With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense (28 page)

“Naturally I would not do so willingly,” I said, “but if I were forced to leave, you would continue to make my husband’s welfare your first concern?”

“We would indeed, my lady. But permit me to say that I hope it will not come to that.”

I summoned a smile. “Again you and I are of one mind, Birch.”

When I turned to go I caught sight of Lady Telford’s plaster visage where I had left it atop one of the crates.
You’ve not won yet,
I thought.
You or your curse.

The funeral arrangements kept me busy for the next few days, far busier than I was comfortable with. I didn’t at all like being kept away from Atticus. George Bertram was conspicuously present, however. Etiquette declared that he should have been giving us a wide berth, since we were a house of mourning, but evidently Atticus had set aside the conventions and asked Bertram to be close at hand… although whether in his capacity of agent, friend, or suitor to Genevieve I did not know. I managed at one point to draw Bertram aside and ask him to stay with my husband as much as was in his power, but I knew I could not expect the younger man to carry the full weight of responsibility for his employer’s safety… not least because the prospect of time with Genevieve would be forever tempting him away from Atticus.

Genevieve, not surprisingly, was full of questions, and I had none but the most perfunctory answers for her. I knew that she had tried speaking to her uncle and had made no progress; her face wore an unhappy pout for days on end. I could sympathize, but I could not help her. “I am delighted to be going to London,” she told me at one point, “but I cannot imagine why Uncle Atticus would wish to be separated from us—especially you, Aunt Clara.”

Her candor might once have made me smile, but now it merely awoke all the questions and fears that lay just beneath the surface of my own mind. Why was Atticus isolating himself so?

The funeral itself was almost as elaborate an affair as the ball, but of course in an entirely more somber vein. Atticus’s father was laid to rest in the family’s private burial grounds on the estate. The day was fine, so there were many at the graveside. I observed my husband’s still, remote expression, his eyes clouded by who knew what dark thoughts, and reflected on how much had changed for me. When first he had approached me with his proposition, and for the earliest days of our marriage, his resemblance to Richard had caused my heart to lift every time I caught sight of him—then to plummet again when recognition came. Then, for a time, that sinking of the heart vanished, leaving only the instinctive response of pleasure at seeing him. Perhaps for a time I had ascribed this to his mere physical attractiveness, but I now knew that it was because my feelings for him had changed.

But now the circle was complete: my unthinking reflex of joy at the sight of him was now succeeded by that terrible cold dread—the baffled sorrow and fear at being shut out, of wondering what was in his heart and fearing I had lost him.

With so much violence around us, so many disquieting events, it was not surprising that he had been affected, but I was heartsore to see this transformation… and not a little frightened. If he had indeed tried to follow the path the wretched Collier had taken, I needed to convince him that he had every reason to live. But how could I, when he seemed unwilling to speak to me at all?

After the graveside service there was what seemed like an endless stream of guests who came to offer condolences and partake of the huge collation set out in the banquet hall. I greeted neighbors and listened to condolences and murmured thanks and all the time kept an eye on my husband, hoping for some crack in the facade, some sign that he would be receptive to me again. It never came. Once I did catch a glimpse of Dr. Brandt and tried to make my way over to speak to him, but evidently he was there in his professional capacity: he disappeared with Atticus for a short while, and by the time I saw my husband again the doctor seemed to have departed.

Nervous strain made the rest of the day exhausting, and I retired early. There was no convivial sitting-room meeting with Atticus; that custom had died with his father, it seemed. I sat listlessly brushing my hair at my dressing table, wondering how many more days I would be at Gravesend. How many more chances would there be for me to try to break through my husband’s reserve?

And then, from Atticus’s room, as on that horrifying previous occasion, I heard the whispered tones of my husband in a furious argument… with himself. My door to the dressing room was ajar, and when I concentrated hard enough, I could occasionally distinguish words.

…just like Collier…

The whisper was fierce with emotion, but just what that emotion was I could not tell. I set the hairbrush silently aside.

…only of yourself…

…safe for anyone…

I couldn’t stand by this time and witness his disintegration without taking action. Swiftly I crossed the room and passed through the dressing room. When I rapped at his door, for a second there was silence.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, and the touch of panic in his voice killed the last shred of hesitancy in me.

