With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense

by DeWees, Amanda

  “Yes,” I whispered. My mouth was too dry for me to speak more clearly. “You remind me so much of him sometimes, and… it’s very painful.”

  The words were so feeble compared to what I felt, but he seemed to recognize the emotion behind them. He straightened and moved toward me once again, and I swallowed hard to try to keep my composure. I would not let him see tears.

  “I’m very sorry,” he said, his eyes dwelling on mine with so much understanding that I believed him. “I can’t, of course, refrain entirely from touching you during the course of our time together. It would look strange indeed for a husband never to offer his arm to his wife or take her hand. But I’ll try to be more respectful of your degree of comfort.” A faint smile did not quite reach his eyes. “I shall have to convey my high regard for you in a less corporeal fashion.”

  His regard for me? “Atticus, no. Please don’t think of me as anything more than a—a partner in a business arrangement. It would be disastrous to feel anything more. You know what happened to your brother. The curse would—”

  Abruptly he wheeled away from me and aimed a kick at the corner of the sewing table that came near to upsetting it. “That damned curse,” he swore softly. Then he seemed to regain his composure. The face he turned to me was white, and his eyes were full of sadness, but he was calm once more.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Neither of us can afford to learn to care for each other. I don’t want to fall in love with you, any more than I want you to fall in love with me. Because we both know that if that happens, Gravesend will find some way to destroy us.”

  Before I could reply—even had I known what to say—he strode out the way he had come, shutting the dressing-room door with a resounding bang. I heard the other door similarly emphatically shut, and then all was silent.

  Chapter Ten

  The following days were a bewildering blur of activity. Mrs. Threll was in charge, of course, and I quickly became grateful for her expertise and efficiency as she directed the disposition of the guests to their different rooms. Most of the guests were known to her and the rest of the household from previous stays, so their likes and dislikes, their peculiarities and aversions, were already planned for: everything from the two extra hot-water bottles for Sir Faneran to the arrangement of tea roses and violets from the hothouse in Lady Stanley’s room. I suspected that it was the lady of the house’s role to learn these individual quirks and provide for them, and I was relieved to have this responsibility lifted from my shoulders. If I was going to be the mistress of Gravesend in more than name—and for more than the immediate future—I would have my work cut out for me. Fortunately for me, if not for Lord Telford, my role would surely be short-lived.

  The old baron and I developed an interestingly barbed friendliness. He seemed to like it when I challenged him, and from time to time he acted almost fond of me. At these times, especially when I saw his frustration at his own physical weakness, I found myself saddened by the recollection that his prognosis was so poor. But at other times there was something disturbing about him: he would speak with relish about the deaths of those whose masks ornamented his room, seeming to delight in distressing me. I would glance over at the curio cabinet awaiting my own mask and repress a shudder, and when the visit was over I would emerge from his room with a rush of gladness at being released.

  Whenever the Gravesend masquerade wore on me—whenever Mrs. Threll’s dry tones made me flush in embarrassment, or the baron made a stinging reference to my social aspirations, or the intimidating grandeur of the rooms reminded me how unworthy an upstart I was—I let myself daydream about the place where I would lead my independent life after my bargain was fulfilled. It would be nice to get away from the city, I decided, but village life would bring too much scrutiny and gossip. Perhaps a smaller city than London, though; perhaps I would indeed settle in America, where there would be so many people of different origins that no one would question my past or my means. The glimpses of American cities I had caught during Sybil Ingram’s tour there had been comparatively rough and short in creature comforts, but society seemed more fluid, more accepting. I might find some occupation there, some charitable work, even. The comforting knowledge that I would not have to worry about money ever again was a refuge I sought when my present strange existence fretted my nerves or plagued me with uncertainties.

  When the house party arrived, however, life at Gravesend instantly became so busy that I had no time for such retreats into fantasy.

