With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense

by DeWees, Amanda

  Atticus joined me in my sitting room, which opened off my bedchamber on the opposite side from the dressing room. Usually, he said, the family used the breakfast room for meals when there were few or no visitors; but on this, our wedding night, we dined in my sitting room, where we were afforded an unusual degree of privacy. The servants vanished discreetly after they had made certain we had everything we needed.

  I wondered uneasily what the conversation downstairs was: what did they think of their new mistress? Did they speculate as to the motives behind our marriage, or accept it as a matter of course? “The lady’s no spring chicken,” I could imagine the cook commenting, “and not as refined as some…”

  I dismissed the thought as my new husband smiled at me across the table. In the candlelight his hair shone with the red lights that contrasted so oddly with his very light blue eyes. Those eyes dwelled with approval on my gown, I thought, but he cast a thoughtful look at the black velvet ribbon Henriette had tied around my throat. “I’ve been remiss,” he said. “I haven’t retrieved the Blackwood jewels for you to wear.”

  “Jewels!”

  My tone made him laugh. “I’ve caught your interest, have I?”

  I took a sip of wine to gather my composure. “I’m sorry if I sounded greedy. I don’t imagine for a moment that they are to be given to me, but I look forward to the chance to borrow them. I’ve always taken a childish delight in bright, shiny things.”

  “Not childish at all. You’re quite the sensualist, Clara.”

  I wasn’t entirely certain that this was an acceptable thing for me to be. “What do you mean?” I asked guardedly.

  He leaned back in his chair, one hand idly turning the stem of his wine glass, and smiled. “You take such relish in things that bring pleasure to your senses. The way you stroke the fabric of your sleeve, and the look of ecstasy on your face just now when you took your first taste of the Nesselrode pudding—”

  “Is that what it’s called? I’ve never tasted anything like it!”

  His laugh was too delighted to be taken as a rebuke, and I couldn’t help but join in. I was grateful that he had sent the servants away for this first dinner together, so that we could speak frankly. “I suppose you’re right,” I said. “I never thought of myself that way. I just love being around beautiful things, and until now I didn’t have a great many opportunities to do so.”

  That had been one of the lovely things about sewing for Miss Ingram; working with the beautiful fabrics and trimmings that she ordered was almost as satisfying as wearing the finished gown would have been. The way fine weaves felt in my hands as I pinned and cut and stitched them was a pleasure I relished after working with rough cotton and woolen goods in the factory. The rich, vivid colors were refreshing to look upon after the years of drabness, just as music or poetry recitations after the racket of a hundred sewing machines going at once brought an exquisite delight.

  “Is your room satisfactory to your keen sense of aesthetics?” Atticus inquired. “I had it done over in a style that I hoped would appeal to you, but it’s no trouble to have the furnishings changed again if you dislike it.”

  “Goodness, no, please don’t think of it,” I said, startled to learn that so much had been done for my benefit. “It is beautiful. Although…”

  “Yes? What can be done to make it more pleasing to you?”

  “I would like to have my sewing machine closer at hand,” I said. It had been placed in the small downstairs salon that Mrs. Threll had informed me was for my use alone, for writing letters and the like. It was scarcely a convenient location. “Perhaps it could be moved to my bedchamber?”

  His eyebrows rose. “Naturally, if you wish. If you don’t mind my mentioning it, though, it isn’t generally expected that a lady of your station will sew her own clothes.”

  “Oh, I have no intention of doing so,” I hastened to explain. “But some of my new gowns can be improved upon. They were made in such haste that some of them would benefit from altering. I thought to make a few small adjustments.”

  “Ah, I see. How industrious of you.” He grinned. “Or is it vanity? Take care, Mrs. Blackwood, lest you become known for being self-smitten.”

  “It isn’t that,” I exclaimed, unable to refrain from defending myself even though I was almost certain he was simply jesting. “But some of the gowns fit me rather badly, and I don’t think it would be very becoming in your wife to appear in gowns that gape or pull across the—the—well, it would reflect poorly on you for me to appear in ill-fitting gowns.”