“It’s Clara. Are you all right?” I grasped the doorknob and turned, but the door was locked. “Please let me in, Atticus. I need to see you.”

Silence still, and a vague impression of some kind of movement. Was he hiding something? His footsteps were slow as they approached the door, and he seemed to fumble with the key for long moments… but then, I remembered, his abraded right hand was still healing and might be clumsy. After what seemed like an eternity he opened the door to me.

His face was almost as pale as his white shirt, the pallor so marked that the faint gingery beginnings of beard were etched clearly on his jaw. His handsome face looked as if it had aged a decade, and his eyes were fixed and staring. What had the doctor done to him? Had he bled him, or forced him to take an opiate or a stimulant of some sort?

“What do you want?” he asked.

Never were there less welcoming words from husband to wife, but I stepped toward him before he could change his mind and shut the door on me.

“Atticus, I’m worried about you. I heard your voice and—”

“How much did you hear?” The question was quick and sharp.

“Not a great deal. I couldn’t make out many words. But you sounded so wretched, and I wondered if there is anything I can do to help you.”

“Help me!” The words were somewhere between a laugh and a groan. He turned and made his way wearily to the fire, favoring his bad leg; leaning with one arm braced against the marble mantelpiece, he stared into the fire. “There’s no help you can give me, Clara. Just… leave me in peace.”

“But you aren’t in peace.” I moved to his side and took hold of his shoulders to make him face me again. He offered no resistance, but this lack of will frightened me as much as anything else I had seen and heard tonight. I searched his face for the source of his unrest. “I did hear you mention Mr. Collier,” I said slowly. “Are you not satisfied with Inspector Strack’s findings?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said shortly. “My father is dead, and so is Collier. We’d be fools to interfere any further in matters that the inspector has solved to his satisfaction.”

I reached toward his face, and he actually flinched. Though wounded by this, I didn’t draw back but put my hand to his high forehead to smooth back his disordered hair. “You don’t seem yourself tonight,” I said.

His lips drew back in a grimace so humorless that it made my heart seem to falter in my breast. “Who else could I possibly be?” he demanded bitterly, and my hand froze against his hair.

Had he somehow intuited my fear that his very personality was unraveling, separating into fragments? I swallowed, realizing my mouth had gone dry. How could I know that this was even the same man I had married, the man of integrity and compassion I used to know? If his mind had become unsettled, he might be anyone… might be capable of anything.

My silence had become conspicuous, and Atticus turned his head away from me, shaking off my hand. “If you have said all you came to say, it’s best that you leave,” he said. “I’m damned poor company tonight, anyway.”

Again his manner held almost nothing of the Atticus I knew. It was too terrible a thought to be borne, yet at the same time I could not seem to put it out of my mind.

“I want to help you,” I said softly. “Won’t you please share your troubles with me? You have shouldered so much on your own.”

His eyes shut briefly as if in weariness. “Some things are far better borne by me than put on others’ shoulders.”

Such refusal to let others help him might, I feared, prove dangerous. Drawing closer, I laid my hand on his arm. “Even the Atlas of myth sometimes had assistance,” I said. “He sought help from Hercules, you know. I am no Hercules, but please, Atticus, let me take on some of your burden.”

“I don’t want you involved.” The words were short, clipped.

“I already am involved. I’m your wife.”

“Only in the contractual sense, and that is how I intend to keep it.”

That stung, but I persisted. “I don’t believe that. I think we have become closer than contractual partners or even friends, and I want our marriage to be a true one.” I slipped my arms about his neck, careful to avoid the place where his skin was still healing, and looked into his eyes. “I want to be a real wife to you,” I whispered. “Please don’t keep shutting me out. I love you, Atticus—let me in.”

I had no experience in seduction, but I kissed him with all the tenderness and longing in my heart, refusing to release him until I felt his lips respond to mine. For a brief, beautiful instant his arms went around me and clasped me tightly, so tightly that I could hardly breathe, but I gloried in that fierce embrace. He kissed me with more than eagerness—with a kind of desperate hunger. And then, so abruptly that my head reeled, he broke my hold on him and pushed me away.

