With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense (12 page)

“That’s fortunate. A much more respectable panacea than, say, brandy.”

“Are you teasing me?”

“A little, perhaps.” He was silent for a moment, and then in the most deferential of voices he asked, “Is it customary, may one ask, to sew in one’s underclothes?”

So much for my foolish hope that he might overlook my state of undress. “Not customary, as far as I know,” I said, my face aflame. I fixed my eyes on my work so that I would not have to meet his gaze. “It simply makes fitting so much easier.”

“Ah, I think I see. You aren’t forced to dress and undress each time you wish to try the thing on.”

“Exactly.” Thank heaven he was being so accepting of it instead of making me feel even more self-conscious.

“A bit chilly, though, surely?”

Perhaps I had rejoiced too soon. “Sewing can be warm work,” I said. Working in a state of undress had never been a problem before because I had always locked the door when I sewed at the theater, but I had been perfectly capable of locking this door as well, had I remembered to. To this point, though, Atticus had never used that means of passing between our rooms, so I had not formed a habit of locking the connecting doors.

I had reached the point of needing to mark the new placement of the darts. I slipped my arms into the sleeves of the bodice and caught up the pincushion as I left the machine and walked over to the full-length mirror. Insufficiently clad as I was, every step I took under his eye was burdened with self-consciousness, but I was determined not to show embarrassment. At least when I was busy pinning the bodice closed I did not have to look at his expression.

“I don’t pretend to any expertise in women’s fashions, but it seems rather an odd-looking dress,” he said. “Why does it have all those raw edges?”

“It’s inside out,” I said, turning to stare at him, only to find him trying to hide a smile. Ridiculous man. I couldn’t help laughing. “I ought to have told you that inside-out gowns are the latest trend,” I said, tugging the bodice smooth. “Would you fetch me that piece of chalk?”

He brought the chalk to me but remained there at my side, watching my activities in the mirror. “You could start a new fashion. In fact, I dare you to.” His grin was mischievous. “Go waltzing in to dinner next week wearing a dress that’s all over raveled edges and loose threads.”

“Oh, I surely will.” With the chalk I began to mark where I would take in the darts. “While I’m about it, perhaps I’ll raise hemlines. All the more convenient for dancing.”

“An excellent thought. You’ll make fancy stockings all the rage. And I think you should add big fringed epaulets, here.” He stepped behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders in imitation of epaulets that looked poised for flight. I found that I was smiling. “And a great cheesecloth sash about your waist—good lord, what a small waist you have. I could practically span it with my two hands.” His hands settled snugly around my waist, testing his theory, and in the mirror I saw him purse his lips in a silent whistle. “Never mind the cheesecloth. You can wear one of my collars as a belt.”

“Such flattery,” I scoffed, but with him standing so close behind me, clasping my waist in his hands, I felt warmed by his laughter and high spirits—a more than physical warmth, a buoyancy and euphoria I had not felt in years. When he caught my eye in the mirror, his roguish grin and the devilry in his blue eyes were Richard’s—and then memory returned, and I gave a painful gasp as the illusion vanished. It was only Atticus that I bantered with, and Richard was stolen from me once again.

At my gasp and the sudden change in my face, I saw his expression go from laughter to something almost desolate, and his hands tightened convulsively around my waist. “Don’t see him,” he rasped in a voice I scarcely recognized. “See
me.
”

Tearing his hands from around my waist, I plunged across the room to belatedly snatch up a dressing gown and wrap it around myself so that I would not feel so naked. “Why are you determined to blot him out of my memory?” I demanded, and it shamed me that my voice was not quite steady.

“Clara, that’s unfair.” His voice was still raw, and I averted my eyes so that I would not have to look again on the desolation in his face. My own face probably mirrored that expression. “I only ask that you see me for myself, not as the constant reminder of your broken heart. It hurts me that you’ve been through such pain, but what Richard did I am blameless of.”

“What Richard did? What are you talking about? You know he bore none of the fault.” It was all Gravesend—and the Blackwoods.

