Cursed Once More: The Sequel to With This Curse

by Amanda DeWees

  Though delighted as always by his attentions, at the same time I felt a perverse dart of disappointment. I had hoped my new dress would win higher praise than this. “Is that all you have noticed about what I am wearing?” I asked, hearing the plaintive note in my own voice.

  “Far from it,” he assured me. “I notice that your new gown is a color that brings a glow to your skin and heightens the red of your lips. I see that the sleeves end just below the elbow, so that if I slide this one up just a fraction I shall be able to kiss the tender place in the crook of your arm…”

  He suited action to the words, drawing a sigh from my lips.

  After a moment he continued. “And I observe that the low neckline is designed to draw the eye to your exquisite décolletage.” The rakish grin flashed again. “For my benefit, I take it?”

  “Nothing of the sort,” I protested. “It is the fashion.” He cocked an eyebrow at me in skepticism, for I was quite liable to ignore fashion’s dictates when it suited me. I cast about for another reason—for I had had one, I was certain. “And I thought it would set off the Telford collar to advantage,” I offered. The magnificent necklace of pigeon’s-blood rubies was a family heirloom.

  He reached up to trace the line of my collarbone. “But you aren’t wearing the Telford collar, my love,” he said softly.

  “Ah.” I tried to think this over, but the touch of his hand made thinking difficult. “I seem to have forgotten it,” I said finally.

  “No matter. Your body is so beautiful it needs no adornment.”

  “You say the loveliest things. Did you spend all the years that we were apart thinking up compliments for me?” When he did not answer, I felt a sudden, terrible fear that my teasing words had wounded him. “Oh, Atticus, how clumsy of me. I am so sorry—”

  “Hush, sweetheart,” he whispered, his lips very close to mine. “Not to worry. You aren’t far from the truth, at that.” He kissed me lingeringly, one hand stroking my throat. “But on the whole, I believe we have talked enough for this evening, don’t you think?”

  The meaning in his eyes, as much as the ardency of his caresses, made me suddenly breathless.

  “Yes,” I whispered. And for a long time after, that was all I said. Yes. Yes…

  CHAPTER FOUR

  In just a few days we were on our way to Thurnley Hall. I had written to my uncle telling him to expect us and in return had received an effusive letter with directions regarding what trains to take and when his carriage would be awaiting us at the station.

  I say “my uncle” because, as best as Atticus and George Bertram had been able to ascertain, Horace Burleigh was telling the truth. George had unearthed further history, not all of it reassuring.

  “The Burleighs have been settled in West Yorkshire for hundreds of years, and Thurnley Hall dates to the 17th century,” he had told me a few days before, when he paid a visit to Gravesend. “They were a prosperous family—mostly from woolen cloth—until about sixty or seventy years ago, when their fortunes took a drastic turn.”

  “What happened?”

  George shook his head. “That depends on who is telling the story, as best I can tell. Tenant farmers complained that the sheep began dying from some mysterious ailment. Other accounts say that a once-rich coal seam played out. Both those conditions could have made it more favorable to townsfolk to leave Coley—that is the name of the parish—for one of the new factory towns, where they could make a more dependable living. In the last ten years, the situation has worsened more quickly, and the area appears to have practically emptied itself. Burleigh probably has scarcely enough tenants now to keep him in milk and cheese.”

  “And the family? What have you learned of them?”

  For the first time George hesitated, and he seemed to search for words. I suspected that, kindhearted as the young man was, he was seeking a way to gently break some unpleasant truth to me. “Until their reverses, they seemed quite respected,” he said eventually. “There was a mild uproar when Percival Burleigh, your grandfather, wedded a foreigner. The family was Romanian, I believe. At any rate, she brought her servants with her from her home country, which I gather disrupted the household and set the neighborhood talking.”

  “Perhaps Burleigh’s tenants and neighbors resented the arrival of a foreign influence and began to depart as opportunity offered,” Atticus suggested. “If the marriage brought that about, the family might well have considered it unlucky.”

