At his express request, we met without my husband; Lord Telford wanted, he had said, for us to be able to speak without constraint so that we might become properly acquainted, as befit new family, and although it was odd, I found it a reasonable enough request. An uncomfortable one, though, since if the conversation led into dangerous waters I alone would have to steer it into a safer course, without any ally.
But I felt it incumbent upon me to entertain my father-in-law when he was so inclined; it was no more than what my contract required, and for what Atticus was providing me, it was little enough to ask in return. And I was certainly equal to an elderly, ailing man. I felt only the smallest flicker of apprehension as I knocked at the door to his sitting room, and when his voice bade me enter I did so with, I think, every appearance of being collected.
“Daughter-in-law, how lovely you look. Forgive my not rising.” He seemed to be in an amiable mood, judging from his expression, and he was neatly dressed, in a slightly old-fashioned collar and cravat. Today his lap rug was a cheerful red. “No, no, don’t curtsey as if we did not know each other. Come and kiss me.”
I stooped to touch my lips to his dry, papery cheek, and he chuckled. “Very nice. Now pour, if you will be so good—two lumps and a touch of milk for me—and tell me all about yourself.”
Concentrating on filling his cup and adding the requested sugar and milk gave me a little time to gather my thoughts and remember the story that Atticus and I had decided upon. I related briefly my background as we had concocted it, hoping to move quickly to the present.
“And why did my son not bring you here to be married from Gravesend, pray?” my father-in-law wanted to know. “Did you wheedle him into a London wedding?”
“I did, I’m afraid,” I said promptly. Atticus and I had prepared an explanation for this also. “Being well past the age of most brides, and a widow what’s more, I confess that I feel the passage of time quite keenly. I asked if we could dispense with the usual long preparations and obtain a special license, and Atlas was good enough to humor my wish.”
“Good? Nonsense. He probably felt just as impatient as you. I should have, in his place.”
I was trying to decide if he had meant this to sound as suggestive as it had when his next question shocked me out of my train of thought.
“I am curious as to how you learned my son’s childhood nickname,” he said, pleasantly enough, but with his eyes slightly narrowed as he watched me. “I can’t imagine that he would have brought it up, disliking it as he did.”
My stomach gave a little flutter of dread. All my efforts to school myself out of thinking of him by his old name had not worked. “Did others call him Atlas?” I asked. “He never said so.”
“His brother, Richard, used to tease him with it. Surely he did not mention that.”
I reached for the teapot to warm his cup, then mine. “He did not, no.”
“What a remarkable coincidence, then, for you to concoct such a pet name for him.”
The thin, insinuating voice was fretting my nerves, and I allowed him to see that I was a bit flustered. I set my teacup down with a clink of porcelain and reached for the sugar without meeting his eyes. “I really would rather not say,” I said. “I’m afraid you’ll think me a very silly woman.”
“Come, now! Give me more credit than that.” His curiosity was piqued even more.
I took a breath and let it out. “It’s just—well, I know I sound like a lovesick girl, but one of the first things that struck me about Atticus when I met him was how broad his shoulders are. Nearly broad enough to shoulder the world, was my fancy. And with his name but a step away…” I gave a little shrug of assumed embarrassment. “The pet name just came to mind.”
“Hmm.” I could not tell from his expression whether Lord Telford believed me, so after a quick peek at his face I dropped my eyes as if in shyness at my revelation. Presently he said, “And my son has not indicated that he dislikes this particular endearment?”
This was trickier. “He seemed surprised when I first used it,” I said. “But I do not recall that he objected to it.”
“How interesting. Perhaps, coming from such lips as yours, the name has lost its power to hurt.” He stretched out a thin, unsteady hand for his tea. “He certainly protested it vigorously in his childhood. He and Richard came to blows over it more than once.”