“Our business arrangement is fulfilled, and our marriage is at an end,” he told me. His voice was ragged, and his eyes were a stranger’s. “You’ll leave for London tomorrow. Have Henriette pack your things.” He strode to the dressing-room door and held it open for me.

“I don’t want to leave you,” I said numbly. I was too stunned to move, almost too much to speak.

“I’m afraid that changes nothing.” He would not even look at me.

“But—tomorrow? The house won’t be ready,” I stammered.

He rubbed his knuckles against his brow as if kneading out tormenting thoughts. “Bertram will find a respectable hotel for you and Genevieve. Gravesend is no place for you anymore. Now please leave me so that I may retire.” I stood unmoving, almost stupefied, and that seemed to demolish his last reserve of strength. Harshly he demanded, “Will you go now, woman, or must I remove you bodily?” It was very nearly a shout.

The violence of his words brought me to life. Painfully I made my way to the door, each step feeling like a mile under the hostile, icy blue gaze. When I had reached the threshold I thought I might make one final appeal, one last attempt to break through the wall he had built between us, but when I opened my mouth to speak I was silenced by the expression on his face. For one second, so quickly I might have imagined it, I saw a terrible anguish in his eyes, as if he were being torn apart. Not Atlas but Prometheus, chained to a rock as his liver was devoured. It struck me dumb.

As I stood frozen to the spot he pushed the door to, and I had to step back or risk being struck by it as it shut. The sound came to me of the key being turned in the lock.

I made no move, and an answering silence came from the other side. It seemed each of us was determined to wait the other out.

This was no way to win my way into his confidence. I slowly made my way into my bedchamber, but when I shut the dressing-room door on my side I stood for long painful moments as I tried to decide whether I should lock it or not. Secure the door, and I might prevent Atticus from reaching me if he later decided to confide in me and seek my help. Leave it unlocked, though, and I risked the intrusion of that unpredictable, even frightening stranger who had looked out at me through my husband’s eyes.

God help me,
I thought, as I hesitated with my hand on the key in the knowledge that one small room’s distance away stood a man who might now be a stranger to me.

Sometime in the night I must have slept, for I opened my eyes to find light creeping into the room around the edges of the curtains. I lay in bed, exhausted and unrefreshed, my mind endlessly replaying the events of the night before.

They were so bizarre I could hardly believe them to be real in the light of morning. But the fears that rushed in at my heart were real. If Atticus meant to do away with himself as Collier had, I must make certain he would not succeed.

There was, however, another possible explanation for the mental anguish I had seen in him. The thought was abhorrent to me and struck a painful guilt into my heart, but I had to hold it in my mind long enough to consider whether there could be any truth to it. Could my husband have killed Collier?

Preposterous it probably was, but remembering those terrible, urgent arguments I had overheard, demonstrating so clearly that Atticus was a man whose soul was divided against itself, I knew that this possibility—as much as it horrified me to contemplate it—could not be dismissed altogether. Perhaps some buried part of Atticus had risen up when his father was killed to exact vengeance upon the killer.

It was true that the kind, loving man I knew could never have killed anyone in cold blood… but it was possible there was another side to Atticus, a dangerous one capable of such an act. “I felt I could have easily done violence to him,” he had said once of his own father. If somehow an impulse to violence had mastered him, then the honorable and just Atticus must surely be in an agony of guilt and remorse. The harrowing thought came to me that the very sense of honor and justice that had convinced me of his innocence in his father’s death might have led him to seek reparation for it. And if Atticus had killed Collier, his better self could well be bitterly regretting the deed now. Such a conflict of wills and thoughts might well drive a man mad.

Could it possibly be true that he had Collier’s death on his conscience? I resisted the thought with all my being, and felt miserably that I must be the most disloyal wife who ever lived even to conceive of such a horrible idea, but it would haunt me until I could blot it out with certain facts. Until he told me what lay behind this terrible torment, I could not wholly believe in him as I used to.

And if he did not in fact have blood on his hands, he needed me all the more to stand by him and help him find his way back to peace of mind in whatever way I could. Abruptly I realized how thoroughly my dread of the Gravesend curse had been pushed out of my thoughts… yet the dreadful turn things had taken suggested that it might have been unwise not to reckon with that eerie possibility. That, too, could be tormenting Atticus. Perhaps he feared losing what he loved—and if that was me, then the very fear itself might have given him reason to push me away.