  “A conscientious bride indeed,” he mused, but the twinkle was still present in his eyes. “I’m in your debt for attending so carefully to my reputation.”

  “Poke fun at me all you wish. You’ll find that the women in your circle—gentry and servants—will lose respect for a lady who doesn’t take trouble with her appearance.” I remembered the gossip that had passed among us below stairs when visitors’ trunks revealed surprises about their clothing: the duchess whose husband was reputed to be one of the wealthiest men in the country, but whose gowns had been made over from older garments; the foreign relation whose moral fiber we criticized after finding that she wore corsets of bright purple, red, and peacock green; the haphazardly sewn toilettes of a neighboring lady whose carelessness about fashion had led, we speculated, to the known tendency of her husband to let his eye stray to other women—women whose gowns displayed their figures to better advantage and flattered their complexions with deliberately chosen colors. I tried to explain to Atticus. “One can learn a great deal about a person from her clothes,” I pointed out. “And I do not want anyone to have cause to fault the new Mrs. Blackwood on that front. Dressing well is crucial to…”

  “To your role?” he finished. “I can see that your time in Miss Ingram’s troupe has taught you a great deal about the importance of costume to a character.”

  I did not explain that I had begun forming my impressions of this matter years before, while at Gravesend. Instead I asked, “How do you feel about our performance so far? Are you satisfied with your father’s reception of me?”

  He poured me more wine—a courtesy, since I had scarcely touched it—before refilling his own glass. “I am,” he said thoughtfully. “He has taken a liking to you.”

  “He does not seem as overjoyed as I rather expected he would from what you told me. He would have preferred a younger bride, I gather.”

  “Father would have found cause to be displeased had I brought home the Queen of Sheba.”

  “But after going to so much trouble with our story, my trousseau, everything—surely this is not the reception you had anticipated?”

  He gave a philosophical shrug. “The perfect daughter-in-law, as far as he is concerned, must not be perfect in every respect, or else he’ll have nothing to growl about—and growling, contrary as it seems, puts him in rather a good humor. So I congratulate you, Clara, on your success.” He raised his glass to me in a toast, and I could only follow his example.

  When at last we finished with our meal and our discussion of the day, Atticus bade me ring to have the table cleared and suggested we retire early. “I’ve no doubt you’re fatigued from the journey and from the rigors of your first day as mistress of Gravesend,” he said. “May I suggest that we make a habit of talking over the day here in private before retiring? We’ll not have much privacy in which to talk during the course of the day, and it would be wise to take the opportunity to discuss whatever problems or perplexities may arise without the chance of being overheard.”

  “That sounds quite perfect, thank you.” How considerate of him to realize that I might have a great deal to ask him as I became acclimated to my new role.

  We were standing on the threshold of my sitting room where the door opened into the hallway, as Atticus had declined to access his own room by making his way through mine. The delicacy he showed in this, as in so much else, pleased and surprised me; I had wondered if he might be less concerned for the niceties given
that I was of lower birth and more of a business partner than a wife. But he was behaving in all respects like a gentleman, and as he took my hand for a parting kiss I confess that I felt a tentative satisfaction with the bargain I had made. A few months of this, until his frail father succumbed to a merciful release, might not be so harrowing after all. If only I could come to feel secure in my role—and to look at my husband without the stab of chagrin that he was not his brother.

  Even after Atticus had parted from me, I remained standing there musing instead of closing the door, and it was only for this reason that I heard the voice.

  The hallway was shadowed in darkness except for the one flickering candle in a wall bracket between my bedroom and his. Beyond my sitting room, all was as black as pitch. It should not have been surprising, then, that I saw nothing. But then I heard a disembodied voice, like a whisper from beyond the material realm.

  “Clara,” it said.

  It was a long sigh, a husky exhalation of—wonder? warning? I could not even tell if the voice was a man’s or a woman’s.

