With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense

by DeWees, Amanda

  “Lord Telford rose early, madam, and is probably either in the breakfast room or in the library with Mr. Bertram.”

  I thanked him briefly and withdrew to my own room. Henriette had appeared in that brief sliver of time in which I had been in the dressing room, and she took note of my impatience, helping me dress quickly and making no attempt to remonstrate with me when I fumbled my hair into a quick chignon instead of submitting myself to her hands for a more elaborate coiffure. Every instant that I spent apart from Atticus I would be in great unease.

  In my haste I was taking little care to look where I was going, and so perhaps I bore part of the fault for what happened next.

  I moved swiftly down the hall toward the stair and had taken the first couple of steps quickly—perhaps too quickly—when the ground seemed to slip out from under me. There was a sickening sensation of falling, a sharp and agonizing pain at the back of my head, and then my body was hurtling into nothingness.

  Voices surrounded me.

  The feminine one speaking rapidly and tearfully in a language I did not understand: that must be Genevieve.

  Another, lower feminine one saying urgently, “Until the doctor arrives, what should we do, sir?”—that had to be Mrs. Threll.

  My head was lifted gently, and fingers probed beneath my chignon. “Her hair seems to have cushioned the blow. I think it’s safe to move her.” Mr. Bertram.

  “I can walk,” I heard myself say, and opened my eyes to be greeted by a circle of anxious faces. When I spoke, there were exclamations of relief, and Genevieve bent to kiss me on both cheeks.

  “Don’t crowd her, now,” admonished Mr. Bertram, and she retreated.

  “Aunt Clara, you frightened us so! For a moment I almost thought…” She gulped and fumbled for a handkerchief, which she touched to her eyes. “I do not know what we would have told my uncle.”

  I struggled to sit up, but my head gave a horrible throb, and I subsided. “As to walking,” said Bertram, observing me, “I think that’s a bit much to ask just yet. With your permission, Lady Telford, I’ll carry you.”

  Nodding only made my head register a strenuous complaint, so I settled for saying, “As you think best.”

  “Do not drop her, George,” implored Genevieve, as Bertram drew one of my arms around his shoulders and got his arms beneath me.

  “I don’t plan to, Vivi. Is there a divan close at hand?”

  “In here,” said Mrs. Threll, leading the way into a darkened room that I supposed to be the parlor. All of the rooms were dim, with windows and draperies shut in accordance with mourning tradition. She opened the curtains to let in some light as she continued, “I’ll have some tea brought—or brandy, do you think?”

  I was groggy enough already without brandy to make me more so; I requested tea, and the housekeeper bustled away, evidently relieved to have something to do. Bertram and Genevieve hovered over me.

  “How do you feel now, Lady Telford?” Bertram asked. “Did you—have you—can you tell—”

  “What, for heaven’s sake?” The fall had not improved my temper.

  He chewed his lip in indecision, then leaned over to whisper in my ear. “Will the baby be all right?” he asked almost inaudibly.

  That made me laugh, albeit shakily. “Do not credit every rumor you hear, Mr. Bertram. That story never had a grain of truth in it… did you see what happened?”

  Genevieve shook her head, making her bright curls fly. “By the time we realized what was happening, you were already falling. I did not see what caused it. Did you trip on something?”

  “I don’t think so. It was more as if the carpet slipped out from under me.”

  “I’ll go take a look at it,” announced Bertram, and departed the room. As soon as he was well away I looked at Genevieve with as much severity as I could muster.

  “‘George’?” I asked.

  She blushed, but a smile curved her mouth. “He is going to speak to my uncle as soon as he thinks a decent interval has passed.”

  Slightly disquieted, I did not reply at once.

  “You disapprove, Aunt Clara?” she asked, more subdued.

