With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense (8 page)

Seeing my discomfiture, he moved the conversation back to a less controversial channel.

“We can discuss the matter further at a later time. Just now we have our own history to decide upon. I suspect that my circle of acquaintance won’t be conversant with American lineage, so let’s say that you are descended from sturdy American stock on one side—moneyed, I think—and hearty British yeomanry on the other, but of sufficiently modest name that you prefer not to discuss it. You and your late husband shared a fascination with the theater that served as your introduction. Does that sound agreeable to you?”

“It does,” I said, impressed that he had woven in an important element of my past that would doubtless emerge in conversation no matter how much I might try to suppress it. Having been so thoroughly immersed in the theater for the past ten years, I couldn’t be certain that I would not blurt out some recollection or experience connected to that part of my life. Tact was an unexpected gift to find in this man, and I was pleased to observe it. Atticus was proving to be far from the dull, gawping boy I remembered. In those days Richard had had all of the charm and quickness of tongue, whereas his brother seemed always tongue-tied.

Thinking of Richard prompted my next question. “Now, as to your own story: how much do I know of it, and of Gravesend? My impressions of you from our shared past may not be what you would have told the woman you were wooing.”

“I suppose you have a point. I would definitely have made myself out to be far more dashing and accomplished.” His smile was rueful. “I spent so much of my youth trying to catch up with Richard, it seems to me now. Both physically and in less tangible ways, I think. When I was a child I looked up to him so—and fell so far short of the kind of brother he could have felt a bond with.” He mused for a moment, and his fingers drummed on the handle of the walking stick that was now the most visible sign of his handicap. “We were so unlike, though.”

There was no doubt of that. Abruptly grief for Richard rose up in my breast like a scalding tide, choking speech off in my throat.

As if for the first time I felt the searing injustice of it, that someone so fully alive should have been struck down—and when he was so young. What might he have made of himself had he lived? Would he have had a brilliant military career, perhaps? Revived tin mining or other industries near Gravesend and built that quiet corner of Cornwall into a thriving, well-to-do community? Married and fathered a brood of many children? If he had wedded me and been disowned, his life might have been more obscure, but who was to say it would have been less happy than if he had lived to bring glory to the Blackwood line?

“I’m afraid to someone as lighthearted as Richard I must have seemed pretty joyless,” Atticus said now, unaware of the direction my thoughts had taken. “When he gambled and won, he enjoyed his victory; I worried about whether those he had fleeced would be able to pay their bills. Competing with him was out of the question, but so was trying to force him to behave more responsibly. Of course, as the elder by some half an hour I was born to more responsibilities. Richard, as the younger, had no need of questioning the ramifications of his every move as I did. It was a long time before I could accept that I’d never be like him. That infectious charm and reckless energy—no, I was his opposite in every way.”

Against my will I felt a grudging sympathy for him. With Richard’s natural gifts, any man might have felt at a disadvantage next to him; add the misfortune of a club foot, and it must have stung far more cruelly. “What a pity that the two of you didn’t have the chance to become better friends, Atlas.”

His gaze returned from the far distance to find my eyes, and I felt the heat of a blush rise in my face as I realized what I had said. “I’m so sorry,” I exclaimed.

“It is a long time since anyone has called me by that,” he said—mildly enough, but I knew he was not pleased. “It’s only natural that you should use Richard’s name for me, I suppose.”

“I do beg your pardon, truly.”

“Of course it would come to mind. Richard always warned me against being Atlas, taking the weight of the world upon my shoulders.” His tone was light enough, but there was a wry twist to his mouth. He shook his head ruefully, suddenly looking far older, as if the subject had drained his energy and resilience. “What he did not realize was that elder sons have little choice in the matter. At an estate like Gravesend, the fate of far too many people rests on the owner’s shoulders, and then on those of his heir. It isn’t something one takes on for enjoyment, certainly.”

“Perhaps you should tell me other things about yourself,” I said quickly. “Your schooling, your travels. Favorites and dislikes that I should know about when I order the menus. That kind of thing—the things that wives are supposed to know about their husbands.”

