With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense (14 page)

I would be able to do entirely as I pleased. No exerting myself to entertain and deceive a bewildering succession of distinguished (yet indistinguishable) visitors. No enduring the endless crimping, braiding, and pinning of my wild hair to tame it into fashionable styles; no more struggling to communicate with Henriette—who would, no doubt, be equally exhilarated to be freed from her frustrating and lonely service to me! No more tactical evening meetings with Atticus as we took tea together and discussed all the endless, endless details of our lives here under the guise of man and wife. No more sharing clandestine laughter at some near mishap or unanticipated awkwardness. No more comradely glances from the ice-blue eyes across the breakfast table…

I had been brushing my hair after having removed the feather ornament and all the pins, but now I set the brush down gently on the vanity and took a long look at the opal ring on my left hand. In just a short time my hand had become used to the weight of it; and when I drew it from my finger, the shape of the band was impressed into my skin, a visible reminder that lingered even after the object itself had been removed. The ring, whether I wished it or not, was becoming part of me.

A sigh escaped me, and I reached for the velvet case to put away the jeweled collar. When I sprang the catch and the lid raised, however, I found that it was not empty. A scrap of paper, evidently torn from a larger sheet, rested in the place where the necklace would lie. A few words were scrawled on it in pencil in an uneven hand.

You have no right to the name of Mrs. Blackwood. You are no true mistress of Gravesend.

After a triumphant first evening, perhaps a letdown was inevitable. Breakfast the next morning was sparsely attended; many of my guests were breaking their fast in their own rooms, and those who had gathered seemed to be coming to life slowly. My wits were dulled from a late night followed by hours of sleeplessness when my thoughts were in too great turmoil from the nasty little note. It had to have been Collier, of course. In his fixation on his foster daughter, he must wish to see her installed as the mistress of Gravesend in my place. It made no sense, since there was no blood connection to the Blackwoods…

Unless he had wished her to become Atticus’s wife.

Of course. My hand froze with my teacup raised halfway to my mouth, and the desultory conversation of my guests rose and ebbed around me as my thoughts pursued their unhappy path. Atticus had said he had been unable to find a suitable match to marry, and Genevieve, of uncertain parentage, would have certainly fallen into the unsuitable category. But if she was as beautiful and charming as report would have it, Atticus’s abiding interest in her fortunes and his determination to bring her to Cornwall were explained. He might not have been able to marry his young French beauty, but he could take her as his mistress.

I stole a glance at my husband where he sat conversing with one of the men about getting up a hunting party. I could scarcely reconcile the idea of a mistress with the man I thought I knew. His whole being, from his broad and lofty brow to the keen sympathy in his gaze, spoke of integrity. He had acted with decency—no, more, with compassion—in all his dealings with me, when he might so easily have forgotten my existence entirely after my dismissal from Gravesend.

But there again was the little sore spot that I winced away from probing too thoroughly: the very real likelihood that I was the rope in a game of tug-of-war with his dead brother. And, too, wouldn’t a wife—any wife—be a great convenience if a gentleman in his situation wanted to carry on with a mistress? My presence would help to disguise the true nature of his relationship with his ward and would make it possible for them to live under the same roof without the appearance of impropriety.

The thought of being used this way, and by a man I had come to trust, turned my stomach. I pushed my chair back from the table, with the assistance of a footman who quickly stepped up to take my chair, and dropped my napkin on it.

“My dear?” Atticus had noted my abrupt motion. “Are you quite well?”

I did not know for certain that my gloomy suspicions were true. The last thing I ought to do was to reveal that I harbored them, especially before others. “My head is pounding so,” I said, “I thought to take the air. Perhaps those ladies who have finished breaking their fast would like to join me; we could stroll through the grounds and visit the glasshouse.”

“I should like that a great deal,” announced Lady Stanley, rising also. “I fear I overindulged in your splendid dinner last night, Mrs. Blackwood, and some mild exercise would do me a world of good.” None of the other ladies chose to join us, and when she tucked her hand companionably through my arm, I saw the conspiratorial look in her eye and realized, with a sinking heart, that far from subduing my ugly suspicions I had merely saddled myself with a companion eager to add to them.