  I did not have to ask why the mere fact of the bride’s being foreign might have put the neighborhood at sixes and sevens. From what I had observed of life outside London, it appeared that anything that set a person apart in the least from what was considered normal… anything, for example, like a club foot… could give rise to suspicion and hostility.

  “That seems quite possible,” George affirmed. “Whatever the cause, your uncle may now find himself in a precarious position, Lady Telford.”

  I was still unaccustomed to being addressed by my title, especially from George, who was part of the family. But he had been rather shocked when I had suggested he address me as “Aunt Clara,” as Vivi did, so I had stopped urging him to do so.

  “Precarious in what way?” I asked.

  “Unless he can hit upon a solution, he may be forced to sell, and I’m certain he has no wish to let the property go out of the family.”

  “Has he no children?” Atticus asked. “The usual course would seem to be to seek a wealthy alliance for his heirs through marriage.”

  “He is a bachelor, so he could easily seek to marry money himself were he so moved. But for whatever reason, he seems never to have sought a wife, wealthy or otherwise.” George turned a page in his notebook. “Lady Telford, your mother seems to have been his elder sister by some four years. She was disowned when she left Thurnley Hall to marry your father, who had been one of the tenants before their elopement. She must have been no older than nineteen.”

  Such a young age, it seemed to me now, to have left behind everything she had known for an entirely new life—a life of labor, of struggle. “Have you learned anything of my father?” I asked, even though that fell outside the purview of his inquiries.

  Sure enough, he shook his head again. “I’m afraid not. I’ll keep inquiring, if you wish.”

  “Don’t go to any trouble. I can probably learn more from Mr. Burleigh once we meet.” I knew that Bertram and Atticus had plenty of business to discuss, including the hiring of a new assistant for the duration of our absence, and I rose to let them do so. Vivi had not accompanied her husband that day, and I was grateful that I did not have to tell her that I had not made my announcement to Atticus.

  Compared to the chaotic conditions of traveling with Sybil Ingram and her theater troupe, our journey came together with astonishing efficiency. Sooner than seemed possible, Atticus and I were on our way. We broke our journey with an overnight stay in London, where I made a few purchases, and by early the next afternoon we were entering Yorkshire.

  Though the views of the dales were verdant and lovely as our train neared Coley, with each mile closer to the family seat of the Burleighs the knots in my stomach tightened. Atticus squeezed my hand in reassurance. “Perhaps we’ll be pleasantly surprised,” he suggested. “And think how exciting it will be to learn more of your parents.”

  In this entire expedition that was the only prospect that seemed favorable. I yearned to know how my mother and father had met, courted, and married, and what kind of people they had been… unless they had resembled my uncle, in which case blissful ignorance would be preferable.

  When the train stopped at the next station, I descended to the platform for some fresh air and a distraction from my thoughts. I was surprised to find Sterry, my husband’s valet, hurrying across the platform to me from the direction of the second-class carriage.

  “Is anything amiss?” I asked.

  “My lady, I beg your pardon, but I fear Mademoiselle Henriette is ill.”

  “Ill!” I exclai
med. “That is rather sudden. She seemed well this morning.”

  Sterry avoided my eye. “I fear she felt it coming on before we left, ma’am, but she did not want to inconvenience you. She hoped it would soon pass. But now that fever has set in…”

  “Take me to her,” I said at once. “That does not sound like something that should be ignored.”

  Indeed, as soon as we joined her in the second-class carriage, I saw that poor Henriette was looking quite wan. After one glimpse, I ordered her to disembark. “Sterry, you must accompany her back to Gravesend,” I said.

  Instantly Henriette shook her head. “Mais non, madame!” she exclaimed, and out poured feverish utterances that she would not desert me thus.

  “Be still,” I told her gently. “You must not agitate yourself. Sterry will see that you get home so you can recover.”

  “But his lordship—” the valet ventured.

