With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense

by DeWees, Amanda

  I had no answer for that. Questions I did have, but not the courage to ask them—not yet.

  The next day I was still so troubled in mind that I finally made a pilgrimage I had been putting off for too long: a visit to the folly. It was, I felt, the one place where I might find a haven from the strain of the present, but I was almost afraid to put it to the test.

  The wood at its back had grown up much closer to it in the time since I had last been here with Richard, but from the direction of the gardens the path was easy. When I gained the little hillock where the ruin was situated, I looked back the way I had come. From here Gravesend Hall looked so much smaller and less imposing—almost like a doll’s house, and I smiled at the fancy; if only the house and its residents were as easily managed as a child’s toys, and then when Lord Telford’s innuendos and Mrs. Threll’s watchfulness grew too much for me I could simply toss them into a box and put them away.

  I was dwelling on the view because I was reluctant to let my mind dwell here, within the two fragmentary walls of the folly. Today there were no violets, and the grass was dead and leached of color; the stones of the broken walls and tower were stained with moss and lichen. The top of the tower looked uneven, as if some of the stones that made it up had loosened and fallen. The passage of time was lending the folly verisimilitude, taking it closer to the ruin it had been designed to mimic.

  I could scarcely picture Richard and my younger self there. In my memory the folly had been a treasured secret haven, a little corner of paradise; now it was nothing more than a picturesque assemblage of stone and mortar. Nothing of Richard remained here. If his ghost did walk, I reflected, perhaps after all it would not be here, where he and I had been happy together; it would be on that far-away battlefield, more likely, where his life had been cut short… and in what circumstances of pain and anguish I could only guess. There was nothing for me here except my memories.

  I looked once more across the grounds to Gravesend, the white stone walls gleaming like snow under the rare sunshine. If I was to find even a temporary place there, it behooved me to stop dwelling on the past. Atticus deserved a convincing bride, and I owed it to him to put my best effort into my masquerade. Indeed, the thought of being exposed as a fraud still held great dread for me, so for my own sake as well I ought to live in the present entirely.

  What, though, was I to think when the very house itself, or some remnant of the past that had been imprinted upon it, spoke my name in Richard’s voice? It had not happened since that first night, but each night after I parted from Atticus I found myself lingering on the threshold of my sitting room, half longing, half fearing to hear it again. If only I had been able to tell what it meant—whether it had spoken in yearning, or pleasure, or warning—

  Enough. I could not continue thus, hoping for a sign that a dead love lived on in some fashion. I would drive myself mad that way. Much later, perhaps, when this charade was over and I was comfortably settled in my new life as an independent woman—then I could indulge in memories of Richard and dwell in them to my heart’s content. But not until then.

  It might not have been Richard’s voice I had heard, at that. If a ghost from my past were here, might it not be my mother’s? Perhaps she had spoken from beyond to remind me to be strong. A curse is no match for women of independent spirit, she had told me on that long-ago day. Now, with her words lending determination to my steps, I left the folly behind and strode back across the grounds toward the house where I was now mistress.

  Over the next week or so I strove to keep my word to Atticus. I found that his assessment of Genevieve’s character seemed to hold true: she did seem to be kind, without malice or calculation, and was charming in her enthusiasm for other people—which, strangely, extended to me. If her piquant beauty and youth and power to attract made me painfully aware of my own shortcomings, it was not her fault. When male eyes followed the girl with admiration and eagerness, she was stealing nothing from me, I reminded myself. But something—whether insecurity or consciousness of my own shortcomings, or perhaps simple envy—prevented me from opening my heart to her in any real sense.

  In return for my somewhat guarded overtures, Genevieve attached herself to me as if we were already sworn friends. She seemed eager for my approval and my liking, even seemed, bafflingly, to admire me—although it did occur to me that Atticus, for what purpose I did not know, might have told her to use her charm on me. Perhaps he wished her to have another defender besides himself, for Lord Telford continued to keep to himself in his rooms and did not send to meet her.

