With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense

by DeWees, Amanda

  “Indeed?” The thought made me uneasy. What further ill fortune was this family to visit upon me? My wariness must have shown in my face, for he was quick to reassure me.

  “Don’t be alarmed, Miss Crofton—or do you prefer Mrs. Graves?”

  “If you please,” I said, wondering if he had guessed that I had chosen the name for its similarity to the only place where I had known happiness… the same place that had destroyed it.

  “Mrs. Graves, then. I’ve come with a proposition that I hope you will profit from.” The pleasant richness of his voice wrapped around me like cashmere, disorienting me; it was Richard who had spoken like this, so that every word sounded like an endearment. Atlas—for that was the mocking nickname Richard had given his brother—had spoken rarely, and then almost inaudibly. The years had lent him eloquence and assurance, and I found myself resenting him for it. These things had been Richard’s birthright; it was unjust that they should now have passed into the keeping of his unworthy sibling. If Fortune had been compelled to obliterate one of the Blackwood brothers, why could it not have been this one?

  I ought to have been shocked at myself for so ruthless a thought. But it was not, I admit, a new one. In the terrible days and weeks after the news of Richard’s death had reached me, I had thought it sometimes: Why Richard and not Atlas? Why take the paragon and leave the ruin?

  “Pray go on,” I said, to stem the tide of bitter thoughts.

  He folded his hands on the ivory handle of his walking stick. It was carved in the shape of a globe, and I wondered with a start if he somehow knew of the nickname Richard had given him. “My father is dying,” he said bluntly. “He suffered a stroke some months ago and is not rallying as he should. The doctors believe he has little chance of seeing out the year.”

  I could not say I was sorry. Lord Telford had permitted his wife to throw me out of his house and into a world I was unprepared to navigate alone.

  He continued, “In recent years my father has been much concerned with the future of the Telford title. In particular, it distresses him that I haven’t married. He professes to be aware of the quite reasonable objections a suitable young lady might make to my deformity—and the very real possibility that it might be passed down to our children—but he’s unaware of the other consideration that has prevented my marrying: the family curse, as it’s known.”

  “You sound as if you do not believe in the curse,” I said, curious in spite of myself.

  He shrugged, and I noticed again the breadth of his shoulders; I had remembered him as a spindly youth, but perhaps my memory of him had been colored by dislike, either mine or Richard’s. Or perhaps he had a tailor as clever as his cobbler. “My belief in it is immaterial,” he said. “It’s the fact that all of the marriageable ladies in my circle believe in it that presents the difficulty. And hence I come to you.”

  “How do I come into the matter?” I said, startled. “I’m not acquainted with any eligible young ladies to introduce to you, if that is your hope.”

  “This is my proposition.” His blue eyes, icily pale, were once again disconcerting me with their intentness. “I’d like to ease my father’s last few weeks or months of life by bringing a bride to Gravesend. If you will consent to be that bride, for as long as my father lives, I’ll settle on you a sufficient income to keep you in comfort the rest of your days.”

  This effectively robbed me of speech, it was so unexpected, and perhaps to give me time to collect myself he continued, as calmly as if he had not just proposed marriage to me.

  “My father’s condition is so pitiable that I cannot imagine the term shall be very long. Perhaps we might extend it by a few weeks after his death, so as to forestall the worst gossip—although of course there will be talk. We may wish to spread word that your own health is delicate, so that when you depart from Gravesend to a healthier climate it won’t come as a complete surprise.”

  Finding my tongue, I said, “Your father would be disappointed that you chose a bride too old to give you children. You would do much better to find a younger, ah, confederate for this scheme.”

  His gaze swept over me from head to foot, with a casual appraisal so like Richard’s that I swallowed hard. “I think that in less severe garb than your widow’s weeds, you’ll look not much older than you were when you were put out of the house.”

  He had said it—voiced the great awkward unacknowledged fact of our acquaintance. And now that he had done so, I had a clue to help me toward an explanation for this bizarre visit.

  “Are you attempting to make amends to me?” I asked. “Is that why I am the one you approached?”