  “He can spare you for a little while. You can come after us as soon as you see Henriette safely home.” I dabbed at Henriette’s clammy forehead with my handkerchief. “And do make certain to send for the doctor as soon as you can. Tell Mrs. Threll to have her well looked after.”

  When I returned to Atticus, I found to my dismay that a new passenger had taken a seat in the compartment. He sat nearly invisible behind a copy of the Yorkshire Post, so that I could see only striped gray trousers, worn black boots, and the top of a high black hat. The open newspaper was an implicit request for privacy that afforded it to us as well, and I felt free to converse with Atticus almost as if we were alone.

  As soon as I had explained what had happened, he gave his unhesitating approval of my decision. “Far more important to see to Henriette’s health than to arrive at Thurnley with a full complement of servants,” he said.

  “I thought you might make do with one of my uncle’s servants in the meantime.”

  “Of course.” He leaned closer so that his lips were near my ear and there was no danger of being overheard. “And if in Henriette’s absence you need someone to help you dress, I can oblige.”

  So innocent was his expression that I laughed before I could help myself. A belated glance at our traveling companion’s newsprint barrier showed no sign of his having heard us, but I nonetheless took up the newspaper Atticus had brought and raised it before us as an additional shield. “My dear husband,” I whispered, “you have proven quite adept at removing my clothes, but as for putting them on me? That isn’t something you have much practice with.”

  “I suspect it would be less pleasurable to dress you than to it is to undress you, but I’m willing to make the experiment.”

  “Such a generous offer,” I teased. “How like you to put my needs before your own.”

  “That is every husband’s duty, isn’t it?”

  “And what of my wifely duty? Shall I take Sterry’s place and be your valet?”

  Silent laughter showed in the dear crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “As tempting as that sounds, I foresee a problem with that arrangement,” he murmured. “If you were to dress me, I should want you to undress me again straightaway.”

  So diverting was this conversation that it succeeded in distracting me from my fears about what lay ahead of us. And so, perhaps, was my husband’s intent. In any case, by the time we disembarked at the Coley station and looked about us for the carriage that had been sent to meet us, my spirits had revived considerably.

  The scenery that met our eyes also did its part in improving my mood. Sun and shadow alternated in a windswept sky over land that stretched out farther than any I had ever seen. Gentle green slopes were stitched together like the squares of a giant quilt with what I later learned to be low stone walls. The wind was brisk enough that I was glad of the warmth of my fur-trimmed mantle, but it was not bitter cold, and I had not even begun to feel impatient when a rumbling noise announced the arrival of our carriage.

  The equipage had certainly passed its prime. The dark blue paint was peeling, and the remains of an initial B in crimson had faded and flaked until I might not have known it was there had I not been expecting it. The horses seemed nervous and twitchy but otherwise in sound enough shape, at least to my ignorant eye; they were great beasts with heavy locks growing down over their eyes and hooves.

  The coachman, too, was great in size, as I saw when he leapt down from his seat. Clad in rough leather breeches and a homespun smock that could have done little to keep out the cold, he had hands twice as big as mine and stood taller even than Atticus. Without so much as glancing at us he took my trunk from the porter, raising it to his shoulder with scarcely an effort. He wore a cloth cap over bristling black hair, and his beard and heavy eyebrows obscured his face to the point that it was impossible to read his expression. Beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his smock, great muscles strained as he lifted my trunk to the top of the coach.

  “Good day to you,” Atticus said to him. “You must be from Thurnley Hall.”

  For the first time the man looked at him, and, to my astonishment, his eyes went wide in what looked like fear. He fell back a pace and whispered something that sounded like “strigoi!”

  Atticus looked puzzled at this but continued. “Mr. Burleigh is expecting us. There hasn’t been any trouble, I hope.”

  The coachman shook his head rapidly and retreated another pace, throwing his hands up before him as if Atticus were advancing on him. My husband and I exchanged looks of confusion.

  “Grigore speaks little English,” said a deferential voice. “Understands little either, I’m afraid.”