  “Not exactly, only you’ve known each other so short a time… and I’ve not been acquainted with him for much longer, at that.” I did not speak aloud the more serious reason for my unease. Perhaps the blow to my head had stirred some new ideas, for I had realized in a flash of insight that if someone other than Atticus had had a hand in recent events, Bertram was well placed to do so… and if he felt sure enough of Genevieve’s attachment to him, he might have taken measures to ensure that she would inherit the Blackwood wealth. Atticus’s suspicious accident might indeed have been deliberate—but brought about by another party, someone who did not want him to inherit his father’s estate.

  And if Atticus’s wife were to either die or suffer an accident that would cause her to miscarry the baby she was widely believed to be carrying, that would leave the way clear for Atticus to name Genevieve as his heir.

  Such thoughts were shocking, of course… but after being shaken to my very bones by the realization that Atticus seemed to have a secret self whose existence I had never even guessed, playing devil’s advocate about my friends seemed a comparatively minor infraction.

  Indeed, Genevieve herself might have desired to ensure her place as heiress to Gravesend. I realized now that my words to her the night that she had shared my bed had been capable of misinterpretation, and she might still believe I was carrying a child. If she did, or even thought that the possibility existed, she might have good reason to do away with me.

  But this was foolishness—worse than foolishness; it was a terrible injustice to the girl. She was so obviously in distress at my accident, as was Bertram. If either of them had truly wished for me to come to grief, they were doing a magnificent job of disguising their feelings.

  And Genevieve was now looking wounded at my lack of enthusiasm about her planned betrothal. She sat twining one of her Titian ringlets around her index finger, looking at the toes of the black silk slippers that peeped from beneath the hem of her mourning dress. “What do you know about him, Vivi?” I asked.

  She met my eyes and spoke with a dignity that was unusual in her. “I know that Uncle Atlas respects and trusts him,” she said. “I know that he is kind and clever and that when he gives his word it may always be relied upon. I know that he is financially well placed to take a wife.”

  Her gravity was so different from her usual manner that it was beginning to tickle my sense of humor. “These are impressive credentials,” I said solemnly. “Clearly you have weighed all of the significant factors and determined that this would be a most practical matrimonial alliance.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and in a moment a returning smile began to tug at the corners of her mouth. “Aunt Clara, you are baiting me.”

  “Tsk, such an idea. Do you mean to tell me that a rational young woman like yourself would let her decision be swayed by any other considerations?”

  She gave an exuberant bounce on the hassock where she sat. “Oh, indeed yes. There is the consideration that he dances beautifully and that he pays compliments divinely. There is the fact that his kisses are more divine even than his compliments.” She leaned closer, her eyes dancing, and confided, “There also is the fact that his mother has gone to be with the angels, and I shall have no mama-in-law to contend with.” Straightening, she beamed at me and made a flourish. “Voilà! He is perfect.”

  “Very well,” I said, relenting. “If Atticus needs any persuading, I shall see what I can accomplish on your behalf.” It had not escaped me that if Genevieve married, she would not need a London Season—and Atticus would have no pretext for sending us away.

  “Oh, Aunt Clara!” She was about to launch herself at me to kiss me again, but I wished not to be jostled and held up a restraining hand.

  “Save that for George,” I pleaded, and she subsided, all smiles and blushes, as Bertram returned.

  “I think I found
the problem,” he announced, oblivious to what we had been discussing. “One of the stair rods toward the top of the staircase seems to have come loose. It looks as though the carpet slipped and caused you to lose your footing.”

  “But that’s impossible, sir,” said Mrs. Threll when she arrived with the tea and learned of this theory. “No one has had cause to clean the stair carpet today or, indeed, for the last few days. There’s no reason at all for anyone to have touched the stair rods.”

  She could have merely been protecting the staff, but I was inclined to believe her. They had been thoroughly occupied with preparing the house for the old baron’s funeral, and their efforts were concentrated on the ground floor. It would have been conspicuous if one of the maids had instead chosen to clean that portion of the carpet.

  “If the stair rod was tampered with, it must have been after I retired last night,” I reasoned.

