Mr. Lynch drew his hand over his chin and shook his head slowly. “It is horrifying to contemplate such a thing,” he said. “All the more horrifying that one cannot dismiss it out of hand. It is all too plausible.” He took a deep breath and released it in a sigh, then met my eyes. “What do you plan to do?”
I spread my hands helplessly. “I have no plan. I can do nothing when all I have is suspicion, not proof. Believe me, I would be overjoyed to find that my fears are groundless.”
“As would I,” he said swiftly. “Perhaps I can help in that regard.”
“Help?”
“To seek evidence clearing my guardian. I feel now that I won’t be easy in my mind until I know he is innocent.” Then his face clouded again. “Although it seems all too unlikely, now that you have opened my eyes to the signs. I should have seen them myself, except…”
“Except that he is your guardian. I know.” I laid my hand on his arm in sympathy. “It must be terribly painful for you to contemplate such a side to the man who has been like a father to you.”
He nodded slowly. But there was resolve in his voice when he said, “The truth is more important than anything else. I realize that now.” Placing his hand firmly over mine, he gazed into my eyes and said in words as solemn as a vow, “I’ll not fail you, Clara—in this, or in anything.”
It was as if he were pledging himself to me like a knight… or a husband. Taken aback, I was still trying to form a response when the door opened. In that instant, Mr. Lynch quickly withdrew his hand from mine, and that rendered furtive what could have been meant as simply a companionable gesture.
To my pleasure, and also somewhat to my relief, it was Atticus who entered. “Clara, there you are,” he said. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Lynch. I didn’t mean to interrupt a fitting.”
“We were just finishing,” I said, stepping away from the young man.
“Excellent. I hoped you might join me for a walk, unless it’s inconvenient.”
“That would be lovely. Mr. Lynch, do you need assistance extricating yourself from the toile?”
He smiled and shook his head. The disquieting intensity had vanished, and he was merely friendly once more. “Don’t let me delay your walk,” he said.
Atticus and I collected our wraps before departing. Outdoors the world was cloaked in a heavy mist, through which isolated objects reared up unexpectedly: a pillar, a gnarled tree, a heap of rock where a wall had collapsed. The mist muffled everything, dampening even the sound of our voices. Our footsteps were almost inaudible, as if we were drifting like ghosts.
“Mrs. Furness told me that there are dangerous places around,” I recalled, “like ravines from old lead works, even tunnels. I wouldn’t want to tumble into one of them.”
“You’d best hold very tightly to me so that you don’t,” Atticus said with a smile. “Is Lynch’s coat coming along satisfactorily?”
“Yes, quite well.” I wasn’t certain that he would approve of what I had broached with my uncle’s ward, but I felt it was important to be entirely open with him… about this particular topic, at least. “When you came in I had just finished telling him of my fears about my grandmother’s death.”
“How did he respond?” His voice indicated neither approval nor disapproval.
“He was shocked, of course, to consider that my uncle might have been complicit, but he didn’t dismiss the idea entirely. He is determined now to seek out the truth.”
“Determined to impress you, at least. I think you have gained an admirer.”
“Oh, fiddlesticks,” I said, embarrassed. “He was simply quite pleased about the coat. It was really very touching.”
“I don’t think it was just the coat, my love. The way he looked at you was rather proprietary.”
The undercurrent of concern in his voice echoed my own uneasiness. “I do hope that’s not true,” I said. “Perhaps we misunderstood the nature of his attention. After all, I must be at least ten years older than he.”
At that, he drew to a stop and reached out to twine a lock of my hair around his finger. “You are too lovely for a mere ten years’ difference to prevent a man from losing his heart to you,” he declared. “You don’t know the extent of your power to attract, my love.”
“You say that because you are my husband, Atticus.”
His lips quirked in a smile. “Oh, is it a contractual obligation? I’d no idea.”
