With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense (10 page)

I swallowed hard and peered into the darkness. Nothing moved, nothing disturbed the inky black well of shadow. A little shiver crept up my neck, and I did not quite dare to call out a challenge.

The old house was constructed so strangely, I told myself, that if Atticus had spoken my name, the echo might have seemed to make his voice come from the opposite direction. Nevertheless, I made a brisk retreat through the sitting room to my bedchamber, the rustle of my skirts betraying my haste, and locked the adjoining door.

The luxurious appointments of my room helped to soothe my nervousness somewhat. In the warm glow of firelight and the oil lamp I removed the triumphant amethyst gown, sparing a moment of gratitude that it boasted the fashionable button front and did not require me to ring for Henriette to free me from it, and put on for the first time one of my fine new lace-trimmed silk nightdresses. The fabric was airy soft against my skin, and when I climbed into the magnificent bed the perfect smoothness of the sheets made me sigh in pleasure. The room was blissfully quiet, free of the sounds of street noise, and no cooking smells assaulted my nostrils, only the faint scent of dried lavender given off by the linens. A sensualist, Atticus had said. Very well, then; I was guilty as charged. But I had experienced the worst Gravesend could muster; it was only right that I enjoy some of its material comforts as well.

The memory of that ghostly whisper, though, was like a voice of reproach. I had allowed myself to become so caught up in frivolities that I had managed to put out of my mind what a mockery this arrangement was compared to my girlhood dreams. As a young woman I had sometimes dared to imagine myself as mistress of Gravesend—with the crucial difference that in those fantasies I was Richard’s bride, not Atlas’s. In those dreams, moreover, I was not alone in my bed on my wedding night.

Suddenly cold despite the warm bedclothes that enfolded me, I grasped for the cautious optimism that had visited me such a short time ago, but it had fled. When at last I fell asleep it was with a troubled heart. And if a few childish tears happened to fall before I slept, no one but my pillow was any the wiser.

My new life proved not quite as easily donned as one of my new frocks, but at least the first day went remarkably smoothly.

As was only fitting in welcoming a new mistress to Gravesend, Mrs. Threll led me on a tour of the house. I was forced to pretend ignorance, letting her introduce me to rooms I had cleaned year after year. The house seemed no less grand and imposing to me now than it had when I had first entered it as a girl, and this surprised me; I had expected to feel, if not at ease there, at least less intimidated. But in room after room I felt a cool, aloof watchfulness, and I was intimidated by not just the size but the grandeur and age of the furnishings. As much as when I had been a girl there, I moved among the precious antiquities with unease, afraid that I might break something. The house had not accepted me—had never accepted me, either as its handmaiden or as its mistress.

This, I told myself sternly, was simply my own anxiety about exposure coloring my perceptions. I did not feel comfortable or welcomed because I was there under false pretenses, not because the house had sense or feeling to know my secrets and condemn me for them. But there was something so un-lived-in about the main reception rooms, perhaps because Lord Telford had ceased entertaining since his stroke, that they looked as if they had fallen into a kind of disuse that suited them and would be resentful if I woke them to their former service.

I shivered, and Mrs. Threll asked dutifully, “Are you cold, ma’am? I’ll send one of the maids to fetch you a shawl.”

“No, thank you.”

Mrs. Threll was difficult to take the measure of. Her tone was always even and respectful: never animated, never showing any sign of emotion. I had resolved to preserve that mutually respectful but cool cordiality, and that seemed to suit us both. She gave no sign of either resenting me or warming to me, but she saw that my orders were carried out, unless she had practical emendations to suggest, which were always sensible. I valued her, but I could not say that I liked her… or even, yet, that I trusted her. Perhaps it would be possible to find a window into her character through a topic that would surely be of mutual interest. “Mrs. Threll,” I said, “what can you tell me about the curse on Gravesend?”

Her face was impossible to read; I had no idea what she thought of the question. “Stories of the curse go back as far as the death of the lady who was to be the first mistress of Gravesend,” she said. “They spring to life again whenever a misfortune visits the house or the family. What is it that you wish to know?”

We were standing in the banquet hall, the largest room in the house; the faint smell of beeswax rising from the floorboards reminded me of how much work it had been to clean and prepare it for use whenever the Blackwoods were having a grand party. The high windows, my own height at least, permitted the wan light of an overcast day to reach us. The long table was bare, the chairs neatly ranked against the walls, and our voices echoed in the great emptiness.

“Do you believe in the curse?” I asked, without having intended to.

