Tears welled at the future her mother dreamed for her child but could not make happen. Angelina. The letter made her seem so real and alive.
I gave birth to you not a day ago, and already it is time for us to say goodbye. I will not survive this night, my little darling. The pain is too sharp to be merely the aftermath of birthing. Something is not right. I asked your aunt to send for my physician, but he has not come. I wish your father were here. Cora says he was called away on business, to London. He promised he would be here for your birth. I cannot imagine what keeps him. I am so tired.
Cora has gone to rest, leaving me a little time to prepare for your future. I have asked a maid I trust to take this box to your father’s solicitor for safekeeping until you are of age. I should have asked Cora, but this is too precious to give into her uncertain care. She is not fond of me, my child. I know why, and I worry that once I am gone, she will turn her fears and prejudices about our family gift against you. I pray that your father will be there to protect you.
Nevara sat back. Her father had died within a year of her mother’s passing. Her aunt had brought her up, and loved her, until Nevara’s talent began to manifest. Aunt Cora had said Nevara inherited her curse from her mother. This letter confirmed she had been right. She noticed the handwriting beginning to waver, as if her mother’s pain had been affecting her normally precise script.
My darling Nevara, our gift is a shift of sight. From one blink to the next, you, my beautiful child, will one day be able to see the world as God does. Do not be afraid of his sight. Embrace the lights for they hold the secret of this world’s truths.
She shuddered at that amazing revelation. Her mother had been able to see the lights that confused and confounded Nevara too. Except, her mother had not been afraid of them. Nevara squinted to read the last few scrawled paragraphs.
Cora does not know of this box. If she did, she would burn it, as she has all my other personal possessions.
Aunt Cora had destroyed her mother’s things? Resentment flared. How could she? Why would she? And then she realized she knew the answer. Her aunt had done it to protect her. She would have felt that Nevara’s mother’s things were connected to the curse. Oh, what Nevara would have given to have a scarf that carried her mother’s scent. At least now, she had her mother’s words to treasure.
I leave you my hopes and wishes and a gift that links our past and future. I bequeath it to you, as my mother did to me. My little Nevara, this must be preserved and protected. It was a wedding gift to Maria de Rivera, your grandmother from three generations back. Protect this with your life. It is all that proves who we once were and where we came from.
Forgive my passing. Never forget me. And know that I shall watch over you all of your life as a mother ought. What my body is too weak to accomplish, my soul shall render. This, I promise, my dear one. All my love, be safe.
Angelina Lovel Wood (de Rivera).
As Nevara read those final words, warmth swamped her and she scented a hint of vanilla. She sniffed at the letter, but it only smelled like moldy paper.
She set it aside with care and peered into the box. Inside was a second missive, folded many times and wrapped in a dark cord. She picked it up, and a sharp burst of pain spiked up from her fingers up to her arm and straight into her heart. She dropped the note. The pain made her chest ache and her head swim. Her vision blurred and sparkled. Nevara instinctively shut her eyes, willing the lights to fade and muttered the Lord’s Prayer.
Halfway through that verse, a startling thought interrupted. Embrace the lights.
Nevara opened her eyes.
For the first time in her life, instead of cringing from her vision, she looked at the bright sparkling frost lines now crisscrossing her room. Everything sparkled, except for the items in the box.
Pushing her spectacles up the bridge of her nose, she ignored her throbbing temples and with determination, glanced into the box. To her pain-filled gaze, the cloth there was laced with shimmering black ribbons, like the second letter. It had been rolled to make it appear tiny. Her head still pounding, Nevara unrolled the lacy garment, more by feel than sight.
She walked to the tall looking glass and held up the fabric. It was an ancient lace tunic, a bit like a shift, perhaps meant to be worn under a wedding gown? It was made of the most delicate of patterns, with black ribbon interlaced down the front. Beneath the constantly shifting lights, she guessed that the cloth might be a beautifully embroidered coral garment.
Would it fit her? If she was ever free to marry, she made a promise to herself that she would wear this delicate shift on her wedding night. No doubt Maria de Rivera had.
Nevara yawned as she put the garment back into the box. She took another look at the second letter, being careful not to touch the black ribbons which stung. The experience had been painful enough the first time. Using her gown to shield her hand, she tossed the letter back into the box. Sir Phillip could read it to her tomorrow. For now, she was immensely tired. The moment she shut the box, the light show in the room was extinguished, as if a candle had been snuffed.
Releasing a relieved sigh, she undressed, slipped on her nightgown and blew out the candles. Sliding under the covers, she fell asleep even before she finished tying her nightcap’s ribbon under her chin.
The next morning, Sir Phillip read over the letter at the breakfast table. Nevara was surprised that the stinging black ribbons did not seem to bother him at all, and she was even more surprised at the fascinating information the letter elicited. It said the gift was for Maria de Rivera from her stepmother, Subijana de Rivera on her wedding day.
“Do you think your family might be related to them, Miss Wood?” Lady Roselyn asked.
“Aunt Cora never mentioned that name,” Nevara said, and took a bite of her toast. She was famished this morning.
