With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense (11 page)

“How certain you are,” he observed. “Is it possible that you knew my younger son? Did you cross paths with him before his all too premature passing?”

“Indeed, no,” I said, casting about with my mind for some reason for my outburst. “It’s only… it’s only that Atticus speaks of him with genuine affection and regard, and I cannot reconcile the man he has described to me with the one you are painting.”

“Ha! Has Atticus whitewashed his brother so, then? He must have decided the truth would be too distressing for your woman’s ears.” There was a contemptuous twist to his mouth—for me or for Atticus, I was not sure. “I wonder if the words lodge in his throat when he has to perjure his pure samite soul so.”

The contempt was for Atticus, then. “Lord Telford,” I said, “I must ask you not to speak so of my husband. He is a man of honor, yes, and I rejoice to say so. I will not listen to him being criticized in such terms, and if you continue to do so I must draw this visit to a close.”

That earned me raised eyebrows and an exaggerated moue. He made a point of looking over at his valet as if to demand whether he had heard the same unbelievable speech. But it seemed to have amused him rather than affronting him. “My goodness, such a queenly air! I’d not expected to be so roundly put in my place by my daughter-in-law.”

My face was burning, but I did not capitulate. “If my manner of expressing myself was insolent, I ask your pardon. But I stand by my words. Even from his own father, my husband should not be subjected to—”

“Yes, yes, I understand. Quite right of you to be so loyal to him… surprising to me that he could inspire such loyalty, especially in a woman of spirit, but I am impressed.”

He was not alone in his surprise. I had not imagined myself so attached to my nominal husband that I would become so angered at hearing him slandered. Perhaps being unable to stand up for Richard as I would have liked left me full of unspent indignation that had sought an outlet. But in any case, Atticus did not deserve to be dismissed so. He was no joyless prude, but a kind and humorous man. And it must have taken considerable courage to have stood up to Richard despite his own physical disadvantage.

But Lord Telford was waiting for my reply. “I did not speak with any intention of impressing you,” I said, but more calmly. “I simply felt that as his wife—”

“Quite correct, of course. Let’s not discuss it further. One is naturally pleased to have one’s children praised, but I don’t need you to parade your husband’s virtues to me.”

“I had no intention of parading anything.”

“And there she is again, the queenly one! ‘O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful in the contempt and anger of her lip!’ How Richard would have appreciated you.” Then his eyes narrowed, and an unpleasant smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Indeed,” he said more thoughtfully, “I wonder if that is the secret of your attraction to my older son? It must give him no little satisfaction to wed a woman whom Richard would have wooed were he still living. With Richard dead, the playing field is level for Atlas.”

That jarred me. Lord Telford could not have recognized me as Richard’s old sweetheart, or he certainly would have said so—but had he stumbled on part of the truth? I told myself firmly that Atticus did not see me as a prize he had claimed over the dead body of his brother, but the doubt had been planted. Was this what Atticus gained in marrying me, the motive he had not disclosed? Did he take satisfaction in winning some one-sided competition in his mind?

This would not do; I could not let my father-in-law see how troubled were my thoughts. I cast about for another topic of conversation, and my eyes fell on the masks adorning the walls.

“Lord Telford, I’m curious about your collection,” I said. “What moved you to collect something as out of the ordinary as death masks?”

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly as if he scented a diversion, but he tolerated the change of subject. “I find their honesty fascinating,” he said. “Death lays all secrets bare, you know. These masks capture the real person after all the artifice and pretense have been stripped away. Observe this one of my father, for example.” He jerked his head in a summons to his valet, who obediently stepped forward to wheel his chair over to one of the curio cases. “Come, have a look.”

I rose and joined him, albeit without enthusiasm. The wax casting he was indicating with one clawlike hand showed a masculine face, not a young one, drawn in lines of pain and suffering. “Poor man,” I exclaimed. “Was it an illness?”

“Why, it was the curse, child. That husband of yours told you of the Gravesend curse, I hope? Surely he would not have led his bride here all unknowing.” His voice dripped mock concern.

“I know of the curse,” I said shortly, hoping he would drop the subject. But my wish was not granted.

“Take heed, then, daughter-in-law.” His eyes glittered in malicious pleasure. “When I was still a child, the waltz took the fashionable world by storm. My father was newly wedded to his second wife—my stepmother—and found no greater joy than in waltzing with her. But the curse seizes on what we most love. One night on their way to a ball their coach was in a terrible collision. My stepmother was killed instantly. My father survived, but both his legs were crushed; they had to be taken off at the knee.” My exclamation of horror seemed, if anything, to please him. With a thin smile, he concluded, “He never waltzed again, needless to say.”

