by Jo Beverley
Chapter 19
She asked the footman for directions to the children’s area of the house but refused his escort. When she stood before the door, she almost felt as if she should knock, but she pressed down the handle and pushed it open. She was braced for it to be stiff, for hinges to squeal, but it opened smoothly.
Perhaps she should have delayed until the ivy had been cleared, for the gloom seemed particularly thick here, but she walked forward into a corridor. No dust. Clearly this area was regularly swept and dusted, as it should be.
She opened a door to her left and found a plain and empty room. It was modest in size but had a fireplace. Perhaps a governess’s room, or a senior maid’s, or an infant nursery, able to be kept warm in the coldest weather.
The next room was similar but without a fireplace. And the next. Had the whole place been stripped of furniture? Why?
“The last child died of a purulent fever.”
She turned to find Perriam behind her.
“Two of them, in fact. A Giles and the daughter, Beatrice. This part of the house was thoroughly cleaned and fumigated, and all that they’d had contact with was burned. As there were no more children, it was left as is.”
“Perhaps that’s why there are no ghosts.”
“Is ghost detection another family skill?” She must have reacted, for he said, “That was a joke, not a taunt, Claris. You have a purpose in coming here?”
“Am I not permitted?”
“My dear thistle,” he murmured. “I merely wondered if I could assist you.”
Impossible to demand that he cease to use meaningless endearments, but each usage was like a jab, or a spark, or something.
“I’m looking for a schoolroom, or somewhere that will serve that purpose.”
“This, I suspect.” He opened a door on the opposite side. “It’s the largest room and has two windows. There are shelves in the alcove, which implies books. You’ll make bedchambers up here for the boys as well?”
“Not unless they wish it. Where should a tutor’s room be?”
“Here. As we have a tabula rasa and no expectation of babies, he could have two good rooms and privacy. You want me to find a suitable tutor?”
“Yes, please. Make it clear that it will be only for a year or so. I want the twins to go to school and make friends as soon as possible.”
“Then there are other things they should learn. You should bring in a dancing master.”
“Dancing?”
“It will be in their future, but such a man would also teach deportment.”
Claris stiffened. “There’s something amiss with their deportment?”
“Not for general use, but I doubt they know the finer styles.”
In some subtle way he adjusted his stance, standing a little taller, head cocked in a certain way. Despite his unruly hair and clothing, he was suddenly grand. Smiling at her oh so slightly, he executed a smoothly elegant bow that involved three full circles of a graceful hand. Then he was himself again.
“I can’t imagine the twins ever doing that.”
“Yet the sort of friends you want them to make will have been trained to it from a young age. In fact . . .”
He was so rarely hesitant that she was alarmed.
“What?”
“With your permission, and in due course, they should visit Town.”
“Why?”
“So I can introduce them to all its wonders, including some places where the grand style is used. You don’t want them to seem country bumpkins.”
She didn’t, but she resented the implication that they were.
“You expect me to send them off to you?”
“You could accompany them.”
“To London?”
“To Town. Town is the fashionable part, the court and political part. There is also the City, the oldest part, which is now the heart of commerce. The boys should experience London as a whole, but I was mainly speaking of St. James’s, Westminster, and Mayfair.”
Claris used the mealymouthed escape of “We’ll see.”
That was his world, where she’d be terrified of making mistakes, but she couldn’t let the twins go there without her.
She turned to immediate matters. “I’ll need to order furniture for these rooms.”
“We could see what’s in the attics.”
“I thought you said everything was burned.”
“The infected children were both too young for a schoolroom. Come on,” he said, leading the way out. “Such fun to explore attics! With luck there are things there from centuries ago.”
“Of use now?” she demanded, pursuing the gadfly.
She’d thought of him becoming himself again, but what was his true self?
He led the way down to a door that opened onto a staircase up to the higher floor. She followed him up, feeling rather like a rat following the Piper of Hamelin—without the ability to resist.
“There are probably maids’ rooms up here,” she warned. “Perhaps we should ask Mistress Eavesham. . . .”
He ignored her, opening and shutting doors until he said, “Aha! The accumulation of centuries.”
She followed him into a huge space that seemed to be one end of the house, open to the rafters. There were stacked furniture covered by cloths, wooden chests that could contain treasures, and small items stuck up from open-topped boxes.
“Fishing rods,” he said, touching a cane, “and doubtless poles and perches too. Aha! A bird cage.” He pulled the metal object free. “Would you like a linnet? Or perhaps your grandmother would like a crow.”
“She’s not a witch. She’s not even interested in the herb garden here.”
Claris wasn’t looking at him, however, but at a shape beneath its own white shroud. She removed the cloth and found, as she expected, a cradle.
It was as dark as the oak elsewhere in the house, but beautifully carved with vines and flowers, which were picked out in colored paint and in some places gilded.
He came to hunker down by it. “Thank God this survived the cleansing inferno. It’s old, perhaps as old as the feud.”
“Used through the generations.”
