With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense (9 page)

People mourn in different ways,
I told myself. It was his way of remembering her, of keeping her present in his life. Still, my impression of my father-in-law took on a darker and more repellent quality.

The next item shook me even more. The label read, “Mr. Richard Blackwood, d. 1855.” Somehow he had acquired a death mask of Richard, even though his death had taken place far away. A cold pit seemed to open in my stomach as I looked at the mask of the man I had loved. The high, broad brow; the strong, straight nose… all his features were as I remembered, and I had to squeeze my eyes shut against sudden tears. I forced myself to look away before I lost what remained of my composure.

The remainder of the shelf was empty except for two more labels: “Mr. Atticus Blackwood, d. ____,” read one, and a chill crept up the back of my neck when on the other I saw my own name written.

“You see that I’ve already made a place for you, my dear,” called the cracked voice.

“Indeed,” I said, attempting to speak lightly. “I’d scarcely feel like one of the family had I been omitted.”

That won an appreciative glance from the old gent, but I thought I saw a flash of anger cross Atticus’s face. “It’s a gruesome welcome,” he said briefly. “Clara, I apologize for us. I ought to have made certain before our arrival that you hadn’t been incorporated into my father’s curio collection.”

“Don’t apologize for me, boy.” There was venom in the old man’s voice, and the jesting tone had vanished. “I’m still master here, and I’ll greet my daughter-in-law in any fashion I wish.”

“So long as it’s within the bounds of decency,” said Atticus in a voice I had not yet heard him use: clipped and icy cold. He rose from his seat and bowed stiffly. “We’ll leave you now, as it’s nearly time to dress for dinner. If you would like to join us for the meal, you’d be welcome.”

“And be wheeled about by my valet like some great baby in a perambulator? I should say not.” Now the old man sounded sulky, and his eyes glittered with something like malice as I made my farewell curtsey. “I shall expect you to visit me often and brighten my sickroom, daughter-in-law,” he told me. “I crave amusement.”

“I suspect he doesn’t much lack for it,” I told Atticus in a low voice when the door had closed behind us. “Your father strikes me as a gentleman who derives much entertainment from the discomfiture of others.”

The look in my husband’s startling eyes was enigmatic. “My father is not the easiest of men to live with,” he said. “But he finds you amusing, which for him is close to affection. I’m glad you didn’t let him upset you.”

The label reading “Mrs. Atticus Blackwood, d. ____” had upset me, though. Perhaps I had been in the company of actors too long and had taken on some of their superstitious nature, but it gave me a sense of foreboding. And I had to force myself not to think of Richard’s mask at all.

When I returned to the Swan Room to dress for dinner, I found my amethyst satin dinner dress laid out for me. With its black Mechlin lace trim and sweeping train it was probably too formal for a quiet dinner with my husband, but I could not fault the maid, since I had been unable to instruct her.

Atticus had hired for me a French lady’s maid.

“She has scarcely any English at all,” he had told me on the train, enthusiasm warming his eyes. “Isn’t it ideal? She’ll not be able to spread gossip among the other servants.”

I had stared at him in consternation. “She’ll not be able to understand a word I’m saying, either,” I said. “How are we to communicate?”

“I’m sure you’ll work something out. I have faith in your intelligence—and your powers of improvisation.”

I wondered if he was laughing at me. “It’s rather cruel,” I said shortly. “The poor girl will be alone in a strange country with no one she can speak to.” And I would be forced to resort to crude pantomime in order to converse with the one person who was most responsible for my personal needs. How was I to present an appropriate appearance if I could not indicate my desires?

“There’s no need to distress yourself over her,” said Atticus in some surprise. “When Genevieve arrives, the two of them can pass the time of day.”

“That’s not enough.” The difference in their positions would mean that such pleasantries would be the only conversation they could have. He wasn’t deliberately being obtuse, but perhaps he simply could not understand what it would be like for a servant to be so isolated and cut off from her peers. And in a strange country at that. Could I find someone to teach her English? I wondered. Now that she had been hired, replacing her was not an option; to be sent away so soon after her arrival, no matter how glowing my reference, would place her in a dubious light when she sought another position. Somehow I had to make a place for her in my household.

“If it troubles you so deeply,” said Atticus after a time, noting my silence, “we can find another place for her. Do give her a chance, though.”

“I have nothing against her,” I said. “But I cannot help but see this arrangement as problematic for us both. Don’t worry, I’ll not dismiss her without due consideration. But… are there any English primers to be found at Gravesend that we could offer her?”