“And his secret?” I inquired, not certain I wanted to know the answer.

The old man’s smile became a sneer. “For the rest of his short life, he put on an absurd pretense that he was contented with what remained to him. In my few recollections, he was like the two Cheeryble brothers in one body. A brave front, he probably thought it. Sickening hypocrisy, to my way of thinking.” His eyes showed no affection as they rested upon the pitiful likeness of his father. “But now it is plain to be seen how much suffering the curse caused him.”

Reflecting that I would probably have preferred his father’s company to his own, I said, “It is dreadful that he suffered a double tragedy. But I hope that his pretense, as you call it, was more than that. Perhaps he truly did treasure what was left to him after having lost so much.”

Impatiently he beckoned for Brutus to wheel him away from the curio case. “Wait until the curse strikes you, child,” he snapped. “We shall see what fortitude you are able to summon up in the face of calamity.”

If only he knew.
I strove to keep my voice pleasant when I said, “This has been a most illuminating afternoon, my lord. I don’t wish to tire you, though, so I had best draw my visit to a close.”

He gave a wheezing laugh. “Had enough of my company, eh? Run along then, child. You’ll have tea with me again tomorrow, of course.”

It was not a question, but I would not be ordered about by him. “I shall ask Atticus if we have any prior engagements,” I said, unable to resist a final dig. “As a bride, you know, I must place my husband’s wishes first.”

A raised eyebrow registered appreciation of this riposte. “Such a spirited lass,” he mused as I made my curtsey. “What a pity the curse makes no exceptions for charm.” His eyes followed me all the way to the door, and even after it closed behind me I thought I could still feel that amused, malicious gaze.

After the unpleasant thoughts that Lord Telford had planted in my mind I found myself wishing for the calming reassurance of Atticus’s company, so as soon as I left his father’s rooms I descended to the main floor in search of him. Arriving at the library I interrupted a discussion between him and a visitor, a young man who looked up from their work at the large desk and made me a deep bow.

“Bertram, meet my wife,” said Atticus, looking, to my relief, not at all put out at my interruption. “Clara, George Bertram is my agent and my chief consultant on one of my pet interests.”

I approached to offer Mr. Bertram my hand, making the appropriate pleasantries, and then asked Atticus, “And what interest is that?”

“A rather innovative system of philanthropic institutions,” Mr. Bertram said, answering for him. He was a broad-chested man of less than thirty, with a wild bush of brown hair in want of cutting and an amiable, open face that surely had never known malice or calculation. His enthusiasm made his voice robust enough to fill the room. “Your husband, Mrs. Blackwood, is not only a compassionate man but a visionary.”

“Bertram, you needn’t work so hard to convince my wife of my virtues,” said Atticus mildly. “Clara has already married me, after all.” His eyes were bright with interest as they returned to the papers on the desk, which I saw now seemed to be building plans.

Mr. Bertram waved away the demurral so vigorously that for a moment I feared he would knock the nearby globe from its stand. “You know my admiration for this venture, Blackwood. I’m certain your wife will share it once its features are made known to her. Or have you already taken Mrs. Blackwood into your confidence?”

“I know nothing of this,” I said, “but I’m eager to learn what animates you and my husband with such enthusiasm.” For Atticus did seem to be full of a vitality that I found as appealing as I did mysterious; one hand made notations in pencil on the sketches, and the other drummed in an excess of energy. His cravat was askew and his hair slightly rumpled, as if he had been dragging his fingers through it.

It probably would have been a wifely gesture to restore some order to his appearance, so I approached with the thought of straightening his cravat. I lost courage at the last minute, however; it seemed too intimate a contact. Atticus proved himself a better actor than I when he took my hand and held it to his lips for a long moment, gazing into my eyes. For a moment I lost my breath. It was like being with Richard again, stealing a few minutes together on a long-ago day when my future seemed full of possibilities, and all of them including him.

“Now, fond marrieds, remember you’re not alone,” said Bertram cheerfully, and I returned to the present with a little sinking of my heart. “There’ll be time enough for all your billing and cooing when I’ve gone.”

“Spoken like a true bachelor,” said Atticus lightly, tucking my hand into the crook of his arm. “Once you marry—assuming you can find a bride who’ll have you—you’ll be forgetting yourself in company too.”

He was so relaxed in the way he spoke about us, the way he behaved, that it was a bit unnerving. “What are these institutions you spoke of, Mr. Bertram?” I asked, to cover my confusion.

