Cursed Once More: The Sequel to With This Curse

by Amanda DeWees

  “Now, now, don’t get in a pet,” my uncle exclaimed. “If I spoke out of turn, I can only apologize. I assure you, I had no intention of offending you.” He turned to Atticus in appeal. “Lord Telford, please stop your wife. I meant no harm by what I said.”

  Atticus regarded him without warmth. “My wife goes where and when she wishes,” he said. “Clara’s decisions are her own.”

  “Blast it! I’m too impulsive, I admit it. That’s one of the Burleigh failings.” He laughed as if he had made a joke, but no one seemed amused, so he tried another tack. “Very well, I promise to curb my tongue,” he said grudgingly. “Now won’t you stay?”

  Looking at Atticus gave me no suggestion as to the action I should take: he was waiting to take his cue from me, no doubt because this was my family rather than his. As I hesitated, Mr. Lynch’s low voice fell soothingly on my frayed nerves.

  “Please, Lady Telford, stay for dessert at least. Cook is so proud of her plum dumplings, and she’s making them especially to welcome you. Her feelings would be terribly hurt if you did not at least try them.” His lips quirked in a conspiratorial smile. “And Cook is rather temperamental, it must be said. When her feelings are wounded she is likely to visit any number of inedible horrors upon us for days on end.”

  I wanted to fling my napkin down like a gauntlet and stalk away. But instead, after an inner struggle, I resumed my seat. “Very well,” I said shortly. I did not want to spoil the cook’s kind gesture… even though it meant enduring more of my uncle’s odious comments.

  But he seemed to have learned his lesson, for he turned the conversation to more anodyne topics for the rest of the evening. Mr. Lynch did his part to keep things light and pleasant, for which I was grateful.

  Nevertheless, I retired as early as I reasonably could. The reason I gave was the rigors of the day, but the truth was that I was feeling a most unfamilial urge to kick my uncle in the shins, and I was not certain how much longer I could suppress it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Atticus lingered with the other men for brandy and cigars, but he did not tarry long before joining me in our room. Almost as soon as the door shut behind him, I burst out, “What a dreadful man my uncle is!”

  “He is certainly far from the ideal dining companion.” Atticus slipped off his coat and replaced it with his maroon dressing gown as he spoke. “As infuriating as his views are, though, they are not unusual for men of his standing and background. You know how widespread that unenlightened perspective on women is.”

  “That’s true, but he revolts me.” I was too restless to settle, and Atticus watched me from the divan as I paced back and forth.

  “And me as well,” he said, “but consider that he probably hurts himself more than he hurts anyone else.”

  “Perhaps,” I allowed. “With no wife or daughter to feel the brunt of his prejudices, at least the damage he can do is limited.” As often happened, talking a matter out with Atticus helped me find a measure of calm. I ceased pacing and sat down beside him on the divan, and was rewarded when he put his arm around my waist and drew me close. “You are so much kinder and more forgiving than I am,” I said.

  That made him smile, although there was resignation in the lift of his eyebrows. “Not at all. I want to horsewhip him from one end of Yorkshire to the other. I merely know from experience that it’s difficult, if not impossible, to change the minds of men whose opinions are as deeply entrenched as his.”

  My anger revived as another memory surfaced. “And he is so grasping. It outrages me that after what his parents did to my mother he thinks I shall meekly turn the other cheek and give him money, to boot!”

  He gave a low chuckle and pressed his lips to my temple. “My love, I don’t think that anyone who has spent more than five minutes with you would make the mistake of considering you meek. But it’s true that these are difficult times for your uncle and others like him.”

  Thinking of the litany of troubles my uncle had listed made me sigh. They were no less valid for coming from that source. Now, looking down at the black and gold taffeta of my gown, I felt shamefaced. His speculation about its cost had touched home—the money might have gone far toward replacing his lost livestock, or for a new greatcoat for his ward. But giving him money outright would feel like rewarding him for being what he was.

