Soon, however, my attention was diverted to the many guests who came to be introduced to me and to greet my husband. So many hands to clasp, so many titles to remember… if I had a prayer of remembering any of them, which I doubted. I smiled until my face ached, exchanged pleasantries on the weather, the musicians, the dancers, and the felicities of married life. Fortunately these discussions were too superficial to permit any deeper inquiries into my origins and how I had met Atticus.
After what felt like weeks but had probably been no more than half an hour, Genevieve attached herself to my elbow. “You need refreshment,” she informed me. “Come, take some punch with me and help me decide how many more waltzes to give Mr. Bertram. He declares that he wants them all, and of course that will not do.”
I waited until we had passed out of earshot of those nearest us and said in a low voice, “Is this a pretext of some sort?”
She smiled sunnily. “I merely wished to speak to you a moment. One cannot help observing that you are not best pleased with my uncle.”
So Atticus was contriving to mollify me with the help of his ward. “One cannot help observing,” I said tartly, echoing her words, “that married couples do sometimes quarrel—and it is not in a husband’s best interests to send a messenger to plead for him.”
“Oh, you mistake me! Uncle Atticus did not send me.”
I searched her face, but the candid blue eyes gave no sign of deception. I restrained a sigh. “Go on, then, and have it out,” I said in resignation, and to my surprise she gave a laugh.
“You make my little speech sound like a bad tooth, Aunt Clara. Probably I am intruding where I ought not, but it distresses me to see you so stiff and cold with my uncle. He loves you dearly, you know.”
This was awkward. If she idealized him—or both him and me—to the extent that she thought ours a love match, I did not want to upset her by telling her otherwise. There was a polite fiction to uphold. All the same, Genevieve was certainly old enough to know that marriages were often based on any number of considerations other than personal attachment—or had she romanticized the institution so much that she did not accept that? I finally said, “It’s dear of you to concern yourself, but we are very well.”
The look she gave me then would have done justice to the most iron-willed major general ever to quell an uprising. “I beg your pardon, but you are not very well. If the three of us are to be a family, you must not tell me lies.”
“Genevieve!”
“I am sorry to be impertinent, but I shall not stand by and watch the two of you wound each other. You have only to look at him to see how deeply he loves you. Why, in his letters to me he told me of your beauty, your courage, your strength—he spoke of you as his heart’s darling.”
Unexpectedly I found myself wondering if he had used that very phrase—such a sweet, quaint expression—or if Genevieve was giving me “the gist.” But I said nothing, and she continued. “Now, I can see that you are thinking, ‘Vivi, you are telling a story,’ but I swear to you it is not so. You must have seen it in his face and heard it in his voice when you are with him.”
She was so persuasive, with her pretty accent and appealing eyes, that I could almost believe her. “Even if that is so,” I said, gathering the armor of my pride around me, “he has behaved appallingly toward… toward someone very close to me. He has maligned this lady’s character and made unwarranted assumptions about her virtue.” And then had defended her against just such assumptions when his father had uttered them, came the unwilling rejoinder.
A little furrow inserted itself into Genevieve’s smooth forehead. “Appallingly? He has exposed her shame in public, do you mean? Or made her husband throw her out of her home?”
“Well—neither.”
“Did he set her family and friends against her?”
“Not exactly.” No, he had opened his home to me, given me his name, shown me respect and kindness and even affection. He had sought and courted and married me, believing all the time that I was fallen, without once hinting that he found anything in me to condemn or criticize. He had—I realized with a jolt—been so moved by what he thought was my plight and my “child’s” that he had taken it upon himself to found a charitable institution to help other women in that sad predicament. As unflattering as his assumption had been to me, it would end up benefitting countless women and children.
And no matter how much I told myself otherwise, this was not a man who had gathered me up to score a point against the brother with whom he once competed. If that had been the case, he would not have shown so much interest in my welfare—or my company.
“Vivi,” I said slowly, “what has Atticus told you of your own family?”
The change of subject did not faze her. “I was a child of love,” she said promptly. “My parents were devoted to one another, but they were not able to marry and could not keep me. So they placed me where Uncle Atticus would find me and take me away to be well looked after. I would not tell everyone this,” she added, “for I know that many people would refuse to receive a girl of unknown heritage. But not my uncle. No one can help their parents, he said to me, or the lack of them.”
She told the tale simply, trustingly, with every evidence that she knew I wouldn’t shrink from her. Her so-called uncle had accepted her despite what he believed her origin to have been. I had moved among theatrical folk, many of whom had had checkered pasts, shadowy origins, or scarlet careers, and even they had not been without prejudice. Nothing had prepared me for a man who truly accepted and honored women whom most of his class would reject on principle.
At that moment Mr. Bertram joined us. “I think the next waltz is mine?” he said to Genevieve, and his honest young face brightened when she nodded.
“Let us fetch an ice before it begins,” she told him. “I believe Aunt Clara would like some time in which to collect her thoughts before the next dance, yes?”
“Genevieve,” I said, “I owe my husband a great apology.”