“You truly know nothing of them? I’m astonished that your husband hasn’t told you of his grand scheme!”

Now Atticus did not look so relaxed. He coughed into his hand. “I thought it better to seek an appropriate time for presenting Clara with the plan.”

Bertram burst into laughter. “And I’ve spoiled your careful strategy. Well, out with it, Blackwood. You’ve no choice now.”

Releasing me, Atticus stepped over to the desk to pick up one of the building plans. “This is the first one,” he said. “It should be ready for habitation by the end of the summer. The others will be built along similar lines, with changes as made necessary by the location and so on.”

The drawing told me little; it seemed to contain sizable dormitories, which made me think of a workhouse, but that was not a scheme that could be called visionary, nor one that I could imagine evoking such enthusiasm. “I’m afraid you’ll have to say it in so many words,” I said. “Who is to live here?” And why had he thought he needed to break it to me in any special way?

He said carefully, “The unfortunates generally called fallen women.”

This did surprise me. “The Anglican sisterhood already offers shelters for these women, does it not?”

“Yes, but these will be different. Here the women will be permitted to keep their children by them, instead of being separated.” He was watching me closely to gauge my reaction. “I’ve long thought it an unconscionable cruelty to separate mother and child, no matter how unfortunate the circumstances of the child’s birth.”

“That’s very good of you,” I said. “Were you expecting me to be shocked or distressed that my husband is exerting himself in this cause? I am surprised, but my sensibilities are not offended.” In fact, to my surprise, I found myself feeling something akin to admiration. I could not imagine any of the other men I had known—gently born or not—looking with so compassionate an eye on the population of ruined women. “What put the idea into your mind?” I asked.

He looked at me for a moment, and I thought it a searching look. “I was slightly acquainted with one such case,” he said at last, his voice pitched so low that I doubted Bertram could hear. “The young woman’s child was sent away to be raised by strangers. I have never forgotten the injustice of it.”

“But surely the child is in some cases an unpleasant reminder of the girl’s ruin,” I suggested. “It’s distressing for us to think about, to be sure, but I know there are cases where the child is made to feel his mother’s resentment.”

“Truly?” Atticus looked shocked, and I was sorry to be the one to disillusion him. But if he embarked on this venture as fully as he seemed determined to, he would soon learn that his pretty ideas about the sacred bond of mother and child did not always hold true.

“I am sad to say it, but sometimes the child is better off with those who don’t view him as a reproach or an unwanted responsibility. Especially when the mother struggles to find a means of feeding herself alone, the obligation to feed another can sometimes drive these poor creatures to extremes that would horrify you.”

My words seemed to remind Atticus that I had had a very different experience of the world from his. Indeed, I had met several women of the kind deemed fallen, even apart from poor Martha, and while some took a bittersweet pleasure from their children, there were others the memory of whom made me suppress a shiver.

“I see,” he said, subdued. “Yes, you make an excellent point. A distressing one, but an excellent one nonetheless.”

“We would certainly not force the mother to keep the child, in a case such as that,” offered Bertram. “Would we, Blackwood? I should think we might be able to help both mother and child by seeking out a better situation for the child.”

“Perhaps we could even offer a school,” said Atticus thoughtfully, rubbing his jaw. “Train the youngsters up so that they’ll have a trade, like their mothers. That’s another of my hopes,” he told me. “Some of these unfortunate women were driven into their present circumstances by having no means by which to earn a living… no wholesome means, I should say. The Anglican homes have offered the solution of training their residents as laundresses, which I think a very sound scheme.”

Now it was my turn to be thoughtful. “It is a valuable trade, to be sure. But some will surely have natural abilities suited to more skilled tasks. Sewing, for example. Most machine-made garments are still finished by hand; it is—” I only just stopped before saying that this had been my particular skill. Quickly I amended, “It is easy enough to determine whether a woman has an inclination to such work. Deft hands that might be ruined by laundry work may find occupation in fine sewing and finishing.”

“A capital idea,” Bertram announced. “Isn’t it, Blackwood? I say, Mrs. B, that’s some first-rate thinking.”

Atticus slipped his arm around my waist and drew me closer. I had to avert my eyes from his; after that momentary glimpse of Richard in him a few minutes before, seeing him look at me with such a convincing imitation of the adoration in Richard’s eyes made my heart constrict painfully. “My bride has a first-rate head on her shoulders,” he told his friend. “Her beauty and her compassionate nature are equaled only by her intelligence.”