His voice was gaining strength and energy. “He wasn’t worthy of you. You didn’t know him as I did—”

“And you did not know him as
I
did. You have no idea how loving and tender he could…” I shut my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to quell the fierce regret that rushed so chokingly to my throat. I spoke again only when I could summon a calmer voice. “Atticus, perhaps this is a good time to tell you that I think we’re a great deal more demonstrative than necessary. I’d be more at ease if we could decrease our—our displays of physical affection.”

“Oh?” he said shortly. “Why is that?”

“They make me uncomfortable. I know we are striving for verisimilitude, but most married couples in your class comport themselves with more restraint, don’t they? I don’t think we need engage in quite so much… well… touching and the like.”

His brows were no longer drawn down quite so far with anger, but I could tell that my words were not welcome. “Hm,” he said. “I’ve seen a number of married couples who are a great deal more demonstrative than we are—especially those but newly married.”

“You know better than I, of course, but it does not strike me as implausible for a new bride to be shy.” Shyness was not at all what I felt, but the outward appearance would be much the same—and outward appearance was all that I had contracted to provide.

“As for being plausible,” he continued in an even voice, “I am an affectionate man, and it comes naturally for me to engage in such displays, as you call them.”

Especially, I thought, if in his eyes I represented his victory over Richard. If I stood for all that Richard had had that Atlas had not, it was perhaps natural for him to be inclined to gloat a bit over his prize, over having defeated his dead brother by claiming me. But his possessive gestures made me feel as if I had lost Richard all over again—or, worse, as if I were being faithless to him.

“Your face has changed,” he said, and his voice was gentler. “Clara, I didn’t mean to frighten or distress you. I assure you I won’t violate the terms of our agreement. I’ll not try to seduce you.”

This was so far from my thoughts that I must have stared at him as if he had begun speaking Chinese. And this, too, he misinterpreted.

“I realize it may be difficult to believe that, considering my behavior just now… but the last thing I wish is to make you regret our arrangement. It’s true that I got a bit carried away, and I’ll guard against that in the future.” He seemed to have difficulty framing the next words. “In our special circumstances, I believe honesty between us is vital. So it’s only fair to tell you that I find you a beautiful and stimulating companion. But I promise I won’t let that—”

“Please stop,” I commanded, withdrawing to the far door. “I—I think that knowing of your brother’s feelings for me may be swaying your judgment,” I added desperately, as he moved toward me with one hand extended in conciliation.

That stopped him as abruptly as if he had walked into a wall. “You believe,” he said at length, “that I only hold you of value because Richard did?”

“I oughtn’t to have said anything.” It had been a mistake to broach this topic, at least in the present circumstances. Desperate now for him to leave, I pleaded, “Take no notice of what I said; our arrangement is perfectly fine.”

“Clearly it isn’t,” he said, his eyes going to the agitated clenching of my hands. “I can only apologize, Clara. I have too much respect for you to look upon you as some fortress that must be conquered because—” He stopped and turned abruptly away, and for a moment the only sound in the room was the snapping of the fire on the hearth. He braced an arm on the mantelpiece and seemed to be staring into the flames. At last, without turning his head, he said in a different voice, “Does it make you think of him when I touch you?”

“Yes,” I whispered. My mouth was too dry for me to speak more clearly. “You remind me so much of him sometimes, and… it’s very painful.”

The words were so feeble compared to what I felt, but he seemed to recognize the emotion behind them. He straightened and moved toward me once again, and I swallowed hard to try to keep my composure. I would not let him see tears.

“I’m very sorry,” he said, his eyes dwelling on mine with so much understanding that I believed him. “I can’t, of course, refrain entirely from touching you during the course of our time together. It would look strange indeed for a husband never to offer his arm to his wife or take her hand. But I’ll try to be more respectful of your degree of comfort.” A faint smile did not quite reach his eyes. “I shall have to convey my high regard for you in a less corporeal fashion.”