This struck him as a good suggestion, and the rest of the journey passed relatively quickly as he told me of the part of his life I had not observed. He gained in interest through the telling, as I began to see him as a man whose education and travels had enhanced a native intellectual curiosity and philanthropic bent. When we arrived at the station nearest Gravesend—which I had last seen on the day that I had been sent away in ignominy—I was surprised at how quickly the time had passed.

An old-fashioned coach bearing the Blackwood coat of arms took us the last two miles of our journey. Between the season and the weather, the countryside I observed along the way was bleached of color. Drab and sere, the parkland stretched its gently rolling expanse as far as the eye could see. The afternoon sky was darkening from pearly gray to slate, and wind whistled in around the windows of the coach. The cold seeped in through my cashmere paletot, and I shut my teeth firmly so they would not chatter. I hoped that the housekeeper had had the forethought to have fires lit in our rooms before our arrival, as my mother would have.

To this point I had avoided thinking very closely about the housekeeper I would find at Gravesend. So much of the tenor of a household rested on her shoulders, and it would be crucial for me to forge a strong understanding with her, whatever she was like. Would she be a motherly, comfortable sort of woman, happy to guide the new Mrs. Blackwood through her new role? Or a stiff-necked martinet who would have no respect for me if I showed any signs of weakness? Or worst of all, a sly two-faced creature who might profess to be my bosom friend but would avidly spread tales about me below stairs? I had encountered all three specimens, and many more. She might be a nervous, dithering, ineffectual woman without the ability to keep the other servants on their tasks. She might even have expectations of some form of friendship between us, and when I tried to assert control might grow outraged and bear a grudge.

And any of these problems could be felt in a thousand tiny ways. A household whose mistress and staff were at odds could be a highly uncomfortable place. I knew, for I had committed some of the petty crimes myself, the minute forms of revenge: a bell left unanswered just long enough to put someone out of temper. Lukewarm water brought for washing. Mail “forgotten.” Gowns singed by the iron… no, that I had never done. Surly and rebellious though I had been at times, I would not have harmed an innocent garment—not unless it had first committed the cardinal sin of being ugly.

I was distracting myself from what lay ahead by mentally creating a moral hierarchy of clothes when the carriage slowed, and the wheels crunched on gravel. “We’re nearly there,” said Atticus unnecessarily, and my frivolous thoughts vanished as anxiety claimed me again.

Gravesend was a bleak sight. Under the lowering sky, its white limestone was the moldy, lifeless gray of some desiccated creature in a state of decay. The flat, featureless face was as merciless as a guillotine blade. The blue panes in the leaded windows were dull in the wan light, so that there seemed to be no color at all about the scene—nothing that spoke of life. No friendly light shone from any window; the drapes must all have been drawn against the gray day. A cheerless and foreboding home for a new bride to come to.

It was not always like this, I reminded myself. I had been happy here… not always, perhaps not even frequently, considering how hard my work had been, but it was still the closest thing to a home that I had experienced to that point in my life. But now, faced with it again, I wondered how much of my happiness in those days had been due to Richard’s presence.

“You needn’t be nervous,” said Atticus, and I realized he was trying to be reassuring. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Or at least”—honesty compelled this emendation—“if there
is
something to be afraid of, it isn’t the house itself.”

How can you be so sure?
I wanted to ask, but bit the question back. Through some conflation of light, weather, occasion, and architecture, Gravesend loomed up in my path like a sheer, implacable wall, a stern obstacle whose every line and surface said
No.

But as my mother had been wont to observe in exasperation, I am a willful person, and I was in the frame of mind to take the house’s rejection as a challenge. “I have come back,” I might have said to it. “You sent me running once, you took from me security and my beloved and my mother, but you have not beaten me. I intend to stay—and this time I’ve no weaknesses for you to exploit.”

