With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense

by DeWees, Amanda

  “You did quite right,” Genevieve announced before I could reply. “My uncle no doubt needed some time alone after all of the commotion. I was telling Mr. Bertram about it all—the doctor’s findings, the investigation, Uncle Atlas being treated like a suspect! It is little wonder if he wishes to escape it all for a time and have some peace and quiet.”

  “Atlas, is it?” Bertram inquired. “Has Blackwood set himself up as a god, now? I shall have to chaff him about that.”

  Genevieve gave an indignant squeal. “You shall do no such thing! Uncle Atlas is a lamb, and he must not be teased, unless it is by me or Aunt Clara.”

  “Did my husband indicate when he might return?” I asked, cutting across the badinage, and Bertram’s face sobered once more.

  “I’m afraid not, Lady Telford, but I do know that he decided to go on foot instead of riding. So he’ll be a few hours at least—more, if the weather turns bad.”

  Something about this abrupt absence disquieted me. It might well have been the truth that Atticus desired time alone to sort through the recent events and regain a measure of calm. But I wished he had taken Bertram with him. “He didn’t go to speak to the foreman, I take it?” I asked, and the young man shook his head.

  “He sent word yesterday to call off all work on the building until the investigation into his father’s death is closed. I’m not certain whether it’s a financial difficulty that won’t be resolved until the estate is—but here, I’m speaking coldly of money when you are mourning a member of your family. I heartily beg your pardon.”

  I reassured him that we had not taken offense, and then sat back in a wing chair and left him and Genevieve to their conversation. It was cheering to listen to their exchange and to see how taken they were with each other; with the resilience of the young, they had pushed the sobering matter of the old baron’s death to the back of their minds and were happily absorbed in other, gayer concerns. It was fortunate that I had happened by, for Genevieve clearly had not concerned herself with the need for a chaperone, and even though I had a high opinion of Mr. Bertram I would not have wanted Atticus to have felt me remiss in my duties as de facto aunt.

  Atticus himself did not return until shortly before the evening meal, which was to be taken in the breakfast room now that our guests had departed. I scarcely had time for any words with him before we joined Genevieve and Mr. Bertram, who had easily been persuaded to stay until Atticus’s return. “I cannot be at ease until that madman is caught,” Vivi had said plaintively, and although I suspected that her liking for the young man’s presence had more to do with him than with the killer, I myself was just as pleased to have him near. There was something comforting about his cheerful, straightforward manner.

  Atticus, in contrast, still looked drawn and weary, with his ice-blue eyes sunken deep and his gaze far away. When I asked how he was, he said briefly, “Well enough,” and changed the subject. This was far from reassuring. At table, Genevieve and Bertram conversed valiantly to fill the silence, and I contributed what I could, but Atticus’s silence was conspicuous and cast a damper on a meal that was already lacking in vivacity.

  It was during one of the uncomfortable silences that the sound of footsteps came to us from the hallway, and Birch’s voice saying, “If you would be so good as to wait while I announce you—”

  “Never mind announcing me. They’ll be pleased enough to see me when they hear my news.” With a fretful Birch at his heels, Strack appeared on the threshold, but a Strack I had not seen before: jubilant, satisfied, brimming with barely suppressed excitement. “Lord Telford,” he said before any of us could speak. “I bring news.”

  “Pray join us and refresh yourself while you tell us.” Atticus gave Birch a nod, and he sent one of the footmen away, presumably to procure a new place setting. Another footman silently retrieved another chair and held it for Strack, who flipped the skirt of his frock coat out of his way almost cheerfully as he took a seat. “Do you have news of my father’s killer?” Atticus asked.

  “I do indeed, my lord. I do indeed.” He sat back while footmen placed plate, goblet, silver, and so on before him, but the instant that they had withdrawn, he leaned forward avidly. “I went to see this man Collier who had been acting so strangely. Took a constable out to his home—run-down kind of place, I must say. Evidently he’d let it rather go to seed since his wife’s death.”