  Genevieve and I took to meeting each afternoon for a French lesson, and I had to admit that she was a patient instructor. My tardy beginning she herself explained away. “You had more important things to do than to learn another tongue,” she said generously, although I did not inquire what she thought these things might have been. I had no idea what she knew of my background and did not invite discussion of it. But even though she was tactful about my ignorance, my pride smarted that I had to be taught that “la robe” meant “the dress” and “le visage” meant “the face.” I think I might have warmed to Genevieve more quickly if this, too, had not been a sphere in which she was demonstrably my superior.

  One afternoon when I arrived at her room for our lesson I found her quite downcast. “I am very much afraid my favorite dinner dress is ruined,” she lamented. “Uncle Atticus says that you have a gentlewoman’s skill with a needle, though—perhaps you can tell me if it can be rescued?”

  I said I would give her my expert opinion, and she produced the sumptuous light blue dress with silk roses, which I had not seen since her first night at Gravesend. The skirt had a long tear near one seam and had been clumsily sewn together, with dark thread bunching the fabric.

  “It is a nasty tear,” I said. “It would have been better to have given it to your maid to mend.”

  “Oh, I did! This is Letty’s handiwork, not mine.”

  That startled me, for I had never seen such poor stitching. Any of the Gravesend maids ought to have been capable of better work. “How did it come to tear?”

  She puffed out a sigh. “Letty again, hélas. She had just finished helping me dress, and I was leaving the room when she trod upon the train. I declare she must have put her full weight upon it!”

  The rip was more than a foot long. It was astonishing that such damage could have been done accidentally, particularly since Letty was a slight creature. “Is she satisfactory in other respects?”

  “Oh, quite well.”

  Her voice left room for doubt. “What else has she done?”

  “Nothing at all, truly. Only…”

  “What is it?”

  “I was not going to say anything, but the other maid, the girl who lays the fire every morning… I have asked her if she could possibly come earlier, for often Letty has finished dressing me before the fire has been lit.”

  That meant Genevieve was waking and dressing in a frigid room, when the fire ought to have been laid before she rose. “Has she begun coming earlier since you spoke to her about it?”

  “No, but it is my fault. She cannot understand my accent, I think.”

  That was preposterous. “I’ll speak to Mrs. Threll,” I said. “If nothing else, she can have your dress mended more ably.”

  The blue eyes brightened. “Oh, that is so kind of you, Aunt Clara! I did not think of asking Mrs. Threll—I confess she frightens me a little.”

  I just managed to refrain from confessing that I, too, was not entirely comfortable with the housekeeper. But I held my tongue.

  The damage to the dress might have been an accident, made worse by a maid who was clumsy at sewing and hesitant to reveal that shortcoming by asking for help. The fire was another matter and suggested poor scheduling on Mrs. Threll’s part. But it was strange all the same. Now that I took a closer look at Genevieve’s room, I could see signs of neglect. The flowers in the vase on the bureau were not fresh, and there was a faint film of dust visibl
e on some of the elaborate picture frames.

  That night at dinner, I observed other ways in which the staff seemed to be singling out Genevieve for poor treatment. At table, the footmen offering her dishes gave her insufficient time to serve herself before moving to the next person, so that her plate was sparsely filled, and one footman even managed to spill gravy on her.

  I could have chalked the footmen’s behavior up to carelessness. But taken with the other incidents, the little snubs formed a larger pattern. When I added them all up and recollected how poorly Genevieve’s room was being kept, I knew that the staff were purposely showing her disrespect.

  The next morning I summoned the housekeeper to the small salon that was my private domain. When she joined me, I bade her close the door. “Is something amiss, ma’am?” she asked in that neutral voice that gave me no window into her thoughts or feelings.

  “I’m afraid so,” I said. “It seems that Miss Rowe is being made to feel unwelcome at Gravesend. She does not understand that these slights are deliberate, but I believe that’s exactly what they are.”

  Mrs. Threll continued to listen with her hands folded in front of her, the picture of patient acquiescence, but I thought her eyes had sharpened. “To what slights do you refer, ma’am?”

  “I’ve observed the condition of Miss Rowe’s room and the gown that Letty damaged and nearly ruined with her mending. I’ve also seen the slapdash way she is served at dinner. I’d like you to personally see that these incidents come to an end.”