His regard for me? “Atticus, no. Please don’t think of me as anything more than a—a partner in a business arrangement. It would be disastrous to feel anything more. You know what happened to your brother. The curse would—”

Abruptly he wheeled away from me and aimed a kick at the corner of the sewing table that came near to upsetting it. “That damned curse,” he swore softly. Then he seemed to regain his composure. The face he turned to me was white, and his eyes were full of sadness, but he was calm once more.

“You’re right,” he said. “Neither of us can afford to learn to care for each other. I don’t want to fall in love with you, any more than I want you to fall in love with me. Because we both know that if that happens, Gravesend will find some way to destroy us.”

Before I could reply—even had I known what to say—he strode out the way he had come, shutting the dressing-room door with a resounding bang. I heard the other door similarly emphatically shut, and then all was silent.

The following days were a bewildering blur of activity. Mrs. Threll was in charge, of course, and I quickly became grateful for her expertise and efficiency as she directed the disposition of the guests to their different rooms. Most of the guests were known to her and the rest of the household from previous stays, so their likes and dislikes, their peculiarities and aversions, were already planned for: everything from the two extra hot-water bottles for Sir Faneran to the arrangement of tea roses and violets from the hothouse in Lady Stanley’s room. I suspected that it was the lady of the house’s role to learn these individual quirks and provide for them, and I was relieved to have this responsibility lifted from my shoulders. If I was going to be the mistress of Gravesend in more than name—and for more than the immediate future—I would have my work cut out for me. Fortunately for me, if not for Lord Telford, my role would surely be short-lived.

The old baron and I developed an interestingly barbed friendliness. He seemed to like it when I challenged him, and from time to time he acted almost fond of me. At these times, especially when I saw his frustration at his own physical weakness, I found myself saddened by the recollection that his prognosis was so poor. But at other times there was something disturbing about him: he would speak with relish about the deaths of those whose masks ornamented his room, seeming to delight in distressing me. I would glance over at the curio cabinet awaiting my own mask and repress a shudder, and when the visit was over I would emerge from his room with a rush of gladness at being released.

Whenever the Gravesend masquerade wore on me—whenever Mrs. Threll’s dry tones made me flush in embarrassment, or the baron made a stinging reference to my social aspirations, or the intimidating grandeur of the rooms reminded me how unworthy an upstart I was—I let myself daydream about the place where I would lead my independent life after my bargain was fulfilled. It would be nice to get away from the city, I decided, but village life would bring too much scrutiny and gossip. Perhaps a smaller city than London, though; perhaps I would indeed settle in America, where there would be so many people of different origins that no one would question my past or my means. The glimpses of American cities I had caught during Sybil Ingram’s tour there had been comparatively rough and short in creature comforts, but society seemed more fluid, more accepting. I might find some occupation there, some charitable work, even. The comforting knowledge that I would not have to worry about money ever again was a refuge I sought when my present strange existence fretted my nerves or plagued me with uncertainties.

When the house party arrived, however, life at Gravesend instantly became so busy that I had no time for such retreats into fantasy.

There were twenty of us to dinner on the first night, which was my first social event as Gravesend’s new mistress. Lord Telford was of course not well enough to attend, so Atticus took his seat at the foot of the table, and I was at the head… uncomfortably far away, I felt, for I would not be able to confer with him in moments of uncertainty. I had walked the length of the table that afternoon, reading the place cards, as Mrs. Threll went through the motions of conferring with me about the seating—in actuality schooling me on the different guests and the principles of arranging them. I wondered how long it had taken the late Lady Telford to learn these matters; but then, she had been born into this world, had probably grown up being trained in the ways of social etiquette at her mother’s knee. She would have known by instinct that the notorious rakehell should not be seated next to the restless young wife of a much older man, that the reckless baronet with a poor head for business should not be seated opposite the feckless dreamer replete with dubious schemes in need of “investors.” I attended her closely, but my head was soon swimming in unfamiliar names and scraps of gossip, and I despaired of being able to find my way through this labyrinth without making mistakes.

