With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense (16 page)

I could have chalked the footmen’s behavior up to carelessness. But taken with the other incidents, the little snubs formed a larger pattern. When I added them all up and recollected how poorly Genevieve’s room was being kept, I knew that the staff were purposely showing her disrespect.

The next morning I summoned the housekeeper to the small salon that was my private domain. When she joined me, I bade her close the door. “Is something amiss, ma’am?” she asked in that neutral voice that gave me no window into her thoughts or feelings.

“I’m afraid so,” I said. “It seems that Miss Rowe is being made to feel unwelcome at Gravesend. She does not understand that these slights are deliberate, but I believe that’s exactly what they are.”

Mrs. Threll continued to listen with her hands folded in front of her, the picture of patient acquiescence, but I thought her eyes had sharpened. “To what slights do you refer, ma’am?”

“I’ve observed the condition of Miss Rowe’s room and the gown that Letty damaged and nearly ruined with her mending. I’ve also seen the slapdash way she is served at dinner. I’d like you to personally see that these incidents come to an end.”

Mrs. Threll inclined her head. “The footmen come under Mr. Birch’s purview, ma’am. As for Letty, I grant that she is still green in some ways, but she’s learning.”

“Is she? I would have hoped that she would have completed her learning before being given the responsibility of seeing to Miss Rowe’s needs. If Letty is unable to discharge her duties without incident, perhaps her training was inadequate. Is that the case, Mrs. Threll?”

The housekeeper’s lips thinned. I had touched her pride. Still, all she said was, “I’ve had no other complaints about the girl, ma’am.”

It seemed I would have to be firmer. “It reflects poorly on the staff as a whole that they are so discommoded by the addition of one young woman to the household,” I said. “Such inefficiency will almost certainly come to be noticed by our guests. I’m certain Lord Telford would not wish to become known to his neighbors as a man whose staff is so lax.” By this point Mrs. Threll’s lips had compressed almost to the point of vanishing, and I hesitated. I did not want to make an enemy of her, and I knew that my own lack of warmth toward the girl might have encouraged the staff to be careless in their duties toward her.

“I fear I may bear some responsibility in this,” I admitted. “My own welcome to Miss Rowe was not as warm as it should have been for my husband’s ward. Her early arrival took me by surprise, and I let my displeasure show. It may well be that I set a poor example to the staff in doing so. But I intend to make that up to her. Anyone whom my husband has taken to his bosom should be made to feel at home.” A sudden mental image of Atticus literally clasping Genevieve to said bosom swam into my mind, and I quelled it firmly. “Miss Rowe is just out of the schoolroom—a child, practically—and in a strange country, and I ought to have made certain that she felt welcome from the moment she arrived at Gravesend.”

Mrs. Threll’s face, not for the first time, was unreadable. “Lord Telford has expressed no dissatisfaction with the quality of the staff’s service, ma’am.”

“Ah. I see.” So the malicious old man was setting the tone for Genevieve’s reception. I tried to keep the disgust out of my voice and find a line of reason that the housekeeper would respect. “I would have hoped that my husband’s wishes mattered as well—as his father’s heir and the future baron, if nothing else. The staff’s treatment of Miss Rowe is a sign of their respect for Mr. Blackwood, since it was he who brought her here.” I could not tell whether my appeal to her loyalty and pragmatism was having any effect, but I felt I had made my best effort. “If Lord Telford is at all discommoded, I’ll be happy to address the matter with him. In the meantime, if you could see that Miss Rowe’s needs are more fully met, I would be much obliged.”

“Very good, ma’am.” The words were rote, but the housekeeper’s eyes rested thoughtfully on me. She was reevaluating Genevieve based on my words. I was surprised that my opinion counted for so much with her, but grateful for the girl’s sake.

Or perhaps it was not Genevieve who was the object of Mrs. Threll’s consideration. I wondered suddenly if Lady Telford had ever admitted fault to her housekeeper. Perhaps I had won some credit by admitting a failing and, in a sense, meeting her halfway. “I almost forgot,” I added. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about the rule dictating that servants turn their faces to the wall in the presence of the family. I should like you to inform the staff that it’s no longer in force.”

“Ma’am?” For once I had awakened a visible emotion on the housekeeper’s face—surprise.

“You heard me aright. It’s a degrading custom, and I see no reason to preserve it. If Lord Telford objects, you may refer him to me.”

