Seduction In Silk: A Novel of the Malloren World (Malloran) by Jo Beverley Page B

Mallow died afore, you see, sir. Ten years afore. Buried over here, she is.”
    Perry followed the man down a side path and then across grass to a different headstone, considering the fact that a wife dying before her husband wasn’t adequate explanation for separate graves.
Here lies Eleanora Anne Mallow,
1715–1754
wife of Henry Mallow, rector of this parish.
May God have mercy on her soul.
     
    A conventional enough inscription, but Perry sensed a bitter edge to it, as if she might need a great deal of mercy.
    Henry Mallow had died suddenly, so he must have made arrangements ahead of time to ensure that he not lie for eternity with his wife. Such deep enmity, and Claris had lived in the midst of it.
    He gave the sexton a coin and retraced his steps, wondering how it had warped her. It had nurtured a murderous temper. The thirty days might well be the torture Giles had intended.
    He collected his horse and rode away, planning the next week. Acquiring a special license would provide time in London to deal with a number of issues, including a proposed canal that his father opposed. The Earl of Hernescroft was inflamed enough about the way Perriam Manor was left. No need to stoke the fires by neglecting his causes.
    *  *  *
    Claris was tempted to hide the basket, that evidence of her weakness. She’d conceal the marriage if she could, renege if she could, but she’d been thoroughly defeated.
    When Athena and Ellie returned she said, “It’s done. I’ve agreed to marry him.”
    Athena looked at the peel. “Bribed by an orange?”
    “And tea, coffee, ginger, and cherries. But mostly by the benefits for the twins.”
    “I hope they’ll appreciate it.”
    “They’ll appreciate the ponies.” Claris had to sit. “How could I deny them ponies? Oh, God, what have I done?”
    “Don’t paint yourself the martyr, girl. Tea, coffee, ginger, and cherries are not to be discounted. Is it good tea, I wonder?”
    On the edge of bitter laughter, Claris watched her grandmother unlock the tea box and take the lid off an inner container. She took a pinch and rolled it beneath her nose.
    “A very promising blend. Set the kettle to boil, Ellie. We have tea! Claris, reach down the teapot and wash it.”
    Claris obeyed while Ellie built up the fire beneath the kettle with equal excitement. They’d missed tea so much? Clearly they had been used to a much better life. No wonder they were cock-a-hoop now.
    As she washed her mother’s teapot it brought back memories. It was made of delicate china and ornamented with pretty pink flowers. When her mother died, her father had sold all her possessions—those he hadn’t buried with her. The teapot spout was chipped, however, so he’d thrown it out.
    Claris had rescued it, perhaps because her mother’s lessons in the etiquette of tea were among the few good memories of her. They would sit in the rectory parlor with china, silver, and her mother’s box, which contained four canisters of tea. Her mother would blend a certain amount from each and then pour boiling water into the pot to warm it.
    A lady must know the art of it, and you are a lady, Claris.
    She’d said the same about posture, curtsying, and diction. Any use of local dialect, any weakness of accent, had led to the sting of the birch. Even as a child, Claris had puzzled over it, for her mother had never claimed to be highborn. Now she knew why—her mother had been preparing for the day when Giles Perriam surrendered and married his victim’s niece.
    She dried the pot and put it on the table. “We have no teacups.”
    Athena went upstairs and soon returned with a wooden box. She opened it to reveal a tea service. Cups, saucers, a milk jug and sugar dish, along with silver spoons. More evidence of her former life. Athena had arrived with two large trunks. What else did they contain?
    As Athena laid out the china, Ellie made tea—just as a lady should, even in a cottage kitchen with boiling water from a kettle black from