Your devoted grandmother,
Elena Burleigh
What a dreadful dilemma. It would be churlish to deny an ill old woman her deathbed wish, but I was reluctant to involve myself in what already seemed to be an eccentric and possibly deranged branch of my family. And of course, this was assuming that they were genuinely my relatives and not merely passing themselves off as such. The Telford wealth would be reason enough for impostors to approach me.
And if this purported grandmother was genuine? It was a terrible time for me to absent myself from the household. Although I was not integral to the planning and execution of the Blackwood Homes and school, I was deeply involved in the schemes, and Atticus had turned over several areas to me to advise him upon. It was out of the question for him to set all of this aside to travel to Yorkshire for an indefinite stay, and I was reluctant to walk into this unknown situation alone.
Between this thorny problem and my anxiety following the encounter in the village, I was in a far from festive mood as the hour for supper approached. Henriette, my maid, was perplexed that I was so subdued as she helped me change into my dinner gown. This was a new and splendid ensemble, much more formal than my usual garb for supping with my husband, of claret-red figured velvet with festoons of antique lace. I had directed the seamstress myself on its construction, looking forward to surprising Atticus with my splendor on this occasion. Frequently in the evenings I simply wore a negligee, relishing the opportunity to escape from my stays, and sometimes I would wear my hair loose as well, for Atticus said he enjoyed seeing it so. Some evenings after our meal he would brush it for me, plying the brush in long, slow strokes that evoked an almost meditative state.
A bit of that peacefulness would have been welcome that evening. I tried to tamp down my troubled thoughts as Henriette put the finishing touches to my hair and offered me a hand mirror in which to assess the effect of the cluster of ringlets into which she had coaxed my unruly locks.
“It’s quite lovely, Henriette, thank you,” I said, but the distant tone as much as the vague words made her shake her head at me and say something in French that I did not catch. My knowledge of the language had improved greatly since the first days of our association, when I could do little besides point and gesture to communicate with her, but sometimes I suspected that she took advantage of my comparative ignorance to vent her own feelings without fear of reprisal.
Not that she had anything to fear. Her prickly exterior and sometimes high-handed managing of my wardrobe and hair were little enough to weigh against her kindness, loyalty, and honesty. Of an indeterminate age between forty and sixty, with graying hair and a wiry frame, Henriette might not have been a prepossessing figure, but she had become dear to me, and I apparently to her, for she had stoutly rejected all offers of a change of employment to something less strenuous than attending to me. I reflected that in the much smaller quarters of the lodge she would find it far easier to carry out her duties, and the thought made me glad.
She was looking perplexed now that I was not happier with how grand she had made me look. Impulsively I stood and embraced her. “Merci,” I said. “You are a marvel, Henriette.”
“Trés bien, madame.” Mollified, she stood aside as I swept past her to the connecting door to my private sitting room.
Even now the footmen were laying our supper at a small table near the fire. On nights when Atticus and I had no guests to entertain, it was our habit to take the evening meal together here. Our private suppers were a custom that had begun during the days when our marriage was but a show, as a way for us to plan and discuss strategy without being overheard. Now, however, what once had been a strategic necessity had become a cherished custom for both of us—a time to enjoy unhurried, uninterrupted time together, especially precious if the events of the day had separated us. A time when we did not have to be baron and baroness but simply Atticus and Clara.
Despite my trouble of mind, my spirits could not help but revive at the sight of Atticus, splendid in his evening clothes. As always, the stark black and white attire set off the brilliant blue of his eyes—eyes that widened appreciatively when he saw me.
“Clara, you’re magnificent,” he said, taking my hand and raising it to his lips. “I had wondered why Sterry laid out my white tie.”
“Your birthday calls for something festive,” I said as he held my chair for me. “Even though our celebration is private, it doesn’t have to be plain. I had Birch choose something special from the wine cellar, and Henriette tells me that Cook has outdone herself.”
“How thoughtful of you, my love.”
It was so easy to be thoughtful where Atticus was concerned, perhaps because he was always thinking of others besides himself. I was learning kindness from him, I sometimes thought. Or trying to restore the balance, to make up for all the years in which he had no one to think of him or try to make him happy. At the same time, I was bringing balance to my own life after all the years in which I had had no one to care for. I had learned that I found great pleasure in thinking of ways to delight him.
It certainly seemed that I had done so this evening. The menu met with his approbation, and when the footmen had departed and I presented his birthday gift to him, he exclaimed over it as though it were the crown jewels.
“It’s the finest waistcoat I’ve ever seen,” he pronounced, lifting it out of its wrappings. “Do I detect the skilled hand of my wife in this?”
“Sewing a waistcoat isn’t difficult,” I said, embarrassed. “But I remembered your saying they never have enough pockets, so I hid an extra one under this lapel—right here.”
“The perfect place to tuck a billet-doux from you.” He held it up to himself. “And I like the color very much.”