  Mrs. Threll inclined her head. “The footmen come under Mr. Birch’s purview, ma’am. As for Letty, I grant that she is still green in some ways, but she’s learning.”

  “Is she? I would have hoped that she would have completed her learning before being given the responsibility of seeing to Miss Rowe’s needs. If Letty is unable to discharge her duties without incident, perhaps her training was inadequate. Is that the case, Mrs. Threll?”

  The housekeeper’s lips thinned. I had touched her pride. Still, all she said was, “I’ve had no other complaints about the girl, ma’am.”

  It seemed I would have to be firmer. “It reflects poorly on the staff as a whole that they are so discommoded by the addition of one young woman to the household,” I said. “Such inefficiency will almost certainly come to be noticed by our guests. I’m certain Lord Telford would not wish to become known to his neighbors as a man whose staff is so lax.” By this point Mrs. Threll’s lips had compressed almost to the point of vanishing, and I hesitated. I did not want to make an enemy of her, and I knew that my own lack of warmth toward the girl might have encouraged the staff to be careless in their duties toward her.

  “I fear I may bear some responsibility in this,” I admitted. “My own welcome to Miss Rowe was not as warm as it should have been for my husband’s ward. Her early arrival took me by surprise, and I let my displeasure show. It may well be that I set a poor example to the staff in doing so. But I intend to make that up to her. Anyone whom my husband has taken to his bosom should be made to feel at home.” A sudden mental image of Atticus literally clasping Genevieve to said bosom swam into my mind, and I quelled it firmly. “Miss Rowe is just out of the schoolroom—a child, practically—and in a strange country, and I ought to have made certain that she felt welcome from the moment she arrived at Gravesend.”

  Mrs. Threll’s face, not for the first time, was unreadable. “Lord Telford has expressed no dissatisfaction with the quality of the staff’s service, ma’am.”

  “Ah. I see.” So the malicious old man was setting the tone for Genevieve’s reception. I tried to keep the disgust out of my voice and find a line of reason that the housekeeper would respect. “I would have hoped that my husband’s wishes mattered as well—as his father’s heir and the future baron, if nothing else. The staff’s treatment of Miss Rowe is a sign of their respect for Mr. Blackwood, since it was he who brought her here.” I could not tell whether my appeal to her loyalty and pragmatism was having any effect, but I felt I had made my best effort. “If Lord Telford is at all discommoded, I’ll be happy to address the matter with him. In the meantime, if you could see that Miss Rowe’s needs are more fully met, I would be much obliged.”

  “Very good, ma’am.” The words were rote, but the housekeeper’s eyes rested thoughtfully on me. She was reevaluating Genevieve based on my words. I was surprised that my opinion counted for so much with her, but grateful for the girl’s sake.

  Or perhaps it was not Genevieve who was the object of Mrs. Threll’s consideration. I wondered suddenly if Lady Telford had ever admitted fault to her housekeeper. Perhaps I had won some credit by admitting a failing and, in a sense, meeting her halfway. “I almost forgot,” I added. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about the rule dictating that servants turn their faces to the wall in the presence of the family. I should like you to inform the staff that it’s no longer in force.”

  “Ma’am?” For once I had awakened a visible emotion on the housekeeper’s face—surprise.

  “You heard me aright. It’s a degrading custom, and I see no reason to preserve it. If Lord Telford objects, you may refer him to me.”

  She mastered her surprise quickly enough. “As you think best, ma’am. And I’ll have a word with Letty and Jane about taking better care of Miss Rowe.”

  “Excellent. Thank you, Mrs. Threll.”

  After that conversation I was pleased to notice that Genevieve’s smile was once more in evidence, and there were no upsetting incidents at dinner. I had some qualms that I might hear from Lord Telford that he resented my interference, but the only acknowledgment he granted was a summons to his chambers one day—for Genevieve.

  “I am more than a little nervous,” Genevieve confessed to me as we neared the baron’s rooms. Atticus and I were accompanying her, since Lord Telford had not specifically commanded her to come alone. She was somewhat pale. “You are so calm and composed, you make me feel stronger.”

