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 boo
ming 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.
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.
Chapter Seven
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.
With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense Page 8