Still no change came over the impassive face. Was she so skilled at disguising her feelings, or did she simply have none? “Yes, ma’am, I do,” she said evenly.

This response, coupled with her neutral tone, astonished me at first. If she were so certain, surely she would have sought a position elsewhere… but perhaps she had. Perhaps, like my mother, she had found it the least dire choice open to her. “Do you fear it?” I asked hesitantly.

For a moment I thought that a flash of emotion passed across her eyes, but it was gone so quickly I could not be certain. “I don’t fear it, ma’am, no. The curse is said to rob one of what one most treasures. And I am not a treasuring sort of person.”

How very odd. Did she mean she felt no attachment to anyone or anything? Glancing at the still, erect figure in her plain black gown, I could not imagine Mrs. Threll showing affection or attachment. But was this a hard-won place of resignation, or a lack of natural sympathies?

It was hardly my place to ask. The housekeeper deserved her secrets, and I had pried enough.

Before I could suggest we proceed to the next room, she asked unexpectedly, “Do you not fear the curse, ma’am, that you accepted Mr. Blackwood and came here to live?”

I had prepared myself for this question, fortunately. I smiled in a way that I hoped made me look like a smitten bride. “I believe it would have been a far worse fate never to have married Mr. Blackwood than to risk whatever dangers Gravesend may bring,” I said.

She did not seem moved by this profession of wifely devotion. “Perhaps,” she said. “But you may live to regret that decision.”

“Perhaps,” I echoed, startled by the dire words. “But no one is safe from regret at any point in life. One may regret ordering lamb for dinner instead of mutton. All of life is a succession of risks, and each of us must judge for ourselves which risks are worth the taking.”

Hoping to close the conversation, I started for the nearest door, but Mrs. Threll’s voice followed me. “Ma’am, I think you’ll find the entrance to the larger parlor this way.”

Her words, and their faintly condescending tone, brought me up short. Out of old habit I had been proceeding toward one of the servants’ doors. “Of course,” I said, feeling rebuked. “Please lead the way, Mrs. Threll.”

One place that I explored without Mrs. Threll’s assistance (or, indeed, her knowledge) was the corridor onto which my sitting room opened. I needed to know whether it offered any concealment to someone who might have been lurking there and whispering my name on my first night in the house as Mrs. Blackwood.

My sitting room was the last room on its side of the corridor. Across from it, as I discovered when I tried the doorknob and found it unlocked, was a spare bedroom. It was furnished but not in immediate readiness for a tenant. I stood looking at the purple-and-buff brocade hangings and mused. Someone could have hidden behind the door easily enough, but who—and why? And why take such a risk, when I might so easily have taken three steps across the corridor and peered around the door, exposing the prankster? With no means of escape, he would have been bottled up.

Frowning, I shut the door behind me and examined the wall near the window at the end of the hall. It was just possible that there might be a hidden door here; I did not remember one from my earlier tenancy at Gravesend, but then I had not had a great deal of leisure for exploring in those days, between my duties and, in the final year or so, my rendezvous with Richard. I ran my fingers lightly along the floral wallpaper, seeking an interruption in the smooth surface, but had not yet found anything when the grandfather clock down the hall tolled the time, and I had to join Lord Telford for tea.

At his express request, we met without my husband; Lord Telford wanted, he had said, for us to be able to speak without constraint so that we might become properly acquainted, as befit new family, and although it was odd, I found it a reasonable enough request. An uncomfortable one, though, since if the conversation led into dangerous waters I alone would have to steer it into a safer course, without any ally.

But I felt it incumbent upon me to entertain my father-in-law when he was so inclined; it was no more than what my contract required, and for what Atticus was providing me, it was little enough to ask in return. And I was certainly equal to an elderly, ailing man. I felt only the smallest flicker of apprehension as I knocked at the door to his sitting room, and when his voice bade me enter I did so with, I think, every appearance of being collected.

“Daughter-in-law, how lovely you look. Forgive my not rising.” He seemed to be in an amiable mood, judging from his expression, and he was neatly dressed, in a slightly old-fashioned collar and cravat. Today his lap rug was a cheerful red. “No, no, don’t curtsey as if we did not know each other. Come and kiss me.”

I stooped to touch my lips to his dry, papery cheek, and he chuckled. “Very nice. Now pour, if you will be so good—two lumps and a touch of milk for me—and tell me all about yourself.”

Concentrating on filling his cup and adding the requested sugar and milk gave me a little time to gather my thoughts and remember the story that Atticus and I had decided upon. I related briefly my background as we had concocted it, hoping to move quickly to the present.

