With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense

by DeWees, Amanda

  The drawing told me little; it seemed to contain sizable dormitories, which made me think of a workhouse, but that was not a scheme that could be called visionary, nor one that I could imagine evoking such enthusiasm. “I’m afraid you’ll have to say it in so many words,” I said. “Who is to live here?” And why had he thought he needed to break it to me in any special way?

  He said carefully, “The unfortunates generally called fallen women.”

  This did surprise me. “The Anglican sisterhood already offers shelters for these women, does it not?”

  “Yes, but these will be different. Here the women will be permitted to keep their children by them, instead of being separated.” He was watching me closely to gauge my reaction. “I’ve long thought it an unconscionable cruelty to separate mother and child, no matter how unfortunate the circumstances of the child’s birth.”

  “That’s very good of you,” I said. “Were you expecting me to be shocked or distressed that my husband is exerting himself in this cause? I am surprised, but my sensibilities are not offended.” In fact, to my surprise, I found myself feeling something akin to admiration. I could not imagine any of the other men I had known—gently born or not—looking with so compassionate an eye on the population of ruined women. “What put the idea into your mind?” I asked.

  He looked at me for a moment, and I thought it a searching look. “I was slightly acquainted with one such case,” he said at last, his voice pitched so low that I doubted Bertram could hear. “The young woman’s child was sent away to be raised by strangers. I have never forgotten the injustice of it.”

  “But surely the child is in some cases an unpleasant reminder of the girl’s ruin,” I suggested. “It’s distressing for us to think about, to be sure, but I know there are cases where the child is made to feel his mother’s resentment.”

  “Truly?” Atticus looked shocked, and I was sorry to be the one to disillusion him. But if he embarked on this venture as fully as he seemed determined to, he would soon learn that his pretty ideas about the sacred bond of mother and child did not always hold true.

  “I am sad to say it, but sometimes the child is better off with those who don’t view him as a reproach or an unwanted responsibility. Especially when the mother struggles to find a means of feeding herself alone, the obligation to feed another can sometimes drive these poor creatures to extremes that would horrify you.”

  My words seemed to remind Atticus that I had had a very different experience of the world from his. Indeed, I had met several women of the kind deemed fallen, even apart from poor Martha, and while some took a bittersweet pleasure from their children, there were others the memory of whom made me suppress a shiver.

  “I see,” he said, subdued. “Yes, you make an excellent point. A distressing one, but an excellent one nonetheless.”

  “We would certainly not force the mother to keep the child, in a case such as that,” offered Bertram. “Would we, Blackwood? I should think we might be able to help both mother and child by seeking out a better situation for the child.”

  “Perhaps we could even offer a school,” said Atticus thoughtfully, rubbing his jaw. “Train the youngsters up so that they’ll have a trade, like their mothers. That’s another of my hopes,” he told me. “Some of these unfortunate women were driven into their present circumstances by having no means by which to earn a living… no wholesome means, I should say. The Anglican homes have offered the solution of training their residents as laundresses, which I think a very sound scheme.”

  Now it was my turn to be thoughtful. “It is a valuable trade, to be sure. But some will surely have natural abilities suited to more skilled tasks. Sewing, for example. Most machine-made garments are still finished by hand; it is—” I only just stopped before saying that this had been my particular skill. Quickly I amended, “It is easy enough to determine whether a woman has an inclination to such work. Deft hands that might be ruined by laundry work may find occupation in fine sewing and finishing.”

  “A capital idea,” Bertram announced. “Isn’t it, Blackwood? I say, Mrs. B, that’s some first-rate thinking.”

  Atticus slipped his arm around my waist and drew me closer. I had to avert my eyes from his; after that momentary glimpse of Richard in him a few minutes before, seeing him look at me with such a convincing imitation of the adoration in Richard’s eyes made my heart constrict painfully. “My bride has a first-rate head on her shoulders,” he told his friend. “Her beauty and her compassionate nature are equaled only by her intelligence.”

