With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense (31 page)

“Such a clever Clara! But that is where you’re mistaken. I can learn that easily enough from studying his papers.” His eyes were less amiable now, and my heart gave a thud of apprehension. “So you want him alive, do you?”

He faced me, and behind him I saw, for a certainty, Atticus’s hand move slowly across the sand, toward the broken fragments of his walking stick. I took a deep breath and said a brief, silent prayer.

“Alive or dead, he is a better man than you,” I said. “I will never be your wife, Richard. Every time I looked at you, it’s my real husband’s face I would see.”

I think he actually forgot about the pistol. It was his other hand he raised, as if he were going to box my ears. I ducked, reaching out with both hands to seize the pistol, and at the same time he gave a horrible rasping cry, and I saw that Atticus, without rising, had driven the jagged edge of his broken cane into Richard’s ankle.

It threw Richard off his balance, and I wasn’t quick enough to avoid his falling body; he bore me down with him, landing on top of me and knocking the breath from my body. Then we were struggling for the pistol, and there was the loathsome uneven sound of his breathing in hot pants against my ear, and I heard my own breath coming in gulps that were almost sobs as I clawed at his fingers, trying to pry them from the pistol.

Then I realized I did not need to hold the gun, just to aim it. I shifted my grip to the barrel, but Richard must have realized what I was about, and to my horror I felt it press against my bodice. We were still struggling when the loud report came, and after a moment that seemed to stretch on forever, Richard’s body went slack.

With an exclamation of horror I pushed him off me and rolled away. When I looked at him I thought I saw his eyes follow me, but he made no other motion; a scarlet stain was blooming on his waistcoat. Within moments a film seemed to form over his eyes, and I knew that he was dead. The bullet must have pierced his heart. Lying there still, he looked so like Atticus that I gave a superstitious shudder. I scrambled over to my husband, who was slowly raising himself to a sitting position against a spur of rock, and threw my arms around him.

“Are you all right?” he asked. His voice was subdued, even a bit dazed, and I peered anxiously into his face. Yes, his beautiful blue eyes were focused; he knew me, and himself. The blow to his head had not robbed him of his wits. I kissed him long and thoroughly.

“I think that answers my question,” he said presently, when at last I freed his lips for speech.

“I was so frightened you were dead.” I mumbled the words into his neck, and felt his hand come to rest on my hair.

“I did not have a fashionable chignon to cushion the blow as you did,” he said. “I shall have a goose egg that outshines your hen’s egg, but I think that’s the worst of it.”

I sat up, surreptitiously drying my eyes, and summoned the courage to look again at Richard. He was a curiously pathetic form sprawled on the sand. “The night your father died—was it Richard’s being here that he forced you to keep secret?”

He nodded, then flinched at the motion. “At first all I could think of was you. How unfair it was to you… and then when Father died and I was nearly certain Richard had killed him, it was agony. Even now, when I think that if I had spoken up, Collier might not have died—”

I put my fingers to his lips. “The blame for that isn’t yours. You had no way of knowing Richard would go after him.” It was shocking to think that this one man had sown so much tragedy. “Did he cause your accident at the building site?”

This time his nod was more cautious. “He pretended it was an accident, but he meant it to persuade me to trade places with him. That was his goal until he realized he would have to kill me to make me leave you and Gravesend to him.”

Those tense whispered arguments in his room now took on perfect clarity to me.

“I still feel as if he couldn’t possibly be here,” I said. “But then, none of us could have guessed that he had staged his own death.”

“Pretending to be dead let him become someone else, unfettered by expectations or responsibilities. It gave him freedom—even more than he already enjoyed as a younger son.” He shook his head grimly, and this time he did not wince. “Up until he decided that the comforts of Gravesend and the Blackwood fortune—and my name—warranted coming back to life.”

“So you were sending me away to keep me safe from him.”

“How can you doubt it?” He stroked my hair back from my face, and the expression in his eyes made warmth flood my heart. “Only the gravest need would have forced me to part from you.”

I could not let myself fully enjoy those welcome words, not with the gruesome, tragic figure lying a few yards away. “What do we do about him now?” I asked, glancing again at the prone form and hastily averting my eyes.

His hand moved to my waist, and he drew me closer. “It won’t be pleasant, telling Strack that his comfortable theory was wrong and revealing the ugly truth. We may be in for a great deal of questioning. But we owe it to any relatives of Collier to clear his name.” He fell silent for a moment. “I suspect it will be terribly hard for Genevieve—learning who her father was and what he did. Can you help her to bear up?”

