by Jo Beverley
“I’m sorry for that, but yes, it is and it must.”
He produced a piece of string and wrapped it around her ring finger, marking the length. This time his fingers touched hers without the barrier of gloves. Now the rapid beating of her heart wasn’t from fear. If he noticed, he didn’t comment.
“Is there anything you’d like from Town?” he asked as he tucked away the string.
A pistol, but he’d refuse, given that he was the most likely target.
“I don’t think so. . . .”
“Silk stockings,” said Genova, entering the room. “A fan or two, for I suspect you have none. Do you, Claris?”
“No. . . .”
“Handkerchiefs.”
“I do have some. . . .”
“You’ll need more. Do you have pretty shoe buckles?”
“No.”
“Enough,” Perriam said, and Claris thought he was going to protest at the cost. “I can guess what’s wanted and will do my poor best.”
He took Claris’s hand again, warm on warm, and raised it to his lips for a kiss. The frisson was so powerful she snatched her hand free. “Don’t do that!”
His brows rose, but his eyes twinkled. “A mere courtesy from a gentleman to a lady. Adieu, my dear.”
Claris watched him go, clutching the hand he’d kissed. Surely their agreement forbade such things.
“Come along,” Genova said, “we have work to do.”
Her eyes were smiling.
Was she seeing lovebirds? Was Perriam already trying to weaken her with his easy charms? Claris would have none of that. She’d agreed to a practical marriage that would leave her an independent woman of independent means, untroubled by her husband’s presence.
To make that clear, Claris led the way back into the dressing room saying, “That’s him gone for a week, thank heavens.”
Chapter 13
Five days passed in a dizzying whirl. Two local seamstresses shortened and retrimmed the ivory gown and then worked on three other gowns. Some Cheynings maids made new shifts. Genova provided an extra trunk, which began to fill with all Claris’s new possessions, including a nightgown of fine lawn trimmed with lace.
Claris wanted to deny the need of that, but she was uncomfortable about revealing details of the arrangement. Let Genova assume there would be a wedding night, but Claris would sleep in her shift, as always.
Around fittings, Genova educated her. One day, as they strolled in the gardens enjoying shrubs, flowers, and pretty vistas, she drilled Claris on titles and the way to address people.
When Claris protested that she’d be living quietly, Genova said, “You never know who will turn up on the doorstep. It’s considered polite to pay calls on new neighbors, and people will be particularly curious about you.”
“Why?”
“A Perriam marrying an unknown.” Genova never minced words.
“Can’t I set up as an eccentric recluse?”
“You could, but why?”
“I don’t know how to deal with such people.”
“Which is why we’re having this lesson. How do you address a bishop?”
“A bishop is going to turn up on my doorstep?”
“Unlikely, I admit, but you must know.”
There were also lessons in deportment. Genova chose to give them in the Grand Saloon, surrounded by royalty.
“Your deportment is acceptable in general ways, but not for court.”
“I won’t be going to court.”
“You never know. The court curtsy.” She demonstrated, sinking down, back straight, and then rising. “You do it. Deeper, deeper, back straight, good . . . Whoops!”
Claris sat on her bottom and glowered.
“Don’t despair. You’ll have gentlemen nearby to give assistance.”
“Why don’t they have to do such ridiculous things?”
Genova chuckled. “We should insist on it, shouldn’t we? But I’m assured that learning to manage a dress sword is as difficult. Otherwise it rattles people’s shins and can even catch on a lady’s skirts, revealing more than is wise.”
Claris wasn’t tied to fittings and lessons, and she gradually relaxed into enjoying life at Cheynings. She wandered the house, feasting on the works of art and becoming accustomed to huge spaces. There was even a glass-walled room full of greenery to be enjoyed in all seasons.
She walked in the gardens, enjoying the lovely vistas of a countryside glowing as the season turned much of the foliage to yellow and gold. This was nature’s gift and available all her life, but she’d rarely gone far from the village to appreciate it.
The meals were delicious and appeared as if by magic. The Asharts were gracious hosts and never left an awkward silence, but the greatest pleasure was time alone with Genova—her first friend. She’d never expected such a gift, but it was real. Perhaps Genova’s simple background made it possible. She was every inch the marchioness, but she’d been born and raised to ordinary ways.
On the fifth day after Perriam’s departure, they were walking through the Grecian Grove, where pale statues stood between old trees.
“I still find it odd that nakedness is acceptable,” Claris said. Then she risked the question she’d longed to ask. “Are the male statues accurate? In physique, I mean.”
She was blushing even to ask. She’d raised her brothers, but these statues were of men.
“They show the variety,” Genova said. “We have our Hercules”—she gestured toward a massive man—“and our Dionysus.” She indicated a slender, smiling man holding a wine goblet. “I judge Perriam to be more of his build.”
That wasn’t what Claris had meant. These statues didn’t have leaves obscuring their manly parts. She couldn’t pursue it, however.
“Bacchus in Greek,” she said, as nonchalantly as she could. “The god of drink and noisy revels.”
“You know your classics?”
“I helped my brothers with their lessons.”