  There were twenty of us to dinner on the first night, which was my first social event as Gravesend’s new mistress. Lord Telford was of course not well enough to attend, so Atticus took his seat at the foot of the table, and I was at the head… uncomfortably far away, I felt, for I would not be able to confer with him in moments of uncertainty. I had walked the length of the table that afternoon, reading the place cards, as Mrs. Threll went through the motions of conferring with me about the seating—in actuality schooling me on the different guests and the principles of arranging them. I wondered how long it had taken the late Lady Telford to learn these matters; but then, she had been born into this world, had probably grown up being trained in the ways of social etiquette at her mother’s knee. She would have known by instinct that the notorious rakehell should not be seated next to the restless young wife of a much older man, that the reckless baronet with a poor head for business should not be seated opposite the feckless dreamer replete with dubious schemes in need of “investors.” I attended her closely, but my head was soon swimming in unfamiliar names and scraps of gossip, and I despaired of being able to find my way through this labyrinth without making mistakes.

  But if my internal self was fraught by nerves and uncertainty, at least my external one would not bring embarrassment to my husband and his family. My claret-red velvet evening toilette would make its first appearance this evening, and although I was alert for any imperfection as Henriette dressed me, I could find in the mirror nothing to cause me concern. The reception bodice had the fashionable square neckline and tight three-quarter sleeves, and was trimmed in ruched satin bands of the same claret color as the velvet. A velvet apron-style swag, trimmed with a pleated satin flounce, surmounted the satin skirt and attached to a poufed overskirt, caught up with satin rosettes, that extended into a long train behind. The tiny garnets inset in the front buttons winked in the light, and I drew on white kid gloves as Henriette dressed my hair in an elaborate upswept arrangement with descending sausage curls that nestled on one shoulder. As I was giving my toilette a last examination before the mirror, a knock sounded on the dressing-room door.

  “Come in,” I called, and Atticus stepped into the room, wearing his black evening suit with white tie. His auburn hair was smooth and gleaming, his impeccably tailored tailcoat set off his fine broad-shouldered form admirably, and altogether he was so handsome that I felt a dart of uncertainty that I would look suitable next to him. “Will I do?” I asked.

  He took a moment before answering, giving me a long look that took me in from the toes of my evening slippers to the small feathered ornament Henriette had pinned in my hair. When he smiled, I felt my shoulders relax, releasing some of my tension.

  “You’re magnificent,” he proclaimed, and even though Henriette must not have understood the words, she seemed to understand the tone and gave a self-satisfied nod of acknowledgment, stepping back with her hands folded in front of her, like an artist receiving the critics’ accolades. Atticus held out a black velvet-covered box to me. “As promised,” he said. “There are many more, of course, and you must come with me another time to choose those you’d like to wear in the future, but tonight I’d like you to wear these.”

  My sumptuous skirts rustled as I crossed to take the jewel box from him. “Oh, Atticus,” I gasped when I saw what the case contained.

  “The stones are pigeon’s-blood rubies,” he said, as I stared. “They’ve been in the family for generations.”

  “And I’m to wear them?�
�� The necklace was a heavy collar of pearls and rubies set in gold, with a pair of dangling earrings to match. Each stone was as big as my thumbnail, and in the light of the lamp they glowed with a splendid fire against the black velvet interior of the box. I had never been so close to anything this valuable in my life, and it occurred to me that I would be taking on a great responsibility by wearing something so precious.

  “By tradition, these are worn by every Blackwood bride on the night when she makes her first social appearance after her marriage.”

  I had extended one tentative finger toward the jewels, to assure myself that they had actual substance and were not some gorgeous mirage, but at these words I drew my hand back and met his eyes in consternation. Even though I was almost certain that Henriette would not understand me, I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Are you certain it’s right for me to wear these? I’m not a Blackwood bride in the true sense.”

  “But you are as far as the world knows,” he said easily, unruffled by my protest. “Those familiar with the tradition of the jewels—and you may be certain that some of our older guests are aware of it—will find it strange if you don’t wear them. They are part of your persona.”