  “You are assuming that I haven’t already approached and been rejected by other choices,” he said, with amusement in his voice. “But yes, in fact, I have always felt that my parents were unduly harsh with you. You were little more than a child.”

  “I was seventeen,” I said, stung, even though I knew I should accept his more flattering version of the past.

  “Just so. Very young, very impressionable. And my brother would have made an impression on anyone.”

  There was sympathy in his voice, and that smarted worse than anything he had put into words.

  “Thank you for the olive branch,” I said crisply, “but I’ll leave it to another young woman of reduced means to help you in your current difficulty.”

  “And what young woman would that be?” he asked wryly. “As I said, my deformity is a strong discourager of marriage. No bride wants a husband with a club foot, especially as the father of her children.”

  This was indelicate but honest, and I was forced to respect him for confronting the unpleasant truth. In return I felt compelled to be equally honest, even though that meant being equally indelicate. “So you approach me, a woman too old to bear children.”

  “That was not my reason,” he protested. “Your age is immaterial, Cl—Mrs. Graves. I wouldn’t expect you to bear lifelong consequences from a temporary domestic alliance. Our marriage would be in name only.”

  Our marriage. It sounded offensive coming from the lips of anyone but Richard. “How considerate of you,” I said icily. “But you seem to have overlooked the other objection: the curse.”

  That made him blink in what seemed genuine surprise. “Mrs. Graves, surely you don’t believe in servants’ gossip.”

  He regretted the words as soon as they were spoken; I could see his brow contract in a wince. But I said mercilessly, “You forget, Mr. Blackwood, I am a servant.”

  “I sincerely beg your pardon. I meant no offense. Only—you must know the story to be nothing more than fantasy. You lived at Gravesend for years.”

  “Yes, and see where I am now.” The bitterness in my voice was plain even to my own ears, and my hands had curled into fists. “Why shouldn’t I believe in the curse? Can you not see that I am living proof of it?”

  “Proof? I don’t under—”

  “I lost my love.” My voice was shaking now, and I dropped it to a whisper. I would show no weakness before any of the Blackwood line. “I lost Richard.” I stood abruptly, signaling an end to our meeting.

  He leaned heavily on his stick as he got to his feet, but I felt no pity for him. “Please don’t reject my offer just yet,” he said. “Take a few days to consider it.”

  “As inviting as that sounds, Mr. Blackwood, I don’t think there’s any point in discussing the matter further.” Three steps took me to the door, which I had left ajar, so I did not have the satisfaction of flinging it open for him now. Instead I stationed myself beside it meaningfully. His gait before had seemed almost normal, but now his bad leg almost buckled beneath him as he made his way to where I stood by the door.

  “Clara,” he said softly, “the furthest thing from my mind was to cause you distress. You have, as you say, lost something irreplaceable.”

  I would not look at him. Could not, when my heart ached at the sight of him, so like Richard—even sounding like him now, with his voice low and intimate.

/>   “But don’t you see,” he continued. “That means that the curse, if it exists, has no more power over you.” Before I could summon a response, he pressed a card into my hand. “I’ll be in London all week, and I hope you’ll consent to discuss the matter further. Send word to me at the Athenaeum Club, and I’ll call any time you wish.”

  Still I refused to look at him. I sensed rather than saw his quick half bow, and then the sound of his footsteps receded down the uncarpeted passage, the gait with its slight unevenness accompanied by the tap of his stick.

  “Who was that delicious man?”

  Sybil Ingram’s voice preceded the rest of her. The ringing mezzo-soprano tones struck my ear first, then her fragrance—a powerful amalgam of tuberose and violet—and finally the actress herself swept into view amid a rustle of taffeta skirts. She had the wide china-blue eyes and spun-gold hair of an ingénue, although I knew that she had passed her thirtieth birthday—a fact that would have been worth my life to divulge to any of her gentleman followers.