  This excess of admiration would only awaken suspicion, I feared; he was playing his role with a reckless degree of exaggeration. “Please don’t overpraise me so,” I said, and to soften the words added, “you’ll make me blush before your friend.”

  “And that would become you just as much as the praise. However, I know how uncomfortable you are being the subject under discussion, so I’ll find an innocuous topic on which to discourse. Has Father given you the guest list?”

  “Guest list?” I replied, a feeling of dread beginning to form in me.

  “Why, for the house party beginning next week. Did he not tell you? All our friends from the surrounding counties will be coming to Gravesend to meet you and celebrate our wedding.”

  This froze me with horror. So many people, so many highborn people, all of them here to examine me and question me and make note of everything that I said or did that rang false with my professed identity—my panic must have been obvious, for Atticus patted my hand in what was meant to be a reassuring gesture.

  “My dear,” he said, “they’ll love you. You’ve nothing to fear.”

  I was not at all certain of that. And if they found me out, what then would happen to Atticus? He would be a laughingstock—or a pariah. “You must tell me all about your friends,” I said, as lightly as I could manage. “I’d like to know how best to make their stay here a pleasant one.”

  That night when we met in my sitting room for our nightly consultation, I was rather more free with my words. “How could you invite all these people here? They’ll recognize at once that I’m not their kind. It isn’t just of myself I’m thinking, Atticus—it will do your standing no good to be seen to have made such a match.”

  “Clara,” he said firmly, from his seat by the fire. “Stop your pacing and sit down.” He would not speak again until I complied, so I did so—unwillingly, for I was restless with worry. I picked at a slub in my taffeta overskirt until he reached out and placed his hand over mine, stilling my fidgeting.

  I stared down at his fingers. Richard’s fingers, they were. Entwined in my hair… unfastening the button at my throat…

  “Please listen to me,” came his voice—and that, too, was Richard’s, making me bite my lip. “It would look far stranger for me not to invite my friends to celebrate my wedding. Yes, they will be curious about you, but you are not a notorious criminal mastermind liable to be exposed and hounded. Are you?”

  A reluctant smile touched my lips. “I can safely say I am not.”

  “Very well, then.” His hand gave mine a reassuring squeeze and then, to my relief, withdrew. “We have our story, and it is a good story. Any minor eccentricities or lapses will be easily chalked up to your many years among the uncivilized Americans. There shall be few enough lapses, in any case, as you bear yourself with great dignity and poise.”

  The compliment was kindly meant, but it was scarcely reassuring.

  “Moreover,” he continued, “I’ve observed that when you are ill at ease your speech and manner tend to become more composed and formal. Such dignified reserve is a most suitable default.” Rising to part, he reached for my hand to kiss, and I reluctantly surrendered it to him. “I’ll do all in my power to put you at your ease,” he promised. “Please believe that I’d not put you to such a test if I didn’t believe you are more than equal to it.”

  Even though I knew the coming days would most likely be taxing ones, after Atticus left me I was too restles
s to think of sleep. Instead, I prowled around the sitting room, picking up books and setting them down again, going over in my mind all the things that I would need to remember. I finally realized I needed to find some way of soothing my nerves or I would not sleep at all, so I set about making alterations in one of my new gowns, whose imprecise fit betrayed its hasty creation.

  Ripping out the seams was quiet work, and even when I moved to the sewing machine, which had been placed in my bedroom as requested, I thought that the noise would not carry far enough to be heard. However, in an interval when I had finished a seam and took my foot from the treadle, I heard a knock at the dressing-room door. “Clara?” came Atticus’s muffled voice. “May I come in?”

  “Just a moment,” I called, starting from behind the machine to fetch a peignoir, but the door opened at once, and I hastily sat back down, hoping the machine would screen me from his view. “Did the noise of the machine wake you?” I asked. “I didn’t mean to disturb your rest.”