Henriette, my maid, turned out to be no inexperienced girl but my elder by some ten years, and her manner betrayed no uncertainty despite our inability to converse. After she had bidden me
“Bon soir, madame,”
she set about preparing me for dinner with brisk efficiency. She dressed my hair in mere minutes, deftly taming the wild locks into a stylish upsweep with long ringlets descending to lie becomingly against one shoulder. I had pointed to one of my less elaborate gowns, but she shook her head emphatically and pointed at the ring finger of her left hand, saying something I did not understand, but her conspiratorial smile suggested that her words meant I should present myself at my finest for my new husband.

Even had I the vocabulary, I could hardly argue with that; I ought to be accustoming myself to living my new role, which regardless of the sentiment (or lack thereof) motivating my marriage should include establishing myself as a Blackwood, a woman of importance and one worthy of adorning the halls of Gravesend… and if that meant amethyst satin and Mechlin lace, well, who was I to object?

In truth, I was delighted to be able to wear such a splendid gown. I was as enraptured with my trousseau as a child would have been with a box of colored marbles, and for much the same reason: it gave me pleasure just to look at the pretty things. But they pleased more than the eye. The sensation of soft fabrics next to my skin, the satisfying weight of substantial skirts supported by a bustle, the lightness of high-heeled slippers of satin and kid, the tickle of lace at my throat and arms… these sensory pleasures filled me with contentment. When I caught sight of myself in my mirror, I saw that I was holding my head high, with a touch of pride. It was impossible not to feel the effect of the grand clothes: they granted me the illusion of grandeur myself, and it was a novel—and heady—sensation.

Atticus joined me in my sitting room, which opened off my bedchamber on the opposite side from the dressing room. Usually, he said, the family used the breakfast room for meals when there were few or no visitors; but on this, our wedding night, we dined in my sitting room, where we were afforded an unusual degree of privacy. The servants vanished discreetly after they had made certain we had everything we needed.

I wondered uneasily what the conversation downstairs was: what did they think of their new mistress? Did they speculate as to the motives behind our marriage, or accept it as a matter of course? “The lady’s no spring chicken,” I could imagine the cook commenting, “and not as refined as some…”

I dismissed the thought as my new husband smiled at me across the table. In the candlelight his hair shone with the red lights that contrasted so oddly with his very light blue eyes. Those eyes dwelled with approval on my gown, I thought, but he cast a thoughtful look at the black velvet ribbon Henriette had tied around my throat. “I’ve been remiss,” he said. “I haven’t retrieved the Blackwood jewels for you to wear.”

“Jewels!”

My tone made him laugh. “I’ve caught your interest, have I?”

I took a sip of wine to gather my composure. “I’m sorry if I sounded greedy. I don’t imagine for a moment that they are to be given to me, but I look forward to the chance to borrow them. I’ve always taken a childish delight in bright, shiny things.”

“Not childish at all. You’re quite the sensualist, Clara.”

I wasn’t entirely certain that this was an acceptable thing for me to be. “What do you mean?” I asked guardedly.

He leaned back in his chair, one hand idly turning the stem of his wine glass, and smiled. “You take such relish in things that bring pleasure to your senses. The way you stroke the fabric of your sleeve, and the look of ecstasy on your face just now when you took your first taste of the Nesselrode pudding—”

“Is that what it’s called? I’ve never tasted anything like it!”

His laugh was too delighted to be taken as a rebuke, and I couldn’t help but join in. I was grateful that he had sent the servants away for this first dinner together, so that we could speak frankly. “I suppose you’re right,” I said. “I never thought of myself that way. I just love being around beautiful things, and until now I didn’t have a great many opportunities to do so.”

That had been one of the lovely things about sewing for Miss Ingram; working with the beautiful fabrics and trimmings that she ordered was almost as satisfying as wearing the finished gown would have been. The way fine weaves felt in my hands as I pinned and cut and stitched them was a pleasure I relished after working with rough cotton and woolen goods in the factory. The rich, vivid colors were refreshing to look upon after the years of drabness, just as music or poetry recitations after the racket of a hundred sewing machines going at once brought an exquisite delight.

“Is your room satisfactory to your keen sense of aesthetics?” Atticus inquired. “I had it done over in a style that I hoped would appeal to you, but it’s no trouble to have the furnishings changed again if you dislike it.”

“Goodness, no, please don’t think of it,” I said, startled to learn that so much had been done for my benefit. “It is beautiful. Although…”

“Yes? What can be done to make it more pleasing to you?”

“I would like to have my sewing machine closer at hand,” I said. It had been placed in the small downstairs salon that Mrs. Threll had informed me was for my use alone, for writing letters and the like. It was scarcely a convenient location. “Perhaps it could be moved to my bedchamber?”

His eyebrows rose. “Naturally, if you wish. If you don’t mind my mentioning it, though, it isn’t generally expected that a lady of your station will sew her own clothes.”

