Seduction In Silk: A Novel of the Malloren World (Malloran) (12 page)

“I’m unlikely to complain of spots of damp.”

“You won’t find any, but some rooms are scantily furnished and the library lacks books. Mildew and worm,” he explained with a smile.

Claris smiled back. She should probably resist his efforts, but she was enjoying a long, rational conversation, especially about something other than her own affairs.

“How was such neglect allowed?” she asked.

“That’s too long a story for this short journey, but it means I can’t easily research your grandmother’s story. Do you know her maiden name?”

“No. Why?”

“Grand connections will be useful at Perriam Manor. The local gentry will be curious about your antecedents.”

Claris’s comfort dissolved. “Not if I don’t meet them.”

“You mean to be a recluse?”

She realized that, yes, she’d thought her life would be the same as at Lavender Cottage, only with more rooms and a lot more comfort. How stupid. Even if the gentry around Old Barford had never accepted her parents, she knew how they lived, constantly visiting and entertaining.

“I won’t know how to behave. They’ll see that I’m an imposter.”

“They will not. You’ll be the Honorable Mistress Peregrine Perriam and entitled to respect.”

The idea was too much. “I can’t do this. I can’t!”

He drew the horse to a halt. “You’re made of tougher stuff, Claris.”

“No, I’m not. You don’t understand. I’ve never mingled with the gentry. My mother complained bitterly about being excluded.”

“With reason.”

“Why? She wasn’t of their sort—her father was a timber merchant—and my father made no attempt to play their games. In fact, he often insulted them from the pulpit. So you see, it won’t work.”

He took her hand. “A lady takes the station of her husband. If necessary, I’ll assert that.”

For the first time she saw the Honorable Peregrine Perriam, son of an earl. He frightened her, but there was comfort in his firm grasp and his words.

He would take steps.

If anyone insulted her, he would take steps.

“Trust me?” he said, his blue eyes seeming warm.

“What choice do I have?”

She immediately regretted her tone but wouldn’t apologize. She took her hand from his.

“Place no reliance on my grandmother coming from a grand family. If it existed, my mother would have used it for social leverage.”

He set the horse to move on. “Your grandmother has the air.”

“She puts on airs.”

“I’ve encountered brilliant imposters, but I’d lay money on your grandmother being exactly as she seems, a highborn but eccentric lady. I’ll find out in Town.”

“Such a direct way with a puzzle.”

“You resent that? You’re not slow and timid, Claris, and I hope in time you’ll blossom into a true thistle.”

“A thistle?”

“Standing tall and armed with prickles.”

A laugh escaped. “At my height I can never stand tall.”

“Standing tall has little to do with height.” He leaned slightly to take something out of a pocket and then offered a purse made of cream cloth embroidered with flowers, its neck held closed with a gold cord. “Some coins for vails.”

She took it, feeling its weight. “Vails?”

“Small monetary gifts for the servants, especially when a guest leaves. I’ll attend to that when we leave Cheynings, but you may want to reward someone for a particular service whilst there, such as your maid.”

That terrifying lady’s maid.

Even through her cotton gloves she could feel the quality of the cloth. She was sure it was silk, embroidered silk. It was the prettiest thing she’d ever owned, and he’d given it to her so carelessly. Silk also stirred memories. Memories she couldn’t cope with in this fraught situation.

“Thank you,” she said, and put it in her right-hand pocket.

The silence felt awkward, so she wasn’t surprised when he filled it with a story about a feud between the Marquess of Ashart’s family, the Trayces, and the Marquess of Rothgar’s, the Mallorens.

Marquesses! How had her life come to this?

It seemed to originate in an unfortunate marriage but had risen to heights from there.

“I’ve been accustomed to thinking that mine was the only hellish family,” she said, “but now I wonder if there are any happy ones.”

“I have friends who are making promising beginnings, and two sisters who seem content. You can see Cheynings ahead.”

Perhaps a grand house should offer security, but Claris found the enormous pale building with pillars and pediment simply terrifying.

T
he house seemed to grow in size as they approached.

Its width could encompass Old Barford and all its inhabitants, and the pillared front rose above her, impossibly high. What need had any person of so much space?

The massive front doors at the top of a dozen or more steps stayed resolutely closed. That didn’t surprise her at all. They were rejecting the unworthy intruder.

Perriam turned to the side, seeking a more suitable entrance. But then he drew up beneath a portico that had its own grand pillars and where two powdered footmen in blue velvet laced with silver stood ready. The sort of servants who’d see through her pretensions in a moment. Their blank expressions already showed their opinion of the unlikely guest, and they hadn’t had a good look at her clothing yet.

She was wearing her best gown, but it wasn’t good enough. The green skirt might look sprigged, but the material was only a cheap print. The new braid and embroidery were hasty work. Even her newly trimmed hat seemed laughable, and how could she enter this grand house in her well-worn shoes, which had tramped the roads and fields?

Perriam came himself to hand her down, and she was grateful for that, but as he turned her toward the door, she wanted to mutter,
This is impossible—you must see that
. But she did not.
Act as if you belong here,
she reminded herself and forced her head high. She glanced up once at the high ceiling of the corridor—the height of the entire cottage!—but then remembered not to gawk.