  Atticus sat listening intently, his hands steepled before him, dinner forgotten. Genevieve, Bertram, and I were no less absorbed.

  “When we approached we weren’t truly expecting to learn anything vital, you understand. It was more in the nature of being thorough and not leaving any leads unexplored. So when we found the front door open a crack and saw through it that Collier was hanging from the ceiling with a noose around his neck—”

  Genevieve gasped, and I think I may have as well. Bertram choked on his food and reached for his wine glass. And Atticus’s eyes shut briefly, as if in pain.

  “I do beg your pardon for being so blunt,” said Strack, who did not look at all repentant. He was almost grinning, so satisfied was he that he had sprung this explosive information on us all unexpected.

  “I say, you might have a care for the ladies,” Bertram said rebukingly. “And at the dinner table, yet. You may skip over the details. This Collier, he’d done away with himself?”

  Slightly deflated, Strack gave a grudging jerk of his head in confirmation. “He had indeed, sir. Guilty conscience always gets them. He even left a note. It seems he had never brought himself to believe that he wasn’t the father of Miss Rowe here…”

  “Oh, le pauvre,” whispered Genevieve. Her eyes had filled with tears. “That poor, unhappy man.”

  “That poor man, as you call him, murdered the baron,” Strack returned. “It must have been him that your maid saw, Lady Telford. In a low light, they were of similar enough build and coloring.”

  “So when Henriette thought she saw my uncle, it was really Collier stealing out of Lord Telford’s rooms after…” Genevieve shuddered.

  “Exactly. He must have acquainted himself with the geography of the house when he was hired on as an extra footman during your house party.”

  “But why?” asked Atticus, and his voice, quiet and calm, was like a current of cool water in the emotional exchange. “What did he have to gain?”

  Strack speared a piece of roast beef on his fork and permitted himself a slight smirk. “You’re assuming Collier was in his right mind, Lord Telford. Apparently seeing Miss Rowe return after all these years upset the balance of his mind. He clung to two beliefs, contradictory though they seem: that she was his daughter, and that she was the rightful heir after your lordship. When your lordship brought Lady Telford to Gravesend as your bride, with Miss Rowe a mere ward, Collier appears to have become unhinged and taken out his fury on the head of the family that, as he saw it, had cheated his daughter of her rightful place.”

  “Convoluted thinking indeed,” said Atticus quietly. “How do we know that Collier believed these things?”

  “The note he left was quite clear.” Strack chewed a morsel of food as we watched in anticipation, then swallowed and added, “It’s of little comfort, I’m sure, but he did express remorse for having killed the late Lord Telford. It was that belated flash of conscience that must have driven him to put the rope about his own neck.”

  Atticus leaned toward him. “Might one be granted a look at this note?”

  “I’m afraid not, my lord. It’s been taken into evidence.”

  “All for me.” Genevieve shook her head in stunned disbelief, and the tears in her eyes overflowed onto her cheeks. “I never asked for what he wanted for me, but I feel partly responsible nonetheless.”

  Bertram took her hand in his. “Nonsense, Vivi,” he said, using her pet name for the first time in my hearing. “Collier was a dangerous lunatic, and his obsession with you doesn’t mean that any of the blame is yours.”

  “Bertram is quite right,” Atticus told he
r. “Don’t distress yourself for a moment, my dear.” More quietly he added, “I bear the blame here. I ought to have taken his measure when I removed you from his and his wife’s care and sent you so far away. And when he began acting in such a peculiar manner I should have insisted on more stringent security measures. I was thoughtless—and lax. Damnably lax.” He crumpled his napkin and flung it on the table as he rose, pushing his chair back so suddenly that he lost his balance briefly and clutched at the table to keep from falling. I rose as well, in concern, but he gave me a shake of the head. “Excuse me, won’t you all? I need a bit of air.”