I wrapped my arms around his neck. “You made me your wife, and your wife I remain,” I promised. “We shall help her together.”

He smiled into my eyes.

“Yes,” he said. “We’ll do it together.”

On a day in the middle of September the Bertrams joined us for afternoon tea in the garden. Genevieve had begun to curtail her social appearances now that her pregnancy was visible, but she never hesitated to accept an invitation to Gravesend; we were, after all, family.

Atticus had given his blessing for their wedding to take place even before the uproar over the disclosure of Richard’s return—and his violent deeds—had died down; best, he thought, to have something happy to think about in the midst of the distress, and I agreed. Now, at this remove, I was more glad than ever that Genevieve and George had married soon after her eighteenth birthday; her husband had helped Genevieve weather the distress of learning who her father was, as had the discovery soon after that she was expecting a child. Together they gave her all the reason she had needed to concentrate on the future of her family, not the past.

The wedding had also given Atticus and me something positive to dwell on instead of the unpleasantness of the investigation. When that had concluded, Atticus was also able to bring his thoughts once again to bear on the completion and opening of the first of the Blackwood Homes for unattached women and their children. The success of this venture filled me with pride, as did watching my old friend Martha instruct the residents in sewing; and when I found opportunities to offer advice, comfort, or simply a listening ear I felt no small satisfaction of my own in being a part of such a worthy cause. The second of the Blackwood Homes was already well into construction.

The sunlight was slanting toward evening, but the four of us lingered on in the gardens, enjoying the fine weather and each other’s company. Seeing my husband’s excitement as he discussed the coming baby made me smile secretly to myself. I had a strong suspicion that soon I would have news of a similar nature to disclose to him. He would be a wonderful father—and quite unlike his own. I knew that if our son was born with a club foot or any other disadvantage Atticus would love him no less and be no less proud of him as long as he grew to be a man of integrity. But if we had a daughter—heaven help us, how spoiled she would be!

“I should like to see the monument,” said Genevieve into a brief silence, and although both Atticus and George gave her questioning looks, she rose with all the imperiousness of a queen and waited expectantly until we gave in and accompanied her.

The family burial grounds were partially screened from the gardens by a stand of beech trees, and the rustling of the leaves joined with the distant sound of the surf on this sun-warmed afternoon to create an atmosphere of peace. Peace was a strange legacy indeed, I reflected, and hard won. Then we came in view of the new monument. To the side of the tomb where the old baron had been laid to rest stood a new obelisk, its granite still glittering white in its newness, inscribed RICHARD BLACKWOOD / b. 1835 / SON, BROTHER, FATHER.

“I wasn’t certain what date to put for his death,” said Atticus quietly. “In many ways he did die when he went to the Crimea.”

Genevieve’s eyes were grave as they rested on the monument, but there were no signs of tears. “Thank you for putting ‘father,’” she said. “But you know that you are more my father than he was, Uncle Atlas.”

My husband’s smile was almost a grimace. He still sometimes smarted under the associations brought to mind by his old nickname. Seeing how attached to it Genevieve was, I had tried to reconcile him to it, with only mixed success.

Now as we stood there arm in arm, I squeezed his hand and whispered, “You will always be Atlas to Vivi, because you are the strongest man in her life.”

His pale blue eyes warmed as he gazed at me, and he whispered back, “Not George?”

I shook my head. George Bertram was a good, kind man and devoted to Genevieve, but he had never been faced with the crises Atticus had been forced to resolve. “In any case, you do more than hold up our world,” I told him. “You hold it together—you hold our family together.”

At that, disregarding the time and place, Atticus took me in his arms and kissed me for so long that I heard George voice the protest, “You’ll have to learn to be more discreet once the baby is born!”

We parted, exchanging complicit smiles, and Atticus commented, “You’re setting out to be a strict parent, Bertram. I think the sight of two people in love is one of the healthiest things a child can see.”

“Speaking of the child,” said Genevieve with uncharacteristic hesitancy, “George and I have something to ask you.” She darted a glance at her husband, evidently for courage, because he put his arm around her waist and gave her a reassuring smile. Thus fortified, she addressed Atticus with an air of seriousness that was unusual in her. “We have been discussing names for the baby,” she said, “and how we might honor his heritage, as complicated as it is. If it is a boy, we should like—if you do not mind, uncle—to name him Atticus Richard.”

There was a moment of profound silence. My husband’s face could not be read. To be confronted with an honor and (as he might see it) a slight in a single gesture no doubt evoked complicated emotions indeed. Then he reached out and took one of her hands in his.