She mastered her surprise quickly enough. “As you think best, ma’am. And I’ll have a word with Letty and Jane about taking better care of Miss Rowe.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Mrs. Threll.”

After that conversation I was pleased to notice that Genevieve’s smile was once more in evidence, and there were no upsetting incidents at dinner. I had some qualms that I might hear from Lord Telford that he resented my interference, but the only acknowledgment he granted was a summons to his chambers one day—for Genevieve.

“I am more than a little nervous,” Genevieve confessed to me as we neared the baron’s rooms. Atticus and I were accompanying her, since Lord Telford had not specifically commanded her to come alone. She was somewhat pale. “You are so calm and composed, you make me feel stronger.”

I was neither of these things, or at least not internally, but my heart (or at least my vanity) was touched. I gave her hand a squeeze. “He shall adore you,” I said. “Just as my husband does.”

Indeed, I must admit that I had begun to feel some grudging fondness for the girl as well. She was so guileless and affectionate that it felt churlish to dislike her; and her oft-expressed admiration for me could not help but make me warm to her.

There was another reason as well, one that renewed itself when Atticus knocked at his father’s door and Lord Telford’s voice testily bade us enter. If my father-in-law had hardened his heart against the girl, my own had correspondingly softened. A quixotic impulse to champion the girl he had snubbed made me feel closer to Genevieve. We were kin in a sense… as my husband had said.

Now Atticus gave the girl a warm smile to reassure her. “Just be yourself, Vivi,” he said, and then the valet opened the door for us.

“So you’re my son’s latest charitable case,” was Lord Telford’s less than gracious greeting. He sat hunched in his chair with a petulant twist to his lips, a dark blanket, as always, over his legs. “Another stray lamb to be added to the fold.”

“My lord,” said the girl, with a deep and graceful curtsey. “I am delighted to have been—”

“Yes, I’m certain you are. You’ve landed on your feet and no mistake. Fine gowns and fine food, mixing with the county—you’re doing quite well for yourself.”

Atticus spoke firmly. “Genevieve is part of our family, Father. This isn’t an instance of charity. Her place is here at Gravesend.”

The old man fixed a baleful eye on his son. “You’re very high-handed about telling me about
my
family, my boy. Next you’ll say the knives-and-boots boy is a cousin and must be given a place at table. Still trying to rescue every soul with a sad story, make yourself responsible for everyone’s happiness—Atlas.”

Genevieve cocked her head at the name. “Is that your nickname, uncle? I like it.”

The old lord gave a sly smile, which turned into a wheezing laugh as Atticus hesitated, unable to respond at once. “
He
doesn’t like it,” the baron told her.

“It’s a foolish name,” I said. “A wife’s endearments for her husband should never be made public, for they cause nothing but embarrassment.” I tucked my hand through Atticus’s arm and gave him what I hoped looked like an apologetic smile. “I am so sorry, dear, but it slipped out once when I was speaking to your father.”

Lord Telford gave one of his death’s-head grins. “Oh, now it’s your turn to cast yourself on the sacrificial altar, is it, Clara? It won’t work, you know. My son was Atlas long before you became his bride.”

“I think it suits you, uncle,” said Genevieve, either not noticing the tension or else deciding to ignore it. “The mythological Atlas was a figure of strength.”

“The mythological Atlas was none too bright,” said Atticus lightly, but I thought his smile did not reach his eyes. “He had a chance to be relieved of the weight of the whole world, and he lost it through foolishly trusting the wrong person.”

“Ah, but that will never happen to you, my son,” said Lord Telford, his bright little eyes fixed on Atticus. “You’d have no purpose if you let anyone take on their own burdens.”

I tightened my arm to draw Atticus closer. “It’s a noble quality in Atticus that he always seeks to help others. In any case, we mustn’t tire you, Lord Telford. Genevieve can pay you a longer visit tomorrow, when you are more rested.”

“Don’t be preposterous, woman. I’ve scarcely said two words to the girl. So, tell me,” he barked suddenly to Genevieve, “what are your plans?”

“Plans?” she stammered, caught off guard.

“Yes, plans,” he repeated irritably. “I’m certain you didn’t come all this way merely to amuse yourself. You Frenchwomen are all so damnably practical. You must intend to use my name to secure marriage to some rich dolt who’ll turn a blind eye while you amuse yourself.”

“I beg your pardon, but I am not French,” said Genevieve, who had never sounded more so. She stood quite straight and still, her hands folded quietly, but her chin was raised at an angle that suggested that she was not prepared to quietly suffer the old man’s gibes. I liked her more at that moment than at any time since meeting her. “My parents, rest their souls, were English.”