I gave him a reproving look. “You know what I meant. Just because you see me that way doesn’t mean other men do. Mind you, I suppose he must be lonely, as he seems to have no friends hereabouts, and goodness knows his relationship with his guardian is rather fraught.”
“Exactly,” he said, and the laughter had left his voice. “In such circumstances, it would be all too easy for him to become fixated upon you.”
I wanted to deny it, but that oddly solemn speech Mr. Lynch had made to me just before Atticus had come upon us still echoed in my mind. Moreover, he had called me Clara, and without my having invited him to do so. Remembering this, and his obvious emotion when I had not shrunk from the sight of him in his shirtsleeves, I felt my unease growing. “Do you think I oughtn’t to have done the fitting alone?” I asked. “Next time perhaps I should ring for Ann and find some reason for her to attend us.”
“Mrs. Furness would be even better,” he said. “Not that I believe you are in any danger from the fellow, but it might prevent him from getting it into his head to make the conversation more personal than you would like.”
The pleasure of my good deed had dwindled considerably. “I hope you’re mistaken about him,” I said, “but I’ll avoid being alone with him from now on if you think it best.”
“For your sake, that would make me easier in my mind.” He kissed me as if to seal my pledge, then kissed me again with greater thoroughness. “How I miss you when I’m closeted with Durrington and your uncle for so much of the day!” he exclaimed. “That reminds me, I asked after the trunk you were promised, but Durrington says he must look through it first and compare the contents to his inventory to make certain that it contains nothing disposed otherwise by the will. The man seems sound, but he is taking a great deal of time making certain that everything is carried out properly.”
“Thank you for asking after it, at least.” I stifled a sigh. My desire to learn more of my mother seemed to be thwarted at every turn.
Even with Mr. Lynch’s coat to finish, I still had time over the next few days to make a simple new dress for myself. And not a moment too soon, for my other dresses were straining at the seams.
It was not long before Ann noticed my increasing waist. On the evening before the funeral when dressing me for dinner she tugged in perplexity at my corset laces. I caught her eye in the dressing-table mirror just as she was opening her lips to comment, I was certain, on the impossibility of lacing me as tightly as before. My quick, urgent shake of the head made her blink and shut her mouth with a puzzled look. I tipped my head slightly toward the screen, behind which Atticus could be heard whistling as he changed his clothes, and put a finger to my lips.
Ann’s eyes grew wide, but she gave a solemn nod to indicate that she understood and would keep my secret.
I was fortunate that she did not ask why I wanted to keep my husband from knowing of my condition, for I might not have been able to justify it. Every day my fear struggled with the conviction that I must not continue to keep him in the dark. This was especially true since Atticus continued to speak of our traveling to Europe come summer, and the presence of an infant would doubtless affect those plans.
Despite this knowledge, my fear had not lessened; if anything, it grew stronger with the passing of the days as it became clear that it would not be possible to keep my condition secret for much longer. Although to this point I had at least been spared the nausea Vivi had warned me of, I was surprised that Atticus had not noticed my changed waistline during any of the times that he embraced me when I was not wearing my stays. Perhaps he had noticed
and had ascribed it to Cook’s rich fare. Or perhaps he was distracted by the matters we had left behind in Cornwall.
“How are George and Vivi faring during our absence?” I called, hoping to distract myself from my internal struggle. “Is construction going well?”
“Do you know, that’s an odd thing,” Atticus said. “Aside from a short telegram saying how busy they are, I’ve not received a single letter from Bertram during our stay here.”
“Perhaps he meant that he is too busy to write,” I suggested, but that was unlikely: George was too conscientious not to keep Atticus informed. “I’ve not heard from Vivi, for that matter,” I added as realization came to me. And that was not like her. I ought to have been receiving long effervescent letters full of plans for the babies—both hers and mine. “Nor has Mrs. Threll sent word of whether Henriette and Sterry are recovering. Do you suppose the mails are so much worse out here where we are so remote?”