This excess of admiration would only awaken suspicion, I feared; he was playing his role with a reckless degree of exaggeration. “Please don’t overpraise me so,” I said, and to soften the words added, “you’ll make me blush before your friend.”

“And that would become you just as much as the praise. However, I know how uncomfortable you are being the subject under discussion, so I’ll find an innocuous topic on which to discourse. Has Father given you the guest list?”

“Guest list?” I replied, a feeling of dread beginning to form in me.

“Why, for the house party beginning next week. Did he not tell you? All our friends from the surrounding counties will be coming to Gravesend to meet you and celebrate our wedding.”

This froze me with horror. So many people, so many highborn people, all of them here to examine me and question me and make note of everything that I said or did that rang false with my professed identity—my panic must have been obvious, for Atticus patted my hand in what was meant to be a reassuring gesture.

“My dear,” he said, “they’ll love you. You’ve nothing to fear.”

I was not at all certain of that. And if they found me out, what then would happen to Atticus? He would be a laughingstock—or a pariah. “You must tell me all about your friends,” I said, as lightly as I could manage. “I’d like to know how best to make their stay here a pleasant one.”

That night when we met in my sitting room for our nightly consultation, I was rather more free with my words. “How could you invite all these people here? They’ll recognize at once that I’m not their kind. It isn’t just of myself I’m thinking, Atticus—it will do your standing no good to be seen to have made such a match.”

“Clara,” he said firmly, from his seat by the fire. “Stop your pacing and sit down.” He would not speak again until I complied, so I did so—unwillingly, for I was restless with worry. I picked at a slub in my taffeta overskirt until he reached out and placed his hand over mine, stilling my fidgeting.

I stared down at his fingers. Richard’s fingers, they were. Entwined in my hair… unfastening the button at my throat…

“Please listen to me,” came his voice—and that, too, was Richard’s, making me bite my lip. “It would look far stranger for me
not
to invite my friends to celebrate my wedding. Yes, they will be curious about you, but you are not a notorious criminal mastermind liable to be exposed and hounded. Are you?”

A reluctant smile touched my lips. “I can safely say I am not.”

“Very well, then.” His hand gave mine a reassuring squeeze and then, to my relief, withdrew. “We have our story, and it is a good story. Any minor eccentricities or lapses will be easily chalked up to your many years among the uncivilized Americans. There shall be few enough lapses, in any case, as you bear yourself with great dignity and poise.”

The compliment was kindly meant, but it was scarcely reassuring.

“Moreover,” he continued, “I’ve observed that when you are ill at ease your speech and manner tend to become more composed and formal. Such dignified reserve is a most suitable default.” Rising to part, he reached for my hand to kiss, and I reluctantly surrendered it to him. “I’ll do all in my power to put you at your ease,” he promised. “Please believe that I’d not put you to such a test if I didn’t believe you are more than equal to it.”

Even though I knew the coming days would most likely be taxing ones, after Atticus left me I was too restless to think of sleep. Instead, I prowled around the sitting room, picking up books and setting them down again, going over in my mind all the things that I would need to remember. I finally realized I needed to find some way of soothing my nerves or I would not sleep at all, so I set about making alterations in one of my new gowns, whose imprecise fit betrayed its hasty creation.

Ripping out the seams was quiet work, and even when I moved to the sewing machine, which had been placed in my bedroom as requested, I thought that the noise would not carry far enough to be heard. However, in an interval when I had finished a seam and took my foot from the treadle, I heard a knock at the dressing-room door. “Clara?” came Atticus’s muffled voice. “May I come in?”

“Just a moment,” I called, starting from behind the machine to fetch a peignoir, but the door opened at once, and I hastily sat back down, hoping the machine would screen me from his view. “Did the noise of the machine wake you?” I asked. “I didn’t mean to disturb your rest.”

“Don’t distress yourself; I hadn’t retired yet.” Sure enough, he was still dressed except for his suit coat. He came to within a few yards of where I sat, and leaned against the bedpost with his hands in his trouser pockets. “When I heard your machine I was merely concerned for you. I hadn’t realized just how much I was demanding of you, and at such short notice. I didn’t know if you were trying to run up new hangings for the parlor.”

“I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep,” I confessed. “I keep thinking about all the preparations still to be seen to, and all the new faces and names I’ll need to learn, and then I remembered that the bodice of my violet day dress doesn’t sit correctly, and I determined that
that,
at least, was one problem I could solve.” I was talking too much, and I tried to halt my nervous prattle. “Anyway,” I finished, “sewing soothes me.”