“That’s heather. It’s fortunate that the bloom hasn’t faded, so you see it at its best. If you had come to us just a month or so later in the year, we might not have been able to show you so fine a face.”
“You are a resident of Thurnley Hall, then?” Atticus asked.
Despite his proprietary air, he shook his head. “Alas, no, Lord Telford. I should like to be, but the regrettable fact is that I must earn my living. I am always pleased to visit for as long as my guardian will have me, though. I confess that I think of Thurnley Hall as my home, although I have no real right to claim it.”
“I’m certain your guardian is happy for you to consider it thus,” Atticus said, but a faint frown contracted our new friend’s brows.
“My presence is, I fear, not entirely a pleasure for him.”
“Whyever not?” I exclaimed.
“Pray don’t blame him, Lady Telford. He has a great many worries weighing on his mind, not the least of which is his inability to offer me the lifestyle to which he says I was born.” My lips compressed at this: further evidence that my uncle was sorely in need of money and had probably summoned me and Atticus in hopes of our solving this problem. Unaware of the effect of his words, Mr. Lynch continued, “It is to his credit that he found me the place I hold now.”
“And what is that?” Atticus asked.
“I am cataloging the library of a gentleman in Coventry. He has an impressive collection of medieval texts on agronomy.”
“Ah!” Interest animated my husband’s face. “Does he have de’ Crescenzi’s Ruralia commoda? I have been hoping to acquire that ever since reading about it in the Royal Agricultural Society Journal.”
Mr. Lynch’s smile was no less engaging for being wry. “I must confess my interest in the topic extends only as far as my work is concerned. My own taste in reading tends more toward folklore and works of the fantastic.”
As they conversed, I let my attention return to the view. The higher we ascended, the more impressive the scenery became. It astonished me how far I could see across the tranquil slopes and how vast the sky seemed above it all. The banks of white and gray clouds cast great shadows on the verdant scene beneath, and one of these shadows fell over the carriage as it started down a long gravel drive.
After the wild beauty of the surrounding landscape, my first sight of Thurnley Hall was something of a shock. Accustomed as I had become to the classical white facade of Gravesend, I had imagined that Thurnley Hall would be somewhat similar. Now I saw how mistaken that assumption had been.
The first surprise was the sooty dark gray of the stone facade, so dark that one might almost have thought the house had been scorched in a fire. Memories of London flashed into my mind, for so much of that city’s brick and stonework bore the marks of the barrage of factory chimneys. Here in what was almost wilderness, I had not expected to see such grime. I knew that it was not an omen, but I cannot deny that it struck a qualm in my heart. Thurnley Hall seemed corrupted somehow, befouled by the blackness that clung to its stone.
Immediately I scolded myself. There was no significance to the sight except to confirm that Mr. Burleigh lacked the funds to hire a team to clean the front of his house—or he felt, most likely with good reason, that resources were better diverted to crucial areas of his estate rather than mere cosmetic appearance. But when I tried to imagine my mother, with her fierce pride and high standards, living in this house, I could not compass the idea.
Another unexpected observation was the house’s age. It was clear almost at once that this was an older building than Gravesend, and I wondered if the rose window atop the arched entrance meant that it had once been an abbey. Gables topped with spires rose above the top story, and there were a great many large square windows with diamond-shaped leaded panes. To the left a one-story wing with a peaked roof led to another, higher section with gables like the first… but something was awry with them, for as we drew nearer I could see that there was no glass in the high round gable windows, and stones had fallen away from the leftmost one, leaving a ragged gouge. At the sound of our approach, a crow rose flapping and cawing from one of the empty windows, and I could not repress a shiver.
“You’ll see that one wing has fallen into disrepair,” came the voice of Mr. Lynch, and I started at the suddenness and the way he had seemed to read my thoughts. “You needn’t worry, though, Lady Telford—the rest is sound enough.”
