straits, alas.

Where was she?

As he approached the woman to ask, she
straightened. Some hair must have fallen on her face, for she
brushed it away, taking a moment’s rest and turning to look around.
At the sight of him, she stared, and something about her manner
alerted him to the astonishing truth.

He bowed. “Good day to you, ma’am. Do I
address Miss Mallow?”

He still expected denial, probably a
laughing denial in a broad country accent, but she said, “Who are
you?” in a well-bred voice.

“
Your pardon, ma’am. Your servant
advised me to come back here. She’s washing the floors.

She laughed then, pushing back her hair
again, leaving a dirty streak on her round cheek, and not the first
one. She was a mess, but her speech was that of a lady. He’d never
imagined his bride with a country burr, but given her appearance it
could have been so. He counted his blessings.

“
Ellie would do that. I beg your
pardon, sir. How may I help you?”

Miss Mallow in the flesh.

His bride-to-be.

How very ordinary she was.

A strange word to come to mind, but
appropriate.

She was of average height for a woman, and
average build. Her general appearance was below average, but that
was because of the dirt, the hat, the extremely unflattering black
gown, and the grubby apron. Her face held all the normal features,
decently arranged, but her complexion showed that she didn’t wear
her battered hat often enough. He reminded himself that her
physical attributes made no difference. He must marry her.

“
My name is Perriam, Miss Mallow, and
I believe your father was once acquainted with a relative of mine,
Giles Perriam, of Perriam Manor, Berkshire.”

The details had merely been intended to ease
into his subject, so he was surprised to see her eyes widen,
perhaps with fear. She did have quite fine eyes—clear and perhaps
hazel.

Had she been in her mother’s confidence?

Did she know all about the curse?

She recovered, but her eyes slid from his.
“Perriam? Perhaps I do vaguely remember. However, my father is
dead.”

“
I am aware of that, Miss Mallow. It
is with you I wish to speak.”

She focused on him. “Me? About what?”

“
It is both complex and delicate.
Perhaps we could speak in the house?”

“
Not if Ellie’s doing the floors.” He
thought she might refuse, but then she shrugged. “We can sit
outside.”

She propped her hoe against the frame and
led the way back through the gate. Her straight back was tense, but
she moved lightly and her shortened skirts swayed with the movement
of her hips in a rather attractive way.

She seemed to be a practical, no-nonsense
sort of woman, so this should go well.

She led the way into the herb garden and
indicated the bench. “Please be seated, Mr. Perriam. I’ll wash my
hands and return. Would you like something to drink? We have small
beer and cider.”

“
Cider, if you please.”

It was a drink he rarely tasted, but it
seemed suited to the setting and might make her more at ease. He
sat on the bench and reviewed the situation.

Well-spoken, well mannered, and not given to
drama. All to the good.

Direct and perhaps brave, which could be
challenging in an opponent, but a virtue in a wife.

She wasn’t a beauty, but he’d have no cause
to be ashamed of her once she was decently dressed. There were
creams and lotions to soften and lighten a lady’s complexion. Given
the herbs and the stillroom, it was odd she didn’t employ them
already.

A brush on his thigh startled him. A sleek
black cat had leapt onto the bench and was staring at him with
amber eyes, as if seeking the secrets of his soul. The cat licked
his fingers, the tongue abrasive; then, as if it had learned
something, it butted his hand. Perry took the hint and stroked it.
It purred, and he chuckled.

“
Do people always do as you
command?”

He continued to stroke, for he liked cats.
They were elegant and self-sufficient. They didn’t fawn or learn
demeaning tricks, and they would correct sharply if displeased.

Would the cat’s owner have similar
qualities?

If so, the marriage might even prove
amusing.

◊◊◊◊◊

Claris hurried into the kitchen, where she
poured water into a bowl and washed her hands. She welcomed the
blended herbs that made the smell of Athena’s soap so soothing.

“
Trouble, is he?” Ellie asked, coming
into the kitchen with her mop and bucket.

“
He’s a Perriam.”

“
Ah.”

Ellie had never lived at the rectory, but
she’d heard of Reverend Mallow’s ravening guilt over some long-ago
sin, a sin connected to a Perriam.

“
I’ve offered him cider.”

“
Right, then.” Ellie went into the
larder to bring out the big earthenware jug.

Claris reached down two glasses from a
shelf. They rarely used glasses, but she didn’t feel able to serve
that man in a pottery mug. She couldn’t find words to express how
he alarmed her.

“
His dress is simple—leather breeches,
brown jacket—but . . .”