  “Don’t distress yourself; I hadn’t retired yet.” Sure enough, he was still dressed except for his suit coat. He came to within a few yards of where I sat, and leaned against the bedpost with his hands in his trouser pockets. “When I heard your machine I was merely concerned for you. I hadn’t realized just how much I was demanding of you, and at such short notice. I didn’t know if you were trying to run up new hangings for the parlor.”

  “I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep,” I confessed. “I keep thinking about all the preparations still to be seen to, and all the new faces and names I’ll need to learn, and then I remembered that the bodice of my violet day dress doesn’t sit correctly, and I determined that that, at least, was one problem I could solve.” I was talking too much, and I tried to halt my nervous prattle. “Anyway,” I finished, “sewing soothes me.”

  “That’s fortunate. A much more respectable panacea than, say, brandy.”

  “Are you teasing me?”

  “A little, perhaps.” He was silent for a moment, and then in the most deferential of voices he asked, “Is it customary, may one ask, to sew in one’s underclothes?”

  So much for my foolish hope that he might overlook my state of undress. “Not customary, as far as I know,” I said, my face aflame. I fixed my eyes on my work so that I would not have to meet his gaze. “It simply makes fitting so much easier.”

  “Ah, I think I see. You aren’t forced to dress and undress each time you wish to try the thing on.”

  “Exactly.” Thank heaven he was being so accepting of it instead of making me feel even more self-conscious.

  “A bit chilly, though, surely?”

  Perhaps I had rejoiced too soon. “Sewing can be warm work,” I said. Working in a state of undress had never been a problem before because I had always locked the door when I sewed at the theater, but I had been perfectly capable of locking this door as well, had I remembered to. To this point, though, Atticus had never used that means of passing between our rooms, so I had not formed a habit of locking the connecting doors.

  I had reached the point of needing to mark the new placement of the darts. I slipped my arms into the sleeves of the bodice and caught up the pincushion as I left the machine and walked over to the full-length mirror. Insufficiently clad as I was, every step I took under his eye was burdened with self-consciousness, but I was determined not to show embarrassment. At least when I was busy pinning the bodice closed I did not have to look at his expression.

  “I don’t pretend to any expertise in women’s fashions, but it seems rather an odd-looking dress,” he said. “Why does it have all those raw edges?”

  “It’s inside out,” I said, turning to stare at him, only to find him trying to hide a smile. Ridiculous man. I couldn’t help laughing. “I ought to have told you that inside-out gowns are the latest trend,” I said, tugging the bodice smooth. “Would you fetch me that piece of chalk?”

  He brought the chalk to me but remained there at my side, watching my activities in the mirror. “You could start a new fashion. In fact, I dare you to.” His grin was mischievous. “Go waltzing in to dinner next week wearing a dress that’s all over raveled edges and loose threads.”

  “Oh, I surely will.” With the chalk I began to mark where I would take in the darts. “While I’m about it, perhaps I’ll raise hemlines. All the more convenient for dancing.”

  “An excellent thought. You’ll make fancy stockings all the rage. And I think you should add big fringed epaulets, here.” He stepped behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders in imitation of epaulets that looked poised for flight. I found that I was smiling. “And a great cheesecloth sash about your waist—good lord, what a small waist you have. I could practically span it with my two hands.” His hands settled snugly around my waist, testing his theory, and in the mirror I saw him purse his lips in a silent whistle. “Never mind the cheesecloth. You can wear one of my collars as a belt.”

  “Such flattery,” I scoffed, but with him standing so close behind me, clasping my waist in his hands, I felt warmed by his laughter and high spirits—a more than physical warmth, a buoyancy and euphoria I had not felt in years. When he caught my eye in the mirror, his roguish grin and the devilry in his blue eyes were Richard’s—and then memory returned, and I gave a painful gasp as the illusion vanished. It was only Atticus that I bantered with, and Richard was stolen from me once again.

  At my gasp and the sudden change in my face, I saw his expression go from laughter to something almost desolate, and his hands tightened convulsively around my waist. “Don’t see him,” he rasped in a voice I scarcely recognized. “See me.”

