The story of the Gravesend curse had taken root long before my time. Indeed, when my mother and I had first arrived as servants here, she already knew the sad, gruesome tale of the young beauty for whom the manor had been built...and who was cruelly ousted from it when her husband died and his brother inherited the estate. Legend said that the broken-hearted lady had committed suicide on the property, but not before cursing the new Lord Telford and all his successors, declaring that they would lose what they loved the most.
I must have looked forlorn, for Atticus drew me close. “I’ve an idea that may mitigate the superstitions, though,” he said. “I’m going to talk to each of the boys individually to find out just what went on last night...but probably after luncheon. Perhaps if they spend the morning playing in the grounds they’ll be more susceptible to Gravesend’s charms and less likely to believe it cursed.” Then he brushed his fingers along my cheek and smiled in the way that always lifted my heart. “Besides, having met my beautiful wife, they will naturally wish to spend more time in her presence, no matter what stories they’ve heard about the house. Will you join me when I speak to them?”
“If you wish,” I said, though his flattering view of me was unlikely to be shared by the youngsters. One of the many reasons Atticus was such a wonderful husband was that he persisted in viewing me as the most exquisite woman in existence, even in a world that contained such noted beauties as Sybil Ingram. “They might feel easier in your company alone, though—less as if they are being put on trial.”
“That’s a wise thought, my love.” He placed one hand on my rounded belly, and the warmth of his touch was like comfort made tangible. He said, “I hope our child is as insightful as her mother.”
He liked to talk as if the child were a girl, but I knew he would be just as delighted with a boy. It had become a little joke between us. “I hope he has his father’s kind heart and sense of honor,” I said. “How will you spend the morning?”
“Well, if the weather is fine all of us able-bodied men will be shoveling the drive clear.”
“Standing out in the cold can’t be good for your leg. Surely as the lord of the manor you are exempt from labor like that.” Atticus was afflicted with a club foot, and although it was not obvious to one who didn’t know of it, I knew that despite all of the surgeries he had undergone in his youth it still troubled him sometimes.
He ruffled my hair. “That’s a loving wife speaking. I’ll be well enough, I’m sure, but if I feel a cramp coming on I’ll go back indoors. I’d feel shabby asking others to do something I’m not willing to take on myself. What will you do with yourself?”
“Speak with Mrs. Threll about looking after our guests, for a start. I don’t want them to be bored. We might set them to playing cards or charades, or reading aloud...or telling ghost stories. Atticus, what did you think of Sybil’s talk of channeling spirits?”
“I didn’t know what to think, since I don’t know her well. When you speak of her you’ve always sounded as if you found her intelligent when you worked for her.”
“She could be flighty sometimes, but for the most part she was quite sensible. Do you suppose there really is something to the idea of the spirits of the dead lingering on earth? It’s such a disquieting thought.” Especially if the ghosts lingering here were of people who had not been on friendly terms with me in life. What about Atticus’s father, who had lined the walls of his sitting room with death masks? I could imagine his ghost cackling at me in malicious glee. It made me shiver.
Seeing this, Atticus kissed me. “Don’t let it distress you, my love. There are so many more pleasant things for your thoughts to dwell on—things more immediate than specters.”
“Things like you?” Even my fear of the night before seemed distant compared to the living reality of the man embracing me.
He chuckled, a low, husky sound that made me smile. “Believe me, if we didn’t have duties to our guests, then I would enjoy seeing just how much I could take your mind off worrisome things.”
“And I would enjoy that very much.”
But, alas, we did have our guests’ welfare to consider, so we were unable to linger abed. After dressing, the first thing I did was to consult with the housekeeper about the practical side of our hosting so many unexpected guests. Fortunately we had plenty of food left over from our Christmas dinner to furnish a handsome luncheon. If our state of siege went on any longer, though, we might be hard pressed to feed everyone.