“Quite possibly, but they shouldn’t be delayed this severely,” Atticus said, emerging from behind the screen to look in the mirror beside me as he fumbled with his tie. Ann was still uneasy in my husband’s presence, liable to stare and drop things, so I dismissed her with a nod. She bobbed the briefest of curtseys before making a hasty exit. “I shall speak to Burleigh about it,” he said, unaware of this small domestic drama.
“How does he seem to you?” I asked.
“By which you mean, is he acting like a guilty man? That’s hard to say.” He gave up on his tie and dropped his hands, turning toward me with a self-conscious smile, and I took up the ends so that I could finish the task. “Something is certainly troubling him,” he said, “and if I were forced to guess I would say it seems to be more than his mother’s death. I doubt it’s money, for Durrington seems to think his standing is more secure than before.”
“A not unexpected development,” I pointed out, “and a mighty strong motive.”
“Now, my love, I know you are wondering whether I think he is guilty, but I have discovered nothing we did not already know that would support such a theory. Which is not to say that it’s impossible, only that I am no closer to certain than before.”
I sighed and stepped back to gauge the effect of his tie. “I just wish we could know for certain. It is wretched knowing that my suspicions may be altogether unfounded and I could be wronging him terribly.”
“I wouldn’t say they were entirely unfounded,” said Atticus. “His behavior has been decidedly odd. But it is unfortunate that it isn’t odd in a more explicit way.”
That made me laugh, something I had not done much lately, and I stepped closer to him and slipped my arms around his waist. “Thank you for not scoffing at my suspicions,” I said. “It means a great deal to me that you take me seriously.”
He stroked one knuckle across my cheek. “I would never scoff at you, my love. But I confess it makes me sad to see you so agitated. I want to see you happy again.”
His husky voice was soothing to my frayed nerves, so that I already felt less on edge than before. “I would love nothing more than for us to leave here within the hour,” I said wistfully. “We could be back at Gravesend in a trice, taking tea with George and Vivi. But I feel as though we have a responsibility to determine whether something is amiss here.”
“I entirely agree, my love.” He touched his lips to my forehead. “I promise to help you in any way I can. My conscience would not permit us to leave Thurnley Hall now even if yours could.”
My husband’s conscience, as I well knew, was a stern one. Still, I wondered if he was exaggerating slightly out of his desire to support me in all my undertakings. It was a question that I was content to brush aside at that moment, but later it would come back to haunt me. My own determination to stay at Thurnley Hall, not his, might have been what held Atticus there… and my conscience would later have terrible cause to reproach me on that point.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The evening meal, like all of those at Thurnley Hall, was short on cheerful conviviality. The lawyer Durrington was not a merry addition to our company, although in his defense it must be said that we had been forced upon him as much as he on us.
He was a thin gentleman of indeterminate age, with a domed bare pate encircled by a scanty fringe of dark hair. Throughout the meal I noticed his pale eyes taking note of the room’s accoutrements: the handsome sideboard with its elaborate carvings, the silver we ate with, even the two hunting scenes in oil that brightened the dark paneling. Perhaps he was merely noting the presence of items whose existence he had read about in my grandmother’s will, but it was unsettling, and I half expected to find his emotionless gaze resting on me with the same calculation, as if itemizing me for a catalog. One baroness of recent vintage but imperfect provenance, together with an inconveniently vivid imagination and a large degree of stubborn conviction.
A glance at my uncle drove such fancies out of my mind, however. To put it mildly, he did not look well. His jaw was stubbled with several days’ growth of beard, and his linen was dingy at the neck and wrists, as if he had not changed it in days. As he reached for his wine glass his hand trembled, and he gulped the beverage quickly and then jerked his head at Mrs. Furness to pour him more. His eyes were furtive, rarely meeting those of any of us at the table. He looked like a man with a wretched conscience, but whether he was guilty of more than thought was impossible to say. It was entirely plausible that he had wished his ailing mother dead and then been stricken with guilt when her death had seemed to fulfill that wish. That did not explain his having refused to let anyone see her body, however.