It would have been courteous to thank him for the compliment, but I was more interested in pursuing this unexpected insight into the past. “He and Richard fought? I knew there was some, well, fraternal rivalry—”
The old man’s face split in a grin. “That is a most ladylike way of putting it. Richard loved to bait Atticus. There was nothing to stop him for many years, until Atticus finally showed some spirit and began to defend himself. Even then he took many a beating.”
“I’m certain you are exaggerating. If there had been violence between them you would have intervened.”
He waved that away. “It was their quarrel, not mine. Boys have to be let alone to learn how to settle these things. It took a few black eyes and bloody noses—and a broken bone or two—but they finally came to a kind of armed truce.”
This was so unlike what I remembered, and what Atticus had told me, that I did not know whether to believe it or not. “But Atticus admired his brother so.”
He shifted in his chair, and his valet stepped forward to rearrange the lap rug as it threatened to slip to the floor. The conversation seemed to be making Lord Telford testy. “My dear, if your husband has a fault, it is that his view of the world and humankind is too upright and unyielding. Were the matter left to him, no one would ever transgress in the slightest way. What harm is it when a young man sows some wild oats, plays at dice once in a while, and the like? Atticus expected his brother to stay on the pedestal on which he’d placed him, but Richard—my Richard was too bold to be bound by such conventions.” His voice dropped into a gruff note that must have been sorrow. “If he had a few less than pristine episodes in his youth, what matter? At least it showed he had spirit. Let the milquetoasts of the world stick to the strait and narrow if they are so fearful of the consequences of living life to its fullest.” Abruptly he flung his napkin onto the table, and I had the strong certainty that if he had still had the full use of his legs he would have leapt from his chair and walked away.
The picture forming in my mind was disturbing, and I had the gravest doubts about its veracity. He was implying that Richard had been a libertine, a gambler, and a seducer—and that Atticus had been a poor-spirited creature who resented and condemned his brother for these failings. “But Richard was not like that,” I exclaimed, and instantly wished I could call the words back again, for Lord Telford cocked an eyebrow and turned his sharp eyes back toward me.
“How certain you are,” he observed. “Is it possible that you knew my younger son? Did you cross paths with him before his all too premature passing?”
“Indeed, no,” I said, casting about with my mind for some reason for my outburst. “It’s only… it’s only that Atticus speaks of him with genuine affection and regard, and I cannot reconcile the man he has described to me with the one you are painting.”
“Ha! Has Atticus whitewashed his brother so, then? He must have decided the truth would be too distressing for your woman’s ears.” There was a contemptuous twist to his mouth—for me or for Atticus, I was not sure. “I wonder if the words lodge in his throat when he has to perjure his pure samite soul so.”
The contempt was for Atticus, then. “Lord Telford,” I said, “I must ask you not to speak so of my husband. He is a man of honor, yes, and I rejoice to say so. I will not listen to him being criticized in such terms, and if you continue to do so I must draw this visit to a close.”
That earned me raised eyebrows and an exaggerated moue. He made a point of looking over at his valet as if to demand whether he had heard the same unbelievable speech. But it seemed to have amused him rather than affronting him. “My goodness, s
uch a queenly air! I’d not expected to be so roundly put in my place by my daughter-in-law.”
My face was burning, but I did not capitulate. “If my manner of expressing myself was insolent, I ask your pardon. But I stand by my words. Even from his own father, my husband should not be subjected to—”
“Yes, yes, I understand. Quite right of you to be so loyal to him… surprising to me that he could inspire such loyalty, especially in a woman of spirit, but I am impressed.”
He was not alone in his surprise. I had not imagined myself so attached to my nominal husband that I would become so angered at hearing him slandered. Perhaps being unable to stand up for Richard as I would have liked left me full of unspent indignation that had sought an outlet. But in any case, Atticus did not deserve to be dismissed so. He was no joyless prude, but a kind and humorous man. And it must have taken considerable courage to have stood up to Richard despite his own physical disadvantage.
