With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense

by DeWees, Amanda

  Sure enough, her first words were about the painful topic. “I have been thinking about the subject of our conversation last night,” she said in a low voice as we strolled across the entrance hall toward the front door. “I do hope I haven’t distressed you. But I think it is best to know as much as possible about one’s husband. Without a full knowledge of one’s situation, one may easily be manipulated.”

  “I cannot believe my husband would manipulate me, as you call it.” But my tone might have been firmer, and she seemed to note my lack of conviction, with a little comforting pat on my arm.

  “My dear, you may be twice a bride, but I fear you are as innocent as a green girl. Marriage is in its way as much a form of strategy as chess—or war. One hopes, of course, to be on the same side as one’s husband, but in any event a knowledge of the larger game is vital to securing your happiness. Have you asked Mr. Blackwood about young Miss Rowe?”

  I had been too busy congratulating him, and myself, about the success of our dinner. Heat rose to my face as I recalled laughing with him, kissing his cheek. No, suspicion had not been foremost in my mind last night. “We have both been so busy—and she is not to arrive for another week—”

  “Pray don’t feel you have to defend yourself, my dear. It is a difficult subject to broach.” A footman opened the door for us, and we emerged into the wan sunlight just as a coach drew up before the broad front stairs. Birch must have heard what I had been too preoccupied to make note of—the sound of wheels on the gravel of the drive—for he was already directing more footmen to hold the horses’ heads, to place a step before the coach door—and to hand down the Titian-haired, beaming young woman who emerged from the interior in an airy agglomeration of white muslin printed with yellow butterflies.

  Her eyes were blue, with long curling lashes, and her mouth was as pink as any rose. Her bright ringlets were surmounted with an absurdly tiny hat of coral faille trimmed with white ostrich feathers, and the coral grosgrain ribbon that served as her sash encircled a waist so small that my husband’s collar might in fact have fastened around it, as he had once said in jest of mine.

  “At last!” she cried as she picked up her gauzy, abundant skirts and darted up the stairs. “You must be my darling Uncle Atticus’s bride, Clara!” Before I could respond she had seized my hands in hers and placed a kiss on each of my cheeks. There was a waft of heliotrope scent, and my dulled wits belatedly realized that her words had been tinged with the most piquant of French accents. “I should have known you anywhere,” she continued, beaming at me. “He has spoken so much of you in his letters. I beg your pardon, madame,” she added to Lady Stanley, and dipped into a graceful curtsey. “I forget my manners. But I have come to think of Clara—Mrs. Blackwood—as an aunt almost, and I am so delighted to meet her at last!”

  Lady Stanley’s eyes were as round as the very carriage wheels. Birch and the footmen could not take their eyes from the girl. I forced a smile to my lips. “My lady,” I said to my companion, “allow me to introduce you to Miss Genevieve Rowe—my husband’s ward.”

  And who knew what else besides?

  It was not as if I had any grounds to be offended. If she was in fact Atticus’s mistress—well, our marriage had not been a matter of affections, so Genevieve could scarcely have been said to have alienated them. Without a wife in more than name, a man as warm-hearted as Atticus would naturally seek some form of attachment. I had no grounds for objection, as long as his arrangement—if such it was—posed no danger to my future after I left Gravesend.

  Why, then, did I feel the painful tightness in my breast when Atticus emerged from the breakfast room, drawn by the commotion, and opened his arms to Genevieve with such delight?

  “We didn’t expect you for another week,” I said, trying, not entirely successfully, not to sound disapproving.

  “You’re welcome, Vivi, of course,” Atticus added, “but your room’s not yet ready.” This was in a muffled voice, for she was hugging him around the neck.

  The girl (for so I could not help thinking of her, even if she was more properly called a young woman) kissed him on both cheeks before releasing him. “I could not bear to wait any longer. You are not angry with me?”

  “As if anyone could be angry with you for long, Vivi.” He took her in from the foolish little hat to the tiny slippers showing beneath the hem of her dress. “This is a fancy rig-out you’re wearing. Is it new?”