“It certainly looks it,” I said. Indeed, even with the spectacle of time eating away at the place, the main portion of the house was so solid and imposing as to be a bit grim. The dingy, discolored stone certainly added to that impression, as did the leaden pall that had fallen across the lawn as the gray clouds massed and blotted out the blue sky. The grass had been let to grow high, and I remembered what Mr. Lynch had said about the sheep. Perhaps there were too few now even to keep the grass cropped.
The sound of rushing water came to my ears, and then the horses’ hooves were drumming on a short wooden bridge spanning the river. This was a narrow channel, but as I peered out of the window I saw that it was indeed running high—and swiftly, to judge by the speed with which a twig was borne out of my sight along the surface of the green water.
As the coach drew up before the arched entranceway, an elderly male servant in faded livery appeared, followed by a slight girl in an apron and a plump woman with a chatelaine of keys at her waist. The manservant handed me down from the coach, and as Atticus and Mr. Lynch descended after me I distinctly heard a gasp.
When I looked at the housekeeper and maid, though, I could not tell which had gasped—or why. The little maid stood with her eyes downcast, and the housekeeper’s face was expressionless. Both now made their curtseys, and the older woman said, “Welcome, Lord and Lady Telford. I am Mrs. Furness.”
Atticus thanked her while I took her measure. In her forties, I judged, with graying fair hair drawn smoothly back beneath her white mob cap. Her voice was brisk, her eyes alert, and her straight posture gave me the sense that she had both herself and the household well under control. The comparative wildness of the grounds and the exterior was clearly no indicator that Thurnley Hall was managed by a slack hand.
“Mr. Lynch, I am sorry to say that your room is not ready for you,” she continued. “We did not receive word that you were arriving.”
“It was what you might call an impromptu decision,” he said in his mild voice. “I could not pass up the opportunity to meet the baron and baroness.”
“I’ll inform Mr. Burleigh of your arrival and ask Cook if she has any of your favorite pigeon pie. Lady Telford, are your servants following behind?”
“Not at present. A bit of an emergency detained them. Can any of your staff be spared to attend to my husband and me? We don’t take a great deal of attending to, I assure you.”
“Naturally. Ann here will see that you’re looked after, my lady.” As she ushered us through the arched stone entrance and into the great hall, I looked about us with curiosity. The two-story hall was centuries older than Gravesend, looking almost medieval in comparison. The floor was of flagstone, and the walls, too, were of stone, but of a creamy buff color. An enormous fireplace was the most notable feature, along with the stairway that ran along the near wall. The stair rail of dark wood put me in mind of a cathedral, as did the elaborately carved armchairs near the hearth. A great wheel-like chandelier, unlit at this hour, hung from the high half-timbered ceiling. I was so absorbed in examining my surroundings that I was caught off guard when Mrs. Furness said, “I’ve put you in the Cradle Room, my lady.”
“The what room?” I exclaimed before I could stop myself. Always at the edge of my mind hovered thoughts of the coming baby, and for a startled moment it was as though the housekeeper had seen into my mind and glimpsed my anxieties.
My interruption did not perturb her, fortunately. “It isn’t a nursery, my lady, but the oldest of the bedchambers, and it was named for a sixteenth-century bed and cradle that are original to the
house. Mr. Burleigh always puts his most distinguished guests there. I assure you, if you are concerned about its being spacious enough for you both, it will be quite adequate.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Hastily I sought a reason to request a change. “I had rather hoped that we could be put in the room that was my mother’s,” I said.
“Unfortunately, all of the furnishings were moved out of that room years ago.”
“Oh.” I glanced at Atticus, but his face was untroubled; evidently I was the only one who felt that the cradle would be a painful presence. “The Cradle Room will be fine,” I said.
“Excellent. As soon as you have had a chance to refresh yourselves, Mr. Burleigh will be pleased to welcome you.”