“Oh, I have no intention of doing so,” I hastened to explain. “But some of my new gowns can be improved upon. They were made in such haste that some of them would benefit from altering. I thought to make a few small adjustments.”

“Ah, I see. How industrious of you.” He grinned. “Or is it vanity? Take care, Mrs. Blackwood, lest you become known for being self-smitten.”

“It isn’t that,” I exclaimed, unable to refrain from defending myself even though I was almost certain he was simply jesting. “But some of the gowns fit me rather badly, and I don’t think it would be very becoming in your wife to appear in gowns that gape or pull across the—the—well, it would reflect poorly on you for me to appear in ill-fitting gowns.”

“A conscientious bride indeed,” he mused, but the twinkle was still present in his eyes. “I’m in your debt for attending so carefully to my reputation.”

“Poke fun at me all you wish. You’ll find that the women in your circle—gentry
and
servants—will lose respect for a lady who doesn’t take trouble with her appearance.” I remembered the gossip that had passed among us below stairs when visitors’ trunks revealed surprises about their clothing: the duchess whose husband was reputed to be one of the wealthiest men in the country, but whose gowns had been made over from older garments; the foreign relation whose moral fiber we criticized after finding that she wore corsets of bright purple, red, and peacock green; the haphazardly sewn toilettes of a neighboring lady whose carelessness about fashion had led, we speculated, to the known tendency of her husband to let his eye stray to other women—women whose gowns displayed their figures to better advantage and flattered their complexions with deliberately chosen colors. I tried to explain to Atticus. “One can learn a great deal about a person from her clothes,” I pointed out. “And I do not want anyone to have cause to fault the new Mrs. Blackwood on that front. Dressing well is crucial to…”

“To your role?” he finished. “I can see that your time in Miss Ingram’s troupe has taught you a great deal about the importance of costume to a character.”

I did not explain that I had begun forming my impressions of this matter years before, while at Gravesend. Instead I asked, “How do you feel about our performance so far? Are you satisfied with your father’s reception of me?”

He poured me more wine—a courtesy, since I had scarcely touched it—before refilling his own glass. “I am,” he said thoughtfully. “He has taken a liking to you.”

“He does not seem as overjoyed as I rather expected he would from what you told me. He would have preferred a younger bride, I gather.”

“Father would have found cause to be displeased had I brought home the Queen of Sheba.”

“But after going to so much trouble with our story, my trousseau, everything—surely this is not the reception you had anticipated?”

He gave a philosophical shrug. “The perfect daughter-in-law, as far as he is concerned, must not be perfect in every respect, or else he’ll have nothing to growl about—and growling, contrary as it seems, puts him in rather a good humor. So I congratulate you, Clara, on your success.” He raised his glass to me in a toast, and I could only follow his example.

When at last we finished with our meal and our discussion of the day, Atticus bade me ring to have the table cleared and suggested we retire early. “I’ve no doubt you’re fatigued from the journey and from the rigors of your first day as mistress of Gravesend,” he said. “May I suggest that we make a habit of talking over the day here in private before retiring? We’ll not have much privacy in which to talk during the course of the day, and it would be wise to take the opportunity to discuss whatever problems or perplexities may arise without the chance of being overheard.”

“That sounds quite perfect, thank you.” How considerate of him to realize that I might have a great deal to ask him as I became acclimated to my new role.

We were standing on the threshold of my sitting room where the door opened into the hallway, as Atticus had declined to access his own room by making his way through mine. The delicacy he showed in this, as in so much else, pleased and surprised me; I had wondered if he might be less concerned for the niceties given that I was of lower birth and more of a business partner than a wife. But he was behaving in all respects like a gentleman, and as he took my hand for a parting kiss I confess that I felt a tentative satisfaction with the bargain I had made. A few months of this, until his frail father succumbed to a merciful release, might not be so harrowing after all. If only I could come to feel secure in my role—and to look at my husband without the stab of chagrin that he was not his brother.

Even after Atticus had parted from me, I remained standing there musing instead of closing the door, and it was only for this reason that I heard the voice.

The hallway was shadowed in darkness except for the one flickering candle in a wall bracket between my bedroom and his. Beyond my sitting room, all was as black as pitch. It should not have been surprising, then, that I saw nothing. But then I heard a disembodied voice, like a whisper from beyond the material realm.

“Clara,”
it said.

It was a long sigh, a husky exhalation of—wonder? warning? I could not even tell if the voice was a man’s or a woman’s.

Surely it was Atticus who had spoken. But when I turned my head, expecting to see that he had returned to my side unheard, I saw only the vanishing sliver of light from his chamber down the hall as he drew the door closed behind him.