There was no more time for such reflection, for the coach was drawing up before the imposing staircase. As a footman was handing me out of the carriage, I glanced up and saw a man watching my descent. A servant, to judge by his rough woolen and homespun clothes; a discontented one, to judge by his glower and the fact that he did not touch his cap when he saw me looking at him. I placed him at forty or over, not disagreeable in appearance except for the surly expression and heavy brow that hooded his eyes. He was above middle height and broad across the shoulders, and as I continued to gaze at him he folded his arms across his chest and deliberately spat. Charming.

“Who is that man?” I asked Atticus as he joined me.

His jaw tightened as he saw the direction of my gaze. “A villager,” he said. “He sometimes comes to work at Gravesend when we need extra staff. I’m not aware of any business that brings him here today, though. Robert”—this to one of the footmen—“has my father hired Collier for anything at present?”

“Not that I know of, sir. I’ll find out and tell him to move along if he’s no business here.”

The man called Collier exchanged a few words with Robert, who matched him in height and build, a fact that I found reassuring. Even though the man did not show outright signs of violence, there was a tension about his stance that suggested that he might be prone to physicality. After Robert had spoken to him, he looked once more toward me and Atticus, and grudgingly touched his cap—a more reluctant gesture of deference I had never seen—and set off down the drive the way we had come, his hands clenched into fists.

“I hope this Collier isn’t emblematic of the welcome I’ll receive,” I said. I meant it to sound light and jesting, but it didn’t quite emerge that way, and Atticus took my hand and drew my arm through his as if to reassure me.

“Collier is discontented with his life, I’m sad to say. Wherever he looks he sees the happiness that he feels has been denied him. Pay no attention to him, my dear. I’m certain you’ll be welcomed warmly by everyone who matters.”

I did not share that certainty, having discovered through questioning him earlier that a few employees of Gravesend might have known me during my time there as a girl. They might be put out to find me placed so far above them now. Perhaps this Collier was related to one of them and had a personal reason to resent my arrival as the new mistress of Gravesend.

Of more immediate concern, however, was the staff actually resident at Gravesend. I took a breath to calm my too-rapid heartbeat, smoothed my skirts—taking some comfort in the feel of the twilled silk—and touched the tiny velvet toque riding atop my head to assure myself that it was still in place. “I’m ready,” I said.

“Have no fear,” said Atticus in a low voice as we proceeded to the front doors, which were thrown open for us by two of the footmen. “You’re mistress here now. No one can rob you of that place.”

The words and their significance echoed in my mind as I gazed down the astonishingly long line of servants assembled in the great hall to be introduced to me. I had never before entered Gravesend by the main entrance, and the effect of the great hall, with all the household assembled, was awe inspiring. The black-and-white marble floor and lofty ceiling evoked the grandeur of a cathedral. And there, in the center, her hands clasped above her chatelaine of keys, was the housekeeper.

None of the categories I had contemplated for her seemed to fit. Older than I she definitely was, but by how much I could not tell, for her face was smooth save for faint lines at her eyes. Her hair was gray, but it appeared to be prematurely so. Her figure was neither stout nor slender; her bearing was erect, which seemed to bespeak youth, but that impression was then belied by the stately dignity with which she advanced toward me. Her step was silent on the flagstones, and suddenly I pictured a cat’s paws hidden by the long skirt.

“Mrs. Blackwood,” she said, and her voice, like her outward appearance, defied easy categorization. She was neither icy nor effusive, but neutral… and perhaps just a trifle wary. No doubt she was sizing me up just as I was her, and perhaps she was having just as much difficulty in determining how to feel about me. “I am Mrs. Threll, the housekeeper. Welcome to Gravesend.”

“Thank you,” I said, conquering my nervous impulse to smile. Better to appear aloof than ingratiating—or, worse, gloating. Nor did I mention that this was not the first time I had called Gravesend home. “I can see that the house is in excellent hands, and I look forward to our further acquaintance.”

“As do I, Mrs. Blackwood. Allow me to introduce the staff. The butler, Mr. Birch.”

This was my first real test. I remembered the present dignified figure before me, now balding and double-chinned, as a young and eager footman called Terence. I nodded a greeting, pleased to see no sign of recognition in the butler’s face. Birch seemed aware that dignity was a butler’s stock in trade and was acting accordingly. I only hoped that he also maintained sufficient distance from the lower servants not to trade gossip with them.