  Reluctantly I resumed my seat as he caught up his walking stick and left the room. I felt sick at the thought of him being consumed with guilt over this crime. Perhaps a brief time alone would help him think through all that had passed and realize that the blame was not his, but all Collier’s. If not, perhaps he would listen to me. I could not bear it if he were to let his conscience torment him for something that was not of his doing and that he could not have prevented. A madman would not be daunted by measures that would deter a sane man, I knew. Once Collier had formed his deadly intent, the old baron would never have been safe.

  Strack continued to regale us with information about the crime and its aftermath, but I scarcely attended him. “I’m sure you and your husband must be greatly relieved, Lady Telford,” he said at one point.

  I spread my hands. “Relief is not my primary emotion after the death of two men, Inspector Strack.”

  “I commend the tenderness of your woman’s heart, my lady. But Collier’s death, along with the note he left, removes all suspicion from your husband. What a weight off your mind, eh?”

  “Oh. I see. Yes, I’m quite glad of that—and that there shall be no more deaths.”

  “You could never have thought for an instant that my uncle was a killer,” Genevieve told Strack hotly.

  “Oh no, mademoiselle? He had the strongest motive of all: money. But making such a case against a baron would have been difficult to say the least, so as far as I’m concerned this whole business has concluded in a most satisfactory way.” Dabbing at his moustache with his napkin, he rose. “I’ll be on my way, then, Lady Telford. Thank you for your hospitality.”

  “Not at all,” I said automatically. “Thank you for putting us out of our suspense. I know my husband would wish for me to thank you on his behalf as well.”

  Now the household would have a chance to recover and proceed with the usual comforting rituals of mourning. Lord Telford could be laid to rest, neighbors could leave their cards—secure now in the knowledge that they would not be condoling with a murderer—and Atticus could proceed with the building of the refuges for the fallen women. And, in due time, Genevieve and Mr. Bertram would no doubt be married.

  As for me, in my relatively short time at Gravesend I had come to feel that I had a place here—that is, not in the house itself, but with Atticus. I was no longer making my way in the world alone. I even felt that I could make a good wife to Atticus… if he wanted me to. But what if he didn’t wish me to stay? On the night of the ball I had convinced myself that he had wanted me to stay with him for more than just that one night, but could I be certain that he truly wanted me for longer than that?

  It would not be an easy question to bring myself to ask him, and Atticus did not make it any easier; he made himself so scarce that a suspicious woman might have thought he was avoiding her. He neglected to come to my sitting room for our usual discussion of the day’s events, and when I gathered the courage to knock at his door, it was his valet, Sterry, who opened it. Atticus had not yet returned from wherever he had disappeared to after the evening meal. I retired without having seen any sign of him since then.

  He was absent from breakfast the next morning, as well; Birch told me that he had again gone to visit the construction site, and this was echoed by Genevieve and Mrs. Threll. Evidently Atticus had broadcast his plans widely, and I was the last to learn of them. I wondered at this sudden, consuming interest in the building; was it merely a pretext for time by himself to come to terms with all that had lately passed? Or, perhaps, did he wish to put some distance between us? The thought of waiting who knew how many hours for his return chafed me, and I returned to my room and quickly changed my dress for one better suited to walking.

  Genevieve scented my purpose and determined to join me. Mrs. Threll was able to give us directions to the building site, which was but a few miles distant, and furnished us with stout walking sticks. We set out in good spirits, for the day was fair and mild; a light breeze cooled our cheeks when we became warm from our exertions, and in the sunlight even the winter-bleached landscape took on some beauty. The gently rolling parkland and copses of wintry trees were a welcome sight, and it felt good to be out of doors and breathe in fresh air. After all of the recent rains I had feared that the walking might be difficult, but the ground had dried enough that our progress was fairly rapid.

  “How are you faring?” I asked presently, after we had made our way in silence some half a mile.

  “Oh, I am quite well; I am fit to walk many miles yet.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” I said, trying to find a way to phrase the question delicately, but she caught my meaning then.