The corridor was quite plain, but even so paintings hung on the wall that she would have liked to study. Then she and Perriam turned into a grander space—the main entrance hall, with a black-and-white tiled floor and yet more paintings on the walls. There were weapons too. The swords and pikes were decoratively arranged but probably real. She looked higher and saw a ceiling painted with gods and goddesses. Half-naked gods and goddesses!

A rank of doors lined the right-hand side, one open to reveal a richly decorated room with red walls and seating covered with golden damask. The brilliance almost stung her eyes. When Perriam led her toward that door she halted, reluctant to walk on the lush carpet. She’d thoroughly cleaned her shoes, but even so . . .

She had to go forward, had to sit on a gold-upholstered chair.
Act as if, act as if . . .

“This is a lovely room,” she said, and thank heavens it didn’t sound as strangled as she feared.

“Grander than anything at Perriam Manor,” he said, “so don’t imagine this is your future. Ah.”

Claris quickly rose to curtsy to the Marchioness of Ashart. How elegantly she moved, and her simple blue gown shrieked expense, even to an ignorant eye.

Claris tried to make her curtsy gracious rather than a nervous servant’s bob but feared she failed.

Lady Ashart came forward, smiling. “Miss Mallow, I’m very pleased to meet you.”

Claris curtsied again, then knew twice was one too many.

Act as if . . .

Act as if . . .

“It’s most kind of you to offer me hospitality, my lady.”

“I’ll enjoy your company, for at the moment I’m trapped with only men apart from my daughter, and she has little conversation. Come upstairs and we can take tea and gossip.”

Claris found herself arm linked and steered briskly out of the room.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that this is quite an odd house,” Lady Ashart said as they climbed wide stairs. “A drawing room on the ground floor? Ashart’s grandmother arranged it so, for as she grew older she disliked stairs. We are considering how to create a drawing room upstairs.”

She too was talking to put Claris at ease, and Claris appreciated that. Her throat felt tight.

“This is the Grand Saloon,” Lady Ashart said as they passed through an elaborate arch into a high, central space illuminated by a glass dome and hung all around with large portraits.

“It certainly is very grand,” Claris said, managing not to look up, up, up.

“It was called the Royal Saloon, for a banquet was held here once for a monarch and many of the portraits are of royalty, but Ashart prefers something a little less elevated.”

A smile shared the joke in that, and Claris managed to smile back. Not royal, merely grand.

She was steered across one corner of the room, through another arch, partway down a corridor, and into a room.

“This is your bedchamber. Your luggage should already be here. Yes, I see it is. This is Alice,” she said, indicating a woman of about thirty, who’d turned from a drawer to curtsy. “She’ll be your maid here. When you’re ready, come down to the third door on your right. That’s my boudoir.”

She left, and Claris didn’t know if she was relieved or abandoned. The maid returned to the unpacking, which meant she’d be seeing the simple state of everything Claris owned, which meant she’d soon be reporting that to the other servants.

There was nothing to be done about it, and this place wasn’t her future, thank heavens. It was far too large and grand.

She took off her gloves, then unpinned her hat and placed it on a gleaming wooden dressing table. She couldn’t resist stroking the fine wood, delighting in the silky feel. Even at the rectory they’d had nothing so fine.

This room alone was as big as the ground floor of the cottage. It contained a tester bed, a settee, and two chairs, all upholstered in green. At least, she thought wryly, her clothing matched.

There was also a toilet stand, complete with a china washbowl and tiny pots. White towels hung on rails on either side, and a screen stood ready to be put around for privacy. She hadn’t considered that problem before, but would the maid expect to see her in undress, perhaps even naked?

She wouldn’t allow that, no matter how inferior it made her seem.

Another piece of furniture was probably a desk, but such a desk! The mellow wood was ornamented with inlays of black, gold, and ivory. A small table sat by the window with a wooden chair tucked in. So she would be expected to eat here. That would be a relief, but it showed how she was considered.

She surveyed the rest of her domain. The floor was of polished wood, with a small carpet on either side of the bed, but richly patterned carpets in jewel-like colors.

Paintings hung on the walls, and ornaments sat on the mantelpiece. One was a ticking clock, its mechanism visible through a glass dome. She longed to inspect it but remembered,
act as if
. She must stop gawking and do something.

“May I have washing water?” she asked, then wondered if she should have commanded it.

“Of course, ma’am.” The maid curtsied and hurried away.

Alone at last, Claris sank into a chair, blowing out a breath, but when she slid her hand along the upholstered arm, her fingers snagged.

The green damask was silk.

You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear
came to mind and brought back the memories she’d resisted earlier.

Before today, the only silk she’d ever touched had been Aunt Clarrie’s silk fichu.

Her mother had treasured the portrait of her dead sister and turned it into a sort of shrine, with several of Aunt Clarrie’s possessions hung around. There’d been ribbons, a perfumed sachet that still held a lingering rose perfume, some invitations, and a lovely silk fichu of fine cream silk embroidered with delicate flowers.