I realized that, sadly, Atticus and I would probably be unable to fulfill our promise to visit Vivi and George that day. I would have liked to talk over my concerns with Vivi. She possessed a unique combination of insight and French pragmatism and might have been able to convince me that my experience of the night before had some harmless explanation.
After Mrs. Threll left me in the morning room I took myself in hand. I could delay no longer. After all, there was no reason to dread going to look at the painting. Quite the opposite, for if it furnished some clue as to the reason for its change the night before—whether supernatural or not—that would be a relief. Speaking sternly to myself in this fashion, I crossed through the parlor and opened the door to the drawing room.
In the brilliant daylight, the painting of Lady Telford looked no different from before. The same pristine white dress, the same flaxen curls, the same cold blue eyes—how amazing that they were so similar to her son’s in color but so different in expression. Nothing that I could see had changed, but I approached it and lightly touched the canvas to reassure myself.
Perhaps there might be a sign of something on the floor. I knelt and touched the rug, but there were no traces of earth or footprints.
I was still in this position, realizing that in my increasingly ungainly physical state it would be more difficult to rise than to descend, when Sybil’s voice hailed me.
“Graves, what ails you? From what you told me, I thought the last thing I’d catch you at would be genuflecting before your mother-in-law.”
I grimaced. “That wasn’t my intention, but I could use your assistance.”
“With pleasure,” she said, and came to steady me as I rose. She was wearing a charming dress of silk striped in pink and black over a pink underskirt ornamented with ruffles and pleats. I was glad that I had put on my prettiest mallard-blue morning dress with the silver-gray trim; no one could say I was letting my husband down by being dowdy.
Then Sybil’s expression sobered, and she said with chagrin, “I called you ‘Graves’ again, didn’t I? I’m sorry, Clara.”
“It’s no matter,” I said, though it did rather make me feel more like a functionary than the mistress of a household.
She shook her head in vexation. “I should have stopped calling you that years ago. When we met, I was so young and still so new to celebrity that I desperately wanted to appear sophisticated, and I thought grand people all addressed their women servants by their surnames. Within a year or two I knew better, and I ought to have stopped then.”
Seeing Sybil Ingram embarrassed was a rare experience, but it brought no satisfaction; rather, it made me embarrassed as well. “I didn’t mind,” I said quickly. “At the time I rather liked being private, and having a little distance between us suited me. Greater intimacy would have meant confiding in you about my past, and I had no desire to do that.”
Her laugh showed that she was past her momentary awkwardness. “Yes, heaven forfend that you unburden your heart to me! It was a wounded heart then, I think—but no longer?”
I smiled. “Atticus has made me heart-whole, though I never would have dreamed such a thing would happen. He freed me from the past.”
“I am delighted to see you so happy—Clara.” Companionably, she linked her arm through mine and drew me toward the corridor. “But if you are so contented, why do you linger here with the portrait of your glacial mother-in-law?”
“You’re right,” I said, glad to transfer my attention to a more pleasant topic. “There are much more pres
sing things for me to attend to, like seeing to the men clearing the drive. They are probably ready for a rest. I’ll have some tea brewed for them.”
The men were indeed happy for an opportunity to pause in their labors and enjoy the mugs of hot, sweet tea that we brought out to them. To my surprise, pretty Virginia Flood volunteered to help in this endeavor. She looked wan, even more so than the day before, and I resolved to speak to Martha about her again and make certain she was under the care of a good doctor. Perhaps more time out of doors would do her good, despite the cold.
As we both moved among the men, dispensing tea, I noticed how she was drawn to the boys who were working alongside the adults. Of course. What troubled her was probably both more obvious and more difficult to cure than an ailment of the body, if it was an ailment instead of the heart—that is, heartbreak over the loss of her child.
Thoughtfully, I made my way to a friendly-looking man in his late twenties, dressed in farmer’s clothes, accompanied by a lad of no more than five years old. I suspected that the child had not achieved much as far as clearing the snow, but pride and affection for his nominal help were plain in the young farmer’s face. The man touched his cap to me when I approached.