  “But of course! How silly of you. I told you I needed a new frock.” She cast a glance at me from beneath her lashes. “After you told me that your Clara had such an eye for les modes, I could not appear before her in my old things.”

  “It’s perfectly sweet,” I said. “A trifle crumpled from the journey, but that can’t be helped… let’s find a room for you, and your maid can help you get settled.”

  “Oh, I have no maid,” she announced airily.

  “Clara’s maid can see to you, I’m sure,” said Atticus at once, and my opinion of his intelligence took a sharp drop. Perhaps he didn’t realize how much effort Henriette put into my coiffures and the maintenance of my elaborate gowns. “It’s perfect, really,” he continued, “because Henriette will at last have someone to speak French with.”

  “Henriette will have twice as much work to do,” I pointed out, “and more, since she will be forced to go back and forth between our rooms.”

  “Hmm, that’s right. And I know you two will be longing to spend more time together, getting to know one another.” He turned to the housekeeper, who had obligingly appeared at his elbow. “Mrs. Threll, I believe the room across from my wife’s sitting room is available, isn’t it?”

  He was not going to give that room to the little—to this girl. “I’m afraid we couldn’t possibly put Miss Rowe into such a poky, drab little room,” I said firmly.

  “Oh, I am certain it is delightful,” Genevieve interposed, but I shook my head.

  “No, it’s far too small and old-fashioned. We must have something better suited, Mrs. Threll. In the east wing, perhaps?”

  She understood my intended meaning. “I believe the Blue Room would be quite suitable, ma’am, and it isn’t in use at present.”

  The Blue Room was at the other end of the house from mine. “Excellent. Please have it made up. Oh, and can any of the maids be spared to look after Miss Rowe? She has brought no abigail.”

  Mrs. Threll left just enough of a pause to register disapproval. “I shall see to it at once, ma’am.”

  Our pretty guest’s face was falling more each second. “I am truly sorry if I am causing you inconvenience,” she said, and so injured were the wide blue eyes that my heart might have softened toward her if I had let it. But Atticus was quick to cushion the blow, I observed.

  “Nonsense, Vivi, we’re just a bit at sixes and sevens this morning. We’re delighted to have you with us. Aren’t we, Clara?”

  I smiled with as much grace as I could muster. “Delighted,” I said, and to my shock the girl flew at me and kissed my cheek again.

  “I knew you would not scold me,” she confided. “Uncle Atticus has told me all about you, Aunt Clara—may I call you that? He told me that you have such dignity, such grace even when all about you is in turmoil. He said he knew that we should love each other. And I know already that we shall be inseparable!”

  I turned my head to look at Atticus, and my expression must have been terrible indeed, for his face reddened slightly and he cleared his throat.

  “Genevieve, why don’t you and I go for a stroll while Mrs. Threll has your room readied. I believe that being cooped up in that coach has made you a bit restless.”

  She found the suggestion delightful, of course. Her “Uncle Atticus” could no doubt have suggested that her Titian ringlets be singed off with burning pincers and she would have thought it the most adorable idea ever conceived by mortal man.

  “A charming young woman,” came a murmur in my ear, and I found that Lady Stanley was at my elbow once more. She was watching Att
icus and Genevieve proceed to the front door, Genevieve half dancing in excitement and casting eager looks all about her, exclaiming Frenchly to Atticus about how merveilleuse Gravesend was. “Very vivacious,” she added.

  “A delightful creature,” I said. “I can see why my husband is so fond of her.”

  “As can I,” she said under her breath.

  As soon as I could, I excused myself and retreated to my rooms. I was determined to remain there until such time as I could look upon the adorable Miss Rowe without desiring to shake her until her teeth rattled. And if that time was years off? In my present mood, that suited me quite well.