I’m sure he shall, I thought. After all this time, I was finally to meet my mother’s family… but I was far from certain that any of us would enjoy the experience.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Cradle Room proved to be a gloomy chamber made dark by the oak paneling and the great four-poster bed, whose headboard and canopy were carved in intricate designs. The central panel on the headboard depicted what seemed to be Adam and Eve being expelled from Eden by the angel with the flaming sword… not, I would have thought, a scene conducive to peaceful sleep. The namesake cradle at the foot of the bed was carved in more innocuous designs of wheat sheaves and flowers.
I averted my eyes from it as Ann, the little maid, helped me change my dress and tidy my hair. Great thought had gone into my choice of dresses when Henriette and I packed my trunks for the journey—far more than such a minor matter warranted. I had found myself wanting to impress upon my mother’s relatives how successfully I had made my way in the world despite their having abandoned her, to prove that they had not harmed or humbled us. I wanted to show that despite their neglect I was doing quite well for myself. At the same time, I resented my own wish to impress them. They had failed my mother, had shown she did not matter to them. Why should I care what they thought of me now? Yet I did care. I felt I had to prove myself somehow. For my mother’s sake more than my own, perhaps, but I could not let them think that they had won.
“Won what?” was Atticus’s perfectly reasonable question when I had described my dilemma to him the day before.
“I mean that I don’t want them to think that they broke my mother’s spirit or succeeded in destroying her life, if that was their intent.”
“I know your pride is smarting,” he said gently. “Mine would be as well, in your situation. But consider that they may wish to make amends. Perhaps they regretted the breach and had no way of healing it until now.”
It seemed ignoble of me to say what I felt—that they deserved to suffer for their treatment of my mother, as she had suffered. “Maybe I can forgive them,” I said finally. “If they show me they understand what they did to her and recognize that they did wrong. Without that, I cannot imagine wanting to have anything to do with them.”
Concern drew his auburn brows together. “I understand, of course. But you must realize that some people are just not capable of that kind of insight. Not everyone can comprehend the consequences of their actions.”
I had to hope that my mother’s family did. They were her blood, after all; surely they would regret having caused her pain. If not already, then perhaps after learning from me just how the years of my childhood had been spent. Perhaps they lacked imagination and needed me to fill in the missing years for them.
By the time Atticus emerged from behind the folding screen that set off his dressing area I was dressed in a new gown of taffeta finely striped in black and gold. Black velvet trim accented the underskirt, bodice, and cuffs, and an ivory faille inset at the bodice made it suitable for day. For dinner that evening, I would remove this dickey. I had no idea whether I would be overdressed or underdressed for what lay ahead, but this ensemble gave me courage and steadied my nerves. I knew that it looked distinguished—elegant without being fussy or running to any extreme of fashion—and, to judge from my husband’s expression when he saw me, it suited me very well.
“Will that be all, my lady?” Ann asked. She must have been no more than fifteen, with wide brown eyes and a great deal of wispy hair that refused to stay tidily in its bun. She said little, perhaps from shyness.
“Thank you, Ann, yes. You’ve made me quite splendid.”
“I heartily attest to that,” said Atticus, taking my hand. “If you would just show us where to find Mr. Burleigh?”
“Of course, your lordship!” She scurried to open the door and point down the passage. “He’ll be in the hall, awaitin’ you there. Do you need me to take you?”
Atticus assured her that we could find our way, and she curtseyed a farewell. We made our way down the hallway, the only sound being the creaking of the floorboards beneath our steps. When we approached the stair, I held Atticus back on the landing before we would emerge into view from the hall below. He looked questioningly at me when I drew him close, but he responded to my kiss with a ready enthusiasm.
“For courage,” I whispered as I released him.
His smile momentarily drove all anxiety from my mind. “You never need a reason, my love.”
Then, with my hand tucked in the crook of his arm, we descended into the great hall.
It was empty save for the figure of a stocky man who stood before the fireplace with his hands clasped behind his back. His feet were planted wide on the hearth as if he were establishing his ownership of the flagstones on which he stood, and the thought occurred to me that this might be a pose as theatrical as any of those struck by an actor in Sybil Ingram’s troupe.
