Cursed Once More: The Sequel to With This Curse

by Amanda DeWees

  “How horrible,” I said, and took the cameo from him to examine it again. The weeping figure in her classical garb and diadem was hunched in utter despair beside what I now saw to be a faintly sketched plot of earth. “Only one grave,” I observed. “But perhaps the artist felt it would have been impractical to try to crowd the other eleven into so small a space. So this brooch might have been created to commemorate a child that died.”

  “Quite possibly. But whose?”

  I turned the brooch over, and on the back of the gold frame was engraved the date 20 December 1815. “It is a puzzle,” I agreed. “The date is well after Grandmama’s marriage, but no one ever mentioned that she had any children but my mother and my uncle. Perhaps the subject carries no special significance and she simply thought it was beautiful.” And now she was dead and it was in my keeping… thanks to my uncle. My uncle, who might have killed her. What was my responsibility in such a situation? Should I have insisted upon going back for the doctor—or a constable?

  I did not realize how long I had been silent, staring into the flames, until my husband’s voice brought me out of my reverie. He said gently, “You have had a grueling day. Shall I brush your hair for you?”

  “That would be lovely, Atticus. Thank you.”

  He seated himself behind me on the divan, and soon I could feel his fingers working gently in my hair, finding and removing the pins that held it in its coil. As he drew each one from my hair, I felt a sense of relief, a release of tension. But only tension of the body. My troubled mind and heart were not yet willing to be calmed.

  As he began to draw the brush through my hair, I realized that sitting thus, when he could not see my face, I had the courage to broach the grotesque suspicion that haunted me. I knew that he would never be deliberately unkind to me, but still I feared the unintended minute flash of horror that I could entertain so dreadful a suspicion. Yet I had to tell him. He would know whether I was right to be afraid or whether there might be some benign explanation that would ease my anguish.

  “Atticus?”

  “Yes, my love?”

  I took a deep breath. “I’m very much afraid that Mr. Burleigh may have killed my grandmother.”

  There was only the briefest pause before the hairbrush resumed its slow, soothing rhythm. “What makes you think that?”

  He spoke so reasonably, without any trace of censure, that my courage grew. Anything that troubled me would receive his most serious attention, as I knew by now.

  “He acted so strangely when Mr. Lynch and I came upon him,” I said. “I wish you had been there to see him. He seemed horrified, shaken—nearly undone.”

  “I can well imagine guilt showing itself that way.” He fell silent for a moment, and the only sound was the sibilance of bristles moving over my hair. Each stroke of the hairbrush seemed to draw tension out of my body, releasing minute aches and pangs that I had not even been conscious of. “But might it not have been the reaction of an innocent person who stumbles upon the sight of his parent’s lifeless body?”

  “It might,” I admitted. “What would I not give to know for certain! I wish the doctor had come to examine her. Why do you suppose he refused?”

  “That struck me as odd as well. I suppose he was so familiar with your grandmother’s condition that he felt entirely confident declaring the cause of death from Lynch’s letter—”

  “—which was written by my uncle.”

  “Indeed. I should like very much to know what the letter said.”

  I felt the same. It was appalling to think of my uncle not only committing murder but deliberately covering his tracks by writing a false account to the doctor. Again I had to gather the courage to speak my worst fear. “If I had not been so reluctant to offer him financial help,” I said haltingly, “perhaps he would not have been driven to such a measure. He himself told us that her dower diverted a third of the estate’s income away from him.”

  My husband’s voice was soothing against the faint susurration that the hairbrush made. “You have no reason to reproach yourself, Clara. You didn’t force him to take any action. And motive and appearances alone are a long way from the fact of murder. Remember that not very long ago, appearances made it look as though I killed my father.”

  That brought a tiny spark of hope, but it died all too soon. “No one who knows you would imagine for a moment that you could do something so vile. Whereas my uncle…” I pictured him at dinner that first evening, red-faced, jowls trembling, pounding the table as he spewed vitriol. He was someone whom I could envision committing murder.