“Oh they were, were they? And just what do you know about them? Were they married? To each other?”

“Father,” said Atticus warningly. “There’s no need to drag Genevieve into a sordid discussion. She knows only what she has been told, after all, and the subject may be painful to her.”

“It is not painful, uncle. I know very little about my parents, so I cannot take offense at stories about them—however unkind those stories may be.” She tossed her bright ringlets and fixed the old baron with a challenging look. “I know only that Uncle Atticus felt that I should be happy as part of
his
family with his beautiful wife Clara. We have yet to discuss any future beyond that. Does that answer satisfy you?”

The old man’s face was reddening. “Impertinent baggage!” he spat. “Atticus, take your so-called ward out of my sight, and don’t let her come near me again until she can keep a civil tongue in her head. If you’re wise you’ll give her a whipping, but then you’re too soft-hearted to raise your hand to anyone, woman or not.” He raised a tremulous hand to point to the door. “Brutus, show them out.”

Atticus did not move at once, even as the valet briskly stepped over to throw the door open for us. I felt the muscles of his arm tighten against mine, and I remembered then that he had been trained in bare-knuckle fighting. He was not afraid to raise his hand against a bully, despite his father’s taunts.

But the baron was old and frail, and in any case his father. Atticus made him the most civil of bows and, with no word of farewell, led me to the door. Genevieve, head held high, was hard on our heels, and no sooner had she stepped into the hallway than Brutus shut the door with a swiftness that made her jump.

“I am sorry, uncle,” she said contritely. “I was rude. Your father is elderly, perhaps wandering in his wits, and I ought not to have taken offense at his words.”

A smile almost too fierce to deserve the name came and went on my husband’s face. “Father would be most disappointed had you
not
taken offense; his chief delight nowadays is in sticking pins in people to see what makes them flinch. You’ll apologize to him, but not until he’s had a night to enjoy nursing his offended pride.”

“Very well,” sang Genevieve, her penitence vanishing as quickly as winter sunshine, and hummed a little tune as we left Lord Telford and his spite behind us.

Unfortunately, over the days since Genevieve’s arrival I had been unable to find the right moment to tell Atticus about Collier’s note. Our nighttime meetings were consumed by discussion of our guests and what it was incumbent on me to do or not do in order not to disgrace myself (or my husband) before them, and when my thoughts did return to the note it was never a convenient time to detain Atticus alone.

It was the same the following day. He and the male guests were out with the guns all day, and they returned with barely enough time to dress for dinner. I gritted my teeth and made pleasant conversation with the women in the parlor, where I kept one eye on the doorway, waiting for Atticus to appear. Birch would sound the dinner gong soon, and then I’d have no chance to speak privately with him until hours later when we met for our usual late-night conference.

The decorous murmur of feminine conversation was shattered by the irruption of the men into the drawing room. Energized from their day outdoors, they seemed to fill every corner of the room, both physically and with their boisterous voices.

Mr. Bertram was the only exception. Looking comfortingly unassuming with his wild hair and two-seasons-old dinner coat, he was speaking to my husband in a voice I could not hear over the bragging of Lord Veridian about how many grouse he had bagged. But Bertram’s next words caught his attention.

“If we are concerned about the local men haranguing the girls on their way to church, as has happened with some of the Anglican institutions, we can consider building a chapel wing onto the facility itself.”

“I should think the exercise and fresh air would do the residents good,” mused Atticus. “To be bottled up in one place day and in and day out would make it seem a prison. But you’re right, we don’t want the young women to suffer unwanted attention. I wonder if perhaps—”

“What’s this?” boomed Lord Veridian. “What young women are these? Are you starting a harem, Blackwood?”

“Cecil, please,” murmured his wife.

Atticus hesitated, clearly unwilling to elucidate for an almost certainly unsympathetic party, but Bertram helpfully provided the answer. “Quite the opposite,” he said brightly. “Young women who have come to grief will find a refuge for themselves and their children in the institutions that Mr. Blackwood is planning.”

I nearly groaned aloud. Even I knew that this was not a suitable topic for the time and place. Anything likely to create controversy was anathema to a gathering like this one, and most especially in mixed company.

Sure enough, I saw shocked glances pass between some of the women. “I scarcely think,” one matron said reprovingly, “that discussion of such depraved creatures is appropriate.”