  Although I ought to have been reassured, I found that my uncertainty about wearing the jewels had merely changed rather than vanishing. If he was correct, although none of the guests might raise an eyebrow at my wearing the jewels, I still somehow felt that I was transgressing against their real meaning. But if Atticus felt that it was right for me to wear them, I had no grounds for protesting.

  Still, as Henriette fastened the heavy jeweled collar around my throat, while I carefully held my ringlets out of the way, I felt some sadness settle onto my frame with the weight of the necklace. It seemed a pity for something so beautiful to adorn a woman who was only pretending to the position they were meant to ornament. Surely they—and Atticus—deserved a proper Blackwood bride, someone who really would make her home with this family, would devote herself to her husband’s happiness… and find happiness of her own in him.

  But, I reflected as I screwed the earrings onto my earlobes, it was not as if I were usurping the place of such a bride. Had Atticus found such a woman, he would have married her. I was not preventing him from marrying his ideal bride; I was just filling the space that would otherwise have remained unfilled.

  And there had probably been previous Blackwood brides who had filled that role with less than complete devotion and enthusiasm. Arranged marriages would have set this collar around the throats of women who had no greater claim on the Blackwood name than I. I found this thought strangely saddening, and sighed.

  Atticus, misinterpreting, said in satisfaction, “I am delighted that you are so pleased with them. Come, we must show ourselves to Father in all our finery before we descend to our guests.”

  “We must?”

  “Of course! He’ll want to see the jewels on his daughter-in-law.” He offered me his arm, and I took it, telling Henriette “Merci, bonne nuit” as we passed from the room.

  I had never before seen Lord Telford’s sitting room by night, and when we reached it I found that, curiously, it was sparingly lit with only a few isolated candles instead of the branched candelabra or oil lamps. It created an unsettling effect: in the dim, flickering light the death masks on the walls seemed to move and become animated, making grotesque expressions, and I averted my eyes from them.

  “Too much light is tiring for my old eyes,” Lord Telford explained. He was in a soft-front shirt and smoking jacket, and clearly was not planning to join the company or receive guests. His red lap robe was the most festive part of his appearance—that and his eyes, which held a glitter that might have been either enthusiasm or mischief. Or perhaps both. “When you’re as old as I am, you appreciate the tact of dim lighting,” he added. “But Clara will understand, I’m sure. Women always know what flatters them best. In this dimness you look almost young.”

  The barb did not sting, however. “Thank you,” I said with a straight face. “I am happy to know that the darkness softens my defects.”

  “Ha. Defects of appearance, maybe. Not so with those of character.”

  “Don’t the rubies look beautiful on Clara?” Atticus interposed, before we could become embroiled in the sparring session his father seemed to wish to launch.

  “Hmph.” The old man may have been put out by this blocking tactic, or perhaps he was vexed that he could not join the festivities that would be taking place. At any rate, it did not sound like a compliment when he said, “I never thought to see the Blackwood collar gracing a neck such as yours, daughter-in-law.”

  “Your surprise can hardly exceed mine,” I said gravely.

  He shook his head. “Ah, clever Clara. So quick with an answer to a feeble old man. You’ll find the wits among your guests tonight more difficult to keep up with, I’ll warrant. But no doubt you feel yourself more than equal to the task of entertaining all of the most important people from three counties. Or perhaps you expect them to be so dazzled by your appearance that they’ll disregard your conversational limitations.” He chuckled at my discomfiture. “Ah, she blushes—and now the picture is complete. Red gown, red jewels, red cheeks.”

  “Father, I’m afraid you’ll have to continue teasing my wife another time,” said Atticus lightly. “We are expected downstairs, and despite your attempts to frighten her, Clara is going to be a marvelous hostess.”

  “As if you cared. As long as it took you to snare a bride, I daresay a broom in a ball gown would make you happy.”