Sure enough, her first words were about the painful topic. “I have been thinking about the subject of our conversation last night,” she said in a low voice as we strolled across the entrance hall toward the front door. “I do hope I haven’t distressed you. But I think it is best to know as much as possible about one’s husband. Without a full knowledge of one’s situation, one may easily be manipulated.”

“I cannot believe my husband would manipulate me, as you call it.” But my tone might have been firmer, and she seemed to note my lack of conviction, with a little comforting pat on my arm.

“My dear, you may be twice a bride, but I fear you are as innocent as a green girl. Marriage is in its way as much a form of strategy as chess—or war. One hopes, of course, to be on the same side as one’s husband, but in any event a knowledge of the larger game is vital to securing your happiness. Have you asked Mr. Blackwood about young Miss Rowe?”

I had been too busy congratulating him, and myself, about the success of our dinner. Heat rose to my face as I recalled laughing with him, kissing his cheek. No, suspicion had not been foremost in my mind last night. “We have both been so busy—and she is not to arrive for another week—”

“Pray don’t feel you have to defend yourself, my dear. It is a difficult subject to broach.” A footman opened the door for us, and we emerged into the wan sunlight just as a coach drew up before the broad front stairs. Birch must have heard what I had been too preoccupied to make note of—the sound of wheels on the gravel of the drive—for he was already directing more footmen to hold the horses’ heads, to place a step before the coach door—and to hand down the Titian-haired, beaming young woman who emerged from the interior in an airy agglomeration of white muslin printed with yellow butterflies.

Her eyes were blue, with long curling lashes, and her mouth was as pink as any rose. Her bright ringlets were surmounted with an absurdly tiny hat of coral faille trimmed with white ostrich feathers, and the coral grosgrain ribbon that served as her sash encircled a waist so small that my husband’s collar might in fact have fastened around it, as he had once said in jest of mine.

“At last!” she cried as she picked up her gauzy, abundant skirts and darted up the stairs. “You must be my darling Uncle Atticus’s bride, Clara!” Before I could respond she had seized my hands in hers and placed a kiss on each of my cheeks. There was a waft of heliotrope scent, and my dulled wits belatedly realized that her words had been tinged with the most piquant of French accents. “I should have known you anywhere,” she continued, beaming at me. “He has spoken so much of you in his letters. I beg your pardon, madame,” she added to Lady Stanley, and dipped into a graceful curtsey. “I forget my manners. But I have come to think of Clara—Mrs. Blackwood—as an aunt almost, and I am so delighted to meet her at last!”

Lady Stanley’s eyes were as round as the very carriage wheels. Birch and the footmen could not take their eyes from the girl. I forced a smile to my lips. “My lady,” I said to my companion, “allow me to introduce you to Miss Genevieve Rowe—my husband’s ward.”

And who knew what else besides?

It was not as if I had any grounds to be offended. If she was in fact Atticus’s mistress—well, our marriage had not been a matter of affections, so Genevieve could scarcely have been said to have alienated them. Without a wife in more than name, a man as warm-hearted as Atticus would naturally seek some form of attachment. I had no grounds for objection, as long as his arrangement—if such it was—posed no danger to my future after I left Gravesend.

Why, then, did I feel the painful tightness in my breast when Atticus emerged from the breakfast room, drawn by the commotion, and opened his arms to Genevieve with such delight?

“We didn’t expect you for another week,” I said, trying, not entirely successfully, not to sound disapproving.

“You’re welcome, Vivi, of course,” Atticus added, “but your room’s not yet ready.” This was in a muffled voice, for she was hugging him around the neck.

The girl (for so I could not help thinking of her, even if she was more properly called a young woman) kissed him on both cheeks before releasing him. “I could not bear to wait any longer. You are not angry with me?”

“As if anyone could be angry with you for long, Vivi.” He took her in from the foolish little hat to the tiny slippers showing beneath the hem of her dress. “This is a fancy rig-out you’re wearing. Is it new?”

“But of course! How silly of you. I told you I needed a new frock.” She cast a glance at me from beneath her lashes. “After you told me that your Clara had such an eye for
les modes,
I could not appear before her in my old things.”