  Unheard, a man had joined us, and I realized from his dress that he was the avid reader from our compartment. Now that he was not hidden behind a wall of newsprint, I saw that he was slender, just below Atticus’s height, and appeared to be in his middle twenties. Clean-shaven, he had a scholarly pallor that gave his fine features rather the look of an ivory carving. When he tipped his hat I saw that his dark hair was smoothly brushed back from his high forehead, and his brown eyes were of a peculiarly mild and attentive expression. Raising his voice, he addressed the coachman in a language I neither understood nor recognized.

  The servant made a terse reply in what must have been the same language. His voice emerged from his massive chest as a deep rumble. But as the other countered in conciliatory tones, his tense posture relaxed somewhat. Although he cast sidelong looks at Atticus, he approached near enough to retrieve the remainder of our trunks and load them onto the carriage. Evidently the strange young man’s words had been persuasive.

  “Thank you for your assistance,” Atticus said. “I’m not certain how I managed to alarm Grigore, but your intervention was most convenient. Allow me to introduce myself.”

  “There is no need, for I have the advantage of you,” the young man said amiably. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord and Lady Telford. I am Victor Lynch,” he said, reaching now to shake my husband’s offered hand. “Mr. Burleigh is my guardian.”

  There had been no mention in the letters of my uncle’s having a ward, and I regarded him with increased curiosity. His caped overcoat betrayed some age, for I saw that the collar had been turned. The coat might even have been made for another person, for the cape gave his shoulders an uneven appearance. When I stretched out my hand, he clasped it lightly in his gloved fingers and bowed deeply but did not kiss it, showing a restraint of which I heartily approved. I disliked it when strange men kissed my hand, but that was something that happened frequently now that I was a baroness.

  “When I heard the delightful news that you would be visiting us,” he continued, “I hoped I might encounter you along the way.”

  “Why did you not make yourself known to us on the train?” I asked, surprised.

  His smile was gentle. “You and his lordship seemed to be perfectly content with each other’s company,” he said. “It would have been inconsiderate to impose my presence upon you.”

  I felt a dart of self-consciousness that this stranger had been observing us so closely, bu
t Atticus merely chuckled and tucked my hand into the crook of his arm. “Your tact is appreciated, Mr. Lynch.”

  “Were I fortunate enough to be wedded to such a lady as your wife, I know that I should resent intrusions into my time with her.” Mr. Lynch’s tone was not insinuating, however, merely pleasant and even sympathetic. “I believe Grigore has retrieved all of our belongings; shall we depart?”

  We assented, and Atticus handed me into the coach. Inside, the blue velvet upholstery betrayed some fading and baldness near the seams, but it was comfortable enough. I had certainly been accustomed to far more Spartan transportation before I married Atticus. How quickly, I thought in bemusement, I had grown used to luxury. Mr. Lynch gave an incomprehensible command to the coachman, and we were on our way.

  “What language is that?” Atticus inquired. “It sounded rather like Italian.” I ought to have known that with Atticus’s education and inquisitive mind he would know what the Italian language sounded like.

  “It is Romanian. Some of the older servants came to us from Romania, where Mr. Burleigh’s mother was born. Grigore was born in Yorkshire, but he hews stubbornly to the language and customs of his parents, who came to us from Romania with my guardian’s mother. I fear he is also a touch slow, but that is scarcely his fault.” Mr. Lynch regarded us with friendly interest from across the carriage. “Is this your first visit to these parts?”

  “It is mine,” I said. “I admit it is far pleasanter than I had expected. One hears of the bleakness of the moors, but everything is so green and lush.”

  “We had an abundance of rain this summer. An overabundance, in fact, for the river flooded its banks where it cuts across the Burleigh demesne. We lost two of the few remaining sheep… but that is neither here nor there.”

  “What are the patches of purple?” I asked, peering out the window as the road ascended into hillier territory. The low, bushy growth contrasted charmingly with the many shades of green and with the darker, almost black areas where nothing seemed to be growing at all.