  Surely it was Atticus who had spoken. But when I turned my head, expecting to see that he had returned to my side unheard, I saw only the vanishing sliver of light from his chamber down the hall as he drew the door closed behind him.

  I swallowed hard and peered into the darkness. Nothing moved, nothing disturbed the inky black well of shadow. A little shiver crept up my neck, and I did not quite dare to call out a challenge.

  The old house was constructed so strangely, I told myself, that if Atticus had spoken my name, the echo might have seemed to make his voice come from the opposite direction. Nevertheless, I made a brisk retreat through the sitting room to my bedchamber, the rustle of my skirts betraying my haste, and locked the adjoining door.

  The luxurious appointments of my room helped to soothe my nervousness somewhat. In the warm glow of firelight and the oil lamp I removed the triumphant amethyst gown, sparing a moment of gratitude that it boasted the fashionable button front and did not require me to ring for Henriette to free me from it, and put on for the first time one of my fine new lace-trimmed silk nightdresses. The fabric was airy soft against my skin, and when I climbed into the magnificent bed the perfect smoothness of the sheets made me sigh in pleasure. The room was blissfully quiet, free of the sounds of street noise, and no cooking smells assaulted my nostrils, only the faint scent of dried lavender given off by the linens. A sensualist, Atticus had said. Very well, then; I was guilty as charged. But I had experienced the worst Gravesend could muster; it was only right that I enjoy some of its material comforts as well.

  The memory of that ghostly whisper, though, was like a voice of reproach. I had allowed myself to become so caught up in frivolities that I had managed to put out of my mind what a mockery this arrangement was compared to my girlhood dreams. As a young woman I had sometimes dared to imagine myself as mistress of Gravesend—with the crucial difference that in those fantasies I was Richard’s bride, not Atlas’s. In those dreams, moreover, I was not alone in my bed on my wedding night.

  Suddenly cold despite the warm bedclothes that enfolded me, I grasped for the cautious optimism that had visited me such a short time ago, but it had fled. When at last I fell asleep it was with a troubled heart. And if a few childish tears happened to fall before I slept, no one but my pillow was any the wiser.

  Chapter Eight

  My new life proved not quite as easily donned as one of my new frocks, but at least the first day went remarkably smoothly.

  As was only fitting in welcoming a new mistress to Gravesend, Mrs. Threll led me on a tour of the house. I was forced to pretend ignorance, letting her introduce me to rooms I had cleaned year after year. The house seemed no less grand and imposing to me now than it had when I had first entered it as a girl, and this surprised me; I had expected to feel, if not at ease there, at least less intimidated. But in room after room I felt a cool, aloof watchfulness, and I was intimidated by not just the size but the grandeur and age of the furnishings. As much as when I had been a girl there, I moved among the precious antiquities with unease, afraid that I might break something. The house had not accepted me—had never accepted me, either as its handmaiden or as its mistress.

  This, I told myself sternly, was simply my own anxiety about exposure coloring my perceptions. I did not feel comfortable or welcomed because I was there under false pretenses, not because the house had sense or feeling to know my secrets and condemn me for them. But there was something so un-lived-in about the main reception rooms, perhaps because Lord Telford had ceased entertaining since his stroke, that they looked as if they had fallen into a kind of disuse that suited them and would be resentful if I woke them to their former service.

  I shivered, and Mrs. Threll asked dutifully, “Are you cold, ma’am? I’ll send one of the maids to fetch you a shawl.”

  “No, thank you.”

  Mrs. Threll was difficult to take the measure of. Her tone was always even and respectful: never animated, never showing any sign of emotion. I had resolved to preserve that mutually respectful but cool cordiality, and that seemed to suit us both. She gave no sign of either resenting me or warming to me, but she saw that my orders were carried out, unless she had practical emendations to suggest, which were always sensible. I valued her, but I could not say that I liked her… or even, yet, that I trusted her. Perhaps it would be possible to find a window into her character through a topic that would surely be of mutual interest. “Mrs. Threll,” I said, “what can you tell me about the curse on Gravesend?”