However, there was nothing in his position to prevent him from discussing his new mistress with the housekeeper, and what
she
might do with revelatory information about me I had no idea.

I shook off the thought; pointless to worry about it at this moment, when it was not in my power to change. All I could do was act appropriately for my new station and try to demonstrate that, whatever my past history was, it had ended when I stepped over the threshold of Gravesend as Atticus Blackwood’s bride.

I did my best to pay attention as Mrs. Threll introduced each servant in turn, but I knew it would take me time to learn all their names, especially since many of them would be largely invisible to me, their work designed to take place out of sight. If I did encounter a servant in the course of their duties, protocol demanded that they turn their face to the wall and pretend to be invisible in my presence. I remembered the humiliation of this and wondered how my husband felt about the custom. The one advantage was that it might make Lord Telford all the less likely to recognize my face now.

“You’re to have the Swan Room, Mrs. Blackwood,” said Mrs. Threll after all the introductions were over. “Mr. Blackwood will be in the Clock Room.”

When we were shown to our rooms I found that they were separated only by a dressing room, but the doors at either side possessed locks, so I would be assured of privacy. The Swan Room must have been redecorated since my time at Gravesend, for it seemed different from my recollection of it—a discovery that came as a relief, for if I had been made to reside in a room that I had vivid memories of cleaning, I could not imagine that I would ever have been quite comfortable; I would have half expected a scolding each time I climbed into bed.

The decorations were largely in gold and black, influenced by the Japanese style, with wallpaper and a folding screen sponge painted in metallic gold with a bold, colorful design of swans and flowers. The wardrobe and bureau were lacquered in black and had elaborate inlaid designs of mother of pearl. Draperies of gold silk velvet framed windows that offered a view of the glasshouse and gardens but not the folly—and that, I reflected, was probably for the best.

The Clock Room, where Atticus would sleep, was a handsome and thoroughly masculine chamber fitted out in walnut paneling and oxblood leather, boasting on the black marble mantel the namesake clock: ornamented with an extraordinarily elaborate arrangement of allegorical figures, it dated, I learned later, from the time of Napoleon Bonaparte. Lord Telford was situated in the finest suite of rooms, of course, and that was where Atticus took me to formally introduce me to his father after we had freshened ourselves from our travels. The old gentleman was too infirm to stir from his quarters except for the exercise prescribed by his physician.

At least, that was what Atticus gave me to understand. When I came to stand before his father, however, and made my curtsey, it seemed to me that the wiry figure in the bath chair was yet hale enough to have easily endured being taken downstairs. Perhaps he had relished the idea of having us pay our call on him in his own chambers, as if he were royalty. But of course in this house he
was,
in every way that mattered.

“Clara, eh?” he said, giving me a sharp glance as he held my hand tightly in his. “A good, solid, plain name, is Clara. No nonsense about it. Yeomanly, one might say.”

In other words, common. The spiteful glint in his eye told me that this man was not to be underestimated. Nor was he, even for a moment, to be trusted.

“I am glad it pleases you, my lord,” I said, and was rewarded with a cackle of a laugh.

“I did not say it pleased me, daughter-in-law. Perhaps your powers of perception are limited. Would you say you come from intellectually inferior stock, girl?”

I kept my temper with little trouble. It seemed my father-in-law was going to enjoy trying to bait me. Fortunately for me, he had all the subtlety of a brickbat. Now, before I could respond to his sally, he addressed Atticus. “Don’t tell me you went and married a fool, Atticus. A pretty face is well enough, but an undeveloped mind is too high a price to pay.”

Atticus started to speak—to defend me, I had no doubt—but I gave him a slight shake of the head to indicate that I would answer for myself.

“My intellect is well enough, my lord. I was giving you the benefit of the doubt and assuming that you meant to pay me a compliment, as befits a gentleman addressing a lady—particularly a lady who has become a member of his family.”