  Tearing his hands from around my waist, I plunged across the room to belatedly snatch up a dressing gown and wrap it around myself so that I would not feel so naked. “Why are you determined to blot him out of my memory?” I demanded, and it shamed me that my voice was not quite steady.

  “Clara, that’s unfair.” His voice was still raw, and I averted my eyes so that I would not have to look again on the desolation in his face. My own face probably mirrored that expression. “I only ask that you see me for myself, not as the constant reminder of your broken heart. It hurts me that you’ve been through such pain, but what Richard did I am blameless of.”

  “What Richard did? What are you talking about? You know he bore none of the fault.” It was all Gravesend—and the Blackwoods.

  His voice was gaining strength and energy. “He wasn’t worthy of you. You didn’t know him as I did—”

  “And you did not know him as I did. You have no idea how loving and tender he could…” I shut my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to quell the fierce regret that rushed so chokingly to my throat. I spoke again only when I could summon a calmer voice. “Atticus, perhaps this is a good time to tell you that I think we’re a great deal more demonstrative than necessary. I’d be more at ease if we could decrease our—our displays of physical affection.”

  “Oh?” he said shortly. “Why is that?”

  “They make me uncomfortable. I know we are striving for verisimilitude, but most married couples in your class comport themselves with more restraint, don’t they? I don’t think we need engage in quite so much… well… touching and the like.”

  His brows were no longer drawn down quite so far with anger, but I could tell that my words were not welcome. “Hm,” he said. “I’ve seen a number of married couples who are a great deal more demonstrative than we are—especially those but newly married.”

  “You know better than I, of course, but it does not strike me as implausible for a new bride to be shy.” Shyness was not at all what I felt, but the outward appearance would be much the same—and outward appearance was all that I had contracted to provide.

  “As for being plausible,” he continued in an even voice, “I am an affectionate man, and it comes naturally for me to engage in such displays, as you call them.”

  Especially, I thought, if in his eyes I represented his victory over Richard. If I stood for all
that Richard had had that Atlas had not, it was perhaps natural for him to be inclined to gloat a bit over his prize, over having defeated his dead brother by claiming me. But his possessive gestures made me feel as if I had lost Richard all over again—or, worse, as if I were being faithless to him.

  “Your face has changed,” he said, and his voice was gentler. “Clara, I didn’t mean to frighten or distress you. I assure you I won’t violate the terms of our agreement. I’ll not try to seduce you.”

  This was so far from my thoughts that I must have stared at him as if he had begun speaking Chinese. And this, too, he misinterpreted.

  “I realize it may be difficult to believe that, considering my behavior just now… but the last thing I wish is to make you regret our arrangement. It’s true that I got a bit carried away, and I’ll guard against that in the future.” He seemed to have difficulty framing the next words. “In our special circumstances, I believe honesty between us is vital. So it’s only fair to tell you that I find you a beautiful and stimulating companion. But I promise I won’t let that—”

  “Please stop,” I commanded, withdrawing to the far door. “I—I think that knowing of your brother’s feelings for me may be swaying your judgment,” I added desperately, as he moved toward me with one hand extended in conciliation.

  That stopped him as abruptly as if he had walked into a wall. “You believe,” he said at length, “that I only hold you of value because Richard did?”

  “I oughtn’t to have said anything.” It had been a mistake to broach this topic, at least in the present circumstances. Desperate now for him to leave, I pleaded, “Take no notice of what I said; our arrangement is perfectly fine.”

  “Clearly it isn’t,” he said, his eyes going to the agitated clenching of my hands. “I can only apologize, Clara. I have too much respect for you to look upon you as some fortress that must be conquered because—” He stopped and turned abruptly away, and for a moment the only sound in the room was the snapping of the fire on the hearth. He braced an arm on the mantelpiece and seemed to be staring into the flames. At last, without turning his head, he said in a different voice, “Does it make you think of him when I touch you?”