  And what was even more frightening was that this man was my near relation. Did that mean I had inherited that capacity as well? Even if I was not quite capable of that worst of acts, moreover, I might have inherited qualities that were nearly that disturbing. “My grandmother was not exactly loveable,” I said. “She could be spiteful and selfish and a bit of a bully, just like him.”

  “Age and illness may have played a part in that,” Atticus observed. “We were not seeing her at her best.”

  True enough. From what she told me, however, I had the impression that even my mother had not been all that I wished her to have been. A rebellious child who eloped to spite her parents—this was not the heritage I wanted. “Do you think I’m like them?” I asked, even as I feared the answer.

  But with Atticus I never needed to fear. He said at once, “You are like yourself, my love.”

  I turned to beam at him, and he kissed my lips before gently turning my head back so that he could resume brushing my hair. “Mind you, I understand how you feel,” he said in a new voice, an almost somber one. “It still sickens me that my own brother had the capacity and the will to commit murder.” The motion of the hairbrush stilled for a moment. “He was my twin, practically my other self. It raises doubts in my mind about the kind of man I am.”

  “There is no doubt whatever in my mind,” I said fiercely, turning to face him once more so that he could see my conviction. “It doesn’t matter what your parents or your brother were. You are entirely different.”

  A faint smile touched his mouth, and he set the hairbrush aside. “That is what I am saying about you,” he told me, taking my hand. “You are gloriously, completely yourself, not some derivative of those who happen to share your bloodline.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I said. But my gaze slid away from his face and over his shoulder to the shadowed part of the room. The antique cradle crouched there at the foot of the bed, the foreboding reminder that no matter what pretty fantasies Atticus and I spun about my character and my heritage, neither of us could truly know what I might pass on to our child—or what kind of mother I would prove to be.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The next day brought the arrival of a solicitor who was to go over the disposal of property with my uncle. For the next few days, they were closeted together for long periods, joined by Atticus, who was lending his wisdom and experience to my uncle. As grateful to him as I was for this sacrifice, it left me alone for much of the time, and I would have fallen prey to loneliness without two pursuits: sewing and seeking more information about my mother.

  There was little enough of the latter, unfortunately. I continued to prowl through the books in the library, and I made a thorough investigation of the empty room that Mrs. Furness said had belonged to her. I thought some signs of her tenancy might remain, even if it was no more than her initials scratched into the windowsill. But it was as if my mother had never set foot in the house—exactly the impression that her father had evidently wished to create.

  Sewing gave my mind and hands something constructive to do, but it was still a solitary occupation. The drawing room seemed to be one of the least-used rooms in the house, and it more than any other I had seen spoke of the diminishing of the Burleigh family’s stature and fortunes. The room had been redecorated in the last century, so that instead of the heavy, antique carved oak pieces from Cavalier days it boasted spindly, delicate rococo confectio
ns with a great deal of gilt, painted porcelain, and tufted satin. Sadly, these pieces had not endured the passage of time as hardily as the older furnishings. The satin cushions and hangings were faded and torn, the gilt patchy with mildew. The ornately framed mirror that hung over the mantel was blotched and misty, yielding a reflection that made me flinch away and resolve not to look again. No doubt death was too much on my mind, but the vision of my face in that mirror made me think of decay and corruption.

  Sewing improved my spirits somewhat, for it always gave me satisfaction to see something tangible take form under my hands. First I ran up a new black waistcoat for Atticus to be worn with the black suit coat that Sterry had providentially packed for him. Then I began work on the truly challenging garment: the new frock coat for Mr. Lynch. I had just finished the long side seams of the toile when the sound of my name spoken directly behind me made me practically leap from my chair.

  “Mr. Lynch!” I pressed my hand against my bodice as if I could force my heart to slow to its normal pace. “You startled me,” I said inadequately.