  “But Atticus didn’t fall,” Bertram pointed out. “Which would suggest a very narrow window of time indeed—between his coming downstairs and your following after.”

  Mrs. Threll’s mouth had tightened in disapproval. “I do not see that any tampering need have taken place. And perhaps the rod has been loosening for some time now.”

  Our theorizing had only succeeded in putting her on the defensive. With this in mind, and because the throbbing in my head was growing so painful it discouraged further conversation, I dismissed her.

  The doctor, when he arrived, examined the back of my head minutely and announced that rest and sleep would be my best healers. I chafed at this mandated inactivity, but with my head aching so dreadfully I was not fit for much at present in any case. I retired to my room and slept—and I am not certain whether it was my injury that made my dreams so troubled and violent.

  At one point I woke to see someone sitting on the edge of the bed, indistinct in the gloom. With the drapes closed, the room was sunk in a twilight dimness. “Atticus?” I ventured drowsily.

  “Hush, my love.” I felt his lips brush my forehead. “Rest.”

  But I had little talent for being silent. “Did Bertram tell you—”

  “He did.” I heard the steely sinew of anger in his voice. “I would never have forgiven myself if you…” He seemed unable to complete the thought.

  “Why should you feel responsible?”

  A brief silence. He took my hand, which lay atop the counterpane, and held it in his. In a different voice he asked, “Do you wish Richard were the one you had married?”

  “What?” I said, startled.

  “You loved him very deeply, didn’t you?”

  “That was years ago.” I freed my hand and pushed myself up into a sitting position. “Light the candle—I want to see your face. What on earth are you talking about?”

  He made no motion to strike a light. “I simply wondered if you’d be happier if you had married Richard.”

  “Of course not. In any case, what is the purpose even of thinking about it? He’s dead, so the question is moot.”

  I thought I could hear a wry smile in his next words. “Very reassuring for me.”

  “Atticus, don’t.” I touched his face, wishing I could read his eyes. “I’m the one who wanted to make our marriage a true one, aren’t I? You could have had your reassurance in spades last night if you hadn’t sent me away.”

  “Reassurance,” he repeated, and this time I was certain of the smile. “Not a very romantic word for it, surely?”

  At least in the darkness he could not see me blush. “If you are trying to embarrass me—”

  “Never think it, my Clara.” His hands cradled my face, and then he drew me to him for a kiss that was strangely anonymous in that darkened room, but also touched with an urgency that I had not heard in his words or voice. He kissed me so long and so fervently that, even as my blood quickened and warmed with answering passion, the strange idea came to me that it was as if this were the last time, as if he knew there would be no more chances.

  “Atticus, what is wrong?” I asked breathlessly when at last he released me.

  A heavy silence, then: “A great deal is wrong. I am going to try to put right what I can.” His hands still framed my face, and with his thumb he traced my lips. “I love you, Clara,” he said.

  He had never said this to me before, though he had indicated it in ways large and small. Why say the words now? More than ever I wished he would light a lamp or open the drapes. “You sound so final,” I said, hearing the thin note of panic in my voice. “Please tell me what is in your mind.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Suddenly his voice was brisk, and he rose briefly to return holding something. When he placed it in my hands, I realized it was a wine glass. “I almost forgot—Dr. Brandt left a sleeping draught for you. He wants you to rest as much as possible.”

  “I’ll drink it,” I said, “if you will tell me what you are about.” His portentous manner had filled me with unease.

  “Very well, it’s a bargain.”

  Satisfied, I drained the goblet. The sleeping draught had been mixed with red wine, and the taste was sweet. I handed the empty glass to him. “Now, tell me,” I ordered.

  “I lied,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, but I’ll not have you involved in this any more than you already are.”

  “You tricked me?” I was almost too astonished for anger.

  “I’ll explain everything tomorrow, if—” He hesitated for a fraction of a moment. “I’ll explain tomorrow.”