  It was not jealousy, of course. There was certainly some envy, if only for the girl’s extreme youth and beauty, and the security of having a protector like Atticus Blackwood to smooth her way in the world, to make her feel loved and wanted. Obscure parentage notwithstanding, Genevieve looked as if she would never know want or loneliness, and Atticus was to be commended for that. How different her life might have been without his generosity and compassion—the same impulses that lay behind his sanctuaries for castoff women and their children. He was acting as defender to those who had none other, and I ought to have been moved, even proud to the extent that I, as his wife in the world’s eyes, was connected to such a person.

  Instead I was out of sorts, and disgusted with myself for being so, which merely worsened the feeling. It was absurd for me to feel displaced, for my place was entirely ornamental. It was fruitless to feel overshadowed, for I had no delusions of beauty or social brilliance to be set into stark contrast by this youngling’s charm and loveliness. On the contrary, I should have welcomed the relief her presence would bring from the guests’ scrutiny of me. The more absorbed they were in Genevieve, the less notice they would take of my mistakes and awkward moments. I ought to have been grateful to her, and to Atticus for introducing her into the household.

  That was the sticking point, I decided. We had been well on our way to establishing a kind of family, settling into a comfortable habit with regard to each other as I began to feel that I had a role to play at Gravesend, and the girl’s arrival had upset the tentative harmony of that arrangement. I no longer knew where I stood in Atticus’s plan. Was I to be a kind of stepmother? Or if the girl truly was his mistress, was I to stand to one side because my own place gave me no right to object? The uncertainty made me snappish, and I pleaded my supposed headache at noontime so that I would not inflict my mood on my guests at the midday meal… although I was certain that my pretext deceived none of them. They would no doubt have a satisfying gossip while I temporarily abandoned my duties as hostess.

  But I was not the only one to resist the new domestic arrangement, as I learned later. Having returned from their walk, Atticus and his ward had discovered that Lord Telford refused to meet Genevieve.

  “He says he’s not equal to the strain of visitors at the moment,” Atticus told me crisply as we made our way to the drawing room to await the dinner gong that evening. “It’s ridiculous. Vivi isn’t a visitor—she’s family.”

  “They have not met before, then?” I asked, to hide my shock at hearing the girl thus described.

  “No, Father always refused to join me when I went to visit her at school.” Atticus’s expressive eyes were troubled, and I wondered with a pang whether he would have worried thus if I had been the one his father refused to welcome. “I don’t know how to break this to her,” he said. “I won’t have her feelings hurt.”

  “Your father’s fragile state of health is not in doubt,” I observed. “You may see his refusal to meet her as a deliberate snub, but on the surface it’s perfectly plausible. Are you so certain he’s avoiding her?”

  His lips tightened, and he gave a single sharp nod. “He’s never approved of my taking her into my care, even though she is so… closely connected to the household.”

  “Connected in what way?” is what I wanted to ask, but I wasn’t certain I would like the answer. If the girl was indeed Atticus’s illegitimate daughter, his father might well be angry at the idea of accepting her into the household. As would I, for that matter. To have my husband’s child by another woman so close at hand would be a constant reminder that I was not the only woman in his life—indeed, it would be as good as an announcement to those around us.

  The girl herself appeared then, darting out of the drawing room in a robin’s-egg blue dinner gown whose tulle overskirt was caught up with garlands of pink silk roses. It was an absurdly extravagant dress for a girl who was not yet out. In contrast, I felt very elderly indeed in my midnight blue cashmere trimmed in cerise passementerie, which just minutes before had made me feel quite elegant and grand.

  “I thought I heard your voices!” she exclaimed, and danced up to link her arm through her guardian’s free one. “Now you have a belle on each arm,” she informed him, and instantly began chattering to him in French. I realized to my discomfiture that Atticus must understand her. Of course he would speak French; he probably spoke several languages. They could converse on any number of subjects and I would be none the wiser.

  Atticus’s appreciative chuckle caught my attention. He was watching the girl with an indulgent smile. I could not recall whether he had ever looked at me with such an expression.