“This is most welcome, your ladyship,” he said, and nudged his young companion. “What do we say to the kind lady, Bob?”
The boy offered me a shy smile and hid behind his elder’s leg. The young farmer laughed. “He’s a bit bashful, like,” he said, “’specially with fine ladies.”
“Your son?” I asked, handing the young farmer his mug of tea. I needed a smaller one for the lad, but I had none, and I didn’t see any of the housemaids at the moment whom I could ask to fetch one. No doubt they could share.
The young man chuckled and mussed the boy’s hair. “Foster brother, your ladyship, and the light of my parents’ eyes. They took him in when he was about to lose his place with a woman in London—saved him from the orphanage.” He took a deep draught of tea. “A narrow escape he had, the little blighter.”
“Indeed.” I shivered, despite my warm fur-trimmed mantle and the bright sunlight. I knew what appalling conditions children endured in orphanages and so-called baby farms, where often the infants were drugged to keep them quiet and complacent, and many died through neglect. An act of Parliament had been passed just the year before to require licensing of such places to protect the children, but it had proven to have little effect.
Horrors of that sort were why my husband and I were so determined to offer a better environment for youngsters like Bob. When I smiled at the lad, he returned the smile. Then I caught sight of Mrs. Flood, whose tray bore some smaller vessels of tea. She was watching our little group—or, more precisely, gazing at the lad—and when I beckoned her over, she did not hesitate.
“This is Mrs. Flood,” I said. “But I’m afraid I don’t know your names.”
The young farmer’s manners were excellent; he raised his cap to Mrs. Flood and introduced himself as Fred Waring. “The lad here is Bob.”
“Bob,” the young woman repeated, bending down to offer him a small mug of tea. Affection lent her face a warmth and animation I had not hitherto seen in her. “Be careful not to burn yourself, mind—it’s hot. My goodness, but you are a strong fellow to be out here shoveling with all the grown men!”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Bob said shyly, and I was impressed that she had been able to get him to speak.
“You are most welcome, Bob.” Still on eye level with the child, she asked Fred Waring, “Has your family always lived in Cornwall?”
“Aye, I grew up here, as did my parents.”
“Oh.” Strangely, she sounded disappointed, and all the animation left her face as she straightened.
“Are you feeling poorly, miss?”
“No, I—I just thought perhaps you were related to someone I used to know, but they were from another area. That’s all.” She turned to me. “If you don’t mind, Lady Telford, I’m starting to feel the chill.”
“Go in and warm yourself, then, by all means,” I told her.
“Here, miss,” Fred Waring said quickly. “I’ll be glad to carry that tray for you. It’s too much for a slip of a thing like yourself.”
He had not offered to take my tray, but then, it was clear at a glance that I was hardier than delicate Virginia Food. Still, I was interested in how quickly the young farmer had taken to her.
Whether she returned his interest was less certain, though. She flushed and almost smiled, but then she shook her head. “I thank you, Mr. Waring, but I am quite well.”
The words had scarcely left her lips when far-off shouts and waved arms from more distant men caught our attention.
“They’ve broken through,” Fred Waring said with satisfaction. “That means we’re all free to go home.”
“Go home?” Mrs. Flood repeated. She looked more drawn than ever, and I hurried to reassure her.
“If you aren’t up to the journey just yet, you are more than welcome to rest here until you feel stronger.”
But she shook her head and almost inaudibly took her leave of us. I was staring after her in puzzlement when the sound of horse’s hooves made me look up.
Roderick Brooke must have been waiting until the very moment the way was clear, or perhaps even working to make it so, for he came riding up on a handsome black horse I recognized from the Gravesend stables. I had to admit he cut a fine figure. Hatless, his black curls ruffled by the breeze, he gave me a cocky grin.
“My lady hostess, if my wife asks after me, will you be so good as to tell her I am away on an errand and shall return as soon as I can?”