“Why did you not read this second letter?” Sir Phillip asked.
“When I touched it, it triggered my vision, sir. Also the black ribbons stung.”
“What black ribbons?” he asked.
Everyone present silently glanced at the letter, obviously puzzled. Nevara’s pulse pounded as she realized that only she could see the black ribbons.
“How very odd,” Mrs. Weatheringham said.
“It probably has something to do with your ability to shift your sight,” Lady Roselyn said.
“May I see the pretty garment?” Hope asked.
Sir Phillip shook his head and carefully laid the second letter back inside the box. “Not yet, Hope. The effect the letter had on Miss Wood worries me. I wish to ensure these items are safe to touch. Our first order of business should be to see if descendants of this family still live in Spain.”
“Agreed,” Lady Roselyn said. “Meanwhile, Miss Wood, would you please see if you can find out anything about the gypsy connection that Mark Alvaro spoke of regarding my amulet?”
“I will,” Nevara promised. Lady Roselyn’s sister’s amulet was in the library and she could use that in her research.
Sir Phillip stood. “Once I return, we will reconvene and discuss all of our findings.”
After he and the others left the room, Nevara got up and went to the library. She retrieved the Cimaruta, and with it nipping at the delicate flesh of her palm, she went in search of the volume she had found last year that mentioned the amulet. Still, as interesting as the research into the amulet was, her thoughts kept flitting away to Sir Phillip’s errand.
What might he uncover? According to her mother, the “de Rivera” surname was a part of their family tree, and another connection to Spain. It offered irrefutable proof that the answers she sought lay in that country. Would Sir Phillip change his mind and take her there now? She was deep into the book she studied when a knock interrupted her whirling thoughts.
Stony announced that she had a gentleman caller.
&
nbsp; Mark? A wave of pleasure spread through her and Nevara dropped her book on the table and hurried to the center of the room, smoothing her dress and tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She nodded to the footman to show him in.
“I have asked Hannah to come and keep you company.” Stony gave her an encouraging wink. “Best to check out the competition, eh, Miss Wood?” Stony said. “No use stickin’ w’th the one who tosses you in the lake and carries a pecul’r club.”
So, it was not Mark who sought her out. That was disappointing, but before she could ask who her caller was, Stony left.
He took such an interminable time to return, she glanced at the volume she had abandoned on her desk. Should she return to work? The door opened, and Hannah entered. The maid smiled widely as she came to stand beside Nevara. Behind her, strode in Mr. Preston.
Nevara’s heart thumped in shock. His large form blended well with the tall ceilings and shelves of books in the library. He bowed. Her glance flew to his hands. He did not carry her manuscript.
After pleasantries, she indicated the chairs arranged by the fireplace. No fire had been lit that morning, but the chairs were large with comfortable upholstery.
Mr. Preston waited for her to take her seat before he followed. Hannah retreated to stand unobtrusively by the door.
“I had not expected you to come in person, sir,” Nevara said. “What I mean is, well, I thought you would write to me.”
“That had been my intention.” He wore a frown and his right hand tapped rapidly on the arm of his chair.
Was it her imagination or was he as anxious as she was? “What changed your mind, Mr. Preston?”
He gave her a quick look. “I have a granddaughter. Her name is Ariel. She turned six this spring. I created my business for her, you see. So she has final say in what I publish. She came to the office yesterday after you left and saw your story. She assumed it was meant for her to read.” His finger tapping sped up, as if he were suffering some mental agitation. “She loved the story. She cried at the end, and said she wanted that one published. Right away.”
Utter relief overwhelmed Nevara, and on its heels came joy. Spain was finally opening her arms to her. “Oh, how wonderful!”
Mr. Preston stared at Nevara with a helpless look. “I have never denied Ariel anything.” His eyes mirrored his love.
She could barely suppress her grin of triumph. He had not said so, but he meant to publish her story.
“My Ariel insists that not only must I put out that story in our next chapbook but also others about your scorpion. How many have you written?”
“Only one.” She smiled cheerily. “However, once I return from Spain, I would be happy to write another for your granddaughter.”
“I am afraid that will not do.”
Her smile wavered. “I beg your pardon?”
“I want a series of stories with Leron as the hero. That was Ariel’s suggestion, and I believe it to be a good one. If you have not written another yet, you should begin immediately. Forget Spain. You shall be too busy to travel.”
Alarm bells rang. “Mr. Preston, be assured that I am traveling.”
He wiped at his forehead. “Do you recall my saying that Mark Alvaro and I are good friends?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, with caution. What she wanted to discuss was payment, as well as the other story requirements, then rush to write to the Magdalena’s Captain asking him about the next scheduled sailing to Cadiz.
“Yes, very good friends.” Mr. Preston swiped across his hair, ruffling the neatly combed graying locks.
“Sir, what troubles you?” She could barely sit still.
He stood and began to pace, appearing as agitated as Nevara. “You have me in a bind, Miss Wood.”
“Regarding what, sir?”
He came to an abrupt halt before her.