She beamed at me and shook her head, setting her gold earrings dancing. “Ah, you know little of marriage still if you think that a wife must apologize! Even I know that a clever wife merely permits her husband to wheedle her into a forgiving humor.” She stood on tiptoe to add, whispering into my ear, “Preferably with the gift of a few jewels.”
“You have much to teach me,” I said dryly, which sent her into gales of laughter. As she led Bertram away, she turned back briefly to blow me a kiss.
Chapter Seventeen
When I looked around for Atticus, he was easily found. Even in a crowd of this size he drew the eye. It was partly his build and bearing, nature’s gifts, but there was something else. He did not shoulder his way around as some men did, so eager to assert their stature that they ended in diminishing it. Nor did he stand diffidently as if hoping to disappear. He simply was. Without insistence or apology, making his presence felt precisely because he felt no need to do so. And this man’s many kindnesses I had thrown back in his teeth.
Were he any other man, I might have been wise to do so, for he would no doubt have expected recompense of the form that a fallen woman might be assumed to provide. But Atticus had asked so little in return, and none of it offensive to me.
With brief excuses to the guests I brushed aside in passing, I made my way toward where he stood conversing with one of the male guests. It was one of the younger peers of the house party, and I paused so that I could try to dredge up his name before joining them. And perhaps, to be honest, so that I might have a few more moments in which to find the courage to say what must be said.
“There seems to be a fair bit of frost down your way just now,” the young man was saying to Atticus, with a smirk that I did not understand.
Atticus, too, must have been confused, for the weather had been damp. “Frost?” he repeated.
The young man grinned. “The missus, Blackwood. So early in the honeymoon and the chill has set in already?”
I could not see Atticus�
�s face, but his voice was quiet. “The fault is mine. As new to marriage as I am, I fear sometimes I am prone to missteps.”
“Well, you know, old chap,” said the other, with a wink, “with that rum leg of yours you’re bound to put a foot wrong now and then.”
Indignation at this monstrous lack of tact flushed hotly through my veins, but after the slightest of pauses Atticus said only, “You’re quite right. For my wife’s sake I hope I learn to conduct myself with more grace.”
If that isn’t grace, what is? I was at his side almost before he finished speaking, slipping my arm through his. He started in surprise, but I held fast. “Every husband may be forgiven an occasional stumble,” I said, addressing them both. “And if mine does occasionally make a misstep, at least he knows enough to keep his foot out of his mouth. My lord.”
I would not have been surprised if he had been offended by my rudeness, but Lord Montague, whose identity I had finally remembered, was generous enough merely to sketch me a bow and say, “Brava, dear lady. Well put.”
But it was Atticus whose response mattered more than anything else. I gazed into his face, trying to read beyond the exhaustion and what I feared was actual pain, and those remarkable eyes looked back into mine as if he, too, were searching. “I wronged you,” I said softly, for his ears alone. “I am heartily sorry for it—and I hope you can forgive me.”
To my annoyance, it was Lord Montague who spoke. “A pretty speech, Blackwood. The least you can do now is to take your lady for a turn on the floor.”
I knew, even as the opening strains of a waltz began to play, that in his present state of weariness dancing would probably tax Atticus too much, and I opened my mouth to protest. But his arm was already slipping about my waist, and he smiled at me. “Will you do me the honor?”
Startled, I let him lead me away from Lord Montague, and then I realized that dancing would give us more privacy than we would have had otherwise. “Lean on me if you wish,” I said quietly. “I know you must be weary.”
“Not any longer,” he said, but this was gallantry, for I could feel the unsteadiness of his gait as he swept me along to the music. “I don’t know how I was restored to your good graces, Clara, but I’m more happy than I can say. The last thing I ever wished to do was insult you.”
“Let’s not speak of it.” I had not danced in such a long time, and the excitement was heightened by the happiness I felt at being once more in accord with Atticus. This was so different from galloping around the servants’ dining hall with another maid for my partner, shrieking with laughter to the accompaniment of a footman’s squeeze-box. All around me were the gleam of fine jewels and satins, the fragrance of perfume and flowers, the joyous accompaniment of the musicians. And holding me in his arms was the handsomest of partners, whose clear eyes held a mixture of wonder and delight that I was here with him.
No, there was something else. Something that brought a chill to my skin and a sickening lurch of my heart. He was starting to care for me—and that would lead only to grief. And if I began to care for him as well…
Without warning there sprang into my mind the old baron’s horrifying tale of his father and stepmother. I could hear his reedy voice saying with relish, “He found no greater joy than in waltzing with her.” How could I have let myself put the Gravesend curse out of my thoughts for so long?
Abruptly I felt Atticus stumble, his weaker leg nearly going out from under him. In an instant he had righted himself, with little more than a sudden tightening of his hold on my hand to betray him, but I knew that his stumble must have been seen.
Instantly I swayed slightly, putting a hand to my forehead, and drew him to a stop. His moment of difficulty must be attributed to me.
“Clara? What is it?”
I could not tell if he realized that I was feigning when I blinked in confusion. “I’m so sorry, Atticus, but I feel a bit faint. This crush of people…”
“Let’s get you out of this crowd,” he said at once, and escorted me from the floor. I hoped that my ploy had worked, but even if Atticus’s stumble had been noted, I realized that now our guests had a much more interesting morsel to contemplate. Without having intended to, I might have just complicated our arrangement most inconveniently.