  “I am well enough, Aunt Clara, although it is kind of you to ask. At first it was rather dreadful, feeling that I was the cause of so many terrible things.”

  “But you weren’t,” I objected, and she nodded.

  “When I thought a little longer, I realized that,” she said. “This Collier, he had a mono—what is your word?”

  “Monomania?”

  “That, yes. And I do not think it had much to do with me, exactly. I think it had much more to do with him. In the end, the choices were all his.”

  This was so mature an insight that I found myself wondering what extraordinary school it was that had brought her up to think with such clarity. Or perhaps it was all Genevieve herself. She was a Blackwood, after all, and I had not met a single dull-witted member of that clan. I wondered about her mother, the late Mrs. Collier. Perhaps she had been a woman of intelligence; perhaps that had even been part of what had attracted Richard to her.

  It still hurt, the knowledge that I had shared Richard’s affections with another woman—or more than one—but the pain was already far less than it had been. Now it was not Richard but his brother who was foremost in my thoughts. Where once I had looked upon Atticus as simply the least objectionable of my options, he had now become more precious to me than Richard had ever been. When I remembered that idyllic day in the folly and that conviction of being enfolded by love, it had not been an illusion; only it had been Atticus’s love, not Richard’s, that cast that day in such radiance for me. I realized now that all those times in our youth when I had seen him, as I thought, tagging along after Richard, it must have been me that he truly wanted to be close to. And I wondered not for the first time whether my own love for Atticus was endangering him—and if the curse would bereave me once again.

  Even as my thoughts took this direction, a figure came into view over the next rise that I knew must be Atticus. But something about the sight of him struck me with inexplicable urgency. The dazzling sunlight and the mist it was lifting from the meadow obscured him to an extent, but I knew suddenly that all was not well with him. “Something is wrong,” I exclaimed, quickening my pace; I could not have explained how I knew, only that the motion of his progress struck disquiet into my heart.

  “Why, so it is,” said Genevieve, likewise walking more rapidly, until she was almost trotting to keep up with my longer strides. “Uncle!” she called, waving her arm over her head, and after a moment an answering wave came—but more slowly, and with an odd constraint, as if… as if it pained him to move. I picked up my skirts in both hands and broke into a run.

  When I caught up with him, Atticus did not at first glance seem to be the worse for wear. But his gait was less than regular because his left hand was the one wie
lding his walking stick, instead of his right, and there was a stiffness to the way he held his right arm that I noted with anxiety. His brow was furrowed as if in concentration or endurance, but when we came within hailing distance he said, lightly enough, “You organized a rescue party. That was most prescient of you, my dear.”

  I didn’t know which of us the endearment was meant for, nor did I ask. “What’s wrong?” I demanded instead. “Are you unwell?”

  “An accident at the construction site. Nothing serious, no bones broken… only I think I pulled some muscles in my shoulder. If you would permit me to lean on you, Clara, I think you would be a better help than my stick.”

  “What kind of accident?” pressed Genevieve, taking his stick from him to free up that arm to pass about my shoulders. “Was it a sinkhole? Mrs. Threll was telling me how dangerous the ground can be after as much rain as we have had. With so many old mines, she said, one must be very careful indeed.”

  His wan attempt at a smile betrayed how much pain he must have been feeling. “I had the same thought, which is why I went to inspect the site. No, fortunately the ground is all intact. But while I was there, I thought to go up into the scaffolding to examine the progress on the upper floor.”

  “You climbed up?”

  “There’s a kind of moving platform with a hoist and pulley device. It’s awkward for one man alone to operate, but not impossible. But I slipped—some loose boards shifted—and I managed to snare myself in the ropes.” He turned his head and gingerly held his collar away from his throat, and with a gasp of horror I saw a raw red weal like the mark of a noose on one side of his neck. Then Genevieve snatched at his hand and, ignoring his hiss of pain, pried his fingers open to reveal a similar raw mark across the palm.

  “Atticus,” I breathed. “You could have been killed.”