  But why should he? I was no soul mate to him, nor had he ever promised that I would be. Somehow it had not stung as much before, though. It seemed to me now as if his primary object had been to bring Genevieve to Gravesend and I was merely a necessary part of that plan, even though I didn’t wholly understand what part that was.

  I was absorbed in these and similarly cheering thoughts. Atticus and Genevieve were absorbed in what, to judge by their faces, was the most fascinating conversation since Dr. Johnson’s day. And so the three of us proceeded into the drawing room: the handsome heir, the beautiful young ward, and the convenient fiction.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “How long will Genevieve be with us?” I asked Atticus that night when we met for our nightly council meeting. “You mentioned bringing her out this Season.”

  A questioning lift of one eyebrow accompanied his response. “Genevieve’s home is with us,” he said, “until she marries.”

  I stared into my teacup, hoping my face didn’t reveal my dismay. “If this was your plan from the beginning, I wish you’d told me of it when you made your proposal to me.”

  “I didn’t think it would be such an upheaval for you,” he said, and though I did not look at him, I could picture his serious expression, the penetrating look in his vivid eyes, perhaps even a look of concern—for he was, after all, a considerate man. “Genevieve has never known her mother, and I knew that your own natural impulse to nurture would find an outlet where—if you’ll pardon my mentioning it—it had none before.”

  I stirred my tea and tried to frame my response. “It isn’t as if she were my own child. And Genevieve is practically grown; I don’t think she needs a mother.” Even if I had known how to be one, which I did not.

  He did not answer at once. When I finally looked up, I met his eyes and wondered why there should be a kind of perplexed sadness there. Slowly he said, “I ought to have discussed it with you before she arrived, I see that now. But since she is here, and is out of her element, it would be a kindness in you to befriend her.” He seemed to be choosing his words with care when he said, “And even if the two of you don’t share a family name, I think you’ll find that you are related in a sense.”

  I smiled, a little wryly. We were only related in the sense that this surprising man had taken an interest in us, out of whatever motive or motives, and had chosen to offer his protection. Beyond that, I suspected his ward and I had precious little in common.

  “As to not needing a mother,” he was saying, “I must disagree. Especially when the Season begins, she’ll need someone she can look to for feminine wisdom and guidance.”

  Which I was scarcely in a position to provide. Navigating the complexities of life in society
would be every bit as new to me as it would to her. “I’m not certain I have much to offer her,” I said.

  “Of course you do. You only feel this way because she took you by surprise. When you come to know Vivi better I know you’ll adore her. I’m happy to say she is kind, intelligent, charming—in many ways she reminds me of you, in fact.”

  I could not repress a laugh that was as much startled as it was amused. “Of me!” Kindness and charm were not prominent in my makeup, I knew. Intelligence, too, I sometimes doubted.

  “Very much so,” he said, still regarding me with that peculiarly intense gaze. “I see the two of you as kindred spirits. I’m certain that when you’ve spent more time with her you’ll come to see it yourself. Why, she could even teach you French, so that you may converse more freely with your maid.”

  “No doubt,” I said, my pride struggling with the realization that it would be a great relief to be able to carry on a conversation with Henriette that did not leave us both frustrated at the gulf of understanding between us. I risked another glance at Atticus. His enthusiasm was touching. If he saw kindness in me, I thought, it was because he himself possessed it in such abundance. I owed it to him to make an effort, at least. Whatever his reasons for attaching her to the household, Genevieve herself had shown no signs of wishing to usurp me. I ought to give her the benefit of the doubt for as long as I could.

  I rose to signal the end of our meeting. “I shall endeavor to make Genevieve welcome,” I said. That was as far as I would commit myself tonight.

  It seemed to be enough for Atticus, at least. He started to reach for my hand, then checked himself, no doubt remembering my fiat against contact. But such a prohibition seemed foolish now that I myself had broken it, and when I put my hand out he took it at once.

  “Thank you, Clara,” he said softly. “It means more than I can say that you and Genevieve become friends.”