  For once, none of these was in evidence, and this was perhaps the reason she felt free to question me at such indecorous volume. “What did he want?” she continued, sweeping past me into the dressing room and handing me her sealskin mantle without pausing. “I know he saw me, but he only tipped his hat and kept walking. Was he looking for Clement?” Clement Griffiths was her leading man, a far distant second in importance in the troupe hierarchy.

  “No, Miss Ingram.” The idea of anyone considering Atlas Blackwood “delicious” fairly stunned me. But then, she was not acquainted with the reality.

  “Who, then?” It seemed her curiosity would not be satisfied without my going into explanations. I stifled a sigh as I hung up her wrap and helped her out of her dress, giving it a quick inspection as I did so. My employer was indifferent to such details as a drooping bit of lace or a loose button, so I had learned to stay vigilant for such small problems before they became large ones. But the smart chartreuse taffeta gown with its facings and edgings of lilac shot silk looked as pristine as it had when it first left my hands; the cartridge ruffles at the square neck and three-quarter sleeves were crisp, and the hem showed very little soiling. A few minutes with the clothes brush would prevent it from staining.

  As I attended to this task, Miss Ingram slipped on a bright silk dressing gown and sank down onto the seat before the dressing table, unpinned the tiny saucer of a bonnet, and set about making up her face for the evening’s performance. With its coating of face powder, its litter of bottles and jars, and the blonde wig on its stand, the dressing table was the only part of the room that was less than exquisite. “You haven’t told me who the caller was,” she reminded me. “Such a handsome fellow—one might run quite mad for eyes like those.”

  “It was Baron Telford’s son, of Gravesend Hall.”

  “How interesting! If he didn’t come to see me or Clement, what was his business?”

  “He was here to see me,” I admitted. “A small matter—a mistake, in fact. Nothing of importance.”

  “Indeed?” The actress looked more intrigued than ever as she picked up a rabbit’s foot to daub rouge onto her cheeks. “I didn’t know you had acquaintances of such standing, Graves.” There was reproach in the words. My employer liked to believe that she was the most highly placed person in the troupe’s world, the only one who had sufficient celebrity to be a household word among gentlefolk, and for the most part this was the case. The assemblage of actors, stagehands, attendants, and hangers-on that formed the theater troupe were all Sybil Ingram’s vassals.

  I most definitely counted myself among them. Ten years before, I had been working a sewing machine in a factory, a place of deafening noise and stifling heat, taking home finishing work to carry out by insufficient light in the rented room I shared with two other girls from the factory. One evening as the three of us were walking home, a glamorous figure had detained us. As one we gawked at the actress’s shining golden hair, fine silk gown, and dainty features.

  “What a charming frock,” she said to me, reaching out boldly to grasp my collar. “Who made it for you?”

  “I made it myself, ma’am.” The piped scalloped trim that she was fingering had been a trial attempt before I cut into the more expensive goods of the dress I was trimming for a lady of fashion. “I’d be happy to make you one like it,” I added daringly, for I was always seeking more opportunities to relieve the monotony of factory work with more interesting tasks—and to supplement my meager income.

  “Hm.” She did not answer at once. “And the color? Was that your choice as well?”

  The bold greenish-blue woolen goods had cost me many a missed meal, but it was a color that lifted my spirits. “I wouldn’t advise such a color for you, ma’am,” I said, more daring every moment, for it was obvious from the woman’s dress that she had plenty of money to spend on her own adornment. “With your complexion, I think a robin’s-egg blue, trimmed in primrose and salmon. Or perhaps lavender with sea-green.”

  She laughed, not displeased. “You certainly do have a great many opinions about a stranger’s ensemble.”

  “Oh, but you’re not a stranger,” said my friend Martha, whose eyes had gone as round as an owl’s. “You’re Sybil Ingram! I saw you in The Prodigal’s Return. You were wonderful!”

  Miss Ingram beamed at her, gratified at being recognized. “You’re too kind,” she said, in a tone of voice that indicated that it was her due. Though scarcely twenty, she was already firmly established as one of the most popular actresses in London. “I must admit I was fond of that particular role. But my gowns were sadly out of tune with the character. You, girl”—this was to me—“what would you say to coming to supper with me and giving me your thoughts on my gowns for the new tour? You seem to have a good head on your shoulders, a tumbled one though it be.”