He glanced up at her. “If my father learns about this, he’ll want it for Millicent’s baby. My sister-in-law,” he explained, “expecting her third soon.”
“Do I have to surrender it?”
“Feel free to contest it, but the wiser course would be not to let him know.” He touched it and it rocked. “Though it would be a shame for it to linger unused.”
Was he implying . . . ?
“Perhaps not,” Claris said, “when one considers its recent history.”
He rose. “Don’t blame the cradle. Let’s look for desks or tables suitable for learning.”
Claris carefully replaced the cover before joining in the search. They soon found two desks, plus wooden blocks with letters carved into them, a counting frame, and a globe richly painted to show land and sea.
“Giles’s children never achieved an age for this,” Perriam said, gently turning it. “These things show that there have been happy families here, with children who grew to schoolroom age and then to adulthood.”
Again she wondered if there was a meaning beneath his words. After all, they were married, for life. He might want an heir, and she . . .
She heard a noise outside and hurried to a window. “Is it possible?”
He joined her. “The ivy massacre commences?”
With some effort, he forced open the latticed window so he could lean out. “Yes. Let there be light!”
He stepped back and Claris leaned out to see men climbing ladders, armed with knives and hooks. In moments they were ripping long vines of ivy from the walls and throwing them down. On the ground, women picked them up and tossed them into one of two carts. Other men were hacking at the thick bases of the ivy.
“It looks as if everyone in the area has come to help,” she said.
“Work’s always appreciated, but I’m sure
they also want to get a look at the new owners.”
“Objects of curiosity, are we?”
“You in particular. They know me a little. They’ll need refreshment at some point.”
They were standing too close, in contact.
Warm contact.
Claris moved away. “I hope Mistress Wilcock can cope.”
“Ale, bread, and cheese will do. I should go and supervise.”
His eyes were as bright as the twins’ thinking of ponies.
“Or assist?” she said.
He grinned. “You’re coming to know me!”
That was true.
Dangerously true.
Then he spotted something behind her and darted over. “Swords!”
She whirled, alarmed, but saw that the finely detailed medieval swords were toys.
He tossed one to her and she caught the hilt by instinct. It was made of wood and quite light.
“Have at you!” he said, taking a stance and poking the sword toward her.
“Stop it, you madman!”
His eyes were brilliant with laughter. “Defend yourself, wench.”
Claris gripped the hilt and poked her sword at him, but he circled his weapon, driving hers to one side.
“Unfair! You’re trained at this.”
She saw something behind.
Tentatively jabbing at him, she edged around until their positions were reversed. Then she dropped the sword. “I’ll chop off your head, varlet!” she cried and grabbed the battle-axe she’d spotted.
She instantly dropped it with a mighty clatter. “My stars, it’s real!”
He picked it up. “So it is, though not very sharp. Murder of a husband is petit treason, my bloodthirsty wench, so have a care.”
“What is going on up here?” Eavesham came to a shocked halt. “Sir, ma’am, your pardon!”
“No, ours,” said Perriam, unabashed. “We came in search of furniture and were reduced to play. Later I’ll instruct the footman which items to take down to the schoolroom.”
“Very good, sir. Is there anything I can assist with?”
Before she could be ignored again, Claris said, “Please ask Mistress Wilcock to prepare some refreshments for the workers who are clearing the ivy. To serve in a few hours, I mean.”
“She already has it in hand, ma’am, and may I say how pleasant it will be to have the ivy gone.”
“You may. The windows will need a thorough cleaning, but soon we will be able to enjoy sunlight again.”
He bowed and left.
Perriam put the battle-axe away in a corner. “May I abandon you? To ivy I must go.”
“Of course.”
Alone, Claris looked around the room, but she was really surveying herself, aware of changes though not entirely sure what form they took.
She gathered the two swords and fishing poles to give to the twins, but then she changed her mind and pushed them back into the box. The twins would enjoy exploring up here themselves. Under her careful supervision, she thought, shuddering at the axe.
She looked once more at the cradle, strangely tempted to carry it down to her bedchamber. It seemed smothered and abandoned up here, but it had rocked five ill-fated babies and was best left beneath its shroud.
Chapter 20
When she returned to her room she found her window already cleared and sunlight streaming in. She laughed with the pure pleasure of it. When she opened the window she heard chatter and laughter outside.
Perriam Manor was coming to life.
She too wanted to be down there.
She hurried downstairs and out through the front doors. At the moment the workers were all on the side of the house. As soon as she reached there she saw Perriam up a ladder, hacking at ivy with a will and tossing down hanks of it with saucy quips. The village women responded with laughter and quips of their own, be they young or old.
“Irresponsible scamp.”
Claris turned and found Athena by her side. “Only when it suits him. He was very responsible in teaching the twins to ride.”
“Then he should exert responsibility now,” Athena said, pointing.
The twins were each beginning to climb a ladder, blade in hand.
Claris raced over. “Come back down now.”
“But . . .”
“Now!”