I smiled. As royal blue was the color of his two favorite waistcoats, it had not been difficult to deduce that he would like a third in that shade. To enliven it I had done the piping and lapels in brocade of the same color as his eyes. He would not encounter another man wearing such a waistcoat.
He leaned across the table to kiss me. “It is splendid, my love. I pity the unhappy men who have to make shift with lesser garments.”
“It isn’t as fine as all that,” I scoffed. “We’d best eat before our meal grows cold, after Cook went to so much effort.” But secretly I was delighted by his pleasure. It made me proud that something I made could give him happiness, even something as minor as a waistcoat.
As we supped, Atticus grew even more animated as he told me of the architect he and George Bertram were consulting about the plans for the new Home. Normally I took great interest in details of this sort, but tonight, despite my pleasure at the reception of my gift, my thoughts wandered to dispiriting matters: the conversation with Mathilde Munro and the peculiar letter. Especially the letter.
If only my family had never come to know of my existence, how much simpler things would be. If only I knew for certain whether they were my family. If only…
A pause in Atticus’s words brought me back to myself, and I found him gazing at me with a pensive air.
“I’m so sorry,” I said at once. “I must be a little tired. Pray go on.”
But he did not take up where he had left off. “I’m being very selfish,” he said instead, his husky voice thoughtful. “I’m not giving you the chance to speak at all.”
“There’s no need. Please, don’t let me interrupt.”
“But you aren’t, my love. I always look forward to these times alone with you, for talking something out with you can help me see it with greater clarity.” He put his hand out, and I laid mine in it, finding comfort in the clasp of his long, sensitive fingers. “The other morning,” he continued, “when I said that my favorite time of day was the end of it, I was thinking of more than just the delights of the marriage bed. No matter how exhausting or frustrating or frantic the business of the day, I find myself replenished when we have this time together. My joys are magnified when I tell you of them, my difficulties diminished.”
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“I feel just the same,” I said, but my gaze wavered and fell. I was ashamed that I had been giving my husband, my life’s companion, so little of my attention tonight. A fine helpmeet I was, thinking only of my own concerns.
His piercing blue eyes seemed to penetrate directly into my heart. “You are my sanctuary, Clara. I want to be that to you. Won’t you tell me what is troubling you?”
Abashed, I withdrew my hand from his. “I don’t want to spoil your birthday.”
“You mean far more to me than any date on the calendar. Please let me help, if I can.”
I stared down at the linen napkin in my lap, prey to indecision. In all the years of earning my own living, I had had no confidante or defender, and so I had become accustomed to keeping my troubles to myself. It was all very well for the poet Donne to claim that no man was an island; this woman certainly had been, for all of her adult life. The habits of those years had toughened me, had woven themselves into my very grain, it sometimes felt. As much as my curly hair and brown eyes, a stubborn, guarded independence seemed to have become part of me.
Now that I had the opportunity to unburden myself of my worries, even to reach out my hand for help in banishing them, I found I scarcely knew how. It hardly seemed right, after all, to shunt my burden onto my husband, who had more than enough responsibilities to shoulder already. Yet the matter involved him, even if only to the extent that he might be parted from me for the duration of a visit to these people who claimed kinship with me. And in truth, by remaining silent I might cause him even more disquiet than if I shared the cause of my worry.
The temptation to confide in him was strong. What blessed relief it would be if he were to take on some of the weight of this problem! When I glanced across the table at him I saw that he was still regarding me with grave attentiveness, and a worried crease had formed between his brows. My conscience twinged.
“The last thing I wish to do is add to your burdens,” I said. “You have far more important matters to attend to.”
“Nothing is more important to me than you, my love.” When I did not reply, he added lightly, “Just think what satisfaction it will afford my masculine vanity if I can relieve you of something distressing. Every husband wants to plume himself on having played the gallant knight for his wife, even if he plies his sword and shield against nothing more threatening than a spider in her teacup.”
That penetrated my defenses and made me smile. How well Atticus knew me. I might be able to withstand tenderness from him—though only with difficulty—but if he was able to tickle my sense of humor, I could hold out against him no longer. Besides, he deserved to know the reason for my distraction. And he might be able to bring insight to the matter that I could not.
“Very well,” I said, rising. “I’ll just be a moment.”
I had hidden the two letters—feeling furtive as I did so—beneath a stack of handkerchiefs in my bureau. When I returned, I showed them to Atticus in the order in which they had reached me: first the one from Horace Burleigh, then the one signed Elena Burleigh. He read each in silence, his eyes thoughtful, and when he had done awaited my explanation.
“I’ve not told you much about my family,” I said, “for the very good reason that I know so little myself. My mother scarcely spoke of her own people, not at all of my father’s. I always had the impression that my father was from a lower social sphere, so perhaps he was ashamed of them and did not associate with them.”
“Or perhaps he had no family,” Atticus suggested. “He might have been a foreigner, or the last remaining member of a line that had died off.”
“That’s possible. In any case, my mother never looked to any connections of his for assistance after my father died—not to my knowledge.”