I flung the bedclothes back and darted to the dressing-room door. If he had harmed himself during the night, I would never forgive myself. I rushed through the first door and reached for the knob of the second, but I rattled it in vain; it was still locked.

“Atticus?” I called, knocking urgently. “Are you awake?”

There was the sound of footsteps, then the key turning in the lock. Relief washed over me, then turned to embarrassment when the door opened and I found myself facing Sterry, my husband’s valet.

“My lady,” he said, just managing to keep the phrase from turning into a question.

“I beg your pardon,” I said, with as much dignity as I could muster given that I was in a nightdress with my hair in a tangle down my back. “I was looking for my husband.”

“Lord Telford rose early, madam, and is probably either in the breakfast room or in the library with Mr. Bertram.”

I thanked him briefly and withdrew to my own room. Henriette had appeared in that brief sliver of time in which I had been in the dressing room, and she took note of my impatience, helping me dress quickly and making no attempt to remonstrate with me when I fumbled my hair into a quick chignon instead of submitting myself to her hands for a more elaborate coiffure. Every instant that I spent apart from Atticus I would be in great unease.

In my haste I was taking little care to look where I was going, and so perhaps I bore part of the fault for what happened next.

I moved swiftly down the hall toward the stair and had taken the first couple of steps quickly—perhaps too quickly—when the ground seemed to slip out from under me. There was a sickening sensation of falling, a sharp and agonizing pain at the back of my head, and then my body was hurtling into nothingness.

Voices surrounded me.

The feminine one speaking rapidly and tearfully in a language I did not understand: that must be Genevieve.

Another, lower feminine one saying urgently, “Until the doctor arrives, what should we do, sir?”—that had to be Mrs. Threll.

My head was lifted gently, and fingers probed beneath my chignon. “Her hair seems to have cushioned the blow. I think it’s safe to move her.” Mr. Bertram.

“I can walk,” I heard myself say, and opened my eyes to be greeted by a circle of anxious faces. When I spoke, there were exclamations of relief, and Genevieve bent to kiss me on both cheeks.

“Don’t crowd her, now,” admonished Mr. Bertram, and she retreated.

“Aunt Clara, you frightened us so! For a moment I almost thought…” She gulped and fumbled for a handkerchief, which she touched to her eyes. “I do not know what we would have told my uncle.”

I struggled to sit up, but my head gave a horrible throb, and I subsided. “As to walking,” said Bertram, observing me, “I think that’s a bit much to ask just yet. With your permission, Lady Telford, I’ll carry you.”

Nodding only made my head register a strenuous complaint, so I settled for saying, “As you think best.”

“Do not drop her, George,” implored Genevieve, as Bertram drew one of my arms around his shoulders and got his arms beneath me.

“I don’t plan to, Vivi. Is there a divan close at hand?”

“In here,” said Mrs. Threll, leading the way into a darkened room that I supposed to be the parlor. All of the rooms were dim, with windows and draperies shut in accordance with mourning tradition. She opened the curtains to let in some light as she continued, “I’ll have some tea brought—or brandy, do you think?”

I was groggy enough already without brandy to make me more so; I requested tea, and the housekeeper bustled away, evidently relieved to have something to do. Bertram and Genevieve hovered over me.

“How do you feel now, Lady Telford?” Bertram asked. “Did you—have you—can you tell—”

“What, for heaven’s sake?” The fall had not improved my temper.

He chewed his lip in indecision, then leaned over to whisper in my ear. “Will the baby be all right?” he asked almost inaudibly.

That made me laugh, albeit shakily. “Do not credit every rumor you hear, Mr. Bertram. That story never had a grain of truth in it… did you see what happened?”

Genevieve shook her head, making her bright curls fly. “By the time we realized what was happening, you were already falling. I did not see what caused it. Did you trip on something?”

“I don’t think so. It was more as if the carpet slipped out from under me.”

“I’ll go take a look at it,” announced Bertram, and departed the room. As soon as he was well away I looked at Genevieve with as much severity as I could muster.

“‘George’?” I asked.

She blushed, but a smile curved her mouth. “He is going to speak to my uncle as soon as he thinks a decent interval has passed.”

