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
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
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