He had a round head, nearly bald but for a short brush of gray hair. With his short neck and barrel-shaped body, he presented the impression of brute strength unrelieved by any civilizing influence. His bottle-green coat and checked waistcoat were a silent reproof to Atticus and me for dressing formally. As we drew into view he looked up and smiled broadly.
That smile was as long as it took for me to take a violent dislike to my uncle. Probably he meant it as a friendly expression of welcome. But somehow it struck me as gloating and avid, not at all suited to one family member’s greeting to another.
“Welcome!” he proclaimed as we neared. His eyes were small, even beady, and I did not like how they regarded me. “Welcome at last to the home of your ancestors, my dear Clara. I trust you don’t mind if I call you Clara? After all, we are such near relations.”
Somehow the sound of my name on his lips grated on my nerves like an iron file. “If it’s all the same to you,” I said, “I’d rather you didn’t.”
He drew in his chin, nonplussed. Then he gave a booming laugh. “Like to hear the sound of your title, do you, niece? Well, I can hardly blame you. Marrying a peer is quite an achievement.”
“It would have been less of one had my mother and I not been reduced to the level of servants,” I said tartly.
To my astonishment, instead of looking shamefaced or embarrassed, he let that great laugh loose again. Echoes bounced from the stone walls and rolled around the room like boisterous puppies. “You waste no time in pourparlers, do you, niece? Good, good. I prefer to speak plainly myself. Most women like to beat about the bush and mince words. I’m happy to find that you have a head on your shoulders. Lord Telford, sir, allow me to welcome you into the family. You’ve won yourself quite a prize in Cl—in your lovely bride.”
Atticus shook his hand. “I agree completely, sir. Thank you for inviting us into your home.”
“Not at all, not at all. Delighted to have such a distinguished nephew. I look forward to our further acquaintance. But just now”—and he grimaced—“you are expected most urgently by my mother.”
“She wishes to see us already?” I asked.
This time his laughter was more like a wry bark. “She has been impossible to live with ever since you accepted our invitation. Once she learned you’d arrived she has refused to take any rest or nourishment until she speaks with you. I won’t ke
ep you from her any longer, but I wanted to greet you first. And I wished also to warn you… that is, to prepare you.” He appeared to hesitate. “The fact is that she’s likely to say some strange things. Pay them no mind.”
“Has she been wandering in her wits?” I asked in surprise. Her letter had seemed rational enough.
He wavered, his small, close-set eyes avoiding mine. “I would not say that exactly,” he finally answered, “but she has strange fancies. She sometimes takes it into her head that—well, she may confuse stories with actuality.”
By that I supposed he meant that she was likely to say unflattering things about him. “We shall bear it in mind,” I said. “Does she wish to see us both?”
That toothy smile split his face again. “Oh, assuredly. She’s quite eager to assess the baron and determine whether he is worthy of inclusion into the family.”
“That suits me, for I am quite eager to set about charming her,” said Atticus amiably. “If you care to lead the way, sir?”
As my uncle conducted us to his mother’s room, he pointed out features of the house… or, more precisely, the lack of them. “This is where a desk once stood that was owned by Oliver Cromwell, it is said. Thurnley Hall is rumored to have a priest’s hole dating to those turbulent days.” And once, indicating a pale rectangle on the wall where a picture had evidently hung, “We used to have a rather nice Sir Joshua Reynolds there until the roof needed repairing. It leaves a sad gap in the collection.”
Old Mrs. Burleigh’s room was in the main building of the house, like the Cradle Room but on the opposite end. At the sound of our knock, a thin, imperious voice called, “Come in, and be quick about it!”
A glance told me that the room was even larger and grander than the one Atticus and I had been given. Here none of the riches had been despoiled: a tapestry hung on one wall, fine paintings on another, and the giant four-poster bed could have been the double of ours. But instead of a cradle at the foot there was an antique armchair, and in this chair was my grandmother. And she made the rest of the room dwindle in importance.
Cursed Once More: The Sequel to With This Curse Page 6