Her husband laughed too loudly. “And yet
I
find it a fascinating topic! Tell us, Blackwood, how do you propose to locate the despoiled lasses to populate these homes? If you need scouts, you have a willing volunteer here. I’ll happily search the neighborhood for undiscovered wantons.”

A rumble of appreciative laughter from some of the gentlemen greeted this sally. It was time I took command, like a proper hostess. “I’m certain that my husband will explain the entire scheme to all of the gentlemen after dinner,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the sniggering, “when you won’t be constrained by the presence of ladies.”

“Exactly so,” said Atticus firmly. “The topic is ill suited to the present company. Not because I find anything salacious in the unfortunate circumstances that make such a scheme necessary, but the presence of my young ward—”

“I’ve got it,” Lord Veridian interrupted. “These are all of your brother Richard’s castoffs, eh, Blackwood? With all of the wild oats he sowed, you’re probably talking several acres’ worth of crops.”

“How dare you.” I had not meant to speak, but the words flew from my lips. “How dare you speak so of Ri—of a member of my family.”

His lips spread in an oily smile, and he treated me to the honor of a long scrutiny of my entire person. I felt as if his gaze were leaving a film on me. “Pardon me if I give offense, dear lady, but I’m only repeating common knowledge about young Blackwood. You never had the opportunity to know him, but if you had—” A nasty grin. “Let us say that he might have left you a sadder but wiser woman.”

“How brave of you,” I said witheringly. “Casting aspersions on a dead man. If he were here to defend himself, you’d not be so free with your vile claims.”

Suddenly Atticus was beside me, and although he did not actually put his arm around me or in any physical way offer support, I suddenly felt less vulnerable. “Clara, my love, it is like you to spring to my family’s defense. But I assure you”—he directed a look at Lord Veridian that was so cold in its fury that the man’s head retracted as if he had been struck—“you’ll not have to listen to such filth any longer. Veridian, you are no longer welcome at Gravesend.”

I did not see him make a gesture, but instantly Birch and two of the strongest-looking footmen were there, positioned around the slanderous peer as if creating a barrier between him and the rest of the company.

“Escort Lord Veridian out of the house,” Atticus ordered. His words were clipped, and I had never seen such icy anger in his eyes. To the man in question he said, “Your belongings will be sent after you.”

There was an instant’s silence, while Lord Veridian, whose face was slowly crimsoning, stood swaying as if from a blow or from too much wine. Those nearest him had fallen back, as if he might contaminate them—all except for Lord Cavendish, whose kind face was perplexed.

“Blackwood, is this not a bit rash?” he said gently. “Surely so drastic a measure is unnecessary. Veridian, apologize to our host, and let’s put this unpleasantness behind us.”

But this seemed only to rouse the man. “I’ve no intention of apologizing to this madman,” he barked. “You can’t just throw me out like rubbish, Blackwood. For God’s sake, I’m the Viscount Veridian!”

“You’re a disgrace to the peerage,” Atticus informed him. “Birch, get him out of my house.” One of his hands had descended to rest gently on my shoulder, and I found the touch reassuring. My hands were shaking, and I clasped them in my lap to still them.

Shocked murmurs arose as the footmen hauled Lord Veridian from the room. They met with little resistance; either he was too stupefied at the turn of events to put up a fight, or he had some belated impulse to recall the dignity of his position—an impulse that had not been present earlier, or it might have prevented him from saying any of the repellent things that still echoed horribly in my mind.

“How could he?” I whispered. What was the point of inventing such disgusting lies?

“My love, don’t distress yourself.” Atticus’s voice was so low that I could scarcely hear it over the avid buzz of conversation that was already filling the room. I realized that the scene had provided my guests with an even tastier morsel of scandal to gossip over than Genevieve’s obscure origins. “Don’t pay any mind to what he said,” he urged.

How could I not? But he gave me no chance to reply. “I’ll just see that he’s giving the men no trouble,” he told me, and made his way out of the room.

“What a disgusting man,” announced Genevieve distinctly, and there was some laughter—but also mutterings of disapproval. Bertram gave her a smile.

“Miss Rowe, you have just witnessed something that may be nearly unique among the English peerage,” he said. “A viscount doing a job of work.” His voice was so cheerful that I was first astonished and then, belatedly, grateful.

Genevieve shook her red-gold ringlets in pretty puzzlement. “And what work is that?”

“Why, digging his own grave.”