  He put his hand to his heart in an unintentional echo of my gesture. “I am so sorry, my lady,” he said gently, his dark eyes dwelling with mild concern on my face. “I hadn’t realized that the noise of the machine covered my footsteps.”

  “It does make a racket,” I said. I was still flustered at having been so badly startled. “Did you wish to speak with me?”

  “Mrs. Furness said that you needed me for a fitting. If this is an inconvenient time—”

  “No, this is perfect.” I raised the presser foot, drew the fabric away from the machine, and snipped the threads. I had fashioned the toile from black broadcloth so that it could double as the coat lining. “Here you are. As soon as I’ve made certain the shoulders are right, I can add the sleeves and check them for length.”

  He took the toile from me and drew one slender hand across the fabric, feeling the texture. “I really cannot thank you enough,” he said. When he spoke softly like this, his voice was almost musical. I wondered with an inward smile if he had many young women pining over him back in Coventry. His poetic quality had probably stirred many a feminine heart. “Your kindness overwhelms me.”

  “Oh, heavens,” I said, embarrassed. “It makes me feel useful.”

  “Still. I thank you a thousand times, Lady Telford.” He made a neat bow. “I shall return at once and tell you how it fits.”

  “Wait!” I exclaimed with a laugh. “That will not do. I need to see the thing on you to fit it properly. Do you mind trying it on here?”

  He hesitated for a moment, and in a rush of understanding I realized that he must be reluctant to let me see his shoulders’ asymmetry without the disguise of his coat. Or perhaps he was equally concerned that anyone who passed by the door would see him thus. Almost at once I decided there would be no harm in closing the door. It could not be scandalous since we were practically family.

  “I’ll just shut the door and give us some privacy,” I said, turning away from him. I moved unhurriedly, even stopping to pretend to examine a knickknack, to give him time enough to don the toile so that he would have at least that much covering over his shirt and waistcoat.

  When at last I closed the door and turned around, he had removed his coat and put on the toile, which looked like some kind of strange clerical garb against the snowy white of his shirt. He stood staring directly ahead, very straight and stiff, like a soldier at attention… or like someone bracing himself for a blow. “I am sorry that you have to see this, my lady,” he said in a low voice.

  This was the clearest view I had yet had of what he called his hunch, and I did not think it such a great abnormality. The unevenness of his shoulders was not at all severe. Clever use of padding would make it almost invisible except for the roundness of his upper back.

  “Why, there’s nothing to apologize for,” I said, but the tension in his face did not abate until I stepped close to him and began tugging the toile into place, smoothing it over his shoulders, and examining the effect.

  The fact that I touched him unhesitatingly must have been significant to him, for when he next spoke his voice was almost inaudible with amazement. “You don’t find me repulsive?” he almost whispered.

  “Good heavens, no! What a thing to say.”

  But he was gazing at me with wonder in his eyes. Was it truly so astonishing that I did not shrink from him in horror? I wondered what terrible reactions he had endured in the past to make him so skittish now. I said firmly, “A bit of padding will do the trick, I should think. Really, it is scarcely noticeable at all.”

  “Perhaps you are accustomed to deformity,” he said, and now his voice was pensive. “Because of the baron’s.”

  “I don’t think of my husband as having a deformity.” I tucked some cotton wadding under the toile on the side of the lower shoulder and stood back to gauge the effect.

  “Truly? You are a remarkable woman, Clara.”

  I laughed. “Hardly.”

  “No, it’s true. Most people…” He did not finish the thought, and I could only guess what unpleasant memories must be gathering in his mind.

  “Never mind most people,” I said briskly. “Those who are governed by ignorance and prejudice are not worth a snap of your fingers.” The recollection of Mathilde Munro and the scars she had inflicted on Atticus lent my words conviction, if not outright asperity.