“It’s perfectly sweet,” I said. “A trifle crumpled from the journey, but that can’t be helped… let’s find a room for you, and your maid can help you get settled.”

“Oh, I have no maid,” she announced airily.

“Clara’s maid can see to you, I’m sure,” said Atticus at once, and my opinion of his intelligence took a sharp drop. Perhaps he didn’t realize how much effort Henriette put into my coiffures and the maintenance of my elaborate gowns. “It’s perfect, really,” he continued, “because Henriette will at last have someone to speak French with.”

“Henriette will have twice as much work to do,” I pointed out, “and more, since she will be forced to go back and forth between our rooms.”

“Hmm, that’s right. And I know you two will be longing to spend more time together, getting to know one another.” He turned to the housekeeper, who had obligingly appeared at his elbow. “Mrs. Threll, I believe the room across from my wife’s sitting room is available, isn’t it?”

He was
not
going to give that room to the little—to this girl. “I’m afraid we couldn’t possibly put Miss Rowe into such a poky, drab little room,” I said firmly.

“Oh, I am certain it is delightful,” Genevieve interposed, but I shook my head.

“No, it’s far too small and old-fashioned. We must have something better suited, Mrs. Threll. In the east wing, perhaps?”

She understood my intended meaning. “I believe the Blue Room would be quite suitable, ma’am, and it isn’t in use at present.”

The Blue Room was at the other end of the house from mine. “Excellent. Please have it made up. Oh, and can any of the maids be spared to look after Miss Rowe? She has brought no abigail.”

Mrs. Threll left just enough of a pause to register disapproval. “I shall see to it at once, ma’am.”

Our pretty guest’s face was falling more each second. “I am truly sorry if I am causing you inconvenience,” she said, and so injured were the wide blue eyes that my heart might have softened toward her if I had let it. But Atticus was quick to cushion the blow, I observed.

“Nonsense, Vivi, we’re just a bit at sixes and sevens this morning. We’re delighted to have you with us. Aren’t we, Clara?”

I smiled with as much grace as I could muster. “Delighted,” I said, and to my shock the girl flew at me and kissed my cheek again.

“I knew you would not scold me,” she confided. “Uncle Atticus has told me all about you, Aunt Clara—may I call you that? He told me that you have such dignity, such grace even when all about you is in turmoil. He said he knew that we should love each other. And I know already that we shall be inseparable!”

I turned my head to look at Atticus, and my expression must have been terrible indeed, for his face reddened slightly and he cleared his throat.

“Genevieve, why don’t you and I go for a stroll while Mrs. Threll has your room readied. I believe that being cooped up in that coach has made you a bit restless.”

She found the suggestion delightful, of course. Her “Uncle Atticus” could no doubt have suggested that her Titian ringlets be singed off with burning pincers and she would have thought it the most adorable idea ever conceived by mortal man.

“A charming young woman,” came a murmur in my ear, and I found that Lady Stanley was at my elbow once more. She was watching Atticus and Genevieve proceed to the front door, Genevieve half dancing in excitement and casting eager looks all about her, exclaiming Frenchly to Atticus about how
merveilleuse
Gravesend was. “Very vivacious,” she added.

“A delightful creature,” I said. “I can see why my husband is so fond of her.”

“As can I,” she said under her breath.

As soon as I could, I excused myself and retreated to my rooms. I was determined to remain there until such time as I could look upon the adorable Miss Rowe without desiring to shake her until her teeth rattled. And if that time was years off? In my present mood, that suited me quite well.

It was not jealousy, of course. There was certainly some
envy,
if only for the girl’s extreme youth and beauty, and the security of having a protector like Atticus Blackwood to smooth her way in the world, to make her feel loved and wanted. Obscure parentage notwithstanding, Genevieve looked as if she would never know want or loneliness, and Atticus was to be commended for that. How different her life might have been without his generosity and compassion—the same impulses that lay behind his sanctuaries for castoff women and their children. He was acting as defender to those who had none other, and I ought to have been moved, even proud to the extent that I, as his wife in the world’s eyes, was connected to such a person.