But Lord Telford was waiting for my reply. “I did not speak with any intention of impressing you,” I said, but more calmly. “I simply felt that as his wife—”
“Quite correct, of course. Let’s not discuss it further. One is naturally pleased to have one’s children praised, but I don’t need you to parade your husband’s virtues to me.”
“I had no intention of parading anything.”
“And there she is again, the queenly one! ‘O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful in the contempt and anger of her lip!’ How Richard would have appreciated you.” Then his eyes narrowed, and an unpleasant smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Indeed,” he said more thoughtfully, “I wonder if that is the secret of your attraction to my older son? It must give him no little satisfaction to wed a woman whom Richard would have wooed were he still living. With Richard dead, the playing field is level for Atlas.”
That jarred me. Lord Telford could not have recognized me as Richard’s old sweetheart, or he certainly would have said so—but had he stumbled on part of the truth? I told myself firmly that Atticus did not see me as a prize he had claimed over the dead body of his brother, but the doubt had been planted. Was this what Atticus gained in marrying me, the motive he had not disclosed? Did he take satisfaction in winning some one-sided competition in his mind?
This would not do; I could not let my father-in-law see how troubled were my thoughts. I cast about for another topic of conversation, and my eyes fell on the masks adorning the walls.
“Lord Telford, I’m curious about your collection,” I said. “What moved you to collect something as out of the ordinary as death masks?”
His eyes narrowed ever so slightly as if he scented a diversion, but he tolerated the change of subject. “I find their honesty fascinating,” he said. “Death lays all secrets bare, you know. These masks capture the real person after all the artifice and pretense have been stripped away. Observe this one of my father, for example.” He jerked his head in a summons to his valet, who obediently stepped forward to wheel his chair over to one of the curio cases. “Come, have a look.”
I rose and joined him, albeit without enthusiasm. The wax casting he was indicating with one clawlike hand showed a masculine face, not a young one, drawn in lines of pain and suffering. “Poor man,” I exclaimed. “Was it an illness?”
“Why, it was the curse, child. That husband of yours told you of the Gravesend curse, I hope? Surely he would not have led his bride here all unknowing.” His voice dripped mock concern.
“I know of the curse,” I said shortly, hoping he would drop the subject. But my wish was not granted.
“Take heed, then, daughter-in-law.” His eyes glittered in malicious pleasure. “When I was still a child, the waltz took the fashionable world by storm. My father was newly wedded to his second wife—my stepmother—and found no greater joy than in waltzing with her. But the curse seizes on what we most love. One night on their way to a ball their coach was in a terrible collision. My stepmother was killed instantly. My father survived, but both his legs were crushed; they had to be taken off at the knee.” My exclamation of horror seemed, if anything, to please him. With a thin smile, he concluded, “He never waltzed again, needless to say.”
“And his secret?” I inquired, not certain I wanted to know the answer.
The old man’s smile became a sneer. “For the rest of his short life, he put on an absurd pretense that he was contented with what remained to him. In my few recollections, he was like the two Cheeryble brothers in one body. A brave front, he probably thought it. Sickening hypocrisy, to my way of thinking.” His eyes showed no affection as they rested upon the pitiful likeness of his father. “But now it is plain to be seen how much suffering the curse caused him.”
Reflecting that I would probably have preferred his father’s company to his own, I said, “It is dreadful that he suffered a double tragedy. But I hope that his pretense, as you call it, was more than that. Perhaps he truly did treasure what was left to him after having lost so much.”
Impatiently he beckoned for Brutus to wheel him away from the curio case. “Wait until the curse strikes you, child,” he snapped. “We shall see what fortitude you are able to summon up in the face of calamity.”
If only he knew. I strove to keep my voice pleasant when I said, “This has been a most illuminating afternoon, my lord. I don’t wish to tire you, though, so I had best draw my visit to a close.”
He gave a wheezing laugh. “Had enough of my company, eh? Run along then, child. You’ll have tea with me again tomorrow, of course.”