  I finally said, “I think what upsets me most is that I am disappointed. And I fear you are disappointed as well.”

  He tipped my chin up so that he could look into my eyes, and the tender concern in his face eased my anxiety. “My love, it is you I am married to, not—I rejoice to say it—Mr. Burleigh.”

  That mental picture won a smile from me. “I’m very glad of that myself.”

  “I’m sorry you are finding this reunion less than you hoped it might be, though. We can leave any time you desire.”

  Just having the freedom to leave made it feel less urgent to do so. “I must spend more time with my grandmother,” I said. “She has not yet told me what this great secret is that is weighing on her. And I want to learn more from her about my parents.”

  “Yes, you mustn’t let yourself be diverted from that. This visit may yet prove to be precious to you.”

  No one could help me through turmoil of mind better than Atticus. His embrace enfolded me in comfort and security, and gratitude flooded my heart at having such a husband. “Thank you for coming here with me,” I said.

  “I know you’re strong enough to face anything alone, but I’m happy if I’m able to make it easier,” he said softly.

  “You do. Everything is easier when I face it with you.” Calmer now, I rested my head against his shoulder. “Do you think me very terrible for not wanting to help my uncle?”

  “Not terrible at all.” His warm, husky voice soothed me as much as his words. “You have a strong sense of the injustice done your mother, as any proper daughter would. And I happily admit that the idea of letting your uncle live off us, considering his selfishness and backward thinking, goes against the grain for me as well.” He tucked a stray tendril of my hair behind my ear. “However,” he said softly, “he made a good point in saying that the actions of his father, however cruel, did set in motion the events that led you to Gravesend… and to me. I am selfish enough to be grateful for that. The thought that we might never have met is unbearable to me.”

  “To me as well,” I whispered. The knowledge that he and I might not be together now but for a tenuous web of circumstance made me shiver.

  “Perhaps you should sleep on the matter,” he suggested. “Your happiness means a great deal to me, and I would hate for you to make a decision in haste that you might regret later. Morning is soon enough to take up your trouble of mind again.”

  “How did you become such a sage?” I teased.

  His smile was peaceful. “I merely want what is best for you, my love.”

  “As I do for you,” I said, touched, “even though you might not think it from my having brought you to this place.”

  He shook his head gently. “Clara, no one is keeping score. Did I not tell you that you are my sanctuary? You and I help each other all the days of our life together.”

  At that, I drew his face down toward mine to kiss him. As wonderful as it was that he took such pleasure in being my staunch support and comforter, it made me even happier that he could lean on me as well in his turn when occasion arose. For the years before my marriage, my primary concern had been simply keeping myself fed and sheltered. But as Atticus’s wife, I had a higher purpose: giving back to him all the love and strength and encouragement that he lavished on me.

  Soon, indeed, I would have a purpose higher still… but whether Atticus would find it a joy or a burden was a question I could not yet answer.

  The thought unsettled me enough that I freed myself from his arms and went to the dressing table, ostensibly to remove my jewelry. In truth, I feared that with his keen insight into my moods he would intuit my thoughts and raise the one topic I was still u
nprepared to confront.

  “I noticed your leg seemed to be giving you trouble earlier,” I said to change the subject. “If you like, I can rub it with liniment.”

  “It’s just a bit stiff, that’s all. Probably we’ll have rain soon.” He stretched his leg experimentally and added, “If it doesn’t improve, I may go for a walk.”

  I replaced my amber earrings in their case and unfastened the catch of the matching necklace. It was not nearly as impressive as the Telford collar, but I had judged that pigeon’s-blood rubies would be too ostentatious for this visit. The impulse had definitely been the right one: I could imagine how it would have infuriated my uncle had I declined to give him money while wearing a small fortune around my throat. Were I in his place I would have had much the same reaction, I had to admit.

  As I drew the necklace away from my throat, I was perplexed to see a small red mark on my skin. “I shall have to see about getting this repaired,” I said. “I think it has scratched me. One of the prongs must have bent.”