“Are you unwell?” he asked, as he led me to a chair and stood over me while I sat and fanned myself. “I’ll have the doctor fetched from Father’s room.”
“No, no, I’m quite all right. Only I fear I will have given all your friends a suspicion that may be unwelcome.”
“What do you mean?”
“There is only one reason for a bride to feel faint,” I said. “In the eyes of other women, at least.” Holding my fan up to screen the words from others, I said, “I fear everyone will now believe I’m carrying your child, Atticus.” I raised my eyes apprehensively to his. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t think.”
The expression on his face was contemplative, however, not angry. “That’s nothing for you to worry about. In any case, time will prove the gossip wrong.” More softly he added, leaning toward me, “I would have been honored for it to have been true, Clara.”
I could feel myself blushing and looked away, plying my fan more swiftly to cool my cheeks.
He must have seen how flustered I was, for he straightened, and his eyes swept over the room. “I asked Brutus to make certain I was kept informed,” he explained, his voice now matter-of-fact. “If there is any change in Father’s condition…”
“I’m certain he’ll send for you if that should happen.” I patted the chair beside mine. “Come, rest for a bit. You ought to conserve your strength.”
The evening passed quickly. The music, the loud babble of happy conversation, the brilliant light of the chandeliers seemed to blur time. I danced from time to time with Mr. Bertram and other guests, with my husband’s blessing, but I was always aware of where he was. Twice a footman approached Atticus, and both times the quick tensing of his shoulders told me what he dreaded to hear; but each time, I learned, the footman merely reported that there was no change in his father’s condition. On a third occasion the doctor himself appeared and drew Atticus aside for a brief conversation, then set out briskly, and I saw that he carried his bag.
“He is leaving,” Atticus confirmed when I joined him, and the relief was plain in his eyes. “He says that Father’s condition is stable enough that he feels confident in leaving us for the night.”
“I’m so glad,” I said, even if it was only for Atticus’s sake. Then he smiled at me, and I realized my words might be taken another way. As long as Lord Telford lived, I would stay at Gravesend.
That was a minor enough consideration compared to a man’s life. But the thought persisted, and I wondered uneasily if Atticus and I had already carried on this masquerade too long, and too assiduously. Once we had learned that his father knew my real identity—and since Atticus now knew that I was not Genevieve’s mother—there was surely no point in continuing the charade.
But there was the considerable matter of Atticus’s good name and his standing. These would be tarnished if I were to suddenly disappear. There would have to be a judicious tapering off, perhaps, of our apparent attachment to one another. Of our appearing in public together. Then the separation would not be sudden and shocking.
“Clara, you look so sad,” came his voice, breaking into my thoughts. “What is troubling you?”
I shook off my ruminations on our future and found that I did not have to look far for another reason to be troubled. “Your father is a rather horrid man,” I said. “I can only imagine how painful it must be that he is so ungrateful for your care of him—that he doesn’t even respect you for it. I know that you are too kind and dutiful a son to do otherwise—”
His laugh, loud and abrupt, cut me off. Instantly he subsided, but the eye he fixed on me had a wry expression.
“Kind and dutiful, am I? I confess that when he was infesting the air with venom and spite about you and Genevieve, I felt I could
have easily done violence to him.” He fell silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was almost calm. “We’ve never been kindred in any real sense, Clara. You probably realized that Richard was his favorite, and he encouraged my brother in his contempt of me. Richard was, I sometimes think, the only person on earth to have my father’s approval.”
“Then why devote yourself to his care to the point of risking your own health?”
He gave a long sigh. “I won’t be able to respect myself if I don’t take every care of Father. It would give him great satisfaction if I acted like the petulant weakling he thinks me, and for that reason as well as my own peace of mind I won’t stoop to the level that he expects of me.” Then he added more slowly, “There have been times in the last year or two that I thought we were finally coming to an accord, that he had learned to see me for what I’ve become and even, perhaps… but no. He’ll carry his low opinion of me—and the world—to the grave, and no matter how badly he and I chafe each other, it’s my duty to put off that destination as long as possible.”
I said nothing, but the unwilling thought was clear in my mind: It will not be easy not to learn to care for this man.
This warning was still echoing in my thoughts by the time, hours later, that Atticus and I parted at my door. He bowed, with as formal a show of respect as if we were still among our guests, and raised my gloved hand to his lips. “Good night, Clara,” he said, and I had to look away from the expression in his eyes, so greatly did it please me—and alarm me. “Thank you for being the most elegant hostess Gravesend has ever seen.”
I managed to laugh at that. “Pray don’t perjure yourself so, Atticus. The ghosts of all your ancestresses will rise up as a body to harry me out of the house if they think you serious.” I made to draw my hand from his grasp and open the door, but his hand tightened on mine, stopping me.
“Earlier this evening, I fear I distressed you in saying what I did. If I was clumsy, I apologize… but I meant what I said.”
With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense Page 19