  Her face was impossible to read; I had no idea what she thought of the question. “Stories of the curse go back as far as the death of the lady who was to be the first mistress of Gravesend,” she said. “They spring to life again whenever a misfortune visits the house or the family. What is it that you wish to know?”

  We were standing in the banquet hall, the largest room in the house; the faint smell of beeswax rising from the floorboards reminded me of how much work it had been to clean and prepare it for use whenever the Blackwoods were having a grand party. The high windows, my own height at least, permitted the wan light of an overcast day to reach us. The long table was bare, the chairs neatly ranked against the walls, and our voices echoed in the great emptiness.

  “Do you believe in the curse?” I asked, without having intended to.

  Still no change came over the impassive face. Was she so skilled at disguising her feelings, or did she simply have none? “Yes, ma’am, I do,” she said evenly.

  This response, coupled with her neutral tone, astonished me at first. If she were so certain, surely she would have sought a position elsewhere… but perhaps she had. Perhaps, like my mother, she had found it the least dire choice open to her. “Do you fear it?” I asked hesitantly.

  For a moment I thought that a flash of emotion passed across her eyes, but it was gone so quickly I could not be certain. “I don’t fear it, ma’am, no. The curse is said to rob one of what one most treasures. And I am not a treasuring sort of person.”

  How very odd. Did she mean she felt no attachment to anyone or anything? Glancing at the still, erect figure in her plain black gown, I could not imagine Mrs. Threll showing affection or attachment. But was this a hard-won place of resignation, or a lack of natural sympathies?

  It was hardly my place to ask. The housekeeper deserved her secrets, and I had pried enough.

  Before I could suggest we proceed to the next room, she asked unexpectedly, “Do you not fear the curse, ma’am, that you accepted Mr. Blackwood and came here to live?”

  I had prepared myself for this question, fortunately. I smiled in a way that I hoped made me look like a smitten bride. “I believe it would have been a far worse fate never to have married Mr. Blackwood than to risk whatever dangers Gravesend may bring,” I said.

  She did not seem moved by this profession of wifely devotion. “Perhaps,” she said. “But you may live to regret that decision.”

  “Perhap
s,” I echoed, startled by the dire words. “But no one is safe from regret at any point in life. One may regret ordering lamb for dinner instead of mutton. All of life is a succession of risks, and each of us must judge for ourselves which risks are worth the taking.”

  Hoping to close the conversation, I started for the nearest door, but Mrs. Threll’s voice followed me. “Ma’am, I think you’ll find the entrance to the larger parlor this way.”

  Her words, and their faintly condescending tone, brought me up short. Out of old habit I had been proceeding toward one of the servants’ doors. “Of course,” I said, feeling rebuked. “Please lead the way, Mrs. Threll.”

  One place that I explored without Mrs. Threll’s assistance (or, indeed, her knowledge) was the corridor onto which my sitting room opened. I needed to know whether it offered any concealment to someone who might have been lurking there and whispering my name on my first night in the house as Mrs. Blackwood.

  My sitting room was the last room on its side of the corridor. Across from it, as I discovered when I tried the doorknob and found it unlocked, was a spare bedroom. It was furnished but not in immediate readiness for a tenant. I stood looking at the purple-and-buff brocade hangings and mused. Someone could have hidden behind the door easily enough, but who—and why? And why take such a risk, when I might so easily have taken three steps across the corridor and peered around the door, exposing the prankster? With no means of escape, he would have been bottled up.

  Frowning, I shut the door behind me and examined the wall near the window at the end of the hall. It was just possible that there might be a hidden door here; I did not remember one from my earlier tenancy at Gravesend, but then I had not had a great deal of leisure for exploring in those days, between my duties and, in the final year or so, my rendezvous with Richard. I ran my fingers lightly along the floral wallpaper, seeking an interruption in the smooth surface, but had not yet found anything when the grandfather clock down the hall tolled the time, and I had to join Lord Telford for tea.