It was not a question, but I would not be ordered about by him. “I shall ask Atticus if we have any prior engagements,” I said, unable to resist a final dig. “As a bride, you know, I must place my husband’s wishes first.”
A raised eyebrow registered appreciation of this riposte. “Such a spirited lass,” he mused as I made my curtsey. “What a pity the curse makes no exceptions for charm.” His eyes followed me all the way to the door, and even after it closed behind me I thought I could still feel that amused, malicious gaze.
Chapter Nine
After the unpleasant thoughts that Lord Telford had planted in my mind I found myself wishing for the calming reassurance of Atticus’s company, so as soon as I left his father’s rooms I descended to the main floor in search of him. Arriving at the library I interrupted a discussion between him and a visitor, a young man who looked up from their work at the large desk and made me a deep bow.
“Bertram, meet my wife,” said Atticus, looking, to my relief, not at all put out at my interruption. “Clara, George Bertram is my agent and my chief consultant on one of my pet interests.”
I approached to offer Mr. Bertram my hand, making the appropriate pleasantries, and then asked Atticus, “And what interest is that?”
“A rather innovative system of philanthropic institutions,” Mr. Bertram said, answering for him. He was a broad-chested man of less than thirty, with a wild bush of brown hair in want of cutting and an amiable, open face that surely had never known malice or calculation. His enthusiasm made his voice robust enough to fill the room. “Your husband, Mrs. Blackwood, is not only a compassionate man but a visionary.”
“Bertram, you needn’t work so hard to convince my wife of my virtues,” said Atticus mildly. “Clara has already married me, after all.” His eyes were bright with interest as they returned to the papers on the desk, which I saw now seemed to be building plans.
Mr. Bertram waved away the demurral so vigorously that for a moment I feared he would knock the nearby globe from its stand. “You know my admiration for this venture, Blackwood. I’m certain your wife will share it once its features are made known to her. Or have you already taken Mrs. Blackwood into your confidence?”
“I know nothing of this,” I said, “but I’m eager to learn what animates you and my husband with such enthusiasm.” For Atticus did seem to be full of a vitality that I found as appealing as I did mysterious; one hand made notations in pencil on the sketches, and the other dru
mmed in an excess of energy. His cravat was askew and his hair slightly rumpled, as if he had been dragging his fingers through it.
It probably would have been a wifely gesture to restore some order to his appearance, so I approached with the thought of straightening his cravat. I lost courage at the last minute, however; it seemed too intimate a contact. Atticus proved himself a better actor than I when he took my hand and held it to his lips for a long moment, gazing into my eyes. For a moment I lost my breath. It was like being with Richard again, stealing a few minutes together on a long-ago day when my future seemed full of possibilities, and all of them including him.
“Now, fond marrieds, remember you’re not alone,” said Bertram cheerfully, and I returned to the present with a little sinking of my heart. “There’ll be time enough for all your billing and cooing when I’ve gone.”
“Spoken like a true bachelor,” said Atticus lightly, tucking my hand into the crook of his arm. “Once you marry—assuming you can find a bride who’ll have you—you’ll be forgetting yourself in company too.”
He was so relaxed in the way he spoke about us, the way he behaved, that it was a bit unnerving. “What are these institutions you spoke of, Mr. Bertram?” I asked, to cover my confusion.
“You truly know nothing of them? I’m astonished that your husband hasn’t told you of his grand scheme!”
Now Atticus did not look so relaxed. He coughed into his hand. “I thought it better to seek an appropriate time for presenting Clara with the plan.”
Bertram burst into laughter. “And I’ve spoiled your careful strategy. Well, out with it, Blackwood. You’ve no choice now.”
Releasing me, Atticus stepped over to the desk to pick up one of the building plans. “This is the first one,” he said. “It should be ready for habitation by the end of the summer. The others will be built along similar lines, with changes as made necessary by the location and so on.”
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