I saw Atticus cock a questioning eyebrow at this audacity. It was a gamble, but I was confident that I had correctly assessed Lord Telford’s character. He would enjoy a pert daughter-in-law more than a conciliatory one, I suspected.

A satisfied bark of a laugh confirmed my hunch. “A spirited thing it is, then. Take care that your impudent tongue doesn’t get away with you, my girl. A true lady knows when discretion is the better part of valor.”

“A true lady,” I rejoined, “is exactly what your son’s wife is and ever will be, by virtue of her position. And a bit of eccentricity is not without precedent in the aristocracy, is it, Lord Telford?”

The glittering eyes narrowed, and he gave a grudging nod. “She’ll do, Atticus,” he announced. “You shall have trouble with her, I’ve no doubt, but she’ll do.”

Hunched and almost gnomelike, Lord Telford was much smaller and less imposing than I recalled from eighteen years ago. No doubt part of it was my changed relationship to him, but age and ill health had also played a hand, I knew, and I felt a twinge of pity. His pate was nearly bare except for a few straggling strands combed sideways across it, and his face was a web of wrinkles, which concentrated around his mouth to give the permanent effect of a mean little smile. His strength—judging by his continued grip on my hand—was greater than I had expected given his infirmity, but his form had dwindled. This was not the same barrel-chested man who had been so imposing to those of us under his command. His voice was no longer booming but almost reedy, as if his diminished size had robbed it of resonance, and the left side of his face seemed less animated than the right, as if some paralysis lingered from the stroke.

“A pity you’re not younger,” he mused. “Better see about getting an heir on her right away, Atticus. If she cannot provide one, better to know sooner than later, so you can put her out to pasture and find a woman fit for breeding.”

That did test my composure. Bluntness I had expected, but not coarseness. My cheeks burned, and I was relieved when Atticus said firmly, “I’ll not be setting Clara aside for any reason, Father, and you’d better accustom yourself to that fact. Now, how have you been faring during my absence? Are you taking any exercise?”

The baron’s voice grew peevish. “That fool valet of mine insists on my walking every morning and afternoon. He fusses over me like an old woman.”

“You know perfectly well that the doctor advised just that.” Atticus’s voice was calm, and I admired him for keeping his patience with his ailing, petulant father.

As they continued their conversation I took a seat on a brocade-upholstered chair and took the opportunity to acquaint myself with my surroundings. The room showed every sign of being the most magnificent one in the house. The oak wainscoting was carved in a linen fold design, and above it the walls were covered in a rich black and gold brocade. The same brocade made up the hangings of the bed that I saw through a half-open door; we were evidently in the sitting room. Glass-fronted curio cabinets dominated the furnishings, and I saw that Lord Telford must be a collector. But the most startling feature of the decor, and the one that immediately seized my eye now that the hurdle of introductions was past, was that on the wall were mounted what looked like dozens of plaster and wax life masks.

“Go on, my girl, take a look,” the old man interjected, and I rose to follow his suggestion as he resumed his conversation with his son. The two voices—one shrill, the other reassuring—carried on as a backdrop to my tour through my father-in-law’s collection.

I began my scrutiny with the masks nearest me. As I had suspected, these were casts of distinguished persons’ faces—mostly death masks, I discovered, although occasionally an identifying label would note “life mask,” with the year. The collection seemed to be roughly chronological, starting with early, famous figures, like Cromwell, proceeding through such personages as Voltaire and Robespierre, and in the present century including prominent persons both living and dead, as well as many whose names I did not recognize. Then, as I progressed to the curio cabinets where more wax masks were on display, the neatly hand-lettered labels began to bear names unfamiliar to me. “Cecile, Lady Abrams, d. 1854,” read one; “Owen Black, tin miner, d. 1855,” said another. Some were highborn, some apparently laborers. Were these actual acquaintances of Lord Telford? My suspicion was confirmed most disturbingly when I reached the mask labeled “Lady Telford, née Elizabeth Malvern, d. 1856.” My father-in-law had a death mask of his own wife.