“
London made and costly.” Comments
like that always pointed to Ellie being more than she seemed.
“Don’t you go fussing, dearie. There’s nothing he can do to you, be
he ever so grand.”

Claris wished she could feel sure of
that.

“
It’s not just his clothing.
He’s . . . he’s like a butterfly.”

“
A butterfly?” Ellie asked,
staring.

“
Oh, I don’t know. But he moves, he
speaks, he gestures . . . nothing like any man
around here.”

“
London ways, is all. Likely a court
gallant.”

“
But what’s a court gallant doing
here? And what does he want with me?”

“
Best take him his cider and find
out.”

Claris poured cider into the glasses. “I
wish Athena were here.”

“
You can deal with him. Whatever
brings him, it’s nothing to do with you.”

“
I wish I could be sure.”

She’d never told Athena or Ellie about her
mother’s obsession with avenging her sister’s death. They knew
Claris was named after her dead aunt, Clarrie Dunsworth, but not
the rest. It was too demented to be spoken of. Oh, dear heavens,
was this man here about her mother’s attempts at blackmail? Mother
had been dead for eleven years!

Ellie was frowning at her. “Are you truly
frightened, dearie?”

Claris found a smile. “No, and you’re right.
Whatever crushed my father with guilt happened long ago and he did
his best to suffer for it on earth.”

She hadn’t told Athena or Ellie all about
his suffering, either.

She picked up the cider and walked toward
the door but paused by the window to steal another look through the
half-open window. He was sitting on the bench stroking Yatta.
Sitting shouldn’t be remarkable, but she was taken aback by how
elegantly he’d disposed himself, probably without thought.

London ways.

A court gallant.

A court gallant could mean power.

Even the nobility.

Claris had little to do with the local
gentry, never mind the nobility, but she’d seen the Marquess and
Marchioness of Ashart now and then. They were the local grandees,
and their great house, Cheynings, lay not far away, so they
sometimes passed by.

Claris realized that was what she’d
recognized. This Perriam was from the same mold.

Yatta fancied himself a guard cat, so his
verdict was made—Perriam was safe.

Claris feared that this time, the cat was
wrong.

His hair should reassure her, for it wasn’t
darkly dramatic like the marquess’s. It was brown, wavy, and simply
tied back with a black ribbon, but the sun caught copper and gold,
making it seem more alive than was natural, and even
fiery. . . .

A hank of hair tumbled over her eye,
alerting her to what a mess she must be.

She put down the cider, whipped off her hat,
then ran to the tiny mirror to pin up her hair, which always stayed
stubbornly brown in even the brightest sun.

“
If you’re fussing,” Ellie said, “your
apron’s grubby.”

Claris whipped it off, but what difference
did it make? She was in one of the old mourning gowns she wore for
work. She must still look a draggle-tail.

“
Oh, don’t be foolish,” she muttered.
Her elegant visitor had no more interest in her appearance than he
had in the garden gate.

She hurried toward the cider.

“
Your skirt, dearie. You’re showing
your ankles.”

“
He’s already seen them,” Claris
retorted, but she unpinned her skirt so it fell to a decent level.
Then she picked up the cider and glasses and marched
out.

Mr. Perriam dislodged Yatta and rose.

Oh, so gracefully.

Claris set the glasses on the table and sat
on the bench, right at one end. He took the hint and sat at the
other end, leaving feet of space between them.

Claris took a sip. “Now, Mr. Perriam, how
may I help you?”

He, too, sipped and then put his glass down.
“As I said, Miss Mallow, my distant cousin, Giles Perriam, knew
your father in their younger days. He required me to come
here.”

“
For what purpose?”

“
May I ask what you know of the
connection?”

“
You may ask, but I see no reason to
answer.” Claris realized that was an error, implying that she did
know. “Indeed,” she added, taking another drink, “how could I know?
The acquaintance occurred before I was born.”

“
Stories are passed down in families.
In mine, we gnaw on an event many generations ago, when the Perriam
lands were divided between two sisters, which led to one part being
lost from the whole.”

He’d come to talk of his family’s history?
At least that seemed safe.

“
Lost?” she said. “Weren’t both
sisters of the same family?”

“
I salute your common sense, Miss
Mallow, but property goes to the eldest son so that it may be kept
whole. Keeping estates whole is a sacred trust.”

“
Among the grand perhaps. The Perriam
family is noble?”

She’d sensed it, but she still hoped it
wasn’t true.

“
My father is the Earl of
Hernescroft.”