Sadly, staring at my uncle across the dinner table would not bring me answers. I let my gaze wander to the rest of the company and found Mr. Lynch watching his guardian with an expression of detached interest. I wondered what conclusions he was drawing, if any, from what he saw.
Now my uncle had begun to describe the proceedings of the funeral the next day. After the church service, the family would accompany the casket to the mausoleum on the Thurnley Hall grounds. The small family burial ground was located on a slight rise, well back from the house and outbuildings but clearly visible from the oldest part of the house. Atticus and I had visited it on one of our daily walks, but we had given it only a glance before continuing on our way.
My mind was called back from my musings when I heard my uncle say, “Of course you may say a few words on your wife’s behalf, Lord Telford.”
“I can speak on my own behalf,” I said, bristling at his high-handed manner.
Startled at the interruption, he gave me an ill-tempered glower. “Naturally you won’t attend the service. You know that ladies have no place at a respectable funeral.”
“I most certainly will attend. This is my grandmother, after all.”
He put down his wine glass with an emphasis that made liquid slop over the rim. “It won’t do at all to have a female there making a scene and becoming hysterical,” he snapped.
“I assure you,” I told him icily, “I am quite capable of maintaining all the composure you could desire. The only reason I would make a scene, as you put it, would be if I were forbidden to witness my grandmother’s final journey.”
He flung his hands up in exasperation. “I don’t see why you’re so set on it, when you didn’t know she was in the world even one month ago.”
I did not say so, but I felt as if I had failed my grandmother somehow, that I had not helped her unburden herself as she had seemed to wish. Aloud I said, “This is the last time it will be in my power to do something for her, and I don’t see that it’s a great deal to ask.”
My uncle looked at Atticus as if seeking help in dissuading me, but if that was the case he found no help from that quarter. My husband met his mute appeal with a bland expression.
“Very well,” he said at last, grudgingly. “But you can’t blame me, Lord Telford, if any of the hired mourners make an indecent advance on your wife. Her presence there may well provoke them regardless of her degree of di
gnity and reserve.”
Atticus said calmly, “The responsibility for their behavior does not lie with Clara. If the mourners you have hired are too drunk or unmannerly to maintain their own decorum, they should be dismissed.”
My uncle’s expression darkened again. “It wouldn’t be proper for my own mother to go to her grave with only a few paltry mourners in the procession.”
Atticus gave him a friendly smile. “In that case, I hope you won’t take it amiss if I correct their behavior as I see fit.”
“As you wish.” My uncle’s expression was skeptical. “I’m not certain a lecture will have great effect.”
It gave me great satisfaction to tell him, “My husband is skilled in bare-knuckle fighting, Mr. Burleigh. His methods of correction will be quite effective.”
Up to this point the lawyer had seemed contented to stay out of the wrangling—and for that I could not blame him—but that seemed to pique his interest. “Is that true, Lord Telford?” he inquired. “How interesting. I would have thought fighting would be difficult for you with your, ah, disadvantage.”
“My club foot forced me to seek ways to improve my balance, and pugilism addressed that,” Atticus explained. “Working to overcome my difficulty in staying on my feet has served me in good stead.”
Mr. Lynch had been silent for so long that the sound of his voice, though gentle as always, made me start. “How fortunate are you and I both, my lord,” he said, “that our parents did not practice the ancient Greek custom of exposing infants who were not perfect physical specimens.”
An explosive sound drew my eyes back to my uncle, who seemed to be choking on his wine. Although his eyes streamed with tears and his face turned nearly purple, he waved the lawyer violently away when he made to rise to go to his aid.
“Why would you say that?” he demanded in a croaking voice when the coughing fit had subsided. “What in God’s name are you about?”
Cursed Once More: The Sequel to With This Curse Page 14