How strange, yet how fitting, that she would one day earn her living from the training her mother had given her. “Did she enjoy it?” I asked.
His booming laugh smote my ears. “Enjoy it! Not one whit, my girl—that is, my dear Lady Telford. She told me once that she would never be lady of the house. ‘It is a prison,’ she said. I can hear her now. ‘Thurnley Hall is a prison, and to be its lady is to never know freedom. I shall not be trapped here.’”
Overcome with sadness, I set my spoon down and stared at the tablecloth. How cruel that, running from one form of servitude, she had ended up doing much the same work but in another woman’s house and with even less freedom.
Atticus, probably guessing the direction of my thoughts, reached across to place his hand over mine. “She may have been grateful after all for her mother’s teachings,” he said gently. “They meant that she was able to keep you with her.”
I thanked him with a look. It was true—in many other occupations she would have had to leave me with strangers. At least we were both spared that. “Perhaps after all she preferred keeping another family’s house,” I reflected. “She could always walk away from it if she needed to.”
“What is that you say?” Mr. Burleigh interrupted. “Do you mean my sister worked for a living?”
“She did,” I said coolly. “After the death of my father, since she had no support from her own family, she had no choice.”
“Good God, I had no idea. When you said you’d been reduced to the level of servants, I though you were exaggerating, as women do.” At first I thought his shock was regret at having been unable to assist us, but his next words gave the lie to that idea. “No wonder our parents never spoke of her again. How humiliated they must have been.”
Honest work was nothing to be ashamed of, especially when there was no alternative, and I was about to inform him of this in blistering tones when Atticus squeezed my hand comfortingly. The gesture made me pause to take control of my tongue, and while I was composing myself Mr. Lynch turned the conversation into a new channel.
“This is why I do not understand your persistent desire for me to earn my living, sir,” the young man said to his guardian. “I’ve told you over and over that I would be happier here at Thurnley Hall, helping you manage the estate.”
His guardian grunted and gestured for Ann to refill his glass. “And as I have told you over and over, that is out of the question. How are you finding the work? Do you think cataloging manuscripts will hold your interest?”
Mr. Lynch shrugged. The motion looked so peculiar that again I wondered if there was something amiss with his shoulders other than the fit of his evening coat. “As much as any of the other positions you have procured for me, I suppose,” he said idly.
“That is to say, very briefly indeed. After I go to all the trouble to secure work for you, why do you insist on behaving as if it is all some great lark, which you may throw over the moment it ceases to entertain you?”
Atticus and I exchanged a glance. This was a startlingly personal topic of conversation, and I wondered if I should change the subject. But before I could, young Mr. Lynch was speaking again.
“Sir, you went to the trouble and expense to have me educated like a gentleman. To expect me now to earn my own keep strikes me as inconsistent, to say the least.” His voice remained mild, even a touch lazy, and the effect was to make my uncle’s face darken even further.
“I’ll not have you question me, you insolent puppy!”
Atticus looked as taken aback as I felt. Fortunately the housekeeper entered then with the dish of pigeon pie, and he said to her heartily, “Mrs. Furness, this soup is excellent. Please let Cook know how much we are enjoying it.”
“I’ll tell her, my lord,” the housekeeper said. “She’ll be ever so pleased.”
“Perhaps, if the recipe is not a family secret, she might consent to copy it out for our cook at Gravesend.”
“I shall ask her, sir.” In a lower voice she said to the maid, “The firewood is running low, girl. Tell Thomas to bring in more at once.”
“Thomas?” repeated my uncle, who evidently had sharp ears. “What is Grigore about that he cannot bring it in? It will take him only one trip, whereas Thomas will take three. As long as I have the expense of feeding the giant, let him at least earn his keep.”
Mrs. Furness smoothed down her apron nervously. “Grigore begs pardon, sir, but he would rather—that is, he is feeling—”
“For heaven’s sake, woman, speak up.”
“He’s afraid of Lord Telford, sir,” she said in a rush.
My uncle’s mouth dropped open. “Afraid! What the devil? Does he think the baron’s bad leg is contagious?”
Did the man possess no sensitivity at all? Seeing my indignation, Mr. Lynch stepped in to smooth things over.
“I think I can shed some light on that,” he said calmly. “When Grigore brought the coach to collect us from the station, he called the baron strigoi. He believes that his lordship is a revenant.” When none of us responded, he clarified with a mischievous smile. “A vampire.”
Atticus burst out laughing, but I was more perplexed than amused. “Why on earth would he think that of Atticus?”
“Grigore’s parents are Romanian, as I mentioned. There is a great deal of vampire folklore in that region—extending all the way through Austria-Hungary, Serbia, Styria, even Greece. Romanian legend has it that people with red hair and blue eyes are likely to be vampires. I beg your pardon, my lord, but that is what the lore relates.”
My husband shook his head, amused. In his elegant evening clothes, with his hair brushed smoothly back and the lamplight illuminating his aristocratic features, he could not have looked less like the ravening monster of myth. “Of all the things I have been called, vampire is a first.”
“My only knowledge of such things comes from the penny dreadfuls I read as a girl,” I said, “but I remember the vampires in those tales as being more saturnine than my husband.”