“Mark does not wish you to go to Spain.”
His answer set her aback. How could he know that? Had Mark confided in him? When? The oddness of their interview yesterday came back and a horrible suspicion began to build. Had Mark been in the room? Had he been behind that noise in the wardrobe, when Mr. Preston said his cane fell over? And was that why Mr. Preston had been speaking so loudly? So Mark could hear him? He certainly was not shouting now. Oh! Mortification heated her cheeks, but fury quickly overtook that tepid emotion.
Mr. Preston seemed to realize he had let slip a secret and covered quickly. “I only tell you this because I want you to understand how worried Mark is on your behalf. He only spoke of you out of concern.”
Concern was all well and good, but to stoop so low as to interfere with her business dealings? And in such an underhanded fashion? With effort, she cooled her temper. She could deal Mark a severe dressing down later. After all, the fiend was expected for dinner tonight.
She stood and lifted her chin. “I understand your position, sir. You do not wish to betray your friend’s wishes, but let me assure you, despite Mr. Alvaro’s opposition, I shall be traveling to Spain. The question is . . . Will you assist me by buying my story?”
Mr. Preston gave a deep sigh of defeat. “My Ariel wants it, so the answer is yes.”
“Then shall we discuss terms?”
“Miss Wood, you are very single-minded. I see Mark has his work cut out for him.” He shook his head sadly. “As for me, I am willing to offer you thirty pounds for three stories.”
The price shocked Nevara. Thirty pounds would cover her passage to Spain with a little left over, but it was not enough to return. Would it be crass to argue over money? She was too close to actually traveling to Spain to quibble over decorum.
“The price is lower than I hoped.” She gave him a worried look. “Is this another tactic to delay my travel plans on behalf of your friend, sir?”
“Not at all.” He gave her the first genuine smile she had seen since he entered the room. “You and Mark are well suited—both determined to have your way and passionate about what you believe in. You will sort each other out. My offer is based solely on my business requirements. What is your answer?”
This was the closest she had come to getting on that packet ship to the Peninsula, and she was not about to turn it down. She could find a way to write the other two stories he wanted, but the price was still an issue. How far could she push him? In for a penny . . . “Fifteen pounds for the first story,” she said, “and twenty each for the next two upon acceptance.”
“Agreed.”
He replied so quickly, she wished she had asked for more. With grace, she held out her hand to seal the contract. He shook it. Mark’s disappointment was to be her gain. She had garnered sufficient funds for her needs, and because of her mother’s letter, she had a specific destination—the de Rivera family home.
Pleasure and fright fought for supremacy now that her goal was within grasp. Could she travel by herself? Did she have the courage to face what she might find on the Peninsula?
Hannah, who had followed the conversation avidly, watched her with eyes that brimmed with admiration. If the maid had been aware of how frightened Nevara was, she would not regard her with such high esteem.
She calmly thanked Mr. Preston and walked him to the door. Inside, she was shouting with joy.
SHORTLY AFTER sunset the next day, Mark arrived at Ravenstock Manor, as requested by Lady Roselyn’s dinner invitation. Strangely, Stony spoke not a word to him after his initial “who be there” call.
“Is everything well?” Mark asked.
The footman gave him a frowning side-glance as he led him silently to the drawing room door.
Mark sighed. It seemed he was doomed to either be ignored or lectured today. His ears still rang from his grandmother’s dressing down in fluent Spanish. She accused him of leading Nevara on by kissing her and then ignoring her. According to his grandmother,
Nevara was already half in love with him, so how difficult could it be to offer for her? The only words that went unsaid were, how long must I wait for you to give me great-grandchildren.
Reminding her that she had been the one who taught him and his brother that Nevara was off limits had been a bad idea.
In his grandmother’s eyes, circumstances had changed. Since the Spanish witch was apparently aware Nevara was hiding in England, she needed stronger protection. What better position could Mark be in to protect her than as her husband?
The idea appealed to Mark more than his grandmother could ever imagine. The only thing stopping him from proposing then and there was the reminder of the incident at the lake. The witch had attacked her while Nevara was in his arms. If he had been vigilant, with his staff in hand, instead of distracted by her kisses, Nevara might never have been snatched right out from under his nose. Even if his grandmother had forgotten his duty, it was suddenly crystal clear to Mark. Nevara’s safety mattered more than his frustrated desires. He could not afford to get caught unprepared again.
At the Jones’s drawing room, Sir Phillip and his wife, Lady Roselyn, came forward to greet him. Mark’s gaze settled with astonishment on Nevara. This was the first time he had seen her dressed in anything but a serviceable fashion. She was stunning. Her low cut roseate Indian muslin gown over a white satin slip enhanced the perfectly desirable figure he had only glimpsed at after fishing her out of the Serpentine.
He paid little attention to the other guests, barely remembering to bow to Lord Terrance and his wife or say hello to Mrs. Weatheringham. His attention kept returning to Nevara, whose dark hair fell in perfect curls around her oval face. She reminded him of a red rose in midwinter.
A Perfect Curse Page 10