But if my internal self was fraught by nerves and uncertainty, at least my external one would not bring embarrassment to my husband and his family. My claret-red velvet evening toilette would make its first appearance this evening, and although I was alert for any imperfection as Henriette dressed me, I could find in the mirror nothing to cause me concern. The reception bodice had the fashionable square neckline and tight three-quarter sleeves, and was trimmed in ruched satin bands of the same claret color as the velvet. A velvet apron-style swag, trimmed with a pleated satin flounce, surmounted the satin skirt and attached to a poufed overskirt, caught up with satin rosettes, that extended into a long train behind. The tiny garnets inset in the front buttons winked in the light, and I drew on white kid gloves as Henriette dressed my hair in an elaborate upswept arrangement with descending sausage curls that nestled on one shoulder. As I was giving my toilette a last examination before the mirror, a knock sounded on the dressing-room door.

“Come in,” I called, and Atticus stepped into the room, wearing his black evening suit with white tie. His auburn hair was smooth and gleaming, his impeccably tailored tailcoat set off his fine broad-shouldered form admirably, and altogether he was so handsome that I felt a dart of uncertainty that I would look suitable next to him. “Will I do?” I asked.

He took a moment before answering, giving me a long look that took me in from the toes of my evening slippers to the small feathered ornament Henriette had pinned in my hair. When he smiled, I felt my shoulders relax, releasing some of my tension.

“You’re magnificent,” he proclaimed, and even though Henriette must not have understood the words, she seemed to understand the tone and gave a self-satisfied nod of acknowledgment, stepping back with her hands folded in front of her, like an artist receiving the critics’ accolades. Atticus held out a black velvet-covered box to me. “As promised,” he said. “There are many more, of course, and you must come with me another time to choose those you’d like to wear in the future, but tonight I’d like you to wear these.”

My sumptuous skirts rustled as I crossed to take the jewel box from him. “Oh, Atticus,” I gasped when I saw what the case contained.

“The stones are pigeon’s-blood rubies,” he said, as I stared. “They’ve been in the family for generations.”

“And I’m to wear them?” The necklace was a heavy collar of pearls and rubies set in gold, with a pair of dangling earrings to match. Each stone was as big as my thumbnail, and in the light of the lamp they glowed with a splendid fire against the black velvet interior of the box. I had never been so close to anything this valuable in my life, and it occurred to me that I would be taking on a great responsibility by wearing something so precious.

“By tradition, these are worn by every Blackwood bride on the night when she makes her first social appearance after her marriage.”

I had extended one tentative finger toward the jewels, to assure myself that they had actual substance and were not some gorgeous mirage, but at these words I drew my hand back and met his eyes in consternation. Even though I was almost certain that Henriette would not understand me, I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Are you certain it’s right for me to wear these? I’m not a Blackwood bride in the true sense.”

“But you are as far as the world knows,” he said easily, unruffled by my protest. “Those familiar with the tradition of the jewels—and you may be certain that some of our older guests are aware of it—will find it strange if you don’t wear them. They are part of your persona.”

Although I ought to have been reassured, I found that my uncertainty about wearing the jewels had merely changed rather than vanishing. If he was correct, although none of the guests might raise an eyebrow at my wearing the jewels, I still somehow felt that I was transgressing against their real meaning. But if Atticus felt that it was right for me to wear them, I had no grounds for protesting.

Still, as Henriette fastened the heavy jeweled collar around my throat, while I carefully held my ringlets out of the way, I felt some sadness settle onto my frame with the weight of the necklace. It seemed a pity for something so beautiful to adorn a woman who was only pretending to the position they were meant to ornament. Surely they—and Atticus—deserved a proper Blackwood bride, someone who really would make her home with this family, would devote herself to her husband’s happiness… and find happiness of her own in him.

But, I reflected as I screwed the earrings onto my earlobes, it was not as if I were usurping the place of such a bride. Had Atticus found such a woman, he would have married her. I was not preventing him from marrying his ideal bride; I was just filling the space that would otherwise have remained unfilled.

And there had probably been previous Blackwood brides who had filled that role with less than complete devotion and enthusiasm. Arranged marriages would have set this collar around the throats of women who had no greater claim on the Blackwood name than I. I found this thought strangely saddening, and sighed.