“And what of her own people?”
I glanced again at the wax seal with its bold initial B and tried to quell a surge of anger on her behalf. “She gave me to understand that they had cast her off when she married my father. They never spoke again as far as I am aware. I can’t say for certain that she never appealed to them for help, but I remember her as fiercely proud. I suspect she would rather have starved than asked them for assistance.”
“But she had your welfare to think of.”
“That’s so.” Proud though she was, and often a stern parent, nevertheless she was protective of me, and there had never been a time that she had put her own welfare before mine. Not until I had been dismissed from Gravesend… but she had not abandoned me, not exactly. She had found shelter for me and made certain I had a new position. It was not her fault that I had been unable to keep it. Had she left Gravesend with me, there would have been two of us in search of a living, and she would have been unable to send me money to assist with my keep.
I brought my thoughts back to the discussion at hand. “As I say, I am not certain. It is quite possible she appealed to them for help and was rebuffed. There would have been no reason for her to share the fact with me; she might have feared raising my hopes.”
“A redoubtable lady she was. It must have taken great strength of character for her to survive with no protector, let alone to rise to so high a position in domestic service.”
A new thought made me raise my head from where I had been sunk in contemplation of the flames, and I looked across the table at my husband. “I wonder how she came to your mother’s notice. I never thought to inquire about that. Perhaps there is correspondence that would tell us? That might fill in some of my mother’s background.”
But he shook his head. “It’s an excellent thought, but unfortunately my father had all of my mother’s letters burnt upon her death. When I began my search for you in good earnest I had the same thought, but it came to naught. And I’m afraid I don’t recall hearing anything at the time that might be useful. I would have been no older than ten or eleven when you and she came to live here.”
For some reason it had not occurred to me that he would have his own distinct memories of my mother. “Do you think I am like her?” I asked, and I could not have said what I hoped his answer would be.
He rubbed his jaw as he searched his memory. “I don’t remember her very well, for as you have observed, in the past I did not always pay a great deal attention to the staff. But it seems to me that you carry yourself very much as she did: your back as straight as a queen’s, your head held high. You have a gift for stillness that she did not, however.”
“She had little leisure in which to be still,” I said ruefully. Little leisure to spend with her daughter, for that matter. I had always longed to have more time with her that was not spent on lessons and chores. When I looked back now, I could not remember her doing a single thing for pure pleasure. Always, always she had been busy about household tasks or teaching me or directing other servants.
“What do you wish to do?” Atticus asked me, drawing me out of my musings. “Would you like to meet the Burleighs? If these letters are to be believed, your grandmother may not have much time left.”
“I wish I knew if they were genuine,” I said fretfully. “It is so clear that my uncle is interested in us only for the Telford fortune and status. His connection to me may be far more tenuous than he claims. And even if we are as closely related as he says, he sounds like someone I would rather keep at a distance.” I stopped. “But my grandmother… it worries me that she may be speaking the truth. It would be unforgiveable to deny a dying woman her wish for reconciliation.”
“As to the truth of the letters, I can have Bertram make some inquiries about the Burleigh family and this branch in particular. If everything is in order, we could send word for them to expect us within the week.”
“Us?” I echoed in surprise, as hope lifted my heart. “You would accompany me?”
“It’s a poor husband who would send his wife to face the unknown all alone,” he said lightly. “You may find it dispiriting to meet the people who cast you and your mother out, and my place is by your side, lending you whatever strength you may need.”
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“But you are needed here,” I said, touched at his readiness to set aside his own concerns. “I couldn’t possibly ask you to leave just now.”
His broad shoulders moved in a shrug. “Construction on the new building can be carried out under Bertram’s supervision. My presence is not vital here, and if I did stay I would not be easy in my mind until you returned.”
“You would do this for the sake of an old woman you have never met,” I marveled.
This made him laugh. “Make no mistake, it is not for her that I do it.”
Deny it though he might, I knew that his sense of compassion had been roused by the letter. I rose from my chair and moved swiftly around the table to him, so swiftly that in his surprise he had scarcely begun to push his chair back to stand when I reached him. Before he could rise, I seated myself on his lap. Taking his face in my hands, I kissed him long and deep, and I felt his arms slip about my waist.
It was a long time before I raised my head. “How did I become so fortunate?” I wondered aloud, smoothing his chestnut hair back from his high brow. “What am I that I should deserve as fine a husband as you?”
At such close quarters his smile was bewitching. “I am happy that you believe yourself to be the fortunate one,” he murmured, “but I know for a certainty that I am.” His hands moved from my waist to the buttons on my bodice. “Fortunate also that your gown fastens in the front,” he added, with an undertone of mischief in his husky voice.
“That gains you very little,” I said, amused, “as there remain more layers of clothing beneath.”
For a man of such integrity, my husband could look quite the rogue when he grinned, as he did now. “But I observe that your chemise also buttons in front.”
Cursed Once More: The Sequel to With This Curse Page 4