Charming though he was, I gave him a narrow look. “If I were your wife, I would desire a bit more specificity,” I said.
He winked. “My dear baroness, Sybil didn’t marry me for my specificity.”
That won a laugh from me. “Fair enough.”
“Ordinarily I would explain myself, but the weather has complicated my mission. And every moment I tarry delays my return. You see my dilemma—the longer I spend in your delightful company, the longer I postpone returning to my wife’s.”
I waved him away. “Be off with you, then—you and your flattering tongue.” But my voice was more indulgent than reproving. I had a feeling that no matter how much he might exasperate Sybil he could always charm his way back into her good graces—if indeed he ever left them.
V. Sybil
I was making my way through a luncheon of cold roast beef and mincemeat pie when Clara came to find me. “Your husband left on an errand,” she said. “He wouldn’t tell me what it was, but he said he would be back as soon as he could.”
I repressed a sigh. It was so like Roderick to cloak something in unnecessary mystery—but, knowing him, he felt that the mystery was utterly crucial. And I had to admit, I had a weakness for drama myself. A pleasant spark of curiosity about my husband’s activities outweighed any vexation caused by his secrecy.
“I should like to join Atticus in speaking to the boys about what happened last night,” Clara said, bringing my thoughts back from where they had wandered, “but I don’t want them to feel outnumbered or intimidated. Still, I’d very much like to hear what they have to say.”
“Perhaps we can listen in from the adjoining room,” I suggested. After all, eavesdropping is one of the most venerable traditions of the stage.
To my surprise, she agreed at once to this scheme, and we stationed ourselves close to the door to her husband’s study, which we were able to open a crack without, I thought, attracting notice.
I glimpsed one of the smaller boys with the baron now. I admired how Clara’s husband addressed the little fellow, putting him at his ease without condescension.
“I understand that you received a fright last night,” he said, and his voice was warm and reassuring. His manner had a gentleness that made one want to trust him and confide one’s troubles—an effect that was not limited to children, I fancied. “I should like very much to fi
nd out what caused it, so that the next time you stay here nothing will go amiss.” There was no answer, so he continued. “I heard that your schoolfellow Warren told you an unpleasant story about this house.”
“Yes, sir.” The child’s voice faltered a little. “He said there is a curse on it. That a lady killed herself here and now her ghost is still haunting the house.”
“I see.”
When I glanced at Clara I found her pale and tense. She clearly disliked talk of the curse. But when the baron next spoke, his voice had lost none of its soothing quality; he sounded just as calm as before. Was he truly unworried, or simply better than Clara at hiding his feelings? “I’ve heard that story as well, or one like it,” he said. “When I was a lad, my brother tried to scare me with ghost stories about the lady of Gravesend.”
“Are they true, sir?” the boy asked. “Did a lady die here?”
“It’s possible,” Clara’s husband said easily. “When a house is as old as this one, a good many people are likely to have died in it over the years, of old age if nothing else. Whether this lady deliberately put an end to herself I don’t know. Why do you ask?”
The boy gulped. “She was there in the room last night, sir. She was why I cried out.”
“Go on,” said the baron, and I thought his voice was more guarded.
“Warren said that the ghost snatches up boys and carries them off to the world of haunts. And when I woke up, sir, I saw a pale lady all in white.” The boy continued doggedly, as if determined to get the rest of the story out at once. “She was creeping from one cot to the next, peering down at each one as if she was choosing which of us she was going to snatch up. I didn’t want to be carried off to the land of ghosts! And she came closer and closer until I couldn’t bear it, and that’s when I screamed, sir.” He gulped. “When I opened my eyes again she was gone.”
Clara shook her head in pity, and the baron’s hand descended to squeeze the boy’s shoulder briefly in reassurance. “You’ve been very brave, my lad. I appreciate your telling me this.” He rose. “Now it’s time I spoke with Warren,” he said, with a steely note to his voice, but the boy plucked at his sleeve to detain him.
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