  He came over to see and touched the scratch with a gentle fingertip. “As toothsome as you are, I’m not surprised if even your jewelry wishes to take a bite out of you.”

  “Ridiculous man.” But he had made me laugh for the first time during this wearing evening.

  “It isn’t ridiculous to say that you are delicious, for you are.” He lifted my hair off my neck and stooped to put his lips to my skin. Then the light touch of his teeth made me start. “You are reason enough for any man to turn vampire,” he said into my throat. Even though his voice was muffled, I could hear the note of amusement.

  I reached up to caress his hair, but the laughing reply that was on my lips died when I heard a choking cry. In the mirror I saw the horrified face of Ann, who had just opened the door and now stood frozen on the threshold. It was clear from her expression what she thought she was seeing.

  “Ann, don’t be alarmed—” I began.

  But the door banged shut behind her, and the sound of running footsteps receded down the corridor.

  I ought to be ashamed to say that Atticus and I promptly burst into laughter. Even if we had had any inkling of how serious the matter really was, we would not have believed it. After all, how could moldy superstitions of impossible creatures like vampires harm us?

  When we had composed ourselves I rang for the housekeeper and explained what had happened. To judge by the length of time it took Ann to return to my room, Mrs. Furness must have had to do a great deal of persuading, but the maid finally returned to help me undress. She kept casting nervous glances at the screen behind which Atticus had retreated, and more than once I had to prompt her to unfasten something. Finally, though, I was ready to climb into the antique bed, beneath the coverlet of which she had placed a hot brick to warm the sheets.

  “You do understand, don’t you,” I said gently, “that there are no such things as monsters who crawl out of graves to drink our blood?”

  She nodded, but she would not look at me, and I feared that she was merely humoring me. I stifled a sigh. “Very good. What time does Mrs. Burleigh rise in the morning?”

  “At seven, my lady. Shall I wake you then as well?”

  “If you please. That will be all for tonight, Ann, thank you.”

  She withdrew as quickly as she could without being rude, and Atticus emerged to draw the heavy brocade curtains of the bed. “This is quite cozy,” he remarked as he pulled the covers over us and drew me close. “In fact, what a perfect solution to our difficulty at Gravesend. If we had a curtained bed, we would have all the privacy we needed.”

  “It is like our own little room within the room,” I agreed. The heavy draperies shut out the draft, and between the hot brick to warm my feet and my husband to warm the rest of me, I felt quite snug. Perhaps Thurnley Hall had its good points after all.

  Then, as my husband’s lips found mine, I revised that theory. It was not that the destination had improved upon acquaintance, but that my traveling companion rendered any location better. In my husband’s arms I let go of all troubling thoughts of the day before. Indeed, in the sweetness of his embrace I let go of thought altogether.

  Next morning I set out for my grandmother’s room as soon as I thought she might be finished breaking her fast, reasoning that at this early hour she would be at her most alert—and Mr. Burleigh less likely to be present. But as soon as the thin voice bade me enter and I opened the door, I found that I had been mistaken: my uncle stood by the windows, arms folded across his barrel chest, as if he were a guard assigned to protect his mother from hostile intrusions.

  Behind him, rivulets of rain streamed down the glass. Atticus’s prophecy had come true.

  My grandmother was in bed today rather than in the chair, and I wondered with some anxiety whether that meant she was feeling weaker. She wore a bed jacket clasped at the throat with her cameo, and she was propped up on pillows so that she was nearly sitting upright. “There you are, child,” she said. “I had expected you earlier than this.”

  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” I said politely, while I wondered how I was supposed to have intuited her wishes. “I hope you’re well today?”

  “She is very weak this morning,” my uncle informed me. “I mean to make certain she does not overtire herself during your visit.”

  “Horace, you interfering clod, I’ve told you a dozen times to go.” The old lady’s voice was peevish, and I could not blame her. “There is no harm at all in leaving me and my granddaughter to converse in privacy.”