  “If that’s the case, then you can imagine what a lovely surprise Clara will be to our guests,” Atticus returned. He seemed to have no difficulty remaining calm during his father’s baiting; years of practice must have inured him to this treatment, and I felt a stab of sympathy for the young Atticus, who had been subjected to such barbs from both his brother and his father. Now he merely said, taking my arm, “We must go down to dinner now.”

  “One moment, one moment.” The old man’s grin was grotesque as the firelight glistened wetly on his teeth. “Our Clara’s pretty blush reminds me: I have not seen you kiss your fair bride, Atticus.”

  “I hardly think—”

  “Humor a sentimental old man. The happiness of the young—well, shall we say, the almost young—is a beautiful thing. I should like to witness a loving conjugal embrace once more.”

  The prospect was uncomfortable in so many ways I hardly knew how to reply. “Lord Telford,” I began, “I’m sure you’ll understand that to request to see such an intimate exchange—”

  “Good God, woman, I’ve not asked you to strip naked. A kiss is nothing. Why, you kissed me on only the second time we met.” That had been at his command, which he did not acknowledge. “If you refuse to grant your own father-in-law so minor a request—”

  “Please don’t agitate yourself, Father, you know it isn’t good for you.” Atticus sought my eyes with his, and there was a mute appeal in them. He would have saved me this embarrassment had circumstances been different, I knew, but if his father worked himself into a state of rage, it could damage his already fragile health still further.

  It isn’t such a great thing to ask, I told myself, and managed to smile assent. How long had it been since I had been kissed? There had been a time or two since Richard… some of the men in the theatrical troupe had possessed more audacity than discretion, and during opening-night festivities occasional liberties were taken. But the real, true lovers’ kisses had all been Richard… and it was of him I thought when Atticus drew me to him and bent his head to kiss my lips.

  I started at the intimacy of that touch, but in the next moment I was back again on that last afternoon with Richard in the folly, feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin and the different, more tantalizing warmth of Richard’s lips on mine. Grassy ground was beneath my back, or else I might have fallen ceaselessly, so gloriously adrift my body felt. I felt his hands alight on my shoulders, so gently that they might have
been birds, and to assure myself of his nearness I rested my hands on his chest, feeling his heartbeat there, vital and alive.

  Alive.

  My eyes opened of their own accord, and the kiss was over. I found myself staring into ice-blue eyes that I knew as well as my own, yet for a moment I was not certain to whom they belonged. Richard…

  I blinked as if it would clear my head, and Atticus must have seen that I needed to compose myself. “I hope that sufficed, Father,” he said with a heartiness that I knew was false.

  “Very pretty,” was the reply, and Lord Telford’s voice could not be read. “Go on with you, now. Don’t keep your guests waiting.”

  “Always happy to see you as well, Father.” Atticus squeezed the frail shoulder in parting, and then we had made our escape.

  “I’m sorry about that,” he said presently, after we had walked some distance in silence. “Father gets these strange whims, and the doctors say it’s dangerous to thwart him. I wouldn’t have subjected you to that otherwise, knowing your feelings.”

  “You needn’t apologize,” I said, in a voice so composed that I scarcely believed it my own. “It wasn’t of your doing, and anyway…”

  “Yes?” Interest seemed to sharpen his voice, and I tried to shrug the subject away.

  “It’s nothing. I was reminded of a time in my girlhood, that’s all.” And for just one lovely moment, I was with Richard again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dinner, I think I may say without exaggeration, was a success.

  The guests seemed so delighted to be there that my inevitable social gaffes were brushed off as of no consequence. I did forget the name of one gentleman, but he laughed it off without seeming to take offense. Atticus was an affable host, quick to turn the conversation to topics that allowed our guests to speak a great deal of themselves, and as a consequence they seemed to find my husband the most clever of conversationalists. I tried to follow his lead and found that drawing out our guests was interesting for its own sake. The more I listened and observed, the more I realized that Atticus was well liked among his peers, and they kindly extended that feeling to me.