Claris hadn’t been able to resist, and one day she’d taken it down to wrap around her own shoulders.

She’d been birched fiercely for that.

Seeing a fine thread raised from the damask by her rough finger made her understand her mother’s anger. Clearly she should have listened to Athena’s complaints about her hands and accepted the lotions offered to improve them.

When her mother died, her father had buried all Aunt Clarrie’s belongings with her, even the portrait. Claris had desperately wanted to save that silk fichu. . . .

She stood and went to inspect the marvelous clock. She watched the golden parts moving, backward and forward, backward and forward. They had a simple clock in the cottage, encased in wood, its workings hidden. The tall clock in the rectory hall had also kept its secrets.

So many secrets.

The maid returned with a jug of hot water and poured it into the china basin. She uncovered a china pot to reveal soap. Claris washed her hands and face.

She was drying her hands when the maid came over with a pot. “Where should I put this, Miss?”

Claris recognized one of Athena’s pots and took it. Was it . . . ? It was. The hand cream she’d neglected to use. She quickly smoothed a generous amount into her hands. It wouldn’t work an instant miracle, but it gave her hope. Hands could be smoothed, so perhaps a sow’s ear could become a silk purse—that is, a lady suited to be the Honorable Mistress Peregrine Perriam.

Whether that was possible or not, she must cease her delay and face the marchioness. She checked her appearance in the mirror—one without a flyspeck anywhere—and left the room.

She found Lady Ashart seated on a settee reading a book, the tea things in front of her on a table.

“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting,” Claris said.

She’d been resolved not to gawk but couldn’t help looking around in surprise. The marchioness’s boudoir was not at all as she’d expected.

“Unusual, I know,” Lady Ashart said, putting aside her book, “but to my taste. Some see it as too plain, but I receive such people in the drawing room.”

“It’s lovely,” Claris said, and she was honest. Here, for the first time, she felt comfortable.

The room was little bigger than the kitchen at Lavender Cottage. Even the ceiling was almost as low. It had handsome paneled walls in a honey-colored wood, but the one window was hung with simple blue curtains and the seating was covered in a blue cloth that surely wasn’t silk. The floor was carpeted, but instead of one large piece, there were three smaller, mismatched ones.

“I spent years living either on board one of my father’s ships or in lodgings ashore. I don’t feel comfortable in vast rooms.”

Nor do I,
Claris thought, but didn’t admit it.

“Large chambers can be splendid,” Lady Ashart went on, “but I think them impractical for daily living, especially in winter. I had the ceiling here lowered, for in a high room the heat rises. Hot heads and cold feet. Even the king and queen have modest rooms for winter use.”

Claris’s comfort shattered.

She’d moved from marquesses to royalty!

She knew she should say something, but her tongue seemed stuck.

“Sit, do,” Lady Ashart said, indicating a chair. When Claris was settled, her hostess went on, “I wasn’t thinking of comfort when I designed this room. I realized later that I was re-creating a captain’s cabin on board a ship—except that no captain would allow all these ornaments. They’d be tossed around and broken. Which is perhaps why I like them. They represent my settled life.”

It was true that every surface was scattered with something. In addition to china and glass ornaments, Claris saw a number of books, an odd carved wooden statue, a dish of sweetmeats, and some needlework.

Claris forced out some words. “You traveled a great deal, my lady?”

“Constantly.” Lady Ashart opened her tea box and spooned leaves into a china pot. “My mother couldn’t bear to be far from my father.”

“My parents did their best to avoid each other, even within the rectory.” Claris wished her tongue had stayed stuck. “I’ve hardly ever left Old Barford,” she hurried on. “And even then I’ve never gone far.”

“Then you’ll have much to discover.”

“Good and bad.”

“Isn’t there good and bad everywhere?”

Lady Ashart lifted a kettle from the stand where a flame kept it hot and poured steaming water into the pot. Claris was relieved to see that a marchioness’s tea etiquette was similar to the way she’d been trained. One thing she could do right.

Lady Ashart replaced the kettle, put the lid on the pot, and then smiled. “May I call you Claris? I make you free of my name, Genova. I was named for the Italian port where I was born.”

“I was named for an aunt.”

“The one who laid a curse on a Perriam.”

Claris hadn’t expected that to be known, but of course Perriam had told his friends. He’d probably told them everything.

“There are no such things as curses,” she said.

“No? Ashart scoffs at the very idea, but in my travels I came across strange beliefs and the equally strange effects. I saw one sailor sicken and die after being cursed by a kind of priestess on a West Indian island. He’d raped her daughter.”

“Then he deserved it.”

“Ah. The case bears some resemblance to that of your aunt, doesn’t it? However, I thought the sailor died out of belief, fear, and perhaps even guilt.”

“I don’t have the impression that Giles Perriam suffered guilt.”

“No, and yet his innocent wives and children suffered.”

“That had nothing to do with me,” Claris protested.

“Did I seem to accuse? My apologies. I simply find such subjects fascinating.”