  My hand went self-consciously to my curly hair, which I still had not learned to subdue. Later, when I had left the factory to work solely for Miss Ingram, she would show me how to tame it. “I’d be delighted, ma’am,” I said. And thus our association began.

  Becoming Sybil Ingram’s modiste was the best thing to happen to me since my ignominious departure from Gravesend. It was exciting to be intimately involved in the life of the theater, to move among actors, who were, many of them, as entertaining off the stage as they were on it—but they could also, as I saw very quickly, put an unattached female in a compromising position. Partly for that reason, Sybil Ingram helped me construct the persona of Widow Graves, advising me on posture and vocal inflections to most effectively present a dampening effect on masculine ardor. “And I quite agree that you need some such armor,” she said cheerfully.

  “It isn’t as if I were a young woman still,” I had said.

  “You look younger than you are, though. That tiny waist takes years off your age.” She could say this without rancor, as her own waist was every bit as slender. Hers was the product of self-denial and tight lacing, mine of a life that had not permitted ample meals.

  Now her voice brought me back to the present. “You’re being quite mysterious about your gentleman visitor,” she said as she settled the wig in place over her hair. “Did he wish to whisk you out of this sordid world of play-acting and into the rarefied sphere of his titled existence?”

  This quip was so disconcertingly close to the truth that my clothes brush halted for a moment. What spirit possessed her to be so roguish today? Now that I took a closer look, I saw that her color was high—even apart from the rouge—and her eyes unusually bright. “Is something the matter, Miss Ingram?”

  She gave a laugh that confirmed my suspicion. Some secret was energizing her, and now she sprang to her feet and darted over to grasp my hands, regardless of the clothes brush. “Graves,” she exclaimed, “I’m to be married.”

  I stared at her. Never in the ten years that I had known her had Sybil Ingram breathed any intention of giving up the life of the theater for marriage. “Married?” I stammered. “To whom?�
�� If only it were another actor, or someone well established in the theater world, perhaps she would not be abandoning us. But her next words shattered that possibility.

  “To Alcott Lammle. You remember, from when we played last year in New York?”

  Remember I most certainly did. Mr. Lammle, a prominent American hotelier, was among the most prosperous of the suitors Miss Ingram had collected during the tour, hosting lavish dinners in her honor and showering her with expensive gifts. “Will you be settling here in London?” I asked faintly. Perhaps her new husband would be expanding his business interests into England, and Sybil Ingram’s vassals would not be disbanded after all.

  This faint hope, however, was soon obliterated. “No, Graves, you don’t understand,” she cried, pulling me to my feet to lead me into an improvised waltz. “I’m leaving the theater. No more work for me. I shall grow fat and lazy and contented, and be ‘that nice Mrs. Lammle,’ and Alcott can spoil me to his heart’s delight. I shall host society ladies at tea and throw the dullest dinner parties imaginable. And I shall revel in it!”

  “And the troupe?” It felt churlish to question her decision, so elated was she, but I could not help but be anxious about the fate of those of us she would be leaving behind.

  Such anxieties were clearly far from her mind, however. “Oh, Clement can take over quite easily. He can find some other leading lady—Narcissa Holm might suffice. The company will scarcely notice I’m gone.”

  This was unaccustomed modesty, and misplaced at that. But my most urgent thought was not, I admit, for the company. “And what of me?” I asked.

  That finally brought her out of her fantasy. She looked at me with a little moue of dismay. “Oh. Graves, I am sorry, but I cannot take you with me.”

  “Cannot?”

  “It is Alcott. He is quite determined that I leave all vestiges of my life in England behind once we are married. I believe it’s a point of pride with him—he tells me that he has already hired a dressmaker who is quite in demand in New York.” When I did not answer, she added, “Truly, if it were my decision, naturally I’d want you with me. But I shall need to dress in the style of the American ladies of Alcott’s circle, and my dear, you’re far too original for such drab work!”