“Of course. Perriam certainly enjoys festivities. In fact, as I remember, he dressed as Dionysus for the Olympian Revels.”
“The Olympian Revels?”
“An annual event when the great and powerful costume themselves from classical times and meet to connive.”
“Not to revel?”
Genova chuckled. “That too, but once gathered, they can’t help themselves. They connive. The beautiful world, as it’s called, is mostly a stew of politics and power beneath the silken trimmings.”
“Then I’m glad I’ll have no part in it.”
“Oh, it can be amusing.” But Genova’s gaze moved beyond Claris, and the light in her eye said that her husband was in sight.
Claris turned to see two reasons for Genova’s delight—Ashart and the infant he was carrying, without sign of a nursemaid. The infant smiled and stretched out her arms to her mother. Genova took her and kissed her cheek. “Good afternoon, darling one. Are you here to explore the gardens?”
Claris was shocked by a stab of something.
Jealousy?
Not precisely that, but envy or longing.
For a child?
She pushed it aside. Hers would not be that sort of marriage.
Ashart was standing close to his wife and child and had given Callie a finger to grasp. Secure in that circle of love, little Callie looked around, taking in everything.
Claris remembered the twins being like that, so full of the wonder of the world, but much of their world had been dark and painful, and she’d not been able to entirely protect them from that.
Callie wouldn’t have to learn such lessons—but fate could be cruel to rich as well as poor. Better by far not to have hostages to fortune.
* * *
Perriam shocked Claris by arriving that evening, on the fifth day rather than the sixth. She happened to be in the hall when he entered in a surge of energy. He greeted her with a kiss on the hand. When she snatched it free, he merely smiled.
“You look well, Claris, even rested. Chey
nings hasn’t been too much of a strain?”
He was so pleased with himself that she wanted to claim it had been torture, but he’d know it couldn’t be true.
“Lady Ashart has been most kind.”
“And Ashart hasn’t bitten you? Excellent.” He directed that mischievously at the marquess, who was coming downstairs with Genova.
“I save my fangs for worthier prey,” Ashart said.
“Are you calling my bride unworthy? Swords at dawn.”
Claris gasped, but Genova declared, “Enough! Ignore them, Claris.” She steered everyone into the drawing room. “Have you done anything beside create mischief wherever you go, Perriam?”
“Kept the world on its axis and driven away screeching demons, thus saving the realm.”
“Make sense, you madman,” Ashart said, sitting beside Genova on a settee.
“I wish I could.” Perriam steered Claris to the other settee and sat beside her. “I have dispatched a wagon to Lavender Cottage,” he told her. “A small one, as requested. Are you sure you don’t have a hidden cellar filled to the roof?”
He wasn’t close enough to touch, but he was too close, especially with energy sparkling off him like sunlight off silver. Was this what a visit to London did to him?
“A small cart would do, especially as we won’t need the beds. I assume Perriam Manor comes equipped with beds?”
“Any number of them, all now being aired and prepared.”
“You have been busy,” Ashart remarked.
“That was accomplished by letter.” Perriam turned back to Claris. “Said wagon has two strong men to load it, and they should already be on their way to Berkshire.”
“Already on their way? But the wedding is two days hence.”
“I have the license, so there’s no need to delay. I stopped on the way here and alerted the vicar.”
“Without a word to me?”
“Are you offended? I thought you’d like it done.”
She was not so much offended as panicked, but yes, she wanted it done—before fate could snatch it away.
“As you will. I must alert my family.”
“I sent a letter with the wagon. They’re prepared. Roads permitting, your possessions will arrive at Perriam Manor before you do.”
Irritation was overwhelming panic, but Claris managed to be civil. “Then I must thank you.”
“Don’t feel obliged,” he insisted, amusement in his eyes. “I merely do a spouse’s duty, my almost wife. Which reminds me . . .”
He took something out of his pocket.
A clear stone sparkled in the sunlight.
A diamond?
She’d never seen one before.
He took her hand and slid on the ring. “Thus I capture you.”
Claris pulled free. “The word ‘capture’ could doom your plan, sir.”
“I am captured too.”
“I see no shackle on you.”
“I should have thought of that. Perhaps I can pacify you with other trinkets. . . .”
“Perriam,” Genova protested, “you can’t call that ring a trinket, and it would be shameful if it was.”
Claris couldn’t help looking at the lovely stone, which shot fire as she turned it in the light. She’d thought much the same of him. Beauties were often compared to diamonds. Could beaux also be?
She dragged herself back to the practical. “How will my family come here?”
“A carriage, if Ashart will oblige, can bring them to the church tomorrow.” She must have shown a reaction, for he said, “You disapprove?”
“You said we’d marry at Cheynings.”
“That is your wish? A special license permits us to marry anywhere, but I assumed a clergyman’s daughter would prefer a church.”
In normal circumstances she would, for to wed anywhere other than a church would feel wrong. However, talk of a church service reminded her that despite their practical plans, this marriage would be real in the eyes of God. It would be for life, and it would put her in the position of wife, subservient to her lord and master.
That was the truth, however, and should be faced.
“You’re correct. I do prefer a church wedding.”
He took her at her word and moved on. “After the service, we’ll travel to the manor.”