Atticus, misinterpreting, said in satisfaction, “I am delighted that you are so pleased with them. Come, we must show ourselves to Father in all our finery before we descend to our guests.”

“We must?”

“Of course! He’ll want to see the jewels on his daughter-in-law.” He offered me his arm, and I took it, telling Henriette
“Merci, bonne nuit”
as we passed from the room.

I had never before seen Lord Telford’s sitting room by night, and when we reached it I found that, curiously, it was sparingly lit with only a few isolated candles instead of the branched candelabra or oil lamps. It created an unsettling effect: in the dim, flickering light the death masks on the walls seemed to move and become animated, making grotesque expressions, and I averted my eyes from them.

“Too much light is tiring for my old eyes,” Lord Telford explained. He was in a soft-front shirt and smoking jacket, and clearly was not planning to join the company or receive guests. His red lap robe was the most festive part of his appearance—that and his eyes, which held a glitter that might have been either enthusiasm or mischief. Or perhaps both. “When you’re as old as I am, you appreciate the tact of dim lighting,” he added. “But Clara will understand, I’m sure. Women always know what flatters them best. In this dimness you look almost young.”

The barb did not sting, however. “Thank you,” I said with a straight face. “I am happy to know that the darkness softens my defects.”

“Ha. Defects of appearance, maybe. Not so with those of character.”

“Don’t the rubies look beautiful on Clara?” Atticus interposed, before we could become embroiled in the sparring session his father seemed to wish to launch.

“Hmph.” The old man may have been put out by this blocking tactic, or perhaps he was vexed that he could not join the festivities that would be taking place. At any rate, it did not sound like a compliment when he said, “I never thought to see the Blackwood collar gracing a neck such as yours, daughter-in-law.”

“Your surprise can hardly exceed mine,” I said gravely.

He shook his head. “Ah, clever Clara. So quick with an answer to a feeble old man. You’ll find the wits among your guests tonight more difficult to keep up with, I’ll warrant. But no doubt you feel yourself more than equal to the task of entertaining all of the most important people from three counties. Or perhaps you expect them to be so dazzled by your appearance that they’ll disregard your conversational limitations.” He chuckled at my discomfiture. “Ah, she blushes—and now the picture is complete. Red gown, red jewels, red cheeks.”

“Father, I’m afraid you’ll have to continue teasing my wife another time,” said Atticus lightly. “We are expected downstairs, and despite your attempts to frighten her, Clara is going to be a marvelous hostess.”

“As if you cared. As long as it took you to snare a bride, I daresay a broom in a ball gown would make you happy.”

“If that’s the case, then you can imagine what a lovely surprise Clara will be to our guests,” Atticus returned. He seemed to have no difficulty remaining calm during his father’s baiting; years of practice must have inured him to this treatment, and I felt a stab of sympathy for the young Atticus, who had been subjected to such barbs from both his brother and his father. Now he merely said, taking my arm, “We must go down to dinner now.”

“One moment, one moment.” The old man’s grin was grotesque as the firelight glistened wetly on his teeth. “Our Clara’s pretty blush reminds me: I have not seen you kiss your fair bride, Atticus.”

“I hardly think—”

“Humor a sentimental old man. The happiness of the young—well, shall we say, the
almost
young—is a beautiful thing. I should like to witness a loving conjugal embrace once more.”

The prospect was uncomfortable in so many ways I hardly knew how to reply. “Lord Telford,” I began, “I’m sure you’ll understand that to request to see such an intimate exchange—”

“Good God, woman, I’ve not asked you to strip naked. A kiss is nothing. Why, you kissed
me
on only the second time we met.” That had been at his command, which he did not acknowledge. “If you refuse to grant your own father-in-law so minor a request—”

“Please don’t agitate yourself, Father, you know it isn’t good for you.” Atticus sought my eyes with his, and there was a mute appeal in them. He would have saved me this embarrassment had circumstances been different, I knew, but if his father worked himself into a state of rage, it could damage his already fragile health still further.