She wrinkled her forehead at him. “Is that clever, Mr. Bertram? I cannot tell.”

He laughed rather than taking offense. “No more can I, Miss Rowe. Now, I have heard that you are a delightful singer. If I accompany you on the piano, would you be so kind as to favor us with a few songs? I think some sweet tunes are just what we need after that ass’s braying.”

There was a silken rustle from across the room as Lady Veridian rose, and the murmur of conversation halted at once. “If this is the kind of hospitality you offer, Mrs. Blackwood,” she said quietly, “I think you’ll find your acquaintance shrinking rapidly.”

I had momentarily forgotten the viscount’s wife, and I must have looked like a half-wit, gaping at her as she continued, poised and calm.

“The only charitable assumption one can make in the face of such a preposterous gesture is that your husband has lost his wits.”

“No more than your husband has,” I snapped before I could control myself, and the ripple of shocked laughter told me, too late, how inappropriate the remark was.

Lady Veridian’s stare might have been the coldest thing I had ever seen, and yet it made my face burn. She said distinctly, “I hold you personally responsible for this scene, Mrs. Blackwood.”

“Ladies, I beg of you,” Lord Cavendish began, but she silenced him with a look.

“You may not know it,” she continued, biting each word off with angry precision, “but my husband’s family is one of the oldest and most distinguished in this country. Perhaps you consider yourself an American and have little respect for the noble tradition of the peerage, but I assure you that if you were a man, my husband would have had every right to call you out for the things you said.”

The entire room was awaiting my response. Even if Atticus had been there, I knew he could not save me this time. If I did not meet this confrontation head on, I would lose face before every person present, and it would never be forgotten. A clammy dread clutched my stomach, and I rose so that I faced my accuser eye to eye.

“Lady Veridian,” I said, willing my voice not to quaver, “I’m sorry if I have insulted you. But the Blackwoods, I understand, are also an old and venerated family and worthy of respect. Perhaps I do have a bit of the Puritan in my makeup, but I would think that in any country it is unacceptable to slander someone who is unable to defend himself. If my husband’s brother were alive,
he
would have had every right to call Lord Veridian out.” My mouth was so dry it was a marvel that I could speak at all, but she showed no signs of thawing yet. “You are welcome to stay on at Gravesend without your husband,” I offered, and instantly knew it had been the wrong thing to say. If I had been on the way to gaining her respect, I lost it then.

She inclined her head and regarded me with a contempt that was almost palpable. “Mrs. Blackwood, you clearly have much to learn about English society. Among civilized people, a wife and her husband are considered one person. You cannot extend or revoke an invitation to only one—nor can you insult one without insulting the other.” She snapped her fan open so suddenly that I jumped. “Pray excuse me,” she said icily. “I must have my maid pack my things. I won’t discommode you by remaining a moment longer than I must.”

Her sweeping exit from the room left a profound silence in her wake.

I bit my lips and tried desperately to think of what to say to smooth this discordance over. Apologize to my guests? The scene had been none of my doing, but the revolting viscount’s. But the terrible quiet only grew more agonizing by the second. I sought Genevieve’s eyes and saw a similar helplessness in them. Strangely, that brought me a measure of calm.

“Genevieve,” I said, “I believe you were going to sing for us. Perhaps, after this memorable conversation between me and Lady Veridian, you and Mr. Bertram might favor us with something in a similar vein—say, Rossini’s Cat Duet?”

It could have been a devastating misstep. For a second it hung in the balance whether the company would condemn me as irredeemably flippant and impudent.

But then Lady Stanley gave her distinctive chuckle. “Clearly American bloodlines are infused with steel as well as brass,” she said. “Yes, let us have the ‘Duet for Two Cats’—or shall we consider it an encore?”

That seemed to turn the scale. First one, then another of my guests permitted themselves a smile or titter, and my shoulders sagged in relief. Genevieve and Bertram quickly took their places at the piano, and as their spirited meows sent the guests into more laughter, I resumed my seat and felt the panicked beat of my heart subside into something closer to normality.

“I wouldn’t have had that happen for worlds,” said Atticus. “Clara, I can only say again how sorry I am. Lord Veridian shall not enter this house again.”

I drew off my gloves and sank into a wing chair with a little sigh of gratitude. It was a relief to close the door of my sitting room and be freed from the eyes of both guests and servants—to be offstage, in a sense. Especially after my close brush with social disaster, I was blissfully relieved that now I could finally relax.