  “Don’t you dare leave,” I gasped as he rose to do just that. “You have to… you must…” Suddenly my tongue was thick, and the room seemed to slide sideways before my eyes. I felt my eyelids drooping, felt myself sinking toward the bed. The part of my mind that had not yet been claimed by the drug wondered if the doctor had indeed sent the sleeping draught or if it had been Atticus’s own idea—to prevent me from pursuing him to get to the bottom of these mysterious hints and implications.

  It was my last coherent thought as the opiate effect of the drug filled my head with velvet sleep. I could not be certain whether the voice I heard saying goodbye was my husband’s—or my imagination. There came the sound of a door closing, very soft and far away, and then unconsciousness claimed me.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I woke to the sound of rain and thunder. Construction will be halted again, I thought drowsily. Then memory began to return, and I dragged my heavy eyelids open and looked around.

  The room was even darker than before, but a flash of lightning briefly showed through a narrow opening in the drapes, and I saw that I was alone. I pushed back the bedclothes, noticing that it took a greater effort than usual; evidently the effects of the substance Atticus had given me had not yet completely worn off.

  I felt my way over to my bureau and struck a light. My head still ached from my fall, and other parts of me had begun to ache as well. Picturing the length of that flight of stairs, I could not repress a slight shudder. I had been extremely fortunate not to have been more severely injured.

  I drew a simple wool frock from my wardrobe and began to dress myself. My movements became faster as my mind cleared. I must find where Atticus had gone and what he had intended to do. Without a doubt he was putting himself in danger, but I could not imagine how… unless he intended to give himself up to the authorities for something. For Collier’s death, perhaps.

  It makes no sense, I fumed as I drew on my walking boots. Atticus is no killer. All those signs of guilt had to signify something else, for I could not in my heart of hearts think him capable of murder… could I? Perhaps the man I knew and loved was not, but there was that other self, the one who had spoken with such biting anger and coldness. That unknown Atticus might be capable of anything.

  Which made it all the more crucial that I find him and forestall any plan he might be embarking upon. I strode to the dressing-room door, steadier with every passing moment, and found it unlocked. The second door, likewise, was unlocked, and I emerged into Atticus’s bedchamber, wher
e a fire was burning but no one was present.

  The room should have looked peaceful, normal. Nothing stood out at first as unusual, yet my mind twinged with a faint unease. Atticus’s evening clothes were laid out on the bed, the patent-leather shoes placed neatly on the floor beneath. A glance at the elaborate timepiece on the mantel told me it was nearly eight o’clock. He should have been dressing for dinner, or have already finished doing so.

  The door to the corridor was ajar, and perhaps that was what had awakened that stirring of unease. I crossed the room and opened the door wide: the hallway was empty. From the far end past my sitting room, I could hear rain flinging itself against the window, and intermittent flashes of lightning showed around the edges of the drapes.

  It was there, at that end of the corridor, that I had thought I saw Richard one night—and from that direction I had thought I heard my name spoken on my first night as a bride at Gravesend. I had never resumed my scrutiny of that portion of the corridor for anything unusual, and with a decisiveness I could not entirely explain I strode down the hall in the direction of those mysterious manifestations.

  The wainscoting was almost shoulder height, and above it the wall was papered in a dark, elaborate pattern of flowers and acanthus leaves. It confused the eye, so I decided to use my other senses instead. With my eyes shut, I walked slowly toward the window, trailing one hand lightly along the edge of the wainscoting. For the distance of several paces I detected nothing unusual.

  Then I felt it: the faint cold breath of air emanating from a place where there was no aperture. When I opened my eyes and looked closely, I could see the tiniest fissure in the paneling—a break that was suspiciously straight and symmetrical. Like the edge of a door. I traced it down to a small knot in the wood and pressed it. It gave easily—so easily that it must have been designed for the purpose—and a door in the wainscoting opened gently inward into darkness.

  My scalp tightened. Without any evidence to the contrary, this seemed the most likely place for Atticus to have gone. But which Atticus—and why?