“Not only do I not mind,” he told her, “I am delighted. Your child can redeem the name of Richard.”

Her pretty blue eyes were still anxious. “Are you certain? Because if you would rather—”

“I’m certain, truly. My brother and I were different in almost every respect, but your child will unite us in a way we never achieved.” He gave one of her curls an affectionate tug, and added, “If you have a girl, mind you, I hope you come up with something different. It would be cruel to name her Attica Richardine.”

Smiling, Genevieve leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. “It shall be so, uncle. Gravesend will welcome Atticus and Richard again, but this time in harmony.”

“Ah,” said Atticus, and rubbed the back of his neck. I had been waiting for this moment, wondering if he had changed his mind, but it seemed he had merely been waiting for the right opportunity to speak. “As to Gravesend—it won’t be the Blackwood home for much longer.”

Two pairs of wide eyes greeted this news. “Telford, you aren’t planning to
sell
Gravesend?” George exclaimed.

Atticus was shaking his head even before George stopped speaking. “No, nothing of the sort. But Clara and I have discussed it, and we don’t need such an enormous place for just ourselves. However, it would be very well suited for a school, don’t you think, Bertram? When the women are ready to leave the institution, their children can move to Gravesend and be educated while their mothers gain a foothold in a new profession.”

“The gallery will be the perfect dormitory,” I put in, “and think how much exercise and fresh air the children will get with all the grounds at their disposal. So much better than a school in some factory town.” We had been pleasantly surprised when sounding out Mrs. Threll and Birch about the idea for a school; Mrs. Threll, it emerged, had a soft spot for children and was delighted to be able to put her administrative skills to work on their behalf; and Birch, to our astonishment, had immediately volunteered to coach the youngsters at cricket. Some of the staff would probably elect to take positions elsewhere, but many had already expressed enthusiasm about the plan for Gravesend. “And Vivi, you would make a marvelous instructor of French, since Henriette prefers to remain my abigail.”

Genevieve turned her wide-eyed gaze to me. “You are contented that this should be, Aunt Clara?”

“Most contented.”

“Even though—?”

She was privy to the news that I anticipated imparting to Atticus, and I knew she was wondering how I would feel if my own child was not to be raised at Gravesend. I said quickly, “I have given it all due reflection, believe me. And the lodge will be quite spacious enough for—for our needs.”

“What about the curse, though?” asked Bertram suddenly. “Aren’t you worried about, er, exposing children to that?”

His wife gave him a laughing look. “I thought I was the superstitious one, George! I had no idea you harbored such ideas. Shall you tell our child bedtime stories of monsters and dark magic?”

Atticus was more thoughtful in his response. “Gravesend has seen its share of sorrow and tragedy,” he said soberly. “Perhaps more than other houses; perhaps not. But it has also seen much joy.” He pressed my hand. “What do you think, Clara?”

Taken aback, I could not produce an answer at once. Gravesend had seen me in my moments of greatest happiness—and had been enmeshed in my times of greatest sorrow. When I forced myself to think back, however, the times since my return that I had felt most ill at ease, most certain of some watchful, portentous presence, were the occasions that I now knew when Richard had been hiding nearby and observing me. Not the house at all, nor some malign supernatural presence, just my senses detecting something that had not fully revealed itself and filling in the gaps with my own remembered dread and misery.

Nothing else that had happened—not my dismissal, nor my mother’s death—needed a supernatural explanation. Disasters that had befallen earlier Blackwoods, while sometimes harrowing, could simply have been the vagaries of life. As frightening as the idea of the curse had been, I could see now that it had also offered reassurance: a conviction that some intention or design had lain beneath the sorrows of my life.

And indeed, if there
had
been some otherworldly force at work, who was to say that it was for ill? I had lost Richard, yes, as well as the comfort of believing he had loved me. In his place, however, I had gained a man infinitely his superior… and at a time in my life when I was more receptive to his sterling qualities than I would have been as an impetuous, heedless girl.

“Since we’ve been talking of new beginnings, I think Gravesend deserves one as well,” I announced. “The best possible future for the place is for a crowd of children to fill it with their energy and innocence—and chase all the old shadows and superstitions away.”

That moved Atticus to embrace me again, to renewed laughing protestations from the others. When finally we started back to the house, the soft dusk was overtaking the gardens, and birds were singing the drowsy song of twilight. Our shadows stretched before us over the green velvet lawn… but the era of shadows at Gravesend had come to a close.

The End

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