  He continued to stand perfectly still while I pinned and adjusted and repinned. I had never had so patient and obedient a mannequin. “Sewing must be a lonely occupation,” he said presently, and it pleased me to hear his voice sounding relaxed and normal again. “Scarcely anyone ever ventures into this part of the house. Has no one offered to read to you while you sew? Some Trollope might be a congenial companion.”

  It took me a startled moment before I realized he was naming the author rather than referring to the unlucky type of woman whom we welcomed at the Blackwood Homes. I hid a smile at my misinterpretation but said only, “That’s very kind of you. I’m afraid the noise of the machine would be a constant interruption, though.”

  I smoothed the fabric down over his chest to make it lie properly and realized abruptly that our respective positions were rather intimate. It was a foolishly conventional thought, but once in my mind it would not be dislodged. I was standing so close to Mr. Lynch that if he but bent his head a little he could whisper directly into my ear.

  He would never take advantage of this closeness, I was certain, but I nevertheless stepped back and directed him, “Turn around, please, so that I can see how it lies in back.”

  Obediently he did so. Suddenly I realized that this might be the perfect opportunity to inquire whether he shared my suspicions of his guardian. It would be a delicate subject to broach, but I would be so much easier in my mind if I knew whether my terrible theory had any grounds. When I had asked Atticus his advice, he had recommended that I not act on my suspicions until I acquired evidence pointing one way or the other. But this was difficult to come by. Mr. Lynch might prove to be a valuable source of information.

  “Mr. Burleigh has certainly been much occupied with estate matters,” I began. “When I do catch a glimpse of him, he seems greatly troubled in mind.”

  There was a moment’s silence before Mr. Lynch said, “Naturally he would be feeling the loss of his mother.”

  The words were not rebuking as much as guarded. I would tread a bit further and see whether he would be more forthcoming. “He was certainly in terrible distress when we encountered him that morning,” I said. “It was almost as if there were something besides my grandmother’s death that had unsettled him.”

  Another pause. “What do you suppose it might have been?” he asked, again in that tone that gave no clue as to his feelings.

  I decided to take the gamble of being open with him. “It was no secret that he needed money badly, and that his mother’s dower was part of the cause. In such a situation, when she was so ill already, with b
ut a few months to live…” I took a breath. My heart was hammering in my throat with apprehension at my own daring. “One can understand why he would have been greatly tempted to—to hasten nature in its course.”

  He went perfectly still. For the space of four heartbeats he gave no sign that he had even heard except for his unnatural stillness, as if he had turned to stone. Then, slowly, he turned to face me.

  He seemed paler, and his dark eyes were almost shocking in contrast. I had feared that he would wear a face like thunder and would hail condemnation down upon me for speaking as I had, but it was perplexity, not anger, that contracted his brow. “Are you certain?” he whispered in a bewildered voice. “Would he really have done such a thing—to his own mother?”

  “I don’t know,” I hastened to say. “Indeed, I have no certainty whatever.” My voice had fallen to a whisper as well. “But his manner seemed so guilty that the suspicion has lodged in my heart, and I cannot move it.” When he didn’t speak, I bit my lip in remorse. “I should not have spoken of it,” I said. “Please forgive me for saying such things. It was a mad idea.”

  But now his eyes were turning pensive, and I could almost see the thoughts passing behind his eyes. “He has decided against a viewing,” he mused. “Did you know? And he was adamant that he would not let you say a last goodbye to her.”

  “Yes! As if he were afraid that someone would see a sign that her death was not natural.” I darted a look at the door to make certain it was still closed, and continued breathlessly. “Mrs. Furness herself prepared the body, when usually a woman in the village is brought in for that purpose.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Do you think Mrs. Furness is in his confidence?”

  “In his power, more likely,” I said grimly. “She would not quite admit to it, but I can well imagine how vulnerable a position she is in unless she doesn’t care about losing her place here. And she was most emphatic that she has to stay. I cannot blame her, for finding a similar position at her age would probably be very difficult without connections.”