“Each country has its own superstitions, of course,” Mr. Lynch said. “English yarns are much more likely to take their cues from Polidori and Coleridge than from Middle Europe. Lord Telford, I suggest you bear these regional peculiarities in mind if you and your lady wife plan to travel in that area.”
“Aren’t spooks of that sort generally held to come out at night?” I asked. “Since Grigore met Atticus in daylight, why would he think him a vampire?”
“A great many vampires of both literature and folklore walk by day,” our expert informed me. “In some Romanian tales strigoi move about freely during the day. So you see, Grigore had logic on his side, after a fashion.”
Atticus chuckled. “I confess it is a novelty to be considered frightening. Of course, there has always been the curse dogging my footsteps, but that’s rather different.”
“Curse?”
I think all of us had forgotten my uncle, so diverting was the conversation, but his hoarse exclamation made us turn to look at him. He was staring at my husband in apprehension bordering on panic, and with both hands he clutched the table as if for support. As we watched, his eyes darted from Atticus to me in consternation. “How did you learn of it?” he demanded in a harsh whisper. “Did my mother say something? I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone with her. She’ll ruin everything…”
As we regarded him in startled silence, he seemed to realize that he had taken fright prematurely. He moistened his lips with his tongue, and his small, unpleasant eyes fixed on me again. “What did she tell you of the curse?” he asked, less urgently but with tension still evident in his voice.
“I think you must have misunderstood,” I said carefully. Until I knew him better, I found this new side of Mr. Burleigh to be alarmingly unpredictable. “My husband referred to what people call the Gravesend curse.”
“It is part of the Blackwood family history,” Atticus confirmed. He, too, regarded our host warily, but he spoke in a relaxed tone meant to ease the tension. “A bit
of bad luck bestowed upon us by a family forebear, that’s all. I don’t think it can be the same thing you mean.”
“No.” My uncle cleared his throat. “No, of course not. I—I misspoke. Where is that deuced Thomas with the firewood?”
If anything, though, he seemed to find the room too warm; he ran a finger around the inside of his high collar as if his stock was too tight. Mr. Lynch took advantage of the momentary silence to ask, “Is the Gravesend curse connected to the mystery of your brother’s supposed return from the dead, Lord Telford? One hears the most intriguing accounts, but of course there is much fiction to season the facts.”
His tone was merely interested, but the subject was still delicate for Atticus… and for me. “I’m sure you’ll understand if I wish to refrain from going into the whole story,” my husband said. “Personal family matters can be… trying.”
“The important thing,” I said lightly, “is that no member of the Blackwood line is, or has ever been, a vampire. Won’t you tell us more of your studies on the subject, Mr. Lynch?”
I suspected that he was disappointed to learn nothing from us, but he had the good manners to try to hide it. “Most willingly, Lady Telford,” he said with a charming smile. “But you see, there is such a wealth of lore that I could keep us here all night discussing the subject.”
“Pray do not,” his guardian rumbled warningly.
“I wouldn’t dream of it. I merely meant that, even when one narrows the focus to, say, the distinguishing characteristics of the vampire, they can still be astonishingly numerous and varied. Of course, there are certain constants that recur across many different regions. For example, any physical feature that is noticeably out of the ordinary can suggest a demonic or vampiric quality—even quite innocuous imperfections like the irregularity of my back and shoulders, which I believe you were observing just now, Lady Telford.”
“I do beg your pardon,” I exclaimed, startled. “I didn’t mean to stare.”
“Don’t worry, my lady.” His tone was as gentle as ever, so I could not tell if he was offended. “I have been accustomed to stares from the time that I was a small boy. My deformity seemed to fascinate and repel my schoolfellows.”
Understanding touched my husband’s eyes, and he nodded. “I know myself how cruel boys can be to those of us who appear at all different. You have my sympathy.”
“Please believe I had no such thought in my mind,” I said, alarmed that I might have caused the young man pain, however unintentionally. “It is simply that I used to be a seamstress, so I observe clothing. I thought there was asymmetry in the cut of your coat, and I was trying to determine the reason.”
“That is observant of you, Lady Telford. That tailoring reduces the visibility of my hunch.” His smile reassured me that he had not taken offense.
“A seamstress, eh?” my uncle mused. “That must save some money. Otherwise a gown like that would probably cost six months’ rent from one of my tenants.”
Embarrassed, I was struggling to form a response when Mr. Lynch said reprovingly, “Sir, what the baroness spends on her gowns is between her and her husband. With all the good works that she does, surely she can be permitted the harmless extravagance of dressing as befits her station.”
But my uncle seized on another uncomfortable point. “What happened to your being the widow of some wealthy American, eh? This is the first I’ve heard of your having been a seamstress.”
I hesitated. Atticus and I had ceased to maintain the fictitious background we had invented for me when I came to Gravesend as his bride. The gossip that spread after his father’s murder and the even greater scandals that had followed had damaged our respectability so much that it seemed pointless to whitewash my past. But I resented my uncle’s attitude. If it had been Mr. Lynch alone who was asking, I would not have minded telling him my whole story. As long as I could keep it from my snobbish uncle, however, I would do so.