  He shook his round head vigorously. “On no account, Mother. I’ll not leave myself open to accusations later that I neglected my duty by you.”

  The old lady sighed. “You see how it is, Clara. He is afraid I’ll tell you something that will drive you away and make you reluctant to own us as your family.”

  “He has made a capital start at that himself,” I said dryly, and took a mean pleasure in the red flush that spread over my uncle’s face. He started to defend himself, but my grandmother cut him off with a laugh.

  “Yes, that is just like Horace. No more tact than a wild boar. There is no real harm in him, though.”

  “I’m sure,” I said, but only to be polite. “His ward has been doing his best to act as peacemaker, however.”

  The old lady’s eyes sharpened. “What’s that?” she exclaimed. “Is Victor here, Horace? You neglected to tell me that.”

  My uncle’s jaw tightened briefly, but his voice betrayed no anger when he said, “I must have forgotten in my pleasure at meeting my niece and her husband. Yes, he is stopping here briefly to meet the baron and baroness. I’m certain that at any moment he’ll return to his duties at Coventry.”

  “He must not do so without coming to see me first. Do you hear, Horace? I insist upon it.”

  Her voice carried so much force that he nodded, though with clear reluctance.

  The old lady gave a sigh as if the effort of exerting her authority had taxed her. “Come, child, sit by the bed that I need not raise my voice,” she said to me in a milder tone. “But before you do, fetch that daguerreotype from my bureau.”

  The bureau surface was covered with treasures that must have been accumulated over her long life: delicate blown-glass perfume flacons, a large jewel case ornamented with enameled flowers, silver-backed brushes, ivory combs, and framed miniatures, both paintings and photographs. But there was no question what daguerreotype she meant: I recognized my mother’s face at once.

  She must have been only sixteen or seventeen, for she still wore her hair down. It fell past her shoulders, far more tidily than mine had ever behaved. Her dress was in a floral pattern with a lace collar, more festive apparel than I had ever seen her wear. Rather to my surprise, her expression was serious. Or perhaps determined was a better word. Despite my uncle’s account I had hoped that I would find her carefree and smiling during the years before she had lost first her home and then my father, but now I was forced to wonder: had her girlhood been fr
aught with conflict with her parents? Or consumed by some inner life that they knew nothing of? Looking at the dark eyes that gazed out at me with such intensity from the photograph, I had to conclude that my mother was still very much a mystery to me.

  “What was she like?” I asked, and I was unable to entirely quell a wistful note in my voice.

  My grandmother’s laugh turned quickly into a cough, and I had to wait for the spell to pass. She took a sip of water from the glass I held out to her, then sighed and rested her head against the pillow. “Willful,” she said. “She took after me in that respect. We rarely agreed, and she hated more than anything to give in. It’s that stubbornness that led her to elope, I’m certain of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “As soon as she learned that she would never be permitted to marry—she and Horace both—she would not give me a moment’s peace on the subject. She pestered the life out of me for a solid fortnight.” She paused to catch her breath, and I could hear a slight rasp in her throat. “She would have pestered her father, too, except that the first time she questioned him on the subject he boxed her ears. I would never raise a hand to her, but I could not answer her questions either. Perhaps that is why it happened.”

  My fists clenched at the thought of my mother being struck by her father, but I forced myself to ask, “How did it happen?”

  Her hands made a fitful gesture against the counterpane. “It is so long ago, I don’t recall exactly.”

  “I think you do,” I said evenly.

  Her eyes met mine, and in a moment she gave a sad little smile. “How like her you are,” she said, almost to herself.

  “It is just as well that I am, for she never let anything get the better of her.” Nothing except death, I silently added.

  She moved restlessly against the pillows, and I rearranged them to better support her head. “Thank you, child,” she said when I was done. “I believe Horace has told you how impatient your mother was with the life she was born into, of being mistress of an estate.”