“And why did my son not bring you here to be married from Gravesend, pray?” my father-in-law wanted to know. “Did you wheedle him into a London wedding?”

“I did, I’m afraid,” I said promptly. Atticus and I had prepared an explanation for this also. “Being well past the age of most brides, and a widow what’s more, I confess that I feel the passage of time quite keenly. I asked if we could dispense with the usual long preparations and obtain a special license, and Atlas was good enough to humor my wish.”

“Good? Nonsense. He probably felt just as impatient as you. I should have, in his place.”

I was trying to decide if he had meant this to sound as suggestive as it had when his next question shocked me out of my train of thought.

“I am curious as to how you learned my son’s childhood nickname,” he said, pleasantly enough, but with his eyes slightly narrowed as he watched me. “I can’t imagine that he would have brought it up, disliking it as he did.”

My stomach gave a little flutter of dread. All my efforts to school myself out of thinking of him by his old name had not worked. “Did others call him Atlas?” I asked. “He never said so.”

“His brother, Richard, used to tease him with it. Surely he did not mention that.”

I reached for the teapot to warm his cup, then mine. “He did not, no.”

“What a remarkable coincidence, then, for you to concoct such a pet name for him.”

The thin, insinuating voice was fretting my nerves, and I allowed him to see that I was a bit flustered. I set my teacup down with a clink of porcelain and reached for the sugar without meeting his eyes. “I really would rather not say,” I said. “I’m afraid you’ll think me a very silly woman.”

“Come, now! Give me more credit than that.” His curiosity was piqued even more.

I took a breath and let it out. “It’s just—well, I know I sound like a lovesick girl, but one of the first things that struck me about Atticus when I met him was how broad his shoulders are. Nearly broad enough to shoulder the world, was my fancy. And with his name but a step away…” I gave a little shrug of assumed embarrassment. “The pet name just came to mind.”

“Hmm.” I could not tell from his expression whether Lord Telford believed me, so after a quick peek at his face I dropped my eyes as if in shyness at my revelation. Presently he said, “And my son has not indicated that he dislikes this particular endearment?”

This was trickier. “He seemed surprised when I first used it,” I said. “But I do not recall that he objected to it.”

“How interesting. Perhaps, coming from such lips as yours, the name has lost its power to hurt.” He stretched out a thin, unsteady hand for his tea. “He certainly protested it vigorously in his childhood. He and Richard came to blows over it more than once.”

It would have been courteous to thank him for the compliment, but I was more interested in pursuing this unexpected insight into the past. “He and Richard fought? I knew there was some, well, fraternal rivalry—”

The old man’s face split in a grin. “That is a most ladylike way of putting it. Richard loved to bait Atticus. There was nothing to stop him for many years, until Atticus finally showed some spirit and began to defend himself. Even then he took many a beating.”

“I’m certain you are exaggerating. If there had been violence between them you would have intervened.”

He waved that away. “It was their quarrel, not mine. Boys have to be let alone to learn how to settle these things. It took a few black eyes and bloody noses—and a broken bone or two—but they finally came to a kind of armed truce.”

This was so unlike what I remembered, and what Atticus had told me, that I did not know whether to believe it or not. “But Atticus admired his brother so.”

He shifted in his chair, and his valet stepped forward to rearrange the lap rug as it threatened to slip to the floor. The conversation seemed to be making Lord Telford testy. “My dear, if your husband has a fault, it is that his view of the world and humankind is too upright and unyielding. Were the matter left to him, no one would ever transgress in the slightest way. What harm is it when a young man sows some wild oats, plays at dice once in a while, and the like? Atticus expected his brother to stay on the pedestal on which he’d placed him, but Richard—my Richard was too bold to be bound by such conventions.” His voice dropped into a gruff note that must have been sorrow. “If he had a few less than pristine episodes in his youth, what matter? At least it showed he had spirit. Let the milquetoasts of the world stick to the strait and narrow if they are so fearful of the consequences of living life to its fullest.” Abruptly he flung his napkin onto the table, and I had the strong certainty that if he had still had the full use of his legs he would have leapt from his chair and walked away.

The picture forming in my mind was disturbing, and I had the gravest doubts about its veracity. He was implying that Richard had been a libertine, a gambler, and a seducer—and that Atticus had been a poor-spirited creature who resented and condemned his brother for these failings. “But Richard was not like that,” I exclaimed, and instantly wished I could call the words back again, for Lord Telford cocked an eyebrow and turned his sharp eyes back toward me.