  I was neither of these things, or at least not internally, but my heart (or at least my vanity) was touched. I gave her hand a squeeze. “He shall adore you,” I said. “Just as my husband does.”

  Indeed, I must admit that I had begun to feel some grudging fondness for the girl as well. She was so guileless and affectionate that it felt churlish to dislike her; and her oft-expressed admiration for me could not help but make me warm to her.

  There was another reason as well, one that renewed itself when Atticus knocked at his father’s door and Lord Telford’s voice testily bade us enter. If my father-in-law had hardened his heart against the girl, my own had correspondingly softened. A quixotic impulse to champion the girl he had snubbed made me feel closer to Genevieve. We were kin in a sense… as my husband had said.

  Now Atticus gave the girl a warm smile to reassure her. “Just be yourself, Vivi,” he said, and then the valet opened the door for us.

  “So you’re my son’s latest charitable case,” was Lord Telford’s less than gracious greeting. He sat hunched in his chair with a petulant twist to his lips, a dark blanket, as always, over his legs. “Another stray lamb to be added to the fold.”

  “My lord,” said the girl, with a deep and graceful curtsey. “I am delighted to have been—”

  “Yes, I’m certain you are. You’ve landed on your feet and no mistake. Fine gowns and fine food, mixing with the county—you’re doing quite well for yourself.”

  Atticus spoke firmly. “Genevieve is part of our family, Father. This isn’t an instance of charity. Her place is here at Gravesend.”

  The old man fixed a baleful eye on his son. “You’re very high-handed about telling me about my family, my boy. Next you’ll say the knives-and-boots boy is a cousin and must be given a place at table. Still trying to rescue every soul with a sad story, make yourself responsible for everyone’s happiness—Atlas.”

  Genevieve cocked her head at the name. “Is that your nickname, uncle? I like it.”

  The old lord gave a sly smile, which turned into a
wheezing laugh as Atticus hesitated, unable to respond at once. “He doesn’t like it,” the baron told her.

  “It’s a foolish name,” I said. “A wife’s endearments for her husband should never be made public, for they cause nothing but embarrassment.” I tucked my hand through Atticus’s arm and gave him what I hoped looked like an apologetic smile. “I am so sorry, dear, but it slipped out once when I was speaking to your father.”

  Lord Telford gave one of his death’s-head grins. “Oh, now it’s your turn to cast yourself on the sacrificial altar, is it, Clara? It won’t work, you know. My son was Atlas long before you became his bride.”

  “I think it suits you, uncle,” said Genevieve, either not noticing the tension or else deciding to ignore it. “The mythological Atlas was a figure of strength.”

  “The mythological Atlas was none too bright,” said Atticus lightly, but I thought his smile did not reach his eyes. “He had a chance to be relieved of the weight of the whole world, and he lost it through foolishly trusting the wrong person.”

  “Ah, but that will never happen to you, my son,” said Lord Telford, his bright little eyes fixed on Atticus. “You’d have no purpose if you let anyone take on their own burdens.”

  I tightened my arm to draw Atticus closer. “It’s a noble quality in Atticus that he always seeks to help others. In any case, we mustn’t tire you, Lord Telford. Genevieve can pay you a longer visit tomorrow, when you are more rested.”

  “Don’t be preposterous, woman. I’ve scarcely said two words to the girl. So, tell me,” he barked suddenly to Genevieve, “what are your plans?”

  “Plans?” she stammered, caught off guard.

  “Yes, plans,” he repeated irritably. “I’m certain you didn’t come all this way merely to amuse yourself. You Frenchwomen are all so damnably practical. You must intend to use my name to secure marriage to some rich dolt who’ll turn a blind eye while you amuse yourself.”

  “I beg your pardon, but I am not French,” said Genevieve, who had never sounded more so. She stood quite straight and still, her hands folded quietly, but her chin was raised at an angle that suggested that she was not prepared to quietly suffer the old man’s gibes. I liked her more at that moment than at any time since meeting her. “My parents, rest their souls, were English.”