Slightly disquieted, I did not reply at once.

“You disapprove, Aunt Clara?” she asked, more subdued.

“Not exactly, only you’ve known each other so short a time… and I’ve not been acquainted with him for much longer, at that.” I did not speak aloud the more serious reason for my unease. Perhaps the blow to my head had stirred some new ideas, for I had realized in a flash of insight that if someone other than Atticus had had a hand in recent events, Bertram was well placed to do so… and if he felt sure enough of Genevieve’s attachment to him, he might have taken measures to ensure that she would inherit the Blackwood wealth. Atticus’s suspicious accident might indeed have been deliberate—but brought about by another party, someone who did not want him to inherit his father’s estate.

And if Atticus’s wife were to either die or suffer an accident that would cause her to miscarry the baby she was widely believed to be carrying, that would leave the way clear for Atticus to name Genevieve as his heir.

Such thoughts were shocking, of course… but after being shaken to my very bones by the realization that Atticus seemed to have a secret self whose existence I had never even guessed, playing devil’s advocate about my friends seemed a comparatively minor infraction.

Indeed, Genevieve herself might have desired to ensure her place as heiress to Gravesend. I realized now that my words to her the night that she had shared my bed had been capable of misinterpretation, and she might still believe I was carrying a child. If she did, or even thought that the possibility existed, she might have good reason to do away with me.

But this was foolishness—worse than foolishness; it was a terrible injustice to the girl. She was so obviously in distress at my accident, as was Bertram. If either of them had truly wished for me to come to grief, they were doing a magnificent job of disguising their feelings.

And Genevieve was now looking wounded at my lack of enthusiasm about her planned betrothal. She sat twining one of her Titian ringlets around her index finger, looking at the toes of the black silk slippers that peeped from beneath the hem of her mourning dress. “What do you know about him, Vivi?” I asked.

She met my eyes and spoke with a dignity that was unusual in her. “I know that Uncle Atlas respects and trusts him,” she said. “I know that he is kind and clever and that when he gives his word it may always be relied upon. I know that he is financially well placed to take a wife.”

Her gravity was so different from her usual manner that it was beginning to tickle my sense of humor. “These are impressive credentials,” I said solemnly. “Clearly you have weighed all of the significant factors and determined that this would be a most practical matrimonial alliance.”

Her eyes narrowed, and in a moment a returning smile began to tug at the corners of her mouth. “Aunt Clara, you are baiting me.”

“Tsk, such an idea. Do you mean to tell me that a rational young woman like yourself would let her decision be swayed by any other considerations?”

She gave an exuberant bounce on the hassock where she sat. “Oh, indeed yes. There is the consideration that he dances beautifully and that he pays compliments divinely. There is the fact that his kisses are more divine even than his compliments.” She leaned closer, her eyes dancing, and confided, “There also is the fact that his mother has gone to be with the angels, and I shall have no mama-in-law to contend with.” Straightening, she beamed at me and made a flourish. “
Voilà!
He is perfect.”

“Very well,” I said, relenting. “If Atticus needs any persuading, I shall see what I can accomplish on your behalf.” It had not escaped me that if Genevieve married, she would not need a London Season—and Atticus would have no pretext for sending us away.

“Oh, Aunt Clara!” She was about to launch herself at me to kiss me again, but I wished not to be jostled and held up a restraining hand.

“Save that for George,” I pleaded, and she subsided, all smiles and blushes, as Bertram returned.

“I think I found the problem,” he announced, oblivious to what we had been discussing. “One of the stair rods toward the top of the staircase seems to have come loose. It looks as though the carpet slipped and caused you to lose your footing.”

“But that’s impossible, sir,” said Mrs. Threll when she arrived with the tea and learned of this theory. “No one has had cause to clean the stair carpet today or, indeed, for the last few days. There’s no reason at all for anyone to have touched the stair rods.”

She could have merely been protecting the staff, but I was inclined to believe her. They had been thoroughly occupied with preparing the house for the old baron’s funeral, and their efforts were concentrated on the ground floor. It would have been conspicuous if one of the maids had instead chosen to clean that portion of the carpet.

“If the stair rod was tampered with, it must have been after I retired last night,” I reasoned.