They obeyed, but sullenly. “Perry’s doing it.”
“He’s a grown man, and he’s Mr. Perriam.”
“He told us to call him Perry. He’s our brother now.”
She supposed he was.
“A very much older brother. I’m sorry, darlings, but it’s dangerous, and you could hurt others. You could help load the carts.”
“That’s women’s work!”
“Please, Claris,” Peter begged. “There are boys our age helping.”
When she looked around, she had to admit it was true. Country lads worked from a young age, often at difficult and dangerous jobs. Her brothers had never been country lads of that sort, and she wouldn’t have them thinking of themselves that way, but this was a unique occasion.
“Very well,” she said, “but be careful.”
They began to climb again, and Claris watched as if that could keep them safe.
“They twist you around their fingers,” Athena said.
“One reason I want them to go to school.” Claris remembered the other thing. “Perriam wants to take them to London. No, to Town, as he insists in calling it.”
“He sometimes has sense. Will you accompany them?”
“Of course.”
“Apron strings,” Athena said, but added, “When the time comes, Ellie and I will go as well. It’s too long since I visited Town, and there are places I can show you.”
“I’d much prefer to stay here. Why is nothing turning out as I expected?”
“How tedious if it did. Be open to experience, Claris. It will reward you.”
“I’ve had more than enough experience for a lifetime.”
Claris tore her gaze off the boys but then couldn’t help seeking Perriam.
Still up a ladder.
Still working like a laborer.
Like the other laborers he was down to breeches and shirt, his sleeves rolled up. His hair had lost its ribbon again, and the sun struck fire in it.
His arse was firm. . . .
Claris turned away, hot faced. “Food!” she said to no one in particular and rushed back into the house.
Once in the dark-paneled hall she paused, hand on the back of a carved chair. She’d never paid attention to a man’s behind before, never. They were probably all the same, all as muscular. . . .
She hurried on to the kitchen.
Mistress Wilcock had everything in hand and was clearly enjoying feeding a multitude.
“And soon we’ll have light in here again, ma’am. That’ll be grand.”
“The ivy hasn’t always cut off the light?”
“Bless you, no, ma’am,” the cook said, hands still busily cutting cheese. “The third wife . . . I mean, Mr. Giles Perriam’s last wife, poor lady, she wouldn’t have it cut. Then when she died Mr. Giles forbade anyone to touch it. It could be cleared, he said, when he had a son.”
Mistress Wilcock’s hands stilled and shot Claris a wary look.
“I understand that he was planning a fourth marriage,” Claris said.
“Yes, ma’am. But then he began to fail. Likely it was all his fault, ma’am. Some men can’t sire healthy children. Bad seed.”
Claris realized the woman was trying to reassure her, and perhaps herself.
“Right, then,” Mistress Wilcock said to her minions. “Let’s get all this into the baskets and outside. Would it be all right if they eat and drink with the others, ma’am? They’re all family.”
“Of course,” Claris said, and carried a heavy jug of cider herself.
A man with a strong voice declared the halt, and everyone gathered around the baskets and jugs. Claris helped to distribute the food and readil
y answered any questions, though in general terms.
She was a clergyman’s daughter from Surrey.
Her parents were dead.
Yes, she intended to live here.
That clearly pleased everyone. The manor would provide work and buy from local people. It would bring prosperity. She would ensure that. It was a new thought, but these were her people, hers to take care of.
She saw Perriam eating and drinking with a group of men, laughing and creating laughter, completely at his ease. She was less so, because of her lifetime’s experience in Old Barford. These people didn’t know about the Mad Rector, however, and hadn’t experienced her mother’s harsh tongue. If she sometimes caught their eyes on her, or heard a whispered comment, it was only curiosity about someone who would be important in their lives.
She took a piece of bread and cheese and a pottery mug of ale and joined a group of young women who were sitting on the ground, some with babes in arms. Ancients seemed to have care of the children too young to work. Some were charming in their excitement and curiosity, while others were imps.
A nearby baby set up a howl, demanding to be fed. Its mother undid her bodice without interrupting her conversation and put the baby to her breast. The infant clutched, attached, and suckled in such expert seriousness that Claris had to smile. She quickly looked away, but no one seemed to have noticed or minded.
A toddler in a smock staggered over to present her with a buttercup. There was little more to it than the head, but Claris put down her food and drink to take it. “Thank you, poppet.”
She held it beneath the child’s chin so the sun reflected yellow off it. “I see you like butter.”
The child chuckled, perhaps knowing the game, or perhaps simply from joy. Was it so easy to be joyous?
The child toddled off to a woman, presumably its mother, for she smiled shyly at Claris. Claris smiled back but looked away when the toddler climbed into its mother’s lap and found a breast for itself.
The woman on Claris’s right also had a babe, but hers was asleep on a blanket on the grass, another blanket over it. So like the memorials, but so not.
“A boy or a girl?” Claris asked.
“A boy, ma’am.”
“How old?”
“Two months, ma’am.”