“The past matters little now,” I said. “The important thing is my present occupation as wife to Lord Telford—and his advisor and assistant in his charitable work.”
My uncle brightened. “So you’re interested in charitable efforts, Lord Telford? I daresay you won’t find many charities more needy than the maintenance of this estate! I tell you, times are rough and no question. The lead mine is played out, my livestock are dying or being washed away by the river, and a full third of the estate’s income is tied up in my mother’s dower. My tenants are scattering to the factories—factories! Faugh! As if it weren’t bad enough that they steal all my workers and leave my fields to rot, they pump out this vile smoke that has spoiled all the beauty of my house! I tell you, I wish I could burn the lot to the ground.”
To this tirade Atticus said mildly, “I’m afraid that would probably increase the amount of soot in the air rather than reducing it.”
There was a moment of uncomprehending silence before my uncle laughed heartily. “You have me there, Telford. But I hope it’s relief for the landowners who are suffering in this agricultural depression that you are about in this charity work of yours.”
“No, it isn’t. I agree that it is important for us to pay close attention to the difficulties faced by our tenants, and I am on the point of hiring another agent to make certain that my farmers always have someone close at hand to bring their problems to.” He touched his napkin to his mouth and placed it next to his plate. “My chief projects are the Blackwood Homes.”
Unexpectedly, Mr. Lynch chimed in. “I’ve read about your endeavors in the Times. The Blackwood Homes offer shelter and vocational training to unattached women in distress, do they not?”
“Exactly. Soon there will also be a school, which will house and teach their children.”
My uncle gave one of his barking, incredulous laughs.
“Homes for whores and their brats? You are having a jest, Telford.”
“I assure you I am not.” Atticus’s voice had cooled, but our host did not know him well enough to recognize that as a warning.
“How can you possibly be in earnest? These creatures bring their fate on themselves, you know. Let them pay the price for their sin—let them be shunned by decent folk as they deserve to be. As for training them up in a vocation—” He gave a derisive snort. “No daughter of Eve ever needed to be taught to spread her legs, my lord.”
I gave a wordless exclamation of disgust, not merely at his crudeness but also at his revolting attitude toward his fellow creatures. I noticed that Mrs. Furness stood listening by the sideboard. Still as a stone she was, but her lips were pressed together so firmly that they had gone white, and her nostrils were pinched. Mr. Burleigh’s words had angered her as well.
“There are ladies present, sir.” My husband’s voice was quietly ominous.
“What have I said to shock any decent female?” my uncle expostulated. “Women know their own. They are as quick as anyone to cast stones when one of them transgresses. It is how they prove their own virtue.” He sat back in his chair, puffing out his chest as if he were handing down a verdict of great insight and sagacity. “Tolerance of sin is a weakness,” he declared, punctuating the point with an aggressive forefinger. “An abominable weakness! And this so-called charity of yours will do nothing but make the plague of loose women worse.”
I had heard quite enough from him about my sex, and Mr. Lynch must have felt the same, for he coughed in a pointed manner. “Sir, we are scarcely making our guests feel at ease,” he said mildly. “This is probably not the reception the baroness expected in the home of her ancestors.”
Mr. Burleigh’s face darkened at this correction, and for a moment I think he was on the point of roaring his ward to silence. Then a glance at my face seemed to give him pause. He said more quietly, “I beg pardon, I’m sure. But on the subject of ancestry, why, may I ask, is it a better use of charity to pay for the keeping of strangers and not your own family?”
I said shortly, “These unfortunates have nothing—which is, I believe, little wor
se than my mother’s position when your parents chose to shut their doors to her. Why should my husband and I contribute to the welfare of the very people who abandoned her?”
“But we are blood!” he practically shouted, bringing his fist down on the table with a force that made the plates jump. “That must count for something. Indeed, it should count for everything.”
After the noisy outburst, my husband’s quiet words sounded distinct in the silence. “Blood bonds are no guarantee of bona fides,” he said, and I knew he was thinking of Richard, who had killed their father and tried to do the same to Atticus.
My uncle, probably unaware of this dark history, would not be deterred. “Look at where you are now, though. The two of you might never have known each other had my parents not cast Miriam off, as you put it, niece. You might have grown up here at Thurnley Hall, learning to scrimp and save and being forced into the sordid contemplation of money in a way most unsuited to your birth. Instead, you have made a fine marriage and gained a secure place in society. You are more than comfortably housed, dressed, and fed, and you have the freedom not to concern yourself with making ends meet. You are far better off for having been barred from your mother’s home.”
Astonishment at his gall stupefied me. I stared at his red face with its jowls trembling with outrage and wondered how this man could possibly be my kin. “Are you saying,” I demanded, “that I owe a debt to you?”
His mouth opened and then closed again. Faced with the bald meaning of his own words, he could not own up to them.
Swiftly I pushed my chair back from the table, and the men stood automatically as I rose. “I’ll bid you good evening,” I said shortly, speaking more to Mr. Lynch than to my uncle, the sight of whom I felt I could no longer tolerate. “I find myself indisposed for further conversation.”
Cursed Once More: The Sequel to With This Curse Page 8