“No.” That was Genova. “After the wedding everyone will return here for a celebration. A small one,” she assured Perriam, “but essential.”
“You are most gracious,” he said, bowing, teasing. “After which we travel. Without need to stop for a meal en route, it should only take about four hours, roads permitting.”
“You’re in a vast hurry,” Claris said.
“I must return to Town as soon as possible.”
He clearly couldn’t wait to be away from her. She reminded herself that she couldn’t wait to be free of him.
“Are the roads so very chancy?” she asked.
“I forget that you’ve not ventured far from Old Barford. They can be the very devil. Granite ruts a foot or more high in winter, soupy mud a foot or more deep after heavy rains.”
“Can’t they be improved?”
“With effort and money, undoubtedly,” Ashart said. “Hence the turnpikes.”
“Frequently attacked,” Perriam said, “because people don’t see why they should pay to use a road, even one that is well maintained.”
“Why should they?” Claris asked. “Turnpikes are for the convenience of the great.”
“Never say you’re Farmer Barnett’s true companion after all! Most people benefit from the smooth transport of goods.”
“Packhorses achieve the same end.”
“Not for heavy goods.”
“And there we have canals,” Ashart said, “which do a better job than roads. Do we wish to know about Farmer Barnett?”
“No,” Claris said, but it clashed with Genova’s “Yes!”
Claris frowned but admitted, “He was my worthy suitor, offering me the honor of being wife to a man farming one hundred and fifty acres. Alas, I was compelled to accept another.”
“Saved from a life of excessive godliness,” Perriam said.
“Is there such a thing? I am a clergyman’s daughter.”
“All the same, you’d have slipped rat poison into his soup within the year.”
“More likely his mother would have slipped some into mine.”
Claris realized she was joking, that she’d been tricked into friendly repartee.
She rose. “I must go and attend to my packing.”
“By all means.” He rose with her. “You have much to pack. When you’ve inspected my purchases, I hope for applause.”
Claris dipped a curtsy and escaped, curious to see what he’d provided, but wary too. He wasn’t so much Bacchus as Mercury.
She found her bed strewn with items wrapped in white muslin. Alice was hovering by them, perhaps as curious as she. Claris sent her away. She’d explore this alone. She was remembering the basket Perriam had brought to the cottage and the havoc it had wrought in her.
She first chose a long, narrow package because she knew it must be a fan. Indeed it was, a pretty ivory piece painted with roses. A fan had been among Aunt Clarrie’s mementoes, but that one had been of pink lace.
Genova had given some lessons on the handling of a fan, and so Claris turned her wrist. It flowed smoothly open. When she reversed the action it smoothly closed again.
Carefully chosen?
No, the perfection must be from luck.
She opened the fan again, remembering that it could be used in many ways. An open fan could conceal or express emotions. A closed one could be a weapon. She would be permitted to rap an impudent gentleman on the arm or even upon the knuckles.
A weapon in the war between the sexes.
Genova had said that, clearly meaning it lightly, but a truth lay beneath. This was a man’s world, and a woman needed all the weapons she could find.
Genova had taught her how to hand
le a pistol, using her own. It was a pretty little weapon with silver mountings and pearl inlay, but lethal all the same. Claris had practiced with it in the gardens and had once hit the piece of wood set up as target, splintering it.
She didn’t have her own pistol yet, but she’d sent off an order to Ashart’s London gunsmith for one similar to Genova’s. If Perriam kept his promises, she’d have enough money to pay the shockingly high cost. If he didn’t, she’d have reason to shoot him.
She returned to the packages, unwrapping each with care. Six pairs of plain cotton stockings and six of wool, for winter wear. Useful but disappointing.
Then she unwrapped three pairs made of silk.
She had been using Athena’s cream, so when she tentatively picked one up, her fingers didn’t harm it. It was as smooth as Aunt Clarrie’s fichu and just as delicate.
She wouldn’t dare wear such stockings for fear of ruining them, but they were unbearably pretty, clocked up each ankle with embroidered flowers, one pair even embellished with gold thread that sparkled in the light.
As tempting as sweet ginger.
As seductive.
She carefully rewrapped them in muslin, where they’d probably stay forever.
Gloves of plain white cloth, gloves of lace, and one pair of supple tan leather. Then she noticed something—wear along the seams.
These weren’t new.
He’d purchased secondhand goods for her?
Tears threatened, and over such nonsense. Why should he go to the expense of buying new? She was merely the woman he had to marry to secure Perriam Manor. He’d have married Aggie Putbeck, who was short of most of her wits and skew eyed as well, if that had been the price.
She was tempted to hurl the whole lot through the open window, but she wouldn’t embarrass herself that way. Instead, she’d open everything.
Another package contained handkerchiefs, some of fine lawn with cutwork design and others plain. At least three of the plain were clearly not new. One even had a darn and wasn’t much better than her own. Three cotton fichus, new or not she couldn’t tell. One was trimmed with lace so must have cost a fair amount, even from a rag shop.
A larger package revealed a dressing robe in a lovely shade of pink. When she picked it up, she realized it was made of heavy silk. That couldn’t have been cheap either.